We all have collateral damage in relationships: That necklace you spent half of your paycheck on for her birthday, she's keeping it. The entire bathroom's worth of toiletries including the $25 shampoo you can only get from your cousin's girlfriend's mom in Cali all of which you bought just to have a second set at his place, it's his now. Your favorite pair of Adidas sweats that she claimed she kept hanging on to because they made her feel closer to you, they also make her feel closer to Hagen Daas and Bridget Jones now too- forever and always.
The collateral is the cost on top of the heartbreak. It's the stuff you can't ask to get back either because the breakup was too sad, or it would be rude to ask for it, or in my case, the risk of having to talk to that person again and ask for your stuff back is too high. Sometimes, it's best to sever the ties and consider the losses part of the net positive.
I am no stranger to the heartbreak. I am also no stranger to the mentally unstable, emotionally stunted, grown ass adult men- who call me "crazy." (I swear to god, the next person to call me crazy will understand the true meaning of the word, only because I have been driven there.) In my case, I had to accept the harsh reality of never getting my N64, two controllers, and 7 games including Goldeneye and Smash Bros back from him. Let's call him Mike.
Mike and I met online in the one month I was on Match.com. My roommate was on the site and talked me into getting an account because I was new to town and it was a better option than hanging out in college bars. She, seemingly, had great luck with it- in fact, she's marrying one of the greatest guys I know and she met him on Match. They are so happy and I am actually going to be in their wedding next May. So, you know, it can work out. Just not for me. The surest fire way to make sure every man I meet is either desperate, emotionally unstable, or so insecure that when the wind blows southerly he blames me for his failed love life, is for me to look online.
In theory, online dating is a great idea. It takes the guess work out of whether or not he is looking for anything. You don't have that awkward moment of not wanting to give someone your number, you can just ignore their advances. You get to sift through and add credentials to what you are looking for, like no less than a doctorate degree and between the ages of 26 and 27, about 6'5" tall athletic build and within walking distance of my favorite froyo place. You get to see a picture of him so you know you're not meeting Quasi Modo. In theory, it's genius, really.
In execution; men lie, they're all balding, a man's 6'5" is a woman's actual 5'9", they don't pay for the first date because that's expensive for someone who has 5 first dates a week, and that doctorate degree is from Pheonix University Online and it's in Literature- specifically Star Wars.
Needless to say, Mike surprised me a little and I liked his sense of humor. We liked the same music, and if you looked at him head on, you couldn't tell he had a beer belly. A good looking guy who paid for dinner, my standards were lowish so I was hooked.
We spent the next three months back and forth. He took me to the State Fair and put up with me drunkenly demanding to see the Blue Ribbon Hogs. He didn't judge me when I laid in the pen with them and the farmers let me feed them marshmallows. He loved watching movies and cuddling. Cuddling turned into things. I still have yet to see The Big Lebowski through to the end. We tried watching it several times. He introduced me to Moscow Mules- which I hate, but at least he could introduce me to things. He was well traveled and his dad was the mayor of the next town over and from South Africa. He was intriguing. We talked craft beer and he didn't judge me at all for taking my dog everywhere with me including the gay bar when we went out one night.
Things were pretty freaking cool.
At three months in, I asked him about us. What it was going to be and what it was now. In all fairness, I should have seen the signs. I just thought I was being the "cool girl" not asking too many questions, and letting him have his space. I justified all of it. Until this conversation.
At the three month mark, he was candid and honest with me. He said "we are what we are." WOAH! What a fucking revelation! I never thought the answer to my own fucking questions was the question itself! I can't believe I didn't think of that before- she said facetiously...
I asked him what exactly were his intentions. Did he eventually want a relationship with me? He responded "Isn't that why you spend time with someone?" OK. So, why not now? Isn't three months enough time to know if you want to spend more time with someone you like? He did not agree. I played "cool girl" again for another few hours until he fell asleep and then it hit me. I was so fucking stupid the whole time. It was one of those nights that I knew it was over. While he laid there next to me snoring away, I was laying awake worried about things that never fazed him even if (the operative word here) they crossed his mind. I grabbed my dog and left everything else, including my beer and my N64 stuff and drove home in the middle of the night. I guess I was hopeful I would grab it later? I don't remember what I was thinking. I just left.
The solitude of my bed was so much more inviting than laying next to blatant rejection.
I started mulling over the details of the previous three months. I began to realize a lot of issues. He would occasionally disappear for a few days at a time, and I mostly went to go see him. If he came to see me it was because I begged him to make the 30 minute drive this time. At the time, as far as me going there, I kind of didn't mind. Our dogs got along (which, if you know my dog is a miracle) and I could take him with me. Mike had his own place, I had a roommate. It was a 90-10% effort on my part, though. Every time I would express a different viewpoint than he had, he called me "stupid." Me. Stupid. It never occurred to me how wrong he was until I was home and in my bed realizing the only thing I was ever "stupid" about was staying for so long. A million other reasons crossed my mind and I cried myself to sleep.
He texted me in the morning- he didn't call like he had any kind of concern- just texted me nonchalantly asking if anything was wrong. I didn't respond. I didn't know what to say. A week or so went by and he didn't seem to care that I had fallen off the face of the planet. I saw he came down to my city for the college football game and never even bothered to mention he was in town. I found out he had an extra ticket via Facebook. I think he was OK with it being over.
My favorite part of this story happened two days later. My least favorite part was several months later. I'm getting to all of it, just hold tight.
It was homecoming in my city and Third Eye Blind was playing downtown. I just so happened to be waitressing at a restaurant at the time and the band walked in. I had no idea who they were because I wasn't even thinking about 90s B-list Celebs coming in to eat at our shotty chain restaurant steak house on a Wednesday night. But, nevertheless, yours truly was their waitress. They hung out long after close, but I took the opportunity to invite them for drinks at our hole in the wall afterhours bar that we blew all of our tips at after work each night. Wouldn't you know it, they met us there!
We had a great time chatting and getting to know each other. The bassist, Krys, from Ireland, was dreamy and funny. We got to talking and he mentioned his girlfriend back in Dublin. I asked how that was working out with him being on the road. He said it was great because they loved and trusted each other. Then he pulled out pictures of her and just kept talking. She was pretty, but I was less interested in talking about him when I realized he had a girlfriend and I began bitching about Mike. Fuck it, if we were going to talk about shit the other person didn't care about in the slightest (e.g. his girlfriend that hes totally faithful to 100% of the time on the road- not that I would have tempted him) I was going to talk about my shitty week. I mentioned everything, the disappearing, the calling me "stupid," the fear of commitment. He told me to call Mike and tell him that it was unfair the way he treated me and to tell him it was over for good. Not that I think Mike really cared all that much if it was. But, I still deserved to give the situation closure. Krys was right. 90s B-list celebs give the best dating advice.
I called Mike and I said he was leading me on when he wouldn't give me a straight answer and that I didn't think he could give me what I needed in a relationship so I wouldn't be calling him again. He agreed, and was actually very sweet about it and we hung up.
That part wasn't crazy or dramatic. I know you're thinking that the getting drunk with Thrid Eye Blind and standing my ground as a woman and demanding the respect I deserve and coming out ahead was the climax of the story. False. This is where it gets good.
Flash forward to December. In the dead of winter the middle of the night in Bumfuckegypt, Midwest I got a phone call. I looked at the time. 4a. I saw the name. Mike. I weighed my options. I assumed it was probably some form a booty call, because he occasionally threw those in over the last few months since I had taken Krys's advice. Against my better judgment, I answered. Somberly he spoke. He told me that his friend had passed away and that he was pretty upset about it. I could tell he was home because it was silent in the background and he told me he had been out drinking with his friends but he seemed coherent.
Then, out of nowhere, he blurts, "I took the rest of the bottle."
As you can imagine, my reaction was, "Excuse me?" I asked him to repeat himself and all of the sudden he couldn't. It was like he went from talking as clear as day to being nearly unconscious on the phone. I asked again, he tried to repeat. I asked what he took. He said the name of some drug and I panicked. He told me what he took but I couldn't understand what he said. I asked him three more times and he was struggling to say the name, but he was definitely saying the name of a prescription drug that I was not familiar with. He told me he took all of it. He told me he was just so sad.
I woke up my roommate and her boyfriend-now fiancee and had them call the police to send to his place. The problem was he had moved since we last saw each other and I needed to get his address to send them there. I spent 30 minutes desperately trying to keep him awake and get him to give me his address. He would occasionally just yell words at me. I couldn't understand anything. I finally got his address and made them call the police as I hopped in my car and headed on the 30 minute drive to him. Within a minute of being in the car my call dropped. FuckingBumFuckEgypt. I called him 10 times in a row. I was begging and pleading for him to pick up. The images of me walking in on him unconscious with police around sent me into a panic attack. I sped down the highway calling and calling and calling.
Finally, an answer.
I screamed, "Michael!"
He replied, "You fucking called the police on me? What the fuck? Why would you do that?"
I argued that He called me at 4 in the morning and went from being coherent to unconscious minutes after he told me he took a bottle of pills. What else was I supposed to do? He then argued that he never said that to me and that he was fine. He couldn't understand why I would call him 10 times in a row and accused me of being crazy.
Right.
I'm the crazy one.
Because I called someone who I thought might be dying 10 times in a row to try to get them to answer. Right. No. I am crazy.
He said the cops showed up and he didn't understand why. He spoke to them and they left. At this point I was only 10 minutes away and I was still concerned because he either lied to me or he lied to the cops. I wasn't going to find out the hard way that he lied to them. I was going to make sure he was actually OK.
I got to his house where he just unlocked the door and opened it enough so I could see him walking back to his room. I stepped inside knowing that he now had roommates and tried to quietly ask what the fucking fuck was actually going on. He snapped back at me that I was out of line calling the cops on him. I argued that I didn't call the cops on him I called them to check on him. After a 5 minute screaming match in the living room- which I'm sure his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend would attest made me look insane, I told him I wasn't leaving until he woke up in the morning. I was going to stay and stay awake all night to make sure he wasn't lying to me. He didn't seem to mind that I insisted on staying (which is weird since he was so irate about me "calling the cops on him") and he went to bed. I sat on the opposite side of the bed fuming for hours. I couldn't sleep. I got up and walked around a bit and realized that this was really going to be the last time I would ever talk to him or see him again.
I got to thinking about my N64.
What a selfish thing to think, but he was snoring so I knew he wasn't dead. I could think about it. I had to wonder where the hell it could be. I walked around the house a little. I didn't dig through anything, I didn't search too hard for my stuff. But the only thing out in the living room was a game cube and those accessories. If he were still in his old apartment, I could have B-Lined it for the cardboard box under the sun-bleached quilt on top of the broken chair by the window to get all of my shit back in one fell swoop. But he had moved. I had no idea where to start looking for my stuff. I got some water and sat back down on the end of the bed and waited. I read some articles on my phone. I texted my best friend telling her about the insanity of the night before while he continued to snore. Mike didn't sleep long. 4 hours tops. When he awoke, I angrily addressed him and said, "I'm glad to see you're alive. I'm going to go home and get some sleep now." The conversation that ensued next was one for the record books. Really.
He asked why I was so upset. He asked why I called the cops on him. I snapped back on both accounts. He argued that he never said any of that. Please, reader, reference the point in the story where I asked him several times in a row to repeat what he had taken and he told me the name of a prescription drug that I couldn't understand through the slurs and unconsciousness.
He apologized.
I remained angry.
He apologized again and said he has no idea why he would have said that, because he didn't take anything.
I sat angrily in silence.
He touched my leg and propositioned me for sex.
I have never in my life stormed out of somewhere more ferociously than I did in the 10 seconds following his proposition.
I didn't even have time to save James Bond, or Mario. My poor Kirby and Link! I had to leave them all behind. I had to consider them collateral. They weren't worth me turning around and having to face him ever again. They were gone forever. Lost to my memories and the good times we had before Mike got his hands on them.
I have never missed a possession so much as I have those games-- especially when I realized what fair market value was for those games that were in great condition. Fuck. My. Life.
Still not worth me ever having to talk to him again...
He never even tried.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
I BLEACH MY MUSTACHE; And Other Hairy Secrets Men Should Know
"Natural beauty takes at least two hours in front of a mirror" - Pamela Anderson
I BLEACH MY MUSTACHE.
There. I said it. It's true. It wasn't true until a month ago. But as I slathered on that Sally Hanson Creme Hair Bleach for the second time in my life today, I realized that this is now a very real and reoccurring part of my ridiculous and exhausting beauty regimen. I have a mustache. It isn't as bad as Liz Lemon's Tom Selleck but I will be damned if I am going to let the light ever catch a dark brown peach fuzz on my upper lip again.
They say we are our own worst critics. This is not true for me. I love me. And I take pride in who I am and what I look like. But, there have been a handful of times in my life when someone, without tact, points out some embarrassing detail about my face or body that I never noticed. I can never decide which is more embarrassing; the fact that I never noticed and now have to wonder how many other people noticed before this asshole, or the fact that any asshole ever even pointed it out...
Probably the former, otherwise, why else would I make adjustments in my daily routine to accommodate fixing such a criticism?
Anyway, the following is a discussion about the most embarrassing parts of my beauty routine that men just need to know. You do. Trust me. Because someday you will walk in on your future wife with a creme bleach fumanchu and wonder what the fuck happened to that perfect picture you met when you two began dating. I am here to ease the blow of such realizations.
So, chart-topper is the mustache that I bleach. My brother, so earnestly, turned to me a month ago and exclaimed "Hot damn! You have a mustache!" drawing my attention to a detail, I hadn't quite noticed about myself yet, but the sun must have been just right that afternoon. I promptly hopped in my car and hit up the Walgreen's that has been saving my ass for years to help me out again. Yeah, its weird to bleach it, but its more weird for me to let it go, really. I know a lot of women who wax theirs. You think shes just at the salon getting her nails done or her bangs trimmed, but what you don't know is that every single one of those establishments that you never go into has someone who knows how to make her crumb catcher disappear. Every two to six weeks she is in there, she is also getting her mustache waxed or bleached. I promise. Unless she is somehow graced by God and is chosen as a divine embodiment, she does it. It, of course, is most common in post-menopausal women of any background,but some of us come from a long line of evolution that didn't get the memo about feminine facial hair being out of fashion cerca 10,000 BC. I know the whole country of Italy is still waiting to get the verdict on whether or not God approves of its removal from the Vatican, but word is spreading there too. So, whether you like to admit it or not, women young and old alike bleach, pluck, wax, and make unknown their (what could be award winning) mustaches from their male counterparts. We are better at everything else, we can let you have facial hair.
Second on the list of things men don't realize about women is an issue that is actually one that is universal. Eyebrows. Yayse. Those caterpillars we keep on our faces would be rabid and untamed if we did not carefully sculpt them- or let the threading lady at the mall do it while we curse at her. I never knew my eyebrows, er should I say brow, was an issue until my vocal coach was prepping me for a show and trying out new mascaras on me and stopped everything to remedy the uni situation. The first tweeze is always the hardest, but after that, you hardly feel it at all. We women know you men tweeze occasionally too, and are very conscious of any unibrow situation, but what you may not realize is that my Frida Kahlo is out of control without some serious TLC. And to top it off, after i'm done plucking and shaping my arches, I then get the joy of coloring in those stupid spots unintentionally left bare with cream, powder, and pencil. You think these eyebrows are just magically on fleek? No. Patience and attention to detail.
You know that mole that Paula Abdul has on her left cheek? I have one too; same spot and everything. My mother always called it a beauty mark. Victoria in seventh grade called it a gross hairy mole. I bet you can guess how I took care of that situation. So, once every few months since I started plucking that too, one good fat hair pokes its head out of my Paula Mark and I get to tweeze that too. Those tweezers could take over the world if I would let them, but I need them, and they know it.
Hair removal is a big concern for women, not just on their faces either. A lot of work goes into carefully removing every hair from every follicle. I bet you guys forget that our armpits would look like yours if we didn't care so much about what you think about them. Trust us, if it weren't to impress a man, I would never shave my pits again, because every woman on the planet knows that it's a pain in the ass to remember to do that everyday. Yes, every day. Unlike leg hair that can take a few days vacation before ruining a good shower again, our armpit hair grows at an exponential rate. In the amount of time it has taken me to write this blog, I have had to shave my underarms twice. It is a ridiculous practice, and yet I do it... for you... you're welcome, future husband.
Legs, obviously, are shaven on a regular basis. That one is actually more for us women than you men. Who doesn't love the feeling of freshly shaved legs as your crawl into bed. Oh my god, it's like sleeping in satin sheets except its the same dirty sheets you've been sleeping in for a month, just satin legs. Mmm. I could touch them all night- but I wont, because I also love sleep.
A little farther north, however, isn't getting any hedge trimming if no one is on neighborhood watch. Let's be realistic here, for you men too, it's way more uncomfortable and itchy to keep that shit short and wait for it to grow back long enough just to get rid of it again. Amirite? I am. And men have it way easier than we do. Not only do most of you not even bother taming the ballfro, you don't have a plethora of pube-dos to choose from. The landing strip? The Bermuda Triangle? The polk-ya dot? Should we put in the work and give the down stairs a good old fashioned Captain Picard? Make it so. You guys have no idea how much work goes into it and how much we don't want to do the work. Like the pits, if it weren't for men, I wouldn't bother. Getting all up in there and making sure its all high and tight is a lot of work.
Now, I know at this point some men out there are going "I really don't mind if it's au naturale. I love a woman's body for what it is." You men, have clearly been in long-term committed relationships before in which women reached the point of "Take me as I am or don't take me at all." And, we all know which one men choose every time. You are so predictable. But, you can't tell me that if she had come out swinging, unkempt, and au naturale the first few times you fooled around or boned, that you would have come back for more. And if you still would have, you and her are both dirty hippies. Peace, love, and pubefros.
Since we are pros at body hair removal by the time we are 16, when most of you men are just sprouting your first whiskers, we have had more time to over analyze the smallest parts of our bodies- or in my case had someone else point out the over analyses for us. This, of course, includes our toes. How often do you think about your toes, men? Every time your stub them? That's it? Because every time, I take the razor from the pits all the way down to the ankles, I am already poised and prepared to strike those fuzzy little piggies on my feet. You bet your sweet ass I take a razor to those hobbit feet of mine and make sure I give the lady that does my pedicures a clean canvas to paint her little Mona Lisas. That one is for her. Not you. Not me. Her.
Now that we have examined every inch of the hairy feminine body together, I hope that you are not surprised when you get married and you walk into the bathroom to find your woman with bleach on her lip, waxing her legs, and Veeting her toes with a razor in her armpit. It is all out there now. No more secrets. Kiss her and tell her you love her and let her know she can let the ladybusiness go this time. You will have been together long enough. Take her as she is.
Now, if you'll excuse me, my armpits are back again.
I BLEACH MY MUSTACHE.
There. I said it. It's true. It wasn't true until a month ago. But as I slathered on that Sally Hanson Creme Hair Bleach for the second time in my life today, I realized that this is now a very real and reoccurring part of my ridiculous and exhausting beauty regimen. I have a mustache. It isn't as bad as Liz Lemon's Tom Selleck but I will be damned if I am going to let the light ever catch a dark brown peach fuzz on my upper lip again.
They say we are our own worst critics. This is not true for me. I love me. And I take pride in who I am and what I look like. But, there have been a handful of times in my life when someone, without tact, points out some embarrassing detail about my face or body that I never noticed. I can never decide which is more embarrassing; the fact that I never noticed and now have to wonder how many other people noticed before this asshole, or the fact that any asshole ever even pointed it out...
Probably the former, otherwise, why else would I make adjustments in my daily routine to accommodate fixing such a criticism?
Anyway, the following is a discussion about the most embarrassing parts of my beauty routine that men just need to know. You do. Trust me. Because someday you will walk in on your future wife with a creme bleach fumanchu and wonder what the fuck happened to that perfect picture you met when you two began dating. I am here to ease the blow of such realizations.
So, chart-topper is the mustache that I bleach. My brother, so earnestly, turned to me a month ago and exclaimed "Hot damn! You have a mustache!" drawing my attention to a detail, I hadn't quite noticed about myself yet, but the sun must have been just right that afternoon. I promptly hopped in my car and hit up the Walgreen's that has been saving my ass for years to help me out again. Yeah, its weird to bleach it, but its more weird for me to let it go, really. I know a lot of women who wax theirs. You think shes just at the salon getting her nails done or her bangs trimmed, but what you don't know is that every single one of those establishments that you never go into has someone who knows how to make her crumb catcher disappear. Every two to six weeks she is in there, she is also getting her mustache waxed or bleached. I promise. Unless she is somehow graced by God and is chosen as a divine embodiment, she does it. It, of course, is most common in post-menopausal women of any background,but some of us come from a long line of evolution that didn't get the memo about feminine facial hair being out of fashion cerca 10,000 BC. I know the whole country of Italy is still waiting to get the verdict on whether or not God approves of its removal from the Vatican, but word is spreading there too. So, whether you like to admit it or not, women young and old alike bleach, pluck, wax, and make unknown their (what could be award winning) mustaches from their male counterparts. We are better at everything else, we can let you have facial hair.
Second on the list of things men don't realize about women is an issue that is actually one that is universal. Eyebrows. Yayse. Those caterpillars we keep on our faces would be rabid and untamed if we did not carefully sculpt them- or let the threading lady at the mall do it while we curse at her. I never knew my eyebrows, er should I say brow, was an issue until my vocal coach was prepping me for a show and trying out new mascaras on me and stopped everything to remedy the uni situation. The first tweeze is always the hardest, but after that, you hardly feel it at all. We women know you men tweeze occasionally too, and are very conscious of any unibrow situation, but what you may not realize is that my Frida Kahlo is out of control without some serious TLC. And to top it off, after i'm done plucking and shaping my arches, I then get the joy of coloring in those stupid spots unintentionally left bare with cream, powder, and pencil. You think these eyebrows are just magically on fleek? No. Patience and attention to detail.
You know that mole that Paula Abdul has on her left cheek? I have one too; same spot and everything. My mother always called it a beauty mark. Victoria in seventh grade called it a gross hairy mole. I bet you can guess how I took care of that situation. So, once every few months since I started plucking that too, one good fat hair pokes its head out of my Paula Mark and I get to tweeze that too. Those tweezers could take over the world if I would let them, but I need them, and they know it.
Hair removal is a big concern for women, not just on their faces either. A lot of work goes into carefully removing every hair from every follicle. I bet you guys forget that our armpits would look like yours if we didn't care so much about what you think about them. Trust us, if it weren't to impress a man, I would never shave my pits again, because every woman on the planet knows that it's a pain in the ass to remember to do that everyday. Yes, every day. Unlike leg hair that can take a few days vacation before ruining a good shower again, our armpit hair grows at an exponential rate. In the amount of time it has taken me to write this blog, I have had to shave my underarms twice. It is a ridiculous practice, and yet I do it... for you... you're welcome, future husband.
Legs, obviously, are shaven on a regular basis. That one is actually more for us women than you men. Who doesn't love the feeling of freshly shaved legs as your crawl into bed. Oh my god, it's like sleeping in satin sheets except its the same dirty sheets you've been sleeping in for a month, just satin legs. Mmm. I could touch them all night- but I wont, because I also love sleep.
A little farther north, however, isn't getting any hedge trimming if no one is on neighborhood watch. Let's be realistic here, for you men too, it's way more uncomfortable and itchy to keep that shit short and wait for it to grow back long enough just to get rid of it again. Amirite? I am. And men have it way easier than we do. Not only do most of you not even bother taming the ballfro, you don't have a plethora of pube-dos to choose from. The landing strip? The Bermuda Triangle? The polk-ya dot? Should we put in the work and give the down stairs a good old fashioned Captain Picard? Make it so. You guys have no idea how much work goes into it and how much we don't want to do the work. Like the pits, if it weren't for men, I wouldn't bother. Getting all up in there and making sure its all high and tight is a lot of work.
Now, I know at this point some men out there are going "I really don't mind if it's au naturale. I love a woman's body for what it is." You men, have clearly been in long-term committed relationships before in which women reached the point of "Take me as I am or don't take me at all." And, we all know which one men choose every time. You are so predictable. But, you can't tell me that if she had come out swinging, unkempt, and au naturale the first few times you fooled around or boned, that you would have come back for more. And if you still would have, you and her are both dirty hippies. Peace, love, and pubefros.
Since we are pros at body hair removal by the time we are 16, when most of you men are just sprouting your first whiskers, we have had more time to over analyze the smallest parts of our bodies- or in my case had someone else point out the over analyses for us. This, of course, includes our toes. How often do you think about your toes, men? Every time your stub them? That's it? Because every time, I take the razor from the pits all the way down to the ankles, I am already poised and prepared to strike those fuzzy little piggies on my feet. You bet your sweet ass I take a razor to those hobbit feet of mine and make sure I give the lady that does my pedicures a clean canvas to paint her little Mona Lisas. That one is for her. Not you. Not me. Her.
Now that we have examined every inch of the hairy feminine body together, I hope that you are not surprised when you get married and you walk into the bathroom to find your woman with bleach on her lip, waxing her legs, and Veeting her toes with a razor in her armpit. It is all out there now. No more secrets. Kiss her and tell her you love her and let her know she can let the ladybusiness go this time. You will have been together long enough. Take her as she is.
Now, if you'll excuse me, my armpits are back again.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Alone Is Not A Choice; Lonely Is.
For the first time in a long time, if ever, I don't love anyone. I also don't need to love anyone.
Of course, I love my family, and my friends and my dog. But, there is no one in my life that I am chasing after. There is no one who keeps me up at night. There is no one I wish were by my side at weddings or dinners or movies. I have found that I love my solitude and my freedom. Choosing where to eat dinner is easy. Choosing which movie to see is cake. Planning trips to see friends is as simple as, "Do I have the day off work?" It is really nice not having to give a fuck about anyone but myself. And I, honestly, LOVE having the bed to myself.
I think my heart had finally had enough. It was exhausting constantly wishing and wanting and pining and swooning and texting and "talking" and planning and seeing and missing and crying and caring.
I feel free. For the first time, truly free. I am free of want. I didn't know this feeling existed. But, I am glad it does.
If you need me, I'll be doing whatever the hell I please. I Probably wont be obsessively checking my phone, so I may miss some texts. You're better off calling me.
This is nice.
Of course, I love my family, and my friends and my dog. But, there is no one in my life that I am chasing after. There is no one who keeps me up at night. There is no one I wish were by my side at weddings or dinners or movies. I have found that I love my solitude and my freedom. Choosing where to eat dinner is easy. Choosing which movie to see is cake. Planning trips to see friends is as simple as, "Do I have the day off work?" It is really nice not having to give a fuck about anyone but myself. And I, honestly, LOVE having the bed to myself.
I think my heart had finally had enough. It was exhausting constantly wishing and wanting and pining and swooning and texting and "talking" and planning and seeing and missing and crying and caring.
I feel free. For the first time, truly free. I am free of want. I didn't know this feeling existed. But, I am glad it does.
If you need me, I'll be doing whatever the hell I please. I Probably wont be obsessively checking my phone, so I may miss some texts. You're better off calling me.
This is nice.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Swiper No Swiping: The Most Basic Guys on Tinder
You all know that I am no stranger to Tinder. Since June of last year I have had the app at least 4 or 5 different times. Every time, it is the same kinds of guys saying the exact same stock phrases and the same stock photo of them with their dogs. White girls get accused of being basic, but DAMN TINDER! Your dudes are just as basic as your chicks.
Let's examine the Tinder types for guys from the most obvious lefts to the more complex.
The most obvious left swipe is going to be the one without a picture. Dude, seriously? You're on a site that is 99% reliant on how hot or not you are. You just increased your chances of getting no matches by 100%... If you got a match, then she was on a drunken right swipe binge and desperate for attention. Chances are if you don't have a picture, I assume you have Dahmer eyes and I can't risk getting to know another crazy person. You're out, bro.
The second biggest reason I swipe left is because even though he has a pretty good smile and a cute puppy in his picture, he didn't say anything about himself.... If you cant find anything to say about yourself at all, how am I to expect a date with you to last longer than appetizers and small talk about the weather? Donezo.
The most stock phrased line in the "About me" is "If you want to know anything, just ask." NO! You had 400 characters and all you could muster was "its not my job to tell you about me. its your job to ask."???? GTFO.
In the running behind "Ask me" for the most commonly used tags on Tinder is the "Workout Junkie" his life revolves around how hot he is and he probably has at least 3 out of 6 mirror pics of his abs and/or his biceps. He might even finish off his about me with "Please be Polish and fit." they are usually fairly specific about who they swipe right back on. If you are unfortunate enough to get a date with one of these meat heads, be prepared for a long conversation about his Paleo diet and strict workout regimen. He might have a real job, but he doesn't really talk about that. Unless he is a personal trainer. Then, trust me, he will talk about it. and he will talk about how he can get you into the best shape of your life and fix any part of your body that you don't like. He has at least 10 parts of your body he doesn't like when he sees you in person, so don't worry, you've already lost. You could never live up to his ridiculous expectation... but neither can he. Ah, dysmorphia at its finest. I cant wait to hate you after three dates and feel fat enough to go home and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's just to spite you. I LIKE MY FAT ASS!
If he seems fit but didn't talk about his workout regimen, he probably said something along the lines of "I'm the outdoorsy type" or "I love a good adventure." and has a picture of him running a marathon or rock climbing. I'm sure you do love a good adventure with Clark, Lewis. But I have zero desire to be your Sacajawea. I love the outdoors too; a lot actually. I love hiking and boating, but I'm fairly certain you don't have time for all of those leisurely white people activities all the time. Tell me more. Do you read? Do you make art? Do you play music? You have got to be more dynamic than "I like to be outside because outside is not inside and outside is better than inside." Cut me a fucking break. What do you do on regular day when you get home from work, Paul Bunyan? Jesus, give me some depth.
Maybe just as popular as the Outdoorsman is the Sports FANATIC! He will let you know he's a sports fan and exactly which teams he likes with zero punctuation, and at least two emojis. I am in the Midwest so "Cubs Hawks Bears Bulls" is a really common tag. I'm so glad you told me so much about yourself, dude! So you drink Old Style, own a Towes jersey, are stoked about Fox getting hired, and miss the glory days of Jordan?... I seriously, don't give a fuck about any of that. I feign my interest in sports in hopes of getting dates if the dude is hot enough, but if you look like John Goodman: NO CHANCE, BROSEPH.
Speaking of John Goodman looking dudes, lets be real. WHY do you think that picture of you with a double chin and dribble stains on your shirt at the bar is a good choice? No. Just NO. I'm swiping left on principle alone. If all your other pics are hot, but you still let that one slip through the cracks, no. You're gross. I don't care that you're a dog lover. NEWS FLASH: EVERYONE IS A FUCKING DOG LOVER.
The Party Animal comes in just after the Sports FANATIC. The Party Animal on Tinder will certainly have nearly EVERY photo taken in a club or bar. There is probably at least one pic of him doing a Jaeger bomb and one with hot blonde who cant be older than 19. I can kind of see the logic. "Put a picture of me up online with a hot chick and other women will want me because the hot girl wanted me." Uhm, no. No thanks. Actually, I know her. Her name is Chastity, or Hope... something shes never had. And we didn't get along in high school so her tastes are irrelevant and now you just look creepy, 35-year-old Craig. You know, I DO have a great sense of humor like you demand in your tag, but I like a man who jokes, not one who is a joke.
One thing that will make me swipe left faster than the Party Animal is the guy holding the baby. I don't give a fuck who you are or how much you love your niece or nephew or if its your own kid, DON'T MAKE THAT YOUR TINDER PIC. I love kids. I adore them and have plenty of pictures with other peoples kids. You will never find a pic of me holding a baby on Tinder. There are too man assumptions that come with an image of anyone holding a child. It is much responsibility and i'm not ready to be a part of anything involving someones little offspring. If you're family oriented, great. Tell me in the 400 characters you used to say "That's not my kid. It's my niece..." instead of making me auto swipe left because I can only assume at a glance it is yours.
If he does have a niece or nephew pic, he probably also has a picture of his jacked up truck and a picture of him wearing a camo hat with a prized buck. Take the dip out of your lip, Bumpkin, and get on Farmers Only. As much as my family is redneck, no thanks. I'm not really into pictures of dead animals and I don't really want to be a part of a family that teaches children to shoot Bambi's mom starting at age 8. Not my thing.
So, What kind of guy do I actually swipe RIGHT on? Well, Mr. Right, of course!
Things I look for in a Right swipe:
1. Does he clean up nicely (e.g. is he wearing a suit in any picture)? How well tailored is said suit?
2. Does he say anything about his career? Does the sound of Mrs. Dr. Blah di Blah sound good to me?
3. What is his hairline like? If its non existent- no (I know, a tough break for you premature balders). If it's just starting to fade, yes (guys with strong hairlines have zero desire to settle. When it just starts receding, they start thinking more seriously about finding the right girl).
4. Does he express interest in anything beyond the basic human needs of music, food, and beer?
5. Does he have crazy eyes? (Men know what I mean, women ignore it more than men. I have a strict "No Crazy Eyes" policy. I've had my apartment broken into and gotten 4 a suicide calls because I ignored crazy eyes. Heed my warning!)
6. If he passes the hotness test, had something worthy to say about himself, had no children in his pictures, and we BOTH swipe right- does he talk to me first? I'm not old fashioned, but I don't date pussies.
Because the kind of guy I swipe right for rarely finds my "I'm a stand up comedian, blogger, microbrew manager, avid memoir reader, Pomeranian owner, never-had-braceser" attractive, I don't hold high hopes for round 6 on Tinder. I still find it endlessly entertaining. I'll keep swiping because y'all are basic and I love to judge.
Swipe Always,
Sarah
Let's examine the Tinder types for guys from the most obvious lefts to the more complex.
The most obvious left swipe is going to be the one without a picture. Dude, seriously? You're on a site that is 99% reliant on how hot or not you are. You just increased your chances of getting no matches by 100%... If you got a match, then she was on a drunken right swipe binge and desperate for attention. Chances are if you don't have a picture, I assume you have Dahmer eyes and I can't risk getting to know another crazy person. You're out, bro.
The second biggest reason I swipe left is because even though he has a pretty good smile and a cute puppy in his picture, he didn't say anything about himself.... If you cant find anything to say about yourself at all, how am I to expect a date with you to last longer than appetizers and small talk about the weather? Donezo.
The most stock phrased line in the "About me" is "If you want to know anything, just ask." NO! You had 400 characters and all you could muster was "its not my job to tell you about me. its your job to ask."???? GTFO.
In the running behind "Ask me" for the most commonly used tags on Tinder is the "Workout Junkie" his life revolves around how hot he is and he probably has at least 3 out of 6 mirror pics of his abs and/or his biceps. He might even finish off his about me with "Please be Polish and fit." they are usually fairly specific about who they swipe right back on. If you are unfortunate enough to get a date with one of these meat heads, be prepared for a long conversation about his Paleo diet and strict workout regimen. He might have a real job, but he doesn't really talk about that. Unless he is a personal trainer. Then, trust me, he will talk about it. and he will talk about how he can get you into the best shape of your life and fix any part of your body that you don't like. He has at least 10 parts of your body he doesn't like when he sees you in person, so don't worry, you've already lost. You could never live up to his ridiculous expectation... but neither can he. Ah, dysmorphia at its finest. I cant wait to hate you after three dates and feel fat enough to go home and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's just to spite you. I LIKE MY FAT ASS!
If he seems fit but didn't talk about his workout regimen, he probably said something along the lines of "I'm the outdoorsy type" or "I love a good adventure." and has a picture of him running a marathon or rock climbing. I'm sure you do love a good adventure with Clark, Lewis. But I have zero desire to be your Sacajawea. I love the outdoors too; a lot actually. I love hiking and boating, but I'm fairly certain you don't have time for all of those leisurely white people activities all the time. Tell me more. Do you read? Do you make art? Do you play music? You have got to be more dynamic than "I like to be outside because outside is not inside and outside is better than inside." Cut me a fucking break. What do you do on regular day when you get home from work, Paul Bunyan? Jesus, give me some depth.
Maybe just as popular as the Outdoorsman is the Sports FANATIC! He will let you know he's a sports fan and exactly which teams he likes with zero punctuation, and at least two emojis. I am in the Midwest so "Cubs Hawks Bears Bulls" is a really common tag. I'm so glad you told me so much about yourself, dude! So you drink Old Style, own a Towes jersey, are stoked about Fox getting hired, and miss the glory days of Jordan?... I seriously, don't give a fuck about any of that. I feign my interest in sports in hopes of getting dates if the dude is hot enough, but if you look like John Goodman: NO CHANCE, BROSEPH.
Speaking of John Goodman looking dudes, lets be real. WHY do you think that picture of you with a double chin and dribble stains on your shirt at the bar is a good choice? No. Just NO. I'm swiping left on principle alone. If all your other pics are hot, but you still let that one slip through the cracks, no. You're gross. I don't care that you're a dog lover. NEWS FLASH: EVERYONE IS A FUCKING DOG LOVER.
The Party Animal comes in just after the Sports FANATIC. The Party Animal on Tinder will certainly have nearly EVERY photo taken in a club or bar. There is probably at least one pic of him doing a Jaeger bomb and one with hot blonde who cant be older than 19. I can kind of see the logic. "Put a picture of me up online with a hot chick and other women will want me because the hot girl wanted me." Uhm, no. No thanks. Actually, I know her. Her name is Chastity, or Hope... something shes never had. And we didn't get along in high school so her tastes are irrelevant and now you just look creepy, 35-year-old Craig. You know, I DO have a great sense of humor like you demand in your tag, but I like a man who jokes, not one who is a joke.
One thing that will make me swipe left faster than the Party Animal is the guy holding the baby. I don't give a fuck who you are or how much you love your niece or nephew or if its your own kid, DON'T MAKE THAT YOUR TINDER PIC. I love kids. I adore them and have plenty of pictures with other peoples kids. You will never find a pic of me holding a baby on Tinder. There are too man assumptions that come with an image of anyone holding a child. It is much responsibility and i'm not ready to be a part of anything involving someones little offspring. If you're family oriented, great. Tell me in the 400 characters you used to say "That's not my kid. It's my niece..." instead of making me auto swipe left because I can only assume at a glance it is yours.
If he does have a niece or nephew pic, he probably also has a picture of his jacked up truck and a picture of him wearing a camo hat with a prized buck. Take the dip out of your lip, Bumpkin, and get on Farmers Only. As much as my family is redneck, no thanks. I'm not really into pictures of dead animals and I don't really want to be a part of a family that teaches children to shoot Bambi's mom starting at age 8. Not my thing.
So, What kind of guy do I actually swipe RIGHT on? Well, Mr. Right, of course!
Things I look for in a Right swipe:
1. Does he clean up nicely (e.g. is he wearing a suit in any picture)? How well tailored is said suit?
2. Does he say anything about his career? Does the sound of Mrs. Dr. Blah di Blah sound good to me?
3. What is his hairline like? If its non existent- no (I know, a tough break for you premature balders). If it's just starting to fade, yes (guys with strong hairlines have zero desire to settle. When it just starts receding, they start thinking more seriously about finding the right girl).
4. Does he express interest in anything beyond the basic human needs of music, food, and beer?
5. Does he have crazy eyes? (Men know what I mean, women ignore it more than men. I have a strict "No Crazy Eyes" policy. I've had my apartment broken into and gotten 4 a suicide calls because I ignored crazy eyes. Heed my warning!)
6. If he passes the hotness test, had something worthy to say about himself, had no children in his pictures, and we BOTH swipe right- does he talk to me first? I'm not old fashioned, but I don't date pussies.
Because the kind of guy I swipe right for rarely finds my "I'm a stand up comedian, blogger, microbrew manager, avid memoir reader, Pomeranian owner, never-had-braceser" attractive, I don't hold high hopes for round 6 on Tinder. I still find it endlessly entertaining. I'll keep swiping because y'all are basic and I love to judge.
Swipe Always,
Sarah
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