From the category archives:

Dating

I Will Be Your Father Figure

May 14, 2009

I started birth control because my really abrasive Eastern European doctor, knowing I was sexually active, asked me what form of birth control I used at the time, and when I said, “condoms”, she replied with, “…and you think that’s wise?” Without giving me time for a rebuttal (which probably would’ve been something like, “your mom”), she had already written me a prescription for Alesse. I was on that for about one year and I remember none of it. I know I had a lot of sex and was thrilled that I didn’t have to mess with latex condoms anymore, but adverse side effects are hard to pin down because any irritability could’ve been attributed to the fact that I was living in Washington D.C. and hated the fact that the nearest Target was at least 30 minutes away in a car I didn’t have.

After my prescription for Alesse ran out, I wanted to try something different. Luckily, I had a new doctor who didn’t have a portrait of Mikhail Gorbachev staring back at me as I spread my lips for someone who, if given the chance, would’ve probably used a scythe instead of a speculum, so I was able to explore my options. My impulse was to try a new method with one of those trendy commercials of professional women dancing to contemporary music with their friends, staying out late and drinking appletinis because they can. However, that same impulse sometimes urges me to buy The Lizzie McGuire Movie on DVD and watch until the Cheetos run out, so I squashed it immediately and just stuck with a prescription for Yasmin. I was initially impressed with the purple velour packaging, and its defense against PMDD, but the honeymoon soon wore off once I realized that I hate velour and PMDD is complete and utter bullshit. I was on Yasmin for about 6 months, and stopped the day I vowed to never beg my then boyfriend to fuck me again.

I refilled what was left of my prescription nearly one year later, once I started a new relationship. At first, we were both thrilled at the idea of being able to fuck anywhere with little to no preparation. However, as tension grew between us, it became apparent that the birth control was altering my mood and causing us to have more conflict than what would be normal for two people, one of which was still living with an ex, the other who was out of the dating game for years and therefore having a hard time figuring out how to make room for someone else in their life. If this sounds off to you, you’re onto something because it’s more laughable than David Hasselhoff’s music career. Our problems eclipsed the Hindenburg in explosiveness, because I needed constant support and reassurance while he was used to a solitary life of Corn Flakes and The West Wing.

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We both bickered back and forth about the fate of my uterus, he cited some of its negative side effects and I resisted, knowing that it was of no consequence for me to go off birth control, but a good feminist didn’t listen to any man (this, I’ve learned, is more popularly known as shortsightedness). While I didn’t believe that birth control was entirely to blame, it was the only bargaining chip I had and the only way I could conceivably excuse myself for being a major cunt, so I quit taking my pills. I didn’t feel optimistic about anything at that point, knowing that it was very possible that we just weren’t compatible and were going through a trial of heartbreaking hopelessness, resting our expectations on the elimination of a dose of hormones.

Of course now I realize that our respective emotional IQs didn’t even add up to cover bus fare, but at the time, we needed something to control and choosing whether or not to take a pill was the easiest option. We were simply avoiding the inevitability of actually having to talk to one another and in the process, putting our concerns and insecurities out on the table. One of the hardest things I’ve had to do is share with someone who could identify my pubic hair in a lineup that I was irrationally afraid of being cheated on or worried that our relationship would morph into a sexless and tepid platonic bond. For me though, I knew I had to do it to explain my derisive outbursts, because ultimately it would’ve been even more difficult to watch a relationship that I truly cared about unravel due to my own inability to be an adult and claim my own, sometimes grotesque, humanity.

I’ve recently gone back on birth control, this time with Ortho Tri-Cyclin Lo, which is a low dose pill that should produce fewer side effects. It’s understandably a sensitive subject in my relationship, but it was openly discussed and for the first time in my reproductive history, I’ve been able to make a command decision to do what’s best for me and my individual circumstances. I don’t necessarily relish the thought of putting synthetic hormones into my body, but I feel it’s the right choice to make as someone who will soon be voluntarily and indefinitely unemployed. I know that being pregnant and broke in movies means that you can have a baby in Wal-Mart and somehow meet the love of your life, or at the very least Seth Rogen will show up to smoke pot and rent a shitty apartment for you to live in, but something tells me I won’t be so lucky.

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You're Not a Nerd If You Saw the Star Trek Movie, Just Normal

May 11, 2009

The only person who asked me out in high school was my AP Lit teacher, Mrs. Mullins. In order to avoid any pedo bear accusations, I will clarify that she didn’t technically ask me out, but was simply an emissary for one of her former students, Danny, who for some reason still showed up at school after hours. So fine, the pedo bear references are apt.

He graduated a year before me, and would come to Book Club meetings that Mrs. Mullins sponsored. I was usually in attendance since I never caught on to the whole teen mom trend, and along with a few others, would pass the time by watching Danny solve a Rubix Cube in under one minute. In addition to having an unnatural relationship with a plastic toy, Danny rode his bike everywhere (Mormon), wore a fly decal on the right lens of his glasses at all times, and was fluent in Klingon.

I took a playful interest in him, because he was different and, as someone who still carried a Big Bird lunch box around, I felt I could relate in some way. There was nothing even remotely romantic there, just a recognition of our shared unabomber potential. I think I made my first (and last) mistake when I asked him to teach me Klingon and like a dumb ass, followed it up by flashing my Vulcan salute, which I’m sure impressed no one but myself.

Weeks later on my birthday, he presented me with my very own Klingon Dictionary. To this day I don’t know how he even knew it was my birthday, considering that we only saw each other for 20 minutes after school in a group setting and I certainly didn’t make a spectacle out of myself on that day, knowing that the general response would be, “And?”. He made sure that I was aware of the fact that he rode his bike to four different book stores just to acquire a copy and I thanked him, wondering how long it would be until he killed me and started wearing my skin as a coat. He even expected me to learn phrases so we could talk to one another and at future meetings, he would quiz me to the point where I wished someone had brought a gun to school just to get me out of my obligation to unintentionally give him a raging hard-on.

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So, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when days later, my teacher pulled me out of class to ask me out on a date. Of course, under normal circumstances, this would be cause for alarm, but this involved an adult male voluntarily coming back to high school while devoting himself simultaneously to Joseph Smith and Spock, so it was par for the course. Since she was my teacher, I thought that she needed to talk to me about an assignment, but when she asked, “What do you think of Danny?”, I wanted to punch her in the cunt and run away. Instead, I said something vague like, “He’s nice”, and apparently, that was her cue to continue to ask me if I would be interested in going out with him sometime. I paused, and all of the reasons why I had to say no flashed before me. First of all, I was graduating soon and would be leaving town, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to bring guys home, especially if they rolled up on a Huffy, and oh yeah, odds are he was building a spaceship out of soda cans, foam noodles, and masking tape so he could take me to his Talarian Homeworld. In one of the most bizarre moments of my life, I almost said yes because I didn’t want to hurt my teacher’s feelings, but instead settled on, “I don’t date.”

Technically, I wasn’t lying. I didn’t refuse because I held myself to some backwards standard of high school normalcy, but because the timing was all kinds of wrong for me and at 17, I couldn’t see myself dating someone who wore pressed Dockers on a daily basis. I regret to say that I never saw Danny again after that, and while I used to feel bad thinking that he assumed I rejected him based on his…unconventional lifestyle, I now realize that to him, he was simply living within his self-defined borders of normal.

This is why the recent barrage of self proclaimed nerdiness from those who, like 7 million other people saw Star Trek over the weekend, is so ridiculous. It’s like calling yourself a foodie because you chase pretzels with a handful of chocolate chips or believing that you can be a model because you look good in low light. I think, yeah, Star Trek fandom was originally the quintessential guarantee that you would spend the rest of your life fucking your Real Doll, but after 40 years, it’s finally mainstream. All it took were a few men hot enough to soak some panties and/or boxer briefs, explosions, and the quirky antics of Simon Pegg.

I’m happy to see that Star Trek is finally universally acceptable and dare I say cool, not only because the series is fairly progressive in its portrayal of women and men, but because it is my firm hope that somewhere out there, a lifelong Star Trek fan can now feel secure enough to ask someone out without making them want to shit their pants.

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No Logic, No Plan, No Worries

May 6, 2009

I’m moving, and it’s weird to tell you that because odds are the only person who cares is the one who keeps searching “where does vagina drum live?” in order to find my site and apparently, my address. I guess I should be kind of unsettled from seeing that keyword search pop up almost every day in Google Analytics, but my appreciation for unhealthy perseverance ultimately outweighs my fear of the possibility that someone out there will try to kill Will Smith in order to impress me.

So, to answer your question, John Hinckley Jr: I live in Florida. I feel safe in sharing that because it won’t be true in two months, and plus, I’m confident that the fact that there are at least 16 rebel flags and 3 teeth for every 6 people (these are real figures) in Florida will make anyone want to kill themselves before they even have a chance to get to me.

The decision to move was made a little over a year ago, when my boyfriend and I could only claim a 3 month relationship. The conversation to actually start living a life we both wanted happened in Chili’s, over BBQ bacon burgers, which I understand seems incongruous because people who want to do shit with their lives rarely try to end them prematurely with four pounds of meat. I don’t remember how the topic of conversation started, but I do remember being apprehensive about sharing life goals with someone who, at the time, was probably more interested in Garth Brooks’ alter ego Chris Gaines than he was with me, while casually mentioning to him that “Maybe, you know, it would be kind of cool if you came along. Whatever. I don’t really care, I mean it’s no big deal. I think I’m busy that night anyway.” Granted, I didn’t have much of a plan at the time, because I was just getting used to a life with options after years of acclimating myself to eating my weight in biscuit sandwiches, but I knew at the very least that I didn’t want to be in Florida anymore and would prefer a location change to the Pacific Northwest. He happened to agree and from there, we tip-toed through the awkward situation of wanting to have some sort of future together, while being careful not to be too invested or insane. This means that I never tricked him into going wedding dress shopping just for fun and he didn’t try to knock me up, claiming that it would “bring us together.”

Eventually, we both got comfortable with the idea of having one another around and just naturally began to launch into conversations about money, employment, and housing. Eating at home and relying on entertainment from the raccoons that occupy a nearby dumpster allowed us to save enough money to survive for 6 months. We’re completely skipping the job hunt and instead, are opting to put our respective testicles out on the table and attempt to survive on freelance work (for me, that means writing for church bulletin boards if it comes to it). Housing will have to figure itself out when we get there, but I’m optimistic that there will be a nice bridge or abandoned teen center to claim as our own.

To be honest, the idea of packing up my life, driving across the country, and doing it all so I can be glamorously unemployed gives me a heart attack. But to be fair, it all started that way with three strips of thick-cut bacon rubbed with brown sugar and smoked to perfection so I guess that means that I’m doing something right.

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Six On a Good Day

February 19, 2009

One year anniversaries are special. This is a time in the relationship where you wake up next to each other and think, “I love you” instead of, “Why are you still here?” I looked forward to mine for months, which I know kind of seems crazy, but you have to understand that this is the first relationship I’ve had where I get solid dick on a daily basis. So, can you really blame me?

Our anniversary fell on Friday the 13th and while some couples may have taken advantage and had some sort of John Edwards-esque seance, we opted to go out for steak, split a bacon bar, and then fuck all night. Incidentally, this happens to be how I would envision heaven, provided that I believed in the concept.

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That night, I shaved my pussy, put on my dress and heels, and skipped the underwear. On my way to pick him up from work, I prepared myself for a night of debauchery, but the rug was soon pulled out from under me. I got there, we played an especially saccharine game of “No, I love you more” and exchanged gifts. However, he didn’t get me a card, and I suddenly felt foolish for giving him one with a picture of two hugging cats on the front. I tried to bust his balls hoping that I could joke my way out of the aggravation, but knowing that I fucking wrote him something that would embarrass even the most avid Josh Groban fan wouldn’t allow it.

We drove in silence for what seemed like hours, but not before he took a heart shaped cookie he got from work, broke it in half, and handed over my share. The symbolism didn’t mock me until much later, since at that moment, I was more concerned with chewing on this brittle confection as I thought, “He didn’t get me a card. He didn’t get me a card. He didn’t get me a card.” Ok, look. I know I’m coming off as a complete nut job so far. By now, most of you are probably trying to track him down to tell him how sorry you are that he lives with me. That’s fine. Despite having a vagina, my needs aren’t complicated. I just wanted a card with maybe a “Nice job, buddy” written inside.

Eventually, we decided to abort the night. We were both in terrible moods, mostly because we failed to communicate and instead, began every sentence with, “No, you’re shittier because…”. Then, he did something that you only see in bad romantic comedies, and it usually makes you think, “I should’ve watched Ernest Scared Stupid instead”. He got out of the car. We were at a stoplight when he opened the door, and walked out onto the sidewalk next to the sketchiest Denny’s ever, which is really saying something  (sorry, Nannerpuss). Naturally, I freaked out. I had no choice but to keep driving and through tears and anger, I thought, “Fuck him, I’ll go home and he can find his own way back”. Unfortunately, I am not that much of a cunt, so I turned around and waited for him in the Denny’s parking lot. I called him, hoping that he was inside drowning his sorrows in a Moons Over My Hammy. I kept calling and after my sixth attempt, found out that he was just walking aimlessly around in an area that only David Berkowitz could truly appreciate, and so a shouting match ensued while I tried to coax him back. I was eventually successful, we talked, cried, and went to dinner as if nothing happened.

The night ended with oral that made my eyes cross, and while that made it easier to forgive, I didn’t forget. The next morning, I went out to the car and activated the child locks. Just in case.

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I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up

February 9, 2009

I got a call today, which is funny because my phone sees such little activity that I should just start wearing it around my neck and call it Life Alert.

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It was Brad. You don’t know Brad, and really, I don’t know Brad, but he was the guy I met about one week after my first breakup. He lived in my apartment complex, and reached out to me one day when I was checking the mail, most likely because he saw the “I want to die” look on my face. We started talking and within 5 minutes, he assured me that he wasn’t hitting on me because he had a girlfriend. Thanks. Not that I was interested, but fuck, I would’ve accepted a pass from Richard Simmons so there’s no way to be sure.

He frequently invited me out with his friends, which I was thankful for at the time because it meant that I didn’t have to sit in a room with my ex-boyfriend and talk about my feelings. However, one of his friends took a liking to me so Brad took it upon himself to set up a double date, without my knowledge. Aside from meeting Brad’s girlfriend for the first time and learning that she had a penchant for Hot Topic, this date taught me that somehow, Brad’s friend was an even bigger loser than Brad himself. Danny smoked pot daily, took the bus everywhere, was unemployed and worst of all, he was never without the denim jacket that he decorated with Led Zeppelin and Whitesnake patches. Brad didn’t know it, but I stopped calling him “friend” after pulling that Chuck Woolery shit on me.

Despite this, we still saw each other. For as long as I knew Brad, he tried to convince me to do drugs with him. His collection usually consisted of marijuana and mushrooms, but his prize pig was ecstasy. He would regale me with stories about how wild the sex was with his girlfriend while they were both rolling and that as a result, he’s come close to many threesomes. I never had problems with this, because I love to hear about what men do with their dicks. However, I became concerned when he would tell a story about another almost threesome and then immediately follow it with, “You should try ecstasy with my girlfriend and I”. Call me presumptuous, but to me, that sounds like another opportunity for me to look at myself in the mirror and say, ‘You’ve really done it this time.”.

This is why, almost six months since I last spoke to Brad, I didn’t answer the phone when I saw that he was calling. He left a message inviting me out to a comedy club he was going to that night. I chose not to call him back, figuring that the thought of spending time with someone who wore the same pair of sweatpants everyday was all of the humor I needed.

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