Monday, June 24, 2013

Online Dating: The Last One

Realizing that the past couple of months' posts have been far too overtaken by the saga of blithering boys - which, in time, I'm sure will show happens for some reason - it reminded me that I never finished (re)posting my online dating entries. So here is the last one. And then I'll finish up the rest for you...
October 24, 2012 
TWS Catching Up, Month 10  
I saw each guy – MH and RH – one more time before I never saw them again. It was a week in the books for me: I had three dates that week. This was a month ago. One was Wednesday with a random guy that went well enough but I think we were both fine it didn’t go anywhere. Or maybe it was the fact that he kissed me at the end of the date when I literally ran away into a cab. (To be fair, I was drunk and forgot it was Wednesday and cabs are not at all hard to find at 1am on Wednesdays in downtown DC. Whoops.) Oh well, he had this weird way of reminding me of my brother-in-law anyway. And worked from home, had all married friends and I’m fairly certain only went out with girls for something to do…and nookie.   
Friday, I ditched RH to go to a free concert in Baltimore with a friend of mine. Instead, I offered him Saturday. After an 11 mile training run, I was just about to hop in the shower to get ready when he texted that his friend fell and he had to take her to the hospital. He’s a clumsy person. That was fine with me; I went to The Nurse’s house party. He later called to apologize for cancelling, which I said was fine, but what wasn’t fine was having hung up on my earlier. His frustration with his stuff is not mine, nor do I intend for it to affect me. And I fucking hate being hung up on. After he went to hang up again, I called him out on it and he quickly apologized after I offered my brief explaination of why that was unacceptable. Lesson of Note: Men respond well when you speak to them like children in a soft, subtle voice. So I quickly masterminded a plan and told him that we could go out tomorrow afternoon to Frisbee golf and maybe that would make him feel better.  
Here’s the thing: I just really wanted to Frisbee golf. It really had very little to do with his day gone wrong. And I had already made plans to play that afternoon with MH. 
So I texted MH and started to talk about the next day’s plans, slyly suggesting that we meet that evening so that he could watch his football team play at 1 and frolfing wouldn’t interfere. He agreed and in 20 minutes I seemed like the hero to both guys. 
I just got way too good at this.  
However, that Sunday was the last time I saw either boy. MH decided I was “fucking with him” because he waffled about inviting himself to sleep over my house and going home. Eventually I suggested – after he again said, “I’m just going to stay” – that he just go home and would thank me tomorrow. He got flustered and I didn’t much care, but gave him a kiss (or 2 – remember: “I like kissing la la la”) upon departure to which he responded “Are you just fucking with me”. So, I didn’t hear from him again and wasn’t particularly interested so he gave himself the boot and I’m totally okay with that. I didn’t hear from him again until last night – exactly one month later – when my phone decided to call him because it somehow went to a voicemail he left me on that night. I hung up quickly, but it had connected and he texted me. Awkward. 
RH just got busy. And I got busy. And there were a few incoming texts from him over the weeks saying he wanted a “reunion”, but nothing has come to fruition. So for now, that’s dead in the water; which I’m also totally okay with, however leaving me sexless still. 
Otherwise the Universe has been cockblocking me. The last full moon offered me 3.5 men to take home with me.  I chose one. One that had shared my bed back in February; one a stranger; and one the roommate of some jerk I'd stopped dating last year. The Bed Share was looking mighty fine: I picked him. He paid for the cab to my place and making out in front of my house, decided then to come clean that he has a girlfriend. And so, I remain temporary celebate. Damn Universe: It's up to something.  
So, currently there’s a new guy. The OkC algorithm says we're a 96% match: My highest yet. We texted for weeks before going out last week. I tried to convince him to bring me waffles when I woke up hungover on my birthday from festivities the night before, 10 days before we met. I now call him Waffle Guy (WG), even though he brought me homemade ice cream on our first date; I got to pick the flavor, because I had ankle injury (and still ran) and we are in agreement that ice cream makes everything better. It was like an edible trophy…from a stranger. He dropped about $200 on dinner. That check sat there for a while, but there was no way I was going anywhere near it. We saw each other again four days later last Saturday - for about 14 hours. I think have been in contact every day. He has his shit together. He treats his mother well. But he has four chiuauas. FOUR. And they are assholes. And they don’t like me. I’m not sure I could get over that enough to re-enter the loop’o’sex – we are now entering month 10 - but I suppose time will tell.

That guy I kissed and ran away from went silent...until April. He texted me out of the blue to ask me out again. I declined.

Coincidentally, the night I posted this entry, I hooked up with someone I've known for years - of whose identity I will disclose in my book (because it's like that). Evidently, 10 months is my cut off. After that, I went out with the Waffle Guy for a couple of weeks: That first date he picked me up and took me to Morton's.. This is the second time someone who didn't know where to go picked the expensive steak place at the bottom of the hotel near my house. They lose points every time. The second date was a winery (I suggested) and then dinner. That was the 14 hour date. The third date, a late brunch at his house. At this point, I knew I wasn't into him (or his fucking dogs), but he was way too into me. The brunch night I literally said, "You're acting like you want to wear me as a coat. I don't want to be a skin coat."

He laughed. I wasn't kidding.

It quickly became evident he wanted me to meet his family and have his babies. I can't be with a man who allows his four want-to-be-dogs poop in his house. There are few things more awkward than watching man who is clearly into you pick up poop off of Puppy Pee Pads and then want to hold your hand.

And even still, I went on one more date with him. It was my last hurrah; I had a goal to fulfill - and since I hadn't heard from RH or MH for weeks, I said to myself, in the mirror, "I'm prepared to make a bad decision tonight." While in the car on the way to dinner, I realized I had a huge runner and my hose. As it was unseasonably warm, I decided to just take them off. Walking down M St. in Georgetown, I quickly realized by that way I was being stared at that half of the people assumed I was a prostitute; the mismatch of attractiveness not helping my cause.

The night wasn't going well.

From there it was one (prepped-for) bad decision after another. Then he left in the morning early to feed his dogs after a drunken evening in which I exclaimed "I'm not going to have your babies!" and then magically condoms that "fit" appeared where before they never were. Men are stupid. And the universe will reward bad decisions with the need for Monistat. This combined with the skin coat, combined with the money bragging, combined with the dogs, combined with that weird condom thing, put me in back out of the room quietly situation.

Prior to tip-toeing into oblivion, I did, however, briefly - and legitimately - consider going out with him again just for the free dinners. For whatever reason I feel guilt and reservations about letting men pay for me (which I"m attempting to let go of because being female is effing expensive), but at dinner he mentioned he bought a $300 bottle of olive oil in Italy and I was flabbergasted. He scoffed a bit and said "$300 isn't a big deal".

I am not impressed by money. I am even less impressed by men who try to impress by money. I'd be more intrigued if he asked what kind of food I liked and then bought a Groupon to match. Which brings me to another issue from that evening: He was coming to DC (and lived in Maryland) and asked where I wanted to go. My response was: "You figure it out. I'm not your tour guide." I knew once that came out of my mouth that I wasn't interested, could trample him, use him and leave him and should probably stop talking to him (because that's not who I am). I went silent and he caught the drift.

At the end of the day, I stuck to who I am. And bought my own dinners.

WG, combined with a friend who made a bad, bad attempt at becoming more than a friend, combined with that hook-up squirreling off a potential FWB situation, led to me signing off of online dating and stepping away from dating and the idea of hook-ups altogether. This of course, all led to accidentally dating someone. And from there we entered 2013.

The moral perhaps being that online dating is not for me. I tried it. I'm done. The observation deck of dating is little more than a shit show of flying hormones and half witted attempts at giving it shit. It does, however, help to get your feet wet and not find the idea of a date to be so anxiety inducing. So at least there's that.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Di·vor·cés: The Finale

A few weeks prior the week that went to hell, as Goomba was finalizing his divorce plans with his ex, and thus he was calming down, I invited him to wine fest the first weekend of June. He was mostly alright during the day; keeping the lurking at a minimum – even when I pseudo-flirted with a guy in a Biggest Loser hat, learning he didn’t actually used to be a fat guy, but played for Halloween. Upon stepping into the port-o-potty I called out, “I hope you fit!”

He opened the door to poke his head back out of the toilet box and announce, “You’re adorable.” Even from the confines of an outdoor shit hole, I have decided this is my favorite compliment.

Later in the evening, we decided to go to the bar. Since Goomba was already there, he would be joining us. Everyone showered but him and that bothered me, as it was 90 degrees that day and ew. Attempting to talk him into showering turned into a bit of a power struggled, but I managed to get him in there with an irritated and likely unfounded “sure”, when he asked if that meant he’d get to cuddle later.

When we got to the bar, I knew everything was coming to a head: He moved his seat to be closer to mine, asked me to dance, and brooded when I said 'no thank you'. To tell the truth, I wanted to dance, but not with him. I wanted to dance with my girlfriends, but I knew if I did, since I had declined his invitation, that it would be the beginning of WWIII. Instead, I sat against the wall, again declining his requests to dance. And watching him once drink my drink and a second time scolding him for touching it; couples share drinks and I was well aware he was testing his limits. He had reached them. After this, I excused myself to the patio and sat on a wall by myself, talking to people who squatted against the wall with me and trying to get rid of creeps that wouldn’t leave me alone. And then the one deterrent thought he had a chance to take me home. I was at my wit's end.

Soon after, the bar was closing. Thank god, we were getting to leave. Everyone was heading back. I’d made it through, I thought. Conflict avoided.

And then we got outside.

Once outside, I had my shoes in my hands. I was standing all day and my feet weren’t interested in them. Goomba asked if I wanted him to hold my shoes for me. What an odd request, of which I politely declined. And that’s when he lost it. He started cursing up and down the sidewalk and calling me a bitch while dropping f-bombs like it was, in fact, WWIII. If I thought Chachi was bad, he had nothing on this blitzkrig.

BECAUSE I WOULDN'T LET HIM HOLD MY SHOES. I'll give you a minute to process that. ...

This is when I lost it. Perhaps it was Goomba. Or perhaps it was the events of the entire week – or even the past four months, but I was finished. I found my voice again and there wasn’t a damn thing passive about it. Is that who I want to be at 2am at the age of 29 in the middle of Arlington? No, absolutely not. But you can only poke a snake for so long before it bites back.

I quickly composed myself after he began to flip out in return. I asked him to look at me so I could calm him in the middle of the city. He refused. Fuck you filled every ounce of my body and flowed through my veins. There was no coming back. That amount of disrespect perhaps trumping them all. I gave up and walked away.

A few moments later he trotted up to me and to tell me he was looking at me now in what seemed to be an attempt to place his eyeballs on my face. “I don’t care. It’s too late,” I responded. And as he continued to try to get my attention, as the group of us were heading back to GFN's, I made a quiet, complete U-turn to land myself at 2:30am on a bench by myself, away from it all – until Ginger found me.

She came to sit with me; me and my wit’s end. In a few moments, three guys came by: An Asian, a tall black man and a black man with a bag of candy. This sounds like the start of a really weird porn.

Ginger partook in the candy while I learned that the tall black man was recently divorced. It was quickly obvious that he hated his ex wife about as much as I was fed up with divorced men in that moment. We took a minute to understand each other: She cheated on him and he hated her for that. And then I took a moment to explain my theory on cheating: Nothing ever breaks because of cheating, people cheat because it’s broken – and that’s the easy way out. You can point the finger and blame it on that one event: You cheated. But it's rarely just one person's fault. Cheating is so much easier than saying: I love you, but not enough to trump our problems and find happiness.

He was shocked. They all were. For a minute, he softened. And behind his eyes I could see that a baby revelation was born.

That whiplash of broken love goes both ways. And the people behind divorces need to take their time to think about why they are angry or what they’re attempting to escape. And the single people that divorced people find to be such a treat or fit or funny or perfect or there’s-a-reason-we-met-again-after-eight-years, need to be weary and aware of the danger that lurk beneath hidden anger, hurt, despair, confusion and a stunted emotional growth.

I’m done with the divorcés now. They need to find their own way. I can’t allow myself to be dragged into their need for help and fulfillment at the cost of myself. I will keep my 'boredom' and wait for the next big thing. And that’s so much better than World War Three.

I've been decompressing for a few weeks now. And eventually Chachi apologized haphazardly, while reposting and tagging me in my own photo from a year ago. College Chicago has never been much a bother, but perhaps shows the quieter side of the suffering. Goomba has been sitting quiet, although attempted to send a few texts, emails and facebookings like nothing happened. And Potato and Derp are gone for good, by their own accounts and with no argument here. For the record, I never saw the random bench guys again.

The great thing about being single is that you know for certain you're not with the wrong person; wasting time. And whatever disrupts single person peace may quickly be left behind. There is no WWIII. There's no such thing as boring; it's just a buffer.


Wednesday, June 19, 2013

The Finale of Potato and Derp

I hold a lot to myself at times. I don’t want to disrupt the peace or cause commotion. This is great when whatever is the bother tends to fade away on its own; sort of like heart break over time. This is not great when the bother builds and builds until my response is nothing short of a series bursts and an explosion. That was the last week of the Three Divorcés.

Bang. Bang. Boom.

I find stories simply single are far more enjoyable than those that involve hearts that have been crushed on paper. It took till now to discover that there are a lot of broken bits to those kinds of boys – and they tend to take it out on a kind heart and a lended ear. And for a minute, all of the care-taking overshadows her own needs; the broken bits make the kind heart doubt her hope. While moving through this sea of half broken boys I went from thinking I don’t ever want to marry a divorced guy, to thinking marrying a divorced guy sounds good because they see how bad it can be and will appreciate how wonderful you are. After that final week, my opinion changed to something like: I don’t want to marry a divorced guy because someone disliked him so much that they had to make it official.


The week after Derp left and we began texting and chatting, I had another half marathon that weekend.  (I’m in it for the medals and that two week combo gave us four.) The race was Sunday, after a 5k Saturday night. After a 5am wake-up, running 13.1 miles and driving the hour back home, I was out with my Ginger lady pal and GFC for another Sunday Funday, as promised to Ging earlier in the week. (She had a crush on a bartender and ever the consummate wingman, I had no choice but to go again, despite my complete and utter desire to just sleep). The day was uneventful, aside from getting Ging the hook up and some dickhole asking GFC and I if we could “take it all”, referring to an enormous wooden sculpture of a hand flipping the bird. I waited for him to laugh and when he never did, our outright disgust with this man led our new bartender friend - and Ginger’s crush - to kick him out. We would later discover, while getting her the hook-up that her crush has broken up with his girlfriend multiple times and yet she still lives with him. He can't seem to get rid of her. GFC and I tried to help but he eventually got frustrated with us and then we left.

Meanwhile, GFC was trying desperately to keep me away from Potato. She didn’t like him and thought he was dumb. I mean, she wasn’t wrong, but I was using the rental car for one thing and one thing only; from my pathetic attempts of recollection, he was good in bed and that’s really all I needed. So when she dropped me off at 9pm, slightly drunk and half asleep she thought I was safe from the root vegetable. She thought wrong. At about 11pm he asked to come over; texting once and again to check if I was still awake. I knew this all was a horrible idea because I had run 13 miles on two hours of sleep and had just consumed a Lean Pocket after a day of flirting with tequila, but I said “whatever you want” anyway.

Suffice to say all of these items don’t add up to a particularly good romp. And I quickly discovered that I only contacted potato when nearly to total rag-doll drunk because that was the only time it was any good and he seemed sizable. At half asleep and with him pouting that he didn’t come over to sleep, I suggested that we sleep and have a go at 7am. He wasn’t into that. And I wasn’t really into anything. That, compounded with semi-sobriety, allowed me to discover that I have standards and Drunk Me was mistaken about both size and style points, which solidified my disinterest. So, in the morning (when I discovered he had an 8am meeting and left at 7), I was well aware that that was the last time I would see him. 


As Potato left, Derp became useful. As we know, I like to have my weekly men to pay me mind. Chat with me; keep me entertained; fluff the ego. Derp was the new Potato. But as the weeks went on, it became more and more obvious to me that Derp was rather deserving of his name because he had no common sense when talking to other people; which I think is telling as to how a person perceives the world: Are you totally unaware of manners and your surroundings? Then you’re probably entirely self-involved. (Turning off his phone mid-text when he was out with a girl “friend” and later lying about for no good reason – aside from perhaps figuring I’d stop talking to him if I knew he was banging chicks or something. And going so far as to sending me a video of a girl he’d once banged and suggesting I see her live when she is on the east coast. Really? That’s your ONS etiquette? Bad form.)

The chatting continued on for a little over a month, because, in the end, what did I care? We’d chat about him flying out here or me flying out there for a bi-coastal booty call and touristy shit. Anything really. When the ego fluffing turned one sided, I became suspect, agitated. That’s not how you have an ego fluffing partnership, sir. Nor a friendship for that matter. I understand that when you get out of a relationship – especially with a fat and unfunny ex-wife – that you may need to have your ego stroked, especially as a guy who has no college degree, a job he bitches about and little to offer in the way of interpersonal common sense. He began to remind me of the Pink Elephant. And the more I felt this sensation – as much as he would make me laugh – the more irritated I became.

Mid-week of the finale of divorces, I wanted to write this blog and was inquiring as to why he had called me a whore in the first place. The discussion led back to how he felt bad when we discussed it, which then led to me feeling bad and then worse that he was making his mistake about him and not about the person he offended. It didn’t feel good at all. So from this, I requested simply: Say something nice. He told me I was smart and intelligent.      

He told me I had degrees. Great. I had been befriending this kid for over a month and he told me I had degrees. This catapulted all of the frustrations I’d had with him into overdrive.  I told him that it was frustrating and he just said it was time for lunch and left for tacos. In turn, I went to talk to ER and then, without much thinking, send part of the conversation I had with ER about Derp to Derp in time for his return:

I feel you should see this. 
and before today it was just a stupid part of a silly story.
but now i'm bothered by it. dunno why.
and even more bothered by the fact that he seems to focus on how it makes him feel. how what he to someone else makes him feel when the someone else is going "ouch that hurt"
and all i want to do to make it better is have a counter pose. something nice.
and i get intelligent. and smart.
because actually taking the time to think outside of oneself is apparently too much trouble. that or i'm just a smart, intelligent whore without nothing else to offer.
if you do something bad. and you realize it's bad. you do something good. right?
ER: wow ... ok, now i'm caught up
and clearly he's a douche
but yeah ... if you recognize you did something dumb you clearly do what is necessary to make up for it
me: he's either a douche or clueless.
i went looking for that movie that's was say something nice; you owe me a compliemtn.
ER: little of column A ... little column B
me: and he is totally jack nickleson's character in as good as it gets
like here's foot, insert in mouth.
ER: yeah yeah ... when helen hunt made him do it in the restaurant
but JN totally came through withe the "you make me want to be a better man" line
me: yea
but the "pay me a compliment. i mean it"
that's where i'm at.
and it seems fair.
ER: agreed
and smart is jack shit
doesnt count
me: thank you.
that just irritated me more.
ER: thats a cop out
me: precisely. 

Evidently he didn't like that and when he disappeared off my chat list a while later, I knew that we had again reverted to middle school and he had blocked me. No, seriously. People still do that...apparently. I felt a little bad for the snippet and sent him a text later in the evening to explain that I don’t believe in passive aggressiveness; if something is upsetting to me I’m going to let you know what it is so it’s not mystery anger. That it is more about how I believe I should be treated and less about him. I stood up for myself. He never read the texts; which says more about him than not – my intuition was correct: Once I stopped fluffing his ego, he disappeared. Regardless, if someone says something real and you react so childishly, then perhaps you are just admitting guilt and it’s the guilt that someone spoke the truth that offends you and not the person themselves. Either way, he ended up where he needed to be. Granted, being dropped by someone, no matter who it is, always stings a bit, but I didn’t need any more from him - especially considering the weekend that was to come...

Monday, June 17, 2013

It Begins Again

It begins again. Although I can’t even begin to comprehend, understand or remember what this feeling used to be like. Or how strange or vulnerable of an admission that this might now be true: This, the feeling of wanting to be with someone; a willingness again to fall in love. I hope it’s not just because I’m sick of the stupid. But, when it comes down to it, perhaps that’s what the willingness is when you purposefully seek the stories.

The first time it hit me, it came by surprise. But I was just a kid. And after that I sought it: Love. I’d decide I was ready and wish and then I’d see him and think: That’s mine. And then there we’d be, three years or five years later, breaking up, taping our hearts back together and moving on.

It takes the time alone to understand that a broken heart isn’t something to regret or resent. It is something to nurture. Something to understand and keep to yourself until you’re prepared enough to potentially have to tape it back together again. Because with love, as in life, there are no guarantees.

I’ve teetered on the edge for a while, I think you recall. But if I remember correctly, this is what it’s like: Not to be seeking a partner, per say, but the idea of being open to it; wanting to receive it. And what a strange thing it is to admit after such a beautiful, weeded and winding road behind.

When some people are single it doesn’t mean they are ready to be in a relationship.  Sometimes it takes all of the time alone to understand – and remember – that love isn’t something to be entered into lightly; that it's worth that step that might send you off a cliff and into a cold ocean of shattering hearts. And when you’re nearly 30, it’s all the more heavy. The mistakes hold the weight of history. We are meant to be wiser than children we once were.

How well we know ourselves now is directly reflected in who we choose to spend our time with and declare as our better half. How much we learn that's well worth the time alone to find out who we are, so we can find out what we need in another person. How important it is to know that it is so much lonelier in the wrong relationship than it is in the one with just yourself.

I think it’s hard for people to admit the things they want aloud because if they don’t attain them, then they feel like a failure. But life does what it wants in its own time. It is a strange concept brought up to think that you’re nobody unless somebody loves you; to feel we’re failing unless we’re partnered up. You can't find yourself in the eyes of someone else. Love yourself first should be the concept; define who you are, then find someone who loves that definition.

I think it is important to cherish the moments we have when we have them. I’m single now, but I won’t always be. I want a partner, but I’m willing to wait as long as it takes for my happiness. In the meantime, I have to remind myself – as many singles tend to forget – that we have forever to be taken, we have but a short time to be just who we are with the wonderful people we’ve chosen as family, until we have found enough happiness to make one of our own.

What a powerful thing to have cultivated a life for oneself. A life so rooted in independence and, yes, selfishness, that when that life is disrupted, we can recognize the threat. The past isn’t haunting: It is a book of beautifully tangled chapters and lessons throughout. And what a lovely sentiment it is to realize that you’ve made a life so pleasant for yourself that anyone who doesn’t enrich it, quite simply isn’t worth the time.

I wouldn’t trade the last five years for anything. My proverbial balls are so much bigger than they used to be. I’m proud of that. My want and willingness playing proof that I am my own security, my stories and everything I wanted to experience and become. It has exceeded my expectations. I have exceeded my expectations.

Now it’s just time to hope I can find a good man who doesn’t whistle from his nose; rather he can find me. I’ll be waiting patiently…still dancing. But I’m here now.

: )

Friday, June 14, 2013

Three (or Four) Di·vor·cés: Foreshadowing the Finale

Like this.
Imagine if linguine came in a can, already cooked, packed in there like Ramen, and when you dumped it out, it came out as one long noodle and like Mary Poppins’ bag, you stare into the can wondering where the fuck the end of the noodle was – because god damnit, I’m hungry and I just want some fucking pasta already. That’s what the week when all divorcé hell broke loose and the proverbial divorced shit hit the proverbial fan was like. It started with one thing and never seemed to end.

Did you follow the analogy? No? Look back in the can.

So where the shit noodle began: Let’s start with Monday. No. Wait. In fact, let’s start with April.

Remember when I said I only knew one person who was divorced but it didn’t count?  Maybe it counts. Since College Chicago mostly takes care of himself, it seems the universe wanted to keep the tally at three. So back in April, the other divorcé confessed that for the past year and a half, he had a crush on me and wanted to ask me out. So he asked our mutual friend who, at first, say 'no' and then under the caveat of: only if you're really serious, 'yes'.  I suppose he wasn’t really serious for 18 months because April was the first I heard about us "making a good couple". (And I haven't mentioned this till now because 1. It didn't matter and 2. I said I wouldn't, but secret keeping ends when name-calling begins.)

Always completely oblivious to whether or not someone is looking at me like that because they like me or because I have food in my teeth, I had no idea. Even when my girlfriends were like “Oh, he’s totally into you,” I was the backseat going: Don’t be silly. That’s just how he is. This 'I like you' chat dance went on for a bit, then he took a break and a few hours later he came back online to ask if I felt the same way. Whatever he was doing in those couple of hours must of jostled up some courage, curiosity or at least an eh, fuck it, because then he asked: "Have you ever felt the same way about me". My answer was simply: No. I’ve been told by my coworker/male-mind guru that directness is the best approach. I struggle with it, but this guy loves himself, so I figured the rejection would go over just fine.

I think I was wrong. 

Which takes us back to that Monday: I was in Nashville; so was he; this group of friends is how we met. Over and over he kept slamming my moral character in one way or another. Granted, I think my sexual promiscuity (if you can even call it that) of late is amusing and, thus, I talk about it, I am in no way a 'slut'. 

Although, in a gynecological caveat, my lady doctor probably doesn’t think so: I went to my annual last month, which happened to be a few weeks after Derp (and Potato). She asked, “Are you sexually active?"

I first paused before replying, "Not this week." That's just bad phrasing on her part, but nonetheless lead to a quick discussion about “risky” sexual behaviors. I’m about ask risky as foregoing sunscreen on a spring day in Seattle: I mean, there’s a chance, but it almost never burns when I pee.

So finally we get to the point of Monday: Cachi was on a roll: Slut here. Whore there. Ho later. They were all jokes, of course. FUCKING HILARIOUS. So funny that I eventually exclaimed, “If you want to continue being friends, you need to stop attacking my character”. His retort was nothing short of a pathetic face-saving attempt that our mutual girlfriends had my back on. Also, jokes are funny, not demeaning.

Evidently his ego didn't stay quite in tact as I thought. But just because Joney doesn't love Chachi; that doesn't make her a slut. This was not a great way to start the week – or a day off – and I would soon find out it was just a bit a clever, foreshadowing of the ridiculousness that was to come...

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

OMG! My Eggs

OMG! my eggs are starting to shrivel up and die!!! This is my concern of late. I’m not sure why, really.

Not having children has never really been an option for me. Aside from those few years between 13 and 16 when I didn’t know what to do if someone put a child in front of me - because at that age everything is awkward enough to not know what to do when presented in any situation - having children has always just been an un-objected assumption in my mind. Like, would you like ketchup with your fries? Duh. 

Sometime just after the awkward was wearing off, I was deciding that I wanted to have kids by 26. At 24, I would get married. At 26, I would have my first child. A few years into college, that timeline was pushed back two years. Either way, I thought, I could still accomplish having all three of my children by 32. And then I broke up with The Ex and I was 25 and just wanted to paint my face blue and scream FREEDOM!

The Ex got married this past April. I knew it was coming. What I didn’t expect was to stumble upon a wedding photo of him. When he told me last summer that he was engaged, I was happy for him. Everyone asked me if I was okay, which seemed like an odd question. “Yes, of course. I’m glad he found someone.”

Even more unexpected was my reaction to his wedding photo. He looked great. He kept the weight he lost after gaining in our relationship-falling-apart off and appeared genuinely content. I shared the news that I had seen his wedding photo and again the question was posed, “How do you feel about that?” slash “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’m happy for him. I didn’t break our hearts so that we both could end up unhappy and alone. I’m proud of him. He looks really good and I’m happy he found love.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth. The initial reaction is hard to explain: Somewhere between saying goodbye to an old friend and wanting to congratulate the shit out of him. I am happy he found love again and I am proud of him for finding himself a better place. I’m glad he took the time we had together and the mistakes that we both made, to learn and grow and become solid man and a good partner. And then it stings a little too. It makes me begin to wonder when it’s my turn.

I feel a bit of martyrdom from time to time. I feel like I fix men and send them off better people, having the next lady benefit from my good deeds…and sore and broken heart. Am I allowed to think it’s unfair since I’m the one with the biological timetable?

Probably not, I realize, considering I have placed myself here over the past four years. And that I have just recently decided that I’m tired of all the dating disasters and disappointing drama of late and perhaps ready to dig my heels in the sand of what potentially could be another broken heart. But I can’t help but think it anyway. And television and media and all this talk of freezing eggs makes me feel like I’m 29 and that means my ovaries are getting ready to audition for the California Raisins.

Damn you, media.

On the plus side, I put a strict rule on myself at 18. For really no scientific reason – and even though I was totally going to have kids at 26 28 – I would only be on birth control for four years. I was convinced that any time longer than that, my body would get confused and I wouldn’t be able to reproduce in the future. I stuck to this rule and at 22 was off the drugs. At 26, I was back on and 27 back off again. So despite the fact that my TwoPointFive got married last year, my first “love” got engaged (again) a few months ago, and The Ex got married in April, I have to hope that everything works out in the end. I have to hope that 18 year old me was planning for more than she knew. Because if I’d stuck to my original plan, I would have missed out on the last 10 years – all of the stories and parties and travels and proverbial face-first-falls and things and time I wanted to myself, for myself; which, without having experienced, I probably wouldn’t have made a very good mother anyway.

It seems like a fair trade to kick some maternal ass.

But I don’t think that just because I love the life I’ve chosen to live instead of the life I had planned, that I shouldn't be allowed get scared about these things from time to time. And I don’t think just because I get scared from time to time, that I should have to regret abandoning my plan and choosing to live my life. What I do think is that the media should just shut the fuck up.

Everything is about balance. This is mine. Fulfillment and hope quell the fear. Besides, 29 isn't that old...right?

Monday, June 3, 2013

Three Di·vor·cés, Part Three of Three

Late April (twenty-seven), introduced divorcé number three. Upon berating him for calling me a whore, he asked if we could step outside to talk. Then, once outside, he began to cry. Then, once crying outside the bar, he asked if we could take a walk. Apparently, men are as embarrassed as I am for drunkenly crying in public...which is why I don’t (unless my purse is stolen…or my phone is gone…again).

Somehow I remained compassionate. Perhaps it is because I’m not, in fact, a whore and he had no reason to call me one - aside from the fact that I “read” his friend and then refused to “read” him. (This sequence of events I having just now remembered ::high five, brain!:: ) Once his friend was "blown away" by my accurate “reading” of him, he told me to read his friend and I declined because I felt his friend was not open and, honestly, quite judgmental and guarded. Evidently, as he so eloquently exclaimed after my decline, he "didn’t want to talk to a whore anyway".

So once the waterworks were on, I agreed to take a walk. At about 1am we rounded the corner and found a bench about two blocks away. He told me how he didn’t know why he said that to me; how sorry he felt for saying it. It soon became obvious this child was mildly broken: he was judgmental because he was guarded: he was guarded because he'd been hurt and wielding the if I hate you first you can’t hate me sword.

Evidently, we’ve (re-)entered middle school.

Maybe people’s emotional growth stunts once they marry. Or perhaps I’d met a perpetual child. Or just a confused boy. However, there was a chance it was a combination, because I soon learned that he had gotten married at 23. His divorce would be final two months later in June. And he proceeded to cry through a story of how he is a good guy and "had [his] face smashed in for standing up for a woman whose partner was knocking her around at a gas station" in California. (It happened. I saw photos.) I thought Californian’s were supposed to be nice. Evidently the Brian Wilsons of the world smack women...and call them whores for no reason.

Poor Barbara Ann.

After I COMFORTED THE GUY THAT JUST CALLED ME A WHORE FOR NO FUCKING REASON WHAT-SO-EVER FOR CALLING ME A WHORE FOR NO FUCKING REASON WHAT-SO-EVER, we shared a few stories and I was mildly piqued because his life story was more interesting than mine. Then, we headed back to the bar. I found my girlfriend, Ginger, upstairs getting cuddly with a guy in an Affliction t-shirt and immediately tried to stop the impending mistake. (I would later find out she had no clue about aptly named Affliction t-shirts: The brand itself, a warning to self-respecting women.) I, again - this time half in jest - asked the bar back for a piece of the corn on the cob that I had seen him show up with approximately six hours prior. A few moments later, while sitting on a couch with the guy who would later become known as Derp, (because as his friends put it, he’s “the dumbest smart guy they know”; proved to me over the next few weeks), the bar back brought me a piece of corn on the cob.

As I watched two of the five people in the upstairs bar karaoke - while waiting my turn for the song my girlfriend signed me up for - I unwittingly gobbled up the corn much like a pig eats slop, no doubt. (To be fair, I had run 13 miles that morning and had  little more than rum and coke and ciders to quell the hunger for the past seven or so hours.) My name was called and I declined momentarily to finish my cold grilled corn, picking pieces off of my chest to pop them in my mouth and giving exactly zero fucks as to what this Derp character thought, while wondering why exactly he was still there in the first place.

Just then, I recalled a conversation we'd had on the bench outside. Something about agreeing to let him cuddle – JUST cuddle, because I wasn't rewarding bad behavior. I finished my corn and sang so well that Ginger left her current affliction to step and give her rendition instead.

We headed back downstairs soon after; they had turned the lights on. Derp asked if I want a drink. I had no answer. He brought back two waters. He was either cheap or caring.

I waited out my girlfriend till the bar closed. We took an illegal cab back to my place (because hers is too far away) and she yelled at Derp to pay the driver, then almost immediately fell asleep on the couch. Derp followed me upstairs. I got into bed and turned on my sleep playlist. I was genuinely ready to go to sleep; I was exhausted. I had only had three hours of sleep total since Thursday.

What's that? Why so little, you ask? I had no sleep on Friday because I consumed an entire bottle of wine by myself, mistaking ER being late to go out for drinks, for him not coming at all. Because I didn’t want to drink alone and my roommates weren't home yet, I invented a game wherein GFN and I turned off all of our auto-correct and spell check options and didn’t allow ourselves backspace, then continued conversation. The more drunk we got, the harder it became to type and the harder it was to decipher what the other person was saying. It was funny until I woke up the next morning and saw that I had texted Potato in this mode...

...and then it was hilarious.

Eventually, however, ER did show up, we went out and I got drunk enough to think that what I typed to Potato should have ever been sent, threw up on my floor, and then spent the next morning like this while waiting for my Chinese food to be delivered to my front yard:

Saturday evening GFN, GFC and I headed to Goomba’s house. Our wake up time was approximately 5am for the half marathon and I couldn’t sleep for shit on his floor. And I certainly wasn't going to sleep in his bed and give him any ammunition to his imagination that we had potential in that capacity.

Though I still kicked ass.
So by Sunday, I was running on fumes, but to my surprise the cuddle turned backrub, turned enter divorcé number three. While I originally had no intention of it, evidently I was still on the prowl and hooked up with nary a regret (particularly after my next encounter with Potato, but I'll get to that in a minute). Then, I was awoken at 7am to – what appeared to be – a 20 year old libido in a 32 year old body. I was more interested in sleep...until I wasn’t. So work took a backseat: Had I gone to work, I would have had no focus and possibly have fallen asleep on my desk. And no one wants to see their co-worker drooling. Besides, Derp talked me into it: I could skip work for a day of such activities. Unfortunately for me, this sober part of the romp could only last until he had to check out of his hotel. So, with nothing else to do that day but nap to the sweet sounds of Maury Povich, I offered to drive him back.

He seemed to think that we’d have enough time to Christen his room and grabbed another Durex from what he originally thought was an urn at the foot of my bed. It was one of the remaining condoms I've had since 2009 when some gays had stuffed my purse full of free “safe luv kits” at Secrets (where I got hit on by one of the dancers wearing only three socks). And that’s how much of a "whore" I really am: My free condoms expire (and I decline sex with beautiful nearly naked men). I chuckled at his suggestion as I opened my purse so he could drop my about-to-expire condom in and said, “This is like the mother who allows her child to put cereal in the cart that’s never going to make it to checkout”. He laughed and told me I was funny. Again. He told me I was funny about as many times as he had told me I was “fit”. I surmised his ex-wife was both fat and lacking a sense of humor.

We got to his hotel with 12 minutes left to checkout. He thanked me for the night. I laughed. He said, "I don't know what to say; I've never really done this".

"Well, me neither, but 'bye' will suffice." He said bye, kissed me and hopped out of the car. He said something about calling. I said I'm a huge texter and fully expected to never hear from him again.

Mid-Maury Povich, he sent me a text. And then again when he landed back in Sacramento. We continued to text nearly every day and eventually, once it became cumbersome on our fingers, switched to chat. We chatted for about six weeks, until mid-last week when all hell broke loose, shit got fucking ridiculous...and...I suddenly realize that this is long and I need to have a Three Di·vor·cés: The Follow-Up (a.k.a. we’re way past introductions).

Because nothing ever turns out neatly - especially with a smattering of divorcés.