Holiday Grumps

Aunt Kim, if you're reading this, I'm NOT talking about you. Well, unless I mention whistling. Then I'm probably talking about you. But I don't think it's going to come up.

(My Aunt Kim and Uncle Howard and a couple of my aunts on my dad's side are pretty normal and fun and don't talk about Jesus all the time.)

While chatting with Gofahne on Monday morning (I know, I wish she would blog more too! But we have to let her go at her own pace, folks. Be nice.) about our respective Thanksgiving weekends, I went on a little rant about holidays.

You see, my sister (we all remember my sister, right?) started a campaign a couple of months ago to get everyone together in Tennessee for Christmas this year. She asked me about it and I said that I probably couldn't go because I can't really afford a ticket and I don't want to take more time off work. The campaign continued to the rest of the family.

Most of my family still lives in Tennessee. This includes my dad's family. My mom's parents and my mom's youngest sister (Aunt Dana, who also made an appearance in both posts about my sister) live here in Dallas (well, the 'burbs), along with my mom and step-dad. My sister lives in New York with her boyfriend.

I mentioned all of that so you could see that this will involve a lot of plane tickets. I guess I probably could have just told you that and saved a paragraph.

Now, I had already told my sister that I probably couldn't make and I thought my mother had said the same thing. Then my sister's boyfriend passed the bar in New York (YAY! CONGRATULATIONS!) and started his first job as a lawyer with a really good law firm and he can't really leave to go visit Tennessee for Christmas. So now my sister, who started all this mess, can't actually go to Tennessee either.

In the meantime, my mom jumped on board with the "everyone in Tennessee for Christmas plan." She asked me about it and I said the same things about a plane ticket and not taking time off work. I said I would think about it, but that I wasn't really all that interested.

She heard, "Yes."

Now we return to Thanksgiving evening. After Princess and I finished dinner with my friends, we had to haul our cookies all the out to the 'burbs for "dessert" with my family. My mom had been quite distressed that I wasn't spending Thanksgiving with the family (despite the fact that I hadn't done so for the last two of them) and had been trying to convince me to just invite my friends (who had their own plans, yo) up to her house for Thanksgiving.

You can imagine my surprise (except I wasn't really, because this is pretty typically the case) when Princess and I showed up at 7:00 pm and they had just sat down to eat. Mom had been working all day, as usual, so no one even cooked anything. Imagine if I had invited my friends up to my parents house for a dinner of Luby's that was supposed to take place at 6:00 and didn't actually happen until 7:00 pm.

This is one of those things that I just don't understand about my mother, but that's a topic for another day.

Quickly the topic turned to Tennessee for the holidays. I said, "Yeah, I don't think I'll be there (blah blah plane ticket time off work blah)."

My mom said, "What?!? I thought you said you were going?"

Crap.

Now, I'm facing off with my mom AND my Nana. No excuse is really working. What I really want to say is, "I DON'T WANT TO SPEND THE HOLIDAYS FEELING UNCOMFORTABLE AND EXHAUSTED BECAUSE I HAVE TO TRY TO SEE EVERY RELATIVE I HAVE IN TENNESSEE IN 48 HOURS. Also, I don't really like Christmas or Christmas carols or spending endless hours with my family." You see, I was trying to AVOID saying all that.

Me: I can't really afford a plane ticket right now.

Mom: That's okay. I can help you out with that.

Me: I don't really want to take more time off work and I don't have any vacations days left.

Mom: Well, you can wait to leave on Christmas Eve after work.

Me: So really, it doesn't matter what I want?

Everyone: Geez! Don't get all upset! If you don't want to go, just say so! We don't want you to spend time with us if you don't want to!

CRAP.

Me: Yeah, I don't really want to go. I just want to have a nice, relaxing, quiet Christmas and if I go to Tennessee, I will be exhausted.

And I thought it was over.

WRONG.

About an hour later, my mom brought it up again. I think I left it at, "FINE. You buy the plane ticket and tell me where to be, since I clearly have no say in the matter.

She said, "Okay."

So it looks like I'm going to Tennessee for Christmas. Or maybe I'm not. I'm at the mercy of my mother now. When we had dinner on Monday night, she said, "Sarah can't come? This was all her idea...maybe we should just scratch the whole plan and go to New York to visit her."

I'm guessing I'll know the plan on Christmas Eve.

I recounted this story to Gofahne and she said, "The holidays are meant to torment single people that would rather just chill, relax, and be alone. I swear that is their purpose."

I kind of agree.

Look, I don't hate my family. I'm just tired of everything always being on someone else's terms. What about what I want? I suppose the difference between my dad's family and my mom's family is that I actually feel like my dad's family wants to see me and isn't just pursuing some bizarre "Our family loves to be together, see everyone? We're PERFECT!" ritual. However, my dad's mom only talks about calories and Jesus any more and my dad's dad goes on about socially conservative politics all the time and I just can't take that crap. You can see the dilemma, right?

Climbing the Wall

I've been rock climbing for a few months now, and I love it. I had done it years ago, and sort of liked it, but now? It's a passion.

I'm not very good at it yet.

I don't care.

There's this one route at the climbing gym that's giving me trouble. It's a route I should be able to climb, theoretically. I can climb all the other ones that are at the same level (except one, but seriously...it's harder and I'm working on it, too).

You see, on this route, the second move is to grip these holds that I simply cannot grip. They are awkward and slippery and I just can't seem to get them. But the third move is this perfect yellow hold, for my right hand. Last night, I finally (after weeks of trying to just get off the ground) managed to get my right hand up to that yellow hold.

It hurt.

A lot.

Then I realized that I needed to get my left foot up underneath my butt. The only problem was that my right hand was smashing the left side of my body against the wall, making it really difficult to move my left food underneath me without pulling my right hand out of the hold.

I was in my own way.

I finally got my left foot where I needed it to be, but I didn't have the strength to pull myself up any further. I didn't trust my legs to hold me. I'd seen other people do it. I knew what needed to be done, but I just couldn't quite trust myself to do it.

This morning I was thinking about this problem and I started to realize that this route, this path on a rock climbing wall, might be a pretty good parallel to my own life.

I've spent so much time and energy trying to reach this one thing. I struggled and struggled. I fell down. I got back up. And then, I finally got my hand on it.

What if that one thing isn't what I want after all? It's the only path I can see. It's the attainable goal. But what if reaching it puts me in my own way? What if reaching it has drained me of the strength I need for anything else? How do I trust myself to keep going, or, even harder, find another path?

Keep it like a secret.

My favorite Built to Spill album. What? Center of the Universe rocks the shit.

That's really not the point though.

Today, we're going to talk presents.

1. I am totally one of those people who thinks that you should know what I want as a present. If you have to ask and I have to tell you, I may as well just go with you to buy it. Suck it. Pay attention and it's not so hard to figure out. I know of at least one ex-boyfriend who would likely argue with this...

2. I haven't really gotten a present in quite some time (unless you count that plastic dead grandma in a rocking chair I got at the White Elephant Christmas party I attended last year, which I don't). My last boyfriend didn't "do" presents. Giving or receiving. Which was actually fine as he would have been completely horrible at picking them out anyway. Paying attention? Not really his strong suit.

I don't really remember any Christmases before my sister was born. And in fact, I don't remember any before she was old enough to open presents. But we are exact polar opposite present-openers.

My baby sister would get up at the ass-crack of dawn, drag me out of my slumber, race to the presents and put her hands on EVERYTHING. Presents from Santa were unwrapped (he doesn't have time to be wrapping presents, yo), while presents from family were wrapped immaculately. We are excellent present wrappers.

She would rip the paper off of everything, try everything on, play with everything, and name everything in about 15 minutes.

I, on the other hand, would sit and stare at the presents. The unwrapped ones. From Santa. Just taking it all in. After a while, I would reach for a wrapped present.

I actually hate opening presents in front of people. To me, it's such an experience and I'd rather be able to take my time. I like to savor the moment.

The anticipation is usually the best part. That's why I don't want to know what the present is. Because until you open it, it's perfect.

Present opening by Shine:

Feel the present in your hand, experience the weight and/or shape of it.

Then, slowly, remove each piece of tape one at a time, careful not to rip the paper.

Unfold the paper from around the present.

Carefully lay the paper aside.

At this point, you're probably holding an unwrapped box (PERVS. Yeah, I giggled).

Slowly lift the lid and peak inside.

Remove any stray tissue paper and set aside.

See that the present is, in fact, a diarrhea poop brown T-shirt, given to you by four of your relatives. It came from the Mens department and is an X-Large. Wonder if you possibly received a present destined for some relative no one likes. Realize that no, four of your relatives thought that this would be the perfect gift for you. Wish you had just left the wrapping on the present.

And that? That is why I hate opening presents in front of people. And why I'd prefer to open them slowly and savor the anticipation.

There's something in my life that feels an awful lot like a present. And for now, I'm carefully looking at the wrappings (which are pretty amazing, so far), but I'm not ready to peak inside. What if it's another diarrhea poop brown T-shirt?

The long and short of it.

I have this problem.

I'm shallow. I really never thought of myself as shallow, but it turns out, I just might be.

As a general rule, I only like tall boys. So, if you're funny and smart and generally awesome, but two inches shorter than me? I'm probably not going to even look twice at you.

This presents a particular problem with online dating. As I will be intrigued by a profile, look over at the height and see that the person is 5'5" tall and think, "Crap."

And then I can just pretend you never existed.

I'm not going to tell you what the problem actually is with short guys. Because, well, I'm just not. But trust that it isn't about wearing heels or what people will say or anything of that nature. Don't call me Jessie Spano.



(You know, because of that episode where she goes out on a great date with the short guy and then ditches him when she finds out he's shorter than her? First, how did he not stand up when she got to the table? Second, why would Lisa do that to her?!? Third, those jeans! How did she breathe?)

It's something else.

And the thing is, in person, you might win me over. But "on paper," ahem the internets? It's really unlikely.

I was...encouraged by at least one friend to stop being such an ass and just go for it. So I did. I sent a message back to both of the shorties that have messaged me.

In my head, though? Sex with a short person is just...really weird. Like I'm some kind of giant and he'll just be crawling all over me or something. For serious. I'm ridiculous.

In which I ramble on about relationships and you skim or skip this one.

In my recent contemplative-about-relationships state, I’ve been paying close attention to my friends’ relationships. That and I can’t seem to let go of that Sex and the City scene. And here’s what I’ve come up with: I am not a simple girl. I never ever will be. And that makes me so happy.

I disagree with the term simple, though, because I am not complicated. And that’s kind of the opposite of simple, isn’t it? I think I’m pretty easy (and no, I don’t mean that way).

I’m logical and rational, I think things through, I’m not terribly dramatic, I tell the truth (sometimes when I probably shouldn’t), I’m straight-forward, I laugh a lot, I’m confident, I like sports, I have no problem peeing outside, I don’t cry very often, I watch chick flicks and go shopping with my friends, I’m fun to be around, I don’t need to have my hand held at a party full of people I don’t know, I have my own life, I’m fiercely loyal until you betray me.

However.

I have my own opinion. And I’m not scared to tell you what it is, even if it differs from yours. I like to discuss things. I’m not scared to tell you I think you’re wrong. I do expect you to do what you say you’re going to do. I do expect you to treat me at least as well as I treat you. I do expect you to make an effort with my friends and my family. I do expect you to not be an idiot. And it helps if you’re funny.

The thing is, it’s hard to be with a girl like me because I’m probably smarter than you. Or funnier than you. Or cuter than you. Or more outgoing than you. Or all of the above. And that’s kind of a scary thing. Because…I might leave if I find something better. You might have to put on your thinking cap to hang out with me. You might have to actually put forth some effort, if you want to be with me.

Don’t worry. I’m not claiming to be an original here. There’s a whole slew of women out there just like me. Not that we all have the same qualities, but we’re all confident and strong and opinionated and funny and smart. And that makes us “complicated.”

The so-called simple girls are easy because they will likely just glom on to whatever you’re already doing. They aren’t going to push you or challenge you. They probably just want to be with someone and once they find someone, they’re happy to settle and put up with any amount of crap…to avoid being alone. Their self-esteem probably isn’t the greatest, though it will often seem like it is (at least at first). They come in all shapes and sizes. And they're everywhere.

Most of my girlfriends who are in relationships right now don’t seem very happy to me. They complain and whine and moan, but they stay.

“He never wants to hang out with my friends.”

“We never have sex any more.”

“He doesn’t do anything nice for me.”

“He makes me feel stupid and small.”

“He never wants to leave the house.”

“He’s not there for me when I need him.”

"He's mean to me when he's drunk."

"Well, yes, he sleeps with hookers, but he says it's only because I don't give him what he needs." (I keed...mostly)

My question? “So why are you with him?”

The answer is always: “Well…because I love him.” Or, “Really, it’s not as bad as I just made it sound.”

And I’ve been there, believe me. I was with a man who broke me. I cared far more about his happiness and comfort than I ever did about my own. I loved him more than I loved me. It wasn’t that way when we started dating, but slowly, over time, things changed. I was so worried about him that I forgot to be worried about me. Which made me miserable. I wasn’t a miserable person, but I was miserable in the relationship. I couldn’t figure out why. But it was because I gave me up to be with someone else. I was so lost, I didn’t even know who I was any more.

It pretty much all boils down to this: Most men are lazy and most women think they “need” a man. Also, there's a damn big difference between love and habit. Learn it.

I know approximately two happy couples. Maybe three. And that’s counting Lilu and B who I don’t actually know, but love anyway (Hi, I’m a stalker!).

As women, we generally want to feel special. We go after men who are emotionally unavailable, or dangerous, or just generally jerks because we feel like if they would just see how special we are, they would want to change and chill out and be with us. But that’s not how it works.

I believe that people can change, but I don’t believe they change for anyone but themselves. I wanted to be that special girl once. Now, I just want to do my own thing and live my own life and not have to deal with anyone else’s emotional mommy issues (or whatever, I’m not being specific…ahem). If you want to ride this train, you better have your shit together. Trust me, it's worth it.

If that man that you’re with is treating you like crap, he’s probably always going to treat you like crap. If you’re happy with that, by all means stay. But sit down and think about it for a week. Is that really what you want? A lifetime of being unhappy just to be with someone else? Because I think you’re better than that. Until you think you’re better than that, though, you’ll probably just stay with that guy because he’s there.

Dear Men,

Please have less vagina. Be less dramatic. STOP BOTHERING ME WITH YOUR FEELINGS AND CRAP.

I don't care.

This does not mean that I don't care about anything. It means that I don't care about you. You who I barely know. You who I went out with a few times. You who didn't really do anything for me. You, holding on to all your anger and crap. You who felt the need to text me and be all fucking dramatic at 1:00 am. You who expected me to be all broken up that you were angry with me when I didn't want to go out again.

I. Do. Not. CARE.

Because you're not worth caring about.

But do NOT make that about me. If you were worth it, I would care.

Also, don't tell me you're a jackass and get mad when I agree. You're a jackass.

I am done. Save your drama for your mama.

This may be the most awesome thing a computer has every generated and spit out at me.

Having heard reasonably good things about OKCupid around the blogosphere, I decided to sign up this weekend. Saturday, I spent the WHOLE DAY in my apartment, doing absolutely nothing. Sans pants. I did put on pants around 9:00 pm to go to Taco Bell and get some tacos (which I then tweeted about inappropriately, but not to the extent that I was making taco jokes in my head...).

At one point, it looked like this:



And I couldn't stop giggling. Hi, I'm a 15-year-old boy, but with better boobs and less acne.

On Sunday, I found out that my ex-boyfriend is moving in with his girlfriend after only six months. I feel a little...hurt. But I'm surprisingly okay with it because I DO NOT WANT THAT. Certainly not with him. I was pretty prepared for it anyway. I figure they'll be married before next summer.

The thing is...have you seen the movie Good Luck, Chuck? I haven't. But I'm pretty sure it's about me. I'm always the girl you date immediately before you realize that you're ready to settle down. Just not with me! Because I expect things like:

1. You should really do what you say you're going to do. All the time.
2. If you're going to be late, please let me know.
3. Your actions speak far louder than your words. Please act accordingly.
4. Don't be a douchebag.

These things are really beyond the capabilities of most men. So after they date me, they meet some chick with low self-esteem (don't think I haven't been there. I have. But I still expect you to do what you say you're going to do. Like all the time.), who just wants to do everything they want and never questions them and basically runs around with no spine and they marry her.

This has happened at least three times.

And a couple of months ago, this news of cohabitation would have probably upset me. As I stood there, thinking about it (wishing, really, that I didn't know it), I realized something. I don't want that at all. Living with him would have been one of the worst ideas in the world. Yeah, yeah, we were supposed to move in together. He thought maybe after being together for two years, he would be okay with the idea. It would have been horrible. I had already compromised so much of who I was and what I wanted that I didn't even know me any more. It was a recipe for disaster, because I cannot function like that long-term.

Keep in mind, I'm not blaming him for this. It was my fault. I let it happen. Because his comfort was far more important to me than mine. Rest assured. That will never happen again. I've signed up for a serious ass-whipping with most of my friends should I ever inadvertently start losing myself for some guy.

Even if he's a great guy (ex-boyfriend is not).

I know that this is going to sound like bullshit to most of you. And I know you'll think I only feel this way because I haven't "met the right guy yet." And maybe you're right. But here it is: I'm perfectly happy being with me. Meeting a guy is just icing on the cake. No, that's not right. Icing on cake is a necessity. Meeting a guy is like...getting an iPhone 3GS, when I already have a 3G. Or something that's kick ass, but not really essential.

The nice thing about this is, it means I refuse to settle. I refuse to compromise who I am to be with someone else. I briefly lost track of this, and I was miserable. It won't happen again.

So I'm not really sure how serious about this "dating" thing I am, but online dating usually makes for at least some entertaining stories. I had some doozies last time I tried it (years ago).

So I logged into OKCupid and filled out a profile. I answered a bunch of questions about life and math and stuff, and filled in how my "ideal match" would answer the same questions. (My favorite? "Do you know what sperm tastes like?" And how would I like my "ideal match" to answer that? Hmmm...) At the bottom of my little home page, they were taunting me with making my profile more complete. "Do this and your profile will be 55% complete! Now do this and your profile will be 60% complete!"

I'm a sucker for this kind of thing.

One of the things I had to do was take some "Dating Persona Test." Dutifully, I answered all their questions, though I did have to guess on "How many people have you kissed?" I have no idea. The result of my test was this:

THE DIRTY LITTLE SECRET
(which, seriously, sounds pretty awesome, eh?)

Innocent but fundamentally sexual, like the word “finger”. You are the Dirty Little Secret.

Few women have the confidence for sex mastery, and among nice girls, like you, it’s almost unheard of. So congratulations. You’ve had plenty of adventures, but you’ve remained a kind, thoughtful person. Your friends appreciate your exploits. They even live vicariously through you.

You seek pleasure, but you’re not irresponsible. You are organized and cautious, and you choose your lovers wisely. One, you don’t like dirtbags. And two, you like to maintain control. Or at least lose it selectively. You might notice that older men single you out. They have an eye for your sensual nature. Take it as a compliment.

You enjoy making people happy, and it’s inevitable that many guys will fall harder for you than you for them. You’re not completely comfortable in a serious, long-term relationship right now. Our guess is that the key to extended happiness will be finding a responsible, but kinky, mate.

Uh, dudes? I sound awesome. Just sayin'.

Since I'm on vacation, I thought I'd post the rest of those pictures.

So I've arrived in Seattle. My time in Denver was a blast. Good to see old friends and hang out. But Seattle? I want to make slow love to it all night long. It is amazing here. I just got cold walking to get coffee. COLD. In July.

Oh you know how people are always joking about not being able to walk in Seattle without tripping over a coffee shop? That's not really an exaggeration. At all.

Anyway, here are the pictures. Promise I'll log in and blog more later. After I shave my head and get several tattoos.


More from my younger days. This is me with my Aunt Dana's Boston Terrier, Tucker. I was scared to death of him, despite what it may look like.



My mom's second wedding. That's my sister's dad with the child molester mustache. He's not a child molester, though, I promise.



I'm at the beach! Someone carved my name in the sand with a shovel!



Meet Sanders, my first boyfriend. I suspect that he doesn't know he was my first boyfriend, but that's his problem. He lived next door to my aunt and uncle (I helped dig their pool with a spoon...dressed in my bikini. Shut up, I was three.).



Me and my little sister (of Moving Checklist fame) at Rock City in Chatanooga, Tennessee. Note the sexy hot skort things we're both wearing and my sister's 12-inch thick bangs. Anyone who's ever asked me what color my hair really is...I'm pretty sure this is it!



Let's move on to some scary hair. I really have no idea what the fuck I'm doing or why on earth I would still have such a picture in my picture album, but...here it is. Try not to be afraid.


Seriously...WTF?

Oh, and here's my I-have-no-idea-why-this-is-my-school-picture 8th grade school picture in Hawaii. With three of my best friends. And in case you were wondering, yes, I do believe that is a rodeo scene across the chest of my white button-down shirt. No, I have no idea why that would be the case.



On to high school, where my mom promptly made me do Glamour Shots. Please hold while I scrub the two inches of makeup off my face. I remember the whole time this "photo shoot" was taking place, feeling like I couldn't smile, lest I crack my face in half.



A montage of high school/high school dance pictures. Eesh.

My high school boyfriend, Marc. I'm wearing a vest. I don't know why.



In this one, I look possessed.



School pictures, junior and senior year. Who let me get a perm (no, it wasn't the first time)?






Sophomore homecoming. It seemed like a good idea at the time to go ahead and dance before we got our picture taken. Nice hair, eh? And seriously, if you haven't already, check out those eyebrows. They're like caterpillars. I hadn't really noticed yet, though.



Junior homecoming. Meet Tony. He was the goalie on our soccer team. And he had green eyes. And a car! Oh, and he was kind of a jerk. Why yes, those are chopsticks in my hair.



Senior prom. Meet Travis, son of the nudist parents. Oh, how my mom hated him.




We stayed at prom for about 45 minutes. Then we went out somewhere but I have no idea where no one tell my mom. I can't still get grounded for something I did 12 years ago, right? There must be a statute of limitations on that...

After senior prom. At the Village Inn. I'm wearing overalls. They were the thing then, trust me. Everyone was doing it.



After high school, I moved to Dallas, met some people, and did some stuff.

Jay and I dated for almost five years. For some reason in this picture, he's trying to eat my face or something. I picked it because it's the only one where I might look cuter than him. He totally reminds me of Jim from The Office.



I blame this next picture on him. Completely.



Back in the day, before college, I spent a number of years selling houses. I looked like this:



These are some random embarrassing shots:





Oh, and I can't forget...the moment I knew I didn't want to have children. When they parked me at the foot of my stepmother's vagina and made me watch her give birth. I. Am. Never. Doing. That.



And last, but certainly not least, here's me...this morning, while sitting at a coffee shop in Seattle making this blog for you. Hi!



If I'm not home in a week...leave me the hell alone. I love it here!

TMI Thursday - In which I show you some pictures

So I'm sitting at home. I think I have food poisoning. I've been puking...among other things all day. I feel like shit.

What better time to go through some old photos and share the embarrassment? Now, I don't have a scanner here, and these are all old photos, so...I took pictures of the pictures with my phone camera. True story. They're blurry, so it's pretty much useless to click them. But I think you can get the idea.

First up, the wedding of my mom to my dad. They were both 16-years-old at the time, I think. My mom is gorgeous, by the way. And like six months pregnant with me. So I guess technically, this is our first family photo.



Now for a family photo in which you can see me. I haven't bothered to ask my mom what's up with the unfortunate haircut.



And the whole family shot? Just look at all that lovely '70s hair! Props to Aunt Kim, at the bottom, for keepin' it real with the long hair.



Proof that I'm pretty adorable?





That kid in the picture up there? Yeah, that's my dad. Say hi to Dad's acne, everyone!

As I got older, I got even more cute. Which is hard to believe, I know.





This post has been cut short due to the internets I steal at home being really sucky today. Get better internets neighbor!

Could I please just meet a boy who doesn't want to wear my skin?

I'm just going to start at the beginning, repetitive though it may be. It's really long. Far too long. But when I sent it to Rebecca (do you ZooLoo? I do!) over at Losing it to see if she could help me edit it down, her response was "You. Cannot. Edit. Any. Of. This." So here it is, in all its glory. Feel free to skim it, peruse it, glance at it, print it out and light it on fire, or not read it at all. I won't hold it against you. There's some really good stuff in here, though. How did all of this happen in two months?


At the end of January, I got dumped by a douchebag of epic proportions. I wrote about it endlessly as if anyone cared. As it turned out, some people did (thanks for your support, guys!). Who knew?

I wasted far too much energy and far too many tears on someone who really never cared about me in the first place.

I closed myself off and shut myself down for a good four months. Then, one day, it was like the light just came on again. I started going out more and hanging out with my friends while not wearing my pajamas. I found some new hobbies. I met some new people. It was great.

Then I ran into Motorboater. We all remember him, right? Very quickly, though we’d only really been out a few times, he got really attached to me. It freaked me out. A lot. The whole time I was saying things like, “I’m not really ready for anything serious” and “Gosh, I kinda think you’re a jackass” and “Gee, no, I really don’t trust you.” And still, it didn’t dissuade him.

Then came the day when he decided to go into weird, slightly psychotic mode. There were phone calls and text messages and he asked me to meet his mom (after like three dates…wtf?). My personal favorite was when he asked me if I wanted to come hang out with him and his mom (no), and I said I had plans to go rock climbing with my friends and then we were going to have dinner. His response? “Cancel that. I haven’t seen you in a week.”

Not bloody likely. (Sometimes I don an English accent when I'm pissed.)

After a couple more calls and texts and some guilt trip about how he didn’t have anyone to talk to because his mom was hanging out with the guy she picked up at the last bar, I agreed to come out for one beer. Then his mom gave that stranger a blow job in front of the bar. And I was done. Stick a fork in me, whatever.

I didn’t hear from him for a while after that, which was fine with me. Then he called me one night, while I was at dinner with my mom. I didn’t call him back. That was the end of it. So I thought.

A week or so later, I ran into him at a bar. I tried to be nice and just sort of friendly let’s let bygones be bygones about the whole thing. But Motorboater? No…he steadfastly refused to speak to me for most of the evening, but while sitting at my table. Ugh. Then he finally left. At 2:00 am, I receive a text about how he didn’t think that seeing me would affect him, but it does and it really sucks when someone tells you they don’t want to get hurt, but then they ignore your calls and act like nothing’s wrong and how he knows that this is what happened to me in my last relationship, so he knows I know how much this hurts.

What?

So my year and a half long relationship is comparable to our three dates? No. Save that drama for your mama (not that she doesn’t cause enough of it on her own.). I’m out.

Then I met this guy and we were friends and I really enjoyed that and then he kissed me and it was nice and we went out once, but I was worried about it ending our friendship so I had to say something and I think I hurt his feelings, but we’re still friends and everything is okay. I hope. (And he reads my blog. Everyone say hi!)

Last week, I was shopping for groceries and this guy sort of…hit on me. Blah blah, he asked me out and he seemed cool, so I said yes. We had a really great first date. Like really great. Movie first date great. We had a really great first kiss. Like really great. Better than movie first kiss great. (Of course the next day, via text message he FREAKED me out by telling me he felt like we were involved and asking me if I felt the same…wtf? After what follows, you can totally come back up here and say, “Uh, shine? RED FLAG!” and you will be completely right and I will buy you a beer. Or a cupcake.)

And I got excited. About a boy. We hung out a couple more times. I decided to overlook that he was wearing crocs, for crying out loud…who does that? Plus, he was a smoker. Still, I was excited. Our second date was also good. Then we had our third date. It can only be described as awkward with a touch of defensive. I’m not sure what happened, but the whole time we were at dinner, things were just…off. He told me stories I wouldn’t tell someone I was trying to impress, he quizzed me on music (Because he knew I had dated a couple of musicians and he’s a musician, blah blah. Oh, by the way, I’m DONE with musicians. I hope…), and generally acted in a bizarre fashion.

Oh, I should mention here that he also had this thing for asking me what I was thinking. Do boys outside of high school still do that? I thought you men were all about not knowing what we’re thinking. And this wasn’t just like hey we’re sitting in silence for five minutes and you have this pained expression on your face so I’m going to ask you what you’re thinking because it seems like I should. This was like hey we’re kissing, but now I’m going to pull back and ask, “What are you thinking?” or say, “Penny for your thoughts…” Yeah, in that moment, you don’t want to know what I’m thinking. Trust me. It’s about what an idiot you are, though.

If I want you to know what I’m thinking, I’ll tell you. Does it seem to anyone that I have a problem saying what’s on my mind?

Also, if he texted me mushy crap like “Miss you, XOXO” I didn’t really respond (Because ew). Then a few minutes later I would get a text about how I didn’t respond. Usually fairly defensive in nature. “So I guess no hugs and kisses from you?” Ugh. I don’t really play that crap. It’s weird and stupid and I don’t get it. WHEN I’VE KNOWN SOMEONE FOR A WEEK. I don’t actually miss you, yo. So I’m not going to lie.

Then his roommate came home and everything sort of went into the shitter. It was already teetering on the edge, anyway. Then his incredibly conservative, incredibly republican, incredibly aggressive roommate gave me the third degree for an hour and a half. And he (my date) said the words “Obama is a complete fucking idiot.”

Sure, everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. But really? Obama’s a complete fucking idiot? I just don’t think so. I refuse to sit and be attacked about my politics by people I barely know. Hell, I refuse to discuss politics with anyone.

I grimly muscled through it and about 15 more what are you thinkings and the next day, I promptly called my bestest mcbestest friend in the whole wide world and the love of my life (it’s really too bad neither of us is a man), Cheese, to discuss. We decided that he definitely lost points and that I was probably going to have to end it.

I was in favor of just letting it fizzle out. After all, we’d only known each other for a week and it wasn’t like we were friends or anything. But oh, no.

Every Monday night, after I work for 12 hours straight, I meet my mom for dinner. We’re trying to have a relationship and stuff. I guess while I was at dinner, he texted me, “Thinkin bout ya! :-)” I know there’s nothing wrong with that, per se. But we’ve only known each other a week and that’s the 37th such text I’ve received. It’s just a little much for me.

After dinner, I called Cheese and we talked while I drove home. Then I downloaded and installed the latest update for my phone (Hello, texting in landscape, you sexy beast!), which took a good half hour. Then my phone rang. Him again.

“Hi. Miss you. What are you doing?”

It’s 11:00 pm on Monday, I’m in my bed. Duh.

“You know, when I text you, it’s totally okay if you text me back. It’s not going to freak me out.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure me skinning a live animal in front of you wouldn’t freak you out. I let out a big sigh and explained that I was busy and shit.

We got off the phone and I went to sleep thinking, yeah, that’s over.

Wednesday, while I was at work, he called me. I didn’t answer BECAUSE I WAS AT WORK. He left me a message, “Uh, hey. It’s me. Give me a call if you don’t mind.”

Five minutes later, he texted me: Hey you! Any chance u may be able to hang after jits 2nite?

Thirty minutes later: Guess u r 2 busy 2 talk 2 me. Drop a line when u can if u don’t mind. Thanks.

(Can I just mention here how much I hate this kind of text? Unless you're phone is old, I see no reason that you can't type out at least most of the words. It takes me forever to translate and it gives me a headache.)

Two hours later: Is everything ok? Not like you to not respond. (To which I kind of wanted to scream “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS ‘LIKE’ ME!)

Three hours after that: Well…Hope u r ok.

Then at 11:00 pm, a minute and a half long voicemail including crap like, “I just want to make sure you're okay and you're safe and I haven't done anything to piss you off...just please call me and let me know you're okay, sweetie."

So, okay, with no response from me whatsoever, he called twice, left me two voicemails, and texted me four times. By this point I was so twitchy and annoyed about the whole thing, I didn’t even want to talk to him. Had it been one phone call or one text message (maybe even two texts), I would have gotten in touch with him and we would have proceeded with the fizzle.

Instead, at this point, I’m kind of concerned that he’s going to make a suit of my skin and wear it to feel pretty.

This morning, I sent him the following text:

I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I didn’t have my phone with me yesterday, and coming home to two phone calls, two voicemails, and four text messages is way too much, way too fast for me. I’m sure that you’ll find someone who will be thrilled with this level of attention, but that someone is not me. I just don’t see a future for us.

Which I think is damn near crystal clear (The Mole thinks I was far too nice). Not that I expected him to just deal and move on…since clearly he’s crazy.

He usually sleeps really late, so I wasn’t exactly expecting a response right away. I knew I was going to get one, mind you, just not in the next minute or two.

So I get this text:

Please don’t do this. I am very sorry that it was too much. I was genuinely concerned. I care and it gets the better of me when I worry. Please don’t end this…it just got started.

Ugh. First of all, no, you weren’t genuinely concerned. You were worried you had pissed me off, sure. But I’m a grown-up. Not returning a text message for a few hours is not a sign of death. Just a sign that I’m either a) busy, or b) don’t really want to talk to you. Either way, I’ll get back to you when I’m ready and pushing it is only going to make me want to talk to you less. Second of all, seriously, it’s been a fucking week. Get over it.

Then, before I even really had a chance to respond, which I didn’t think I particularly owed him anyway, since I had made myself clear, I get this text (we’re talking about maybe two minutes later…and again, I’M AT WORK):

Wow…No response to my feelings. Ok. Guess there is nothing I can say to change your mind. Thanks for the very little time we shared. Sorry to burden you with my care. Have a good one.

Boo fucking hoo is about all I have to say to that. Also, “Sorry to burden you with my care” is an INSTANT CLASSIC and I will be using it all the time. (Rebecca's reaction: also, sorry to burden you with my care is so awesome, i want to sew it on a pillow, stain it with my own blood and send it to someone. Hell, yeah. Sounds like a Christmas present to me.)

UPDATE: I received yet another text from him: I really wish you would reconsider. I thought we had a good thing starting between us.

TMI Thursday, if you're a boy.

I'm not sure this counts as TMI Thursday in the true sense, but it's on my mind today.

Boys, this one is not for you.

No really, stop reading.




Still reading? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...

What the hell is up with tampons these days? (You're sorry you kept reading now, aren't you?)

They stopped making my favorite kind years ago. What is so freaking hard about a flushable, biodegradable applicator? I mean, okay, and one that doesn't scratch the inside of your lady parts to bits, thank you Tampax.

And this no applicator thing? I don't get it. It's small, so that's nice. No awkward tampon sword for you to pull out of your purse in front of your boss or that cute boy at the bar who just offered to buy you a beer. But let's talk logistics for just a minute.

So the demon blood is visiting you (What? That's not what you call yours?). Let's say you're out with your girlfriends. Somewhere public. You go to the bathroom and need to exchange your cotton. So you unwrap this no applicator piece of crap, wiggle the string around, put your finger and the bottom, and shove it up there. But now...your finger's kind of a mess, yes? (WAR PAINT STYLE) And you still have to pull up your pants and get to the sink. BUT HOW? It's just gross. I refuse.

And I hate plastic applicators. I hate having to wrap them in toilet paper and touch that biochemical waste plant that is the little trashcan in the public restrooms. And ladies, while we're at it, please stop like wiping your "sanitary napkins" all over the bathroom. Unnecessary, mmmkay?

It just really seems like we could come up with some better options here. And don't even try to talk to me about the demon blood cup thing. 'Cause no. Just no. Let's just say I tried it once and it spilled...SPILLED. Yeah, and I wasn't home.

I don't want to have children. I have no use for the demon blood. Shouldn't there be a box I can check to opt out?

It's the end of the world as we know it and frankly I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Oh goody. Not only did one of my coworkers find me on Twitter and therefore start reading my blog (sorry, but it makes me uncomfortable to have to deal with that at work), now my step-dad has found my blog. Which means, apparently, even though I told him that I didn't want him to read it because it wasn't really for family and I was uncomfortable enough with the thought of my aunt reading it, that he's reading it. AND SHARING WITH MY MOTHER.

I'm not sure there are words to describe the feeling in the pit of your stomach when you tell your mom about falling in the shower and she says, "Yeah, I heard there are pictures of it on the internet."

Oh. Crap.

If someone would like to share the link with my grandparents, now would be the time to do it. Oh, and while you're at it, go ahead and tell them I'm an atheist. My Nana's heart-attack is on your head.

I don't know what to do here, folks.

Part of me wants to just scrap it all and start over in some little anonymous hole where no one I know can find me. That's just sad because part of the fun of all of this was sharing it with some of my friends. But now I feel so claustrophobic and censored.

The other part of me wants to say a loud "FUCK YOU" and just keep writing without giving a damn what anyone thinks. Except that this is my MOM we're talking about, yo. We're only just starting to have a relationship. We don't have one of those tell each other everything without judgment kind of things. At all.

This blog is my home. I want to feel comfortable here. My heart is pressed between these internet pages. I put it out there for anyone to read, and I didn't hide it very well, but my parents are a little more audience than I would have chosen.

I'm aware that no one really cares and that life will go on whether I write or not, but I love this blog. I love that it is 100% me. I love the people who read and comment and share their stories. I've made friends. I've laughed and cried and thrown up in my mouth a little at all of your stories.

But this is my MOM we're talking about. Help!

If you're going to advertise a girdle, at least find a person who needs a girdle to model it. Oh, and you get to see my ass.

Generally speaking, I'm not a big fan of the girdle. Sure, I've got some lumpy parts or whatever, but most of the "shapewear" out there tends to just smoosh the fat you're trying to conceal out somewhere else. For instance, let's say I think my ass looks fat in these pants (and no, I would never ask the question. Because if I'm even thinking the question, I probably already know the answer). So I go out and get some "shapewear" to make my ass look slimmer. That's just going to push all my other fat out the top. Ew.

But the thing that kills me the most about this stuff is that they always have some skinny chick modeling it. Because, you know, she needs it. No.

Perfect example? While I was getting ready this morning, I saw this:



Yeah, yeah, I know. There are fat people in there. But the main model? Skinny. In no need of a girdle. Has perfect thighs. I hate her.

Also, my favorite part? The little cartoony re-enactment of what happens when you, dear fat person, put on the girdle thingy. You could look up to 20 pounds slimmer! Notice how the cartoon girl's fat just...disappears! That could be you! No.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way and that model can shove her girdle where the sun don't shine, I'm going to show you my ass.

See, yesterday, I was on my way to meet my climbing buddies, but I really needed a shower. I hopped in and lathered up. As I was shaving my legs, I guess some of my body wash was still on the floor of the tub and I slipped. Hardcore. I was sliding and my ass landed on the soap dish. Now I have this:



Yes, that's a picture of my ass. Don't ever say I don't love you guys. It hurts like hell to sit down.

Closets & Basements

When I'm really down (or really up, for that matter), music really speaks to me. This song describes perfectly (and far better than I ever could) how I felt and feel about...well, everything. It brought tears to my eyes this weekend to think back on things and realize that over time, this song still feels like it's about me and only me.

It was written by Davida (Davi) Something That I Can't Remember (I looked! I can't find her) in a local band called Something Shiny that no longer exists. Music (that you can't hear) by Brian Davis.

Closets & Basements:

Been standing so long in this moment
It seems time's forgotten to move
I thought what I wanted was everything
Turns out all I needed was you.
In my life there is so much that's common
The rest is what you do
How can you blame me for bein' so crazy to live for these pieces of you?
How can you blame me for bein' so crazy to live in this memory around you?

I'm tired of lookin' in mirrors
And knowing the parts you can't see
I've never believed that I'm perfect,
But I just might be everything you'll ever need.
In your eyes, I can see every faith
That I've ever had in me.
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live in this place that you would leave?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live for your return to me?

Been trying so hard to move forward
To swallow my heart, hold it all in.
It gets harder to keep on believing
Until you're finally convinced you never did.
Over time I've turned longing and anger into
Something's wrong with me.
How can you blame be for being so crazy to give away hope meant for me?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live in this place called empty?

A year and a half and I'm finished
Completed my trip, I'm back home.
I've cleaned out the closets and basements
And counted only things that are my own.
All this time to learn one simple lesson
Your last gift, I cannot keep.
How can you blame me for being so crazy to rip off this blindfold to see?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live past this blame-seed in me?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live beyond you to love me?

Toilet Paper, Punctuation, Then and Than, and Why Things are Always Better MY WAY.

I'm pretty laid back. Generally speaking, I care too little about most things to get all worked up. Oh wait. I just defined "laid back."

There are a couple of things, though, that really just must be my way.

1. If the toilet paper runs out while you're using it? REPLACE IT. I really don't need pee dripping down my leg while I look for another roll. At work.

Contrary to popular belief, there is only one correct way for the toilet paper to be placed on the holder (which, you understand, doesn't involve sitting it on the back of the toilet). The roll must roll over the top. I don't want to spend precious seconds of my time chasing the end of the toilet paper down. I just don't. Then people will think I'm taking a morning poo. And I'm a lady (I use this term loosely. Like my hips).

2. I like to match up the silverware in the little cups in the dishwasher. With the used end up. That means big forks go with big forks, little forks with little forks, etc. It's just easier to unload that way.

3. Please learn about this crazy thing we call "punctuation." It's not just for English majors.

4. The words then and than are not interchangeable. Then is about time (And then he wanted to put ice cream on my toes!). Than is about comparison (My ass is so much better than Susan's face). I promise you can figure this out.

5. Apostrophes: They don't make things plural.

Just follow these simple rules and we'll get along just fine.

My way is probably better than yours anyway.

Maybe I'm a computer?

And if so, I seriously hope I'm of the Data from Star Trek TNG variety (don't judge, I love that show).

These "captcha" things? Are designed to "captcha" me. Apparently.

I can't seem to ever get one right on the first try. My fingers refuse to type nonsensical letters in sequence. The font throws me totally off base.

Sometimes there's one "word." Sometimes there are two. I never remember if they're case-sensitive and I refuse to use caps lock, so I'm forever stretching my little pinky finger over to the shift key.

I ACTUALLY JUST TYPED ALL OF THIS IN CAPS WITHOUT TURNING ON THE CAPS LOCK. THAT'S HOW RIDICULOUS I AM.

Ahem.

I get that we don't want those scary little bot guys spamming our blogs and things (so many words in this sentence are not even words I would have used ten years ago), but can't we make them slightly more human friendly? Or else can't we find a way to send sexually transmitted diseases through the internets so that all the scary bot programmy people die a horrible painful death? Only they'd be better at it than the rest of us, so I guess only us good guys would end up with the internets STDs.

That was a bad idea.

Why do you men insist that you like outgoing and funny and smart chicks when really you just want someone to make you a martini and cook you dinner (which I totally excel at anyway)? This has nothing to do with the rest of the post.

Instead, I think I'll just be a piece of shit.

I really don't think there's a whole lot to this "good person" thing. So I think I'll skip it.

I mean, okay, I'm not going to run around killing small animals and children or anything, but it seems to me that being a good and kind and caring person gets you nowhere. Whereas being a complete piece of shit is just a happy place.

My piece of shit ex-boyfriend started dating someone else less than a month after we broke up. This weekend, he's taking her on a camping trip that we were supposed to go on together (with a big group of people). Because, you know, she means that much to him. I decided not to go, as I didn't want to watch him fuck people in front of my face. This was before I realized the new girl was going. Although, yeah...it still applies.

So here's my question: why does he get to be all happily dating someone new, while I'm still living in crazy land because I'm so hurt over the breakup of a relationship that clearly meant nothing to him? Because he's a piece of shit?

Ah, good. Then I want to be one, too.

Of course, he judges me and acts like I'm insane every time I do something that he deems less than perfect, but it's totally okay for him to parade his new girlfriend around in front of me, kissing her and rubbing on her and shit. But the second that I decide okay, I'ma get drunk (and this was St. Patrick's Day...everyone was drunk), I'm the one who's ridiculous. It was a dick move.

And here I am, sitting in my bed, writing this blog, thinking, "Does he love this girl? How can our relationship mean nothing to him? How can I mean nothing to him? How can he just pretend like none of it ever happened?"

But there are no answers to these questions. He can be all of those things because he's a piece of shit. But I'm the one who's sad. So the joke's on me.

After we broke up (and I mean three weeks after, because for the first three weeks he refused to speak to me because of his "anger." Yeah, he's the one who broke my heart, but whatever.), we had a long talk and he said a lot of things. A lot of nice things, even. Then he proceeded to act exactly like that never happened. And he doesn't even understand why I would have any trouble believing anything he says, since none of his actions match up with his words. Sure, it's easy to say, "I would never want to hurt you intentionally." But then if you go and do that...which am I to believe?

So I'm tired of being the one who gets stepped on. I'm tired of being the one who does the right thing (okay, not always...we all have bad days. St. Patrick's Day was a doozy.), who is the bigger person. Fuck looking at myself in the mirror tomorrow, I'm done. It's my turn to be a piece of shit. It looks like a happier place.

The List

A couple of weeks ago, I was hanging out with one of my girlfriends. We were talking about breakups and such. Since I've been such a miserable bitch since my breakup...yeah. Anyway, she suggested that I make a list of the ways that I never want to feel in a relationship again. That is, should I ever bother to have another one.

So I'm making the list:

1. I will never again feel disrespected.
2. I will never again feel unimportant.
3. I will never again feel unappreciated.
4. I will never again feel like I can't or shouldn't be anything but myself.
5. I will never again feel like my feelings don't count or are stupid or wrong.
6. I will never again feel afraid to speak up or stand up for myself.

Now, the next time someone treats me like I don't matter, I will have the strength to walk away. There may be room for second chances, but they only come if they are deserved.

From now on, I will surround myself with people who love and care about me. People who treat me the way I should be treated. People who give as much or more than they take. People who don't think that taking the easy way out is the only answer.

My standards have been raised, for all relationships. Whether they are intimate or friendly or casual, I will only put my energy forth for those who are worth it. Because I am worth that much to me (insert L'Oreal commercial here).

A letter to the new girl.

New girl,

I inadvertently stumbled upon your blog a while back. I didn't know (though I suspected) who you were at the time. Your blog about 2008 really touched me. It sounds like you've been through a lot.

"I've learned a great deal in the past year, but the most important lesson I've learned is to listen to my gut. It's almost always right. Whether it's telling me I'm hungry or to run screaming in the other direction away from that guy I agreed to go on a second date with, I need to listen to it. It knows. My heart gets in the way of what my gut tells me, and that's been my problem for years. For now, my heart is locked away for safe-keeping and whenever someone worthy steps up, then my gut will tell me that it's ok to let my heart out to play."

Please consider this: My name is "your gut." You should run screaming in the other direction away from the guy you're dating.

Having said this, I realize you will likely ignore me because you think that I am crazy and bitter and that you're special and things will be different for you than they were for me. But they won't. And this is not to say that you're not special. I'm sure that you are. I am. But your specialness doesn't change anything for him.

Keep in mind that you started dating him probably less than a month after he broke up with me. We had been together for a year and a half. He cannot be alone, as much as he tells himself that alone is what he wants. And he will only hurt you.

He chooses to live his life in such a way that he will never be attached to anyone. He will never be dependent on anyone for anything. And when he feels like he's getting attached, he will run. I advise you this: do not chase him. He's not worth it.

He puts on a very good show and he is interesting and smart and has a pretty good sense of humor, but it's all a show. He is not a happy person. He lies to himself so frequently and about so many things that even though he claims to hate lying (and he probably believes what he says to you), you will find little truth in his words when push comes to shove.

He believes that it is enough just to say things. It isn't. His actions speak far louder than his words, and they will tell you the real truth.

I know that when he looks at you, you feel special...I did too. I know that you think that he's different because he likes your curves. I know that he makes you feel like he cares about you. And maybe he does, but it's not in a way that is worthy of you, new girl. He will never put anyone before himself and his own comfort.

When he tells you that he "comes from a long line of alcoholics," he means it. And he is an alcoholic. A real one. He doesn't really think that it affects who he is or his actions, but it does. He can be very (non-physically) abusive when he's drunk.

I loved him openly and completely and with my whole heart, new girl. And it wasn't enough. Nothing is enough. He walked away from me, and I fought to get him back. When I did that, I lost me. Because I fought so hard for someone who wasn't worth my love. And it changed me. Even the day that I met you, a little part of me wanted to believe him when he said that he would never want to hurt me intentionally. But that day he did, as he had so many times before. And I don't believe him any more. I don't believe in him any more.

It's unlikely that you will read this, I know. And probably that's for the best. I know you won't listen. I wouldn't listen to anyone. Not even myself. But just ask yourself this: do you really want to be in my shoes? Forever changed for having given your heart to someone doesn't deserve it and will never appreciate it. He's good at saying the right thing (sometimes...not all the time). But watch for his actions. The truth is there.

Anyone who can refuse to speak to someone after finding out she's pregnant with his child is either still in high school or a real and true asshole. I don't know you, but I know that he is not worthy of you. I'm sure that if you know anything about me at all, he's told you that I am crazy and bitter or some semblance of those words. And I can admit that I'm pretty bitter right now. But I'm not crazy, just hurt. Very very hurt. I have every right to be. I haven't even for a minute behaved in any way that is unlike someone who has just had her heart shattered. I have had good days and bad days. The day I met you was a very bad day, full of hurt. Just think for a few minutes about what it says about him that he brought you, new girl, to hang out where he knew I'd be. He knew it would hurt me and he did it anyway. I told him I was uncomfortable and he made fun of me to you (yeah, I heard that) and then continued to stay instead of walking away.

Everything else that happened is just breakup stuff. But turning his back on me when he found out I was pregnant is unforgivable. I didn't want to be pregnant. I had taken all the precautions. He actually had the audacity to tell me that I shouldn't have wanted to tell him because he was "already freaked out enough." So I should have just handled it on my own, ya know...so he could continue to be selfish and uncaring. For some reason, I wasn't supposed be hurt by him quitting on me. I wasn't allowed to be angry. I wasn't supposed to do anything to make him uncomfortable, even though he had just broken my heart. How nice it would have been of me to just fade off into the background so he wouldn't have to see how much he hurt me.

Just a few short days after we broke up, after he had hurt me more than almost anyone in my life ever had (until, that is, he hurt me more), I wrote a blog. For that, he was angry with me. Because I hurt him. I wasn't allowed to be angry with him, you see, because he never does anything wrong. If you stay with him long enough, it's a pattern you'll recognize. Should you ever decide to question him or his behavior, he will turn things around, make it all about you, and then make you feel guilty for questioning him in the first place. It's a fun little game to play. I mean, he's probably told you he's an asshole anyway, right? What else can you expect? Then he doesn't have to take any responsibility for his actions because he warned you. I felt so bad about that blog, that I wrote an apology. Like I had done something wrong for expressing my anger. And frankly, every word of that angry blog is true. Every word.

Keep all of this in mind as you move forward, new girl. I hope that you are stronger than I am. Remember that anyone who doesn't respect you and can't handle you being yourself and doesn't put you on the same importance level as himself doesn't deserve your time. Or your tears. So when he walks, let him go.

Twilight

Can we talk about these Twilight books for a minute?

I just…I don’t understand.

Far too many of my sensible adult friends (and some of my not-so-sensible ones) have gone ga-ga over these books. How? Why?!?

I’ll admit that I haven’t read them, so I can’t say much about them. Except. THEY ARE FOR TEENAGERS. Oh, and I’ve read some excerpts. The writing is atrocious. They read like they were written by teenagers, not just for them.

Kudos to this Stephanie Meyer, who has so successfully written a series of novels that appeal to women from age 11 to age 65, it seems.



It’s a story about angsty teenage love between some pale girl and some vampire boy, for crying out loud. Go get an Anne Rice novel. At least she can write. And most of her characters are adults. Although I will admit that her excessive descriptive passages do cause me to skim…excessively.

Really, didn’t we have enough issues as teenagers without adding the extra pressure of death by vampire bite?

The flowery-romance-novel-style writing makes me gag like no tub of mayonnaise ever could. Wait. Scratch that. I gagged just thinking about mayo.

I keep hearing all these comparisons to Harry Potter, too. I haven’t read those either, because last I checked they were supposed to be FOR KIDS, but I have read excerpts. And I’ll say this: J.K. Rowling’s writing doesn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out with a cattle prod. I even saw one of the movies. I didn’t understand even a minute of it, as it was movie number four or five and I hadn’t seen any of the previous movies. But I think it would have been entertaining, had my internal monologue not been going at top speed the whole time.

“Who is that guy? What’s with his hair? I thought these kids were supposed to be kids…they don’t look like kids. Ooooh, Alan Rickman. I LOVE Alan Rickman. I don’t love that someone told me I look like Alan Rickman. That was just insulting. I don’t look like Alan Rickman. Do I? No. He’s hideous. But super-entertaining. I mean, if I had been told that I act as well as Alan Rickman or that I’m as funny as Alan Rickman, I would have taken it as a compliment, but – Oh! What the fuck is that thing? What’s going on in this secret room? How did they do that? I wish I had magical powers. I always wanted to be a witch. That would explain my penchant for watching crap like Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and Charmed. Speaking of Charmed, my my I love Holly Marie Combs (also known as Piper). And that stopping time and blowing things up thing is really cool…”

You see what I’m saying. It’s distracting. How could anyone enjoy a movie while all that is going on? Luckily, it all happens silently in my head. People who insist on sharing their inner monologues during the movie are evil. You know who you are. Please stay out of my theater.

Speaking of movies, did this Twilight movie not just come out in theaters in December?? How is it already on DVD? And doesn't that mean, by definition, that it sort of sucks? If a movie is out on DVD in three months, that usually means that it was terrible...just sayin'.

Back to the matter at hand. Someone please, please explain the draw of these books to me. Well, at least…no. I really don’t want to know. Maybe. I don't know. I don't want to have to think less of you for obsessing about them. But I truly don’t understand.