33 posts tagged “i hate my love life”

Pop quiz!

It's 10am the Saturday you are destined to have your single solitary individual instance of date-ness time with your GH for a 2 week period. It has already been 10 days since you've seen him. You have a sitter lined up (and have had for some time now). You have your outfit planned.  You have the SC psyched. You shaved and procured exciting underwear.

Your sitter is a flake and TEXTS YOU: Oh, family emergency, can't make it. (I'd buy it except the last 4 times I asked her this sort of thing has happened. I wonder why she keeps accepting jobs; I wonder why I keep asking).

The text arrived as I was going out with the SC to do his back to school shopping; not wanting to sully the mood I texted "thanks" and forwarded to GH. I will have to make it up to him Wednesday. Thusly was the determined mindset that ventured forth into Fred Myer for Back To School Shopping.

In Harry Potter, there's this charming little scene where Harry finds himself in Diagon Alley, having just discovered his lot in life and being amazed at every turn. He's reading his school supplies list, which starts with, "All students will bring one number two pewter cauldron..."

I am firmly believing his back to school list was more enjoyable than the SC's.

Oh, wait. I forgot. As the SC is going into Kindergarten, and he is no longer really all that Small, he is now the C. (Later on he will be the YM). I digress...

Eighteen. Elmers (not Ross not Avery not sixteen other brands specified). Glue. Sticks.

I cleaned out Freddy's of the Elmer's glue sticks, hopefully other parents had their shit together and got theirs. I procured crayons (3 boxes of 24), paper (2 reams of 20pound), notebooks (1 subject), pencils (2 packs), markers (1 pack skinny, one pack thick), scissors (Friskars only!), headphones, wipes, kleenex, purell, pencil grips, folios, a backpack, 3 outfits, and a new socket wrench and hex set for mommy.

You see, mommy changed her oil Saturday morning, before she discovered she would not be getting come-to-Mommy time; and managed to break her 1/4-3/8 adjustor for her socket wrench set while using a 10mm Allen attachment. It seems that whomever read the torque requirements for her transmission pan bolt (yes, having changed the oil in the engine I figured I'd just change out the trans filter) must have confused his Newton-Metres with Foot-Pounds (or more likely vice-versa): the damned thing is practically FUSED. This was vexing. Breaking tools is Not Nice, and so I went to replace said tools.

Then I gave myself a decent interval of relaxation with the C, watching movies and ordering a pizza, on Saturday evening. This morning at 8:30 I got under that @#$(%#$* car and for the life of me could not get the Q#$(%*#$%( pan bolt out.

Fine. There's more than one way to split an infinitive.

I proceeded to unscrew each of the 10mm bolts along the pan perimiter, putting a big pan under it to catch the gallon or so of ATF I was expecting, and took the whole damned thing off. Yes, I got trans fluid up to my elbows and in my new socket wrench: tools are made to be USED, and girls are made to get dirty!

Having removed the pan everything worked great: Cleaned it all up, replaced the gasket, cleaned off the magnets, replaced the filter, tightened it all up (not confusing my foot pounds and newton metres, thank you very much). Put synthetic in so I don't have to worry about it for a good long time and I was done!

Except for the shelf paper, you see. 

A few weeks back I was at Target and they had a special on shelf paper that looks like white granite, which I rather liked, at least more than my current crayola-beige shelf paper. So I bought a few rolls and there they rested on my kitchen counter until today.

When I reorganized (again) all of my cabinets while replacing the shelf paper.

This is what happens when DD is denied her date night. But now I am paying for it, my back hurts fiercely and while it provided me the opportunity to bemoan aging with my Dad, who turns 68 tomorrow but had his party today (yay parties), I wish I hadn't been so frustrated.

Did I mention I'm going to color code the garage shelving when my parents get their stuff out of it? Green for the garden shelves, purple for automotive, blue for household, red for sporting and play... 

There is an old adage that you never, ever craft something for a boyfriend because he will quickly become your ex boyfriend. The logic is thus: you will make him that sweater vest or argyle socks set or golf club cozy that you think is just perfect. You will spend hours fussing with it, unstitching and restitching because you want him to Have The Very Best. He will proclaim his love of it, naturally, when he unwraps it.

And you will never, ever, see him use it. It will remain, probably in its original tissue-paper wrapping, in a disused section of his closet. He will have forty-two excellent excuses to not use it (why, the clubs were wet and it's wool! he wouldn't want to felt it up!). Eventually, though, he will run out of those excellent excuses and the cold hard truth will come to pass: he didn't like it, doesn't like it, and therefore he didn't/doesn't like you, and the relationship implodes.

I may be oversimplifying, but you get the gist.

You can, in fact, knit/craft/sew something for your husband, your children, your parents, your best friend, your best friends' husband, the random dude down at the bus stop; you will not care if, for example, that quilt you made for your parents stays so neatly folded at the end of their couch that you wonder if it's ever been UNfolded. You don't care because they are Sure Things, they cannot leave you (or at least, not easily, or via voicemail) and you know that your relationship is stronger than a woven tea cosy.

Knit/craft/sew something for your unmarried male person, however, and you take Your Relationship To New Lows. I always thought it was because of the  "Presentation/Disuse" method, but I am quickly finding out (in my attempt to ensure the "Presentation/Disuse" method does not come to pass) that there is one surefire additional way to PhuQ it Up.

You involve him in the process from the beginning.

That's right, you make EVERY DECISION HIS. Get his input on colors, schema, fabrics, metrics, dimensions, application, measurements, medium, use case, and SWOT analysis. Ask him the same question repeatedly, just phrased slightly differently each time; provide copious links to samples that have nothing to do with the actual project. Attempt to render craft topics into man-friendly-speak and watch him try to defer to your Higher Judgement. Thwart said deferral by asking him more questions. Repeat. Redundantly, even.

Then wonder why he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Worry that he doesn't like YOU, and start obsessing about that.

So very, very healthy indeed. 

Despite my rampant narcissism (hi, I have a blog all about nothing but ME!), I am outrageously insecure. Like don't even go there. You'd be shocked and appaled, because I am on a regular basis.

Four weeks ago I was on a flight with three very cool chicks on our way to Vegas. As the plane taxi'd away from the hangar, I started white knuckling. Cyn, who sat next to me, stroked my arm and kept reassuring me it would be ok. She was therein introduced to my little rosary of fear, and I think it surprised her. But she didn't revel in it, no, she was a true friend. She only said, "it's good to know you're human".

Oh, I am so human. I am actually dissatisfied at times with my humanity -- not all the time -- just when it fails me. And by "fails me" I mean when it's not the glorious illustrius stuff of legend.

As a general rule I avoid having my picture taken, or I do things to deliberately mess it up. I don't smile, I stick my tongue out, I make obscene gestures.  This has nothing to do with the picture taker so much that I really don't like having my picture taken, and here's why: there are maybe four pictures of me, on this entire bloody planet, that I think aren't hideous. I have a host of them on this site and on facebook and I can point out to you the disgusting feature in each of them: the size of my face, my arms, the constellation of my acne, my width as compared to my companions (even if the companion in the picture is a Clydesdale), etc. Thanks to facebook (et. al.) and friends with digital cameras I'm having to face up to this (no pun intended) more often than I'd like.

I just don't photograph well. I *never* have. My junior high and high school yearbooks attest to this. I've discarded and burned most of the photos of my collegiate days because of this. Hell, 90% of my wedding photos are NOT OF ME because of this. (That photographer was a jerk, though, because I have 3 dear friends who feel like I do and he hunted them. I called him out: in my dress, at the wedding). I do not like having my picture taken.

I also do not like attention to my appearance. When someone at work tells me "you look good" the first thing that goes through my head is "that just accentuates all the times I look like crap -- that would be every other time". At GJ today I was at a loss to give direction and put myself in the capable and well-trained hands of two lovely ladies (they did very well, I still look like me). I don't like "have you lost weight" because it reminds me that I need to, I don't like "did you straighten your hair" because it reminds me that mine is a pile of unruly weird waves, I don't like any of these things because even though I bring the 'tude I don't really have it on the inside.

I suspect I'm not the only one, either.

I'd share with you the photographs that begat this little rant, but I'm too insecure.

It's well known that the most variably defined words in the English language are the smaller ones. The word "set", for example, takes up several pages in the OED. Think about it: to set the table, everything's set, I want the whole set, she set that down, set this up, he won the set, set for a spell (in colloquial southern), etc.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Security -- and its inverse, eg., INsecurity -- has a variety of derivatives.

What does security mean to you? Does it mean knowledge of everything around you, or things around you fitting into neat parameters? Does it have a negative connotation or a positive one? Does it mean safety? If I told you you were secure, would you take it as a compliment or an insult?

What does insecurity mean to you? Does it mean uncertainty? Does it mean lack of data, or things not fitting the way you need them to? Does it have a negative connotation or a positive one? Does it mean danger? If I told you you were insecure, would you take it as a compliment or an insult?

This blog serves as a repository for those things I tend to feel insecure about: motherhood, management, personal relationships. I don't care how much you think you have your shit together -- and yes, I do think I have mine quite together, thanks -- there is bound to be one or more areas of your life that you wonder if you could control more to your satisfaction. Everyone deals with it in a different way: self-effacing, accusatory, burying it deep, venting it into cyberspace, psychotherapy, self-help books, or old-fashioned ignoring.  I choose to be self-effacing and recognize where I am weak. But not for one instant do I mistake that for knowledge or even passable security.

Kudos to Kimli, who uses this as a tag and just aptly addresses how I'm feeling right now.

Not on my behalf, you understand.

I made peace with my love/lust side a few months back and haven't had a problem since, I can't explain it except to say that I finally resolved I am happy on my own, and anything else is buttercream on my already fanatstic cake of life.

However, I do have friends going through varying degrees of romantic entanglement that give me 3rd party concern: the recent divorcee piloting the dating world in light of said divorce, the prospective newlywed with an unfinished home and a largesse wedding ahead, the dear friend whose last girlfriend put him through the emotional equivalent of a Cuisinart.

I've been through some of this myself (the house one's got me beat) but having been there with divorce (and with a child, to boot) and emotional turmoil (X loved me but loved Her, too; Q treated me as a fuck buddy at best) these sometimes hit too close to home. I can offer some advice, or none at all, and I oftentimes don't know which to do: do I henpeck and mother? I'm so very good at that. Do I leave well enough alone? At what cost? What if I said something and it made it all better? How could I do that? What are those magic words?

The role of a friend in these situations is, I think, one of a careful tightwire exercise: don't offer too much advice, unless asked for; don't offer too much agreement, unless required: oftentimes the things you are asked are not those on which you want to prompt an opinion.

I wonder what it was like for my friends in my own time of turmoil: I remember a lot of support and very little advice -- was this because they were waiting for me to figure it out? Was this because they didn't want to interfere too much? Was this because they trusted me to come to the inevitable conclusions, or because they didn't know what those were at the time, either? During the heavy times -- when I bawled for the better part of an hour in CC & McGuyver's shower, screaming because I didn't understand "Why"; when I sat watching TV one night, alone, crying through my mud mask -- what I was offered was silence and a hug.

I sincerely hope that works for others. It did work for me. 

I adopted Thumper with the design that Kumster should have a pal to knock around with when I'm not home. Last night before going out with Ali I made sure everyone was fed, watered, pottied, petted, and played with. They have a dog door that allows them midnight pottying, so I left without worrying.

I did end up crashing in Seattle, but got home within 12 hours. Note: they had total access to potty outside, and plenty of fresh water.

They also apparently decided to bark while outside.... for 3 hours. The neighbors left me a nastynote. Apparently both dogs were barking. Kumster never barked before but neither is Thumper a barker. Nitro plus glycerin. Oil and water. My brilliant idea backfires, and now I have two solid girlfriends who have designated no more shenanigans in Seattle without dogsitting.

Thanks to the generous help of friends I have dogsitting while I am in Whistler and while I go away to Astoria (yes, GH knows now). So I should be thankful (I am! I am!) and count my blessings (1,2,3).

And maybe bribe GH to hang at my place. What can I offer? Pie? Food? Aerobics? That will get old eventually.

Maybe I'll offer him a dog.

Get your mind out of the gutter, I'm talking Valentine's Day.

Today I am the proud owner of a box of 32 Valentine's Day cards, with 8 card designs, ages 3 and up. Spider Man 3, for I needs must be The Cool Mom.

From within the highly decorated box, which also doubles as a Valentine's Day card stasher for received cards, I see 8 neatly folded sets of cards. "Slinging your way, this Valentine's Day" says Spidey, doing something that would cause me to pull muscles in uncomfortable places. "Happy V-Day, Old Pal" says the Hobgoblin. Black Spidey offers "Wishing you a senses-tingling Valentine's Day" and the sandman enthuses "Have a smashing Valentine's Day". Oh, there's more -- "spectacular", "out of this world", "swinging by to say Hi", and the obligatory "go for a spin" phrases. Eight designs and flavors that have the romantic quotient of a dried up cheeto under the fridge.

I loved Valentine's day when I was a kid, in spite of the forced democracy of it. Bring one card for each kid in the class, even the snot-nosed one; you got one card from each kid in the class. It allowed you to kid yourself that Joshua, with the skateboard and the garfield notebook, really really did like you. He just got cards for everyone else to be fair. Mind you, this is before puberty and acne and social stigma and weird growth spurts (I was taller than Joshua by 5th grade -- I was taller than most of my class by 5th grade, actually).

Somewhere between 6th grade and high school it was uncool to look at Valentine's Day, although I secretly wanted to keep that alive. C'mon, the hormones are playing hockey in your head and you've started reading bodice-ripper novels and there's just the slightest chance that Matt or Mike or Blake or Somebody Will Notice You. Then, on the 15th, you go back to pretending like you didn't care.

By the time I actually started dating, Valentine's Day had spiraled into something worse than an enforced democratic card exchange or an exercise in unrequited love, it turned into my own personal Friday the 13th (which makes sense, for me, Friday the 13ths are usually lucky). So I opted to boycott it, ignore it, and mock it. "I can see it... all of your friends are wondering what I'm going to do for Valentine's Day" said GH. "No they're not," I said, "Because we are not celebrating it, and they know it."

We were bitching to eachother, a group of us gals, over the apalling jewelry ads this time of year (Special note: if you MUST buy the shiny for your girl, go to Blue Nile: they do not do ads and they do not do pressure and they have some quite lovely things). It started a while back with "A diamond is forever", then it became the "three stone ring" (past, present, future), then it became the "journey pendant" (7 diamonds in a wiggly line), and eventually it will be the diamond-encrusted middle-finger sleeve, I swear! (Pretty soon the male market is going to get in on this and we will see diamond-encrusted Prince Alberts). To say nothing of the expense and outlay, diamonds themselves don't do much for me. But I digress. I am boycotting Valentine's Day...

Except that, as the parent of a Small Child, I can't, really. Oh sure, I can send him to school without valentines; I can also send him to school with a large "Kick Me" sign pasted to his back but I don't think I will. He's too young for me to teach him cynicism, and someday he will most likely be dating or affianced to some young honey who is going to want a shiny.

Until then I am glad Spiderman is keepin' it real.

When did facebook become match.com?

I've had a facebook profile for about 3 months. I like it; I get to play vampires and download applications that tell people what nationality I am and what my likelihood is for, say, burying bodies. I can network and limit my profile and share a love of lemurs, if you will.

Until now.

In the last 4 weeks I have been "poked" (facebooks "hiya!" application, that comes standard with a profile) by 4 complete strangers. I do not know who these men are, I have prettymuch nothing in common with most of them (one I do, but that will wait for a bit), and I have no idea how they found me. I delete the pokes when I get them, but then I get things like random inbox emails "Hey how you likin this facebook thing well have a nice day". Wha?

I got on facebook to play with my friends and to network in that environment. Oh, and to flirt with people I already knew. I got OFF of Match.com because the flirting-with-strangers-thing is kinda weird and often deflating.

Since I can't figure the logic on how/why this is happening, I'm messing with one. We'll call him G. G poked me and, in the spirit of bitchiness I was in last night, I poked back. This trait I get from my dad, who, when Telemarketers will call, feels the need to draw out the participation to cringeworthy moments. Then I got an email:

Subj: "You have my attention because"

Body: "Because you like Monty Python and because you used the word thrice and because you said General Naughtiness"

Well gosh. I have his attention. I am soooooooooooooooooooo lucky. Wait ! Wait ! let me prove myself worthy of his attention....

Or not.

It is an unfortunate reality of the country I live in that as we get closer to an otherwise unnoteworthy day, people go batshit insane and hearts, pink, and red blanket commercial America.

I am, of course, referring to Valentine's Day.

Can we just cancel it, please? I realize it works for some people and that's great, beautiful, fine -- you can have it. But must I be inundated with it every where I go? I had this conversation with a friend: I intend to lock myself at home V-day and spend it watching movies with the SC and ignoring the outside world. I am doing this because I have Never Ever Ever Ever had a good V-day, and I am going to set forth the chronology. It ranges from shitty to mildly depressing to 'meh', so ignore this if you're not into that.

I'll start with 'grown up' V-day: I do not count High School, even, because I was not allowed to date. We are therefore starting with Valentine's day, 1992:

1992: Asked out the Physics Guy who was also the Juice Guy at BelSquare (BB and I used to go to BelSquare all the time and go "get juice"... mostly just to scope him out). Before I gave the date I was thinking of (not V-day, of course) he said, "yeah, I'm busy then."

1993: I was dating Jon, a guy in my dive club. I went to his house for a romantic dinner. And found a Valentine's day card from his girlfriend, that he had been dating for 5 months before we met. Yeah that sucked.

1994: Guy from my english class at UW that I had one study hall with started calling my Dad's house regularly. And leaving weird messages. Thereby putting me in a position to have to explain them.

1995: Already engaged. X was in the USMC and missed our regular phonecall. For a week.

1996: Freshly moved down to CA, X got put on night duty because his CO didn't believe in unmarried couples living together.

1997: Fresh off our 'official' wedding, X's mom indicates that I could stand to lose a few pounds. X agrees. In front of me. (Doesn't help that they were *right*).

1998: Huuuuuuuuuuuge fight with X. On the phone. While he's in Georgia.

1999: X is in Kuwait.

2000: Working late so my boss can leave early to take his wife out. For Valentine's day. I don't care as much, because I'm planning to quit in a few weeks. But still.

2001: I get fired from my job. For doing something unintentionally.

2002: X and I decide to start trying to get pregnant. This means I have to go off the pill, which means 'regular' periods. I spend Vday throwing up and in an obscene amount of pain.

2003: First real date night post-SC birth, I get food poisoning.

2004: In the throes of selling our Duvall home, too tired to celebrate.

2005: X plans to surprise me with flowers. Which get sent to my old job (the one I got fired from) Who send me an email wanting to know why flowers are arriving for me there, and am I fraudulently saying I still work for them?

2006: First single girl V-day. TG (remember him?) tells me how perfect I am and that my only fault is I don't want to get married or have kids. And then proceeds to tell me how fucked up that is.

2007: Second single girl V-day. Q had had me stringing along with the "we need to talk, but not right now" deal for about a week by V-day, and then on the phone with him that evening he announced he was disinclined to go to the next weekends original plans with me, which left me to either ditch friends or him, knowing full well my SC-restrained schedule.

I like to watch. More accurately, I like to people watch: in bookstores, restaurants, cafes, transit, parking lots; I like to see how people go about their lives and wonder what their individual problems and neuroses are.

What a boon to live in the silicon-chip-enhanced era, where we have online communities. I've been reading through Craigslist and the Stranger I Saw U's. I don't know anyone whose ever been the intended recipient -- my own personal fantasy of course is to have one written about me by someone I have no hope of knowing, in a sort of Unrequited Love Is Really Hot Unless Of Course I'm The One Pining kind of way -- but some of the listings are just insanely provocative for thought:

http://seattle.craigslist.org/see/mis/506679087.html

Who is this person? Why is it so hard for him to ask his friend? Friends first, right? Ask her.

http://seattle.craigslist.org/see/mis/507663962.html

This one is cute.

http://seattle.craigslist.org/see/mis/506674644.html

Again: why can't she tell him? And look at how bitter people get!

http://seattle.craigslist.org/see/mis/506558510.html

I hope she finds peaches.

I've spent time reading through things like this, sometimes with Q -- we'd point out interesting ones to eachother during late-night phone conversations -- and sometimes alone. And sometimes with friends via the Tubes. A sort of collective voyeurism.

Exhibitionism tends to go hand in hand with voyeurism-- to see and be seen, as it were. I think bloggers are exhibitionists in a way: we prattle about our fashion finds or our current relationships or stock prices or that latest recipe all in a very self-exposing way. And then some of us go through and track who checks in, and for how long, and from where... bringing it right back to voyeurism.

Are you enjoying the show? I know I am :)