Mr. GOP came to visit me…. well, came to do a variety of campaign things in Orange County and consequently got to visit me. A few months back, GOP said he loved me. Well, I’m unsure still if he genuinely does love me, but he most definitely does not love the dog that I live with.
Charlie the Puggle is by all definitions a very odd dog. He’s fat and snores and barks at people, but generally means well and is loved by all visitors to our apartment. (PS- I moved.)
So when GOP showed up at my door and Charlie was clearly not digging him, I was alarmed. Never has a guy been here without Charlie loving up all over them… until he met GOP. And GOP’s response was fairly ridiculous. The dog is fucking 25 pounds, and GOP acted like it was a grimey, dirty stray animal. He shoved the dog off of him a few times and with a disgusted face just said “Ugh, Charlie!”
And then I knew- time to send GOP on his way.
The relationship I have with Charlie is strained. He eats my stuff, pees everywhere and barks. Because of him, my neighbors think myself and my 2 roommates are worthless. But he has very sweet moments and he does mean well, so I forgive him and just tell him how much he sucks. He gets me, and I walk him and feed him. So I get that not everyone will love my four-legged roomie, and I forgive them that. Most of the time, I don’t like him.
Never did I think that Charlie would weasel his way into my love life criteria…. But it’s a list of criteria that admittedly could use some additions, so I’ll take it. And it’s not that they have to immediately bond with him, but for God’s sake, don’t be put off by something that takes up two-square feet of room and just wants to love you. Plus, aren’t all guys dog people? Don’t they inherently dig all dogs except for lame ones that double as accessories for spoiled rich slut bags? Maybe GOP became less of a man in my eyes. Regardless, his stay with me was cut short. I feel fine with this.
But the criteria thing is an interesting idea. It goes hand in hand with all these talks of ‘types’ and what we’re attracted to. I’m attracted to people with issues, and people who like crazies are attracted to me. Why my relationships all end poorly is explained well by that equation, I guess. Unfortunately, it’s been recently revealed to me that my “type” is not quite as specific as I would like it to be. I’ve been surprised numerous times by the men I find myself drawn to. Well, I surprise myself and give my friends plenty of ammo to make fun of me.
And ultimately, none of this matters. I am dating quite a bit, some more worthy than others. But I don’t want a relationship. I’m too tired, too frustrated, too unsure of everything to begin some search for ‘permanent.’ This will fade I’m sure, just like my other phases, but for now… I think I just want to be left alone. Well, except for dumb-ass Charlie.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m fairly certain that men are taught all kinds of questionable things throughout life that they later unleash on unsuspecting female victims (me). Sadly, the list goes on… I’m going to start periodically updating the list because it seems to grow with every new guy I meet who mistakenly thinks that his bullshit lines and backwards hats will leave me falling all over myself to take his pants off.
- Cargo shorts. Abercrombie made a bunch, mass produced them and then sent forth the poorly-dressed masses… still donning enough pockets to carry food for the next year. Cargo shorts have a purpose… I understand and appreciate that some people (homeless, carpentry-folks) need to carry lots-o-stuff in their pants. The average guy on a Sunday does not. THROW THEM AWAY. (A related one would be puka-shell necklaces. The 90’s were cruel to men).
- The “I’ll bring my friends, you bring your friends” meet-up. I have a number of complaints with this. First off, very rarely does one hot guy come with 4 hot friends. More often than not, i.e. last weekend for me, the hot guy comes with his random friend who belongs in a 70’s porn and his other friend who turns out to be gay. Let me be clear- I am neutral towards both gay and 70’s porn, but my friends have no desire to date either. Plus, if you’re not man enough to see me one-on-one, even if I am admittedly slightly crazy, I don’t really need to continue seeing you…. (there are exceptions to this rule).
- I’ve said this before, but: guys who consistently flaunt their money. I am not a gold digger. You are not that hot. This will not work no matter how many times you flash me the wad of cash in your wallet. Living in Orange County, I’m inundated by these types of guys.
- The “up-down.” The only time this has ever, ever worked is in Friends. Joey’s character up-down’s girls and then follows up with a super-guido “how YOU doin’?” Admittedly, Joey is an endearingly dumb man with magical female skills. But the thing to take note of is that this is not reality. It is in fact, an episode of television. Period. But when I’m strolling through a bar dodging the super-drunk girls and the super-creepy guys, catching a man follow the line of my body from top to bottom is far from flattering. Stop it.
- Grammar in texts. Well, grammar in general is a big thing for me. Men are a little lackluster in this area, which I completely forgive and find borderline attractive. What I can’t stand is when they go crazy with the punctuation. “Do I get 2 c u this wknd???!!?” Sweet Jesus. If you text like that, then hell no. It’s alarming, and I feel more pressured than flattered that you want to see me. “Whatcha up to???” How curious are you?! Does it really warrant three question marks? Just the one would send the message… is your finger stuck? Did you fall asleep on your iphone keyboard? It’s confusing… and weird.
- Peeing in things that are not toilets. This should never happen between dates 1-25. And after date 25, it should happen sparingly, if ever.
- Drunk texts. Everybody likes someone who knows how to have fun. But when my phone is buzzing itself into vibration-heaven at 3am, you go very rapidly from entertaining to annoying. And when you wake up to texts like my roommate did the other morning that make no sense and read, “Hi im food are you awake?” you lose a lot of points really quickly. Drunk texts are great if you’re deep into a relationship, or if it’s an ex spilling his heart, allowing you for a brief victory dance. However, the only thing worse than drunk texts is probably drunk texts that the guy can’t remember sending… way to be a douche.
The list goes on. I will say that women have equally misguided tendencies. For instance, a friend told me that a recent study performed on men between the ages of 18 and 30 showed that men are actually most attracted to the collarbone of all the parts on a woman. I tested the theory out. For two weeks, I wore collar-bone accentuating shirts. Let me tell you- men may enjoy a good collarbone from time to time, but they’re all suckers for some good cleavage. Lesson learned.
“You women are crazy. If she’s your friend, she’s just expressing herself in a healthy manner. If you hate her, she’s a whore.” Wise, wise words from a not so wise man.
He had a point though. It’s all subjective- the labels, the categories, the way we filter people through our respective lenses and then forever leave them there to suffer. I have an idea of how people generally perceive me. Let me tell you, if you like the crazies- you’ll be a big fan of mine.
I’m small, stubborn, loud and fiercely passionate. I’m also pretty lazy, condescending more often than not, and passive aggressive. I’m self-conscious but will never tell you, and regularly demand that you tell me I’m adorable. I, admittedly, play a part. We all do. You can be the nice guy, the serial dater, the player, the bitchy-girl, the snobby girl, the girl next door. The roles are numerous and there’s a spot for everyone.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the sort of angry girl. Vicious with insults when the time calls for it- and even sometimes when the time doesn’t call for it. Presentable, but carrying around a chip on my shoulder the size of Kenya. I don’t like strangers… especially stupid ones. How do I know if they’re stupid? I don’t. But I also like to hazard guesses about innocent people.
I’m charming, huh?
And while I know that people do categorize me, rightfully so, into a less than flattering category, I wish they wouldn’t. I wish I could learn how to not be this bruiser of a person— but that, alas, would involve some serious soul-searching I’m just flat out not prepared to do. It all branches from insecurity. I don’t care if you don’t like me because I’ve pre-emptively decided to not like anyone. And ultimately, I barricade myself unnecessarily from people who may be wonderful additions to my life. In the end, the person damaged the most by my ridiculous way of living is me.
Masochistic? Probably a little bit. But we all have our ways, and we all live in our categories. The question is, can we ever move categories? And if so, is it too late for me?
I went to a psychic yesterday. It needs to be mentioned that I generally don’t buy into this kind of thing, and actually am slightly weirded out by it. Regardless, I found myself sitting with Camille yesterday in a room the size of my closet, watching her flip cards over and more or less tell me what the future holds.
I won’t put it all in here, but I will tell you that she told my best friend that she’d get knocked up in the near future. No mention of husband or significant other, just a baby…. So in comparison, I think my future is looking far brighter than hers.
What Camille did mention was Mr. Pretty. I confess, I have still been speaking with him. Meeting up, talking, kissing once in a while, whatever. But when we met up yesterday for breakfast, I was totally discouraged to see that he’s beginning to change. He says he’s “fan-fucking-tastic” and has never been in a better spot in his life, so that’s great. But it just so happens that this person that I always, stupidly, thought he was deep down isn’t actually there. He’ll continue on his path and growing and changing, but he’ll never be the person that I liked to think he was, or could be. Plus, he’s hitting his dating stride sort of late in the game, and to listen to him talk about it was less than awesome.
Camille told me that God wants him out of my life, but I keep fighting it. I hang on. No shit, huh? But oddly enough, yesterday I had vowed to close that door anyway. Leaving it open just encourages lingering feelings, confusion, and ultimately it will all end with me waging war on my self… because I’m attracted to things/people that are blatantly unhealthy for me. Today I threw away the stuff he wrote me, I deleted his phone number, I need to delete him from facebook. Don’t get me wrong: I am not mad at him. But I know that he and I just don’t work– in fact, I don’t even think I want it to work anymore.
The other, far more interesting, thing Camille said was that I had a boyfriend in my near future. I have mixed feelings about being in another relationship, but if Camille was right, then he sounds like a pretty good fella. Apparently, he’s 6 foot (which I would dig), light hair and light eyes, old school, older than I am but only by a few years, a libra who is great with computers. And here’s where it gets creepy, or where I start to read too much into this whole thing; take your pick…
The guy from last weekend at the bar and I met up last night. Even though the kid texts and doesn’t call and was a little bit of a cheeseball, I figured why not. My girlfriends and I made it to the bar before him because I was worried that I wouldn’t remember what he looked like and didn’t want to get ambushed… And in he walks. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I didn’t quite remember how attractive he really was, which is always nice. After that weird, obligatory friends-meet-other-friends thing, my best friend starts asking him some bizarre questions…. that I later realize are angled at him being the guy Camille predicted..
The new guy is, in fact, a libra. He is actually 6 foot 2, and is a computer wiz who loves to read and write and graduated from Berkely. He has sandy blond hair and blue eyes and was raised by his single mom and claims to be incredibly “old school.” He’s 29.
So naturally, I made out with him at the end of the night. And naturally, I’m totally creeped out and totally curious to see what, if anything happens here. I think we’ll call him the Libra.
And should any of you want to freak yourself out like this, just let me know and I’ll hook you up with Camille’s number.