A few weeks ago, I was having a conversation with some of my girlfriends about contraception. There were some married women, a lesbian, some single chicks and well, me. The lesbian didn’t really need to worry about getting knocked up anymore. She liked that idea. She even gloated a little. The married one said unfortunately her children seemed to be the best birth control. Child-interuptus I believe is the technical term. The single chicks, all in our forties, seemed to be complaining the most. If you add wine to a mommy night, this eventually happens.
None of the options are perfect. They all have their quirks and issues, kind of like the women I was hanging out with, but they need to be there. The contraception, I mean. Well, the women too cuz I really have fun with them.
I love my children. I love my two children. They are amazing and wonderful and even if I run out of energy for the phrase, “But why?” I wouldn’t trade them in for all of the Jimmy Choos in the whole wide world. With that said, I am happy with the two I’ve got. My sister has three boys (apparently we can only grow penises) and I like to say that is the reason I only have two. Plus we only have one bathroom and one computer so two is more than enough.
I am forty-three and it took me a long time to get my body back to this state. I mean, let’s face it, I will always need Spanx because two people lived in there, but having another child? I can’t really afford a tummy tuck, so no more kids. End of story.
But losing seventy pounds or so, I do look better than say, seventy pounds ago. Seriously, I just bought size twenty-eight Michael Kors jeans so on sale at Loehmans. Like, $150 jeans and I paid $13. I love Loehmans. I was brought up in Loehmans. I think everything I learned about women came from the Loehman’s dressing room.
Anyway…
So, last year I taught a “woman’s health” class to my Chick Power girl empowerment group at the high school where I teach. With permission slips in hand, the girls got to ask every question they ever wanted to ask. I allowed jokes and giggling and made it a fun atmosphere which at times made even me blush. But crap, these girls knew nothing! I mean NOTHING. In the three years I have worked with high school students, each year I have had a pregnant girl in one of my classes. Well, now they are all moms. Two were in ninth grade and one was in eighth. Yikes and a half. The only thing I can do as a teacher is point them toward websites and offer information that doesn’t directly involve my opinion. So, I boned up (Yes, pun intended) on my information about woman’s health and sex and stuff, made a Hello Kitty Power Point and jumped in. As we discussed contraception, I relayed facts and stats and then sort of gave my own opinion on a few:
The Condom: The world is an imperfect place and things break all of the time. Just like with your laptop, back it up. Wrap it in cellophane or it ain’t coming near you. (Yes, pun intended. Again.)
The patch: great for young girls, you don’t have to worry about being distracted by sparkly objects and forget to take the patch, cuz it’s stuck like glue on you. For me, no more hormones thanks. I have enough.
The pill: great, but you have to remember to actually take it. Remember, birth control does not work if it is left on the bathroom shelf. My teenage girls forget to write down their homework assignments, so…
The Diaphragm: Ah, the diaphragm. I loved my diaphragm. Although, again, it doesn’t work when it’s in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Dash is proof of that. Diaphragms are great. If you ever saw the play A Chorus Line, you know you can sing about them. My brother-in-law who is a Gynecologist likes that song and has been known to sing about it while golfing. You can put your trusty diaphragm in hours before, leave it in hours afterwards. Add a condom to it, and its damn near perfect.
So, why is it almost impossible to get one nowadays? My gyno had never even measured someone for it, and no, that does not involve a tape measure or a ruler. Hmmm…now that’s an image that just frightened my vagina.
Another thing that frightened my vagina was one time when I used my diaphragm and in the morning when I tried to get it out it was stuck. S-T-U-C-K. Oy to the vey was it stuck. I tried every position I knew to try and reach it. At one point I think I actually did a standing split on the wall. I tried several positions, both hands (no, not at once) for at least a half an hour. Nothing. I finally called my singing-gynecologist-brother-in-law for some advice. As any true professional would, he totally laughed at me and suggested all of the same positions I had just tried. Then he suggested if I hadn’t gotten it out on my own by that afternoon, I needed to see my doctor. Oh goody, I thought, I get to spend thirty-five dollars to have my doctor execute a professional diaphragm removal.
My doctor was giggling as she walked into the room. She was a friend of mine, so it wasn’t too unprofessional. I kept giggling too. It was just such an annoying yet humorous moment in my silly life. Seriously, I thought, who the hell gets their diaphragm stuck. What an idiot I must be. Although, it did take my doctor fifteen minutes to remove it. And she was a professional. I, on the other hand, am keeping my amateur status so that I may compete some day in the Vagina Olympics.
Perhaps I should just get spayed. Henry the cat is neutered and he seems happy enough. Of course he really likes to bite toes and I wonder if there is a connection. And I am really not a foot fetish kind of person. Boy toes are kinda stinky. More men need to get pedicures. If more men went in for pedicures, I might consider the whole foot fetish thing.
Hmm…was that too much information? No, I meant the foot fetish thing; not writing the word vagina several times in my blog.
By the way, I was reminded of the whole stuck diaphragm thing because I recently watched an episode of Sex in the City where Carrie got her’s stuck too. And even though Samantha had just had a manicure, she still helped Carrie out and…um…did lend a hand. (Yes, for the third time, pun intended)
The two friends I called just to discuss what was happening, told me right up front they were not going in after it. I just hope neither of them gets bitten on the ass by a rattle snake when they are near me…
Seriously.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
You can’t wear a thong with hemorrhoids and other annoying secrets about womanhood
Well, yeah, that got your attention.
I’m really not going to talk about hemorrhoids. I will tell you that I no longer wear thongs because I am not thirty anymore and therefore my ass is not thirty anymore. Of course I am actually thinner than I was at thirty, but my ass, well, it’s just not thirty anymore. Let’s just leave it at that. I hate those women who think they can still dress like PYT’s when in fact they might still be P but they are PMAT’s (see previous blog).
The other day I was in Trader Joe’s, which let’s face it, is about the best grocery store in the whole wide world. I mean come on, gluten free pasta, chocolate covered pomegranate seeds and non-crappy wine for under ten bucks? Just sayin…
Anyway, so there I was, checking out the pink lady apples when who should walk in but the original pink lady, Angeline. Seriously, Pink corvette parked outside and everything. The woman still had great legs, I will give her that. And trust me, you could see them. All of them. The mini skirt was very, um…mini. It wasn’t a micro-mini, it was a gyno-mini. She was in pink from head to stiletto toes and had so much plastic surgery, I don’t think she could close her mouth all of the way. Dressed like she did in the 80’s which is good, because I think she is pushing that age right about now. I am not being mean. Okay, maybe a little, but come on. The woman was forty in the 80’s so, like, um…oh, come on, don’t make me do math…
I like to wear miniskirts but they aren’t as mini as they used to be. No matter how many thigh crunches I do, there will always be a layer of squish. Actually, no matter how many sit-ups or push-ups I do, there will always be a layer of squish. Really good core, just covered in what I like to call “two-people-lived-in-here-smushy-ness”. Apparently, if you give up sugar, the smush goes away, but let’s face it, there are just some vices I refuse to give up. I work in a high school where students know my propensity for Starbursts and Sour Patch kids. I hate them. The students who bring me sugar not the sugar itself. If I didn’t work at a high school…oh never mind. The last time I was pre-menstrual I ate chocolate frosting for dinner when my kids weren’t home. Oh, like you never did that. I know for a fact that at least three people reading this blog have totally eaten frosting by itself, no cupcake underneath, just with a spoon.
There are some great parts to getting older. The myth of the sexual peak, the idea that in a few years I will qualify for a senior discount at the movies and the mere fact that I am wiser is a good thing. Plus the idea that I have a myriad of useless trivia rolling around in my head is always good. I can tell you that The Clash’s album London Calling was voted the best album of the 1980’s by Rolling Stone magazine, that Louisiana is the Pelican State and that white out was invented by Mike Nesmith’s mom. I always thought he was so much hotter than Davy Jones.
Of course, I can never remember my list of what I need to buy at Target or where I parked in the Whole Foods parking lot, but hey, being able to quote from I Love Lucy is quite important too.
Yes, I know being wiser doesn’t necessarily mean one is smarter. Men, boys, guys, prospective dates are still a mystery to me and I still seem to make stupid decisions based on emotions and desire. When my female students come to me for advice I can tell them to learn from their mistakes. I hear myself telling them to listen to the questions they ask themselves. Maybe I should listen to my own advice. Hmmm...maybe...
My favorite thing my mom ever told me was if you had to ask yourself a question more than once, then probably the answer should just be no. I’m not talking about algebra or if you shouldn't wear white after Labor Day. I am talking about matters of the heart and well, lower.
Then of course, I have two boys to raise to be men. Oy. Seriously, oy. Motherhood sucks when you realize that someday the cute little boy in the Batman pajamas who is still carrying around his blanket named gee-gee will be having sex some day. Crap, that scares the bajeezus out of me. I have to teach them not only to be smart and funny but chivalrous and respectful while being romantic and cool all at the same time. Arduous task for mothers of sons. I’m just glad I don’t have daughters. I always wanted girls but wouldn’t trade my two boys in for all of the Manolo Blahniks in Nordstrom.
So, let’s see, what do I think I need after writing this blog? (key word being think I need) Hmmm...new underwear, a guide to raising the perfect man, a guide to dating, to play Trivial Pursuit again, a session with my cute, bald trainer to tighten my abs, less sugar and more therapy. Probably should throw in a colonoscopy for good measure.
Seriously.
Oh, by the way, buy my book.
I’m really not going to talk about hemorrhoids. I will tell you that I no longer wear thongs because I am not thirty anymore and therefore my ass is not thirty anymore. Of course I am actually thinner than I was at thirty, but my ass, well, it’s just not thirty anymore. Let’s just leave it at that. I hate those women who think they can still dress like PYT’s when in fact they might still be P but they are PMAT’s (see previous blog).
The other day I was in Trader Joe’s, which let’s face it, is about the best grocery store in the whole wide world. I mean come on, gluten free pasta, chocolate covered pomegranate seeds and non-crappy wine for under ten bucks? Just sayin…
Anyway, so there I was, checking out the pink lady apples when who should walk in but the original pink lady, Angeline. Seriously, Pink corvette parked outside and everything. The woman still had great legs, I will give her that. And trust me, you could see them. All of them. The mini skirt was very, um…mini. It wasn’t a micro-mini, it was a gyno-mini. She was in pink from head to stiletto toes and had so much plastic surgery, I don’t think she could close her mouth all of the way. Dressed like she did in the 80’s which is good, because I think she is pushing that age right about now. I am not being mean. Okay, maybe a little, but come on. The woman was forty in the 80’s so, like, um…oh, come on, don’t make me do math…
I like to wear miniskirts but they aren’t as mini as they used to be. No matter how many thigh crunches I do, there will always be a layer of squish. Actually, no matter how many sit-ups or push-ups I do, there will always be a layer of squish. Really good core, just covered in what I like to call “two-people-lived-in-here-smushy-ness”. Apparently, if you give up sugar, the smush goes away, but let’s face it, there are just some vices I refuse to give up. I work in a high school where students know my propensity for Starbursts and Sour Patch kids. I hate them. The students who bring me sugar not the sugar itself. If I didn’t work at a high school…oh never mind. The last time I was pre-menstrual I ate chocolate frosting for dinner when my kids weren’t home. Oh, like you never did that. I know for a fact that at least three people reading this blog have totally eaten frosting by itself, no cupcake underneath, just with a spoon.
There are some great parts to getting older. The myth of the sexual peak, the idea that in a few years I will qualify for a senior discount at the movies and the mere fact that I am wiser is a good thing. Plus the idea that I have a myriad of useless trivia rolling around in my head is always good. I can tell you that The Clash’s album London Calling was voted the best album of the 1980’s by Rolling Stone magazine, that Louisiana is the Pelican State and that white out was invented by Mike Nesmith’s mom. I always thought he was so much hotter than Davy Jones.
Of course, I can never remember my list of what I need to buy at Target or where I parked in the Whole Foods parking lot, but hey, being able to quote from I Love Lucy is quite important too.
Yes, I know being wiser doesn’t necessarily mean one is smarter. Men, boys, guys, prospective dates are still a mystery to me and I still seem to make stupid decisions based on emotions and desire. When my female students come to me for advice I can tell them to learn from their mistakes. I hear myself telling them to listen to the questions they ask themselves. Maybe I should listen to my own advice. Hmmm...maybe...
My favorite thing my mom ever told me was if you had to ask yourself a question more than once, then probably the answer should just be no. I’m not talking about algebra or if you shouldn't wear white after Labor Day. I am talking about matters of the heart and well, lower.
Then of course, I have two boys to raise to be men. Oy. Seriously, oy. Motherhood sucks when you realize that someday the cute little boy in the Batman pajamas who is still carrying around his blanket named gee-gee will be having sex some day. Crap, that scares the bajeezus out of me. I have to teach them not only to be smart and funny but chivalrous and respectful while being romantic and cool all at the same time. Arduous task for mothers of sons. I’m just glad I don’t have daughters. I always wanted girls but wouldn’t trade my two boys in for all of the Manolo Blahniks in Nordstrom.
So, let’s see, what do I think I need after writing this blog? (key word being think I need) Hmmm...new underwear, a guide to raising the perfect man, a guide to dating, to play Trivial Pursuit again, a session with my cute, bald trainer to tighten my abs, less sugar and more therapy. Probably should throw in a colonoscopy for good measure.
Seriously.
Oh, by the way, buy my book.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Oh, hey, by the way, I wrote a book.
So, by now, if you are on my email list or one of my friends on facebook, you have begun to receive a barrage of well intended notes, pages and messages (oh my) about my fabulous new book called Finding My Status. Well, my first book. But it is new, so we can call it a new book. Of course that may be confusing for some who think I may have written anything else before this, so I guess we can call it my first new book or my new first book. Or hey, just, um…my book. Yep.
Anyway…
So, Finding My Status is a memoir about the first year after I left my husband, attended graduate school at USC, student taught, started dating again, lost a ton of weight, and all the while being a hopefully good mother to my children. And just to be quirky, it is written solely in facebook status updates. Weird but fun. Silly but poignant. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll like it better than Cats.
My facebook friends seemed to enjoy my status updates and even a few of them suggested I write them down. It was amazing to me that anyone was actually reading them. Or for that matter, that anyone is actually reading my blog but it turns out that several of you are, including people in Malaysia, France and Russia. I cannot even fathom how my humor would translate into Russian, French or Bahasa Malaysia (I googled that answer), but would love to know if it does. Of course with all of my spelling errors, I doubt the true translations are possible. I mean, do they have the “i before e rule” in Russian? Or does the word “snarky” even translate into French? Hmmm…
It was funny to me that people were following along on my updates. I would run into people and they would ask me how Lenny Fuzzbottom, the guinea pig was (may he rest in peace) or if Henry the cat had murdered any rodents lately. They wondered how school was for Max and Dash as well as for me. Sometimes they would reference something I had written and I would stand there with a quizzical expression on my face wondering how they knew this about me. It was like I had my very own reality show without the embarrassing, well, embarrassing idea of being on a reality show.
So, I did what any single mother with absolutely no free time would do. Wrote them all down, added a few more and made a memoir out of it. Sure, why not? It was actually kind of cool to watch it turn into a story. The story of this remarkable, fabulous, tumultuous, overwhelming, crazy, exhausting year. I got to record that year in this wacky way and then share it. I like sharing. Whether it is status updates or cookies or recipes for cookies, I do like sharing. I like how my kids share toys with their friends. Well, begrudgingly, but it happens. Occasionally. Okay, I bribe them with cookies from all of those great recipes that were shared, but ya know, whatever works.
A friend of mine owns this really cool self-publishing company called publishgreen.com. A wonderful and extremely helpful staff and you can get your work published as an eBook; totally environmentally friendly! Although I can’t autograph a book for you. I mean, I could come to your house and autograph your computer or you could drop your IPhone off and I could write on it really, really small with a sharpie, if you would like. Like in pink or I could let you pick the color. Hmmm... Maybe I should make stickers…
Anyway, because this is a book written in facebook status updates, it just made sense to do it this way. Seeing the status updates line by line on your computer the way god and Mark Zuckerberg intended it.
So, there it is. For just $5.99 you can buy me and my book. Wait, I meant just my book. I am way more expensive.
Here are all of the links and you don’t need a Kindle, Sony Reader or Nook because if you don’t have one, you can just download it right to your computer, phone or IPod. Pretty cool huh?
I could just autograph your hand, but it might come off when you wash your hands. It is cold and flu season. Hmmm…maybe stickers would be better.
LINKS:
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Finding-My-Status-Memoir-ebook/dp/B004PGO34Y/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1299868332&sr=8-1
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Finding-My-Status-A-Memoir/Allison-Levine/e/2940012229830/?itm=1&USRI=finding+my+status
IPod, IPad and IPhone: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/finding-my-status/id422956343?ls=1
All other downloads: http://www.ebooks.com/ebooks/book_display.asp?IID=669024
Anyway…
So, Finding My Status is a memoir about the first year after I left my husband, attended graduate school at USC, student taught, started dating again, lost a ton of weight, and all the while being a hopefully good mother to my children. And just to be quirky, it is written solely in facebook status updates. Weird but fun. Silly but poignant. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll like it better than Cats.
My facebook friends seemed to enjoy my status updates and even a few of them suggested I write them down. It was amazing to me that anyone was actually reading them. Or for that matter, that anyone is actually reading my blog but it turns out that several of you are, including people in Malaysia, France and Russia. I cannot even fathom how my humor would translate into Russian, French or Bahasa Malaysia (I googled that answer), but would love to know if it does. Of course with all of my spelling errors, I doubt the true translations are possible. I mean, do they have the “i before e rule” in Russian? Or does the word “snarky” even translate into French? Hmmm…
It was funny to me that people were following along on my updates. I would run into people and they would ask me how Lenny Fuzzbottom, the guinea pig was (may he rest in peace) or if Henry the cat had murdered any rodents lately. They wondered how school was for Max and Dash as well as for me. Sometimes they would reference something I had written and I would stand there with a quizzical expression on my face wondering how they knew this about me. It was like I had my very own reality show without the embarrassing, well, embarrassing idea of being on a reality show.
So, I did what any single mother with absolutely no free time would do. Wrote them all down, added a few more and made a memoir out of it. Sure, why not? It was actually kind of cool to watch it turn into a story. The story of this remarkable, fabulous, tumultuous, overwhelming, crazy, exhausting year. I got to record that year in this wacky way and then share it. I like sharing. Whether it is status updates or cookies or recipes for cookies, I do like sharing. I like how my kids share toys with their friends. Well, begrudgingly, but it happens. Occasionally. Okay, I bribe them with cookies from all of those great recipes that were shared, but ya know, whatever works.
A friend of mine owns this really cool self-publishing company called publishgreen.com. A wonderful and extremely helpful staff and you can get your work published as an eBook; totally environmentally friendly! Although I can’t autograph a book for you. I mean, I could come to your house and autograph your computer or you could drop your IPhone off and I could write on it really, really small with a sharpie, if you would like. Like in pink or I could let you pick the color. Hmmm... Maybe I should make stickers…
Anyway, because this is a book written in facebook status updates, it just made sense to do it this way. Seeing the status updates line by line on your computer the way god and Mark Zuckerberg intended it.
So, there it is. For just $5.99 you can buy me and my book. Wait, I meant just my book. I am way more expensive.
Here are all of the links and you don’t need a Kindle, Sony Reader or Nook because if you don’t have one, you can just download it right to your computer, phone or IPod. Pretty cool huh?
I could just autograph your hand, but it might come off when you wash your hands. It is cold and flu season. Hmmm…maybe stickers would be better.
LINKS:
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Finding-My-Status-Memoir-ebook/dp/B004PGO34Y/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1299868332&sr=8-1
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Finding-My-Status-A-Memoir/Allison-Levine/e/2940012229830/?itm=1&USRI=finding+my+status
IPod, IPad and IPhone: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/finding-my-status/id422956343?ls=1
All other downloads: http://www.ebooks.com/ebooks/book_display.asp?IID=669024
Monday, March 7, 2011
I hate boys
For those of you who read my last blog there is a epilogue from the Mr. Smarmy McSmarmyson story. A day and a half later, after I was completely and joyfully honest with him, he messaged me one last message.
“And he forgot to tell you that he’s married too,” was all it said.
I didn’t return the message. I pushed the not interested button and then sat there, crinkled up my face again and thought about his message. Okay, number one, did he mean himself and he was just being a complete douche and writing in third person? Oh crap, I hate when people write about themselves in the third person. Allison hates this. Allison thinks it is creepy and she would appreciate it not to happen again. Although, come to think of it, I do write my facebook statuses (statusi?) in third person, but I am funny and cute and he is just kind of a dickhead without manners, so it’s alright when I do it. Right?
Number two, did he think this would make me feel better or worse about myself? Was I supposed to think, “Oh man, what a great guy who is already taken! I shall never love again! Alas, boohoohoohoo.” Or perhaps I was supposed to think, “Whew, thanks for telling me that, oh honest and genuine guy that you are, I almost called you and begged to meet you because I have the self esteem of a Ziploc baggie.” I hate boys.
Today during my fifth period ninth grade English class, my Alpha-male totally acted up and pissed me off to know end. He’s a mini-misogynist and a full sized pain in the ass. The snarky oversized teen decided he would play catch with an orange while I was discussing what was going to be on the test tomorrow. I asked him to stop and put it away. Twice. I then said, either put it away or give it to me. So, he stood up and threw it across the room into the garbage can. Alright, he made the shot because he is like, the star basketball player, but he threw it across the room into the garbage can. Across the heads of all of the other students. Are we getting a visual here? A student remarked how he was just wasting food and I remarked how he would rather just throw it away than hand it to me.
There was once I asked him to reach something for me, because he is six feet tall and I am five foot five. He flatly said no and walked out the door. I stopped him and told him that wasn’t going to fly in my classroom. He told me he didn’t have to respect me just because I was his teacher. He told me that I had to give respect to get respect. I asked him didn’t that go for him as well? I also told him that he didn’t have to like me but yes, he did have to respect me. I also told him that I had never shown disrespect to him in MY classroom because I am a grownup. Stupid kid...I have called his father twice. Yep, just as bad. Full grown misogynist. I hate boys.
Henry the MALE cat scratched Dash and me tonight. I know he is still a kitten but the biting and scratching thing, dear god, I have never had a cat like this. I would love to get him declawed but know that is not the nice thing to do, but I am at my wits end with him. He wakes me up at 3am and if I lock him out of my room he scratches on my door. Loudly. He also gets pissed if I lock him in my room when company is over. He has defiled my bedspread twice. I hate boys.
I am on a good premenstrual rant here. Normally I become a bit introspective and melancholy but every once in awhile, I just get pissed. I get where nothing is funny and am I a complete bitch and I don’t like anyone and I even tell my kids that mommy needs a time out. I hate when mommy needs a time out. My children seem confused by this. It is times like these, and when I throw a five year old's birthday that ends up having thirty people at it and forgot to get a bag of ice and have no way of running out and getting it because the Castle-bouncer delivery guy should be here any minute; times like these, I kind of wish I still had a partner to lean on. Vaccination time, when I have strep throat or just when I am so sad I just want to be held by someone taller than me whose arms reach all the way around my waist. Someone who can stand up and hold me and my head rests just under their chin and you feel them smelling your hair. Maybe I do want that. Maybe just a part time kind of “that”. Can you order that on EBay?
I was pretty okay today, except for the misogynist miscreants at my school. The rant seemed to have begun today when I got to the gym to do cardio on my favorite treadmill. The one under the Gandhi quote, “We must become the change we want to see.” I love that quote. I even wrote an entire blog about it for the New Year (yes, go read it after this one).
So, there I was, burning off my anxiety of the day, listening to Pandora on my phone because I had forgotten to charge my iPod and the Rihanna/M&M song, “Love the Way You Lie” came on. I was at the end of thirty minutes of cardio and the words were blasting loudly in my head. I found my focus was no longer on the treadmill but on the words from the song. Some memories drifted, or rather erupted back into my head. Flashbacks I try not to think about anymore. I found myself getting more irate by the moment. Furious and then infuriated at myself for getting pissed off in the first place. Why now? Why not three years ago? I still get mad at it all sometimes, but for some reason this was different. I can’t explain it, I can’t interpret it, I can’t decipher it. I guess no matter how far I get past it all, that is one boy I will just hate. I have forgiven myself and have tried to forgive him but you can’t forgive someone who is remorseless. Can you?
Deep sigh. Breathe in and out. Woooo-saaaah.
And now, boys that I actually like are asleep and my rant is coming to a close. My normally funny and irreverent humor is on hiatus. I listened to M&M while writing this and then switched to something more soothing like the Sex Pistols and Green Day. No, just kidding. Well, kind of.
Tomorrow I will try not to hate boys so much. Maybe I will go online and order a six foot tall cute boy to stand under so I can be held and have my head rest against a cute chin. And then, if god is a woman, he will turn into a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream and all will be right with my world.
“And he forgot to tell you that he’s married too,” was all it said.
I didn’t return the message. I pushed the not interested button and then sat there, crinkled up my face again and thought about his message. Okay, number one, did he mean himself and he was just being a complete douche and writing in third person? Oh crap, I hate when people write about themselves in the third person. Allison hates this. Allison thinks it is creepy and she would appreciate it not to happen again. Although, come to think of it, I do write my facebook statuses (statusi?) in third person, but I am funny and cute and he is just kind of a dickhead without manners, so it’s alright when I do it. Right?
Number two, did he think this would make me feel better or worse about myself? Was I supposed to think, “Oh man, what a great guy who is already taken! I shall never love again! Alas, boohoohoohoo.” Or perhaps I was supposed to think, “Whew, thanks for telling me that, oh honest and genuine guy that you are, I almost called you and begged to meet you because I have the self esteem of a Ziploc baggie.” I hate boys.
Today during my fifth period ninth grade English class, my Alpha-male totally acted up and pissed me off to know end. He’s a mini-misogynist and a full sized pain in the ass. The snarky oversized teen decided he would play catch with an orange while I was discussing what was going to be on the test tomorrow. I asked him to stop and put it away. Twice. I then said, either put it away or give it to me. So, he stood up and threw it across the room into the garbage can. Alright, he made the shot because he is like, the star basketball player, but he threw it across the room into the garbage can. Across the heads of all of the other students. Are we getting a visual here? A student remarked how he was just wasting food and I remarked how he would rather just throw it away than hand it to me.
There was once I asked him to reach something for me, because he is six feet tall and I am five foot five. He flatly said no and walked out the door. I stopped him and told him that wasn’t going to fly in my classroom. He told me he didn’t have to respect me just because I was his teacher. He told me that I had to give respect to get respect. I asked him didn’t that go for him as well? I also told him that he didn’t have to like me but yes, he did have to respect me. I also told him that I had never shown disrespect to him in MY classroom because I am a grownup. Stupid kid...I have called his father twice. Yep, just as bad. Full grown misogynist. I hate boys.
Henry the MALE cat scratched Dash and me tonight. I know he is still a kitten but the biting and scratching thing, dear god, I have never had a cat like this. I would love to get him declawed but know that is not the nice thing to do, but I am at my wits end with him. He wakes me up at 3am and if I lock him out of my room he scratches on my door. Loudly. He also gets pissed if I lock him in my room when company is over. He has defiled my bedspread twice. I hate boys.
I am on a good premenstrual rant here. Normally I become a bit introspective and melancholy but every once in awhile, I just get pissed. I get where nothing is funny and am I a complete bitch and I don’t like anyone and I even tell my kids that mommy needs a time out. I hate when mommy needs a time out. My children seem confused by this. It is times like these, and when I throw a five year old's birthday that ends up having thirty people at it and forgot to get a bag of ice and have no way of running out and getting it because the Castle-bouncer delivery guy should be here any minute; times like these, I kind of wish I still had a partner to lean on. Vaccination time, when I have strep throat or just when I am so sad I just want to be held by someone taller than me whose arms reach all the way around my waist. Someone who can stand up and hold me and my head rests just under their chin and you feel them smelling your hair. Maybe I do want that. Maybe just a part time kind of “that”. Can you order that on EBay?
I was pretty okay today, except for the misogynist miscreants at my school. The rant seemed to have begun today when I got to the gym to do cardio on my favorite treadmill. The one under the Gandhi quote, “We must become the change we want to see.” I love that quote. I even wrote an entire blog about it for the New Year (yes, go read it after this one).
So, there I was, burning off my anxiety of the day, listening to Pandora on my phone because I had forgotten to charge my iPod and the Rihanna/M&M song, “Love the Way You Lie” came on. I was at the end of thirty minutes of cardio and the words were blasting loudly in my head. I found my focus was no longer on the treadmill but on the words from the song. Some memories drifted, or rather erupted back into my head. Flashbacks I try not to think about anymore. I found myself getting more irate by the moment. Furious and then infuriated at myself for getting pissed off in the first place. Why now? Why not three years ago? I still get mad at it all sometimes, but for some reason this was different. I can’t explain it, I can’t interpret it, I can’t decipher it. I guess no matter how far I get past it all, that is one boy I will just hate. I have forgiven myself and have tried to forgive him but you can’t forgive someone who is remorseless. Can you?
Deep sigh. Breathe in and out. Woooo-saaaah.
And now, boys that I actually like are asleep and my rant is coming to a close. My normally funny and irreverent humor is on hiatus. I listened to M&M while writing this and then switched to something more soothing like the Sex Pistols and Green Day. No, just kidding. Well, kind of.
Tomorrow I will try not to hate boys so much. Maybe I will go online and order a six foot tall cute boy to stand under so I can be held and have my head rest against a cute chin. And then, if god is a woman, he will turn into a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream and all will be right with my world.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Mr. Right Now is neither.
I think sometimes I continue to go on OKCupid simply for blog fodder. Boy, am I glad I did. Well, sort of.
There was one guy who seemed relatively normal, the key word being seemed. I will refer to him as “Mr. Smarmy McSmarmyson”. It started out innocently enough, messages back and forth and then he asked to meet me. I suggested coffee. Ya know, that innocuous first meeting where you don’t have to spend an inordinately long period of time if you don’t want to. Just in case. Of course, it’s always good to have your best friend text you with an “emergency” twenty minutes into the meet and greet. Also, just in case.
So I wrote, “I have some free time on Wednesday afternoon”.
He replied, “Sure. Feeling frisky, huh?” I found myself crinkling up my eyebrows in wonder. First of all, did he just use the word “frisky” and secondly, was he serious?
“Seriously? Frisky?” was my next message and his reply was “ You have a better word for sex?”
Again, my forehead crinkled in amazement. I found my mouth hanging open as I read it again. I hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers or last names with this moron. However, I had to respond. Just had to.
“Um, what kind of meet-and-greet did you expect this to be?” I hit send and found myself sitting there waiting. Still scrunching up my forehead.
“Dunno. You never know where it will take us. You up for it? If not today, then at least send some naughty pictures of yourself. With your hot bod, I just can’t wait.”
I sat there for a moment in quiet contemplation. But it was like a car accident where you just can’t look away. You try, but you just can’t. I had to write back. I couldn’t help it. I tried, but I just couldn’t. Part of me felt like perhaps he needed some guidance on proper dating etiquette or just some freakin manners. Perhaps this did work on some chicks, but yep, not this one. I wasn’t sure if I was offended, bemused or pissed at the sheer audacity of it. So, I began to type. I was going to be as straight forward as he was. I was about to be completely and totally honest with someone I had never met and well, let’s face it, had no intention of ever meeting like, ever. Never, ever ever. Besides, all of the crinkling of my forehead in shock and awe would require Botox if I continued the conversation much longer.
So this was my response:
“Ya know what? I think I'm going to pass on the whole meet and greet thing. I appreciate your straight-forward-ness, but you are way too forward for me and it's kind of a turn off. And just so you know, you really wouldn't see me naked for quite some time. I am not looking for a fuck buddy. Sorry to disappoint, but seriously, I think I will just go to the gym today instead. Have a nice day.”
It took him like, 10 minutes, but this was the final note: “That's fine. Was losing interest anyway.” At least I told him to have a nice day.
If you know me, you know I am no prude. I have a dirty mind and well, yep, that’s all I’m saying. My mom reads my blog. It’s just that, I mean, come on. Do total strangers exchange naked pictures of each other without money changing hands? I am not Brett Favre.
Then there was the twenty-two year old, Mr. Mammary, who kept writing about my breasts. He actually kept referring to them as “boobies”. I thought you might like an excerpt.
“You are a supper hottie mom and I think you’ll make an awesome piece of arm candy for whoever picks ya up. Rowr!! I think your boobies are fantastic and I am guessing they are real. Of course, what do I know; I assume anything bigger than my actual palm is a fake. But who cares, your boobies are great. I just totally wrote boobies!!”
Umm…yeah…I didn’t actually respond to that one. I am guessing he was either breastfed until he was like, seven or doesn’t really get to see many, um, boobies.
The next one, Mr. Paranoid-mystery-man”, refused to tell me what he did for a living, what part of town he lived in or his last name. I jokingly suggested he just tell me his middle name. He declined, stating that if I knew that, it would be too easy for me to find him and then I would know where he worked. I am guessing he worked for the CIA. Or for Disney. Total toss-up.
And finally Mr. Off-his-meds. “In a word, mercurial comes to mind…….not a bad word, certainly better than others. Now, Los Angeles is vague as are zip codes. I love children, I culled that from Holden’s sister……She just kills me was the line. My parents are recently passed…...and am at a piece with it as one can be…..mom…...fuck mom..….and I work in architecture.”
The spelling mistakes and ellipses were his, not mine. Personally, I am a triple glyph person and think adding extra dots is just superfluous. Man, that was either the most pretentious sentence I have ever written or I am way too into my job as an English teacher.
But hey, glad he has a job and hopes he gets over his mom. I have no idea who Holden or his sister was. I am guessing it is some reference to Catcher in the Rye and therefore we all know that that means serial killer. Nope, didn’t respond to that one either.
Actually under my profile it reads, “Responds selectively”. As Cher put it in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and those just go on my feet.”
Seriously.
There was one guy who seemed relatively normal, the key word being seemed. I will refer to him as “Mr. Smarmy McSmarmyson”. It started out innocently enough, messages back and forth and then he asked to meet me. I suggested coffee. Ya know, that innocuous first meeting where you don’t have to spend an inordinately long period of time if you don’t want to. Just in case. Of course, it’s always good to have your best friend text you with an “emergency” twenty minutes into the meet and greet. Also, just in case.
So I wrote, “I have some free time on Wednesday afternoon”.
He replied, “Sure. Feeling frisky, huh?” I found myself crinkling up my eyebrows in wonder. First of all, did he just use the word “frisky” and secondly, was he serious?
“Seriously? Frisky?” was my next message and his reply was “ You have a better word for sex?”
Again, my forehead crinkled in amazement. I found my mouth hanging open as I read it again. I hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers or last names with this moron. However, I had to respond. Just had to.
“Um, what kind of meet-and-greet did you expect this to be?” I hit send and found myself sitting there waiting. Still scrunching up my forehead.
“Dunno. You never know where it will take us. You up for it? If not today, then at least send some naughty pictures of yourself. With your hot bod, I just can’t wait.”
I sat there for a moment in quiet contemplation. But it was like a car accident where you just can’t look away. You try, but you just can’t. I had to write back. I couldn’t help it. I tried, but I just couldn’t. Part of me felt like perhaps he needed some guidance on proper dating etiquette or just some freakin manners. Perhaps this did work on some chicks, but yep, not this one. I wasn’t sure if I was offended, bemused or pissed at the sheer audacity of it. So, I began to type. I was going to be as straight forward as he was. I was about to be completely and totally honest with someone I had never met and well, let’s face it, had no intention of ever meeting like, ever. Never, ever ever. Besides, all of the crinkling of my forehead in shock and awe would require Botox if I continued the conversation much longer.
So this was my response:
“Ya know what? I think I'm going to pass on the whole meet and greet thing. I appreciate your straight-forward-ness, but you are way too forward for me and it's kind of a turn off. And just so you know, you really wouldn't see me naked for quite some time. I am not looking for a fuck buddy. Sorry to disappoint, but seriously, I think I will just go to the gym today instead. Have a nice day.”
It took him like, 10 minutes, but this was the final note: “That's fine. Was losing interest anyway.” At least I told him to have a nice day.
If you know me, you know I am no prude. I have a dirty mind and well, yep, that’s all I’m saying. My mom reads my blog. It’s just that, I mean, come on. Do total strangers exchange naked pictures of each other without money changing hands? I am not Brett Favre.
Then there was the twenty-two year old, Mr. Mammary, who kept writing about my breasts. He actually kept referring to them as “boobies”. I thought you might like an excerpt.
“You are a supper hottie mom and I think you’ll make an awesome piece of arm candy for whoever picks ya up. Rowr!! I think your boobies are fantastic and I am guessing they are real. Of course, what do I know; I assume anything bigger than my actual palm is a fake. But who cares, your boobies are great. I just totally wrote boobies!!”
Umm…yeah…I didn’t actually respond to that one. I am guessing he was either breastfed until he was like, seven or doesn’t really get to see many, um, boobies.
The next one, Mr. Paranoid-mystery-man”, refused to tell me what he did for a living, what part of town he lived in or his last name. I jokingly suggested he just tell me his middle name. He declined, stating that if I knew that, it would be too easy for me to find him and then I would know where he worked. I am guessing he worked for the CIA. Or for Disney. Total toss-up.
And finally Mr. Off-his-meds. “In a word, mercurial comes to mind…….not a bad word, certainly better than others. Now, Los Angeles is vague as are zip codes. I love children, I culled that from Holden’s sister……She just kills me was the line. My parents are recently passed…...and am at a piece with it as one can be…..mom…...fuck mom..….and I work in architecture.”
The spelling mistakes and ellipses were his, not mine. Personally, I am a triple glyph person and think adding extra dots is just superfluous. Man, that was either the most pretentious sentence I have ever written or I am way too into my job as an English teacher.
But hey, glad he has a job and hopes he gets over his mom. I have no idea who Holden or his sister was. I am guessing it is some reference to Catcher in the Rye and therefore we all know that that means serial killer. Nope, didn’t respond to that one either.
Actually under my profile it reads, “Responds selectively”. As Cher put it in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and those just go on my feet.”
Seriously.
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