Category: Datin’
*whimper*
Retrobruxist Friday 11/2/12
Three years ago, I responded to the negging incident. Awwwww, I was such an online-dating newbie, with my adorable disappointment in dudes’ profiles and emails. Now I’m all jaded and cranky and resigned to spinsterhood.
Progress.
My battle with acne started decades back. I wrote about it two years ago. I do eat way less sugar nowadays, but I also use
My sister looked at the bottle recently and was like, “That bottle…”
And I said, “Looks like it’ll punch your zits in the face?”
“Yes, that’s it,” she said.
It does punch my zits in the face, for the most part. The dermatologist prescribed Retin-A too, and so far, when I apply only a pea-sized amount, rather than the circus peanut-sized amount I used to apply as a teen, it doesn’t seem to make my face
in the sun.
I was just thinking about the genesis a year ago of the great martial art abdo-shindo because I seem to have given myself some abdo this week. There’s something sexy about sore abs. Makes you feel like they’re all hard and tight and ripply.
Sore abs are liars.
Speaking of which, I already gave you the Embarrassing Photo of the Week, but I’m nothing if not generous, so here you go:
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Retrobruxist Friday 10/26/12
Hey, guess what! I have some kind of ragey infection in my EYEBALL! The opthalmalogist took fancy pictures of my splotchy cornea yesterday. As an aside, amongst the things you never want to hear at a doctor’s office: “I think it’s really good you came in today.” Also: “I don’t think it’ll affect your vision.”
Anyway, I get to put steroid/antiobiotic drops in my eyes four times a day for ten days. As an aside, I’m pathologically incapable of landing a drop in my eye. My flinch response is like a thunderbolt. So, essentially, I spent $25 at CVS on cheek/eyebrow/mouth drops.
I didn’t ask my eye-guy if I should forego tomorrow’s Tough Mudder, Redux, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have liked his answer. As an aside, almost-certain death tomorrow, you guys!
Three years ago, a guy tried his hand at negging me. Suck it, guy.
Two years ago — miracle of miracles — I found a dude on eGoddamnHarmony that I actually liked. (Never blogged about it, but I did email him. He didn’t respond. <sniff>)
And a year ago, with just a few simple guidelines, I was riling up the segment of the CrossFit community that either (a) couldn’t read; (b) didn’t get my sense of humor; or (c) both.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Protected: We’re All Sensitive People with So Much to Give
Retrobruxist Friday 10/19/12
A week ago, I submitted The Foster Chronicles (Buffy’s) to my writing workshop for critique. So it was with more than a little agita that I went to class last night. The folks in the class are nice and supportive but frank; if something doesn’t work, they say so.
I needn’t have worried so much. People liked my stuff a lot. In fact, two people said some version of “I don’t read blogs, and I’m not a dog person, so I was skeptical, but I really got into it!”
One guy did say, “As a blog this is fine. For writing to keep someone’s interest or tell a story, it doesn’t work for me.” In his other notes, he kept referring to Buffy as ‘he’, so it’s clear it really didn’t hold his interest.
And there was some confusion. One woman wrote that I shouldn’t underline things so much, not realizing that those things were hyperlinks, and just about everybody put a big question mark next to where I wrote “What is that I don’t even”.
But overall, it was validating, and I got some ideas about how to turn it into a larger piece, even one where I fictionalize it and weave it together with another, totally different, painfuller thing I’ve been going through for the past four months.
Now. All I have to do is do that. No big.
*****
Three years ago, I was figuring out that dogs are pretty much fourth graders.
After failing at Match and OKCupid, I decided eHarmony was worth a shot two years ago. That was dumb.
I did NOT celebrate ANYtober this time last year.
MOAR FUN WITH PHOTOBOOTH:
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Retrobruxist Friday 10/5/12
I love, love, love teaching in a year-round school. Nine weeks on, three weeks off (two and a half weeks for teachers); five weeks in the summer (four for teachers). It’s good for kids. It’s good for their bodies; it’s good for their retention of material and, therefore, academic achievement. It’s good for teachers, or at least this one. Strict nine-week timelines help focus instruction and light a fire under my ass, and frequent breaks from the kids are good for my sanity/affection for them. This calendar also allows me to go to Costa Rica for a week, and then still have ten days off in which to sleep, do house projects, visit family, and whatnot.
That being said, unstructured time is Bad for Amy Scott’s Psyche. Next intersession, I need to make sure I create a schedule for myself so as not to swirl into existential despair and this weird version of agoraphobia I seem to have conjured this time.
So the alarm went off this morning. I hate the alarm. I have it set to that marimba tone on my iPhone, and it makes me dry-heave a little when it goes off. Or when someone else has it set as their ringtone. (If you ever see me out and I’m retching for no apparent reason — probably somebody just got a call, and I’m having flashbacks. To that morning.)
But I have to be at work, and that’s probably a good thing.
I put up my first OKCupid profile three years ago. So glad that worked out for me! :/
Two years ago, I started watching my gay husband Paul from afar at CrossFit.
My particular brand of crazy really revs up in the nighttime, as it did a year ago.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Protected: Go Be Wonderful
Twofer: A Real Post PLUS Retrobruxist Friday 9/28/12
A few words before we Retro it up here. My point with yesterday’s post was not that I think I’m an ogre… an ogra… what’s the feminine of ogre? I don’t think I’m an ogress. I think I’m aight.
And this next part is weird, because from what they tell me, a lot of women experience the opposite, but many times, I’m reassured by what I see in the mirror. [Oh, god, am I going to go here? Shit, might as well.] I generally walk around in my life kind of thinking of myself as a slightly greasy, chubby, waddling Oompa-Loompa with temperamental skin, and when I catch my look in the mirror, I almost always go, “Hey, that’s not so bad!” I mean, I definitely have times when my reflection makes me cringe, but more often than not, it’s a relief. Photos too. I’m weirdly photogenic, which is nice.
Thing is, I want to be the kind of person who sees the above photo and the one of the fat, ugly, stoned skeptic that Jeff took and says, “Psh, neither is reality.”
But the fact is—OH THIS IS SO PATHETIC—I don’t. I look at the above and think maybe someone could love that person, and I look at Jeff’s picture and say, good god,
What I wanted to get across in yesterday’s post was not “Please, everybody, reassure me that I’m beautiful”; it was “I need to stop caring about this superficial bullshit which is not who I am”.
I want to care MORE that I can live through difficulty, write a meaningful story about it, have the courage to get onstage and tell it to 200 strangers, and do it well enough that the audience is moved and the judges think it’s the best story of the night, and LESS about the fact that Jeff took a picture of me from a weird angle, which made it look like I had some sort of growth on my neck, while I was probably crying and definitely squinting into the bright lights. I can’t control every image that makes it to the internet and every perception that every person has of me. I need to let that go.
Here was my big plan to pull off this caring-about-appropriate-things thing: I asked Jeff for the photo, and I was going to post it on this very blog on the World Wide Web. Alas, he felt so bad about contributing to my distress* that he not only deleted the photo from Facebook; he deleted it completely.
So. The best I can do is try to re-create it for you. It looked a little something like
*Two things: (1) I used those iMessage screenshots without his permission. I am an asshole, and I won’t do that again (sorry, Jeff!); (2) he was nothing but lovely during the whole situation and really believed that he was honoring me and my story with the photo; and—OK, three things—(3) just so we’re clear, as depressed as I’ve been in my life, I’ve never, ever contemplated suicide. The whole bit about offing myself was pure histrionics for comedy purposes, but suicide is not funny, and I won’t joke about it anymore.
On to the Retro!
Three years ago, I was trying to teach my students show-don’t-tell. It’s still the hardest thing in the world to teach.
Redford was already 18 months old two years ago, but he was my baby. Still is.
I hosted the Monti StorySLAM for the first time one year ago. Crazypants. I can’t believe that was a year ago.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
37
So
The irony (or not) is that my story had to do with being less than sanguine about turning 37, and being single, and having what I have, and not having what I don’t have. People keep asking me if they can read it, but—and this is weird because I told the story to 200 strangers on Monday night—I don’t feel ready to share it here yet. It was hard, and I cried, and apparently they cried, and I was hoping that it would be this big catharsis and I’d be Healed, and Filled with Optimism. But I’m not.
My birthday was great: My friends did it up for me; my writing teacher said nice things about my homework; I won the SLAM.
But two things: (1) I still seem to be in the midst of this 3/8-life crisis, and (2) Jeff, the director of the Monti, posted the absolute worst picture of me on Facebook on Tuesday to announce my victory.
And I flipped out.
I concluded by saying, “If that’s what I look like, then the question ‘Why am I still single?’ has been answered.”
He deleted the photo, but I really did let it ruin my day. Which feels dumb. Letting one bad picture negate all the happy. Especially, since I’ve been trying to be more accepting of my appearance, and most especially in the face of the Sikh woman’s righteous badassery that’s been floating around the internet for the last few days.
How do I get to be more like her? I don’t believe that my body is a gift from a divine being, genderless or otherwise, but I do believe that not focusing on my appearance would leave more time to think about my attitudes and actions.
In the past month or so, when I’ve found myself sliding into egocentrism, I’ve stopped, gotten on Facebook, and acknowledged a friend’s particular brand of awesomeness. It has helped.
But I like gettin my hur did. :(
The Relationship I’m Not In
I’ll start by saying a few words about Dan NJ’s post: I agree.
That was a very few words. In fact, I have no more words because he used up all the good ones on the topic in his treatise. So. Moving on. Now I’m going to say a few words about amy a’s post, maybe more than a few, because she used all kinds of good words in hers, but I have feelings about her thesis. So many feelings.
The premise of the post is that amy a is not necessarily/is not as-yet/might never be “happiest and a better person“ when in a relationship. And I will go ahead and say that neither have I been “happiest” in a relationship, except when I was 15 but it was the 15-year-old kind of happiness: equal parts giddy lust and petrifying insecurity.
The fact is, I have been in precious few relationships since then. Some fourth dates, a couple of six-month stints, and that’s about it. I keep friends around for decades, but I’ve never found anybody who I wanted to sleep in the same bed with for years. Who also wanted to sleep in the same bed with me. For years.
But I’ve always assumed that, should I find that multi-year-bed-sharing person, I would be happier. Maybe even happiest.
Not that every day would be wine and roses, and not that being in a relationship solves all your life’s problems, but there’s got to be something comforting/contenting about knowing that through those problems, you’ll have at least that one person on your team.
As far as the second part goes, I think I have been a better person whilst in my (albeit limited) relationships. I’m a really good girlfriend.
- I’m really nice to my partner;
- I’m considerate—I think about his needs, provide for them when possible, and encourage him to seek fulfillment of other needs with his bros or whatever;
- I’m employed/financially independent;
- I’m responsible;
- I’m GGG; and
- I’m fucking fun to have around.
In short, I’m good to my guy. So yes, if being a better person means thinking more of others, sacrificing, compromising, pulling your weight, etc., then I’m a better person in a relationship.
A couple other lines of the post jumped out at me.
“The pressure as each year has passed in my 30’s to Find Him has been at times not at all fun, but exhausting, humiliating, and unhealthy.”
Truer words were never written.
“It can be kind of lonely, not because I don’t have those types of relationships [spouse & children], but because I find myself being unable to relate firsthand to my siblings and some of my friends on those levels.”
My version of this would be: It can be kind of lonely. Period. Both for the reasons amy a mentioned but also because I’m alone. I wouldn’t consider myself an extrovert. But I like the people I like. Everywhere I lived in New York (Prospect Heights, Hell’s Kitchen, and two different places in Astoria), I could look up and see a window to the apartment from the street. And coming home, I always did look up, because if there was a light on, that meant at least one of my roommates was home, and I’d think, “Yay!”
I’ve lived by myself for six years now, and I can’t imagine having a roommate. I don’t want a roommate. Unless that roommate is sharing my bed. (Or that roommate is canine, in which case I’ll take 15 kthxbye.) But I imagine that, if I had a bed-sharing roommate, I would pull into the driveway and, seeing his car, think, “Yay!”
And finally, the big’n:
“I may never have that Great Relationship, but it never happening is no longer a fear of mine. If it happens, I welcome the addition of it, but I am truly happy in the relationship I’m in already.”
Would that it were so for me.
Now, I’m pretty proud of who I’ve become in the last ten years.
- I need a job, I get a job;
- I get a job, I work my ass off to get good at the job;
- I want a house, I buy the house;
- I buy a house, I fix it up;
- I want a different house, I sell the first house and buy a different one;
- I find dog, I do my damnedest to help the dog;
- I make and keep a lot of friends;
- I deadlift 250;
- I throw bitchin parties;
- I host the Monti StorySLAM;
- I actively work on overcoming my character flaws;
- I post on this blog four times a week (and have for three years).
I’m doing all right. There’s a lot I like about my life. But a relationship is a big Missing for me. I wish I could be like amy a—I really do—but I just can’t say I am truly happy alone.
“Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat.” -Joanne Woodward, on being married to Paul Newman
Yes, that.