Monday, July 30, 2007
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Blinded By The Like:
As a (perennially) single girl, I’ve often been asked;
What’s your type?
And after all these years, I still don’t really have an answer.
There is no common thread between the boys/men I’ve thus far dated. No really, there isn’t.
In no specific order there was the emotionally unavailable Deadhead. The older guy (I was a junior in high school, he was a sophomore in college) who was too available (he uhm… cried. With abandon - I don’t do tears well, not even my own). The too much guy who asked me to marry him the night I met him. The too unavailable for a relationship man who dwelled with his girlfriend. The slightly younger guy who was still too immersed in his recently vacated collegiate existence. The player who was busy swearing he wanted a relationship but was still way too out there.
The only commonality between them is the “too”. Too much, too little, too there, too gone.
One had reddish hair, one was blonde, one was covered in tattoos the way one other was covered in hair (really, he was a fucking Monchichi), one had a beard, one was over six feet and another was barely skimming five foot seven. I mean, aesthetically there is no “type” to be found here. The deadhead never wore a pair of jeans that weren’t ripped to shreds, tattoo boy was uber fond of the sleeveless t-shirt, redhead always looked like he was off to The Club to play a round, beard was all about the Alex P. Keaton blazer and polo look, blonde restricted his wardrobe to a scant four colors (blue, black, grey and white).
So it’s not about packaging. They weren’t all Jewish. They weren’t all the same height. They didn’t all smoke. They weren’t all faithful. They all weren’t even all that bright. The only thing they actually all have in common is … me.
And today on the busride home from work my little peabrain started to wander and it landed on this guy I’ve been thinking about on occasion. From there it was an easy little slide on over to... what he hell it is that leads me to the ones I kiss? Repeatedly?
They may have nothing in common but the relationships I’ve had with them, well that’s a different story. Here’s the thread of consistency that a little applied thought made clear to me. At the start of every single one, I completely went blind. Blind to little things that I so should have noticed. Things that other girls would notice and walk away from. It’s always taken me a longer to catch on. And honestly, I’m really not a short-bus girl. It isn’t stupidity. It’s some sort of mélange of a crush and hysterical blindness. And it’s fucking obvious, screaming out shit that I’m blind to.
He was obviously:
an addict and please, I’d have been happy it had been mere pot
clingy to the point where eventually he would have gone crazy
not ready
a risk junkie, not in the cool skydiving way but in the bad lose one's rent sort of way
never going to be truthful/faithful/trustworthy
And I let it all slide. Eh, it's not like I've been tortured. In their own ways they were all fun. And I've learned from each, most of which I wouldn't take back, even knowing now what I didn't then.
But hey, at least I’m learning. No matter how late in the game (so late). And that's got to count for something.
Right?
*Update* so I get into work this morning and I have an email from some genderless individual (I'm guessing a male). He opines that it's painfully obvious that I am too picky, and am also most likely, fat, ugly and in possession of many cats. I email back and retort:
Picky?! Dude, I'm talking about a man to sleep with and one day (possibly) a man to procreate with. ie: a man that I will forever be attached to in some way. I should be picky. It's not like I'm talking about picking up a yogurt for breakfast or a book off the shelf. And yes, to answer your other astute observations, I am fat. And dear lord am I ugly, but god dammit, my dog is not a cat.Labels: about me, dating, men
9:10 PM
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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Fine, But My Dog Is Not A Cat:
Today, Gawker posted a ‘how do you know you’re/she’s single’ list. I present it (with my commentary) below:
• Piles of magazines everywhere, comprised of tons of pretentious ones that are clearly untouched and then severely thumbed-through Vogues and Luckys (at least I don’t have the faux highbrow ones!)
• Overflowing shoe rack and nothing in the fridge (both shoe rack and fridge are overflowing. Thanks Stew Leonards!)
• Scented candles (duh, am disgusting, villainous smoker)
• Slovenly heaps of little-used makeups in the bathroom (nope, it’s stashed on my desk in a lovely little box)
• Stuffed animals in the bed (just the one that breathes)
• Cat hair on the furniture (breathing dog!)
• Cat smell (dog again!)
• Cabinets full of mugs featuring the likeness of lady who looks like those hypertrophically-
limbed Daily Candy illustrations, bearing the legend "I Love Shopping" or whatnot (not unless they mean that (ONE of) Ariel from The Little Mermaid, because yeah, I have that mug the rest of them are plain)
• Anything pink (some panties? Lipgloss? Pillowcases and gingham sheets? Check. Check. Check.)
• Ornamental pillows (yeah, so not me ever)
• Unedited bookshelves, esp. if they include He's Just Not That Into You or anything along those lines (rows of Jane Green, Marian Keyes and other books with high heels – equally scary, I'm sure)
• Nair (am I a philistine? It’s called getting waxed at the salon)
• Lite cottage cheese in the fridge (no, but my zero percent, strained Greek yogurt can’t be much better)
• Anything lite or diet around. Cases of Diet Coke. Weight Watchers 'Just 2 Points' bars (3 half cases of diet coke lay prone on the kitchen floor as I type)
• Inspirational or thinspirational things on the fridge (my fridge isn’t magnetic, not that I’d have them there anyway. The fridge door is for offensive materials only, like the ad I used to have that read 'impotence is optional' because, no. It's so not an option. Might as well learn that early on.)
• Framed posters (yep, two and they're highly collegiate ones. I still love ‘em. Fuck you.)
Scary huh?Labels: about me
11:28 PM
Monday, July 23, 2007
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And Oh, There Were Bats!
Holy god, what a weekend.
What a weekend.
Holy.
God.
For weeks now, Joe and I have been planning a weekend in CT. This past weekend was it and we were both retardedly excited. Here is how it went:
FRIDAY NIGHT - I pulled up outside Joe’s place at precisely 7:38pm and he was waiting curbside with his puppy and his belongings. We piled everything into the car, drove down John Street and hopped on the FDR heading north. Quite possibly the first thing Joe said was; “wow, you were on time! When you said 7:30-8:00, I thought you meant 9!” See? My status as a person-who-is-always-late is unquestioned. Progress. The drive up to Near-Danbury was totally uneventful. We played name that tune and sang along with the ipod (at the moment I only remember us singing along with the Divinyl’s, but obviously there were others, maybe Joe will remind me in the comments. Ahem). There wasn’t much traffic and we made it there in the hour and a half that I predicted. All good.
We get to the house and let ourselves in. I give Joe the tour, we hang out for a bit and then we go out back to smoke a bowl on the patio. We’re out there smoking and gossiping. We must have been out there for hours before I decided to dart back in and grab a drink (oh, we were gossiping, smoking and drinking – shut up, it’s not like we were watching small kids, handling hypodermic needles and driving tractors. Wow, you guys are judgmental).
“Oh no.”
“Oh no?”
“Oh no, when the door closed, it locked!”
“Oh no!!”
“Oh yes.”
“FUCK!”
“Oh yes.”
First we ransack the great outdoors looking for the spare key that my parents keep at the house. Or, should I say; kept? We look everywhere and come up with nothing. It’s not in the light fixtures, under the doormat or any rocks, it’s not over any doors or windows. It isn’t near the backup generator or hiding under the garbage cans. Joe, needlessly guilt ridden, starts trying to scale the house hoping to slip in through a window. We don’t stop to think that if Joe fails to get into the house and only, say, breaks his leg, we’re so much more fucked. I think it’s safe to say that Joe and I did not enjoy a Socraticly cerebral weekend. So he’s trying to Spiderman the house, I’m still scouring the grounds for a key and we finally decide to give up and smash a basement window.
How impressed am I that my parents have shatterproof glass? Very. And I simultaneously hate them. The brilliance of shatterproof glass and the idiocy of no hidden key. They’re like Polish geniuses.
The obvious thing to do is go over to our neighbors to check if they have an extra key.
If only it weren’t 2:30 in the morning and if only my neighbors were in their 20’s instead of their 70’s.
So we relent, and sag down onto the steps, having been utterly defeated by a house. We accept that we will have to sleep outside (because we are stupid) and that we will be bitten to death (CT is The Mosquito State, right? Right.). But then, Joe has a tourette’s moment of brilliance and says;
“Well, it won’t just be us, we have the bats to keep us company.”
THEWHATTHEFUCK?!?!?
Yes dear readers. There are bats in CT. Specifically in the trees on and near our property. Bats.
We moved from the back of the house to the front and finally flag down my neighbors on their way home. They find a ladder and get us back into the house. At 3:30am.
And the neighbors looked like lunatics. Joe and I were fairly certain they were running a meth lab out of their basement. The woman was about 12 seconds away from picking at the invisible centipedes crawling up and down her bony arms and her husband looked like he belonged on the bathroom floor of the Boar’s Nest with Daisy Duke prancing around just outside the door.
But the second I saw Joe’s legs disappear over the ladder and through the window, I loved Mr. and Mrs. Methlab. Loved them so much that Sunday Joe and I ran over to Target and bought them a gift card.
SATURDAY - Joe misplaces his stash of pot. Not wanting my parents to be the finders keepers, we commence Operation Ransack again. This time inside the house opposed to the day before’s outdoor ransacking.
By 6pm I realize I never want to be a search and rescuer and I am bored witless of looking for shit.
We take a break and go to Stew Leonard’s as Joe has never had the “experience” and the house is devoid of anything edible. After buying $100 worth of food and watching Joe shoplift one item just for kicks we go home. And start looking again. Not a damn thing. And we’re beyond frustrated so we take yet another break and I clean up a little while Joe cooks us the most delicious dinner! Steak, corn and asparagus. Too good to describe. We chow down and Joe has his cherry-popping viewing of one of my favorite guilty pleasures; St. Elmo’s Fire. He’d never seen it before. I’m not sure how. We stayed up until 5am, hanging out on the patio and having one more of our infamous late night talkfests. By the time we went inside the sun was starting to emerge. But still not the pot.
SUNDAY – we get up around noon and neaten up the house even further (such is my responsibility as the daughter of HouseNazi’s). We look for Joe’s pot a little more (because I am absolutely terrified that my HouseNazi’s, er, parents, will manage to unearth what has eluded Joe and I for a full day). Still empty handed and now, finally, resigned. It’s gone. One day I’ll have to explain myself to my parents and that’s pretty much that. Awe. Some. Or, not. The house all tidy and pristine, we go outside, load the car up and I do a final check before I set the alarm (I will subsequently discover that in addition to looking for things, alarm setting is not my forte). The alarm has a hair-trigger and instead of setting it, I set it off. I go outside to call my brother and see what he knows about alarm setting when I see Joe’s bag of pot just sitting on the small garden wall near the front door.
WHATTHEFUCK.
We looked there. We looked everywhere but in the back of each other’s eyesockets! We’re so damn glad though that we don’t even question it (much). I do something with the alarm (I think it was set, who knows) and hop into the car.
The battery is dead.
The battery is dead.
Of fucking course it is!!
We head over to the neighbors, they have no jumper cables. I am now forced to go to the house on the other side. No big deal, except last summer my parents and the neighbors went all Hatfield and McCoy because of an errant kids toy and oh, because my parents are idiots.
Luckily, there’s another family renting the neighbor’s house and they not only agree to give us a boost, but they give me the keys to their brand new Lexus and merely ask that we jump the battery ourselves and return the car by dinner, because they are sitting down to lunch.
(Note to readers; if you want access to a house that you don’t own and a free new Lexus, you should hook up with my neighbors in CT, they’re just giving that stuff away.)
I drive their car over to the house and as Joe turns the key in our ignition, the dead battery summons a tiny pocket of life and springs back into action. The dead battery? Dead no more, it seems. We return the car and leave CT before we accidentally burn the house down or reintroduce the plague.
(And obviously, the version my parents will hear will be strictly PG-13. The late night smoke that got us locked out will be changed to a dog walk. It will have happened at 10pm vs. midnight. And the pot will become a wallet.)
Best parts?
Despite everyfuckingdamnthing Joe and I never argued or snipped at each other, not once. Joe brought along his dog who was far better behaved than the two of us. I found a great parking spot immediately. And Joe and I both learned that we have a lot more practice to do before we go to Israel together someday. If this past weekend was any indication, we’re not quite ready to go international yet.Labels: CT, deranged, joe, pot
12:02 AM
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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The Just About Nadir:
"I wanted to know a little about you" he said on our way for a drink, "so I read some of your blog".
You mean the part where I was summarily dumped on my ass? Celibate for a year? Slept with one guy before I dated another just to get it out of my system? The part where I describe violent acts carried out on my ahem by gynecological practitioners? Uhm... dammit? Crap?!?!
And just as I was trying to determine what level of mortal embarrassment I was at, and how preferable tripping and ending up face first, skirt over head, on Water Street might be; my shoe strap broke.Labels: oops
1:18 AM
Monday, July 09, 2007
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Just Like in Heathers; A Lunchtime Poll:
Turns out that while he might be Tall, he’s also very very small.
*Tallman put a (classy) end to our courtship on Friday. Two hours before the Yankee game that we were to attend he IMed me this nonsensical crap:
*TallAsshole: there's something on my mind
Me: ok. share.
*TallAsshole: i dont know that i can go to the game with you tonight. i am afraid to say that i'm not feeling the way i should about this (whatever this is)
So despite the fact that it was him who invited himself over Friday night, and despite the fact that whereas I never spoke of the future he did little else, it was my ragingly-lustful-towards-him-feelings that scared him off. Wow, dude. Way to inflate your own head. I guess that when he talked about the future I was supposed to cut him off? Maybe I should have laughed in his face when he told me he’d never liked a girl as much or as fast as he liked me. Maybe I should have gone to his office and splashed a carafe of ice cold water in his face? He was busy planning things for us to do in the future and I was focused on getting to know him in the present. He would tell me how much he liked me, he’d ask if I felt the same and I always answered the same way;
“I am enjoying getting to know you.”
But he wasn’t sure he could match my feelings. Like I ever even shared them. Like 20 years of dating hasn’t fucking taught me that much. So, even classier than Berger and his Sex and the City post-it was *TallAsshole and his IM. He thought he was being honorable. I mentioned that in my world honorable involves face to face and not over IM two hours before a date (certainly not one that he kept telling me he couldn’t wait to be on). He maintained that he wasn’t dating anyone else and that he couldn’t explain a complete 180.
Just Friday morning (mere hours before our date) he IMed me;
*TallAsshole: i'm looking forward to tonight and the weekend in general which will make today fairly great either way, I’m excited to bring you to the game, have fun and try to resist kissing you. At least until the seventh inning stretch when I can’t promise not to lean over and kiss you. After that, we can get a bite and then I’m just going to look forward to seeing your face first thing in the morning.
I had already told him that the night would be PG-13 at best but he swore he didn’t mind.
At this point I can’t even fathom what was true and what wasn’t. I did not invite him over. I did not plan to sleep with him though I thought I would eventually. I was definitely attracted to him. And sure, maybe it's ego talking here but I blame myself for one thing only. I should have listened less to what he was saying and focused more on how he was acting. Had I remembered that at their cores men tend to lie more than any women I know, I would have ignored what he said and taken his behavior into consideration. But I didn't. I lost my head a little bit and I believed what he said at face value because I forgot the way these things go and dammit - because in part, I guess I wanted to. I would love to date men in a world where dating men wasn't worse than; having your asshole waxed and bleached (not that I'd know), delivering a baby through your cornea, having your wisdom teeth removed by cavemen, eating off the subway tracks.
He claimed to have felt badly about calling off our date a mere two hours before it was to happen. Whatever buddy. I told him I’d leave the ticket with my doorman and he could pick it up. He said that since he felt bad he’d give me the other one instead. He told me to bring whoever I wanted and enjoy myself. Him taking himself out of the equation made that a little difficult though.
But, I took the ticket and went to the game because fuck him. FUCK HIM. Why shouldn’t I go out and have a fun night and why shouldn’t he be deprived of one. The seats actually were amazing, the Yankees had a sick game and I hope *TallAsshole regretted missing it as much as I know he will regret missing out on me. (Though I am sure that in some circles, completely hair-covered men who live at home [albeit temporarily] and have limited social graces are all the rage).
Now here’s where the lunchtime poll takes effect:
I have discussed this with several people.
I think he deserves nothing from me. Not a fucking thing. Aside from scurvy or lyme disease, which sadly I cannot give him. When he offered the ticket to my brother I thanked him on behalf of my brother. That was the last thing I said to him before deleting him from my IM list and shutting down my computer.
My mother thinks I should send him a very brief email saying thank you - she's inherently sweet and very big on manners. (I maintain that I did that and I have no further obligations.)
My father thinks I should have brought him to CT anyway. So we could drown him in the lake. (I am so my father’s daughter - wow!)
Friends have fallen on both sides of the fence.
So… out of curiosity, I wonder what you guys, my readers, think.
What would you do if you were in my flip-flops? (Truth be told I really do not see myself having any further interactions with this jackass, but I’m still a little curious as to your opinions)
(*and oh!!! As Heather would say; the name has been changed to protect an asshole named MJ who still lives at home with his Daddy.)Labels: assholes, dating
12:35 PM
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
~
From Me to You:
 Labels: holidays
3:39 PM
Sunday, July 01, 2007
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Chris Wants to Play Tag:
First, the rules:
The Rules are: Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Now, between you and me, I completely recall having done this before but Chris asks so little of me I‘m sure I can come up with 8 more bits of weirdness in regards to myself. Let’s see:
1. I am (almost) never on time no matter where I’m headed.
2. I have a near pathological dislike of the dentist. Not a specifically cruel dentist either, just the general, painful profession of dentistry.
3. Few things make me as happy as throwing garbage away. I love to tidy up and toss extraneous things that I possess. Yet, my apartment is habitually debris strewn. I cannot account for that discrepancy.
4. Despite my status as a lifelong New Yorker I am constantly being confronted with streets I never knew existed. Latest example; Thames Street in the financial district.
5. I am so anal, that when I put silverware in the dishwasher, I put them in groups (big spoons together, small forks together – you get the idea, oy, I’m not well people).
6. If there’s any substance to those “just say no” ads, then I probably smoke enough pot to single handedly fund two terrorists. Annually.
7. I can never get out of bed the first time the alarm goes off. It's always on that second trill that I'll finally get moving.
8. The other night, after dinner with Tallman, we were at my apartment making out with the Yankee game on in the background. We’re kissing away when, with bases loaded, A-Rod came up. He hit it deep to left field and we simultaneously stopped kissing (yet kept our mouths attached – weird, I am aware) to hear if Michael Kay would call the homerun. It was caught on the warning track and we went back to what we were doing. But man if we didn’t appreciate one another’s sports fanaticism.
The rules of this meme direct me to tag eight other people. Can we call it even at 4? I say yes.
1. Crazy Dawn eats these up. (By the way, have we all noticed that Dawn and Karol never comment here anymore? Clearly I've been blacklisted. Well I've decided that I will not even look at Dawn's Amazon wishlist until I get a comment from her greedy ass. Let's see how long it takes her to notice.)
2. I feel like Plantation might have something to say on the matter.
3. The L will probably have fun with this.
4. And I think Ron probably wants to share some weirdness.
Now, remind me to post about being picked up by an "exotic dancer". Eeeeeew!Labels: about me, kissing, random
8:38 PM
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