Things That Are Better… Taken

I had to write this.  It was unfair not to… Although I highly doubt there will be as many “Yayuh!”‘s to this post as there were to my “Things That Are Better Single” one.  Bloggers tend to not be in relationships- or they do- and don’t read my blog because they feel bad for me I make them jealous.

However, you can never tell me I didn’t explain BOTH sides of the story.  Because I am about to write a list of the best things about… abooouuuttt…. (sorry, almost threw up in my mouth a little bit)… about… beinginarelationship. There.  I said it.

1. Your period.  Congratulations! You’re not pregnant! It’s a relief, and a very heavy, baby-sized weight has been lifted from your shoulders (ovaries?).  Now, on with your life for another 24 days until you start methodically counting the dates on your phone’s calendar again trying to compute if your late.  Mazel Tov!

2. Valentine’s Day.  Birthdays.  Holidays that involve cards.  Now, my mom is good about this, and I am a regular receiver of cards.  But there’s something pretty fantastic about a card filled with sloppy boy writing, brimming with marginally thoughtful things that he probably spent 3 hours avoiding thinking up.  Awwwwww.  “He thinks I’m really Cool!”

3. Getting Waxed.  Unlike me, if you are in a relationship, you spend $50 a month for lovely miss Sameera while chatting about God knows what with the intention of showing off your barbie-look-alike vajayjay.  If you are more in my boat, you visit Sameera monthly out of the sheer fact that you have developed a very painful, very unfeministic habit.  And she’s nice. (Did I just admit to being friends with my waxer?!)

4. Gaining Weight.  Haha! He’s stuck with you anyway.  SUCKER!

5. Birth Control.  You know what they call birth control for celibate/single folk?  Vitamins, because they’re basically the same thing now.  A daily nuisance you take because you hear they help with your skin.

6. Regular sex.  Well, that is, if you’re still having it or still enjoying it at this point.

7.  Movies.  That shit is expensive nowadays, and at least if you’ve got a significant other they’ll pay for you to go see You’re A Pedophile For Loving Justin Beiber So Much  and stuff your face with Raisinettes.  I generally don’t see movies unless I have a boyfriend… Meaning I saw every movie that ever came out in 2007 and 2008… and NOT ONE in 2009.  Which sucks because word on the street is that Paranormal Activity was exactly as abominable as I thought it would be.

8.  Having A Phone.  Because when you have a boyfriend it actually rings and shit.

9.  When People Ask Who You’re Dating ‘These Days.’  By ‘people’ I mean members of your extended family, and by ‘who you’re dating’ I mean who will take you off their hands so they don’t need to take care of you into your 40’s.  Because that’s all my family members are looking for in my boyfriends… PLEASE DON’T MAKE US PAY FOR HER FOREVER.  (My drinking is expensive).

10. Having Trust/Daddy Issues.  Finally, someone to punish for your father’s mistakes!  And for a second there I was worried I’d have to get over them in a healthy manner instead of projecting them onto some poor, unassuming man.  Whew!

Okay, so this quickly turned into Reasons Not To Date ME, but whatever… I was totally kidding.  I mean my phone rings all the time… Swear.

Dolla Dolla Bills Y’all… Judge Me, I Deserve It.

Remember last year when I blogged about my first tattoo?  The cute little dove on my wrist that I absolutely love having that reminds me how much I love myself and spirituality and BLA BLA BLA IM A GOOD PERSON?

Well, I went out and got another tattoo not too long afterward.  And then, for good measure, I got a third.  Because… well, I’m not entirely sure why.  Maybe some mixture of peer-pressure, “seemed like a good idea at the time,” and emotional upheaval resulted in more tattoos than I ever thought I’d have.  But alas… Here I type with an adorned little body.

What were these tattoos you ask?

Therein lies the problem I’m afraid.  Let me preface it with this: I LOVE my tattoos.  I do not regret them.  I simply wish that one in particular was easy to explain and didn’t immediately warrant laughter.

See for yourself:

Yes. That's on my body. Permanently.

 

The explanation is a good one, but one that unfortunately revolves around a (very inspiring) book that only like 4% of the world has read…. Leaving the majority of people who see my tattoo, which is not all that many people normally, to form assumptions about me either loving money, being a gold-digger, or being “gangster.”  I fall into none of those categories, and instead I am just a very well-read, absolutely shameless capitalist.  With the tattoo to prove it.

HOWEVER– the book that so revolutionalized my political beliefs and life goals (Atlas Shrugged), is being made into a movie.  Thank God, because that’s truly the only way for people to start understanding the tattoo on my back and will spare me my attempts to explain it without seeing someone’s eyes glaze over at the mention of “capitalism”.  The average person I hang around with in Orange County can barely make it through a copy of the 9 page meny at Cheesecake Factory, let alone 1,300 pages about individualism and libertarian awesomeness.

I do love that tattoo, and I love that it does carry such a significant meaning.  I don’t love the face that some people make when they catch a glimpse of it, but facial reactions from people around me has rarely affected me before, and it really doesn’t much now either.

GO SEE THIS MOVIE. THEN GO GET A TATTOO LIKE MINE. We’ll start a club, and call it “My Tattoo Makes Sense to NOBODY But Me And Random Old White Men.” 

I’m Forming A Committee of People Who Will Make Romantic Choices FOR Me. I Have Fired Myself.

Remember that one Valentine’s Day where you were going to stay home, drink a glass of wine and catch up on work, then maybe watch a movie and get some desperately needed rest?

No? That’s right!  You got drunk and went to the bars for a completely predictable lonely-hearts club party and got wasted before getting NO sleep and going to work hungover and TORE. UP.  Bravo.

Okay, I didn't cry myself to sleep, or text my exes. Because I deleted their numbers in anticipation of my poor decision making skills.

This is the conversation I had with myself yesterday morning while hazily trying to remember where my keys, lipgloss, and pride were.

Anyway, that was my Valentine’s Day…. And just for good measure, I fell both in and out of love in the course of half an hour and now have a stalker.

I was engrossed in conversation with easily the most attractive guy I’ve seen in a long time and I was silently singing the praises of the Valentine’s Gods for finally cutting me some romantic slack. Yeah, he was totally rocking the grungy, artsy thing but he owned his own company.  Because I had maybe one too many glasses of wine by this point, I just reveled in my good luck, and didn’t consider that a guy like that realistically doesn’t exist.  But no, I was busy being enamored with my good fortune.  It was the best of both worlds.  An artsy capitalist.  A tall artsy capitalist.  A HOT, tall artsy capitalist. 

But… then… under his beanie (yes, beanie), I thought… wait… did I just… is that… do you have GREEN hair? “Yeah, I’m super pissed it was supposed to be blue.”  Oh… Well.  No, that’s not better.

“I write music too, the tattoo on my arm is my own lyrics actually.”

… Because OF COURSE they are.

And after about 45 minutes and 9 red flags later (not even counting the botched Marge Simpson hair), I realized I had not seen him with any friends.  At all.  Fuck.  Did I just give my number to a guy who came to the bars ALONE on VALENTINE’S DAY?

Yes. Yes I did.  And now he won’t stop texting me about how “sad” he is.

And I had hoped to make out with a stranger, but didn’t.  (This was, strangely enough, disputed)   I have some sort of inherent cock-block tendency though that reared its ugly head that evening.  I generally do not do well with the sort of meet-a-stranger-let-em-touch you kind of game.  I’m awkward, and I need to validate every physical encounter I have.  In other words: if I make out with you, I expect us to date.  If you see me naked, we’re practically facebook official.  In essence I was silently screaming in my head “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?” at everyone in the bar that evening.  Well, not everyone.  The guy with green hair already did love me.

…Because OF COURSE I would manage to attract only certifiably insane loners.

It is My Inalienable Right to Wreak Havoc in the Lives of People I Know. Run if You Know What’s Good For You… Like, Now. Go.

I like to date people who will impress me with their incredible levels of mediocrity.  You don’t?  Well, how mentally/emotionally healthy of you.  Must be lovely.  Enjoy your non-depressing Valentine’s Day, asshole.

If you were betting on how the date went with the 33 year old, and you bet “abysmal”…. Congratulations! You just won yourself a hearty pat on the back.  (I’m broke, what do you want from me?)

Not only does he not understand personal boundaries (stop smelling my hair, please), or the fact that dancing is reserved for places WITH dancing (if you keep grinding on me, I WILL  hipcheck you), or that it is NEVER okay to own white, leather pants (?!) but he continually mentioned how I needed a man to show me things.

Example: Me: “I don’t like seafood.”

Him: “NO seafood?”

Me: “Um.. Yes.  Anything that swims.”

Him: “You just need the right guy to broaden your horizons.”

Example 2: Him “You just need the right guy to break down those walls you have.”

Me: “Please don’ talk about me like I’m an emotionally retarded 15 year old.”

Example 3: Me: “I really like watching soccer, but basketball is sort of lost on me.”

Him: “It’s okay, we’ll fix you.  By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be great… and a Lakers Fan.”

Well hot damn, how did I survive without you?!  I was so irritated halfway through dinner that I had to concoct false stomach pains to convince him to take me home, and had to turn him down at least 4 times for Valentines’s Day.  I am not a human-improvement-project.  And treating me like my flaws are all so easily addressable by some guy with a strong urge to inject words that ARE NOT english into everyday phrases is somewhat insulting.  And I’m sorry, but you are wearing plaid, which is sort of unforgivable as far as I’m concerned.

In the end, it’s not his fault.  Yes, he was awkward and unintentionally insulting and a little overbearing, but it was all caused by his misguided attraction to me.  He didn’t know he didn’t stand a chance.  He couldn’t have known that I’m still nursing a very openly broken heart, and he never stood a chance against the memory of a relationship that I can’t seem to let die.  Granted, ownership of white leather pants is sort of creepy, I may have been a little overzealous in my hatred of that evening.  It was unfair of me to even go, but I can’t avoid real life forever.  Sooner or later, I’ve got to participate in the reality of my life without him there.  I can’t hide behind memories and wishes anymore.  It’s enough to break my heart all over again, and normally even the reminder of all these things is enough to refresh the fractures.

But I went, which means I’m getting closer to moving on.  I let him kiss me, and hold me and touch me and although I felt small and warm in his arms, I felt misunderstood and like some fictional character.  So while I’d love to play the role he’s carved out for me in his mind (she seemed like a lovely girl), it’s not me.  He didn’t leave enough room for the neurotic tendencies that define me, or the fierce, albeit irrational love I have for Twilight or Atlas Shrugged or D.  Three things (mainly D) that you will have to pry from my cold, dead hands.  I’ve got priorities, people.

My afternoon was spent with my Grandma.  A fellow neurotic, deep, introspective woman who has been given more than her fair share of struggles.  My hero, my mentor, my shining light of inspiration when I decide that I’m too crazy for anyone’s good.  There’s a woman with pants that are a little too high, who understands what I say, and even if she doesn’t, lends credence to the bizarre thought process that guided me to my irrational conclusions.  No matter how lonely I get, which oftentimes is very, I’m never too far gone from her love.  So I’m always okay.  I will always be okay.

So yeah, this Valentine’s Day is a little excruciating.  I’m extremely resentful, and confused and emotionally wounded.  I won’t deny any of those things, and I have come to accept the state of my emotional well-being, which is pretty much red-alert.  But for all the versions of “me” that people have come to know (code for: Love or Hate), I’m comfortable with the me that I go to sleep as at night.  I’m okay with the girl who believes in fairy-tales but holds a cynic’s view of life.  I’ve accepted her ability to turn everything into a crass joke, but her unending dedication to saving a world that doesn’t want to be saved.  And there are people, okay, not a lot of people… but people, who know and love me for that very. same.  girl.

So, 33, adios!  I may have been a little premature in my enthusiasm for new romance.  I’m sorry in advance for the awkward we-shouldnt-talk-because-youre-creepy-and-im-not-creepy-enough conversation that is in your very near future.

In closing, I leave this… which is enough to make me cry everytime I hear it.

*Update: A college friend of mine recently sent the following words:  Thanks for keeping up with the blog thing, girl.  Whenever I miss you, I go to your web thingy and I swear I can hear your voice.  It makes it easier to find mine.**

It’s hard sometimes to know what to do with words that make your heart feel big.  I’ll take it!

Introducing: 33 (we may have to come up with a new name for him)

Going on a date in a few hours.  If I weren’t slightly hung over I would probably be more excited.  Also, I don’t know what I’m going to wear, but he’s really tall so at least that frees up all my shoes as options… Only I don’t have any clean clothes.  So it’s underwear and heels… Wait…. Nevermind.  I think that’s how pornos happen, and I’m too fat to be in any type of pornography.

Anyway, this guy is someone I met through work (the last time I met someone through work I tried to get a restraining order on him after he broke into my Grandmother’s house…. so this is not promising).  After a slew of emails and g-chatting (because I’m employee of the year), we met up on one of those “is this a date or is it just a work meet-up to talk about that legislation I don’t care about?” deals.  And naturally, just to be on the safe side, I showed a little extra cleavage… because if we’re being honest, that’s realllyyyy all I’ve got to work with.

So maybe it was my conversational magic, or the fact that my hair has been working with me lately, or my cleavage is really that impressive, but homeboy seems to be pretty interested.  Which is nice, and tiring.  I’m finding it a little awkward though, because I don’t know how to NOT play some sort of mind-game, and he’s just showing all his cards like it ain’t no thang.  I sound like a nutcase.   

He’s 33.  So we’ll dub him “33.” (Because I’m creative like that).  We made out once and he asked what I was doing on Valentine’s Day, and although the correct answer is nothing, I told him “hanging out with my grandma.”  Which, in my defense, is not technically a lie sinceI really do have a grandmother and I am hanging out with her on Sunday which is just 24 hours prior.  Close enough.  But one make out does NOT a Valentine make, and truth be told, I’d rather get drunk with D and our other friends and make fun of our exes.  Also, slow your roll buddy. 

And to end this awkward blog post, I will add this tip for fellow daters: Always grub before dates 1, 2, or 3.  If he picks a restaurant with food that you hate, or is a douche bag and doesn’t make reservations (thanks for planning, fucktard), which both happen wayyyy to regularly for me, you won’t be unpleasant from hunger pains.  This way when grumpy-crazy you finally shows her colors, he’s good and surprised.

My brilliance strikes again!

The MVP of Wing-Women

“Wanna go to Vegas?”

“Not really….”

Thanks, Vegas. I needed bruised ribs.

“K, so we’re leaving at 7, I’ll pick you up.”

“Wait… when did we agree on anything, and why the hell at 7?”

…And that’s how D convinced me to go to Vegas on less than 36 hours notice, for 24 hours of awesomeness (which is not a word, and I don’t care).

Essentially, D let her vagina get the best of her and we wound up in Vegas meeting up with some guy she sort of liked a year ago who lives in San Fransisco at 4 o’clock in the morning after I told strange old men stories about my kid and divorce.  (I lie my ass off when I get really drunk).  And then we came back to Orange County in time for Superbowl and went to hang out with this guy who likes D who we met that time I was trying to make in-roads with the biker gang. 

Odd enough though, I’m pretty sure I had a better time than D did all weekend.  Yeah, guys love her and she could probably have enough sex to satisfy Charlie Sheen for all of this year and I am somewhat more solitary these days (by choice?), but it was awesome.  She dates, talks to, or makes out with guys I end up loving.  Everytime there’s a new love interest for her, I come up on at least 2 new friends that I adore and that I’m certain appreciate my quirky greatness.

The purpose of this isn’t to brag about how attractive I am as a wing-woman (or is it?), it’s about an interesting realization D and I had while I jubilantly announced how smitten I was by our Superbowl companions.  Why was it, it occured to me, that I always LOVED the guys she dated, and she HATED the guys I fell for?  Actually, nobody likes the guys I date…. which means my taste is really as bad as I have always feared, or… well, I can’t think of a viable second option.

Mostly because I want my friends to agree to show up at my wedding, I’m gonna try to date people they don’t openly loathe with venomous passion… speaking of which I need to talk about the guy I’ve been on a few dates with… next time.

PS. If you have come to this blog in search of Natalie Portman porn… I apologize.  These days everyone in my life is staying clothed, blog and otherwise.

Things That Are Better Single

You may have heard, but Valentine’s Day is sort of coming up.  And since I am harboring slight resentment towards people who own penises, I will be spending the holiday with… yep, Charlie the stupid miracle dog.  And maybe drinking wine while opening presents that my mom gets me every year since it’s become quite apparent that her daughter is doomed for spinsterhood… oh, your mom doesn’t pretend to be your valentine? Me neither…  (hi, mom!)

So, in an attempt to remind those of us who may or may not be planning on throwing a grenade (bomb, not ugly Jersey- girl) through the window of your local romantic eatery that there are some major perks to singledome, I offer you this shabby list:

Things That Are (Slightly) Better While Single:

1. Happy Hour.  All eight hours of it because you have no other commitments and nobody is blowing up your phone or asking why you are still out drinking with those people you only kind of know.
2. Christmas.  You just saved yourself a whole lot of money and time by not plotting the perfect gift for a man who will inevitably buy you something in the wrong size, or tickets to something that he really wants to see more than you… or in my case, the dog that you didn’t want and had to give away once you broke up… (poor Penny).
3. Vegas.  There is absolutely no good that comes from having a significant other while you run around in what is probably a shirt that automatically gets reclassified as a stand-alone dress in Vegas. 
4. Bars.  Because if you’re taken you essentially  just got dressed up to look at strangers hotter than your boyfriend that you aren’t allowed to talk to.  Lucky. You.
5. Lifetime Television.  For reasons unbeknownst to me, men can never fully appreciate the joys of movies called She’s Too Young, or Someone Else’s Husband.  So good.  (Who doesn’t want to watch Tori Spelling’s TV-movie comeback?)
6. Free Time.  For those of you without boyfriends, it’s the time you spend napping, or shopping, or reading the book you always wanted to read, or brunching with girlfriends.  For those of you with boyfriends: it’s the time you spend staring at him watching basketball, or running errands or hanging out with his parents. 
7. Panties that are not thongs.  Sweet hallelujah.  Because sometimes you just gotta rock the full-butt undies.
8. Holidays that revolve around booze and/or costumes. Actually, any holiday that doesn’t require extensive family time.  He’s seen you naked already, dressing up like a slutty beer wench is for the strangers you meet on Halloween, not for him.  Let’s get real.
9. Shopping. No feeling guilty that maybe you should buy him that shirt he wanted, or him telling you that he really is not a fan of you in blue so then you stay away from the color blue.  It’s all about you and your limitless materialism.  Get it, girl. 
10. Sleeping.  No snoring.  No weird boy smell in your bed.  No awkward pillow-sharing.  No sleep-talking, mumbling, shouting or punching.  No other-people’s alarms going off at the fucking crack of dawn.  Just you, sleeping pleasantly by yourself without any interruptions or other nuisances.  So good.

Okay, so if you do not dabble in a love of drinking, you probably should think about getting a boyfriend because really, I’m not sure what you do all night/weekend… Lifetime movies aren’t THAT good, and there’s only so much shopping for yourself you can do until your that broke, lonely girl.

There.  This was uplifting.  You’re welcome, single friends!