Thursday, September 30, 2010

Dates I Might Actually Survive

See this? I would go on a date for a dish of what is to your left. Really. Let me explain.

I spent a wonderful Sunday morning a few weekends back having brunch with my mother, when I looked around Penny Cluse Cafe and realized that I was actually enjoying myself, out and about, before noon on a weekend morning. I then noticed the couples and tables of friends sitting around us, and reached a startling conclusion over a bowl of the most fabulous chicken and biscuits I have ever had: I would let someone take me out to brunch. In fact, I'm pretty sure that a brunch date would be the best date that you could ever hope to have me agree to.

I know, I know, I know-- I self-professedly hate dates. Dates make me as-- if not more-- uncomfortable than my yearly visit to the gynecologist. Like, you could not pay me to go on a date. (Well, I don't know. I have over a cool half-grand in vet bills to pay right now, so you probably could auction me off. But that is besides the moral point.) But here are the fine points on why a brunch date is an ok-by-me "real date" alternative:

A.) I don't actually like most breakfast foods. But you can bet the 6 dollars and 50 cents that it takes to buy a large serving of Penny Cluse's chicken and biscuits that after a night of um, exercise, I wake up damn hungry.

B.) If you're being a gentleman and driving me home the morning after, if you suggest a brunch spot on the way back to my place, I will usually be up to making that stop. Unless I am ridiculously hungover. And then please, don't even talk to me. It's not you-- it's my headache.

C.) Brunch is usually cheap. I will purposely order something under $10 to spare you. I honestly feel like spending more than $10 on a meal for a date in the morning is insane. I also honestly feel like spending $20 on a date's meal in the evening is equally insane. Also, asinine.

D.) The coffee is usually better than what you make. Or, more conveniently for me, they actually offer me coffee, if you don't.

Possibly the only downside to this whole brunch-date idea is that the morning after, I tend to look like someone who was just released from an intervention program, I smell like a pleasantly shameful blend of latex and you, and I'm wearing what I wore yesterday, just a little more stretched out than it was the morning previously or should be. Not generally my favorite time to make a foray into public, but really-- for those chicken and biscuits, I would. (You should be sensing a theme by now. Even if you don't go with me, go try those. Actually, on second thought, please take me with you. Look-- I'd date you. Maybe just that once, and maybe it's just my latent Southern heritage from my mom's side of the family coming out, but still. That's progress!)

What are some other dates I would willingly go on? Art gallery openings or shows. Concerts. If I were comfortable enough with you to see me red, panting, and sweaty outside of the dark of a night-time bed, hiking. Probably the best way to win my heart would be to take me dancing. It's one of my favorite things, but because I have never had a partner, I've never been able to learn the forms I really want to: Latin, ballroom, tango, etc. So you guessed it-- take me to a tango class, and I would literally be putty in your arms. If putty had two quick and nimble feet and hips made for swiveling, that is.

And even if I were on the fence about you, I would definitely attend a live football game with you. Especially if I could drink beer while there. I would whole-heartedly invest in those 9 hours or so to figure out how I really felt. I'm not promising anything here like someone could go from a frog to a prince with 2 Pats tickets, but I certainly would let you give me your best shot at changing my (then open) mind.


Monday, September 27, 2010

Normalcy Sucks.

Cosmopolitans. Good beer. My monthly women's magazines. Men's facial hair. Expensive leather interiors of expensive European cars. Bubble baths. Sunday football. Snakes. A few of my favorite things.

Writer's block. Or, more accurately, having absolutely nothing of interest to write about. Not one of my favorite things.

There comes a moment in your life when you've laid the past just enough to rest that you're more "more" over it than "less," and in a sort of gray-zone about where to go from there. This moment generally comes around when you've progressed to being friends with your ex; when you have decided that you are perfectly content with the way things are (for the most part); or when you've committed to keep sabotaging yourself or others for the stupid fun of it, but in a very small way. This moment is called A Love/Sex/Relationship Columnist's Nightmare.

I'm the sort of person who could never be happy in a perfectly functioning and progressing relationship. In order for me to remain happy and interested, there's always got to be some small level of drama-- something for me to tear apart over and over again in my head. Average just doesn't cut it for me. That's why I'm so notoriously picky. There aren't many guys who can keep THAT intrigue up. And when there is no drama, no intrigue, and no new news to report, it means that there is nothing for you to read.

So if you've noticed a downswing in the amount of content on this blog recently, sorry. I have no one, and nothing, to bitch about. Boo hoo. Normalcy sucks. I'll try to pick it up. Anyone know an attractive, emotionally unavailable, intelligent man with a casual style and psychological, misogynistic, and mommy issues with an charismatic and addictive personality who just happens to be misguidedly looking for the love that he will never be able to maintain? Kind of my specialty. (Not much of a specialty.) I need a project.

Or a new hobby, possibly less destructive than this.


Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The Morning After

By all rights, this poem belong over on Juxtaposition with the rest of the poetry and the experimental prose, but, because of the content and subject matter, I'm posting it here, instead.

This poem came into being after we read aubades, or "dawn songs," in my Reading and Writing Poetry class. An aubade is written by a lover regretting the coming day, and the separation it will bring from their beloved.

I think we all know how I feel about overly romantic crap.

One aubade, however, I liked because it was written by a man about lying in bed while his girlfriend takes a shower, and he thinks about her body, and sleeping in a little more, equally. Maybe it was the comfort of the poem-- the sense that you got that they'd been together long enough that she always gets up first to take her shower, and that he feels no stress in lounging around for a few more minutes-- that I liked, in a sincere contrast to the feeling that I'm used to most mornings upon waking up not in my own bed. So, to counter all these idealistic people in their comfortable relationships and long-term commitments, I wrote this:

"Your underwear
Are always the first thing to go missing,
Hiding under the bed,
Or tossed into some far corner.

He usually will get up first,
To make coffee, or go to the bathroom,
That is, if you aren't ashamed enough
To have snuck out during the early dawn light

You will have roughly 15 minutes
To regain some semblance of the well-pressed self-control
You had the night before,
Sans brush, and sans mirror.

His roommates will be moving noisily around,
With no clue or no care
That you might still be there.
They talk about eggs as you try to find all your rings,
Loose, like how you're feeling about your morals.

You hold your forehead,
Sneaking glances at him in Ray Bans and a Sox hat,
From in between your fingers
As he drives you home.
You wonder if he'll call again."


Monday, September 20, 2010

That's Life.

People love to be loved. It's strange, because right about the time you start trying to move the world for someone is usually right about the time in which they start trying to move away from you. I don't understand it-- we all profess to want nothing more in this world than to be loved and adored-- but it's true. It's been done to me, and I've most definitely also done it in return. Maybe it's the gravity of the situation. Maybe it's the fact we just don't know how to deal with it yet, emotionally stunted as we are.

It's impossibly easy after something like this to fall into the familiar Pit of Despair trap and become a miserable human being. It's impossibly easy to become moody and withdrawn, stop showering as often as is really socially accepted, and start self-medicating with alcohol, weed, what I fondly refer to as "suicide sticks" (otherwise known as cigarettes), and if you're feeling really low, you can go as far as consuming the cooking sherry and the bottle of wine with half a glass left that you opened for a house party over three months ago in "the better days" in a quest for something more than self-immolation.

Lord knows I have been caught in bed with the silty remnants of a bottle of wine at 10 AM.

But the thing that we don't tend to realize is that it's not a personal affront to US. WE are generally not the problem. I'm sure you're a perfectly lovely human being, once you, I don't know, maybe shower and shave and put on something other than the same shirt you've been wearing for the past 3 days, and it's probably not your fault that someone couldn't decide if they really wanted to be with you or not. IT'S THEM. I'm pretty sure that there are other people out there who would LOVE to be with you, and that they'd find your early smoker's cough and combative attitude charming.

So, Jesus Christ, stop acting like you're the only person who has ever had someone not fall completely in love with them, get your self-respect back, and stop spiking your afternoon coffee. Jesus. THAT'S LIFE. It sucks. It hurts. You're not the first, nor is this the last time you'll ever want someone who doesn't love you. And guaranteed, your spectacular sulk is not going to make you any more attractive.

Here are just a few things you can do to get over yourself:
- Take all your misguided self-loathing energy, and throw it into your friendships, because those are people who, believe it or not, still love you, irregardless of how infrequently you shower.
- Pick up a new book or hobby, preferably something very involved that doesn't leave much room for outside thought. "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace is a good book choice, as it's over 1,000 pages long and requires infinite patience to follow, and I've found that learning to play the guitar is a hobby conducive to narrowing your world down to just your fingers and the strings. Because even I cannot sing and play at the same time, and I've been singing for years and years and years.
- Get out of your apartment. Go see a movie. Go on a short trip.
- Do something for other people. Volunteer, donate, compliment someone, whatever. It'll give your self-esteem a boost.
- Cliche, but eat some ice cream. Dublin Mudslide is my feeling-sorry-for-myself ice cream of choice. Because, after all, Ben & Jerry are the only two men a woman can really trust to give her what she really wants.
- Cut off contact with the person who was too stupid to see how awesome you really are. Believe me-- you don't need them right now.
- Sleep with someone else. Just, you know, don't start using other people as a crutch. That's just not nice, either.

I hope that helps. Because if I have to see you feeling sorry for yourself one more time, by god, I will REALLY slap you across the face and be forced to break into "Intervention: The Musical." And if song and dance still does nothing to shock you out of it, then I don't know what will.

I'm not kidding. I've created a musical about this self-pity-party phenomenon.


Wednesday, September 15, 2010

The State Of Heaven On Union: Thoughts I'm Too Sick And Exhausted To Flesh Into Real Posts

I made one shady judgement call, and all I got was this stupid cold. Well, among with a few other things, but mostly, this stupid cold. Even my immune system is immune to some things. Fuck.

I'm never more on the fence about relationships than when I'm sick. First of all, I'm a huge baby about it, so I'm really glad no one romantically involved with me is usually around to see me in the same tank top and jeans for 3 days straight (after wearing said tank top to bed two nights in a row,) and whimpering softly like a hit puppy while rolling around on my bed amongst the used tissues.

On the other hand, I've decided that you really have to love and be committed to someone to want to be around them when they're sick. I mean, Jesus Christ, it's a marriage vow, for fuck's sake. But it still doesn't mean it's any sort of pleasant business. Case in point: I normally run an abnormally low body temperature around 96.8 degrees, but when I'm running a fever, I physically burn up while mentally registering that I'm chilled to the bone. And me and my sweaty/chilled body just want to be clooooooose to yoooooooou. Ick.

Times it's good to be single: Check. Because though I'm all about warning people when I'm sick so that they can keep their distance (unlike some, apparently), being with someone who doesn't want to be close to you when you're at your most degrading and disgusting (short of food poisoning, Montezuma' and the Chinese from last night's revenge, or childbirth,) is like being with a man who takes a shower after having sex with you. And doesn't invite you along.

...That's never actually happened to me, but it sounded really dramatic.

This is for all of you women out there who have not been invited along for after-sex showers. And all of you like mucous-addled poor souls out there. Being sick sucks. If anyone has good movies, extra body heat, or some Chinese Hot & Sour soup to deliver to this sad little address, I'd be indebted forever. Grazie mille.


Saturday, September 11, 2010

High Fidelity

I recently saw "Get Him To The Greek," and if you haven't, you really should. I mean, I can't be the only one who thinks that Russell Brand is the secret love-child of Jesus and Devendra Banhart. (Not only am I sure I just severely blasphemed, I also admitted I have a thing for odd men-- as previously stated, the Joker; my strange fixation with Ted Nugent-- I mean, really, THE NUGE--; and I would happily eat animal organ meat for the rest of my life and live in sinful bliss with Anthony Bourdain. Is my dating life really any wonder now?) ...And yes, I know this photo is from "Forgetting Sarah Marshall."

In any matter, it was a hilarious and poignant movie about the music industry. Scenes between Jackie (the salacious ex-girlfriend, played by Rose Byrne,) and Aldous (Brand basically playing himself,) were unexpectedly sweet and nouveau. In their relationship, Brand played the dweller, making nostalgic 3 AM phone calls and wanting to re-hash happier times. Losing his characteristic British snarl iconic in nearly all his scenes and interactions with Jonah Hill, he pleads, begs, wheedles, and waxes romantic to his ex, now living with Lars Ulrich, otherwise known as Metallica's drummer. I don't know. You may have heard of them.

In one scene, however, he and the recently broken-up-with Hill are discussing their respective relationships with women when after Brand's slam of the drudgery of monogamy, Hill brings up the fact that Brand spent 7 years with Jackie and professes to love her, yet was living the rock star lifestyle and banging nearly everything else in sight.

"No, I slept with other people, but I always told her about it," Brand says. "Monogamy!"

This line stopped me cold. Could this really be the evolving definition of monogamy in the 21st century? In the time of sleezy sleeping around and gray areas between friends and lovers and friend's lovers and what you said last month to your S.O changing to what tune you're singing this month, is monogamy really on the same out as BP's corporate team and last season's embellished shoulder trend?

Only less than 5% of all male animals in the world are actually monogamous. Off the top of my head, I can name penguins, wolves, bald eagles, beavers, and gibbons-- a very small, very cute monkey. At that rate, with 5 species down, it doesn't seem to bode well for us. Exactly, because the other 95%, including humans, are not naturally monogamous. Even wolves can stray from monogamy, though the alpha male of the back chooses one top bitch. But, just like in the animal kingdom, if you're not top bitch, you're fucked. Or rather, fucked over.

Let's have some more stats to back this up. How about:
- That the "sexual pursuit" part of a man's brain is two-and-a-half times bigger than a woman's. Hence the serial male dodging of monogamy.

But you know, it's not just all about the men. (After Tiger and Letterman and Jesse James and Bill Clinton and Michael Jordan-- YES. MICHAEL "AIR/SPACE JAM" JORDAN A CHEATER, and after all those fond childhood memories of him!--and Usher and Kobe Bryant and Jude Law and John Edwards and 3 of my exes, it can be hard to remember that they aren't the only sex.) Women cheat, too. Contributing this could be:

-That the more genetically diverse a woman is, the greater her number of partners will be. People are attracted to mates who are dissimilar to themselves (I know in the case I were to ever procreate, the father of my unborn children would need to have cheekbones and a chin genetically dominant enough to make up for my lack of both), so the more variation in a woman's DNA, the more appealing she is to a broader range of men. In humans, pedigree doesn't matter. We prefer good ol' Heinz 57 American mutts.

- That researchers have discovered that high levels of the hormone oestradiol make women more likely to cheat. Why? Because it apparently creates bigger breasts and smaller waists. As a result, these women tend to get more attention, and therefore, have more opportunities to stray. Now, I won't be shy. My 36C cups literally runneth over, and I have a 25-inch waist. That's an 11 inch disparity between my chest and the middle of my waist. That's nearly a foot. It may not be Jessica Rabbit proportions, but those are some curves. But despite all the "sexual opportunities" this presents for me, I still more or less manage to stay monogamous. So what's your excuse?

Regardless of how many facts can back it up, sentiments about monogamy or un-monogamy seem to remain the same, from men to women; to women and the Other Woman; to the way your and your friends discuss it. A letter to the editor of Glamour magazine from August 2009 charts the thought process that I guarantee you, is the same the world around, regardless of breast-to-waist ratio, ethnicity, hormone levels, or rock-star status: "Ten things that we are thinking when a guy cheats: 1. You have no self-control. 2. You have no willpower. 3. Well, obviously it just happened, you tripped over the rug and landed on her and...whoops! 4. You can't think with two heads at once. 5. You are a weak man. 6. No, hang on, you are not a man. 7. There are women who have the same sex drive you do-- but can actually control it. 8. Polygamy? Still not an excuse. 9. You are totally selfish. 10. Please bring her home and I'll make her dinner...laced with arsenic."-- Julie Worley

Which begs with the question: How do you deal with infidelity? Because I'm pretty sure the arsenic ploy can be considered Murder One, and though the sex may have been great, I highly doubt he's worth going to jail over.

So. Here are a few things that are perfectly within your rights if you find yourself in the unfortunate position of having found one of the 95% of living male organisms who think that sticking to one female is a waste of wild oats: Ask for answers, because you deserve them. Ask your S.O if they can understand how you feel, because dragging them over into your shoes makes them have to acknowledge the hurt that they caused you, and no one can be glib about that. KNOW you deserve better-- it's not your fault; it's theirs.

Meeting the Other Woman: It may happen. I know it's the stuff nightmares are made out of-- Will she be prettier than I am? Funnier? Smarter? More interesting? More outgoing? Have a better body? A better job? Better hair? A better smile?-- but if it happens, be NOTHING but nice. No cat-fights. No slapping and scratching. No hair-pulling. Know that she now has to deal with him, and that's not exactly a prize. If you want to say SOMETHING, a mild "I've heard so much about you," will suffice and let her know the jig is officially up.

I have one friend who was immensely surprised when a girl she didn't know existed contacted her and told her her boyfriend had also been sleeping with her. They ended up both dumping the chump and becoming great friends. A woman wrote an article for the July issue of Cosmopolitan about going home with a guy and finding another woman's new make-up remover in his bathroom. She left a note under the cap telling Make-Up Woman what her boyfriend had done and that she really should leave him, and peaced out herself. Men don't put enough stock in woman reaching out to each other.

I've become more or less Zen about this whole infidelity thing. The best advice I can give you is this: She is not a massive bitch. You are not a massive bitch, either. I highly doubt either of you is doing this to the other purposefully. Your common denominator, therefore, is the guy in the middle, the maestro to your diabolical little 3-part orchestra. That's the area you may want to apply some major thinking to, not another girl who may or many not even know if you exist. It's not worth your time, energy, or karma to hate on another victim if they're also innocent.


Friday, September 10, 2010

Intimidation Street

NEVER let someone run you out. The other day, I was at a friend's house when I was told after an incoming call that someone else was on their way. What was I supposed to do, run screaming and crying in fear the very moment her name reached my ears? Naw, I don't THINK so. As Lafayette would say, "Girlfriend, it ain't no thang." And it really ain't. Make the point that you could either A.) Not give less of a fuck, or B.) Pretend they don't exist by staying for another ten minutes as conversation naturally comes to a close and you're leaving on your own time, as opposed to being thrown out right on your ass in mid-sentence by the mere mention of another girl.


Monday, September 6, 2010

Rules of Attraction

I was recently at a friend's moving-away party, which was definitely more of a sausage-fest than an equal-opportunity kegger. Probably not surprisingly, this is exactly the way I usually like my parties-- heavy on the dudes, light on the other women. As I teared up while hugging my friend good-bye for probably the millionth time at 3 AM, I explained it to the girl behind him who was getting a kick out of my theatrics. "If one of my girls moves away, fine-- we'll talk, and hey, I'll see her later. But losing one of my boys is like losing a member of my family." Not having them around anymore is like a gaping hole in my life. Local anaesthesia just doesn't cut it.

But enough of the Kleenex-laden emotional bullshit. On with the stuff about sex. As a budding so-called "sexual anthropologist," the other nice thing about dude-parties is that they give you a chance to watch men in action as they try to pick chicks up-- sometimes, you being the bird, and sometimes, other women. Here are a few of the fail-proof tricks of the trade to keep an eagle-eye out for the next time you find yourself wondering if a guy's hitting on you, or if he's just seizing in your general direction:

- Male or female, if you're interested in someone, you turn your body in toward them. Women tend to point with their chests, because hey, that's where we have distracting goodies located, while men tend to point with their pelvises for the same reason. Elvis totally understood this rule.

- Take this one with caution: A man who'd feeling you (or who'd like to be feeling you up later,) will invade your personal space like nobody's business. Consider it a basic test-run to see if you have chemistry together. There are some people that I can't stand in the same room as, let alone next to, without feeling like there are sparks jumping off of my skin. Conversely, there are dead fish whose company I would feel more warmly about snuggling up to than some other people. You just can't fake attraction and chemistry. So if you're you're sharing the same airspace, take a moment to consider how you feel, because chances are, he's doing the same. HOWEVER. Drunk people also invade personal space because they don't know any better. As for drunk people who are attracted to you, just throw your hands up and assume both.

- Combining these last two hints, if you're worried that he's about to start dry-humping your leg because every time you breath out, you're smooshed together in a way that is not PG-13 and is basically sex while both of you are still wearing your jeans, it's either really packed in there and he'd rather touch you than the 250 pound dude with an "I Hate Mom" tattoo across his forehead who's behind him, or yes, he's hitting on you. If his belt-buckle is getting personal, he'd like to be, too.

- Everyone's favorite topic is themselves. If he's asking you 48 questions about yourself, he's trying to prove that he's really interested in YOU, not talking all about HIM. Though I'm sure he wouldn't object if you started asking him things about himself. It's called "good conversation," and most not totally socially-inept people find it very flattering.

- So your conversation has ended, and you've turned away to mingle with other people. You notice he's stayed put close by, and is alternately casually chatting with other people, or just, um...hanging. This one's sneaky: Now that you've moved on from him, he's watching to judge if you were really into him too, or if you were treating him the same way you treat everyone else. Women do this all the time, too. (Generality ahead, but backed with evidence as we notice when you do it, but I'm pretty sure you don't notice when we do it:) We just tend to be better at disguising what we're doing so it doesn't freak you the fuck out. Pouring a drink? Checking our phone? Talking in low voices with a friend? No, we're really not. Those are all things we could do with our brainstem unattached. We're really listening in and making furtive glances in your general direction to keep tabs on you, while being as least creepy as possible. (I just royally broke Girl Code in divulging that and probably just shot myself in the foot, but bahhh. It's a random Monday in the Writing Center, and I'm bored.) No one likes looking up to see someone boring holes into them with their eyes from across the room. Unless you find that sort of thing hot, which it can be, unless you look like Jack Nicholson in "Wolf."


Thursday, September 2, 2010

The Little Things, AKA: Why Do Men Hate Mirrors?

I know I'm incredibly self-righteous and preach about the benefits of making an Overnight Kit, and just ever-so-recently made a comment about how it would be really smart to carry one whenever you leave your house, among other things. But as you should know by now, I only do what I tell other people they should be doing about .012% of the time. And it seems to me as if every time you shave, put on the good lingerie, and bring the damn thing, you never end up with a reason for needing to shave, wear the good lingerie, and bring the damn bag, because you find yourself walking through your front door at a respectable early-morning hour grumbling about how that was a shave completely wasted. In fact, I actually have a card somewhere that says exactly that-- "Was it worth shaving her legs for?"

So, how does a girl deal when she does not have the needed amenities?

Well, first, we hide in bed and bitch, and consider crawling out your
window and over the dumpsters and hightailing it out before you roommates clap eyes on us and start shrieking about "Swamp woman! Tia Dalma has come to exact her revenge! Calypso! We're all gonna diiiieeeee!"

Then, we get crafty. I don't understand why men have an aversion to mirrors that rivals that of vampires, but it seems like they do. In the morning, I need to look at my head before I walk out of ANY door, be it a bedroom door, or a front door. This goes double for when it's hot, I've been sweating, and I'm pretty sure something nested in my hair during the night, like possibly, your cat, or a cockroach. Although I have heard some pretty creative and far-out excuses for why mirrors are not a part of the decor-- "I usually have my webcam in here and use that,"-- most people DO have something on them that's of equal use: the shiny, reflective screen of your cell phone. Granted, anyone with a slab-like Smart Phone has an advantage, and yes, the screen is small, so you'll have to inspect your hair and face in sections, but it works in a pinch. And believe me, this is one case in which you're not being pinched-- you're being grabbed.

The other thing I've noticed is that toothpaste, or a tube that doesn't require two people and a steam roller to get any gel out, seems to be a rare find. So here's another quick fix that can be found in most non-prepared purses, anyway: Gum. Just, please, if you're going to kiss goodbye, remember it's still in your mouth before that poor guy finds himself wondering a half-hour later when he popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

The only other words of advice I can give you are these: Use toilet paper to remove any excess make-up from the night before while keeping what's still good and hasn't run like a man who just heard the word "love" on your face. What's making you look like Gene Simmons in full stage make-up is most probably your eyeliner, falsely-labeled-not-waterproof-or-at-least-sweatproof mascara, and lipstick. Just use that as a guideline to swipe around your eyes and mouth for when you're mirror-challenged.

And, get dressed as much as possible. I mean, yeah-- if you were wearing a skin-tight clubbing dress the night before, people are gonna notice you traipsing back home at 9 AM. (And dammit, I don't care how much your feet hurt-- put the damn heels on again; don't carry them!) Just hold your head high. Pretend it's Vegas where dressing like that in early morning hours is perfectly acceptable. If you originally dressed more understated, re-create the outfit to the best of your abilities, if you can still find all your clothing on the messy floor or in the black hole under the bed. Chances are, anyone other than your one-night roommate and their roommates who saw you in what you were wearing last night aren't going to be seeing you this morning, so pretend that it's a totally valid new outfit that you put on specially for today. This means putting all your jewelry back on, tucking in your shirt again, and unrolling your pant legs. Just do it. You won't look so much like "Oops, Annie Get Your Clothes On! I Know Where You Were And Weren't Expecting To Be Last Night!" to everyone who sees you. Instead, they'll probably just think-- "She looked so well put-together until I got closer and noticed her hair. Poor girl. Should I try to comfort her and tell her that the starting phases of dreadlocks are a bitch?"

And can I please get some feedback on the phenomenon of how when you're ready for it, it never happens, but when you're all, "Jesus, I'm such a landscaping wreck, not even a Lowe's employee would want to rehab me, LOLZ!", you get hit out of nowhere like a freight train carrying a full load of "Don't You Feel Stupid Now?" Or am I alone and special-in-the-handicapped-way in that?


Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Train Wrecks and Re-Doing Old Mistakes

"It's not good for me, but I want it."

It's probably the motto of my life. Everything, nearly everything I prefer the hard way, be it jobs, plans, or men. I have been known to end relationships that were "too easy." I've also been known to completely scorn the conventional way of doing something because it's too tried and true and lacking in excitement. But it's perfectly fine with me if I turn my life upside-down and bassakwards going after something slightly dangerous, more than stupid, and highly unobtainable.

"Sometimes I feel like my friends are my teenage daughters," I told my mom the other day. "They're doing all these things that just aren't smart, and I want to help them so bad, but then I realize they have to figure it out for themselves in order to learn anything. It's just so painful."

My mom lived through her 16 year old daughter cohabitating with a 24 year old dude. My mom knows where I'm coming from, and has put up with much worse. My mom said the same thing that she said to me when she watched me barrel out the front door with overnight bags: "It's their train wreck, and they have to figure it out for themselves."

We can see a friend's train wreck coming from a mile away and preach and preach and preach until we turn red and run out of breath, but when it comes to our own ongoing mistakes, we're deaf, blind, and dumb. Why can't any of us get out of our own way?

I have a theory. And it goes like this: Secretly-- like how we'll pour over our pores for hours behind the safety of our bathroom door, or how we believe that curling our hair and using hairspray makes up for not washing our hair-- we like it that way. I'm not 100% happy unless I have something to mull and churn over and over and over and over and over again in my head, like a washer of self-destructive tendencies on spin-cycle. And I've been told more and more recently that other people are exactly the same way. Maybe the perks that came with this highly-evolved human brain are just too prone to being used for obsession, over-analyzation, and drama than good.

Oh, and as for that whole "learning from your mistakes" thing? Bullshit. I'm still re-making the same mistakes. And I'm still just as happy trying to rectify them, the hardest ways possible.