Tuesdays are always a problem. I have an hour of free time every Tuesday between work and hanging out with my favorite eleven month old rockstar kid. This particular Tuesday however, I seriously wish I had just gone shoe shopping instead.
“I’ll only go over there for a second,” I resolutely whispered to myself. “Just to see. I’m strong, I learned my lesson. I know better…”
And then I took a few fateful steps and entered the “self-help” aisle in Barnes and Noble (where pride goes to die). And after picking up 5 or 6 books thinking I should limit myself to only buying two (!) a new thought came into my head: “Fuck. Why do I always end up in self-help?!”
For starters, because I hate books written by Jodi Picoult/Nicholas Sparks that tell girls they can cry their pitiful ways into love- and those books are being peddled like crack-cocaine in Compton (or so I’ve heard). And because I don’t really get biographies (there are movies for this shit), and because I don’t care what highly-effective people’s habits are, or how to get the most likes on my facebook posts (most recently about how awful healthy oatmeal is. Seriously).
I’ve always thought the most fascinating things about book stores was how much pure information was stored there. There’s also a lot of bullshit, since Democrats won’t stop publishing books. But God knows I always think- I could totally be a better/more impressive/funnier/wittier/more knowledgable person. I just need the book to tell me how.
Or a blog to remind me I’m an idiot.
But seriously, the book you choose to spend money on, take home and maybe read says a lot about
who you are who you think you are. Throughout the store, there are pages that can teach me how to write (pssshhht), how to give the best blow jobs (psshhht… ??), what happened to Rome or why I have daddy issues.
And then I found myself eating not one but two cookies staring at books called Skinny Bitch and decided to give Amazon a shot in the future.
*Sorry, typos abound in this post. My sugar intake knocked a few points off the IQ apparently*
My Friday night agenda:
- Laundry. Lots of it. Somewhere, a Water Board member (the people I unfortunately hang out with thanks to work) is crying at the amount of H20 being used to wash my panties.
- Red wine. More than the water being used in aforementioned laundry.
- Grey’s Anatomy reruns— I love you, DVR. Don’t ever leave me.
- Blogging, evidently. I can’t help it! Working, working, and then inevitably I wind up on stupid wordpress. *shakes head*
So aside from the fact that I lead a boring life (did I mention how thrilled I am at the prospect of a Friday night IN?) I have a serious question to pose to the world:
WHY CAN’T THINGS JUST END?
What happened to clean break ups? Did they ever exist, or did I just fantisize about them when I was in my early years of college crying over slightly-overweight frat boys?
Let’s review: Prez and I decided that we were too similar- stubborn, politically driven, outspoken and
judgmental opinioned. I was, if possible, out-Republican’d by this guy, who is arguably the smartest person I have ever met. We regularly debated which city councilman was corrupt, which was legit, and why they were all so god damned creepy. Awesome, except for the fact that we disagreed about EVERYTHING in that small topic of conversation. (There are approximately 4 Republicans remaining after good ol’ George Dubya, and the President and I took different sides on all of them).
I saw the inevitable- and I was relieved when the conversation/argument was over. We were too similar, we were too smart, we both had the tendency to use our intelligence to be cruel to the people we cared the most about. (It;s a curse. I shit you not). And so we said a very diginified “see you around” and parted ways.
And then he texted me. Everyday afterward. Numerous times. About nothing in particular. I guess we’re… friends?
Except we’re not. Because once you have that kind of passionate/crazy/choatic thing with someone you don’t regress into a “how was your day” friendship. I didn’t make up those rules- the laws of physics did. Or something. So naturally, I am perplexed.
I’d love to attribute my exes’ tendency for attrition to my shockingly good looks, or wit, or talent (at?!) but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. Deciding that we were better off apart was an obvious, but still hurtful choice. It was reminiscent, on a very small scale, of previous break ups that ripped my heart in two. So what is it about me/women/life/whatever that makes men go, “I should text her”?!
I have always had a theory that “everyone comes back.” Coming back meaning they’ll call, they’ll try to get you in bed again, they’ll tell you they didn’t know what they were thinking, or that they still love you. But this doesn’t fit because we broke up TWO DAYS AGO. To this day, I have yet to be proven wrong on this theory— everyone does circle back at least once (I dare you to disagree with me).
But because we cross paths regularly thanks to work, and I really do think very highly of the guy, I don’t want to tell him to go away. Does he think we are friends? We didn’t cover that. Does he think that’s even possible (if so- he gets downgraded from Smartest Guy Ever). Naked equals not friends. That’s also a law of physics. Or something.
And while I mull this over- I just got a call from a friend (also a blogger: www.woopsimthatgirl.wordpress.com) who is driving her fabulous self a whole TWO HOURS because a post she was writing drove her to drink. So at the very least, I may not understand men- but I’ve got some great friends.
What did we learn?
- It’s hard to do 4 loads of laundry in one night without impediments.
- Men are confusing (HEY, CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!)
- Blogging will make you an alcoholic.
This was an awful post. I’m taking a mini vacay with my girlfriends tomorrow though, so that should warrant something worth reading. You deserve a sticker or some shit if you got this far. Thanks.
Sadly, certain parts of yesterday’s post were a little bit premature. Namely, anything mentioning the President. We had our second and last argument (“discussion” if we’re using my parents’ verbage), and promptly decided we were no good for eachother. I have a lot of respect for him, although it was clear that we would murder one another, or probably ruin both of our careers if we continued on. Plus, there’s a lot that I can’t really write here because he doesn’t deserve to be aired out on my blog. I’ve learned my lesson there, so we will just wish him the best of luck while he exits the life of [Dagnydarling].
I went to Chipotle today– no, that’s not the whole point of this blog, although it could very well be. While waiting patiently for my burrito (does anyone know why they use GOLD wrappers now?!), a group of very loud, very annoying, I-don’t-understand/respect-personal-space teenaged boys stood behind me. And then one of them declared the following:
“I’m going to marry the first girl I fall in love with.”
I promptly fell in love with him before remembering that that is illegal in California and took a step to distance myself from this prebubescent Romeo.
Homeboy thinks he’s going to marry his first love. Granted, homeboy is only probably 17 right now… but hey, it could happen. And I think that’s awesome. (I also suspect he’ll be divorced shortly after if we’re taking statistics into consideration, but hey. Po-tay-tow, Po-tah-tow).
So now that I’m rounding out something like True Love #43 (I date a lot), I wonder what my life would have been if I married my first love: the goobery musician with a big heart- who I last heard is technically homeless that I dated at 17. At 17, let’s be real, a lot was going wrong with me– I included a picture to prove this point. So whether it was the blond hair, or bad tan, or cumbersome braces, I was still working into “me.” As much as I was certain that we would be married though, I am inexplicably grateful that I didn’t marry him. I would have been miserable. In the process of being wretched, I am pretty sure I would have destroyed his life, too. So we count our blessings- even if they were unwanted at the time.
I’m not a whole hell of a lot closer to marriage today than I was at 17- except that maybe I have an earnest desire to be married and I stopped doing my make-up like a tranny. But I couldn’t have married the President, although he was what you would have wanted in a husband, and my first love, bless his heart is everything you wouldn’t want.
There’s no big resolution to this post- except to notify you all that the Prez got impeached sort of early (a little cheesy, I know), and apparently that 17 year old boys are far more romantic than I remember them being. What I would love Love LOVE, though, is for anyone to tell me about their first love (and then to give them THIS SURVEY). I’ll settle for just the story about your first love though.
My own experiences are not learning experiences enough, so I’m simply asking to let me
keep yours forever buried deep in my subconscious borrow yours.
(Final thought: What a sweet book that would make… Damn my creative ideas coming so late at night I’m too lazy to do anything about it).
(Final final thought: “so late at night?” It’s 9:30. Fuck, I’m old.)
I’ve been a disgracefully absentee blogger of late. I’m not sure how much better the current situation is- seeing as I’m blogging quite lamely from a Starbucks that I despise (drinking Green Tea— cuz I’m healthy!) and finally getting back into it. It’s quite possible that the only way for me to be any more cliche would be if I were wearing all baggy clothes and a beret. But I don’t own a beret, so the sweater and jeans from high school will have to suffice.
Where have I been, you ask? Jamaica. Clubbing. Meeting my future husband. Rescuing puppies. Except I haven’t (ever) done any of those things, and instead I regret to inform all 3 of my readers that I was at California Republican Convention (seriously), moving (suck it, Charlie the miracle dog), and fuck only knows where else. But shit, I’ve been busy. And now I’m just tired and wondering when I’ll have enough time to wash my hair.
I’m in a Starbucks I hate right now because I have exactly 24 minutes to kill before I go volunteer with the homeless baby that I love more than any pair of my shoes (serious!), and because this is the only place with wi-fi nearby. And of course, because irony has made me its bitch, I’m sitting in the exact god-damned same seat that I’ve had a converstation in that I would love to forget. Fabulous.
From this very bench I was told something along the lines of why I was no longer in the relationship that I so desperately tried to be in… to absolutely no avail. And currently, I’m sort of kind of on the verge of a new relationship, and there hasn’t been a very significant gap between the two events. (Except a girl just walked in with the greatest boots and she’s wearing those tall socks and she has great hair and she’s so cute… ugh. Damn everyone who is better looking than me right now. That includes you, RuPaul).
Anyway, why am I always striving to be in a relationship? It’s practically a full-time job, only it costs me money and I can’t argue my way into it. Trust me, I’ve definitely tried. I’m a relationship type of girl. I get off on routine, commitment, facebook’s “in a relationship” status. If there was an I ❤ monogamy shirt, I’d be sporting it. My friends, the large majority of them, are either married or absolutely single. Both are irritatingly ecstatic. I- on my island of awkward middle-ground, facebook stalking drama- am not. What gives? (update: adorable girl with great boots has an adorable boyfriend with great hair… I’m going to burn this Starbucks down once I’m done with the internet).
And maybe I could be in a committed relationship right now. I’m not really good at this stuff, but I’m pretty sure that it’s a possibility with the President (we like him). But when going through the possiblity of having the “so, like, what are we” conversation, it occurred to me that he might actually say “yes.” (I realize that I did not exactly pose a yes/no question, but roll with me. I only have 8 minutes now… it takes time to italicize shit!) And the potential of being in a committed relationship frightened me. No kidding, a sort of, ummm wtf, kind of feeling washed over me.
My last relationships have not exactly been stellar, or even close to “maybe that was a good idea.” So instead of feeling like I’ve learned a lot, I’m feeling a little bit like I’m just working with damaged goods when it comes to the girl my future boyfriend is gonna get. Which makes me sad for him. Which then makes me sad for me, because really, who thinks that way?!
In order to counteract that lack of knowledge increase from the past 3 breakups then, I came up with a brilliant, albeit awful idea. How phenomenal would it be to give a survey to your exes?! You don’t even have to tell me that this is great, because I’m pretty sure (like my ideas about taking on 9,000 volunteer activities, dating people who are awful, and living with Charlie the Miracle Dog) that it is. Naturally, I got started on some questions for my survey-targets.
1. What was your favorite memory of/with me?
2. Your biggest pet peeve about me?
3. What was the most important thing you learned about women/relationships from me?
4. What did your mom say about me? (I
might will regret asking this I’m pretty sure of some of them).
5. What were your friends opinions of me/us?
6. If you could describe our relationship in one word, what word would it be?
7. What advice do you have for my future boyfriends? (Also will regret most likely)
8. Do you think we should have broken up sooner/later/still be together?
10. What in God’s name convinced you dating me was a good idea in the first place?!
The best part about this idea is that I am totally sober, completely serious and absolutely curious. If I had the balls (or good relationships with my exes currently) to ask any of them, I would. Also, I’m delerious from lack of sleep, and may rethink the brilliance of this when I reread it in 4 days. But honestly, you know that saying “you can bring a horse to water but you can’t get them drunk”— or whatever it is— it absolutely aplies here. I can go through experience after brutal break up after great first kiss with every guy West of the Mississippi, but until I’m willing to learn from it, I’m just swapping saliva and losing a lot of tears.
Pass it out to your exes before I do, and tell me how it goes. Thanks for being my test-dummy.
I’d Like to Thank the Academy… of Bloggers. Well, only the good ones. Not the weird ones who write about porn and/or the environment.
I got an award. For blogging (from THIS girl). Which means a number of things— primarily though that people actually READ my blog which is sa-weeeet! Also it means that I am not crazy, which is always a little bit of a fear of mine, and it means that I have to do some stuff and keep on sending this bad boy around to keep the good joo-joo going.
As a receiver of the Stylish Blogger Award, I have to do the following:
- Present seven facts about myself.
- Name half dozen bloggers I think deserve the award. Contact those people.
- Create a link back to the person who gave you the honor.
Now for the facts about me…. I bet you’re ready to pass out from anticipation.
- I wanted to be a gynocologist growing up. Then I realized I wasn’t very good at science, and the reason my grades were so good was because I was a superb bull-shitter (still am)… but nobody wants someone who is just pretending to be good at their job when their job is telling you you might, just maybe, it sort of looks like, herpes.
- I’m adopting. I’m having my own little ones as well. Non-negotiable.
- I work in politics, as a legislative staffer…. and it’s a weird job. I make sure my boss (elected official) doesn’t get himself in trouble, I make him sound smart, look good and seem like the second-coming. And sometimes that’s cool… sometimes it’s exhausting… like today.
- Biggest fear: being left behind. Being abandoned. Winding up alone…. also, winding up fat.
- I don’t re-wear socks. I throw them away. I don’t know why.
- I live out of my car, and this seems to work fine for me. Not for people who try to ride in my passenger seat and get a spiked stiletto up the ass.
- Funny trumps all. A funny guy trumps a hot guy. A funny conversation trumps a tough one. A funny day trumps a shitty week. Funny will always win… the way to my heart is definitely through my… hm… this was a poorly thought out phrase. Shit. Anyway, make me laugh and I’ll love you forever.
And now I get to pass the lovely award on! This was hard because I follow some pretty impressive bloggers, who undoubtedly have received many an honor from many a junior blogger. But I’m gonna go ahead and throw em another kudos, because I’m generous like that. Also, because I’m very tired and don’t want to peruse the internet in search of some up and coming bloggers when I already know a bunch of super-studly ones. Like the following:
Alone… with cats
Youkitschme (D’s blog!)
**I’ve been completely neglecting my blog lately. Which makes me sad. And because now we know people other than my mom are reading this, I assume those people are sad, too. (key word: assuming). I have plenty to write. PLENTY. Like hickeys.***
If I were to list my hobbies they would be: drinking wine, reading lots of books at one time, good music, blogging, politics, and organizing my closet in times of stress. But you know what I really love doing? crushing. I forgot how much I missed those school-girl-meets-hot-older-guy and then shamelessly draws hearts around his name times. The harmless “what-ifs” that kind of go drifting through your head when you’re trying to write a press release at work. That’s a good time, friends.
Did the lack of anger in that first paragraph throw you way off? Me too. Just re-read it. Both shocked and proud of myself.
He’s a lawyer. I know. Awesome. And he’s kind and funny and so smart that I proof-read my text messages like 4 times before sending… which is actually pretty pathetic. And bla bla bla we should get married and then he can run for President and I will be First Lady except I won’t be annoying because I don’t care if your kid is fat, so long as they don’t eat my kid. (On a related note, that would be even MORE fitting becuase if I’m FLOTUS then I don’t ever have to learn to cook because they have got to have like a shit ton of cooks at the White House, right?)
Someone needs to look into that for me, thank you.
Like I said though, harmless. I have yet to doodle my name + his name = LUV4EVA on my post-its though so at least I’m behaving myself and keeping
all most my crazy behind closed doors. The only (major) downside would be the fact that he has admitted at least three times that he doesn’t date girls in politics. Sadly, I am both a girl and a girl in politics. So maybe he missed one of those two facts? What he obviously misses about me is that I am practically designed for candidate-wifehood. He wants to run for office. I like politics and the high-schoolesque games that accompany them. I am also small and like to dress up and can chat up old people whenever the time calls. Sometimes I can even keep myself from cursing for a whole 5 minutes straight! Psht. Future POTUS doesn’t know what he’s missing. (ooooh… Good name for him. President).
Clearly, I am in uncharted waters. Normally I can just bully boys into dating me until I realize how much I dislike them, or let them abandon me. This time though… I am afraid I have met someone to0 clever to be bullied. Which is both intriguing and unnerving.
But if we have learned nothing about me, it is that I tend to take this things to the absolute limit. So if he ends up liking me back (awwwww) then I will one day be FLOTUS, and none of you can EVER mention this blog. If he doesn’t, we will commence angry-girl blogging promptly and wage wars on all lawyers and law school students and anything even sort of affiliated with the law.