I find a fatal flaw/In the logic of love Saturday, Jun 2 2007

Is it weird to get a manicure and have them paint your nails black? The concept is counter-intuitive to me; you go to a professional because you are classy and want things done just so, then throw the world a curve ball when the “classy” look you crave is that of an alternative society. Then again, it’d probably be more alternative if the polish wasn’t perfect anyway.

It’s been raining here off and on for over a week. I spend my days perched awkwardly by my kitchen table attempting to make sense of the chaos in my life through words and music. It’s not particularly working. Sometimes I stare into space or tell a passer-by to leave me alone. I was hoping to find a coffee shop somewhere around here where I can set up shop and get some real writing done, but I haven’t gotten there yet.

I did have the treat of venturing out to a few bars last night. The only guy I talked to was named Craig and Craig is a 22 year-old little league coach who dropped out of college after one year and makes about $400 a summer. (I didn’t ask him how much it paid, by the way. He offered that all on his own.) After he gave me the summary of his life, I looked at him in disbelief that someone in his position (no education, no job) would be so honest and forthcoming with such details.

“You know,” I told him, “you could have lied to me and I would have believed what you said.”

“I know. I’m just not that kind of person.”

I’m sure he meant “a person who lies” but I translated that to “a person with no imagination.” I’m a champion for honesty, but it’s not like I was going to marry him anyway. Then again, why would he lie if, you know, I wasn’t going to marry him anyway?

It’s a tangled web we weave.

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Sex, Lies and (Hopefully) No Videotape Friday, May 25 2007

“The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off.” – Gloria Steinem

Some honesty has certainly pissed me off lately. I often pride myself on being candid and straightforward and all “never choose someone’s feelings over honesty!” But I’m not a monster and even I know that there are just certain things you don’t say out loud. Like, “you are never going to fit in where you’re planning to move” or “haven’t you gained some weight?” or, and here’s the clincher, “I told you for months and months that she and I never did anything sexual but that wasn’t entirely true.” The first two are just rude, but are you kidding me with that last one?!?! Like it was my ex’s job today to make sure that last little kick in the teeth really knocked me on my ass. And it doesn’t even bother me for the reason you think (well, a little bit for the reason you think – I do straight up hate the girl.) It mostly bothers me because we’ve had an understanding for damn near a year now where we spare each other these sorts of details and pretend it doesn’t happen. I HATE this particular system because I like to put things on the table so everyone can just get over it. Yet I’ve been withholding specifics out of respect. Apparently all bets were off today when he dropped a few bombs such as the aforementioned. I could have responded with a gamut of equally devastating facts and figures, but I didn’t. I still fucking didn’t. Am I too much of a lady to reveal such particulars? Nah, probably not. Am I too nice? That can’t be it. Please don’t tell me that I’m still in love with him, because my mother will have a heart attack.

You can tell me that I’ll never fit in. You can point out my extra pounds. But the details of a past lover’s sex life I can more than do without.

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Pointy Shoes Wednesday, May 23 2007

Tucked somewhere in the middle of an offbeat version of “Remember to Breathe” by Dashboard Confessional, there is a line that says, “I can’t get laid in this town without these pointy fucking shoes.” That song has been replaying in my head over the last 24 hours and I realized why: that line summarizes my major complaint about being home. I mean, I don’t have a job, I don’t have any commitments, I don’t have to pay for anything…but what I don’t have is a boy. And if you know me at all, you know that I have to have a boy. Not a serious relationship, nothing horribly special, but a guy to kiss when I’m bored and call when something interesting happens.

Alas, there is no one. The men who live around here are mostly useless: they either live with their parents, have girlfriends, or are assholes. Exes are a good way to go if you don’t want something long-term, but then you hang out with them and you have to revisit all the annoyances that broke you up in the first place. Turning friends into lovers is sometimes logical, but then you inevitably morph from good friends into awkward run-ins for the rest of your life.

Basically, I’m SOL while I’m in Wisconsin…

…Unless the people who drop off our new chair tomorrow are super hot. Remind me to wake up more than 30 seconds before they come.

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If you rent it, they will come… Monday, May 21 2007

I’ve been awake for ten minutes and I can tell it’s already going to be a bad day. I awoke to the sound of someone banging on my front door. Knowing it was someone who had come to pick up the chairs and tables we had rented for my grad party this past weekend, I threw on my glasses and raced down the stairs. I open the door to find three of the hottest guys I have ever seen in northeastern Wisconsin. My jaw nearly hits the damn floor as I realize that not only are they gorgeous, but I am in my pjs and not exactly bringing my A-game. So I open the garage for them and immediately call my mother. (Can you tell that being on the phone is my pretend protection?) So I quietly talk to my mom while I pace around in short shorts and an oversized shirt and watch these wonders of genetics carry away plastic chairs.

Are you kidding me with this?

See, the concept of a “hot rando guy” in this town is virtually non-existent for me. Guys I meet either aren’t terribly good looking or I already know them from high school or whatever. To find nice, polite, handsome men that I don’t know – ones that come to your house to do man-work no less – is a miracle! And apparently the most appropriate way to greet a miracle is with bed-head and no make-up.

What would a halfway intelligent, classy girl have done? Well, for starters, she would have taken an extra second to review her appearance. Maybe changed clothes. Then she would have made interesting and enchanting conversation with them instead of hiding behind a cordless phone. She would have perched somewhere like, “oh, hello, I’m fabulous, would you like my phone number?” except she wouldn’t have to say it because they would already have asked. All three of them.

Ugh. I have no game and no chance at ever having a boyfriend again.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to spend the rest of the day self-loathing and figuring out a reason to rent more chairs.

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