I'm Just Saying...

Here's what I want to be able to say: I'm over you. I'll always have a special place for you in my heart, but I'm ready to move on to something more, something real. I genuinely hope that we can be friends because you were such a big part of my life. And I miss our friendship. I hope that she is everything that I couldn't be for you. Really, I do. Because you deserve the best.

Here's what I am saying: I'm over you. You really suck for telling me you miss my family and the sex more than you miss me. I hope you have a fantastic life.

Here's what my heart's telling me to say: I'm not over you. I never will be over you. I have always believed that you were the one for me and that hasn't ever stopped being true. Sure, other guys are cool. Some are even okay in bed. But none of them are YOU. We fit, you and me. You tell me when I'm being stupid and I tell you when you're being a baby. But you also tell me how beautiful I look in my favorite outfit when you don't even know it's my favorite. and I also tell you how amazingly smart you are and how I envy you.

I want you to be happy. But I want that to be with me. Not her. She might be a cool chick, but right now she's got the only thing in the world that I need to thrive. I need you to complete me. I can go on and live my life and I'll be okay. But I won't ever be full, or at peace, or genuinely happy without you by my side. I want to look at my babies and see your hazel eyes. Your blonde hair. And my nose... because let's face it. Your nose is not something you want to pass on to our little girl. And you love my nose.

You know everything about me and more. And I could pinpoint anything you are going to say, do, or even think about pretty much right on the dot. It's been a year, and I still find myself seeing things in the world that only you would get. Saying things like, "T would love that!" And people still have faith in us. STILL. After all the shit that we've put each other through. Not only do I still have hope, but so do other people that love and care about both of us.

I want to bombard you with all of this because, as they say, if you want something, you have to go out and get it. But I'm afraid it's still too soon to have it. I'm afraid that if I try, I'll crash and burn and all this time that I've spent working toward a little semblance of a friendship will go up in smoke. I'm afraid of what might happen. I'm afraid that I'll hurt you, too. And, to be honest, I'm a little afraid that you'll tell me you feel the same way.

Untitled

I hate when I do things that I know I shouldn't.

It is hope that keeps drawing me back. Hoping that someone will learn, want to change, see the error in their ways. But they don't. They never do, they never will. And in the end I am the one that gets hurt and they walk away from the wreckage.

It is the assumption that there are certain people in life that are assumed as trustworthy and it is difficult to process when they aren't. Confrontation means nothing to these people. They weave their words so that they have a right to be angry with me. I am tired of it and tell myself it will be the last time that I fall for it. And yet, here I am again.

It's not you... or is it?

"It's not you, it's me." We're all familiar with this cliche breakup line. And as I contemplate a crumbling friendship, I'm wondering if it is me.

I was the girl in school who had a new "best friend" each year. Fond memories of childhood are often recalled beginning, "When I was best friends with April..." "... with Amber..." "... with Angela..." "... with Dana..." "... with Kerri ..." etc., etc.

I guess that's fairly common for children... becoming close to girls who happen to be in your class that year, or who is in the same dance class or Brownie troop.

But what is my excuse now that I'm all grown up? I wouldn't even say I even *have* a best friend. And I find myself looking at the people who last year I called my closest friends, wondering how I ever thought we had anything in common.

I hate this about myself. I wish I had the desire to nurture and renew these friendships. But I don't. I want to find people who don't make me cringe when I see an e-mail in my inbox from them... knowing it will contain an invitation to some place I have no interest in going to hang out with people I have no interest in maintaining friendships with. But even if I find a new friend who "gets me"... who is to say I won't be absolutely sick of her by this time next year?

One friend in particular has been there for me in the most difficult of times. I have a lot of guilt about the prospect of throwing her out like yesterday's garbage, but I truly have no interest in rekindling our friendship.

Sometimes I think I get too comfortable in my romantic relationships and end up losing the desire to carry on friendships. I'd rather spend time cuddling my significant other, under covers, watching netflix movies, than go to this bar to watch that band with these people. So why force myself? If I have to make myself be someone's friend, why bother?

Am I a horrible person? Or just realistic? I can't decide.

Our Poll

We are aching for some more submissions. Why haven't you submitted yet? Let us know on our new poll. (See the sidebar.)

Thanks and Happy Holidays from Behind the Curtain!

Breaking Point

One of my coworkers causes me so much anxiety that I left a staff meeting literally shaking with anger. Every word out of my mouth is met with a snide remark from him. I can't say anything in front of him without him trying to tear me down.

This is not an ideal work environment for me. His office is right next door and every time he comes into my office I clutch my desk... holding my breath as I wait for him to verbally antagonize me.

I usually can get through the day by just reminding myself that he is a miserable person and I am far happier than he could ever be with such a dark heart. Nothing he can say can take away the joy and love in my life. His only power is over my work environment. And that? He has taken captive and tormented for years now.

I went to my boss today, my voice shaking and very dangerously close to the dreaded "work cry." She's going to talk to him "again."

I'm sure that will only make me an even more desirable target for his hatred. But what else can I do besides look for a new job? (Which I am already doing...)

Please help me get through the remainder of my career at this job without totally losing it, God. I used to really like it here. I pray for the day that I will never have to see the face of my tormenter again.

We need your submissions!

This blog was met with a lot of excitement when we told our blogging pals about our vision. So where are the submissions? We know you have things to say! Send them to us at writersofoz@gmail.com.

Pretty please?

Wax on...

Bikini waxes. No one looks forward to them. Especially when we are talking the full monty. The elusive Brazilian. Baring it all in front of a stranger so that you can be all bare.

My first time was one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. That sounds like hyperbole but trust me... it isn't.

I had been toying with the idea of a Brazilian wax for a while before I built up the courage to schedule an appointment at a salon across the street from my office building. I had never been to this salon before (mistake #1!) but it was convenient, so I made the appointment.

When I arrived for the waxing appointment, I was led to the "waxing room," which was basically a closet in the basement. (red flag! red flag!) I was instructed to lay on the table after undressing. I laid there sans pants and underwear for what felt like an eternity in that dark basement. There wasn't even a door on the small cave in which I was laying. Quite the contrast from the modern and clean upstairs of the salon. I felt duped. But, oh, baby you ain't seen nothing yet.

She began applying the hot wax and used the fabric strips to remove the hair, as I had expected. Things were going well. It was painful, but I could take it. She thought it was going so well, in fact, that as we approached my most sensitive areas she decided to try out a new wax on me that she never used before. (red flag! red flag!) Hard wax. If you are not familiar with this wax, you don't need a cloth strip to remove it. The wax is supposed to harden and can then be pulled off--supposedly much less painfully than the strip method because the hard wax doesn't adhere to the skin. Only to the hair. I only wish that was how it went down...

I'm sure that hard wax is not evil. I'm sure that what I'm about to describe to you is merely the result of an incompetent salon technician. But erring on the side on caution, I will NEVER go near that stuff again.

She applied the hard wax to the most intimate of my bathing suit areas. We waited for it to harden so she could painlessly peel it off. One problem. It wouldn't harden. Was it the humidity of the basement? Did she apply it incorrectly? Who knows. All I know is that she was desperate and began to get creative. She brought down a hair dryer from the main floor of the salon and pointed it at my crotch. Can you feel my dignity begin to slip away, people?

The hair dryer, though a valiant attempt, did not work. At a loss, she began slathering wax remover on me in giant blobs. Still nothin'.

At this point, I'm starting to panic. I'm sweating and shaking, wishing I could just bolt. If things were going so well with the hot wax and strips, why did she need to get all fancy? And this was my first wax. Why was I deemed the perfect guinea pig? Why? Oh, God, why?

The next item in her tool box was regrettably SCISSORS.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.

She came after my vagina with scissors.

She began trying to cut the wax off of my delicate skin. I was so terrified that she was going to nip me that I started entertaining visions of me checking myself into the emergency room, explaining how this genital mutilation was inflicted upon me. Wondering how we would stop the bleeding and which diseases I would contract in that horrid basement.

So now I'm not the only one panicking. My tech is beginning to lose her professional demeanor and starting to curse like a sailor. She has no idea what to do next, and I can see it in her eyes. I can hear it in her throaty-smoker's voice. That's when the phone rings. Yes, she brought a cordless phone down to the basement with her. By now, it was after hours at the salon and I'm guessing she was the only still around. SHE ANSWERS THE PHONE. Okay? She answers the phone! While I'm on the table, one snip away from a mental breakdown and she is chatting on the fucking phone!

"Hey, listen.... I can't talk right now. There's an emergency going on over here. Something very bad is happening! I have to go!"

Wow. Thank you for keeping me calm, you horrible, horrible person.

I kind of blacked out at this point, but from what I gather, she used the scissors and wax remover to get off what she could. I emerged black and blue and bleeding--and still relatively waxy. And DEFINITELY not hair-free. Definitely. Not.

Before I was given the green light to dress, she says to me:

"Oh, honey... you have to get that mole checked. I'm worried about that. It doesn't look very good."

I look down to see what she is talking about and see it. A broken blood vessel giving my skin a deep purple cast.

"That WAS NOT here when I got here. I've never seen that before. YOU DID THAT TO ME!"

She said that she had never given anyone a mark like that before and that I must be confused. Ha! Haha! HA!

This whole scenario took an hour and a half. I don't know if you are familiar with how long it takes to get a successful Brazilian wax, but it sure ain't no hour and a half. More like 45 minutes. Maybe even less if you don't kick and scream too much.

By the time I was allowed to emerge from the basement I was so happy to be off the torture table that I forgot to slap the woman when she expected me to pay. Not only pay... but pay MORE than they originally told me that they charged for such a service.

No. Fucking. Way.

I gave her half of what they previously told me it would cost (if I had my wits about me, I wouldn't have given her a cent) and I walked outside, where my significant other was waiting to pick me up. As soon as I got in the car, I broke down crying. He thought the worst--wondering if someone had hurt me or worse--if I had been raped. I was too upset to talk, and I'm sure he was thinking about going to the police until I finally explained the past hour and a half of my life.

He knew better than to try to have sex with me for a long time after that. I mean, I was puffy, bruised, and scabby. And mentally scarred. That's not sexy.

Waxing fail.

Epilogue: I swore I'd never get another Brazilian after that, but years later and with a solid recommendation from a friend, I did it again. And it hurt like hell but after my first experience, it was a freaking picnic. Six weeks later I went back again, and it hurt even less that time. I'm thinking about making it a permanent part of my routine. Oh, and that place that came after my vag with scissors? Totally no longer in business. Can't imagine why...