Tag Archives: single life

The Mommy Wars: As Witnessed by an Unwilling and Childless Casualty

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As a Southern 26-year-old, I’m living a life that’s more Friday Night Lights than Sex and the City, (as evidenced by my incredibly dated television references). With that, comes a social media news feed that has long since tired of weddings and even first babies. Not only have I seen third and fourth children, but I’ve got multiple friends from high school who post about their infertility issues. Over sharing aside, this is pretty standard. We live in a land ruled by country music and religion; the former of which tells us that it’s only true romance if we make a lifetime commitment before we can legally drink and the latter of which tells us that there is no… way… out… ever. Sooooo, although I consider myself plenty young, I know a lot of moms and am completely aware of the ridiculous phenomenon that is the Mommy Wars.

If you’re unaware of the phrase, the Mommy Wars are waged between some mothers who aren’t just content to know that they’re doing their best, but feel the need to criticize every other woman’s best. While I don’t have children, I did have a pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage, in which I got just a brief taste of the Mommy Wars. You see, as a breast reduction recipient, who was still in school, I decided that breastfeeding was just not for me. In all honesty, it still isn’t, barring any out of the ordinary medical needs. For the near three months that I was pregnant, however, I got to hear endless opinions on my very personal choice. I still do. For a topic that breastfeeding moms take so seriously as being their decision, it was/is apparently not my right to decide against it. So, in addition to not really being ready for kids, I’m pretty glad to be left out of the Mommy Wars… or at least I thought I was.

Recently, there’s been a video going around Facebook and other social media, that I’m certain was made all in good fun. In it, a young mother, with her hands full, has taken to the Internet to express the difficulty she has keeping in touch and relating to her friends who don’t have kids yet.

“Wait, no. I’m actually thinking about all the free time you have. It’s so weird. You could leave here, drive to Vegas, see Britney Spears, or even take a nap.”

In my eclectic blogging tastes, I’ve read many mommy blogs expressing frustration with the assumption that stay-at-home-moms don’t “work.” These women rant about friends asking what they do all day, or insisting that they would be bored, or claiming they do all of those things and have full time jobs. Yes. All of those comments are offensive. However, they’re actually just as offensive as the many articles and blogs implying that a woman without children has no responsibilities or priorities or stress in her life.

Wait, wait, wait. How in the hell, did I get recruited into these ludicrous Mommy Wars for not having children? I hope that the women who say things like this, can remember life before marriage and children in a more respectful way than assuming that we can all just drop everything and do whatever we want. I may not have children, but I’m still working two jobs, sending out resumes, preparing for interviews, paying all of my bills, taking care of all of my errands and chores, maintaining friendships and family relationships, and looking for love.

That’s another thing, married mommies. You’ve found your partner and that’s wonderful, but can you not look back just a couple of years, and remember the stress and uncertainty of wondering if things would ever fall into place? Can you not remember being the only person who could take the car to get the oil changed, wait for the cable guy, drop the dog off at the vet, go grocery shopping, or pick up that last minute Christmas present? Can you not remember crying to your best friend about how you were going to DIE ALONE after another terrible date? Have you really forgotten the times you dug straight into a carton of ice cream and watched Bridget Jones’s Diary like a parody of the dating single woman? What about coming up with the rent, the car payment, the electric bill, the insurance, the grocery money, and every other expenditure alone? I’m accused of an inability to empathize, but you’ve been here and have apparently completely forgotten that we’re not all Carrie Fucking Bradshaw.

Speaking of empathy, this man writes a very nice letter to his friends explaining the shift in his priorities and friendships. Sure, it’s a nice thought, but even as someone with no children, I realize they exist. Dude, I know that you can’t ignore the child screaming at you to “LOOK! LOOK!” as they jump in the pool in exactly the same way they did the last 17 times. I don’t need an explanation for why you have to serve the children their hot dogs first or can’t ignore the fact that someone just took a shit in the bathtub. I get that their needs come before mine. I don’t expect you to go to bars with me until 1:00 in the morning. I don’t even do that with my childless friends. Perhaps the reason I’m acting annoyed with you, is that patronizing tone you’re using while apologizing for having to leave the conversation to deal with someone else’s bodily fluids.

I’m not saying that parents don’t have a lot on their plates. I’m saying that everyone does. We’re all busy and live in a culture where being busy is some kind of achievement to one-up. We all have different issues and problems and stresses, but for some reason, if that stress has ten little fingers and ten little toes, it’s somehow so far beyond our childless comprehension that all of our problems and priorities pale in comparison to yours. Assuming you’re not a librarian or a teacher, I don’t understand the precise stresses of your career, either. I can still listen, empathize, and be quiet while you take your work call. According to the Internet, though, if you’re a parent, suddenly everything I have to say has become about nail polish and designer handbags, because you’re talking about teething and vaccines? No. That’s not how it works. If I never have kids, my priorities still matter just as much as yours when you have child number six.

Fortunately for me, of the many mommy friends I have, no one has ever implied that my life and responsibilities are less important, or nonexistent, because they don’t involve raising children. Maybe I just have better friends. Maybe I’m just a better friend to my friends with kids. Maybe the Internet is just a place to exaggerate and vent. Regardless, I’m years away from tearing up my Mommy Wars draft notice, so it would be fantastic if I were left out of all of these battles.

*Clearly, I’m not the only one annoyed by this. Even Parenting magazine knows it gets old.

http://www.parenting.com/article/breeders

I quit.

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A couple of weeks ago, I went to my cousin Delia to get my hair done. I’d been visiting a stylist at Ulta until recently, due to a… “mishap” about a year and a half ago. Now, I am not a gal who particularly stresses over her hair. Delia’s cut it shorter than I intended, done the bangs in a different style, made the highlights too bright, and so has her sister Emily. They’re both professionals, but sometimes the message isn’t clear, because I don’t know anything about hair. Either way, it looks fine, even if it’s not what I originally pictured… until a month before my 25th birthday.

childre of the corn issac
Oh em jingles, I am not even exaggerating, because I wasn’t the first person to make the comparison.

Delia realized her mistake (how could she not?) and apologized profusely for my uneven, way too short bangs. I waved her off and declared “It’s just hair,” because there was nothing to be done about it.

Delia: “I could like… try to do something edgy and cut them at a diagonal.”
Me: “NO! I mean, no this is fine. My hair grows fast. It’ll look fine in a couple weeks and I won’t have to cut them for awhile!”

She felt terrible. An Epic Tantrum was not going to suddenly give me Zooey Deschanel bangs. So, I left with a smile on my face and called my Gramma… crying.

Coworker: “What did you do to your hair?!?”

Customer: ::after it grew out:: “You look better with your hair like that.”

So, naturally, I took a break from Delia’s salon for awhile. Perhaps that’s why I forgot that Delia, God bless her, is the absolute worst with the Time’s A Wastin’ speeches, when it comes to my dating life. I’m not entirely sure why, since we do live in the suburbs and we’ve multiple aunts who married when they were in their late 20’s and early 30’s and have functional, happy relationships, children, and fulfilling careers. We’re not that country, y’all. Regardless, every time I get my hair done, Delia’s first questions are about whether or not I’ve been on any dates, if I’ve gone trolling for dick with any girlfriends recently, what online dating websites I’m using, if I’ve considered a rape cruise singles cruise, when I’ll get a full time librarian position, why I haven’t bought a house…

lalalala

I. Am. 26. I have a master’s degree and a professional career I love. I somehow managed to get both while married to a man Lord Voldemort looks at and says “Dude, that’s fucked up.” I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. On an average day, I don’t feel behind at all. Then Delia tells me that my cousin Kayla, who’s two years younger than I am, has met a nice man online.

Delia: “It’s about time, too. I mean she’s 24.”

That’s right. My baby cousin, who tried online dating as an afterthought (she wasn’t considering it at Thanksgiving) has apparently found a man she’s “never felt like this about, before.” Never mind that I haven’t put any real effort into dating until… well, like this month, because I’ve been busy and just generally happy single. Forget that while she’s been without her ex-boyfriend for far less time than I’ve been divorced, she wasn’t working two jobs and in grad school during that time. Disregard the fact that she’s a different person, with different life goals, and a different plan. I still felt behind 24-year-old Kayla. So I did it. Although I was fully aware that Delia is the family megaphone and every single one of my aunts would hear about it within the hour, I told her about my one good date with Air Force.

As you’ll recall, Air Force was the last installment in my latest series “Three and Half Men.” He was polite and gentlemanly and he asked me on a second date as we walked to our cars. So, that weekend, we arranged to meet at the Springfield theater, which was nowhere near him, but more convenient for me.

As for the date? Well, it went great. Air Force was polite and just as gentlemanly as before, even offering to get my water for me after we’d been seated. Captain America was good and we went to lunch afterward. The conversation flowed well enough, until…

Me: “You said you can pretty much stay in the state as long as you like?”
Air Force: “Yeah. I’m thinking like 5-8 years, then maybe I’ll move on… is that like a deal breaker for you? The moving around thing?”
Me: ::slight nod:: “I pretty much want to stay here.”

Aaaaand… it was over. The conversational flow just completely stopped. I finished up my meal, tried to continue being friendly, but could tell it was done. AIr Force drove me back to my car, and told me to drive safe. There was no mention of meeting again, though he was still polite. I got in my car, called my Gramma and told her I wouldn’t be seeing him again. She didn’t even argue, knowing what a deal breaker it was for me to leave my family and career. She was just disappointed, hoping she’d finally married off her little girl. Gail was the balm I needed, once I’d relayed what happened.

Gail: You were clear. That was kind of inconsiderate of him.
Me: Yeah. Maybe a little. I think we probably both heard what we wanted to hear, to an extent. I’m so genuinely disappointed. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt after three months. Ugh. Emotions belong with the last fucking Horcrux.
Gail: What’s a Horcrux, again?
Me: It’s where Voldemort stored each of the seven parts of his soul and hid them at the ends of the earth, you loser.
Gail: Yes. I’m the loser.
Me: I’m going to die alone.
Gail: No. You’re going to die HERE, which is exactly what you want. 

We tease each other, but I am so truly blessed to have the bond I have with Gail. There’s nothing I can’t tell her, no time she won’t be there for me, and vice versa.

As I’ve always said, I’ve learned something from each and every man I’ve dated. I learned that “we were just better friends than husband and wife” isn’t a good enough reason for a divorce, from the furry pawed analyst. I learned that I have to be with a man who takes my degree and profession seriously, from Engineer. I learned that attraction is a must, on even the slightest level, from Geologist. I learned that I won’t be dating men younger than I, from Civil Engineer. From Air Force? Well, I’m reminded why I don’t date current military. I’m also recalling the fact that I’m not willing to date someone with whom I have no future. Most importantly, I’m willing to concede that maybe I’m not doing a great job of choosing matches for myself. I’ve always “joked” that I wish I’d lived in a time of arranged marriages, because my daddy would do a much better job than I did the first time. Obviously, that’s not a feasible option. Oh, to be a Duggar. In lieu, though, I’ve decided to try eHarmony, once again.

The thing about eHarmony, is that it’s really not a dating service. It’s a matchmaking service. You’re only able to view the profiles of those who are compatible, making the options limited. I tried it two years ago, when I was just looking for casual dating and it was a terrible idea. I only met one man (because of the limited choices) and he was clearly ready to settle down, while I was realizing that I wasn’t, in fact, ready to date after my divorce. Today? Well, today I’m done wasting my time with drunken 25-year-olds.

Speaking of immature men, Producer, who pretended he didn’t remember our correspondence when I met him at The Last Match Event… Ever, has been messaging me on Match. When I responded and tried to get a conversation going, he told me he was busy with work. When I didn’t, he seemed fascinated and after a week of ignoring him, he’s finally asked me to dinner. I thought about it. “Give him a chance” and all those delightful Jane-isms, but… no. Just no. I’m ready to put quality above quantity. The next time I get my hair cut, I may decide that I need to meet someone a year ago if I want to be on the required path for a Southern 26-year-old, especially when Delia asks about Air Force. Today, though, I quit. eHarmony can take the reins and Delia, as much as I love her, can just stick to hair.

Three and a Half Men: One Half and Civil Engineer

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So, my winter dating hiatus has ended and once again, I’ve gifted you with a cliffhanger series chronicling why I’m about to just delete all of my profiles and buy a bucket of cats. A few weeks ago, I jumped right in with Engineer No. 94. He was nice. He wasn’t particularly attractive. He was successful. The conversation flowed. Then he ignored me all weekend and, after two weeks (a fortnight, y’all!) of regular texting, it came off as game playing. I tried to get back into the idea of him, but I couldn’t shake the thought that he’d had another date lined up and I was his second choice… or that he was following some lame three day rule. I want someone who’s interested in me and I’m past the game playing age. Also, he looked a little like Ward. I love Ward like the little brother I never wanted, but I think of him about as sexually as I do…

I am literally looking around my living room to find something that I think of with as little sexual interest as my good pal Ward… huh… apparently he’s the yardstick by which to measure all things asexual. Good to know.

So, from Engineer No. 94, we move on to my one half.

One Half/Andy

What the hell is a half date? Wait. Why does this one have a name? 

If you’ve read any of my dating posts, or like, the introduction to this one, you’ve realized that I don’t give actual names to the men I date. Part of that is anonymity. Part of it is a refusal to acknowledge that they’re real people, wielding real rejection and/or disappointment. Part of it is that my ex-husband refused to work and I value employment that much. Mostly, it’s a lot easier to remember their professions, than their names, likely because of the previous reason. So, I call them by their job titles… and now there’s Andy.

Andy gets a name, because he’s not Auto Parts Manager. He’s Andy. I’ve known the guy my whole life and I mean that literally. There are many facets of growing up Catholic in the South; so many, actually, that I have a post I’ve yet to write, titled “Catholic in the South.” One of these is knowing every single Catholic kid in town… because there’s only the one church. So, Andy and I shared preschool, first communion, our 5th grade class, confirmation, and junior year Biology II together. He’s just… Andy.

So what earns him a whopping .5? Well, it wasn’t actually a date. Andy and I have been chatting on Facebook, for the past few months, about our faith, dating mishaps, Netflix recommendations, dogs… the works. Having grown up in the same church, we both eventually gravitated toward the parish in a neighboring town, because we didn’t like the priest at our childhood church. So, when said priest retired, Andy asked if I’d been to the new guy’s Mass yet. I said no and he asked if I’d like to go.

You know, to be fair, this isn’t really a thing people do, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t really a date. Andy and I didn’t hang out in high school. We got along. He was a band nerd and I was just a nerd. Our friends hung out, but not once did Andy and I ever spend time alone. So, he gets a .5, for this thing that’s not really a thing.

Why was it noteworthy, then? Well, we had a great time. I enjoyed hearing about Andy’s job, family, and what he’s been doing since high school. We found out we were both downtown for similarly crazy New Year’s Eves in 2011. He’s a mile tall and wasn’t bad to look at, with his scruff and church clothes. It was just… pleasant. It was also a reminder of what it’s supposed to be like, spending time with someone of the opposite sex. It wasn’t awkward, and no one yelled at me about The Walking Dead, or had furry hands, or told me I was a dumbass if I spent less than $2,000 on a bike… because it was with Andy. I don’t know if I’ll ever find quite the same connection and comfort on a first date, as I did with a man who attended all of those confirmation retreats with me, but that sort of camaraderie… it’s nice to occasionally have someone correct my aim. As I’ve said before, every date (or .5 date, as it may be) has served some purpose in my life. Andy, the reminder that fun could be had with a man, got me through my date with Civil Engineer.

Civil Engineer

I met Civil Engineer on Plenty of Fish and we progressed to texting fairly quickly. Too late, I realized he was a year younger than I, but Jane is always insisting I’m going to miss out on the man of my dreams, if I let something so superficial stop me. So, I persevered, telling myself that one year, does not a man make.

After texting for a bit, I realized that Civil Engineer was, indeed, just really… young. It was just the tone of his text messages and his only stated hobbies of TV and video games. I told myself, however, that unless a potential date actually did something to turn me away, like asking if I like to be rubbed (true story), I’d continue contact and see where it went.

Now, in the past I haven’t accepted dinner from men. I don’t know if we’re going to like each other. I don’t want to feel like he’s invested both time and funds, if it’s not going anywhere. Men, however, don’t seem to get that. Every single one of them wants to meet for dinner, so I’ve just stopped fighting it. If they want to spend $20 on a stranger they may never see again, whatevs. So, when Civil Engineer suggested dinner at one of the more expensive chain restaurants in the city, I just went with it. I dressed appropriately, in the same dress I’d worn to church with Andy, just a few hours earlier. I looked pretty danged cute, if I do say so myself. So, I gave myself the usual you will not die alone pep talk as I walked into the restaurant and gave the hostess Civil Engineer’s name.

Now, in addition to his emotional age, I had one other suspicion about Civil Engineer: that he was somewhat effeminate. The night I texted him while waiting for my dad to change my tire, he responded with…

Oh, that sucks girl. 

Again, unless he clearly did something to turn me off, I was going to keep talking to the guy. Besides, my dad calls me “girl” sometimes… like he does Bea. The man has literally spoken the words “that bobcat come flyin’ out from underneath.” He’s as far from effeminate as they come. I told myself it was the same.

No, y’all. It was not the damned same. My daddy calls my stepsister and I “girl”, because we’re his girls. Civil Engineer called me “girl” because…

Oh. Em. Jingles. Remember that time I went out with the geologist, who looked like Gollum? I didn’t realize it, until I wrote the blog about our dates and posted a picture of Gollum? Zetus lapetus. I should’ve gotten an autograph.

I can say one thing in Civil Engineer’s defense. One fucking thing. He did not lie. He had the job he claimed to have and he looked like his photos. So, when I introduced myself and he gave me an oddly loud, “heeeeey”, I told myself to stop being such a superficial bitch and ignore the tenor of his voice. I sat down and he continued to talk very loudly. I am not a quiet person, y’all. My dad is mostly deaf in one ear. I’ve got a high tolerance for volume and I thought this dude was loud. Again, I decided to ignore the trivial first impression stuff. So we started talking… and it all went downhill from there.

Me: “I hate to drive. I don’t know why. It just stresses me out.”
CE: “Oh, I know what you’re sayin’. It’s bad news bears out there.”

It’s what now? Okay. I know. I just quoted Zenon: Girl of the Twenty-First Century, like a paragraph ago. I’m also a chick and I didn’t say it in the voice of Herbert the Pervert.

herbert the pervert

At this point, I still had both Jane and Gail in my head telling to be nice, so I said nothing each time the man exclaimed that something was “bad news bears.” However, I started to think about how I could never introduce this man to my family. My dad is Jed freaking Clampett. Even if I could bring myself to be attracted to someone so effeminate, I could not even picture sitting down and introducing my dad to him. The same goes for pretty much every other person in my family, as the man would be the butt of every joke.

When I’d arrived, CE already had a beer in front of him, which I took as an indicator of nerves. That’s fine. I’ve nothing against a little alcohol. As the date progressed, however, CE… appeared to have a problem. Our date lasted approximately an hour and a half. In that time, CE had five beers. I counted. Not only is that a ton of alcohol, but a lot of cash as well. This wasn’t a cheap restaurant. His stories didn’t make this sound like any less of a regular thing, either, as he shouted tale after tale of his grad school binge drinking. The man was practically performing the vitameatavegamin commercial by the time the check came.

Perhaps, that’s why he was such an ass.

CE: “Wait. What year did you graduate high school?”
Me: “2006.”
CE: “Wooooooooow. You’re like a whole year older than me. How do you feel about that?” -winces-

He fucking winced. Now, after my date with this metrosexual frat boy, I won’t be dating anyone below the age of 28, ever again. That’s my personal preference. If, however, it was his personal preference to date someone younger, he should have done so. My age is no secret. It’s on my profile. You can search by age. If it’s an important enough issue to get drunk and insult me, you should probably do some better weeding, douche nugget.

Gail: “Wait. Go back. You forgot to tell me how you responded to that.”

Me: “Well, when’s your birthday?”
CE: “September 12th.”
Me: “Woooow. You’re a year and three days younger than I am.”

As most first meetings go, the conversation led to a brief discussion of our online dating history. I told CE that one of the problems I have, is that most men seem to want to leave my home state. I’m not game, because my whole family and career are here, so it’s hard to find common ground on this issue.

CE: “Yeah, I don’t want to leave the state. I mean, sometimes I do. Like, sometimes I think it would be great to just pick up and leave the country.”
I’d decided, at this point, that I was going to be polite, but I was never going to see this man again.
Me: “Well, now’s your chance. You’re single… no wife, no kids.”
CE: “Yeah. I’ve got friends with wives and kids and they’re just stuck. Like, they’re trapped. Forever. The old ball and chain.”

Dude, why are you here?!?!

After CE missed the fact that I was trying to get him to leave the country, we moved on to discuss TV shows.

Me: “Well, I like True Blood and-”
CE: “Oooooh, you’re a Twilight fan aren’t you? You watched all the movies and loved ’em.”
Me: “Well, I did read the books and I liked them well enough, but-”
CE: “Oh, don’t lie. You know you loved ’em. I’ll bet you went to all the midnight releases.”
Me: “Actually, I didn’t really care for-”
CE: “Oh, that’s what they all say. Every girl I dated was like ‘I don’t like them that much,’ but then when the movie came out, guess who had to sit through them.”


I’m sorry. Was that permission to speak? 

CE: “So what’s in Shetland? Are your girlfriends there? Your gee effs?”
I shit you not. He phonetically pronounced GF’s, either stereotyping all women (I am so wet right now) or being über gay. I lean toward the former.
Me: “Well, um, my best friend lives there.”
CE: “Oh, yeah? What’s she do?”
Me: “She’s a mail carrier.”
CE: “Well… …. …. it’s a job.”

Listen, you drunken elitist asshole, not everyone wants to be an engineer, teacher, librarian, nurse, or scientist. Not everyone needs to go to college and spend thousands upon thousands of dollars to find a career they love. Some people are lucky enough to find that without a degree and it’s pompous bags of dicks like you that are making those degrees redundant in our society anyway, by suggesting everyone needs one to be of value. Someone has to deliver your reminder postcard from AA and enjoying doing so does not make her any less intelligent, worthwhile, or pleasant. Asshat.

At this point, the date was pretty much over, though CE yammered on about how much more successful he was than anyone else in high school, after ordering dessert… because obviously the date was going so well. I had reached that point, where all I could think was…

I want to be home. I want to not be here. I don’t want to go through the awkwardness of leaving, when he’s clearly enjoying his own company (as everyone can hear), but I want to be gone. 

So, I subtly… pssshhh. I can’t even type out the lie. I was subtle as a pipe bomb when I cut him off mid-sentence as he announced how badly he had to pee (again), because the beer was “flowing right through” him, to declare…

Me: “I actually have to go.”
CE: surprised “Oh. I’m sorry to keep you. I didn’t mean to make you stay longer than you wanted.”
Ooooh. Guilt tripping. Haaaawt.
Me: “It’s fine. I just have to work tomorrow. Thank you for dinner.”

He insisted on a hug and I turned my head away. I quickly walked to my car and realized that I’d just used the excuse “I have to work tomorrow” to leave a date at 7:30.

Jane: You didn’t! That’s as bad as flat out rejection!
Me: Psh. Whatev. I’m sure he was too drunk to notice.
Jane: Be nice.
Me: What can I say? It’s bad news bears out there.
Jane: Oh, that’s just really bad. 

If I can get get Jane Give-Him-Another-Chance Williams to tell me it was a bad date…

 

Okay, Cupid, your aim sucks.

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My eagerness to date seems to be directly related to the weather. The second temperatures drop below fifty, it’s all “Fuck love! My pink Christmas tree is plenty of romance for one! Should I cook the cookie dough or just eat it raw? What would it taste like if I covered it in chocolate and peanut butter?”
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bridget jones moping
I’m pretty sure it tasted like sex. I’m not certain, though. It’s been awhile.
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Now that temperatures have risen above fifty, I’ve decided to spend my free six months of Match, you know… actually trying… with spunk. Gail calls this Panic Dating. I call it Counting. Counting is when I think “Well, I’d like to have my first child at 30. So, I guess I’d like to get married by 28. I suppose I’d like to be engaged for six months before I get married. It’d be best to date someone for about a year and half before getting engaged. So that means, I need to meet someone… two months ago.”
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bridget jones working out.
I try to keep a handle on this, to avoid the moment where my dramatic rant turns from a joke to tears, which is a surprisingly sudden occurrence. I’m 26 years old. I won’t be 30 until September of 2017. That’s nearly four years away and four years ago, I was in the middle of my student teaching, had just gazed into the casket of a child I loved, and was married to a man who… well, let’s not get into that. My point is, the whole world can change in just four years, so I should calm the fuck down.
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Regardless of the little pep talks that sound suspiciously like Gail, I decided to try OKCupid once again. Everyone on the dating blogs seems to have good luck with it. It’s certainly set up better than Plenty of Fish, which my librarian brain cannot ignore, because organization is hawt. So why not?
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I’ll tell you why not. Y’all, the Fates do not want me using OKCupid. If you follow this blog religiously (pretty much only Gail), you’ll remember that the last time I was on this particular free site, I found my ex-husband’s profile. Freaked out by the idea that he might see my information, I promptly deleted my profile and declared myself a Paid Sites Only gal. The paid sites haven’t even been going poorly. I just haven’t really met anyone that seems worth meeting. I’ve also been busy sucking my thumb and reading romance novels under my favorite chair. There’s just no time for dating, peeps!
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bridget jones with comforter
I’m just really busy, right now!
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So… realizing that I haven’t been on a date since September, I decided to give it one more shot… and the Fates chimed in, once again. Here we have, the first conversation I had, upon returning to OKCupid.
.
fates
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OKCupid, your aim sucks.
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Him: You wanna play? 888-888-8888
– I was nice enough to change that number.
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Me: So fucking creepy.
– Any time I start a story with “I barely even said anything…” Gaily starts laughing. Apparently, my definition of verbal innocence differs greatly from hers.
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Him: Why is that?
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Me: 
– There is no actual way to send reaction gifs, a grand flaw in online dating.
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Him: Are you a virgin or somethin? I guess I could have been more detailed but I figured I shouldn’t say that much dirty stuff until after you text me
– For the sake of blog humor, I’m kind of wishing he’d been more detailed.
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Him: Tell me something though and don’t lie because I’ve tried several ways on her to get someone’s attention…would you have even responded if I said “hi I’m Andrew. What’s your name”? And was really nice? Truthful I wouldn’t have heard anything back from you and I already know it! Because every girl is the same on here and nice guys always finish last! Sorry if I offended you. But it really didn’t matter what I said to you because you already made up your mind way before we even talked. Hope you find that special jackass;)
– Alright, alright. I’m never mean to anyone online without reason, but he asked.
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Me: I’m going to be honest, because you asked. I saw your profile before and didn’t write first, because there wasn’t a lot of information. If you’d sent me a normal message, yeah, I’d have responded. What little was there seemed okay. I’m not a virgin, but you’re a total stranger and I would never appreciate sexual implications from any stranger. You clearly have a negative attitude toward women and online dating, based on your reaction to my disturbance when you suggested whatever the hell you were suggesting. I would’ve responded if you’d been a nice guy, because they don’t finish last. You finish last, because you’re rude.
– Dude, you can hardly accuse me of being shallow toward the “nice guys”, when you opened with the words ‘down to fuck’. I also wasn’t lying. He had a kid, which was a turnoff, but I’d have still responded.
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Him: You’re wrong lady. So wrong. You have no idea
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Me: You opened with solicitation. There is no other logical conclusion for me to draw, based on the information you gave me, your declaration that all women are the same, and your best wishes for me to end up with a jackass, because YOU’RE a nice guy. I’m sorry you, so severely, lack self-awareness.
– Psh … and Gail claims my apologies aren’t always “real.”
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Him: Whatever. If you find a guy that doesn’t want to use you out there you let me know k;) at least I was nice and up front about it.
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Me: 
– If this is nice, what’s this guy like when he is being a jackass?
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Me: Giving your phone number out is going to be so much fun.
– There are stronger women out there than I. Those women would not have started creating a Craigslist ad for male group sex, with every intention of posting it. 
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Him: Hahaha so it’s like that huh?
…
Him: Please don’t do that. I said I was sorry anyway
…
Him: Can we just start over? Lol
….
Him: Hi I’m Andrew. What’s your name pretty lady?
…
Me: Ugh. Fine. I deleted the Craigslist ad. It could’ve been an adventure for you. It was for a group of men and included the words “your pic gets mine.” But, no. We can’t start over. You should be less sexual with people you haven’t met, especially if you don’t want whores. Good luck out there.
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Him: Aww okay
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Him: There’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind?
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So, um… what’s the DOWNSIDE to dying alone?

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Alright, alright, despite the January 1, 2014 milestone, I’ve not been trying that hard to secure actual dates. In part, I can’t really muster up the desire. I know I should want to date, because in a month I’ll be “panic dating” as Gaily puts it. My entire New Year’s resolution was to date consistently, which means no longer spending alternating months yelling “Fuck it! I’m just going to buy boots and have Gossip Girl marathons in my underwear for the rest of my life!” and “… then, I’m going to be in a horrible car accident and you won’t even be at my deathbed, because you’ll be on a fucking couples’ cruise!”

Fuck you and your happiness, Gail!

In my defense, though, there has been some effort. Since just before the New Year, there was some promise with one guy from Match. I realized, however, that he was the guy who spoke only in $$$. Don’t get me wrong. I want a man who makes decent money, but did he seriously have to mention it every single time we texted? I really gave this one a shot. I promise. I didn’t even flee when he told me about how the “love of his life” died, but he was ready to find someone again, after we’d texted for like a minute and a half. Really, dude? I’m sorry and all, but you should probably stop opening by calling someone else “the love of my life.” Just sayin’, nobody wants to be Dick York.

darrens
Really, what did she see in either of them?

Buuuuuut, I realized that there’s just not an ideal for that situation and he had no control over it, so I’d see how it progressed. If he couldn’t stop mentioning her, big red flag, just as with any past relationship. He never did, though… because he was too busy counting. Like most Southern online dating males, $$$ worked on oil rigs. He lived an hour away, sent me like nine random selfies (not an exaggeration), and this…

$$$: Catholic church is kinda boring. Lots of up down kneeling and sitting lol. I’ve been to other churches that get straight to the point and not in 1 1/2 hours lol.

No. No loling about my Church. My profile makes that clear. It’s your fault if you didn’t freaking read it… but I was still willing to see how things went. See! I totally tried!

Ahem…

I get that oil is lucrative. I’ve seen the’ Beverly Hillbillies. After the initial statement of decent pay, though, you shut-up about it! You certainly don’t pepper all conversation with…

$$$: I’m pretty excited about this job now we are gonna make about 8 grand in bonus have about 600 hours on overtime and 700 bucks in per diem each of us!!!!
$$$: Basically for 1800 bucks a day you get to be the head honcho over everything that goes on out here
$$$: One of my best friends made 418k his first year
$$$: Bought a 300 dollar cell phone booster today… it better work lol
$$$: We’ve been going on about 2 hrs of sleep every 24 hrs. Anything for a 12k check in 2 weeks.

I changed the subject each time, trying to make it subtly clear that I wasn’t interested in how much money he makes, but he would stop responding and text another time, only to bring it up again. Um… no. I’m done. He’s in Texas for at least two more weeks, anyway. I am not messaging him about the gospels of Bank of America for two whole weeks, on the off chance that he won’t talk about nothing but money in person… and refuse to respond when I change the subject. Soooo, what seemed promising was another bust, before even meeting. It’s just like the Power Lifter who opened our text conversation by asking me if I thought Chris Hemsworth was attractive, because he was also super built, somehow coming off as both insecure and arrogant. Then he immediately ranted for several texts about how much he hates Miley Cyrus and never messaged me again. Sorry I don’t feel the need to berate a lost 19-year-old with no guidance. Best of luck to them, I suppose. Lid to every pot and all that. In the meantime, it’s back to pretending I want to date and considering trying ChristianMingle, because it will at least be funny, where CatholicMatch was completely ineffective. The prospects aren’t looking so great, though. Men, listen up, because this is what’s wrong with your advertising, since I’ve already told you what’s wrong with ours.

Fill Out the Damned Profile

The purpose of your profile is to express yourself in limited characters (if you’re doing it correctly and not writing a novel that no one will read). This is really the perk of online dating, period, not having to wade through small talk to find out about whether the other person’s been married or votes Democrat. From the beginning, you know if the fundamentals match up, or if you should both keep looking. That is, unless the other party has refused to actually answer any of these questions. I’m not talking about the important details two people share once they start dating. The problem is not the lack of explanation as to who the baby’s mother is, but rather, whether or not there is or ever will be a baby. There is no reason for ambiguity in these responses, either. If you don’t identify with party politics, “some other viewpoint” is a choice. If you don’t really go to church or pray, but consider yourself a believer, “spiritual but not religious” and “agnostic” are listed as well. If you haven’t really considered kids, “not sure” is a great response. Just fucking pick something. 

Furthermore, when you have to type out a response, stop being so damned vague. “Sales?” You can tell me that you sell medical equipment without saying for whom. “Law enforcement?” ‘Police officer’ hardly gives away a precinct, but clarifies that you’re not the guy driving the security car around the Wal-Mart parking lot. “Other profession?” What? Pot dealer? Concert pianist? Mime? “Student?” THAT’S NOT A FUCKING PROFESSION!!!!!! 

Ahem….

Regardless, “I’ll tell you later” pretty much guarantees that you’re not going to get the chance. I already asked the question. You refused to answer.

Get Your Ex-Girlfriend Out of Your Profile Picture

I get that men don’t just have hundreds of selfies in their phones or posted to Facebook. I practically had to draw pictures of my step-brothers in Grandma Kay’s Christmas photo album, because there are almost none on Facebook. I admire men for this. It’s really quite healthy. You are, however, using your online dating profile to seek a realtionship. So, if you don’t just happen to already have a current solo photo, make arrangements. I don’t care if you have to take a selfie on the golf course or if you want to post that picture of you and your grandma at Christmas, but your last Facebook photo with half of some chick’s cheek in it, isn’t gonna cut it. Worse? You left her whole cheek in it and you look deliriously in luuuuuv. I once actually saw the caption, “me and an old girlfriend.” No. No one wants to see a photo of the last vag you tasted, so get off your lazy ass and use your forward facing camera phone to take a new friggin’ picture. If you do post a picture of you with your hot sister at Thanksgiving, that’s totally acceptable, just clarify the relation.

Another unacceptable caption: “Me. A couple of years ago, but basically the same.” If it’s basically the same, then there will be no hardship to take a current picture. You know what, though? It’s probably not basically the same. You see, people age. A picture of Belle at age 24 is inaccurate. If I posted it, a man would be disappointed and rightfully so. I may still be able to pass for 21, but my hair, my weight, my fashion choices, are all completely different than what was expressed in that photo where I excitedly presented my fully loaded gun magazine. In short, for whatever reason, I look like someone else. Photos are the only thing we have to go off of, when it comes to physical representation. Just as you should be updating your education or profession or age, you should be updating your photos to give the most accurate depiction of who you are, so we can avoid that awkward moment at Starbuck’s where I’m doing a double take, because the man in the photo was 20 pounds lighter and had a lot more hair.

danny devito

Obscure Movie References and Humor

If I met a man at a bar and he recognized that I was wearing a golden snitch necklace, I would drop to my knees, then and there, performing glorious Stranger Fellatio as camera phones flashed. Really. As someone who spent her middle school years in Roswellian RPG chat rooms, I totally get the appeal of finding someone who also loves that random thing you love. In person, though, if a guy doesn’t get the reference, it just looks like I’m wearing some kind of kitchy golden ball with wings around my neck. There’s no need for comment, because that’s hardly the focus of getting to know each other. When you make your headline “Cellar Door,” however, you don’t just attract Donnie Darko fans, as I’m sure was the goal. You scare away every single woman who does not get that reference. Seriously, dude? Cellar fucking door is the headline of your online dating profile? Did you not think this through at all? 

Not only can these references be misunderstood, but when you make “I love lamp” the sentence with which you identify yourself as a person, you risk an otherwise interested woman deciding that you just must have different senses of humor. You may really click one on one, but she never starts a conversation, having already realized that Anchorman was the worst comedy in the history of time. Bee tea double ewe, Gail, you’ve yet to return the $2 I spent renting that on your recommendation. Bitch. See? It’s totally possible for two people to get along, even though one recommends shitty movies. Why not just name it among a handful of favorites, rather than introducing yourself with it? I certainly don’t immediately tell men in bars that I have a replica of the cross Angel gave Buffy. 

On a similar note, your primarily text profile is not the place for sarcasm or subtle humor. I once saw a man write “I used to have ‘often’ under drug use, but clearly some people are too stupid to get the joke.” Um, why would I assume you’re joking? I don’t know you. There are people who use drugs often. Until we adopt a sarcasm font, as the Internet has suggested numerous times, I have only your word to go on, here. You were asked a multiple choice question. It’s no one else’s fault that you don’t understand that there is a time and a place for your humor. If you feel humor lightens the mood, that’s great, just make it clear that that’s what’s taking place.

Man the Fuck Up

One of the most frustrating things about online dating is sending 11 messages to 11 different people and getting back three messages from three other people, who still think the “sexy librarian” comment is clever. I am seriously about to change my online dating screen name. You know how I know that’s so discouraging, though? Because it happens to women, too.

Often, I’ll see a man’s profile state something like this…

“I know you get a lot of messages from a lot of douche bags with their shirts off in the bathroom mirror, so here’s how it’s gonna go. If I like what I see, I’ll favorite you and you can send me a message if you’re feeling it.”


Marry me. Marry me, now. You see, I had to ask, because all he’s willing to do is favorite my profile.

Online dating is a different world than meeting in person. People think the same basic rules apply and they don’t. Here in the South, most women would agree with the statement that a man not paying means no second date. In fact, while I would be perfectly polite to a guy in that scenario and just feel we had separate views of gender roles, a lot of women would be downright offended. Obviously, this practice doesn’t really transfer well to online dating. If a woman never sends the first message, she’s not going to get a lot of attention, so I’m hardly saying a man should always do so. However, rejection is a part of the dating scene and online rejection is about as mild as it comes, so let the testicles descend and message a gal when she catches your eye. Don’t tell her that librarians are sexy because they’re so uptight (cough:: suck my dick ::cough), but don’t just send “hey,” either. Put in a little effort, just as would be expected in person. Say hi, ask how she is, throw in a question about something more specific, like the vacation depicted in her photos. If she doesn’t answer? Don’t be a little bitch about it. I guarantee she just got ignored by someone, too. Move on. She’s not even real until you meet in person, anyway. But don’t just send the next gal a wink, hoping she’ll take the bait and open the conversation. Certainly don’t refuse to eventually send a message if she winks back. Even if she contacts you first, you don’t have to wait for her to ask to talk on the phone, or meet, or what have you. You’re still the boy and if you consider yourself chivalrous, that’s the place for it in an online setting: effort. If she says no, fine. As I’ve said, there’s a lid to every pot…

pot and lid
… or at least that’s what I tell myself when I decide it might be best to let the maggots eat my face, postmortem, until the neighbors complain about the smell.

Sick and Tired: The Worst Day to be Single

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There are a lot of things one could say about a 26-year-old professional who still sucks her thumb. “Emotionally broken” or “product of abuse” are probably the most fitting, in my case. One that’s hardly ever mentioned, however, is the bomb immune system that comes with the habit. Considering the fact that I will find a way to discreetly sanitize my hands after the “Peace Be With You” during Mass, it’s probably for the best that I’m subjected to germs through less common means, anyway. Otherwise… I would die. Mysterious ways, yo.


I use the term “discreetly,” quite loosely. 

My point here, is that I rarely get sick. When I do, however, it’s always with something strong enough to break through the immune system of Achilles. About once a year, I get the opportunity to dramatically post Facebook status updates about how I am Patient Zero and everyone should say their goodbyes, because we are all going to die. I may even quote Hocus Pocus with “This is the end. I feel it. We are doomed. I feel the icy breath of death upon my neck… Goodbye. Goodbye cruel world. Goodbye to life.” It all depends on the amount of energy I have, since I spent about eight hours sleeping on my couch, yesterday. No really. I took breaks to sleep while writing this. You’re welcome.

This year, it all started with ice. You see, we don’t really get snow in my area.The weather app on my phone called it a “wintry mix,” but that just meant “lots of fucking ice.” So, I prepared. Niki came over Thursday night to marathon American Horror Story with me and we interrupted the ramblings of a group of broken souls to go get deicer. We each bought two cans and I figured I was set. That stuff works like magic. The company doesn’t specify, however, that it only does so if you put it in the car, as opposed to leaving it on the kitchen counter. Someone is going to be getting an angry letter.

So, on Friday, I left my substitute teaching job during my planning period, to get a salad for lunch. I ended up with a pack of Reese’s Bells, as well, but I’m a member of the Participation Trophy generation, so it still counts. When I got back to the school, the roads were still clear and dry. Five hours later?

012411Ice10BS

Fine. I’m lying. It still, however, was far too much ice for my sad little scraper, which was proven when it snapped in half. I started the car and wondered how long it would take for the ice to melt as I regained feeling in my fingers. Then I saw the blood. I don’t even know what happened. My best guess is that the ice scraper cut my finger when it broke. I went inside, got some bandages, came out and took another try with the remaining pieces of the scraper. After a bit of struggling, I was rescued by a Big Strong Man. Suck my dick, modern extreme feminists. I take care of myself every day and I even tried in this instance, but I was thrilled to be the damsel as another teacher insisted I get in the car where it was warm, while he cleared my windows. I thanked him kindly and decided I’d go straight to the gym, because I knew I wouldn’t be getting out again, after I’d gone home. Besides, what could a little “wintry mix” do during my one hour workout?

012411Ice10BS

It wasn’t actually as bad as it had been before, but I still didn’t have deicer. My scraper was still broken and the one I’d bought at The Dollar Tree was just sad. So, I decided to walk to Wal-Mart and grab another can of magic. This wasn’t gym clothes weather, folks. I walked uphill in freezing rain, wearing nothing but knee-length leggings, a t-shirt, and my Northface. Unsurprisingly, Wal-Mart was sold out of anything and everything intended for winter weather, so I trekked back to my car, this time downhill in ice, and decided on another method of dealing with this issue: avoidance. So, for the next twenty minutes, I continued texting Gaily about my latest online dating flop.

Me: I could work to fix this problem, or I could sit in the car with the heat on and eat Reese’s Bells.
Me: I am going to die alone. Right here. In my car.
Gail: Better to die alone with a Reese’s Bell than to die with Engineer whispering “I knew you’d like it” in hot breath on your neck.

Hey. At least this time I wasn’t overreacting. Even Gail thought he was clingy. EVEN GAIL. 


Every man Gail has ever dated.

Finally, I realized that the ice was melting and I was free to get out of my car and scrape the windows with ease, regardless of my near-nudity.


… aaaaaand Monday morning.

There are a handful of worst times ever to be single, such as when a family member dies, when you’re stranded on the side of the road, and… when you’re sick. I have officially done all of these this year. Despite my humorous melodrama, I am not actually that high-maintenance of a patient. I don’t need someone to sing Soft Kitty to me or clean up my vomit. There is just something uniquely awful about being home alone, too exhausted to stand up and get a glass of water, and having no one there to give a shit. Furthermore, do you have any idea how difficult child safety bottles can be to open in quarantine? At one point, I could not hold my head up long enough to read a trashy romance novel I’d already read, and which therefore required no concentration, but someone had to go get medicine and run by the post office. It would have just been nice to have someone to do that and maybe even a load of dishes. It’s not a selfish wish, as I’d be more than happy to return the favor in a week when he contracted The Black Death. Soup for soup and all that. I’d just like someone with whom to trade that favor.

I suppose part of the problem was my idea to check out a bunch of movies from work, in preparation for being iced in all weekend. If you’re ever in the position to be ill and snowed in alone, do not watch Yours, Mine, and Ours and Pillow Talk. 

giphy

I couldn’t have 10 kids if I wanted to, because I’m running out of time!!! I may never get to have ANY children, because I keep turning men down! He just wanted to know if he’d done something wrong when I hadn’t texted him for a few hours, even though I’d told him I had company. What’s the harm in that?!? What if I have pneumonia and it just gets worse and worse and I really DO die alone!?!?!

They’re right! The only thing worse than a woman living alone is one who insists she likes it! I couldn’t even meet a man that way, because there’s no such thing as a party line anymore! Why can’t they bring back party lines?!?

No, really. Skip the romantic comedies. The more rational part of my brain had to talk myself out of joining another paid online dating site out of distress. Believe me, that part was not particularly present as the delirium set in, either.

I’m just trying to remind myself that these are the good ol’ days. One day, I’ll be cleaning poop out of the carpet, while a two-year-old screams in my ear, longing for the days when I only had to deal with my own sickness. At one point, I woke up on the couch, in utter despair at the quiet. When I’m sick at 35, I’m pretty sure I’ll want a time machine to kick my own ass for that thought. In the meantime, I really do enjoy living alone most days. I’m aware that yarn bombing my living room and playing the soundtrack to The Great Gatsby on repeat are activities I’ll have to keep to a minimum when I live with a boy. I have no delusions that the hot pink and teal Christmas tree will be on display when I’m not the only one who has to look at it. These years will be missed and cherished. Now, to just get well and process that fully.

The Last Match Event… Ever

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The romance novels told me that it would happen like this:

I’m walking through the woods one day, when suddenly, I’m surrounded by a pack of feral wolves, growling and foaming at the mouth. Out of nowhere, the large, proud alpha appears and his pack stands down. I stumble and fall as I take a step back, and look up to see, not a wolf, but a beautiful naked man in his place.

You really don’t want me to continue. I’d be a horrible erotic romance writer.

Me: “Why do you still have his number? He was a such a dick.”
Gail: “I don’t know. I just never deleted it.”
Me: “We should text him something wildly inappropriate, like… ‘Hey there… copper. Why don’t you haul that big… penis on over here and… put it in my mouth… big boy?’ Wait. I used the word ‘big’ twice. That’s kind of redundant.”


Gail

Alas, Disney lied. More accurately, all media ever lied, along with every single person who’s ever said ‘It’ll happen when you least expect it” or “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.” That works so well with every other aspect of our lives, like our education, careers, and friendships, right? Success takes effort and dating is no different. So, I went to another Match event.

I cannot stress the balls it takes to go to these stupid things. Y’all, I am a pretend extrovert, because my job requires it. Despite my energy and humor in any social setting, unless I’m with a small group of friends or family, I can pretty much promise you that I would much rather be at home reading… in a blanket fort.

SONY DSC

The original plan was to go to the Match event with a friend from high school, who’s kept in touch via Facebook and has also been navigating the harrowing waters of online dating. When that didn’t happen, I decided I’d still go, since I’d gone to another Match event alone and the world didn’t crumble around me. The problem is, I had been looking forward to having a gal pal with me and was having trouble readjusting the plans in my mind for a solo event. I was dreading it. I couldn’t decide whether or not I even wanted to go and wavered all day long. When it was time to leave, all of my clothing turned to ash and I had nothing to wear. When I finally chose an outfit, it ripped as I put it on. Though I was tempted to give up and get out the chairs and linens, I made the repairs and forced myself out the door.

The event was held at a Spanish grill downtown, which I had trouble finding at first. I decided to go to the nearby outdoor supply superstore to use the restroom and fix my makeup before giving the search a second go. I spent a good twenty minutes in the bathroom, trying to come up with an excuse to just browse the guns and go home. Finally I promised myself that, if I was that unhappy after 10 minutes, I’d just leave.

On the way, I tried to figure out why I was so miserable over the idea of going to a bar, when I feel nothing close when meeting someone. I realized that, when you go on a date with someone you’ve met online, you’re only making yourself vulnerable to one person. At a Match event, you’re vulnerable to about 50 people. Not to mention, on a date, you know exactly with whom you’re supposed to be socializing. There is no guess work. Quite the opposite, at this Match event, I sat alone and worked up the nerve to talk to the girls behind me, reminding myself (with the help of Jane by text) that this was not the first day of sixth grade at lunch time. When I introduced myself and was invited to sit with them, I figured if the worst case scenario was engaging in some meaningless girl talk, I’d be okay.

One woman was 24, energetic and friendly, but something she said did rub me the wrong way.

24: “My man’s gotta love Jesus. I mean love Jesus. I don’t like hypocrites, either. You’ve gotta practice what you preach.”

… then…

24: “We met on Christian Cafe.”
Me: “Is that free?”
24: “It is for a little while and then you have to pay. I just kept using new e-mail addresses, though.”

Wait. He’s gotta be a Christian who practices what he preaches, but you’re stealing online Christian dating? I wouldn’t normally nitpick the misuse of a free trial. To each their own. These statements were back to back, though. I told Gail this story at breakfast, wondering if I was being unfair.


She didn’t think so.

Her friend was 26 and we agreed that, although we’re not really in a hurry right now, we probably will be in four years. Still…

Me: “So, how long have you been on Match?”
26: “Two years.”
Me: “Any luck?”
26: “None. But I have really high standards.”

What exactly does “high standards” mean? Do you mean you’re looking for someone who works in education, so he’ll understand your career concerns? Do you really need to be with a member of the Church of the Latter Day Saints and that’s hard to find in this part of the country? Are you looking for someone with ambition and drive, who has accomplished some of his goals? All of those are completely reasonable, but you have to specify that. Grand generalized statements like “I have really high standards” come off as “No one’s good enough for me”, regardless of gender. I had just finished researching the poor online dating habits of women, so maybe my head was in the wrong space for this, but I can’t stand to see a statement like that on a man’s profile either. It’s a huge turnoff to read that or similar comments like “I know what I want.” Why bother trying if they’re that particular?

Despite the above irksome comments, I had fun getting to know other women who dated online and I really did appreciate them letting me sit at their table. They had some good stories and interesting experiences and we had a nice conversation. Eventually a couple of men came over and struck up some conversation and we started comparing who was worse at deception, men or women. One guy was drunk, but funny and nice. Had he messaged me after the event, I’d likely have responded. He even took my correction of his usage of who/whom in stride. Eventually, though, the older of the two shared a humiliating story about a woman having a breakdown when he refused to come inside after a first date, stating that he was actually still friends with her.

Confused, I asked how they were still close and he said that she’d just been going through a really hard time. I didn’t comment further, but dude, if she’s a friend, it is beyond hateful to tell a humiliating story about her to get a few laughs, especially from a time in her life when she was feeling low. If you come off as a shit friend, I really don’t want to date you.

As the event neared it’s end, I noticed a man I’d been messaging and decided to introduce myself.

Me: “Hi. I’m Belle. We chatted for awhile, not too long ago.”
Producer: “Oh… I don’t remember. If I’ve slept since then, I’ve forgotten.”
Me: “I’m a libarian. My screen name has that in it.”
Producer: “No, I don’t remember.”
Me: “Oh, well then, this is a terrible introduction.” 

We talked for awhile online. I think he did remember me, but felt slighted when I stopped responding, because he never asked to meet. Still, we chatted for a few minutes, until the older man who cruelly mocks his friends came over, stood way too close to me, and obviously interrupted a conversation to ask where my friends went. Curtly answering his question, I told him I hadn’t known them, pointedly only told Producer it was nice meeting him, and left. Still, I got a message from him less than an hour later, saying how nice it was to meet me. I didn’t respond.

So, that was my second Match event. At this point, I’m thinking it’s going to be my last. The perk of online dating is knowing the fundamentals of who a person is before getting to know them. At the last event, I devoted two hours to a man, at a loss for why I’d never messaged him. Finally, I realized it was our different religious beliefs that had turned me off and it was still a valid reason. A Match event is pretty much just going to a bar and trying your luck, hoping someone will even want to talk to you and that you’ll have anything in common if they do. It is literally the face-to-face version of Match. You have to deal with the creepy people and the rude people and the pushy people just the same, only you have to do it in person. No thank you.

F*#% you, I’m festive.

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halloween tantrum

“Have you put up any (fall/Halloween/Christmas) decorations, yet?”
“Oh, I don’t decorate, since it’s just me. You really put up seasonal decorations?”

I have had that conversation at least 20 times, since my divorce. I’m aware that there are several reasons not to decorate for the holidays. Maybe you’re working 11 days a week and you’re neither home enough to put up decorations, nor are you around to enjoy them. Maybe you’ve just announced your divorce by knocking on your dad’s door and blurting “I’mgettingadivorceI’msorryIruinedChristmas” and you don’t feel like tainting such a wonderful season with bad mojo. Maybe you don’t already have those decorations and really don’t have the funds to devote to something with no function. Maybe you just don’t enjoy the holidays, because you have no soul. Fine. Whatever. You know what’s the worst fucking reason ever, though? That you’re single.

Lack of seasonal decor is not the only scenario in which I’ve heard people use their solo relationship status as an excuse for missing out on something. I hear it when someone didn’t get the chance to see a movie in theaters, eat at that new restaurant, go to the state fair, or see that live show. Being single has stopped these people from going shopping, having a night out on the town, and attending that reunion. Maybe your distaste for eating alone at a restaurant has nothing to do with embarrassment and you just think that sounds impossibly dull. Maybe the fair is expensive and makes you fat. Fine… but if the reason you’re not enjoying yourself is because you think everyone is staring in horror at the single person buying a Christmas tree, I assure you, they’re all equally self-absorbed and probably don’t even realize you exist.

I’m not preaching the virtues of being single over being in a relationship. Far from it. I want to write the “Did I really just agree to get married again!?!?!” and “Holy shit, I’m someone’s mom!” blog posts, eventually. Statistically speaking, as long as I’m trying, I will. So… I’m going to enjoy being single while it lasts. I love the fact that I can curl up underneath my favorite chair, suck my thumb, and write a blog post, without anyone there to tell me how incredibly weird that is. If I want to shout “POTTERTHON!” and tearfully sniff the words “Emotion should be hidden like the last fucking horcrux!” when Cedric’s dad yells “That’s my boy!”, I’m not interrupted to share the TV during Duck Dynasty or whatever stupid boy show someone wants to watch. I can sing and dance to songs about how awesome the dog is, while blaring 50’s Pandora and no one gets a say. I’m even going to do so with some fake pumpkins and cheap garland in the background, damn it!

If I’m not supposed to decorate for the holidays, because I’m alone, at what point do I get to start enjoying myself? Are we still so stuck on the archaic idea that life does not truly begin for a woman until marriage? That’s a silly question, because we sure as hell are in the South. Is it not enough that I go on all of these awful dates, but I also have to sit staring out the window alone on Halloween night, longing for the days I get to dress my kiddos up in cute costumes they hate? Horseshit. In 10 years, I’m going to be trudging up a sidewalk, sleepy toddler on my hip, freezing my ass off to beg for candy I’ll probably trash and replace when the internet convinces me it’s all poison and razor blades. I’m not going to be regretting the time I spent wishing my life would start. I’m going to be remembering the night I spent watching Everwood on DVD with a friend, while we ate far too much candy and she kept snapping at me to stop swearing, because children existed and could be just outside the metal door that was at least 10 feet away from me.

razor blade apple

Geez. They were so much subtler when we were kids.In 10 years, I’m going to listen to screams and giggles and arguments in the living room and remember that time I tried to teach myself the Thriller dance from YouTube… and failed. I’m going to stay up all night wrapping my presents with special Santa paper and bitching about how creepy Elf on the Shelf is, while longing for the days of my hot pink Christmas tree and half naked, semi-drunken, over-analyses of the stop-motion Rudolph movie.
“There are more important things than comfort: self respect! Santa can’t object to you now.”

Being single isn’t better than having a family of your own. It’s just a completely different and equally valid stage of life. Even if you want to find a long-term relationship, you’re here right now, regardless. You might as well enjoy it. I spent enough time wishing the world could spin faster, to know now how much I was missing in that moment. I almost missed all of this by getting married at age 12, so I’m not turning down the opportunity to enjoy it today and not just by going on bad dates or dancing with douche bags in bars, either. I’m going to watch Hocus Pocus before September even hits, dress up the dog, and decorate my purple foil Halloween tree, all for myself, because fuck you, I’m festive.

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

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I start my Librarian job on Monday. I bought cute new dresses for said job. I get my car back soon and can stop driving my dad’s monster truck. I got to hang out with Gail, Niki, and Malik this week. Things have been pretty great in many ways. In another way, though, it’s been a rough couple of weeks…

I keep a very clean living space and live in a fairly nice apartment complex, in the sense that they’re well-kept and the management stays on top of things. Both of those facts are important to remember when I mention the roach problem that sprouted up and has been aggressively treated over the last 30 days. Essentially, the lady downstairs and to the left shouldn’t be living alone and her home care stopped coming, because she told them to fuck off. Management is on top of it and now she has an aide coming several times a week, along with a housekeeper. She should still be evicted in my opinion, because it’s not safe for her, but no one wants to make that call. Whatev, so long as the bugs are eradicated. They’ve been spraying weekly, along with laying poisons and baits.

Another important thing to remember, however, is that I am an obsessive person, often to an unhealthy extent. I saw maybe 5-10 bugs in a week long period, if not longer… and freaked the fuck out.

After spraying a cabinet of clean dishes with Raid, I texted Niki in a panic. We’d actually just had one of our crochet days. I collect people with weird jobs, you see, and Niki used to be an Orkin man. I asked if she’d come spray and she made some suggestions for purchases and promised to be over the next day. I spent twenty dollars on bug supplies for my two bedroom apartment. I half-ass nothing. The next morning, I saw and immediately killed a bug in the bathroom, burst into tears, and refused to open any more cabinets without being poised to attack.

crazy woman with gunClearing and cleaning the cabinets was a stressful venture. I’m pretty sure I threw out at least $10 worth of food that was absolutely fine, convinced it was contaminated, because it had once been opened, even though it was now sealed. I didn’t see any more bugs before Niki showed. She spent about 45 minutes going through my apartment and spraying everything and strategically placing baits and traps.

Me: “I know I already asked, but how long until they’re completely gone? A month tops?”

Me: “So… um… I know I’m being a pussy, but could you maybe go through my dresser and see if you find any bugs?”

I have awesome friends, because she not only answered my repeated questions about how long it would take, but went through my unfolded laundry as well while I refused to be in the same room, because the thought of bugs was severely stressing me out. I had even spent the morning hiding in my bedroom looking at new apartments on Craigslist.

I cannot afford to move! Any place I can afford is going to have a much bigger roach problem!!! 

Even the best of friends come with a catch, though. With Gaily, it’s the government paranoia and demands that I stop singing about killing the president to freak her out because they might be listening.

conspiracy lady
Gail.

With Malik, it’s the on-the-wagon/off-the-wagon wavering. One month “it’s just a little meth” and the next he’s clean and “not gay anymore.”

malik 1 malik 2
Malik

With Niki, it’s that she was a friggin’ Orkin man. Do you know what kind of stomach it takes to be the Orkin man? Answer: the kind of stomach that doesn’t think twice about sharing horror stories about being the Orkin man. So, after Niki would assure me that the bugs would be gone in a month, she’d say things like…

Niki: “They eat everything. I once knew a woman who’d had her eyebrows eaten.”
Me: ::in horror:: “How is that even possible?!?!”
Niki: “There were so many roaches in her house that she had to just have been crawled on all night long.”
Me: “So, they’ll be gone in a month, right?”

Niki: “Now, if you ever get bed bugs, then move immediately.”
Me: “Wait. Do I have bed bugs?!?!”
Niki: “I doubt it, but I can check.”

Niki: “…then the trailer next door caught fire and they all ran over to hers.”

niki
Niki

So, while my wonderful crochet-buddy-bug-warrior worked to eradicate the problem, she’s also the one who gave me the suggestion to Google image search “roach infestation.” Yeah. Don’t do that. I don’t feel so bad about asking over and over and over again about the bugs, since these stories were told as Niki shook out my clean clothes.

Fortunately, Niki’s efforts and the fact that my downstairs neighbor has stopped stirring things up during her move, have helped immensely. The only bugs I’ve really seen are dead ones and I’m hoping one of these nights I can even sleep again. Perhaps, some day soon, I’ll take all of the raw pasta out of my fridge and cook in my kitchen again. The apartment management is still spraying in addition to Niki’s much more impressive efforts. There’s so much poison in this place, I’m surprised I’m still living. On that note…

While the problem has improved exponentially, I did see one bug last night before I went to bed. I’m pretty sure it was an ant, but I promptly sprayed a quarter can of Raid in the room and exhaustedly went back to bed. Today, I got to have the best chat with Poison Control.

Me: “Hi. Um… I have a weird question. It’s not really an emergency or anything, but last night I was spraying Raid in my bedroom and was half asleep, so I didn’t think about washing my hands before I went to bed.”
PC: “Yes?”
Me: “Well, um… I suck my thumb and didn’t realize I still had Raid on my hands until my mouth started to burn and then go numb. I got up and washed my hands and rinsed my mouth, but now there are sores in it.”

This was followed with a beat of silence, in which I can only assume the Poison Control specialist thought…

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that. 

annoyed guy on phoneWhen he spoke, he was perfectly polite and basically told me that it wasn’t surprising that my mouth is shredded, but I’m not gonna die. He told me gargling with salt water couldn’t hurt. In the meantime, I suppose I should look on the bright side: the bugs I’m seeing are dead and I’m not… yet.

A Letter to My Downstairs Neighbor

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Dear… fuck…do I seriously not even know your name?!?!

I’m sorry about the late-night vacuuming. I cleaned all day, because pest control was coming, and because I saw a bug that I’m pretty sure had a kitten in its mouth.

 gigantic bug
It was like Kafka fanfic.

That somehow led to rearranging all of my furniture, so I didn’t have time to vacuum before work. I could’ve done it in the morning, but I have this thing where I stay up all night for no reason mixing my Sons of Anarchy marathon with a 7th Heaven marathon and theorizing that all of those girls Matt brought home, whom we never saw again, were thrown into a pit and set on fire.

fire or knife
I’m kidding. I’m sure he gave them a choice: fire or knife?

I tried to be quick about the vacuuming, particularly in the bedrooms, as they are directly above yours. Incidentally, remember when I asked if you could hear my dog bark? You responded with “Around midnight, sometimes… that or you’ll be cleaning or something.” What did you mean by “or something?” Did you mean you could hear me masturbating? Please say no… even if you’re lying. You didn’t really stutter over the words, but it’s gotten me a little paranoid and besides, I promise the thumping, at least, was from jumping around with the dog. I wasn’t really allowed to clarify. I’m rather surprised I didn’t, actually, since my brain tends to disconnect from my mouth on occasion. Speaking of which, I would like to sincerely apologize for referring to my previous neighbor’s child’s father as her “baby daddy” the first time I met you. I was not aware you were single with kids. I don’t like judge you for having children. She was just obnoxious and I was being catty and… well, yeah, there’s no fixing that. Oops. Also, that huge crash around midnight, right above your bedroom, was not like some kind of Olympic masturbation move.

I56 Astra FNS1
I must have just kicked it coming down.
(Fun fact: contortion sex is a thing. SAFE SEARCH)

The TV seriously fell off the dresser by magic or something. I don’t even know how it happened. As a matter of fact, I’m still marveling that I was not seriously injured, in which case you would’ve heard screaming… but not in ecstasy.

Overall, I’d like to think I’m about as good a neighbor as I am a tenant. Sure, maybe I won’t be getting my security deposit back, due to the Diet Coke stain on the stairway wall, purple paint in the storage closet, the gold paint on the kitchen counters, the blue paint on the tile, and the wax on the hallway carpet, but I never pay my rent late. I pick up after the dog. I don’t know your name, because I mind my own business. It works, right?

P.S.
If you can hear me, know that I don’t have some kind of sexual disorder or addiction.
It’s just that I haven’t had sex in a really long time.

Sincerely,
Belle