The Scarlett Letters - Relationships

Letter from my Father [Part 2]

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 11:21:00 -0600

I received the below email from my father last week following the aforementioned break up. It made me think.

While somewhat hard to hear, I thought it was worth considerable reflection and I wanted to post it here, lest it fade into archived obscurity within the bottomless hole that is currently my gmail in-box.

Frankly, after your wonderful comments on the last bit of fatherly advice, I just couldn't resist the urge to share this honest and heartfelt bit of paternal correspondence.

Scarlett:

It's late and I'm worried about you getting home, so I thought I'd "scratch off a few lines", as they used to say.

Sorry about your last minute email from [The Chef], but that in itself was revealing enough to know it was for the best. In that context, I offer these thoughts for whatever they are worth.

Women like you, Scarlett (transparently needful of romantic love), are particularly at risk I think, because there are two ways most men will respond: (1) with reciprocal endearment and love or (2) as an invitation to exploitation. It's just the way men are. And, sadly, there are far more of the latter than the former. Therefore, I think that you should try to be a little more guarded in your interactions with, and reactions to, men. You have so much to offer the right man, but you cannot sell it too cheaply or offer it too readily. There is an old saying I heard a long time ago and never forgot: that people tend to disdain what is thrown at them. And that is all too true. Moreover, by being too eager you sell yourself short. The descriptions you have given me of your recent interactions did not convey much respect on his part, nor self-assuredness on yours. I guess my sense is (and I don't mean to sound cliched) that you need to take ownership of your own 'personhood', for lack of a better word, in such a way as to demand that requisite respect before offering love--not after. Real respect and love are mutually reinforcing and mutually sustaining.

You have been through so much for one so young, but you must resist the temptation to think of yourself as a victim. Down that road lies immense vulnerability, not to mention cynicism. You are in need of neither one just now. You must take stock of your incredible assets and value them commensurately. The question in your mind should always be whether or not a man measures up to your (preferably astronomical) specifications, not whether you measure up to his. Meanwhile, concentrate on the requisite self-improvement we all seek.

I'm not so old that I don't understand the need for intimacy with someone, honey. But this lurching from "candidate to candidate" in this fashion can't be good for you can it? I mean you are so much more than that. The mental toll, for one thing, must be considerable. And disappointment and despair tend to reinforce each other in a cyclic, toxic emotional cocktail. You really need to rethink your perspective, Scarlett, along with your own self regard, in order to concoct an antidote for it. And if you do, I think you'll find that the more you redirect that energy and emotional commitment toward self-improvement and self-fulfillment, the sooner fate will take a hand with the romance. I'm certain of it.

I actually wrote this several days ago but wanted to wait until after New Years eve to send it.

Our trip home to the 'Promised Land' [Texas] (that really ticks Mom off when I say it) was very enjoyable and uneventful.

Love you.

My Greatest Fans

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 10:01:00 -0600

Recently I had a bad day. A fight with the new guy, shall call him The Chef, left my eyes swollen and sore with the salty remnants of tears and face so blotchty and so red that they seemed to blend seamlessly with my hair.

After calming both the physical and mental effects of the argument with a frozen ice pack for my face, and a bottle of Zin for my soul, I went to bed. Two days later I was on the phone with my father when he detected something in my voice.

Whether a hint of sadness or a slight tone of frustration managed to seep through my masque of perhaps overly compensatory cheerfulness, I'm not sure. But my father, never one to be fooled by any false sentiment uttered by one of his children, or deflected by "I don't want to talk about it" protestations, he finally wore me down.

I gave him a brief outline of my recent romantic turmoil, bemoaned a general vexation with dating, men, and relationships. I expressed states of both emotional exhaustion, mental frustration and I think I even touted the virtues of an arranged marriage system at one point. Not my finest hour, I'll grant you but moving on.

The next morning I woke to the following email which I thought both caring, thoughtful and poignant. Frankly, I believe its underlying thesis to be an emotionally stinging truth but one that bears consideration

Hi Sweets. Just want to say how sorry I am that you feeling low. Life is tough in more ways than one, but that's not going to assuage you much I'm afraid. I don't know what the answer is, Scarlett. Your Mom and I tried to raise you to be successful and independent--and we succeeded spectacularly.

If we made a mistake by not just marrying you off at eighteen, then I apologize. But the older I get, the more I am convinced that happiness in life is about maximizing one's choices, and you have more choices than most women have. The flip-side of that, of course, is that you have to make some tough ones.

It seems to me as if you are waiting for lightning to strike in an ecstatically transformative way--as with Cinderella or Snow White. Since you are an incurable romantic (and you may not know this, but you get that from me), you are sort of caught in a vise, waiting for that optimal situation to transpire. But the truth is, honey, that it may or may not. And you need to be prepared for either contingency. And if, in the end, a very good alternative presents itself, rather the one of your dreams, it will be left to you to choose.

My advise is simply to not allow the perfect to be the enemy of the good.

I'm nearing old age, and long distanced from the dating scene. Yet I can't believe there are no good men out there with whom you could be happy. Then again, remaining unattached and unencumbered has its own advantages. Just know that your specifications as to what you deem acceptable may change with time, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. It isn't 'selling out' so much as it is an adaptation. Just know that however you choose to configure your priorities, it is your life and your decision. All I can offer is the father's hope--that if you do find someone, that discovery is impelled by much more than the mirage of transient attraction--such as the revelation of deep character, mutual respect and long-term goals. That's my take, for what it's worth.

I know that I often sound churlish in trying to discipline you financially. But don't ever forget that Mom and I can only be as happy as you are. We are your greatest fans.

Love,

Papa

Brick Walls & Picket Lines

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 09:40:00 -0600

I tend to see the world through an Ansel Adams photographic lens, that is to say, “black and white”. While I keep attempting to inject a wider spectrum of gray into my two toned, “right vs. wrong”, “love vs. hate” world, it’s been consistent uphill struggle.

I believe boundaries to be an important part of life. Comfort zones. Deal breakers. The disclosure of privileged information. Whether they indicate the point at which a relationship reaches the end of its emotional tether or simply the line that, once crossed, lands you swiftly in an Iranian jail and resulting in years of imprisonment followed by equally scary Lisa Ling interviews upon release – boundaries, if not clearly marked, can be precarious places.

My therapist likened healthy emotional boundaries to the idyllic image of a house surrounded by a manicured lawn and bounded one each side by a picket fence. The fence is a clearly defined, yet semi permeable structure erected to keep undesirables at bay (i.e. negative pressures, cognitive trespassers, basically the in-laws of the emotional community); while still allowing for the option of admittance of positive emotions, constructive monologues and affirmative influences, (i.e. the puppies and kittens or free range hens romping about our mental yard).

After describing this Zen-like state of mental health to which she recommended I strive, she took a deep breath. Scarlett, at present your “house” is surrounded on the north, south and west by a 10 foot high brick wall, laced with barb wire. The east side, however, not only is void a wall, but any clear demarcation of property whatsoever. Moreover, you have posted a neon, blinking, “open-house” sign out front exposing the lawn to many an unwelcome trampler.

That is to say, either you go to inexorable lengths to keep people out, or you lay out the red carpet all too quickly, consequences be damned. A situation very much in need of modification.

I took issue with this image for a number of reasons not least of which being the necessity for an immediate change of setting from a suburban, “Leave It To Beaver” avec picket fence to one of a urban penthouse condo with a 24 door man. But that’s besides the point.

Whether we’re talking about 24-hour door men and alarm systems or brick walls and picket fences, both images denote unhealthy extremes, the hallmark of a black & white worldview. Either I’m walled up like Fort Knox, or I am constructing an emotional superhighway for which I have not even thought to charge a toll. More often than not I frantically switch between the two exhausting both myself and those around me.

All this to say, I met someone. He’s kind of great. I like him. Comfort zones have been pushed. Boundary lines obscured. Needless to say, I’m more than a little bit freaked out and those brick walls with their height and strength and ability to obscure look mighty appealing in the face of vulnerability. And so up and down I go in on the "he loves me, he loves me not", "I'm safe, I'm going to get hurt." yo yo.

Its painfully elusive, this emotional balance. Can a boundary line be redrawn once crossed? Do I permit him to wander unchecked about upon my emotional real estate? Do I change the locks just in case?

Or do I stand here and first let my eyes adjust to the newly emerging shades of gray?

Frankly,

Start Spreadin’ the News

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 11:40:00 -0500

A couple Magners pints past too many, a friend and I were debating the merits of making the first move vs. letting the guy “come to us.” Me: Of that school which believes one should pursue their desires. She: a proponent of treading the waters of passivity waiting to see what the current brings her. At one point, obviously frustrated with my immutability, she ultimately replied “what do you know anyway? You don’t have a boyfriend. You don’t have a perfect relationship. Why are you in a position to even GIVE dating advice? Why the hell should I listen to you?!”

I confess to be initially caught of guard by her arguably harsh rebuttal, however, it sparked a train of thought from which I could not derail. What do I, and for that matter, what do ANY of us truly know about dating and relationships? Clearly I am not the expert (and for the record have never professed any such distinction) clearly since my longest and most devoted relationships with men have failed to extend beyond the confines of the turning page (ala Fitzwilliam Darcy and Jaime Frasier).

Sure, I've been in the trenches, knocked a few first dates out of the park, entered the perilous combat zones of match.com and eHarmony miraculously escaping with both my heart and dignity in tact. Yet, what have I or anyone else who can trade similar war stories, really learned?

Much like the ancient Greeks that went before, we singles and coupleds alike desperately and relentlessly seek answers to help us better understand the mysteries of the universe. Pythagoras spent his life in search of a²+b²=c². We seek an equally important equation namely, how can 2 people = a happily ever after?

Some have concocted personal formulas on which they base their own version of love geometry all in an attempt to make the pieces fit. Par example: “he’s just not that into you”; “men are from Mars, women are from Venus”; “The Rules” or my personal favorite, “men love bitches.”

Like all earnest truth seekers we plug in the variables, test the theories and yet the formulae never quite add up. Following such romantic theorems how could one possibly go wrong!? The answer: all too easily.

Yet we continue on, undeterred, if slightly bruised, through the trenches of romantic warfare onto the next equation trying to solve for that elusive “x factor.”

It is in that hopeful spirit that the equation can, in fact, be solved that I am asking you, my readers, do YOU have the answer? Can you whisper the secret to a happily ever after in my ear? In short, what insight do you have to share, what advice do you have to give on the the subjects of dating or relationships?

I know that good advice, much like good champagne, don’t come cheap (at least not according to my most recent therapy bill) but apparently, I need it! Therefore I will give 2 off Broadway Tickets for the most sensible, shrewed, clever advice I receive over the next 12 days. The winner will get to spend an evening with NYC’s newest dating guru at “Miss Abigail’s Guide to Dating, Mating & Marriage,” now playing at Sofia’s Downstairs Theater, 221 W. 46th St., NY, NY.

The comedy centers around the story of Miss Abigail, the most sought-after relationship expert to the stars (think Dr. Ruth meets Emily Post), and her sexy sidekick Paco, as they travel the world teaching Miss Abigail’s "how-to's" on dating, mating and marriage! (contest rules and details below).

I’ll announce the winner on October 13th so put your thinking cap on and show me what you’ve got!

Frankly, you might even learn a thing or two yourself!

MY RULES

1. All submissions should be sent via the Comments, Contact Form OR Tweet it to ScarlettL with the hashtag #ScarlettChallenge.

2. Deadline: All submissions must be received y 11:59 p.m. on Monday, October 11th to participate.

3. Multiple Entries Accepted. Are you a smarty pants? Been in the trenches and have war stories and sage wisdom just dying to be released? No problem! Throw all of your wisdom at me! I can take it, I promise!

4. The winner will be announced on Wednesday, October 13, 2010.

5. The tickets may be used for the following performances: Wednesdays at 2PM, Thursdays at 8PM, Fridays at 8PM, Saturdays at 2PM & 5PM and Sundays at 3PM and 7:30PM.

6. The tickets are valid thru November 28, 2010. This date cannot be extended.

Good luck and I can’t WAIT to see what you come up with!

Confessions and Lessons and Really Big Messes

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 08:25:00 -0600

Confession:

I’m in love with my boss. Have I mentioned that? I am 100% crazy in love with my boss! And not the “I think he’s a great leader, role model type love”. No, the I want to do naughty naughty things to him type. Ya. Its bad. Before you ask the obvious – “No” he’s not married, nor has he ever been married. “Yes” he is single. He is 33 or 35 somewhere in there and…AMAZING…sigh.

However, he will only technically be my boss for about 8 more days because he’s a political and will be ousted come January 20^th along with half the Washington, DC workforce.

However, I haven’t quite worked out how to get from the “brilliant and attractive employee” to “brilliant and attractive girlfriend – or if not girlfriend, at least Saturday night fun date!” Someone suggested that on our ritualistic morning stroll for coffee I casually slip into the conversation that I’d like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies.

Anyone have any other bright ideas how to bridge this gap?

And before you go there - yes, I realize that I am the personification of Katherine Heigl circa 27 dresses sans hyper organization (she was even a bit of a redhead in that movie!). My brother was kind enough to bring this to my attention. Note he referenced Katherine Heigl - NOT Bridget Jones. All the disfunctionality...none of the cellulite!

***************

In other news.....

I learned this week – a blender does not equal a mini food processor.

While this may not be news to some...who are more profecient in the kitchen than moi....It was a bit of a failed culinary experiment.

I got a little too ambitious with a spinach cream sauce I was going to make in order to brighten up the whole wheat penne I was planning to have for dinner. I thought, well….recipe calls for the 6 oz of baby spinach, garlic, grated parm and goat cheese to be “food processed”. So, in all my redheaded brilliance, I (who do not own a food processor) thought:

“A food processor…has blades that spin. I don’t own a food processor. Unfortunate. BUT I DO have a blender! Blenders have blades that spin…therefore…blender = tiny food processor!"

Um…not so much. Lesson learned - not all kitchen appliances are created equal. So now we know...and frankly, knowing is half the battle.

Juliet

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 15:54:02 -0600

Juliet was on my mind.

I wondered what she would have done if Romeo had left her, not because he was banished, but because he lost interest. What if Rosalind had given him the time of day, and he'd changed his mind? What if, instead of marrying Juliet, he'd just disappeared?

I thought I knew how Juliet would feel.

She wouldn't go back to her old life, not really. She wouldn't ever have moved on, I was sure of that. Even if she'd lived until she was old and gray, every time she closed her eyes, it would have been Romeo's face she saw behind her lids. She would have accepted that, eventually.

I wondered if she would have married Paris in the end, just to please her parents, to keep the peace. No, probably not, I decided. But then, the story didn't say much about Paris. He was just a stick figure a placeholder, a threat, a deadline to force her hand.

What if there were more to Paris?

What if Paris had been Juliet's friend? Her very best friend? What if he was the only one she could confide in about the whole devastating thing with Romeo? The one person who really understood her and made her feel halfway human again? What if he was patient and kind? What if he took care of her? What if Juliet knew she couldn't survive without him? What if he really loved her, and wanted her to be happy?

And what if she loved Paris? Not like Romeo. Nothing like that, of course. But enough that she wanted him to be happy, too?

If Romeo was really gone, never coming back, would it have mattered whether or not Juliet had taken Paris up on his offer? Maybe she should have tried to settle into the leftover scraps of life that were left behind. Maybe that would have been as close to happiness as she could get.

Maybe I was reading too much into the story. Romeo wouldn't change his mind.
That's why people still remembered his name, always twined with hers: Romeo and Juliet. That's why it was a good story. "Juliet gets dumped and ends up with Paris" would have never been a hit.

Questions I Don't Want Answered

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 09:54:00 -0500

I’ve been having dreams.

Mostly about Fuckhead.

In my dreams we talk. I’ve been asking him a lot of questions but I always wake up before I can ask him the one question to which I want to know the answer to: Do you miss me?

Last night was the worst of all. In my dream, he was married to the she beast and they had just had a baby. I cried (in my dream) and I cried and I screamed and I screamed. It wasn’t a fun night. That’s absolutely the last time I allow myself to fall asleep without some kind of artificial somnial enhancement to block such dreams from my head – Ambien being my personal drug of choice.

I assure you, this isn't some deep seated unconcsious desire for some kind of cinema-esque reunification. I don’t want him back. I don’t. I promise. I don’t want a pot smoking, un-motivated, emotionally dependent man still attempting to relive his frat boy glory days.

But I do miss being happy and completely in love – that kind of love that you read about, that you hear about, the kind of stuff that inspires tales such as “The Notebook” – emotions that you never thought possible until experiencing them; that love the brings along with it the possibility of all things and the strength to handle anything life throws into your collective paths.

I had that and it's dissapation has left quite a large hole.

Frankly, it's probably best that I don’t sleep long enough to hear the answer to that one question.

P.S. I'm thinking about starting to password again - what do you think? I just hate that the more noteable ex's in my life have access to these pages and I find myself holding back more often than I'd like to admit. So what's your opinion? Passoword or start a new blog all together?

Rent-a-Family

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 08:00:00 -0500

Army’s parents are in town. And yes – I will be meeting them this weekend.

I’m very conflicted about this whole “let’s play happy family” scenario that will consume my Friday and Saturday evening.

Personally I don’t see the point. I don’t see the point of me meeting them if he’s leaving in two weeks. Why even attempt this family integration when the relationship is rocketing towards a cliff? Why did I even agree to this potentially and inevitably tortuous affair?

I suppose it’s because I’m trying to be the caring, giving, NICE person that I know I have hidden SOMEWHERE deep down inside and sigh…that’s what you do. When your friend’s parents come into town, you meet them, you have dinner, you entertain and try to keep your language and the stories of their child doing jell-o shots on top of a bar last weekend – under wraps.

Frankly, herein lies the problem: no surprise, it has to do with Fuckhead.

Fuckhead’s family LOVE-D S me. They L-O-V-E yours truly, and rightfully so. They astutely pointed out that moi was the absolute best thing that ever happened to their Neanderthal of a son and integrated me into their lives like built in hardware on a MAC.

And cynically speaking, I don’t want this to be one more thing in this on paper “perfect” relationship that isn’t as shiny, or bright, or sparkly or “special” or whatever as before. I don’t need another family. I don’t want another family. And I still HATE the idea that a she-beast who’s never ventured beyond the confines of the greater Albuquerque metropolitan area has no doubt been integrated into the family that I miss and that I loved. As bitter and resentful and unattractive as that sounds.

And don’t tell me that I’m not “giving them or him a chance” – because frankly today, I just don’t care.

Not to worry dear readers. I will smile. I will charm. And be the dutiful girlfriend. I just don't feel like being reminded all weekend of what I Don't have.

Somehow I'm predicting a lot of alcohol in my immediate future.

Florida Sunshine

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 08:41:00 -0500

Army is leaving. He’s not going off to war, not to some distant dessert covered country but to Tampa. Where people go to die. Prehistoric man had Tar Pits to dispose of their elderly. We have Florida.

I’ve known it was coming. Since our first date I knew. What I didn’t know was that he’d still be around seven months later or that I would want him to stay. So, I’ll ask you again. What do you do when your relationship is ending? When you have a date when you know it will be over?.

How do you function when the dark cloud looming off in the distance for so long, has found its way directly overhead, attempting to block the sun at every turn and threatening to storm before you’ve remembered to open your umbrella?

To be honest, over the course of this relationship, my feelings towards this man have fluctuated more than a schizophrenic politician on a teeter-totter:

“He’s perfect – but I’m not over Fuckhead”

“He’s wonderful – but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a military wife”

“He takes care of me – but he’s leaving and I’m going to have to learn to live without him”

“He’s PERFECT – but is he perfect for me!?”

Because I’ve known that he’s leaving, it hasn’t exactly inspired me to open the emotional floodgates and give this relationship a real chance. Perhaps this is one time the Canadian got it right.

Nine months before he left for law school, he started to withdraw. He bucked all my attempts to continue a relationship even in the face of inevitable separation. Still retaining some semblance of romantic optimism at the tender age of 24, I was very much of the “no day but today” school of thought. The “let’s be happy today and not worry about tomorrow” mantra. He didn’t want me to get any closer and risk making it any harder.

So who was right? I still cried. But maybe not as much as I would have? I still loved him, but maybe not as much as I could have? Did we wasted precious time together or did we soften the blow?

While logically I know that it’s self defeating to keep worrying about the evitable and to let it spoil the time you have left; part of me hopes that whatever walls and barricades I’ve managed to build, will still be standing after the next two weeks.

Frankly, with the cloud of separation growing at an exponential pace over all my attempts to keep my blue skies blue – its hard not to feel frustrated. And angry. Even if it WAS/IS good that we met and event if he WAS good for me and what I needed circa a broken-hearted January….I’m just tired. I’m tired of the leaving and the goodbyes and the tears and building back up: a little stronger and a little thicker.

Then again, maybe its classic Scarlett – only wanting something that I can’t have. Either way, I’m sick of the walls and the floods and the storms and the survival and the reconstruction.

Isn’t there anything that lasts forever?

Just Go.

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 08:15:00 -0500

I admit it – I cried.

I cried when I gave her the box. The box I’ve been hiding under my bed for the past seven months. The box with your fraternity t-shirts. Your college sweatshirt. Your books. Your clothes. Your shoes. Our pictures. Your gifts. Your cards with all your broken promises written inside. Everything that reminded me of you. Everything you left behind.

It was my last hold out. My last reason to say “remember me?” “remember what we had?” “Look at the pictures! – Remember how happy we were!? How we had everything? How we could do anything?”

And I let go.

I gave her the box. I don’t CARE what you do with it. I don’t want to know. - I told her. Don’t tell me – and take it now before I change my mind – before I decide to keep holding on. Take it. And go.

I loved you....and go.