Relationships are tough. If they weren’t, there would be a lot less Broken Condom Baby Traps (BCBT) plotted each year.
I don’t know what that is.
I’ve had my share of fecal abundant relationships in recent years, many of which I have spouted off about in this very blog. Evidently, accusations of slander and threats to my personhood mean nothing to me because I am about to do it again. For those of you who do not spend your free time in the tree outside my window, I will give you a little back story on my current “involvement,” (thanks MS Word thesaurus! ;))
In mid-January, I found myself lonely and searching for love, just as I have the last 23 years of my life. Late night webcam conversations with hot foreign dudes and slightly homosexual thoughts about Amanda Seyfried ceased to keep me warm at night, so I decided to try “dating” again. I met the gentleman in question, we’ll call him Walter Von Trapp…
Gerard. There we go.
I met Gerard in mid-January. We had a very nice first date of sushi and abundant conversation. I was pleased to learn that like myself, he too talks during movies so much it made the black people behind us look shy. I was diggin’ it. But then 3-4 (who’s counting) weeks passed and I, being my neurotic, emotionally retarded self, avoided any face to face interaction with my potential boo (thanks Urban Dictionary!).
He addressed my obvious problems, things worked out, and we went out a few more times. He made Valentine’s Day dinner, gave me the flu before I went away, and organized a bitchin’ weekend in Philadelphia after I got home. So yeah, things sound pretty great. On the surface.
If there is one thing I have learned from my perpetual romantic misery it’s that legitimate relationships suck the life out of you. If they don’t something is clearly wrong. So to work through my concerns I have decided to analyze all of the reasons my new relationship is shitter-bound.
1. No signs of schizophrenia –It has been almost two months of involvement and I have yet to stab myself with an umbrella or dry heave “I Will Survive” out of frustration with my partner’s mental incapacities. He’s normal and I don’t know how to deal with it. It may seem like a good thing that he doesn’t own a collection of straight jackets or have a human doll fetish, but this presumed normalcy makes me a little uncomfortable. After all, if he’s mentally stable, how will he deal with me when I reveal my inner psycho, cutting off contact for three days after having a dream that he cheated on me, or bursting into tears during America’s Next Top Model? I’m afraid. Very afraid.
2. Girly Body Wash – Though our Philadelphia weekend was indeed bitchin’ I learned something about Gerard I’d rather not know. Since we were staying in a hotel when I got up for my morning shower, I was unfortunately unable to rifle through his personal belongings like I would had we been at his place. In desperation I did the next best thing and perused his shower accessories. Though I was happy to see that he is anything but hygienically-challenged, I was slightly horrified at one particular discovery: Apricot Orange body wash.
Everyone who knows me knows I could never seriously date a man who uses body wash. I like my men really rugged, and hairy, and dirty, and irrationally masculine. The kind that picks up my loofa and asks if it’s a tampon. You know what I’m saying? No? Ok.
I spent my shower time brainstorming various digs. Various comments that could emasculate him even more than the use of Apricot Orange body wash. But I could think of nothing so extreme so I decided to drop it. Unfortunately for Gerard, my wits only temporarily escaped me and I spent the rest of our time together berating him. Amazingly enough, he still wants to see me.
Maybe I should just let this one go.
3. He’s baselessly supportive of me – Unlike previous fellas who told me things like “you weren’t funny until you met me,” Gerard seems to be convinced that I had a personality prior to meeting him. I’m not sure where he gets this idea since everyone knows women aren’t capable of formulating thoughts independent of their male counterparts, but his insistence that I am “witty” and “amazing” and a “good writer,” tells me he must have ulterior motives of some kind. Perhaps he is plotting a BCBT. It’s really impossible to say. All I know is you can’t trust a guy who doesn’t try to belittle you at every opportunity. It’s just not normal.
Since I’m not in the business of predicting the future, outside of telling others that theirs is doomed, I am not going to say whether or not this relationship will last much longer than my next period. But things have been good so far and if my top three concerns are any indication of how little is actually wrong, it’s safe to say it’ll probably be awhile until I post another hopelessly bitter blog about broken hearts and Ryan Gosling. So in the meantime I can only hope that the rest of my life crumbles around me so I have something else to write about.
Until next time, stay ugly so I feel pretty.
The girl with a crush on the All State raccoon.
I once had a date at a Waffle House. I know what you’re thinking. Waffle House is the perfect mixture of class and trash, with the type of dreamy atmosphere only a true romantic like Scott Peterson could appreciate. Nevertheless, I was living in Tennessee where I knew few people and was somewhat desperate for any peer-to-peer interaction, outside of the confines of my apartment complex’s laundry room. I had been up all night, solitarily working through a bottle of wine and watching “Superbad” on FX for the second time in a row. So when “he”, we’ll call him Bernard , contacted me to see if I wanted to go out, my slightly inebriated self, agreed. We texted for awhile and determined that there are not many reputable establishments still open at 4am. So he suggested Waffle House.
We met around 4:30, where I had a single order of hash browns, and he a sausage concoction with a yellow substance, hardly recognizable as eggs. We laughed, we talked, he told me I was sassy, I told him he talked funny. Great times. But when the bill came, things got…awkward.
Discount-Dining with Bernard A Dramatic Scene
Stunningly, beautiful twenty-something woman, LENA sits at a booth, with below-average twenty-something man, BERNARD. They are laughing and flirting, enjoying their spontaneous date. STEREOTYPICAL SOUTHERN WAITRESS approaches.
STEREOTYPICAL SOUTHERN WAITRESS: Ya’ll best be payin’ this here bill. Ya’ll holler at me when ya’ll got ya’ll money ready, ya’ll.
In all of his Southern manliness, BERNARD grasps the bill. LENA begins to dramatically shuffle through her purse, making evident her lack of gold digger intentions, while pretending to search for her wallet.
LENA: How much is it?
LENA: Now that’s a cheap meal!
BERNARD, LENA, and CHORUS: Hahahahahahahahaha
Taking notice of BERNARD’s concentrated stare, LENA stops her phony search.
BERNARD: You got this right?
LENA: The bill?
LENA: Are you serious?
BERNARD: I don’t have any money on me.
BERNARD shrugs, as if on cue for a sitcom laugh track. But no laugh track comes, and the CHORUS is unresponsive.
LENA: What do you mean you don’t have any money?
BERNARD: I left my wallet in the car.
LENA: So you didn’t have to pay?
LENA visibly ponders her next move, scratching her chin, and squinting her eyes.
LENA: You said it’s in the car?
BERNARD: Yeah, but…
LENA: I’ll wait.
LENA crosses her arms and leans back in the booth. BERNARD stares at her, forehead wrinkled in shock. Awkward silence prevails, and LENA, in her lack of shame, allows it to continue in the direction of discomfort.
BERNARD: You have money right here. You really want me to go get it?
After another minute of increasingly uncomfortable eye contact, BERNARD sighs, angrily, and exits the restaurant. A minute later he returns and pays the bill. As BERNARD and LENA part ways he said he would call, she laughs, and they never speak again.
Now, to clarify. I am not the type of girl, who thinks a man always has to pay, though I do appreciate the tradition. I am however, the type of girl, who thinks a man who intentionally goes out of his way to avoid paying, is the type of man who should. I have never gone on a date without my wallet, with the assumption that the man will pay. But let’s face it, he always does. In fact, unless I insist on splitting it, I don’t think I have ever gone on a date where the guy didn’t insist on paying. My brother, a man, once told me to “take advantage of being a girl and enjoy free meals.” This is what I, and many girls, generally do.
However, today while sitting at a local bistro drinking a self-purchased coffee, I scoured a Yahoo Article about a woman who used match.com to secure enough dates, to pay for her meals for a month. My initial reaction was something like “damnnnn gurl, straight up trippin!” But after fifteen seconds of consideration, I was more like “dammn &*%$@#, straight up &*%$@#!!!!”
According to the article, the “woman” is receiving both praise and criticism for her sleazy, backhanded approach to personal finance. While as a woman, I can see the appeal of doing this, as a feminist who also happens to love men to a fault, I find it obnoxious and totally arrogant for the following reasons:
- Tradition is not an opportunity for freeloading. When a man pays for dinner, he is gambling on getting something in return, whether it be sex or just a second date. While you don’t necessarily owe him this just because he paid for dinner, it is understood that he isn’t paying so you can maintain your generic, twenty-something female lifestyle of weekly spray tanning and daily $8 Starbucks purchases.
- Tradition is not an opportunity to pay off debt. According to the article, this woman was a twenty-three year old New York City resident, with credit card debt and high rent. She developed this plan so she did not have to pay for meals and could pay off her debt sooner. While I appreciate her reasoning, I don’t appreciate the fact that she is leeching off of other people to do it. Though I have no qualms with actual prostitution (work it girl), I find this approach unapologetically scum-sucking. They are your bills. If you can’t pay your bills, get a second job. Don’t just give them in Olive Garden parking lots.
- Don’t use dating as a guise for your dinner whoredom. Call it what it is. If you are looking for a “sugar daddy” just say that. Don’t pretend you are dating. Don’t drag other people into it, with their baggage, financial troubles, and evident desperation for actually wanting to date you.
When it comes to dating, there aren’t many advantages of being a woman. Women are expected to look good all the time, with razor burn and waxed eyebrows, while pretending the biological clocks in our heads are not bombastically ticking in our ears anytime we have a decent conversation with a single man. It’s exhausting. Why must certain women deteriorate the only perk we still have? Nobody, without a serious fetish, enjoys being used. When women use men for money or free meals, it is no better than men using women for sex. You can’t praise one and criticize the other. The more men think they are being used for money, the less they are going to spend on us. This is a growing epidemic.
So ladies, before you start filling out excel spreadsheets of the poor suckers you plan to stealthily rip off, I ask you to consider this. What if it was your brother, friend, or funny uncle attempting to woo a woman who was only in it for the free breadsticks? Think about that.
The girl who wants more than free breadstricks
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
So apparently, Panera Bread attracts a large population of well-bearded men. All but one of the five men in my line of sight have beautiful, manly, tuggable beards that I want to play with until the wee hours of dawn.
Sitting on a laptop, hoping no one has noticed that I am drinking a coffee from somewhere else and never actually made a PB purchase, I can’t help but wonder why I am always being confronted by these sightings of manly beards that will never be mine to enjoy. I also have to wonder why all of these men are always at a minimum of ten years older than me, and when I will see a man in my dating age bracket that will satisfy my facial hair needs.
I’m pretty sure #48 has something to do with the fact that I am a 22 year old woman, picking my gingerbread man scab in the corner of a food service location.
Bring on the cats.
F*** that. I want an iguana.
The girl with a translucent farmer’s tan