TARA DUBLIN ROCKS.

A 47-Year-Old Woman Goes to See a Band

Before the show starts you are backstage and can hear “How Soon Is Now?” playing from the bar and you think how 30 years ago that song was you and it was everything but now it just makes you roll your eyes a little and laugh at how overly dramatic both you and the lyrics are

Before the show starts the sexy lead singer hugs you tightly and it almost makes you cry because he smells amazing and his body is lean and muscular and it has been months since a man has held you close like this 

Before the show starts you wonder if you actually can get away with just wearing this long t-shirt over leggings, you never wear leggings as pants in public, but they are black and your boots are black and that’s supposed to elongate your short little legs or some shit, and who gives a fuck about your leggings or your boots or your legs anyway, you will never see any of these people again 

Before the show starts you wonder how long you’ll be able to stand there alone in the crowd nursing the can of beer you took from the Green Room that you don’t really want, wonder how long can you stand the dull ache of standing there alone, wonder how long until it doesn’t feel so weird. Being alone at home is safe and familiar, being alone in a crowd reminds you that you’re there alone. You spot other women standing alone and wonder if they’re thinking the same things you are. Are they also questioning what they wore? Are they also aching with loneliness despite being surrounded by people? Do they also look at all the couples with the same combination of seething and longing, or has being single for all this time just made “bitter” your default setting 

During the show you forget about all of this, because suddenly you remember how absolutely fucking amazing live music can be. The bass line has replaced the dull ache and is now living in your chest cavity, it creates a beating there stronger than your own heart has felt in years. The band is genuinely great and you find yourself dancing. DANCING, can you imagine the audacity? Dancing in public and wearing leggings like you’re sixteen in your bedroom. You are SMILING, too, smiling while you’re dancing, how dare you! Smiling at the band, the lights, the other people who are also dancing, the feeling of moving your body for a change. Smiling like you don’t have all the stress in the world always living in a halo around your brain at all times 

During the show someone taps you on the shoulder and tells you how adorable you are just dancing there, and how you’re even more enjoyable to watch than the band, and you thank them because you are genuinely flattered but also it makes you laugh hysterically, because the nicest and most enthusiastic compliment you’ve gotten in forever not from the Internet comes from a girl who’s about 24 years old 

During the show the lead singer smiles at you and gives you a shout out from the stage and it’s not the first time this has ever happened to you and if your life made any sense he wouldn’t be leaving town to move across the country, but of course it doesn’t and of course he is 

During the show you realize you’re not going to be able to move tomorrow from all the dancing because you are old and you never dance or exercise, so you keep dancing even though there’s no one to massage you when you get home 

After the show the lead singer gives you a t shirt and another close, tight hug and you once again silently curse the Universe for always putting men in your life that you will never get to have 

After the show you drive home but you don’t feel that same sense of disappointment you usually do when you go out alone and go home alone. Maybe it was the dancing creating an endorphin high. Maybe you have finally accepted that this is your life and you’re now accustomed to the solitude of the drive home and the sleeping alone without questioning it. Maybe you don’t always have to remind yourself of what you don’t have. Maybe it all just….is 

After the show but before you even get home you can already feel your neck and shoulders stiffening and your lower back and legs aching even though you had those inserts in your boots because you are middle aged 

After the show you remember hearing “How Soon Is Now?” and how the lyrics seemed to fit you so long ago and how they could still fit you so easily now if you let them 

And you go home, and you don’t cry, and you don’t want to die 

Instead, you take three Advil and stretch before bed while still wearing your leggings

How To Embarrass Your Teenage Son on Twitter

My older son, Jack, 17, was late to social media. He still doesn’t have a Facebook page (thankfully), but I discovered a few months back that he does have a Twitter account. I wasn’t thrilled to learn this—we were supposed to have a discussion about him signing up for any social media accounts—but once I realized he was only following the other kids from his track team and his Physics teacher, I relaxed a little. But that didn’t last long when I realized that every single one of his friends was following me.

I’ve been on Twitter since 2009, and as of this writing I’m close to 9,000 followers. Prior to this election cycle, I mostly tweeted about my lack of money, employment, or a boyfriend. But since the Putrifying Racist Human Orange hasn’t gone away since declaring his candidacy a year ago, I’ve amped up my tweeting, and it’s usually full of swears, especially the big bad F dash-dash-dash word. Now, I love to swear (it’s genetic: I was born in Brooklyn and raised in New Jersey, yo!), but I do NOT swear around my sons, or at least I try to not. The occasional “Jesus Christ!” Maybe a “Goddammit!” But the big ones? Nope. I figure they probably hear enough bad language at their respective schools, so I keep it clean in the hizzy.

But on Twitter all bets are off, and it never occurred to me that Jack might be seeing whatever I was tweeting. He’d told me he’d muted me, but his friends continue to screencap any tweet of mine they decide is hilarious and then DM it to him, which he’s repeatedly begged them not to do. So of course they keep doing it, because to them it’s the funniest thing in the world to torture him. Every so often Jack will come clomping down the stairs and say something like, “Mooom, WHY can’t you just not tweet about Donald Trump for a little while? Please?” 

Sorry, kid. Mommy’s trying to help stop Armageddon from happening over here.

Jack’s own tweets are funny, usually sharing something from “The Daily Show” or “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert” (his personal Jesus) or RTing one of his friend’s tweets. It often amuses me to catch him reading his timeline, because he used to tease me about my own Twitter addiction with the condescension only a teenager can master. Now, every three seconds, he’ll laugh about something one of his friends has just sent out or show me the latest anti-Trump meme. And then beg me to not share it because his friends will see it too.

One time, they all pulled into our driveway in a minivan after a movie, refusing to leave until Jack brought me outside to meet them. Jack had described me to them, to try to hold them off (“She looks like her picture and she’s really short,” is what he told them), but they insisted on meeting the Real Deal. It was amusingly flattering.

“Hi Jack’s Mom!” A chorus greeted me as I walked out on to the driveway. 

“Hi Jack’s Friends!” I called back. “Please never tell your parents about all the swears I tweet!

Again, the chorus: “We won’t!” 

Naturally, at least half of their parents are now following me (sorry, you guys).
I have struggled with this, but I can’t censor myself on the Internet just because underage people might see me using swear words. I mean, my Pinned Tweet right now is a meme that includes the word “fuckface”. I’ve never been a shrinking violet (Jersey.Girl.), and I’m not about to regress now. I often forget that they’re reading what I’m writing. In fact, I mostly forget. But that’s probably for the best, because I have to remember that I write for myself before anyone else. 

Every so often, though, something triggers my memory, and now there are currently twenty teenagers on a list I’ve called “My Baby Boy’s Friends”, which they love. Occasionally I’ll check in to see what they’re up to. Mostly they share goofy memes and pics of track team social gatherings: pizza parties, day trips to the river, sunset hikes. These are good kids, but their teenage experience is so different from mine. I am eternally thankful there was no internet back in the 80s when I was in high school; I can’t imagine anything more mortifying for a teenager than to see their mom’s life opened up for the whole world to see and comment on. Especially when she ends up being the target of a LOT of trolling, and those chodes do not hold back when it comes to doing the swears. I’ve been attacked by misogynists, anti-Semites, and racists—and quite often, a winning combo of all three! They sure get creative with the English language. I can let it roll off, since I’ve been dealing with it for a long time. I can block or mute and move on. But it doesn’t mean those words don’t have an impact. It doesn’t mean they didn’t say them about me. About Jack’s MOM.

Welcome to Jack’s life.

Not only do his friends show him what I tweet, they show him what some people tweet to me. I can’t be sure of the exact tweets he’s seen, since of course he doesn’t tell me everything. But thanks to Twitter, he now knows a certain word that begins with “C” that he didn’t know before. And it was directed at his mother. Take a moment to think about how that might make him feel.

Jack and I have always had a great relationship. My firstborn and I were basically physically attached for the first three years of his life, and we remain emotionally close. We talk about the election in deep detail: he understands gerrymandering, something I’m sure the GOP nominee doesn’t. We watch movies together that his younger brother isn’t yet allowed to see, and often he’ll lean up against me on the couch as we watch. He still kisses me goodnight. He is a sweet, good, smart, funny young man I couldn’t be more proud of. The last year has been one of a natural and slow separation as he chooses to spend more time with his friends than his Mommy, and while it sometimes stings when he makes it clear he’d rather be with them than me, I also know that’s a totally normal teenager thing to do. We all do it, but we don’t get how hard it is on our parents until we go through it ourselves. But just because he’s with me barely an hour a day lately doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt him when he finds out people say terrible things to me on the Internet.

And there’s nothing I can do about it. Short of deleting my Twitter, and that’s not going to happen. I still need to connect to the world at large and get my voice out there, in the hopes that I’ll eventually get paid again for being creative. I’ll still keep tweeting against Trump until he’s nothing but a rank pile of Cheeto Dust blowing away in the wind. I’ll still keep getting trolled by awful, obtuse, hateful racist misogynists who mindlessly regurgitate whatever babble Trump is on about that particular day. I’ll still keep using whatever language feels right in that moment.

I just hope Jack doesn’t mind too much.

WARNING: Major Brain Dump Ahead

This will not be cohesive. This will be long. This will not be fun for me. But this needs to happen. Because it’s time. I haven’t done a bloggery in forever. I’m going to share things that have been living in my brain hole, taking up space that I should be using for productivity, and I need to clear some of this shit out, to let the new shit in. I’m going to say unkind things about myself and you’re going to have to let me. Because this is how my brain works, this is how it’s always been. I’ve been self-narrating my life story in a mental voice that is partially mine, partially my mother’s, and is meaner than anything anyone could ever say to me out loud. But if I’m the one beating me up, I’m also the one who’s healing myself. 

Now, before you get your advice wheels turning, stop. I’m delighted that my twee little life problems would make anyone want to reach out to help. I am beyond appreciative of everyone’s kindness and caring and friendship and love. I know everyone wants only the best for me, and knowing that has helped me through some bad mental spots. A support network is vital to human survival. But so many times over the last three years of singledom, I’ve received many empty platitudes of well-meaningness that really don’t do anything except take up some space under a Facebook post. Not to seem ungrateful, but after you’ve been told the same things over and over again for three years and absolutely nothing has gotten better or changed, it’s tough to not grind my teeth a little when I read them for the eleventy-billionth time. 

Examples of the things people say when they don’t know what else to say that leave me feeling not at all better:

“It’ll happen when you’re not looking” 
“Hang in there, something great is about to happen for you”
“You’re so (insert lovely compliment), I can’t believe you’re single!”

Etceteras. 

Yes, most of the reason for this brain dump is plain old fashioned loneliness. There are times when I enjoy my alone time, when I revel in it, when it’s restorative and relaxing, when I can eat whatever I want and bingewatch to my heart’s content. There are other times, however, when my sons aren’t with me (like right now; as I write this, they’re wrapping up their 10 day Spring Break trip to NYC), when I’ve been sitting alone on the couch night after night, when no one invites me to do things, when I haven’t had any physical human contact for ages, and those are the extra bad times. I’ll think to myself how all this awesomeness that I have is going to waste, why can’t I find anyone who wants all the things I have to offer, why do other people get to be happy and I don’t. I turn it all into Twitter fodder and hashtag it with a wry “#single”, but this shit is getting old. And so am I.

My birthday is at the end of this month, the 26th. It will be the fourth birthday in a row without a significant other man person in my life. I’m not particularly focused on my age being what it is (and it will be 46, if anyone cares that I’ll officially be closer to 50 than 40 uggggh), because no one thinks I’m my age. Of course I grapple with the issue of getting older and all the things that are starting to fall apart physically, but there is also the whole being without someone who would make the day extra nice for me. It won’t feel like a birthday because there won’t be any real celebration, unless I’m the one who plans it (which I probably will, and even then, it’ll be brunch with my kids. Which will be lovely, but still). There is no one to do anything special for me. No one is going to make dinner reservations and drive me to the restaurant. No one is going to surprise me with gifts left on the front seat of my car like my ex-boyfriend did one year. Yes, I will get tons of Facebook birthday wishes and tweets of the same, and that will make me smile, of course, because that’s been the best thing about my birthday these last few years. But no one is going to bake me a cake or surprise me with balloons or any of the nerdy, funny things my ex-boyfriend did. And there won’t be anyone to make out with. 

Oh, I miss having a guy person to make out with. I like all that stuff, and any guy person I’ve done that stuff with has acknowledged that I know what I’m doing, and let’s just leave it there. Despite the incredulous tweets from people out in the Twitterverse, it is an actual fact that there are men in this city who could’ve had me as their devoted girlfriend, yet chose not to. I’ve recently been told that one of the reasons I’m single is that I’m “intimidating” and “controlling” (thanks for that unsolicited bit of advice). I’m not controlling, I just like to know how to manage my expectations. Is the gentleman in question looking for a relationship, or does he just want a fuck buddy? A girl needs to know this, because of the bubble wrap around the heart. We have to attend to that. As for intimidating, I’d love to know how a five-foot-tall, 107 pound woman could intimidate anyone. Sure, I have a strong personality, but I’m so much fun to hang out with, trust. There have been men who haven’t been intimidated by me, though I haven’t had any success with them, neither.

Right around this time last year, such a person happened. Another such person happened about two months ago. It was a small enough blip that I haven’t mentioned it online, but I did meet a guy who I seemed to click with on all the levels. And I thought I was breaking the pattern this time, because I wanted to be breaking the pattern. The first time we chatted, we chatted over the course of an entire day (”Why aren’t we meeting in person today?” he would text. He was so eager to meet me, which felt great). A single dad, a chef, great sense of humor, a lot in common, very cute, within the acceptable age range (37). Our first date was eight hours of talking. Our second date was twelve hours of talking (and a little making out, but not too much, because breaking the pattern!). Our third date wasn’t so much a date as me being supportive at a dinner he was making for potential employers, where he kissed me in public in front of people like we were a couple. The fourth date was pretty perfect, the kind of night I could imagine spending with him often. It felt so comfortable, like a relationship would feel. I could very easily picture us having more nights like that one, where we ended the night cuddling on the couch, watching a movie. We talked about the next time we could get together. He was heading to Northern California to see his mother. He was also in the middle of a major life crisis, where he found himself unemployed and unable to find a job, something I could certainly relate to. He was very stressed, naturally, and I let him know how much I understood how he felt, because I lived that for three years. When we parted that night, I think he could sense I was a little nervous about his trip–he was contemplating moving back there for work, but didn’t want to leave his daughter–he kissed me and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll see me again.”

But I haven’t.

Because he flaked. Like all the other guys flaked. I got a text putting off a date, then putting off the rescheduled date, and then it just became him not being able to deal with life. And while he said he liked me, he’d had a great time with me, we got along so well, and it was “no reflection” on me BLAH BLAH BOY BULLSHIT, he had to fix his life, and fix it fast, and he had to do it alone. So he let go of a really great person who would have been wonderfully supportive of him during a really shitty time in his life. There was also the added issue that he’s probably an alcoholic, and that’s why maybe his anti-depressants weren’t working, but hey, what do I know? Staying friends with me was apparently not an option, because all of a sudden, he just pulled the whole ghosting thing, even though we’d had the “I fucking hate it when people pull that whole ghosting thing” conversation. 

So that wasn’t fun. That was a disappointment. Yes, I probably dodged yet another bullet. Luckily, I hadn’t allowed too many feels to develop this time, because I couldn’t help but wonder when the other shoe was going to drop. Because it always drops for me. But it still bugs me a little, how it all played out, because I thought maybe this time….and, sigh.

In the six weeks that have passed since he pulled the disappearing act, other contenders have emerged, but nothing that could ever become what I truly want. I want love. I want a relationship. However, I have begun to think that I’m not allowed have that. My best relationship ever ended three years ago, the one that was a billion times better than my marriage ever was; I’ve been chasing the feelings that he gave me ever since. It doesn’t help that he and I are still in touch, that we can text each other the old jokes that always made us laugh, that we can think of each other with affection. He has moved on, and is lost to me forever. It also doesn’t help that starting next week, he is going to be working at the deli RIGHT DOWNSTAIRS from where I work, because there are no other places in Portland that make food. So every day when I pass by, it’ll be like, Hey Tara, there’s your daily reminder that no one is ever going to love you like he loved you. Have a great day at work!

I mean, UGH.

Oh and HA HA HA Universe, thank you for this song that popped up on the iTunes Shuffle right as wrote that last sentence.

No, I really don’t think it will. Sorry, Daniel. Nice sentiment, though.

Let’s cap this mess off with the latest ridiculousness that I put myself through, just last night. The Replacements played at the Crystal Ballroom, where I just happen to have a lifetime VIP pass, plus one. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to go alone. But then there’s a guy person I’ve recently come into contact with, someone I don’t know well and can’t quite get a handle on, personality-wise. However, I find him interesting and physically attractive, and kind of got the same vibe from him in return. And since I’m an idiot moron person who can’t tell anything about guys anymore, I genuinely have no idea if he’s attracted to me. But it came up in conversation that the Replacements were playing, and that I have this plus one, and did he want to go? He affirmed that he did. I had no idea if this was a date, or just two people who happen to know each other who also happen to both like the Replacements, and also would like not having to pay to see them play live. After a beer at the bar downstairs (where I asked him questions that led to a good conversation, but I later realized, he didn’t really ask me anything about myself. Clue #1 that this wasn’t a date), we went upstairs to the sold-out packed house. It wasn’t easy to fight our way through the crowd to the VIP section, and since I’m puny, I was concerned I’d lose him on the way. I said, “Give me your hand” and he literally said, “That’s ok, I got you.” Clue #2 that it wasn’t a date: he had the opportunity to hold my hand and declined. Okay. Once in the VIP area, we got separated when he went to get a beer, and he didn’t try to make his way next to me once he got it. Clue #3 that it wasn’t a date. Thanks to all the pushy and shovy people (it sucks being a short girl at a show), I did end up standing in front of him, but it wasn’t like we were there together at all. The whole show, I was peeking between heads to catch an occasional glimpse of Paul Westerberg. The rest of the time, I watched peoples’ backs. At least the band sounded great. I tried to enjoy myself, but things just felt off.

To make things worse, there was a couple in my sightline almost the whole time. Of course there are couples everywhere I go all the time [Sidebar: sometimes when I see couples, whether they are happy together or they’re not, I want to stop them and ask them, “How did you do this? How did you get here? How did you find each other, and then how did you reach the point where you were able to relax and stopped worrying if it was going to last or not? How did you decide that you were done looking and that you were right for each other?” I just don’t know how it happens anymore. I’m starting to think all the couples have already found each other, and that after a certain age you just have to resign yourself to the reality that you’re going to die unloved by anyone except your kids. Or maybe it’s the lack of available, attractive, suitable single men in Portland. And by available, I mean not dating others, just me.  By attractive, I mean I have to feel something when I look at a guy. Physical attraction matters, and it’s different for everyone. And by suitable, I mean the guy has to be able to take me on a proper date. At least dinner. Every guy I meet is either too young, too broke, or too busy fucking around. Can you understand why I feel hopeless? End of sidebar], but there was something about this couple that just got to me. I was there with someone but not, and there they were, totally with each other. She didn’t look all that different from me: she was dark and pretty, maybe a little more the pin-up type in her dress and makeup, but she looked like someone I’d be friends with. He was cute, and he stood behind her and held her and was making her laugh (which gave me the biggest envy pang, the sense of humor is so everything), and he looked like a guy I’d want to date. I ached for what they had, their connection. And I just spent way too much time feeling very alone in the middle of that crowd. 

At the end of the night, my not-date gave me the awkward side-hug of not being at all into me. I’m not mad at him for this. I’m not even mad at myself. It’s not his fault he’s not into me. It’s not my fault, either. It just is. I accept it with quiet resignation. As in, Of course it wasn’t a date, you idiot moron. Why would you even think that? You need to manage those expectations better, baby doll. Haven’t you learned anything by now? He’s a perfectly fine person, it’s just not going to happen. Of course. I listened to the Smiths the whole drive home, because the dramz of it all. 

Yes, I know I’m very mean to myself. But after three years of absolutely nothing ever working out for me in this department, after all the wrong men and the disappointments and the constant feeling of being let down by life in general, optimism isn’t something I’m going to have in spades, you know? And if you’ve read this far (and bless your sweet heart and bleary eyes), please know that I know I will not feel this way forever. It just feels like I will feel this way forever. I realize it’s not a healthy way of thinking. Hence this blog. Hence my life theme song, which I should probably listen to every day to remind myself of all the disappointments and what always happens any time I let my hopes rise above subterranean levels. 

Ah. I feel mentally cleansed. In the new space I have made, I will make room for MY BOOK, which should hopefully be a thing that happens soonishly. I will start writing its sequel, which is already occupying a nice little corner of my mind. It’ll feel good to let that out, too. I will continue to try to not look for what I’m sure isn’t out there and also try not to let the same shit I just cleared out get back in. And maybe in a short amount of time, I’ll have something way more cohesive and less whiny to write about. I can only hope.

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.