Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Last night I ran into Bill Murray at the ATM. Which I thought was weird. I guess I thought people "like" Bill Murray don't need ATMs. I don't know why I thought people like Bill Murray wouldn't need cash, but for some reason I thought I never gave it enough thought to care about thinking about why I would think they wouldn't need cash or use an ATM. I think I might have thought they had their people do that for them. But then how would the whole exchange of cash happen? Would they have their gopher bring an envelope of cash to their house or hotel? That would be kind of weird. And inconvenient.
This is why it's a good thing I will never be rich or famous. Not only do I not know how to play the game, I wouldn't know how to perform regular tasks. I'd be a really bad rich or famous person. I'd constantly be caught by the National Enquirer in those candid photos of rich and famous people doing regular stuff and looking really bad.
Anyway, I was in a mad panic rush depositing a check at the ATM. I was upset and worried because I hadn't arrived before close of business because I had a problem at work so my deposit wasn't going to count until the next business day which wasn't until Tuesday and it was only Friday night. But I was still feverishly trying to get the deposit in there thinking maybe 2 minutes past the hour might still count as that business day. But I knew it wouldn't because this is the same bank which charged me a $35 overdraft fee when I once dipped 3¢ negative for approximately six hours between close of business and 12:01 AM when my direct deposit clicked into my account. (That wasn't just in my dream, that actually happened in real life.) So I was all stressed and tense knowing I was a few minutes too late but for some insane reason still all worked up to a fever pitch trying to speed up the ATM deposit process. I was thinking the ATMs are purposely programmed to operate slowly so that the bank can potentially make a lot of money in $35 overdraft fees with the extra minute the ATM takes to process the deposit. Yes. I'm a little on the paranoid conspiracy side of things in my dreams.
I was standing there trying to shove the deposit envelope into the ATM faster than it would accept it when Bill came into the lobby. He seemed happy to see me and not the least bit surprised to run into me. I thought it was weird to see him there but I didn't want to embarrass him or myself so I just tried to act casual. I mean, I was happy to see him, too, and it wasn't weird for me to be seeing and talking to Bill Murray as if we were lifelong friends, but weird because I thought "here's this guy I know well enough that I don't think of him as a celebrity, yet I wondered if he carries cash or why he would even need cash." So it felt awkward for me because I felt like I wasn't a very good friend. Even though we've been through so much together I had no idea he used ATMs or that he even needed cash, but then, why wouldn't he need cash?
Seriously, this is why it's really good that I will never be rich or famous.
Anyway, he invited me to go to the movies with him and his wife.
More real life stress in my dreams.
I really felt like taking in a movie with friends but because I was making a mad dash deposit and missed the close of business deadline I knew I was cash poor. I couldn’t afford to go to a full price evening movie because I wasn’t certain without that deposit posting that day I’d even have enough cash to feed Furry Creature until Tuesday. So I thanked him and made up a polite excuse.
This happens to me a lot in real life, too. People, friends, invite me to go places and do things but I decline the invites because I simply cannot afford to play with them. They don’t worry about catching a movie at the matineé or cheap theatre pricing. They don’t worry about going out to lunch instead of dinner because it’s less expensive. They don’t worry about waiting for final mark-down sales because they can afford to shop at full retail. Basically, they don’t live on a fixed income like a poor or cheap senior citizen or college student. So they can live their lives like normal people, going to movies and dinner on weekend nights and shopping for in-season goods when the goods are, well, in season.
And there was this issue playing out in my dream. And, as with my real life friends I’m sure if Bill knew the truth he’d happily offer and even insist on paying my way. Which is really swell of my friends (I have really swell friends) but I’m really sick of being a charity case. Not that they view me as charity or in any way imply that. It’s all me and my own dissatisfaction with my ability to bring in a decent income or find a husband to share financial burdens.
So, just like in real life, I moped off home to my tiny compartment wishing I could afford to go to the movie with my friends instead, but too stressed about missing the close of business at the bank to spend the cash on something as frivolous as entertainment.
Sleeping = dreams, dreams = stress and anxiety, so for me sleeping = stress and anxiety.
So I think I’m going to cut off the medication and go back to not sleeping. At least that way I’m not plagued by all too real and every day stressful situations via Bill Murray.
Meanwhile, back on the dating sites a similar issue is cropping up. All these drinks after work, cups of tea for coffee dates, transportation to and from the rendezvouses have cost me a lot of money. Money I could have spent doing something with my friends. Money I could have spend enjoying myself. Money I could have not spent at all.
As much as I just want the whole 50 first dates thing to be over, I’m not exactly eager to spend more money, another penny, on a wasted first date. And yes, at this point, no matter what sort of inspirational/motivational greeting card platitude line of crap you want to spin on it, these dates have all been wastes of time and money.
Have I learned anything about myself? No, not really, not anything particularly useful other than confirmation that I am in fact not only unloveable but also undateable.
Have I learned anything about men? Well. Now. I suppose yes, I have. Although again, nothing particularly useful for my purposes. What I’ve learned about men in general during this whole thing has mainly concerned or annoyed me. What I’ve learned about men is that they deem me not only unloveable but undateable. I’ve learned they are (generally, guys, generally, I’m not talking about you, I know you’re swell) selfish, egotistical, hypocritical, shallow, arrogant, lying, real estate hawking jerks with little sense of humor and even less intelligence who really just want quick and easy sex with a slim petite blonde or Asian between the ages of 18 - 25.
Easy there, boys, easy. I know, I know, you’re not all like that. I know. But you’re married or dating or living thousands of miles away or gay or not interested in me.
And I also know the source this treasure trove of men must be considered in the equation. Go fishing in shallow muddy water and you’re going to catch a lot of bottom feeders.
Right. Back to my situation with the dates. I am beyond broke. I have medical and dental expenses like you cannot believe. If the choice is a) meet a guy for a first date or b) do something with a friend or c) feed my cat, well, I think it’s meeting yet another guy for a first date is not my first choice.
Maybe if I were more psyched for the dates or the men. Maybe if some, or even one, really swell guy were interested in me I’d feel very differently.
But now I absolutely have to add the financial factor into my decision making about what men I will actually meet in person.
Not only do they now have to pass a few email and phone call hurdles before I’ll consider meeting them, they also have to pass the money worthy test. I have to ask myself if I honestly think he’s worth the $10+ I’d spend on that meeting. Well. Maybe not him so much as the date. Yes. That’s better. Is the date worth $10+?
In most cases so far: No.
So with that in mind, here’s this week’s
Okay, this week's creeps might have potential. But I'm not sure. My intuition says no but maybe I'm wrong.
Right off the bat I had misgivings. Why? Idiotic and possibly suggestive screen name. AllNightLong. Okay. He's either bragging or is a big Lionel Richie fan. Either way, big red flag on the screen name.
Okay, I could live with the bragging but I could never seriously date a Lionel Richie fan.
His winning first impression letter of introduction? Oh, he's quite the charmer. He found my profile "really funny. I LMAO! No one makes fun of loser on these sites. Its [sic] awesome you do."
Okay, um, see, the thing is, I don't make fun of anyone, loser or otherwise, in my profile. When I mention the sort of man I'd like to meet I'm very serious. Credit to AllNightLong, though, because he actually read my profile. Apparently he took me at my word that I have a sarcastic sense of humor. Apparently he thought my profile was one long sarcastic joke at people, "losers," who use online dating sites.
Because he then went on to say, "How many losers think your [sic] serious?"
Well, AllNightLong, a lot of jerks and weirdoes, but so far only one bona fide loser.
But maybe I'm too harsh.
Maybe AllNightLong is exactly the sort of guy I need to meet. He's interested in dating or a serious relationship. But not marriage. Okay, I usually bottom of the list the guys who aren't brave enough to admit or really do not want to consider marriage. But he's open to a serious relationship. And after all, he's a few years younger than me, doesn't smoke, is employed in sales and he's tall. I mean, what more do I really need? A non-smoking tall young stud in sales. A girl could do worse for herself.
Except I have concerns about his career. One of the key strategies of selling anything, including yourself, is to never assume anything. If he's bold/stupid enough to assume I'm making fun of people in my profile, and even bolder enough to write me explaining he thinks it's funny that I'm making fun of people, well, I'm guessing he's not the top earner every quarter. I'm guessing he barely makes his quota. If it weren't for the guys down at the shop putting in their monthly order he'd be in big trouble with the team drive leader.
It's not that I want a rich guy. It's not even that I want a man with a "good" job. But I don't want a guy depending on a sales commission which he's too stupid to earn because he goes around making assumptions and offending/alienating/angering potential customers by broadcasting those assumptions.
But then, on the other hand, my assumption is he's a bad salesman who either goes all night long or listens to a lot of Lionel Richie. So what if his people skills are lacking and he's a jerk about labeling people losers? I could be in for all night long fun or torture depending on the Lionel Richie thing.
I don't know. Normally I'd think no. But, if I'm going to waste money on a date maybe wasting it on a guy with almost no potential for compatibility would be a healthier way to waste money. Like buying a lottery ticket or playing a slot machine. Except I don't do either so why would I gamble what little money I have on a very long shot date?
Well, because the other contender for my time and money is a guy who has also took the insult route in his bid for my affections.
Maybe this is a trend. Maybe this is something I've missed in my spotty dating career. Maybe there are women out there who respond favorably to being insulted. Maybe it’s completely normal for men to insult a woman they claim to want to meet and date. I realize manners have gone the way of the typewriter (only used by a few old fashioned, stubborn or quirky people). I realize being rude is the accepted behavioral norm. I am more surprised and bewildered when people are polite and mannerly than when they’re rude and inconsiderate. At least in the realm of every day life. What I didn’t realize and find confusing is rudeness and inconsideration in the realm of dating.
If a person is not interested in meeting or dating another person, a) why approach them and b) why bother to insult them? Why take and waste the time to send emails explaining all the reasons why they’re not interested in a person they found on an online dating site?
And if you think I’m making that up, guess again. One thing I haven’t mentioned is all the email I get from men, men who I have not contacted, by the way, men who are making the first move and contacting me, solely to tell me all the ways in which I am wrong and horrible and have no business being on an online dating site.
Yes. This is unsolicited and abusive. Yes. I forward some of the scarier and foul language laden emails to the site administrator. But most of them are not threatening (though I’ve had a few threats of physical violence. Seriously, there are some seriously bad people on dating sites. Hence the much needed and respected veil of anonymity.) Most of them are men who are mad at me for being, well, me. I’m not what they’re hoping to find on an online dating site so they don’t hesitate to tell me the mere presence of my profile on the dating site has offended, annoyed or bothered them. Actual quotes from email I’ve received from men over the past two years: “Who let you on here? I’m canceling my membership because I don’t want to be associated with women like you.” “Go back to the farm with the other pigs and cows.” “Women like you give online dating a bad name.” “No one’s that desperate, don’t waste any more money, cancel your membership.” And my so far all time favorite: “UR ugly and stoopid and ur profile is dum. Ur so NOT hot. I hate you.”
Yeah. Online dating is a lot of fun.
Actually, it is because you get to see the inside workings of a lot of mens’ minds. I can only conclude a lot of men are harboring Playboy-esque fantasies and are moved to violence and abuse when they realize they can’t fulfill those fantasies on an online dating site. Which is why I am very against sites like True which has not resorted to heavily marketing and selling the sex angle by using very hot young models with suggestive headlines luring in young boys and immature men who respond to those types of images. What these men don’t understand is that they’ve been duped by marketing. They’ve been suckered in by the oldest form of advertising. They fell for the oldest trick in the marketing book, splashed out their credit card and then blam! they looked at the actual women on the site and realized the girls in the ads were not actually posted in profiles. Then they take it out on the women who are not like the models in the ads. No. Not exactly mature and intelligent, but when it comes to dating and especially sex I’ve learned men can be really immature and stupid.
To be fair to a few men who have been led on and used by online dating sites there are a few really seedy sites who use fake profiles - good looking model photos and hot profiles - to lure in the above types of men. They tease them along, maybe even have one of the administrators send an email once in a while to keep up the interest, but they will never result in dates with the models in the photos. Just so we’re all clear that that happens on some sites. Yes. It hurts everyone which is why people need to be savvy and cautious and realistic when using these sites.
Still, I have a difficult time excusing the insulting and unsolicited comments from these men. I understand their frustration. Sort of, well, not really. I mean, come on, if they’re stupid enough to think they’re going to find comely women like the women in the True ads who want to do Jell-O shots and get freaky in the hot tub with them, well, then, harsh as it sounds, they’re stupid enough to need a lesson or two in reality.
If a guy can’t score with comely girls in real life he’s not going to do any better on online dating sites.
It’s just a fact.
A fact apparently a lot of men don’t understand or want to face. They’ve got the Jell-O shots ready and they want to get freaky with hot young bikini models in a hot tub. They’re frustrated. They’re little boys denied their candy. So they lash out at any woman who’s not what they want. Try to feed broccoli to a three-year-old who’s got sugar on the brain. Watch what happens. You’ll see that three-year-old respond exactly the way these men do: Pouting, screaming, kicking, crying tantrums.
Yes. I have achieved quite a level of understanding about all of this.
And in some ways I’m the same. I’m frustrated and annoyed by the whole process. The difference is I blame myself in most cases. I find and meet some really great guys but they’re not interested in me “that” way. I’m always too something. They find me to be too old, too young, too smart, too stupid, too sarcastic, too boring, too ugly, too tall, too professional, too nice, too (and I hate this one most) too good for them. Mainly, the men I meet who are interested in me are nothing but relationship disasters waiting to happen.
I’ve tried, you know, I’ve really tried, but it’s so obvious these guys and I are not right for each other. I can’t see us wasting time on dates which are never, ever lead to the kinds of relationships we want. And that’s frustrating for me. But it’s an age old situation. Finding the right person, that mutual thing, is really difficult. Other people make it look so easy, but it’s not. It was just complete, utter, dumb (and now I realize bad) luck that HWNMNBS and I met. There’s no formula, no plan, no easy way to make it happen. Online dating is potentially a good way to narrow the field a bit, but really, it’s all luck in the sense that it’s a right place, right time sort of thing.
I do not believe in fate or kismet. I reconsidered that opinion when I met HWNMNBS, I really did wonder if there was something to the whole fate thing. We just instantly got along so well and we seemed so right together that there was a “this is fate” feeling to it. But obviously now in hind sight if there was any fate involved it was only perilous fate. Hardly kismet and destiny. Unless of course my destiny is to be a jaded, confused, lonely spinster who was spurned by the only man she ever really loved. In which case I’m fulfilling my destiny quite nicely. All that’s left is to die alone with a bunch of cats.
Right. Creep #2.
Insulted me in his first email to me.
“Your [sic] not like the girls I date but I need someone mature to take to some work functions. Realistically this the best you can hope for. I don’t want a relationship but I’m a great catch. Good looking, inteligent, [sic] (I cannot tell you how hard I laughed when I saw that he misspelled intelligent) wealthy and well connected. You must be able to dress well and make polite and professional conversation with my clients. There will be no sex and you won’t be dating me but that will be our secret. You will have to be ready and willing to go out at a moments [sic] notice. I have photos I can send you so that you can see what a great deal this is for you if I choose you.”
Um. Yeah. Okay. Sign me up for that version of The Bachelor.Yet another example of reality television distorting peoples’ ideas of reality. He’s proposing that I be his business function concubine without sex, of course. Because I’m not like girls he dates. Girls who apparently cannot dress well and/or make polite and professional conversation and are immature.
The thing about this guy is that I partially understand his situation. I have work functions, too. Having a date not only makes them easier to stomach, but also acts as a reassuring visual for clients. Clients want to know they’re investing their money with someone who is capable of doing a great job. They want to put their money with someone who is normal and well adjusted. Being repeatedly seen alone or, apparently in this guy’s case, with badly dressed rude unprofessional women, is not reassuring for clients. Yes. This is so old school that it makes me cringe to even think about it. I had no idea this outmoded train of thought still existed. But, take it from one who’s been through this for a while. It makes a subtle difference. People perceive you differently. People assume there’s something really wrong with you when you never show up with a date or several bad ones. So when it comes time to get down to the business of business, in the back of their mind is that very subtle difference between you and your competition for the business. If the competition is a normal person with a normal girl/boyfriend/spouse, the subtle difference in perception of well adjustment can make a difference. It’s impossible to prove apart from what I’ve seen and heard.
So I understand his situation. He could be useful for me, too. If he agreed to by my date at work functions we could have a mutually rewarding partnership.
Rent a date.
But, I just, well, I mean, as much as I understand his situation and as much as I, too, have thought about resorting to a similar tactic, the “realistically the best I can hope for” line is so insulting and rude and just plain mean and unnecessary that I’m having difficulty getting past it. Not that I’m interested in him. His profile didn’t interest me. He’s a cliché “comfortable in jeans or tux” guy. The 10 photos he posted show an okay looking guy: In a tux, and jeans, and on a boat, and skiing, and in a hotel suite with NYC in the window in the background, and on several beaches, and oddly, eating in someone’s modest kitchen.
And he wants to send me more photos. Apparently he either thinks I need persuading or he really likes to show off photos of himself. I think we all know which is the case. Ego. Huge, stinking, gross ego.
Normally I’d delete. But, the “you never know who he might know” thing is nagging at me. And no, I don’t mean he might have a less narcissistic friend, but that going with him to his business functions might put me in front of people who could be useful in my career.
Yes. I am considering using him for his business connections. He would be my career networking concubine.
If you’re sitting there thinking, “Gosh Trill, that doesn’t really sound like you...” You’re right. It doesn’t. But. I really, really, really have to secure a new (and better paying) job and I need to do it very soon.
Obviously based on my stressful money related dream I’ve got financial problems which need resolving. Mr. Insult You, But Here Look at Me and How Wonderful I Am could be a way to make some different contacts than I usually have the opportunity to make. I can’t very well go around letting people, my clients, know that I’m so miserable at my job at my work functions.
But, at someone else’s work functions, under the guise of social intercourse, I might be able to get a fresh perspective on the job market.
Yes. I know. This sounds like the plot to a really bad movie.
But then, my entire life has been like the plot to a really bad movie.
So I don’t know. Maybe I’ll try to forget about the insults and give Mr. Insult You, But Here Look at Me and How Wonderful I Am a try. Waste a little money on meeting him, in this case a better bet because even though it won’t pay off in the relationship aspect, the career aspect has potentially good odds.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
No Bill Murray in my dreams last night. I had some dreams but they're kind of hazy and just a lot of swirly colors and some cartoon dialog balloons but I couldn't quite make out what they said. Just my luck, my inner psyche spells out a message in a format even a child could understand and I can't quite get close enough to read it. Which is a complete joke in the bigger picture because I woke up feeling frustrated that I couldn't read the cartoon dialog balloons. Seriously, this stress and turmoil dreams are causing me has to stop. It was easier to have a sleeping problem. Yes. I am re-evaluating the sleep medication situation. So far the cure is worse than the cause. The whole point was to achieve 8 hours of sleep a night so that I'm rested and able to physically heal and deal with my every day stress better. So far: Not happening.
And the whole more sleep = sharper mind thing? Yeah. Not happening, either.
I have a tight budget. I can't afford most of the usual girl maintenance items and services. I either do without, do very seldom or do it myself. I'm not saying I'm good at a lot of these things, or that the results are as good as if I paid someone, an actual trained professional, to do it, but you know, in some cases it's better than not doing it at all.
Guys, you might want to go have a beer or watch ESPN. This is a girly post.
Let's talk in home waxing, shall we? Oh yes, let's.
There are two kinds of women: Those who can wax themselves and those who cannot. I'm talking legs here, just to be very clear. I've heard stories, folklore, urban legends I presume, of women who wax themselves other places, delicate places, sensitive places, places where waxing, even under anesthesia, the pain is likened to childbirth. I don't personally know any women who have attempted to do this to themselves. And I know some pretty tough women. One of my friends delivered a 12 pound baby. Naturally. No pain medication. She left hospital in less than 24 hours and was grocery shopping two days after birthing said 12 pound baby. She's of Eastern European descent. At times she would remind you of Natasha, of Boris and Natasha fame. She deliver big baby no problem. (flexing a forcep with a bicep) She do this herself. Doctors. Hospitals. She spits on their wimpy modern ways. It is only childbirth. It is nothing. Right. She's tough. But waxing down there turns her into a blubbering pile of tears begging for mercy. Even she would never consider "doing it herself."
Legs, though, I mean, that's different. It's not pleasant but it's not horrible. I prefer to have someone else do it for me, but I have done it myself. Hey. Leg waxings start at $60 for half leg in this town. (girls, don't you love the visual of the guys who didn't go for the beer or ESPN who are still reading this? Sitting there all confused, "Half a leg? Huh? What's she talking about? They charge fractionally? Who would only want half a leg waxed? Is that in case you can't take the pain and can't continue?") $60 is way out of my realm of reasonable maintenance fee, especially considering I can and do shave them. Especially since it doesn't last that long for me. Well, for anyone. Hair grows constantly. It never stops. But now and then it's a real treat to get every hair ripped out by the follicle and start with a fresh hair free canvas of flesh. I treat myself to this torture once or sometimes twice a year at max. The rest of the time it's the razor's edge or, sometimes, an in home wax job.
I decided to have an in home spa night. I closed the blinds, put on continuous Bryan Ferry, the entire catalog, lit a bazillion candles, chilled a bottle of champagne and a dish of raspberries, warmed a bunch of towels and my bathrobe and slipped into a warm bubble bath. I applied a deep hydrating hair conditioner and moisture mask on my face. You know, girl Heaven on Earth at home. I luxuriated there smugly thinking of how good I felt and how little money I spent, and how really, this is so much better than going to a spa because I'm in the comfort of my own home with my own music and my cat.
The jar of wax was looming ominously on the vanity. That was going to be the least fun part of the day. So I stuck to my plan to get it over right away. Out of the bath, off to the microwave.
Let's pause for a moment to reflect on some of the really idiotic things I've done in my life. Particularly the idiotic things I've done in the name of vanity. Yes. I have a history of this.
1. Slathering the family cat with my mother's special face cream, the one in the fancy jar she only used when she was going out on a date with my father. Insanely stupid. Okay, I was trying to beautify the cat and not myself, but I was three and I didn't realize I could beautify myself. Plus I loved that cat and he seemed to like the the cream rubbed into his fur. I was really confused and upset when his rejuvenating treatment resulted in a) a trip to vet for the cat and b) punishment of a week of early bed time with no story for me.
2. Trying to be like my older siblings by dying my very long dark auburn hair blonde with hydrogen peroxide: Well, I mean, that's just lunacy beyond compare. But I was only five at the time so slack can be cut for both the stupidity and desperation of wanting to look like my siblings. How about some props for knowing peroxide would lighten my hair? No? Yes I know it was really a pathetic cry for help, but I got in a lot of trouble for that bit of stupidity. I also got my first professional dye job and a pixie hair cut because of that bout of idiotic home beautifying.
3) Using semi-permanent markers to apply "lipstick," "eye liner," "eye shadow," and "blush." The night before family portrait day. Have you ever seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? You know Truly Scrumptious? Imagine if she had a child with Raggedy Andy. Yeah, that's pretty much the look I achieved. Which I thought was pretty darned cool. I honestly thought my family would be really pleased with my transformation for the event of permanent historic photographic archive of our family. I was wrong. I was an idiot. I got in a lot of trouble for that one. My sister made a special visit home from college for the photo, my mother had hair appointments set for her and my sister, my dad and brother had new suits, my mother, sister and I had coordinating (but not matching) dresses, and there I was: Raggedy Scrumptious. Let's just say photo retouching in the days before PhotoShop was a a true art form. Somewhere out there is a photo retoucher who performed a Michelangelo-esque miracle. Nonethesless, I was grounded for two weeks over that little in home makeover. And I lost my marker privileges for a month. And I seem to recall having to write a five page essay on the importance of obeying one's parents including the physical and financial ramifications of disobedience. But that might have been for another non vanity related incident. My parents were big on incorporating educational exercises with punishment. My brother once had to create a accounting speadsheet when he misappropriated a semester's worth of Scholastic book club money on hockey cards. He also had to use his allowance to make a donation for new books for the library and he had to read and write a book report on the books he was originally supposed to purchase.
4) Stuffing copious amounts of toilet paper between my face and my orthodontic headgear at night to prevent tell-tale lines embossed on my face in the morning. Okay. That's actually not idiotic. If you never had to wear headgear you cannot possibly understand the pain and embarrassment those things cause. I'm sure most kids "stuffed" their headgear or at least padded it. But most kids didn't do this at slumber parties. Slumber parties where cool kids were in attendance. To this day I have no idea why I even took the stupid thing to the slumber party. I mean, my best friend was cool, she'd seen me in it, she didn't care and didn't tease me but the other girls who'd already spent several years making fun of me, were there. I can only assume it's some sadistic death wish, some need to fail which compelled me to not only don my headgear that night after I thought the other girls were asleep, but also "stuff" so I wouldn't have tell-tale embossed lines in the morning. Julie. Swutting Julie. Always Julie. Let out a huge laugh and an "OMG, look at Trillian!" waking up the other girls who were in fact sleeping. If I could go back to that moment in time I would say what I wanted to say then: "Worried there won't be enough left for you to stuff in your bra in the morning?" Because I know she stuffed her bra for several years. She fell into me in gym class once and they were not real. Nothing cushions that kind of blow like several layers of toilet paper artfully constructed into boobs. Plus, she lived down the street and I'd see her after school, after she'd unstuffed before going home. Flat as a board. But miraculously every morning before first hour she'd emerge from the bathroom with a couple of C's busting out of her blouse. She knew I knew. And she knew I kept quiet about it. And yet she had the nerve to tease me about my orthodontia headgear and home made "cushioning." Bitch. I hated her then and I hate her now. Though I can't blame her entirely for this incident. I could have skipped my headgear one night. Idiotic.
5) Lime green eye shadow. I have no explanation. I was old enough to know better. But it looked really cool at the black light lit school dance. Well. I mean cool for a girl who was trying to deflect attention from her orthodontia. I don't know. Really. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea. Other girls were doing it. It seemed cool at the time. But it wasn't. It was idiotic.
6) Okay. This is potentially the mother of all idiotic ideas I've pursued in the name of vanity. One Summer of my teenaged youth I worked as crew on a sail boat. Our personal "area" was a small cot-like bunk and duffle bag sized storage cubby. When we were docked we were busy working so we didn't always have a chance to do any personal shopping. Consequently it became necessary to share personal hygiene items. Needless to say any form of pampering was out of the question. Brushing teeth was as close to a beauty regime as we got. But it was fun and we were all in the same boat, literally, so no big deal. Until the afternoon before we were going to dock in a town known for it's lively night life AND we were had the night off work. A few of us girls had a little dilemma. Our razors had become quite dull and let's just say the wearing our cute shorts out that night situation looked bleak. We lamented not getting waxed. Then someone who shall remain nameless hit upon a resourceful solution. We had several bottles of Elmer's glue at various repair stations onboard at our disposal. Do I really need to relay any more of this? I think you can connect the dots. And if you're sitting there thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea..." you're an idiot. Just like I was an idiot. And worse, I took other girls down with me. Oh sure, they're responsible for their decisions, I didn't force them to slather their legs with Elmer's glue. But I pointed out all the seemingly good reasons why Elmer's glue would work like wax, even better because it's water soluble! Again, if you're sitting there thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea..." you're an idiot. Because it is a very bad idea. For a lot of reasons. Primary among them: The stuff doesn't dry as fast as wax. In fact it dries really slowly when gooped on thick enough to act as a hair follicle pulling adhesive agent. I know somewhere out there someone is still thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea..." you're an idiot. A complete, total imbecilic moronic idiot.
We'll leave it at that. You get the idea. I'm no stranger to idiotic in-home beauty treatment ideas.
I've graduated from Elmer's (seriously, it's not a good idea) and moved onto hot wax. (Really, Elmer's glue does not work) I'm not saying I enjoy this or do it with any frequency. But, occasionally it comes to pass that I attempt waxing my own legs at home. I have mixed results. Never the salon-like results the box of wax promises, but, on a good day not half bad, either.
You have to be able and willing to hurt yourself. I guess that's a given. But you need to know your threshold for self induced pain. Here's a handy tolerance guide.
If your wardrobe and home decor can best be described as "soft" and/or pink, you are not ready to wax any part of your body with an in-home do it yourself waxing kit.
If you tolerate a coworker who makes loud personal phone calls all day in the office, you are ready to try in home waxing small areas like knees or those fine little unibrow hairs which resist tweezers.
If you wear heels higher than 2.5 inches for more than 8 hours a day more than once a week you are ready to give yourself an in-home do it yourself lower leg waxing.
If you have ever tried an online dating site you are ready to give yourself an in-home do it yourself full leg waxing.
Okay. So. Wax: Check. Microwave: Check. Wooden stick applicator: Check. Entire roll of paper towel: Check. Shot of whiskey and a bullet: Check. Okay, ready to wax.
Hot.
Wax.
It's a hot wax treatment. Wax has to get really hot to melt so that it can be applied and then dry while on your body. Once you've done this you've gone to the point of no return. Because once it's on there the only way it's coming off is by peeling the dried wax off yourself. Even if you chicken out and "gently" peel small sections at a time rather than quickly rip full length sections, it's going to hurt. If give yourself third degree burns while applying the hot wax to your naked flesh there's only one way to administer first aid: The wax has got to come off first. And if you've burned yourself you're going to part with more than hair when you rip off that wax.
I haven't burned myself while waxing for a long time. I've learned a thing or two about the molecular properties of wax. I've grown as a person and as an in-home do it yourself waxer.
So when I burned myself on my in-home spa night I was surprised and angry with myself. This was to be my night, my little oasis night. My pathetic attempt at pampering myself because I can't afford to have these services performed at a spa or salon by trained professionals.
The wax was not the only thing having a meltdown.
My attempts at creating a tranquil spa like atmosphere at home, which I was pretty darned proud of prior to the burning, suddenly looked exactly like what they were: Stupid, pathetic attempts to disguise my tiny apartment into a peaceful chamber of pampering delights. A ridiculous notion girl magazines and manufacturers of in home beauty treatment products would have you believe can really happen. It can't. Even with a good cheap champagne buzz going, the fact is that it's still your home. In my case a very small apartment. Which I've lived in for a year. Which absolutely amazes me. Where'd that year go? Seriously, how can a year have passed already? Which depresses me because time is passing really quickly and all I'm doing it wasting it or at least not doing something life changing with it. I'm busy, it's not that I'm sitting around doing nothing. But. I'm not where I want to be in life which means I'm not doing the right things with my time or something like that.
This itty bitty apartment that I've feebly tried to transform into a serene zone of calm and self indulgence is proof positive that I am far, far away from where I thought I'd be in my life and where I want to be in my life.
Yes. It was a major meltdown.
If I had a better job I'd have more money and I could afford to go to a salon like normal women and pay to have my legs waxed. Or, as my friend pointed out, laser hair removal really is the best way to go. They charge by the square inch and it takes at least a couple of repeat sessions. I'm 5'11". A lot of that is my legs. You do the math. Oh sure, it's permanent and I'm a good candidate for success, but, um, as I explained to my friend, I can't afford to get my legs waxed. How am I supposed to afford the thousands of dollars it would cost to have laser hair removal? Yeah. Just one little detail she forgot. I don't actually have a husband bringing another income into the household expenses and therefore I do not have extra money. And I don't actually earn enough money to manage more than the basics of shelter, cat food and the occasional pair of sale shoes.
If I had a husband there'd be another income in the household kitty. (I assume my husband would work and bring in an income. He'd have to because there's no way two people could live on my salary. Or in my apartment now that I think of it.) He'd have extra money to do his stuff and I'd have extra money to do my stuff. Yes. It does come down to economics. I thought you knew that about me. I'm so far past the concept of romance and love that I don't even think about it anymore. Marriage is strictly a good economic decision.
I've had several men who agree with my outlook. Men with similar pasts as mine. So far, however, the men I've met who want to have this outlook are in fact, underneath it, still holding out hope for romance and love. Which amazes me. I really thought men, of all people, would be a lot more pragmatic about relationships than women. The guys I've met who were attracted to my profile stating my "no love please, just a financial partner" thought the idea sounded good. Most understand my attitude. They felt they should take that attitude, too. But, even if they aspire to it, they harbor romantic notions. Not necessarily toward me, but in general. Or, they assume because I'm not looking for love and romance I'm good for quick and easy no strings attached sex.
One guy, who I admire for his honesty, wrote that he completely agreed with my goal. He said he'd been in a long relationship that soured badly. He was jaded by love, too, and held out no hope or longing for love and romance. But the financial and sexual benefits of marriage were appealing to him. "When I reduce it to the basic components, I just want money and sex," he said, not grossly, but in a matter of fact, pragmatic, somewhat cynical tone. "I could candy coat it a lot of ways, but when when you remove love from the list money and sex are what's left." Too much candor? Not for me. I understand what he means. Having your romantic feelings and love ripped out, twisted, kicked around and left for dead permanently changes your outlook. I tried to think I could run damage control, love someone else, all that Lifetime network movie crap, but I can't. And I reached a point where that doesn't bother me. I don't care. It doesn't matter. I gave it my all, my best shots and I failed. Apparently I suck at loving or loving too much or just not being the woman men want to marry for romantic reasons. Okay. That hurts. But. What do I do now? I tried to change, I tried to find someone new, I tried not trying anything...and still: Nothing.
This was the abbreviated content of my wax burned leg meltdown.
I read the instruction and caution sheet that came with the wax. Nowhere on there does it tell you what to do if you burn yourself. Nowhere on there does it caution you that use of the product may cause a serious mental breakdown. I think they assume their market niche, women who are reduced to in-home waxing, are either poor or cheap and therefore they can expect some pain and suffering to result from use of the product.
In-home wax is not like in-home highlight kits. In-home highlighting kits, while also used by the poor and cheap segment of the female population, have a much wider appeal. All of us over the age of 17 know in-home highlighting kits are going to produce low quality results. Some women, on a Sunday afternoon whim, are willing to take that risk. After all, it's cheap and easy and if it does turn out badly the only pain involved is paying for a trip to the salon for color correction and enduring the embarrassment of having to admit to a stylist you were stupid enough to use an in-home highlighting kit.
But when in-home waxing goes wrong, it goes wrong in a big, painful way. I find physical pain often brings on emotional pain. Yes. Emotions. Which I've been really good at suppressing. The Angry Christmas Present went well. I won't say I enjoyed getting mad, but, there were a few incidents in which my allowing myself to be angry really felt good.
So in my physical pain, there on the floor, a bed of paper towels beneath me, flesh burning and pulsing from the hot wax, I got really angry at myself for making such a disaster of my life that it would come to this. "This" was me, sitting on paper towels on the floor of a really small apartment drinking a $3.99 bottle of champagne and waxing my legs with a do it yourself waxing kit target marketed at poor or cheap women. Even Bryan Ferry couldn't put that disaster back on track.
And just when you think it can't possibly get any worse...naturally it does.
My apartment is small. I may have mentioned that. Miniscule is the more appropriate term. I live with a cat. A very furry cat. So furry he's called the Furry Creature. He's also large. Not particularly chubby, but long and tall. The long, tall very Furry Creature apparently sensed my distress and came to comfort me. Because that's what furry creatures do. We feed them and give them a safe home and care about them to an almost irrational degree. They, in turn, offer support in the form of snuggles, purrs or just generally laying on us when we're upset. Furry creatures don't understand in-home waxing. They don't understand the need or desire to remove hair. They don't understand that leaning against a leg with wax on it will result in the removal of fur from the furry creature.
Yes. We got a two-for-one deal with that in-home waxing kit. I said, "Oh, Furry Creature, no no, that's not a good idea. I know you want to comfort me but not there..." too late. I tried to quickly pull my leg away from him. I could feel some of his fur coming with me so I stopped moving. But he, confused and hurt by the sensation of losing some fur, quickly pulled away from me. And left quite a bit of fur behind on the still molten wax on my leg. Fortunately he's really furry and once he allowed me to touch him we were able to brush and pouf up his fur so that you can hardly notice the five inch strip of missing fur down his left side.
No. Nowhere on the instruction and caution sheet that came with the wax does it tell you what to do if you burn yourself and accidentally remove fur from your pet. This is where their market research on their market niche, women who are reduced to in-home waxing who are either poor or cheap, failed them. Their market niche, women who are reduced to in-home waxing who are either poor or cheap are probably also single and living alone with a pet.
You probably know or assume that in spite of my no emotion stance, I really love my cat. A lot. You probably know or assume that we've been through a lot together. You probably know or assume he's my sole source of daily affection. You probably know or assume that I spoil and pamper him beyond all point of reason. But what you may not know or assume is that he has standing vet appointments.
And, in my true idiot format, my timing on this was impeccable. Furry Creature had a standing vet appointment the next day. So I had to take him to the vet with a five inch strip of missing fur. Try explaining that without sounding like you're trying to cover up some sinister abuse. I thoroughly expect the ASPCA to show up at my door any minute.
More sleep = sharper mind? Not in my case. More sleep = less physical pain? Not in my case. Maybe if I had a sharper mind I wouldn't do idiotic things which cause me physical pain. But so far even with 6 - 8 hours of sleep at night I'm still idiotic and in pain.
9:11 AM
Wednesday, January 18, 2006 Why Can't We Be Friends? Last night Bill Murray and I went shopping. I helped him decide on a suit and some shoes. He bought me a pair of shoes he said "should do the trick." I said, "or at least turn a few tricks." This was kind of big because it's the first time I recall actual dialog from a dream and it was kind of funny. But he was still mopey and down because he'd been turned down for a role he really wanted. He was taking it well. I mean, better than most people in his position would take rejection. Then we were walking on a beach in Winter. It might have been Lake Michigan because there was snow and ice and it was cold. He was wearing a parka. Not a cool new fly parka, but a parka from like 1978. I was in my pajamas and socks. We were walking my stuffed poodle. He was saying there were only so many Life Aquatics and Broken Flowers out there and the audience is limited and they don't bring in money and artistic integrity is lost on the bottom line.
I hear you brother, oh boy do I hear you. In fact I probably put those words in your mouth.
I woke up feeling really depressed about the state and future of society.
These Bill Murray dreams are making me think about some things. Mainly depressing and stressful things.
We seem to be really great pals in these dreams. Which is cool. Being pals with a guy like Bill Murray, or even the actual Bill Murray is cool. He seems nice. Sincere. All that stuff us chicks dig. He's depressing and mopey and a perpetual downer in my dreams, but hey, what are friends for if not to ease the pain of bad times?
It’s not surprising to me that Bill and I are buddies in my dreams. I’m buddies with a lot of guys. In fact some of my best friends are guys.
I’m at that awkward phase in a spinster’s life when all her female friends are very, very occupied with babies and young children. If they don’t yet have them, they are consumed with trying to have them or making plans to have them.
Right now I don’t have much in common with my girl friends. Because my girlfriends are all married or in serious relationships. Most of them have babies and/or young children. Those who do not yet have children are absolutely consumed with having children. Buying bigger houses to accommodate the babies they want to have. Spending all their spare time in with their partner in the pursuit of making a child.
Great for them, bad for me. I don’t exactly fit in with any of that. I serve no purpose in their lives except to remind them how lucky they are they are no longer single. It’s awkward for all of us. And as for the friends who’ve had children, I dare you to try to hold an actual conversation for more than 90 seconds with a mother of a two year old. And if by some rare miracle you are able to have an interruption-free conversation with that two year old’s mother, the topic of conversation will inevitably turn to the two year old. Children consume women. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. My friends are just being good mothers. Bad friends but good mothers. Well. That’s not really fair. We just have very little in common right now.
So for single women in that phase of life, that all her friends are getting married and having babies phase of life, she either stays in, does stuff on her own, or cultivates friendships with single men.
I’m lucky. I already have guy friends. A lot of them. So I’ve never been at a loss for friends. Oh sure, they’re not girl friends, and yes, there’s a huge difference, but they’re good friends and that’s cool. I’m lucky. Really lucky. I’ve always had guy friends. Having guy friends has never been a problem for me. Guys like me in the just friends capacity.
I'm the girl who they can really talk to, you know? I'm the girl who can fix their iPod and not make them feel stupid for not knowing how to do it themselves. I'm the girl who can not only give them solid advice on what camera/shoes/wine/appliance to buy, but where they can get the best deal. I'm the girl who makes them laugh. I'm the girl they call when a date "goes weird" and they need advice. And reassures them that the girl is indeed interested in them or a complete wacko as the situation requires. Yes I'm the girl who listens to their problems with other women. I'm the girl who they never, ever, not in a zillion years would ever consider dating. Because "it's not like that" with me. I'm just a friend. And when they say this, other people know they're not lying. Because it's obvious he would never, ever, not in a zillion years be interested in me "that" way.
Yes. I am that smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women men say they want. But in actuality they want a pretty girl who's easy to get into bed and doesn't give them any lip or complications. They want to be friends with smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women, but they don't really want to date one.
That's the problem with smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. When we open our mouths we tend to complicate things. We raise points and issues which haven't occurred to him. We make him think about something other than himself and sex. If he doesn't want to look like an idiot in front of us he has to think sharp. And he soon realizes he has to tell the truth because any smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women worth her description will see right through a lie and kick his sorry lying ass to the back alley where it belongs, or we'll toy with him by using our virtue, that nice thing, forgiving him while gently but firmly making him aware that we know he lied.
Men say they want us, but they don't.
They want to be friends with us, we can be very helpful and a lot of fun. But they don’t want to date us.
There are tons of us out here, us smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. We're single and trying to find a smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring man. And this is what leads me to believe men a) lie, and b) have an entire double helix of hypocriticism.
I am that above described girl. I have lots of guy friends. I am often the lone woman with whom their wives/girlfriends are not jealous. They'll let him go away on entire weekend road trips with us because they know there would never be anything going on between us. Because even though I'm a great pal to their man, they know even if their man had a lapse of judgment or too much beer I, the shining beacon of virtue, would not allow anything to happen out of respect for their wife/girlfriend and the friendship. Yes. Their wives/girlfriends rely on us to keep their men faithful. If you think this sounds crazy, guess again.
I recently had a discussion with some other single smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. We were sharing tales of our shared problem of always being the buddy and never the girlfriend. Why? we pondered, if we're not good enough for them to date us, why would they even want to be friends with us? Even if they just really like us as friends (and really, who could resist?) why would they be okay with continually hurting us by making remarks like, "Date her? Are you kidding? We're just friends." That's not a friendly thing to say. It's an incredulous and loaded statement implying we're not good enough for them to date. And yet we're good enough for them to call us in the middle of the night when they can't figure out how to merge two spreadsheets or load iTunes or select wine. And yes, that's what friends are for, of course. And we're good friends and so we help them and don't get hurt when they make comments implying we're just one notch above algae on the datable scale. We do this because we are good friends and gracious people. And after all, we're smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women. Stuff like that doesn't get to us. We understand. We care about him and his crisis of the moment. We don't mind helping him. That’s what friends do.
Yeah. Right. We don't mind.
Actually, we really don't mind if these remarks are coming from a guy we ourselves in fact would never, ever, not in a zillion years consider dating.
But that issue rarely gets any mention. It's rarely a case of people assuming we're not interested in him. If the question of the nature of a relationship between a man and a woman arises, it will almost without fail first be presumed they are "just friends" because the man is not interested in her "that" way. Apart from what you might see on Elimidate, ladies' choice is of little concern when assumptions about the nature of a relationship are being made.
I know, I know, there are cases where this happens. I know. But think about the people you know or even complete strangers you see when you’re out and about. What assumptions have you made when you realize they’re just friends?
I'm not saying I begrudge my guy friends. I like them. I really like them. And I know they like me. These are solid friendships with people I genuinely like.
But then there are the other guy friends. The ones which began as dates or crushes but went nowhere "that" way. We faced a choice: Be friends or part ways.
I used to think it was great to salvage these things with a friendship.
I'm changing that point of view.
I thought it was just me who felt bittersweet about these relationships. He's great, he thinks I'm great, we really understand each other, we get along really well, tell each other inner thoughts and secrets...wait a minute. That's exactly what I'm looking for in a relationship. So why am I spending time with this guy who likes me but doesn't deem me worthy in "that" way? Why am I letting myself get unintentionally hurt every time he has another new girlfriend who is absolutely not smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, and caring? Why do I make a quick witted one liner and smile like I mean it when he says, "I want to meet someone like you, you know? I want her to be my best friend."
While I’m sitting there smiling like I mean it, I’m thinking, “Erm, um, okay, that would be really great and I hope you find her because you're my friend and I want you to be happy, but could you please explain what you see happening to our friendship when you find this girl who's just like me but datable? And by the way, do you realize how insulting and hurtful it is for you to sit there and tell me you want to date someone just like me who’s not me? The assumption being that I’m not your version of a sex goddess and therefore not datable? Come on, I better than anyone know what you like. I’ve nursed you through two Fatal Attraction-esque break ups. Don’t try to kid me and don’t insult me or my intelligence.”
One of the smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women in the discussion was feeling particularly down about this exact situation because her best friend, a guy, effectively dumped her for his new girlfriend who is, well, just like her. He hasn't called her for two months. He sent her a form blast email holiday greeting. They used to do everything together. Let me be clear: They weren’t dating, they never dated, and neither one of them was harboring deeper feelings for the other. And she realizes they can't do everything together now that he's got a girlfriend, she's smart, remember? But he's dropped her completely. Dumped her. Except they weren't dating. They were just friends. Well. Just best friends. And now she's feeling not only hurt by her best friend's callous and unthoughtful behavior, but, because he's a guy, she's feeling that she was merely filler until his next great girlfriend came along. She’s questioning their entire friendship. And yes, that’s a girl thing to do, but still. This guy’s behavior toward his alleged best friend is deplorable. Maybe guys are okay with their guy friends pulling this kind of crap, but that doesn’t make it okay. It’s still rude and hurtful behavior.
Which is why I'm changing my outlook on boy-girl friendships. Unless both parties can and do simultaneously date while maintaining the friendship, it's not a good idea. Even if the honest intentions were good, someone's going to end up feeling like filler.
And apparently more often than not it's a smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman.
I'm feeling a little better about things after this discussion. I thought that kind of crap only happened to me. Ugly girls learn to expect this sort of thing. We understand it’s all about sex and having sex with a prettier girl. But these women are all very attractive. These are not Velmas. These are Daphnes with Velma’s brain. So no, their looks have nothing to do with it. And I find that somewhat comforting. I don’t usually like being a statistic or trend, but in this case it makes me feel a little better about myself. It doesn't make it right, but it helps me realize I'm not alone. Other smart, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women are plagued by the "just friends" thing.
A few went away from that discussion vowing to never enter into another friendship with a man. "He dates me or not. Period. If not, I move onto the next one never looking back."
If you're sitting there saying, "Oh, but they'll miss out on such wonderful friendships." I have two words for you: Bull shit.
This isn't grammar school and we're not in our twilight years. We have friends. Lots of friends. Good friends. Friends who've been with us and stood beside us through thick and thin. We really do not need more "guy friends" who will be interested in us only until their next girlfriend enters the picture or until they realize we in fact mean it when we say no friendly no strings attached sex, or even unfriendly sex.
So this whole Bill Murray pal thing doesn’t seem particularly out of place in my life. That’s the thing about these dreams: Apart from Bill’s mopey demeanor they’re normal. Friends, hanging out, no implications. And in the case of Billy Murray that’s cool. Because I don’t think of him that way. So there’s a huge comfort level in these dreams where we’re friends. Maybe that’s why he’s depressed and sad - he trusts me and knows he doesn’t have to put on a front for me. He doesn’t have to smile like he means it around me because he knows I understand and care about him. Yeah. I’m swell. Even in my dreams. What a gal. What a pal. Yep. That’s me. Swell person, great friend but you wouldn’t want to date me.
On the friendly theme, remember the aging Iron Maiden Fan? The smoking rock and roll guy with a rap sheet? Well, I did it. I went out with him.
That’s how low I’ll go. I went out with a guy I know is completely wrong for me, and worse, I know I’m completely wrong for him.
It became obvious on the date. The thing is, this guy is nice. He’s honest. He’s sincere. There’s no hidden agenda and he’s truly a nice person. He has terrific manners and is very respectful. He wouldn’t smoke around me even though I know a couple of times he really wanted a cigarette. I’m sure he noticed the two very attractive women who entered the bar, but he didn’t ogle them or even give them a glance. He focused on me, his date for the evening. (This is the first date I’ve been on during 50 First Dates where the guy didn’t at least once scan the room obviously checking out the “scene” and other women to hit on when our date ended. Yes guys, I know you do this. I know this because sometimes I do it, too.)
He asked me a lot of questions about me because he was genuinely interested in getting to know me. We both had to explain a lot about ourselves because we come from very, very, very different types of lives. The more we learned about each other, the more obvious it became that this is just never in a million years going to work.
And it’s too bad. Because most of our core values and what we want in a mate and relationship are exactly the same. But in our case it’s just not enough. He doesn’t understand why I would stay at a job I don’t like. That’s what he does. He’s quit several jobs. To say his resumé of work experience is a colorful and rich tapestry is an understatement. Well. More like a crazy patchwork quilt. He’s working right now, but only to save money so he can quit and spend time working on his bike when the weather turns warmer. He’s staying with a friend and as long as he pitches in for booze and smokes he’s welcome to stay there. Apparently his friend’s old lady is cool and doesn’t mind him hanging around.
Yes. The man is technically homeless. Which is why he has the luxury of being able to just quit a job. It’s not that he’s irresponsible, he had a place with his ex old lady and since she had kids and they were in school, when they broke up he thought it would be best for him to move. It would be less disruptive for the kids. Even though it meant he’d be homeless or at least at the mercy of friends and relatives until he got back on his feet and finds a place he can afford. Yes. The guy is very thoughtful and nice.
He wanted to know what I like to do for fun. I told him the basics and said I was into photography. He thought that was cool. He knows a guy in New Mexico who takes pitchers and sells them to tourists. It wasn’t until he mentioned this guy has his own darkroom that I realized he’s taking photographs, not stealing Native American Pueblo earthenware artifacts and selling them to tourists. Pitchers. Pictures. Photographs. I could relay the actual conversation which smacks of Who’s on First, but I don’t want to embarrass either one of us. I respect him. He is sincerely interested in what interests me. He’s interested in his friends. He’s a good friend. He’s hoping to ride out to see his photographer friend in New Mexico this Summer. He said he’d bring me a pitcher. He’s thoughtful. He asked me about my cat. I tried not to be too enthusiastic about Furry Creature's many fine qualities because that’s a huge turn off for men. For some reason men hate women who love cats. (I know the reasons, guys, don’t bother to explain. That’s sarcasm there.) He asked me more questions about my cat. He likes cats. He thinks they’re cool. He likes that I like cats. He wanted to know if I had a pitcher of my cat. I did. (natch) And showed it to him. He pointed out several small details which only someone who really likes cats and/or cares about me and/or is polite would notice. He offered to help me take him to the vet. He’s got a little trailer for his Harley. He thinks Furry Creature’s carrier would fit on it. Before I could say anything he said, “But the noise from the bike would probably scare him. That’s probably not a good idea. He doesn’t need that kind of stress.” He’s helpful and considerate.
But we both know we live in very different and incompatible worlds. He smokes. Cigarettes and weed. I don’t smoke anything and I don’t like being around people who do. He understands and respects this. I have a busy and demanding job and spend a lot of time in the office. I get up early, stay late. He sleeps in and works second shift. He’s not big on movies or museums or reading or well, anything that I do when I’m not working. I’m not big on motorcycles or in home tool and die shops. We could work around these things if we were head over heels with each other but we’re not.
We’re friends.
So yeah. Back to the dating sites. Apparently a lot of men made new year’s resolutions to get out there and insult, I mean date women.
Yep. It's
This week's creep of the week is a guy who on his profile claims to want an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman with a graduate or doctoral degree. Hey, he’s not fooling around with that intelligent thing.
Apparently he thinks I might be one such woman. But apparently he's not certain. Because here's the email he wrote,
"I don't understand your profile. It's really wierd [sic]. It must be a joke one, right? Men don't like wierd [sic] women but I like you'r [sic] smile so I'm willing to take a chance that your[sic] funny."
Erm. Okay. Well. Um. Gee, thanks.
Just to be certain everything was okay with my profile I looked at it. Okay. I’m willing to admit I’m weird by some standards. But. This was my more “normal” profile. I don’t think most people, or at least people who want to meet an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring women, would judge me “weird” by this profile. If anything, I think I come across as boring on this profile.
But maybe not. GoCubbies thinks it’s weird. Lucky for me he’s willing to take a chance with me because he likes my smile. Whew. Those four years of orthodontia finally paid off for me. Wavy imagination sequence to me on my wedding day, GoCubbies at my side, me addressing the guests at our wedding, “And I’d like to thank my orthodontist for making this all possible. Without him, GoCubbies wouldn’t have liked my smile and wouldn’t have given me a chance because I’m weird. Thank you orthodontist, thank you. I owe you so much. You told me all the pain and suffering and teasing would be worth it and you were so right. Because of you I’m now Mrs. GoCubbies.”
His profile is sparse, but what’s there is the normal cliché stuff. Looking for an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman. Moonlit beach walks, romantic dinners, jeans or tux, Cubs season ticket holder. Looking for soul mate or at least a Cubs fan. Blah blah blah.
But when he came profile to profile with an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman what does he do? Insult her and compliment her only on a physical characteristic he found attractive. So much for the advanced university education and all that intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman stuff.
He’s normal. Normal’s good, right? I need more normal in my life. Obviously GoCubbies thinks I’m weird I should re-evaluate and evolve. Change to fit the mold men actually want. You know, normal. Forget all that intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring stuff. That’s only what men say they want. Some of them even honestly believe that’s what they want. But they don’t. Not really. Not in actuality. They like the idea of an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman, but when they’re staring one in the face as a potential date it turns out what they meant by an intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, caring woman was a normal, mediocre, subservient woman who only laughs at his lame jokes and is thoughtful enough to sit through an entire season at Wrigley field with him. They don’t want her smarter than themselves because that’s intimidating and threatening and a huge blow to his ego. What they really want is a complacent, kow towing girl who’s pretty and easy to get into bed. I’m thinking GoCubbies, who’s willing to take a chance with me because of my smile might be just the guy to help me become normal. Help me be less intelligent, confident, funny, thoughtful, honest, and caring and more vapid, insecure, dim witted, callous, rude liar who laughs at all his lame jokes, makes him feel superior and puts out on the first date.
Okay, fine, I finally tried taking the prescriptions my doctor gave me last Fall after the accident. I have a history, a lifetime history, of, um, well, a sleep problem. The problem is that I don't sleep. Because I can't sleep. Because I have difficulty shutting off my mind, relaxing enough to sleep.
The pain and the health problems and the regular stress in my life culminated in some issues. I wasn't healing as quickly as I should. My doctor theorized that my lack of sleep, real rest, was an issue.
And so it came to be that I was legally prescribed that oh so exotic and celebrity endorsed mix of pain and sleeping pills. Erm, "medication." Now. I have just as much of a rock star fantasy as the next person.
But.
I have this thing about not wanting to take medication unless I am sick and really need it. Pain, sleeplessness...those are not exactly desperately ill and in need of medication issues.
I'm much more of a deal with the cause rather than treat the symptom kind of person. Sleep aids and pain medication masks the symptoms but does nothing to resolve the issue. This is just how I feel about myself and my body. Other people can take whatever medication they want for whatever reason they want. If it works for them, great, I'm happy for them. This is just my outlook in regard to my own body and personality.
But this sleeplessness thing is causing problems. Physical problems. I mean, it has caused problems in the past. A lot of problems, actually. I wish I could just go to sleep. I envy people who just, well, sleep. I have no recollection of ever sleeping 8 hours straight. Apart from a few times when I was sick. Once I had pneumonia and I lost three days of my life. I semi-remember waking up a few times, but not clearly. So I suppose, yes, since I know I lost three days of my life I can recollect sleeping a solid 8 hours when I had pneumonia. But generally I feel proud if I get four solid hours. That's an achievement for me. A huge deal. My nightly routine is usually more like an hour. Wake up, stay awake for an hour and a half, sleep for another hour or two, wake up, stay awake for an hour, sleep for 45 minutes, wake up, get up, begin the day. Basically I take a few naps during the night hours.
Anyway. This has been going on for well, hmmmm, yeah, well, all of my life.
So I never gave much thought to how it effects my health. I mean, I knew it wasn't healthy and I try really hard to get more sleep, but I never thought about it impeding say, recovery from an illness or injury.
So I gave in and tried sleeping "medication" And sometimes when I'm in a lot of pain I break down and take pain "medication." Which also helps me sleep. Interesting how much easier it is to sleep when I'm not in pain.
And you know what? I've been sleeping for 6 - 7 hours straight. Which is really cool. I am so proud of myself about this. This is the first time I've felt normal in some aspect of my life in, well, ever. Those of you who sleep 8 hours a night cannot understand. You have no idea what it's like to not be able to sleep. You have no idea how long nights are when you cannot sleep. Every night.
But, apparently like everything else in my life, there's a catch. Sleep for more than an hour at a time and guess what happens? Dreams. That's what happens. Vivid, long dreams. Dreaming should either be pleasant or terrifying. That's my opinion. If you're going to dream, dream big. Escape reality to a really happy place, or face your issues with big terrifying manifestations. Otherwise they're just idle daydreams you're having while you sleep. If you're going to give your subconscious 8 hours of free rein to think about whatever it wants, it might as well really let go and pull out all the stops.
Even though I don't often sleep for more than a few hours at a time, I've had some really, really scary nightmares. One recurring nightmare, the same exact waking up in horrified gasping panic nightmare since I was a kid. That's one of the reasons I don't sleep much. If I sleep long enough and hard enough to have a dream, sooner or later I drift into The Nightmare and I wake up and can't go back to sleep.
Paging Dr. Freud, Dr. Freud, you're needed on the third floor...
Right. So. Sleeping and pain pills. Me and Keith Richards. What's next? Maybe I'll start dating 14-year-olds.
But based on the dreams I've been having since I started sleeping, it doesn't appear that I'll be letting loose my inner rock star any time soon.
Because instead of salacious wild orgy filled pleasant dreams or face your demons scary monster nightmares, I keep dreaming about Bill Murray. Yes. Saturday Night Live, Scrooged, Ghostbusters, Caddyshack Bill Murray. Except he's more of the Lost in Translation, Razor's Edge Bill Murray in my dreams. Not very funny, quite tragic, and mainly woeful.
I have nothing against Bill Murray, in fact I quite like a lot of his movies. I have always thought him to be one of America's more talented entertainers. I was given some tapes of early Saturday Night Live and find I laugh the hardest at the sketches in which he appears. I'm more fond of some of his recent film work. I really enjoyed his performance in Lost in Translation. I even broke my rule about not caring about the Academy Awards and thought he should win. The Academy is stupid and overrated anyway.
The Life Aquatic was great, you know, really great. I think a lot of people just didn't get the depth he brought to the role. People don't get subtlety. A lot of people (especially the men I've met lately) have short attention spans and don't like to have to think. They're probably more into Caddyshack. Don't get me wrong, Caddyshack makes me laugh, too. But it's too bad people don't recognize he's grown and evolved. Broken Flowers. Yes. I'm one of of the 143 people who saw that movie at the theatre and I really liked it. I sat there thinking, "Bill Murray's great! Why don't people recognize how great he is?"
So yes, I guess, thinking about it, I am a fan. Not a fanatic fan. Just a person who appreciates his talent and enjoys his work. Funny, I never thought about that until now.
Let me be clear on that point: As much as I enjoy his performances on screen and television I'm not obsessed with him or his life or really anything about him at all. I'm sure he's swell. He seems swell. Here in Chicago people say good things about him. But I just don't care about him apart from how he entertains me onscreen. Not that I wish bad things for him or that I wouldn't care if he was suddenly gone. I would care. I would miss him. I mean, I would miss his performances. I would miss his talent and the way he makes me laugh. But it wouldn't be a personal tragedy for me. Sorry, Bill, but, I'd get over it.
If I were a betting woman, I'd put all my money on celebrity dreams on someone like Pierce Brosnan or John Depp or the Keno brothers or even someone like Tom Baker to have recurring roles in my subconscious escapades.
But no.
Bill Murray makes nightly visits to my internal entertainment module.
And no. They're not "those" kinds of dreams. Just dreams. And he's in them. And they all have to do with him and a continuing litany of bad things happening in his life. In most of these dreams we seem to be pals. Frequently there are other people around, often a woman I presume to be his wife. (I don't even know or care if he's married in "real" life. I mean, you know, I guess I care if he's married because being married is a thing normal successful people are and I guess I hope he's normal and successful, but I don't really care in the sense that it makes no difference to me or the way I feel about him as an entertainer.) Anyway, these dreams are all on the up and up, no hanky panky.
The few hours of sleep a night I get are sacred to me. And it's not that these are nightmares. But, he's kind of a downer in these dreams. And I'm generally a caring person, particularly where my friends are concerned, so in these dreams where we're pals and he's having problems I end up worrying about him. And I wake up feeling tense and stressed out over the anxiety I feel during these dreams.
I'm truly sorry if he's experiencing difficulty in his life. I'm sure it's not easy having people expecting him to always be funny or clever or wanting him to do the lounge singer guy. People are kind of stupid when it comes to expectations. (Further case for removing all expectation from life.) But I really need stress free sleep. I have a lot of stressful situations in my own real life. My real family and friends have problems which cause me concern for them and their well being. I don't need someone else laying their burdens at my door, or in this case on my pillow.
I'm not accusing him of mind control. I'm just asking him to sort out his personal life so I don't worry about him in my dreams. I don't really care if he's in my dreams, even though I'd prefer John Depp or Pierce Brosnan, as long as he's not a downer. He doesn't have to make me laugh, he just needs to stop being the perpetual mopey buzz kill he is in my dreams. I don't worry about him in real life (sorry, it's just pointless) but this intense stress and worry over him while I'm sleeping is making me wake up cranky and irritable. Well. More cranky and irritable than usual.
Last night, for instance, I fell asleep on the couch. Rollers in hair, poodle pajamas, fuzzy socks, you get the idea. The next thing I remember I was having a dream wherein Bill, the above mentioned wife-ish woman, another woman and myself were having dinner in a swanky restaurant. Everyone was dressed really well. I was in my poodle pajamas, fuzzy socks and hair in rollers. No one seemed to notice or care. The conversation at the table was low and reverent. I don't remember any of the actual conversation but we were all feeling sorry and sympathetic for Bill and he was trying to be okay but we all knew he wasn't okay. The lighting was dim, kind of candle lighty and at one point I looked at him, in my dream it was a super macro of his left face, and his eyes were all red and watery like he was crying. And that upset me because obviously he was upset and it was sad and all that. Next thing I remember is us in the same or similar restaurant dancing. Slow dancing. He in his nice suit, me in my poodle pajamas and fuzzy socks. Which, by rights, should have made me laugh. It should have made him laugh. But it didn't. I don't remember much, but I remember feeling him close and being very surprised that he felt weak, frail. I thought I could just pick him up and carry him off the dance floor. I knew he was upset and he started to get trembly and I led him off the dance floor and got him a drink and we were all trying to protect him from being seen in that upset state. I was trying to figure out a way to nonchalantly get him out of there unnoticed and I was all tense about it. Then I awoke to find myself all tensed up and stressed. I'd been grinding my teeth so hard my jaw hurt, my hands were clenched into tight fists and I had a really bad headache. See what I mean? These are not just any old dreams. These are really stressful and intense dreams. About Bill Murray. And his problems.
One night last week I dreamt I was at his house. Frankie was there, too. And the wife-ish woman and some guys. I was in my pajamas and my hair was a mess, pretty much how I probably looked in my real bed at the time. And my stuffed poodle who in real life is perched by my pillow was sitting on the counter in Bill's kitchen. We were all just talking, you know, I don't know, talk. I don't remember the conversation. But Bill was all intense and mopey and we were all trying to make pleasant conversation and trying to act normal. The phone rang, it was like in a movie, a long dramatic still shot of the telephone sitting there ringing, Bill answered it. We all tried to busy ourselves and not intrude. Then he hung up and told us his brother died. He was really upset. We all felt bad but apparently it was expected. We tried to console him. I took his hand. It was shaking. I remember exactly how it felt. Next thing I remember we were swimming. Nothing weird or kinky, just swimming. As in swimming laps. I woke up and realized I'd been crying. My eyes stingy and my cheeks were wet. I'd been actually crying. I dunno, Bill. I dunno. I usually only get upset like that for my real family and friends. This is a first for me.
Now. It's possible these dreams are manifestations of my inner turmoil. I'm projecting my repressed/suppressed/regressed feelings onto Bill Murray. Rather cavalier thinking, but I'll consider any possibility if it will help end this bout of night stress.
Let's explore the projection theory. Why Bill Murray? Why would I project my repressed feelings onto a middle aged guy known best for his on screen antics and glib mirth? My issues are really more suited for a younger Meryl Streep. Troubled, deep, intense and generally not fun to be around. The projection theory doesn't hold.
The other possibility is that Bill Murray symbolizes someone or something, some unresolved or stressful issue. Gee, really? Do ya think so, Dr. Freud? Because I have no unresolved or stressful issues in my life and that just makes no sense.
But again I ask, why Bill Murray? Why not, oh, I don't know, John Depp? A little eye candy with my emotional agony. Or someone tragic like or given my recent narcotic foray, why not Jimi Hendrix or John Belushi? And here's something: Why a man? If this is all projection and symbolism, why a man? Why not Meryl Streep or some Lifetime network sweetheart like Stockard Chaning or Nancy McKeon? The obvious answer is that I'm either blaming my issues on men, or, projecting them onto a man so men, or at least a man can have a less than pleasant existence. Neither sounds like how I think, you know, in real life. But, taking out my actual conscious thought process, the former seems plausible, the latter just seems vindictive and I'm not really a vindictive person. At least I don't think I am.
The last possibility which occurred to me today, as I tried to sort out, "Why Bill Murray?" might have something to do with Groundhog Day. Which is just a few weeks away, now that I think about it even more. Perhaps I've got some weirdo thing about the repetition/boredom/stuck in a rut/angst issues like Bill Murray's character had in Groundhog Day. My life does feel like one long repetitive litany of the same problems cloaked in different costumes. I keep trying to move forward but the same problems keep me firmly planted where I am. Gee, that's just swutting brilliant. For that I spent a lifetime wishing I could sleep well enough to have dreams?
Man, I don't know how you people who regularly sleep and dream deal with this.
Friday, January 13, 2006
You know the whole, “time I can never regain” thing - time unnecessarily wasted? Like watching a “reality” show or sit com? An hour of life which is forever lost...
I try to be somewhat careful about how I spend my time. I waste it when I want to waste it and I am aware I am wasting it. Sometimes I intentionally waste time. I’m pretty good at wasting time, in fact. Which is why I try to be careful, make wise choices in the way in which I waste time.
I don’t waste time watching much television. I have to watch some for professional reasons, but the rest of it is pure wasted time. Oh sure, I watch some educational television. One could argue me spending an hour watching the effects of extreme cold on humans in Denali is a waste of time because chances are very slim that I will in fact ever need to know how to survive in Denali. And what with global warming and everything I should be more concerned about surviving in extreme heat. So yeah. Television. A huge time waster. Seldom thought provoking or inspiring, often stupifyingly brain numbing.
Reading. Well. Yeah. I read a lot. I read because I’m curious or interested or confused or just because I like words or words formed into a good ripping yarn. You know me and words. It’s a tortured love affair. They throw themselves at me. I can’t resist them. It’s a problem. And possibly a symptom of brain damage.
I’m not obsessed yet I seek them and they taunt me. So, maybe I am obsessed. Unconsciously unintentionally obsessed. Hmm. Maybe that makes me plagued by them. That sounds better than being obsessed with them because it implies that I am a victim which, when it comes to words, well, yeah. I am mercilessly victimized by words. So for me reading isn’t so much a waste of time as a form of torture. Wait. That’s not right. See what I mean about words? Infinitely complex and fascinating.
I write them because I have to get them out of my head. I only post a small amount of the words I write. This is a waste of time, sort of, except if I don’t write them, expunge them from my head, I have problems. I can’t think or speak properly if they’re in there unexpunged. So for me, not so much a waste of time as a necessary form of mental health therapy. I don't put these words here to gain popularity, noteriety, money or really, anything. I have no real reason for it. I write them, lots of 'em, which I don't put here. I often think I'll stop putting words here. When I do people tell me they miss them. I don't understand why. But people tell me they miss them so I sometimes I put some of my words here.
I have no idea why you’re reading these words.
Wasting time?
Yep. You are. Right now, this second, you are wasting time. Don’t blame me. I’m not making you read these words. I like some of you a lot, but honestly, I have no idea why you would read these words. Sometimes I have words which are hopeful hints or suggestions, particularly on the subject of dating. But either you’re not taking the advice or men who need the advice aren’t reading because boy oh boy things are bleak on the man front.
Speaking of wasting time.
Time out: Guys, really, your online dating site screen names? Seriously guys, please, read these words. Hear my plea. A rude or offensive screen name is not a good or cool way to make a first impression. Nothing will make me delete email faster than a sexual, rude or ego driven screen name. Cutesy wootsy names generally ring alarm bells, too. Pooksie-pie this means you. Unless the rest of your profile checks out and your screen name is obviously ironic, please just stick with something innocuous. Stay away from adding Mr in front of a nick name, too. A lot of you do that. Apparently it’s a trend. But I, and most other women, do not want to meet much less date a guy who openly calls himself MrOneNighter. I mean, thanks for the warning, but you say you’re looking for a long term relationship or marriage. Um, do you see why we’re confused about you? MrOneNighter wants a long term relationship or marriage. I already have enough conflict in my life. Delete. What’s in a name? A lot. I innocently open my email in box and every day I assaulted with rude names in my from box. They aren’t caught in the spam filter because the domain is from the online dating site which I have on my “okay” list. All I’m doing is opening my in box and I’m insulted before I even open any email. Yes. It’s that bad. I have no idea why a man would think any woman would want to be sexually insulted by his screen name, why he’d want to make that first impression, but, a lot of them do this. Which leads me to believe there are women out there who are okay with this. None of the women I know are okay with this. But if these offensive jerks weren’t getting responses, they’d change their names.
See what I mean about wasting time?
Maybe people who only want a one night roll in the sack or nothing more than a sexual relationship online dating sites offer a trove of possibilities. Those of us who want something other than sex have to wade through all those people to get to the deeper end of the dating pool. Nothing new there, that’s been an issue since the dawn of dating. Sorting out intentions and all that. But I had high hopes that online dating would help eliminate having to wade through the shallow end and allow me to safely dive right into the deep end. I was wrong.
Oh sure, it’s easy to delete these guys without even reading their email or looking at their profiles, but considering that I have received 15 - 24 email winks, smiles or letters a day from men with sexually explicit screen names for the past week (it’s become so frequent that I kept count for seven days), it becomes a time waster. And speaking of wasting time, why are they contacting me? Nowhere on my profile do I mention anything about sex. I state that I am looking for a long term relationship or marriage. Period. So why are these guys bothering me? Why are they wasting their time and mine? Well. Ego, I assume. Selfishness. Ignorance.
So yeah. Words. Reading. Wasting time. I honestly hoped this blog would do some good, help those in need of help with online dating. But obviously I’ve failed. So it’s back to being about my mental health therapy and your wasting time.
Wasting time. You know. Like going on job interviews and not getting the job. No, I didn’t want that stupid job, really, not really, but still. Two interviews, phone calls, spending time figuring a new budget so I could afford to take a cut in pay...for a job I didn’t get. That’s life. And no, it wasn’t the right job for me and I would have been miserable there and it would have been nothing more than a different miserable job from my current miserable job. But still. What a waste of time. And no. I didn’t learn anything from the experience so be quiet about all the trite platitudes. I put real time and effort into that interview process and regardless of whether or not it was the right job for me I was rejected. They didn’t want me. They found someone better. Which in this case probably meant worse, or at least less experienced.
And no. It’s not good to be too good. Too experienced. Too nice. Too smart. Too understanding. I don’t think a person can be too much of those qualities. We’re supposed to be striving for experience, we’re supposed to be nice, we’re supposed to learn all we can because that all leads to understanding which is supposed to be the point to at least some of life. Wisdom and all that. Too nice? Too smart? Too experienced? Come on, that doesn’t make sense. It’s oxymoronic. Too inexperienced. Too mean. Too stupid. Too unsympathetic. That’s bad, right? So how can the opposite be bad? The opposite should be good. But apparently it’s not. I’ve had a lifetime of rejection because I’m too nice, too smart, too understanding, too experienced. I don’t think I’m too much of any of those things, but I keep hearing it in the form of negative rejection (as if there’s positive rejection, another term I’m taking to task for being overused, oxymoronic and stupid)
Wasting time.
Right. I control my life. I’m responsible for myself. I make decisions and choices. I roll with the outcome. If I choose to waste time that’s my choice and I’m responsible for the repercussions.
And then sometimes there are situations beyond my control which waste my time.
The usual suspects are coworkers.
I have to be semi-polite to these people because I work with them every day and I need my job. (see above, rejection) Being rude or inconsiderate won’t aid in my keeping my job. And I am too nice and too understanding to be rude anyway.
So when a coworker bent my ear with complaints about her unit manager, I listened. Offered an understanding and sympathetic, “gee, that’s too bad, sorry you’re having so much difficulty.”
This was taken as an invite to throw out a slew of racially slanderous accusations against some of our coworkers.
Extremely vicious remarks.
I have zero tolerance for that sort of thinking.
Which is what I told my coworker.
Who then accused me of being “just like the rest of the upper crust around here who pander to everyone except us poor white people as if you’re ashamed of being white yourself.”
Um. Yeah. Slowly back away from the bigoted neanderthal before it turns violent....
I was more than a little stunned by this outburst.
I would have walked away but the coworker was in my office.
I asked them to leave.
They went sputtering out of my office.
Okay. They’ve got a problem. And they tried to make it my problem. And wasted a lot of my time. And now I’m wasting yours in relaying the incident. Well. Actually. That’s not true. You’re wasting your time by reading about it. I have no power over what you read or how you spend your time.
Nothing will get solved or resolved. My coworker isn’t going to change. No one’s walking away enlightened or better or worse.
But my time was wasted with contemptible words. Because I was too nice to my coworker with their initial complaints about work? No. Because they were too stupid and too mean and too unsympathetic to realize their bigot opinions are unfounded and completely inappropriate for work or the situation.
And a huge waste of time. Time I can never reclaim. It’s gone forever. And completely wasted. I willingly waste enough time. I don’t need anyone else wasting more of my time on my behalf.
Men, employers, coworkers...it comes down to a lack of respect.
That trek to Denali is sounding better all the time.
Maybe it’s not a waste of time for me to learn about human survival in extreme cold conditions. No one will waste my time for me there and the male:female ratio is stacked strongly in my favor
3:00 PM
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Falling Lower.
Maybe my purse is the culprit. Dragging me down lower than I should be. Look at all this crap I didn't know I was carrying around all the time.
Sheesh.
I'm a mess. Literally. My possessions are causing me suspicion but there's no proof... 4:06 PM
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
I’m starting to wonder how low I can go. Is there a point, a place where I’ll crash and be unable to go any lower, or is low actually a bottomless pit with new, unimagined lows to attain?
It’s not a matter of failure. I can deal with failure. I deal with it really well, I think. You know, considering. Considering how far off track my life has careened and how I’m too far gone to get back on track much less catch up to where I want to be. Considering that I think I deal with it pretty well.
The thing I wonder is: How low can I go and how low will I go?
As for the can part, I believe everyone has the ability to sink to lows which on the surface seem impossible. We’re humans. We’re stupid. We’re capable of stupidity beyond reason. In fact we’re know for displaying a serious lack of reason and the consequential acts of stupidity. It’s what separates us from the “lower” forms of life in the animal kingdom. Apart from squirrels with their dare devil “I bet I can out run that big metal thing coming a me” attitude, take away our weapons and put us in the wild and our chances of survival are low.
But just how low will I go? Not how low can I go, not how low am I willing to go, but how low will I actually go?
I’ve been wondering this even more lately in several aspects of my life.
I met this guy. He’s been emailing me for a several weeks. After reviewing his profile I didn’t think we had enough in common to bother meeting in person. He persisted. He played the, “Hey, we’re both single, our friends are married, we both like music, we could at least hang out together” card. I still declined his proposals thinking there was no way we’d like each other enough to even enjoy an evening “hanging out” together. Finally he mentioned a band I sort of like playing at a small venue. He said he was going to the show. I already planned on going. (not with him) The day before the show my friend canceled on me. I thought, okay, go on my own or don’t go at all or, gulp, meet up with the guy. So in a momentary lapse of serious reason, I sent him an email saying, “Guess what? I’m going to that show tomorrow night, too. Maybe we can meet up for a drink.” He responded within seconds.
And that was how it came to be that I was sitting there looking at a guy who looks like the guy you conjure when you hear the words “aging Iron Maiden fan.” (No, it was not an Iron Maiden concert or cover band show.) He smells like pot. (and the place wasn’t even that crowded yet so it was not just a general ambient pot smell. It was all him.) And he peppers his speech with words like knarly, spliffin’ and rad. And I’m thinking, “You know, he’s a nice guy. Really. He’s nice. What more do I want? What more can I ask from a guy? Other women, other people can ask for more because they’ll get it. But apparently I can’t. And he seems to like me even though he doesn’t get my sense of humor. He continues to sit across from me talking about bands and music even though I mention a few topics other than bands. And I think, “Hey, he’s sticking around, he actually seems to like me. So maybe this is it, maybe this is The One. He seems to be able to tolerate me. Maybe I could eventually learn to tolerate him. Even though he smokes, even though he proudly boasts he only owns jeans and has turned down jobs which required him to wear something other than jeans. Even though he didn’t bother to shave. Or wash his hair. Is personal hygiene really such a big deal?”
Yep. That’s how it happens. You start reasoning away all the usual explanations and the next thing you know you’re dating an aging Iron Maiden fan who doesn’t own anything other than jeans, smokes pot and doesn’t groom himself on a daily or perhaps even weekly basis.
No, I’m not dating him. Yet. I haven’t seen or talked to him since that night we met at the bar. Which I don’t think even qualifies as a date. He’s sent me a few emails. He thinks it’s really cool how we get along so cool because he wouldn’t think a chick like me could be so cool. He thinks I’d be a cool old lady. Yes. That’s a quote. Keep in mind he rides a Harley and being a cool old lady is a good thing in his world.
I don’t mean to imply that he’s a bad person. He is honestly a nice person. He did confess to a couple of minor legal infractions. Little things, really, and a long time ago. He's grown up since then. He was honest about it. He can joke about it. He's thoughtful in his own way. He’s just, well, I mean, okay, look, here’s the thing: We have nothing in common apart from the fact that we both like a few of the same bands. This isn’t two worlds colliding and opposites attracting. This is a duck and a squirrel both interested in a piece of bread and then going back to their respective tree and pond never to meet again.
But then, what other prospects do I have? Oh yeah. None. Thanks for reminding me.
He’s not into conventional commitments and relationships, though he claims to be a one woman man. He has been in a few long term committed relationships. He’s had girlfriends, erm, old ladies, he’s capable of being a boyfriend, erm, old man. So maybe this is really more what I need. I would like an official husband because I want the financial tax and potential home buying benefits. But that prospect is looking bleaker by the day. Nobody wants me, or at least nobody wants me for their wife. So. Iron Maiden man, who for some unexplainable reason likes me, might not be so far out of my realm.
Heck, I could at least be dating a man. That right there would be a huge improvement, right? He is a man. Sure, the hygiene thing takes a bit of getting used to, and that jeans only issue could be a bit tricky at some of my work related functions, and the Harley and smoking things are hurdles for me, but he’s interested in me. That’s huge. In fact that’s monumental. He honestly wants to see me again. And he doesn’t use the “walks in the park, candlelight dinners and moonlight strolls on the beach” or “comfortable in jeans or tux” crap lines. This guy is real. I like that about him. He’s himself, like him or leave him, he’s who he is and he doesn’t have to shave, shower or wear undenim trousers for anyone. He’s very WYSIWYG. Even though he has no clue what WYSIWYG means. Well, he does now because I mentioned to him that's he's very WYSIWYG and ended up having to explain it. He thinks it’s cool that I “know shit.” Oh, and he likes cats.
He likes me and he likes cats. That’s good, right? I mean, what more do I want? It’s far, far away from where I thought I’d be. I never really even thought about dating a guy “like him.” Not in a snobby way, but in a "we’d have nothing in common" way. I thought I would never under any circumstances even consider dating a smoker much less an aging pothead, but now, you know, what’s the alternative? More nights home alone? Do I veer further of course and see this guy again, at least spend time with a man who's interested in me, or do I keep trying to get back on course and spend still more time, probably a lifetime on my own? It wouldn't be the sort of relationship I want or thought I'd have. Not a lot of laughter, no deep conversations, nothing in common, probably boredom and a lot of contempt for his habits, but, on the other hand, not alone. Selling out or realizing this is the best it's going to get for me?
How low will I go?
And then there’s work. I sold my soul to the payroll devil a long time ago. I need a job because I need a paycheck. Therefore I keep my head down and my mouth shut a lot of the time. I play the game as well as I can, just well enough to not be fired. Which is stooping pretty low when I bother to think about it. Personal integrity and all that. My financial reality mandates that I work at a job or jobs where I will bring in a certain amount of money in order to feed the cat and keep a roof over my head. Never mind that I am grossly overqualified for my current job. Never mind that I am grossly underpaid for my job. Never mind that I’m doing my job, my boss’ job and the jobs of several others. Never mind that I spend a lot of hours in the office when other people are out enjoying their lives and their paychecks which are much larger than mine. I have a job and that should be satisfaction enough for me. Or so I’m told. I’m told to remember all the intangible benefits of my job. I have been down so long I can’t remember what they are, but they tell me there are a lot of intangible benefits to my job so there must be something to make it all worth while. If not, I’d leave, right? I’d have found another job by now, right?
Well, listen up, folks.
I have found another job.
I’ve had two interviews and the salary discussion. An offer was presented. Though it was presented in such a way that I’m not certain I’ve been made an official offer. It went like this, “We have another candidate ahead of you. We made them an offer. If they decline we’d like to hire you.”
Yeah, I’ll try not to let that flattery go to my head.
Conventional wisdom and good personal financial management dictate that when you change jobs you move up on the income front. Oh sure, sometimes things are bad at work and you take another job just to get the heck out of a bad situation. Or an opportunity comes along which will offer personal or professional benefits which surpass a paycheck. But it’s rare that a person opts to take a job where they will be paid less money than they are currently earning. People don't usually purposely take backwards steps on their career path. I know it happens, that personal and professional benefit thing, but it’s rare. Most people aren’t stupid enough to willingly take steps backward in their professional and financial status. A person would have to be in a pretty low employment situation to willingly accept another job at a lower rate of pay. A rate of pay which would cause them economic difficulties and even hardship. A rate of pay which would cause them to have to move to a less expensive apartment. A rate of pay which would cause further economic stress factors like transportation fare because it’s not within walking distance (especially in from a less expensive apartment), like moving expenses because the lower rate of pay will not cover current living expenses.
One would assume that anyone who would take such financial backwards steps had been offered a job which provides worth while benefits or perks or just plain better management and coworker environments.
That’s the conventional wisdom.
But I’m not conventional. And so I’m considering taking a job at a lower rate of pay at a company known for a high rate of turnover because of their low rates of pay and apathetic management.
It’s out and away from my (needs a new nickname) boss and the idiocy of my current job. It gets me out of that place which has become not just a job, but a life sucking burdensome form of treachery.
It’s stupid for me to take a lower paying job. Stupid. I’m already underpaid. The people who want to hire me even said so. “They’re getting a bargain with you. We can’t pay you that much so we’d be getting a steal!” The person who will be my boss at this new dream job said, “If you’re desperate enough to want this job you might be happy here. Is it really that bad at (my company)? I’ve heard some things about (my company), but I didn’t think it was really bad enough for someone to take a cut in pay just to leave there.”
Yeah. They were some great interviews. Real ego boosters. Made me feel really good about myself and how I’ve spent the last years of my professional life. Really sets a good tone for my reputation at the new company. “Hey, did you hear the new girl they hired was so desperate she took a cut in pay for this job?!” Yeah. They’ll take me real seriously there.
And hey, if that other person turns down their offer I’m as good as in, baby! So here I am thinking looking for part time evening and weekend jobs to supplement my income of the other person is foolish enough to turn down the job offer. It's so great being in my position, knowing I'm second choice for a job which will pay me considerably less money than I am now earning, a job for which I am overqualified and underpaid. But it's luring me. The thought of giving notice and never dealing with my (needs a new nickname) boss and coworkers again fills me with such excitement and satisfaction that I find it difficult to focus or even care about the fact that I would be suffering financial hardship on top of my already difficult financial situation.
That's low. That's really low.
How low will I go?
I have no pride left to swallow so that's not an issue. Integrity schmegrity.
Friends have been telling me there's nowhere to go but up, they present strong arguments for their belief in this, and yet I keep finding ways to fall lower. Well, I mean, I'm not out there seeking new lows. I'm not actively trying to find new lows. I just seem to have downward momentum which I can't reverse. I know, I know, the second you start thinking that is the second you're doomed to fail. I know. And I have tried to be optimistic or at least hopeful. Well. Okay, I've tried to not be negative. I've tried to use the "there's nowhere to go but up" train of thought. And that's usually when I've been hit with something which takes me lower. The Universe gets wind of my efforts to take a positive stance and says, "Dare to think positive, do you? Who do you think you are? A normal person?! You're not. You're Trillian and you are put on Earth to serve as a warning and joke to the rest of the Earthlings! How dare you think positive thoughts? Well, we'll show you! Ha! Here's someone to shove you down a flight of stairs! Here's a year of debilitation with a broken ankle and foot! Here's someone to assault and mug you and steal your identity and all your money and max out your credit cards! Here's someone to make your work life a living nightmare, a new boss who knows nothing and covers up her ignorance with lies! And oh, this will teach you, here’s a date who’s drunk and poof! here’s an accident with him fleeing the scene and leaving you there to deal with the mess! Oooooooh, trying to persevere, are you? Trying to 'make lemonade' are you? Well bwa ha ha, guess again, you insolent fool, guess again. It can always be worse and we're going to demonstrate that fact by using you as an example. Down you go! Low, lower, lowest."
So I'm starting to think, "Hey, accept it. Embrace it. See the failure. Be the failure. Become one with the failure. Date the guy you don't want to date. Take the job you don't want to take. See these as positive steps in downward decline." When downward decline becomes the goal, falling lower becomes a positive step in the direction of my life path. Oh sure, it's not what I thought it would be, not what my parents thought it would be, they certainly didn't raise me that way. But, that's who I am. A strong argument for nature v. nurture. The best parents, the best schools, the best homes in the best neighborhoods, encouragement, resources, all of it, I had it. And yet I am failing. And falling.
And that's the only part which concerns me. My poor parents and a few of my friends who aren't so busy with their own lives that they realize I'm sinking lower every day will have to watch me sink to new depths. Dating aging Iron Maiden fan is not going to go over well with my friends. My parents will try to see what I see in him, they'll try to accept him, but they won't really understand. They'll worry. They'll wonder where they went wrong. They'll lose sleep. Oh wait. They already do all of that. Still. It's not fun to watch someone you care about sinking to some really low lows, making decisions you know are only going to lead to even lower lows. Decisions they know are lower lows. And I don't want to put my family and friends through that. Still. It's my life. It's falling down anyway. But. I don't want to cause any more worry and upset for my parents and friends. I don't really want to date that guy and I don't really want to take that job. But. They are positive steps down. They facilitate my falling lower. I can go lower, I will go lower, but am I willing to willingly jump off the edge and dive lower?
