Results tagged “rants” from iVillage - This Fish
Some people are used to this. But not me. And so I'm having a hard time with normal things like walking without running into stuff and remembering to rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Ooooh, pretty! You have no idea how many words I just misspelled.
Anyway, my boss is so superhuman about appreciation that I know quite certainly my efforts are noticed (and duly rewarded). But truthfully, that hasn't made a bit of a difference when say, the alarm goes off and I tip toe downstairs to find that the dog has upended my laptop, stepped on it, and left a puncture mark like a bullet hole in the middle of the screen. Spy work, it is dangerous. I tried not to cry. Really, I did.
If I'm being completely honest, I'll tell you that the only reason I didn't exact some major revenge on that dog is, well, The Boy's parents just bought our tickets to DisneyWorld and I don't want to rock the boat. In case, you know, the tickets are refundable or somesuch.
P.S. You people kill me with the awesomeness of the comments on my last post. You're everywhere! You're in places right next door and so far away I'm sure you have to have a special passport just to get there. I love it. And on pain of being cheesy, I love that we're all connected.
This might sound a little silly, but I was pretty upset when Princess Diana died.
My fascination with the People's Princess started when I was just a little kid, already obsessed with frilly dresses and all things fanciful. Her televised wedding was the ultimate viewing pleasure - the Super Bowl for my entire youth. I worshiped her to the extent that every single one of my Barbie dolls was named Diana - even if the scenario called for playing with multiple dolls. Diana, Diana, Diana. All hell broke loose in the house of dreams the day my sister tried to borrow the name for her own doll (but then again, all hell broke loose any time my sister did anything to copy me, so perhaps that is not the best example).
It was a fascination I didn't grow out of. TV specials, books, magazine articles - if it was about Princess Di, I had to get my hands on it. I cheered her on as she ditched weasily Charles and began showing up in public with handsome strangers looking like a total knockout. If I didn't feel like it would be disrespectful, I might mention how knuckle-bitingly attractive her sons turned out. She was beautiful and flawed and big-hearted. And then she was dead.
And I had contributed to her death. Honestly, when you get down to it, it's pretty simple. If it didn't pay to document her every little move - even and especially the most private ones - there wouldn't have been that nasty crash in the tunnel. There wouldn't have been photographers climbing on the car wreckage taking pictures while she was dying in the back seat. How absolutely gruesome.
These days, I have a pretty firm policy about such things. I don't watch tabloid entertainment shows or buy magazines that use paparazzi photographs. Same goes for websites; I don't click on links to stories that obviously invade the private lives of public figures. It isn't always easy. I mean, do you know how much I love Go Fug Yourself? So much. Love, love, love the red carpet rundowns (public appearance = fair game) so admittedly, I spend some time in the gray area, on a site that has its fair share of paparazzi images. Hey, I'm human and I like pretty dresses.
But when it comes to Britney Spears, I am unbending. Because that shit is pure schadenfreude. And it's every where. I was pretty disturbed when CNN had a Britney story in their "Latest News" links, as though her most recent mishap were legitimate news. Really, CNN? REALLY? The girl's obituary is already written (not all that uncommon, from what I understand), and I don't think the media is going to be satisfied until they're running it as their top story. And personally, I don't want any part in that.
When I sat down in her chair on Friday, my hairdresser brought up Britney. "Have you heard the latest?"
"No," I said. "And I don't wanna. It makes me sad."
So, instead we talked about her wedding. Which, let's be frank, I was much more interested in anyway, if only for the fancy dress factor.
On Friday morning I woke up feeling better. I'm sure part of it had something do with admitting how I felt, typing it, putting it out there. My high school English teacher loved the word, catharsis. I do, too.
Now, I still get struck with twinges of sadness, but I'm definitely not wallowing in it anymore. I know this is not how everyone operates, but me, I need to wallow. I have learned to just be sad until I am done being sad, because fighting it, or even hiding it, can lead to some very dark times.
I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kind, healing words you've left here. I appreciate them, but to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised by them. Because I know that there are good, caring people out there - people who experience life in the same kaleidescope of emotions, who love and hurt and trust and mourn as I do. It's why I continue to blog; I love sharing what makes us human. What I am surprised at are the number of responses from people who are uncomfortable with it. People who needed a time line in order to understand or accept how I felt. People who thought my best friend should have shaken me and told me to "get the hell over it." People who, with their speculations and cynicism tried very hard to make a good man into a cad, and my prior happiness into a farce.
To the first group of people, let me say this: I guess I never thought it should matter if I knew him six days, six weeks, or six years. I was sad; there doesn't have to be a reason or a number to justify that. I never meant to confuse anyone, but if it wasn't clear, you should know I don't write about the current romantic climate of my life to protect my own interests. Omission saves a new relationship from too much scrutiny, spares the man himself from being too aware of my own tendency to over-think, and it protects me from over-exposing a sometimes too-tender heart.
To the second group, I will say that you have made me feel even more grateful for the friends I have. The non-judging, supportive, wonderful people who choose to share their time with me. The ones who don't always understand what I feel, but whose first thoughts are of comforting - not shaking me.
Three years ago, I was embroiled in a horribly dysfunctional relationship with a person whose behavior could, at best, be described as amoral, and at worst, just a hair shy of deliberately cruel. And because at the time, I was too busy hating myself for not having enough of a backbone, I didn't deal with things. Not really. One day, almost two years later, I woke up and realized I was mad. Really, bone-deep angry. And it was like poison. In the time that it took me to understand and process that nasty toxic hate (and it was months), not a single one of my friends uttered anything even remotely so calloused as, "get the hell over it." I am thankful every single day that they chose me, as I chose them.
And to the third group I say, shame on you. If I have to question his motives, then I am forced to question everything I came to know about him, everything that in my gut felt good and right and true - including and especially my own value. Is it so hard to believe that someone wonderful would think I'm wonderful, too? No. It damn well should not be. He is an honorable man who treated me better and more gently than any before him and you cannot make that into something ugly.
To the rest of you, thank you. For your stories, acceptance and encouragement. I wish I could hand out gold stars.
I imagine that even though it's truly not my intention, some readers will be offended by this. Some will fume and swear never to read this blog ever again, and vow never to comment. Well, let's address that right now: we both know you won't be able to stop yourself. Let's not kid a kidder. Besides, if I wanted to offend, I'd do it blatantly, by making fun or your wee hands.
We were in the middle of a round tequila shots on Wednesday night when the khaki-clad stranger took a look around the bar and said, "I'm definitely headed for some trouble."
I laughed and handed off my shot to Mike J. Tequila and I are a combustible combination, and out with Mike's uncle and his coworkers, I didn't think it was the best time to introduce Angry Drunk Heather. I like to save that for special occasions.
When I turned back to my martini and the man headed for trouble, I spied a wedding ring on his left hand.
"Looks like you'll be keeping trouble to a minimum," I said, and winked.
"We're about to get divorced."
I said nothing but raised my eyebrows. I didn't buy it. And I was right not to. According to his coworkers, Trouble Guy is nowhere near divorce; he's just a dick. Okay, they didn't call him a dick. That was all me.
Sometime later, during the fuzzier part of the evening, Trouble Guy, obviously (and erroneously) thinking I'd be on board with such a maneuver, waggled his fingers at me. His very naked fingers.
"I put it in my pocket!" He looked very proud of himself.
"You're an asshole." No sense in mincing words, I thought.
"Have you ever been married?" he asked, leaning closer.
"No."
"Then you don't have any idea what it's like."
This! This is why the older I get, the less I want to be married. I mean, if you can't trust a guy in pleated khakis (the ultimate indicator of gamelessness) who can you trust? You think you're sending your dopey husband off to a pharmaceutical conference, with no thought as to whether he'll keep it in his pants, because he's your pleated khaki-wearing man! He's safe. Instead, he's out on a school night, taking shots from college girls.
Oh, he's keeping it in his pants, alright. But it's his wedding band in there. Not his dick.
The three of us had just come from Girl's Night dinner in the Bishop Arts District and were holding court at an out-of-the-way table at the Old Monk. It was one of those nights where everything we said seemed brilliantly funny and became an inside joke that we were determined to run into the ground.
Did you know that the phrase "right up my alley" was dirty? It is. On par with, "that's what she said" and so much funnier.
Anyway, sometime around midnight, a couple of guys asked to join us. Sure, absolutely, why not. So Keith and The Guy Who Hates Sarcasm sat down. Obviously, they came over because of the stunning display of cleavage at the table - we'd all gotten dressed up for dinner in our end-of-summer finery - but ended up leaving with a heaping serving of smart ass.
Conversation was quick, witty and funny and the guys were holding their own (though, someone did leave that table with the unfortunate nickname Goulash). When it was nearing closing time, Keith slid a pen and an upturned receipt across the table and asked for a phone number. Whose, he didn't seem to care. Just a phone number. A flicker of Oh-no-he-didn't passed between us girls. A few awkward jokes were made and Keith took his receipt back just as empty as he'd offered it.
"Well, he was sure casting a wide net, wasn't he?" Jamie said, the moment we hit the sidewalk.
"Right? He really knows how to make a girl feel special," I said, shaking my head.
"Even if he'd said, 'Hey, you girls are a lot of fun. Can I get your numbers so we can all hang out again?' that would have been fine," Laura said.
"At least then he could be non-discerning where we can't see. That Anyone? Anyone? routine was just sad."
We agreed that what Keith clearly didn't realize was any one of us girls, had he asked us directly, would have gladly give him a phone number. Because until that point, he'd been charming enough. But then... well, I've never seen anyone crash and burn so thoroughly (excepting, you know, Britney last night).
Choosing sucks. I get that. What if the girl you prefer doesn't prefer to give you her number, what have you got then? Well, no digits, for sure. But you've got three girls who think you have the appropriate number of testicles, as well as pretty decent assurance that they won't spend the whole ride home discussing your bad, bad move.
It's Thursday, so you're probably expecting to read about phalluses and the men-children who name them, but it is not to be. I did say Thursdays were for "dating, mating and that guy who was not only really bad in bed, but stole my favorite sweater." Well, we've covered the sweater guy, and I'm just not in the mood for sex (talking about it anyway). But I do have a little something to say about dating -- online dating, actually.
Despite what I do for a living, I've never been a big fan of finding love on the old interweb. I'm not judging - if you've met the love of your life online, I'm ecstatic for you. It's just... it's always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. You know, somewhere on par with suddenly finding yourself watching a Vagisil commercial with your brother or dad next to you on the couch. Awkward. It just makes me squirmy.
Last week, though, I decided that I was going to have to get over my little phobia and go online to get some offline socialization. And you know what I found? There seem to be a lot of nice, well-adjusted guys looking for love on the internet. Shocker! Problem is, there are even more who are... well, not. I've learned that in the online dating circus, it takes patience and focus to get through the weirdos to find the guys you'd not pepper spray as soon as meet out for a drink.
The face only a mother...
The first thing I do is click the little red x next to the photo of any man that looks like a criminal. I totally understand the disservice I can do myself by judging on a man on looks. But if he's sporting a pedophile mustache, or looks like he has experience with a switchblade, that's a risk I'm willing to take. I also -- and this is clearly my own issue -- click the x next to men without visible jawlines. I'm not looking for the Brawny paper towel guy, but I am certainly not interested in bearing children with the mark of the inbred. I absolutely refuse to have Hapsburg babies. I once knew a girl whose chin all but disappeared into her neck, and I won't lie: it was an impediment to our friendship. People without jaws, you give me the willies. There, I said it.
Just an average guy
Next, I take a look at the first line of his profile. "My friends would describe me as laid back..." Yawn! Or, "I'm just an average guy..." Click! If you don't think you're special, why should I? If you truly are nondescript (and honestly, I have a hard time believing that anyone is entirely quirk-free), you totally deserve the kind of girl who would be intrigued by such a statement. May the lord bless you with a houseful of talentless children. And do the literate girls a favor - run a spell checker on that puppy. I just glanced at a dude's profile, where in the first three lines, four words were misspelled - all in a statement about how he should write dating profiles for a living. Yeah, buddy. Just you do that.
Better off with a thousand words
Once a guy's passed the first-glance, first-read test, I have a look through the rest of his profile. Occupation, religion, other photos. For a lot of you, this will be a big duh, but I expect, for some of you fellas, this will be something of a public service announcement. If you think that a picture of you with a beer bong belongs anywhere on your dating profile, you are an idiot. You probably drive drunk on a routine basis, eat spray cheese right out of the can, and say things like, "It's T-dawg in the hiz-ouse!" when you get home from your job as a fraternity recruiter. You are an idiot. And I did not pay a membership fee to meet idiots. I can do that for free, thanks. My point is, lots of people have a beer bong picture. They just have enough sense not to display it before getting some third date nookie. To be safe, let a girl choose your picture for you. That's pretty idiot-proof.
Picky, picky
If a guy makes it past the online dating gauntlet, and we start emailing, that's all great and good. I've met a few very nice men. But mostly, I spend my time right clicking -- copying and pasting scary photos into emails I send to family members. It's kinda like The Dating Game. Yesterday's Bachelor Number One described himself as "unable to relate to people well," and in his photo, he bore a strong and alarming resemblance to Sloth from Goonies. Obviously, this is why I am still single - because I'm mean. Also because I have a whole cadre of arbitrary rules fixed in my brain about what a man should be. But frankly, I'm fine with that. Because if it's a choice between settling, and spending my life with Ari, our pets, and a mishmash of adopted children - that's not really much of a choice at all. Ari is an awesome cook and I have never, ever seen her with a beer bong.
