Tag Archives: Dating

Pavlov’s Dog & Other Schemes

24 Jul


So, I was talking to a friend the other night about dating disasters. 

…The kind of stories that completely kill your self confidence and self respect directly after they occur, but later laugh at…once time has set aside enough distance and perspective to truly appreciate the morbid crappiness of it all.

I have less stories than most, due to adamantly being against the whole function of dating to begin with. I used to blame the fact that I’m terrible at it, as an excuse…until I realized that everyone is terrible at dating, and that’s just how people accumulate good party stories.

…So now, to fight off the regret of not having the great humiliation coos, I indulge in other peoples. Like a sport. And collect them as if they were trading cards, to whip out and use as my own fake arsenal when we have had one too many and someone in the group begins with the age-old:

“…So this one time? I was on a date and it was so bad that…”

…Anyway, the conversation brought up so many good horror stories from the past, (as I dug out my fake ammo and compared it with her real stuff), that I thought I’d reflect on them a bit.  The true distance a person will go to to achieve certain ends, the failed sexual exploits, the maxed out credit cards in lingerie, the  date prep, the wimpy sex, the psycho stalkers, and more!

True life stories I have (along the way) collected, include:

Woman One: Debating if boyfriend of six months is uber religious or just gay (because he refuses to get intimate with her) she lays out an entire scheme associating herself with a trench coat.  Every time she wears it, she surprises him with a special event, or sneak-meet, or lunch date or what-have-you. A training ground, set up like Pavlov’s dog, to be unconsciously receptive to said trench coat and whatever neat delights become associated with it. This all culminates on Valentine’s Day night, when wearing only lingerie underneath, she invites him over to watch movies and secretly seduce him.  She sets the tone with honest-to-god Barry White music, pre-cued up, and does her little dance and unveiling, only to realize by the totally horrified look on his face that the Pavlov experiment does not (in fact) guarantee a goddamn thing.  And also: Yeah…he’s prob’ly gay.

Dude One: Breaks up with Dude Two. At around three o’clock in the morning. Dude Two is thrown out of the apartment…toasted beyond repair, and in the kind of weep-screaming meltdown usually reserved for teenage girls having something to do with Justin Bieber sightings. He does not leave or in any way attempt to save his dignity. Instead he goes on a tangent of, “I love, you…you fucking whore!” intermixed with “No one EVER will treat you as good as me!” and “Why are you such an asshole?! Baby, open the door!” This goes on for some time. Hours. Ending (eventually) the following morning…with people on their way out to work, stepping over his crumpled form, asleep in the doorway…his body reduced to a sour chemical compound of sick, last night’s dinner, and heartbreak.

Woman Two: It  had been a while. Things were getting rather rusty from lack of use and our lady fair needed a good old fashioned lay.  So, she set her eyes on a sure thing, a beautiful recommendation of a past casual sexing friend. At a party, she goes for it. Problem is, he’s about five gallons of the hard stuff, ahead of her. So far ahead, in fact that at the casual hint of possible seduction, she finds herself mid-party, thrown over his shoulder a-la Tarzan, and carried off into the night. The miracle of arriving safely to her apartment, and in such a blatantly virile capacity, all but undoes Woman Two. She is ready for this! This is EXACTLY what is needed! Casual! And immediate! Animalistic! No strings attached! With endless possibility, as there is no fucking way he will ever remember a beat of it, so wasted to the world he clearly is. But first: to pee. Empty out his bladder of half a ton of tequila and cheap rum…naked, wandering out into the apartment: roommates be damned…he finally reaches his intended destination. He thinks. And then: it happens. By the gallon. A non-stop stream. As Woman Two, hugs onto whatever bedclothes she can manage to save…while he empties his tank (despite her screaming protestations) all over her entire bed…before passing out. Directly into it.

Dude Two: A stalker magnet. Has the habit of dating what would be referred to as the, “bad girl type.” Which is exciting and eventful and incredibly hot…in true pattern…until he breaks up with them. And then: it’s not. Or rather: it still is, but in the not-so-good way. In his short span of (still young) dating life…he’s had tires slashed, windows broken, cell phones annihilated, walls fisted, table tops cleavered, his face sharpee’d in his sleep…closet set on fire, and sofa…literally…pooped on. Apparently it is either worth the end-game, or he’s an unteachable idiot…because as of current time of print: he shows little sign of habit change, despite.

Woman Three: A little bit of a badass in the bedroom, she finally hooks up with a new fella she’s been psudo-dating for nearly a month. Schedules finally align, the stars in their orbit, the ex has the kids, and by god, some serious sexing is gonna be going down. And it does. Apparently blowing his mind. Which rather rises her self-confidence higher (as it would), influencing her to really go for the finish line. Only, oops! Wouldn’t you know it? Perhaps he’s been benched too long…or maybe he’s playing a different position from what he’s used to. Either way, mid-tackle, said fella locks up in a seizure of pain, the pass is incomplete, and two days later…as she listens in total silence to his voice on the other side of the phone, she receives news direct from his doctor’s office…where he’s on his third testing round. Apparently, the tackle was too much for the rookie. She had broken him. His sentence of a good long benching, confirms it. Needless to say a confirmed “obituary lister”…thus ends the season. And they never met on the field again. So much for the playoffs.

Dude Three: Crushes old school, and crushes hard. He’s picky, and doesn’t feel the need to wander once his ideal is found. Even despite the total and complete lack of forward momentum. Being inventive, he creates a host of marvels and continues to throw them at her. She responds in bud-ship. Which sucks to every outside observer. In fact, it becomes the butt of jokes and for reasons far surpassing anything intelligent continues to this day. And most likely into ridiculousness of decades. Cuz its just the way he is. Stupid woman…

Women Four & Five: Getting to know one another (as people do), Woman Four and Woman Five, seated side-by-side in the dressing room, share the kinds of bits n’ pieces intimacies that people do, while performing in a show. Where they grew up…their first pets…their weird relatives…crazy dates…and eventually (as it almost always does, with show-people) the weird and funny sex stories. Like this one guy: Really good in bed. Who liked to do this one thing. Very specific. Like a calling card, so to speak. But wait. Suddenly, as Woman Five talks on, Woman Four’s face begins to harden. “When was this?” she finally asks to her astonished new “friend.” “Um. Him? Well…I mean we’ve only hooked up the one time really…but who knows, right?” “–When.” Insists Woman Four, without a flinch. “Um. Geeze…I dunno. Like…a month ago, maybe?” Woman Four slowly puts her eyebrow pencil down. She focuses her gaze on Woman Five’s reflection before her. “What’s his name,” she questions, evenly. “Oh, come on…it’s theatre…ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. You know how it goes,” quips Woman Five. “WHAT. IS. HIS. NAME.,” insists Woman Four with an unmistakable intensity. So: Woman Five tells her. And needless to say…the engagement ended soon after.

Dude Four & Woman Six: She’s gone on him. Maybe at first because he isn’t interested in her that way. Maybe because of the challenge. At the beginning: anyway. She’s kinda famous for tackling the particularly hard stuff and kicking it’s ass into submission before it even knows it. Why shouldn’t a dude be the same? So: she chases him. She chases him HARD. Subtlety isn’t a talent she possesses…(though she ‘s packed with eleven-hundred other kinds.) It becomes like a rather frustrating sexual game show in the play-by-plays to the people who know of the intent, and have been following from the beginning. An exhaustive campaign. She really goes all out. And for reasons, passing understanding, he manages to hold his ground, despite this hurricane of humanity whipping all around him. Until…that is…one day. When for reasons we may never know for sure (except we really do): he doesn’t. Which will prob’ly go down in the annals of history, sexual antagonism, theatre, life, sex and happy-endings…for all of time.

…Just a choice few of the prob’ly zillions of such stories, I have currently clogging my head, waiting for the day I get that gossip columnist gig, or tell-all book deal.

…Not that I’d name names. That isn’t playing by the rules.

…I’d NEVER renege on confidences.

(…She says…holding the tarnished halo at a tilt, just above her head.)


The Lady Market, In The Lobby

14 Nov


Boss has been online for the bulk of the morning in the Lobby, shopping on The Lady Market.

…This is where he sits with his laptop, scrolling his dating site of choice, and from time to time calling me or the WHS Pimp over to grade the women on a “should I, or shouldn’t I” basis. 

I don’t play the game, usually yelling from my desk, “I’m too busy doing your job right now!  P.S. I need some coffee!”

…And so he’ll go away and find some, plop it on my desk with whatever other offerings to buy my silence, that he can come up with (today: mini cinnamon rolls), then go back to his “work.”

In that time he’s also managed to dodge having to put out a contractor fire, because of a sorta fake conference call. “Sorta,” in that he DOES have a conference call, but he screwed the dates up and it actually happens tomorrow…but he was logged in on a dead air call (put on mute) for twenty minutes, while he Lady shopped, before he decided to confirm the date on his calendar.  I (of course) knew none of this for quite some time, and continued plowing through contracts and pay reports and answering phones for several hours, before taking a break to go pee for three seconds.

(I pass by him in the lobby, seeing him playing with his new iPad.)

Me: Wait.  Aren’t you on a conference call still?  It was set for like four hours.

Boss: Oh, yeah.  That’s tomorrow, I guess.

Me: Wait.  So how long were you on-air before  you figured that out?

Boss: Like twenty minutes.  I dunno.

Me:  But you’ve been off since then?

Boss:  Yuh.  I wonder what our app allowance is gonna be?

Me: …So you could have been answering calls, at least…

Boss: –They have this new band-mix one I could totally use for my gigs.

Me: Isn’t that thing bugged? 

Boss: Yeah.  But I can disable it.

Me: The bugging was the whole point.  If you go off grid, they’ll just yell at you to get it fixed.

Boss:  They gotta catch me first.

Me: I need you to get phones.

Boss:  But not (enter name of Contractor here.)  I’m hiding from him. 

Me: How long?

Boss:  Told him is was a training day.

Me:  We’ve never had a day of training in this place, in the History of ever. For anything.

Boss:  Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.

(I look at his new mess in the lobby, of scattered crap everywhere, and him sitting huddled over an iPad trying to decode it, as his laptop, open just to the right of him, is set on a collection of women’s headshots.)

Me: …You wanna bet.


…Meanwhile, some of you may be asking yourselves, “Why the lobby?”

…Some of you may be asking yourselves any NUMBER of questions, actually…believe me, I am well acquainted with them all. I can’t answer every one you come up with…cuz in five years time working with this man, I still don’t understand him fully. But this is one question that I can answer.

…He has set up shop in the lobby for two reasons:

1) Two weeks ago, his swivel chair broke and he fell to the floor…so moved into the lobby where the chairs are better, but too big to fit at his desk, while we waited for the new one I ordered him to arrive.

2) Last week, his new chair arrived, but his desk was so messy that he decided he’d just keep camping out in the lobby every day. Mostly because, every day after he leaves, I clean the lobby out, by putting all his shit back on his desk, which he occasionally shifts around in piles on his desk and floor, that he never does anything with, thus the piles grow, and he’d rather just not deal with it.

…I am not kidding.

This is what his office looks like today:

This is what my desk looks like today:

…These were taken at the beginning of my self-proclaimed “break”…which happened, directly after I got out of the bathroom, and he called me over to show me this new YouTube video.

…My “break” was all of ten minutes, and I was well into typing today’s post, before he declared that “since the conference is tomorrow,” and he has, “this new iPad thing he needs to figure out, with new software and everything,” that he was just going to, “take off to one of the vendor sites to test it all out,” and maybe, “not come back again, until tomorrow.”

…”If that was okay?”

I told him to knock himself out, and went on with my typing.

…And so it goes.

Morning reports completed, I sit here and tap on the keys in between phone rings, and rearrange the schedule as customer’s continually realize that next week is Thanksgiving, and they need to change their booking dates, cuz they’ll be at Aunt Pearl’s all week n’ things.

…And I’ll listen to their entire family life history, as they explain it all to me in mind-numbing detail…as if I give a shit…and I will “uh huh,” and “okay,” and “no problem,” and “Yep,” my way through the rest of the day.

…An annoyance, but better than one of the other worse kind of days. So, I’ll take it.


How Things Are From Here

6 Oct


I am counter-acting last night’s chick-fest with a shit ton of James Bond hotness. It’s all about finding totally realistic balance in life, between men who will ride up on a white horse and pine for you, and men who beat the shit out of people while wearing Armani.  This is all I want.  And frankly, I don’t understand why it’s so difficult for the guy upstairs to get it right.

…And speaking of Bond.  How about a hand for my girl, Adele’s, epic leap into all-time cult status for her newest track to hit the “Oops, it leaked” viral rage.  Love it, babe.  Keep ’em coming.

Since last night actually ended mid this morning, spent the better part of the day working myself up to the point where I would be inspired enough to take a shower and get dressed. This happened eventually, around four…after making “breakfast” and finishing my book. Then a walk n’ talk with a bud, and now home to Bond.

…Oh Bond. There is something about men of extremes. Really does it for this dame, I gotta say. Cuz there’s a time and place for the roguish pretty-boy Willoughby, the right moment for the deeply devoted Brandon, and plenty of space for the sexy “I will fuck you up and look hot while doing it” Bond. Manly men. It’s all we want. Am I right?

…This would be the opposite to “M’s” current obsession of grilled-out rappers, who spend all their time pointing at the camera and tossing their dreadlocks like really disturbing shampoo ads. I only know this, as rounding the corner from 3:00 to 3:30, this is what she was playing on her ipad while zumbaing, to a tag-mix with JLo’s latest album. I giggled a lot in between eating chips. (And anything else that wasn’t glued to the coffee table.) Fun was had. It’s how we roll.

…It makes me miss The BFF…who is alive and well and currently residing on the books of Central Casting. And though I have rehearsals to keep me busy, and buddies to keep me company, you can’t replace a person who is “your person.” The Fella and I both know this to be true. It’s hard when other-halfs move two fucking states away…and you can’t just roll back and forth to one another’s houses anymore, for a talk, or do the weekly dinner makings, or go on ‘ventures. You realize how much a PART of your daily life they had become, and how important that family bond is…even though it’s stretching from casting agent offices right now, to me in sweats, tapping away at my blog per usual.

…It’s weird not to smell garlic cooking on the stove simultaneously…or corks popping. It’s weird to have a Saturday and not text almost first thing in the morning: “Dude, whatchu doin’ today?” And weird to not have our usual play-by-play conversations, over a walk, end-of-the-day.

I’m really proud of her to have made such a huge jump to such a different place. And I know she will make of it the best that can be made, cuz the woman doesn’t waste ANYTHING…least of all time, talent, or resources. She’s gonna be okay. And so am I, (in the current new position of private matters I’ve found myself in, since her leaving. ) It’s just…I wish there was a bridge that could be built to fill the gap, a time blip that could be established…so that no matter where on earth your people happen to live, at the end of the day, all it would take is a button pressing to zap you both into the same kitchen (whoever’s that is) and get back to the way things are supposed to be, when catching up takes place.


You’ve Got Mail: The Text Edition

7 Sep


When old acquaintances meet after a long spread of time, and play the “I remember” game…it kind of fascinates me how vastly the perspectives can change or how their past secrets and interpretations become revealed in retrospect.

History is a funny thing.

In the present tense, everyone is so very insistent to guard and protect their feelings, thoughts and intentions. Truth becomes the unspoken risk you never seem to take.  Which is asinine, because it is the only time that you are able to actually “do” anything about it.  But when you look back on a situation…after a certain amount of water has passed under the bridge, you realize how pointless it was to play your hand so close to the chest…to mistrust options or ideas…to hold back.

…Sometimes you miss out on things.

And yet, every once in a while, fate realigns you with a past opportunity (or person) from seemingly out of nowhere.  Suddenly, all the places that missed connection the last time, just don’t anymore. And what is exciting about that is skipping all the “crap parts” and going straight for the meat of the matter.  The conversation can get intense and goofy and real and wild and random…because there is zero judgement, expectation or care in attempting to be anything other than what you are, and where you are, in your life. 

“This is me, no holds bar,” you seem finally able to say.

Why is it different now?

Who knows.

…There is certainly no less baggage to carry. You’ve spent maybe the better part of a decade ADDING to the luggage set, not taking away from it. And there is no reason to assume that what might have happened once, will actually do so now,  just because a person writes another person out of the blue one day and says, “Hey, remember me?”

Of course I do.

…I remember the “you” back then, and you remember that “me.”

…And we will talk about the costume I was wearing, or that thing you said, or the party we went to…the other people around us at the time, and where their lives have lead to; like we are the oldest of friends and no time has really passed at all. You will tell me funny confidences. I will tell some of mine to you. And all the while in my head I’m thinking, “This might actually be one of the most bizarre conversations that I have ever had.”

“…It was that show, that’s when I thought that–”

” –You just liked the ‘boob’ dress is all.”

“…Whatever happened to [Him]?”

“–He got married…amazing woman…you’d like her a lot.”

“…And having drinks at that bar, after the other show?  My last one for a long while. The Ex never understood that whole deal…”

” There was a small group of us. Who-all was at the table…?”

” That was about five years later than the first show.  And about six before now.”

” …You were seeing that one girl at the time…”

” It was [blank], I think.”

“–I never met her.”

” Nice girl.”

” Then I heard you got married.  Had the boys and all.”

” And now…”

” And now.”

(Long pause.)


…Clearly, tonight has been a mind-fuck of “woa.”

…What I think I need most of all is a little bit of thoughtful perspective, here. I need to realize that though this is great, (catching up and all)…there is absolutely no reason that anything out of the ordinary, would somehow make anything “different” from where I was sitting yesterday.  After all, there are real ACTUAL obstacles that exist this time around, far larger than the scale we were playing with all those years ago.  Whole lives are in existence that were not, and relationships have ensued, and consequences must be dealt with…and all the things that life likes to throw at you when you are just trying to get through from one part of it to the next, are scattered all over the floors in both of our houses right now.

…Everything is so messy in the real world.  Which is a nightmare to people like me, who live with their “just so’s” of organized specificities. 

…And you CAN live like that. With the dedication of a Buddhist Monk.  I know.  I’ve practically mastered it.

…But what “if”…

…What “if” you feel like maybe…just for a second…you might not always want to?

…And what if, “Do you like wine?” is asked in total innocent and honest curiosity…because he knew you far before your pallet for it (and many other things) ever even existed.

“Ohhhhh. Yes…” I answer back via one of over 180 texts, now indexed just under his name.

“Woot!  I know just where we’ll go on our first ‘date’,” he says…waiting as to how I’ll respond to that.

…I’m sorta intrigued really, to find out myself.

…Will I “correct” him? Do the usual run-down of my philosophies on why I think “dating” is total complete shit? That it is an impetus for people to spend half their time covering up who they really are, pretending to be things they are not but assume the other person would really want?  Should I pick now to inform him that I also quite suck at “being a girl?” That I far prefer hanging out at the house in my pajama pants watching a movie, to dressing up like a hooker and joining in on the clubbing meat-market scene on a Friday night?  At what point do I bring up the fact that I refuse to be his mother (if he’s into that kinda deal)…that I’m really really stubborn, and sometimes I just need to be left the fuck alone.  Preferably with a book.  And why in the HELL is all this shit piling up and making me anxious just because of one word?

…One word.

It’s a word I avoid.  And always have.  At almost any cost. 

…And he said it so easily…just with a toss.  Like it took no effort in the least.  No anxiety of what the answer might be.  No worries on how I would take it, or what I would do with it, once it was “out there.”

The message just kept staring at me.

…Then I thought of the unbelievable balls it must have taken just to write me from out of nowhere to begin with.  Then make the effort to catch up with me.  Then listen as I tried to tell “amusing” anecdotes about people we know (or used to) and where they are now.  Then LOL at my stupid witticisms…and pretend I don’t horribly overuse the words “awesome” and “totally” and ellipsis in general.

This guy is STAND-UP.  HE: IS A MAN. 

…He has gone through God only knows how much of my shit from the “then” me, to the “now”…even in the last several hours.  And I think he deserves to get something out of all that, don’t you?

…But then I said, “I’m in,” anyway. 

…Because he doesn’t know yet, that me saying “no” would really just be doing him a favor.  And he might not know that for a couple of days .  But by the end of the “date,” I assure you: he will. 

…And THAT is when I will explain how sometimes, not getting what you think you wanted at the time, is really a “good” thing.

…However he responds after that, is when the real game actually begins.

Open bets. Any takers?


Didja Know?

21 Aug


Here’s a game, like when we were kids: I tell you ten things you don’t know about me, and you tell me ten things I don’t know about you.  Explanations are optional.



1) I went like fifteen years without eating a PB&J. 
(It’s because I ate them every day for five solid years, cuz it was a thing I decided would be a good idea.  And then it wasn’t anymore.)

2) The longest relationship I ever had with the opposite sex was in middle-school.
(It was over the course of a year.  We broke up and got back together, once.  Then I dated someone else in seventh grade.  When that ended, it took me eighteen years before I got around to dating again.  For “real.” I’m not very good at it.  Obviously.)

3) One of my all-time heart’s-desires is to be able to burp on command.
(I have this friend who can belch the whole alphabet in one long, loud roar.  He tries to teach me how to do it, but I’m just lousy with burp-action.  I refuse to accept this, however, and continue to work at it.)

4) I feel bad about my feet.
(Feet are just generally not the greatest looking.  I mean, they serve a major function, so I guess they shouldn’t have to be all beautiful and things.  But mine are one of the funkier looking ones.  I have this little “hitch” thing in the big toe? And they’re really wide. Also, the middle toe is longer than all the rest. It’s just wrong. And I wish it wasn’t.)

5) I can’t take naps. 
(It just doesn’t happen.  Unless I’m totally and completely exhausted.  But then I’ll wake up in the worst mood of all time.  Everything will make me angry and irritated without any provocation whatsoever. “You want the blue one?! I want the blue one!” “I hate commercials! Change it back! I was watching that!”  “Star Trek is stupid! So lets fight about it!”)

6) I can’t pronounce the words “wolf,” “ostensibly” or “Wednesday” correctly.
(Wolf = woof…like a dog.  Deal with it. I had to.  OBstensibly gets an added “b”  – I don’t know why – but it just does. Every time.  And I am convinced that Emma Thompson is the only person in the world who can fit the “d” into Wednesday and make it all sound like it’s supposed to. Watch “Stranger than Fiction.”  She does it like eleven times in a row.  It’s mind-blowing.)

7) I hate sneezing.
(There are few things I actually hate more.  Cancer is one of them.  And germs in general.  But sneezing actually pisses me off irrationally.  To the courtesy “Bless you,” I nine times out of ten will reply with a resounding “Fuck!”  This is not meant to counteract the blessing by any means. I will take any that I can get.  I just hate the act of sneezing is all.  So there’s that.)

8) My job at the Brothel is not nearly as amusing as it’s made out to be.
(If you are confused by this, it is my fault.  And I’m sorry.  When actually in the moments of pure and utter mind-numbing frustration and rage that I am often forced into, the last thing I wanna do is make light of the matter and laugh at it.  Which is why I  have to figure out a way to make light of the matter and laugh at it.  If I didn’t?  I’d prob’ly be in jail on charges of manslaughter by now.)

9) I am afraid of sunflowers.
(Actually “afraid,” of them. Yes.  They are this wrong kind of Jurassic monster flower that looks down on you like a tree.  I don’t like it.  It makes me feel the world proportional gauge thing is all outta wack. I mean, what next? Teradactyl sized horseflies and dog-hamsters?!)

10) I have to make my bed every morning.
(Even if I’m running super late.  Even if I’m puking-sick.  Even if I’ve been up for 53 hours straight.  Or the building was on fire.  If I don’t make my bed, I wouldn’t feel right for the rest of the whole day. And then when I went to bed  that night, it’d be all mayhem blanket clumping and sheets all over the place.  Not acceptable, you guys.)

…Now its your turn.


The End Of An Era

15 Aug


“Mawwage.  Mawwage is bwings us together, today…”

…Or rather, actually, it is what separates us…spikes lawyer fees, divides up all your friends and worldly possessions, pushes you through custody battles, and has you living on a couch in the garage or someone else’s basement.

Everyone I know is getting divorced. 

…That is a gross overstatement, but it feels like the truth, and is really bumming me out. 

I am of the age where we are demographically told this is all perfectly normal. “Depressing as fuck,” but “normal.” According to what everyone is “supposed to do:” Young twenties is for marrying, mid-to-late is for the baby-making, and once you cross the threshold of your thirties, you suddenly want to repeal all your past decisions…like a Politician…and start looking for exit strategies. 

I get it. 

Marriage is hard. 

I certainly couldn’t do it, and would never be dumb enough to try.

…But a lot of the yous are fairly good at it, seems like. It “wears” well on you…like a tailored suit.  All your little foibles and personal idiosyncrasies, (that might seem totally nut-balls to someone else), are accepted equipment to this person you’ve shared your life and bed with.  They’ve seen you at your pukiest.  They’ve seen you at your sexiest. They’ve been there for births and deaths, know all your secrets, and fears and pains.  The fact you survive this for any extended amount of time, and still come to the conclusion that “alone” is better?…That’s grim.

When I hear, “it just isn’t working out,” with regards to people I care about, it kinda stabs me in my closet romantical parts. I am too ashamed to yell “ouch” about it, cuz then you’d all find me out and stuff.  Instead, I’m sitting here with a current count of five knife wounds, seeping heart-ink.   Because I like you and your families and kids and crazy parent stuffs.  I admire your courage.  I think you’re all totally insane as well, yes, but someone needs to keep “society” moving forward, and better you than me.

…Also, I miss weddings.

I miss the “idea” of weddings.

…I miss the party that comes afterward; the many toastings of free alcohol, the vintage music, bad dancing, and inevitable squabble between new in-laws.  I miss flirting over the food tables, staunchly refusing to join the gladiator fight over the bouquet, downing more glasses of champagne than I intended to, and freely partaking of bad-choice decisions in make-out partners.  (Because everyone looks good in a tux…even your goober brother.)

In my head, it all plays like that movie: “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” Minus Andie MacDowell. (Therefore, only the good parts.)

…So now, not only am I losing my perfectly good matchmakers, crutch-couples, and default Holiday-families…I’m also not being given compensation prizes in the form of “replacement” weddings…which kills the best chance I have to acquire a decent date (and some side-action), for God knows how long.

It’s only fair substitution, really.  If you take one out, the universe should be prepared and obligated to replace it.  Otherwise, who’s going to take pity on all of the forever single friends? 

Who will have us as awkward “thirds” at parties, and introduce us to hot in-law cousins? Who will have tiny people to call us “Aunty,” which we are freely encouraged to hold and snuggle and corrupt, then hand back at day’s end?  Who will invite us for giant home-cooked meals in which it is completely understood we are only responsible to bring a bottle of wine? Or to house sit, and have the kind of two-person income that can afford all the good movie channels, (and maybe a hot tub?)

…Now they’re all gonna be back out here! In the cold, empty world! With me! How is that gonna help?!

…They know more things! They’re more adaptable! And intuitive!  They’re more reasonable people, with deep senses of responsibility and the fierce need to protect their young and rebuild a safe environment for them to grow in.  Now they are “friends” turned vicious Mama and Papa bear on the world…so it’s nothing “personal” or anything, but if there is any “good” to be had or any “decency”…at allwhatsoever…they’re gonna pounce on that shit!  And they will go all Lady-prison-B-movie, ape-shit, in order to achieve it.

…Which leaves me where, exactly?

Now I have no Holidays, no parties, no set-ups, no weddings…and now, even the “free potentials” walking around are gonna be sucked up by “professional” relationship-makers.

I am just screwed.

…And prob’ly never again, in the good way.

Thanks a LOT, inevitable early-thirties and your wishy-washy political exit schemes!

Thanks a lot.


The Seduction Of Me

1 Jul


Overcompensation is a large part of why people like me, become people like me. 

…I happen to be spending a great deal of time seducing myself lately, for instance. 

I don’t know why I do this.  I almost always sleep with me, end-of-the-night, regardless of whether any wining or dining has taken place to blur my better judgement. 

…As with nearly every habit I have accrued over the years, it must have happened slowly…bit by bit…like a time-release drug. I certainly don’t recall making a conscious-choice decision about it.  I’m not even sure how the entire routine even came together.  All I know is that one night, not many nights ago, I paused mid-sequence and realized I was having the most intense deja vu  imaginable.  It hit so hard, I actually paused mid-pour of alcohol, to really commune with the moment.

Now, the thing is…before her trip to CA, The BFF and I had just been talking about deja vu’s and what it is that they signify.  I don’t happen to believe in past-lives  (if I did, I was two generations older…and Jewish)…but still have always had an inkling that “time” must have something to do with it.  Maybe a burp in space, or a stutter in the plot sequence the Universe likes to watch…like a royally large and intricate soap opera on reality TV.  But BFF thinks it’s more a “linear existence colliding” kind of thing.  You know, multiple worlds wherein we live our lives unbeknownst to the fact that we are living the same exact existence,  one world over, simultaneously. Only in this one, the chair is green, and in that one: the chair is red.  Times infinity.

…Either way, you can’t deny the strangeness of the sensation when you’re having one.  A deja vu, I mean.  A little like the feeling of someone walking on your grave.  Privy to things you shouldn’t be.

…Well, I was standing there, pouring out a glass of Pinot Noir, when I realized that eery sensation of having lived that exact moment before.  So I stopped.  And with the previous BFF conversation in my head, gave it my full attention to soak up every aspect and clue that I could.

Turns out, on reflection, the deja vu, was considerably less intriguing than I originally thought.  Mostly because as I tried to trace its roots back to an original source, I realized it only reached to yesterday. 

…Or maybe the day before that.

…Or the day before…


…Well, shit.

To the best I could compute while standing there with the wine bottle hovering over the glass, (and math has never been a strong suit, so it’s understandable that it took me a while to put it all together)…either I was living all the linear existences of The BFF’s theory (with the only change being the make of alcohol I was pouring out), OR I had to face the fact that I had formed an intricate habitual sequence whose end-game was to get me to bed every night, with a contented smile on my face.

…It goes deeper than that, but ultimately this is the hard fact.

Here is what I found out, using my best Sherlockian cross-examinations:

I’ve taken to routinely coming home from a long day at work, dropping my drawers soon as I pass the threshold in favor of something “more comfortable,” and proceeding to the kitchen to “gourmet” myself something sinful. Fetish viewing of garlics and butters and various meats searing in a pan, having the kind of slow-cooked-sex they put on HBO (usually featuring Vampires), then follows.  And as the smells of warm, caramelized deliciousness fills the apartment and  dusk falls…I begin the lighting of dozens of candles strewn about. Once the whole place looks like the bowels of the Paris Opera house during the Phantom’s reign, I move to the bar and pour out a glass of something that marries well with my dinner’s post-coitus rest from the pots and pans, set some music on  shuffle, and settle in for a candlelit dinner, for one.

…What is so unusual about this deal is that I am not one to cook foods “over time,” and let the meat and veg indulge in brine and sauce saunas.  Usually, the end-of-the-day signifies total exhaustion, where just scrambling an egg and throwing it in a tortilla is about all I can muster.  And usually, in these gray and rainy days of epic Seattle-proportions, I want LIGHT, LIGHT, LIGHT…in blinding wattage, from every outlet orifice.  And usually, I am merely a “social drinker”…certainly imbibing from time-to-time, solo, but nothing like what calculated to quite the bottle slaughter of late.

Naturally, this got me to thinking. 



What does it all mean?

…Which brought me ultimately to: “Overcompensation.”

It’s why I do almost everything that is eccentric or bad for me. Either it is to compensate loss of power, loss of control, depression, angst, jealousy, worry or lust.  When you think about it, I suppose this is not outside of the norm.  If you feel shitty: you wanna fix it.  If you lose control: you wanna reclaim it.  If you have a highly stressful job, and no money: you wanna forget about it.  If your emotions tell you its time to start shopping for a significant other again, but  you really just don’t wanna deal with all the crap that goes with it: you wanna reaffirm that you are fantastic catch who needs NO ONE to wine and dine you and complement your ass.

…This is the conclusion that I have come to.

I am spending every evening courting myself into believing that having a crap job, being poor, worrying about waiting for the next shoe to drop, and that I am prob’ly going to die alone as a re-formed virgin because my junk wasn’t used so long it resealed itself up like a skin graft, isn’t my true reality.

…And I am doing this because my entire life is spinning out of my control, on a trajectory promising gross amounts of changes.  And soon. And I Fucking. Hate. Change.

I am doing this, because if you can’t have exactly what you want in this life, you go out and get the best compensation package that you can.

The ONE good realization in all of this, I suppose, is the fact that I now know at least three new things about myself:

1. I can cook. If I really want to.
2. Lessening alcohol units to “one” will save lots on the house bar tab. And my head the next morning.
3. I am a good date.  In case anyone wondered.


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