11.19.05

Out at the Mothership this afternoon. Finally getting the chance to check up on everyone's diaries. Goodness. We're all having mad adventures, aren't we?

I went to the Very Christian thrift store this morning. I want another set of bookshelves, but couldn't find anything worthwhile. Managed to get some kitchen items, a sweater, and a baseball bat...for under $6.00. *yay* The Very Christian radio station wasn't at deafening levels this time.

I was creeped out by a group of people running around; some sort of shop volunteers. They had on electric-blue, button-down shirts with a Corinthians verse stitched over the right breast. The shirts were all firmly tucked into waist-high waistbands of the trousers. An aura of cult-like rigidity hung over them like the scent of lavender in a maiden aunt's closet. Just don't look 'em in the eye and it'll be okay, I reminded myself.

Mater is concerned that I'm closing my eyes to relationship possibilities. I can understand, but what's the rush? I'm alone. A solo act. Let me revel in that. I need to define myself as me, not in relation to anyone else. That's how she is, though. Even as a teenager she pushed me to date--something I've never been good at.

What she doesn't understand is that right now I'm too wobbly, too confused, and too much of a mess. I got to get my feet back under me. Learn that my gut is the best indicator--and to trust muh belly.

I have some good male friends; guys who, I hope, will help me build trust in the gender. The sex part? That's on hold, because I make such a hash of things. Besides, I just installed my new shower massage chez Xat.

Practical and fun.

I think I'm too intense. Some would say passionate; I dunno.

I'm a mess. At least I'm dealing in my own stumbling, bumbling way. If nothing else, I'll be a wee bit wiser. That counts, neh?

In talking to other women, it seems to be a common theme. I hear complaints that guys are "confused"; or once things become real (i.e. intimate), they lose interest.

I wonder if it's not related to the rampant consumerism of this country. The salesdroid's promise of something outside of oneself that's going to make things/self all better--a promise that's never going to come true. The promise that there's "something" better on the horizon. It creates a panic and a restlessness that's anti-relationship, anti-willing to try (at the first sign of ANY difficulty, they're off like cats sprayed with water), and anti-adult.

Ugh.
Or that's not it at all.

I'm off to take apart a Mothership bookshelf to take home. I'm tired of boxes on the floor.

*grin*

Go. Be fabulous.

Keep your fingers crossed; my new bosses are writing up a pay increase proposal for me this weekend.

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