In other news

Oh my gourd, Internet, it has been two whole weeks since we last talked and so much has happened! I have no idea where to start so I guarantee this post will be disjointed, rambly, and altogether random.

Let's begin!

A few days ago, I almost died. For reals. And it was so scary that I cannot stop telling the story.

I was walking in a crosswalk in downtown Portland, on a green, clearly having of the right of way, when a big SUV barrels around the corner going pretty fast. Clearly they weren't looking and they weren't going to stop either. I had to run to get out of the way and they missed me by maybe a foot. And they just kept going! Never even paused. Probably never even saw me. If I hadn't been paying attention, I'd be roadkill right now.

On the upside, I am loving my new place! Hobbes is happier there and it's so nice to see him sitting all over the furniture and watching out the windows. I know the tension in my old place affected him too. Bitch roomie did try to fuck up my happiness again but it's all settled now. I don't even want to get into it, suffice to say she's leaving me alone for good and I never want to see or think about her again.

There is one major lesson I got to relearn because of all this though: One's happiness is the most important thing. I'm not talking about making sacrifices or doing what needs to be done, etc etc etc. I'm talking about not putting oneself into situations that are not only happiness suckers but unnecessary and I'm talking about setting aside one's attachment to pride and money and all those other things we place before happiness.

I am confident that had I had to go to court over this drama, I could have made a damn good case and I would have won. But did I want this to drag out months and months? No. I know I didn't have to pay any more money but did it make the problem go away? Yes. Sure, I handled it legally and covered my ass, but when it comes right down to it, money is just money. It's not worth as much as my happiness. And my pride? Not worth as much as my happiness. I don't need to prove I was right. I don't need to win anything. What I needed to do was walk away and put the whole thing behind me. Worth it.

So that's over. Hoorah! Let's all drink to that.

And I got my tax return so I have money again! I may have gone a little crazy at the grocery store buying luxury foods I've been denying myself for the sake of my measly budget. Hey, after weeks of baked potatoes (which I do love) and soup, how can a girl resist ice cream and chips and gluten free cookies? I guarantee it will all be gone in a few more minutes. And then I'll have to buy fat clothes.

Oh and I had the weirdest night the other night. So I'm hanging out at my new fave bar with my new friends and ex new guy is there, which was inevitable and which was also awkward awkward awkward as all holy hell. But that was okay for the most part.

But there's this other guy in the group that I am interested in so he and I are talking and flirting and that's all great. Then the roommate of an ex boyfriend walks in and he and I talk a bit and I'm looking around to make sure that ex isn't there too (wasn't, thank the lard), but it's just a bit weird and coincidental at this point.

THEN, this other guy walks in, a guy I went on a date with forever ago and it was NOT a good date. Like probably on the list of worst dates list ever in the world. But it doesn't end there. Turns out Bad Date is friends with my new friends. But wait. There's more. He comes over to me, sticks out his hand, and goes, "Hi, I'm Bad Date." (See what I did there?). And I go, "I know, we went on a date once.

You should have seen his face. It was like an episode of Friends. You know the one.

And, truthfully, it seemed like he felt really badly for not remembering me and to be fair, I look quite a bit different now. He was like, "I take it it wasn't a good date?" And I was like, "Yeahno." It took him all night to remember and he apologized and we had a good laugh. But holy fuck, people! Really?

So not only were all the men I've ever dated in Portland converging in one bar one night (that could be a good book plot) but one didn't even remember me. Awesome. Thank heaven that HP didn't walk in and complete the circle of awkward. Plus, now I'll have dated like 3 guys in this group. I'm that girl. Oh joy.

And yes, you read that right, I said 3. Which means it's going well with the other guy I was flirting with, who we'll call Eminem (even though he's nothing like Mr. Mathers in any way really). I'm gonna keep this under wraps for a while but I'll just say we had a lot of fun.

Oh and I cut off all my hair! I donated ten whole inches to Locks of Love.

Holding my locks

The stylist was super sweet too. He was like, "some bald kid is gonna look gooood now." Which is so wrong but so funny. I do have lots of hair, or, I did anyway.

Anyway, here's my hair now:

I realize I'm a huge dork. That's why I included an artsy shot too.

So I must stop myself there. How've you been, Internet?

happy-like

In the wake of a shitty week, I still have things that are making me happy.

In no particular order:

Rainy Portland Sunday mornings spent sleeping-in in my cozy, warm bed, dreaming of the night before and unreservedly fantasizing.

Great dates. With thus far great guys. Who are smart and too handsome to be so humble and great kissers too. And who are seemingly too well suited to me to be real.

Pizza places that serve gluten free pizza by the slice and have wifi. Oh, and a great happy hour every day of the week. Instant happiness.

Really sweet bartenders who remember my name and shave money off my tab. See also: finding new karaoke bars where I am destined to become a regular.

Cucumber white tea. A revelation that is.

Random strangers who hold the door open for me.

My best friends and family who even when only available by text or facebook, always boost my ego and send me endless love and support.

Great coworkers (and a great boss) who take me out for drinks when I'm stressed out about going home.

Hard cider. It's a gluten free salvation.

Nice dudes who, when like an idiot I drop my camera and break my flash, get it fixed for me without my even asking.

Did I mention the gluten free pizza?

Hoping I see said great guy again soon.

Mean Girls and other tales

Well, Internet, it seems I'm never meant to have an easy time of it. That sounds incredibly defeatist and incredibly selfish and I hate to play the martyr but it's been a struggle. This had been an especially hard week in regards to my living situation.

I keep trying to gain perspective, to remind myself that plenty of people live in worse situations, live in hiding, live in war zones, live on the streets. Plenty of people have it worse off but I've reached the point that that doesn't really help me feel better.

I can't even discuss all the details or go through how all this happened, partly because I'm so damned furious and upset and frustrated that I can't even discuss it without just exploding with emotion (and maybe I'll share more when I've got a little more distance from the situation), and partly because I don't even know how it happened.

One day my roommate just decided she hated me and so I just stayed out of her way and kept to myself, my tactic being: don't engage. But that didn't work for her. So I have been feeling pretty trapped. She won't leave me alone, she won't let me leave, and so I've pretty much reached my limits of tolerance. Sans any physical threat, I feel bullied. I haven't felt this picked on since I was 12 years old, I swear. 

But, as my bully in the 7th grade will probably tell you, I do have the capacity for abuse and bullying, BUT, I have a limit that I can take and then I just snap. You know how, in A Christmas Story, Ralphie finally snaps and beats up his bully?

That's how I felt in the 7th grade when Dionne told the whole school I stuffed my bra and they all called me Charmin and then I kicked her ass. And that's how I feel right now. Only I probably won't beat her up unless she hits me first.

I was pretty much at my last straw this week anyway. Then I came home to a note last night announcing she'd canceled our internet service and she'd taken the modem and was signing up for her own internet and I'd be on my own.

THAT pissed me off. She knows how much I rely on the internet. I watch my TV shows online. I write my blog. I can do social media from my phone but without wifi, I use too much data that way to afford it.She knew, however much she protests this, that she was screwing me over. That I'd come home on a Friday, ready for a weekend, to no internet and be fucked.

THEN! Then I took a deep breath and tried to just sign up for my own service. But because of a ton of red tape and shit that I won't even get into, I can't get signed up for internet, not at least for a couple weeks. I'm fucked. I tried to do hotspot on my phone but can't. I looked into a hotspot service but it's insanely expensive. So I'm fucked. Completely fucked.

And that was my last limit.  But I am done with being a doormat. Done. She can kiss my motherfucking non-white-girl-ass. If she thought that would motivate me to not be a bad roommate, she's delusional because I have no concern for her whatsoever anymore. I'm not going top be spiteful or plan revenge (though I have a few ideas lemmetellya) but I'm just not going to go out of my way to be the quiet, conscientious roommate I am. She has no idea how good she had it before.

And I have a few cards in my back pocket that I haven't played yet. Hopefully I'll have good news for y'all soon.

In case you're wondering, I'm writing this from a coffee shop. Which is okay for the short term, and I hope they don't catch me downloading tv shows. Evil laugh.

And maybe this is motivation to go to the gym more and not go home at least. Look at me, still trying to find a bright side.

In other news: I have a date tonight with that guy from last weekend. Send good vibes our way that he's as awesome as I suspect. I'm very hopeful about this one. If I find my way to a coffee shop tomorrow, I'll give you all an update.

Getting into Hot Pants

Bet you're all wondering what's up with Mr. Hot Pants.

In short? He's incredible. I don't think he possibly knows how much. But this dude makes me so effervescently happy, I can't even describe. Totally happy.

AND? You know how I'm a lifelong insomniac? I sleep better with him in my bed than I do alone. How awesome slash crazy is that? He's like my own just slightly addictive sleep aid. Can't beat that.

He upset me for the first time a few weeks ago, and it's not even important why, but I share this for two reasons. One, because it was a bit of a relief to know he can do that. Like, you know that tension when someone is too good to be true? It feels good to let a little of the tension out. Second, he felt so badly about it that it was too freaking adorable. His face just made me melt. How was I to resist? The minute I saw his puppy-sad face, I lost any bit of upset I had left.

On the other hand, he handles my insanity quite well. Twice now I know I've acted like a complete banshee to him and he's just taken it in stride.

Once, when he took me (aka made me) play disc golf for the first time (first time for me, I mean) and from the depths of my soul came this terrified little kid who got made fun of for sucking at kickball (or any other playground sport) and I started crying. Like a crazy person. And the more I tried to stop, the worse it got. But he was kind and patient and I didn't die or humiliate myself (sort of).

Then this last weekend, I had a low blood sugar moment, which I don't think he'd experienced yet because I'm usually pretty good at keeping my feedings regular. But I could feel the cranky washing over me and there was nothing I could do to stop it until I got sugar, sweet sweet sugar, pumping through my veins again. And you know? He didn't freak out at all. I think he must have wondered where this insane woman came from and would she please go soon? One assumes.

What's also awesome is that though we do have a lot in common, we also have differences and I think it makes a nice balance.

As I told my 13 year old friend just the other day, the important thing I've learned when it comes to dating is to both be picky and realistic. You can't have an amalgam of the perfect dream guy. You can't pick and choose all the best things you want and wait and wait for some Frankenstein monster of a lover to come along. So you figure out the most important things you want and wait for those and you sort of let all the other shit go. Everybody's gonna have their own things and it's okay if you don't like all of it or enjoy all of it. You appreciate the best parts and then those best parts maybe even make you like the little things too. I truly believe that.

Anyway.

It's all official and shit, even on the facebook, which was quite the hit with all my friends. I don't know if it's because it's been years since I've put a relationship on the facecrack or because all my friends were waiting with baited breath for me to be in a relationship. Either way, it's all awesomeness.

Did I mention I'm happy?

Mr. Blue Eyes Hot Pants

I think it's about time I told ya'll about my new gentleman caller (snicker). Whom I'm still undecided on a nickname for. Right now it's between Mr. Blue Eyes and Hot Pants. Kinda leaning toward the latter, even though the former is just perfect.

I'm hopeful that by thus point I'm past the stage of jinxing it by talking about it. I hope. I'm not even that superstitious, but I've let several friends get me all nervous. So nervous I am. Also: Yoda apparently.

And YET! My afterglowy bliss trumps nerves right now. I can't even express the extent of bliss. It seems folly to be this happy this soon, but there it is anyway. It's unreal. It's a dream. It's too good to be true.

Neverthefuckingless, there's this attentive, smart, funny, sexy, great guy who thinks I'm awesome and it all seems to just fit. He keeps saying he's so lucky. "A lucky guy." I think his luck has nothing to do with it. It's my good karma finally kicking in. I've dated enough douchecanoes and guys who just didn't appreciate me, my karmic bank must be rich indeed. And I'm cashing in.

But dude. Dude. He appreciates me. I've told him it's not why I like him, but it's so fucking wonderful to be appreciated just as I am. It's so nice, so intoxicating to be with someone who is so effusive, who expresses his admiration so freely. I really can't get enough.

But, like I said, Mr. Blue Eyes Hot Pants is pretty fucking awesome and I know I'm the lucky girl here. I don't think he knows it. Knows how fucking awesome he is. All those things I said above? All true. I wouldn't lie. And I don't hand out praise undeservedly. So there you go. And I know he's reading this (Hi, Hot Pants.) so maybe he'll believe it.

We have such a fun time together, people. So much fun. And would you believe it? I never get sick of him. I said I'd tell him if I get claustrophobic and need space, but the ebb and flow of time we spend together has felt just right.

People? We so kick ass at the blissful moments. You think you've got the blissful moments? Well guess what? We beat you. Nobody does the blissful moments better than we do. Also? Spooning like no one else. 

And The Sex? Well I'll let you imagine. Hah! I'm such a tease.

There is one thing wrong with him, though. He hates the twenties. You heard me right. The twenties. How can anyone hate the twenties? Speakeasies, jazz, fashion? Gah! I love it all. If I could, I'd bob my hair and dance to old timey jazz forever.

I guess I can let it go. If he doesn't tease me for loving the twenties so.

Right?

I think I'll let him stay.

On Relationship Energy

This post might be fraught with landmines of inadvertant offense. I'd like to state that by describing myself, I in no way mean to demean others who are different.

Except if you're not like me, you suck. Just kidding. I love you.

My relationship style can sometimes lean to the masculine. By that I mean a traditionally societally masculine way of conducting myself in relationships. Blame it on how close I am with my dad or blame it on some inner energy neither I nor society has any control over.

Whatever the reason, it's how I am.

Like a lot of stereotypical guys, I tend to like my space and alone time and while I certainly desire plenty of things that many, many women do (love, marriage, babies), I waver between jumping into a commitment I don't really want and running away for fear of getting hurt. And I have found myself acting out of character in certain situations, but I think this is the norm for me on the whole.

But that's not my biggest problem à la moment. My biggest problem is that I think my masculine-esque energy might be attracting its opposite: needy little bitches.

I kid (not really).

The women I've been involved with are clingy and controlling and high maintenance (of course many women are not as such) even though most of the women I've desired are very androgynous and low key (they just have no interest in moi.) And the men? With several exceptions, many of the boyos in my life have been worse than the women. Needy little bitches.

Why the hell are you asking my permission to do something? Why should I give a fuck that you want to hang out with your friends or watch 12 hours of whatever sport is in season? I don't give a fuck and I'm not your mama; you shouldn't need or want my permission. Maybe just a head's up that you won't be free for a certain period of time would be sufficient. I'll go take advantage of all the delicious alone time. Lots of writing to be done, books to be read, photos to be snapped, tea to be drunk.

Generally, my only rule is if you say you're going to do something, do it. If you can't do it, just let me know ahead of time. I don't like flakes.

But these are the guys I attract.

I've told you about several of these dudes, most recently about Guy Who Tries Too Hard. It's like, take a breath, dude, and just be yourself. It makes me exhausted just thinking about him. 

Did I mention I finally gave my number to Hot Bartender? I realize he's a bartender. I had no illusions of starting anything of substance with this guy.  But he was HOT. I thought we could hook up a few times. Fun had by all. But then he gave a long ass speech about how it's complicated with him and he has a kid and he's not looking to be tied down, blah blah blah. I couldn't help thinking that in his assertions of his need for freedom, he was showing that he was actually kind of needy and high maintenance. We hadn't even had sex and he was already scared that I would trap him in a marriage. Yikes! Who needs it?

Like I said, there have been exceptions. I know several of my exes read this blog and I just know they're on the edges of their seats waiting for me to un-emasculate them. Well I'm not telling who. HAH! Figure it out for yourselves.

But those exceptions, while they obviously didn't work out for whatever reason, I enjoyed the balance of energy, the energy which felt most like my own. I don't necessarily do well with the extremes. I appreciate someone who's more like me in this specific way.

I really said I wouldn't blog about this next nugget of information, because I always do this and the universe thinks I'm mocking her and it never works out. But I may or may not have met someone new. We may or may not have spent the evening talking and laughing and I may or may not have felt that he was a lot like me in energy and sense of humor. I'm not counting on this. I could be wrong. Lard knows my radar sucks. He may or may not call. 

But I'm hopeful. Hopeful that he's not a needy little bitch. Okay, I'm hopeful about other things too. You got me.

On Celibacy

So, at this point, I think you all know how much my dating life has sucked hard. So hard. Harder than you'd think anything could suck.

I hope you've read all about The Asshole. If you've been around since the beginning, you've seen me go through 2 fairly traumatic breakups. I'm worn down. I'm done.

I just don't want to think about dating or the potential for dating or even sex with someone else.

As I was typing, I almost wrote, sex with another human being, but I think that made it seem like I'm willing to have sex with animals or extra terrestrials. But I am here to say that not only am I not willing to defile a sweet animal (or even one not so sweet) (I mean, fuck, I'm not in a fraternity or anything.) (just kidding. I know there are no sheep in hazing rituals.) (there aren't right? RIGHT?), but an alien is just crossing a line. Even a girl like me has to have standards.

Anywayyyyyyy, in an effort to regroup, I have decided to be celibate for 90 days. No dating. No kissing. No sex.

Of course my vibrators can stay. Of course.

Yours truly is currently celibate.

I am actually really excited about this. No more wondering when I'm going to meet someone nice. No more sifting through potential love interests. No more. At least for a while.

Instead, I am taking myself out of the game. Without worrying about dating, I can really focus on me. Figure out what it is I'm doing. Refocus what it is I want and who I am in the process.

Meet people without the scent of sex and dating tinging everything. Imagine that? Interactions sans any sort of sexual undertones. Friendship sans any of the judgments one makes in selecting potential mates.

I have to say, the amount of pressure lifted off of me already has been incredible! Truly relieving.

I know it's not the 18th century. I know women aren't property to be traded any longer (well, I think marriage is still about that and the slave trade is still alive), but it's not fucking Jane Austen any more. A woman of 25 isn't a burden on her parents. Isn't an old maid, doomed to a life of poverty or insanity or both. We've come a long way since 1965. Snort.

But hell if it doesn't sometimes feel like it. Hell if those cultural underpinings aren't still driving our society. Hell if isn't hard to be a single gal getting older every year (which, by the by, I enjoy doing. getting older that is) without any real prospect of love. Without ever having any success in the dating department.

I have said this before, but I am so fucking sick of the judgment. The assumption that there must be something wrong with me. I get this A LOT: You're single? But you're so pretty. As if being pretty has anything to do with cultivating a healthy relationship. As if this is 1857. Because if you're pretty and single, there must be something else fundamentally wrong.

Well fuck that.

I've heard concern for my "lifestyle." As if because I'm okay with just being me and make jokes about being an eternal cat lady, then I'm shunning love and connection.

But it's not that simple. Life never works out quite the way you plan when you're a teenager. As life goes on and things look differently than you'd anticipated, you make jokes. Being flexible with life is the only way to survive it.

What I'd like to see is more tolerance for the myriad life paths we find ourselves on.

I get this kind of thing all the time. I hear that I am not working hard enough to find love. To get a relationship. To make a family. My time is running out, you know. Every year will get harder and harder to find a decent man.

Well fuck that. Every year since I was 15 has been damn hard to find a decent man. And I am fucking sick of the constant questions about my relationship status. The constant efforts to make my life "right."

Don't get me wrong. I do want love. I do want a relationship. A family one day. But I want it to happen naturally and all this pressure isn't helping the process and isn't helping my psyche.

So I've relieved the pressure. Just for a finite amount of time. Where I can just live and be me and worry about my life without that ever-present reminder of that one deficiency in my life which everyone seems to find so goddamned important. Because of all that pressure, I begin to believe it. Begin to think there's something wrong with me because I'm single. Alone. Indefinitely.

Maybe I can remind the world (and myself) of my worth as a human being. A single woman alone in the world. I have many amazing qualities which, despite never being fully appreciated by a romantic partner, can be appreciated by many others and, of course, myself. I need to learn to appreciate myself again.

Wish me luck! I'll keep you all up to date with how it's going of course.

And hell, if I reach 90 days and really like it, maybe I'll just keep going.

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.