A Hard Man is Good to Find

There are times when my fellowette women make me want to slap the everlovin estrogen out of them. They can be the most frustratingly delusional, self-destructive group of inherently lovely people in any given herd of nuts and crazies. I love my girlfriends wholeheartedly, and long ago realized that a loyal heart does not fill its loved ones with lies and garbage, but finds the most tactful and reasonable way to say what must be said.

So this morning, I sit and listen to my friend/office mate unquietly declare to the asshole that only yesterday was “gone from her life”, that she was leaving work early because “we need to talk”. I have used this ridiculously ineffective phrase in the distant past, and I can hear those days in the very screech of her voice when she talks to this guy, who she played the hang-up/redial game with for almost an hour.

She’s been going through the basic chick crap with this full-fledged “bad boy” for quite a while, and her frustration with him has recently escalated. Apparently she is not delighted by his continued relationship with an ex, constant drunkenness, or inability to make plans to do stuff with her. I’m only guessing that he has won her heart with his gallant shows of indifference, and endeared her with his transparent barrel of lies.


It happens all the freakin time. “But he says he LOVES me”.


I cannot tell you how often I find myself in the position whereby I must decide whether to give my no-holds-barred honest opinion or sugar coat the picture as seen from the outside. I’ve almost lost friends over the truth. Many people prefer a little white lie, that usually turns gray and then black before the whole thing resembles gangrene and requires amputation.

Don’t get me wrong. There have been moments where my pride was so damaged by a man that I flung words at him like stones at a glass house. But in general, I walk away, disgusted with myself for meandering in meaninglessness and angry that I didnt see it sooner.

So I get pissy about the sissy shit. (Pissy…sissy….I like that…) I WANT to be supportive. I will gladly let a friend spill their woes, cry on my shoulder, and if they're a very good friend, I may even let them wipe their runny nose on my sleeve. But I refuse to feed the lies they tell themselves. I will not be a party to the fantasy-like nightmare they are obsessed with. From now on, I will silently hand them a little red laminated card with my wise and unforgiving…

“Rules to Rid Yourself of Misery”

Three Strike Rule: Men can relate to the number three. Most of them have at least three fingers, they can usually add, subtract and multiply by threes, and they all know what three strikes gets you. If you call three times, and he hasn’t responded – he’s out. If you invite him to three non-sex related activities and he declines them all – he’s out. If he has two other girlfriends and you’re the third – he’s out. If he wanted to do any of those things, he would’ve done so already.

Sticks and Stones Rule: The first clue that he really doesn’t give a crap about you, having been ignored, is sometimes reiterated with a round of flying fists and/or “you stupid, stinky, cuntbomb” – which some women obviously interpret as “I really love you or I wouldn’t care enough to want to hit you/make you sink into the pitiful depths of humiliation”. There are no circumstances I can think of to excuse this, unless what he says is accurate to a fault, and if you are indeed a stupid, stinky cuntbomb, please shower and then cook the man dinner to apologize. If he talks with his fists, and you repeatedly tell yourself that it’ll never happen again, you should be flogged daily in the center of town, and have your wounds dressed with vinegar.

Truth or Dare: He says he was in a meeting, but your friend saw him lunching at the diner with a chick. He says he was talking to his mother in the other room, but you could swear you heard him say “sexy-ass” in the conversation. He “fell asleep” on his friends couch and didn’t wake up til just now, so he couldn’t call to tell you he wouldn’t be home. Basically – if you think he’s lying, he probably is. And if you realize he’s making you feel “crazy” or “paranoid” – you probably aren’t. He’s a liar. A fibber. A story-teller of idiotic proportions.

The Game of Concentration: You’re out to dinner and he excuses himself more than once to answer his cell phone. He texts you often, but never answers when you call. You never speak to him between the time he gets home from work and the time he leaves for work the next day. Mondays, Saturdays, Sundays and Thursdays are off limits for making plans, and its not even football season. Honey – either he is spreading his focus around, or he doesn’t like you enough to concentrate on you. Either way, it is not likely to change. If he has a lot on his plate, but you’re not the main dish – you never will be.

Blame Game: No matter what he did to piss you off, you end up apologizing and offering endless foot rubs if he’ll only forgive you. He says you’re pushing him away with your nagging. He says he didn’t call to cancel because he knew you’d be upset and he’s too stressed as it is. He couldn’t help finishing in under 5 minutes because you’re so damned good. Bitch please. He’s eating cake and blaming you for the weight gain. If you constantly get the eerie feeling that you’ve been duped – you have. He doesn’t give one iota about you.

The Game of Life: If he says any of the following things, just go. He’s not confused, he’s not going to “get past it” with you, and he’s not going to change his mind: “I need space” – “I need time” – “We’re (he and the ex, not YOU) trying to work things out” - “There’s someone else” – “I’m gay” – “She’s just a friend” – “You’re a needy-ass limp-lay, crazy bitch and I’m getting a restraining order”.

Doin It Discovery Channel Style

I have no educated opinions on this matter, unless you include some blundering of my own that, as a result, has lead me to some slightly unscientific - though often interesting - conclusions.
I say this – because the thought occurred to me the other day, while getting bored enough eating my cereal, when the current paper had not yet hit the doorstep and I was forced to read Dear Abbey, that maybe her advice could be misconstrued by some less forward thinking folk. Maybe someone would take her advice badly, and do something rash, reinforcing my instinct not to give too much “fuck'em” advice.

I wouldn’t want my friends out there screwing the very target of my statement, after all.
Sex is an instinct.

No matter how hard we try to mangle it with our morals and judgments and insecurities – it is still something born within every one of us. We are meant to find or attract the most suitable mate and procreate until our species is ensured survival (or taking over and destroying the planet with carbon-emitting machines). And I know, being raised Catholic that if my deeds had not already insured my expulsion from up above, then that statement surely would.
Whatever – I am always goin a’coveting – so I might as well make it good.

As parents, we bring our kids up with some antiquated ideals about love, marriage and sex. We give them the pretty picture, and never tell them what to do when Tom cheats, or Bill rapes, or Ted tells you you’re a fat-assed loser with nothing to claim but dirty laundry. We make them think that their urges are unnatural and immoral and will get them a one way ticket to The Sunburn Festival downstairs. It’s wrong to want. It’s wrong to lust. It’s wrong to stick a pee-pee in your mouth - much less ENJOY it being there.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH - NO!



HeLLO people.

Except in extraordinary circumstances, where children are given inside information before their brains can properly process said information, sex is exactly what we’re wired to do. (And, though my thesis was not on molestation in animals, because I have no masters, I have not ONCE heard mention of wild animals raping/sodomizing/molesting in nature – that’s a human venture).

So, you lust for the girl in line in front of you at Wendy’s, cause her ass is plump as a peach on a Georgia tree, well HELL man, the boner is nothing to be ashamed of. Fuck'er!

And ladies – the guy in the office down the hall with the strong looking hands and piecing gaze? Um hum – if you were a lioness – you’d be parading your ripe ass in his face until he took a sniff and pounced! Woman - fuck'im!

It’s like breathing and eating and writing a resume. It’s like takin a shit with less e-coli. It’s natural. It’s what we’re supposed to do.

So what the hell is everyone so uptight about?

Wait. I just gave "Fuck'em advice, didnt I?

Crap - nevermind!

Oldie But Goodie: Valentine Topic Extraordinaire

Every year I stress over this damn man. I prepare for the visit, lay awake thinking about it, and go through horrific rituals to make myself acceptable. And yet, every year I breathe a sigh of relief that he only takes minutes and it's over. (He's the only one that can get away with that.)
So I got up early, showered, scrubbed, shaved, powdered, lotioned and preened until I felt as fresh and flowery as a freakin Easter morning. I would see him early enough to be relatively unsullied, though I wished it were first thing, before I had a chance to sweat or mud wrestle or anything.

What I did NOT plan on was the untimely need to take a dump.

Mind you, I won't go into details about THAT, except to say it was your average dump, and nothing to think twice about on a normal day. If it weren't for my unreasonable OCD-like qualities and an excessive fear of inadequate wiping (followed by the infamous "shit-stain") – the moment would've past unnoticed.

However – in less than an hour – a man would be thoroughly examining my crotch, and the last thing I wanted was for him to know that I was the one that stunk up the work bathroom today.
So, as I undressed in the exam room, awaiting his impending invasion, I grabbed a couple wipes from the bottle of Wet Ones on the counter, and just to make sure I was pristine in all areas, gave myself a quick once-over, chucking the wipes in the biological waste basket when I finished.

As I washed my hands, I noticed a little tingling between the butt cheeks. Within seconds….the tingling was more like burning…and then altogether anal combustion. Dancing and squirming to the counter, I picked up the wet ones, only to realize they were not what I thought. Apparently, the nurses thought it would be funny to stick the sanitizing crap they use on the "equipment" and hard surfaces on the counter, where anybody could easily mistake them for Baby Fresh scented wipies. However – the sign of the baby's bottom with a big X through was not obvious until I investigated the container, whining slightly from the bonfire that was my ass.

Panicking slightly, I threw it back on the devil's counter, and yanked a handful of paper towels from dispenser, ran them under the faucet, and slid them between my buttocks. I washed my hands again, forced back tears, and got some more to dry off with.

Only by the grace of God and The Quicker Picker Upper did I manage to calm down and slide on my mask of innocence when Doc arrived. I was nervous that he'd noticed the redness, and inquire as to what I was doing that would irritate my bunghole so dreadfully. Or that the strong chemical odor would tip him off that I was a little loopy.

I managed however to distract him with my wit, and insistence that I was exempt from breast self-exams because any growth would be clearly visible to the naked eye. Everything went smoothly, and I have gladly made it another year without somehow impregnating myself.

Maybe next year, I'll just skip the shaving part, and assume the hair will cover any leftovers I missed. My advice to you?

Make sure if you stick something in your butt – you read the label first.

Ta Da.

Trivial Pursuit

I do this all the time, which is why I often have the kind of dizzy, hang-over like headache you experience after riding a loopy roller coaster a dozen times in a row, just because there’s no line. Granted, I may also have a hang over, but I’m almost positive that’s not where the feeling comes from. I ride the waves of my emotions up and down until, lulled nearly into a complete cataleptic-like sleep-state, I am awakened by the sting of salt on wounds from the constant pecking of prolific little scavengers in the water who thought I was dead. I go along for a while, not feeling much, not caring that my life isn’t really what I want it to be. I do my job. I tend to the children. I shower, and eat and smile at the passers by. I drive to work, and feel good that I only hit half of the potholes.

And then it comes rushing back. The longing for more, and the self-reproach for not being happy with what I have. The health of myself, my kids, my parents, and their love to boot. I have a stable job, a roof over my head, and money to fill it with skin-drying heat. I can feed the mouths that open wide when mommy birds returns to the nest, and I can put a new paid of cleats on their feet when a new season of baseball starts. We’re not in any unreasonable amount of danger from car bombs, or government overthrows, or lack of reality TV.

Why does happiness come so easily for some people? Its like they were blessed with a gift for taking things in stride, and seeing light where other’s would scramble around in the dark, screaming for a match. Is it an act? Are some people just better at hiding discontent – or is it something in our genetic make-up that can be altered by the scientific method? Is there an answer to finding happiness?

I think about this a lot. What I need to make me happy. And while I’m not sure I’m even in the right ballpark with my brainstorming for ideas – I do have a pretty good list of things others seem to think will make it all better - but aren’t the answer for me.

Money will never make me happy. And while money can cloth me in finery and make me into something fashionable and chic – no pair of Dolce & Gabbanas can ever warm my heart or give me love, even if they don’t blister my feet. Granted, I can think of many things I want, that cost money I don’t have, and that would probably move me closer to a happy place. Education. Car repairs. A dishwasher that doesn’t leak. Professional hair stylist. But in the end, being wrapped in warmth and radiance cannot be bought at the Clinque counter in Macy's.

And no other person can ensure my happiness. No matter how much I love my children, and my parents and friends – not one of them is responsible for creating my ideals, changing my mood, or accomplishing my goals. None of them can crawl into the holes I dig inside myself, where I store the emotions like nuts in the fall. Not one person can hold me til the day I die and never get up to pee. It’s just unreasonable to expect happiness to depend 100% on another human being, and to think that they will be the same forever. People that expect "the one" to make them happy for all of their days, is the person who is hit hardest by death, divorce and their own reflection in the mirror.

Chocolate does not make me happy. Wine provides only momentary desenstizing. Sex was a momentary band aid, and one that peel off in the bathtub long ago. I could go on, but the list of Non-Answers is long. But I'm beginning to think I should’ve started with a definition.

The All New Dating Game

It’s funny, but dating doesn’t mean much to me these days. And to be fair, it’s not just that this tiny little wannabe-city doesn’t afford much opportunity to meet people, and even if it did, most of them already have a wife/girlfriend/drug problem. I just don’t have time to devote to getting to know someone, and I can’t see myself making too much time for someone I don’t know. Add that to having a few active kids, a mother that lives in the same house, and a general lack of interest – and you have a basically date-free situation.

But – because I am an avid people watcher (in a totally non-invasive, non-voyeurism kind of way of course) – I was considering a social experiment. Having been on MySpace for a couple years, and never with the intention of dating, I have still managed to get a good feel for the social aspect. You can find a little bit of everything there. The Spacers run the gamut from truly interesting and creative people to completely psychotic idiots with very little to say that doesn’t come from the lyrics of 50 Cent’s Magic Stick. (Go look them up, dorks – better yet, ask your 17 year old).

So, I was thinking I’d get a second job long enough to pay for memberships at eHarmony, Match.com and Chemistry.com. If they’re anything like MySpace, I’ll photoshop a good profile pic, and then randomly draw a birthday out of a hat, just hoping I don’t have to be 19 or 99. Or maybe I’ll find a really good old photo of Audrey Hepburn and pretend I photoshopped it to give it that old look.

My about me section should definitely sell me like the fine, barely-used goods I am. I keep trying to think of what Paris would say if she were talking about herself – after all, who else can market non-talent well enough to get her own record deal, tv show, and fanatical following? Something along the lines of “ I love long walks on the beach, small dogs that fit in my purse, and making sex tapes you can sell when we break up”.

My hometown has to be something romantic, and yet geared towards men. Maybe Daytona or Detroit, or even Pittsburgh - to take advantage of the Super Bowl hype and win the sports-lover vote.

And I’m totally lying about my kids. I thought I’d just say they’re my siblings, and that I like to help my poor, birth-control-impaired mother because she’s such a sad case. You know, I had to quit school when I was 17 so I could work to support my sisters and brothers, and had to walk to work uphill, ten miles, in the snow.

Or how about this? “I am searching for Mr. Right. Someone who doesn’t talk too much, watches me clean house from the couch, and doesn’t mind if I clean it in the nude. I like men who like beer, and love the challenge of changing myself to suit their needs. Loves dogs, and doesn’t mind fleas. Can fish, hunt, throw like a boy, and scale a slippery pole wearing only thongs and high heels.”

I really don’t think these things are SO far from the truth that I can’t pull it off. I can hook one first, so I don’t have to waste time “getting to know them”. I can string them along with emails and texts and 5 minute chats.
The fact is, online dating is perfect for how I feel right now….like sitting on the couch for an indeterminable amount of time, wearing sweats and a ponytail, gaining weight and growing another chin. I can be who I want to be, while still portraying what I want prospective ex’s to see. It’s perfect.



I can't imagine why online dating isn't more popular!

Mind, Body & Soul: Part 2: Issued First (Just to throw you off)

It doesn’t matter how much I try to deny it, or make it go away. Common sense and the natural cravings that are only human cannot dispense with the yearning. Make believe and women’s lib and my Grandma’s womb-like love do not shed light on the mysteries of its draw.

And I’m not alone. (And my Grandma smells like fried chicken)

I am a cow. Moo-freakin-ooooooo. Aside from the fact that I have actually produced “milk” before, and I have a couple long, saggy, once-life-giving udders, I am a cow in other ways.

I think because I was a chubby kid, and “healthy” pre-teen, the fact that I naturally grew out of the extra weight means very little. The mirror still says the same thing, and it’s not berating me for being too stupid, or less successful than I should be. While my abbreviated education and lack-luster career are constant fodder for new (or renewed) goals, it is my body that receives the brunt of whatever self-inflicted condemnation I issue forth. I want to be happy with the imperfections, and yet every time I see my reflection – whenever I see myself - it is not my lack of political awareness, or inadequacy when playing Trivial Pursuit or watching Cash Cab that I regret most.

Though I do regret those things immensely.

I mean, I freakin love Cash Cab. I intend to go to NYC in April with no other object than to roam the streets looking for it. I imagine myself flagging down crossover-looking cabs, and saying “Oops, sorry – I forgot my wallet” or acting as though I was flagging it for the less ambitious sap behind me. Not the point - you can never have enough pointless trivia on the tip of your tongue in a city that overwhlems every other sense.

At some point in high school, basically from my junior year on – I was 125 lbs. At 5’9” that was enough to make a few people ask if I had an eating disorder, which was entirely the opposite of the truth. I had gained control. After a teen pregnancy during which I’d gained almost 60 lbs, my weight was a perfection of healthy eating, diligent exercise, and mind over matter. And up until my last was born just under three years ago – I maintained that standard - or close to it, even going vegetarian for a couple years to ensure the goodness I was putting into my body (as long as you consider alcohol “good”).

So after 14 years, and the birth of my third child (22 lbs gained) – I was "acceptable" - but no better in my own eyes, at least when my eyes were directed towards a scale. But for the last year or so, having somewhat conquered a slight bout of depression – and celebrating with a year long (or slightly more) 2-glass-of-wine-a-night binge, I seem to be packing on the pounds, one nasty, jiggly ounce at a time. I know in my less-than-shallow mind that its not all that serious yet. But, childhood promises that I would be JUST like Jane Fonda (without Ted and money) riddle my thoughts and dreams – torturing me with visions of a large ass you can place your dinner plate on and thighs that could serve as a compactor at the local junkyard. I haven’t had time for the gym in two months, unless giving up minimal parenting is an option – and eating has become less of a discipline and more of a whatever’s-there kind of thing.

So, I will never look at myself and see what other’s see. But then again, I am not other people. And for the most part, I don’t give a starving rats ass what people think about my cellulite. I don’t (really) want to be Heidi Klum, and I don’t need to be the devil in Prada. I don’t even need to have my own DVD of pole-dancing, love-handle-taming fabulousness (but it could happen).

I just need to please me (and maybe Raquel Welch), and there’s no better time to begin………..than tomorrow (says Scarlet anyway).

Whirly Twirly Mental Manic Aggressive

Those Nationwide commercials are right. I pay attention to them mainly because I am still angsty over the big insurance companies not covering in Massachusetts, causing me the horrific experience of having to switch companies when I moved here from Georgia. In fact, I was with Allstate there, and had every intention of keeping them, if for no other reason than I like the deep-voiced guy that does their commercials. Beats the hell out of a talking lizard, in three out of four taste tests anyway. Besides, deep down….really, really deep down – I want to be in good hands.

Back to the point.

“Life comes at you fast.”

I haven’t posted a blog in over a month. Is it because I have been writing so many quality blogs that I can’t decide which one to post first? Is it because I’ve been reduced to writing with paper and pen because all computer manufacturers have also decided Massachusetts is a bitch and stopped selling them here? Is it because I fell down in my driveway whilst shoveling 2000 cubic feet of lead-like snow and broke both my hands, forcing me to “write” in my hand-held minute-taking recorder from work?

Nay.

I have been so swamped with year-end number-crunching, mess-cleaning chaos, sprinkled heavily with basketball games and bedtime wino-moments – I have barely noticed December is over and it’s nearing the end of January. I find solace in the fact that the hoity-toity holiday dinner and the hoopla of a department-wide party for a couple hundred coworkers is over. But I kind of feel like the 31st is the day I’ve been scheduled for execution, and only an unlikely stay will save me from sure numeric destruction.

In fact, I am sitting here now, having had the intention to leave work today, not bring the spreadsheets with me, and buy a couple new games (the board kind, not the PS2 kind) to play with my mom and the kids - a family game night having happened exactly twice in the past year or so. I was thinking Candy Land for the toddler so she'll stop stealing the pieces to whatever the rest of us are playing cause she's left out, or maybe that apple picking one. Or is it cherries?

But - turns out the Mother made plans with the Grandmother for dinner, my son went to a school dance with his friends, and my teen daughter is at the mall (with whom and for what reason, still unknown). So I skipped the toy store, hit the liquor store, and sit here in the near-quiet as my toddler watches Noggin while using approximately 237 wipes to clean the living room.

So let's talk about the toddler.

While she drives me insane with her mini-me tendencies, including gobs of sarcasm and a super-sweet little princess delivery – she is the one who will make me proud. Having been an avid Obama supporter, I am delighted that not only can she name the President when asked (she’ll be three in March - and learned this just this week), but she also refers to him as her “Best Buddy”. She has taken possession of my small Obama tote bag, and takes it to the sitters everyday, choc-full of her hair ties, nail polish, sippy cup and sparkly princess shoes – sometimes varying by leaving the shoes and adding a doll and fuzzy blanket. She proudly grabs the woven red straps and announces "Mommy, I've got my Beeer-ROCK O-Baaaama bag" - and heads for the door.

If you knew how unprissy the rest of us are, you’d question if her bio-father was really an undercover closeted Californian ballerina too.

Anyway - last night she laid in bed with me, where we retired to early, my patience thinning and brain like lifeless granite - shiney-flecs but no function. I poured myself a glass of wine from a bottle given to me by some coworkers for the effort I put in to last weeks party, and snuggled under the covers, hoping she’d fall asleep quickly. Two seconds later, she flings herself over me to get her juice, knocking over my freshly poured glass (pink plastic cup) of cabernet, sending the lovely red contents into torrents of staining rain, covering the wall, side of the bed, and nasty off-white carpet.

My blood boiled, and I glared at her, ready to spout off threats of NO nail polish, Dora or fruit snacks for the NEXT TEN YEARS – when I realized she was shaking….waiting for me to spank her “goose bottom” or “pinochle-butt”. I stood rigid and tried counting to ten. I tried shaking my fists in the air to rid myself of the anger. I cursed my uterus and cell division for ruining my life (and pink cup of wine). And then I looked at her again.

She was smiling.

I swear, somewhere deep down inside she knew I wouldn’t spank her for it. It’s as if she knows its just plain wrong to beat your kid for wasting your booze.

The ill-timed, much needed, and merely temporary End.

(This is my brain on imaginary drugs after crying over spilt wine)