Here’s the thing: I’ve seen a few guys on Match that I thought were… I don’t know, interesting? reasonably attractive? legit prospects? And then I scroll down to their preferences:
And I’m not slender. I’m not about average. One could argue that I’m athletic, but fuck if I’m toned. I have a lot of jiggly bits.
And I just give up.
Fuck everything.
Three years ago, I divulged that I’m a major weenie when it comes to medical procedures.
My public inner monologue about sperm donation started two years ago. If you attended the Monti GrandSLAM last month, you got an update. Stay tuned for more on that topic.
A year ago, I went on a date with “Mike“. It was terrible. (I feel like I should make a “major weenie” joke here… something about what could’ve salvaged the date, but… nope. I got nothin.)
It’s not going much better now. The prospects on Match are 0% higher quality than on OKCupid (“PS NO LIBERALS” read a recent profile), and the algorithm—that I’m paying actual US dollars for—notified me that it had matched me with jls1969 because we had the same birth month.
The same. Birth. Month.
They tried to make it sound better by saying he didn’t smoke either. OH GOOD GOLLY GOSH, a Virgo or maybe a Libra who is also a non-smoker?! Thank you, match.com—it’s everything I ever dreamed! When I was a tiny girl, I used to say, “One day I want to marry a non-smoker who is a Virgo. Or maybe a Libra.”
I mustn’t lose faith. There’s always this guy:
What do I think about him, match.com?
I think him’s a her.
Looks like she thinks him’s a her too.
Of course, the pic looks like a stock photo plucked from a Google Image search for “straight white teeth”, and the profile is almost too perfectly generic. My guess is it’s a new angle on the old Nigerian bank scam.
But! Him/her is not a smoker!
There’s that!!
!!!!
I can’t for the life of me understand why people think I’m jaded.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Dad gets antsy in the evening. “I suppose we ought to go for a drive,” he says. He has traipsed around Durham earlier in the day, so we head to Chapel Hill. Neither of us is hungry yet. We park and stroll down Franklin. Watch people. Look in windows. Survey the scene.
I point. “Wow, look at those azaleas! Gorgeous!”
“Yeah,” Dad says appreciatively, “they have all that floral shit over here.”
Eventually, we get an outside table at Tallula’s, a Turkish place I used to go to back in the day. Dad asks for the lamb kebab. I order the sea bass special.
I eat it quickly. Dad looks at my empty plate. “Must’ve been good, run-over or not.”
“It was delicious,” I say. “How’s your kebab?
“Adequate.”
He keeps eating.
“I’ve had worse.”
A few more bites.
“In England, at a Cypriot restaurant. Tasted like braised donkey butt.”
Five more forkfuls.
“This just might’ve been left over from last night.”
He finishes it.
The check comes. Dad looks at the total. “That’s not bad. The bread was good. So was your crushed fish.”
On the way home, Dad narrates all the changes in the landscape over the last 30-odd years.
“How long has that Red Roof Inn been there?!…
I remember when they were building I-40 through here…
That place used to be a small Volkswagen dealership…
(and then waving his hand toward a sea of headstones) They‘ve been there a while, I guess.”
Rarely does my dad laugh at the things that make me laugh because they’re not jokes to him—they’re just his thoughts. But that last one. That last one made us both crack up.
I’m genetically a whole lot like my mama. Growing up, everyone always said, “You look just like her!” (which was nice because she’s a good-lookin’ lady). I’d pick up the phone, and they’d start asking about Lamaze classes or some Boone UU function, assuming they had my mother’s ear on the other end of the line. Or they’d hear my laugh from another room and come in looking for her. Three years ago, I realized the one thing I didn’t inherit from my mom was her fire hoses.
(That’s not true. I got my sense of humor and ability to generate ear wax from my dad.)
Two years ago, I put on my big girl panties and bought a gas-powered mower. I learned so many lessons that day.
One year later and I’m still not in feelings. Pout. Stomp stomp stomp. Wah. Boo-hoo.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
In my professional life, I’m graded on a rubric. Did you know that? There are six standards upon which teachers are evaluated, and for each we are deemed Developing, Proficient, Accomplished, or Distinguished.
A couple weeks ago, I was out with some friends, one of whom is also a teacher, and we got to talking about the rubric. For shits and giggles, I suggested we use it to rate ourselves in other aspects of our lives.
Honestly, I can’t remember much—we were a couple cocktails in—except that Meg rated herself Distinguished in both Being Alone and Handling Her Shit (a super-accurate self-assessment), but I’ve been thinking about it lately, and here’s my self-evaluation.
Developing
1. Dressing myself. I still don’t know what looks good, what to buy, or how to put it together. It takes a ton of emotional effort for me to dress up. All I want to wear is jeans, my Obama hoodie, and
But I’m getting better. I wore skinny jeans, for Christ’s sake.
2. Dating/being in a relationship. You know how everybody’s always like, “Gahd, another Taylor Swift break-up song?! When is she gonna realize that the only constant in all these situations is her?”?
Yeah, I realize it’s me. I do. I’ve done a lot of work and put myself out there, but clearly I need more practice/support/guidance.
To that end, two things:
(1) In a maneuver I’m calling Amy’s Last-Ditch Campaign to Get Inseminated by a Dude She’d Like to Chill with for Awhile/Maybe Forever (ALDCGIDSLCAMF, for short), I joined Match Fucking Dot Com. For one month. ONE MONTH, and end scene—I shall forever abandon my Sisyphean online dating endeavors.
And (2) to quote Homeland Security: If You See Something, Say Something™. Friends, you have to tell me when you see the metaphorical spinach in my teeth, OK? If there’s some invisible-to-myself road block I’m throwing up, let your girl know. For real.
Proficient
1. You know, as recently as a few months ago, I would’ve put cooking in the Developing category, but I’ve had some pretty consistent victories lately. ‘Member those carnitas? <licks chops>
Also, I marinated chicken. (Me, out on the town with friends: “You guys, I’m marinating chicken right now.” Friend: (pause) “Is it… is it in the fridge?” Hahaha. I couldn’t blame her for checking—I’ve made some questionable judgment calls in the past.)
I made Chinese chicken salad with it.
That sludgy business in the jelly jar? Homemade sesame-ginger motherfucking salad dressing. Booyah.
I mean, every once in a while, mistakes are made.
In hindsight, there were a number of points at which a different decision could have rendered a more desirable outcome.
But for the most part, I’m feeding myself yummy, healthy things, so I’m gonna go ahead and declare myself Proficient in the cooking department.
Hubris? Probably.
2. CrossFit. Listen, I’m never going to be competitive. That’s OK. But I’ve been lifting heavy objects for nearly three years, and I’ve got pretty skrong, y’all (265-lb deadlift last night—what what!). And my form on most things is solid. Coach Rich watched me doing snatches the other day, and he said, “God, you’re so good at that.” :)
3. Storytelling/hosting storytelling events. If you’ve seen me at the Monti, I think you’d agree I’m getting better and better.
Accomplished
1. Teaching. I’m a good teacher. I’m not an exceptional teacher. I don’t take work home with me, and I don’t blaze any pedagogical trails, but I try to do cool things with my students, and I work hard to improve my practice every year.
2. Fostering dogs/getting them adopted. Git yer dogs here at Amy’s House o’ Pit Bulls!
3. Blogging. I have a readership. It’s small but, based on a pie chart I only sort of understand, I believe very loyal. (Thanks, guys!)
Distinguished
1. Jackshit.
Except one thing that I won’t share here because this is a family show. ;)
**********
Now you go. Don’t be shy. This is not about judgment. It’s about personal growth.
Three years ago, my students did a good job of summing up what would happen if you did/did not show your friends you care. Listen, I want you guys to be filled with hope, backed up in fights, and invited to birthday parties four months in advance, so make sure you read that post.
About this time, two years ago, I posted my first vlogs! I was trying to do food reviews at the time. I was not good at it.
A year ago, I made a list of things I find highly satisfying. Here are a few more:
1. Writing “Rx” in my workout notebook. (In the year 2011, I did five WODs Rx. So far, in 2013, I’ve done five Rx each month. Raaaaaaaaaawr!)
2. Listening to a well-crafted story at the Monti.
3. Seeing all my breakfasts and lunches for the week fixed n’ stacked in the fridge on Sunday afternoon.
4. Staying out too late on a Saturday night with my friends.
5. Shit my dad says. (Dad, a definitively not rich man, recently: “You need any money? You got any dogs that need operating on or anything?”)
You have things to add to your list?
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
And I felt all right, you know. They’re Calvin Klein (thus reasonable quality, I guess? I don’t know these things) and made of stretchy fabric, so they’re comfortable. And the way they felt, the way they fit, I kind of found myself strutting around like Sandy at the end of Grease, when she’s got all that skin-tight business on.
But looking in the mirror/at the picture…
I just don’t dig the shape—so very narrow at the ankles, and so very expansive at the child-birthers. It looks like, if I put my feet together, everything would get wicked precarious wicked fast. The tiniest tectonic movement, and I’d be supine. (Especially in my super-cute, red leather wedge sandals [that, like every other pair of heels, make my feet lose all feeling for 2-5 days].)
This fayshun stuff is hard. (My first-world problems are so hard.)
But the important thing is I’m making progress, right?
A couple years ago, I shared with you my secret magic antiperspirant, which I admitted was probably giving me Alzheimer’s. Well, I re-upped a few months ago, and it smelled stronger. I wondered if they changed the formula.
I think so. There seems to be another side effect now.
And white Ts. And one hoodie.
I looked online and couldn’t find any reviews about Klima shredding the armpits of your clothes. All the same, maaaaaaybe gonna lay off for awhile.
Did you hear the one about the squirrel? (Sometimes when I post at night, people don’t see the link in their Facebook feed, and they don’t read it, but I’m pathologically incapable of delaying gratification, so.)
Three years ago, I had a boyfriend who vacuumed my house. Now… now I have… now I…
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.
I went on a walk last week with a friend who said he likes to crowdsource his life’s problems. Looking back on my archives, it’s clear I do too.
Two years ago, I tried to crowdsource my education, and after some cajoling, it went pretty well!
One year ago, I crowdsourced my motivation to date. It went swimmingly.
Meta-crowdsourcing: What aspect of my life should I crowdsource next?
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
