I'm sure I'll have more stories about bad dates and uneventful dates and, quite possibly, brokenheartedness, soon. Lately, however, I've been taking a break from the sport of Practice Dating. I've still been hearing plenty of advice from what our friend Bridget Jones referred to as Smug Marrieds, however, and it's occurred to me how much of it is actually quite contradictory.
For example, for every person who says, "You find it when you're not looking for it," I get the completely opposite (and rather accusatory) advice of "Well, are you getting out there? Are you trying to meet people??"
Likewise, for everyone who says, "When it's right you'll know it" or "It's good that you're not going to settle for just anyone," I hear the ever-so-helpful suggestion that "Maybe you're just too picky."
I'm not really sure what to do with these conflicting words of wisdom. All I have to say is thank god my friends are all smart enough not to find a counter-point for the age-old standard recommendation to "Just be yourself." Because, "Um, maybe talk less?" or "Maybe you should work on that" are really not things I need to hear as a means of bolstering my self-esteem.
Just a tip for all you non-singletons out there. Consider it my PSA for the week.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
I'm sure my Mensa membership card is just lost in the mail
For months now, I've been baffled by the logo on the cartons of non-dairy creamer and artificial sweetener in the kitchen at work. The brand logo reads "N[heart]Joy," but it's unclear to me whether the heart is supposed to be an apostrophe, a hyphen, a letter "o," or just a meaningless bullet of some sort. For whatever reason, I've been leaning towards "letter o," which means the brand name, as far as I can tell, is "No Joy."
True, I thought--dry powdered particles of partially hydrogenated oils and corn syrup solids aren't particularly healthy or joyful, but to point that out seems an odd sales tactic nonetheless.
Only today did I actually sound the logo out in my head and realize they probably mean "Enjoy."
Yeah, I'm pretty quick sometimes. Obviously I'm a marketing director's worst nightmare.
True, I thought--dry powdered particles of partially hydrogenated oils and corn syrup solids aren't particularly healthy or joyful, but to point that out seems an odd sales tactic nonetheless.
Only today did I actually sound the logo out in my head and realize they probably mean "Enjoy."
Yeah, I'm pretty quick sometimes. Obviously I'm a marketing director's worst nightmare.
Friday, March 24, 2006
This isn't much of an entry, so I'm not trying too hard on the title
I've started at least three entries in the past two days, and each time, I get about two sentences down before I say, "Hmm. Yeah, that's not very interesting."
In short, I got nothing. I'm just not feelin' it. Occasionally, turning to other blogs will somehow inspire me and prompt some unexpected but welcome wave of something or other. In this particular case, all it's done is remind me how much more clever other people are than me (More clever other people are than I? More clever than I other people are? For fuck's sake I can't even put a proper sentence together anymore. I'm a sham, and someone's going to revoke my English degree.)
In the midst of all these feelings of fraudery, however (Fraudery? Is that even a word? Seriously, where's my diploma?), I did have one terrifying moment this morning when I felt like a real blogger (whatever that means).
It seems that everybody who puts themselves out on the Internet in this manner has some horror story of the moment they discovered that someone they never thought would read their blog had, in fact, read their blog. The few real-life friends* of mine who've actually taken any interest in following this little writing project of mine have asked me about this in varying ways--e.g., Who have you told about the site? Who deliberately haven't you told? Are there things that you want to write but don't because you're worried about who might read it?**
So far I've felt pretty in the clear and not terribly worried that, for instance, my boss might inadvertently stumble across this URL. That is until today, anyway.
My boss and I had a conference call with a client this morning, and following that call, we sat talking about various other projects and such. When it felt like wrap-up time, I asked, "Anything else?" and started pushing out my chair to leave, when she said, "Actually, I do have one other question for you. How did you learn how to blog?"
My heart stopped for a moment as I wondered what she'd read and how she found it and why she was addressing the topic with that particular, unusual question. So I asked her to repeat herself.
"Block," she said. "Didn't you say you blocked that sweater you made?"
She was asking me a knitting question. Not a blogging question. I am officially a paranoid freak. And on top of that, my hearing's shot, too. Man, do I feel like a winner.
-------------------------------------------------------
* You know--as opposed to all my imaginary Internet friends who I feel like I know remarkably well despite the fact that we've never met. If I've ever commented on your site (and maybe even if I haven't), you're probably in that group.
** The answers to these, if you care, are "Not all that many people, directly"; "My family, my co-workers, and my ex-boyfriend (who is, incidentally, already covered in the 'co-workers' group)"; and "Yes, but not as many things as you might think."
In short, I got nothing. I'm just not feelin' it. Occasionally, turning to other blogs will somehow inspire me and prompt some unexpected but welcome wave of something or other. In this particular case, all it's done is remind me how much more clever other people are than me (More clever other people are than I? More clever than I other people are? For fuck's sake I can't even put a proper sentence together anymore. I'm a sham, and someone's going to revoke my English degree.)
In the midst of all these feelings of fraudery, however (Fraudery? Is that even a word? Seriously, where's my diploma?), I did have one terrifying moment this morning when I felt like a real blogger (whatever that means).
It seems that everybody who puts themselves out on the Internet in this manner has some horror story of the moment they discovered that someone they never thought would read their blog had, in fact, read their blog. The few real-life friends* of mine who've actually taken any interest in following this little writing project of mine have asked me about this in varying ways--e.g., Who have you told about the site? Who deliberately haven't you told? Are there things that you want to write but don't because you're worried about who might read it?**
So far I've felt pretty in the clear and not terribly worried that, for instance, my boss might inadvertently stumble across this URL. That is until today, anyway.
My boss and I had a conference call with a client this morning, and following that call, we sat talking about various other projects and such. When it felt like wrap-up time, I asked, "Anything else?" and started pushing out my chair to leave, when she said, "Actually, I do have one other question for you. How did you learn how to blog?"
My heart stopped for a moment as I wondered what she'd read and how she found it and why she was addressing the topic with that particular, unusual question. So I asked her to repeat herself.
"Block," she said. "Didn't you say you blocked that sweater you made?"
She was asking me a knitting question. Not a blogging question. I am officially a paranoid freak. And on top of that, my hearing's shot, too. Man, do I feel like a winner.
-------------------------------------------------------
* You know--as opposed to all my imaginary Internet friends who I feel like I know remarkably well despite the fact that we've never met. If I've ever commented on your site (and maybe even if I haven't), you're probably in that group.
** The answers to these, if you care, are "Not all that many people, directly"; "My family, my co-workers, and my ex-boyfriend (who is, incidentally, already covered in the 'co-workers' group)"; and "Yes, but not as many things as you might think."
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
My pothead boyfriend
It's funny the things that can prompt an obscure memory...
When I hear anything off of 10,000 Maniacs' Our Time in Eden, it instantly reminds me of my freshman year of college--taking walks with my best friend Jenne, trying to synchronize our copies of the cassette on our walkmen so we could sing along together to "My How You've Grown."
When I drink Earl Grey tea, I think of my semester in Scotland, and I remember sitting in a makeshift classroom in a drafty old palace, clasping my fingers around the teacup to stay warm during Detective Fiction or British Civ. class.
And today, when I ran out of toilet paper (for the first time ever and through no fault but my own), I thought of my ex-boyfriend Jimmy and his "not a boy, not yet a man" rental house in Uptown.
Gilmore Girls fans might remember an episode a season or two ago when Doyle made himself a little too comfortable in Rory and Paris's suite (eating Rory's chips, resting his feet on the fancy coffee table Emily bought, etc.), and Rory's outburst left Doyle feeling banished and afraid to return. Paris, suddenly forced to go to Doyle's place instead (and not happy about it), left the room in a huff, grabbing a toilet roll and complaining that "I have to bring my own toilet paper, because it is a third-world country!" It was one of Paris's better rants, but mostly I just enjoyed it because I could relate. I had to bring my own toilet paper to Jimmy's more than once.
Jimmy was all wrong for me for many, many reasons. I knew this from the beginning; really I did. On our very first date, the smart girl inside me was waving red flags frantically again and again, saying "Stay away! Cut your losses! This one will never work!" But I liked him. And he liked me. And that first date was and still remains my best first date ever. So I set down the red flags and chose to proceed with caution. I knew full well it wouldn't last, but I was 26. I wasn't looking to get married. I didn't care if he wasn't The One. I decided to have fun with whatever time we had together, and to try best I could not to get too attached.
When I knew Jimmy, he was 28, but his inner 22-year-old ran the show. He spent most of his free time challenging his roommate to PlayStation hockey, and the trace amounts of expendable income he scraped together generally went towards liquor and bad takeout. His house was furnished with ratty mismatched couches and beer cases as end tables. I affectionately referred to him as "my pothead boyfriend," but despite that whole "munchies" thing I'd heard about so often, his kitchen cupboards were nearly bare. In the fridge, the closest thing to food was the previous night's bong water.
I'm a reasonably intelligent and mature and responsible person, so I should have run away from the health code violations and never looked back. But I think the fact that I am so damn mature and responsible was part of the draw. I need someone who nudges me out of my comfort zone a bit, who respects who I am but also encourages me occasionally to try on some other persona for size. Plus, Jimmy was smart. He made questionable and immature choices, yes, but he could hold an intelligent and witty conversation as well as anyone I've known. And he was good to me (or, as good as a lazy pothead with a Peter Pan complex can be, anyway). He called when he said he would. He laughed at my jokes. He told me I was beautiful. Better than that, he told me I was beautiful but he said, tapping my forehead, that what was up there was what really turned him on. In short, he made me fall for him, despite my best efforts and better judgment.
We made it about four months before we hit the inevitable point where it started feeling more like a relationship than he was comfortable with and he quickly grew more distant. It was a remarkably amicable breakup, however. He pulled me towards him and he kissed me and he said in all earnestness, "I just know someday I'm going to look back on this and ask, 'Why'd I fuck that one up?'"
It was what I wanted to hear, but I have serious doubts about whether it proved true. Some innocent Googling a couple years ago turned up evidence that he's apparently married now, so I feel it's unlikely I'm in his thoughts terribly often. I still think of him from time to time, though. Particularly when there's no toilet paper.
When I hear anything off of 10,000 Maniacs' Our Time in Eden, it instantly reminds me of my freshman year of college--taking walks with my best friend Jenne, trying to synchronize our copies of the cassette on our walkmen so we could sing along together to "My How You've Grown."
When I drink Earl Grey tea, I think of my semester in Scotland, and I remember sitting in a makeshift classroom in a drafty old palace, clasping my fingers around the teacup to stay warm during Detective Fiction or British Civ. class.
And today, when I ran out of toilet paper (for the first time ever and through no fault but my own), I thought of my ex-boyfriend Jimmy and his "not a boy, not yet a man" rental house in Uptown.
Gilmore Girls fans might remember an episode a season or two ago when Doyle made himself a little too comfortable in Rory and Paris's suite (eating Rory's chips, resting his feet on the fancy coffee table Emily bought, etc.), and Rory's outburst left Doyle feeling banished and afraid to return. Paris, suddenly forced to go to Doyle's place instead (and not happy about it), left the room in a huff, grabbing a toilet roll and complaining that "I have to bring my own toilet paper, because it is a third-world country!" It was one of Paris's better rants, but mostly I just enjoyed it because I could relate. I had to bring my own toilet paper to Jimmy's more than once.
Jimmy was all wrong for me for many, many reasons. I knew this from the beginning; really I did. On our very first date, the smart girl inside me was waving red flags frantically again and again, saying "Stay away! Cut your losses! This one will never work!" But I liked him. And he liked me. And that first date was and still remains my best first date ever. So I set down the red flags and chose to proceed with caution. I knew full well it wouldn't last, but I was 26. I wasn't looking to get married. I didn't care if he wasn't The One. I decided to have fun with whatever time we had together, and to try best I could not to get too attached.
When I knew Jimmy, he was 28, but his inner 22-year-old ran the show. He spent most of his free time challenging his roommate to PlayStation hockey, and the trace amounts of expendable income he scraped together generally went towards liquor and bad takeout. His house was furnished with ratty mismatched couches and beer cases as end tables. I affectionately referred to him as "my pothead boyfriend," but despite that whole "munchies" thing I'd heard about so often, his kitchen cupboards were nearly bare. In the fridge, the closest thing to food was the previous night's bong water.
I'm a reasonably intelligent and mature and responsible person, so I should have run away from the health code violations and never looked back. But I think the fact that I am so damn mature and responsible was part of the draw. I need someone who nudges me out of my comfort zone a bit, who respects who I am but also encourages me occasionally to try on some other persona for size. Plus, Jimmy was smart. He made questionable and immature choices, yes, but he could hold an intelligent and witty conversation as well as anyone I've known. And he was good to me (or, as good as a lazy pothead with a Peter Pan complex can be, anyway). He called when he said he would. He laughed at my jokes. He told me I was beautiful. Better than that, he told me I was beautiful but he said, tapping my forehead, that what was up there was what really turned him on. In short, he made me fall for him, despite my best efforts and better judgment.
We made it about four months before we hit the inevitable point where it started feeling more like a relationship than he was comfortable with and he quickly grew more distant. It was a remarkably amicable breakup, however. He pulled me towards him and he kissed me and he said in all earnestness, "I just know someday I'm going to look back on this and ask, 'Why'd I fuck that one up?'"
It was what I wanted to hear, but I have serious doubts about whether it proved true. Some innocent Googling a couple years ago turned up evidence that he's apparently married now, so I feel it's unlikely I'm in his thoughts terribly often. I still think of him from time to time, though. Particularly when there's no toilet paper.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Birthday Schmirthday
If you happened to see Queen Latifah yesterday, I hope you wished her a happy birthday. I wonder if she finds March 18 to be less eventful every year the same way I do. I suppose when you're rich and famous, maybe birthdays continue to be a big deal. When you're middle class and anonymous, you can't even get a free drink anymore.
No matter. I had a pretty good birthday anyway. From my Grandma, I got the usual five dollar bill stapled inside a letter. From my dear friend Lisa (who apparently chose to abandon the wish list idea after all), I got my very own copy of the book I'm already reading. (Well done on her part for remembering I wanted to read it. I can't blame her for not keeping tabs on my position in queue within the library's hold list.) I also had a nice, fancy dinner at a very grown-up establishment, like the proper 32-year-old adult I'm supposed to be. Since we're not really proper adults, however, we still put away two bottles of overpriced wine and found ourselves openly mocking the wardrobe choices of Nachito Herrera's teenaged daughter's young boyfriend. Apparently when you're dating Nachito's daughter, you get to take your high school show choir skills downtown and showcase them on stage. You also apparently get to wear the red and black sequined t-shirt and glove from your show choir costume when you find yourself on that stage. Nachito's set last night was actually a tribute to Earth, Wind, & Fire, but as our waiter so aptly observed, "Someone needs to tell that guy that Michael Jackson was never part of Earth, Wind, & Fire."
Since I'm speaking of birthdays, I should also note that Stefanie Says turns one today. I don't really remember starting this thing on the day after my birthday, but that's what the first post date says, so who am I to argue with my own record keeping? Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around.
No matter. I had a pretty good birthday anyway. From my Grandma, I got the usual five dollar bill stapled inside a letter. From my dear friend Lisa (who apparently chose to abandon the wish list idea after all), I got my very own copy of the book I'm already reading. (Well done on her part for remembering I wanted to read it. I can't blame her for not keeping tabs on my position in queue within the library's hold list.) I also had a nice, fancy dinner at a very grown-up establishment, like the proper 32-year-old adult I'm supposed to be. Since we're not really proper adults, however, we still put away two bottles of overpriced wine and found ourselves openly mocking the wardrobe choices of Nachito Herrera's teenaged daughter's young boyfriend. Apparently when you're dating Nachito's daughter, you get to take your high school show choir skills downtown and showcase them on stage. You also apparently get to wear the red and black sequined t-shirt and glove from your show choir costume when you find yourself on that stage. Nachito's set last night was actually a tribute to Earth, Wind, & Fire, but as our waiter so aptly observed, "Someone needs to tell that guy that Michael Jackson was never part of Earth, Wind, & Fire."
Since I'm speaking of birthdays, I should also note that Stefanie Says turns one today. I don't really remember starting this thing on the day after my birthday, but that's what the first post date says, so who am I to argue with my own record keeping? Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around.
Friday, March 17, 2006
When friends are like family
Lisa: So, what do you want for your birthday?
Me: Um, I don't know... You don't have to get me anything.
Lisa: Oh, shut up. I'm getting you something. Is there anything in particular you need? I mean, I know I can always get you a book or a CD, but that seems so boring.
Me: ...
Lisa: Do you still have your Amazon wish list? I guess I could check that...
[audible typing as she goes to Amazon.com]
So, this is the stuff you want? What is... These are all CDs. Don't you have anything but CDs on this list? Aren't there any movies you want or something?
Me: Um, I think there are a couple movies on there, aren't there?
Lisa: Gigantic? That's a movie? What's that about?
Me: It's a documentary about...
Lisa: Pasta straining pot? You want a pasta pot??
Me: Well,...
Lisa: Oh, Beth Orton. You don't have that one? Hmmm...
Yarn Girls? Eh; you already have a yarn book. You don't need that.
Me: ...
Lisa: Suf... Somebody Stevens? Who is that? I don't even know any of these CDs. Why haven't I heard of any of these bands? The Postal Service? Are they good?
Me: You haven't heard of The Postal Service? And you make fun of me for not knowing some Kanye West song?
Lisa: Heh. Dawson's Creek? O-K...
Me: Are you really critiquing my wish list?
Lisa is one of those friends who often feels more like a sister, in that we're sometimes painfully honest and occasionally careless with each other because we know we can get away with it. In this particular instance, however, I feel like I just had a conversation with my mother (that is, if my mother were just a tiny bit snarkier).
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