I think everyone has there fair share of bad dates; no chemistry, he shows up wearing a pinkie ring, etc. In honor of Valentine's Day, I figured I would air some of my dirty laundry and give you a glimpse into some of my most memorable dates (and not in a good way). In typical Annie fashion, most of these dates don't fall into the category of a typical bad date--these are the TITANIC of bad dates. And yes, I said "these" plural. After reading through this blog, you may wonder why after all these encounters I continue to go on dates, which could potentially turn into an hour of wishing the man across the table from me would choke on something so he could go to the emergency room and I could go home. The answer, as simple and trite as it seems, is that I love love, and I will never give up believing there is someone out there who is perfect for me. And I know that's not a bold statement at 23, but check me when 50 living alone with 5 cats, and I guarantee I'll say the same thing.
Like many of you, I had my first bad date when I had my first date. I was in 6th grade, in that awkward in-between where puberty had hit hard enough to give me pimples and periods, but had not turned me into a teenager with big boobs. I was also pretty fat. I thinned out in 7th grade, but in order to picture this accurately: baby fat, braces, pimples, and awkward social graces. Yum. My parents dropped me and my man-friend off at the movie, and since the boy in question had told me via AIM, "I don't think you're that pretty but you have a great personality," I was fairly confident this was all coming up Annie. Well, nothing happened, but afterward he did ask me, (again via AIM) if I would be "into it" if he kissed me. I hope to God I didn't say yes, but I might have. Anyway, it will never matter because we never had a second "date" and a chance at a brace-faced kiss.
Highschool was fairly kind to me via the dating game. I did have one awkward encounter where the guy didn't bring enough money to leave a tip, so I took note of waitress's name and sheepishly handed her an envelope with a $10 bill and a note of profuse apology, but otherwise, nothing terrible. I went to a lot of movies and high school football games, but not a lot of parties, and generally managed to not be a pariah but also not be anything near to homecoming queen.
Through most of college I didn't really "date," I did what everyone does; try desperately to trick a guy into flirting with you at a party and then hoping he drunkenly texts you, "party?!" next weekend. Towards the end of my college tenure, however, I discovered the fantastic world of online dating. While I still am a huge proponent of online dating, it also opens the floodgate for some near sociopaths.
I have this terrible habit of guiltily giving people the benefit of the doubt even when I know I'm not interested. I think it's because my mom told me to always dance with the ugly guys who asked me at middle school dances, because the other good-looking guys would be hesitant to approach me if they saw me turn down people. This was terrible advice. I ended up dancing with disgusting B.O. infested, anime playing, wierdos, just like I have ended up going on dates with the people I am about to describe.
This first bad-date was with a NO FUCKING JOKE chicken farmer, who lived near Cincinnati. He had a sarcastic sense of humor, so I was like, "okay, let's try this." He ended up showing up a full twenty minutes late, and honestly nothing could piss me off more. I tried to be understanding and not a bitch (which obviously is against my nature) but the conversation was awkward and it seemed legitimately like he was bored shitless. Fine. The worst part, however, came with the check. "So you just want to go dutch, or what?" he asked. Never mind that HE invited me. I threw down my card and actually was so frustrated that after he left I burst into tears.
In more thrilling examples, one time I went on a date with a successful older guy, only to hear him tell me after about 10 minutes that he had joined a Belarusian revolution after being recruited by a Belarusian freedom fighter he met in a homeless shelter. As he explained how he was held as a P.O.W. "but worse because we weren't under the Geneva Convention," I sat in stunned silence because I had thought I was going out with a nice banker. Another time, after moving the date up a half-hour and telling me with 15 minutes notice, the guy berated me for being 5 minutes late, told me I seemed like I was in a pissy mood enough times to actually cause me to be in a pissy mood, and waxed eloquent about how I needed to have a more positive outlook on life. I literally sat there hating everything about him more and more with each passing minute. Yet another time, I was told the guy had expected me to be "a conservative southern belle," because admittedly, he hadn't read anything I said in my profile, only looked at my pictures.
Again, I think everyone has bad dates. My hope for ya'll reading this is that your Valentines Day is full of wonderful romance that sweeps you off your feet, and not a chicken farmer who makes you pay, or someone who yells at you for being late when it was they who changed the time, or worst of all someone who talks about being a P.O.W.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Long-Suffering Wife
I am a firm believer that you learn something from every romantic relationship, especially the ones that don't work out. As you can seem from my MANifesto, I have learned what I want out of a relationship, but more importantly, I have learned what I could never accept.
Today, I went up to Columbus to meet my parents for dinner, and we were talking about some of my ex-boyfriends. And there have been some DOOZIES, ladies and gentleman. DOOZIES. But what I got out of these relationships is this--I was never meant to be a long-suffering wife.
Everyone knows a long-suffering wife archetype. She has been married for some ridiculously long amount of time by a man who is, for all intents and purposes, a giant, selfish, egotistical prick. He expects his wife to build up his already inflated ego and to wash, clean, cook, raise his children, and be damned grateful for the privilege. The long-suffering wife is miserable but clings to her pitiful existence out of some bizarre, misplaced loyalty or even worse, out of some equally bizarre, misplaced religious ideal (Virgin Mary, "Women, honor thy husband" unadulterated bullshit). And then, to cap it off, she beams as people tell her what "a saint," she is. Because her unlimited threshold to take shit from people is all she has.
I have been in several relationships where I was expected to assume the role of the long-suffering wife. In these cases there were "rules" (like only one weeknight sleepover) or he needed "space" (like only one weeknight sleepover) and my emotional needs were completely secondary. I tried for a while. I baked pies and lopsided cakes, tried to be attentive and put my needs last, but then I got sick of it and wanted a fucking back rub. Why do I do this thing where I try to convey to the men with whom I'm in relationships how acceptable and desirable I am? Shouldn't they be exerting as much energy trying to demonstrate to me that they WANT to be in my life? It's a two-way street; I may be applying for the job but I also have to accept your offer. At this point, it just comes down to the fact that I refuse to play a supporting role in my own life.
I think at one point or another everyone has been a "long-suffering" something--employee, student, daughter, sister, brother, friend. But at some point, being a martyr has got to wear thin. I'm definitely guilty of it, but tonight as I was thinking about it in terms of relationships, I had a breakthrough. I have been long-suffering, but now I'm pulling a Kenny Rogers and knowing when to fuckin' fold 'em. Because I am done feeling sorry for myself and delighting in my own bondage. This day, ladies and gentleman, marks a change in my life. More to come later.
Today, I went up to Columbus to meet my parents for dinner, and we were talking about some of my ex-boyfriends. And there have been some DOOZIES, ladies and gentleman. DOOZIES. But what I got out of these relationships is this--I was never meant to be a long-suffering wife.
Everyone knows a long-suffering wife archetype. She has been married for some ridiculously long amount of time by a man who is, for all intents and purposes, a giant, selfish, egotistical prick. He expects his wife to build up his already inflated ego and to wash, clean, cook, raise his children, and be damned grateful for the privilege. The long-suffering wife is miserable but clings to her pitiful existence out of some bizarre, misplaced loyalty or even worse, out of some equally bizarre, misplaced religious ideal (Virgin Mary, "Women, honor thy husband" unadulterated bullshit). And then, to cap it off, she beams as people tell her what "a saint," she is. Because her unlimited threshold to take shit from people is all she has.
I have been in several relationships where I was expected to assume the role of the long-suffering wife. In these cases there were "rules" (like only one weeknight sleepover) or he needed "space" (like only one weeknight sleepover) and my emotional needs were completely secondary. I tried for a while. I baked pies and lopsided cakes, tried to be attentive and put my needs last, but then I got sick of it and wanted a fucking back rub. Why do I do this thing where I try to convey to the men with whom I'm in relationships how acceptable and desirable I am? Shouldn't they be exerting as much energy trying to demonstrate to me that they WANT to be in my life? It's a two-way street; I may be applying for the job but I also have to accept your offer. At this point, it just comes down to the fact that I refuse to play a supporting role in my own life.
I think at one point or another everyone has been a "long-suffering" something--employee, student, daughter, sister, brother, friend. But at some point, being a martyr has got to wear thin. I'm definitely guilty of it, but tonight as I was thinking about it in terms of relationships, I had a breakthrough. I have been long-suffering, but now I'm pulling a Kenny Rogers and knowing when to fuckin' fold 'em. Because I am done feeling sorry for myself and delighting in my own bondage. This day, ladies and gentleman, marks a change in my life. More to come later.
Monday, January 23, 2012
NARC
I have a pretty firm policy of minding my own damn business when it comes to people doing drugs in front of me. Don't misunderstand, I am not "cool". The D.A.R.E. anthem plays in my head, and I all but stop drop and roll out of the situation. When I was in Sweden I saw a couple snorting cocaine off the sink and I stared at them, made a strange gurgling noise, and might have mumbled something like "no big deal," while dashing out of the room. SO I pretty much party like a rock star.
Today, however, I was dismayed when I walked off the elevator on to my floor and was overcome by the scent of head shop. There was also an aroma of incense, which was doing nothing to cover up the blatant smell of marijuana. I was annoyed. If I wanted my home to smell like marijuana I would have invited LMAFO over to stay the weekend. I walked down the hall, and identified the cannabis culprit as my terrible neighbor, who is loud, rude, and has stunk up my hallway before. I was going to mind my business, and just build up a healthy level of passive aggressive resentment, maybe kick her door on my way to work tomorrow, but then I walked into my apartment and the whole thing REEKED of the mary jane. Fuck this. I pay too much for my apartment for it to smell like a commune.
We have a courtesy officer in our building, which means if someone is watching TV too loud at 3 am, you call him and bitch, and then he in turn goes to knock on the door and tell the offending occupant to get their shit together. Your next door neighbor smoking pot is a perfect example of a time to call the courtesy officer. I, however, had a minor moral dilemma about whether or not I should tattle. It seemed sort of against my generation. Should I just go knock on the door myself? Or better yet, leave a note that says, "Just smoke in your car, because if I smell pot again I'm going to call the officer," so I can be anonymous and she would have the chance to correct their behavior without getting in trouble. But then I smelled my kitchen, which could easily have been mistaken for the bathroom at a Grateful Dead concert, and I was filled with righteous anger. Again, fuck this.
I dialed the officer and when I reported the situation, I found out that this girl is already getting evicted. In fact, she got her eviction notice today so her bong session is probably some kind of "statement" about that. Apparently the several other times when she was blasting Bob Marley at 3am, when I let it slide, someone else was willing to nut up and bring down the hammer.
Still, I guess I'm officially a NARC.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Work/Life Balance
If there is anything I learned from watching "The Millioniare Matchmaker" this morning while I brushed my teeth it is this--you have to balance your work life and personal life or you end up a forty-five year old millionaire who can't get anyone to ride his ride. Or, more likely in my case, a woman who works 70 hours a week and then comes home to find no one but her cat waiting for her, and even then, just for food and to stick her anus in my face.
Today at work, one of my co-workers had planned to leave at 4:30pm for a special date with her husband in honor of his birthday. She walked out of the door around 5:00pm while everyone in the office periodically shouted across the cubicle that she needed to go be about her business. Now, this is one of the sweetest ladies I've ever met in my life, and she definitely loves her job and the volunteers she serves. However, it's not unheard of to receive emails from her at 11:30 pm or even midnight--sometimes on weekends.
Now, I don't like to think I have the problem of being "married" to my job, and to combat that I am trying to actively pursue a life outside of work. But it's kind of hard, because I care about doing a good job, and I work a lot. And sometimes when I get home, the thought of doing anything but drinking wine naked in my bathtub while my cat watches is completely overwhelming. It's difficult to feel satisfied when you feel as though the only time you have a personal life is during the weekends. And being that I was sick last weekend, I have felt as though I haven't had a personal life at least since 2 weekends ago.
I was someone who used to get excited about going to my college classes, because there were endless possibilities. I would always run into new people at class or in the dining halls or getting coffee; being in the University made me feel like I was part of a very, quaint English town--small enough to be manageable but big enough to not feel alone. And I lived with 5 girls. There was always something going on, even if we were just bitching because someone left their hair in the shower drain. Now I live alone. And my office is small (with no men to even have weird stalkery imaginary trysts with). I feel like I live a solitary existence. Work to home. Home to work. I don't want my job to dominate my life. I honestly don't like it enough for that.
So, how can I, make room in my life for an actual life instead of for whatever I'm doing right now? I feel like Sandra Bullock in "While You Were Sleeping,". Or Liz Lemon, who has admited she's had dinner in front of a mirror to feel less alone. Sadness a Scavenger Hunt: Sometimes I go the entire days without talking to anyone not work related except my mom. This job and I need a divorce.
Today at work, one of my co-workers had planned to leave at 4:30pm for a special date with her husband in honor of his birthday. She walked out of the door around 5:00pm while everyone in the office periodically shouted across the cubicle that she needed to go be about her business. Now, this is one of the sweetest ladies I've ever met in my life, and she definitely loves her job and the volunteers she serves. However, it's not unheard of to receive emails from her at 11:30 pm or even midnight--sometimes on weekends.
Now, I don't like to think I have the problem of being "married" to my job, and to combat that I am trying to actively pursue a life outside of work. But it's kind of hard, because I care about doing a good job, and I work a lot. And sometimes when I get home, the thought of doing anything but drinking wine naked in my bathtub while my cat watches is completely overwhelming. It's difficult to feel satisfied when you feel as though the only time you have a personal life is during the weekends. And being that I was sick last weekend, I have felt as though I haven't had a personal life at least since 2 weekends ago.
I was someone who used to get excited about going to my college classes, because there were endless possibilities. I would always run into new people at class or in the dining halls or getting coffee; being in the University made me feel like I was part of a very, quaint English town--small enough to be manageable but big enough to not feel alone. And I lived with 5 girls. There was always something going on, even if we were just bitching because someone left their hair in the shower drain. Now I live alone. And my office is small (with no men to even have weird stalkery imaginary trysts with). I feel like I live a solitary existence. Work to home. Home to work. I don't want my job to dominate my life. I honestly don't like it enough for that.
So, how can I, make room in my life for an actual life instead of for whatever I'm doing right now? I feel like Sandra Bullock in "While You Were Sleeping,". Or Liz Lemon, who has admited she's had dinner in front of a mirror to feel less alone. Sadness a Scavenger Hunt: Sometimes I go the entire days without talking to anyone not work related except my mom. This job and I need a divorce.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Stir Crazy
I used to think I would very much enjoy having the means to stay inside and sit on my ass all day, slowly allowing myself to morph into Jabba the Hut. I have to admit, however, after two days of being quarantined to my apartment with the flu, with nothing but the internet to occupy me, I am going bat shit crazy. I am ill and delirious, but also, so very bored.
Do you ever feel like no one in the world can hear you?! I do. Because I've gone through my phone book (the one on my phone, obviously, who has a literal phonebook?) and called everyone I know and thrown tons of energy out into the universe and received nothing back. No one is around. People are all out enjoying the holiday weekend while I am inside, trying to muster the energy to put my arms over my head and wash my hair. Also, I think it goes without saying that I'm feeling very sorry for myself.
So unfortunately for all of you, while I am delirious with fever and bored out of my mind, I am going to recap the ways in which I have tried to keep myself entertained. Really, less for your enjoyment than for mine.
-I took 3 baths today; I have succeeded 0 times in washing my hair
-I watched every episode of Archer: Season 2. Three or four times. And if watching it again with commentary was an option, I would have done that too.
-I made pasta with butter for every meal for the last 2 days, because I have not had the wherewithal to go grocery shopping. My mom thankfully brought some alternatives over this afternoon, but I have to confess, I still made pasta and butter for dinner tonight.
-I started to read "Glamour" magazine. Instantly vowed I would stop reading such stupid things. Then, an hour later, I attempted to read it again.
-I watched "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous," yes I was that bored.
-I texted my coworker that I was watching "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous," yes I was that bored.
-I slept. My dreams were even boring.
-I tried to trim my cat's claws, I realized I did not have the energy. One nail in.
-I've pitted out two t-shirts, I think my body is attempting to sweat out my fever, but even the baths can't keep up.
-I have been constantly checking facebook (20 or 30 times) to see if anyone wrote me. No one has.
-I have played various pitiful 3 letter words on Words with Friends
-I read my friend's blog, four or five times.
-I have blogged, twice.
Sweet Jesus, throw me a bone, people. Let me reemphasize, I watched "Miss Congeniality 2".
Do you ever feel like no one in the world can hear you?! I do. Because I've gone through my phone book (the one on my phone, obviously, who has a literal phonebook?) and called everyone I know and thrown tons of energy out into the universe and received nothing back. No one is around. People are all out enjoying the holiday weekend while I am inside, trying to muster the energy to put my arms over my head and wash my hair. Also, I think it goes without saying that I'm feeling very sorry for myself.
So unfortunately for all of you, while I am delirious with fever and bored out of my mind, I am going to recap the ways in which I have tried to keep myself entertained. Really, less for your enjoyment than for mine.
-I took 3 baths today; I have succeeded 0 times in washing my hair
-I watched every episode of Archer: Season 2. Three or four times. And if watching it again with commentary was an option, I would have done that too.
-I made pasta with butter for every meal for the last 2 days, because I have not had the wherewithal to go grocery shopping. My mom thankfully brought some alternatives over this afternoon, but I have to confess, I still made pasta and butter for dinner tonight.
-I started to read "Glamour" magazine. Instantly vowed I would stop reading such stupid things. Then, an hour later, I attempted to read it again.
-I watched "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous," yes I was that bored.
-I texted my coworker that I was watching "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous," yes I was that bored.
-I slept. My dreams were even boring.
-I tried to trim my cat's claws, I realized I did not have the energy. One nail in.
-I've pitted out two t-shirts, I think my body is attempting to sweat out my fever, but even the baths can't keep up.
-I have been constantly checking facebook (20 or 30 times) to see if anyone wrote me. No one has.
-I have played various pitiful 3 letter words on Words with Friends
-I read my friend's blog, four or five times.
-I have blogged, twice.
Sweet Jesus, throw me a bone, people. Let me reemphasize, I watched "Miss Congeniality 2".
Comparisons
Advice can come in the unlikeliest of places; proof of this came today. In this instance, "Don't Let Comparison Steal Your Joy," from my ex-boyfriend (through a third party). This particular bit of advice seems ridiculously ironic to me, considering the source, because the whole relationship I felt that I was constantly compared to other people. And unfavorably, may I add. I was never smart enough, never serious enough, never pretty enough, never pious enough, never tidy enough...just never enough. It kind of got to the point of being verbally abusive, or if we don't want to throw that term around, let's just say downright cruel. So I have to be honest, when I found out this was a piece of advice he has been bestowing, it chapped my ass something fierce. I was pissed and my first thought was to cry "hypocrite". But I then took a step back and realized, this is the most appropriate piece of advice I could have ever heard.
This is a piece of advice I needed to hear, especially coming from him, because it made me realize that even though the relationship has ended, I still let some of the tapes play in my head on repeat, the ones that told me I would never be enough. I was letting the comparisons continue, and I was letting them siphon away joy, without so much as a word of protest. And maybe I needed a jolt to realize it, but I've realized it now, and it's time to turn the tapes off, close that chapter in my life, and just be done.
Sure, there will always be someone out there who is -er than you (e.g. prettier, smarter, thinner, funnier, etc) but if that cripples you to the point that you can't even be yourself--you lose, and only you. So from now on, instead of trying to be thinner or prettier or smarter, I'm going to try to be happy. I'm going to be how I am, pursue the interests I enjoy, continue to think the things I think are schmaltzy and stupid are in fact, schmaltzy and stupid, and stand up for what I think is right because God didn't make me a meek little church mouse. If it's good enough for Him, who am I to say it's not good enough for me? I'm bawdy and funny, and always too much. But that's not a bad a thing. I also am genuine and honest. How many other people do you know that always mean what they say and say what they mean? I'm not embarrassed that I haven't learned to lie convincingly for the sake of civility, I'm fucking proud. And no, I don't think cursing is a sign of unintelligence, but if you do, that's cool. Just don't talk to me if you think I'm so stupid and beneath you.
So instead of trying to be the first or the best, which I think is impossible anyway, because everything is relative, I'm going to just worry about squeezing the best juice from my mind-grapes (30 Rock reference, anyone?). And if that means I'm not good enough for some people, that's cool, because if they're such judgmental pricks, they're not good enough for me. Compare that.
This is a piece of advice I needed to hear, especially coming from him, because it made me realize that even though the relationship has ended, I still let some of the tapes play in my head on repeat, the ones that told me I would never be enough. I was letting the comparisons continue, and I was letting them siphon away joy, without so much as a word of protest. And maybe I needed a jolt to realize it, but I've realized it now, and it's time to turn the tapes off, close that chapter in my life, and just be done.
Sure, there will always be someone out there who is -er than you (e.g. prettier, smarter, thinner, funnier, etc) but if that cripples you to the point that you can't even be yourself--you lose, and only you. So from now on, instead of trying to be thinner or prettier or smarter, I'm going to try to be happy. I'm going to be how I am, pursue the interests I enjoy, continue to think the things I think are schmaltzy and stupid are in fact, schmaltzy and stupid, and stand up for what I think is right because God didn't make me a meek little church mouse. If it's good enough for Him, who am I to say it's not good enough for me? I'm bawdy and funny, and always too much. But that's not a bad a thing. I also am genuine and honest. How many other people do you know that always mean what they say and say what they mean? I'm not embarrassed that I haven't learned to lie convincingly for the sake of civility, I'm fucking proud. And no, I don't think cursing is a sign of unintelligence, but if you do, that's cool. Just don't talk to me if you think I'm so stupid and beneath you.
So instead of trying to be the first or the best, which I think is impossible anyway, because everything is relative, I'm going to just worry about squeezing the best juice from my mind-grapes (30 Rock reference, anyone?). And if that means I'm not good enough for some people, that's cool, because if they're such judgmental pricks, they're not good enough for me. Compare that.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
MANifesto
One of my New Year's resolutions was not "to figure out what I want and get it," but it should have been. Because that's a thing I want to do. So as a complement to my last post, which listed many things I do not want, I am going to present a list of what I do want. Specifically in a man. (Get it, MANifesto?) So without further ado;
I want a man who knows he's supposed to match his shoes to his belt, and also not to wear white socks with a suit. I want a man who loves and respects his mother, but also, at his core, knows she's a pain in the ass to deal with and that we shouldn't accept her calls during dinner (or most of the time). I want a man who knows that masculinity is not dutch oven-ing me, eating up my entire sunday with football, or talking about other women's asses with his friends. I want a man who has morals like Atticus Finch, confidence like Clark Gable, and an ass like Daniel Craig. I want a man who is not pear-shaped. I want a man who thinks most organizations are stupid, including fantasy football, fraternities, cults, and the PTA. I want a man who is intellectual enough to discuss art, literature, film, and cuisine, but also silly enough to laugh when I make that face I make when something really grosses me out. I want a man who does not have a male butt-buddy, whom he thinks it's ok to invite along on dates. I want a man who will tell me when he's pissed off, happy, scared, sad, etc.--because I do not need a brooder. I want a man who knows I can call my sister a hippie all I want, but if he ever says shit about her I'll unleash hell. I want a man who will make out with me in the middle of IKEA. I want a man that thinks it's funny to shock people, but also knows when to turn it off and not embarrass me at my aunt's house. I want a man who will still want to have sex with me when I skip a day shaving my legs or wear granny panties. I want a man who does nice things to make me happy, not because its Valentines Day or my birthday (but he obviously should do shit then too). I want a man who is humble and kind to others. I want a man who has college degree and a job. I want a man who isn't married to his job, but instead who realizes work will never hold his hand while he dies--first. I want a man who thinks it's charming, not embarrassing, that I sometimes have food on my face, spill coffee, miss buttons, and forget to wear a bra that doesn't show. I want a man who hates all the same things I hate, which in my case, is way more important than liking the same stuff I like. I want a man who will eat a bucket of KFC in bed sometimes but who can also cook something other than mac n cheese. AND most of all, I want a man who will love me like my father loves my mother, who I can love like my mother loves my father.
There it is. If you know of anyone like this...he's probably already married.
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