“Working on Myself” = throwing my rancid milk out

I finally spent enough time in my own home to realize that the milk in the fridge was in fact mine and had probably been there since the beginning of the month. Watching that coagulated, festering mess glug down the drain as the garbage disposal ran was oddly satisfying. You see, even this minute act counted towards my current foray into ‘bettering  myself’, ‘finding balance’, and ‘becoming more well rounded’.

I’ve found that I’m not alone in this quest for being a better catch in real life after the OkCupid and Tinder meet up has been deemed a success, a fling, and then a failure. It’s the failure part that launches this personal quest for betterment. And the more I think about it, it feels like a total fucking cop out excuse.

I will be completely and totally honest in acknowledging that my journey of cultivating my innards was solely based on getting pushed away from the most recent beau. (By the way, what the fuck is a ‘bae’? Is it short for ‘babe’? BECAUSE THAT WORD WAS TOO LONG FOR NORMAL CONVERSATION…) He was finding interest in other people because I had become uninteresting.

My life outside of our interaction started to dwindle until it I started to become a devout follower of The Beau. Nobody likes groupies after the tour bus has been unpacked and the acid bender has worn off. When I was younger, this was devastating information. I wanted to be so madly in love and wound up in some other person that the idea I was supposed to have a life outside of their being seemed ludicrous. YOU AND ME FOREVER BABY.

As I get older I realize that I’m happier with more balance. It’s a logical idea. But I can’t help shake the idea that I would not be searching for balance if I hadn’t been forced to. Most of the women I know trying to find balance aren’t doing it because they woke up one morning and said ‘Space is nice. Space is good. Space makes the heart grow fonder. Let’s make some space.’

They got pushed into it because the beau of the day still has his OkC or Tinder profile and those notifications are becoming more and more frequent. They are ‘looking for balance’ because he doesn’t seem to find the time to hang out as much as he used to, but for no apparent reason. These women are working on self improvement because he flat out said ‘I’m just not ready to be your boyfriend (aka I literally do not want anything to change between us including the sex but if something better comes along, I’d like the option to pursue it and not get blamed for anything by you).”

Yes dickheads, we know what you really mean.

So begins the quest towards being a better person, having more hobbies, spending more time with friends, trying to move ahead at work. But let’s be honest, most of us are doing all of these things because we want Mr. Not-your-boyfriend to realize how amazing we really are and come scurrying back into our arms begging for commitment.

The satisfaction of visualizing taking THEM back into your perfectly cultivated world of delight and joy and friends and hobbies can get you through P90X.

Do you end up actually bettering yourself after the whole fucking charade? Sometimes, yah. But can we just be honest and shallow and admit that your new Monday night drinks with the girls and Thursday morning yoga classes are really just a means to fill your schedule until his number is at the top of your text list?

Really though, keep up the good work. I know from experience that even if he doesn’t come knocking on your door with a bag of chocolate covered almonds and lube, you’ll be better set up to survive the next dude, make less mistakes, and utilize your new found interest in bedazzling to spice up the bedroom.

In related news, it’s fucking pouring outside and my closet somehow lost all remnants of last fall’s staples. I really need to stop throwing things away. Except the milk. That shit was gross.

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Pee on my keys. Oh, and YOU ARE NOT WORTHY. I SHALL SWIPE LEFT.

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This post required a self indulgent ‘selfie’ of sorts. LIKE IT. LIKE ME. LOVE ME MOTHER FUCKER.

In an attempt at cultivating some mystery around my persona, I found myself not making plans with anyone and hiding out at home pretending to catch up with Jon Stewart. ‘They’ll wonder what I’m doing if I don’t text or try to hang out and then reach out to ME.’ Tinder and OkCupid are clearly making me a narcissistic fuck tard. Or an insecure lawn gnome. The jury is still out.

Jon said something about Turkey and apparently we’re going to be putting troops on the ground but we’re not going to war. And something about Serbia. Or it may have been Syria.  I’d have learned more but the Craigslist missed connections section had a gem from a guy who wants you to pee on his car keys. I don’t drive so I’m considering the pros and cons of peeing on said keys and seeing if he’ll drive me to Costco so I can stock up on champagne. It’s only  6.99 for a liter of Cooks and at that price you by six because that’s what you do and I’m not trying to carry that much champagne on public transportation. Logistically this deal benefits both parties.

Back to the reason I was even lying in bed with Jon Stewart in the background of my social media binge: I am coming to terms with being a narcissistic youngish woman who just wants you to like her. REALLY like her. I come across very few people I legitimately give two fucks whether or not they consider me interesting or smart or beautiful. But am I or am I not writing my second blog about the EVER AND ALL IMPORTANT ME?

I find mediocre joy in swiping left on Tinder and only reply to OkCupid messages when I’m buzzed or drunk. I want you to find me fascinating and like me and send me a message so I can not reply. I’d rather use those red notifications on my phone to make someone else jealous. Those stupid messages you send? Hello screen shot and mass text. But occasionally, I am going to respond.

I’m going to come up with abstract questions to ask you so I seem intriguing and provide ludicrous answers you will find charming. I’ll get your number and it will never leave the app. Because I really don’t want to meet you and have you ultimately disappointed. It’s too easy to find something new and better. By that I mean for YOU to find something new. And better.

So I’m going to continue building up my self esteem and letting those notifications pile up for someone else to see. I’m likely going to miss out on meeting a few great people. I don’t care.

I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck I have to offer that will keep you interested. My half ass attempts at writing? My artwork? My word and memory association that leave some amused, most concerned for my mental health? We can’t forget my smile. That one fucking slays the boys until they see my crows feet.

Which reminds me I need to search for Botox Groupons later.

Hating work and trying to buy my contentment while acknowledging my disdain for the fact I still even think I can do such a stupid thing keeps pushing me to look for something: Happiness in my job. Stability in a romantic relationship. A bank account that resembles what I think a thirty-one year old’s bank account should look like. Better hair. A mani/pedi that lasts longer than twelve hours.

Searching to fill this void daily I must not forget the constant flashing sign in my periphery screaming in neon lights ‘WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT MATTER ANYWAY?!!???’ You will die.

I like love most. So I’ll continue along this path of trying to make you all love me because YOU NEED TO LOVE ME TO MAKE ME FEEL GOOD ABOUT THE MUNDANE EXISTENCE THAT IS LIFE.

Can I swipe left on being self aware?

National Guacamole Day and Love Three Ways

It’s been nearly a month since I’ve decided that sitting on my bed at this aging Toshiba is something I should do. Sit down and write that is. I’ve spent the past six hours catching up on season three of the life changing drama Dawson’s Creek. I’ve spent the rest of the past thirty days going through multiple brain changes and phases trying to find some direction or focus.

That endeavor has proven very unsuccessful unless you count the list of goals I scratched out on my drawing pad and prominently placed on the wall in my room that I have spent a total of ten hours in in the past ten days. It’s not exactly a daily reminder if you never see the fucking thing. Which has also led me to sporadically attempt to work towards those goals. Meh.

The only real nibblet I’ve latched on to is that being a human being who wants to love and be loved by other human beings is a fucking complicated suffering. I’ve realized I can actually love many people at once. And we’re talking romantic love, not all the other shit.

A first love somehow still got me excited. Excited to the point that I did a few extra looks in the mirror and tried to keep my ramblings coherent. Which was wildly unsuccessful thanks to over 48 hours of drinking prior I seeing him. I spent most of that time laying in the grass with my giant headphones on listening to music and being insanely happy. I may be more in love with music than any human but that’s for another time. Possibly in another month when I write again.

I’ve realized I still get excited about new love too. Not love, but new feelings that allow for excitement whenever your phone goes off. Picking someone’s secrets out of their hair like an ape picking bugs off their fellow primate is an adventure in excitement. It might not go anywhere and maybe you don’t want it to, but you still get some extra protein in your emotional diet.

And then there’s that warm love that keeps you comfortable. The one that leaves you feeling confident and insecure all at the same fucking time. It’s constant, reassuring, and the most terrifying one to lose. There’s a routine of ups and downs you’ve become accustomed to and it’s when the roller coaster is starting to fall that shit starts getting scary. And you start spending more time at your own place.

I always thought I was a one and only love type of woman. I’m learning that’s not the case. And it’s allowing me to understand those other primates with appendages between their legs in a different way. It is possible to mean what you say in a moment of connection, and still hit up your OkCupid before you go to bed.

It allows for less judgement, more understanding. Which is one thing love is supposed to encompass.

It’s National Guacamole Day. This great day must be celebrated.

Update: COTTAGE CHEESE ON TACOS IS A GLORIOUS FUCKING THING.

And yes, I should edit and sit on my writing longer. But I’ll find time to do that later.

Until next month.

Wes Anderson and Bill will not be dining with us this evening…

Five days and counting until I self implode or sprout wings, turn into a pegasus and shit rainbows. Those are my two options for turning 31. Aside from worrying about the fall out of colorful diarrhea, I’m trying to plan my birthday dinner.

For the last 12 or 13 years I have always had ideas of grandeur when it comes to my birthday dinner. In my brain space, it takes place on some gorgeous late summer evening; outside with ample candlelight and rows and rows of those pretty little ball lights strung from this to that like you see in every rom-com about Italy or France. 

Wine and whiskey are flowing. People are not just happy, they are gay because shit, this is my birthday soiree (‘party’ does not quite envelop the essence I am obviously going for) and we are not just laughing, we are reveling in gaiety! 

Dinner is beyond fabulous at some beautiful outdoor table littered with flowers and candles that emit twinkling light which dances across my beautiful friends’ faces as we chatter about the most important things in life, and do so with wit and cleverness. (I pretty much stole my birthday dream dinner from Chocolat, if you still need a visual.) 

Some girls dream about their wedding day, I dream about the perfect birthday. The perfect dress, the perfect hair, the beautiful people who are all around to celebrate the most fabulous thing: I WAS PUT ON THIS PLANET.

This dream has never really come to fruition save one pathetic attempt for my 21st birthday and that came out of necessity because I was dating a 20 year old who couldn’t go to the bar. 

It usually plays out something like this: a few weeks before my birthday I will be mildly drunk and these romantic visions start floating back into my head. I’ll start talking of plans, possibly even text a few people asking them to save the date. I may even go so far as to look up recipes for delightful appetizers and scrumptious meat dishes because you can only have ‘delightful’ and scrumptious’ food at this ‘gay soiree’. 

About five days before, friends will start asking me about solidifying plans and I balk. Not because I don’t have a venue or a menu or something to wear. I realize that none of my friends have ever really met one another. Ultimate birthday soiree fear: will the beautifully diverse group of friends I have cultivated get along?

If my life was a Wes Anderson movie, this would be the perfect setting for hilarious shenanigans, a rousing game of darts in head dresses, and insightful conversation with awkward moments at every turn. But my life is not a Wes Anderson movie. Bill Murray is not on the guest list.

Someone always manages to offend someone else. An off-color remark is made that is well received by some, distasteful and shameful to others. I will of course try and prevent this but whiskey and wine do not held tongues make. 

And every year I start to realize there is a reason my friends don’t often know of one another: I don’t introduce them to protect them. I know Burtha is going to make a racist comment that is going to appall Jackson so why even put them together in the first place? Dennis is going to feel out of place by Karen’s Chanel bag and incessant babbling about her fabulous job because he’s still working in construction and waiting for ‘this next job’ that’s going ‘to be the big one’.

No, it’s not my place to do this. It is not my place to keep people separate for fear of combustion. But I do. And every year I have to wonder why I gravitate to such diverse people that can never seem to get along when all together. I still have yet to figure that one out.

I came across this quote this week while reading Travels with Myself and Another by Martha Gellhorn:

“I am certain that the barrier between the races- white, black, brown, yellow- is not only due to color prejudice and the dissimilarity of values. It is largely due to boredom, the real killer in human relations. We do not laugh at the same joke. We bore each other sick.”

(Politely ignore any outdated terms as this was published in 1978 and frankly, Gellhorn wouldn’t give two fucks if it did bother you.)

She is speaking to the trip to China she endured where she met with royalty and peasant alike and very rarely did she have a laugh. Even through translation, she didn’t get the joke. 

I want my dinner party to be an evening of love and happiness and laughter. I want everyone to get the joke. I just don’t think that they will. 

So my plans of grandeur will be stunted with excuses; small get-togethers downtown and late evenings drinking on the porch will surface and my birthday will get spread across the late summer evenings of a few days. 

Just once, I wish I had the balls to ask Wes Anderson and Bill to show up for my birthday soiree. Maybe next year.

This is Leo. I know, original right?

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Bag Full of Dildos

It’s rainy and shitty and windy in Seattle this morning and after a night of snuggling and not much else, I immediately drifted back to the rough patch that was my romantic life six months ago. My then boyfriend and I were playing house like a married couple, complete with lack of sex life and annoyed tolerance of daily life together. Things were looking very dire and the idea of having to find someone new and find comfort in intimacy with that new someone brewed stronger every morning. My irritation was percolating at a higher rate than my pot could handle.

Even my own self evaluation deduced that I was a total nut case to prefer a shitty existence over a few awkward encounters with someone new. The idea of getting to know a new person intimately annoys the fuck out of me. It’s right up there with those fake eccentrics. Regular sex with someone I know: total winner. Sex with a new rando just reminds me of making guacamole with a pestle and mortar. Shit’s all falling out the sides and that grinding noise it makes… Jesus fucking Christ. 

I still have not gotten over this. I haven’t been forced to get over this. The now ex and I are getting on famously. I have not been forced to deal with this fear on any below-the-pants level.  I went on a few dates thanks to OkCupid and talked to a few guys on Tinder but I never really pulled the trigger. I was also way too lazy to buy condoms for any potential new encounters. An Uber ride home early is a lot cheaper than a trip to Planned Parenthood for STD testing because you were a drunk fucking idiot. (Sidenote: I am not advocating not having protection as a form of deterring yourself from sexual encounters. This is outrageously idiotic. But I am also known to be an idiot. So.)

Back to today and this weather that took me on a bumpy trip down Terror Lane. I was reading an article last night about a new cock ring that tracks performance. It’s still in the development stages but it reminded me of the box of sex toys in the ex’s closet. 

In entirely unrelated news, here’s me taking a selfie in the men’s bathroom at Safeway in the same fucking dress I’ve been posting pictures of for a week now. I swear I own other clothes. And actually wear them. Moving on.

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I left the house this morning with a purse full of dildos. And amazingly, unlike mine at home, they have batteries that aren’t dead. ‘See ya got a bag full of dildos there, eh?’  

‘Yup. I’ll see you later. Well, I’ll text you later anyway.’

Now armed with an artillery hold of humming rubber guns, the plan is to face my fears head on. TIME ALONE. I’m hoping it’s just as productive to try and get to know myself intimately (now as a mildly mature, nearly 31 year old who is actually making the right choices to get where she wants to be this time next year) as it would be to get to know someone I swiped right on during my Tinder experiment.

By ‘intimately’ I am not implying the use of said dildos. I know myself very well in that realm. What I mean is:

I have a new music making app on my phone and I plan to spend some time trying to make music. (This involves pushing buttons which is much more my speed than say, strumming a guitar. I take pictures with guitars, don’t know shit about playing them.)

I finally picked up my holds at the library and Gellhorn and Hemingway have proven much more interesting company than Bob and Linda Belcher. (The kids on the other hand are always welcome. WHO DOESN’T LOVE GENE AND LOUISE? Seriously, I need to memorize their one-liners.)

And I have one huge canvas that has been waiting to be unwrapped for almost a year. I have an idea for it, I just need to figure out the medium because my pastels won’t cut it for this one. 

That being said, I spent the majority of my day off yesterday deep into a Dawson’s Creek marathon. They changed the opening theme song because it was too expensive to pay for the rights. I actually Googled because I was so distraught; something felt ‘off’. 

The self exploration is off to a start typical of my endeavors: main goal in mind, no fucking idea of how it will play out. Especially when all six seasons of Dawson’s is just sitting there, taunting me.

Maybe it’s just the weather but I feel like a little ‘me time’ is necessary to curb this fear of a relapse. Besides, I’m certainly prepared to weather the sexual deprivation storm. 

This guy George, his cat Freya and why I don’t want to know what is going on in Gaza…

I was perusing my Twitter feed this morning during my 72nd cup of clearance coffee when I began to notice a trend about some guy named George and his cat Freya who was hit by a car but not seriously injured.

‘Who is George and why is every ninth tweet in my feed about this fucking cat Freya? And what kind of name is Freya for a cat anyway?’ (Mind you my cat’s name is Gandalf the Grey and his predecessor was named Chunky Monkey Bumbles but I stand by those names. I was highly influenced in college by this T.S. Eliot poem  http://allpoetry.com/The-Naming-Of-Cats  and thoroughly believe in the validity behind Sir Eliot’s claims about naming cats.)

I was about to tweet about this idiot named George and his stupid cat but decided to Google and find out who this all important cat-owner actually was before making myself look like an idiot to my negligible number of followers. IT TOOK A TWEET ABOUT A CAT FOR ME TO FIND OUT WHO THE CHANCELLOR WAS. Now it’s not like this information makes any impact on my daily life but everyone knows who Obama is. Shit, they know the designer that made Michelle’s Inauguration outfits for fuck’s sake. But I had no remote inkling who the Chancellor was, much less the Prime Minister. The only reason I even KNOW he works with the PM is because the article I read mentioned 11 Downing street and I’ve watched ‘Love Actually’ more times than I care to admit.

I’ve always had an issue with my lack of knowledge of things, MOST things, pertaining to anything outside of my little bubble. Current events stress me out to the point of tears. It was nearly a year after I went to college and had to use public transportation that I was able to ride without fear of being blown up. I would spend hours crying because I thought it was so unfair I should be able to ride my bus wherever I needed to go without a legitimate fear of being taken out by some religious zealot suicide bomber. I could not fathom that it was fair kids my age lived with this fear every single fucking day. After a while, I stopped thinking about those things. I stopped reading articles my father sent me detailing the horror in the Middle East. I couldn’t get through my day if I was constantly aware of what was going on in the rest of the world.

So I shut it out.

That was over ten years ago. I still don’t like to hear it, read it, know that it exists. But my issue now is not so much with not knowing, but the fact that I quite possibly believe it doesn’t fucking matter IF I know. It doesn’t matter if I’m aware. Because does it? I read this blurb from my father last night: http://zenarchery.com/2014/08/everyone-i-know-is-brokenhearted/ . This guy Josh Ellis, according to my father, ” crawled inside my brain and put into words just about the whole enchilada of how I and many of us think and feel about this life…”. Take your time. Read the fucking thing then get back to me.

Oh, this is Gandalf. Not his Rainier. He feasts on the blood of Lil Bunny Foo Foo. In case you didn’t know, bunnies actually fucking scream. (Shudder)

 

danielle

 

Needless to say I was a bit freaked out about the suicidal undertone considering my dad said this guy crawled in his head. But I was more freaked out that I felt like Josh had a point and I was willing to agree with him. I felt even more freaked out when I realized I’d been thinking something similar for years but was afraid to own up to it because Americans are all stupid and don’t give a flying fuck about the rest of the world and are ignorant, obese, gun wielding mother fuckers. AND I AM CLEARLY NOT ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE.

So I’ve at times feigned interest in global events and tried to keep abreast of who is killing who because their god told them to and which corporation is destroying the earth one plastic waving kitty cat toy at a time. But I never really cared. I don’t really care. And I still feel like this makes me a bad person. I’m not.

I care about the people around me as best I can. I love them. I take care of them. I try to make their lives better when I get the chance. But I’m not donating to ASPCA regularly. I only read Al Jazeera a couple times a week. I still don’t know who the PM is. But I do know that some guy in America put a data device on his cat’s collar that picks up and records which neighbors of his has unsecure wi-fi he can hack.

My only deduction is that cats are the true gods of this world who are actually aliens that have taken over our planet and brainwashed us into thinking not only are they companions, but truly worthy of our adoration, time, and caring. I mean, one of them nearly gets hit by a car and my Twitter feed BLOWS UP. Case in point:  my little sister just instant messaged me ‘CATS FOREVERRRRRR! excuse me, i mean FUR-EVER’.

 

Meow.