Wednesday, May 2, 2012

me and all my bullshit.

it's always the worst when your homeboys get girlfriends. jeff texted me last week to see if i wanted to "catch up over a burger." hmph. that motherfucker has been ignoring me now that he has a new girlfriend, and that is SO TOTALLY FUCKING LAME. why does it always go like that?! i mean, i know why: she's banging him. and all i ever do is test out new material on him and regale him with stories about my dumbass friends. so i understand why that bitch might win. despite the fact that the contents of my refrigerator included an only an onion and a package of salami from the butcher, i haughtily texted back, "why?" here's something i hate: when your friends start banging new people and all of a sudden stop calling your ass until they have a fight or that other bitch remembers she has a life or those assholes break up or whatever. that is unacceptable. although when girls do it, i kind of get it, because there's a tiny window of time during which you have this dude's undivided attention, and you have to make the goddamned most of it. two weeks from now once the honeymoon is over this jerk is not going to give a fuck about what happened on last week’s episode of the bachelor, and because that’s pretty much all you have to talk about you better tell him that shit while you still can.

and wouldn't you know, he'd extended that dinner invitation to me because the chick from weight watchers he's still sleeping with (seriously) is so on edge about calorie consumption that she still won't fucking allow FOOD DATES and he'd just dropped her off after "hanging out at some art galleries" and was about to goddamned starve to death. let's start here: it is utterly hilarious to me what some dudes will subject themselves to in the pursuit of some goddamned ass. and, conversely, TOTALLY FUCKING BAFFLING when one i am falsely assured is into me for real (like, FOR REAL for real) won't do some regular-ass shit like see a movie with subtitles or meet me at an indian restaurant for dinner. remember that time i couldn't get a dude to eat bowtie pasta i'd made because "he only eats angel hair?!" or that other time when i had tickets to the civic opera and he said he didn't understand why people would get dressed up just to "sit around and listen to some dumb singing?" and he wore a blazer with jeans and listened to the bulls game through the entirety of wagner's das rheingold?! mortifying. and holy mother of god, i still had sex with that dude after that. le sigh.

who are these women who can coerce dudes into anorexia while milling around an art gallery looking at shit they cannot fucking comprehend?! i want to be one of these women! how do i get to be so fantastic that i can say, "look handsome, we're going to see some performance artist stick needles into his testicles for three hours and then you're taking me to that new restaurant that specializes in bacon-infused puffs of air" and get a dude to go willingly along with that shit? i don't even care if he rolls his eyes the minute i suggest it or if he orders thai food the second we get home as long as i can get him out of the house and into some cultural shit in between. I WANT TO SEE THAT WOOLLY MAMMOTH EXHIBIT AT THE FIELD MUSEUM, MAN. *welp*

that woman must have kryptonite pussy, because even though i had taken a cab and only stopped in the liquor store for approximately ten seconds to get money from an ATM, by the time i got to kuma's jeff was already on his second goddamned burger. they'd spent the entire day together, apparently; a day that involved art galleries, an exhibit at the MCA, a movie at siskel, a browse around the men's department at macy's, and a trip to starbucks, BUT NO FOOD. "she wouldn't even let you get one of those little sandwiches or cake things?" i asked him, spilling half a pint of allagash down my front and on the floor while trying to reach for his fries. SIGH. i suppose that is the real reason why i can't drag a dude to see some pedro almodovar with my slovenly ass: i'm gross and covered in beer and unworthy of human affection. anyway, jeff explained that he was trying to be sensitive to her diet of broccoli and steamed fish, which reminded me of one of the many times i've been "dieting" (read: having a lean cuisine for breakfast and lunch and a handful of gummy vitamins for dinner) and this asshole came over to my house with A PIZZA THAT HE PROCEEDED TO CRUSH POTATO CHIPS ON TOP OF BEFORE EATING RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. i was so food-deprived i cried. i cried over a potato chip pizza. remember, children, there's always a bottom.

old sugar walls has obviously taught this dude some manners in these few weeks they've been banging, and he put down his sandwich to get up and help me out of my vest, which was TOTALLY FUCKING AWKWARD, especially since we were standing in a puddle. i like a chivalrous dude as much as the next girl, but you ain't really gotta take off my hoodie, sir. i hate when people do shit that makes other people look at you funny. just sit there and eat, for god's sake, don't make everyone watch me try to double-joint bend my elbow to get this shit off because it's a size too goddamned small. i already spilled beer everywhere and pissed off the bartender, do you really have to brush nine people in the face with my suburban outerwear?

i could hardly put my right arm back into the sleeve he'd inadvertently yanked it out of before he exclaimed, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIRT YOU'RE WEARING?!" so, because i came equipped with a vagina, it should be my knee-jerk reaction to hanging outwith a dude, even if it's one who isn't on the market or interested in me, to wear decent-ish clothes when out with him in public. but i'm fucking tired.

"this is my meat shirt," i said, looking down at the blob of sheer grease stain covering my entire left breast that wouldn't wash out even though i'd pre-treated that shit and everything, "you mad?" not too mad, i guess, because instead of answering he just rolled his eyes dramatically and waved the waitress over so i could order some pork fries.

"that meat shirt is why you don't have a goddamned man," that asshole replied, and as i opened my mouth to protest he continued, "you're a free agent again, aren't you? didn't you get released from the having sex and going on dates team a few months ago? your problem is that your impossible standards for men remain way too fucking high while your personal standards for your interests and physical appearance remain way too fucking low. let's write you a new okcupid profile and exclude the words 'smart' and 'successful' from that bitch."

first of all, i already updated my fucking okcupid profile and it is the awesome. example, first things people notice about me: biker tattoos and food in my beard. goddamned hilarious, am i right? makes you want to fuck me with the lights on, DOES IT NOT?! i have yet to receive a single message from some hot gentleman petitioning to put it in my butt, nor has anyone stopped me on the street to demand that i let him offer me an alternative to my otherwise drab existence, and this is what i've decided to delude myself into believing: regular-ass dudes just aren't ready for someone as awesome as me. yeah, that’s it.

and second, WHAT IMPOSSIBLE STANDARDS? jeff is fond of reminding me that everything changed when i shifted my priorities from "breathing and willing" a few years ago to "manly, smart, jokes," and ONLY A MAN would recommend working your way backward down the evolutionary chart just to get a look at a new pair of testicles. and sure, i could have half a dozen prison penpals if i was hard up for attention, but i'm saving that silver lining for when i'm too fat to leave the house. in january i wrote a list of MAN REQUIREMENTS that included such lofty expectations as "reads books" and "doesn't live in his childhood bedroom," and much to my surprise i received a shit ton of hate mail in response. apparently it's too fucking much to ask that a man not introduce himself using a rap alias or commit to an actual cell phone contract, or that he actually work with his hands and put the xbox away for a couple hours a day. BITCHES WAS SO MAD at that fucking post. zoe sent me a link to some moist dude who wrote a response to it for his feminist studies class or some shit and posted it on the goddamned internet, and i was dumbfounded. counterpoint one: this is hyperbole. acquaint thyself. counterpoint two: GET YOUR WEIGHT UP, SON. unless you wrote that shit to get some pussy, imma say that you've got shampoo for blood and probably nursed until you were thirteen.

so since it's such a goddamned problem to have expectations, why not instead try to hunt down a dude who's willing to put up with some of
my bullshit? if it’s too much to ask that a dude skim a newspaper a couple times a week, in exchange for that willful ignorance i’m going to need him to understand how much i love my armpit hair. and that silky underwear is a waste of money that could be better served in my “buy a new mac that actually burns cds and shit” fund. THAT SAID, a man can be dumb and have no ambition as long as he:

1 will not balk at either the wearing of a meat shirt or the ordering of pork fries. listen dudes, i think i decided that all i'm going to wear until i die is jeggings and birkenstocks. i apologize in advance. thinking about clothes makes me tired, and i feel dumb every time i wear anything complicated. i'm done with clothes. i just can't even think about that shit anymore. i'm just going to pretend to be a fashion designer and say that wearing the same outfit every day is part of my art or whatever. who cares. and i'm over dudes who have an opinion about meat shirts. and eat dinner salads. this is my dream: me and a dude, tacos, whiskey, flat shoes, home in bed by eleven pm. and a blowjob or something as long as i can keep my shirt on and not sweat. maybe i should put that in my okcupid.

2 understands that the majority of our conversations are going to be conducted via text. i used to be a phone girl, an up all night giggling at things that aren’t even funny cooing into the wee hours of the morning phone girl. but if i want to get laid in 2012, i had to learn how to use the old text machine. no one makes phone calls anymore, EVER, and now that i’m kinda used to dating in the new millenium i don’t want to talk on the phone, either. especially since i’ve had to teach my phone so many swear words so that it doesn’t autocorrect my artful phrases into nonsensical jibberish. i want my love letters to be of the 160 characters or less variety, and sent within five minutes of the one i just sent that dude. nothing is worse than trying to sext the BUSY GUY. oh, i know. it's so hard and your thumbs get so tired. you can handle it, though. i promise.

i really do fucking hate this whole texting thing. i do it, because making phone calls is basically the modern day equivalent of using a mimeograph machine or a goddamned road atlas, but i would much rather hear a soothing voice in my ear. one who can discern that that mean shit i said really was a joke. (comedy texting is the worst.)

3 tolerates my hipster snobbery. i don't even fit the hipster demographic, really. the size of my jeans has too many digits and i'm not in a band and i don't work at a co-op and my neighborhood isn’t painfully cool and i don't have a record player, but i have snooty music tastes and a lot of dirty artsy friends who wear vintage clothing and often speak in a way that doesn’t really make that much sense. you know the ones, the kind of people who refer to inanimate objects as having a "soul" and kiss each other on the lips. anyway, i read check gorilla vs bear, goddammit! and look at my ironical tattoos and heavyweight plastic glasses! look at me writing a blog! look at me shopping at the farmer’s market for sustainable, locally grown kohlrabi and artisanal handcrafted sausages!

well, some of that shit might not be entirely true, but i do go to lit readings and nod like i really know what the fuck those people are talking about while i wait for my turn to read that one story i wrote about holding in a fart in front of a dude. i've attended my fair share of costume parties. i also know more than one dj who specializes in "experimental ambient noise." so if you want to have regular sex with me, we’re going to a lot of storefront galleries, homeboy. i don’t know shit about art, and yes, i was totally falling asleep during that one installation at the MCA, but we’re going anyway. all this to say that you're going to have to learn how to pretend that you like that electro-trash psycho funk band all the cool young people i know are obsessed with, because i just bought tickets to their show and you're my fucking date.

4 doesn’t need a home-cooked meal every goddamned night. here’s the thing about cooking: sometimes it’s awesome, and breaking down a leg of lamb to make a heady, fragrant rogan josh is supremely satisfying work that makes me feel accomplished and worthy of my vagina, but some other times it’s a sweaty dirty mess and i don’t even want to eat what i made when i’m finished with it. have you ever done that before? spent an entire evening painstakingly slaving over the most perfect dinner that could possibly come from the kitchen in a studio apartment (i'm talking uniformly diced onions and expertly julienned carrots, fish with no scales and braised meat that doesn't have a single speck of char) and then once it was ready to serve you would rather drop dead than eat it? yeah, ME TOO.

i’m not such a barbarian that i can’t appreciate the look of satisfaction on a man’s face while i watch him eat something i’ve cooked, but i just can’t help, as the dishes pile ever so high in the sink, thinking about when he’s going to ask me to do that shit AGAIN. because that is your punishment for showing any little bit of domesticity: neverending requests to do whatever it was you did again and again and
again. every time i have ironed a shirt or hemmed a pant leg it has always resulted in my opening a veritable pandora’s box of requests. and there are too many things i need to watch on television. well, no, okay. i would do it, i just would much rather be domestic in the sam way: paying the delivery guy for dinner and picking up the dry cleaning on my way home from work.

5 thinks my secret single behavior is cute. or, at the very least, doesn’t ask more than once why i walk around my apartment with headphones on or why the toaster is plugged in next to the bed. living alone is amazing, because you get to just DO WHATEVER. i can leave shit wherever i want, and no one makes me pick it up. i don't have a place in my bathroom for toilet paper, but who cares? the lightbulb over my bed has been burned out for six weeks, who the fuck is going to notice that shit?!

but sometimes you forget what it’s like to have other people around, especially when those are people you want to see you as an exotic creature of mystery, not a woman who has three half-eaten bowls of cereal on her bookshelves. i pile magazines on every surface and am too lazy to hide the cat box behind a decorative screen, and none of these things seems like a problem until i am faced with the prospect of some judgmental dude not wanting to bend me over the stack of folded t-shirts i left in the middle of the hallway next to the bills i tape to the wall so i don't forget to pay them. in order of importance, of course. my towels don’t match and my broom is easily four years old, and if you don’t think those things make me adorable, hanging out in my bed watching “deathproof” for an entire afternoon is going to seem like a terrible fate to you. especially when i keep reaching across your lap to make my frozen waffles.

so if you're down with this, i'm down with you. bring on the meat shirts and empty conversations. i promise i will totally shave if you can use a multi-syllabic word in conversation, though. real fucking talk.