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I might be a lesbian

No one wants to have sex with me and that’s okay I swear

April 19, 2011

One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.

But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).

In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.

So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.

Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.

I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.

When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.

And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.

He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”

And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”

An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:

“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”

In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:

Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.

 

*We follow each other on Twitter

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I’m going to be a doctor’s wife

March 31, 2011

Since finding my dream doctor about one year ago, I’ve probably had around eleven visits. Most of them carry the theme of “What kinds of drugs can I get for eating brownie batter and sleeping all the time?” Hint: It’s not medical marijuana.

Aside from jumping from horse to horse on the carousel of antidepressants, my other reason for visiting so often has been headaches. If I’m lucky, I’ll go one week without one. Otherwise, they occur almost daily. But no matter what I may be going through, I always look forward to seeing my doctor. She’s friendly, extremely competent, takes copious notes and usually remembers everything about me. She also gives one kick ass pap smear. After my appointments, I usually gush to my boyfriend about how great she is, how I’ve never had a doctor who actually cares and urge him to see her if he ever needs anything.

I started to hear myself masturbating with my own words. “She actually listens, you know?” “She doesn’t rush the appointment – she really takes the time to understand your needs.” Oh, and the final red flag, “She really makes it feel like I’m the only one in the room.” I could see the concern on his face, but I ignored it. I didn’t have a problem. What I felt for my doctor was completely normal and he just didn’t get it.

But after a few fruitless visits regarding my chronic headaches, my boyfriend finally expressed his opinion, which is never welcome unless it’s about how good my skin looks. He said, “I’m not sure about your doctor anymore, maybe you should look for a second opinion.”

Almost immediately, I wanted to scream, “YOU DON’T KNOW HER LIKE I DO, SHE’S TRYING HER BEST I MEAN, IT’S NOT LIKE SHE CAN PRESCRIBE PAIN PILLS TO A PATIENT ON ANTIDEPRESSANTS. RIGHT? I MEAN, RIGHT? DON’T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN YOU’D BE LUCKY TO EVEN MEET A WOMAN LIKE HER.” Instead I calmly said, “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

I definitely had a problem.

But, luckily, I’m able to play it cool around her. When she comes into the exam room and asks how I’m doing, I’m all like “Sup?” When she leaves and says it was nice to see me, I totally don’t say anything because that means I have all the power.

Then I go through a series of giddy screeches once I get out to the car.

But the point is – I’ve somehow developed a somewhat unhealthy relationship with my doctor. So unhealthy that she has no idea that it even exists. Now I’m left with two choices -laugh and forget about it (like everything else) or see her again so I can get a referral to see someone about being obsessed with her. Ultimately, I’m fairly certain that I can solve this like a rational adult and understand that my feelings are a result of finally experiencing safety and trust in my medical care.

And no, seeing another doctor is absolutely not an option you take that back.


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This year I’m dressing up as someone who doesn’t shop at Target

September 13, 2010

I went to Target today. Usually, that just means I’ve bought enough candy to permanently damage most of my major organs. But this time, I found a way to be ugly on the outside too.

Here I am, looking fuckable as ever

Don’t be alarmed. I didn’t dye my hair with printer ink after cutting it with a mandoline. I did something stupider, actually. I paid $8 for this wig:

You may notice that there’s a bit of a discrepancy between my wig and the one pictured on the packaging. I wasn’t expecting much, but I thought that I could at least achieve Sexy Eddie Munster. Instead I’ve got Guy Who Lives In His Buick And Cries During Neil Young’s “Old Man.“ And that’s only if I took the time to comb it.

So just keep in mind this Halloween that ‘english mod’ most likely means “future paint huffer.” And that Target will stop at nothing to make you hideous.


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My new style icon is Jillian Michaels

May 11, 2010

On February 13, 2008, I wore a mustard yellow cardigan, faded jeans, and a t-shirt displaying a dread-locked dude smoking a cigarette. I remember it only because it was the day of my first date with this guy I live with now who thinks I’m going to have sex with him and tell him what my last name is.

At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. It was practically my uniform – I had at least four other caridgans in many more unflattering colors. Months later, after a shopping trip where I was encouraged to, “show off my body” and let go of the Ellen DeGeneres look, my boyfriend shared with me that as soon as he saw what I was wearing that night he said one thing to himself,

“…Really?”

I thought, “Really what? Really cool? Really awesome? Really great once you get to know her?” But no, it was just an incredulous, “Really?” Meaning that he couldn’t believe I stepped out of the house completely unprepared for an impromptu photo shoot for David’s Bridal. I mean, yeah OK, maybe I was dressed a little like Cynthia Nixon’s girlfriend, but no one would’ve mistaken me for someone in possession of a Y Chromosome.

Minutes after his 20-years-too-late audition for Heathers, I wowed him with anecdotes from my time as a 16-year-old cracked out Super Conservative who subscribed to the Weekly Standard. It soon became irrelevant that I showed up looking like dirty laundry.

I was thinking about all of this yesterday when I signed up for a LinkedIn account. Right? It’s like saying I signed up for Facebook or got my hands on one of those cool Giga Pets. But it made me realize that this compulsion to force myself into the role of a dark horse that just hasn’t ascended yet is in everything I do.

I spent quite a bit of time attempting to sell myself. Talking about my passion for writing and how like, I can do it. At no point did I lie or exaggerate, but it still felt weird. Because part of me will never allow myself to admit that I’m good at something. It’s largely motivated by the need to defend against complacency. So I don’t tell myself I can’t, I just tell myself that I can always do better. It’s kind of like Charlie Brown Syndrome, but sometimes I actually do kick the football.

At some point I had to insert something that didn’t suggest I was actually a bowl of plain oatmeal trying to find work. But I also didn’t want to go too far, in fear that I would only be able to fill jobs requiring slide whistles. So I figured that I’d put some flair in my headline.

Before I proceeded, I asked my boyfriend what he thought about my idea. After all, he was able to be incredibly vocal about my ill-fitting cardigans – he must have an opinion about my attempt to be the Adam Sandler of LinkedIn. Plus, Yahoo Answers would’ve taken too long.

I took, “vaguely euphemistic” to mean, “the best idea you’ve ever had” so I went with it. Eventually he said I was underselling myself again, but we’ll see about that when I’m earning over 1000 jugs of smooth chocolate paradise  per month.

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You used to be cool, Weblog Awards

January 4, 2010

You may recall a few weeks ago, I mentioned being nominated for Best Humor Blog in the 2009 Weblog Awards. Finalists were supposed to be announced in late December, with voting starting today. Turns out though, it’s not happening at all due to hosting issues or The Dust Bowl or more realistically, socialism.

Initially, I blamed myself. It’s illogical of course, but there’s still this residual guilt from grade school where I lead myself to believe that whichever team I was placed on in gym class lost because of me. Sometimes though, that was probably true because I spent most of the time pretending to tie my shoes or trying to figure out if my teacher was a lesbian and if so, was her girlfriend pretty?

This time, I’m almost certain this had nothing to do with me. You’d think it did, since it took these people months to actually let the losers (me) who were nominated know what’s up, but I’d like to think even I am not that disconnected from my tenuous internet responsibilities.

Regardless, being nominated gave me a total roll-over and I ended up meeting some cool people in the process. So if you voted for me, thank you and if you didn’t, I’m going to refrain from doling out petty threats.

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