Ch 5

WARNING: these posts were written some time ago.  We all go through these Debbie Downer phases and this is one of them.  Be not alarmed by the depth of this post.

I'm making my queen-size bed for the um-teenth time since I could make my bed. I watch as the sheets fall across the white canvas. It's a lonely art. An art that only I will appreciate by myself. It hits me out of nowhere that this might, in fact, be my future: making my bed for myself, and myself only. I want to be secure and happy and sure of myself. I want to be one of those amazing, self-assured women. But I'm not. I feel alone and I hate all the times I've been told by my married friends “Oh I'd love to live alone!” or “Oh how I wish I had my own apartment!” They will never understand the lonely, cold, silent nights.

This is not the night for more than one drink and a chick-flick. That would spell disaster. However, I'm already on that path. I woke up in the middle of the night again last night. I eyed those mysterious pills tucked away on my dresser and I considered taking one so I can sleep for a night. They're just muscle relaxers. I just want to sleep. I wish I could start over. Would I go back to 22 or would I just go back to mid-February?

I doubt my every ability – I don't think I'm attractive enough, I don't think I have enough of a “wow factor” to keep someone intrigued, I worry that I sleep with people too soon, I don't express myself enough, and I don't shine the way I want to. Like how I shine with close family and friends. Instead I freeze, I stammer, I don't say what I'm thinking. I am my own worse enemy. I will not get what I want most out of this world and it's all my own fault.

I am loved. I have wonderful friends and family. But I don't know if I can keep the one I love. I only have what I've been given and I don't know that it's enough for anyone.

Chapter IV

After being dumped for the 2^nd time in six months, I've started to believe that there is, in fact, something wrong with me. Friends and family are supportive and they swear that there's nothing wrong with me. But, really – twice in 6 months? If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.

I've tried to pull back and look at myself from another person's point of view. Am I too short? Too fat? Too ready to commit? Too light in conversation? Too dramatic? Not dramatic enough? After all of this pointless self-analysis (even tried a counselor), I've determined that I have one of those diseases where I can't see what's wrong with me. Everyone else can but they won't say it. Like that genetic disease where someone can fully see and feel half of their body or their face, but not the other half. So you end up shaving one half of your beard or only doing the make-up on your right-side of your face. I'm pretty sure that's what is going on. No one will tell me though. They're much too kind. Hell, I could have an extra appendage dangling from the middle of my face or chest and they could truly believe that I'll still meet someone who will be amazing and kind and overlook that fact. Not that I am complaining about such a supportive network of family and friends!

This time I was dumped in person. At a party. At the end of a party that I was hosting. It was a double birthday bash for the roommates. Granted, I had been drinking champagne and beer for a good portion of the day. Then I had the brilliant idea that me and 3 friends should split 2 muscle relaxers. Bad idea. When it came time for the guy to break the news, I tried to focus but he was swimming in front of me. I told him to wait, thinking I'd rally and head back for a real conversation, and I ran to my bathroom to puke. And puke again. And again. And dry heave. I was in there for about an hour before my friend sent him home. In a sick way, I'm glad he witnessed my puking. It served him right. Who dumps someone at a party when they're wearing glitter eye-liner? Doesn't anyone have any sense of decency anymore??

I get that people don't work out. Not everyone has to like me – I get that. But why pretend so fiercely in the beginning that this is IT. “IT” being the thing I've been waiting for. This guy wanted to break down my “barriers” and talked about the future and my having his last name and whether or not I wanted kids...And then out of the blue, he stops pursuing... No more voicemails, no more emails, just the occasional text message spaced out so long from the time you sent the first one that you're convinced that he won't reply at all. And when he does reply, you think “Oh, I'm just over-analyzing!” or “Jeez, I must be emotional or something!” I need to trust my gut feelings more. I wasn't important enough to respond to. I wasn't important enough to break up with until he feels absolutely pushed into it during a social gathering.

As I ventured out one evening, I realized that this would be the first night I would have to see the ex. Is he really an 'ex' after 2 months (one of which wasn't really dating; rather, it was a month of him avoiding me)? Either way, I was nervous. I tried not to be. I had a beer when I got to the destination. I took a swig off of the bottle of cheap whiskey that was passed around, reaffirming that it is, in fact, as horrible as I remembered. It didn't warm my soul or bring me sweet relief; instead I felt ill. Fear bolted through me. What if I puke? This guy is gonna think all I do is puke now! When he thinks of me, all he'll picture is my backside, huddled over a porcelain toilet!

I managed to avoid him. He showed up and I acted extremely interested in a conversation that I quickly began with someone next to me, turning my head so I wouldn't have to look at him.

*If this were some sort of annoying myspace page, I'd somehow cue up The Dead Milkmen's “Tiny Town” here*

I curse this tiny town sometimes. In a span of 3 nights, I managed to sit next to 3 different guys I'd made out with in the past. The first night occurred at at a local Mexican food restaurant while celebrating Cinco de Mayo with friends and my brother. I noticed the guy in the next booth over and I recognized him from the dorms. 14 years ago, I'd made out with this guy. I remembered his name, where he was from, that he played the trumpet, and that he was cute. He was still cute. I left without saying anything to him.

The next night, I sat down at my favorite bar to wait for friends and noticed the guy I'd made out with in December sitting next to me. He was clearly on a date. Awkward... This awkwardness was compounded by the fact that my friends never showed up – at least, not during the hour and 30 minutes I waited and chatted off and on with the bar tender. And the adjacent date continued. I got to sit there and watch and listen to this giggly, excited little exchange with twinges of jealousy. Not over this particular guy – he's too young and not looking for what I'm looking for. But a twinge of jealousy over the fact that I wasn't date-worthy in his eyes. This was one of those guys who texted me from a bar and I ended up meeting him for a drink and some making out. After 2 or 3 make-out sessions, he never called again.

To top it off, the third day I sat next to someone else I'd made out with 2 years ago on New Years' Eve as I was grabbing some food at a local sandwich shop. He's actually a friend so he almost doesn't count in this set of examples...unless you're actually counting like I was during this small time frame. So I'm either a whore-of-the-mouth (keep it clean people – kissing only) or this town is too god- damned small. As a matter of self-preservation, I'm going with the latter.

I suppose this is a somewhat hypocritical chapter since I started off moaning about how something must be wrong with me, yet I'm ending it while noting all of the “action” I've managed to get in this town. But that's all that's out there: a meaningless sea of action. If you've seen the show “Californication,” you get an idea of what's out there. Hook-ups, texting, messaging, and alcohol are the staples of today's dating life. Communication is a thing of the past. Now you just stop texting or calling. Unless you have a group of mutual friends – then you HAVE to break it off officially due to social pressure and the overriding belief that it's the right thing to do when one is in a relationship. But that brings about a whole new topic: what defines a relationship today? A certain number of dates? A title? Perhaps one of you thinks it's a relationship while the other person thinks it's casual. Hell if I know. I'm still waiting for that special text message.

Chapter 3

I had a dog for 5 months. I wanted to try something new. I actually went to the shelter to get a kitten. I'm not a dog person. But my roommate convinced me to at least look at the dogs. And there he was. He picked me. He locked eyes with me and dogs don't usually do that with me. There's usually an unspoken/unbarked policy – don't mess with me and I won't mess with you. We visit in peace. This was different though. This dog was sweet, fun, playful, smart. A fairly good-sized dog. He was a Belgian Malinois mix – the type of dog bred for police work. The ones you see on videos where they run full speed, jump, and clamp their jaws onto the arm of some poor schmuck in a fat-suit, pretending to be a robber or rapist. The entire time the dog is attacking, its tail is happily and voraciously wagging back and forth. He was the kind of dog I could take on walks and no one would mess with me. I had such big dreams for me and this dog. The shelter had found him somewhere up in Paso I think and they suspected he was somewhere between 3 and 4 years of age. They had dubbed him “Hudson” but I didn't really like that name so I changed it to “Jackson” figuring it was similar enough. Although that never felt quite right. A part of me believed that a single girl with a dog named “Jackson” should be driving a Subaru and camping outside, forgoing showers and working on a wicked set of dreadlocks.

Jackson was a great excuse to ditch the holiday events when things got to be a bit much. Give me a break, after all it was my first Christmas, birthday, New Years, and Valentine's Day as a single person in 8 years. Not exactly where I'd pictured I'd be at the ripe age of 30/31. So Jackson provided an excellent "out." I'd excuse myself from events, promising to return as soon as I let him out of the house to relieve himself or as soon as I took him for a walk. On Valentine's Day, I bailed on the downtown scene to go home and frost hideously bright pink heart-shaped cookies that I'd made for the roommates and neighbors. Just me and the dog and some loud music. We had a really good time and there was no need to pretend I was having a good time amidst all the happy couples. I was able to frost freely while listening to whatever music I liked (I don't recall exactly but I doubt I was rocking out to love songs) and drink a couple of glasses of wine.

Unfortunately, I no longer have Jackson as an excuse to bail on such festivities. He had a bit of a biting problem. I tried training classes, treats, kennels, positive reinforcement, and even, sadly enough, a shock collar. He kept biting visitors. Mostly when they'd get too close to me. And eventually, if they got too close to my roommates. He was a good dog – our household was just too busy for him. He bit my Mom, my Dad, my roommate's dad, dates, friends.... He was ensuring me a long life alone.

I truly started to get paranoid. Here I was, putting myself out there yet again, only to adopt this creature that was supposed to provide unconditional love. I mean, they make movies about this shit – have you seen A Boy and His Dog? A true classic, one of Don Johnson's earlier movies (1975).

Side note – a worthwhile “cult classic” in my opinion. A post-apocalyptic science fiction film involving a telepathic dog, an underground society, and harvesting sperm from men. In a nutshell, it's pretty entertaining and the ending makes it all worthwhile.

Instead of a life-time companion, I got a psychotic biting beast who, in addition to the biting antics, had horrific, nose-hair curling gas no matter what food I gave him. Another failed relationship with a male. Although, this time it was a dog. But still, I couldn't help but wonder: was this a sign that I am destined to wander this earth alone??

Chapter Dos

After being single for over a year now, I'm starting to think that two dates is the new 'long term' relationship. This stems from the uninformed decision to try the online thing. I gave it a go. I tried the ones the require you to answer 100s of questions, only to be paired up with guys half-way across the continental U.S. Yeah, guilty as charged; I signed up and even paid to have some people, supposedly with degrees in psychology, pair me up with The One. I did get a fun pen-pal out of the deal. If I ever go to Florida, maybe we'll hook up. Which, apparently, is all people want today anyhow. Or they realize, mid-way through communications that they, in fact, are not ready to date. I don't know how it suddenly dawns on them that they've only been divorced for a few months, so it may be a little soon to jump into something else... I'm glad that someone like myself – someone who is seriously doing research to find a life partner - could bring this self-awareness to that person. But why did he post a profile in the first place?

I tried another popular site - one that my friends swore by. They had luck, their friends had luck, everyone had luck! Surely this would be my ticket! I had several 50+-year-olds 'wink' at me. A wink. What the fuck is that? You can't even man-up enough to hit the other button - you know, the one that says 'message' - and actually write a sentence or, god-forbid, an entire paragraph to introduce yourself? Wink, wink... It's creepy. Would you respond to some dude who winks at you in a bar? Or some guy leering at you as he's leaning against a building and you walk by? Don't get me wrong – I'm not a super-powered feminist. I enjoy a good cat-call. It lets me know that I'm doing something right. All of those sweaty work-outs and avoiding fast-food hasn't been in vain. But if you really want me to acknowledge you, why would you simply wink? Man up. Say something. I know, I know. I, too, miss the good ol' days when a guy would just club a gal over the head and drag her off to his den. If only it were that easy.

At the time, I specified that I was not looking to have children. One guy attempted to win me over by stating that his daughter was 18 and basically out of the house. Now, I'm not exactly 'young' but that just creeped me out. I'm sure if I knew the guy, it'd be different. Maybe. But still. I'm picturing someone my father's age and I get the heebee jeebeez. I cancelled my membership.

But I did not give up. I decided to try a few free websites. One free website lead to quite a few dates. I was impressed! I found myself booked both weekends and weekdays. I left one date to go to another. This must be where they were all hiding!

Well, talk about being dropped into ice-cold water. I know guys are more visual - women are more mentally-stimulated. So it's inevitable that the guy, before asking you out on an actual date, will want additional photos. The guys ask for 'more recent' photos or just more photos in general. You know what they're getting at. Have you gained weight since that flattering photo you posted, are you now missing a limb, do you have 4 kids that you're not disclosing... Well it goes both ways. One guy I met had gained quite a bit of weight and I was certain his photos were more than a year old. Another guy was much thinner than his photos revealed. I actually thought he was a tweaker when we met because of the thinness accompanied by the fact that he was super fidgety. He calmed down after a couple of beers and was comfortable enough to show me a photo of his dog. He just happened to have it with him. Rather it was on him - tattooed on his forearm. It was a pitbull. And, in all honestly, it was a well-done tattoo. But I also over-looked the fact that he was a smoker. And not just a smoker, but a chain-smoker. Something I don't think I can over look. Unfortunately. Well, that and his desire to drive his vehicle all over our complex dune system. Rather, it would be a dune-system if people weren't driving all over it. Now it's a denuded group of hills that kick up sand every time there's more than a whisper of wind. I have few morals but one of them includes respecting our environment, even if it means my “hobbies” are restricted to reading and staring at my walls on Friday nights.

I've found that many lie about their height. Since when is 6'0 so close to my height (5'5) that I am eye-to-eye with the guy? Then there was the time that I went on one date that felt more like a job interview. Don't get me wrong - it was nice to be asked so many questions. But he was definitely fishing for work-related answers. It was pretty interesting. He followed up with a text that said "YOUR RAD" - I noticed the grammatical error but thought I'd let it slide. I didn't hear from him until a little over a month later when he texted me out of the blue to see what I was doing. Low score - no follow through.

I admit, I limited my searches by age. I had dated men in their late thirties and found that, if they weren't married and/or hadn't yet been married, there was a reason. Sure, this wasn't backed up by a large number of men and/or relationships. But I was sticking with this rule of thumb, even if it applied only to MY thumb.

But then, as I was emailing one guy, I saw the photo of 'XX guy.' He was cute. He was very cute. I thought, maybe I'd let my rules slide...a girl can be wrong, after all. Again, I didn't have enough experience or a large enough population to constitute a true 'n' so my hypothesis could not be statistically verified. I HAD to date this guy. This was for a higher calling; this was for science. Or statistics. Whatever.

So I dated the guy for a few weeks. And it turns out, my hypothesis is now VERY valid. He wasn't an alcoholic and he wasn't addicted to himself. I mean, sure - he was pretty into himself but not totally clueless as to how to treat a woman... However, this guy had another addiction: porn.

When a guy says 'yeah, I've just never found that special someone that I felt like I could settle down with...' RUN FOR THE HILLS!! What this translates into is 'I'm into freaky shit and I haven't found anyone who'll put up with it.' Rule #1: if you have a somewhat to very abnormal fantasy, do not reveal it during your first few dates. This guy wanted to call me his little girl. Um...no. And it's always when you're in the middle of nowhere when this type of stuff gets revealed. What do you do when you're driving in the middle of windy roads and he states that he's into that type of fantasy. And/or clinically depressed and on fulltime meds. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But maybe you want to hold onto those cards until you figure out if you two are going somewhere beyond a fun weekend. Maybe it's just me...

Rule #2: make sure you're on the same page before throwing bodily fluids around. It is not okay to haul off and spit on your partner, mid-copulation, without any warning. Titty-fucking is only cool in pornographic films. Those big-breasted porn stars might lead you to believe that women enjoy a good titty-fucking but think about it: what can we possibly get out of that? It doesn't feel good and the whole time we're worrying that you'll shoot your load in our hair or worse yet, into our eyes. I can't help but think of The Christmas Story and that famous line: “You'll shoot your eye out.” Jizz doesn't belong anywhere near one's ocular cavities. If you're in a longterm relationship and you want to shake things up – sure. It beats sodomy. But if you're simply getting to know someone and your not even a month into it? Not appropriate.

Let me now discuss why I'm writing this. I don't assume that you, the reader, really cares about this stuff. I don't assume that you can relate. Wait - are you in your 30s, single, and wondering what the hell is wrong with you? Then maybe you CAN relate. Are all of your friends married +/- kids? Oh - that brings up a whole other topic: kids. While I was trying the online dating scene, I didn't have any real drive to have children. And I thought this wouldn't be a big deal but I'm finding that only the freaky, unstable guys don't want kids. The kind, sweet, stable guys want to procreate. That made the search for The One difficult to say the least.

So while the majority of my friends are changing poopy diapers and worrying about how to feed a family of four on 1.5 salaries, I often feel like I get flack for doing whatever it is I do. Sure - sometimes I pop a top and hang out, watching really stupid television. Sure, I've been known to go on a bike ride on a Sunday - just to go on a bike ride, no destination in mind. Sure, I might get bored and get another piercing or tattoo. Okay, that last one's a joke. Sort of. But when your friends look at you like 'oh, wouldn't THAT be nice!'- that's when I just want to scream "YOU DON'T GET IT!!!" They have that special someone to share their day with. Their life with. They don't have to sleep alone at night. They don't have to stare into the mirror every morning, worrying that any new wrinkle, any minor break-out -- each of which could very well determine how you will spend the rest of your life: alone or with The One. Because you can't afford to have one of those days where you look like shit. You're in your thirties. You don't have time to waste. Remember that game Old Maid? Funny, right? Not when it's actually something that pertains to you. You try to hold your head up high and think positive thoughts as the friends around you are blissfully in relationships. Granted, this is a pretty one-sided view but it's my story so I'm telling it as I see it.  No relationship is perfect and I understand that.  I'm just afraid that it's getting to the point where I really do have to accept that finding "that special someone" is a luxury.  Not a necessity.  

chapter one

We are on the cusp of yet another holiday weekend as the years fly by, and I've decided to finally write about my dating life. It's been a source of entertainment for many groups at this point so why not share it with the rest of the world? You lucky people, you.

I'm currently watching a cheesy romantic comedy. It's terrible. Terrible acting, terrible lines, even terrible lighting. And, of course, it features some love-struck man who is totally adorable and romantic and says the darndest, cutest things. Maybe this is why we ladies have it so tough. What are we supposed to expect when this is what we're spoon-fed, each and every time?

Or each and every time you make the poor decision to watch a stupid, romantic comedy? I mean, no one twisted your arm and said “rent this Stupid Romantic Comedy or ELSE,” right? And who the fuck wrote this shit? I would suspect these movies are primarily thought of by women. But why would you do that to your own kind? Maybe it's some delusional, self-depricating female. Someone who's primary mantra is “Misery loves company.” I just want to know who the fuck comes up with these picture-perfect plots that always end just the way you'd hoped: tied up like a shiny, exciting present. And why? Why would this crazed writer portray a story like this? To keep our hopes alive? Maybe it's some sort of preventative solution to teen suicide. I don't know. All I know is, right now, I'm cursing the writer of this adorable plot and I'm only slightly embarrassed that I”m laughing out loud with a shit-eating grin on my face.

Back on track. What are we supposed to expect when this is what we're spoon-fed (with regards to relationships), each and every time? Instead we end up settling. We tell ourselves 'oh, I'm sure that was a mistake. A once in a lifetime mistake. He probably doesn't drink excessively...often. He didn't MEAN to pee on me in the middle of the night...' or 'it's okay, I like my alone time - ALL of the time' and 'oh no, honey; you stay home and surf while I go to my family reunion alone. It won't be weird when all of the relatives repeatedly ask where you are and how many years has it been since we started dating...' And, drum roll please - 'It's okay, I'll go to the funeral alone while you stay here and get smashingly drunk and pass out by 9 a.m. because it's Saint Patrick's Day - mind you, you're not even Irish...'

I suppose I ought to start off with a little about my of my relationship background. I was always obsessed with boys. I had boyfriends in preschool and elementary school. Only, back then you didn't call them that. Our innocent vocabularies were not yet tainted with such terminology. It was the beginning of forming relationships even if it only involved sharing marbles, playing He-Man on the playground, or chasing each other at recess. I always had a love interest. I think I was born with the hormones of a 17-year-old boy. At one point, I had a gaggle of guys who followed me around the playground. Those were the days. I peaked in 2nd grade.

Then hormones developed and bodies changed and the opposite sex became an intriguing mystery. I convinced myself that I was in love in 7th grade. Sure, we only held hands twice but THAT was it. That was the good stuff. I was planning the rest of my life with that guy. I don't think we really even talked much, if at all.

I was always the one who wanted more. I wanted to hold hands all the time and eagerly awaited my first kiss. I'd fantasize that it'd happen somewhere in the hallways of school. Somehow, it'd be just he and I and it'd be oh-so romantic. Well, he and I lasted through the summer - I'm not sure how, we didn't talk at all that I can remember. So the majority of that relationship was in my head. In my mind, we were happy and we were going to have a wonderful life together. I don't recall how we broke-up.

But the take-home point from this pathetic, fuzzy first relationship (aside from my gaggle in grade school) is this: how much of my relationships are just in my head? I know, I know. I sound like Sarah Jessica Parker from Sex In The City. But really; how much of it is reality and how much of it is just me, moving forward, assuming that the other person is on-board/on the same page? The easy answer is, of course, communication. The paralyzing fear comes when you attempt to communicate and ask where that other person is at. Say it's been two years and you're ready to move in with the guy. Two days prior, you had the most amazing anniversary dinner. You think, "Surely he's ready to take it to the next level!" You take that step and you decide to wrangle the beast we call “communication.” The phone conversation abruptly ends when he states that he not only doesn't want to live with you but he's not the marrying type.

End scene.

Two years down the drain, wasted on someone who was playing a game the whole time. Maybe some guys just like to have someone to parade around during parties and in public. Someone to show off, someone to make them feel important. I'm no psychologist. I'm just hypothesizing.

People change their minds and it's usually for the best. But still. It's understandable that some people may have a paralyzing fear when they think about said beast, aka: "communication."

And why have I always been so eager to enter into a relationship? I was already planning a life with the 7th grade boyfriend. Happily ever after in suburbia with 2 or 3 kids, driving a minivan or SUV to church and sporting events and PTA and cub scouts... Was this because that's how I was raised? Was this my mother's generation, spilling over into mine, seeping into my young, not-fully-formed brain and taking over like some rapidly spreading cancer?

There are no monogamous animals. None. It's NOT NATURAL. Even the species researchers once thought were monogamous have proven not to be so. It's smart, it's biological - it's natural. You're supposed to 'shop around' or see what's out there because there could be something bigger and better. The male bird who builds a more elaborate nest gets the female. That's when human female ditches Bob, who's been her life-long partner for 15 years, for younger, more toned Jared. It's even been discovered that the sperm of different males battle one another inside of the female (in other animals anyhow; I don't think they've studied this in people). It's all for the sake of fitness and survival.

My point is simply that monogamy isn't something that's natural. It's difficult. I'm all for it, I just want to point out that it ain't easy. We have more choices, more jobs, more places to live, ... how can you sit around and hang out with the same person with all those options out there? What if you develop an obsession for video games and your significant other can't tolerate them? What if your S.O. wants to go back to school - in another state - but your family is in your current state or town? Roles aren't as defined as they used to be. Women have more responsibilities, yet they're still often expected to maintain the role of a 50s housewife: work all day, clean the house, and make dinner. I see it happening and I'm speaking from personal experience.

I also realize that my inability to find a life partner is partially my fault for not speaking up and letting that guy know that he, too, could do the dishes and the grocery shopping from time to time. And let's face it - people are lazy. If you continually spoon-feed someone, they'll continually let you. "No, no - that's okay, let me take care of (insert chore)." And "No I don't need any help, stay here and read your magazine which is clearly more important than (insert chore or activity that you could be doing together)."

Understandably, I'm a little extreme but that's again due to my own experience. I used to attend parties, family reunions, and weddings 'stag,' even though I went to each and every event he wanted to go to. I'm not someone who needs a guy to go to every event with me. But it'd be nice to have people realize you're actually dating someone...5 years into the relationship.

But onward and upward. We learn from every experience. And this is just the beginning of these blogs. I'll report back as time allows. For now, feel free to judge me as I'm slogging back the rest of my wine, home alone in my one-bedroom apartment. But know this: I'm a single, strong, female who will not be settling. I'll find my Mr. Right one of these days. Until then, enjoy my dating saga as it continues to be published, one blog at a time.