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.
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.
“You women are crazy. If she’s your friend, she’s just expressing herself in a healthy manner. If you hate her, she’s a whore.” Wise, wise words from a not so wise man.
He had a point though. It’s all subjective- the labels, the categories, the way we filter people through our respective lenses and then forever leave them there to suffer. I have an idea of how people generally perceive me. Let me tell you, if you like the crazies- you’ll be a big fan of mine.
I’m small, stubborn, loud and fiercely passionate. I’m also pretty lazy, condescending more often than not, and passive aggressive. I’m self-conscious but will never tell you, and regularly demand that you tell me I’m adorable. I, admittedly, play a part. We all do. You can be the nice guy, the serial dater, the player, the bitchy-girl, the snobby girl, the girl next door. The roles are numerous and there’s a spot for everyone.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the sort of angry girl. Vicious with insults when the time calls for it- and even sometimes when the time doesn’t call for it. Presentable, but carrying around a chip on my shoulder the size of Kenya. I don’t like strangers… especially stupid ones. How do I know if they’re stupid? I don’t. But I also like to hazard guesses about innocent people.
I’m charming, huh?
And while I know that people do categorize me, rightfully so, into a less than flattering category, I wish they wouldn’t. I wish I could learn how to not be this bruiser of a person— but that, alas, would involve some serious soul-searching I’m just flat out not prepared to do. It all branches from insecurity. I don’t care if you don’t like me because I’ve pre-emptively decided to not like anyone. And ultimately, I barricade myself unnecessarily from people who may be wonderful additions to my life. In the end, the person damaged the most by my ridiculous way of living is me.
Masochistic? Probably a little bit. But we all have our ways, and we all live in our categories. The question is, can we ever move categories? And if so, is it too late for me?
I went to a psychic yesterday. It needs to be mentioned that I generally don’t buy into this kind of thing, and actually am slightly weirded out by it. Regardless, I found myself sitting with Camille yesterday in a room the size of my closet, watching her flip cards over and more or less tell me what the future holds.
I won’t put it all in here, but I will tell you that she told my best friend that she’d get knocked up in the near future. No mention of husband or significant other, just a baby…. So in comparison, I think my future is looking far brighter than hers.
What Camille did mention was Mr. Pretty. I confess, I have still been speaking with him. Meeting up, talking, kissing once in a while, whatever. But when we met up yesterday for breakfast, I was totally discouraged to see that he’s beginning to change. He says he’s “fan-fucking-tastic” and has never been in a better spot in his life, so that’s great. But it just so happens that this person that I always, stupidly, thought he was deep down isn’t actually there. He’ll continue on his path and growing and changing, but he’ll never be the person that I liked to think he was, or could be. Plus, he’s hitting his dating stride sort of late in the game, and to listen to him talk about it was less than awesome.
Camille told me that God wants him out of my life, but I keep fighting it. I hang on. No shit, huh? But oddly enough, yesterday I had vowed to close that door anyway. Leaving it open just encourages lingering feelings, confusion, and ultimately it will all end with me waging war on my self… because I’m attracted to things/people that are blatantly unhealthy for me. Today I threw away the stuff he wrote me, I deleted his phone number, I need to delete him from facebook. Don’t get me wrong: I am not mad at him. But I know that he and I just don’t work– in fact, I don’t even think I want it to work anymore.
The other, far more interesting, thing Camille said was that I had a boyfriend in my near future. I have mixed feelings about being in another relationship, but if Camille was right, then he sounds like a pretty good fella. Apparently, he’s 6 foot (which I would dig), light hair and light eyes, old school, older than I am but only by a few years, a libra who is great with computers. And here’s where it gets creepy, or where I start to read too much into this whole thing; take your pick…
The guy from last weekend at the bar and I met up last night. Even though the kid texts and doesn’t call and was a little bit of a cheeseball, I figured why not. My girlfriends and I made it to the bar before him because I was worried that I wouldn’t remember what he looked like and didn’t want to get ambushed… And in he walks. I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I didn’t quite remember how attractive he really was, which is always nice. After that weird, obligatory friends-meet-other-friends thing, my best friend starts asking him some bizarre questions…. that I later realize are angled at him being the guy Camille predicted..
The new guy is, in fact, a libra. He is actually 6 foot 2, and is a computer wiz who loves to read and write and graduated from Berkely. He has sandy blond hair and blue eyes and was raised by his single mom and claims to be incredibly “old school.” He’s 29.
So naturally, I made out with him at the end of the night. And naturally, I’m totally creeped out and totally curious to see what, if anything happens here. I think we’ll call him the Libra.
And should any of you want to freak yourself out like this, just let me know and I’ll hook you up with Camille’s number.
Come on life, I’m not asking a lot of you. I’ll even forgo good hair days for a week if you’ll strike up a deal with me. I think I’m pretty low maintenance as far as humans go (and if you lived in Orange County these days, you would know what an impressive statement that is), which is why I’m making a request to the universe. An open letter to fate, if you will.
So tonight Mr. Pretty and I were supposed to meet up. To cut this story short, I did that thing that single girls do on St. Patrick’s day, or any drinking holiday. I got drunk, we got separated, and so I showed up crying. When I mean crying, I mean that point where you can’t distinguish phlegm from tear from drool and this weird cocktail of fluid has wiped of all your makeup, but left long war-like marks of black from your forehead to chin. He, rightfully, was concerned, but we didnt’ talk about what had me so devastated because a: I couldn’t form words, b: when I did they were irrelevant and c: I think I fell asleep shortly after my unannounced arrival. He was worried, and his worry I think translated into irritation that I couldn’t tell him what was wrong. Later that day, he left for the weekend… and shit got weird. er.
So fine, he left. I went out, did my “I just got a tan” thing and drank with my girlfriends while we pretended to be slightly more fabulous than we really are. He admitted though that he wanted to talk about all this… No, no, he didn’t say he wanted to talk like it was a break up…. I’ve never been broken up with though, so I wouldn’t know how to tell if it was coming… but Mr. Pretty was, admittedly, being weird. Anyway- we set up the “talk” for tonight. After work. At 6:45 he tells me he can’t make it, long night. I move it to Thursday thinking that (today being Monday) he’d be indignant at waiting so long to see my beautiful face and discussing whatever is so important!
Um, okay, Mr. Pretty and fate let’s get something straight here lest I forget and begin to wallow again. I am a catch, as stated somewhere else on this long-winded blog. You, you are insane. You have funny hair and you are quite moody and actually, have more baggage than most single-mothers I have had the misfortune of dealing with. Further— you are bad at responding to BBM’s which is more irritating that I ever thought possible. But, Mr. Pretty, I like you… You are part of one of the most exclusive clubs I know of and you are so quick to relinquish your membership. I’d like to say you’ll regret this, but part of me wonders if this is all just as simple as the chase.
Regardless- why his change of heart? Why did he go from wanting to have serious conversations that probed my history to not responding to texts? Don’t worry, these are rhetorical… I have an improptu drive to Vegas tomorrow during which I’m fairly sure I’ll think of nothing else.