Almost a year ago I went to go see Camille the fortune teller. Over a year ago, I cursed Camille for being an idiot and taking my money and sort of creeping me out. I may (emphasis on MAY) owe that weird clarvoyant an apology.
She babbled on about a lot of things, most interestingly, about D getting pregnant. But she said I’d have a boyfriend… and I really wanted one at the time, I wanted to fall into something new and see where it would take me. What I didn’t count on happening was the opportunity to actually have that, and when it presented itself, I freaked out and hid in the corner from it.
I’m not saying she was right… I’m saying that maybe she just had a really awful sense of timing. Literally hours after I left her creepy voodoo room, I hung out with a guy I liked. I followed up liking him with acting like a weirdo, and then we went our separate ways. Remember him? The Libra? I think he’s… back? Well, he isn’t really back on his own terms, I sort of drug him kicking and screaming but evidently I’m rather convincing when I’m bitchy. But we aren’t ruling him out.
Homeboy is getting out of a relationship. I think he thinks I’m a complete wackjob. I know he thinks I’m bizarre and mean. And… I think he likes me? I don’t know. I’m confused. But I’m interested in him because I have awful timing and I can’t do anything unless it’s good and difficult.
We spent the weekend together- and it was good to see him have fun and interact with my friends. I forgot how much dating was like a series of increasingly intense interviews. Or maybe I never dated someone who I found intimidating on some level or another. But if we are predicating this on any of my other relationships- I would be smart to disregard everything I know. It’s nice though, and I’m enjoying it while trying to seem relatively normal (which, let’s be frank, easier said than done).
It’s been three weeks since we’ve kind of been talking and doing that, I-think-we-should-hang-out-but-I’m-too-sober-to-be-upfront-about-it thing and it’s going well so I just kind of roll with it. (By roll with it I mean try my damnedest not to be anal-retentive and keep everything under my control). I clearly need help. So what do you do when you have a problem? Google it!
This is what MSN tells you to do if you like someone (I am NOT making this up):
- Be touchy but not too touchy. Touch his arm lightly and briefly, but never go below the belt (although she OKs playing footsie). And yeah, I know some of you are squeamish about contact, but it’s so effective! What does that even mean?! I don’t like to be touched when I’m sober and if I’m drinking I want to be taken everywhere via a piggy back ride. They should be more specific.
- Let him to do the bend and snap. If you make eye contact with a cute guy in Starbucks and you need an excuse to talk, drop a pen on the way to the bathroom. In the olden days, women dropped hankies. I’m confused. Again. Is this a Legally Blonde reference?
- Pump him up. Compliment him, let him talk, make him feel like he’s calling the shots, and laugh at his jokes. But… what if the jokes aren’t that funny?
- Keep a full schedule. You’ll be more interesting if you’re busy with different activities. Also, you won’t be totally available for him. Ladies, we could stand to be a little more elusive and mysterious. Tell him I’m busy when I’m really just watching Friends reruns and drinking wine by myself.
- Get a signature scent. The sense of smell aids in sexual attraction. Whatever perfume you wear, he’ll associate it with you! Bonus: if your perfume rubs off on his pillow or towel, it will further remind him of you. Is this creepy to anyone else? Don’t cats pee on stuff with the same territory-claiming intentions?
This list was ridiculous, and I genuinely hope women out there aren’t following this kind of misguided wisdom in their own lives, although I’m sure there are some stupid enough to try. Oh well. I’ll keep you all posted on any big happenings, like if I start my period in his bed again… (yeah, I blogged about that last year. That was really special).
Sorry if you read this whole thing. I’m very tired, but I needed to post something- anything, and now we have a jumping off point for whatever the future holds. Welcome back, Libra!
In re-reading a lot of my posts, I tend to write heavily about first dates. Not so much second ones, or third ones, or gulp, break ups. And as I’m sure everyone will agree- that’s mostly because break ups SUCK. Like, suck hard. Perhaps I’m fortunate because I only had one really awful break up that made me a complete bucket of crazy… but I survived it. I came through the other end with only a slightly alarming drinking problem.
But- because I’m a good person and I have not much else to write about, I’m going to go ahead and tell you how I was able to move on. Because that shit is hard. And sometimes you need a tore-up 23 year old girl with a laptop to tell you how life works. It’s cool.
1. Get you some friends. Good ones. The last thing a broken hearted, melodramatic girl needs are girls who give shitty advice or just judge you as you cry into your
bottle glass of wine. Recruit the girls who bring you more bottles of wine to be your support system, not the judgy ones.
2. Leave it be. Just don’t. I know, you think you have something really important to say… If only you had told him that one thought you had! He would totally still be in love with you! …Only, he wouldn’t. So when you want to pick up the phone/email/blog/twitter (technology is not your friend), punch yourself or something. Or go back to the bottle of wine. But do NOT make contact. Just keep reminding yourself: out of sight, out of mind. Then repeat.
3. On the opposite end of #2, don’t let him jerk you around. They don’t do that because they are having genuine second thoughts, they do that because they are genuinely terrified of being alone. I’m sure you’re lovely, but if he wanted you, he’d be with you.
4. Watch He’s Just Not That Into You and cry for a little while.
5. Cry some more. I don’t really get (or like) the girls who say, “I just got over him. I turned off my emotions and I’m over it.” No you’re not you freak of nature! You’re dying on the inside. Stop pretending like your heart works better than mine. At the risk of suppressing all those emotions and having them burst out at the worst possible moment and embarrassing the bananas out of you- feel what you have to feel. Embrace the emotion, accept it, let it go.
6. Don’t get fat. Tempting, I know. But that “Nobody will ever love me again and I’m awful and oh my god I’m just going to wear these pajamas until I die of loneliness” is not a good plan. Again, call your friend and drink.
7. But don’t drink too much! This will make you fat. And maybe make you cry… okay, it’s totally gonna make you cry and your beer belly will be laughing at you and you’ll just want to die all over again. So balance the booze with something that makes you feel good about yourself.
8. People LOVE that saying “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.” That might work. But I think it just makes you extra crazy, and a whole lotta desperate and maybe an HIV patient. Triple threat, and I promise, you will only be distracted but not for very long.
9. Keep going… Just keep doing what you do. Don’t let a break up tell you anything about yourself except that you are ONE step closer to finding the right guy. So that’s exciting, in a bitter sweet way.
10. Have faith that you will, one day, be able to see him from across a patio and say to yourself, “oh, there’s the guy who broke my heart so many months ago.” And then that thought will be swiftly followed by, “Wait… am I… okay?”
And you will be.
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 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.
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.
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!
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:
- 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.
- 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).
- 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.
- 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.
- 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?)
- 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.
- Panties that are not thongs. Sweet hallelujah. Because sometimes you just gotta rock the full-butt undies.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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!
“You can’t cook and I’m too lazy to, and I don’t want our kids to eat Chipotle every night… Therefore I have to break up with you and go prance around all over Southern California with various women who fail to see my numerous short-comings and pray that my wit disguises what a fraud I am.”
Alright, that’s not exactly how it went down, but I SHIT YOU NOT, the first sentence was actually said to me. It was an ugly conversation about a now-dead relationship and I was stupid enough to ask what had always been “missing” about me in his eyes. And my culinary skills were at the top of his list. Whoa.
First off, Chipotle is amazing. And I probably would stuff my kids full of it if it wouldn’t make them fat. But I am a good (hypothetical) parent and don’t want to be the mom of the chubby-children, so obviously I will have to change up the menu a bit. But you know what is healthy?
Macaroni and cheese sandwiches. And scrambled eggs. And oatmeal. All things I am perfectly capable of making, even while drunk, thank you very much.
And even if I didn’t already have three impressive menu-starters, not being able to cook is sort of a moot point for a break up, seeing as it is completely temporary. It’s like not liking a teenager because he can’t drive. HE CAN’T DRIVE- YET. I can’t cook. YET. One day I’ll decide that it’s actually worth my time to come home and spend an hour making food that could have been made in two minutes, but seeing as it’s just me I’d cook for and that would be hugely depressing, I don’t.
More than anything, I’m entertained by the explanation. First, I didn’t know people still cared about cooking skills. (Don’t you own a microwave?) Second, what the fuck kind of a response was that? He could have picked my emotional instability, my needy response to everything, my cruel-wit, or how retardedly guarded I am- but nope. What our non-existant children will eat was his big pet peeve.
You can’t even mention future offspring to most men, but I managed to get dumped thanks to them. Way to make mommy look like a failure, kids.