1. The Editor did call, finally. We mutually agreed that things weren't going to move forward, and I have since forgotten he even exists. The Edi-who?
2. The other day, I made fun of Larry, who is cable sales. I regret that comment, mostly because I didn't read the REST of Larry's profile which reads, "I have a past history of working in Gentleman's Clubs. If this bothers you, close me out."
Dear Neil Clark Warren:
Are you friggin' kidding me?! I have 29 levels of compatibility with this dude? REALLY, NCW? REEEEEEEALLY?
Love and kisses (but not until marriage),
Moi
3. Haven't heard from The Aviator. I'm a little surprised, but not too upset. Whatev. If I really liked him all that much, I would have dumped The Editor for him in the first place. So, I guess I should probably settle for Larry, who is cable sales and who spends his free time with nude women.
4. I'm so glad I'm doing eHarmony. This has been the best $119 I've ever spent.
(Note: The Aviator just called. We're going out on Friday night. Never a dull moment.)
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Ding, dong, The Editor's dead.
Well, he'd damn well better be--I haven't heard from him in a week.
(Warning: This post has nothing to do with vegetarianism.)
When last we left our intrepid Dating Vegetarian (me), The Editor had come over for dinner on Monday night. Before he left my house, we made plans for Thursday. "I'll give you a call later this week," he said.
Thursday, no call.
"No biggie," I thought. "I'll just go to bed early, and tomorrow I'll reap the benefits of him feeling like a terrible person for standing me up!"
But there was no call on Friday. I texted--no response.
Saturday, I called. Didn't leave a message. No response.
Last night, at the end of my rope, I called and left a message. It could have gone a few different ways--I vacillated between some variation on the following themes:
1. "Eff you! Stick it in your ear! Your mom!"
2. "::sniffsniff:: Just wondering why I haven't heard from you...I miss you...call me, please..."
3. "You know what? There are better ways to handle what's going on here. Calling me is the right thing to do, and you know it. If you think this is the best you can do, I'm not going to try to change your mind, but I think I deserve some closure."
Yes, I opted for choice 3.
I know, I know. I should have played the Cool Girl and never called him. But guess what? I am NOT cool. Not at all. I do crossword puzzles and I like "The Jerk" and I eat cereal 3 meals a day. So I did what I had to do, even though I know it's not right for everyone.
(I like how I'm making myself sound completely coherent and calm in this little personal essay.)
(Don't you love blogging?? I do.)
I'm feeling pretty okay about life today, but there were tears shed at the expense of this a-hole.
(Can you believe it?? I can't.)
Moral of the story, we went out on 14 dates--in my mind, that's definitely within the range of expecting to be told that we're breaking up, rather than him taking the "witness protection program" route.
I'd consider myself a highly suspicious person, and I really didn't have much of an indication that I'd never hear from him again. I mean, there were a few moments of "hmmm...really?", but in general, things seemed to be scootching along pretty smoothly. I certainly never put pressure on him, I didn't see my unborn children in his eyes (gag), I didn't even refer to him as my "boyfriend" (mostly because I hate that word). He just disappeared like the fine morning mist.
Granted, he might be dead, trapped in a cage somewhere, or paralyzed from the neck down, but I'm pretty sure things are over.
SO. I did what any self-respecting Blogstress (yes, Blogstress) would do.
I called The Aviator.
More on that as it develops.
And for the sake of my financial investment, I got back on eHarmony a minute ago. Wading through the dunes of inadequate men, I started to realize a common theme--I'm getting "closed" by guys that I wouldn't even consider dating.
WHAT??? Don't they know who I am?!?
My favorite is a man named Larry. He's 42, his profile picture features his truck, and as his occupation, he has listed "I am cable sales."
Really, Larry? You are cable sales?
Best of all, he has closed me out because--and this response was chosen from a long list of choices provided by eHarmony, lest you think Larry is suddenly halfway articulate--"based in statements in the profile, the difference in our values is too great".
DO YOU THINK SO, LARRY??
I'm just very frustrated with the whole eHarmony scenario right now--they're matching me up with guys who are considerably younger than I am, or considerably older than I am, or with whom I am clearly not compatible on any level. Worst of all, the last thing I needed to see when I opened my account was the following:
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
CLOSED
Because with every shmuckatelli that closes me out, that's one step closer to
DYING
ALONE
IN
A
TRAILER
FULL
OF
CATS
I'm going to drink some wine now, I think. And maybe eat some ice cream. And call my best friend and cry, because if I'm already a walking cliche, I might as well just hit it out of the park.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Two Faces Have I.
Do you know that old song?
"Two faces have I...one to laugh and one to cry..."
If you don't know it, you can watch it here, or you can live your life devoid of the pleasure of hearing Lou Christy sing "Two faces have IIIIIiiiIIIIIIII...YI YI YI YI OH-OH-OH".
Disclaimer: I will just state, for the record, that I thought the song was "Do Faces Have Eyes" until about 3 weeks ago. This disclaimer has been brought to you by My Utter Uncoolness.
At any rate, here's why I feel like this song sums up my life at this point.
I want you to imagine that there's something you want very much to be good at (sentence ending with a preposition, suck it). Crochet, for example. Or, for that matter, croquet. Or crouton-making. The list goes on.
Now, I want you to imagine that EVERY TIME you make a feeble attempt at crocheting a sweater, for example. Or for that matter, winning a croquet tournament. Or crouton-making. EVERY TIME you try, all of your friends see the end result of your efforts. Your too-long, uneven scarf. Your terrible croquet score. Your revolting, chewy croutons. All of your friends and family see your failures, and they judge you, over and over, for being a major crochet/croquet/crouton tool and, while they still love you--and they don't love you any less for your failures--a part of them will always feel sorry for you.
"Oh, there goes Blahblah. Such a nice girl...but her croutons bring shame to her family."
This inane analogy, folks, is how I feel about relationships. Every time I get one started--I fan the feeble fire into flame (alliteration. high-five!)--it burns out magnificently usually taking my eyebrows/dignity with it. I hate introducing guys I'm seeing to friends and family, because I know that when it ends--even if he's an idiot with no job or no body hair or mustard on his shirt--ultimately I chose badly. Sure, it's not my fault that he can't spell (like, at all. like, on a 2nd grade level), or that he's obsessed with lousy bands, or that his hair has kind of fallen out in random patches, but I picked him. I picked him, and I coddled him, and I tried to make it work, and it didn't. So not only did I lower my standards, I got crapped on. Standards: lowered. Crap: achieved.
This is not written to be any reflection of how things are going with The Editor. If anything, I am psychotic (please act surprised) and am ascribing jerk-like tendencies to the poor guy when he's just trying to live his sweet little life. It's just to say that this is why no one will meet him any time soon. I had a little taste of how things would go if they ended this weekend--all is fine, no need to break out the Ani DiFranco albums--and I've decided that I'm just not ready to let the world experience my croutons quite yet.
And now, how this ties in to that inane song...
This weekend was rough. The Editor and I were NOT communicating at all, and the results were very hurt feelings and me driving around Western PA practicing The Break Up Speech in my car.
(Go ahead and act like you've never done such a thing.)
(I don't believe you.)
The worst part of it all, though, was that I kept thinking, "How am I going to tell my friends? How am I going to tell them that I failed AGAIN at keepin' it together?" So, I act like everything's cool. I put on my Sunny Disposition and made it through the weekend. And in hindsight, I realize that if I feel like telling my friends is going to be the hardest part of a breakup, well, things aren't that bad.
So, back to current events.
And yes, I realize that if I'd update my blog more frequently, I wouldn't have to write mammoth entries. Thank you for your input.
Things with The Editor are fine. He called out of the blue tonight for being incommunicado yesterday (a minor bone of contention), and stopped over for a quick dinner. We went out on Saturday and saw "Public Enemies" (pretty good), and we had dinner at Bravo (really good).
Do you think I use too many parentheses?
(Yes.)
On to VEGETARIANISM.
I miss meat like the ocean misses the shore. If meat and I were in high school together, I'd write in its yearbook, "Dear Meat, U R 2 Good 2 B 4 Gotten.". I write haiku (haikus? what the heck's the plural to "haiku"??!) to meat.
Meat, you elude me.
I crave you between my teeth
And in my tummy.
Here's today's exceptionally weird meat craving moment (nope, that wasn't it):
I got a text from The Editor yesterday while he was at a concert--the text said, "Got me a tshirt!", and in my meat-deprived state, I read, "I got meat shirt!"
I was all, MEAT SHIRT. MUST GET MEAT SHIRT.
I'm turning into a Neanderthal. I suspect that this does not happen to lifelong vegetarians.
"Two faces have I...one to laugh and one to cry..."
If you don't know it, you can watch it here, or you can live your life devoid of the pleasure of hearing Lou Christy sing "Two faces have IIIIIiiiIIIIIIII...YI YI YI YI OH-OH-OH".
Disclaimer: I will just state, for the record, that I thought the song was "Do Faces Have Eyes" until about 3 weeks ago. This disclaimer has been brought to you by My Utter Uncoolness.
At any rate, here's why I feel like this song sums up my life at this point.
I want you to imagine that there's something you want very much to be good at (sentence ending with a preposition, suck it). Crochet, for example. Or, for that matter, croquet. Or crouton-making. The list goes on.
Now, I want you to imagine that EVERY TIME you make a feeble attempt at crocheting a sweater, for example. Or for that matter, winning a croquet tournament. Or crouton-making. EVERY TIME you try, all of your friends see the end result of your efforts. Your too-long, uneven scarf. Your terrible croquet score. Your revolting, chewy croutons. All of your friends and family see your failures, and they judge you, over and over, for being a major crochet/croquet/crouton tool and, while they still love you--and they don't love you any less for your failures--a part of them will always feel sorry for you.
"Oh, there goes Blahblah. Such a nice girl...but her croutons bring shame to her family."
This inane analogy, folks, is how I feel about relationships. Every time I get one started--I fan the feeble fire into flame (alliteration. high-five!)--it burns out magnificently usually taking my eyebrows/dignity with it. I hate introducing guys I'm seeing to friends and family, because I know that when it ends--even if he's an idiot with no job or no body hair or mustard on his shirt--ultimately I chose badly. Sure, it's not my fault that he can't spell (like, at all. like, on a 2nd grade level), or that he's obsessed with lousy bands, or that his hair has kind of fallen out in random patches, but I picked him. I picked him, and I coddled him, and I tried to make it work, and it didn't. So not only did I lower my standards, I got crapped on. Standards: lowered. Crap: achieved.
This is not written to be any reflection of how things are going with The Editor. If anything, I am psychotic (please act surprised) and am ascribing jerk-like tendencies to the poor guy when he's just trying to live his sweet little life. It's just to say that this is why no one will meet him any time soon. I had a little taste of how things would go if they ended this weekend--all is fine, no need to break out the Ani DiFranco albums--and I've decided that I'm just not ready to let the world experience my croutons quite yet.
And now, how this ties in to that inane song...
This weekend was rough. The Editor and I were NOT communicating at all, and the results were very hurt feelings and me driving around Western PA practicing The Break Up Speech in my car.
(Go ahead and act like you've never done such a thing.)
(I don't believe you.)
The worst part of it all, though, was that I kept thinking, "How am I going to tell my friends? How am I going to tell them that I failed AGAIN at keepin' it together?" So, I act like everything's cool. I put on my Sunny Disposition and made it through the weekend. And in hindsight, I realize that if I feel like telling my friends is going to be the hardest part of a breakup, well, things aren't that bad.
So, back to current events.
And yes, I realize that if I'd update my blog more frequently, I wouldn't have to write mammoth entries. Thank you for your input.
Things with The Editor are fine. He called out of the blue tonight for being incommunicado yesterday (a minor bone of contention), and stopped over for a quick dinner. We went out on Saturday and saw "Public Enemies" (pretty good), and we had dinner at Bravo (really good).
Do you think I use too many parentheses?
(Yes.)
On to VEGETARIANISM.
I miss meat like the ocean misses the shore. If meat and I were in high school together, I'd write in its yearbook, "Dear Meat, U R 2 Good 2 B 4 Gotten.". I write haiku (haikus? what the heck's the plural to "haiku"??!) to meat.
Meat, you elude me.
I crave you between my teeth
And in my tummy.
Here's today's exceptionally weird meat craving moment (nope, that wasn't it):
I got a text from The Editor yesterday while he was at a concert--the text said, "Got me a tshirt!", and in my meat-deprived state, I read, "I got meat shirt!"
I was all, MEAT SHIRT. MUST GET MEAT SHIRT.
I'm turning into a Neanderthal. I suspect that this does not happen to lifelong vegetarians.
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