The ghost of you haunts every inch of my house. There’s no escaping it. Every time I walk through the entryway it cuts right through me. I think about how you’d come over and we’d meet at the front door Continue reading
Anyone who is a fan of the television program Parks & Rec understands the glory behind the phrase: Treat. Yo. Self. (And if perchance you are NOT a fan of Parks & Rec I highly recommend some Netflix binge-watching. Trust.)
As indicated by my blog description I am 37, single and just shy of a crazy cat lady, so it shouldn’t come as a huge surprise that at this particular junction in life I’ve found myself struggling a bit with who I am, what I am, where I’m going, etc. Continue reading
I’m getting old. And not the good kind either. You know the one that comes with wisdom, contentment, and a sense of purpose. I’m the other kind of old. The one that comes with new found hair sprouting from places it shouldn’t and standing in the beauty aisle weighing the pros and cons of Continue reading
Soooo… some girlfriends and I decided we should start a bowling league and tonight was our first match/game/meet/thing.
I should probably start by stating there’s a REALLY good chance I’m going to become a bowling coach. My bowling is ridiculously on point. Like I can hit BOTH gutters, same roll. I’m THAT good. In fact, tonight… I bowled a 165. Granted that was the total of my three games combined, but still, a pretty solid showing if I do say so myself.
(If you haven’t read the previous entry Welcome Back to the Land of the Living then I recommend starting there as this entry is Part II of that story…)
Text Received: Hey.
(Looking across the bar, meeting eyes and smiling) Text Sent: Hi. Continue reading
I hate those girls. You know the ones. Those girls who fall for a guy and basically change everything about themselves. They stop hanging out with friends. They stop writing their blog. They take a job at a brewery, stop drinking and lose 60 pounds. Yeah. Those girls need to get their shit together.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, cutting back on drinking and taking better care of oneself to be healthier and happier is fine. But giving up a blog? Becoming a hermit? WORKING AT A BREWERY AND RARELY DRINKING THE AMAZING LIQUID GOLD BEING CREATED WITHIN??? Yeah, those girls suck.
Whew. Glad I’m not like that… anymore. #AwkwardJean2016 … I’m back. Continue reading
It’s okay Peyton, while you were having one of the worst games of your life, I was hosting one of the worst dinners of my life… A couple of weeks ago I boldly asked Crush if he wanted to do something for Super Bowl. It went something like this:
Awkward Jean: “So, I was thinking maybe we could do something for Super Bowl…”
Crush: “What’d you have in mind?”
(Oh. Right. A plan. Yeah… hadn’t EXACTLY gotten that far…)
Awkward Jean: “Um. We could go to a bar to watch it, or you could come to my house, or I could go to your house, or maybe my friend Kim will invite us over or maybe my friends Todd & Trever will have a Super Bowl thing… I don’t know, if they do it’s always last minute, but typically fun, but um” (STOP RAMBLING JEAN) “I guess there are a lot of options” (Brave Jean) “I just want to do something with you.”
Crush: “Well… I think we can plan on that. The issue is this – If I don’t really care about who’s in the Super Bowl I enjoy the food and mingling and whatnot of a Super Bowl party, but if I do care then I just want to focus on the game and not be surrounded by strangers or a bunch of people not paying attention… Soo…”
Awkward Jean: “So, you love Peyton and want to pay attention. Got it. Well, you can come over to my house and I can make dinner and you can pay attention, it will be nice.”
Low and behold that is what we actually ended up following through on. It’s also the beginning of the mistakes that Awkward Jean made…
Mistake #1 – “I can make dinner.”
Why is this a mistake? A) Everyone knows that Super Bowl food should be snack-based, not sit down meal type of food. Duh. B) I love snacks. LOVE them. In fact, in college I even choreographed a dance in honor of my favorite snack, Hot Pockets. So why, with a strong history of snack loving, would I decide to make a full dinner DURING the Super Bowl? Madness. Awkward madness. C) How am I supposed to watch the game and be all seductively adorable if I’m cursing in the kitchen the whole time? Oh Jean.
Mistake #2 – “I’m going to make Chicken Milanese.”
Why is this a mistake? A) I’ve never made this meal before. B) This meal requires frying… as in a vat of hot oil and Jean. NEVER is this a good idea. C) I’ve never fried chicken before… do not be fooled, it is an art.
So, I blindly dove into this scheme of cooking a full meal in order to impress my Crush (Hindsight: HA!). My menu: Chicken Milanese, Homemade Mashed Potatoes with Gravy and Balsamic Brussel Sprouts. Oh, and I bought some crescent rolls to make as well, just in case he wanted those – he did. (Hindsight: Thank God.)
Fast forward to Super Bowl Sunday. Crush arrived about an hour before kick-off. I had a little platter of snacks out and we nibbled on those while we watched the pre-game show and set up some bets to keep the game interesting. (Hindsight: SO necessary, seriously – what happened Peyton??)
As the kick-off approached I started to think that I had MAYBE over-extended myself on this cooking gig. Suddenly I realized that I’d never ACTUALLY made mashed potatoes before, and while I watched my sister make the Chicken Milanese I wasn’t very confident in my own chicken frying. I mean, she told me to cut the breasts in half so they weren’t “too thick” but… how thick is too thick? I mean, one end was really thin and then it seemed to get fatter… did I need to cut them in half still? Maybe cut the thick half off and then cut that in half again? Hmm… And the potatoes, how long do they have to boil? How much butter and milk do I put in? At least I knew I had the Brussel Sprouts down to a science – I’ve made them plenty of times. And Crush did want the rolls, so that’s one more thing that needed to go in the oven. So now I had to time out the oven usage. UGH. I REALLY should have thought of some of these things before he was sitting on my couch. And I offered him a drink, but do I need to keep refreshing his drink or do I tell him to make himself at home and help himself? Would he rather feel comfortable in my home, getting his own drink or am I supposed to still be a proper hostess and keep checking on him?
These are the thoughts that were rambling through my head as I peeled potatoes (is four too many? Not enough?), pounded the fat end of the chicken with a meat cleaver, freaked out over what I was sure was salmonella juice sprayed everywhere and had to wipe down the entire kitchen with my trusty antibacterial wipes… By the end of the first quarter my cooking was already resembling Peyton’s playing.
A disaster was developing, but I naively thought I had plenty of time to salvage it… And, like Peyton, I was wrong.
By the second quarter I had smoke billowing from my burnt-raw chicken, a seemingly impossible paradox, but trust me Awkward Chef Jean had managed it, but everything else was going well. The brussel sprouts were nicely sautéed and awaiting the oven, the potatoes were perfectly boiled and drained… Now what to do with the chicken… Hmm… I decided I could maybe bake it some to hopefully get it cooked through without getting too burnt… So, I threw it in with the brussel sprouts and sat down to enjoy half time.
DING!!
Crush: “Is that bell for something?”
Awkward Jean: “No.”
Crush: “It’s not?”
Awkward Jean: “Um. Well, yes, but it will be fine.”
Crush: “Are you sure?”
Awkward Jean: “Totally.” (Note: It was NOT fine)
Sooo, that’s how the ONE thing I knew how to make got burnt to a crisp… Balsamic Brussel Sprouts – were now Blackened Balsamic Brussel Sprouts… Still salvageable, I still could make this happen. I just needed to heat up the gravy and mash the potatoes and check on the chicken… that just kept getting more and more burned on the outside while the inside was BARELY getting cooked… Hmm…
So, I put the crescent rolls in the oven, and started mashing the potatoes… which it turns out were now cold… and the butter was not mixing, but rather turning into big chunks… UGH!! Okay, focus. I’ve got this – I simply put the, now mashed, potatoes back on the stove while I worked on the gravy. Surely the gravy will be a success – it’s a packet. You just add water. BAM! I’m back in the game… except of course the gravy wouldn’t thicken, the bottom of the potatoes started burning and I was so busy stirring both of those, opening the wine, assuring Crush I had it all under control and we’d be eating soon… that I didn’t realize the rolls were almost burning – Mad dash to the oven, grab an oven mitt and WHEW!! The rolls are just right – I got to them just in time, but… Um, I didn’t exactly have any place to put the hot tray. My little townhouse kitchen is not spacious and the counters and stove were already covered with things… so now I’m just holding this hot tray, trying to scrap burnt potato off the bottom of a pan and the gravy begins to boil over because, why wouldn’t turning the heat up make it get thick??
Oh, and let us not forget the chicken. At this point the burnt bread crumb coating was basically peeled off and the poor breasts had all these knife hacks for all the times I prematurely checked its doneness. It reminded me of my favorite Jack Handy quote – “If you ever drop your keys in a vat of molten lava, just let it go man, they’re gone.” Same thing with the chicken. At some point I was going to have to let it go, it was gone. (Hint: I did NOT let it go…)
By the beginning of the fourth quarter I had our meals plated and ready to serve—may master plan was to cover the mess with the gravy to hide it, but sadly Crush didn’t want gravy. Damn. This is about when I realized my guest had just spent the majority of this awful game, watching his hero Peyton Manning getting crushed as he drowned his sorrows in whiskey and tried to avoid the smoky burn of my cooking that wafted through the house. So basically he was already drunk and disappointed – sweet!! He was perfectly primed for the meal I was about to serve.
I have to say I was impressed, Crush ate everything on his plate, even went back for seconds, and his comment on the meal?
Crush: “Mmmm, these rolls are delicious!”
They damn well better be – I carried that tray around for a good ten minutes while I finished destroying everything else!
And, just when you think the evening couldn’t be more of a failure… let me go ahead and share one final tidbit. I’ve been having back issues and Crush thoughtfully brought this electrical stimulation device over that you hook up to your sore muscles and it gives some charge/massage type thing to help them relax. Well, after the game was over and that delicious massacre of a meal finished, we went upstairs so I could lie down and he could hook the machine up to my lower back. FINALLY, time to relax…
As I lay there with the little charges surging through my muscles helping me relax I suddenly realized I was a little too relaxed. And sadly I realized this too late. You guessed it. Suddenly, without warning or provocation, abruptly aggressive and loud flatulence was released. In front of Crush. Oh. Dear. God.
Awkward Jean: “Oh! Um, excuse me.” (Said in highest, most awkward voice imaginable.)
Crush: (Questioningly turning the device over in his hands while looking at it…) “Oh. Wait. Was that YOU?”
Awkward Jean: “Um. Yeah…”
Crush: “Oh. Wow. I thought something was wrong with the machine…”
Awkward Jean: “Everybody farts.”
And… that’s more or less how my Super Bowl went. Peyton, when I say I feel your pain, trust me… I feel your pain.
XOXO – Awkward Chef Jean
I work in a historic area of Kansas City known as the West Bottoms. More specifically I work in a converted office building that is over 100 years old — The Livestock Exchange Building. It’s chock full of character and characters. On the first floor there is a once-famous steak house called the Golden Ox; still well-known for its steaks, but also it’s fabulous bartenders and heavy pours, the Ox is frequented by the building tenants as a happy hour hangout. In our lobby the Ox has a little lunch counter called The Hub. The quality and service has had some highs and lows over the past several years, but it is currently experiencing a wave of popularity with consistently palatable offerings so it’s a place I frequent on my lunch hours. The current managers post the daily special, including a picture, on the Hub’s Facebook page so I tend to make checking the special a part of my morning routine as I plan out my day. Imagine my sheer joy when, on day two without my graphic designer (henceforth known as Post-Thowepacalypse), my fog of depression was permeated by one of my all-time FAVORITE daily specials – NACHOS!!! Continue reading
I have wanted to write this post for three weeks, to the day. For two weeks, to the day, I’ve had the green-light to go ahead and write it. Every time I try, I just can’t. I’ll wake up at 3 in the morning with a mind filled full of the right words, one step closer to figuring out what I want to say, how I want to approach putting my feelings into thoughts and then those thoughts into words… But, somewhere in the process I get overwhelmed, tear up and choose not to face it. Not yet.
I’ve cried every day for three weeks. Some days more often than others, some cries deeper and longer, but every day I’ve tried to squeeze the hurt up through my body and out of my eyes. And it’s hard. I handle hurt and loss and heartbreak through music. I make playlists of the songs I relate to in the situation, the songs that make me feel less alone and more like I will survive… maybe even come out stronger on the other side. I listen to the songs over and over, obsessively on repeat, until they come on and I’ve somehow managed to squeeze out every ounce of feeling they once produced, and become numb. That’s my catharsis. That’s how I heal.
But, how do you handle a heartbreak that isn’t romantic? How do you relate to songs that no one has written? It’s no secret I’m not very good at relationships. Any relationship really. I’m just actually pretty awful at it. The people who love me have long ago given up on my being an equal partner in our friendship, our communication. I am selfish. I am often one-sided. And I am lucky that I have so many people who love me for who I am and accept how I’m able to connect. Unfortunately the side effect of this is that I tend to take people for granted. I tend to expect them to always be there for me. My whole life I am the one who leaves. I leave home, I move away, I change careers… I go. Rarely am I left. So, when it happens… I struggle.
Friends, good friends, they hold on. They learn my quirks and they put up with my disconnectedness and they accept me on my terms. I’ve learned to let friends go, because the real ones are never really gone.
Three weeks ago my “work husband”, for lack of a better term, pulled me aside and made good on a promise we’d made each other nearly seven years ago. At the time we were newly hired co-workers and were pretty unhappy in our current circumstance, we’d bonded and learned to rely on and trust each other. We made a deal that if either of us were ever looking, seriously looking and interviewing, for other jobs we’d let the other know. Three weeks ago he pulled me aside and told me he was about to be offered another job, one he would be taking. Two weeks ago he gave me his resignation letter. Suffice it to say it wasn’t the merriest of Christmases, nor the happiest of New Years. And now I sit here with three days left. Three days. How do you fit seven years into three days?
I’m so proud of him for leaving. He outgrew us long ago. He is so talented. So creative. So humble and patient and smart. He deserves so much more than we can give him, than I can give him. He has taught me to be a better person. He has taken all the crazy ideas in my head, translated them, put them on paper and created something out of nothing on a daily basis. He makes me want to be better at my job. Better at living. Better at being.
His affection, respect and allegiance have always been conditional. He is not my friend. We do not hang out outside of work. But he is my better half, professionally speaking. He calms me down when I let all the anger and frustration and hurt build up and overflow. He reels me in when I get caught up in the propaganda and playbills. He centers me. Well, the best I can be centered. He helps me focus and he lets me shine. I’ve sucked him dry for so long, it’s his turn to be center stage. To be built up to great heights. To be pushed to not only succeed, but to truly leave his mark. It’s his turn.
And I’m broken-hearted. I feel like a piece of me has crumbled and all that’s left is a hole in a spot I never knew existed. A spot, like so many, I’ve taken for granted.
He was 23 when I met him. In the last seven years, I have seen him grow from a focused young man, into an experienced, mature man. I helped him write out questions to ask his future wife when they were getting to know each other and talking on the phone at night. I was with him on his first business trip, with his very first taxi ride. I helped him pick songs for his reception when he got married. I listened to his triumphs and struggles at becoming a first time home-owner, dog-parent, small business-owner. (SIDEBAR: I didn’t always listen very well, one of my favorite quotes he’s ever said to me is “You are an APOCALYPTICALLY bad listener!” Fair.) Every dream I ever had for myself, I got to watch unfold for him. And it was so well deserved. Every success, every triumph, every dream come true. For seven years I lived vicariously through him, and never once told him how impressed I was that he didn’t sit back and wait for “Happily Ever After”, he actively pursued it.
For seven years I drove him nuts. I disappointed him professionally and personally. And yet, for seven years he stood in the shadows with the weight of the spotlight on his shoulders as he worked to help me shine. AND, he made my coffee every day. I mean, that’s definitely something I’m going to miss.
So, for three weeks, I’ve cried every day. I’ve tried to figure out who I’m going to be without the best part of me cheering me on and encouraging me and pushing me to be better. I never expected him to stay forever, but… it wasn’t until he was leaving that I realized I always thought I’d go with him. I always thought we’d be working together forever.
Starting next Monday I’ll be making my own coffee each morning. I’ll be keeping my too-liberal thoughts about politics, religion and social issues to myself. I’ll rely on my brother Robert and friend Mike for new music I should be checking out, even though they’re too busy and rarely send me songs anymore. I’ll wear bright green to work and no one will sarcastically comment “Happy St. Patty’s Day” no matter what time of year it is. I’ll go out to lunch and eat the whole thing and be miserable all afternoon because I won’t have him to remind me to save half. I’ll take longer to get my ideas out of my head. And the patience and communication he’s been trying to teach me for seven years will finally be put to the test when I hire a new designer to work with.
My brother tells me that I need to look at this as a positive thing. As a chance to stand on my own and be the better person I’ve been working toward. But right now, all I feel is the tsunami of emotion and the hopelessness of being left behind to pick up the pieces. And then I think of him moving on to something worthy of his talents, to finding a better professional half who builds him up, instead of just draining him of his worth, and I smile. I could never give him what he’s given me, but I can let him go and hope he finds it somewhere else.
In the meantime, I guess I can learn to make a mean cuppa Joe. Wish me luck. I’d say good luck to him, but he doesn’t need it. He has talent and drive and I know he’ll be successful.
XOXO – Awkward “Work-Divorcee” Jean
PS — If by chance you have some song suggestions for me, let me know. I did start a playlist, but so far I only have six songs… that’s some serious repetition my friends.
There’s a line I love in the song “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine. It’s a simple statement that, in less than twenty words, sums up everything I’ve ever asked for in a relationship.
And I never wanted anything from you
Except everything you had and what was left after that too
Grand gestures. Hollywood endings. Meet cutes (If you don’t know this term, watch The Holiday). I want to be adored. I want to be admired. I want to be respected. I want to be liked. I want to be desired. I want to be wanted. And I want you just to do it, without ever being asked. In short… I don’t want anything except everything and then some.
That said, I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past few years, and even more in the past few months. As I embark upon this blogging adventure and slowly introduce you all to people like Original Crush (OC) and New Crush (NC), I realize you have opinions of your own. Opinions based on the minor tidbits I choose to share, or that I’ve interpreted through my own perception, or that you’ve read between the lines to see. And you’ve taken sides. Several of you have mentioned your allegiance to Team OC or Team NC… most without ever having met either. In fact, other than me, only two of you have met them both.
Will either ever be “good enough” for me? Depends on who you ask. If you’re Team Jean, then the answer is no. Though, I have a sneaking suspicion if you met me through either of them you’d feel the same way about me — that I’m not good enough. Perception and connection play such powerful roles in relationships. We allow other people, other influences to have so much power. I have this theory that really only relates to girls (sorry guys, bear with me) but it’s that our closest girlfriends will never think a partner, no matter how great, is ever quite good enough to us. The reason is simple — we share more of the bad than the good. We all know how we feel about the sweet things, the little gestures, the kindnesses, it’s the things that hurt our feelings and leave our heads spinning that confuse us — therefore those negatives, no matter how minor or infrequent, tend to be the items we focus on when talking to our closest friends about our crush, boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, etc. We bring all these other people into our relationships, expect advice and allegiance, and rarely paint a full picture of our reality.
Every minor grievance gets all this “air time” while the only positives we share tend to be the grand gestures, the big wins, the fairy tale fodder. And those are typically few and far between. And yet, these grand gestures, these big moves are not the things we often think of when we think about what makes us feel loved and wanted. Respected and admired. Liked and desired. The things that make us feel adored are rarely the “big things”, but rather the little ones.
Putting gas in the car, scraping the window on a winter’s morning, bringing us coffee, doing an unexpected chore we typically do ourselves, rushing ahead to open the door, wearing that shirt we love, complimenting our cooking, holding our hand, waking us up with some “business time” (If that’s unfamiliar, click the link– thank me later), buying our favorite drink/snack/movie even when you’re not a fan, texting us good night/good morning/good afternoon/I Love you… just because. These are the things that let us know you not only love, admire, respect, like, adore, want and desire us… but they tell us you know us. You’re thinking of us. We are important to you. We are valued.
It really boils down to feeling valued. We all want to be accepted. It’s human nature. But, we also want to feel valued, important. These little things, they tell us we are. The grand gestures, the big impressive Hollywood-worthy things make us feel good because we share the story and see the envy in others and that envy momentarily gives us a sense of value. But the gesture itself is fleeting. And not often replicated. And frankly, not nearly as endearing and important to us as all the little things. But we never tell you that.
The reason there is an NC is because there are little things that I need, which I don’t get from OC. He doesn’t tell me I’m pretty. He doesn’t tell me I look nice. He doesn’t hold my hand in public. He doesn’t text me as often as I’d like him to. In short, he doesn’t make me feel desirable and wanted. And, as it turns out these are non-negotiables for me in a relationship. As they should be. You take away physical attraction and desire and all you have is friend. Not that a friend is a bad thing, it’s a HUGE part of any relationship… but it’s just a friend without the rest. It’s not a romantic partner. And, that’s the gap that allowed a new crush to sneak in. A man who tells my I’m pretty and makes me feel attractive and desirable.
BUT, that’s not enough either. I’ve shared a lot of the negatives about OC — in this blog, with my friends, to my co-workers, random acquaintances… but I rarely share the little things that make me smile. The things that make me feel valued, if not desired. The fact that he looks at me, right in the eye, and really listens to not only what I’m saying, but also what I’m not. He pays attention to my body language and my eye movement. He’s observant and he remembers little things I say and do.
Any of you who’ve ever gone to a restaurant with me know that I hate ordering. It’s always a process. I have to narrow it down to a few items; I have to see what everyone else is getting; I have to ask the waiter for his opinion… I worry about order envy and let down and any manner of things. Basically, I hate ordering. I like to go to the same places and order the same things not because I’m picky or unadventurous, but because my awkwardness really shines in any ordering environment. OC knows this and will order for me. We’re talking old-school, thought to be archaic, choose and order my meal for me. And you know what? I love it. He’ll only do it if I ask, he doesn’t just assume, and when he does… he knows me. He knows what I like and he even asks some of the exact questions I would have asked and then decides for me. I love it. It’s a little thing, that means a lot.
And no, he won’t hold my hand in public. But alone, at my house watching a movie he’ll keep his arm around me the whole time and even occasionally kiss my forehead, just because.
He calls me. Not on any regulated pattern, not nearly as often as I’d like, but when he does… it means a lot. Probably because he doesn’t do it as often as I’d like. And as much as I hate talking on the phone, I don’t mind with him. Even when I get quiet and awkward and don’t really know what else to say, he just stays quiet too and patiently waits for me to decide to talk again. Even if that means we’re quiet for a few minutes.
Is it enough? I don’t know. But, I do know that I’m not always the nicest to him. Once, when he met me out at a happy hour with a bunch of people he was uncomfortable around, I started out by being annoyed he was late, then drunkenly telling him I had Googled it and thought he may be an actual psychopath… then went into my reasons why. Another time, I invited him to meet me for lunch and neglected to mention he’d be the only male there, that kids were also present, and then I went into a rant about how I’m 35 years old and my eggs are dying. Yep. In front of him.
Point being… there’s always more than one side to every story. And all these grand gestures and big statements that we claim to need and want and expect… they’re nothing compared to the little things. It’s hard finding a balance between that romance and desire with friendship and comfort. I wish I had some profound epiphany to share. I don’t. I guess if there’s one thing I’ve learned while sitting on the sidelines of relationships it’s that we need to focus on the good things, no matter how small, more often. And more than just recognizing and appreciating the little things, we need to be sure we are reciprocating them. Make sure you know what makes your partner feel valued and do those things. OC doesn’t like being touched in public, so every time I try to hold his hand, I’m disrespecting his comfort zone, I’m devaluing him. And yet, I focus on how that makes me feel rejected and neglected. It’s about compromise. For him to recognize how that makes me feel and to try to step out of his comfort zone a little, and for me to recognize the position I put him in and to respect the space he needs. We all need to figure out our non-negotiables and communicate them. The rest is about compromise and caring. Sometimes I think we just stop being nice to the ones we love the most.
My challenge to you — make a list. List out five little things that make you feel valued and loved. And share it. Share that list. Ask your partner to do the same and then try to make it a point to remember to do those things. We all have different little things that make us feel loved… the ones that make you feel valued, aren’t necessarily the same as the ones that make him feel valued. Every day do one thing to show your partner you value/respect/like/understand/know her AND, do one thing that lets him know he’s desired, lets her know she’s wanted.
Trust me, little is the new big. Unless of course we’re talking about body size… in that case HOLLA!! You gots to love yourself some curves!
XOXO — Awkward Jean
The Misadventures of Awkward Jean 