Things I don’t know shit about: Polyamory

I got a very interesting reply to yesterday’s jealousy-post. Apparently the irony I meant to put into my writing did not carry as well as I thought (or maybe I just sounded bitter?) – thus it prompted someone to give me a very thoughtful answer, looking at the problem from a whole different point of view.

This someone is a girl I briefly met at school and then realized from facebook status to facebook status that we share sarcasm, the loss of a parent and a thing for gay men. But apart from that, I know nothing about her or the life she lives.

In her comment, which you can find below the “Just shoot me” post, she encouraged me to ask myself why I am jealous and what of. She also reminded me that being with someone, doesn’t mean you own them. Some time later on she mentioned her experience with the jealousy-issue:           P. is polyamouros, her husband is not.

In theory, I can share the man I love  with others. I can have threesomes and I am intellectually above jealousy.

In reality, I want to be the “-est ” girl he has ever known, and the thought of someone else seeing what I see, touching what I touch, simply having what I have (but then, from Phrannies perspective: do I have it?) is driving me insane. I believe that this is part of my idea of love: that it can only be me who makes him laugh like this, and my smile in the morning, my kiss goodnight the makes him happier than he was without me.

I think about this a lot, because many people I admire from the 1920s and 1930s practised Polyamory. Most of the time though at least one of the people in the amorous triangle or square  or octagon felt hurt or left out. The same goes for many of my gay friends: they are sexually openminded, but only if it is them sleeping with someone else. If their boyfriend does, they feel just as hurt as I would.

So, eventhough the idea of not being jealous appeals to me, I don’t think it would work for me without an effort just as painful as jealousy itself.

How do you handle it?

“Also, jetzt drehst du völlig durch.”

Ich weiß, aber es ist so witzig!

Auf der Suche nach dem Spiegel-Artikel: Das ist kein Name, das ist eine Diagnose! fand ich nämlich das hier:

Just shoot me.

I am lost. This time it is not a vampires’ fault, but Jackos. Jacko, in this case, is not MJ but a girl I met because she knows my boyfriend. And his ex. And liked talking to me. And all of a sudden, there was a name to the stories. Of course it is the worst name in the world. (Any name that ends with “-ine” is bad, except maybe porcupine.)

And since there is facebook, now there is a face, too. And it’s not pretty.

The facebook stalking virus is only avoidable if you erase your membership now and do not ask your friends to let you check something on their computer real quick. EVER.

The alternative is finding an 11-year-old boyfriend who never had a girlfriend before you. But eventhough that might spare you the emotional trouble of being completely irrationally jealous of someones past, it might get you in other trouble, say, with his mom or the law.

So what is it that brings perfectly smart, functional and only mildly neurotic people (Anm. d. Red: mich), to cross the line, find the Ex, look at her pictures and compare themselves to what they see? And why is it, that no matter what exactly is to be seen on those pictures, it is never ok? If she is pretty it sucks and you feel like shit.  If she is not, you wonder what the hell he was thinking and feel like shit, too. Pretty shit, but shit.

Why does this happen as inevitably as Lindsay Lohan is going to rehab again?

Honestly, I am a rational person most of the time – and I lasted for almost a year without even asking one single (well, maybe a few) question about the evil Ex. When he told me about her, I even tried to make him see her side of things, because that’s how understanding I am. I would even go so far as to say I have to be grateful to this woman (more like thing now that I’ve seen her), for making him the wonderful man he is with me.

But then: ZAP! Random stranger tosses me a name and I go cuckoo loco nuts like an 8-year-old over Justin Bieber. My brain explains to me that one cannot be jealous of something in the past, while my stomach is telling me differently. It tingles and tightens like I’m going to be sick – and then I realize I kind of like the feeling. Which in consequence makes me feel like a complete weirdo.

Is that little spark of  unnecessary jealousy the extra spice?

What do you think?

Have you read my other blog?

When I’m not here, I read. And sometimes I write about what I read.

Here:

thereadingglasses.wordpress.com

Unfortunately I am too stupid to post an actual link.

Brooklyn -Colm Tóibín

Oh wow. This was supposed to go on the other blog. But now it’s here. Weeeeeeeeell.

Bought at the airport in Rome as the only English book available. I needed something to read because my boyfriend stole my copy of Berlin Alexanderplatz — as if I would ever leave the house, let alone the country without sufficient reading material!

The story of a girl in smalltown Ireland in the 1950s, whose sister outshines her in everything. The brothers have left for Dublin and the girls are stuck with the mother. Eilis feels insufficient most of the time, because her mother and everyone else keeps rubbing in how amazing the older sister is.

It is then arranged for Eilis to move to America, where she suffers from homesickness, gossipy roommates and the cruel Brooklyn winter, but also meets a nice Italian boy. Then news about a sudden death in the family cause her to return home for a while and everything changes.

And it kinda stops making sense.

I wasn’t disappointed because, as I said, it was bought instead of an InTouch magazine…

Joachim Ringelnatz – Schöne Frauen mit schönen Katzen

Schöne Fraun und Katzen pflegen

Häufig Freundschaft, wenn sie gleich sind,

Weil sie weich sind

Und mit Grazie sich bewegen.

Weil sie leise sich verstehen,

Weil sie selber leise gehen,

Alles Plumpe oder Laute

Fliehen und als wohlgebaute

Wesen stets ein schönes Bild sind.

Unter sich sind sie Vertraute,

Sie, die sonst unzähmbar wild sind.

Fell wie Samt und Haar wie Seide.

Allverwöhnt. – Man meint, daß beide

Sich nach nichts, als danach sehnen,

Sich auf Sofas schön zu dehnen.

Schöne Fraun mit schönen Katzen,

Wem von ihnen man dann schmeichelt,

Wen von ihnen man gar streichelt,

Stets riskiert man, daß sie kratzen.

Denn sie haben meistens Mucken,

Die zuletzt uns andre jucken.

Weiß man recht, ob sie im Hellen

Echt sind oder sich verstellen?

Weiß man, wenn sie tief sich ducken,

Ob das nicht zum Sprung geschieht?

Aber abends, nachts, im Dunkeln,

Wenn dann ihre Augen funkeln,

Weiß man alles oder flieht

Vor den Funken, die sie stieben.

Doch man soll nicht Fraun, die ihre

Schönen Katzen wirklich lieben,

Menschen überhaupt, die Tiere

Lieben, dieserhalb verdammen.

Sind Verliebte auch wie Flammen,

Zu- und ineinander passend,

Alles Fremde aber hassend.

Ob sie anders oder so sind,

Ob sie männlich, feminin sind,

Ob sie traurig oder froh sind,

Aus Madrid oder Berlin sind,

Ob sie schwarz, ob gelb, ob grau, –

Auch wer weder Katz noch Frau

Schätzt, wird Katzen gern mit Frauen,

Wenn sie beide schön sind, schauen.

Doch begegnen Ringelnatzen

Häßlich alte Fraun mit Katzen,

Geht er schnell drei Schritt zurück.

Denn er sagt: Das bringt kein Glück.

Fashion Week DIY

Berlin Fashion Week How To:
Prep: Do some coke and don’t eat for at least 1-2 weeks until you look sufficiently hungry .

1. Go on iTunes and look for the band with the weirdest name. Put on their music.

2. Go to your grandma’s and your little sister / brother’s closet and pick things that do not match in any way. Make sure they do NOT fit you.

3. Put on all the garments you picked, from biggest to smallest.

4. Be sure to wear at least one item that does  NOT go with the season. So, if its winter, wear  strappy sandals. In summer, wear fur, a hat or a big scarf.

5. For some extra fashion spice, try to bring pieces from at least 3 decades into one outfit.

6. Do some more coke.

7. While you put on your lipstick, work on your Swedish accent.

8. Once you’ve got your accent down, put on the most ridiculous sunglasses you have and do some more coke.

9. To fit in with the crowd, try to talk about bars as much as you can. If you don’t know any, make one up, preferably in another town where everything is cooler. The others will be impressed with how “underground” and “authentic” you are.

10. Good to go! Don’t come back!