Paranoia. Part III.

If you're just joining me, I strongly suggest reading Paranoia and Paranoia. Part II. before reading part three.

Who knew I could stretch such a stupid story out so long? Stoker knows. My family knows. But they're not here right now so it's just hearsay. I really only planned on telling you a small anecdote about my strange bouts of paranoia, but it's warped into this monster because the paranoia didn't exist until Ted existed. Before that I was a clean slate, so to speak. Naive. Gullible. Trusting.

I had said get lost, essentially, to Ted. Then I began bidding on the magical script on eBay that would change everything. When my ship was nearing port, the one that was about to come in, some jerk began bidding against me. Email relationship ensued (and I have a weakness for the written word, really, and it extends to emails*) and the mysterious bidder told me all sorts of enchanting details about his life in San Diego.

Caught up?

Ok, so Ted denied being Rob. But only after I had tricked Rob into telling me what he looked like.

Now, I know you know where this is going because of foreshadowing and other reasons. Why include this stupid eBay story if it had nothing to do with Ted? You are clever enough to see that Ted will turn out to be Rob. You even know WHY Ted was doing what he was doing.

Recall that he only wanted what he couldn't have. Would he give up? NOOOO. What a brilliant idea. Track the prey down on the internet, lure your prey into a comfortable relationship with your assumed identity, be witty and charming and perfect, get into the mind of your prey, make your prey love you, and then wham! Reveal the truth to your prey. There will be no choice but a confession of love.

Did that paragraph even work? I was going for clever but I've failed miserably. The point is, Ted couldn't describe a physical appearance too far from the truth, otherwise I'd fall in love with a tall dark, handsome guy and then when he revealed himself to be Ted and not Rob, I'd be too disappointed. Better to make sure that Rob and Ted sort of overlap in my head. Right?

Oh man. This is why I'll have sudden bouts of paranoia.

Ok, ok. So, I hated to be paranoid and accuse Rob of being Ted. So I didn't do that until I felt pretty sure. In an email conversation I confronted "Rob."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, Ted. I know it's you."

"Ted? Who the hell** is Ted? I can't believe you're accusing me of being someone named Ted. I'm Rob. Rob in San Diego."

"Like Rob in High Fidelity? And Rob's girlfriend Laura in High Fidelity? You didn't even get an original plot for your assumed identity."

"What's High Fidelity? Is that a movie? A book?"

"Oh please. You've clearly done your research. Watching all the movies I love suddenly."

"You're freaking me out. This Ted character has obviously worked you over."

Ok, so you get the point. The above conversation may or may not have taken place verbatim. Rob denied being Ted. But I knew I was right.

So, I can also concoct schemes and trickery, though I hate it and in truth I was rather sick the entire time feeling like I was living in a sort of nightmare***. It was my birthday at the time, so I guess this must have been happening in March and not December like I originally thought—although, the Christmas before my birthday, I received an acoustic guitar and a couple books (Spreading Misandry and Poetry Speaks) from a mysterious benefactor (another plot from another movie). Who could it have been? Ted hated it that I was turning into a feminist because of the English department. Though I wasn't a feminist.

March 27th. I email "Rob" and tell him how depressed I am because it's my birthday and I'm SO lonely (you will hate me for being scheming, but I didn't like being stalked. Weird, I know). I tell him how much I need the comfort of a male companion, but there is no one. "Well," I say, "there's my ex-boyfriend who is still my friend," . . . Dave, we'll call him. He was way older than me, had just barely broken up with me, but we were still friends. So I tell "Rob" that Dave will come over and I'm just going to sleep with him for the hell of it. It will ease the loneliness.

I had no intention of being so stupid. But "Rob" would think me just that stupid and impulsive. So I have Dave come over and he leaves his vehicle out in front of my house all night. Ted, by the way, had enrolled in some master's courses back at the university, despite the fact that he lived an hour and a half away. So he was commuting back and forth.

Just by chance, I woke up at five in the morning and glanced out my bedroom window. The sky was pink, I remember because that was the reason I looked outside. At that very moment, Ted drove by and slowed when he saw Dave's car. He almost swerved into it, I think.

Ah sweet retribution.

See, he had work that morning in the city. My brother-in-law worked with him at the time. That was part of the scheme, which was probably my brother-in-laws plan, actually, now that I think of it. Jason (brother-in-law) went by Ted's cubicle to say hey. Ted looked like he'd been awake all night.

"You all right, Ted?" Jason asked.

"Not really."

"What's wrong, man?"

"I wish I could tell you," Ted said, with a wistful look. He did want to tell on me, I'm certain. He was the tattletale sort. He probably wanted to drive straight to my mom's house on his way to work that morning, break down her door, grab her by the shoulders and say, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR DAUGHTER DID LAST NIGHT?"

"I know what's going on, Ted. You need to stop," Jason said.

Guilt flashed across Ted's face, quickly replaced by feigned confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. Seriously, it's out of hand. Leave her alone."

"Fine." I'm sure his shoulders slumped and a cloudy look filled his eyes. I know that look very well, still.

Jason was quite nice about it. He liked Ted just fine, while being very aware of his stalkerly impulses. So he wasn't rude. And I wasn't either.

There's clearly a reflection upon my poor judgment in this whole story, that I would be such a jerk to share it with you, that I would date Ted's brother, that I would make him think I'd slept with Dave just to find out the truth.

Who is the bigger jerk? you ask. Me or Ted? Ted would say me. And I would say Ted, while adding the caveat that I made a bunch of mistakes and bad decisions, like all the times I let him back into my life thinking he'd finally gotten over everything and could let me be the one who got away (the girl he only wanted when he couldn't have her). Like when he got married and sent an invitation to my mom and invited me, through my mother, to email him a congratulations or something. Big mistake.

And then when I stupidly let him have the address to my blog when I was just beginning to date Stoker—he'd asked to get in contact with me through my mom or sister (again). I said all right, thinking once more that he could NOT be a weirdo. All the anonymous comments he left were evidence that he couldn't.

Oh the madness.

And oh the strange fears that crop up when someone says something or does something that reminds me of him. Sometimes when I meet a new person and establish a light email rapport with them, because I can't see them, if they say or write anything remotely like Ted, I feel myself wondering if this is another one of Ted's ploys to infiltrate my life again, and this time he's even gone so far as to hire an actor to portray a 3-dimensional manifestation of his assumed identity. Crazy, I know. And inevitably I feel the question burning in my head, the curiosity, the urge to jokingly ask, "You're not, by any chance, a forty-one year old man of Scandinavian descent with blond hair and blue eyes, with a background in electrical engineering now practicing patent law . . . are you?"

Shit.

That's the paranoia.



*In fact, this is how Stoker won me over.
**Ted never swore, so this was incontrovertible proof that Rob was not TED.
***Recurring nightmare beginning when I was eight: a baseball scout claims he wants me on his team because he's seen how amazing my arm is when I'm throwing dirt clods at things with my friends. I don't want to be on his team. But he won't give up. Even after I've reduced him to being a wheelchair with my dirt clods (a creepy wooden wheelchair, no less). Nothing will stop this major league baseball scout. I wake up after his face is a bloody mess. Hmmmm. I must have seen some kind of horrible movie at my cousin's or something—they were always watching age-inappropriate movies. Some movie with a wooden wheelchair in it....

Magic Numbers

Real quick, I just want to celebrate a momentous achievement. THREE-HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY-SEVEN POSTS. Thank you, thank you.

I know that by my age, most people have already written somewhere near two-thousand-six-hundred-fifty-two posts* or thereabouts, but I didn't even know what a blog was until January of 2005, and as you can see, I acted quickly upon discovering this noble art (thank you Communication Arts magazine—those of you elitists who wanted to keep it a secret club [all you Live Journal snobs heh heh heh], feel free to go burn an effigy at their headquarters for spoiling everything what with their vast readership and all . . . and yes, I totally know how you feel. It's how I feel about the vinyl cool-kids club, from which I've retired . . . ).

Anyway, yes, 327 is the most magical number in our numeral system. So I wanted to celebrate. Thanks for coming to my party.


*Assuming you started blogging at fifteen and wrote three posts a week every year for seventeen years. NOT impossible. I know there are people with this goal . . . somewhere.

Paranoia. Part II.

In this story, I am not the hero (but like I had to tell you THAT...). I don't mind being honest about the fact that when I was young, I may have been a self-centered jerk. Most likely, I will realize at forty-two that I was egocentric at thirty-two. In fact, I hope for that. I hope I keep growing and evolving.

If you didn't read Paranoia, read it first. I mean, if you want to. If you don't care about me or my blog, then fine. Skip it and just read this. Fine. That's fine. Go right ahead. You're missing out. But do what you want. Who am I to advise you? I'm sure the back-story is completely unnecessary and I'm sure you can find several individuals who will pitch in during a gripe-session about my needless wordiness. I'll give you their email addresses. You guys can meet up for coffee.

To pick up where I left off, Ted asked me to marry him after three or four years of wishy-washy behavior towards me and the relationship. I said no, and goodbye forever.

The following school year, the Scorpio who'd taught me that men can be passionate and vibrant (rather than dead inside like withered autumn leaves, like Ted) moved to the Midwest to take care of his grandfather. We fell out of contact and I began dating a beautiful bead-maker with Native American roots. He made me bracelets and necklaces when he couldn't sleep because of a rare condition involving asthma, and taught me how playing the banjo can be sexy and not just silly.

I romanticize this because I can—it's in the past now. You know how it is.

I'm telling you this next part so you can see how I was somewhat cruel.

The next summer, the bead-maker wanted me to stay in our college town, but I insisted on moving back home to work. It crushed him and I thought he was just being ridiculous. While I was in the city, we had some kind of misunderstanding (I could detail it, but for brevity's sake, I don't) and he vanished. I was lonely and broken-hearted.

So what did I do? The only wise thing a moron can do. I called Ted.

In my defense, I didn't have any friends in the city. People got married and moved away. I had spent three or four years chasing Ted and never had time to nurture friendships.

I only wanted to go sky-diving. Something really crazy. Because the bead-maker had left me cold and lonely and I thought in all my theatrics that I had nothing to live for.

Ted and I went sky-diving. Then after that, he wanted to date again. I relented to just "hanging out." Cruel. I know, because I was really set on never getting into another exclusive relationship with him. I mean, honestly and stupidly, I thought that if I spent time with him and he'd changed and treated me better, then I could see us getting back together. So I wasn't a complete monster. You know?

But my how the tables had turned....

When fall came and it was time to go back to college, I let Ted help me move. And like a mean jerk, when he left to go back to the city that night, I said good riddance. It's kind of hazy. Maybe we spent a few weekends together wherein I tried to see if he had suddenly become chivalrous and cool and sweet and not small-hearted and etc. And maybe not. My memory fails me.

I began dating someone else. I told Ted that it was really over. Good luck. He accused me of being a jerk and I said, I know, you're right, it was unfair of me to ask you to go sky-diving with me. But we'll always have Paris, kid. He didn't think that was funny.

I thought he was REALLY gone this time.

Sometime that winter, I learned about eBay. I began bidding on things. I really really wanted this stupid script to the movie "Grosse Point Blank" because I fancied that if I had it, I could definitely write a blockbuster romantic comedy. Like a fool I used my unique last name as my screen name on eBay. Two of the auctions I'd participated in on other items (LP's of "Astral Weeks") got snaked from me at the last second. I was feeling pretty bitter about losing.

But there I was, winning the ridiculous script because NO ONE WAS BIDDING ON IT. My day had come at last. Victory never looked so scrumptious. Suddenly, out of nowhere, some jerk bid against me. One person. Being very competitive, I fumed. The bid war began. I had to win.

I felt strongly that if ONLY I HAD THIS SCRIPT, all my problems would be solved. The script I was working on in my spare time would magically become the golden script, the script to rewrite history, the script to turn the Sahara into verdant fields of corn, putting an end to hunger. I needed that script so bad. I needed to KNOW THE KEY to making my script* enchanting and the key was in the "Grosse Point Blank" script.

Naturally, I emailed the competing bidder. Or maybe mysterious-bidder emailed me first. In any case, I pled my case. We quickly struck up an email relationship because I have a tragic weakness for emailing. Want to disarm me? Send me a compelling email and expect a response in return, THEN write me back and charm me completely with your wit, your clever insights, and your sparkling intellect. I'll be putty in your hands.

It's disgusting. But also, isn't it awesome?

Mysterious bidder was named Rob. He lived in San Diego. He had a girlfriend named Laura. Laura was great, but she was mad at Rob and they were on the brink of breaking up because Laura wanted to live with Rob, but somehow Rob had strong core values and thought that was wrong and he didn't think it right to take advantage of her. So Laura was dating other guys to make Rob jealous—turns out, what she really wanted was Rob to marry her**.

There were signs. I'm not a moron (though all clues say otherwise). When Ted and I were dating, we communicated by email A LOT. People have tics in the way they speak that show up in their writing. I started to feel like I was emailing Ted. I tricked Rob into describing himself. How could he lie?

Rob looked a lot like Ted.

But Ted denied it.

*A compelling tale about a college age girl who writes a letter to John Cusack, which he answers, and then of course he falls in love with her, and the college girl's dreams come true, etc. Contact me if you'd like to buy the rights to this potentially surprise hit.

**This is sort of the plot to the film/book "High Fidelity." Notice a pattern? No, not a pattern with my former love for John Cusack, but the other pattern.

Paranoia.

Sometimes my own paranoia startles me.

This is disturbing for a number of reasons, one of them being the genetic thing. My dad is kind of crazy. And my mom has always been really worried that I'm going to lose it. It's funny. And tragic, and if she's reading this, Mom, come on. You know I find it utterly endearing. After all, I'm already thirty-two and still haven't lost it. :)

She probably doesn't read my blog anymore. I pretend she does from time to time so I don't cuss too much. Occasionally I forget how much I cuss until Stoker starts teasing me with things like, "I won't say ______, if you'll stop saying _____." That's when it dawns on me that I must say _____ a lot. And then I feel bad.

Back to the paranoia.

Part of not becoming paranoid or crazy is realizing the potential you have for losing your mind. Right? I mean, that's the paradox, so beautifully illustrated by Joseph Heller in Catch-22. You can get out of the dangerous mission if you're crazy, but if you're cogent enough to NOT want to go up in the belly of the bomber plane, then you must not be crazy. Only a crazy fool would want to be a sitting duck in that bomber plane's belly turret.

I'm not paranoid, really. But long ago, I dated this one guy for several years. I was 18 and stupid (but no stupider than most 18-year-olds. If you're eighteen and reading this, I apologize, but someday it will all make sense), so of course I put up with his general awfulness for far too long. Like three or four years too long. One week should have sufficed. Did I already mention I was very young?

Plus I'm a stayer. Some people are takers, some are leavers. I'm a stayer. I just mean, when I decide I love someone, I stick with them. I had decided that . . . . Ted, yes, Ted was great and that I loved him so much that if I had to, I would go into hell with ten screeching cats dangling from my limbs and sixteen dogs chasing me, the human cat tree, just to retrieve him, so great was our, er, my love. Of course, I never thought, but why is Ted in hell in the first place?

If I'd thought that, I would have realized he was in possession of an innumerable amount of sins strong enough to banish him to, if not REAL hell, then at least Dante's vision of it.  One of his sins was saying this to me at one point, "I don't love you.  I'll never love you.  Plus, you're not exactly what I'm looking for in a wife.  I want a woman I can sing duets with and who will teach our children to sing."  

Even at eighteen I realized how insane he was for thinking something so absolutely childish and ridiculous. I bet I laughed like my grandma laughs when she sees through the crap and finds a kernel of happiness so delightful, she can't contain her jubilation. Like the time on that family trip when my aunt was scolding my cousin in the parking lot of a national park (who, lots of parks there) and a bystander tried to step in and my tow-headed cousin said, "Butt out lady, it's none of your business." The scolding resumed.   

You can see why my cousin was being scolded with an attitude like that. My grandma thinks that story is really hilarious.

Anyway, Ted. He was awful. But I overlooked it because that's what you do when you fall in love. Sometimes love is absolutely insane and stupid. Ted was twenty-six and I was eighteen, and Ted had never had a girlfriend in all his life. He'd always loved from afar. He had no concept of what a relationship was like and he had no understanding of the reality of women, being the oldest of six boys. I was willing to work with that because I was young and pliant when it came to my expectations of a man.  

Ted continued to not want me, but then he'd want me, and then he'd break up with me, and then he'd want me back, and then he broke up with me and it really was the last straw. So I started dating his brother. I had no scruples. Plus his brother and I were good friends and we could talk about books for hours. His brother, Tom, asked permission to date me of course. We had cleared it with Ted. That made it kosher, right?  

So to make it more dramatic, Ted decided after I was involved with Tom that he wanted me back.  

I had started a war. Completely unintentionally, but still, it was the one time I really understood Helen of Troy.  

I was nineteen by then, but still utterly naive about certain rules. If no one explains them to you, how are you supposed to know you shouldn't date the brother of a guy who SWEARS he wants nothing to do with you because you don't wear makeup, and you ought to, you know (so then you start wearing makeup, because you're a whelp and you don't get it yet).  

This is getting around to my paranoia, I promise.  

After a few months of battling over me (I won't lie to you, it was kind of amazing to be fought over, but I'm completely ashamed of it now), I picked Ted.  I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, you moron. You should have picked the brother. Tom had no history of not appreciating you. And you're right. But the brother DID have a prison record*, which COULD have been difficult to live with.  

This was LOVE, right? The prison record shouldn't have entered into it. I tried to base my decision on logic somewhat, and also, my mom was really vying for Ted. She has a will like the moon. Try as you might, there's no way to escape her power—she flexes and your tides answer and you find yourself telling Ted that you picked him and saying goodbye to Tom.  

Even after the harrowing war that almost split the brothers apart for life, Ted still didn't appreciate me. Surprised?  I know. You saw it coming. Behaviors don't change that drastically.  Patterns die hard.  Etc. Etc. He wanted to get married. I didn't. Whoa, I know? Didn't see that coming, did you.  

Well, I had grown up a little bit after all his ping-ponging (is that an expression? Maybe it's pinballing. Or billarding. I don't know. Flip-flopping). Yes, I can only withstanding so much abuse before I learn a little. Slow-learners raise your hands.  Let's form a club.

Here comes the paranoia part, but forgive me for the long prelude, the back story seemed necessary somehow.  

Ted wanted to get married. We did the long distance thing a while because he'd graduated and moved to the city. In that time and after several attempts on his part to do the classic fade and disappear, I fell in love with someone else. A guy who was the complete opposite. And I realized that Ted was a loser, not only for how he'd always treated me, but for his lack of passion. His bitterness. The fear that ruled him.  

Ted sensed me slipping away and asked me to marry him (remember, he only wanted what he couldn't have . . . the proposal didn't seem genuine). I said no, then I said goodbye forever.  

Little did I know.

*For burglary.  He'd done it at eighteen.  Forgivable, right?

Tough Women of WWII Era

I was fooling around on the Library of Congress' page and found these excellent photographs from Salt Lake City during the Great Depression. These women are training to operate buses and taxicabs. I guess it was one of those initiatives, the WPA or something. This woman looks like she could handle anything. I want to say she's thinking: "Ya got somethin' to say? Alright then. Don't mess with me, that's all I'm sayin'." In a Brooklyn accent. But this was Salt Lake City. People didn't have Brooklyn accents.

In this image you can almost hear the photographer giving them directions, "Now lean in a little so I can get you both in the shot. That's right, that's right. Now you, Fred, put your hand out and point at something, like you're telling her how to drive the bus. Good, good. Freeze that action! Now hold it right there while I snap the picture . . ."

"Mom? I'm a bus driver now! Can you believe it? I know, I know. It's weird. Little old me driving one of those huge buses. I still can't believe it's happening. Yeah, I even have a hat with a badge on it, like I'm all official and everything."

See? That's why I love these photos so much. I look at them and I see an entire drama/sitcom unfolding.

Honestly, though? These women are my heroes.

I'd like to thank the Library of Congress for making this post possible. And the internet, for giving me access to the Library of Congress from 700 miles away. And I'd also like to thank Dr. Pepper, for being the drink that is, for loving me like it does, and for always being there for me when I'm thirsty, when I'm down, when I just need a little sugar rush, and for being available even though it's not part of a huge corporate conglomerate like Coke or Pepsi.