Sunday, March 11, 2012
SOUTHERN PERSPECTIVE
There are moments in life when one is forced to stop, to see the big picture, and put life and its hardships into perspective. When these moments happen, they are refreshing, they make us breathe more deeply, and smile more sincerely. I found myself last night, standing outside in the cold, at 11:30 at night, waiting for a bus that seemed to never come. It had been a long day, after an even longer week, and another long day lie ahead. I was tired physically, and mentally, and had over an hour left in my commute. Needless to say, it was starting to become easy to feel sorry for myself. As I stood there, rubbing my cold hands together and taking the last drag out of my one remaining cigarette, I noticed someone walking towards me. It was an extremely tall, black man, in his late 40s. He was looking at me with the most sincere toothy grin. He walked past me, stopped, looked back over at me again, and said “Wow, you are beautiful.” I blushed and thanked him. I was a little defensive, being alone in the city late at night. There were plenty of people walking by, and he seemed harmless, so I just smiled and went along with it. He commented on my red hair, and asked if I was Irish. I told him I wasn’t Irish, but that people asked me that all the time, and that I could do a pretty good accent. He laughed a deep guttural laugh and told he was from “Nearlins”, and that people would love me down there. He told me about how friendly people are in the south and how much he misses it. It was at this point when I noticed a bottle of beer jammed in his back pocket. Having lived in the city for a few years, I am ashamed to admit that I jumped to many conclusions, one being that he wanted something from me, or was a drunk, or mentally ill. But he seemed totally fine. He looked me right in the eye with a clear mind, was very polite, and had a wonderful demeanor, so despite my reservations, we continued to talk. He talked about fishing, and being a family man. I asked him why he was in Providence, and his response was humbling. He told me that he and his family were devastated by Hurricane Katrina, and after burying eleven of his closest family and friends, he was kicked out of his housing. He is a father, as well as a grandfather, and served ten years in the US Army. And yet, here I was feeling sorry for myself. When he told me his history, I got a little quiet, and told him how sorry I was to hear about the people that he has lost. He looked at me with sad brown eyes, and stoically said, “All you can do is smile and have a good attitude and your day will come.” He shook my hand, told me to have a great night, and walked away. As I watched him walk away with a slight limp, my hands got a little warmer, the bus seemed to come more quickly, and everything around me became beautiful.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Write it down!
So...I've been really thinking lately, about how much we have lost with the dissapearance of the written word. Does anybody even know what that means anymore? I just dropped a good, old fashioned note in the mail this morning. It felt odd to me, almost wrong. In the old days (here we go) people had to legitimately wait, and rely on mail from their loved ones. That was how we communicated. It was a much more honest way of life. Don't get me wrong, it's convenient that I am able to email my landlord from my phone while on the train to work, but how has it changed our relationships? OK, I'm not even going to start the rampage that I could go on with Facebook,etc. Let's just focus on the Letter. What do we get in the mail these days? Junk mail, bills, catalogues, most of which come to us through email now anyway.
Sending someone a LETTER in the mail, an actual LET TER is such a novelty these days, but it really means a great deal. A thank-you note, a newspaper clipping, anything! Yes, it costs 40-something cents now, but let's face it, we spend at least five bucks on our coffee every day!
This leads me to my rant about how the loss of these good, wholesome, real ways of communicating has lead to the DEATH of romance! Real romance is legitimately dying. We now have the ability to ask each-other out, break-up, make-up, and sometimes simply get to know each other through texts, Facebook profiles, and various emails and chats. But how well do we really know each-other then, really? Is this why, when we finally do ask someone out, or get asked out (VIA TEXT, that we often hang on to these relationships, even though we don't really know each-other at all?
I was recently faced with the fact that, after communicating with someone via text, and fifteen-thousand other forms of electronic (non) communication, and flirting like crazy, that the only way we could enjoy each-other's company (if at all) would be at a loud bar where there's no chance of reaaally talking and copious amounts of beer as a buffer. What the hell does that mean? It means that we don't want to, or know how to interract with one another! We don't really even know each-other and the idea of a face-to-face, one-on-one date scares the shit out of us. So where will we be in ten years? Standing accross from each-other in a bar, texting back and forth sans eye-contact? It's not that far off.
So what do we do about this? What can anyone do about it, except remain vigilant, and try like hell to give our fellow humans the respect that we all deserve; like actually talking to each-other! Shut down your Facebook chatting, non-confrontational selves, and pick up the phone. Or go CRAZY and have a face-to-face conversation. It may be hard to retrain yourself and learn how to be social, but it is worth it in the end. You will have an existence that is rich with friends who know you, and like being around you, and vice-versa. And while you're at it, instead of texting your best friend who lives in Baltimore getting her PhD, send her a letter. A real letter, and catch up. Old school.
Sending someone a LETTER in the mail, an actual LET TER is such a novelty these days, but it really means a great deal. A thank-you note, a newspaper clipping, anything! Yes, it costs 40-something cents now, but let's face it, we spend at least five bucks on our coffee every day!
This leads me to my rant about how the loss of these good, wholesome, real ways of communicating has lead to the DEATH of romance! Real romance is legitimately dying. We now have the ability to ask each-other out, break-up, make-up, and sometimes simply get to know each other through texts, Facebook profiles, and various emails and chats. But how well do we really know each-other then, really? Is this why, when we finally do ask someone out, or get asked out (VIA TEXT, that we often hang on to these relationships, even though we don't really know each-other at all?
I was recently faced with the fact that, after communicating with someone via text, and fifteen-thousand other forms of electronic (non) communication, and flirting like crazy, that the only way we could enjoy each-other's company (if at all) would be at a loud bar where there's no chance of reaaally talking and copious amounts of beer as a buffer. What the hell does that mean? It means that we don't want to, or know how to interract with one another! We don't really even know each-other and the idea of a face-to-face, one-on-one date scares the shit out of us. So where will we be in ten years? Standing accross from each-other in a bar, texting back and forth sans eye-contact? It's not that far off.
So what do we do about this? What can anyone do about it, except remain vigilant, and try like hell to give our fellow humans the respect that we all deserve; like actually talking to each-other! Shut down your Facebook chatting, non-confrontational selves, and pick up the phone. Or go CRAZY and have a face-to-face conversation. It may be hard to retrain yourself and learn how to be social, but it is worth it in the end. You will have an existence that is rich with friends who know you, and like being around you, and vice-versa. And while you're at it, instead of texting your best friend who lives in Baltimore getting her PhD, send her a letter. A real letter, and catch up. Old school.
Things Change.
Since my last post, I have learned that the idea of dating for research, although funny and anectotal, is not productive, and gives others the idea that the researcher may be a little...how do I put this...slutty? So from here on out I am posting an array of random memiors, mostly from trains between Boston and Providence. Don't worry everyone, (and by everyone I mean the zero people that are reading this!)I assure you, I have much to say. Only this time there may be a hint of substance to what I'm saying. That's my goal anyway!
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Good Relationships and Toothpaste
Just had an analogous epiphany; how much good relationships are like a tube of toothpaste...
You search and search for the combination of things that are right for you, that make you feel like you're taking proper care of yourself. And once you commit to a certain brand, with the right mixture of brightness and taste, you hang onto it for as long as you can. You sometimes find yourself at the store, in the toothpaste isle, purveying the choices. There are always, and will always be, toothpastes that seem like they're probably better than the one you're committed to. Do you need a different kind? A different combination of taste and brightness? You walk away and proceed to the checkout. You don't need more toothpaste. You still have plenty waiting for you at home. And you will work really hard to keep squeezing your trusty toothpaste out of the tube, night after night.
There will be times, when you open the medicine cabinet, and after seeing the considerably flattened tube, you will question whether or not you need more. But, upon squeezing it, you find that you still have plenty. :)
You search and search for the combination of things that are right for you, that make you feel like you're taking proper care of yourself. And once you commit to a certain brand, with the right mixture of brightness and taste, you hang onto it for as long as you can. You sometimes find yourself at the store, in the toothpaste isle, purveying the choices. There are always, and will always be, toothpastes that seem like they're probably better than the one you're committed to. Do you need a different kind? A different combination of taste and brightness? You walk away and proceed to the checkout. You don't need more toothpaste. You still have plenty waiting for you at home. And you will work really hard to keep squeezing your trusty toothpaste out of the tube, night after night.
There will be times, when you open the medicine cabinet, and after seeing the considerably flattened tube, you will question whether or not you need more. But, upon squeezing it, you find that you still have plenty. :)
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Catman!
Ok, here's a good one. If this doesn't make you pee your pants with laughter, I don't know what to tell you.
So here I sit, in a hipster cafe', surrounded by people with shaggy hair and every tartan of plaid ever created. The Scottish would be proud.
I once dated (and by "dated" here I mean, crawled my way up a winding metal stair-case to enter an apartment with 8 cats) a sweet southern boy who has no idea what is going on around him at any give time. His apartment sports three rooms, gracefully adorned with graffitti, dirty dishes, conputer monitors stacked on top of boxes, random blankets-covered in beer, cat piss and god-knows what else-, couches that have been around since man discovered fire, and the ole' mattress-on-the-floor situation. First of all, who thinks this is an acceptable way to live? (there is no second of all...)
So, I went to a friend's house one night to see a punk show in her basement (should have know right then and there that this was not going to lead to anything other than the chance to watch a bunch of unshowered men -covered in black clothing, studded belts, and tattoos that don't really mean anything except "I hate the world because it wont accept me for who I am"-bump into each-other to loud music, while I stand in the back leaning against a washing-mashine, blood pouring out of my virgin ears). So I'm at her house...it's a clear summer night so of course I'm wearing a floral sundress and kitten heels (might as well have a little white ribbon in my hair). I go through the awkward, "where do I sit? who are these people?",laugh-at-every-joke-I-eavesdrop-on-in-order-to-get-in-with-someone situation. This strategy abruptly fails, at which time I go the much more staightforward route and begin to drink heavily. Whatdya know? Before long I've made some lovely friends (by friends here I mean people looking at my boobs and envisioning me giving them sexual favors). At least they were talking to me. One of those people was Danny, a boyishly handsome, punk-rock wannabe with a general look of confusion permanently plastered on his bearded face. I found it endearing...
So I begin following Danny around, sharing a beer with him (which was warmer than the coffee I have in my hand at present), and pretending to have any idea what it is he was rambling on about. All I know is that there were a few references to "Family Guy", and "South Park", and some other spoutings-off about this band-that-he-knows, and that band-that-he-knows. I must have been drunk, because I just shrugged my shoulders (to an invisible audience), smiled at him, and let the madness continue.
Hours passed, and I find myself passed out on Katie's couch, knees to my chest, and arms twisted in an extrememly unnatural fashion. Needless to say my neck was also feeling fantastic. So I peeled my skin off the sticky fabric and slowly stood up. Where is my phone? Why are there bottles all over me? Did that dog scratch my eye last night? Is this my life????!? So I called a cab on my speed-dial, and high-tailed it outta there as fast as my new friend, (insert unpronounceable name here) could drive me.
A few hours later, I'm at work watching "The Lion King" while three five year-olds argue over the use of a black crayon (those things are rare!), and I receive a text from Danny. How he got my number still remains a complete mystery to me. The message says something about how amazing it was talking to me last night, and how he wants to take me out to coffee sometime. I choose not to respond, and then forget about it altogether. over the next two weeks, the messages continue, and, being the idiot that I am, I give in (free coffee?...).
So we meet up for coffee, chat, and have a generally good time. I start thinking that there may be hope for him (second mistake).
So we begin texting back and forth, and decide to meet up again. This time it's late at night, and we can't go to a bar because he has no I.D. (fail...). So we walk to the Charles River in the middle of the night and dangle our legs off of a rickety bridge inches from the water. I proceed to smile and nod as he blabs on and on for 36 and a half years about god-knows-what. At this point I don't know what is wrong with me, because I'm still finding it all endearing. how is it eandearing when you can't have a conversation with someone?? So we go back to his house (this is the first time). He tells me it's behind Allston Wine and Spirits...what I didn't realize until we were there, is that he wasn't kidding. The place is literally sharing an alley with 49 Mexicans and a bunch of dumpsters. The walk leading up to this apartment (I use the word "apartment" extremely loosely here), consists of a metal fire-escape with random bicycles chained to it. So I scale my way up behind him, the little heels of my flats getting stuck in the metal cracks and wires leading in and out of the dwellings.
So he lets me in (without any warning, desclaimer, release to sign) and I am immediately slapped in the face with a stanch so think I can chew it. There are cats everywhere, dishes....etc (refer back to the previous description). He leads me through the kitchen and into his room (mattress on the floor), where I find yet another cat. The 5x5 square grafitti-adorned cell covered in cat hair and little grey pebbles of litter (sexy). So I sit down on the mattress and we proceed to pass a 40 back and forth while he lights a thousand joints and smokes them all at once (no wonder this guy can't form sentences!).We end up making out to youTube videos, and the next thing I know I'm waking up with a cats ass next to my left cheek, and an arm draped accross my chest. The sounds of snoring/wheezing fill the room.
We snuggle for a couple of hours, periodically shutting off our cell phone alarms , until finally waking uo. My head feels like it took part in a boxing match, and evey square-inch of my body is covered in reddish-white cat hair. There are flies hovering around the ceiling, and the drone of a fan pushing hot air around the room. What am I doing here? I should be jogging, or pretending to write something insightful on a Starbucks loveseat, or making breakfast and watching the news. I am an adult!
How does one allow themselves to make these desisions?? There were MANY clear red flags here, which I chose to whiz by at breakneck speeds, and for what? Because he's a "good guy?" The sad thing is that this went on for weeks. I mean, he was very charming and sweet, but I have barely scratched the surface of the problems with the situation. There was a time when we rode the bus together (romantic) because he had to see his PAROLE officer, and it was on the way. Im like, "Ok, great! A bus ride together!" What!!!!? Where is the voice saying "why the fuck do you HAVE a parole officer!!?"
Needless to say, I eventually came to my senses, and it does make for a great story, but clearly that wasn't my intention at the time. The lesson to be learned here, is that although saying no can be hard, sometimes seeing the good in people puts blinders on you, and make you miss the MESS of shit you're about to step in. It's safe to say that I've stepped in it enough times to know.
So here I sit, in a hipster cafe', surrounded by people with shaggy hair and every tartan of plaid ever created. The Scottish would be proud.
I once dated (and by "dated" here I mean, crawled my way up a winding metal stair-case to enter an apartment with 8 cats) a sweet southern boy who has no idea what is going on around him at any give time. His apartment sports three rooms, gracefully adorned with graffitti, dirty dishes, conputer monitors stacked on top of boxes, random blankets-covered in beer, cat piss and god-knows what else-, couches that have been around since man discovered fire, and the ole' mattress-on-the-floor situation. First of all, who thinks this is an acceptable way to live? (there is no second of all...)
So, I went to a friend's house one night to see a punk show in her basement (should have know right then and there that this was not going to lead to anything other than the chance to watch a bunch of unshowered men -covered in black clothing, studded belts, and tattoos that don't really mean anything except "I hate the world because it wont accept me for who I am"-bump into each-other to loud music, while I stand in the back leaning against a washing-mashine, blood pouring out of my virgin ears). So I'm at her house...it's a clear summer night so of course I'm wearing a floral sundress and kitten heels (might as well have a little white ribbon in my hair). I go through the awkward, "where do I sit? who are these people?",laugh-at-every-joke-I-eavesdrop-on-in-order-to-get-in-with-someone situation. This strategy abruptly fails, at which time I go the much more staightforward route and begin to drink heavily. Whatdya know? Before long I've made some lovely friends (by friends here I mean people looking at my boobs and envisioning me giving them sexual favors). At least they were talking to me. One of those people was Danny, a boyishly handsome, punk-rock wannabe with a general look of confusion permanently plastered on his bearded face. I found it endearing...
So I begin following Danny around, sharing a beer with him (which was warmer than the coffee I have in my hand at present), and pretending to have any idea what it is he was rambling on about. All I know is that there were a few references to "Family Guy", and "South Park", and some other spoutings-off about this band-that-he-knows, and that band-that-he-knows. I must have been drunk, because I just shrugged my shoulders (to an invisible audience), smiled at him, and let the madness continue.
Hours passed, and I find myself passed out on Katie's couch, knees to my chest, and arms twisted in an extrememly unnatural fashion. Needless to say my neck was also feeling fantastic. So I peeled my skin off the sticky fabric and slowly stood up. Where is my phone? Why are there bottles all over me? Did that dog scratch my eye last night? Is this my life????!? So I called a cab on my speed-dial, and high-tailed it outta there as fast as my new friend, (insert unpronounceable name here) could drive me.
A few hours later, I'm at work watching "The Lion King" while three five year-olds argue over the use of a black crayon (those things are rare!), and I receive a text from Danny. How he got my number still remains a complete mystery to me. The message says something about how amazing it was talking to me last night, and how he wants to take me out to coffee sometime. I choose not to respond, and then forget about it altogether. over the next two weeks, the messages continue, and, being the idiot that I am, I give in (free coffee?...).
So we meet up for coffee, chat, and have a generally good time. I start thinking that there may be hope for him (second mistake).
So we begin texting back and forth, and decide to meet up again. This time it's late at night, and we can't go to a bar because he has no I.D. (fail...). So we walk to the Charles River in the middle of the night and dangle our legs off of a rickety bridge inches from the water. I proceed to smile and nod as he blabs on and on for 36 and a half years about god-knows-what. At this point I don't know what is wrong with me, because I'm still finding it all endearing. how is it eandearing when you can't have a conversation with someone?? So we go back to his house (this is the first time). He tells me it's behind Allston Wine and Spirits...what I didn't realize until we were there, is that he wasn't kidding. The place is literally sharing an alley with 49 Mexicans and a bunch of dumpsters. The walk leading up to this apartment (I use the word "apartment" extremely loosely here), consists of a metal fire-escape with random bicycles chained to it. So I scale my way up behind him, the little heels of my flats getting stuck in the metal cracks and wires leading in and out of the dwellings.
So he lets me in (without any warning, desclaimer, release to sign) and I am immediately slapped in the face with a stanch so think I can chew it. There are cats everywhere, dishes....etc (refer back to the previous description). He leads me through the kitchen and into his room (mattress on the floor), where I find yet another cat. The 5x5 square grafitti-adorned cell covered in cat hair and little grey pebbles of litter (sexy). So I sit down on the mattress and we proceed to pass a 40 back and forth while he lights a thousand joints and smokes them all at once (no wonder this guy can't form sentences!).We end up making out to youTube videos, and the next thing I know I'm waking up with a cats ass next to my left cheek, and an arm draped accross my chest. The sounds of snoring/wheezing fill the room.
We snuggle for a couple of hours, periodically shutting off our cell phone alarms , until finally waking uo. My head feels like it took part in a boxing match, and evey square-inch of my body is covered in reddish-white cat hair. There are flies hovering around the ceiling, and the drone of a fan pushing hot air around the room. What am I doing here? I should be jogging, or pretending to write something insightful on a Starbucks loveseat, or making breakfast and watching the news. I am an adult!
How does one allow themselves to make these desisions?? There were MANY clear red flags here, which I chose to whiz by at breakneck speeds, and for what? Because he's a "good guy?" The sad thing is that this went on for weeks. I mean, he was very charming and sweet, but I have barely scratched the surface of the problems with the situation. There was a time when we rode the bus together (romantic) because he had to see his PAROLE officer, and it was on the way. Im like, "Ok, great! A bus ride together!" What!!!!? Where is the voice saying "why the fuck do you HAVE a parole officer!!?"
Needless to say, I eventually came to my senses, and it does make for a great story, but clearly that wasn't my intention at the time. The lesson to be learned here, is that although saying no can be hard, sometimes seeing the good in people puts blinders on you, and make you miss the MESS of shit you're about to step in. It's safe to say that I've stepped in it enough times to know.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Back to the beginning; "The Guy who Loves you but Treats you Like Shit"
OK this one goes back a long way... When I started writing this blog, I thought it would be funny to write the random, and funny dating experiences that I went through in the past, or was going through at the present. Now it's just reminiscing... But, don't give up on me! There are many stories that I still have to share! And hopefully I can get some feedback/insight from people (are you out there??) reading them.
So about "The Guy..."; This one remains a complete mystery to me. We (women) continue a friendship witha person who continues to build you up, and lets you down like clock-work every time you rely on him. So why do we keep relying on this person? It's like some weird addiction we go through...We look at him, and feel stupid butterflies, but as soon as he opens his mouth, we know eveything he says is total bullshit! But, we smile and nod, and fall into his arms whenever it's convenient for him, because it makes us feel good to be "loved". (That may have sounded pathetic, but what's more pathetic is the guy who is afraid to get close to someone so they reel you in just to hurt you).
There was a time when you fell for his trickery, and now, for some reason you have it all figured out. And by "all figured out" I mean that you tell everyone that you are done with him and his foolishness...BUT, you can't bring yourself to erase his number from your phone. So for years and YEARS you call each-other, and he tells you everything that you want to hear. His voice alone makes your knees buckle. And yet, somehow each time you hang up, you're left with that same empty feeling. Ahhh! Why do you keep tricking yourself into believing that this is something even remotely real? Why does he keep doing this?
We do it because it's a good feeling (for the short term), and then we go on beating ourselves up. From our (extremely distorted) point of view, this guys says and has us believe that he is going to whisk us off our feet, and we'll "be together forever". Please. Then he lures us into bed with his unsurpassed charm and sex-appeal (note: I have come to believe, and know, that charm is NOT to be trusted), and leaves the next day only to avoid our phone calls for the next 4-6 months. Then you see each-other at a party, drinking ensues, and the cycle continues!
So about "The Guy..."; This one remains a complete mystery to me. We (women) continue a friendship witha person who continues to build you up, and lets you down like clock-work every time you rely on him. So why do we keep relying on this person? It's like some weird addiction we go through...We look at him, and feel stupid butterflies, but as soon as he opens his mouth, we know eveything he says is total bullshit! But, we smile and nod, and fall into his arms whenever it's convenient for him, because it makes us feel good to be "loved". (That may have sounded pathetic, but what's more pathetic is the guy who is afraid to get close to someone so they reel you in just to hurt you).
There was a time when you fell for his trickery, and now, for some reason you have it all figured out. And by "all figured out" I mean that you tell everyone that you are done with him and his foolishness...BUT, you can't bring yourself to erase his number from your phone. So for years and YEARS you call each-other, and he tells you everything that you want to hear. His voice alone makes your knees buckle. And yet, somehow each time you hang up, you're left with that same empty feeling. Ahhh! Why do you keep tricking yourself into believing that this is something even remotely real? Why does he keep doing this?
We do it because it's a good feeling (for the short term), and then we go on beating ourselves up. From our (extremely distorted) point of view, this guys says and has us believe that he is going to whisk us off our feet, and we'll "be together forever". Please. Then he lures us into bed with his unsurpassed charm and sex-appeal (note: I have come to believe, and know, that charm is NOT to be trusted), and leaves the next day only to avoid our phone calls for the next 4-6 months. Then you see each-other at a party, drinking ensues, and the cycle continues!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
What does it really take?
When starting to date someone, there are many factors to take into consideration; whether or not you have things in common, what kind of music you both listen to, basically just finding out whether you can tolerate each other in most ways. There are a series of tests that relationships, old and new, must undergo in order to ensure that you can work it out for the long haul. The tests can range from meeting the family, to going on a long road trip, to seeing how your friends feel about him (and vice-versa), and so on. And most of the time we don't even realize that we are living one NOW.
I have been in many dating/relationship situations (enough that I wanted to write about them...) and through all of them my partner in crime at the time and I have gone through these tests. I have always seen the ways in which one, or both or us, fail. And before you know it, you've spent a year with someone only to dump them because you don't like how they chew, or drive, or they talk too much during movies. But that's not the real reason they fall apart.
We're all very different people, and through our childhoods, and into the adult years, we grow into who we are now. Not one single person shares all of the same experiences as another. So it's no suprise that of COURSE it's hard finding one person that we can spend the rest of our lives with. It's about finding the person that you can relate to enough, yet you can fill in the blanks for each-other where needed.
I'm certainly no expert. And I've thought that I found "the one" before. But I'm in a place now where I feel, for once in my life, that I may have found a true partner in crime. Someone who shares a lot of similar qualities to mine, but someone I've found myself learning from, whose opinion I trust. Don't get me wrong, there are still some serious tests ahead. But isn't that what life is anyway? It's definitely never easy. But isn't it worth it to have someone to stand, or fall with?
How much is it ok to be different in a relationship? Is it about passing these small tests, or finding someone to take them with?
I have been in many dating/relationship situations (enough that I wanted to write about them...) and through all of them my partner in crime at the time and I have gone through these tests. I have always seen the ways in which one, or both or us, fail. And before you know it, you've spent a year with someone only to dump them because you don't like how they chew, or drive, or they talk too much during movies. But that's not the real reason they fall apart.
We're all very different people, and through our childhoods, and into the adult years, we grow into who we are now. Not one single person shares all of the same experiences as another. So it's no suprise that of COURSE it's hard finding one person that we can spend the rest of our lives with. It's about finding the person that you can relate to enough, yet you can fill in the blanks for each-other where needed.
I'm certainly no expert. And I've thought that I found "the one" before. But I'm in a place now where I feel, for once in my life, that I may have found a true partner in crime. Someone who shares a lot of similar qualities to mine, but someone I've found myself learning from, whose opinion I trust. Don't get me wrong, there are still some serious tests ahead. But isn't that what life is anyway? It's definitely never easy. But isn't it worth it to have someone to stand, or fall with?
How much is it ok to be different in a relationship? Is it about passing these small tests, or finding someone to take them with?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The "Friend-Who-Makes-it-Awkward"
Most women have experienced this phenomenon. Maybe it's a guy who put you in "the friend zone" and you've been pining over him for years. Or maybe it''s someone you have absolutely no attraction to that happened to look remotely do-able in the dim candlelight during a thunderstorm. So you end up laughing a little too hard at each-other's jokes, and before you know it, he's leaning in for a smootch. For some reason, you let it happen, and continue to let it happen while he's jabbing his overzealous tongue into your tonsils. Next thing you know, he's climbing out the window of the second floor building you're in so all of your friends downstairs wont know that you crossed the line! And you're left lying in a pool of your own sweat (and whatever dignity you have left). The night comes to an end, and you go home with a big question mark hovering over your head like a halo. But you continue to hang out for years to come, with that small tinge of awkwardness following you around. Happens to the best of us....
So why does this happen? Especially if they are so ashamed with their decision, that they feel the need to escape like an Alcatraz prisoner so no one finds out what they've done (or whom...) The world may never know!
So let's hear those stories Ladies (and Gents...)! Bring on the awkward.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Clam Box Epiphany!
Why do relationships fail? Why do men have a completely different view than women? What's going through our heads, and (more importantly) what's going through theirs?
Driving down the highway, it's 93 degrees and our thighs are stuck to the leather seats. We talk about men, laugh, and listen to "Rock Me Like a Hurricane" at 300 decibels. To the middle-aged man in the car next to us, we're just two happy girls taking life by the balls with the wind in our hair! But there's something missing. Something lingering. In the bottom right-hand corner of my cracked windshield is a little sticker with a big red "R" on it. What is this sticker? It's the rejection that was given to me by the smiley guy with body odor at the gas station yesterday morning. This sticker is also a small red reminder of what we have in the bottom right-hand corner of our minds as we enter the world of dating.
It all started when Jess got dumped on her birthday.
We find ourselves on the way to the beach, both in the same place in our lives; without men, covered in fake tanning lotion, and living in a trying-to-be-posh apartment (I emphasize the word "posh") with one superficial-conversation-at-a-bar after another. We wake up hungover with reciepts in our purses, blurry beer smudged phone numbers on the back. But for some reason we're happy to be alone right now. Well, thats what we're convincing ourselves. We've been through it all at this point! The guy who buys you a drink and end up next to you in the morning, the guy you date for three months who's gay, the guy who adores everything you do and hangs out with you EVERY SECOND, the guy who has so much "potential", the lazy guy, the party guy, the momma's boy, the controlling, jealous, immature, game-playing, bad mannered, illiterate, BO smelling, bad breathed, judgemental, drug-dealing, starving artist who wants you for sex. And by the way, your "I got hurt and made a big mistake" love-song, sucks.
So we sit down at "The Clam Box" to share a fish sandwich (which was horrendously bland by the way). There's a period of silence between us. I'm texting some guy every thirty seconds, whom I've never even met in person about my sunburn, and she's deleting the texts that have gone unreplied-to for over 24 hours. We look at each-other and put our phones down. Is this what we've come to?
So why does history repeat itself? We spend hours choosing the right leopard belt to wear with our skinny jeans, and days mulling over whether or not that bag is worth $400 dollars (even though it's too small for anything but your peach-crush lip salve and a condom). But we smile and batt our mascara covered eyelashes at the first guy that looks at us (provided he's not too emo or fat). Innevitably we end up getting the number, in whatever slick fashion Mr. RightNow decides to give it, and spend the rest of the night with our maybethisisapotentialguy blinders on. And so the texting begins. Maybe we see each other over coffee and decide we're not that into each-other and move on. But the phone number remains. Weeks go by and we're at home reading the latest witty pop-culture bashing novel and watching the Food Network. Suddenly Mr. RightNow doesn't look so bad anymore. A text-coversation ensues, and before we know it we're consuming large quantities of the latest seasonal brew while that starving artist serenades us with his unimpressive "love" song. We end up going back to his place and wake up as familiar strangers in his lofty apartment in East Boston. Four or five wasted months go by and we get dumped on our birthday, only to end right back where we started!
Driving down the highway, it's 93 degrees and our thighs are stuck to the leather seats. We talk about men, laugh, and listen to "Rock Me Like a Hurricane" at 300 decibels. To the middle-aged man in the car next to us, we're just two happy girls taking life by the balls with the wind in our hair! But there's something missing. Something lingering. In the bottom right-hand corner of my cracked windshield is a little sticker with a big red "R" on it. What is this sticker? It's the rejection that was given to me by the smiley guy with body odor at the gas station yesterday morning. This sticker is also a small red reminder of what we have in the bottom right-hand corner of our minds as we enter the world of dating.
It all started when Jess got dumped on her birthday.
We find ourselves on the way to the beach, both in the same place in our lives; without men, covered in fake tanning lotion, and living in a trying-to-be-posh apartment (I emphasize the word "posh") with one superficial-conversation-at-a-bar after another. We wake up hungover with reciepts in our purses, blurry beer smudged phone numbers on the back. But for some reason we're happy to be alone right now. Well, thats what we're convincing ourselves. We've been through it all at this point! The guy who buys you a drink and end up next to you in the morning, the guy you date for three months who's gay, the guy who adores everything you do and hangs out with you EVERY SECOND, the guy who has so much "potential", the lazy guy, the party guy, the momma's boy, the controlling, jealous, immature, game-playing, bad mannered, illiterate, BO smelling, bad breathed, judgemental, drug-dealing, starving artist who wants you for sex. And by the way, your "I got hurt and made a big mistake" love-song, sucks.
So we sit down at "The Clam Box" to share a fish sandwich (which was horrendously bland by the way). There's a period of silence between us. I'm texting some guy every thirty seconds, whom I've never even met in person about my sunburn, and she's deleting the texts that have gone unreplied-to for over 24 hours. We look at each-other and put our phones down. Is this what we've come to?
So why does history repeat itself? We spend hours choosing the right leopard belt to wear with our skinny jeans, and days mulling over whether or not that bag is worth $400 dollars (even though it's too small for anything but your peach-crush lip salve and a condom). But we smile and batt our mascara covered eyelashes at the first guy that looks at us (provided he's not too emo or fat). Innevitably we end up getting the number, in whatever slick fashion Mr. RightNow decides to give it, and spend the rest of the night with our maybethisisapotentialguy blinders on. And so the texting begins. Maybe we see each other over coffee and decide we're not that into each-other and move on. But the phone number remains. Weeks go by and we're at home reading the latest witty pop-culture bashing novel and watching the Food Network. Suddenly Mr. RightNow doesn't look so bad anymore. A text-coversation ensues, and before we know it we're consuming large quantities of the latest seasonal brew while that starving artist serenades us with his unimpressive "love" song. We end up going back to his place and wake up as familiar strangers in his lofty apartment in East Boston. Four or five wasted months go by and we get dumped on our birthday, only to end right back where we started!
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