OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: More Broken Rules[Why I Don't Take in Strays...CON'T]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Its been a while since I've felt the need to get hammered before I post to the Zenformation Professional.

Six pints of Labatt Blue, two shots of something called a Razmatazz, courtesy of some sorority girl who I guess thought I was cute or something.

I realized a long time ago, back when I was a broadcaster, that once one reveals a tad too much information on a public medium, such as a blog, one must anticipate and accept the ramifications of such a disclosure.

But I'm going to finish my last post, nonetheless. If there are librarians who think I'm being too unprofessional, fine. If there are local readers waiting for me to disclose the intimate details of my sex life, well, you're going to be disappointed - read between the lines, and you might figure something out. And if you're somebody who thinks this blog is somehow representative of my colleagues, the official position of my employer, or the like, you are a complete and utter dumbass.

This is, above all, a place to document my thoughts. If you think this was somehow intended to be a "Aren't Librarians Swell?" blog, well, you're in the wrong place.

I appreciate every reader. If I link to your blog, I can honestly say you are probably a thousand times the blogger I am. I encourage all readers to check out the so-much-more-badass blogs listed in the left-hand sidebar.

A special thanks to Beth (nonblogger ex who not only posted but had the balls to remind me of who I once was), Chris (Ms. Monkeythong, who continues to amaze with her nonlibrary librarian wisdom) and Liz (Library Tavern, thank you so much for being honest and calling me on some of my own bullshit.)

Now that I'm liquored up, I think I can continue ...



BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 6:
Never Have a Fling with Someone You Have Nothing in Common With...

Ever have one of those moments where you realize that you're so full of shit that you can't contain it any longer?

Worse still, have you ever had one of those moments when somebody refuses to put up with your shit and time almost stops? One of those moments when you have to choose betweeen completely letting go of your inhabitions and continuing on along the same dismal path?

Okay...maybe it's just me.

It hasn't been that long since I've kissed someone. It has, however, been a long time (eight months) since I kissed someone back without worrying about what the neighbors might think, work issues, or anything else, for that matter.

No self-conscious garbage. No time.

I had spent the last three years of my life trying to buy into the theory that being a professional information cowboy required me to draw a line in the sand dividing personal and professional life, separating work from play like a cataloger carves up a book into Library of Congress subject headings.

My professional life (I spend an average of 50-60 hours a week at work) had been sucking my personal life dry. A place like Oxford, a tiny town where having a personal life can sometimes spark rumors, simply amplifies things internally to near hysteria.

I can't blame everything on my career choice; personal baggage as contributed more than its share to my forgetting what it's like to get caught up in a moment. While I've had several healthy romantic relationships in my life, I've packed away tons of luggage carrying all sorts of things - I am proud to say I'm a survivor of domestic violence, in which I came this close to being murdered, I've been involved with women I had no business dating in the first place, etc.

I've also carried around a lot of guilt, for years, about some of the violence and using of women I've done in the past. While I've tried to take the high road and get over it, I've always ended up building my own freeway to guilt-ridden martyrdom.

Combine it all, and you get one hell of a messed-up stew.

Did I care about any of that while I'm kissing someone back?

No. For the first time in a long while, the answer was a blunt no.

The only thing that was going through my mind at the time? Well, passion sometimes needs to bitchslap the living shit out of the human mind...at least in my case.

I will only share these few observations...

Remember to breathe, but it is incredibly sexy when two people fall on the floor out of breath. (Bruising optional.)

Remember to giggle occassionally.

Don't ever worry about having to buy new shower curtains or glue a leg back onto a coffee table. If it's broke, fix it later.

This sort of stuff is supposed to be enjoyable.


BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 7:
Always Remember that Freedom Has a Price...

Johnny Cash had it all wrong.

Watching a Sunday Morning coming down is absolutely wonderful, but why go to sleep on a Saturday night?

It's amazing how a guy can go from complete bachelorhood to being a completely domesticated bastard in under 48 hours.

I had to make two trips to the grocery store. One to buy pasta, which I don't normally eat, but, hell, somebody's dad was picking up the tab for some really nice wholegrain angel hair and scallops.

Living on my own for as long as I have, one learns to appreciate someone else who's willing to cook.

One thing that sucks...drinking Sanka. One would think someone from Europe would have a better taste in coffee.

I won't even try to spell what my Florentine guest prepared. No clue. But it was really tasty.

Saturday, post-um-kiss, ended up blurring into Sunday. I may have slept three hours. Sunday, we drove out to Hueston Woods State Park and went hiking...in a cold rain. And it was fun.

I did laundry while she stayed at my place, attempting to clean my house (hint - if you're someone who grew up with a housekeeper cleaning everything, yeah, there's no faking it.)

While folding underwear at the laundrymat, the Dick Cheney chest pains came back. PTSD is a bitch sometimes, but other times it serves as a reminder that nothing lasts forever.

My Italian houseguest was heading back home in 28 hours and I probably wouldn't see or hear from her again after she got picked up by her friend from Indy.

Stupid fucking Conscience.

Dude, you don't really believe that guy's picture in that locket she keeps playing with is really her brother, do you? How many women have you known that keep a picture of their brother around their neck? Most reliable red flag in the book. Don't you dare fall into the trap of believing that your acceptance of a fling excludes somebody else from thinking this is a quick fling, too. Grow some balls and trust your gut again.

I kept folding laundry. Not dodging the thought process, I allowed myself to breathe a bit, to let my hormones and neurons duke it out.

I don't think I've done that...ever...as an adult.


BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 8:
When Being a Gentleman Fails, There's Always the Asshole Option

I used to think I was the master at hiding what I was really feeling. I have always been a go-to guy when someone needed a level head or a calm-sounding voice.

Professionally, at least. I've always worked best under pressure and I try to never let anything get in the way with getting the job done or having fun in the process. I took that approach as a journalist, a librarian, and just about every other job I've worked since I was 14 years old.

A colleague once warned me that, in librarianship, it's best to not burn bridges. My philosophy has always been old bridges are meant to be blown up and rebuilt with something stronger.

I'm not Melvil Dewey or Marian the Librarian. I'm William Fucking Holden from the Wild Bunch.

That used to be my philosophy in my personal life as well. But somewhere along the way, I was burned. Correction - I got hit with napalm.

One of my firebombings was a very public affair, and an editor (maybe editors) went to bat for me to keep my being a victim of domestic violence and the fact that my then-fiancee was sitting in a county jail for aggrevated battery from being included in a daily news budget. One firebombing involved a very public break-up while in graduate school from a fellow student - who was engaged to someone else at the time. That required eight weeks of therapy just to keep getting up and going to class and to not worry about whether or not other students or faculty were judging me.

I've been run through the ringer, and my little personal worldview has been completely broken ever since. Did I ever stop and fix it? No. Of course not. That would require having some guts; anybody who's been a survivor of domestic violence will tell you that that is the hardest thing to recover.

I've never been willing to accept the fact that in order for me to have a personal life, to express passion freely, I can't have fun and be in control all of the time.

(By the way, if you're local, reading this, and need shelter from an abusive relationship, I don't care if the governor is sitting in my office; if you need help, stop by, and we'll see what resources we can find to help.)

So...to continue my little adventure...

I'm driving back to my house and I stop off for some coffee on a Sunday afternoon. My chickenshit instinct is to simply wait until my houseguest is gone; avoid the thought that she's probably got some kickass boyfriend back in Florence, a guy who's probably some European playboy, a guy who looks a bit like Colin Ferrell.

I call up one friend and ask for advice. Notice I have 12 unchecked voicemails on my cell. Ignore all of them (sorry to anybody who's called in the last two weeks.) This friend gets pissed; no solace. She tells me to quit being a goddamned chickenshit, to quit taking on somebody else's baggage, and to quit being so Don Quixote.

Have I really been chasing windmills?

Fuck.

Do I really give a flying rat's ass if she has a boyfriend back home? We're not talking lifelong commitment here. Does it really bother me that she comes from a wealthy family, or that she's 19? Does any of it matter, or am I just making up reasons to feel guilty, to put myself back in some box, to punish myself for something that's really not my business?

I drive back to my house. She's sprawled out on the floor, wrapped up in the Mexican throw, watching my new Battlestar Galactica Season 2.0 DVDs (with the English subtitles on). She tells me I'm such a nerd but that's completely okay. One of her Monday red-eyes was cancelled. She bit my ear and asked if she could stay through Tuesday.

It finally occurs to me that, for one brief period in my personal life, I'm William Fucking Holden again. I have by far the hottest woman in Oxford Fucking Ohio laying on my floor, hair in pigtails, fresh and sweaty from an afternoon jog, who smells, tastes, and definitely feels like a woman.

Fuck you, Colin Ferrell lookalike! If you are her boyfriend, you're probably not very good at it, else your girlfriend would not be wearing my lucky tee shirt, crashing in my house, and pulling stray hairs out of my back. So some people might not approve. So her Race Car Daddy would probably have me killed if he ever found out. So she's way too young and there's no way this will last past when she leaves.

What's the point of living life if you can't do something stupid every once and a while. That's the point of a mindless, completely insane fling.

While we're laying on the floor, trying to figure out the shapes in my textured ceiling, she tells me a few Miami students cat-called her way while she was jogging by what I'm assuming was a frat house.

In a very fake tone, she asked me why American boys were so stupid.

Fuck if I know. I can't figure out why I'm so stupid half the time. Thank goodness for the post-graduate education...and the ability to cut through one's own bullshit.

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NOTE - I held off on posting this until Friday morning to give myself time to edit a bit.