The UnFairer Sex

Lest you think, after giving the last blog a perusal, that I am some militant man-hater, or that all blame in all boy-girl relationships rests solely at the feet of the penis-haver, rest assured I do not; it's just my silly personal experience that it does.

Kidding! God, sometime I'll pull open the zipper on my forehead that holds back all the crazy (hence the bangs) and let you in on how I behaved around the first boy I ever noticed as a boy-a boy I was very very into being a boy, mind- and how crazy-awkward I got around the poor kid. Let's just say I'm certain he was glad his occupation kept him in close contact with cleavers and knives, and less so that I was as well.

But that's for another time- Lord knows I do precious little dating, what with it needing to take place outside of my apartment and all, and away from the apartment means away from Netflix, WoW, and usually involves bathing. I am serious on this point, muchachos- just earlier this evening, I came home exceptionally sore from the gym (one of the few reasons I willingly leave my little troll-cave; I suppose a home gym would curtail the need, but I move a lot, and it's bad enough without having to carry boxes of things whose sole purpose in life is to be heavy.)  A friend texted to ask if I would like to accompany him to Costco, being one of my favorite stores of all time, as any place I can buy jeans, sunglasses, and lambchops ought to be, and I begged off, admitting to a preoccupation of packing my sore self into my refrigerator for the evening. And then I realized, holy smokes! There's baking soda in there! BONUS NOT HAVING TO SHOWER TO NOT BE A STINK! And then I texted that to him, and I applaud that it only took him aback for a good ten minutes before he non-sequitered away from that pleasant mental image/smell.

Good friends, man. They's hard to find.

So dating stories will have to be largely hoarded, like the reverse of tangents on this blog, as they are some of my only good, filling content. Instead, tonight's dinner is pretty much opinion filler. With a comic amuse bouche!

All this to say, man. I wish I could like Adele.

You know, Adele, right? The singer? The one whose album of post-breakup songs is like, requisite vagina purchase? Oh, surely you know of her. She's British? Long hair? Big green eyes? Monstrous big voice?...

... okay, fine. The fat one.

Aha, NOW you get it. Sizists.

But see, that's part of my two-pronged problem with her. No, not that she's a big girl. Goodness knows, it'd be a Rick Astley situation if that powerhouse set of pipes was housed in a tiny little size-double-aught body, like that flaky Canadian chick who sang the song about it being the poor's lot in life to love the rich, aspire to their ranks and their women, and ultimately die, not so they live- both could live, really- but so they can await rescue in the comfort to which they are accustomed.

 Kill the poor, indeed.

 But here's the thing, poppet. Crumpet? I don't know any Londonite slang terms of endearment. Anywho. You get yourself out there, singing your huge eff-you song to the man what done you wrong. And it's a smash hit, and nets you a Rolling Stone interview, wherein you spout off the following:

And I'm like, good for you, honey! Why, the focus on actual musical merit as opposed to looks is admirable in this day and age! Just think of ladies like Mama Cass and Janis Joplin- they didn't give a sugar-honey-iced-tea about what they looked like, and yet they and their musical legacies live on, right?

 Wait. Just... wait.

So imagine my utter surprise when I turn to the cover of said Rolling Stone magazine, and wheretofore is our delightful little, doesn't-give-a-care-how-she-looks, siren?

Oh. Under fifteen pounds of pancake makeup and Aquanet.

Well, maybe that's just one pushy cover-photographer-

  Okay. Look, I know she just made a big deal about not caring how she looks, y'all, and that's a lotta lotta eye and lip and cheek and forehead makeup and contouring/shading under the jaw and a lot of styling product and fancy bling. But listen, it's not like she, I don't know, showed up on the actual cover of something like Vogue with a lot of Photo-shame-shoppery and fat girl angle to make her look like someone she's not, and would protest being compared to, right?

Oh, oh man. Wait.

 

 Bitch it is G-D girl code that I like you, WORK WITH ME HERE.

 

All right, here's the thing. We're all vain, like Carly Simon said, and no matter who you are, you have at some moment in your life been concerned with how you look. Anyone who says otherwise? Go throw away your hairbrush or comb, soap, shampoo, any jewelry and any clothes that are not a muumuu, as that's all you need to be practical in the "all my pink parts are covered" sense. And then stay the hell away from me, because we both smell abysmal, though myself in a temporary sense. Why? Because we do care. I scan every picture of myself uploaded to Facebook for any flaw, and if I get to five, I am untagging myself in that unflattering shit.

But here's the thing- I also don't go around giving interviews about how vain I'm not, and by extrapolation, how vain everyone else is for caring how they look. If I did, I'd be a blatant hypocrite, and I like to be more subtle when I'm doing so.

So that's Thing A. Thing B is where it gets less "OMG hater!! SHE'S BEUTIFUL!!11!!eleventy!" and more, well, lock your doors.

I'll admit I rocked the hell out of "Rolling in the Deep" when it came out- thundery drum, scant, seething verses, bombastic chorus, and how straightforward- I'm done, you're done, eff you and the horse you rode in on. Then along comes the next US single, "Someone like You." Dreary, thoughtful, and seemingly full of regret, but moving on.

Until you read the lyrics.

I heard that you're settled down  

That you found a girl and you're married now 

I heard that your dreams came true  

Guess she gave you things I didn't give to you
 
So, two kids in a relationship that didn't work out. I'm ex-military, so believe you me, I've seen a lot of this happen. But looks like the guy recovered, got himself a wife, started achieving his goals- a family, a home? There's regret that she couldn't be the one to give him those things, but hey, that's the way the cookie crumbles. Maybe now she can move on too.
 

Old friend, why are you so shy? Ain't like you to hold back or hide from the light.

Not so much. All right, so, a chance encounter, and the guy gives her the cold shoulder in what- the grocery store? Well, sometimes breakups are bad, and while the dude moved on ultimately, maybe the way it went down was painful or bad, and he doesn't want to revisit the past, so he just scoots on down the toilet paper aisle and prays the girl isn't doing one of those cleanses or something, so he can wait her out.
  
I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited  

Wait, so. Not a grocery store... Adele. Adele, you didn't, haha, do something silly, did you? Did you... did you track him down to his home? With his wife there?

But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it 

Uh oh.
 

I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded  

That for me, it isn't over

 it isn't over

it isn't over

DUDE! DUDE RUN!!!

Okay, that shit? That shit right there? That is unacceptable. And yet you would not believe the number of girls who have told me that they felt the same way, that Adele is double-damn entitled to her rage, and her apparent stalking.

To which I say, picture it reversed: a couple breaks up. The girl goes on, finds a man, marries him, has a home and a kid and man, life is looking up. That last relationship was bad, bad for both participants, but now, she muses as she dusts the top of the ceiling fan (how do they get so dusty when they're constantly moving?) she realizes that the bitter helps her appreciate the sweet, and now life is going just-

knock knock

Oh, the door- perhaps a neighbor wanting a cup of sugar? Old Marge, always wagging her tongue as they hang up sheets in the backyard-

Oh. Oh no. It's her ex. He stands there in the rain (how did he find me? This address is unlisted!) and locks eyes with her. Crazy eyes, fevered and bloodshot from being up too many nights rethinking every little fragment of their time together.

"Charles! Oh, well, um-"

"Why so shy? It's not like you to be shy with me. Not after all we've been through, eh?"

She slowly reaches for the umbrella stand, hoping for a weapon, her smile like rigor mortis.


"I tried to stay away from you, I did, but I couldn't fight... these feelings. And I knew if you saw me, you'd feel the same!"

The lady prays to any God who happens to be near the answering machine as he leans ever closer, whispering now, 

"That you'd know that it isn't over."

Mmmhmm. Probably doesn't help that the chorus of this song is just a sort-of-surrender wherein Adele says fine, she'll just find someone else. Someone like him. Someone exactly like him. 

And then? Probably wear his skin like a coat. 

And y'all wonder why I don't date often.

Ex-Files, Ex-it Sign, and Other Super Cliche'd Ways to Title Something about Ex-Boyfriends

All my mother wanted to do was help. My sister was blossoming as a social butterfly of Mothra proportions almost daily, but Mom's second-born? Oh no, that offspring was belly-flopped on her bed with a book, and little-to-no-desire to interact with people her own age. And while you might think that, in the world of Teen Mom and Jersey Shore and 4chan, this would result in a parenting medal of sorts being awarded... well, Mom wasn't too keen on me being a creepy cat-lady recluse, either. For my part, I maintained that I interacted with 29 other kids 5 days a week, and the only thing I'd learned was what chair was closest to the vents and therefore afforded the best AC, which girls were piously clutching "I Kissed Dating Goodbye," (for those most lucky to not be in the know about this book, IKDGB is the penultimate bullshit Bible of all arguments "do as I say, and not as I did, enjoyed, did some more, then got bored of, and then decided NOT to do because MORALS... for now,") always in evidence in the Bible teacher's eyeline, and which girls were giggling about our junior high male counterparts' masturbatory episodes with conditioner in the shower. (Same ones, as it turns out. Shocking.)

So Mom let my hermit habits slide until she caught me indulging in what I called "my stories," mostly a Matlock/Murder She Wrote block of awesome TV. Then she made me join a youth group, key word youth. Of all the churches to which I'd been invited over the years, the Presbyterians seemed to want the least of me; other key selling points being my two best friends' attendance and the architecture of the place, a largish pyramid that squatted at the very crest of a hill downtown. Imagine, instead of hearing about building pyramids, I'd get to just sit in one! So off I went every Wednesday, wherein I discovered three very important things:

1. All youth pastors are crazy; if they aren't, then they aren't yet.
You can't blame them for going a little apeshit, either; consider who they're dealing with on a biweekly basis, and then picture trying to motivate that hot mess of hormones and apathy into getting down and getting jiggy with DC Talk, Newsboys, and Audio Adrenaline.

It's sort of like arming a jousting knight with a novelty 9" dildo. And not even a vibrating one. Just a big, floppy kielbasa.

Another thing? Even with all the pastor-ly training and classes and certifications I assume they get (what? At least a background check, right?... Or the Sexual Predators app on the main pastor's iPhone, yes? Let's say yes,) they're always looked as as "junior clergy," by the adult ones. I've seen many a youth leader referenced aloud by the 'grown-ups' with a raised eyebrow, a curt laugh, and a general feeling of "look out for this craaaaaazy kid and his rap music for Jesus!"

So you have an adult not trusted as an adult by other adults, but in no way able to be on the level with people ostensibly only 4-5 years younger, and generally thought of as a well-meaning bore-a-saur gomer. It's enough to drive anyone a little nuts, before mentioning the fact that every male youth paster I've ever encountered has, at least once, done a little hair-bleach tip-frosting, ala Lance Bass pre-gay-days, and, well, good luck getting anyone to take you seriously then.

Come on, let's get real... with the Lord!

2. As long as no one's actively doing meth or making babies, Jesus is pleased.

The standards of our behavior were unexpectedly lax for a kid who attended private school and grew up under two religious police officers, and actually did what they said; really, the girl in charge seemed almost proud every time she was able to run to the bathroom and return to the same room, walls all standing like she'd left it. And unlike Awanas, which was what my mother goaded me into when I was a shorter recluse, there was no homework or preparation involved here; just show up, sober, and keep it to a relatively dull roar for the twenty minutes she actually wanted to lecture.

To be fair, Awanas did have little merit-badge things, and that evened out the homework nonsense.

3. Youth Group is where young people hook up. Smugly, not like those heathen kids who listen to Top 40 radio in the car.

Just like any other grouping of pubescent, co-ed, same-age peoples; if you put them in a room, even if that room is festooned with WWJD and little Jews on crosses, they will still draw together like magnets, eventually mashing bottoms before someone flips out and they are repulsed away. (This mental image works best if you picture the teens' bottoms actually being magnets, slowly drawing people together at the groin before they go flying apart. And this flying apart, dear children, is what we call drama, and where you have the above scenario, the drama is sure to follow.)

UPDATE:

Ask and the Internet shall provide.

Herein my best friend at the time, A, introduced me to a couple of her friends, and one, C, immediately addressed me as 'the cute girl.'


Followed by "Cute just like Videl on Dragonball Z! You look JUST LIKE HER! Go out with me?"



See, even before I turned 18, I still knew to be wary of something whose self-introduction was a list of his favorite animes. But! This was the first time a boy had even paused long enough to acknowledge my lack of a penis, and that will do crazy things to a girl, let me tell you. So when he made a habit of sitting near, then next to me at the youth groups, and even allowed his hand to brush mine as Jesus glowered from his stick-perch, well, I felt pretty G-D proud.

Then along came the "Christmas party (With Menorah!)" The youth group leader managed to scrounge up a plastic one from Target, and while we didn't light it once for eight days, she DID light the plastic candle-holder bit for the servant candle on fire, (and while I only expected it to burn for one minute, it burned for at least eight. MIRACLES, Y'ALL.) C showed up with a gift, which was very sweet and thoughtful, until I made to open it and he stopped me, motioning that I shouldn't open it in front of people.

Hmm.

So I toddle my happy self off to a convenient little nook under the stairs, and take a look, where I find a half-empty bottle of alcohol, an explicitly naughty card, and a necklace with a pendant that looked like linked handcuffs.

Double hmm.

Not that the gift wasn't sweet, but, guys? I was 16, a total goody-two-shoes (no alcohol, no drugs, no nothing) and a virgin. That he met at a youth group. And whom he hadn't even kissed open-mouth yet. But being a recluse also means not knowing how to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," or "no thanks," or "no way in Hell," so I just meekly said thank you, went home, and hid the presents in the back of my closet, where they were found by my mother. I don't know if it's sad or not that she didn't for one second believe I was a drinker or that the alcohol was mine... but then again, she was digging around in my closet.

Anywho, these were the days of pagers, not cell-phones, and thus the next two weeks of break meant everyone had off school. He called to make a date for a Friday, but still feeling weird about the gift/ my mother not being fond of any of my male friends (she parsed out the penmanship as Teen Boy, but couldn't nail it down, as he'd signed everything Santa and I didn't want to dime anyone out) I demurred, saying I would call the next afternoon to let him know. He ended up calling later that night, when I wasn't home, and when my mother told him such, his response was, "Well what are YOU up to, Mrs. Mary's Mom?" I pretty much decided that the date was going to be a no-go when my mother drily informed me that, should I say no, my mom was his number two option for dinner and a movie; but as it was past 10, and I was not raised by wolves in a barn with an open door, I figured I'd just call in the morning.

Well, the next time I heard from him, it was technically morning.

I was deep in REM when the door to my room opened, sending bright light directly into my face; as I blinked and tried to bury my dazzled eyes in fists, my father, his police kit making him seem twice as big as usual, asked loudly if I, perhaps, knew a guy with C's name.

Only the sheer shock of being woken out of deep slumber made me tell the truth, I think; even now, I look back on it with the indignation of a person who goes to use a toilet at a friend's home, only to find that someone has left a turd so large you think someone's intentionally drowned a Yorkie. It's not your fault, but that doesn't matter now- you're in the scene of the crime, and there's a witness at the door who will attest that you were in the bathroom with it, and there goes your social life, right down the, well, you know.

I knew that it wasn't a good thing if my father, in full PD regalia, was waking me at (as a quick check of the clock showed) 2am and asking after the little weasel; I just didn't know how bad.

Maybe he got hit by a Datsun, I though as I half-fell, half-crawled out of bed; I wanted him hit, Lord knew he needed one, but not by anything that meant I had to feel bad about it.

C did not, in fact, require police attention for anything to do with automotive accidents, damn my luck; C had instead decided to take a stroll through a Walgreens Drug Store. Into the contraceptive aisle.

And then? He shoplifted condoms, and was promptly caught and held for the police to retrieve.

And then? He gave the arresting officer my name. Because surely, a cop, who likely has kids of his own, would look upon an enterprising little hood shoplifting condoms, think of his own family, and then say, "Well, son, since it's for a friend of mine's daughter..."

Again, one must wonder just how bore-a-saur I was that my parents believed me immediately when I told them I had no idea about why the kid would feel the need to rubber-up for the weekend, but believe they did. And when C called later that day, my mother was only a little surprised, and then told him not to call her daughter again.

To his credit, he did not try to hit on my mom again.

April (New) Tools Day!

I'm still trying to get a feel for how often this thing should update, so I can say "Updates once a week!" and mean it. This seems like an important kink to work out before I take any big steps, like telling anyone about it.

Yesterday was my birthday, and the roommate, misjudging just how good I am at being an actual artist and not just a doodle-queen extraordinaire, bought me a HUUUUGE tablet! I mean GAIS. This thing is immense, replete with bells and whistles, and is now my second favorite thing ever (first favorite being the e-reader; I bemoaned the loss of tangible books and sensory deprivation when turning a page no longer brings that musty smell or that crisp turning sound... and then the Borders down the way from us closed down. The nearest book store being roughly eighteen miles outside of my 'sphere of influence'* meant I needed a new way to get a book fix at 3am when the roommate refuses to indulge me and my fear of any and all sounds in the apartment ever, and thus he obliged me. And it is awesome and I spend SO MUCH MONEYS on books and get NO SLEEP, but he does get sleep and that's what matters to him.)

*Sphere of Influence: Anything outside of the fifteen-miles or so radius from my apartment that encompasses the base and the downtown drinking area; anything beyond this circle necessitates an iPhone open to Google Maps balanced on a leg as I drive along. No interest in being another Magellan here.

Man. This kid sure spends too much trying to keep me entertained, considering string and sticks are both plentiful and mostly dirt cheap in these parts.

So now I have a cluttery setup, which will be rectified at some point when I can figure out what bits of desk flotsam I actually need to keep (statements, education stuff, official documents from the military that have my social security number ALL UP ON THEM) and what bits I can toss without fear of identity theft or needing to prove I graduated the first grade (uninstalled anti-virus crap, old coasters, apple stems.) But as it goes with new toys, I had to had to had to hook it up and try it out, and fair warning, I am SO not good at the computer/graphic arts, and now you all are subject to watching me struggle along and try to learn how to not make everything look like I drew with my feet. Feet in which I had arthritis before my diabeetus necessitated having them amputated, and now I have to hold them in my hands and try to draw that way.

This is how I repay people who dare to invest hope or cash in my skills:

So let that be a lesson to you all.