On Dating and Assholes and Aesthetics

So it's not gonna work out with the New Guy. Turns out, he's kind of an asshole.

We went out Tuesday night. And honestly? While I'd love to rehash every single moment, both good and horrifying, my conscience is telling me not to. I've already done that with my close friends anyway. Also? It's too surreal for words. The act of writing them just makes me cringe.

Dating? Sucks. Sucks hard. For those of you who haven't been single in a long time, let me remind you of the suckiness. The wading through potential partners, simultaneously wanting to be loved and also figuring our what you hate. Wanting to give someone a chance but also cautious because assholes abound. It sucks.

And it sucks more at 30. Every year in the dating world gets worse and worse as I get more and more exhausted, as my heart gets bruised more and more, as I meet asshole after asshole disguised as nice guys.

You guys ask why the nice guy never gets the girl? I'll tell you why: it's impossible sometimes to tell the difference. Not that all my exes are assholes. Some of them were nice guys, but just didn't love me. But the first dates get so endlessly exhausting. Weeding through the masses. Every douchewad making it harder and harder to put yourself out there again. But you do because every time you see a happy couple or you see a sweet baby being cuddled, you ache in your soul.

And as you get older, you recognize signs earlier. Red flags appear sooner. Things that didn't bother you at 21 fester in your gut and tell you to get out of there.

So it's in this position I found myself last night with a guy who I'd thought, I'd hoped at any rate, was a nice guy, kind, and most importantly, not shallow.

What can I say? It went well until it didn't. Until he felt the need to express his real needs.

I can't even recount what happened. I simply cannot do it. But as I found myself insulted on bases of aesthetics, I thought, Seriously? I am 30 fucking years old! I am too old for this shit. Shouldn't a good guy not give a shit about that? Shouldn't I not have to deal with this by now?

I guess not. Would it be too much to ask for a guy who doesn't tell me I'm gorgeous, but could you change this one little thing? And on a first date no less. The gall of it pisses me off every time I think about it.  The stupidity of something so superficial being so crucial. He looked at me like he didn't want it to be the deal breaker...if I would just give in and change it. Then everything would be fine. It wasn't a big deal, right? If I would just give in.

Look, I'm sorry I'm being so cryptic, but it's the best I can do. Just know it was something aesthetic and superficial and something that maybe a lot of women wouldn't care about but insulted me deeply.

But at 30, I know who the hell I am. I'm cool with it. I like myself as-is. I know what primping I'm willing to do and I know what's not worth my damn time. And no one gets to tell me what to change. No one.

I'm not a 21 year old girl. I'm a 30 year old woman. I come with a belly. A few wrinkles. My boobs are small. I have a great ass. Some cellulite. And hair, which an adult woman should have and which is a bitch to remove and I don't mind having.

I wear a small amount of makeup most days to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. But that's about it. I generally don't spend that much time on my hair, unless it's a special occasion. Same with the makeup.

I like me. Aesthetic me and the brilliant, outspoken, quirky dork I am. The latter I consider so much more important. The aesthetic is nothing, so unimportant. So inconsequential. Not only is physical perfection boring, it scares me in its masochism. The amount of dedication and primping necessary to achieve the desirable body, face, hair, etc is astounding. It makes me sick to think about it.

So I suppose I'm grateful that I discovered the shallow nature of this guy so soon. But it still sucked.

Why? Because I was excited. Because I put myself out there once again and was disappointed yet again. 

Is it too much to ask for a guy that feels that way too? For a guy who's smart, traveled, educated, liberal, kind, and who appreciates women as they are and not as some paradigm he expects them to live up to.

Oh and he must love Star Wars. And me. All of me. As-is.

Before you all call me a hypocrite and tell me that women demand that kind of aesthetic value too, let me just say that while many men feel the pressure to be fit and attractive, the amount of grooming expected of women is much more intense.

Also, I don't expect that of men. I mean, I expect cleanliness, brushing of teeth, etc. That's just gross not to. I know; I lived in France.

However, the things that most attract me to others are the imperfections, the quirks, the idiosyncrasies, the differences that make someone unique and intriguing. I am me and I am changeable and special. I wouldn't expect anything different in a partner.

So I leave you there to think about that. Maybe one of you will send such a guy to Portland.

Now listen to this song by India Arie, sent to me by my lovely friend LegallyErin last night to make me feel better. This is exactly how I feel.

sick. again.

Can you believe it, Internet? I am sick again. Sick. Again! I don't even want to think about how little time it's been since the last time I was sick. You must think I'm either some sickly type or a first rate hypochondriac. I assure you I am neither. Though lately, it's hard to be sure.

So, that bug I picked up in New Orleans. Shouldn't have carried it on. I should have packed that bitch in my checked luggage, because I am positive that 3 or so hours on a plane is enough to incubate a bitch foreign bug into death itself. Pee Ess, took me like 5 minutes to spell positive correctly. And I'm not that medicated. My head is just fuzz to the zee, yo.

Anyways, even though I spent just about the entire weekend in bed, reading and catching up on my Hulu (Oh Hulu, how I love you. Where have you been all my life? Why anyone pays for television anymore when there is this magic place called Hulu is beyond me.), I still woke up today hacking up my left lung. I tried to purchase a new one on Facebook Marketplace, but no dice. Shoulda tried EBay.

I worked half a day today (I do still have work to do, peeps!) and drove my now skinny ass (I'll get to that in a sec) to the urgent care. Turns out I have bronchitis. Lovely. And it's viral so antibiotics won't do this lady lady one damn bit of good. Joy. I just have to wait this one out. Did I mention I have a lot to do? And have to work next weekend? There could not be a worse time to be sick. Well, when it comes to my life, there's just no good time to be sick, but whatevs. I'm being dramatic. Go with it.

And truth be told, I'd rather tough it out than go on antibiotics anyway. Because, when I was little, my mom scooted me to the doc for every tiny thing and had them pump me full of antibiotics, I'm wary of drugging up as a first resort. I'm convinced that's why my immune system was shit as an adolescent and I've spent the last ten years eating (mostly) well and taking vitamins and only taking antibiotics when necessary. My M.O. is to wait things out and if I don't get better on my own, I med it up. But that's what I've been doing since last Tuesday. So you can imagine how frustrating it is that I may have another week or so of this ahead of me.

Now, don't think I'd forget to tell you about my skinny ass, Internet. Not that this applies to my ass itself, necessarily, and more so to my weight overall. I hate being weighed at the doctor. Hate it. Mostly because I don't believe in using scales. I'm a big believer in using my jeans as a measure, or how I feel in my skin. Besides it's all about health, not a number. And muscle weighs more than fat, so when I'm more active, I weigh a little more. Plus, as I mentioned, I like my ass on the rounder side, yo.

You may remember all that food I ate in Nawlins. I ate more than a human should eat. Really, but life is about enjoying the moment and the opportunity for quality Cajun food only comes so often. So I ate. I ATE. I even took my fat jeans so I could eat in comfort. Eating is just that important to me.

But what do you think happened at the doctor today? Remember that I was sick like a month ago and was weighed then? So I do have a recent basis of comparison, despite not owning a home scale. Get this: I weigh less today than I did before I left for New Orleans. Less. LESS.

I'm not sure how to feel about that. I realize that I was working on houses and walking around the city. But still. Did I mention how much I ate? Should I be elated that I can apparently eat the average body weight of a Clydesdale in food and metabolize that shit like gangbusters with just a week of painting and caulking? Should I be bummed? I did just write a manifesto to my ass. How does Buttina feel about all this?

Either way? My ass has entered a twilight zone vortex of some kind. Or maybe this guerilla New Orleans virus also causes weight loss. If that's the case, Buttina should be scared as hell. I know I am.

On a literary note, I am thinking of adding book reviews to this blog. After all, I was a literature student, so it seems only natural. What do you think? Would you like to read reviews of books as I read them?

fat ass

Apparently there are certain things you're not supposed to discuss as a women. As a blogger. As a human in western civilization. Apparently, you're only allowed to discuss these certain things in the abstract, but if you get too specific, it's offensive. ooooh, offensive.

Apparently, I'm not supposed to talk about fat. Particularly the size of my ass. I'm not allowed to say I have a fat ass, even if I mean it in the most loving way (more on that later). And because this subject is so taboo, I assume that if I were saying how fabulously tiny my ass is, how skinny, how I'm proud of the lack of definition (which would never happen, unless I had ass removal surgery), I'd also offend. Because we're not allowed to discuss our asses at all. But this isn't about skinny asses.

It's about fat.

We're supposed to want to lose weight, but also to be happy with our fat. We're supposed to be constantly exercising, but we're not supposed to talk about it. And we're supposed to eat, but not too much. Not actually enjoy it.

Well, I'd like to set the record straight. I love my ass. I do. So much so that I think I should name her. What should it be? How about...Buttina? It's cheesy, I realize, but it's smacks of ardor. I love Buttina so much that I want to talk about her. Okay? I'm going to talk about my ass. And her fat. You see, Buttina is like a little sister. No one is allowed to make fun of her butt me. But because she's my ass (and not yours), I get to make fun of her all I want. I earned that. And the jesting is in love. It is. I love Buttina. Buttina is kind of fat and I love her.

Now, for the first 20 years or so of my life, I didn't love Buttina. She was flat. And skinny. And didn't hold my pants up. And this was the eighties and nineties. Cindy Crawford was the epitome of beauty, so flat asses were not desirable, yo. Not at all. I didn't like being that skinny and I certainly didn't like that Buttina made me feel more like a ten year old boy than the woman I desperately wanted to be.

Over the last 10 years, Buttina has come her own, ass it were. And most days, I love that. She got pretty small when I lived in Europe (all those damn French stairs), but with burritos and beer, I got her back in shape in no time.

And do you see? I get to say things like that. Because it's my ass and I'm okay with that. Because most days, I like that I have a bigger ass. I like my fat. And I like to enjoy food. And eat too much on vacation. That's okay. I'd rather enjoy life than worry every second about my jeans size. Which, to be fair, I sometimes do.

There are days when Aunt Flo is about to call and I don't fit into any of my jeans and all I want is a huge burger and an injection of chocolate. Those days I don't feel so attractive. But I know how to cope with that. I put on sweats, watch Grey's Anatomy, eat a huge burger, and inject chocolate. Duh.

I also don't love it when I gain weight in my waistline. Couldn't all the fat go to my ass and boobs (more to my boobs, please? PLEASE?) and leave my waist alone? Nope? Dammit. And I guess I don't want to die of a heart attack so I try to eat right most of the time and get in exercise regularly. But it's less about looking like a starving preteen (which I looked like as a preteen and teen despite the  ungodly amounts of food I ingested) and more about finding balance.

Balance. That is one of my favorite words. Why can't I both love food and want to be healthy? Why can't I think my ass is kind of fat and still feel attractive? Why can't I say fat ass without offending? Fat is only a bad word if we let it offend. Instead, I think  my fast ass is kind of endearing. And I'll say it over and over until it loses it's power. Fat ass. Fatass. Fat. Ass. FATASS!

And okay, maybe my ass is smaller than many women's asses out there. That doesn't mean I think all those asses are huge. I'm just talking about my own ass here. You all have to estimate your own asses and decide how you feel. Whether it's a little fat or a lot of fat, it's still your fat and up to you to give it a cheesy name all on your own.

I am happy with my fat ass. Some days she pisses me off (Buttina can be a real smartass), but most days we get along just fine. But if I want to make fun of Buttina, I get to. And it doesn't mean that I have low self esteem. On the contrary. I think we should all celebrate our fat asses. Or skinny asses (if that's what you're sportin'). Or flat asses. Or round asses. And how I celebrate is with a caustic sense of humor, a po'boy, chocolate mousse, and a nice pair of stretchy jeans. You know the kind.

The Sound of Trains

Most people, normal people, sane people (read: people unlike myself) usually hate to live near train tracks. They hate the sound of the train blowing its horn at all hours, the rumble of the tracks. Now, I don't want to live in a shanty next to tracks, so close my whole house, excuse me, shanty shakes every time a train barrels by. I'm not that crazy.

But I love the sound of trains. I think it's because my little cousin lived somewhat near tracks when we were kids and after oh so many nights spent in little girl sleepovers, I not only got used to the sound, but was comforted by it. I loved being at Lindsey's. It was a happy place for me. So the sound of trains takes me right back to that comfort. I now live in a place where I can sometimes hear trains and it's something I hadn't heard in many years. But if I can't sleep or I'm stressed, hearing a train melts all that away. It's crazy.

Just now, I was feeling a little overwhelmed and exhausted. I'm mired in several projects both personal and work-related and feeling a smidge in over my head. Feeling like I'm just one person and good god what I would give for a clone of myself to follow me around and share my load and anticipate my needs. Because that's how good of an assistant I'd be. Hell, I am a kickass assistant. Combine an anal retentive need for organization with this laugh and you have assistant perfection.

Incidentally, I don't think it's a coincidence that the word "ass" is in the word assistant. Take that how you will, but I think being a bit of an ass is a necessary ingredient for a fantastic ASSistant.

Where was I? Oh, right! So I am the best at supporting others, but who the hell will anticipate my needs, handle my organization (as well as I can?)? Who will keep ME sane?

I was in the midst just now of that reel of overwhelmedness (like that word I just made up?) running on a nonstop loop through my brain and I heard a distant train blow its horn. And just like that, it was gone. I didn't feel all crazy over whel med anymore. I don't feel any better about all the things I need to do, but I just wasn't thinking about any of it. It was all gone. In the wind. Just like that. Comme ça.

Like magic. Now, I don't normally talk of the magic of childhood, though I do believe that's a very lovely and real thing. But I mostly don't feel my childhood was very magical. I had a sucky ass hard fucking childhood. But there are some things that stick out palpably from pure childhood happiness: the scent of chlorine in the morning (I spent most of my happy times at a pool), the feel of plastic (like Barbies or Legos or Thunder Cats), the smell of old books and the feel of their worn spines, the taste of vanilla, the touch of newspaper print (from reading the paper with my dad), the sensation of freshly clean sheets straight from the dryer, the feel of a dance studio floor under bare feet, the texture of a horse's muzzle, the sounds of a kitten's tiny mewl, a hundred songs from musicals I performed in or sonatas I danced to or eighties pop stars I emulated, that salty sandy layer that coats your feet at the beach, the smell of pencil shavings and a brand new eraser, or the sound of trains.

unless you got buns, hon

Took my pretty Lola (oh, Lola is my car) into the shop today to get her poor little hangnail fixed. Shouldn't take more than a week, they said, but the hardest part will be matching the paint. Damn me and my fancy paint! Now, it's not like I ordered a fancy custom paint job when I bought this car last year. But when I was shopping, I fell in love with this purply (BTW, do we love that purply was a real word according to spell check? um, yes!) metallic blue. It's a kicky blue that looks purple in the sun and just so totally suits me.

Here is a picture of me avec my new baby Lolo last year when I picked her up at the baby store:

God, I can't believe how big my butt had gotten! I should explain. I've always been fairly thin and I've always been fairly active. About 5 years ago, when I was working in fashion (more on that another time), I gained a little weight due to stress and living on Red Bulls (evil, evil little Red Bulls. fuckers.), but it wasn't much and I dropped it quickly after I quit. But almost 2 years ago, when I started my first ever desk job (and a job with lots of gourmet, free food), I packed it on a bit. Now don't scoff. I realize that in that picture, I am by no means obese, but I was certainly bigger than I'd ever been and I just didn't feel healthy. I didn't feel like me. Plus, dudes, there was a reason I was wearing such a blousy shirt. I was puffy, not blind.

But besides being an active-type gal with my dancing and swimming and general love of the outside, I had never sat at a desk. My first job was in retail and for 7 or so years, I spent my days running around the floor of whatever store I was running. And it got worse the more responsibility I got. But my butt always stayed fairly small. Even when I worked in a TV production company office, the desk work was balanced with running errands, delivery tapes, and fetching a million things during a shoot. Small butt again.

The smallest my butt has been since I was dancing almost full time was when I lived in Europe. My little ass couldn't help it (get it? heh). I was walking everywhere, climbing 6 or 7 flights (don't really remember) up l'escalier du mort (the death stairs) up to my apartment in a 2oo year old building. Seriously, these stairs were like the stairs in Cinderella that the mice have to carry that huge key up. Only this wasn't a cartoon and that huge key was me. AND I still had dance class too. I got tiny. My poor cousin, god love her, thought I was starving myself when she came to visit. But, dude, I couldn't help it. I was eating all right. Pasta. Pastries. Bread. Custard. Gelato. Wine. Cheese. I was in food heaven in Paris. Seriously.

Before you all start stoning me for complaining about thinness. Give me a sec. We are all different and I think that when you're that active and walking everywhere, despite your body type, you're bound to tone up. I just happen to have a thinner type, so I got really thin. I like a little booty though, so when I got home, I didn't worry that I plumped a bit. It was nice. And for almost a year after I got home, I worked in retail again, at night. And I worked as a substitute teacher in the day. Talk about on your feet. In fact, my feet literally fell off. I had to get them sown back on. They just haven't been the same since.

But that damn desk. Now, don't get me wrong, I was (and still am) overjoyed to trade in my nurse shoes (ew) to sit at a desk and make enough money to pay my rent with one job, a job I actually like and am pretty damn good at. More than happy. But my butt just didn't know what to do. It was like a child that had never watched cartoons being introduced to the Cartoon Network. I became totally sedentary. Maybe not totally, but close to. And all that good food at events and meetings just contributed. My butt had gone to the dark side.

Well, that was over a year ago and I have since claimed my ass back for all that is good and holy (BAHAHAHA! like, I know what holy means. HAH!). I still enjoy the free food, just in moderation, and I've found a work-exercise balance. As I've said on here before, I've bounced around dance classes and I also like to jog and do pilates and sometimes yoga. It's a good balanced life and my butt is smaller on some days and bigger on others. Like normal people.

Next Saturday though, Internet, is Halloween, and I am wearing...wait for it....a tube top! I don't want to reveal my costume yet, but here's a hint: I am going as a real live person. A person in 1999. And I am going for authenticity here and that means I have to pull off a tube top. And that means my ass is working out every day this week. Every day. Every. Damn. Day. I am going for cute over frightening so this is crucial. I think it'll be okay. I just need to maintain the healthy eating and keep on exercising. I'll be hot stuff, just you wait and see.

So I realize that I started this post about my car and then drove way off in another direction. Oh well. Too bad. You didn't really want to read a whole post about my car, right? You'd rather read about my ass. See, this is how close we are getting, Internet. I just know how to anticipate your needs. Soon we'll be finishing each other's sentences. And that won't be creepy or pathetic at all.

Oh, also, Internet, I'll be changing the mastheads almost monthly now. But if you want to see the old ones, I'll upload them to my flickr feed which you can always find below.