I hid from my ex's mom in the store today because I wasn't expecting to see her, or anyone I know really, and I kinda looked like hell.
I hate that you have to actually dress well to go grocery shopping on a Saturday. I hate that we have to dress well AT ALL on weekends. I am most definitely a no makeup-baseball cap-jeans-tennies-sweatshirt on the weekend kind of gal but even in my crappy town most people aren't. And it doesn't help that I get all kinds of guilt from dating gurus about how I have to look my best all the time. I'm tired. I don't care. I want to get up and go. I envy the no muss super short hair of men, and the fact that they aren't judged for not wearing mascara, and that they can look effortlessly casual in jeans and a hoodie.
I look like a bloated soccer mom with bad skin because my hormones are all kinds of F'd up and I don't want to put on a damn pair of spanx to fit into regular pants just so I can go to Trader Joe's. And I wouldn't so much mind looking like a soccer mom in general if I had kids, or a husband or at this point even a damn pen pal who played soccer but I have none of those things. I'm a woman over the age of thirty with no one at home but a needy cat and a collection of sweatshirts that I'm probably too over the hill to wear.
So, I hid from my ex's mom. I dumped him two years ago. 99% of the time if I would have run into her it would have been no big deal but YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. I'm tired, in a very, very bad mood (just found out I have no job in a few months: AWESOME), my face has acne which cannot be tamed, I look six months pregnant from bloat weight, I'm miserable, it's like 3 degrees outside yet bitches be all up in the store on a Saturday morning looking cute as shit, I've just been accosted by "can I wash your wind sheild" homeless mentally ill guy, I'm all kinds of emotionally off kilter and miserable, so OF COURSE the mom of the guy who fucking decimated my heart two years ago is in the grocery store. I managed to avoid her just fine and kinda laugh it off but...yuck.
Now I'm at home in my disaster of an apartment (I managed to get the Christmas tree out yesterday...along with the Halloween pumpkins I put Santa hats on out on my porch, but I still haven't vacuumed up the pine needles) just sorta starting at the wall, there is a TON to do but I'm not doing it. Also, related to nothing, I'm signed up for speed dating next week. Which no part of me wants to do but I figure I have to do to say I tried at least once.
I need a hug. Or someone to come hang out with me while I do laundry and then we can watch bad reality TV together. That would be really, very nice.
If I could afford it I'd just have all my damn groceries delivered.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
My cat ate carpet and no that is not innuendo get your dirty filthy mind out of the gutter you bastards
My cat ate carpet.
She got sick and when I went to clean her up there was, how to put this delicately...a damned eight inch piece of carpet that I had to gently pull from her bum which resulted in even more sick getting everywhere. Sorry, that is as polite as I can put it. I'm relieved that my poor baby is okay, but scared because WHAT THE HELL CAT? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF? What if the carpet had wound itself around her intestines? What if she had choked? What if she is eating more damn carpet RIGHT NOW? WHAT WHAT WHAT?
I cleaned up the area where she had clearly been tearing up the carpet then covered the whole thing with duct tape AND sprayed it with no chew spray AND put a motion detector that makes a noise and sprays air if she goes near it to keep her from tearing at that patch of carpet which she seems to have suddenly developed an interest in; an interest so intense you would think she saw someone bury gold bouillon and cans of tuna under there.
I also went around my whole entire condo and trimmed any bits of carpet that were poking up and taped up any edges that could be torn up. But that doesn't comfort me much, I mean, WHAT THE HELL CAT? I have, no joke, like 15 cat books. Cats for Idiots. Cats for Dummies. Cats for slightly OCD adults who have never successfully cared for an animal before. Amazon is pretty convinced I'm an animal hoarder shut-in that likes to read about Feline Infectious Peritonitis. And I will tell you this, for all those 15 books that I read from cover to cover NONE OF THEM covered what to do when your stupid cat decides to do things like ingest carpet. Or lick shampoo. Or try to eat tile cleaner. Or tries to stick their paw in BOILING WATER.
I have books for Cats That Are Trouble Cats. Cats That Scratch. I wish I had a book for Cats That Play With Matches and Aerosol Hairspray. But none of these books address things like: What to do when your cat still won't stay off the damn counters or stove after a full year of training, What to do when your cat tries to eat an entire scarf, What do do when your cat ignores the SEVEN different styles and types of scratching posts you got for them and still tries to destroy Grandma's antique chair. All the books stress consistency. I have been consistent. All the books suggest re-routing the cat's attention. I re-route. I have finally had to get training devices, like plastic mats covered in plastic spikes to cover the stove when it is not in use, two sided sticky tape which my cat just pulls off with her teeth, anti chew spray which I suspect my cat drinks in a martini glass while I am out of the house and motion detectors that spray air and make noise but only worked to scare her for about a week. My cat is alternately the smartest animal in the world or possibly the dumbest f'n being to have ever lived.
I have three cat trees up. I have cat shelves over the couch. There are SEVEN, did I mention SEVEN scratching post type options. I have a floor to ceiling cat tent thing up. I put out mini cat tents and cat tunnels for her, which she just shreds to pieces but at least she is entertained. I own Every. Single. Cat. Toy. Ever. Made. and I rotate them on a weekly basis so they're always "new". She has puzzle toys filled with treats. I play with her every night. I put up cat napping beds in every window. She has cardboard boxes and paper bags to play in. She has everything. Never has a cat been so spoiled. Wait, not true: she is second in the spoiling department only to Karl Lagerfeld's cat. (Damn I want TWO maids!)
I'm at my wit's end, I don't know what to do. She has to be an indoor cat, her immune system can't handle being outside. Is she bored? Lonely? Insane? Is this normal? What do I do? I'm scared she'll eat more carpet and die. Survival of the fittest yadda yadda I know but all this aside I really like her, I can't imagine life without her, how do I teach an unteachable animal to stop trying to kill herself?
She got sick and when I went to clean her up there was, how to put this delicately...a damned eight inch piece of carpet that I had to gently pull from her bum which resulted in even more sick getting everywhere. Sorry, that is as polite as I can put it. I'm relieved that my poor baby is okay, but scared because WHAT THE HELL CAT? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF? What if the carpet had wound itself around her intestines? What if she had choked? What if she is eating more damn carpet RIGHT NOW? WHAT WHAT WHAT?
I cleaned up the area where she had clearly been tearing up the carpet then covered the whole thing with duct tape AND sprayed it with no chew spray AND put a motion detector that makes a noise and sprays air if she goes near it to keep her from tearing at that patch of carpet which she seems to have suddenly developed an interest in; an interest so intense you would think she saw someone bury gold bouillon and cans of tuna under there.
I also went around my whole entire condo and trimmed any bits of carpet that were poking up and taped up any edges that could be torn up. But that doesn't comfort me much, I mean, WHAT THE HELL CAT? I have, no joke, like 15 cat books. Cats for Idiots. Cats for Dummies. Cats for slightly OCD adults who have never successfully cared for an animal before. Amazon is pretty convinced I'm an animal hoarder shut-in that likes to read about Feline Infectious Peritonitis. And I will tell you this, for all those 15 books that I read from cover to cover NONE OF THEM covered what to do when your stupid cat decides to do things like ingest carpet. Or lick shampoo. Or try to eat tile cleaner. Or tries to stick their paw in BOILING WATER.
I have books for Cats That Are Trouble Cats. Cats That Scratch. I wish I had a book for Cats That Play With Matches and Aerosol Hairspray. But none of these books address things like: What to do when your cat still won't stay off the damn counters or stove after a full year of training, What to do when your cat tries to eat an entire scarf, What do do when your cat ignores the SEVEN different styles and types of scratching posts you got for them and still tries to destroy Grandma's antique chair. All the books stress consistency. I have been consistent. All the books suggest re-routing the cat's attention. I re-route. I have finally had to get training devices, like plastic mats covered in plastic spikes to cover the stove when it is not in use, two sided sticky tape which my cat just pulls off with her teeth, anti chew spray which I suspect my cat drinks in a martini glass while I am out of the house and motion detectors that spray air and make noise but only worked to scare her for about a week. My cat is alternately the smartest animal in the world or possibly the dumbest f'n being to have ever lived.
I have three cat trees up. I have cat shelves over the couch. There are SEVEN, did I mention SEVEN scratching post type options. I have a floor to ceiling cat tent thing up. I put out mini cat tents and cat tunnels for her, which she just shreds to pieces but at least she is entertained. I own Every. Single. Cat. Toy. Ever. Made. and I rotate them on a weekly basis so they're always "new". She has puzzle toys filled with treats. I play with her every night. I put up cat napping beds in every window. She has cardboard boxes and paper bags to play in. She has everything. Never has a cat been so spoiled. Wait, not true: she is second in the spoiling department only to Karl Lagerfeld's cat. (Damn I want TWO maids!)
I'm at my wit's end, I don't know what to do. She has to be an indoor cat, her immune system can't handle being outside. Is she bored? Lonely? Insane? Is this normal? What do I do? I'm scared she'll eat more carpet and die. Survival of the fittest yadda yadda I know but all this aside I really like her, I can't imagine life without her, how do I teach an unteachable animal to stop trying to kill herself?
Sunday, September 9, 2012
My cat is co-dependent, does that make me her enabler?
If I try to close a door with me on one side and my cat on the other SHE LOSES HER DAMN MIND. I don't know if she thinks I bust out the piles of catnip and fresh tuna on the other side of the door and throw a party for other cats I have hidden in my purse or closet but she is pissed and lets me know it.
She wales.
She scratches.
She throws herself at the door.
Her cries are so loud, so miserable, so visceral, that a passerby would report me to animal control immediately, only after breaking into my house themselves to rescue the poor little injured and abused animal. I don't know why she does this. The best I can figure out is that she is insanely co-dependent.
I haven't gone to the bathroom alone in my apartment since I adopted her ten months ago. At least she no longer insists on actually sitting on my shoulders while I attend to my business, now she just sits on the counter, either licking my face or resting her paw on my shoulder as a sign of what I can only assume is moral support. I don't show her this kind of support when she is in her litter box so I don't know how she got the impression that I need it. I mean, yes, I am lonely as hell, but most people who are lonely don't require moral support while peeing. And it would be nice to take a nap someday without her sleeping on my face but I guess this is a quirk of cat ownership. People who say cats are aloof or non-affectionate have never met my clingy little ball of fur.
I've intermittently tried following her punk ass around for an hour or so at a time but it doesn't phase her, she likes having me shadow her, and she relishes the attention. I suspect that if I quit my job just to follow her around and attend to her every whim she wouldn't bat an eye; balance would be restored and all would be right in the world in her mind.
I've read everything I can get my hands on to break her of the habit of screaming outside a closed door but the only suggestion is to just ride it out for weeks or even months until they give it up. I can't do this because my neighbors would kill me. She is so loud you can hear her outside and across the parking lot never mind in the units around me.Until I move to a house where the nearest neighbors are deaf or many miles away I will not know what it is like to pee or sleep or read or shower without feline company.
I try to encourage her to get hobbies of her own but she only seems to enjoy her plethora of toys if I am in the room with her and the toys at the same time. I think she just sleeps all day while I am gone, shutting down until she has an audience for the cute. At least, that is the impression she gives and she gives it well so I have no reason to doubt it She has shown no interest in reading, getting a part time job, chatting with other cats on cat-skype, nothing. I can't even get her to do the occasional load of laundry. I am her absolute only diversion besides flying bugs which are awesome and super fun but I rarely let them into the house because I am clearly a wet blanket, what are some broken lamps and dishes and overturned bookcases between friends?
So, I'm 30. I'll be 31 on Tuesday. I live alone with a co-dependent cat. I may be a cat enabler. I will probably have to attend groups or something for this. At least I will be a healthy crazy cat lady.
She wales.
She scratches.
She throws herself at the door.
Her cries are so loud, so miserable, so visceral, that a passerby would report me to animal control immediately, only after breaking into my house themselves to rescue the poor little injured and abused animal. I don't know why she does this. The best I can figure out is that she is insanely co-dependent.
I haven't gone to the bathroom alone in my apartment since I adopted her ten months ago. At least she no longer insists on actually sitting on my shoulders while I attend to my business, now she just sits on the counter, either licking my face or resting her paw on my shoulder as a sign of what I can only assume is moral support. I don't show her this kind of support when she is in her litter box so I don't know how she got the impression that I need it. I mean, yes, I am lonely as hell, but most people who are lonely don't require moral support while peeing. And it would be nice to take a nap someday without her sleeping on my face but I guess this is a quirk of cat ownership. People who say cats are aloof or non-affectionate have never met my clingy little ball of fur.
I've intermittently tried following her punk ass around for an hour or so at a time but it doesn't phase her, she likes having me shadow her, and she relishes the attention. I suspect that if I quit my job just to follow her around and attend to her every whim she wouldn't bat an eye; balance would be restored and all would be right in the world in her mind.
I've read everything I can get my hands on to break her of the habit of screaming outside a closed door but the only suggestion is to just ride it out for weeks or even months until they give it up. I can't do this because my neighbors would kill me. She is so loud you can hear her outside and across the parking lot never mind in the units around me.Until I move to a house where the nearest neighbors are deaf or many miles away I will not know what it is like to pee or sleep or read or shower without feline company.
I try to encourage her to get hobbies of her own but she only seems to enjoy her plethora of toys if I am in the room with her and the toys at the same time. I think she just sleeps all day while I am gone, shutting down until she has an audience for the cute. At least, that is the impression she gives and she gives it well so I have no reason to doubt it She has shown no interest in reading, getting a part time job, chatting with other cats on cat-skype, nothing. I can't even get her to do the occasional load of laundry. I am her absolute only diversion besides flying bugs which are awesome and super fun but I rarely let them into the house because I am clearly a wet blanket, what are some broken lamps and dishes and overturned bookcases between friends?
So, I'm 30. I'll be 31 on Tuesday. I live alone with a co-dependent cat. I may be a cat enabler. I will probably have to attend groups or something for this. At least I will be a healthy crazy cat lady.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Washing machine woes, condo hating/911 calling/upper body strength lacking/run on sentence fun
Disregard egregious spelling and grammar errors please, my eye strain is still very bad, therefore I can't edit.
The agitator in the crappy washing machine in my crappy condo has taken to eating clothes. I am not pleased. I know agitators can be pulled out so I can rescue the clothes but the brand of the stackable washer/dryer combo that my landlord bought, as far as I can tell, sometime before electricity was invented, is not recognized by google. After much googling of other brands I was able to at least figure out how to get the first bit off but the second bit, the bit where I have to pry out an agitator that is glued in place from approximately eighty trillion tiny loads of laundry since this thing only washes like, one pair of socks at a time, is impossible. I don't have the strength. Which brings me to my real topic: Being alone.
I did text a friend who lives in the same complex as me to request the man strength of her spouse and explaining that lo, I cannot get the agitator out by myself. Her helpful response was that they are busy all weekend and can't swing by to help. They live ten doors down. I have done a cumulative SHIT TON of stuff for this woman, and her guy, and now their baby. I rarely, if ever, ask for help. And I still find that when I do instead of being like "find time bitch, I need help and you owe me", I immediately just feel kinda ashamed that I asked for help in the first place and would rather hand wash my clothes in a creek, or pay someone to come out, then push the subject. And believe me, after years of therapy this is my HEALTHY response, it was much, much worse before.
I worry about when (when damnit, when! I will move someday...) I move to a new city that I will be totally, utterly, absolutely alone. I won't have a soul to call to help me with anything. But even with friends and social connections and co-workers and family nearby my life is still laughably devoid of anyone, anywhere, to help me with anything.
People know me as the reliable one who will be there to watch their kid, help them move, be the emergency contact for daycare, pick them up from and drop them off at the airport, and any other variety of supportive things. I have always been this way, but after I dumped my POS ex (18 months ago, but really, who is counting? Oh, right, me. Fuck him. I hope he is getting his face punched in at a bar right now) I really took it up a notch. In an effort to work through my pain I turned to every self help outlet I could find and they all basically resolved down to: be the change you want to see in the world, be the things you want. You want love? Love. You want kindness? Be kind. You want someone to actually give a shit and take of you for once? Take care of others. Take all that stuff you want, crave, need, and pour it out into others. Which I did, done, do.
For the action itself the above is a useful way to spend time otherwise spent drinking, crying, watching marathons of TV seasons on a laptop in bed while your cat destroys your curtains and you wish you were dead just so that for one freaking moment the pain will finally leave you the hell alone, but, big picture, it has not generated any more love, kindness, or care for me personally. Selfish, I know.
If loving creates love then why am I drained, lonely, and stuck probably having to call a plumber to pry out my agitator? Given the options of productively giving to the world or being so depressed that showering is out of the question of course I choose the former, but I am honest when I say I struggle to see the benefit in the outcome. Selfish? Probably. Honest? Yes. And I need a place to be honest. I'm sure that if I had spent the last 18 months laying in bed I would be jobless, homeless, and weigh like 800 pounds by now. But I do question the wisdom in the hours of time I put in to get essentially nothing out of it. In writing that I see that I did get something out of it, time passed, and it passed without me jumping off a bridge. So there is that. I have an answer, it is just small, and less than I would have hoped for.
So, I fear moving to a new city because I don't want to start from scratch and am terrified that it will take me damn near another decade to meet people, and actually have social support. My biggest fear of all was realized last Friday, which is important: After nearly dying 5 years ago and only making it to the hospital because someone was at my apartment with me to make me go I have since worried that something like that would happen again, only the next time there would be no one with me; and this time there wasn't.
Friday I wound up with a migraine so bad that I don't remember getting home from work. I do know that I was sick, throwing up, for hours, and could have died. I do know that around 1AM my subconscious had finally had enough and made me call 911. I went to the hospital alone in an ambulance. After they figured out what was going one and pumped me full of drugs they sent me home, hours later, alone in a taxi. For all the work I've done and all the people I know and all the "friends" I have I still was in a very dangerous situation alone, blacked out, called 911 alone (Thank you God, seriously), managed the hospital alone, and took a cab home alone the next day. This would be no different if I lived in another city. Sad and scary, though it is, the last thing that scared me about someday moving is gone: I'm already alone as fuck. Moving to a new city won't change that. No one takes care of me in this city but me. No one has ever taken care of me but me pretty much ever.
I don't have to be scared to move because I'm really not leaving anything behind. I have worked so hard, for so long, to have some kind of social structure here and on a superficial level I do but when I actually need help, as opposed to someone else, I get none. If I have to hire someone to come and pry out the damn agitator from my washing machine here it makes no difference if it is in another city. And at least I can hold out hope that in another city there are decent single men who have all their teeth and wonderful quirky women who are simply dying for a friend like me.
I abhor this condo. I only moved here "temporarily" after my last condo was destroyed by fire/water in March 2011, which means my "temporary" condo has been my crappy home for 17 months. I had intended to be here no longer than 6 months. I also abhor this city. If there is ANYONE on the planet like me or that I would enjoy spending time with they aren't within 300 square miles of this place. I don't know how to move or where to look but I do know that no matter where I wind up it can't be any worse than this, and even though I will be totally miserably alone at least I know I won't die because of it, my subconscious will see that I call 911. Plus I bet there are plumbers in every city.
The agitator in the crappy washing machine in my crappy condo has taken to eating clothes. I am not pleased. I know agitators can be pulled out so I can rescue the clothes but the brand of the stackable washer/dryer combo that my landlord bought, as far as I can tell, sometime before electricity was invented, is not recognized by google. After much googling of other brands I was able to at least figure out how to get the first bit off but the second bit, the bit where I have to pry out an agitator that is glued in place from approximately eighty trillion tiny loads of laundry since this thing only washes like, one pair of socks at a time, is impossible. I don't have the strength. Which brings me to my real topic: Being alone.
I did text a friend who lives in the same complex as me to request the man strength of her spouse and explaining that lo, I cannot get the agitator out by myself. Her helpful response was that they are busy all weekend and can't swing by to help. They live ten doors down. I have done a cumulative SHIT TON of stuff for this woman, and her guy, and now their baby. I rarely, if ever, ask for help. And I still find that when I do instead of being like "find time bitch, I need help and you owe me", I immediately just feel kinda ashamed that I asked for help in the first place and would rather hand wash my clothes in a creek, or pay someone to come out, then push the subject. And believe me, after years of therapy this is my HEALTHY response, it was much, much worse before.
I worry about when (when damnit, when! I will move someday...) I move to a new city that I will be totally, utterly, absolutely alone. I won't have a soul to call to help me with anything. But even with friends and social connections and co-workers and family nearby my life is still laughably devoid of anyone, anywhere, to help me with anything.
People know me as the reliable one who will be there to watch their kid, help them move, be the emergency contact for daycare, pick them up from and drop them off at the airport, and any other variety of supportive things. I have always been this way, but after I dumped my POS ex (18 months ago, but really, who is counting? Oh, right, me. Fuck him. I hope he is getting his face punched in at a bar right now) I really took it up a notch. In an effort to work through my pain I turned to every self help outlet I could find and they all basically resolved down to: be the change you want to see in the world, be the things you want. You want love? Love. You want kindness? Be kind. You want someone to actually give a shit and take of you for once? Take care of others. Take all that stuff you want, crave, need, and pour it out into others. Which I did, done, do.
For the action itself the above is a useful way to spend time otherwise spent drinking, crying, watching marathons of TV seasons on a laptop in bed while your cat destroys your curtains and you wish you were dead just so that for one freaking moment the pain will finally leave you the hell alone, but, big picture, it has not generated any more love, kindness, or care for me personally. Selfish, I know.
If loving creates love then why am I drained, lonely, and stuck probably having to call a plumber to pry out my agitator? Given the options of productively giving to the world or being so depressed that showering is out of the question of course I choose the former, but I am honest when I say I struggle to see the benefit in the outcome. Selfish? Probably. Honest? Yes. And I need a place to be honest. I'm sure that if I had spent the last 18 months laying in bed I would be jobless, homeless, and weigh like 800 pounds by now. But I do question the wisdom in the hours of time I put in to get essentially nothing out of it. In writing that I see that I did get something out of it, time passed, and it passed without me jumping off a bridge. So there is that. I have an answer, it is just small, and less than I would have hoped for.
So, I fear moving to a new city because I don't want to start from scratch and am terrified that it will take me damn near another decade to meet people, and actually have social support. My biggest fear of all was realized last Friday, which is important: After nearly dying 5 years ago and only making it to the hospital because someone was at my apartment with me to make me go I have since worried that something like that would happen again, only the next time there would be no one with me; and this time there wasn't.
Friday I wound up with a migraine so bad that I don't remember getting home from work. I do know that I was sick, throwing up, for hours, and could have died. I do know that around 1AM my subconscious had finally had enough and made me call 911. I went to the hospital alone in an ambulance. After they figured out what was going one and pumped me full of drugs they sent me home, hours later, alone in a taxi. For all the work I've done and all the people I know and all the "friends" I have I still was in a very dangerous situation alone, blacked out, called 911 alone (Thank you God, seriously), managed the hospital alone, and took a cab home alone the next day. This would be no different if I lived in another city. Sad and scary, though it is, the last thing that scared me about someday moving is gone: I'm already alone as fuck. Moving to a new city won't change that. No one takes care of me in this city but me. No one has ever taken care of me but me pretty much ever.
I don't have to be scared to move because I'm really not leaving anything behind. I have worked so hard, for so long, to have some kind of social structure here and on a superficial level I do but when I actually need help, as opposed to someone else, I get none. If I have to hire someone to come and pry out the damn agitator from my washing machine here it makes no difference if it is in another city. And at least I can hold out hope that in another city there are decent single men who have all their teeth and wonderful quirky women who are simply dying for a friend like me.
I abhor this condo. I only moved here "temporarily" after my last condo was destroyed by fire/water in March 2011, which means my "temporary" condo has been my crappy home for 17 months. I had intended to be here no longer than 6 months. I also abhor this city. If there is ANYONE on the planet like me or that I would enjoy spending time with they aren't within 300 square miles of this place. I don't know how to move or where to look but I do know that no matter where I wind up it can't be any worse than this, and even though I will be totally miserably alone at least I know I won't die because of it, my subconscious will see that I call 911. Plus I bet there are plumbers in every city.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Severe eye strain is my new life companion, online dating is the unholy abyss of fucking bullshit
Lo internet I have been working. And working and working and working. And all this working has caused eye strain so severe that when I get home I have to lay ice packs on my eyes and lay on the couch while my cat impatiently jumps on me and wonders why I am so damned boring. I can't look at my phone. I can't read tweets. I can barely do any regular work but I've been itching to post so I'm banging this out after icing my eyes, kindly excuse grammar and spelling atrocities.
Online dating is a total, freaking, disaster of a joke. Sure, I have picked up more anecdotes and bad date tales to add to my already looooooong list but that isn't really a perk. I had enough bad date stories already, I certainly didn't need more.
I can tell myself that it is just a law of averages thing, the more duds I meet in person the closer I get to meeting one that I don't want to get away from five minutes in, but I don't think that is the case. I think I'm just meeting a ton of (coincidentally super short) losers with severe personality disorders, ex wives that they hate, lisp problems, delusions of grandeur, and the inability to show interest in anything but themselves. It is bad people. Take how bad you think internet dating is and multiply it exponentially until you reach infinity: voila! Internet dating.
I'm pretty sure, at 30, that this is it. There is no one out there.
Certainly not within 200 miles of me. Certainly not on the internet.
I don't know why the cutoff is 30. I thought that since the median age for marriage in the United States and the rest of the world has risen during my lifetime that being 30 and single wouldn't be a pariah inducing state. I thought that being 30 and single meant that you took time to get an education, settled into a career, traveled, figured yourself out, became a better person, maybe got your heart broken, determined your values and decided to share your life with someone as a fully actualized person unlike being a dumb 22 year old with stars in your eyes and no idea what a real partnership takes. This is not the case. 30 means you are stupid, broken, over the hill (if you are a woman), damaged, weird, and bad genetic material. Over 30 is like the broken bits at the bottom of a stale bag of chips. You can't get a full chip, you can't even get half a chip, the only stuff left is defective.
At 30, with a career, and an education, my options are bitter 38 year old divorced men who charmingly refer to their ex-wives as "cunt", are shit dads to their kids, and are only putting up with meeting me for a drink because I'm blonde and for some reason the 22 year olds they keep emailing aren't responding. At 30 any man below 30 has the mentality and personality of a self obsessed frat boy with no ambition other than how good they look shirtless and no desire to do anything but fool around and are only putting up with meeting me for a drink because...I'm blonde and the 22 year olds they keep emailing aren't responding.
This all sounds bitter and damnit, it is. The bitterness that the dozens upon dozes assholes I've met for drinks and coffee and dinner all carried with them has worn off on me. I want to punch every guy I see now. I want to punch them for the shitty husbands they were, for the shitty husbands they will be, for the ridiculously awful fathers they are, for the self absorbed asshole fathers they will be, for every woman they treated like shit, for every parent/friend/family member they are a waste of space to, and for every damned retarded thought they have about how intellgent or laid back or fun loving they are. Punch punch punch. BAH.
The crap bit is that I really wasn't so beat down after my last breakup. It was bad, very bad, but it strengthened my resolve that there was somebody out there for me and that I would absolutely not settle and every heartbreak really is okay, because it is part of life and I would make it through to a better day. Ya. Well. I have to adjust all that because at 30? I don't have time to foolishly think there is someone out there for me. There isn't. It is like hoping to win the lottery: very, very few people do. I want kids. I want family. I need to stop being retarded and thinking I'll find someone to do that with because I will wake up at 45 with no family, bitter and alone, and that isn't the way to approach life. I have to get serious about saving money and coming up with a timeline for being stable, buying a house, and adoption, alone. Because at the end of the day this is 30. 30 is not 20. Time actually is ticking away. 30 will just as easily be 40, 40 will just as easily be 50. Dating will be no easier then, it will probably be much worse. I can and will have my kids alone. And FUCK this internet dating bullshit, I AM DONE. Forever.
Online dating is a total, freaking, disaster of a joke. Sure, I have picked up more anecdotes and bad date tales to add to my already looooooong list but that isn't really a perk. I had enough bad date stories already, I certainly didn't need more.
I can tell myself that it is just a law of averages thing, the more duds I meet in person the closer I get to meeting one that I don't want to get away from five minutes in, but I don't think that is the case. I think I'm just meeting a ton of (coincidentally super short) losers with severe personality disorders, ex wives that they hate, lisp problems, delusions of grandeur, and the inability to show interest in anything but themselves. It is bad people. Take how bad you think internet dating is and multiply it exponentially until you reach infinity: voila! Internet dating.
I'm pretty sure, at 30, that this is it. There is no one out there.
Certainly not within 200 miles of me. Certainly not on the internet.
I don't know why the cutoff is 30. I thought that since the median age for marriage in the United States and the rest of the world has risen during my lifetime that being 30 and single wouldn't be a pariah inducing state. I thought that being 30 and single meant that you took time to get an education, settled into a career, traveled, figured yourself out, became a better person, maybe got your heart broken, determined your values and decided to share your life with someone as a fully actualized person unlike being a dumb 22 year old with stars in your eyes and no idea what a real partnership takes. This is not the case. 30 means you are stupid, broken, over the hill (if you are a woman), damaged, weird, and bad genetic material. Over 30 is like the broken bits at the bottom of a stale bag of chips. You can't get a full chip, you can't even get half a chip, the only stuff left is defective.
At 30, with a career, and an education, my options are bitter 38 year old divorced men who charmingly refer to their ex-wives as "cunt", are shit dads to their kids, and are only putting up with meeting me for a drink because I'm blonde and for some reason the 22 year olds they keep emailing aren't responding. At 30 any man below 30 has the mentality and personality of a self obsessed frat boy with no ambition other than how good they look shirtless and no desire to do anything but fool around and are only putting up with meeting me for a drink because...I'm blonde and the 22 year olds they keep emailing aren't responding.
This all sounds bitter and damnit, it is. The bitterness that the dozens upon dozes assholes I've met for drinks and coffee and dinner all carried with them has worn off on me. I want to punch every guy I see now. I want to punch them for the shitty husbands they were, for the shitty husbands they will be, for the ridiculously awful fathers they are, for the self absorbed asshole fathers they will be, for every woman they treated like shit, for every parent/friend/family member they are a waste of space to, and for every damned retarded thought they have about how intellgent or laid back or fun loving they are. Punch punch punch. BAH.
The crap bit is that I really wasn't so beat down after my last breakup. It was bad, very bad, but it strengthened my resolve that there was somebody out there for me and that I would absolutely not settle and every heartbreak really is okay, because it is part of life and I would make it through to a better day. Ya. Well. I have to adjust all that because at 30? I don't have time to foolishly think there is someone out there for me. There isn't. It is like hoping to win the lottery: very, very few people do. I want kids. I want family. I need to stop being retarded and thinking I'll find someone to do that with because I will wake up at 45 with no family, bitter and alone, and that isn't the way to approach life. I have to get serious about saving money and coming up with a timeline for being stable, buying a house, and adoption, alone. Because at the end of the day this is 30. 30 is not 20. Time actually is ticking away. 30 will just as easily be 40, 40 will just as easily be 50. Dating will be no easier then, it will probably be much worse. I can and will have my kids alone. And FUCK this internet dating bullshit, I AM DONE. Forever.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Hissy Fit; and also, the longest run on sentence EVER
Today my therapist told me it was okay to go home and have a temper tantrum.
Things have been building for awhile and though I am an adult, and have been one for over a decade now, sometimes tiny voices in side me scream "NO I don't wanna!" or "You can't make me!" or "sddlfkjiajefhdskjvdlkj!".
I tried when I got home, I really did.
I got into comfy clothes. I lay in bed. I punched pillows. I tried to think of all the crap that is causing me anxiety and woe that is getting me down. It didn't help. The tears or anger didn't come. My brain just kept talking me off the ledge, being kind and compassionate and perhaps even reasonable, but that isn't, for once, what I need right now.
I need to have a full fledged temper tantrum.
I need to throw myself on the floor of Walmart and pound my limbs and scream and knock over displays and have someone, anyone, patiently wait while I self destruct then calmly tell me to get up and get in the car and we are going home now. Because ultimately, this needed tantrum isn't about how much my job is killing me right now or how I haven't slept in over three months due to my new kitten or how much I freaking hate the crap condo I quickly moved into when my last one was destroyed or how said condo has gross old carpet, non working appliances, the worst fucking downstairs neighbor EVER, constantly reeks like a goddamn casino because the three units that surround it are filled with smokers, the floor plan is retarded, the rent is too high and I never feel safe in the crap condo. The temper tantrum isn't about how much my friends are wearing on me right now with petty things and stupid demands and making poor choices and thinking I am going to step in and save them, it isn't about my poor health and my failing liver and my odd metabolic disorder or the fact that I have gained so much weight from said health issues that I am actually uncomfortably in pain from both the health issues and now all the added weight. The hissy fit isn't about how difficult it is to work with doctors and how I have to be my own advocate and how I did mountains of research because they weren't paying attention and how I had to demand the right treatment and seek out doctor after doctor; it isn't about my crap family or their drama and how much they try to drag me in and drag me down; it isn't about financial issues continually cropping up that keep me semi-trapped in a crap condo barely ahead of my bills; it isn't even about the awful devastating breakup I got to live through the last year, or how much I abhor online dating and how demoralizing it is to meet random losers for drinks and how fucked up people are to each other in the world and online.
The tantrum ultimately is about the fact that I am LONELY, bored, unfulfilled, missing authentic human connection and exhausted by being the only person responsible for me all the time, always.
The tantrum I need to have is because I have no one, not a soul, to take care of me when the day is done. My parents failed spectacularly in this fashion and my whole life I have cared for myself, my siblings, my friends, my family, my ex, the exes before my ex, my coworkers, everyone. For a brief time I thought I had someone to care about me, my (asshole, shithead, selfish son of a bitch) ex, and the relief and joy that came with that was every good and calm and wonderful thing in the world all wrapped up in one wonderful warm summer breeze. Even if ultimately it was an illusion, it was the first and only time I have ever felt safe, secure, and loved in my life. And having had that, only to not have it, well. The reason I need to have a tantrum is precisely the reason I can't get the tantrum to trigger: I need someone to witness my tantrum but there is no one there.
Recursive tantrum logic: because I have no one to witness me having a tantrum I need to have a tantrum. Adulthood always has exciting new ways to F with me.
Don't get me wrong: I have friends. I have a great therapist. I am not a shut in. I have a job to go to, health insurance, all my teeth, a car that starts everyday, and a roof over my head (a roof I need to move away from but one step at a time people) and ultimately I'm still luckier that probably 98% of the world's population; good lord I have clean drinking water and I'm allowed to live my life as a female in public without being stoned. However, at the end of the day I am bored, alone, overworked, and missing authentic, deep human connection.
So I need to have a tantrum damnit. A giant meltdown screaming hissy fit of a tantrum. I need/want to have it be about ME ME ME and how MY needs aren't met and how the burden of supporting oneself totally alone is, in fact, a total bitch at times and that half the shit in my life isn't FAIR (life isn't fair, but you aren't allowed to argue the nature of my tantrum, it is mine! MINE!) and that I am TIRED of being freaking alone and that my reward for doing the right thing to protect myself and get out of a bad relationship has been precisely nothing and that I'm afraid there really is no one out there and I am pissed off as hell that I even have to TRY because why oh why oh why hissy bitch whine moan isn't anything ever easy? WHINE BITCH BITCH AUGH temper tantrum break things scream sob throw stuff meltdown.
I need an emotional release I can't get, and I don't know how.
Things have been building for awhile and though I am an adult, and have been one for over a decade now, sometimes tiny voices in side me scream "NO I don't wanna!" or "You can't make me!" or "sddlfkjiajefhdskjvdlkj!".
I tried when I got home, I really did.
I got into comfy clothes. I lay in bed. I punched pillows. I tried to think of all the crap that is causing me anxiety and woe that is getting me down. It didn't help. The tears or anger didn't come. My brain just kept talking me off the ledge, being kind and compassionate and perhaps even reasonable, but that isn't, for once, what I need right now.
I need to have a full fledged temper tantrum.
I need to throw myself on the floor of Walmart and pound my limbs and scream and knock over displays and have someone, anyone, patiently wait while I self destruct then calmly tell me to get up and get in the car and we are going home now. Because ultimately, this needed tantrum isn't about how much my job is killing me right now or how I haven't slept in over three months due to my new kitten or how much I freaking hate the crap condo I quickly moved into when my last one was destroyed or how said condo has gross old carpet, non working appliances, the worst fucking downstairs neighbor EVER, constantly reeks like a goddamn casino because the three units that surround it are filled with smokers, the floor plan is retarded, the rent is too high and I never feel safe in the crap condo. The temper tantrum isn't about how much my friends are wearing on me right now with petty things and stupid demands and making poor choices and thinking I am going to step in and save them, it isn't about my poor health and my failing liver and my odd metabolic disorder or the fact that I have gained so much weight from said health issues that I am actually uncomfortably in pain from both the health issues and now all the added weight. The hissy fit isn't about how difficult it is to work with doctors and how I have to be my own advocate and how I did mountains of research because they weren't paying attention and how I had to demand the right treatment and seek out doctor after doctor; it isn't about my crap family or their drama and how much they try to drag me in and drag me down; it isn't about financial issues continually cropping up that keep me semi-trapped in a crap condo barely ahead of my bills; it isn't even about the awful devastating breakup I got to live through the last year, or how much I abhor online dating and how demoralizing it is to meet random losers for drinks and how fucked up people are to each other in the world and online.
The tantrum ultimately is about the fact that I am LONELY, bored, unfulfilled, missing authentic human connection and exhausted by being the only person responsible for me all the time, always.
The tantrum I need to have is because I have no one, not a soul, to take care of me when the day is done. My parents failed spectacularly in this fashion and my whole life I have cared for myself, my siblings, my friends, my family, my ex, the exes before my ex, my coworkers, everyone. For a brief time I thought I had someone to care about me, my (asshole, shithead, selfish son of a bitch) ex, and the relief and joy that came with that was every good and calm and wonderful thing in the world all wrapped up in one wonderful warm summer breeze. Even if ultimately it was an illusion, it was the first and only time I have ever felt safe, secure, and loved in my life. And having had that, only to not have it, well. The reason I need to have a tantrum is precisely the reason I can't get the tantrum to trigger: I need someone to witness my tantrum but there is no one there.
Recursive tantrum logic: because I have no one to witness me having a tantrum I need to have a tantrum. Adulthood always has exciting new ways to F with me.
Don't get me wrong: I have friends. I have a great therapist. I am not a shut in. I have a job to go to, health insurance, all my teeth, a car that starts everyday, and a roof over my head (a roof I need to move away from but one step at a time people) and ultimately I'm still luckier that probably 98% of the world's population; good lord I have clean drinking water and I'm allowed to live my life as a female in public without being stoned. However, at the end of the day I am bored, alone, overworked, and missing authentic, deep human connection.
So I need to have a tantrum damnit. A giant meltdown screaming hissy fit of a tantrum. I need/want to have it be about ME ME ME and how MY needs aren't met and how the burden of supporting oneself totally alone is, in fact, a total bitch at times and that half the shit in my life isn't FAIR (life isn't fair, but you aren't allowed to argue the nature of my tantrum, it is mine! MINE!) and that I am TIRED of being freaking alone and that my reward for doing the right thing to protect myself and get out of a bad relationship has been precisely nothing and that I'm afraid there really is no one out there and I am pissed off as hell that I even have to TRY because why oh why oh why hissy bitch whine moan isn't anything ever easy? WHINE BITCH BITCH AUGH temper tantrum break things scream sob throw stuff meltdown.
I need an emotional release I can't get, and I don't know how.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Check out the twitter feed to the right
...but DON'T follow me, I will quickly annoy you by posting 100 times in one day and then nothing for months. Don't say you weren't warned, I don't want your wrath.
That said, I'm writing this post like a series of tweets.
Discovered that red wine really jazzes up when rum or vodka is added.
Red wine is so much better with vodka or rum added that in fact I suggest you skip the red wine bit altogether.
Red wine + rum or vodka - red wine = less carbs!
I got a cat.
She is almost six months old.
I love her dearly except from 3AM to 6AM.
I fantasize about boarding my cat overnight at the vet or sneaking out to my car to sleep when I am particularly delirious from sleep deprivation.
I adopted my cat in January. I haven't had real sleep since then.
Pet insurance is awesome, in particular when the kitten you adopt is straight from kitten death row and requires THOUSANDS of dollars in vet bills.
On the bright side my cat's energy at night is a sign that she is going to be healthy someday, on the downside I still have to express the pus out of her eyes and give her eye drops.
For two solid months my free time consisted of enticing a small skeletal swath of fur to eat special food mixed with prebiotics, probiotics, antibiotics, bovine colostrum, fiber supplement and exhaustion.
My cat no longer feels like an achingly sad pile of bones barely covered with ratty, oddly discolored fur. Now she is a slightly more filled out pile of ratty, oddly discolored fur.
My cat is the cutest cat that has perhaps ever lived.
Beauty can be in the eye of the beholder.
After I dumped my jackass ex, over a year ago now, it was oh so very, very sad to have no one to say "I love you" to anymore. Now I say "I love you" at least twice a day, to my cat. It really does make a difference, and I really do love her.
Thank God for small favors and tiny kittens; covered from head to toe in their own sick, behind two inches of plexiglass in a tiny cage, desperately underweight and ill, too pathetic and feeble for anyone else to take, that need me even more than I need them, that I get to love and help to thrive.
Thank God I got to her in time.
Thank God she lived.
Thank God (my cat agrees) for Zyrtec D and allergy treatments covered by my insurance that help me cope with my cat's ratty, oddly colored fur.
Thank God I survived 2011 mostly intact; 2012 is a year of rebuilding and growth and perspective.
Love to all of you.
Edited To Add: My cat chirps. Chirps! She doesn't meow, she chirps. The vet and I and all my friends find this to be the most darling thing EVER. Fin.
That said, I'm writing this post like a series of tweets.
Discovered that red wine really jazzes up when rum or vodka is added.
Red wine is so much better with vodka or rum added that in fact I suggest you skip the red wine bit altogether.
Red wine + rum or vodka - red wine = less carbs!
I got a cat.
She is almost six months old.
I love her dearly except from 3AM to 6AM.
I fantasize about boarding my cat overnight at the vet or sneaking out to my car to sleep when I am particularly delirious from sleep deprivation.
I adopted my cat in January. I haven't had real sleep since then.
Pet insurance is awesome, in particular when the kitten you adopt is straight from kitten death row and requires THOUSANDS of dollars in vet bills.
On the bright side my cat's energy at night is a sign that she is going to be healthy someday, on the downside I still have to express the pus out of her eyes and give her eye drops.
For two solid months my free time consisted of enticing a small skeletal swath of fur to eat special food mixed with prebiotics, probiotics, antibiotics, bovine colostrum, fiber supplement and exhaustion.
My cat no longer feels like an achingly sad pile of bones barely covered with ratty, oddly discolored fur. Now she is a slightly more filled out pile of ratty, oddly discolored fur.
My cat is the cutest cat that has perhaps ever lived.
Beauty can be in the eye of the beholder.
After I dumped my jackass ex, over a year ago now, it was oh so very, very sad to have no one to say "I love you" to anymore. Now I say "I love you" at least twice a day, to my cat. It really does make a difference, and I really do love her.
Thank God for small favors and tiny kittens; covered from head to toe in their own sick, behind two inches of plexiglass in a tiny cage, desperately underweight and ill, too pathetic and feeble for anyone else to take, that need me even more than I need them, that I get to love and help to thrive.
Thank God I got to her in time.
Thank God she lived.
Thank God (my cat agrees) for Zyrtec D and allergy treatments covered by my insurance that help me cope with my cat's ratty, oddly colored fur.
Thank God I survived 2011 mostly intact; 2012 is a year of rebuilding and growth and perspective.
Love to all of you.
Edited To Add: My cat chirps. Chirps! She doesn't meow, she chirps. The vet and I and all my friends find this to be the most darling thing EVER. Fin.
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