I don't like answering the phone if I'm peeing, eating or watching the Daily Show. I don't like answering the phone during sex either, but thankfully sex doesn't happen often enough to warrant much in the way of contingency planning.
My reason for wanting to watch the Daily Show uninterrupted is purely mental. I like imagining myself as a guest on the show, and talking on the phone interferes.
Jon Stewart hugs me, we exchange witty banter, my book becomes an overnight best-seller and Oprah calls before the interview is even over, dying to have me on her show. I turn her down. Then Jon and I go for martinis afterward with Stephen Colbert, and I get a text message from David Sedaris congratulating me on my success and inviting me to visit him at his home in France...
Woe be the person interrupting the Daily Show, and yet friends continually call between 11:00 and 11:30 p.m. Maddeningly, their first question before launching into how their day went is always whether I'm watching the Daily Show.
Sun Tzu may have mastered the art of war, but few have mastered the art of pretending to pay attention while still following Jon Stewart's opening in quite the same way I have.
Sometimes however, I have no choice but to be interrupted -- particularly when the friend on the other line is drunk as fuck and dying to get something off her chest.
For those readers who have met me in person and then immediately sustained a head injury wiping out memory, or for those readers who have never met me but who have had the biblical level of patience required to make it through one of my blog postings...I have some news.
News so big, my friend drank liters of alcohol and then called me up just to tell me.
I'm single.
No, really - it's true. Please try to contain your shock.
I have no significant other, boyfriend, partner, love interest or friend with benefits to speak of.
(Just to clarify, I'm not counting friends with benefits who are happily married or love interests who are well on the way to being happily married to women who are decidedly not me. The English language has not caught up to the finer nuances of my life thus far, and so there are no easy titles for these sorts of people.)
For the love of Cher I can't even keep vegetables healthy in my fridge. I'm afraid if I get a dog it won't like me, and I recently murdered a houseplant that should have been impossible to kill. Basically...cultivating healthy relationships with other living organisms isn't my strong suit is what I'm trying to say here.
In case I wasn't aware however, my drunken friend called during the Daily Show to ask me if I was aware of this, and I replied that I am. Very, very aware. This was good, because she had more to tell me.
I'm alone, will likely always be alone, and it's completely my fault. It's OK though, because even though she'd come to these conclusions and they seem kind of harsh, she knows what I need to change.
As the Daily Show went to commercial, I was hoping it wouldn't take longer than three minutes for her to provide me with the advice that could save myself from becoming a giant Fancy Feast for my hoard of cats.
(I can only assume after slipping in the shower and dying alone on my bathroom floor, kitties aren't going to wait around two years for their next meal and for my body to be discovered.)
Thankfully, she wasn't going to be mean about it. Even though my dating ambitions reminded her of MADtv sketches from back in the day, posting these sketches on my blog in the comments section as was her first inclination was too mean and she just couldn't do it. Best to just phone me during the Daily Show instead.
The sketches she felt were more documentary than comedy for me were titled "Lowered Expectations," and often featured an introduction by the Lowered Expectations spokesperson...
Are you having trouble finding your ideal mate? How about any mate? Do you feel you'll be the last man or woman on earth still not getting any? Are you using roofies to score? And you still hope to land that prince or princess of your dreams? Well wake up Sleeping Ugly! Because your only hope is Lowered Expectations. Our video library allows you to choose from thousands of chronically rejected singles just as hard up and pathetic as you. So good luck! You'll need it.
Some of these sketches were indeed hilarious. Somewhat less hilarious is being compared to a Lowered Expectations sketch.
My friend felt pointing out that it's my fault I'm alone was a kindness, and not many people would have the guts to tell me. This conversation was obviously going to last past the commercials, and that was annoying for one major reason.
I know I'm the problem.
There's a thread that runs through this blog, and that thread is me being pretty fucking sure I'm the problem in some way. Maybe that is the problem. I'm so convinced I will never have a decent relationship that I wouldn't even know what to do with myself if a guy I'm into is ever good to me in return.
In fact, I'm so used to being treated badly, I would probably set myself on fire if the first and only guy to ever call me when he says he will asked me to do it. Luckily, that's insanely far-fetched.
That is, a guy calling when he says he will. Not the fire part.
What sprang my friend into action was a recent blog posting in which I described the differences inherent in being a wife/girlfriend versus being...whatever the hell it is I usually am.
It's not that I don't have experience to back me up. I've been the whatever the hell else many more times than I've been the girlfriend, so I know what I'm talking about. Just the same, perhaps I had been unclear about at least one point.
In my posting I referenced a guy who makes a six-figure salary, and the happy life this can afford a couple who are very happy together and who don't lay awake worrying about money.
This isn't how my friend read this posting though. Six-figure salary turned out to be fighting words.
She took this to mean that I'm secretly gold-digging, and it's "pathetic," particularly because I could never, ever land a guy who makes six figures.
It's not that there aren't guys out there who make six figures, it's more that I could never hope to date one.
She's probably right. If I were actually gold-digging, I'm as much of a failure at that as I am keeping fresh salad ingredients.
Example: for years my affection for a guy named Alex has been well-chronicled on this site. That boy makes about $15,000 less a year than I do, depending on how the economy might be doing overall.
A career in sales is tough, but he's good at it because he has a way of connecting with people that I could never hope to have. People meet him and like him instantly. People meet me, and wonder, "Does she always look that tired?"
Alex has typically worked jobs that truly snotty people look down on, but where he lives there's not a lot of high-roller positions available. The cost of living where he does is considerably lower than where I've chosen to be alone and pathetic however, so he still has a sprawling house with a living room I could fit my condo into.
I'm sure his new girlfriend enjoys it there. And now I need some wine. And to cry.
Some would even think his job title is an insult in itself. He works on commission, thus providing everybody who's ever asked me what he does for a living the opportunity to tell me how his occupation proves I'm sadly gullible and he's a bad person.
He lies for a living, and he's nothing but a smarmy salesman. Anything nice he's ever said to me is a lie told just to get my pants off.
(To be fair, this could have made us a perfect match because I lie in my job all day long too. Yes, the project will be done by the end of January. Yes, I read the strategy documents and meeting agenda. No, I didn't steal your tape. I had no idea I was supposed to be at that meeting! Seriously, I don't have your tape. Or your ruler.)
I dare anybody to spend a day at the office without telling a single lie.
Alex may be a good liar who brings in less than I do but the words, "rat" and "ass," are still the two words that when combined together, best describe my feelings toward Alex's earning potential.
His job, his pay cheque, his education level - did not care. Do not care.
Being with him was all I wanted.
Money for the sake of it is not my goal. It's more that I'd like to take trips once in a while, buy good food, enjoy a night out and maybe even enjoy my life with another person. A partner who wants those things too and can work for them would be all I ask for.
Actually, that's a lie. I am asking for more, because I know too well what life can be like when there's zero financial security.
When I look back at why I stayed so long with my piece of shit abusive ex in Calgary, one of the big reasons was I couldn't afford to leave. Every day felt like waking up in a leg-hold trap.
The people who say money can't buy happiness aren't doing it right. If not happiness, money at least buys options. My ex knew I had very few of those, and made a conscious effort to chip away at the slim chances I held onto.
Of course I would threaten to leave, and he'd threaten that I was too stupid and useless to make it on my own. It would only be a matter of weeks until I was living in a cardboard box, because he was the best thing that would ever happen to me, and nobody else would ever love me enough to tell me the truth about myself the way he did.
As crazy as it sounds now, when you hear these things often enough and there's nobody around to tell you otherwise...you believe.
At the time though, it's not abuse. Not at all. Abuse is something really serious and really different that only happens to those other women. THOSE women don't leave. THOSE women stay when they should run because THOSE women are stupid. THOSE women hide black eyes and THOSE women need to be in a shelter or perhaps a United Way ad campaign.
Not like me. I'm not like those women, and it can't be abuse because I don't have bruises on my face.
Right.
Eventually it does get so bad that skid row seems the better option. Even two black eyes would be a welcome choice. In the end, I didn't walk out - I ran, cardboard box be damned.
I left mostly everything, but made it out with my clothes. I was sneaky. Packing my favorite things into garbage bags for several weeks prior and telling him it was all stuff I was taking to consignment worked like a charm.
What didn't work quite as well was stocking up on a few necessary household items I purchased secretly, and hid around the house in anticipation of leaving, long before I even had a place to go. I had a lot of explaining to do when he found a brand new clock radio tucked behind the fridge, still in its box.
Aside from discovering that behind a fridge is a terrible hiding place for home electronics, this experience taught me something very important.
I may have terrible judgement, but if a guy is willing and wanting to build a financially stable and decent life with me instead of using money to starve and bully me into a dark corner with no other place to go, then that is how I can know he's a decent man.
Or so I thought. Apparently my prospective mate's earning potential is just one way I over-reach. It's not the only one though - I over reach in every aspect.
I always go for amazing, according to Drunkie McDrunkerton on the phone. That's a mistake, because I simply can't get amazing - with or without money.
More realistic expectations can only help me determine what kind of man is more at my level.
Lowering expectations in this area will be tough. Perhaps a high school drop-out drug-dealer then? Not a drug kingpin, because he'd be out of my league for sure. My kind of guy would be the low-life busted for selling meth to a uniformed cop.
It's not just guys with decent jobs and ambition who are too amazing to be in my league. It's my "pathetic" pursuit of amazing physical attractiveness that's the most sad, because I go for amazing again, and I need to check myself. Big time. It's my biggest problem of all, according to my friendly neighborhood drunk dialler.
Instead of doing what I do, whatever that is, I should settle for a guy I'm not attracted to, but could grow attracted to in time if he's nice to me.
Addmittedly, there's some truth to this. The first few times I talked with Alex he didn't make my loins quiver.
It didn't matter though. We were buddies and he made me laugh just about every day, so why would I need to be hot for him?
And then one day I loved the lines around his eyes. That's how it started. That's really what I fell for first. Then I loved the colour of his eyes, and I loved that they were kind. And then I loved his face, and his smile and his hands, and...him.
The loins very quickly quivered and they still haven't recovered.
This approach couldn't work all the time though. There are plenty of guys out there who if I was forced into a choice between seeing said guys naked or receiving a full frontal lobotomy, I'd be quite happy fastening my shoes with Velcro for the remainder of my years.
Apparently, with the disparity between my looks and the overall attractiveness of the men I find...well...attractive, I will never get to be in a relationship with a man I find attractive from the start. Simply finding him attractive should register that he's too amazing for me and is therefore out of my reach.
The trick is to just find a guy who's nice to me. That's all. Even if I'm repulsed by his hunched back and numerous deformities, I should be so grateful he's nice to me that my gratitude eventually replaces the sexual desire I foolishly believed necessary to enjoy sex.
Wow! He held the door for me - somebody's getting a blowjob tonight!
I wondered. Exactly how hideous am I...??
If I'm looking for sex within an actual relationship and not just a steady hook-up, what is so hideous about me that my physical desire for a potential partner alone renders him instantly too "amazing" to be in my league?
Not even a partner every other woman wants to sex up by the way - just one that I do. After all, amazing is in the eye of the beholder.
And so I asked my friend...aren't I amazing?
I am. Of course I am. If we were both inclined that way she'd date me in a heartbeat, but we're not. And so I have to start being realistic, lower my standards and go for what's possible for me to get.
So...if you know of a single, second-rate drug-dealing high school drop-out with a hair lip, open skin lesions and excessive body odour who could handle being nice to a woman just long enough for her to have sex with him out of gratitude...you should probably keep better company and keep it to yourself.
Even when I don't think I do, I deserve amazing. I deserve it, no matter how it's defined.
Amazing...and someday a spot on the Daily Show too.
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