Best blog post EVER

http://blog.penelopetrunk.com/2009/04/13/i-hate-david-dellifield-the-one-from-ada-ohio/

Penelope Trunk is my new idol. Fab.u.lous.

Misnomer

If you could spend one year in perfect happiness but afterwards you would remember nothing of the experience, would you do so?  If not, why? ~ The Book of Questions

No road trip is complete without a thorough soul-searching tour of the Book of Questions.  Answering the questions is a cutesy way to gain a better understanding of your poor, trapped-like-a-rat co-pilot, and like any other car game it is a good way to pass the time.  Well the book of questions is no game.  No, no…no game at all.  It should come with a warning that says, “Someday you will grow up and these questions won’t be a cutesy game, sister…they will be your real life and it.will.suck.  Surpise!  Joke’s on you!”

So thank you, Life, for making the Book of Questions my reality.  Choose one:  greatest love vs. dream job.  You get to be madly, passionately crazy over precisely one of them, so choose and choose wisely, because there are no second chances.

I tried for a while to make no choice – ha, Life, suck on that!  However, Life ain’t no dummy.  Life upped the ante and gave him the same option (the job or the girl).  Which leaves me with no guaranty that he will pick me, even if I do pick him.  AND if we do both pick each other does it even work?  If I don’t pick him, won’t I be stuck wondering about him indefinitely???

The answer is yes.  As I get up and head off to my dream job, I will wonder about him.

So I propose we change the title of the book from “The Book of Questions” to “The Book of This Is A Practice Test For Real Life and How Bad It Is Going to Suck Because the Questions Will Be Real and You Will Be Stuck With Your Answer, and Though Your Life Will Still Be Fabulous Because You are Fabulous and Work Really Hard to be Successful, You Will Always Have to Occasionally Wonder Did I Make the Right Decision and Then Force Yourself to Do Some Productive Work or Laugh With Good Friends So That You Forget That You Ever Had to Make a Decision in the First Place Book.”  My proposed title truly conveys the true purpose of the book.  To join in my name changing efforts, please send letters of support to:

Workman Publishing Company
225 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014-4381
212-254-5900 (phone)
212-254-8098 (fax)

info@workman.com

Misery Loves Company

Every city has its underbelly. It can’t all be glossy photographs of the Capitol and fancy five star restaurants. No, no…there is a sadder and much scarier part of the city that you should pray you NEVER have to experience. I have seen hell and lived to tell of it.

Here was the ad:

$600 $585 & $600 rooms in GREAT LOCATION on Capitol Hill

---

Location, Location, Location

Large, sunny, non-smoking room in my corner Victorian home 1/2 blk off Pennsylvania Ave on second floor. Four blks to Eastern Market Metro, 1/2 blk to buses . Three blks to large Safeway grocery store. Two blks to Harris Teeter grocery store. Close to coffee shops, cafes, bookstores, farmer’s market, flea market, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, even the National’s baseball stadium. Share kitchenette on same floor.
Contact Mrs. Black (There were no pictures attached, a very bad sign indeed.)

We drove past the “Victorian home.” It was the shittiest looking house on the street, however it’s dismal glory paled in comparison to the massive fenced compound across the street, known loving as “the projects.” As we sat in our car trying to squelch the small voices in our heads screaming “Ruuuuun!!”, a man walked passed the car and asked us for some spare change before heading into the aforementioned compound (friendly neighbors, sweet). We, like fools in desperate need of a home, decided to press on and check the place out. Maybe it was fabulous on the inside???

After ten minutes of waiting on the front stoop (crowded with overgrown and under cared for potted plants), Mrs. Black finally answered the door. Mrs. Black looked liked death. She vaguely resembled this (but about twenty years older, forty pounds heavier, and a million times scarier…plus she had a cane…I never knew canes could look so frightening):

Mrs. Black’s home was filled to the brim with shit (half a baby grand piano, boxes overflowing with disheveled papers, plants brown from neglect, useless knick knacks, piles of dusty books, and everything else you always imagined would be in the home of a seriously disturbed pack rat). We inched inside the house, stepping lightly over the missing floor board in the entry way.

“You girls go up the stairs first, I’m quite slow,” Mrs. Black whispered in a sickeningly sweet and seriously frightening way. As we walked up the dark, cramped stairs, we both without an exchanged word had the same feeling that we were walking to our deaths. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Black prompted us into the room. She had appeared behind us with such shockingly quick speed that we both jumped and begrudgingly entered the first bedroom.

Light filtered depressingly into the room, which was furnished with 1940s furniture. I felt sick inside. Everything about the room made my body ache for whatever desperate soul was forced to live there. Bad things had happened in this room, it is where you go whenever there is nowhere left.  We lied and said it was nice.

We quickly moved onto the next room. Mrs. Black rapped on the second door with her cane before plungeing her key into the lock and opening it. (Thinking that Mrs. Black would have a key to ANYTHING of mine gave me the chills.) If it was possible, the light in this room was even more depressing. Perhaps it was because someone still lived in this room. Mrs. Black said he would be “moving out” on Saturday. I have no doubt that the former occupant of this room was secretly decaying in a black garbage bag in the basement.

After a seriously disturbing visit to the “shared kitchenette” (barf) and a run in with Mrs. Black’s all black cat, we hauled ass out of that place. As we hit the fresh air, the projects across the street never looked so beautiful. Hell, a box on the street looked beautiful compared to living with Kathy Bates.

Lucky for me, my best roomie had given her name and phone number, when we set up the appointment. I am so thankful that scary ass lady does not have my number. I drove by that street the next day and still got shivers. Please pray for the poor souls that actually call that place home.

I also considered calling this post, “OMG, Holy f’in shit, I am so happy to be alive.”

Oh, men.

I’m a flight risk. Most of the men I date know this early on. I’m exceptionally upfront about the fact that I tend to get a bit skittish under the death knell of relationship talk. Men on the other hand tend to keep their flightiness repressed until it explodes (and by explodes I mean they disappear in a mother f’in hurry). These differences prompted an insightful conversation with my blogging buddy, imfb.  (IMFB – I need a funnier name for you…think one up.)  Here is his response (which you can also find here on his blog):

Dear ladies,

We don’t mean to drive you crazy, we really don’t. You see, we have these very basic reactions that get in the way. It’s probably evolutionary or something.

We men are actually very simply. We like things that we enjoy, we don’t like things that we don’t enjoy. Food? We love food. Beer? Also a solid staple. Sex? Check. And when there is something we like, we do it over and over again. If at some point something we used to enjoy is no longer fun for us (like myself and shots of tequila) we stop doing it.

So it might confuse you when we drop off the face of the earth after the exclusivity talk arises or whatnot. You might be thinking, “we’ve spent the last two months spending every waking moment together, and about 75% of that time involved sex, what happened”? You see, you triggered a very basic flight or fight type response. This talk came as a shock to our happy, simple little world. Not liking fear, we stopped doing what happened before. It’s like if you were swimming in a lake and you got attacked by a giant snake. You probably wouldn’t swim there anymore. Not when there are potentially other lakes around without snakes.

There’s no easy fix for this. At some point guys grow out of this, or decide that Steve Irwin was pretty cool and if he likes snakes they can too. People have wonderful relationships and get married every day. There’s no rhyme or reason to our basest urges.

You might be thinking, “I’ll play hard to get and that will stop him from getting scared.” Stop that thought. That thought is bad. 99% of the time, it will not work. A guy will pursue, we’re conditioned at a young age to want what we can’t have (all of us, this works both ways). You can play hard to get and a guy will oftentimes chase, but think of what you’re doing. He’s building it up in his head, to justify the continued work he’s putting into it. At some point you’ll get together and he’ll say, “this is a normal relationship, I’ve spent weeks/months thinking this would be amazing, it’s kind of a let down.”

Once again, we’re not here to offer suggestions, just to inform and apologize.

Hugs and Kisses,

Men

PS: I would like to note that I have shown some tremendous personal growth in this regard, and my last three relationships have included 2 healthy long-term ones (and the other one involved so much combined baggage that it resembled an airport terminal).

I’ll be adding my two cents later, but thought you all would enjoy. 

When you say nothing at all…

Omitting key information is just a slight variation on lying.  Generally, I enjoy overlooking this unnecessary detail.  However, my conscience occasionally catches up with me and before I know it, I’m blurting out entirely too much information that no one ever needed to know.  This is how Fuede was introduced to the blog.

I started off with a bang, “I’ve got a blog.  I wrote about you in it.  Please don’t read it.”

Fuede looked disgruntled, curious, pissed, disbelieving, real super pissed, confused, and ultra supremely pissed.  Fuede said NOTHING.  He said nothing for a very long time.  Upon seeing this reaction, I realized I probably didn’t handle this situation in the best way, but like I said my conscience attacked me and out it came without preparation or forethought.

Once Fuede regained his voice, he wanted to read the blog.  Oh, what a terrible idea!  Fuede did not know that his blog name was Fuede McMandals and I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to appreciate it (among other things).  I eased into sharing my blog with him by revealing his name.  He was slightly amused by the name, since I was honest about my hatred for his mandals.  The shirt was more of a surprise and also a mistake on my part.  You see, it was REAL suede…not fake suede.  It was a real, genuine $90 suede shirt that supposedly garnered him many compliments.  (Where are these women that think black, suede, oversized shirts are attractive?  Seriously?  Reveal your shameful selves, we need to talk.)  So, sorry Fuede, your name should have been Suede McMandals…but now you’re stuck with Fuede.  Deal. 

After rereading our entire dating history, I decided he could read the blog (of course, then he was miffed and was no longer interested in the blog…the good times never end).  We finally settled into reading the blog together.  He scrolled through from post to post.  He said nothing.  He didn’t laugh.  He sighed several times.  He cracked not a single smile.  After the last post, he finally spoke and said, “is that it?”  I nodded, because on the inside I wanted to die.  I was hating myself for telling him, hating myself for sharing such an intimate space with him, hating myself for being such a bitch via the internets, and hating myself for thinking I’m funny (which I clearly am not to everyone).  Needless to say, I was feeling kind of low, and he did not make it easy on me.  Truth be told, I would NOT have made it easy on him, if the reverse had been true.  In fact, I would have made it insufferably hard (UNLESS of course, his blog was Ithinkfanfrickingtasticisthehottestgirlonearth.com, then I would really enjoy reading about me).

We did manage to work things out.  It still isn’t a fun or remotely desired topic, though I’m breaking him down on the idea of blogging and he continues to give me endless, good natured shit about it.  I continue to be quite the catch for Fuede McMandals, he’s one lucky guy.

Welcome to the blog, Fuede

I told Fuede about the blog.  I’m not going to lie, it didn’t go that well.  We read it together that was nothing short of completely, 100% AWKWARD.  I’ll update on this later, however I thought Fuede should get a proper welcome since I’m sure he’ll be stopping by at some point.

Welcome!  (Thanks for not dumping me on the spot, if in fact we were dating.) 

A Suede-free Affair

Glory, glory…date number two was suedeless, fuedeless, and spectacular. He opted for preppy attire, which I’ll take without complaint [He's a crazy fighter, so he still managed to look toughish]. I continued my reign of door-free, check-free-ness [Love this gentleman bit, it's fascinating]. He listened to the music I sent him, loved it, AND then wanted to discuss it [um...shocking]. Now, my gmail inbox is filled with classical music and my calendar is filled with two more dates.

Just one small problem, cause what would be the point of this blog if I didn’t have a problem…the sweeter he was the faster I started stacking fortress walls. I am officially headed toward shut down city. Four dates in two weeks…too much [and one small slip, where he said we're never having children after we discovered some shared devilish, genetic trait...we're??? Ruuuuunnnnnn!!!!!!]. I am the reason why girls get a bad name. Guys can’t win for freaking losing on this blog.

I need to throw in some extra douchebag dates, so that I can remember to breathe easy and be thankful. I advise myself to chill.

Cigarettes and bicycles

I always wanted to be a smoker. Smoking is the single easiest way to meet people. However, I have to be honest with myself. I am by no means cool enough to be a smoker.

1. I don’t have the all so critical smoker’s voice.
2. I don’t have the wardrobe…I heart dresses and pearls and all things pink.
3. I love to smell pretty.
4. I’ve got too many addictions already…dresses, pink things, flats, heels, mac and cheese, your mom, boys, the list of addictions go on and on.
5. I have an aversion to small, tiny dicks sticks anywhere near my mouth.

In short, I look like a total poser…so no easily attainable cigarette friends for me…boooo.

However, I have good news for all of you non-smoking friend wanna-makers! I have discovered a more powerful friend attracter than any cigarette on the planet. Over the course of a year, it is cheaper than smoking. It is healthier for you and those around you. AND best of all, it’s pink!

EVERYONE LOVES A GIRL ON A PINK CRUISER.

Men, women, children…especially men…can’t help but chat you up when you’re cruising around town on a retro pink cruiser. So I highly suggest that if you live in some city other than DC that you rush right out and purchase a pink cruiser. If you live in DC, you better back the F#$K off this is my pink cruiser territory and I will take you out.

Hugs and Kisses,

Fanfrickingtastic

Maybe that last post came off as mean…

but let me fill you in on some details about Fiance #1 and why no one should feel bad about the spec staring and subsequent wedding calling offing.  The universe was speaking for a good god damn reason.

1. He was never, ever…not one time…sober in front of my extended family.
2. He was never, ever…not one time…sober for an entire weekend.
3. A night of drinking = Half a case of beer.  Minimum.  A full case is always preferable.
4. My friends???  Why would we ever want to hang out with them?  Do they have beer? No?  Well that settles that.
5. He thought I wanted to marry him so that I could get pregnant and have his drunk, devil children.  Ha!  No f’in thanks.
6. After I broke up with him, he wouldn’t quit my family.  He came to Christmas, he came to funerals, and he continues to bring his NEW girlfriend (read not as cute/smart version of me) to MY house to hang out with MY parents.
7. His apartment was in between a gas station, a bar, and a generic grocery store…he considered it the perfect man trifecta.
8. He chewed snuff.

That was pretty much all I needed to peace out.  It’s not mean, when the story is either funny or true.  With my ex boyfriends, it’s usually a very sad, pathetic mix of the two.

On this day: four years ago

Most of the US is mourning tax day, but not me.  For me, this is the anniversary of the day i realized the universe was much smarter than me, and I needed to shut up and listen.   I’ll give you the bullet points from the day:

• Got engaged to not-quite-love-of-my-life, but he was a seriously long term boyfriend…engagement after five years of dating seems reasonable enough (a fairly good start to the day)
• Drank champagne in celebration (bubbly deliciousness in cute champagne flutes – even better day)
• Grandfather died (Universe Calling – Ring, ring….)
• Happy/sad tearful phone calls (serious downer)
• Freshly minted fiance slices finger while washing cute champagne flutes, requires ER visit and six stitches (Hello, fanfrickingtastic, it’s the Universe – Ring, ring…)
• While waiting in ER, notice tiny spec in the diamond…think to self that tiny spec is similarly reflected in heart.  Awkward pause in mental capacity.  Laugh to self.  Bury terrible thought that I am not truly in love.   Begin planning wedding favors in head.  (Wham!  Idiot!  This is the Universe, this is also strike three…this sham wedding ain’t gonna happen.)

After five months of wedding planning and tiny-spec-in-diamond staring, I finally built up the courage to tell my mother that I was calling the whole thing off.  I decided to wait until she was really happy to tell her.  To this day, she can’t go to the county fair without reminding me how I ruined her day at the fair four years ago.  Blah, blah.  I would feel bad about ruining her day, but this is the same woman that suggested I should just get pregnant and that would somehow solve all of my relationship worries.  Mental illness can be scary.  (Love you, mom!)

Moral of the story:  When the Universe comes calling, listen.  A death, a cut, a spec.  Thank you, Universe.