Category: Datin’

*whimper*

30 Days

I’ve been attempting to focus on the abundance in my life, rather than participating my usual Trance of Scarcity. The meditation (see Day 25) definitely helps, but I also thought I’d tweet one of those annoying 30 Days of Thankfulness things, except try to make it not-annoying.

The most difficult part was not coming up with things for which I felt grateful—I got plenty. The most difficult part was staying within 140 characters. You know how I like to babble on. The teacher of a writing workshop I took last year said, “You’ve got 25-30% too much fat.”

I was like, “DON’T I KNOW IT. Wait, you mean my writing?” He was right. I need to trim it down…

Arg! If I wanted to go on a word diet, I would’ve been a poet!

But I did it for thirty days. (NB: The following is not poetry. It’s just skinny prose.)

That 4-year-old, man. She’s dramatic and sassy, she wants what she wants, and she’s in the 8th percentile for height. In other words, she’s me. Hahaha. No, she’s not. She’s her. She’s her own person. But kind of me. I yub her.

This girl. She does something to my heart.
This girl. She does something to my heart.

This goes for both my parents. My parents showed the fuck up.

I’m still bad at crying (i.e., I need to do more of it and less eating/checking Facebook/self-flagellation/etc.), but I have good role models (namely, Cat, EJ, and Melissa).

(Typo: That was supposed to be Day 13.)

When the doc actually felt it, she goes—I shit you not, “Yeah, you got a lot of lumps and bumps, and this one doesn’t feel any different from the other ones.” :/

Also, if they do hate me as a result, that’s their own goddamn problem.

It’s a good job. I just wish I got paid more and didn’t have to deal with so much bullshit. I guess that’s everybody, right? Except I really should get paid more.

Every so often I consider it, dry-heave, and un-consider it.

I’m hosting the StorySLAM on December 11, folks! Come on out!

So, in today’s ironic news, when I need to unplug, I use an iPhone app. It’s called Get Some Headspace, and I highly recommend it. The dude who leads the meditation is a former Buddhist monk, and he sounds a tiny bit like the Geico Gecko so everybody wins.

Terrified of jinxing it, but there’s an amazing woman who has created a passion project, and we met, and it was awesome, and she’s invited me to be part of her team, and I hope I can keep up.

I watched 5 episodes of Game of Thrones in the middle of the day yesterday, true story.

As you can see, I’m thankful for a lot of things, including those of you who’re reading. Happy rest-of-your-holidays!

Signed,

Lumpytits

I Don’t Think Obamacare Will Help Me on This One

My “What I Did Over Summer Vacation” essay would’ve been all about reading sperm donor profiles. I really had a go at it for a while there back in June.

There was a lot to look at. Despite the myriad ways you could narrow your search, I sorted for only one criterion: light eyes. I don’t know why. I guess because, if it was just gonna be me doing this, I wanted the kid to look sort of like me? It’s one thing to be able to say, “You got your daddy’s eyes,” but another to say, “Those baby browns must come from Donor #139704.”

I probably read through 75 profiles. Starred some, Xed some, and left the maybes alone.

Then I started teaching again, and it seemed like too much to ask, to work all day then come home and decide the other half of my child’s DNA.

So I thought, fall break. I’ll do my research over fall break.

Last week would’ve been a perfect time. My only responsibilities were cooking, finding wayward shoes, playing cribbage, and avoiding getting goosed.

But I didn’t do it.

And I’ve been home since Tuesday night. I bet I’ve refreshed my Facebook feed 87 times over the last few days. Why haven’t I devoted ten minutes to this project? Grrrr. Rarrrrr. >:(

I was unloading all this on a friend last night, and at one point, I said, “I just need somebody to help me choose. I need a partner.”

Ah. The Catch-22. I need a partner to help me choose sperm, but if I had a partner, I woulda done chose the sperm—his.

And it really is hard to do by myself. Do I go with “No Mascara Necessary” (seriously, that’s how they tagged him), who has stunning eyelashes and an insatiable appetite for learning? Or the shy Cillian Murphy look-alike who loves acting and painting?

Who am I kidding? I’m not going with the Cillian Murphy look-alike.

cillian-murphy1
Dude looks like a serial killer.

There are a million other profiles to go through. It’s about as much fun as online dating. Which is so much fun. I really think it’s overwhelming me. That’s a real issue.

But there’s a bigger thing, and it’s this: when I sit with myself for five fucking minutes, when I listen to the tiny voice I’m always shutting up by going to Geer Street, trawling Jezebel/Gawker/Wonkette/repeat, front squatting, and eating when I’m not hungry, what always bubbles up is incredulousness. I can’t believe I can’t find someone.

I’m a cool cat! And I’ve grown out of my homely phase, I think!

W.

T.

MFing.

F, y’all.

I think ultimately what’s stopping me from buying vials of jizz is that tiny voice nagging, “This can’t possibly be how it’s supposed to go. This is a glitch in the matrix. Tech support will work out the kinks, and you’ll have a man in your bed who’ll provide you with all the sperm you want free of charge aaaaaaaany minute now.”

The Light, the Heat

A while ago, my friends were trying to teach me how to make eye contact with people I don’t know, like at bars and parties and stuff. (IT TAKES A VILLAGE, PEOPLE).

They said:

  1. Look around.
  2. If you catch someone’s eye—someone you think is attractive—hold his gaze.

I said, “How long? Like one-Mississippi?”

They said a few Mississippis.

I said, “Then what?”

They launched into some complicated instructions about looking down, or away, for a few seconds and looking back.

With a half-smile. I forgot about the half-smile—the half-smile’s important, they said.

If he’s still looking when you look back, it’s a good sign.

I tried, but I kept forgetting to do step 1.

Occasionally, I’d stumble into step 2, and

Formal Sweatpants-eye contact
(I’m the coffee-thrower in this scenario, of course.)

I asked my friends how to do the whole eye contact thing, if I can’t fucking do the eye contact thing.

“Alcohol,” they all said. Blech.

That’s the problem with being a compulsive overeater. My drug doesn’t make me want to take off my pants and rub up on somebody.

My drug makes me want to take off my pants and watch Orange Is the New Black on the couch with the dogs.

Retrobruxist Friday, 7/26/13, Also I Could Use a Little Guidance

It’s funny how once you’re aware of a thing it clicks. Like with my finances—as soon as I over-drafted, I was all, “Oh yeah, regular bikini waxes during an extended (I mean extended) dry spell? Probably not the wisest investment.” Click.

(Seriously though: extended.)

Same with my avoiding intimacy.

I thought about the time recently when I tried to buy a movie ticket at the machine (so I wouldn’t have to talk to the ticket person, natch) and it wouldn’t give me the discount I thought I was supposed to get. I went through the line, asked the clerk about the discount, and when she told me they no longer honored it, what did I do? Did I buy a ticket from her? No no, I walked out of the line and back over to the machine. Saved myself a good 15 seconds of one-on-one human interaction. Click.

I thought about that night in March when I ran lights for a Monti/Sacrificial Poets show. (It was very technical—I raised and lowered a dimmer switch.) The sound person, with whom I sat in a booth for a couple hours, told the director later that she’d wanted to talk to me—she was a fan of mine(?!)—but I didn’t seem to want to talk. I must’ve come across as a super-snob. Click.

I thought about the conversation I had with a friend a few months back at Nanataco. I made an off-hand comment about being addicted to Facebook, and she said, “Yeah, sometimes when we’re together and you’re on your phone, it makes me sad.” I apologized profusely, called myself a gaping asshole, and changed my behavior. But now it’s clear, of course, that my iPhone was a salve to soothe my intimacy-averse psyche, jangling from all that Being With. Click.

The thing about recognizing I was being a spendthrift is that there was a pretty easy fix. (In case the link breaks, google “snl don’t buy stuff”.)

But the intimacy stuff? I imagine the conversation with the guy in the commercial for that.

Him: “Just be with people.”
Me: “How do I do that? I’m scared of them.”
Him: “You be with them anyway.”
Me: “Can I do this from the comfort of my own home, without any other people around?”
Him: “No, you actually have to be with people.”
Me: “What if I just hang out with my dogs instead? Will I get the same results?”
Him: “No, they are dogs.”

Ugh. I need an action plan. Like, with SMART goals and stuff. Who’s on it?

*****

Three years ago, Redford saved me from almost-certain bovine death.

Two years back, I told the story of how I was an accessory to a crímen. Mas o menos.

I made a threat a year ago. I’m still down for it, Universe! (For real, so very, very extended. Hhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnngggg.)

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I always have good intentions.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 7/19/13

Experiencing a word shortage here at AB Headquarters.

These things happen.

Probably has to do with my cycle. And stress. The kids started back to school on Monday, and I’m doing my damnedest to teach them. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess insiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide.

The teaching and letting and showing take energy. Energy that I then don’t have for writing, or doing my second job, or socializing, or reading sperm donor profiles.

<sigh>

PITY PARTY STILL RAGING.

Three years ago, our heroine found herself on a quest.

Two years ago, I went on four dates in six days. Four dates. In six days. I think I just gave myself the runs thinking about it.

A year ago, I explained, not so gently, why CrossFit is not a cult.

What you might have missed on Fat CrossFitter this week: I’m trying to un-brainwash myself.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 7/12/13 Came Dangerously Close to Being Cancelled

Your Avid Bruxist has been throwing herself a really lavish multi-day Pity Party, kind of like a Jay Gatsby shindig except instead of booze-guzzling/the Charleston/general mischief, it’s been more like compulsive eating/”Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms”/general crying.

Fuck This

I almost just flung myself on the bed and pulled the covers over my head.

On the way to my boudoir, I figured I’d just check to see if there was anything worthwhile during the second week of July in previous years, but there probably wouldn’t be because I’m a terrible writer and Everything’s the Worst (stomp stomp stomp).

I wish I could say I found Greatness, but I didn’t (of course). I found when my boyfriend and I broke up three years ago. That was fun.

I found a few dating guidelines I drafted, and some really amazing comments by readers, from two years ago. You guys should just write this blog.

And I found el dia en que yo fui el machete last year. That’s an all right story, I guess.

Now excuse me while I go whimper.

Happy Stupid Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

RetrobruxOMGSchool’sOutBvvvvvvvvvvt

SCHOOL’S OUT. SCHOOL’S OUT. SCHOOL’S OUT.

Also, I QUIT MATCH.COM. Wahooooooooooooooooo!

I’ll have to find my man some other way. Thinking I might build a trap.

With all my dating woes, people frequently ask what I’m looking for in a man, and remarkably (considering how generally wordy I am), I’ve never been able to put it into words, you know? I mean, I want funny, but funny’s not enough, as evidenced by a recent two-date sequence. He has to be physically attractive too, but my taste in what’s physically attractive is (1) not all that conventional (I ain’t got no problem with bald, and sometimes a big nose just works) and (2) varies widely (lithe rock climber, sure; Viking with a mead gut, also good). He should be smart but not an übernerd. Kind but not a pansy. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.

But then yesterday, I was stopped at a stoplight, and I saw this.

IMG_5646

Pretty sure I could be down with any man who says, “Amy, you and your parts come first.”

Thanks, Sport Durst.

**********

Three years ago, I discovered that I was NCGS. That’s like NCIS but infinitely less badass.

Two years ago, I was unsure of everything. Man, things don’t change much.

Any dude who wants to get with me must be definitively pro-gay, as I learned a year ago.

Some of the things you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I was OK with scaling. Then I wasn’t.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.