REPORT A PROBLEM
Thank God for dogs. I have something to sleep with to stroke to feed to wash to love to kiss to hug. Max and I have taken four walks today. If it weren't for him, I'd be sitting in the house thinking about how cold it is and how I couldn't stand to go out anywhere. But Max and I bundle up and walk and when we're done, he curls up on his bed and naps and sighs and has those doggy dreams where his legs kick and he makes those muffled barking sounds. Thank God, thank God for dogs.
I can't stand how you whine. I can't stand how you blame your problems on some something or someone else. You're sad? Go look at a fundraising video for something like St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital and then tell me how fucked up your life is. Got to a shelter and see people who have nothing and who truly have mental problems and then tell me why I should feel sorry for you. Why don't you just shut up, get out of your house and go do something for someone who needs it. Your life isn't fucked up. You are.
The phone rang, cutting through the silence. He lifted his forefinger to his mouth, mouthing the words, "Be quiet." As he talked to his wife on the phone, the girl leaned over to the nightstand and picked up his keys. There it was. She figured it had to be there. When she asked him where it was, he said he "left it home in a safe place." She knew better. She knew that he couldn't have gotten out of the house without having it on. She deliberately touched each key, searching for it. There it was. Inscribed inside: "Love Forever."
I was never one of those women that got attention from men. In college, I was the wallflower collecting her friends from strange dorm rooms at 2 am. I was the one standing against the wall while my friends got hit on. I asked a male friend of mine once why I never got approached. He said that I intimidated men. Me? Huh? I've always been easy to talk to. But no one ever gave me the chance. I guess intimidating men should have been viewed as a compliment but instead it just made me believe that I was nothing.
Have you ever dated someone and were so ashamed of it that you just can't let it go? You wonder where your head was…your taste…your senses? You try to forget about the dates, the kisses, the sex. But you can't forget about it because it went on for a long time, before you found out the truth and before you found out the lies, and you get so sickened by it that you rage inside yourself and you don't know how to stop it. And it's not even about the other person. It's about you and how stupid you feel.
I don't think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world. Most days, I think I look horrid. I make the most out of what I have to work with. It's amazing what a little hair color, mascara, and eyeliner can do for a girl. But the thing that works for me more than anything is my ability, which has come to me later in life, to get what exactly what I want, from virtually anyone I want it from, simply by smiling a certain way or looking at someone a certain way. Does that make me a terrible person?
My 30th birthday was important to me. I always looked forward to my thirties. I had a boyfriend then. We had been together several months. He wanted to come over after work to give me my birthday gift. I was so excited. I knew he'd make it special. When he got out of his car, he handed me an unwrapped box containing a mini relaxation fountain. Didn't have time to wrap it, he said. The card thanked me for being a "good friend." I stayed with him for a year and a half after that. I needed my head examined.
Every 6 months it came. Email. She thought that he disappeared for good, got over it, moved on. No. The emails started innocently. Hi, how are you. What's new. Blah, blah. And then he blasted her with it. I want to see you. Come see me. I still love you. No one will ever love you the way I do. When she responded firmly with a no-please-leave-me-alone email, it was always followed by the email of rage. I hate you. You slut. You ruined my life. So she closed her email address, changed her phone number three times, and disappeared.
She couldn't ever remember ever feeling so uncomfortable. They sat across from each other. He was on her couch. She, was as far away from him as she could be, across the room. They had lunch, drove around, talked. For some reason that day, he came up instead of driving off. She wanted to be on the couch. She knew he wanted her there too. They both knew that wasn't a good idea. There were uncomfortable silences and nervous laughter until it all was brought to an merciful end by a phone call on his cell phone from his wife.
She liked him. She liked him despite the fact that they had very little in common. She was a bit more polished. His table manners were atrocious. She was a clean freak. His apartment was disgustingly dirty. Although he was clean about himself, he always seemed to be sweating and he always had a tingle of body odor about him. It wasn't his "scent." It was odor. But years later, she was in a store and saw the cologne he used. She sprayed some on herself and immediately remembered the smell of sweat mixed with his cologne. And she smiled.
She thought his online behavior was strange. One night as he slept, she got out of bed, shut the door softly behind her, and went to his computer. She knew his password because he was careless enough to write it down and leave it on the desk. Once connected, she looked for alternate screen names. There it was. She switched to it and found a buddy list. All men. She looked at their profiles and discovered that they were all gay. And all local. Then she went to the bathroom and sat on the floor, too stunned to even cry.
Please, trust your gut. If you think he's cheating, he probably is. If he gets phone calls from the same female "friend" constantly, be very suspicious. If he goes on vacation and happens to have a 6 hour layover where she lives, you can bet the only sightseeing he's doing is exploring the wild bush down south. If this female "friend" sends him a birthday card with romantic overtones and she doesn't include her husband's name on it, your boyfriend is definitely fucking her. Especially if her card is on his bedroom dresser and yours is nowhere to be found.
I wonder why it is that I'm 32 and still not settled. I'm not settled in my career. I'm not settled in a relationship. I'm not settled in LIFE. And I don't know if that's entirely a bad thing, but I do know it's not entirely good either. I should be doing anything other than what I'm doing now. But I guess you could say that you are doing exactly what you need to be doing right at this very moment, for whatever reason. Is that a rationalization? A way to stay sane when it all becomes too much? Maybe.
I'm not sure I've ever truly been in love. Lust, sure. Deep abiding like. Yes. There was never anyone in my life that made my stomach jump when he walked into a room. I never dated anyone that I wanted to marry. The more time together, the more I saw that I detested. I couldn't stand they way they chewed or walked or breathed. The end. For the most part, I am the one doing the ending. But a couple of men have done it to me first. And it was like "Ok, whatever. Fuck off. I'll be fine. Bye."
They were at his company Christmas party at a la dee da hotel downtown. Everyone asked him who she was and he how managed to end up with her. When she went to the bathroom, a couple of women asked her what she was doing with him. She thought it was a bit strange, but she ignored it. They sat down to eat and he was already so drunk that he was swearing and tossing rolls at his friend across the table. After dinner he decided to dance with every woman in the room except her. God. What an ass.
I call myself the wailing wall. Men come to me to talk about their problems, especially with other women. They whine. They bitch. They endlessly ask for advice. What should I do? Should we break up? Should we stay together? Should I ask her out? Where should we go? Please just shut up. I don't care. No, really. I don't. I'm tired of being the sturdy shoulder, the attentive ear, the free therapist. I know I should tell you to just fuck off, but I'm too polite, you see. Why am I nothing more than a wailing wall to men?
I'm fully aware that I'm attracted to all of the men that are wrong for me. Poets, musicians, deep thinkers. Yes, if you're fucked up, yet deep, I'm sure to want you. . But then there are the tight-assed, super intelligent men. I pretty much want them too. The obscure weirdos. You can't make sense out of anything they say or do, yet they hook you. You know the type, ladies. The weirdness makes them seem interesting and we are so thirsty for someone interesting because, let's face it, a lot of men are beer drinking , wing-chomping, sports-obsessed bores/boors.
I wish I knew what it is that I've done to make you so (apparently) sick of me. We used to be close. We used to laugh about the same things. Now you seem to be one of those things and you just swept me aside. I never saw it coming. You were there and then all of a sudden you were gone. No explanation from you. No gradual cooling off ofthe friendship. Nothing. Just coldness. And you know, fine whatever, friendships ebb and flow, but I think the way you did it sucks. And so do your new "girls."
I always wondered what it would be like to be one of the cool girls. You know, the girls who were pretty and knew it and made fun of everyone else around them. But I digress. I always wanted to be one of those cool girls. And then suddenly I was. And it was fun. And making fun of people was fun. And feeling superior to everyone else was a riot. And then I discovered that the cool girls all talk about each other behind their backs and I didn't want to be cool anymore. The bitch act is old.
I had dreamed about you for so long. I pictured your face in my mind a million times and replayed your laugh over and over. I imagined the funny little habits that you might have, like the way you'd charm everyone around us with your smile and your dry humor that would be the center of attention at a dinner party. I imagined us walking down the street holding hands, window shopping, walking in the rain, running under an awning for shelter and a kiss. I imagined. And then I met you and I hated every fucking thing about you.
I'll never date a man that I meet online again. Ever. Really. You think I'm joking but I'm not. I've done it before and that's it. It's too easy to build up a relationship in one's mind. It's too easy to build a picture of a man in your imagination that has very little to do with reality. No long drawn out email relationships, thank you. No heart to heart online chats. No pictures attached to emails. Online men are non-issues for me. We can chat. We can email. We can be "friends." But you're never going to fuck me.
Sometimes I feel like quitting. I feel like quitting because I don't want you to know what I'm feeling anymore, or what I'm thinking. I don't want you to see what I see. I don't want you to read what I write. I don't want you go click on my page or send me an email or try to be friendly with me. Sometimes I wish that I never got to know you, or anyone out there for that matter. Sometimes I think it's best to just put it up and let it go and ignore them all, especially you.
Whenever they went to dinner he never seemed to have enough money on him. He always needed half of the bill or tip money or , sometimes, all of the bill. When she offered to pay up front, he ordered the most expensive meal on the menu, several drinks, and an appetizer or two. When he was paying the bill, there were no drinks, no appetizers, and usually some kind of chicken entrée, which is always the cheapest. She listened to his crying about money and child support and attorney's fees and she felt sorry for him. And she paid.
I feel like quitting. I feel like packing it up and moving it out and saying goodbye. I feel like changing my name and shutting it down and not leaving a forwarding address. You won't be able to find me. And neither will you. And you won't be able to reach me. And you, especially you. I don't want you to find me at all. No more words. No more stories. No more conversations. One day you'll look up and I won't be there anymore and you'll care for about two minutes and then that will be that. The End.
Guess what. I really don't like you. I haven't liked you for awhile now but I thought it would pass. But it hasn't passed. And I don't think it's going to pass. And I don't want it to pass. I. Don't. Like.You. I hate your attitude. I hate your overinflated sense of self. I hate your hair, your teeth, your breath. I hate your sense of humor. I hate your utter lack of tact and respect for anyone else. I hate how mean you are. And I especially hate how you don't notice that I hate you. You really suck.
Everyone nowadays has a sob story. I was on the streets. I grew up without a mother. I grew up without a father. I grew up without a right ear. My sob story entitles me to a lot of attention, many free gifts, and money. Yes, I deserve money for my hardship. I deserve record contracts and movie roles and appearances on the Tonight Show because I've had it rough. No one else has had it as rough as I've had it. Don't you understand that? Obviously you can't understand that because you've had it easy compared to me. Waaaaah.
Living one's life online is tricky business. How much do you tell? What do you leave out? Where do you draw the line between "interesting" and "too much information." I've learned how to draw my lines the hard way. If I'm dating you, don't worry. I won't be talking about you in anything other than the vaguest of terms. If you're my child, your face won't be plastered all over the Internet for all to see. You won't hear stories about clogged milk ducts or vaginal mucous. You won't know what sexual position I tried last night. Privacy. Privacy. Privacy.
My boss saw my Italian charm bracelet on my wrist today and said "Oh you have one of those. Those are nice. Do you have a charm that represents me?" Ok, first off, that was just a weird question. But my response was even stranger. I was so busy and so out of it that I looked down at the first charm that I happened to see, which was the "sexy" charm and I blurted out, "Sexy!" Could I be more embarrassed? No, not possible. Thank God we have a good relationship or else I would have been crying. Shit.
The Tip Jar