I submitted my application for a job, while in the midst of an indignant fit of rage. I will find a better job, with a better title and better pay, and which does not include the co-worker, whom is secretly referred to at our office by those in the know as: She Who Must Not Be Named. SWMNBN for short.
This was Monday. I hyperventilated for a couple minutes, then went back to work.
Tuesday afternoon, I get a call, asking me to come in for a job interview. Brown paper bags can be found in the drawer on your left, MsHellion. I am to interview next Monday, at 4 pm. She offered to let me interview first thing in the morning. I nearly told her I’d rather be guillotined than have to do something like that first thing in the morning. I managed to keep that to myself.
I have to find something suitable to wear. For the last several years, my casual work wear has lapsed into t-shirts and jeans. If I do wear a skirt at this point, it garners enough attention to warrant a: “What’s going on? Something special going on tonight?”—and that’s before I even bother with makeup, which would open up a whole other box of speculation.
I’ve been here 7 years. I know this job well; and the details for the other job are very good too. Stuff I know. Stuff I could do. But how to present myself when at heart I’m a comfortable slob who would rather be witty than diplomatic? (Well, I can be diplomatic…it just takes more effort.) This is all about effort. I’m inherently a lazy creature. Stepping out of my rut and embracing a free fall into possible chaos, or worse, rejection strikes at my very soul.
On the other hand, if I succeed, I’m going to love telling SWMNBN that instead of me covering all her duties—she’ll have to cover mine now.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
A Monday Rant
We women are a pack of fools.
It’s taken a while to reach this stunning conclusion, because I have dozens of women friends, and they seem normal. They are normal. They’re witty, intelligent, beautiful, successful, spiritual, active, and fun women.
Not one of them knows what to make of men.
Don’t get me wrong. You put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our bed and we’ll know exactly what to do with him there.
Cook him supper. Feed him pie. Offer him coffee. Possibly, if we’re feeling particularly sassy that day, we’ll take advantage of his beautiful body and leave him smiling for the rest of the week. But generally put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our path, and we’ll find fifteen ways to tell him why he wouldn’t want anything to do with us.
We’re too fat.
We’re too old.
We’re too boring.
We’re too intelligent.
We’re not intelligent enough.
We don’t float in the same circles.
Which in paraphrase for all these excuses, we mean “we don’t think we’re good enough for you because we’ve been brainwashed by society, magazines, friends, ex-lovers, parents, the dog, et al, into thinking we have to be uber-witty-beautiful-successful-and-yet-not-too-intimidating in order for you to want us.” God, we’re stupid.
After all, if we go on a date with you, we don’t dissect you and say, “He was too fat, too boring, and too stupid for me to want a long term relationship.” (Okay, so maybe we do occasionally say, He was too stupid. But that was entirely his fault. He shouldn’t have asked me who Marilyn Monroe was. I mean, who doesn’t know who Marilyn Monroe is?)
No, no, we think, “It just wasn’t there.” Whatever the hell “it” is. I’m not sure I’ve felt “it” since the seventh grade, and even now, I sometimes wonder if it was a real feeling, or if it was some food poisoning undiagnosed and now running my love life through a series of hoops that aren’t even there.
Still, I believe “it” exists. That connection-chemistry magic that sometimes exists when you run into the right person. That elusive sweet something that makes you quit being so hung up on saying the right thing, or doing the right thing—and suddenly you’re just yourself—and that’s perfect. That’s what we want. That’s what men want.
Until they realize that’s boring and generic and they’re totally in a rut—and it’s your fault because you’re not spontaneous enough.
Okay, so maybe it’s George Carlin that’s right.
Women are crazy and men are stupid. And women are crazy because men are stupid.
It’s taken a while to reach this stunning conclusion, because I have dozens of women friends, and they seem normal. They are normal. They’re witty, intelligent, beautiful, successful, spiritual, active, and fun women.
Not one of them knows what to make of men.
Don’t get me wrong. You put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our bed and we’ll know exactly what to do with him there.
Cook him supper. Feed him pie. Offer him coffee. Possibly, if we’re feeling particularly sassy that day, we’ll take advantage of his beautiful body and leave him smiling for the rest of the week. But generally put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our path, and we’ll find fifteen ways to tell him why he wouldn’t want anything to do with us.
We’re too fat.
We’re too old.
We’re too boring.
We’re too intelligent.
We’re not intelligent enough.
We don’t float in the same circles.
Which in paraphrase for all these excuses, we mean “we don’t think we’re good enough for you because we’ve been brainwashed by society, magazines, friends, ex-lovers, parents, the dog, et al, into thinking we have to be uber-witty-beautiful-successful-and-yet-not-too-intimidating in order for you to want us.” God, we’re stupid.
After all, if we go on a date with you, we don’t dissect you and say, “He was too fat, too boring, and too stupid for me to want a long term relationship.” (Okay, so maybe we do occasionally say, He was too stupid. But that was entirely his fault. He shouldn’t have asked me who Marilyn Monroe was. I mean, who doesn’t know who Marilyn Monroe is?)
No, no, we think, “It just wasn’t there.” Whatever the hell “it” is. I’m not sure I’ve felt “it” since the seventh grade, and even now, I sometimes wonder if it was a real feeling, or if it was some food poisoning undiagnosed and now running my love life through a series of hoops that aren’t even there.
Still, I believe “it” exists. That connection-chemistry magic that sometimes exists when you run into the right person. That elusive sweet something that makes you quit being so hung up on saying the right thing, or doing the right thing—and suddenly you’re just yourself—and that’s perfect. That’s what we want. That’s what men want.
Until they realize that’s boring and generic and they’re totally in a rut—and it’s your fault because you’re not spontaneous enough.
Okay, so maybe it’s George Carlin that’s right.
Women are crazy and men are stupid. And women are crazy because men are stupid.
The Secret to Writing
I think that the Secret of Life is the Wizard of Oz.
Yes, I’m serious. The Wizard of Oz, man. It can apply to any aspect of your life. Take writing even.
You’re Dorothy. You’re out in Unfinished Manuscript Hell (read: Oz) and all you want to do is get home (read: finish the damned book already); but you’re hounded by this Wicked Witch (read: Inner and Outer Critics who tell you you’ll never get published, be good enough, make a living at it) and flying monkeys (read: every day wear and tear of life, like family, job, school, time-management issues)—and it just seems to be impossible you’re ever going to get back to Kansas.
You’re going to do it—and you’ll do it just like Dorothy with the help of your friends, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, and by the fact you already have seen the movie and know that getting home lies within you if you believe hard enough. See, you’re already ahead. You know the answer.
The Scarecrow=brains. The brains refers to a lot of things. It’s organization, knowledge, and resources.
Time management is key. Organize your calendar and try to scrape out at least twenty minutes a day to write something—because the book isn’t going to manifest itself without you near a keyboard. (I know, I’ve tried.) Like the gym, once you make it a habit, you’ll keep going, but if you stop, it’s hard to go back. Writing is exercise and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.
Read up on plot and structure and character development, and all those things you constantly worry about within your manuscript. Knowledge is Power, baby. One of two things will happen, I assure you: A) You’ll get inspired by something you just discovered and start implementing it immediately; or B) You’ll get so depressed or angry, you’ll stop reading it and start writing. (read: “Fuck it! I’m just going to write the scene how I like!”) Either way, you’re writing, so it’s a win-win.
Draw on your resources. Talk to your writing buddies; form a clan—pass around ideas. Maybe even start a support group to make each other accountable when it comes to writing. Pool your resources with other people; drawing on others; and everyone comes away winning.
Work smarter, not harder. Writing is hard enough as it is.
The Tin Man=heart. Love yourself. If your friend came up with her WIP and showed you the first couple chapters, you would not deride every nit-picky thing wrong with it, nor would you tell her that she has no business writing. Ever. You’d find something positive to say; you’d objectively pick out the things that need to be fixed; then you’d encourage her to keep going because you know it’ll get better. You know this. You do this.
So why let your Inner Critic (read: Wicked Witch) emotionally hijack you because she doesn’t think your love scene was steamy enough—and on top of it, it was utterly cliché? For one, the Wicked Witch has never gotten laid, so what does she know? Nothing. Secondly, she has no business talking to you that way, period. There have been worst things written than what you have down on the page. Some of them have been published. Hell, some of them are being taught in English Lit class. You are not the worst thing to have happened to writing. Don’t let the bastards (especially the fictional ones) grind you down.
But my mother doesn’t support me—and she’s my mother! Uh-huh, well, does she read romances? No. Is she a writer? No? Then really, don’t worry about it. If your mother is not in publishing, her opinion is not the one that matters in the end. And by the time an editor reads it, it’s going to be polished, wonderful, and full of promise.
Also, love what you write. Don’t try to write to some genre or sub-genre because “it’s really hot right now” and it’ll get picked up by a publisher right away. If you don’t like paranormals, don’t read paranormals, could care less about paranormals—then write something else. Paranormals aren’t the only thing being published. Or worse, don’t try to write something because “it’ll be easy.” None of it is “easy.” But it’s all doable. Have heart if you’re writing something that’s not popular right this minute. There are writers who wrote stories that weren’t picked up for years before they finally found a home. Sherrilyn Kenyon, anyone? Believe me, her stories found a home.
Also with love, comes forgiveness. Forgive yourself that your plots are the hokiest things the planet; that your hero is so perfect he must have come out of a factory; and your heroine has no life goals beyond capturing a husband. Whatever. Forgiveness always comes before making the step to fix the problem.
The Cowardly Lion=courage. Courage to begin. Courage to stick with it. Courage to ask for help from friends and family. Courage to show it to other writers—or eek! An editor! Courage to write even if you know in your heart of hearts it will be a shitty draft. (Of course it’s going to be a shitty draft!) Courage to believe you will succeed. If you have courage, if you believe, it will happen. (Self-fulfilling prophesies. If you believe it will happen, good or bad, it will. But that’s another blog.)
If you put these three friends to good use, you’ll find outwitting the Wicked Witch and flying monkeys gets easier—even if it never lets up. And eventually you’ll get out of Oz and back home.
Yes, I’m serious. The Wizard of Oz, man. It can apply to any aspect of your life. Take writing even.
You’re Dorothy. You’re out in Unfinished Manuscript Hell (read: Oz) and all you want to do is get home (read: finish the damned book already); but you’re hounded by this Wicked Witch (read: Inner and Outer Critics who tell you you’ll never get published, be good enough, make a living at it) and flying monkeys (read: every day wear and tear of life, like family, job, school, time-management issues)—and it just seems to be impossible you’re ever going to get back to Kansas.
You’re going to do it—and you’ll do it just like Dorothy with the help of your friends, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, and by the fact you already have seen the movie and know that getting home lies within you if you believe hard enough. See, you’re already ahead. You know the answer.
The Scarecrow=brains. The brains refers to a lot of things. It’s organization, knowledge, and resources.
Time management is key. Organize your calendar and try to scrape out at least twenty minutes a day to write something—because the book isn’t going to manifest itself without you near a keyboard. (I know, I’ve tried.) Like the gym, once you make it a habit, you’ll keep going, but if you stop, it’s hard to go back. Writing is exercise and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.
Read up on plot and structure and character development, and all those things you constantly worry about within your manuscript. Knowledge is Power, baby. One of two things will happen, I assure you: A) You’ll get inspired by something you just discovered and start implementing it immediately; or B) You’ll get so depressed or angry, you’ll stop reading it and start writing. (read: “Fuck it! I’m just going to write the scene how I like!”) Either way, you’re writing, so it’s a win-win.
Draw on your resources. Talk to your writing buddies; form a clan—pass around ideas. Maybe even start a support group to make each other accountable when it comes to writing. Pool your resources with other people; drawing on others; and everyone comes away winning.
Work smarter, not harder. Writing is hard enough as it is.
The Tin Man=heart. Love yourself. If your friend came up with her WIP and showed you the first couple chapters, you would not deride every nit-picky thing wrong with it, nor would you tell her that she has no business writing. Ever. You’d find something positive to say; you’d objectively pick out the things that need to be fixed; then you’d encourage her to keep going because you know it’ll get better. You know this. You do this.
So why let your Inner Critic (read: Wicked Witch) emotionally hijack you because she doesn’t think your love scene was steamy enough—and on top of it, it was utterly cliché? For one, the Wicked Witch has never gotten laid, so what does she know? Nothing. Secondly, she has no business talking to you that way, period. There have been worst things written than what you have down on the page. Some of them have been published. Hell, some of them are being taught in English Lit class. You are not the worst thing to have happened to writing. Don’t let the bastards (especially the fictional ones) grind you down.
But my mother doesn’t support me—and she’s my mother! Uh-huh, well, does she read romances? No. Is she a writer? No? Then really, don’t worry about it. If your mother is not in publishing, her opinion is not the one that matters in the end. And by the time an editor reads it, it’s going to be polished, wonderful, and full of promise.
Also, love what you write. Don’t try to write to some genre or sub-genre because “it’s really hot right now” and it’ll get picked up by a publisher right away. If you don’t like paranormals, don’t read paranormals, could care less about paranormals—then write something else. Paranormals aren’t the only thing being published. Or worse, don’t try to write something because “it’ll be easy.” None of it is “easy.” But it’s all doable. Have heart if you’re writing something that’s not popular right this minute. There are writers who wrote stories that weren’t picked up for years before they finally found a home. Sherrilyn Kenyon, anyone? Believe me, her stories found a home.
Also with love, comes forgiveness. Forgive yourself that your plots are the hokiest things the planet; that your hero is so perfect he must have come out of a factory; and your heroine has no life goals beyond capturing a husband. Whatever. Forgiveness always comes before making the step to fix the problem.
The Cowardly Lion=courage. Courage to begin. Courage to stick with it. Courage to ask for help from friends and family. Courage to show it to other writers—or eek! An editor! Courage to write even if you know in your heart of hearts it will be a shitty draft. (Of course it’s going to be a shitty draft!) Courage to believe you will succeed. If you have courage, if you believe, it will happen. (Self-fulfilling prophesies. If you believe it will happen, good or bad, it will. But that’s another blog.)
If you put these three friends to good use, you’ll find outwitting the Wicked Witch and flying monkeys gets easier—even if it never lets up. And eventually you’ll get out of Oz and back home.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Where Are We Going, And Why Am I In This Handbasket?
And if you thought I was going to hell for all my oral fixations and lusting after my oblivious professors--ha! How little you know. I have a much longer list of why I'll be going to hell, baby. Here's one of them.
Lucifer
I sit in church and identify
With that most troublesome of angels,
One whose aspect is so much fairer than mine.
He can never return.
He is forever damned! the brimstone preacher
Pounds against the pulpit,
And I feel every bit as rebellious as the First Rebel.
Why would an angel be less deserving of God’s grace than I?
Is he not too one of His creations?
I admire his independence for something
Different, something true to himself.
I mourn with him his separation from all that
Is familiar to gain Freedom;
I understand that with every thing that is gained,
Something is lost.
With knowledge, innocence;
With freedom, a Father’s love.
I too wonder what life would have been like,
How it would feel to be in my Father’s
Good graces and loving smile.
I wonder why we are not good enough as we are.
Conformity is the real hell.
If our fathers say love is unconditional,
That we are loved even when don’t deserve it,
Why have I been turned away?
Why does the Fallen Angel still sit outside of Heaven’s Gates?
I pray for Lucifer, and for me,
For if I don’t, no one will. When I pray for him,
I pray for myself. I will that one day our darkness
Will once again find the Light welcomes us
And we can once again love all our parts without shame,
Our darkness, our light, and all shades between.
Lucifer
I sit in church and identify
With that most troublesome of angels,
One whose aspect is so much fairer than mine.
He can never return.
He is forever damned! the brimstone preacher
Pounds against the pulpit,
And I feel every bit as rebellious as the First Rebel.
Why would an angel be less deserving of God’s grace than I?
Is he not too one of His creations?
I admire his independence for something
Different, something true to himself.
I mourn with him his separation from all that
Is familiar to gain Freedom;
I understand that with every thing that is gained,
Something is lost.
With knowledge, innocence;
With freedom, a Father’s love.
I too wonder what life would have been like,
How it would feel to be in my Father’s
Good graces and loving smile.
I wonder why we are not good enough as we are.
Conformity is the real hell.
If our fathers say love is unconditional,
That we are loved even when don’t deserve it,
Why have I been turned away?
Why does the Fallen Angel still sit outside of Heaven’s Gates?
I pray for Lucifer, and for me,
For if I don’t, no one will. When I pray for him,
I pray for myself. I will that one day our darkness
Will once again find the Light welcomes us
And we can once again love all our parts without shame,
Our darkness, our light, and all shades between.
Oral Fixations
I'm in the mood to post my bad poetry. *LOL* So here's another one.
Kate’s Diary Entry, April 14, 1873
His mouth is on me, sucking,
Caressing and consuming me—
And I can but lay and stare at the ceiling
And thank God, I’m a woman.
Oh, He gave them easy Orgasms—never failing—
But for His most contrary creation
He gave us Orgasms as complex as our Sex.
Doc knows just where to fondle
And coax and persuade—He always did have a gifted tongue—
His pale gambler hands are sure as he parts my thighs
And memorizes the most intricate part of me.
“Easy,” he whispers, his broad
Hand stroking up my pale stomach to the
Underside of my breast.
His voice is a gravelly vibration against my inner thigh, almost as
Raspy as the stutter of stubble on his jaw.
“Come to me.”
Oh, I’ll come to me, I think as the ceiling swirls in ocean
Waves of red and gray and aquamarine.
Every muscle hums, building, chugging in starts and spurts,
Like one of those great steam trains.
My panty breath whispers along the air, but I have
No words for this, just gaspy, frantic chugs.
Then like a deck of cards being shuffled,
Cut and bent to mix, arched for the bridge—taut—
I shatter, scattering like cards gone awry from the shuffle,
Fluttering skyward and landing upside, downside,
And bent on the table.
Kate’s Diary Entry, April 14, 1873
His mouth is on me, sucking,
Caressing and consuming me—
And I can but lay and stare at the ceiling
And thank God, I’m a woman.
Oh, He gave them easy Orgasms—never failing—
But for His most contrary creation
He gave us Orgasms as complex as our Sex.
Doc knows just where to fondle
And coax and persuade—He always did have a gifted tongue—
His pale gambler hands are sure as he parts my thighs
And memorizes the most intricate part of me.
“Easy,” he whispers, his broad
Hand stroking up my pale stomach to the
Underside of my breast.
His voice is a gravelly vibration against my inner thigh, almost as
Raspy as the stutter of stubble on his jaw.
“Come to me.”
Oh, I’ll come to me, I think as the ceiling swirls in ocean
Waves of red and gray and aquamarine.
Every muscle hums, building, chugging in starts and spurts,
Like one of those great steam trains.
My panty breath whispers along the air, but I have
No words for this, just gaspy, frantic chugs.
Then like a deck of cards being shuffled,
Cut and bent to mix, arched for the bridge—taut—
I shatter, scattering like cards gone awry from the shuffle,
Fluttering skyward and landing upside, downside,
And bent on the table.
Science
I never had a fondness for Science. Absolutely sucked at it. In fact, I barely scraped by with a "B" in my human sexuality class. Hello. I mean, I could have sex!--but I could never answer the questions like, "What percentage of Catholics use birth control?" I don't know. I put down 80%. It said that it was a much lower percentage. I think there are some Catholics that are going to hell for lying.
In college I took a History of Science class--mainly because I had the hots for the professor. Smart men do that to me...because I assure you he wasn't really anything to look at. But again it was science related, and as we know, I suck, so I spent a lot of time writing little rhyming poems. Usually about the professor. Like this one.
Applied Scientific Theory
I’ve this bit of knowledge to impart:
Love’s more a Science than an Art,
Measured by mind and body as well as the heart,
Each part counted and a counterpart.
You do not believe me; I see your smiles—
But Love’s more a Science than mere Sexual Wiles.
Gravity began it—this physical attraction,
The force that pulls us into animal action…
And for every motion, there’s an equal opposite action
To ensure and enhance your sublime satisfaction.
Oh ho, so now I’ve your attention, I see your eyes,
The interest therein that you cannot disguise.
Circles are countered by a swirl of the hips
And moans are exchanged by the suction of lips;
Electricity is currented through fingertips,
And Topography mapped by tiny kissing sips.
Surely you can conclude this art is a Science.
It should be called in Latin, Sexology-ience.
Potential energy becomes actual as your hand touches me,
Quantums leaping with indivisibility.
Your kiss is kinetic, like a cliff-diving spree,
A leap into Knowledge and insanity.
The equation of X and Y minus all inhibitions
Equals lust expounded by frictionous fission.
Friction, sweet friction, when our bodies collide
Reaching for an Eternity we won’t be denied.
This is so much the sweeter, I truly must confide
When I feel your heartbeat from the inside
Biological emotions enrapture my veins,
Smoldering until only embers remain.
Our kisses evolve beyond evolution,
Circling like suns in an orbital revolution,
Sinking us further into the Delusion,
Sweeping us deeper into sweeter Confusion.
Thermodynamics fissions into chemistry
As your scientific method converts my energy.
Newton may be faulty, but Einstein’s sublime:
Especially once he theorized Relative Time.
I’m no longer certain what is yours and what is mine—
I just know that Science as this is surely Divine.
Galileo saw the Heavens, and now, so do we,
Scattered and shattered across a wide galaxy.
Of course, I'm *sure* scientifically much of this doesn't pan out...but it's called poetic license--and I already told you I barely passed my Science classes.
I got an A in the class, by the way. *cheeky smile* Yeah, I might have sucked with the concept, but I could write like a dream. And my bullshit skills are unmatched. Of course, my buddy Justin swore it was because I wore short skirts and sucked on Blow Pops all through class--but I assured him the professor didn't notice. I think Justin got a B.
In college I took a History of Science class--mainly because I had the hots for the professor. Smart men do that to me...because I assure you he wasn't really anything to look at. But again it was science related, and as we know, I suck, so I spent a lot of time writing little rhyming poems. Usually about the professor. Like this one.
Applied Scientific Theory
I’ve this bit of knowledge to impart:
Love’s more a Science than an Art,
Measured by mind and body as well as the heart,
Each part counted and a counterpart.
You do not believe me; I see your smiles—
But Love’s more a Science than mere Sexual Wiles.
Gravity began it—this physical attraction,
The force that pulls us into animal action…
And for every motion, there’s an equal opposite action
To ensure and enhance your sublime satisfaction.
Oh ho, so now I’ve your attention, I see your eyes,
The interest therein that you cannot disguise.
Circles are countered by a swirl of the hips
And moans are exchanged by the suction of lips;
Electricity is currented through fingertips,
And Topography mapped by tiny kissing sips.
Surely you can conclude this art is a Science.
It should be called in Latin, Sexology-ience.
Potential energy becomes actual as your hand touches me,
Quantums leaping with indivisibility.
Your kiss is kinetic, like a cliff-diving spree,
A leap into Knowledge and insanity.
The equation of X and Y minus all inhibitions
Equals lust expounded by frictionous fission.
Friction, sweet friction, when our bodies collide
Reaching for an Eternity we won’t be denied.
This is so much the sweeter, I truly must confide
When I feel your heartbeat from the inside
Biological emotions enrapture my veins,
Smoldering until only embers remain.
Our kisses evolve beyond evolution,
Circling like suns in an orbital revolution,
Sinking us further into the Delusion,
Sweeping us deeper into sweeter Confusion.
Thermodynamics fissions into chemistry
As your scientific method converts my energy.
Newton may be faulty, but Einstein’s sublime:
Especially once he theorized Relative Time.
I’m no longer certain what is yours and what is mine—
I just know that Science as this is surely Divine.
Galileo saw the Heavens, and now, so do we,
Scattered and shattered across a wide galaxy.
Of course, I'm *sure* scientifically much of this doesn't pan out...but it's called poetic license--and I already told you I barely passed my Science classes.
I got an A in the class, by the way. *cheeky smile* Yeah, I might have sucked with the concept, but I could write like a dream. And my bullshit skills are unmatched. Of course, my buddy Justin swore it was because I wore short skirts and sucked on Blow Pops all through class--but I assured him the professor didn't notice. I think Justin got a B.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Social Behavior of Men
So I promised you I'd tell you about the Pig Guy. He was a smart guy--had a degree, a good job, funny and witty via emails, and a bit of a Civil War buff. (Then again what guy isn't a Civil War buff? What is up with men who like that era anyway? It's either the Civil War or WWII--and it's always about the battles. Doesn't anyone care about the Revolutionary War? The politics? The way people behave--how we've always behaved? Sorry, that's a different rant.) He was rather normal for one of my dates, so I agree to meet him for coffee.
We meet. I'm running slightly late, as in I didn't show up before the 7:15 time. I showed up at 7:16. Yeah, I know that's rude. Sue me. "Hi, I'm Hellion." He shakes hands, "Hi, I'm Bob." Which is totally not his name--and he's obviously said to make me think I introduced myself to someone else entirely and made a jackass of myself. I smile. "Totally kidding, I'm Pig Guy." (Pig Guy isn't his name either, but names have been changed to protect the moronic.) I sit, already slightly put off. We talk for a couple minutes, about nothing--I admit, I wasn't exactly feeling particularly witty at the moment, but then I wasn't sure what to think. I put in my order for coffee, and then sit back down. He starts to fiddle with his phone. (Always a good sign, right?) He shows me pictures of his dogs. I'm amazed by the sheer memory on this phone, because he's got pictures of everything...and then, about after 10 minutes of looking at dog pictures, he says, "Oh, you have to see this." He chooses a video, gives me the phone, and I watch.
I see the back of someone, Pig Guy, I deduce and there is this grunting pig at his feet. Then there is a gun shot and the pig starts to squeal. Blood splatters or something...maybe it's mud from the pig hitting the ground. All I know is: Why in the fuck would you show someone a video of you shooting a pig within 10 minutes of meeting her--on a supposed date?
"Oh, you haven't seen the best part." He takes his phone back, flips a video, then puts it back in my hand. This time I have a clear view of the pig twitching on the ground, obviously in death throes. Huh. And I thought the moment couldn't get worse.
Then he lectured me about how people don't know where their meat comes from since they go to the store and it's behind plastic. I feel a slow burn--and I say, "My father was a cattle farmer. Every year he'd shoot one and hang it in our yard. Occasionally I'd come home to a cow head on the kitchen table and be informed we were having tongue for dinner."
"Oh, I thought you were kidding." He pauses. "You're not really Amish, though, right?"
"No."
"Oh, good."
I don't know. I'm beginning to think it might be shame I'm not Amish, since I'm pretty sure the guys there would know better than to show their prospective girlfriends videos of them shooting pigs. And I don't know where he gets off thinking he's all that cool. He didn't capture that pig. He didn't exactly hunt it or anything. Moron.
I'd like to say I left shortly after this, but I have masochistic tendencies and I stuck it out for another couple hours. He did not improve after this. He got worse. I know, I can't believe it either.
Moving on, my co-worker has an ex-boyfriend she is friends with. I keep saying she's deluding herself. Men and Women can't be friends--see: When Harry Met Sally. For a while they were good friends, but lately he's been acting...strange. This morning, she sends him a joke about a government snow plow. I assure you Bill Clinton couldn't have found the sex joke in this, and yet her ex emails back with "So does this mean you want to plow through a box of condoms?"
She wails to me, "How many times do I have to say no?" I pat her on the shoulder. "Every day. For the rest of your life." This did not comfort her. "I'm sorry, but it might be different if you guys had never dated. The problem is that at one time he tapped that." Yeah, that's the phrase I used. Get over it. She laughs at this statement. "And the problem is that he will continue to pester you because eventually he hopes you'll change your mind because at one time you DID have sex with him. It's like...it's like...a rat who goes to the pellet machine and keeps pushing the lever, even though there are no pellets. Yes, there will never be any more pellets, but the rat doesn't know that. The rat knows at one time pellets existed there and he hopes pellets will exist again. The rat can't help it."
I know. Who'da thought psychology would ever have been useful in my everyday life?
We meet. I'm running slightly late, as in I didn't show up before the 7:15 time. I showed up at 7:16. Yeah, I know that's rude. Sue me. "Hi, I'm Hellion." He shakes hands, "Hi, I'm Bob." Which is totally not his name--and he's obviously said to make me think I introduced myself to someone else entirely and made a jackass of myself. I smile. "Totally kidding, I'm Pig Guy." (Pig Guy isn't his name either, but names have been changed to protect the moronic.) I sit, already slightly put off. We talk for a couple minutes, about nothing--I admit, I wasn't exactly feeling particularly witty at the moment, but then I wasn't sure what to think. I put in my order for coffee, and then sit back down. He starts to fiddle with his phone. (Always a good sign, right?) He shows me pictures of his dogs. I'm amazed by the sheer memory on this phone, because he's got pictures of everything...and then, about after 10 minutes of looking at dog pictures, he says, "Oh, you have to see this." He chooses a video, gives me the phone, and I watch.
I see the back of someone, Pig Guy, I deduce and there is this grunting pig at his feet. Then there is a gun shot and the pig starts to squeal. Blood splatters or something...maybe it's mud from the pig hitting the ground. All I know is: Why in the fuck would you show someone a video of you shooting a pig within 10 minutes of meeting her--on a supposed date?
"Oh, you haven't seen the best part." He takes his phone back, flips a video, then puts it back in my hand. This time I have a clear view of the pig twitching on the ground, obviously in death throes. Huh. And I thought the moment couldn't get worse.
Then he lectured me about how people don't know where their meat comes from since they go to the store and it's behind plastic. I feel a slow burn--and I say, "My father was a cattle farmer. Every year he'd shoot one and hang it in our yard. Occasionally I'd come home to a cow head on the kitchen table and be informed we were having tongue for dinner."
"Oh, I thought you were kidding." He pauses. "You're not really Amish, though, right?"
"No."
"Oh, good."
I don't know. I'm beginning to think it might be shame I'm not Amish, since I'm pretty sure the guys there would know better than to show their prospective girlfriends videos of them shooting pigs. And I don't know where he gets off thinking he's all that cool. He didn't capture that pig. He didn't exactly hunt it or anything. Moron.
I'd like to say I left shortly after this, but I have masochistic tendencies and I stuck it out for another couple hours. He did not improve after this. He got worse. I know, I can't believe it either.
Moving on, my co-worker has an ex-boyfriend she is friends with. I keep saying she's deluding herself. Men and Women can't be friends--see: When Harry Met Sally. For a while they were good friends, but lately he's been acting...strange. This morning, she sends him a joke about a government snow plow. I assure you Bill Clinton couldn't have found the sex joke in this, and yet her ex emails back with "So does this mean you want to plow through a box of condoms?"
She wails to me, "How many times do I have to say no?" I pat her on the shoulder. "Every day. For the rest of your life." This did not comfort her. "I'm sorry, but it might be different if you guys had never dated. The problem is that at one time he tapped that." Yeah, that's the phrase I used. Get over it. She laughs at this statement. "And the problem is that he will continue to pester you because eventually he hopes you'll change your mind because at one time you DID have sex with him. It's like...it's like...a rat who goes to the pellet machine and keeps pushing the lever, even though there are no pellets. Yes, there will never be any more pellets, but the rat doesn't know that. The rat knows at one time pellets existed there and he hopes pellets will exist again. The rat can't help it."
I know. Who'da thought psychology would ever have been useful in my everyday life?
Monday, January 22, 2007
The 10th Circle of Hell: Dating
My friend Terri points out I haven't blogged in two years. Frankly I haven't had anything particularly exciting to put up...but she mentioned it, and I thought about it, and what better thing to post for the entire WWW than my dating life? I know. I don't know why I didn't think of it before.
I have picked out for you, Dear Reader, the best of the worst of my dating career. Not that I've made dating a career...that'd make me something else entirely. Plus, even that would garner me more money than what I make now. Surely.
When I'm not "Cheeky Wench", I'm MsHellion--hence the Hellion references here.
Hellion’s Incredible List of Very Bad Dates
1.) Titanic Guy: “I’m looking for a love like the Titanic, and you’re just not it.”
2.) Boob Guy: “I think your breasts are dead.” *pause* “No offense or anything.”
3.) Parking Guy: “Let’s go Arrow Rock Hunting.” Then he proceeds to pretend he ran out of gas on a gravel road in the middle of no where. Thank God that didn’t turn out as ugly as it could have.
4.) Another Mike: About halfway through the date, we realize we’re fourth cousins. (Sadly, once again, one of my better dates.)
5.) Professor Guy: When the date didn’t go well, and it didn’t go well, he asked me to fill out a survey to explain what I didn’t like about it so he could work on it.
6.) Stupid Coffee Guy: sample dialogue. “You’re so beautiful.” Hellion, looking at her t-shirt and jeans, “Um, thank you.” “My father thinks I have the WORST taste in women—he says they are all dog ugly, but you’re so gorgeous.” Okay, you can shut up now.
7.) Halloween Date Guy: he took me to the dollar movies (no meal before hand), and I had to ride in his lap the whole way to town, ugh. And while waiting for the movie to start, he regaled me with his vandalism record and bigoted remarks about the local people. During the movie, there was a BRIEF scene where two women kiss, and he stood up and shouted: Shoot them both. It will amaze you, I’m sure, we did not go on a second date.
8.) Amish Guy: Hellion got trashed on three shots of tequila at a bar one night and started dancing with the one guy who paid attention to her, made out with him wildly (see: tequila), then later learned he was ex-Amish. I probably should have kept him. He was obviously my other half.
9.) “Sandman” Guy: This was a good date, actually, but it would have never worked out. Mainly because my father kept referring to him as the Sandman because he was from Saudi Arabia. Our dating came to an abrupt end because in order to keep dating him I had to enter into what amounted to a betrothal vow with him—and agree not to date anyone else while we were together. No thanks.
10.) Army Guy: He took me to a Bingo Parlor. I think that’s enough said.
I think we can agree, these are some bad dates. I have more to add to the list, but this is the cream of the crop so far. I have another coffee date guy, but so I don't mix him up...I think I'll refer to him as "dying pig" guy. It'll make sense in another post.
And I'll have to tell the date I had with one of my graduate students from Turkey. Whenever I tell that story, they say it's even better than Titanic Guy--and everyone always loves that date.
I have picked out for you, Dear Reader, the best of the worst of my dating career. Not that I've made dating a career...that'd make me something else entirely. Plus, even that would garner me more money than what I make now. Surely.
When I'm not "Cheeky Wench", I'm MsHellion--hence the Hellion references here.
Hellion’s Incredible List of Very Bad Dates
1.) Titanic Guy: “I’m looking for a love like the Titanic, and you’re just not it.”
2.) Boob Guy: “I think your breasts are dead.” *pause* “No offense or anything.”
3.) Parking Guy: “Let’s go Arrow Rock Hunting.” Then he proceeds to pretend he ran out of gas on a gravel road in the middle of no where. Thank God that didn’t turn out as ugly as it could have.
4.) Another Mike: About halfway through the date, we realize we’re fourth cousins. (Sadly, once again, one of my better dates.)
5.) Professor Guy: When the date didn’t go well, and it didn’t go well, he asked me to fill out a survey to explain what I didn’t like about it so he could work on it.
6.) Stupid Coffee Guy: sample dialogue. “You’re so beautiful.” Hellion, looking at her t-shirt and jeans, “Um, thank you.” “My father thinks I have the WORST taste in women—he says they are all dog ugly, but you’re so gorgeous.” Okay, you can shut up now.
7.) Halloween Date Guy: he took me to the dollar movies (no meal before hand), and I had to ride in his lap the whole way to town, ugh. And while waiting for the movie to start, he regaled me with his vandalism record and bigoted remarks about the local people. During the movie, there was a BRIEF scene where two women kiss, and he stood up and shouted: Shoot them both. It will amaze you, I’m sure, we did not go on a second date.
8.) Amish Guy: Hellion got trashed on three shots of tequila at a bar one night and started dancing with the one guy who paid attention to her, made out with him wildly (see: tequila), then later learned he was ex-Amish. I probably should have kept him. He was obviously my other half.
9.) “Sandman” Guy: This was a good date, actually, but it would have never worked out. Mainly because my father kept referring to him as the Sandman because he was from Saudi Arabia. Our dating came to an abrupt end because in order to keep dating him I had to enter into what amounted to a betrothal vow with him—and agree not to date anyone else while we were together. No thanks.
10.) Army Guy: He took me to a Bingo Parlor. I think that’s enough said.
I think we can agree, these are some bad dates. I have more to add to the list, but this is the cream of the crop so far. I have another coffee date guy, but so I don't mix him up...I think I'll refer to him as "dying pig" guy. It'll make sense in another post.
And I'll have to tell the date I had with one of my graduate students from Turkey. Whenever I tell that story, they say it's even better than Titanic Guy--and everyone always loves that date.
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