I Finally Read Nicole’s Email

I’ve been steering clear of all the Nico drama for the past three weeks. He’s been going through the stages of break-up grief, which for him have been:

-Silence

-“I’m right, but I’m sorry”

-“I love you, Demi”

-“I’ll do everything you want me to just to get you back”

-Silence

-“Let’s be BFFs”

-“I love you”

-Pissiness

-“Let’s be BFFs”

-Jealousy

-Pissiness

-Complete denial: “To me we were never apart”

-Waiting for me to change my mind: “I’ll be patient”

-Jealousy

-Silence

I’m sure I missed a stage or two, but I really haven’t been keeping track. He texts me, I delete the texts (after I read them because curiosity is my tragic flaw). I deleted his number out of my phone, so once I delete the texts I have no way to text back. I just want to protect myself from being sucked in. Because, inevitably, three hours later I’m thinking about how much his last message annoyed me and I want to text him back and challenge whatever it was he had to say. All that would do is draw me back in to the drama. And I’m not wanting to go back there. 

All and all, I’ve been pretty pleased with how I’ve been dealing with it.

But curiosity is my tragic flaw . . .

Nicole’s email was there in my inbox. For three weeks I didn’t bother to open it. This seems like awesome progress for a girl whose curiosity always gets her into trouble.  But there it was, sitting there, sitting there.

I finally got to the point where I felt detached enough from the emotions of it all that I could finally open it.

And, of course, she pissed me off.

It was just four sentences or so, but enough to  bother me. She said she clearly didn’t wear the clothes often, so bring them back whenever you are in Metropolis. We could definitely get together for a beer, just let me know next time you are in Metropolis. Then the signature:

“Take care, Niko”

Not the slightest acknowledgement of me calling her out on her strange attachment to my (then) boyfriend. Not the slightest idea that I work in Metropolis and am there ALL the time (guess Nico didn’t share that detail, which is problematic). But, the closing, ugh.

The “take care” struck me all wrong; I’m not sure why. There was just something about her wishing me well that struck me wrong. Worse, though, was the name she signed it with. The familiarity of signing a message with a nickname, when we are anything but friends. And not just any nickname–she signed it with Nico’s name, with just one letter difference. As if she was subtly telling me that she was still oh so tied to him that she cutely nicknames herself with his name.

I feel like I got to a place of resolution with Nico. I did everything I needed to do in order to stay true to my feelings and perceptions, and I said everything I needed to say to him.

But I don’t feel like I’ve had that same resolution with Nicole. I mean Niko.  I never got to sit down with her and say, “Bitch, get your shows the fuck of my boyfriend’s DVR. Get all your shit out of his house and give back the garage door opener. Get over your dysfunctional, co-dependent attachment to somebody else’s man, you stupid whore.”

I want the chance for that resolution. I want the chance to slap her face and then walk away, knowing I’ve stayed true to my feelings and perceptions, knowing that I’ve said everything to her that I need to say.

The thing is, though, that the context has changed. Nico’s not my boyfriend anymore. There’s no point in setting his needy ex in her place.

So I’ll stay in this unresolved place, I suppose, silently wishing that maybe someday fate would bring us to the same dark alley.

I won. Why doesn’t it feel like a victory?

A couple of days ago he texted “I heart you.” I didn’t respond. Early this morning he texted me again.

“Hi.”

I didn’t respond.

“So I’m going to spend the next week or so removing every vestige of Nicole’s occupancy. Except for the giant junk room, which I fear entering until I move. She will be gone. All of her things, her shows on my DVR, her presence in my home. Gone.”

I didn’t respond. I just didn’t know what to say about that. And, well, I was pathos-ed out and just didn’t have it in me to deal with more Nico drama.

I finally responded a few minutes ago. I told him not to do anything to placate me because I’d stepped away, that he shouldn’t move on from Nicole until his heart was ready.

“It’s not a matter of being ready. I have no emotional attachment whatsoever to her or her things. I was just waaaay too fucking lazy to bother packing her stuff up.”

All I could think was, Honey was so right. That inability to move, a hallmark sign of depression. Even when that inability to move was hurting someone else. It took me making a drastic move for him to finally move.

And then I thought about Nicole. She dumped him and she moved out. Why the hell did she leave so much stuff behind, both physically and emotionally? Why does Nico have to be in the position to pack up her shit? She should have done it long ago, she should be the one doing it now.

But I guess some women like to keep their hold on men they’ve cast aside.

I keep thinking back to a Fall Out Boy song, “A Little Less Sixteen Candles.” It’s all about a guy who just doesn’t act quickly enough and loses the girl, who can only say to him, “Why don’t you just drop dead.” She’s the girl all the boys want to dance with, and he’s just the boy who’s had too many chances.  He sets his clocks early ’cause he knows he’s always late . . . and that’s the thing. Despite his best efforts, he’s always late. Always.  

It just sounds too much like Nico.

And right now I’m the girl who’s going to leave the boy sleeping on the porch. Because I’m pathos-ed out. My heart doesn’t have anything left to give him right now because he was so late.

I won. But it still feels like I lost.

Vistas

I hiked out into the desert, feeling stronger, feeling whole.

That’s not how I felt yesterday. Yesterday I trembled. Literally. I was so shaken up by the fiasco of Nico and Nicole that my arms and hands were trembling.

Nicole emailed me back, but I still haven’t read the message. My inbox shows the first line of each message, and just seeing that first line was enough to tell me that her response was bullshit. “Hi They are obviously clothes I don’t wear very often if they were at Nico’s . . .” First, you’re a lawyer, bitch. Learn that punctuation goes after the word “Hi.” Second, you’re so full of shit. You’re at Nico’s all the fucking time, and you change clothes every time you drop by, so you are lying your ass off right now by saying that they are obviously not clothes you wear often because you know you got caught by the girlfriend.

Yeah, I didn’t need to read anymore. I made her squirm, and that was enough for me to know.

Nicole’s response doesn’t really matter for how I would deal with Nico. Yes, she was a bitch and needed to be set straight, but Nico was the one who never placed boundaries on his relationship with his ex. I had to deal with that.

I wrote the most beautiful break-up letter ever. I had just the right amount of pathos. I told Nico in the most beautiful way possible that I loved him but that I could not be with someone who had no boundaries on his relationship with his ex because I needed to be with a partner who wanted to protect me and our relationship. I left the door open a tiny bit: if someday he figured out those boundaries, we could talk again.

Seriously, it was an amazing letter.

I suppose that is why I was so unhinged and shaky yesterday–I’d poured out my heart, made myself bare, and taken a stand I couldn’t take back.

This morning I awoke to a text from Nico. He said it was a very sweet letter and that he didn’t agree with most of what I said but that he was sorry I didn’t feel protected. Then he said he needed some time to process it all. I’m not sure exactly what he meant by the processing part, but I’m assuming he’s having to think about whether or not he wants to put boundaries on his relationship with Nicole or be without me.

I deleted his number from my phone right after that. Yes, I have his number other places, but I just wanted to be done with him for now, to not risk giving into the urge to text him or call him when I inevitably wanted to take back what I’d said to him.

I got the kids off to school and took advantage of the beautiful day before me. A beautiful, beautiful summer day (I mean, it was like a beautiful summer day you’d find in Montana, not like the summer days we have in the desert). I pulled my hair up into a ponytail and the sun gently kissed the skin on my neck.

I hiked out to a place I’d once taken Nico, my vista. It’s a little finger of land that overlooks the valley where I grew up. From that perch I can see my old house, Nico’s old house, my old high school, the place where I lost my virginity . . . it’s like I can look out and examine my existence.

I’d taken Nico there the first time I saw him after I’d told him that I loved him. I had a blanket and a picnic basket, and we sat there wrapped in each other’s arms, looking over the world below us. It was the perfect romantic moment. I had confessed my love during a phone call, and Nico said that he wanted to rush down to me, see me and touch me and tell me that he felt the same. I thought it was endearing–he wanted to look me in the eye when he said he loved me.

And so, at this perfect place as the winter sun slowly creeped towards the mountains before us, I waited. I waited for him to say that he loved me, too. I waited for him to tell me what he’d said he was going to tell me the next time he saw me face to face.

The sun lowered and the temperature turned cold. We got up from the perfect spot, so much left unspoken.

A few weeks ago, when Nico and I were making love and he stopped for a moment to hold me and tell me over and over and over again how much he loved me, he admitted that he’d loved me for so long and hadn’t said it–he didn’t know why it had taken him so long.

It’s a recurring theme with Nico–it takes him so long to say what he needs to say, do what he needs to do.

Today when I went to the vista, the spot where we’d sat in January was gone. Erosion had done it’s work with the spring and summer rains, and the edge of the cliff had receded.

I realized that sometimes, if you wait too long to say the things you need to say to the people you love and do the things you need to do for the people you love, that you might be too late. Erosion can wash away the foundations that once seemed to be impenetrable if you don’t act quickly enough to protect them.

I left the crumbling edge, content that I had made the right choice.

Did I really just do that?

And the “I’m sorry” came. About five different versions of it via text message.

He wanted to see me last night, wanted to make me dinner for my birthday. I was rather uncertain. No, I wasn’t going to see him. Just . . . no. But then again, he had apologized five times.

I decided to go. And brought some presents along for Nicole. Giving her presents was a sort of birthday present to myself.

I opened the drawer where she has some toiletries stashed . . . and left a vibrator. It’s one that I’ve only used once–it has changable tips and I always figured that I’d be the one person who had a tip fail and wound up in the ER where some intern would have to fish it out. But Nicole didn’t know that it wasn’t something I used. I put it on top of all her shit so there’s no way she couldn’t see it.

And I brought make-up that I left scattered on the countertops, and I brought a bottle of my Dolce and Gabbana perfume, which I may have sprayed on some of her shit to mark the territory with my scent. Even if the scent fades by the time she comes back to the house, she’ll see the big gold bottle right next to my pink toothbrush on the counter (again, a toothbrush I don’t use, but still . . .).

So we had dinner and had sex on the couch; I was undecided as to whether is was final goodbye sex or getting back together sex.

And then we went to the bedroom to get ready for bed. It was the one clear demand I’d made–the bedroom had to be a Nicole-free zone. He agreed. If the sex was really getting back together sex, then there would have to be a lot more Nicole discussion and a lot more boundaries drawn, but for now we had this one clear line drawn in the sand.

Her clothes were gone. The cute Nike workout set that she’d left on the counter in the master bath wasn’t there any more. Nico had followed through. He’d kicked her out of the bedroom.

But that’s when I saw it, on the floor next to his dresser–Nicole’s clothes.

I wanted to leave right then, but I’d been drinking and knew that I shouldn’t drive. So I went over to his dresser, leaned over, and picked up Nicole’s clothes . . . and tossed them in the hallway as Nico watched.

Then, wordless, I took a pillow and blanket from the bed and went to the couch.

This morning I woke up at about 3:30 and gathered my things. And I don’t know why I did it, I don’t know what compelled me, but I went back to the hallway . . . and stole Nicole’s clothes. I packed them in my bag with my stuff.

And I left.

About an hour later, I got a text from Nico: “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” I didn’t text back.

It’s so odd that I stole her clothes. That’s just so unlike me. But I suppose it was a quicker and easier response than the others that went through my mind as I was falling asleep. I’d wondered where I could find crabs to let loose in her pants. I pondered dripping some sort of liquid on the clothes and then leaving a note that said, “Nicole, I’m SO SORRY. We needed something to wipe up our cum stains last night and I just grabbed the nearest thing, not knowing it was yours.” I wondered where I could get poison ivy in the middle of the night in the middle of the desert to rub all over the crotch of her pants.

Given that, stealing her clothes doesn’t seem that outrageous.

All and all, the night was a win. Nicole lost her clothes . . . and I regained my super-awesome, super-soft Donna Karan jeans that had been stranded at Nico’s for a couple weeks.

I love those jeans.

Happy birthday to me 🙂

LOL, News Travels Fast

First of all, thanks to everyone for the encouraging emails and such. I’m doing, well . . . fine. I feel really content with making a good choice for myself.

Second of all, I’m in awe of how quickly news travels. What was it, yesterday morning that I cried it out and accepted that ending it was the best thing for me? Well, by yesterday afternoon, A. was calling me. Yes, the hot air marshal. He thought we should “hang out again” (code for have vigorously hot sex) soon.

Today he was texting me about how much he loved the sound of my voice.

Hm.

Demi will not jump into bed with A. I mean, it would be great sex. Really great. Jesus, every woman in the world should experience sex with this guy at least once–THAT good.  But A. also happens to be in a relationship (a fact he very often seems to forget), and I don’t feel like being Nicole-like.

But it is nice to know that someone wants to get naked with me 😉

The (Friend) Break-up

I had to fire my friend Danica. I tried to handle it all very officially and respectfully, in the calm, unemotional way I would part company with any person who wasn’t fulfilling the role my boys needed them to fill (I know I don’t talk much about my kids here–I have a mommy blog for that–but suffice it to say I’m FIERCELY protective of and proactive for them).

But the respectful, unemotional mode of parting of professional company didn’t work. My friend Danica called and wanted a post-mortem.

Yeah, autopsies are ugly. You cut into flesh and yank out organs. I didn’t want to go there; I told Danica that I thought it was best that we didn’t go there. But she pushed . . . and I gave her what she wanted.

She didn’t believe she’d been late or canceled or otherwise bailed in any way whatsoever. I pulled out the calendar where I keep track of all the boys’ therapy sessions (I keep track so that when it comes time to sign timecards I know what I’m signing), and listed them out one by one. And she tried to justify each time, which of course made me angry. I mean, if I was the Chief of Staff at a hospital and an employee tried to make excuses for all her failed surgeries rather than admitting she screwed up and was wrong, I’d be pissed then too.

That started her chain of excuses, the best of which was “I wasn’t good at my job because I knew that you knew so much more about how to do it than I did and it made me nervous.”

Yes, admit you don’t know how to do your job (I’d previously pushed for her to go to more trainings and she refused because she said she already knew all she needed to know), and then BLAME people who know more than you do for your lack of knowledge. Classic.

Yeah, I didn’t respond to that well. I can grin through most bullshit and then just walk away, but when it comes to my kids . . . I told Danica exactly what I thought about her lack of professionalism.

She cried.

A couple days later she called to ask about coming to pick up the couple of things she had at my house. I gathered the stuff in a little basket and it’s by my door for her to pick up. Today she facebook un-friended me.

I have two reactions to all this:

1. Girls suck. I know that’s anti-feminist for me to say, but girls (as opposed to mature women) can be such whiny babies about things. In high school my best friends we all males because the girls who had been my close friends in elementary school and junior high school got too possessive and emotional and crazy for me to stand. Gah, I remember the jealous fights about how I was spending too much time with one friend and it hurt the feelings of another friend and . . . wow. I’ve never had such a whiny break-up with a guy as I did with Danica. I’ve never had to gather together a box of an ex’s stuff and I’ve never had an ex un-friend me. Just . . . girls suck.

2. I don’t feel I’ve lost anything. I feel no sadness or remorse about Danica leaving my life. I think it’s mostly because she really never added anything to my life–instead, she took away. Earlier this week my brother (with whom I am very close) was in a serious accident, and I had these amazing people hold me up through it . . . Danica would never do that for me. She’d come to me to prop her up through every little thing, but she’d never return the support.

I really haven’t lost anything.

My god, that was a lot of sex

Sometimes men are slow.

Nico apologized last week. Profusely, intensely. And he asked to see me that weekend.

I thought about it some. I wasn’t going to go out of my way to see him, but if he wanted to make the drive to see me I figured I could see him.

We met up at a lounge at a local resort. He apologized–again–and we talked through all that happened.

I was honest with him: I told him that I loved him but that I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I had no idea if I wanted to be with him . . . or what being with him even meant to me. Basically, I was decidedly undecided, and perfectly okay with that.

Later, of course, we found our way into bed with each other . . .

And oh. my. god. it was incredible.

I think it was so incredible because I’d lost all the quiet uncertainly that had built up over the months we’d been dating, during the times when he’d get a text from his ex or shut down when talking about his feelings. That insecurity of wondering how he felt about me was gone. Not so much because he had changed, but because *I* had changed over the month since our break-up.

In place of the girl he’d been with before, there was a secure woman, someone who felt so strong and in control of herself that she could tell him she didn’t really know if she wanted to be with him. And that strength changed who I was in the bedroom.

I was so much more aggressive. I wasn’t timid about telling him what I wanted and exactly how hard I wanted it.

When we came up for air the first time, we looked at the clock and realized four hours had passed.

We took a break for dinner, and he had to stop to get some things from his mom’s house. He invited me to come in. This, people, is huge–remember, on the weekend we broke up he was actively hiding the fact that he was seeing me from his mom. I chose to stay in the car, though . . . I hadn’t decided that I was ready for meeting the parents (again) in Demi and Nico Part III.

We had dinner, and then I took him to a party at one of my friend’s houses. It wasn’t really his scene, and I likely wouldn’t have taken him there a couple of months ago . . . but it WAS my scene. And if he wants to be with me he’ll need to take me (and my friends) as I am. I’m not going to edit my life for anyone.

Afterwards we had even more hot and delicious and aggressive sex until I got to the point where I literally could not handle another orgasm.

In the morning we got dressed and talked about the day ahead. He was going to lunch at his parents’ . . . and again he invited me to come. He really wasn’t bullshitting when he’d said he was sorry; he really did want me to be a part of his life.

And I, still very content in not knowing what I wanted, said no to his invitation.

My love affair with the Universe continues

I was sick as fuck. My lungs are my Achilles’ heel, and once they get a whiff of the tiniest bug they are done for.

But the Universe has decided to be my friend, and it never brings me bad without bringing me good.

I got an interview with the giant university in Metropolis . . . and thankfully it was a phone interview. Throughout the whole thing I was sipping tea that I’d dropped cough drops into and using an inhaler as needed . . . and my interviewers were none the wiser to my gross sickness behaviors. Yay!

A week later I was still sick, but not as miserably so, and the giant university called to offer me the job. Yay!

The best part is that it has full benefits . . . which means my new job will pay my tuition as I finish up my PhD at another state school. Yay!

Here’s the thing I love: I’d broken up with Nico. Which means that when I took this job I knew, without a doubt, that I was taking it because it was the best thing for ME. I wasn’t doing it to be with some guy (I’ve made mistakes like that in the past); I was doing it because it made so much sense for my life and where I want to be.

So far I love my new employer. They asked me when I wanted to teach, and then immediately worked up a schedule that fits very neatly into the hours my kids will be at school. So cool! I’ll teach three days a week and then have the other two days for writing. Yay!

So thrilled, so excited to start this new chapter. Thanks, Universe!

Universe, you have a *lovely* sense of humor

I woke up refreshed. I got my children off to school, went to my lovely-sparkling kitchen and arranged some lovely-fragrant flowers. The angry voices in my head that kept saying, “He’s an ass. That stupid fucking asshole. I hate him” were gone and were replaced with a lovely ambivalence.

It was sort of like that feeling of a fresh start that I have whenever a semester ends; I had this bounce in my spirit that made me feel like anything was possible.

And that’s when the beautiful men started texting. You know, right after I’d decided I definitely would *not* drown my post-break-upness in a hot male body.

First Ryan, the mutual friend of Nico and me, had my phone buzzing. Ryan, truth be told, is a royal fuck-up: cheats on girlfriends, lands in jail for DUI, struggles to keep jobs (but fortunately doesn’t have to stress much over any of this because his parents are loaded). Yep, *definitely* not boyfriend material. But, he’s got these sparkling blue eyes and this dark hair with silver speckles that makes him look rather George Clooney-ish. The kind of guy I’d love to have some hot, no strings attached sex with.

And so a couple texts into my conversation with Ryan, another text message interrupted.

Yep. A.

After I had been so very smart and decided that, no, I wouldn’t return to that familiar body for comfort just because I’d broken up with my boyfriend, there he was.

I love the universe’s sense of irony.

So there I was alternating between text conversations with these two delicious men. My conversation with Ryan had a little hint of flirtation to it, but my conversation with A. . . yeah.

I had the best intentions. I mean, I’d gone through AA (A. Anonymous) and learned to manage my addiction. I was like the alcoholic who was good enough with her sobriety that she could go hang out with her friends at the bar and not have a drink and be totally cool.

Totally cool. Really.

It was innocuous at first. He asked how I was doing and how things were with my new man. I didn’t bother to tell him about the break-up; better for him to think me still attached. And then he started saying the nice stuff. I, the word lover, am a sucker for the nice stuff.

But nice turned dirty, and it was as if six months had never passed at all.

He said I was “hot enough to have many suiters” (okay, he can’t spell for shit; I overlook that because he’s hot). He called me “a sexy little thing.” He started reminiscing about our last time together, how much he loved the way I looked in the little black dress that stayed on for merely a moment.

And then, “Maybe someday . . . :)”

I called him the devil for tempting me, and he worked on nudging me. “Come on, it was fun.”

“Something about you though,” he said, “Just want to eat you up.”

My mind got lost in all the possibilities of those words.

And so I said I had to go and that I’d catch him later.

“Catch me? You’ve always had me . . . Always will in some ways.”

My now-ex-boyfriend felt pressured to commit to me, but here was my boy-toy, vowing I had him. I laughed again at the universe’s irony.

****

I’m not going to fall back into A’s bed . . . or his couch or his chair or his floor or any of the other places I’ve fallen with him. At least not right now.

But I’m having drinks with Ryan on Thursday. It’s innocent. Really. I swear. Really.

Perhaps I doth protest too much 😉

The Aftermath of the Break-up, Part II

I finally heard back from Nico . . . and he was uncharacteristically pissy. I mean, really pissy.

He got on me about “pressuring” him. Apparently, me being curious the other day about where he saw the relationship going was too much for him. We hadn’t been together “for that long” or seen each other “that frequently.” It was way too soon for me to be placing that kind of pressure on him.

Okkkkay.

I didn’t think I was pressuring him. He was *so* into me when we started dating. I mean, he could barely handle waiting for me to finish teaching a 75-minute class because he’d go into text-message withdrawals. He was the one who said I “belonged” with him. He was the one who said he wanted to be the man to take care of me for the rest of my life.

Then he started to pull away some. Okay. I know that the fire of a new relationship burns out some. I noticed it, I blogged about it. But I didn’t freak about it. I didn’t show at his doorstep, bitching at him for not calling me “sweetheart” anymore. All I did was gently ask him how he felt things were going with us and if he was happy. That’s it.

And . . . dude freak out.

Yeah, I’m big on talking. Talking for me isn’t about fishing for a certain answer or a commitment; it’s just about sharing where you are at. I think sharing is a good thing. Silly me.

In the relationships that you all have been in, was five months too soon to start asking those sorts of questions? And if you knew the person for a couple of decades before the relationship started, would those questions be too soon?