Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Girls' Girl vs. Guys' Girl

I’m gonna be honest. I am a girly-girl. I love shoes and I love purses. My recently purchased iPhone’s hard case is, in fact, hot pink (but that’s only because they didn’t have the white-and-gray one I wanted!). I often indulge in mani/pedi’s. I love puppies and well, dogs in general. Cute, small, furry dogs. I love them so much that if you ever walk down the street with me and we happen to walk passed a puppy/cute, small, furry dog, I will squeal with excitement in the most inappropriate and unorthodox way.

I could probably beat and squish my brain for some more examples to show just how girly I really possibly am. But that would defeat the real purpose of this post. Outwardly, I resemble your typical often done up, somewhat materialistic looking, dangling-earring-wearing, bug-eye-sunglasses-sporting, bitch-on-wheels fashionista.

However, on the inside, I identify with the term “princess” about as much as Mother Theresa identified with the term “penis enlarger.”

Being the second (and last) born in the family (I have an older sister), my mother once told me that she, in fact, really did wish for me to be a boy (thanks, mom). Much to her surprise and probably disappointment, she got another (premature, teeny-tiny) girl. I really think that’s how it all got started.

Growing up, I didn’t really care for dolls or any girly toys. To say that I played with cars and trucks and toy guns all day long would be a lie, but I’d often play outside – run (like a maniac in circles most probably), climb trees, jump rope, and such. In grade school, I wanted to play soccer and basketball with the boys. Oh, and the group of girls in my class would often gang up on guys and beat them up. No joke, we were savages.

By the age of 10-11, and quite possibly overnight, I got boobs. Seriously, gut-wrenching embarrassment right there. My mother would basically drain my soul of any love I had for her when she’d openly chitchat with her BFFs right in front of me about my dreaded, newly found chest mounds.

Mom: “Can you believe the size of her BREASTS?! I know, me either! Already! Oh, they sure grow up fast…” (sad-face-side-head-movement)


*escapes awkward embrace, marches to room, slams door, buries head in pillow*

I pretty much wanted to kill her at the time, instead of really thanking her. (Although I don’t get my decent size from my mother’s side, but the woman did give me life, so whatever – thanks, mom.)

Sure enough, I’ve come a long way since then. I have come to not only embrace and value the mere existence of my boobs, but also use their magical powers (or their respectable magical size) in every possible advantageous situation. And there are plenty. (Ain’t that right, ladies?)

So, in a nutshell, I was a bit of a tomboy growing up. Until I got the boobs. Yup. Boobs robbed me of any chance of getting picked again to play soccer with the guys. I now had these ridiculous sacks of fat that flared around uncontrollably when I ran or did any cool, outdoorsy activity.

Since I wasn’t the only blessed boob child, all the girls soon starting acting like delicate little flowers. Seriously? I still wanted to beat the boys up when they would act-a-fool! Only now they’d try to cop a feel or pinch my ass, which I certainly didn’t appreciate and would only further make me want to kick the ever-living shit out of them even more.

But, just like the boob phase, I outgrew the no-good-useless-annoying-boys-are-punching-bags stage. Soon enough, I would find myself crushing and gushing over an older, cute and tall 7th grader. Like, hardcore. Fuck.

I seriously remember thinking:

“OK. Bobby, OMG, Bobby. Bobby (read: typical pretty boy nightmare). He’s just sooooooooooooooooooooo cute. I can’t help but doodle BOBBY all over my friggn notebook. BOBBBBBBY. OKOKOK. Mary and Jane (read: slutbags) are trying to talk to him. (read: flirt). Plus he’s kind of popular. OK, so he must know that he’s all that (read: an asshole). HE IS all that (read: a big asshole). Fuck it, I don’t care if he KNOWS that I THINK he’s all that because he must already KNOW he is all that. (read: totally fucked up overall logic that has probably beautifully set the pace of my overall fucked-upness.)”

True story. Even back then, I clearly didn’t give a shit.

Throughout the years, my overall attitude further solidified the idea that in order for me to really like someone, I had to (obviously) know the person first. I mean, REALLY know the person. Just because I would find a boy attractive and esthetically pleasing (read: hot, hot, hot), would not mean that I LIKED HIM. I generally began putting a lot of emphasis on physical attraction, but probably not enough into getting to know someone because for most of the time, boys didn’t really fascinate me. They bored me and besides my curiosity over how good our tongues could wrestle together or over how big their bulge in their pants could get – I didn’t find myself overly emotionally or mentally stimulated.

Needless to say, the notion of separating “sex” and “love” came in quite easily. I came to realize though that as sexual a person as I might be, in the end, sex just creates a void and doesn’t fill one. I came to realize that lust is just so damn easy, but LOVE IS FUCKING HARD.

But in my late teens and early twenties, I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to me the cool party girl who wasn’t going to talk about “feelings.” I wasn’t going to be needy or emotional. It didn’t suite me well. I wanted to be that girl at the bar, in high heels, armed with a vodka-cran in hand, who wouldn’t desperately try to find Mr. Right. Maybe Mr. Right Now. Or perhaps neither.

Women are emotional for one main reason – we’re nurturing. We want to cater, and coddle and make everything OK. Often times, all of these attributes are extremely externally driven. This means that we will bend ourselves backwards and cater and accommodate and pamper the man in our life. I am not the one to do that. Call me crazy, but I feel like I lose my head when I do this. Maybe I’m selfish; maybe I haven’t found the right person to do this for. Maybe I just really wasn’t blessed with the nurturing gene.

Although I really want to think that one day I will want children, when it comes to kids, I can only tolerate them in small dosages. Very small dosages. I do my best to avoid any family-friendly places, although it’s fucking almost impossible. (read: restaurants, malls, the movies, beaches, vacation resorts, etc.) Also, the thought of squeezing out of my vagina one of those little rugrats terrifies me to no end. But in all honesty, I’m more concerned about giving up my freedom (read: life) and embracing such an important, grown-up, parental role. Maybe I’m selfish; maybe I haven’t found the right person to do this with. Maybe I just really wasn’t blessed with the maternal gene.

On the other hand, men are less emotional for one main reason – they’re solvers. They know they need to profess, protect and provide. They’re thinkers and doers. What a woman will interpret as a “sign,” a man will have a totally logical, cerebral explanation.

Have you ever really listened in on a conversation between two women? It could be about the smallest, dumbest and most insignificant thing, ever. It usually goes something like this:

Female #1: “I’m so cold. BRRRR.”

Female #2: “Omg, I know, me too! What the hell is up with the weather? Seriously. I can’t take it anymore. I wish I lived in Brazil sometimes.”
Female #1: “I KNOW, me too! This weather sucks; it’s supposed to be nice and warm today. I just want to go somewhere warm, but Brazil is too far. I’d move to like, Florida. Omg, Pete’s parents’ third cousin’s girlfriend who I used to take Pilates classes with at Bally’s moved to Florida. You know how much I loooooove Pilates, right? Ugh, I am SO jealous of her! She was in such great shape, too – that bitch. She had such a good bubble butt!”

Two words: Verbal Diarrhea.

Same conversation between a woman and a man?

Female: “I’m so cold. BRRRR."

Male: “Put your jacket on.” (hands jacket)

See? Problem solved.

Am I always this short in conversation and ALWAYS a problem-solver? No. Half engaging, stimulating, refreshing coversation? Yes, please. Overall, I just tend to gravitate towards straight-to-the-point-less-endless-mindless-making-my-ears-bleed fucking chatter. MY GOD.

Women are stupid sometimes when it comes to money, too. As much as I would love to own a pair of Christian Louboutin’s, I am not one of those crazy bitches who live on “plastic money.” I happen to have a fucking brain. (Plus, there was a time in college when I DID in fact live on “plastic money” and spent like I was Rockefeller’s daughter, but it was college and I felt entitled to having all sorts of ridiculous – mostly alcohol-induced – expensive, but fun escapades. Alas, I have learned my lesson since then.)

Oh, and (kinda besides the point, but whatever) do you know why most women would kill for a nice pair of Christian Louboutin’s? Because we all want to stand taller and sexier next to another insecure, stupid bitch, just to get an asshole’s attention. Yup, that’s my new-found theory. (OK, it could also be because the quality and design of the shoes is amazing.)

Other attributes that make me less than your average girly-girl? I have the mouth of a truck driver, I hate shopping, I’m allergic to chick flicks, I’m pretty handy around the house, nothing better to watch than a UFC fight, I rule in beer pong, free weights are my best friends at the gym and I refuse to do “girl” push-ups.


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

OD (Online Dating) ROI (Return On Investment)

"Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts." - A. Einsten

I want to start off by stating that I’m so ready to kick myself in the ass for even thinking of attempting to write about this topic. No. A kick in the ass is not the right punishment. I should really just chew off my fingers and rip my eyeballs out right now. Maybe cut my tongue out also, and kill all of my brain cells entirely and immediately. That way, I won’t be able to type/talk/think about this toxic-ass ridiculousness.

(I should also apologize about how lengthy this toxic-ass ridiculousness will be, so MY BAD! Alas, I need to detoxify immediately.)

I am referring to none other than Mr. Texas, an “online flame” (more like a fucking disastrous fire) that has plagued and brain-fucked me for the last 3 months or so.

Did I mention that we texted 99324928347923487294827712 times over the course of a month while he was 3475639475327485645 miles away on business?

Of course I did.

Did I mention how we never did actually meet because he turned out to be scumbag, douchebag, lying, flaky bastard?


Reading Elle’s latest post on SATS made me realize the following:

GIIIIIIRL, did you set yourself up for this shit!

Yup, I SURE did. And I sort of knew it, too.

From his impeccable spelling/grammar, to his boyish good looks (think tall—swoon, 6’3, blonde-ish—though really not my cup of tea, dark eyes and a smile that could seriously fucking melt the iceberg Titanic hit. I have to admit—I’m such a silly sucker for smiles. I can’t resist a sexy smile that houses some nice pearly whites. I just CAAAAAAN’T!) to his overall personality, I could just TEEEEEEELL (*rolls eyes*) this boy was trouble.

In REAL fucking LIFE, I would NOT go for him, and he would NOT go for me. Call it self-preservation, but he was the type of guy I’d want to just shred to fucking pieces: annoying good looks, a brain AND personality, a good JOB, a good sense of humor (read: funny as shit, sarcasm at its finest, somewhere between crass vulgarity and crude hilarity), throw into the blend some wit and charm and you’ve got the recipe for disaster. Why? Because SOMETHING HAS TO BE WRONG WITH HIM, duh!

Phew. OK, I feel better now. (Not really.)

But… somehow, I lost myself. I let myself be completely fucking delusional. I mean, really. I let myself believe his stupid words on my stupid phone screen. I let myself interpret his stupid words on my stupid phone screen as grand affirmations instead of viewing them as mere word-charades. I’d throw my head back in laughter as he’d vomit all these promises and declare all these ridiculous things to me, things that otherwise would make me run for the steepest, highest hills. But… somehow, I lost myself. I let myself be delusional. Completely fucking delusional.

I said to myself, “OK, fuck all this ridiculous shit he says to me (OK, I didn’t reeeeally say that, but I did say what ensues) I just want to meet him. That’s all I fucking want. God, please give me that and I will be set. Just to make sure that he’s really the Mr. Texas I’m imaging him to be. (And maybe have my way with him a few times. OKOKOK, just ONCE will do.) Then I can shred him to fucking little pieces. Thank you.”

However, while I was legitimately thinking this way, I was also (foolishly) feeling/acting on the following:

1. Time Difference.

He was, as mentioned, 3475639475327485645 miles away on business. (3475639475327485645 = California; I’m an East Coast chick, so you do the math) Mr. Texas was always 3 hours BEHIND. So while he’d prance, frolicking around Californian bars and clubs virtually EVERY fucking NIGHT of the FUCKING WEEK of the FUCKING MONTH (alcoholic, much? Why, yes, of course!), he wouldn’t think twice about texting me. Which was AWWW, SUPER SWEET, right? He’d think of me while out—he’d definitely not be banging talking to other girls. Oh, no. RIGHT.

Not only would he text me at convenient/decent/reasonable hours for him (12AM - 1AM for HIM, 3AM - 4AM for ME) – his texts were often always so fucking retardedly incoherent due to his intoxication that half the time, my only, half-asleep responses would be, “what?” “huh?” “uhhuh…” “haha” and “yes, I know, babe” (*cringe* at “babe” and I had NO idea what the fucking I was agreeing to.) Fucking asshole.

So I basically would stupidly entertain/amuse his sorry, drunken ass at all sorts of ungodly hours of the night, while I had work the next day at 9AM. (Just in case you are wondering, most days, he’d have to go into work by 11AM-12PM the earliest.) Fucking, fucking selfish asshole. (Fucking, fucking stupid girl.)

2. Drama

Three weeks into it, I get a message on the dating site from a cute little blonde who had “endorsed him.” (She was on the site herself.) The message read some ridiculous shit, along the lines of him being a nice, fun guy and all, but bad, bad news and how she “had known him for 3 years and watched him rip 2 girl’s worlds’ apart,” so I should “be careful” if I “feel my feelings getting intense.” (Oh, this was just “a friendly heads-up” and she of course, asked me not to mention anything to him, by the way.)

The story turned out to be that that girl was BFF with his ex-girlfriend of 100000 years, and she (the ex) found out that he (Texas) is “seriously” talking to “some girl” (me) on this dating site, back in NY (where he currently lives, and I hope my fucking city is giving him hell.) The obsessed ex-girlfriend currently lives somewhere in the midwest, where she followed him after college, from Texas, to live with him and be with him and be his bitch. How fucking sweet, boo-fucking-hoo.

Are you fucking kidding me? Looking back, that would have SOOOO been enough. Who does that? How do I allow myself to deal with STUPID, POINTLESS, IMMATURE EX-GIRLFRIEND DRAMA before I even meet this fool? Uuuuuuuuuuuunbelievable.

So I laughed at the message and of course I told him about it. He assured me she was just jealous and a bit of a psycho and she was the only ex who lingered around and he didn’t like it. OKKKKKK. Whatever, that’s really interesting. What the fuck did it have to do with me, I have no clue. Oh, he also made me SWEAR that I didn't believe the chick.

Him: "Swear you don't believe her, unless you're one of those weirdos who doesn't swear."
Me: "Uhm... yea, sure."
Him: "Don't be a douche."

Holy shit. HOOOOOOOOOLY shit.

He then proceeded to DELETE/deactivate his online profile.

Me: “Did you delete your profile?”
Him: “Why do I need it? Lol. I have you and if not, I deem that site worthless.”

I must have just responded with a smiley fucking face or just an “OK.” I wasn’t shocked, just more like, in a WTF-is-going-on-here-exactly kind of state. I then proceeded (like the idiot that I am/was) to DELETE my profile, too.

Yes. I am a COMPLETE moron. Whooooo does that? Me, apparently. WHY does one DO THAT? Seriously, I must have just completely forgotten during that time that I actually have a fully-functioning brain and a thing called "pride."

3. (On top of the ex-drama) GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.

Now, I understand and can respect that fact that ex’s come up here and there in conversations. In fact, I find it weird if the guy doesn’t want to talk about ex’s—it tells me that something is off: he never had an ex, murdered her, or just isn’t over her (worst case scenario.) Well, Texas would go on and on and give ample and detailed examples about his ex (prior to the message incident—after, when he went back home to visit, after California and before getting back to NY, he told me how he “ripped her apart emotionally;” of course, she just happened to “visit” at the same time, too.)

Other women included fucking a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, an ex (different ex) whose debt he paid off, cheating stories (“stupid college days”), one night stands/fuck buddies, MILFs, and etc.

Hmmmmmmmmm. How lovely.

4. TEMPER. (I’m cringing again.)

A few times, granted during his ridiculous drunken texts, I would make out what seemed to resemble the B-word.
Now, I fully embrace the term “bitch.” I really do. It’s empowering and it bears no abrasive disposition. I like to refer to it as my “Steel Magnolia” description. It’s the kind of term Sherry Argov describes it in her national bestseller, “Why Men Love Bitches.” (ladies, I recommend this 100% for a good fucking laugh and an even better eye-opener.)
However, I don’t give a fuck if you’re spending the week in fucking Amsterdam and you are drunk and high off your asshole, the B-word is NOT appreciated coming from a fucking man in such respect. It is rude and dis-fucking-respectful. Go swallow a knife. (Oh, and I wouldn't have batted an eyelash about telling him off to his pretty little gorgeous Texan face.)
Two sober nasty altercations ensued soon after—one over a simple comment I made at the fact that he had lost his tongue ring after a nice night of excessive drinking. (uhm, seriously?)
Him: “So I woke up this morning and I realized my tongue ring was missing. I have no idea what happened to it.”
Me: “Oh… I have an idea.”
Him: “What idea is that, sweetie?”
Me: “Oh, you knoooooow…”
Him: “You’re so fucking annoying when you say shit like that. You’re just obnoxious. […] If I were to put my tongue in God-knows-what place, on God-knows-what girl, why the fuck would I waste my time talking to you every single fucking day of my life? Why would I tell you that I’m leaving and talk with you every day? Trust me, I wouldn’t give a fuck, I’d just holla when I’d be back in NY and smash.”

"Holla" and "smash." My eyes were having a blast rolling in the back of my fucking head in amusement, disgust and disbelief.

Uhm, defensive much? OKKKKKK. Jesus Christ. All I said was, “Oh, you know.” That’s.just.three.words. WOW.

I tried to appease the weird encounter by stating the following:

Me: "Would you like me to buy you a new tongue ring?"
Him: "LMAO, noooo."
Him: "Awww, I'm sorry baby, you're cute and funny, I'm sorry that I got so mad, I just didn't like how you said that and I don't know... I took it the wrong way, I guess."

Fucking FREAK.

I have really no energy or desire to get into the second time he got nasty with me (something about his ex), apparently his panties must have been on too tight for him, but I just wanted to show how he definitely had some major anger issues, and never did he even try to hide this fact from me.

“By far, my anger is my biggest flaw. But at least I’m honest about it, and I am working on it.”

Vomit. And congratu-fucking-lations, dickhead.

5. Doing Ridiculous Shit.

I am not Betty Fucking Crocker and I hate Rachael Ray with the passion of a thousand suns. Albeit, I CAN be a bit domestic, but in this guy’s mind, I was already LIVING at his place – cooking and cleaning and doing his fucking laundry. Oh, how I WISH I were kidding. This got to be slightly annoying. Men – I get it. You need to eat. You like to eat. Women should feed you – sure. SMACK to the KITCHEN? – I don’t fucking think so. Yes, I’ve prepared elaborate meals for boyfriends in the past, but I honestly don’t just cook for anyone. That is almost something intimate to me; it has to be earned by the person who's getting this treatment. (Yes, I AM THAT GOOD.) I don’t know why I see it in such a way, but I just do.

Him: “So what would you cook for me, baby?” (Keyword: WOULD)
Me: “Uhmm…Italian?”

(Insert endless Italian food commentary here)

Me: “Listen, if I WERE to do that, I wouldn’t try to impress you. Honestly, I’m not exactly Betty Crocker and I don’t like very much the idea of spending endless hours in a fucking hot ass kitchen. I know what I can make, it’s easy, quick, and delicious and you’d love it.”

Him: “You wouldn’t have to impress me, baby. You blow my mind already and I’m sure I’d love anything you’d make.”


6. Overall Uber Shadiness.

The last (and pretty sure the biggest) factor I chose to stupidly overlook/pretend I don’t mind/not care too much about/not stand up to was the fact that Texas claimed from DAY ONE (OK, like day 3) that he had a “fancy iPhone” (he worked for Apple, Inc.—now you know why I hate all Apple products, but I just picked up my iPhone last week) whose speaker was busted, hence we couldn’t talk on the phone.

(You WORK for Apple, are away on work-related BUSINESS, and your fancy technological instrument from your work establishment is NOT working properly. RIGHT. FU. I was indeed born yesterday.)

OKKKKK. What was I supposed to say to that? How the hell was I supposed to find out if that was a lie or not? So texting up the ass is what we did. Day-in, day-out, night-in, night-out. After he disappeared, I tried to call him just ONCE (used my friend’s phone and blocked her number, too, of course.) I got his voicemail. I figured maybe he got ran over by a cab or something. He then resurrected from the dead a month later! AND STILL, ‘TILL THIS DAY, THIS MOTHERFUCKING CHARACTER NEVER CALLED ME.

He'd send me funny (read: retarded) videos of himself and his buddies in messages ON THE DATING SITE. (He asked me for my email the first night, claimed he sent a video there, but it "must have not gone through" because I never got shit from him.)

He also had "5000+" Facebook friends or some number in that ballpark, and apparently, Mark Zuckerberg was not allowing his popular ass to add anymore "friends" unless he KNEW them. In person. And since, well, we hadn't MET YET, he couldn't add me just yet. (Are there like, Facebook Laws now? Seriously? WTF, fucking bullshit)

Because his phone speaker was "busted," he suggested Skype. OKKKKKK. One night, we had a scheduled a "Skype date" (I was alone in a hotel room, in Fort Lauderdale, FL for a conference, while he... ended up going out and getting trashed that night. Oh, he also would send me pictures of himself with GIRLS. Girls he'd meet randomly, I'm assuming. "What uppppp girl, I'm tiiiiiioopsssyyy" When I told him I'd start sending him pictures with dudes, he got offended. Fucktard.)

So, let's recap: NO email. NO Facebook. NO Skype. NO phone calls.

What in the fuckity fuck was I doing/thinking? Someone please, I really am about to just punch myself in the fucking face.

*punches face*


Now, onto the shady resurrection:

Him: (a month after disappearance) “Wow, phew, lol finally got your number back… If you want an explanation, add me on Skype (insert lame Skype name here) and we’ll talk later tonight or whenever you have time. If not, uh, take care and I’m sorry."
Me: (like, a day later) “If you have an explanation, call."
Him: (like, a minute later) “I’d rather Skype, or meet in person, unless you’re planning on killing me."

Fuck you very much.

(Insert minimal annoyed sarcastic banter here)
Him: “Miss you."
Me: “Sure you do.”
I think he’s really just an Asian midget. Or a pervy 65 year old from Nebraska.
Everything was just a lie and a great show was put on.

Done, done, done.
I sent one last TEXT to him, and I said that it was needed to be done, for myself. My "closure text." I remained calm and collected, though I thoroughly also expressed my annoyance and slight aggravation in a moderate-to-high bitchy tone.

Never heard shit back. Gee, what a surprise.

Lesson to be learned: investment prior to actually meeting the guy in person. That investment should equal to ZERO. Niente, nada, zilch, kaput, NOTHING.

Therefore, the ROI will also be ZERO. I might have only gotten a B in Finance, but I do know that Investment > ROI = you're a fucking moron.
Congratulations, you fail at life.
(Did I really have to go through such a fucking – granted mildly stimulating and entertaining – charade to see and learn this??)
Sad, end/side note: I was NOT talking to any other guys at the same time, of course. Like, at all. NOT ONE. Lame.

Edit: I just wanted to also add that I never do this shit. The reason why I'm so disappointed is because as I said, I "went with it" and just didn't want to be skeptical/negative about shit. This is how I now know that it's just way better and a lot smarter to be skeptical/negative.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Writer's Block (read: Lack of Motivation)

Since I've prettied up my little blog tonight, it'd only be customary that I'd update it with a new, fabulous post. However, my mind has been a clusterfuck of thoughts and ridiculous emotions the past few weeks that I still need time to try to put them in some sort of ridiculous order. That way, I hope to be able to fully reflect and to articulate a half-decent, intelligible post.

I also have made it a PRIORITY to gym it haaaaarrrrd in the morning, no more excuses - my gym gets ridiculously packed in the afternoons, and I seriously want to punch someone in the face because I can't even BREATHE in that goddamn place (I'll somewhat miss the hunky men that make up 90% of my gym population, but I won't miss the silly intimidating vibe they give off when I'm trying to do my Romanian deadlifts or the annoyed jump-roping I do to pass the time while I wait for the Smith machine) - alas, there's fucking sunlight at 5AM in the summer, so my ass needs to get up!

Maybe a new and improved AM gym schedule will help de-funk the BLAH state of mind I've been in lately.

Oh, and Zumba. I love shaking my ass.