*whimper*
It’s amazing how much cleaning I can get done when I’m having last-minute company. In half an hour, I tidied the desk, wiped down the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, took out the recycling, and swept and skated on Clorox wipes. Even changed the sheets! Rowr.
Just kidding.
Not about the sheets. About the getting some.
There’s a billboard on 85 that says, Every 28 minutes, an NC teen gets pregnant. Every time I drive by it, I think, “Man, those teens are getting so much more action than I am.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about the conversation we had in the comments the other day. You know, about my being judgmental. I’m still a little surprised by Opiner’s reaction. Why did that post in particular offend him so mightily? I felt like that one was kind of a throwaway, actually. I wasn’t thinking horrible thoughts about CaryMale37. I just find unnecessary quotation marks funny. Clearly, I’m not the only one.
Listen, I make joke! (That has to be said with an Eastern European accent.)
I mean, yes, I’m judgmental. But seriously, once I get to know you, I nearly always adore you. I’m going to say 99.64% of the people I get to know? I am almost pathologically admiring of them. I’m arguing a case for their awesomeness inside my head at all times, and they just keep providing me with evidence. (The other 0.36% of the people I meet I think are total douches.)
So, should I judge people I don’t know? Probably not.
Do I do it? Yep.
Is it funny? I think so. Often.
…But I’m coachable. I’ll work on it.
I knew this guy, only peripherally really, when I lived in New York. He was probably in his mid-forties, businessman. At one point, he said to me, “I’ve started looking at all criticism as coaching. Even personal attacks, I just take as something to consider and work on to be more effective with people.”
My Catholic friend Cat frequently listens to a Buddhist podcast. When I told her about remembering what the businessman had said, she mentioned that her podcast monk often says something like: Let everyone be your Buddha. Every person that you meet appears before you to teach you something.
So, from now on, I’ll try to remember to reflect on my judgments of prospective dates.
I’ll probably still make fun of them on the blog, though.
I went to the Monti StorySlam last Thursday night. The theme was romance so I told the dude-swims-a-river-to-talk-to-me story. That’s a romantic story, is it not? But of course I ended it with something like, “I’ll tell the rest of the story when the theme is All-Time Worst Kisses.”
The crowd, as usual, dug it. The judges did not. Again.
People kept coming up to me at intermission and saying, “You was robbed.” Not sure why I went over like a lead zeppelin with the judges yet again. One idea I had: going second is the shit position in the line-up. I went second when I told the Turducken story too. And I don’t know, I think the judges rate the first story pretty high, if it’s good, which Thursday’s was. But the second storyteller, they’re thinking, “Damn. We’ve got six more people after this. Better set the bar low.”
One of my friends offered another theory: the judges seemed to dig the “and here she is in the audience with me thirty years and two wonderful kids later” ending.
And that’s a lovely ending. But that was not the ending to my romantic story. The ending to my story was grossness and discomfort. So that’s the ending I told.
Whatever. Jeff Polish, the director of the Monti, said late in the evening that he was going to choose a story to go on All Things Considered (local version, of course) on Friday. And guess whose story he chose.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Suck it, judges.
(WUNC edited the hell out of it, taking out all my profanity* and chopping the ending completely off, but who cares! Seventy thousand people heard me tell a story.)
(*I also forgot to tell you that when I had that little stepmotherhood daydream, my mom emailed me to say, “If you’re thinking about becoming a stepparent, you better clean up your mouth!” Ha! I fucking love my mom.)
Twice when I was growing up, maybe a couple years apart, I choked on food. Both times, it was a navel orange segment that I hadn’t bothered to chew enough. Both times, my mom noticed that I was about to die, reached in the back of my throat, pulled out the offending citrus, and flung it in the trash.
And went back to needle-pointing a Christmas stocking. Or braiding bread dough into Challah loaves.
In my adulthood, I asked her, “Mom, how could you not totally freak out when your baby’s airway was cut off?”
She paused and then said, “Well, I always thought there could be only one drama queen in a relationship, and your father had that pretty much covered.”
There’s something to be said for this. My mom and dad are opposites in many ways. Mom has a sort of practical/functional slant to her smarts (her PhD is in public health); Dad’s brain is more theoretical (his, ancient history). Mom’s never met a stranger; Dad’s a proud misanthrope. Mom’s parenting style was a little more laissez-faire; Dad was always fiercely protective, ready to swoop in and save the day.
My sister and brother-in-law are interesting complements as well. When I didn’t call after meeting FOT the first time, my sister started worrying. “I hope something bad didn’t happen on Amy’s date,” she said to her husband.
He cocked his head at her and said, “Maybe her date went really well.”
One time E got my sister a little figurine of Tigger standing behind Eeyore, the tiger yanking backwards on both of the donkey’s cheeks.
Wait a minute…
My brother-in-law : Tigger :: my sister : Eeyore.
But you have to have something in common, of course. My parents have been together 40 years, my sister and bro-in-law 21. They didn’t get there being diametrically opposed in every way.
So what do you absolutely have to share with your partner? And how much different is good?
I ask because I’m emailing with a guy from OKCupid right now who claims to be a positive nihilist (that sounds like me), loves food (um, mm-hm), and won’t get out of his car at his destination if Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'” is on the radio (whoa! hello, kindred spirit!).
But he smokes “sometimes”, drinks “often”, and doesn’t want children.
I’m thinking I could tolerate (a) and (b), but (c) probably means no-go, right?
I lived in a doorman building in Manhattan for two years. Before you get too impressed, I’ll clarify. My building was in Hell’s Kitchen, right at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. And I lived in the living room of a one-bedroom apartment. For two years. In the living room.
That’s neither here nor there actually. I just sometimes marvel at that fact.
One Sunday evening, I stepped into the elevator on the way up to my apartment. I had spent the weekend in Boston with my sister, so I was carrying a backpack with my overnight items in it. The only other passenger was male, a little older than me, and cute. I gave him a half-smile and averted my eyes. (You may not be able to tell from this blog, but I can be quite shy.)
As I turned around to face the door, something behind me started buzzing. At first, I ignored it. I figured it was the elevator shifting gears or something. But the noise continued, so I turned around to take a look. As I moved, the sound moved with me. Bzzzzzzz. Cute Man looked meaningfully at my backpack, raised an eyebrow, and gave a slow blink.
My chest tightened as I realized my electric toothbrush must somehow have turned itself on. I threw the bag down, unzipping it furiously in the hopes that Cute Man could get a glimpse of it and we could have a little chuckle together.
I was still digging through my dirty clothes as the elevator bounced to a stand-still at his floor and he sauntered off. It was everything I could do not to shout, “It’s not a vibrator!”
Future elevator rides with Cute Man involved no eye contact. Or breathing.
Second date with FOT last night went pretty well. Some of you (Dan, Cat, etc.) will be pleased that he picked up the check, I said I’d chip in, and when he said, “Nah, I got this,” I shut up and let him pay for dinner.
I’m not sure whether we have “it” or not, but we had a good time, so there you go.
I have been fantasizing a lot. But not about FOT.
And not about my girl-crush. (Sorry, Margo.)
About
On our first date, FOT told me his co-worker had found a puppy and was trying to find the little guy a home, and I asked FOT to send me a picture or two. I KNOW, I’M A DUMBASS. SHUT UP.
Before I even saw him, I wanted him. I wanted him to be mine mine mine. The words “baby” and “pit bull” have a similar effect (though in a much more pleasant way) as “mayonnaise” and “burpees” for me. I lose all strength and integrity. I will lie, cheat, and steal to get my hands on them. (On the baby pit bulls, not the mayonnaise and burpees, of course.) Mammalian crack cocaine.
Then I remembered
And my bank account. And I knew I shouldn’t do it.
That’s when FOT sent me the pictures.
I lost my ever-loving mind. I was all, “DON’T CARE ABOUT MONEY WILL SELL MY BODY MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE.” I wanted to stick my face right in his neck and stroke those silky ears.
I started thinking I’d do it, you know. One more dog. What? Mr. Wonderful and his Doberman certainly aren’t banging down the door to fill up the dog-shaped space in my house. I’d fill it myself. No big whoop.
Well, guess who’s turned up lame now?
I picked Redford up from his babysitter yesterday, and she told me he was limping. Oh boy is he limping. Today the vet prescribed him some pain meds and told me to keep him from exercising. (Good luck with that.) If it doesn’t improve in a few days, he’ll have to have an x-ray. Could the solution be surgical? Yes.
So I’d just like to extend both middle fingers right now to the Universe for teaching me that lesson (Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Date’s Co-worker’s Foster Dog) in the nastiest way possible.
(And ten thousand people are dead in Japan, so I’m gonna shut the fuck up now.)
