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.
I blame my lack of control over my life and my inability to “plan ahead” on my hair. Mostly because I don’t like to wash it, and once I do wash it I am paralyzed by the oh-so-heavy decision, do I curl it or leave it straight? And, God forbid I manage to decide and opt for a curl, I find myself glaring at my variety of curling irons… What kind of curl do I want? (Side note: I think they all end up looking the same, but to justify the amount of money spent on my vibrator-look-alike hair tools, I tend to worry anyway).
The reason this matters is because I am meeting up with this guy tonight for what I guess is (don’t judge me!) a… blind date? And the picture he saw of me has straight hair, so even though I prefer my hair curled, should I just stick with his expectations so I don’t throw him through a loop? Furthermore (who says furthermore in a blog? That just seemed weird), it’s raining and since it never rains in California, I own precisely zero jackets and one pair of sneakers that are suede anyway so they can’t be relied upon to shelter my feet from puddles. So I’m in heels. 4.5 inch heels. In the rain. Oh God, I’m gonna fall down. I shouldn’t even go. What if I sprain an ankle? The fear/anxiety I have right now is soooo not worth meeting the cute guy my friend has been raving about for months.
Unless… it is. Which is why I washed/blew dry/straightened my hair today. Because, women- I know you feel me on this: you never freaking know.
The romantic at heart in me, lives by the “you never know” mantra. And it is her fault that I even let my friend set me up. It was her that drug my ass out of bed this morning and it was her that convinced me yes, shaving my legs would probably be a good idea. Worst case scenario: homeboy tonight is the man of my dreams (doubtful), but since I couldn’t be bothered to brush my hair he was uninterested in the girl who looked like a homeless version of Amy Winehouse. So I brushed my hair. Shaved my legs. And, as mentioned before, it is the rain’s fault that I am wearing heels.
As a final note, I should have written about this yesterday. Because I don’t really know blind-date etiquette… Do we hug? I generally give a hug/kiss combo when greeting, but that’s way too much, right? Can’t I just give him my resume and pretend like we’ve always known eachother? Is drinking allowed or does that send the she-is-a-lush red flag up? Clearly, I’m in need of some guidance here.
Then again, as soon as I get really caught up in the “ohmigod, what if…?” thoughts, the normal girl inside me bitch-slaps the romantic girl and says, “fuck that, it’s free food.” And I breathe easy again.
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.
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!
“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.
I’m a big believer in happily ever after. I subscribed to Disney movies with a fervor that conservatives would envy, and I stand by my arguments of meant to be. Even with a broken heart and a jaded view of life, I am a vehement defender of all things mushy, and none of that makes me sad.
Yesterday, I had one of those days that reminds you to believe in God. I woke up early to great weather and the sun shining through my big window. Sitting outside of the patio of Panera, I read my book by myself and ate a sandwich while (unintentionally) eavesdropping on two people nearby. They weren’t a couple, maybe a brother/sister combo, or long-time male/female friends. When she got up to go to her car, she yelled over at him, “You’re loved.” He looked back and said, “You are too!”
Hearing that exchange made me inexplicably happy. There I was, by myself in the middle of the day, anxiousy awaiting a brazilian wax that was sure to be inexplicably painful and I couldn’t help but feel myself light up behind my massive sunglasses. How awesome was that, I thought to myself. That’s all we ever want to hear… That we’re loved, by anyone in this big, crazy world. And the way they did it, like it was so obvious that the other was loved, adored by another was absolutely refreshing and in a way that I so desperately needed to hear. Whoever they are, wherever they went after their lunch, I owe them both a debt of gratitude… I felt loved by simply being nearby such a nonchalant good-bye. And I ask anyone who reads this to just remind someone they love them today, right now. You never know how much someone you adore needs to hear it, and you never know what sort of blessing you’ll inflict by spreading your message to those fortunate enough to be near to listen in.
I fell in love. I stumbled into what I was certain was meant to be, and I was mistaken. The same man who wondered at my stubborn dedication to fairy-tale futures was the same one to prove himself right. My father was unfaithful. The boss that I swore would change the world couldn’t salvage his own marriage because of his lack of integrity. And the man I prayed for every night turned out to be one of the same crowd. I don’t give up on my hope for love though, or my belief that everyone has a someone out there meant to love them for the absolute wreck we all are. I give up on him. I give up on the person I so sincerely believed him to be… the person he didn’t believe in himself enough to become.
That’s okay. though. We live, we learn, and we go on. I’m no exception to this rule.
I spent the day on the patio of a bar with my best friend. Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching, and I will no doubt spend it working, I have come to term with this. But as we left the bar, I came across an interesting sign…
My roommate and I died laughing… For different reasons. Her Valentine’s Day is going to be Santa Barbara with a guy who would give both legs to see her smile. My valentine’s day will be something more along the lines of the people who will hang out with their pets. Frankly, I’d rather just be alone than hang out with Charlie the Miracle Dog.
But regardless, I found myself smiling. Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate the people you love, not just the people you love who have the opposite genatalia. And yes, I find it a silly holiday, but the purpose is something inherently endearing to me. It’s a day when the majority of the American population get on my level and succumb to the idea that you can love someone enough to change the world, or at least, your own world.
People leave. They’ll disappoint you, or hurt you, or make you feel like you deserve to be unhappy (which is never true). The trick is to never let them trick you into believing that they are the whole representation of love, because they aren’t- especially if they make you doubt it. I’m a cynic with a seriously soft-heart, and that heart is filled with people I don’t remind often enough that they are more than I could dare to think I deserve.
So, do me a favor: don’t wait until Valentine’s Day or some other cheesy Hallmark-induced holiday to remind the people close to you that they make you smile. Also, please don’t bring your dog to the bar on Valentine’s Day. Softie as I may be, I will ridicule you.
But hold on to what you believe in the light
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight
So hold on to what you believed in the light
We’ve created a monster. By “we” I mean men, of course. Men created this beast of suspicion and manipulative thinking with too much free time and ready access to the internet. Which is far more dangerous than anyone realizes, unless you’re like me and devote pathetic amounts of time to thinking about obscure things like this. I hope, for you’re sake, you’re not like me.
Anywho. I’ve mentioned this before, and it’s a regular topic amongst my girlfriends and I, but I just googled myself (I do this quite regularly, actually) and was not very excited about the results. I have a fairly unique name which makes it pretty easy to know if google or facebook or twitter is actually referencing me or someone else masquerading as me. Because I regularly use the internet as a weapon against men I date, I like to make sure that whatever someone could find on me via some creeping isn’t too unsavory.
I was quite disappointed to find that the internet (and probably the world at large) does me NO favors in the realm of cyber-espionage. I don’t seem all that interesting, the pictures are horrendous, and it’s a lot of dated stuff that would lead someone to believe I have no life and just loiter around sorority houses. It doesn’t even have any cool “maybe she’s a bad-ass” or “wait, is that illegal?” references. Google image-searching me does however, result in a shit ton of pictures of fur coats, which is so totally relevant considering I can’t even afford a fur coat and even if I could, I’d have to be rufied to wear it. Damn you, misleading search engines.
Before I get too wrapped up in my own results, it should be mentioned that facebook/google/twitter/linkedin/myspace and a few other social sites have been invaluable in my dating successes (cough fails cough). Since I’m absolutely maniacal if I get a purpose and a keyboard in front of me, I’ve been able to dig up criminal histories (lots of DUI’s in 20-something men these days) relationship statuses, and uncovered various “deal-breakers” before even walking into the first date. Never go in un-armed, is the lesson I suppose I’m trying to relay. And of course, never become un-armed because men are stupid and not to be trusted and will sooner or later fuck up without having he brains to cover it up correctly on the internet. At which point you
go all Lorana Bobbit on his ass adddress it like an adult and explain that the sheer number of facebook friends you have means there is no such thing as a secret anymore in his world. In a totally non-you-may-want-to-get-a-restraining-order kind of way, of course.
Our generation is the first one to traverse this territory that stupidly combines internet and romance. We were the kids in chat rooms in the 90’s and the ones giggling at mentions of “cybering.” Our peers pioneered friendster and myspace and then watched the phenomenon of facebook take over basic human interaction in all developed countries. And then, a few broken-hearted women managed to turn all those things into yet another weapon against the men that pissed them off, all before men even knew what the fuck hit them. And still, as women trade log-ins to see what they are barred from otherwise viewing and googling into page 44, men underestimate the levels of
crazy dedication we can reach when we have enough wine and time. The point is: we’re making up the rules as we go, and the rules, as I understand them are quite simple. To summarize- if it’s on the internet and at all accessible without a security clearance from the Department of Homeland Security, it’s fair game. Men will have to learn to defend themselves a little better, and they no doubt will find a way to do that and continue on with their tendency to act first, think later without the ramifications of some crazy exes blowing up his statuses on facebook and tagging him in all kinds of things never meant for the public to see. But in the meantime, men would be smart to remember that the internet, despite its attractive fantasy-sports leagues and plethora of porn is not their friend. Not even kind of.
I asked someone recently what the difference was between generic curiosity and actual “creeping.” The answer? When it has the capacity to hurt your feelings.
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.