Monthly Archives: August 2011
I am attracted to exceedingly unbalanced people. Of the shamefully large amount of men I have made acquaintance with in the past year, 76% of them have had a sordid history with drugs/alcohol, clinical depression, or an unsettling fetish, 20% have had either small hands, poor vocabulary, or unpleasant speaking voices, and 4% have caused me to act like a psychopath, with their uncanny ability to make me laugh but greater tendency to make me cry. I know. Would I like some cheap sex with that wine? I need a bitch slap straight to the ovaries.
Needless to say, I have questionable taste. It’s not like I intentionally date felons or short-fingered girly men. I just allow my self-involved nature and excuse of looking for a rebound to justify the fact that I am open-minded enough to go out with all types of people, but ultimately too close-minded to take 96% of them seriously. I also can’t spell the word tomorrow without spell check and I still wear a retainer a few nights a week. My roast starts at 9:00. Thanks.
All of this being said, I have discovered that it is incredibly unlikely that there is any man born after 1980 that possesses the six characteristics of my future ex husband. So, I can either:
- Become a spinster with a fish bowl full of piranhas and a strong attraction to long underwear.
- Open my heart to people who do not meet these requirements but still allow me some sort of happiness.
I am opting for option B, not because the dull ache of my perpetual loneliness keeps me up at night, but because I don’t really think an unmarried woman can truly be considered a spinster until the age of 27. As you can see, I got this.
With this decision in place, I have taken it upon myself to brainstorm some categories of individuals from which I will find my prospective soul mate. These are what I have come up with so far:
A shocking 3% of the pie chart of my heart is dedicated to Craig Ferguson, the late night beast with whom I have been in mild love since 1999. His middle-aged perviness and haphazard comedy make me swoon like a Scottish school girl. Plus, he is attracted to fat girls with stretch marks, as discussed in one of his comedy specials I forget the name of due to fainting. Can you say score?
I’d also like to bed David Letterman. That’s all I have to say about that.
2. Recently injured college athletes
The first week of my freshman year of college was a blur. Finding classes, meeting professors, learning how to flush tampons without clogging the dorm toilets. I was bright-eyed and idealistic, with rosy cheeks and fresh implants, ready to conquer the world with my socially awkward approach to making friends that included walking in on girls in the shower and the “Random Facebook Add.”
The “Random Facebook Add” or the “RFA” otherwise known as the “Reluctant Forced Acquaintanceship” is a tool used by college freshmen in an effort to build the ever important network of co-ed “friends.” While others in my dorm used this to connect with their roommates and future frenemies, I had other plans. I was going to “RFA” every member of the college baseball team.
Dignity dismissed, I was out of control! It didn’t matter what the guy looked like or if he even knew my name. I went all night. One after another, back to back, I didn’t care. My roommate tried to stop me, convince me to have a little self control. I couldn’t. The slutty can of worms was open, and I RFAed like it was paying my bills.
Morning after I woke with a shame deeper than what my father feels after reading each blog entry (love you, dad!). But quickly I realized that not only did all of them accept my RFA, but one even poked me! My cheeks are still flushed from the incident.
For a few days I felt hopeful that all of my meaningless RFAs would pay off and I would soon settle with a borderline attractive sub par baseball player of average height and substantial wealth. This, needless to say, did not happen. Why? Because college athletes want to date trampy girls with back tattoos of butterflies, not 18 year old virgins who plan to stay that way until the right guy comes along and offers them free Maroon 5 tickets. So for a long time I gave up the dream.
It was only while brainstorming this deeply profound and life affirming blog entry that I realized I went about this all wrong! Why was I going for actual college athletes, with self confidence and other better looking sexual prospects to choose from, when there were plenty of discarded, recently injured, reject athletes no one wanted? No friends – no girls – no scholarships – no problem!
3. Disney-animated canines
They say you never forget your first love. I know this to be true. Year after year since I was a wee lass with curly blond pigtails and the mouth of a sailor, I have pined over my first love. A love so great, pure, and filled with my passionate lust for communism that I would be willing to commit to an interspecies affair if it meant all of my romantic intentions could finally be fulfilled. I am referring, of course, to Disney’s very foxy Robin Hood.To this day, he is the hottest thing I have ever seen.
As a runner up for my affections, I must admit I’d also chop off my right arm to be with the Tramp of Lady and. Not only is a he a dirty bad boy that in one of the most underrated film shower scenes of all time, teases his female audience with a quickie train station wash, but he is a straight up P.I.M.P. There’s an entire song dedicated to his bad ass womanizing ways.
4. Women I’ll go after if I am ever bi-curious
If all else fails, I think I will be left with no other option than to embrace my inner lesbian and say “hi” to my “bi.” Now settle down you liberal, commy, sons o’ bitches. I ain’t sayin’ it’s a choice. I do however think that everyone has a little bit of homoeroticism buried deep in their tightie-whitie closet. I don’t know a single woman who does not enjoy staring at, grabbing, or talking about another woman’s boobs or bum. Perhaps it is due to a competitive spirit OR (gasp) it is because of some slight nerve tingling attraction no one wants to acknowledge for fear of sounding like Lady Gaga.
That being said, it’s pretty easy for me to provide a list of ladies I’d lez it up for.
Obviously, I have higher standards for women than I do for men.
I am mentally exhausted.
If I can’t settle down with one of these completely unrealistic options than I am buying stock in Cold Water Creek and heading to the aquarium.
Open to suggestions, comments, and general criticisms of my character.
The girl who frequently confuses the letter “f” with the number 5
WARNING: This blog contains serious bitterness regarding love. If you are recently betrothed or awaiting a wedding day, I advise you go back to doodling “Mrs. ______” on your notebook, before you go f*** yourself.
At some point in every woman’s life, she begins to formulate an image of her ideal man. For several pre teen years, my ideal mate was a healthy blend of Milo Ventimiglia and Eminem. I was happy skating through middle school with these expectations, imagining that some day when I was really old, like 17, I would meet Eminemilo waiting in line at some hip downtown club and would woo him with my intellect, wit, and overly developed breasts. Realistic and classy.
It was around this time that my dreams and expectations were shattered. SHATTERED. For this was 2001 when the band Lifehouse first got radio play. Enter: “Hanging By a Moment.”
“I’m falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I’ve held onto….
….And I don’t know what I’m diving into
Just hanging by a moment here with you”
That bullshit f***ed me up more than my parent’s divorce and the time the church Santa Clause called me fat. WTF Jason Wade? Your phony lyrics, equivalent to the creepy poetry exchanged by teenage lesbians, completely obliterated all realistic expectations I had of love. I remember my sister and I lying on our beds in our shared bedroom at my father’s house, talking about how “cute” the lyrics were, how “sweet” the singer must be and about how “sexy” his voice was. Because at that time all it took for a man to be “sexy” was a body weight of 120+ pounds and the ability to profess his undying love to teenage girls through radio waves.
As if those stirrings of emotional confusion were not enough, Lifehouse released yet ANOTHER song containing even greater fabrications about relationships. Enter “Breathing”.
“I am hanging on every word you say
And even if you don’t want to speak tonight
That’s alright, alright with me
‘Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside Heaven’s door and listen to you breathing
Is where I want to be”
What? NO ONE FEELS THAT WAY! You can’t drill these thoughts into a little girl’s head, using pop melodies sang/whispered by pretty boy front men through four foot speakers at middle school dances, where the only person without a dancing partner is the chubby blond girl in the corner reading “Pride and Prejudice” because she’s “different.” NO! It’s worse than sexting! This causes permanent damage to the maturity of whatever part of the brain controls our ideas about romance.
But time passed and while I never did get over these fantasies about love, songs by Nelly and 50 Cent evened the curve by teaching me that some men just want to see you “shake it so they can see your thong.” This, as degrading and objectifying as it is, is actually realistic.
But then came 2004, my sophomore year of high school. Fifteen, spritely with a D cup, I had it all! Except my one true love. Enter: Ryan Gosling.
Ryan Gosling. What is there to say about Ryan Gosling that hasn’t already been said? Vision of perfection? Sure. Symbol of truth and romance all men should aspire to? Maybe. I could shower this man with accolades and relentless affection for the rest of my life and it would still not be enough. Why? Noah mother-f***in Calhoun!
Ok, so maybe Ryan Gosling didn’t personally ruin my life. But his portrayal of Noah in the “The Notebook” is single-handedly the most unrealistic, unattainable, fantasy any woman could ever hope for. He wrote her every day for a year? WHAT? He rebuilt the house just to win her back? NO ONE DOES THAT! He can’t give his whole heart to the sad widow because he is too broken? THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN!
Ryan Gosling, Noah, and this movie are complete false advertising and here is why:
- The boy you fall in love with at 17 doesn’t look like that.
- At 24, the boy you fell in love with at 17 doesn’t look like that.
- No man will ever love you that much.
You don’t believe me? Well ask yourself this. Where are these men? I am 23 years old and all I have is an addiction-prone ex husband and 50 pounds of baggage in the form of belly fat and cellulite hanging off my stumpy body. I don’t have any love letters or lakefront homes with private porches where I can paint in the nude. No. All I have is a slew of insecurities about the male speed of response to a text message and whether or not I am more attractive to the male population with straight or curly hair.
But it is not all men’s fault. I am, admittedly, an emotional train wreck that makes Octo-mom look like a perfectly functioning member of society. I either have zero feelings for men who really like me or explosive feelings for men who really don’t. So I think if it is any one’s fault it is Lifehouse and the Ryan Gosling/Nicholas Sparks team. My formative teen years were not spent learning that men use emotional manipulation tactics to sleep with you or that if they really like you they will contact you, regardless of how many days it has been since you last met. They were spent as a sponge, soaking up the lies about love and romance we are fed to make us believe that one day Ryan Gosling will sing to you while you dance in the middle of the street and that he won’t know why he can’t take his eyes off of you.
All I can say is this. Be wary ladies and gay men. Be wary of Lifehouse songs and Ryan Gosling.
The girl with intentions of adopting a baby and becoming a lesbian
After four weeks of eating a diet of freezer pops and Panera Bread smoothies, sleeping until noon, and watching marathons of “Ice Loves Coco” I have finally found employment. Don’t ask me how or why any intelligent businessman would think it a wise decision to hire my miscreant self, but in the same respect of Seal scoring Heidi Klum
for a wife, I’d rather not question the seemingly impossible. Now, a week and a half into my employment as an Admissions Rep (or “coach” as my bizie-nass card reads) at a local school I am finding time to reflect on my self as a person. So today on my 30 minute lunch break, I give you the three self realizations of the day:
1. When I eat an apple, peach, or any other fruit requiring I bite into it with great force, I get a little red mark under my bottom lip. It’s like a mini hickey from sucking too much fruit face. Now I am forced to apply cover up and walk around all day trying to avoid looking like the victim of a recent herpes contraction.
2. I have an addictive personality, best depicted by my over consumption of Emerald brand almonds and Ice Breakers sugar free mints. Such weakness proved evident in a morning meeting. I was sitting down with a new student and her mother, filling out enrollment forms. Not underway even five minutes and my lips began to curl, salivating, pleading with me to part them with the cool, minty freshness of a winter green tablet so powerful in its momentary glory yet so regrettable with permanent longing, it ought be contained in a syringe instead of a ½ inch green cylinder.
Answering questions, nodding politely, I tried to remain cool. Confident. Cannot let my true colors show until financial aid is dispersed. I smiled kindly at the mother/daughter duo, and reached slyly across the desk, grasping the container with my grubby fingers. Sliding it closer to me, a feeling of panic began to rise in my chest. Why is it so light? I pulled the container onto my lap, beaming a reassuring smile to my ignorant audience, and shook it. Nothing. No clinking of candies, no clattering of minty crystals.
The Sound of Silence.
Holding my morning breath I clicked the case open, revealing to my eyes what my heart already knew. Empty. Desperate for someone, anyone, to understand what I was going through, I began to tell the mother my story. Bought the container of 51 mints last Thursday, now on Tuesday am all out. Canyou believe it?! My eyes and hands scanned my desk in search of any latchkey mints as the mother giggled, unsure of whether to laugh or cry.
“I just love them. I ate them all this week,” I laughed, suffocating an oncoming sob. She looked at the container, then looked at me, and said profoundly,
“That’s a lot of mints.”
3. I rarely urinate. At my old job I used to use the restroom, on average, 11 times a day. I’d wash my hands, pick at my eyelashes, adjust my boobs – anything to fill the allotted time people expect you to take when going to the bathroom. It didn’t matter how much work I had to do (none) or how often I actually had to use the facilities (maybe twice a day) I was there as often as possible to avoid the cubicle. Now, in my new position, with my own office and higher salary, I find that my lack of daily urination has allowed me to not only sit for longer periods of time without moving, but also to actually get work done! Which is perfect, because as much as I hate the corporate America brainwash I underwent the moment I learned my new salary, I actually like this job. I know. I need to spray paint the bathroom or steal my own wallet or something. Kill me.
Perhaps more self realizations will come. Perhaps they will not. Perhaps I will give up writing forever in pursuit of a career in higher education. Perhaps I will model for Hustler. Which is more likely? You tell me.
Happy Tuesday, everyone.
The girl with unavoidable eye contact and a twitching right lid
Who: Me, starring as a carefree party animal of today and classy professional woman of tomorrow
Where: Hip/young apartment complex in middle Tennessee
When: Standing still, if only for a moment while I live my young life to the fullest – eh hem, night
With fervor for life and a carefully composed “sext” in draft waiting to be sent to my puka-shell wearing love interest Brett, I jaunted through the door of the on-site laundry facilities at my hip/young apartment complex, and out into my oyster world. Mesh pop-up hamper in hand, because I’m far too youthful to be dragged down by some dowdy wicker basket, I was met by the overwhelming certainty that it is only when you are young and borderline-attractive, that life is worth living.
Just as my mental focus shifted from thoughts of gin body shots to how to get the perfect Snooky poof, the scent of Downy April Fresh dryer sheets permeated by nostrils. Overwhelming to my senses, I feared I might trip over my toe ring and scrape my fresh spray tan on the hip/young pavement outside the building. Utilizing chic yoga breathing methods I regained my
balance. Carefree and reckless, I shrugged the incident off with a giggling sigh. Silly, me. Just enjoying my youth too much!
As I skipped back to my apartment, limber in limbs and life, I felt a slight tickling sensation in my left nostril. The scent of Downy had not run away with my dreams and wild imagination, but had instead initiated some sort of Rave in my nose. Always ready for a party, I welcomed the sensation with a double-handed finger heart formation, and began to think of all the positive, life-affirming tweets I could send to my peeps when I finally returned to my iPad.
But as I took my first step onto the
sidewalk outside of my building, the Downy took over me like the recreational line of coke I did earlier with my friend, Bella. Suddenly my body was in the hands of God, my muscles tensing, and my eyes closing, unable to avoid the inevitable.
What just happened?
I stood still on the pavement in a silent terror, the only sound my Katy Perry ringtone indicating the start of the newest episode of Jersey Shore. But I could focus on “the shore” no more. There was wetness. A minimal, miniscule, barely noticeable feeling of wetness. Had I…? I looked down at my terry cloth shorts. I couldn’t have…
Anxious, I rushed into my apartment, dropping my keys and running to the bathroom. I pulled my leopard-print thong down to my knees, revealing not only my stunning bikini wax, but a slight trace of urine on the white padding of my panties.
“Well, ‘you’re-in’ trouble now, generic Generation Y-er,” I whispered, dramatically to myself. “Today you are, as they say, 23 going on 90.”
The girl who wants to dance with no pants on, Holla!
It is a scientific fact that every 3.2 seconds, some woman, somewhere, is lying about something.* I know this sounds like a line lifted from the personal journal of some whiny man child who dots his “i’s” with teardrops, but as a typical female with no identifying personality traits of my own, I can confirm its truth.
It’s not that we as a breed are intentionally dishonest. It’s that we justify our bad behavior by “tweaking” the truth to align with our personal agendas. But as dejected as the male population may feel after a metaphoric kick in the nuts by some gal, too entangled in her own mental incapacities to be honest, women are generally the victims of their own self-imposed tall tales.
So with that I bring you “The Top Five Most Common Lies Women Tell Themselves,” as told by me – a woman who has told herself each of these at least twice in the last week.
- I am fat
This is not always a lie. In my case it never is. However, it is not anatomically possible that I am fatter today than I was yesterday. It is also equally unlikely that the stranger sitting in traffic next to me is snickering to his grandfather, napping in the passenger’s seat, that I should not be taking a sip of my water because even that has too many calories for someone as fat as me. Most of the time, people really don’t care about how fat we are. We tell ourselves they do to justify all the bad things we think about ourselves. All women do this.
- I am thin
This is not always a lie. In my case it always is. As addressed in previous entries, I am in the process of losing weight. This means my weight is constantly fluctuating depending on the day, time, and whether or not I’ve taken a dump. Every so often during this process, I get on the scale and see a weight so much lower than what I am used to, that I, with the common sense of a heroin addict, justify eating an entire container of Ben and Jerry’s Red Velvet Cake Ice Cream as a reward for my weight loss. Is there any logic in this behavior? Do I even need to answer this rhetorical question?
I am not the only woman who does this. Recent Facebook status postings by acquaintances I haven’t spoken to since 1996, tell me that summer is indeed the time for “big girls” to flaunt their “curves,” and the general public is not having it. Said Facebook posting referred to a sighting of some hefty woman and her affinity to bikinis. During a recent, much avoided trip to Wal-Mart, I witnessed a similar sighting of a 300 pound lady wearing booty shorts and a pastel camisole so transluscent you could read the horoscope spelled out in her stretch marks.
I cannot be sure that this frequent occurrence of heavy women in small clothing is an issue of women thinking they are thin when they are not, but I do know that is the impression that it gives. There is nothing wrong with being confident, but dressing for your body type is important at any size. Let’s be real. Ass cleavage is obnoxious whether you are 120 pounds or 320 pounds. There is just more of it when you are the latter.
- He likes me/He doesn’t like me
I am saying this more in reference to women 30 or younger who still think it is cute to dirty talk in baby voice and ask their boyfriends if they are pretty mid penetration. Both of these lies are utilized most often by women who over analyze EVERY.SINGLE.THING.A.MAN.DOES.
-We normally talk on the phone every night for 30 minutes, but tonight he hung up after 10. Is he breaking up with me?
-He said he needed space, but I think he’s just insecure about my feelings for him. Maybe I should show up at his place with fresh-baked cookies and a hand-written poem.
These are just some of the crazy, delusional thoughts every woman has at some point in her life and unfortunately I am not immune. Since moving to Tennessee four weeks ago, I have made acquaintance with five different gentlemen with whom I have varying levels of romantic interest. One has become a good friend, one has an unhealthy power over my ability to think logically, one is someone I do not care if I ever see again, one makes me very happy, and one is so sweet I want to off myself. Experiences with these men have insighted so many irrational thoughts, I am half inclined to strip myself of the feminist label I have had since I was 6 and deem that “I was asking for it” every time a guy prematurely loses interest in me.
- It’s not too soon in a relationship to have sex
If you have to tell yourself this, you know it is a lie. But women use it to justify their libido and avoid feeling like a whore. Because in American society, women aren’t really allowed to be horny without planning a wedding and picking out baby names first. So this lie can unfortunately lead to the previous, as it can result in a woman convincing herself that a relationship is more serious than it is and therefore projecting her neurotic insecurities onto a person who just wanted to have sex with someone other than himself. I blame God, HBO, and Obama. Because blaming Bush is too obvious a pun.
- I can afford this
Let’s be honest, women are pretty amazing. We can indicate romantic interest with a well-executed hair flip, convey our loathing for you with mono-syllabic words like “fine”, and afford anything we want, regardless of our income. Want to know how? Women are masters of prioritization.
I spent the month of July unemployed. But that didn’t stop me from spending $24 on Panera Bread smoothies last week. Even as I wear my last pair of 2 week contacts for the 6th week in a row because of the excuse that I “can’t afford more,” I drink a $4 Java Mint Mocha. Why? Because I really don’t care about the health of my corneas as much as I want to indulge in a frozen beverage in a brand new pair of leopard print flats. It’s not endearing and it’s not cute, but as a 23 year old woman who can’t balance her checkbook, it is a reality.
Now it’s your turn. What lies do you tell yourself every day, to justify your own bad behavior? Comment, email, and share it. Or just say that you will.
The girl who prefers the word “fib”
*Please note, this is not an actual statistic but rather a fabricated number created to add authority and decimal related humor to an otherwise yawn worthy blog entry. Thank you for even reading this far.