"I don't know what I think until I write it down."
That title is a quote from Joan Didion. She made herself write every day-even the weeks after her husband suddenly dropped dead. Then she published an honest and touching book about it that might have helped other people deal with life. Or not. I like her.
Woke up to this text today from the Boob Grabber-
"Hey I'm gonna pass on getting together again. I think you're awesome but from what I read on your blog you're serial dating and I'm looking for something more serious. And by the way-it's Josh? The attorney? The funny one? Yep, I'm that one."
um 1. I forget that people read my blog. 2. I forget that a lot of people get REALLY SENSITIVE when you write about them-even when it's a joke. 3. I forget that men are much, much more touchy and emotional than women. It's hard to remember because they don't show it."I've never cried," they say."Even when my mom died. What are feelings? Pass the pork rinds." Grunt. But when they are drunk or alone they sob while they are watching 'Will and Grace" And apparently the men really don't think it's funny when you make fun of your dinner date with them on a public website.
Joan Didion was a reporter before she wrote books.She once said-
"My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrustive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests. And it always does. That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out."
I haven't seen Boob Grabber since our unfortunate Boob Grabbing Incident. But it was nice of him to let me know he wouldn't be availing me of his breast fondling services anymore. I was worried about that.
Serial-dater. What does that mean? Sounds like serial killer. Which I'm going to take as a compliment-who is more "exciting" and "unpredictable" than a serial killer? Full of surprises. He's really saying I'm like Amelie who might stab you in the face.Could be accurate. Either way- huge compliment.
Also makes me think of Cereal-dating. "I'm going out with Cap'n Crunch tonight," I said."But I'm hooking up with Count Chocula after that."
Doesn't everyone serial date until they find "The One"? And if you aren't really looking for "The One" then what else are you going to do? Watch "Law and Order"?
I go back and forth--cause I already said I was going to date my house in the last post and take a break from the Match.com dates-which have begun to seem like a giant waste of time. After all-I could be reading. The stack of History books is piling up. And I'm starting to forget my particle physics again. And my house gets jealous.
I could be talking to Bob about how much he likes to travel or learning about the Alexander the Great.
But I'm sure I will go back to it eventually.
Because I can't just read all the time and I have seen all the "Law and Orders" on that marathon they had a few weeks ago. God I missed TV.
So-what's this post about?
1. Men are really widdle bitty crybabies deep on the inside and our job is to reach in there and help those emotions claw their way out to the surface, hold their feelings gently in our hands -- then squeeze their hearts really tight the way you want to do but resist doing when you are holding a tiny, fluffy baby chick until there is nothing left of them but a dry husk incapable of ever opening up to another woman again.
2. I'm going to give Count Chocula a booty call tonight. I went out for dinner with Toucan Sam but he wanted a blowjob and all I was comfortable with was an HJ. So Pushy. All he wanted to talk about was cereal.
My friend has three little boys-all under the age of four. "You are so lucky you have girls," she told me. "Boys are so sensitive. They cry at every little thing, they cling to me, they're afraid of every thing. It's ridiculous."
So-at some point- society beats that out of them. "Man up" says Society "Grow a pair Sad-Sack"
They stop showing their feelings but I think that might just make it more intense under there. Like a pressure cooker with no escape valve for the steam to be let out every once in a while. That's why they have all those heart attacks. But we already knew that.
I was texting my friend the Picky Bastard the other day. He offered to cook me dinner. Curry. While that sounded great-and the offer to feed me is never turned down- since I don't cook anymore and most nights I just grab a handful of deli meat,cheese and pickles for dinner- but the last time I went to his house it was not clean.
Like unclean to the point that my first thought was -"I'm about to be really rude. But I don't know if I can eat in that house."
If you have ever been in my house you know that if there is a person who has "hit bottom" here it is me. I have left dishes in the kitchen for weeks-unable to face them-until Trixie comes over and does them for me.
My car has at times been several feet full of Starbucks cups, empty candy wrappers, old newspapers and fossilized mice that came in through the open window for a treat. Maybe not the last one.
But my last boyfriend did tell me once that he was embarrassed when I parked my car in front of his house. Because of the neighbors.
Which-since I am painting my car to be a cool art car-made me want to spray paint "Dan Campbell's Girlfriend" in huge letters on the side of my truck.
So for me to say-I can't eat there you have to know-that is For Real messy.
I am bipolar about clean vs. messy. I am either OCD clean and organized, down on the kitchen floor with a toothbrush every day or I live in filth for weeks thinking Fuck It. One or the other.
But when my house is filthy I don't have people over for dinner until it's clean. Clean-ish maybe. Right now my OCD light has been activated. So everything has been really tidy for a month.
Since the Picky bastard was the guy who told me that we weren't a "match" because I am a "handful" I figured that since he could dish out the honesty he could probably take it as well.
Because we all know that "You are a handful" really means "You are crazy and you scare me a little."
So I told him we should make dinner at my house. "Why?" he texted. "Because your house is filthy and mine is clean" Silence. Then- "Ok, no dinner then" I thought he was joking. "Really?" No response "Hey! I am in no position to judge! I am messy lots of times! You are a bachelor! I get it. Please don't be offended!"
He was offended. Deeply, deeply offended.
I forgot that he is a man.
We worked it out and the curry was good. I felt like a jerk so we ended up eating at his house and I'm pretty sure I didn't contract cholera or tuberculosis.
After dinner I brought it up over Penguin wine.
"Okay-wait," I said. "So-let me get this straight- You can be brutally honest with me--I can't date you because you are crazy-- But I can't say that your house is filthy?"
He tried to say something like-"I never said you were crazy-" but I interrupted him. "Bullshit! We all know what "handful" means! Cut it!" Now i was annoyed.. I went on.
"Because- -I can't change my personality so that is sort of a damning, permanent criticism, However-you can clean that nasty house. And you should."
I don't think he ever really got my point. Because he is a man.
So-even though they all want to tell you what to drink, what not to drink, how to dress, what to cook, how to cut the vegetables, Don't wear those pants Your feet look like shovels, get a pedicure Don't open the radiator when the car is still running Don't forget to pay the electric bill and let it get turned off like last time Don't smoke Don't eat sugar Don't go out with other men when I am out of town on business _whatever- My God shut up already it's really hard to tune them out unless you turn up "Law and Order" to the highest volume setting.
Even though all men will try like Hell to be the boss of you-
You can't give them one tiny little criticism or they will go home and cry big,fat teardrops until they dehydrate themselves into a coma, only waking up when one of their buddies realizes they are missing, comes over and pours beer down their throat until they are "okay" again.
"Come on man" says the friend "You can make it. Here,Sip a little more of this Budweiser. A woman told me I needed a haircut last week" He gently wipes the mans forehead with a cool washcloth "I know what it's like. You will get through this!"
What happened to the 1950's stereotype of the nagging wife? Isn't that supposed to be our job? How come we aren't the ones criticizing them for every sock dropped on the floor, every mildewed towel left behind the toilet-while they try as hard as they can to ignore us or go into the garage and rewire the electrical system of the car. What happened to that?
"Once yall started to work we realized that you didn't need us anymore," said Picky Bastard. "We realized-shit-she can pay her own rent now! I have no control anymore! She could just up and leave!"
"That makes sense." I said."But-it's SO ANNOYING. I really don't care what you guys do. Because I am me-and you are you. It doesn't affect me how you dress or eat or fold your clothes."
"Yes but if a man can undermine your self esteem and make you THINK you need him he gets the control back." He got his degree in the field of Man Psychology.
"It's just so paternal. Like 'Father Knows Best" I said "You know who they sound like-my Dad. You know who I am NOT ATTRACTED TO?-- My Dad. Don't they get that?"
"No" he shakes his head "They do not."
Well that's apparently going to be a hopeless struggle. I guess I will just have to date my house.
Sunny Haralson was born in a house of ill repute. After acing the first grade, she ran away to join the circus. At night, while the elephants slept, she learned how to spin and sew from the spiders. She made whimsical creations for the trapeze artists, who needed their outfits to be both beautiful and comfortable. Magpies brought her shiny objects to embellish the costumes with, if they sometimes accidentally brought an eyeball they'd plucked from some unfortunate, she forgave them and quietly popped it into her mouth. The circus, for all it glorious adventure, was often low on dietary protein.
When she tired of circus life she retired and set out alone to the desert in a stolen hot air balloon.
It's there, in a tiny FEMA trailer, that she writes her tell-all memoir. She steals ideas from the coyotes and writes them down with needles made from the giant cactus that guards her doorway. The UPS man never sees her face.