Seriously, dating in my twenties was sooooo much easier. I had no one to be responsible for except myself. I still worried about the occasional serial killer, but it was only me who was in danger so it was alright. Never actually dated a serial killer. Well, not one that killed me. I once dated a guy who said he never actually killed anyone but he really liked cereal. He also broke up with me on my twenty-fourth birthday. Seriously.
Ah, the carefree dating of a twenty-something where the only one in serious trouble was me and my psyche. Insecurities made it more fun. No, really. When you are an insecure twenty-something, you had a choice. You could be trapped in the self-doubting hell of a woman’s head or you could just jump in with both feet and leave it all up to fate. I chose to jump. A lot. My BFF, Kelly, used to say I had “relationshipettes” because they never lasted very long. But that seemed to work for me. I could date freely and without hesitation or reservations. I loved the spontaneous dates where you never knew where the date would take you. I once ended up in Vegas at 4am. I would write about that story, but as we all know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Mmm…Vegas…hehehe.
Anyway…
So, now there is single-mom-dating. Now you have to have hesitation and reservations. You have to be good at scheduling dates. Organizing dates. Planning dates. You have to make sure you have a babysitter available and know precisely what time you need to be home. You need to a rain-check already in place should one of the kids get sick. You need to hope your dates are available on the only night you don’t have kids so you don't need to deal with a babysitter's judgmental looks when he arrives to pick you up. It’s like being picked up from your parents’ house but you are paying $15 an hour for the judgmental looks. However if you are dating a single dad, he probably has weekends with his kids, so Saturdays tend to be out anyway, so my babysitter will just have to deal.
Now, after all of the schedules are in place and you have told your children you are having dinner with “a friend” and they seem kind of insulted that you would rather have a grownup around instead of them, well, then you take a deep breath and put on lip gloss and jump.
Should the date go well, you move on to more dates and if those go well, then…ya know…whatever. You can’t exactly ask Mr. Wonderful back to your place because well, there are children upstairs and you, or rather I, would still be wondering if he was a serial killer. If I were to make out on my couch, I would have one ear open to the upstairs in case of bad dreams or bathroom trips. I have a feeling it would not be the most romantic of settings. Child-interuptus, I believe is the technical term.
But what are the options these days? Yes, I am talking about sex. Dear god, do I have to spell it out. Yes, sex. Let's see...motels are out because of the bedbug epidemic in Los Angeles. I am thinking the idea of bugs and other creatures crawling on supposedly washed sheets would make for as unromantic an evening as listening for children while on my couch. And, um, unless it's like, prom, that is kind of a weird idea. Car? Honey, I may do yoga, but come on. Plus, I am not sixteen and don’t feel like being arrested for public nudity. Outdoors, same issue. Plus, right now it’s cold in LA at night and long underwear are sooooo unattractive and bulky. Well, maybe on a cute guy in Levi’s on a motorcycle, perhaps. I mean, he would have to stay warm on the motorcycle and they are kind of snuggly in the outdoorsy way and make a guy's butt look cute…hold on, I am getting off topic again.
Where was I? Oh yeah… Not to mention I am up at 5am on weekdays so I have to hope the man I am on a date with is a sparkling and witty conversationalist otherwise I will be yawning by 9pm and then forget about sex altogether. Okay, I would be still thinking about it but...oh, never mind.
Plus, to be totally safe, you actually have to have the whole have-you-been-tested-for-everything-including-the-Ebola-virus conversation. The pragmatic approach. Seriously, wrap it in cellophane or it ain’t coming near me. Yes, pun intended.
Ugh. I hate dating. Why did I get divorced? Oh, yeah, I remember why. Never mind.
This afternoon, I saw the movie “No Strings Attached”. I wanted to see “Black Swan” but it didn’t fit into the unauthorized double feature I had plotted. So, I opted for the lesser of the two Natalie Portman films. I like her. Ashton Kutcher is cute and all, but the film was kind of blah and predictable. Although, the idea of “friends with benefits” would fit into my busy schedule. Hmmm…
Just something to think about. That and cute motorcycle men wearing long underwear…
Forget it, now I am totally distracted.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
I can tell you why I don't like Mondays.
I love The Boomtown Rats. They totally rock. I love that I still have that album on vinyl and it is my life’s ambition to own a turn table again. I love that on some Monday mornings the song “I Don’t Like Mondays” pops into my head. It’s sort of a tossup between that and “Manic Monday” by The Bangles. Then of course there is “Monday Monday” by The Mammas and The Poppas; “Blue Monday” by New Order; “New Moon on Monday” by Duran Duran, and of course, “Monday Morning” by Fleetwood Mac. I realized today why there are so many Monday songs: Mondays suck.
This morning I woke up at 3:30am. I would like to blame Henry the Cat, but he was nowhere to be found. I believe it was one of those fabulous pre-menopausal night time hot flashes that make all of us forty-somethings so freakin happy to be alive. I actually had to get out of bed and put my hair up. I seriously thought of cutting it off right then and there, but I was too tired. So then, body up and hair up, next is mind. I started thinking about the lessons I was going to be teaching today; wondering if the office had printed the Arthur Miller essay I wanted my 11th graders to read but probably didn't; that the senior Valentine Dance was Friday and I needed to call a babysitter; what I needed to buy at the grocery store and I was out of almond milk. Or did I just think I was out of almond milk? Seriously, sometimes I think I am out of something and keep buying it until I have a stock pile of it. I tend to do that with apple juice. Sometimes I have four large Trader Joe’s Organic Apple juice bottles under my stove and then all of a sudden I am totally out because I got used to stock piling it and could have sworn I had one last apple juice, but nope. I look at the clock and its 4am. Rats.
Then Henry the cat realizes I am awake. Oh freakin goody. I need to cut his nails and contemplate the wonderful idea of having him declawed but just couldn’t. I wonder where the spray bottle is because he has decided he wants me out of bed. Now. Stupid cat.
I wrap my toes up in my comforter and go back to thinking about almond milk. Then, I think about my bank account and hope I have stock piled almond milk. Now I am totally up. Start thinking about finances or rather lack of finances…student loans…hmmmm….going to have to pay those back. Yes, so super smart to go to USC and spend a fortune to become a freakin teacher. Rats.
At 5am I finally get out of bed as I smell the robust coffee wafting up the stairs to wake me. I am still in love with my programmable coffee maker. He has coffee waiting for me every morning, with just a touch of cinnamon in it. I love him. I should name him. Bob. If it's really good coffee, perhaps I will call him Robert. Or better, Roberto, when it's Columbian coffee.
Usually that, or rather Bob, helps. But not today. I think I actually fell back to sleep at 4:55am. So, now I am super duper tired. The Boomtown Rats song “I Hate Mondays” floats into my head and I use that as my status update, wondering how many will get the reference. All of my favorite women do. I get dressed; get my kids up while feigning happiness and alertness as I scoot them downstairs. Couch, “Transformers” cartoon, Super Hero chocolate milk (like, 33 veggies and fruits in this stuff.) and more coffee for me. I have been under the weather, so I pop my antibiotics, with the understanding I need to eat with them, but can’t seem to get around to that. Unfortunately, I am reminded of this twenty minutes later when I feel as if I am going to hurl. I quickly down some gluten free puffed rice cereal, which is as delicious as it sounds, and I am not feeling it pass. Teetering on my three inch heeled black boots, my babysitter arrives. He is lucky I have had time to cook him breakfast. I am just lucky that I have a babysitter who will arrive at 6:30am and drive my kids to school four mornings a week. Crap, I should pay him more.
The hurly-feeling begins to pass. Armed with “I hate Mondays” still playing rather loudly in my head, I head to the car and head off to work. On 6th, some guy just stops in the middle of the road and just, well, stops. No blinker, no nothing. Just stops. Does he realize there is more than just he on the road? I know it's 6:30am, but come on. I lightly tap my horn, but it gets stuck and blasts for a good solid minute with me smacking it over and over again until it stops. The guy in front flips me off thinking that solid minute was intended for him. I continue on my merry way.
I turn onto Venice and barely notice the two people in the crosswalk and veer, lose control of the car for a moment and then am glad I am not on my morning call to my sister or mom, because I never would have seen them and would have committed vehicular manslaughter before 7am. Yikes. I narrowly escape the street lamp and decide this is all Monday related.
I get to school, with Bob Geldof still screaming in my head. I decide I really need to hear the song. I pull up to my computer at my desk and play the song really, really loudly before the newspaper staff rolls in twenty minutes late as usual. I decide Bob needs to be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I decided my hatred of Mondays should be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I quickly Google “I Hate Mondays” and the story of Brenda Spencer who shot up a school in 1979 and when asked why, part of her response was “I don’t like Mondays”.
As each class came in, after diligently copying down their vocabulary words for the week, moaning and complaining that I give too much homework and commenting on the really cute boots I was wearing, they would get out their journals and I would ask them to write down how their Monday was going so far. Just as I sat down on top of a desk with the first class, as the journal write began and The Boomtown Rats were blaring from my computer just the way they used to blare when I was my students’ age; just then, my brand-new-bought-on-sale-pants split right up the crotch.
Thank goodness I was wearing undies.
The day went steadily downhill from there.
I should have had a vocab list for my day. Headache, slacker, misogynist, technology malfunction, inaudible teaching, sexist, listening skills, ignore, darning, mending, miscreants, Tylenol, sugar, Starbursts, chocolate, disregard, distain, disrespect, detention. And finally, home, couch, kids.
I promised myself I would write about this today and so I have, goal accomplished and now I am done. Nothing terrible or tragic, just frustrating and annoying. Same shit, different Monday.
My Monday is now over, kids safely snuggled into their beds and there is a bubble bath with my name on it. Goodnight Bob. Thanks for spending the day with me. You shall be forever related to my Mondays as well as my coffee.
Seriously, tomorrow I need a better theme song. I should stick to Madonna.
This morning I woke up at 3:30am. I would like to blame Henry the Cat, but he was nowhere to be found. I believe it was one of those fabulous pre-menopausal night time hot flashes that make all of us forty-somethings so freakin happy to be alive. I actually had to get out of bed and put my hair up. I seriously thought of cutting it off right then and there, but I was too tired. So then, body up and hair up, next is mind. I started thinking about the lessons I was going to be teaching today; wondering if the office had printed the Arthur Miller essay I wanted my 11th graders to read but probably didn't; that the senior Valentine Dance was Friday and I needed to call a babysitter; what I needed to buy at the grocery store and I was out of almond milk. Or did I just think I was out of almond milk? Seriously, sometimes I think I am out of something and keep buying it until I have a stock pile of it. I tend to do that with apple juice. Sometimes I have four large Trader Joe’s Organic Apple juice bottles under my stove and then all of a sudden I am totally out because I got used to stock piling it and could have sworn I had one last apple juice, but nope. I look at the clock and its 4am. Rats.
Then Henry the cat realizes I am awake. Oh freakin goody. I need to cut his nails and contemplate the wonderful idea of having him declawed but just couldn’t. I wonder where the spray bottle is because he has decided he wants me out of bed. Now. Stupid cat.
I wrap my toes up in my comforter and go back to thinking about almond milk. Then, I think about my bank account and hope I have stock piled almond milk. Now I am totally up. Start thinking about finances or rather lack of finances…student loans…hmmmm….going to have to pay those back. Yes, so super smart to go to USC and spend a fortune to become a freakin teacher. Rats.
At 5am I finally get out of bed as I smell the robust coffee wafting up the stairs to wake me. I am still in love with my programmable coffee maker. He has coffee waiting for me every morning, with just a touch of cinnamon in it. I love him. I should name him. Bob. If it's really good coffee, perhaps I will call him Robert. Or better, Roberto, when it's Columbian coffee.
Usually that, or rather Bob, helps. But not today. I think I actually fell back to sleep at 4:55am. So, now I am super duper tired. The Boomtown Rats song “I Hate Mondays” floats into my head and I use that as my status update, wondering how many will get the reference. All of my favorite women do. I get dressed; get my kids up while feigning happiness and alertness as I scoot them downstairs. Couch, “Transformers” cartoon, Super Hero chocolate milk (like, 33 veggies and fruits in this stuff.) and more coffee for me. I have been under the weather, so I pop my antibiotics, with the understanding I need to eat with them, but can’t seem to get around to that. Unfortunately, I am reminded of this twenty minutes later when I feel as if I am going to hurl. I quickly down some gluten free puffed rice cereal, which is as delicious as it sounds, and I am not feeling it pass. Teetering on my three inch heeled black boots, my babysitter arrives. He is lucky I have had time to cook him breakfast. I am just lucky that I have a babysitter who will arrive at 6:30am and drive my kids to school four mornings a week. Crap, I should pay him more.
The hurly-feeling begins to pass. Armed with “I hate Mondays” still playing rather loudly in my head, I head to the car and head off to work. On 6th, some guy just stops in the middle of the road and just, well, stops. No blinker, no nothing. Just stops. Does he realize there is more than just he on the road? I know it's 6:30am, but come on. I lightly tap my horn, but it gets stuck and blasts for a good solid minute with me smacking it over and over again until it stops. The guy in front flips me off thinking that solid minute was intended for him. I continue on my merry way.
I turn onto Venice and barely notice the two people in the crosswalk and veer, lose control of the car for a moment and then am glad I am not on my morning call to my sister or mom, because I never would have seen them and would have committed vehicular manslaughter before 7am. Yikes. I narrowly escape the street lamp and decide this is all Monday related.
I get to school, with Bob Geldof still screaming in my head. I decide I really need to hear the song. I pull up to my computer at my desk and play the song really, really loudly before the newspaper staff rolls in twenty minutes late as usual. I decide Bob needs to be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I decided my hatred of Mondays should be a part of my lesson plan this morning. I quickly Google “I Hate Mondays” and the story of Brenda Spencer who shot up a school in 1979 and when asked why, part of her response was “I don’t like Mondays”.
As each class came in, after diligently copying down their vocabulary words for the week, moaning and complaining that I give too much homework and commenting on the really cute boots I was wearing, they would get out their journals and I would ask them to write down how their Monday was going so far. Just as I sat down on top of a desk with the first class, as the journal write began and The Boomtown Rats were blaring from my computer just the way they used to blare when I was my students’ age; just then, my brand-new-bought-on-sale-pants split right up the crotch.
Thank goodness I was wearing undies.
The day went steadily downhill from there.
I should have had a vocab list for my day. Headache, slacker, misogynist, technology malfunction, inaudible teaching, sexist, listening skills, ignore, darning, mending, miscreants, Tylenol, sugar, Starbursts, chocolate, disregard, distain, disrespect, detention. And finally, home, couch, kids.
I promised myself I would write about this today and so I have, goal accomplished and now I am done. Nothing terrible or tragic, just frustrating and annoying. Same shit, different Monday.
My Monday is now over, kids safely snuggled into their beds and there is a bubble bath with my name on it. Goodnight Bob. Thanks for spending the day with me. You shall be forever related to my Mondays as well as my coffee.
Seriously, tomorrow I need a better theme song. I should stick to Madonna.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A "hang" or a "date"
My high school students don’t really have dates. They seem to be a bit unnerved by the term “date”. Like, it implies a grown up thing; involving putting on something other than jeans and tennis shoes and manners. Some of my girls say they have no time for dating. Like its algebra. Because I seriously have no time for algebra. Or laundry. So, I totally get that.
However, they tend to “hang out”. Which apparently is the casual side of dating. Although I have this cute couple at school that has been hanging out for two years. They are in that “I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-focus-on-anyone-else” place which actually is nice to see. I have suggested they wrap each other in cellophane as both are college bound. Crap, they need a Sex Ed class at my school.
So, now that I am a grownup who dates, what is the difference between hanging out and dating? Then add on the “meet and greet” where you get to see if they hold up to their computer profile and I am dumbfounded.
Ah, the meet and greet. The who-are-you-and-why-should-I-care meeting. Yeah, seriously, we are actually looking at the virtual you and the carbon-based you and doing a five paragraph compare and contrast paper in our heads. That might just be me. I do have a tendency to write five paragraph essays in my head on most things. Persuasive essays where I can prove arguments as to why my children should do their homework and clean up the playroom in order to get their allowance; the expository essay, where I explain repeatedly things like, why cats shouldn’t eat pizza, why getting an C in my class won’t help you get into college and why I feel the need to teach in three inch heels. Well, the third one should just be like, "nice shoes, Ms Levine", and leave it that. Personally I don’t like to explicate upon my shoe choices. They’re pretty, and make me tall, and well, let’s face it, they make me happy damit, so bite me.
But I digress.
I like the compare and contrast essay, because you can usually get away with four paragraphs. Ya know, list of compares in one paragraph and a list of contrasts in the next, an intro and a conclusion. Sort of like a pro con list with examples and explanations. So, when I meet a prospective date, um, excuse me a prospective hang…okay, some dude that I hope won’t follow me home and murder me. Anyway, when I meet the “real” you, I look at you and think back to your online profile and start the process. Personality, intelligence, eye contact, ya know, stuff I can totally judge you on. Oh stop, they are totally judging me, as well. But that is the fun part of online dating, you get to be picky. You don’t have to respond if you don’t want to. I love this! I have decided to never date a short guy again. Nope, you have to be this tall to be on this ride. I mean…never mind.
What I mean is you can check out the virtual man and see if they even remotely interest you. I like to go with the first reaction I have as a guide. The verbal agree or disagree, as it were. If the noise of “Ugh” escapes my lips, I move on. If the noise of “AAHHHHH!!!!!!!” escapes my lips, then I quickly turn to my bookmarked picture of George Clooney until I calm down from the sheer shock of unattractive men who think the bathroom snap of them is attractive. Yikes and a half.
But if the noise of “mmm” or “hmmm” or anything with an m-sound should escape, I pause. I tilt my head to the side and consider. I read, I ponder, I respond to their message to me with a witty remark. That is another good thing about just messaging. If they don’t get my written humor, then I skip them as well. My written is more thought out than my verbal. Well, kind of. At least with written you can spell check. Plus, I love writing these weird, flirty responses as sort of a litmus test. I also just like to confuse men with figurative language. I am evil, I know, but it keeps me young.
So, at the meet and greet, if they can see past my boobs and I don’t have to explain my jokes, then we move to a date or a hang.
This is where I get confused. I seem to have no idea what the difference is between hanging out with someone and being on a date with someone. Does a date connote “date behavior”? Am I supposed to be all coy and crap? Does date behavior have to resort back to when I was dating in high school? ‘Cuz back then, it was dating and not hanging out. I remember hanging out in groups, but not in couples. So, does hanging mean they pay or I pay or do we split it? Should I offer and hope they pay? Should I remind them I work as a teacher and hope for the best? Does dating mean I should shave my legs? Does hanging mean I shouldn’t? Does dating mean skirt and hanging mean jeans? Yes, cute shoes will be worn on both. Duh. Does dating mean that I only should date you and hanging mean I can hang with others? Which means casual and non-committed? Can you be a casual dater and a casual hanger? Can you be a serious hanger? Seriously. I am confused. Don’t even get me started on playdates…
The other night, I had a wonderful evening with a prospective-hopefully-non-serial-killer who made me think “mmm” as he walked me to my car. He kissed me on the cheek and said, “nice hang”. What the hell…?
I just hope he wasn’t talking about my boobs.
However, they tend to “hang out”. Which apparently is the casual side of dating. Although I have this cute couple at school that has been hanging out for two years. They are in that “I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-focus-on-anyone-else” place which actually is nice to see. I have suggested they wrap each other in cellophane as both are college bound. Crap, they need a Sex Ed class at my school.
So, now that I am a grownup who dates, what is the difference between hanging out and dating? Then add on the “meet and greet” where you get to see if they hold up to their computer profile and I am dumbfounded.
Ah, the meet and greet. The who-are-you-and-why-should-I-care meeting. Yeah, seriously, we are actually looking at the virtual you and the carbon-based you and doing a five paragraph compare and contrast paper in our heads. That might just be me. I do have a tendency to write five paragraph essays in my head on most things. Persuasive essays where I can prove arguments as to why my children should do their homework and clean up the playroom in order to get their allowance; the expository essay, where I explain repeatedly things like, why cats shouldn’t eat pizza, why getting an C in my class won’t help you get into college and why I feel the need to teach in three inch heels. Well, the third one should just be like, "nice shoes, Ms Levine", and leave it that. Personally I don’t like to explicate upon my shoe choices. They’re pretty, and make me tall, and well, let’s face it, they make me happy damit, so bite me.
But I digress.
I like the compare and contrast essay, because you can usually get away with four paragraphs. Ya know, list of compares in one paragraph and a list of contrasts in the next, an intro and a conclusion. Sort of like a pro con list with examples and explanations. So, when I meet a prospective date, um, excuse me a prospective hang…okay, some dude that I hope won’t follow me home and murder me. Anyway, when I meet the “real” you, I look at you and think back to your online profile and start the process. Personality, intelligence, eye contact, ya know, stuff I can totally judge you on. Oh stop, they are totally judging me, as well. But that is the fun part of online dating, you get to be picky. You don’t have to respond if you don’t want to. I love this! I have decided to never date a short guy again. Nope, you have to be this tall to be on this ride. I mean…never mind.
What I mean is you can check out the virtual man and see if they even remotely interest you. I like to go with the first reaction I have as a guide. The verbal agree or disagree, as it were. If the noise of “Ugh” escapes my lips, I move on. If the noise of “AAHHHHH!!!!!!!” escapes my lips, then I quickly turn to my bookmarked picture of George Clooney until I calm down from the sheer shock of unattractive men who think the bathroom snap of them is attractive. Yikes and a half.
But if the noise of “mmm” or “hmmm” or anything with an m-sound should escape, I pause. I tilt my head to the side and consider. I read, I ponder, I respond to their message to me with a witty remark. That is another good thing about just messaging. If they don’t get my written humor, then I skip them as well. My written is more thought out than my verbal. Well, kind of. At least with written you can spell check. Plus, I love writing these weird, flirty responses as sort of a litmus test. I also just like to confuse men with figurative language. I am evil, I know, but it keeps me young.
So, at the meet and greet, if they can see past my boobs and I don’t have to explain my jokes, then we move to a date or a hang.
This is where I get confused. I seem to have no idea what the difference is between hanging out with someone and being on a date with someone. Does a date connote “date behavior”? Am I supposed to be all coy and crap? Does date behavior have to resort back to when I was dating in high school? ‘Cuz back then, it was dating and not hanging out. I remember hanging out in groups, but not in couples. So, does hanging mean they pay or I pay or do we split it? Should I offer and hope they pay? Should I remind them I work as a teacher and hope for the best? Does dating mean I should shave my legs? Does hanging mean I shouldn’t? Does dating mean skirt and hanging mean jeans? Yes, cute shoes will be worn on both. Duh. Does dating mean that I only should date you and hanging mean I can hang with others? Which means casual and non-committed? Can you be a casual dater and a casual hanger? Can you be a serious hanger? Seriously. I am confused. Don’t even get me started on playdates…
The other night, I had a wonderful evening with a prospective-hopefully-non-serial-killer who made me think “mmm” as he walked me to my car. He kissed me on the cheek and said, “nice hang”. What the hell…?
I just hope he wasn’t talking about my boobs.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
I am too tired to sleep.
I fell asleep in Dash’s bed again. A nightly occurrence I try desperately to avoid because it goes a little something like this:
8:15pm “Mommy, snuggle me and read us a book, please!” says Dash.
8:30pm “Mommy, sing us a song and then snuggle me more.” Says Dash.
8:45pm “Goodnight boys” says Mommy. “Sleep well, my angels. First one to go to sleep gets to pick a cartoon in the morning.”
8:46pm “But Mommy, I need a million kisses!” says Dash
8:50pm “Goodnight Mommy” says both the boys with hugs and kisses and then one more hug and then one more kiss.
8:53pm “Mommy!!! I can’t sleep!” says Dash. “Try!” says Mommy, who is now on her couch trying to grade papers. (oh let’s face it, I am on my couch waiting diligently for the silence from upstairs. The silence, I fear, will never come…)
8:55pm “Mommy! Please snuggle me! You are nice and squishy to cuddle with.” “Jeepers, thanks Dash” says Mommy. “I feel so pretty now.” “Mommy, you are like my very own Pillow Pet.” Says Dash. “Again” says Mommy, “thanks Dash”.
8:56 Mommy trudges back upstairs reluctantly with the distinct understanding of snuggling with Dash until he is asleep and then she is sleeping in her own bed. She is indignant about this and is going to stand her ground. She has work to do. She needs some mommy-time. She needs to go back to shopping on OKCupid because it’s kinda getting fun now. Five more minutes and that’s it…
9:56pm “Damn” says Mommy, as she wakes up in Dash’s bed. Nice freakin nap.
I have to remember that some day he will no longer ask for snuggles. Someday he will not want to hold my hand when he crosses the street or sit on my lap to read a book. Besides, he is too cute to say no to. He has mastered the pout with the big saucer eyes. Damn his cuteness. Oh, who am I kidding. He is my very own Pillow Pet.
So here I am. Again. Overtired and still awake. But I need to check my email first. Damn students with questions.
“Ms. Levine, is anything due tomorrow?”
“Ms. Levine, do we have to do the vocabulary?”
“Ms. Levine, do you expect me to actually read the entire chapter?”
I type the word “yes” over and over again.
So here I am thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake. But I have to get lunches ready for school and coffee ready for the morning and the clothes laid out for the boys because if I don’t Dash will want to have a fashion show even though he wears a uniform to school. That still has yet to sink in. Each morning the kid wakes up and asks what day it is; then groans and says, “Ohhhh…I thought it was Saturday. When is Saturday again?”; and then wants to choose his outfit. Then changes his mind. Last year, this ritual became the bane of my existence. This year he has a little uniform of a white shirt and navy pants. Why in god’s name would a pre-school want their students in white shirts? We have gone through eight shirts because there is not enough bleach in the universe to get rid of pre-school stains. White shirts? Seriously?
Thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake, texting conversations because I am too tired to speak in complete sentences now. I love that you can have an entire conversation with someone and barely use vowels. Unfortunately, sarcasm doesn’t always translate well via texting and some clarification is needed. The jokes lose some humor in the explanation.
Same thing happens with text-flirting, or rather flirxting. Things can be misconstrued. In a laughable way. Hopefully, a laughable way.
Last night I felt like I had a whole date while in my jammies with a mud mask on. It’s like I’m faux-dating. There I was flirxting away; an entire conversation filled with witty repartee and absolutely no need to shave my legs or apply lip gloss. Or even speak. I could be clever and have great banter and I was still actually able to grade papers and paint my toes red. Seriously, I can multitask better than anyone I know. Sometimes, because my bathroom is so small, I can clean the floor, talk on the phone, apply mascara and clean out the cat box. All one handed and all at the same time. I am that talented.
Okay, now I am just getting punchy.
Last but not least a shower because if I don’t do it at night, invariably Dash will wake up before my 5am alarm and demand morning snuggles. And chocolate milk. And Cheerios. And I will barely have time to apply concealer to my puffy eyes let alone shower.
Okay, shower, jammies, bed, then reading Jane Austin (teaching it soon) and that, no offense to Jane, will put me right out. Ah, sleep sounds good right now…
Crap, now I’m awake.
8:15pm “Mommy, snuggle me and read us a book, please!” says Dash.
8:30pm “Mommy, sing us a song and then snuggle me more.” Says Dash.
8:45pm “Goodnight boys” says Mommy. “Sleep well, my angels. First one to go to sleep gets to pick a cartoon in the morning.”
8:46pm “But Mommy, I need a million kisses!” says Dash
8:50pm “Goodnight Mommy” says both the boys with hugs and kisses and then one more hug and then one more kiss.
8:53pm “Mommy!!! I can’t sleep!” says Dash. “Try!” says Mommy, who is now on her couch trying to grade papers. (oh let’s face it, I am on my couch waiting diligently for the silence from upstairs. The silence, I fear, will never come…)
8:55pm “Mommy! Please snuggle me! You are nice and squishy to cuddle with.” “Jeepers, thanks Dash” says Mommy. “I feel so pretty now.” “Mommy, you are like my very own Pillow Pet.” Says Dash. “Again” says Mommy, “thanks Dash”.
8:56 Mommy trudges back upstairs reluctantly with the distinct understanding of snuggling with Dash until he is asleep and then she is sleeping in her own bed. She is indignant about this and is going to stand her ground. She has work to do. She needs some mommy-time. She needs to go back to shopping on OKCupid because it’s kinda getting fun now. Five more minutes and that’s it…
9:56pm “Damn” says Mommy, as she wakes up in Dash’s bed. Nice freakin nap.
I have to remember that some day he will no longer ask for snuggles. Someday he will not want to hold my hand when he crosses the street or sit on my lap to read a book. Besides, he is too cute to say no to. He has mastered the pout with the big saucer eyes. Damn his cuteness. Oh, who am I kidding. He is my very own Pillow Pet.
So here I am. Again. Overtired and still awake. But I need to check my email first. Damn students with questions.
“Ms. Levine, is anything due tomorrow?”
“Ms. Levine, do we have to do the vocabulary?”
“Ms. Levine, do you expect me to actually read the entire chapter?”
I type the word “yes” over and over again.
So here I am thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake. But I have to get lunches ready for school and coffee ready for the morning and the clothes laid out for the boys because if I don’t Dash will want to have a fashion show even though he wears a uniform to school. That still has yet to sink in. Each morning the kid wakes up and asks what day it is; then groans and says, “Ohhhh…I thought it was Saturday. When is Saturday again?”; and then wants to choose his outfit. Then changes his mind. Last year, this ritual became the bane of my existence. This year he has a little uniform of a white shirt and navy pants. Why in god’s name would a pre-school want their students in white shirts? We have gone through eight shirts because there is not enough bleach in the universe to get rid of pre-school stains. White shirts? Seriously?
Thirty minutes later. Overtired but still awake, texting conversations because I am too tired to speak in complete sentences now. I love that you can have an entire conversation with someone and barely use vowels. Unfortunately, sarcasm doesn’t always translate well via texting and some clarification is needed. The jokes lose some humor in the explanation.
Same thing happens with text-flirting, or rather flirxting. Things can be misconstrued. In a laughable way. Hopefully, a laughable way.
Last night I felt like I had a whole date while in my jammies with a mud mask on. It’s like I’m faux-dating. There I was flirxting away; an entire conversation filled with witty repartee and absolutely no need to shave my legs or apply lip gloss. Or even speak. I could be clever and have great banter and I was still actually able to grade papers and paint my toes red. Seriously, I can multitask better than anyone I know. Sometimes, because my bathroom is so small, I can clean the floor, talk on the phone, apply mascara and clean out the cat box. All one handed and all at the same time. I am that talented.
Okay, now I am just getting punchy.
Last but not least a shower because if I don’t do it at night, invariably Dash will wake up before my 5am alarm and demand morning snuggles. And chocolate milk. And Cheerios. And I will barely have time to apply concealer to my puffy eyes let alone shower.
Okay, shower, jammies, bed, then reading Jane Austin (teaching it soon) and that, no offense to Jane, will put me right out. Ah, sleep sounds good right now…
Crap, now I’m awake.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Princess and The Doctor
I just came home from a fabulous birthday party for my pal Lexi. She’s seven. Normally I really don’t enjoy children’s birthday parties. They are loud and children on sugar scare me. My own children scare me when they have had too much sugar. I scare me when I have had too much sugar. However, Lexi’s birthday was a girls only party at a princess tea house. Seriously. Six little girls who got to play dress up, be princesses and have tea and cake. The moms didn’t get to wear the tiaras though, which I thought kind of sucked. I love my tiara. It’s from the 99 cent store and pink and sparkly and makes me an awesome super hero. Maybe I should start wearing it more…
Anyway, the party was charming and lovely and the tea room was so resplendently over the top; filled with dolls and princesses and a heart shaped tea table. The girls were happy with their clip on earrings and silly little sparkly pumps. The moms had fun as well, as there was sangria.
As I watched the little girls pulling the feathers off of their boas, some stuff occurred to me. First of all, I love having boys, don’t get me wrong. I have mastered the art of becoming an awesome Decepticon and can fence with Nerf swords better than most men. I love Legos and can kick some serious butt while shooting bad guys with my trusty semi-automatic Nerf gun. I love that I have momma’s boys that are sweet and sensitive, imaginative and ladies men yet still transform into rough-housing, dirty faced miscreants. I wouldn’t trade them in for anything, even when I am exhausted, even when I step on Bakugan toys in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and even when they don’t listen as I tell them for the seventieth time to do their homework.
With that said, it was nice to be surrounded by giggling girls, dressed up in sparkly ball gowns whispering secrets to one another. It made me think of when I was little. I wanted to be a princess. I was a ballerina. I loved the tutus and ballet slippers until my boobs started looking seriously ridiculous in a leotard. That was when I switched to acting. Seriously, not enough sports bras in the universe to hold those things properly in a leotard. When I was little, I loved playing dress up and putting on shows in the backyard and I loved trying on my mom’s shoes and jewelry. Actually, I still do that. I loved being a girly girl.
So when I was standing in the princess section of the toy aisle at Target, shopping for Lexi’s birthday, I thought, maybe while buying the princess play earrings and her very own pink and sparkly tiara, I should buy her a play doctor’s set or a play lawyer’s set. Actually, I didn’t really see a play lawyer’s set. What would be in one of those anyway? A brief case and a secretary? Perhaps Barbie’s Dream Courtroom? Pink judge’s chair with matching gavel? Ken would be the defense attorney and Skipper would be the court reporter. Smurfs for the jury box? Hmmm…
Anyway, I thought about the feminist message we were sending by buying these silly toys. Allowing girls to dress up as princesses and letting them think they will marry Prince Charming is kind of a dangerous thing. Again, we rarely end up with Prince Charming because he is only two dimensional. Even the 3D version of Prince Charming wouldn’t remember to put the toilet seat down. I thought I would marry Prince Charming and we all know how that turned out.
I try to teach feminist or rather humanist ideals which probably makes me a total hypocrite because I still love playing dress up. Now, it’s just called "going out on dates". Unfortunately, I rarely end up with Ken, which I guess is good considering he isn’t anatomically correct.
It’s the same thing with my boys. ( no, they are anatomically correct.) I don’t allow any toy guns that are not Nerf. Even those, I am not a fan of. Well, sort of. I do like shooting them. Gets out some aggression. But the whole gun thing scares me, especially since I just spent two hours of professional development learning about what to do if our school gets locked down because of a gunman. (gun person?) Makes me not want to fail any of my students. Especially the angry ones.
This year for Chrismakkah, Max wanted an Easy Bake Oven and I was all over that. Although try finding a plain old fashion incandescent light bulb to put in it was not easy. You can’t use soft white or long-last bulbs, they don’t work; and the new energy saver ones give off no heat to cook the little tiny cakes. Big dilemma here. Huge. We haven’t baked anything in it as of yet because I can’t find a damn light bulb for him to cook with. Wow, that is a sentence I really never thought I would hear myself say. I guess I could let him use the genuine oven, but that kind of defeats the whole purpose.
Anyway, back to the weird feminist stuff that is floating through my head right now. The woman's study classes I took in college told me I could and should be an independent woman. I loved those classes because they made me feel like I could be anything I wanted to be. I could be a doctor if I wanted. Although I really don’t like blood or math, so that was out. I guess my point is the whole princess-doctor issue is sort of like the whole Madonna-whore issue, isn’t it? Men want woman who are a little bit of both. Just as we women want to be treated like a princess but still make as much money as the male doctors. If we are going to be independent, then why can’t we have both? I want the girls that I teach to know that they can and will be anything they aim for. I want them to know they can be independent and still date cute boys. I want them to know, as well as myself, that there is room for both. I want women who are aggressive to be known simply as aggressive and not bitches. Its not fair. If a man voices a strong opinion, then he is a go-getter. If I voice one, I am an overly emotional bitch. When in reality I am only one once a month.
Sometimes I think no matter how far we have come we still are back in the 1950’s where women vacuumed in high heels and men thought women should be vacuuming in high heels. Although vacuuming in high heels is not as easy as it looks. I once tried it, tripped over the cord and smacked my face right into the coffee table. I had a swollen lip for a week. It looked like I had collagen injected into only one side of my lips. Not really a good look for me.
I want to be treated with respect but I can’t help being validated when I guy tells me I’m pretty. Just like a seven year old princess. Crap, forty-three years old and I still can’t figure this dichotomy out. Is it alright to be both? Because I am. There is a happy medium somewhere, I just know it. For seven year olds and for forty-three year olds. Perhaps if there were a Barbie Dream Courtroom the point would be made better. Great suits, little pink heels, precedent setting verdicts. I should call Mattel.
Probably a little soap boxy for my blog, but hey, read me, read all of me.
And by the way, I will still always wear high heels. Just not for vacuuming.
Anyway, the party was charming and lovely and the tea room was so resplendently over the top; filled with dolls and princesses and a heart shaped tea table. The girls were happy with their clip on earrings and silly little sparkly pumps. The moms had fun as well, as there was sangria.
As I watched the little girls pulling the feathers off of their boas, some stuff occurred to me. First of all, I love having boys, don’t get me wrong. I have mastered the art of becoming an awesome Decepticon and can fence with Nerf swords better than most men. I love Legos and can kick some serious butt while shooting bad guys with my trusty semi-automatic Nerf gun. I love that I have momma’s boys that are sweet and sensitive, imaginative and ladies men yet still transform into rough-housing, dirty faced miscreants. I wouldn’t trade them in for anything, even when I am exhausted, even when I step on Bakugan toys in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and even when they don’t listen as I tell them for the seventieth time to do their homework.
With that said, it was nice to be surrounded by giggling girls, dressed up in sparkly ball gowns whispering secrets to one another. It made me think of when I was little. I wanted to be a princess. I was a ballerina. I loved the tutus and ballet slippers until my boobs started looking seriously ridiculous in a leotard. That was when I switched to acting. Seriously, not enough sports bras in the universe to hold those things properly in a leotard. When I was little, I loved playing dress up and putting on shows in the backyard and I loved trying on my mom’s shoes and jewelry. Actually, I still do that. I loved being a girly girl.
So when I was standing in the princess section of the toy aisle at Target, shopping for Lexi’s birthday, I thought, maybe while buying the princess play earrings and her very own pink and sparkly tiara, I should buy her a play doctor’s set or a play lawyer’s set. Actually, I didn’t really see a play lawyer’s set. What would be in one of those anyway? A brief case and a secretary? Perhaps Barbie’s Dream Courtroom? Pink judge’s chair with matching gavel? Ken would be the defense attorney and Skipper would be the court reporter. Smurfs for the jury box? Hmmm…
Anyway, I thought about the feminist message we were sending by buying these silly toys. Allowing girls to dress up as princesses and letting them think they will marry Prince Charming is kind of a dangerous thing. Again, we rarely end up with Prince Charming because he is only two dimensional. Even the 3D version of Prince Charming wouldn’t remember to put the toilet seat down. I thought I would marry Prince Charming and we all know how that turned out.
I try to teach feminist or rather humanist ideals which probably makes me a total hypocrite because I still love playing dress up. Now, it’s just called "going out on dates". Unfortunately, I rarely end up with Ken, which I guess is good considering he isn’t anatomically correct.
It’s the same thing with my boys. ( no, they are anatomically correct.) I don’t allow any toy guns that are not Nerf. Even those, I am not a fan of. Well, sort of. I do like shooting them. Gets out some aggression. But the whole gun thing scares me, especially since I just spent two hours of professional development learning about what to do if our school gets locked down because of a gunman. (gun person?) Makes me not want to fail any of my students. Especially the angry ones.
This year for Chrismakkah, Max wanted an Easy Bake Oven and I was all over that. Although try finding a plain old fashion incandescent light bulb to put in it was not easy. You can’t use soft white or long-last bulbs, they don’t work; and the new energy saver ones give off no heat to cook the little tiny cakes. Big dilemma here. Huge. We haven’t baked anything in it as of yet because I can’t find a damn light bulb for him to cook with. Wow, that is a sentence I really never thought I would hear myself say. I guess I could let him use the genuine oven, but that kind of defeats the whole purpose.
Anyway, back to the weird feminist stuff that is floating through my head right now. The woman's study classes I took in college told me I could and should be an independent woman. I loved those classes because they made me feel like I could be anything I wanted to be. I could be a doctor if I wanted. Although I really don’t like blood or math, so that was out. I guess my point is the whole princess-doctor issue is sort of like the whole Madonna-whore issue, isn’t it? Men want woman who are a little bit of both. Just as we women want to be treated like a princess but still make as much money as the male doctors. If we are going to be independent, then why can’t we have both? I want the girls that I teach to know that they can and will be anything they aim for. I want them to know they can be independent and still date cute boys. I want them to know, as well as myself, that there is room for both. I want women who are aggressive to be known simply as aggressive and not bitches. Its not fair. If a man voices a strong opinion, then he is a go-getter. If I voice one, I am an overly emotional bitch. When in reality I am only one once a month.
Sometimes I think no matter how far we have come we still are back in the 1950’s where women vacuumed in high heels and men thought women should be vacuuming in high heels. Although vacuuming in high heels is not as easy as it looks. I once tried it, tripped over the cord and smacked my face right into the coffee table. I had a swollen lip for a week. It looked like I had collagen injected into only one side of my lips. Not really a good look for me.
I want to be treated with respect but I can’t help being validated when I guy tells me I’m pretty. Just like a seven year old princess. Crap, forty-three years old and I still can’t figure this dichotomy out. Is it alright to be both? Because I am. There is a happy medium somewhere, I just know it. For seven year olds and for forty-three year olds. Perhaps if there were a Barbie Dream Courtroom the point would be made better. Great suits, little pink heels, precedent setting verdicts. I should call Mattel.
Probably a little soap boxy for my blog, but hey, read me, read all of me.
And by the way, I will still always wear high heels. Just not for vacuuming.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Oh, that’s right, you already said that…
There is this quote I recently heard, “People will tell you who they are when you first meet them, but we ignore it." The thing is it is totally true. If you listen closely enough, the first time you hang out with a person, you will know everything you need to know about them. Good or bad. Well, that is, most of the time…
Let’s start from the beginning. During the first week of school, I have my students do a short assignment called, “Five things you want Ms Levine to know about you”. They tell me things like, “I am shy please don’t call on me in class.” and “I like the Jonas Brothers but can’t tell my friends because they will think I am gay.” and, my personal favorite, “I don’t like English class so don’t expect me to actually read any of the books you assign.” To that one, I like to respond with, “Then don’t expect me to actually pass you.”
Essentially, the students mean what they say. I do fight to change the ones who don’t wish to talk or read, etc. However, as the year progresses it really is “this is who I am and you should know that because I already told you”. I also do the assignment too. It usually includes the following:
1. I have two children whom I talk about way too much, but you have to listen to me and laugh at my jokes because I am grading you.
2. I am usually overly caffeinated but that is a good thing.
3. I take things personally; like when you don’t do the homework I assign and you make me fail you by not doing the homework I assign.
4. I am probably the most sarcastic teacher you will ever have.
5. I actually like teaching and if you bring me Starbursts, I may give you extra credit.
I’m telling them all they need to know about me as well as the rules of my class. Yet, they are always surprised when they are not allowed to turn in late work five weeks after it is due. Hmmm…seriously look at the damn syllabus you and your parents, please.
Listening…yep, we all need to do that more. Including me.
With dating (yeah, you knew that was coming) it is extremely important to listen, especially on the first encounter. That first meeting, in the you-tell-me-yours-and-I’ll-tell-you-mine portion of the evening; a man will tell you EXACTLY who he is but we, as women, are rarely listening because all we are thinking about is holding our damn stomachs in and hoping there is not a booger in our noses. We try to listen but we are very busy trying to project fabulousness. We want to be perfect and wonderful on the first few dates (because the real "us" scares the crap out of us) so we don’t actually project the real image of ourselves. It’s more like the CGI version of us. Special effects such as lip gloss, a push up bra, and really good jeans help make us who we would like to be on the first few dates. But let’s face it; they aren’t listening to us either because they too are focused on our push up bras and really good jeans. The lip gloss works nicely too.
Men do it too. Well, hopefully not the push up bra, but the right pair of jeans on a cute guy, just yum, ya know…um, where was I? Oh yeah, things we should listen to.
One guy once told me, “ya know, I’m a real asshole sometimes.” Why was I even remotely confused when he actually was one to me? “I’m not looking for something serious right now.” You want sex, we get it. (Or maybe you would prefer a comedic relationship.) It’s the big things we don’t listen to. Or rather chose not to hear. The little things? Hah! Forget it. It’s not like he is going to say he has no idea how to refill ice cube trays or can’t change the toilet paper or has no idea where you keep the trash bags in the kitchen. Those are just things as older and wiser females we just come to expect. Naturally, we know they will leave their socks nowhere near the hamper because that is just a male thing (my boys already do that). They have no aim, they have stinky feet and are not ashamed of their gas, and well, again, there are just things we women inherently know about men.
I have given up on the projected image of me because I no longer have the tolerance or fortitude to play the silly dating games. Plus, my hair never comes out right when I use CGI.
Anyway, I don’t like playing by “the rules” anymore because they are stupid and energy-sucking and I have no patience for them anyway. I want serenity, damn it, in my dating life. Don’t play games with me and actually listen to what I am telling you. I will then try to do the same for you. If I want to call you after the first date, I’m gonna. If I don’t want to see you again, well, um, well…I will make up a nice story about having to go into the witness relocation program and if you run into me at Trader Joes, to please call me Barbara. I’m honest, just not painfully honest.
Ya see, my on line profile is as honest as it comes. I put it right out there in the first line of the thing, “I am a sarcastic pain in the ass with too many shoes…” Now on that day when I am actually am a pain in the ass, don’t say you weren’t warned. And please, do not mock the wall o’ shoes in my bedroom.
The sentence continues with “…and I have red flames on my mini-van.” I don’t quite understand why people think I am using that as a euphemism for saying I think I am hot. Seriously, I have enormous red flames. On my car. And even though I have these enormous red flames, I can never seem to find my car in The Whole Foods parking lot. Usually Dash spots it, but that’s why he gets an allowance.
You should also know and be warned: there are things people say but don’t actually mean. These are called "codes". Learn ‘em.
“I’m not typical” means you totally are. “I am drama free” means you totally aren’t. A woman says she doesn’t want a commitment, it means she wants to get married in two years. A guy says he doesn’t want a commitment; it means he wants to have sex in two dates. Learn the codes, people. Saves time and energy and lip gloss.
Let’s practice some codes, shall we? If I say, “All I really want is someone to come home to” I mean….Yes! That’s right! It means, we are going to my house to hang out because your house smells like cilantro. Let’s try another one. If a guy says, “I’ll call you”, it means…That’s correct! It means you actually did have a booger in your nose. The whole freakin night. Very good. If he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow” it means two business days. If he says, “You look great in that skirt” it means, “I can totally see your undies through it and thank you”.
See? It’s very easy to decode people. Alright, Bonus Question: if a guy says “I love you” on the very first date it means to run really, really fast, far away or you will end up married with two kids and writing blogs about dating twelve years later.
Okay, that’s the bell. Have a nice day.
Let’s start from the beginning. During the first week of school, I have my students do a short assignment called, “Five things you want Ms Levine to know about you”. They tell me things like, “I am shy please don’t call on me in class.” and “I like the Jonas Brothers but can’t tell my friends because they will think I am gay.” and, my personal favorite, “I don’t like English class so don’t expect me to actually read any of the books you assign.” To that one, I like to respond with, “Then don’t expect me to actually pass you.”
Essentially, the students mean what they say. I do fight to change the ones who don’t wish to talk or read, etc. However, as the year progresses it really is “this is who I am and you should know that because I already told you”. I also do the assignment too. It usually includes the following:
1. I have two children whom I talk about way too much, but you have to listen to me and laugh at my jokes because I am grading you.
2. I am usually overly caffeinated but that is a good thing.
3. I take things personally; like when you don’t do the homework I assign and you make me fail you by not doing the homework I assign.
4. I am probably the most sarcastic teacher you will ever have.
5. I actually like teaching and if you bring me Starbursts, I may give you extra credit.
I’m telling them all they need to know about me as well as the rules of my class. Yet, they are always surprised when they are not allowed to turn in late work five weeks after it is due. Hmmm…seriously look at the damn syllabus you and your parents, please.
Listening…yep, we all need to do that more. Including me.
With dating (yeah, you knew that was coming) it is extremely important to listen, especially on the first encounter. That first meeting, in the you-tell-me-yours-and-I’ll-tell-you-mine portion of the evening; a man will tell you EXACTLY who he is but we, as women, are rarely listening because all we are thinking about is holding our damn stomachs in and hoping there is not a booger in our noses. We try to listen but we are very busy trying to project fabulousness. We want to be perfect and wonderful on the first few dates (because the real "us" scares the crap out of us) so we don’t actually project the real image of ourselves. It’s more like the CGI version of us. Special effects such as lip gloss, a push up bra, and really good jeans help make us who we would like to be on the first few dates. But let’s face it; they aren’t listening to us either because they too are focused on our push up bras and really good jeans. The lip gloss works nicely too.
Men do it too. Well, hopefully not the push up bra, but the right pair of jeans on a cute guy, just yum, ya know…um, where was I? Oh yeah, things we should listen to.
One guy once told me, “ya know, I’m a real asshole sometimes.” Why was I even remotely confused when he actually was one to me? “I’m not looking for something serious right now.” You want sex, we get it. (Or maybe you would prefer a comedic relationship.) It’s the big things we don’t listen to. Or rather chose not to hear. The little things? Hah! Forget it. It’s not like he is going to say he has no idea how to refill ice cube trays or can’t change the toilet paper or has no idea where you keep the trash bags in the kitchen. Those are just things as older and wiser females we just come to expect. Naturally, we know they will leave their socks nowhere near the hamper because that is just a male thing (my boys already do that). They have no aim, they have stinky feet and are not ashamed of their gas, and well, again, there are just things we women inherently know about men.
I have given up on the projected image of me because I no longer have the tolerance or fortitude to play the silly dating games. Plus, my hair never comes out right when I use CGI.
Anyway, I don’t like playing by “the rules” anymore because they are stupid and energy-sucking and I have no patience for them anyway. I want serenity, damn it, in my dating life. Don’t play games with me and actually listen to what I am telling you. I will then try to do the same for you. If I want to call you after the first date, I’m gonna. If I don’t want to see you again, well, um, well…I will make up a nice story about having to go into the witness relocation program and if you run into me at Trader Joes, to please call me Barbara. I’m honest, just not painfully honest.
Ya see, my on line profile is as honest as it comes. I put it right out there in the first line of the thing, “I am a sarcastic pain in the ass with too many shoes…” Now on that day when I am actually am a pain in the ass, don’t say you weren’t warned. And please, do not mock the wall o’ shoes in my bedroom.
The sentence continues with “…and I have red flames on my mini-van.” I don’t quite understand why people think I am using that as a euphemism for saying I think I am hot. Seriously, I have enormous red flames. On my car. And even though I have these enormous red flames, I can never seem to find my car in The Whole Foods parking lot. Usually Dash spots it, but that’s why he gets an allowance.
You should also know and be warned: there are things people say but don’t actually mean. These are called "codes". Learn ‘em.
“I’m not typical” means you totally are. “I am drama free” means you totally aren’t. A woman says she doesn’t want a commitment, it means she wants to get married in two years. A guy says he doesn’t want a commitment; it means he wants to have sex in two dates. Learn the codes, people. Saves time and energy and lip gloss.
Let’s practice some codes, shall we? If I say, “All I really want is someone to come home to” I mean….Yes! That’s right! It means, we are going to my house to hang out because your house smells like cilantro. Let’s try another one. If a guy says, “I’ll call you”, it means…That’s correct! It means you actually did have a booger in your nose. The whole freakin night. Very good. If he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow” it means two business days. If he says, “You look great in that skirt” it means, “I can totally see your undies through it and thank you”.
See? It’s very easy to decode people. Alright, Bonus Question: if a guy says “I love you” on the very first date it means to run really, really fast, far away or you will end up married with two kids and writing blogs about dating twelve years later.
Okay, that’s the bell. Have a nice day.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Are these things on?
So, I finally went out with one of these guys from the whole online dating thing and if he was really 5’11’’ then that would make me 5’10”.
Seriously, if you are going to lie about something to your prospective date, why would you lie about something so un-liable? Something that I will notice if I am a sighted person and when you are standing right next to me. Of course, he was 50, so maybe he used to be 5’11” and now is shrinking. I used to be 5’6”. Now I just wear heels.
Aside from the you-are-not-as-tall-as-you-said-you-were issue, the guy talked faster than I did, wore too much cologne and made no eye contact with my actual eyes. I didn’t even have on a ton of cleavage (pimple was gone by then) and yet, I kind of wanted to tap on my breasts and say, “Is this thing on?” for him. Look, I know they are big. I'm okay with that, but for god sakes, they are just boobs. I know I can still sometimes get free stuff because of them like Erin Brockovich, but come on...seriously, they are not shiny objects that should distract grown men that much.
You should have seen me when I was nursing. Dear god, they were bigger than Max. Like, bigger than he is now and he is seven. Seriously, there was a point with Max when he was an infant where I was a 40G. Yes, you read that right.
Strangely enough and perhaps because the universe likes me sometimes, they are now smaller and still face north. Sometimes in my life that is all I need to get me through my day. Although, smaller is a relative word. When I left my husband at a size 16, they were like a 38DD to an E. Then one day, about six months later, I figured they might be smaller because my bras were no longer fitting. Nordstrom is my favorite placed to get measured. Perhaps because they are actually trained to measure you and aren’t just randomly fondling you like a prom date. So, my Nordstrom boob-guru measures me and says, 32DD. I froze. I looked at her blankly for a moment then yelped with glee, yes, glee was actually yelped. I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her. I told her my brief story,(hah, just noticed that was a pun. Get it? Lingerie section at Nordstrom? “Brief” description? Oh never mind) bought three really expensive bras for my lovely new boobs. Well, older boobs. Older…but happier boobs.
Older but happier. I like that. That kind of describes me. Nope, that totally describes me. I think back on the past and live without regret. Now some of you who know me really, really well are wondering how that is possible (my sister) and are rolling their eyes right now. So to clarify, I will put in the following disclaimer: Although I now live without regret, sometimes, I smile, giggle for a moment and shake my head in a what-was-I-thinking-oh-well-it-made-a-good-story kind of way. Actually I like those moments. Hehehe.
Anyway, someone recently asked me how long I was married and how much of it was good. I said the first couple of years weren’t too bad. Out of ten. To be very honest, with you and myself, the month before I got married, I almost called it off. That was our first fight and it was not pretty. It wasn’t fought well, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure why, but something made me go ahead with it anyway. Perhaps the non-refundable deposits.
However, if I hadn’t gotten married, a few things would have never happened:
1) I would never have had Max and Dash and that would have sucked.
2) I would still be fat and that would have sucked.
3) I wouldn’t have become a teacher and that would have sucked.
4) I would have never become the me I am now and that would have sucked.
No matter how much anguish, distress and Ativan it took me to get to this place right here, right now; sitting in my jammies, watching my children play, wondering if I can get cat pee off of my comforter or if Anna’s Linens is having a sale today…this is the me I really like. Besides the whole boobs-are-pointing-north part of me, I like this whole yes-I’m-exhausted-but-I’m-okay-with-it part of me.
Seriously, if you are going to lie about something to your prospective date, why would you lie about something so un-liable? Something that I will notice if I am a sighted person and when you are standing right next to me. Of course, he was 50, so maybe he used to be 5’11” and now is shrinking. I used to be 5’6”. Now I just wear heels.
Aside from the you-are-not-as-tall-as-you-said-you-were issue, the guy talked faster than I did, wore too much cologne and made no eye contact with my actual eyes. I didn’t even have on a ton of cleavage (pimple was gone by then) and yet, I kind of wanted to tap on my breasts and say, “Is this thing on?” for him. Look, I know they are big. I'm okay with that, but for god sakes, they are just boobs. I know I can still sometimes get free stuff because of them like Erin Brockovich, but come on...seriously, they are not shiny objects that should distract grown men that much.
You should have seen me when I was nursing. Dear god, they were bigger than Max. Like, bigger than he is now and he is seven. Seriously, there was a point with Max when he was an infant where I was a 40G. Yes, you read that right.
Strangely enough and perhaps because the universe likes me sometimes, they are now smaller and still face north. Sometimes in my life that is all I need to get me through my day. Although, smaller is a relative word. When I left my husband at a size 16, they were like a 38DD to an E. Then one day, about six months later, I figured they might be smaller because my bras were no longer fitting. Nordstrom is my favorite placed to get measured. Perhaps because they are actually trained to measure you and aren’t just randomly fondling you like a prom date. So, my Nordstrom boob-guru measures me and says, 32DD. I froze. I looked at her blankly for a moment then yelped with glee, yes, glee was actually yelped. I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her. I told her my brief story,(hah, just noticed that was a pun. Get it? Lingerie section at Nordstrom? “Brief” description? Oh never mind) bought three really expensive bras for my lovely new boobs. Well, older boobs. Older…but happier boobs.
Older but happier. I like that. That kind of describes me. Nope, that totally describes me. I think back on the past and live without regret. Now some of you who know me really, really well are wondering how that is possible (my sister) and are rolling their eyes right now. So to clarify, I will put in the following disclaimer: Although I now live without regret, sometimes, I smile, giggle for a moment and shake my head in a what-was-I-thinking-oh-well-it-made-a-good-story kind of way. Actually I like those moments. Hehehe.
Anyway, someone recently asked me how long I was married and how much of it was good. I said the first couple of years weren’t too bad. Out of ten. To be very honest, with you and myself, the month before I got married, I almost called it off. That was our first fight and it was not pretty. It wasn’t fought well, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure why, but something made me go ahead with it anyway. Perhaps the non-refundable deposits.
However, if I hadn’t gotten married, a few things would have never happened:
1) I would never have had Max and Dash and that would have sucked.
2) I would still be fat and that would have sucked.
3) I wouldn’t have become a teacher and that would have sucked.
4) I would have never become the me I am now and that would have sucked.
No matter how much anguish, distress and Ativan it took me to get to this place right here, right now; sitting in my jammies, watching my children play, wondering if I can get cat pee off of my comforter or if Anna’s Linens is having a sale today…this is the me I really like. Besides the whole boobs-are-pointing-north part of me, I like this whole yes-I’m-exhausted-but-I’m-okay-with-it part of me.
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