Conversation v. Flirting

Okay, today we are going to explore my inability to make new friends without my current friends making fun of me . . .

Yesterday there was a couple at the bar (we went to the Hardluck . . . evidently our absence for two weeks made us lose our "regular" status, so now we have to keep up with that . . . so see you on Friday, you know where) and they were talking about sock monkeys. No prompting. And how could I give up that chance? They were talking about sock monkeys . . .

They were married. The wife was from Livonia and about my age. So I was warning them about getting addicted to expensive buttons (as I have a stash and somehow still buy more, I mean, does anyone really NEED $11.25 buttons? That's $23.oo dollars for eyes on a $3.00 sock) and we were just getting to selling on etsy when Princess and E2 called me back.

"Stop trying to pick up that couple . . . "

But I wasn't trying to "pick them up". I was just conversing pleasantly about sock monkeys.

They accuse me of this every time I talk to anyone . . . anywhere. And I don't know if it's my intensity or if I seem like I'm flirting (how does one flirt about sock monkeys?) or my body language or what. From my view, pleasant conversation with strangers about things I am interested in . . . seems like the way to make new friends, actually. How do other people do it? E2 even texted her boy about it and then showed me. "Emily is trying to pick up a couple at the end of the bar." (somehow to bother to text, concretes things)

So . . . am I just flirty all the time? And my current friends are immune? Or are Princess and E2 just giving me shit . . . all the time? Because it's starting to make me self-conscious. What about the people I talk to randomly at the grocery store? Or the book store? Or in my life in general? Am I flirting with everyone?

And if I am, shouldn't I be way more popular?

119 Dollars Later

One tank of gas so I could leave the house: $32

Trip to Target for a whisk, cooling rack and additional muffin pan: $25

Holiday Markup for Dutch Cocoa, Vanilla Beans, and Orange Liqueur: $62

Having lots of cupcakes with long names and a "I was stood up on a Tuesday" booze pie . . . well, not priceless, but it kept me busy.

Now someone has to come and eat this food. Expect packages on your porches. And no, they are not poisoned . . . though watch the boozy cupcakes. The icing is pretty strong . . . and they do not come out of the wrappers well. Something about the Coca-cola, I'm sure.

Despite My Reputation

I am way too nice. Really.

Careful

Oh, how I love it when life (or the fates) kicks you in the teeth.

I'll be spitting out blood and sticking my tongue to the wounds, distractedly, for days. Metaphorically, of course.

Correction

"True Love takes time to find -- Let us help" with a bunch of buttons that say "Reactivate Now", arranged in a way that it is very hard not to click on the button.

But their television ads say that it will only take six months . . . and they're so sure, they'll bet on it.

The mental manipulation of lonely people. No overhead because it's on the internet. I wish I had thought of it.

Parting Ways

The matchdotcom demons are currently sending me messages about how it "takes a long time" to find your soulmate. I don't feel that this lines up with their current marketing campaign, but I suppose there are several different definitions of "special". I would love to read the fine print on that one . . . is "special" if you make out in the parking lot? How many dates equal "special"? Maybe that's my problem, I keep going out with people who want their next six months free.

Matchdotcom and I are official parting ways on Valentine's day (so appropriate, considering) . . . and this time I have an email confirmation and everything. So I will have to find dates in real time and space. This will take all the surprise out of my life . . . but somehow I'll carry on. And speaking of dates, I think I will take the month of February off. Seems appropriate, with Valentine's Day looming and everything. And very fun to explain, should anyone actually ask me out . . . better than "but I don't call boys" . . . ummm, I'm sorry. I'm not available until March. How does that look for you? Good, so that's settled. It's a short month anyhow.

Had a wonderful "too cold" day off of work. Still have to go to school tonight though . . . bummer. Should have taken advantage of the time, maybe to go work out, get some coffee (can't meet other people inside your house . . . oh, wait . . . I'm stopping that full court press for the month) but instead stayed inside and make some sweet potato fries, watched some MTV. It was too cold to go to work, so it is too cold to go outside.

Oh, and my trash can got hit by a car and thrown down the street . . . and is now broken. So how do you throw away a trash can? I still can't find the lid.

You Give Me Nightmares

As I was swooning about sharing a book with tattoo boy last night (he has a Weimaraner, which he dresses in sweatshirts in the winter, and he was looking for something on the Noir website last night, and he took just as long to do his assignment as I did . . . and I get really picky on photoshop and will select pixel-by-pixel . . . and no, I don't mean to sound like he was slow . . . just careful, like I was . . . sigh.)

M2 looks up and says "Who?"
E2: "Tattoo boy"
M2: "Who is that?"
E2: "Remember the one that you said that you would have to tell Emily to stop talking to in a couple of months?"
M2: "Oh, that one."

Then other people in our party questioned M2 statement, to which she replied:

"Fine. I'll start sending her to you whenever she wants to talk. Because the things she talks about . . . it gives me nightmares."
"I give you nightmares?"
"Yes, nightmares."

Other person from party: "Well, maybe you should stop talking then."

Lost

Lost time: spent three hours on the phone after a two hour meeting

Lost things: graded a bunch of stuff and passed it back; can't find sheets I put the grades on

Lost health: my sinus cavities feel like they have spikes going through them; ironically it might be better to have spikes going through them . . . at least they might drain

Lost sleep: I ran at 8:30 tonight; bad. Won't be able to sleep.

Lost sanity: have two meetings tomorrow; and ninety introduction letters that I have put off evaluating, because they scare me

Lost trust: Somebody lied to me yesterday . . . and I knew they were lying

Lost things part II: lost my diamond today while mowing the lawn. Heard my mother's voice in my head the entire time I was looking for it . . . because I had been dumb and put it in my pocket. Found it in the dirt, next to the shed.

Lost money: Dropped 10 bucks on the ground at the gas station; recovered it quickly

Lost beliefs: I'd like to believe that people are intrinsically good . . . and that just because someone is an asshole to me, doesn't mean that I have to be an asshole too . . . but lordy, some people test that. Really would like to egg his house. Or spray paint it. But I won't. It disappoints me when people have no honor or integrity.

Not lost: I haven't lost a freakin' pound, despite running since July. My fingers are getting skinnier though (hence the ring in the pocket). Just what I wanted to be skinnier . . . my fingers. The plan is soooo working.

If, Then Statements

I remember a moment very clearly. (actually, I remember hundreds of thousands of moments clearly) It was the day after "senior all night party", that party the parents of every high school has so that their students will have a safe place to celebrate without alcohol (thus the kids just use drugs instead). I had planned poorly and so had to work at 9 a.m. after staying up all night and standing on the hill outside of Salem to jeer at the underclassmen, who still had to go to school.

I remember standing in the stacks (I worked at the public library, reshelving books) and thinking . . . if I just lost ten pounds, then my life would turn around . . . Jeff would love me, I'd get a great summer job . . . I just have to lose ten pounds . . .

. . . and then suddenly realizing that thought was the biggest bullshit I had ever tried to feed myself.

I assume other women have heads full of "if, then" statements. Mine rattle around all the time. I usually ignore them, but it's important to know that they are there, creeping around in our brains. "If I was a size 12, then I would have a great boyfriend." "If I don't eat those fries . . . " well, you get the picture. I didn't have a great boyfriend when I was a size 10, nor when I was a size 12 and it didn't have anything to with my body. I just liked to date shitheads. It wasn't like they were going to turn into a wonderful person because I wittled down to an 8. Sometimes they have nothing to do with pound or sizes, just penance. If I was just more pleasant . . . then.

The reason I bring this up is one flew through my head this afternoon as I was walking into the Barnes and Noble. I don't even remember what exactly the if and then were, but I caught myself. Recognized the ridiculous nature of it. While standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue. Everything won't be more wonderful if I am a size 12. Everything will be exactly as it is now, except I will have to pull up these damn jeans more.

Ahh, if we were just all good enough . . .

With Two Yardsticks

I didn't break the copy machine. I'm so swamped with other things that I haven't even given a thought to making copies.

But I fixed the copy machine today. A jam so far back that I had to use two yardsticks to pull it out. I then tested the copy machine, determined the glitch, and wrote a note of warning . . . and signed my name to it.

I have so much work to do, in so many different directions, that my stomach is clamping up every time I have a stray moment to think and I keep making lists . . . and then lists of the lists. And yet, I'm on my hands and knees fishing out paper with yardsticks.

I haven't gotten back to the regular day schedule and thus only got five hours of sleep. Right now, I'm pushing to stay awake, so I can go to bed at 9 p.m. and hopefully be able to get up at 5 a.m.. I am crabby and overwhelmed. And I just want a nap . . . but a nap means I'll stay up until 1 a.m. again. And I know who jammed the copy machine, because I had to fish out their copy remnants. I know who caused me to be Edward Yardstickhands.

Off to make more lists . . . and not sleep . . . and to get blamed for the copy machine only making one sided copies . . . because after all, I left a note with my name on it. And everything will get done. It always does. Well, everything except the vacuuming.

But the Day is Not Yet Over

Only had one incident where my fangs grew large enough for people to see and my eyes went glowing red . . . but the day is not yet over. Still have things to do tonight, which may make my head explode.

Went running in the rain. Still chanting "not my problem" in my head. And then alternating that with "patience" when I start thinking about phone calls . . . or the lack of them. What did I do when I didn't have a shiny metallic folding thing to stare at and will to ring? Oh, that's right . . . I would stare at the plastic thing on the wall, with the cord, and will it to ring. At least this one is portable, so I can practice bending will all the time, not just at home.

My shiny metallic folding purse demon will be turned to silent tonight. I will be so busy keeping my fangs at bay that I will not have to chant. As much as I'm put out, I'm enjoying the end of summer . . . diversion. Excellent.

Horrorscopes

I like to fix things. And solve problems. And I feel this is a positive aspect of my personality. It certainly comes in handy in my chosen profession.

But I'm becoming aware that I need more boundaries. Some things are just not my problem. There are some things I shouldn't be a part of . . . despite my knowledge base or expertise. Things that I certainly "fix" and offer advice on but probably shouldn't.

So my struggle is to resist the urge and stay out of it. Even though I could provide twenty resources and at least get someone to intervene. Offering advice sometimes just pisses people off . . . some people don't want to be fixed, either. So I will not provide the phone numbers. I will not look up the social service agencies. I don't need to . . . not my problem.

My horoscope said yesterday: You're attracted to complex problems and people. Don't get too close to those with mysterious motives. It's better to be kissed by a fool than fooled by a kiss!

Not that I believe in horoscopes . . . but they did called it yesterday.

Okay, I'm Back

Once upon a time, there was an Emily that gave little thought to what others thought of her. She wouldn't have cared about her super short hair . . . cause if boys didn't like it, well, that was their problem. She didn't care if anyone looked at her. In fact, she preferred if people didn't notice her at all. She wore tennis shoes to work. She didn't worry about makeup. She was passionate about her job and her family.

And then the year of "yes" happened. And quite frankly, dating has made me stupid . . . and whiny and weak. And the year of yes . . . it's being cut a week short.

So I'm back. And I don't give a flying f- what you think.

How did this come about? Well, let's see. While wallowing in my misery from last night (poor me, sniffle, sniffle) and deciding not to talk to anyone today and just stay in bed, I check my email. Two guys from matchdotcom, one wink (has a ridiculous username) (ironic when I make judgement about compatibility from someone's username) and one enormously long email. And the enormously long email may have cured me.

What was in this miraculous email? A man who knows way too much about me to be healthy. Lists usernames from both dating sites. My myspace account, which has nothing personal connected to it. Hell, he's probably reading this right now. Admits he has spent time gaining this information. Gives me more dating sites to look at him. Gives me his phone number and full name.

I think he has emailed before . . . or winked and I have ignored him. He lists his age at 39 but looks at least 10 years older. Has pictures of his daughter on matchdotcom. Is an ubergeek, by all accounts. And is so interested in me that he collects information. Has noticed me. Wants to know me. And I want absolutely nothing to do with him.

I'm sure he is a good provider. He would probably take my advice on his wardrobe and haircut. I could go buy him some new glasses. He is well read. And probably smart. And if I'm so lonely, why don't I want to jump on this train? I should call him up . . . and yet, every cell in my being says no. Something about him admitting that he knows all this. You'd be dumb not to notice that everyone is on the same dating sites and myspace. We're all tech geeks, or we wouldn't be here. But it's different if you admit it. And something about the need.

And we all have to admit that I've been repulsively needy for the last two months.

So I thought about that. I've been looping on what I wrote to RB for a while. Ruminating about what I learned from the situation. (and don't say "not much" . . . I can hear you, Princess) You know what? I don't really like most people. I'll be polite to them. I'll be nice to them. I always try to act with integrity towards other people. But except for a few, they mostly bore me. Or annoy me. Which is why I didn't want to be noticed for the most part, because then I would have to talk to other humans.

Don't get me wrong . . . I find the superficial banter and reactions of others interesting. I'll talk to anyone that I don't know very well, just to see what they'll say. Almost like I'm testing to see if people will be interesting. And sometimes they are . . . I know a lot of smart, witty and great people (before you start thinking that I'm a total sociopath). But dating . . . it makes that test your job . . . your life goal. And I'm not one to do anything half-assed. And so after going out with lots of men (and mostly being annoyed) I found one that was interesting to me. And when I became too much (because I am intensely intense) and we parted ways, I got scared. It took me a long time to sort through the sand of humanity to find that broken toy. And I didn't even see all the ways he was broken. Panic and need.

But you know what? I like getting through a day without talking to anyone. Okay, I gave the waitress my order and told her twice that I didn't need anything else. I said "Thank you" to a person who held a door for me and to the girl who ran me up at the coney island. But otherwise, nothing. Just me and my head. And for the most part, it's quiet.

And I don't have to worry about what I'm wearing, or if I'm cute enough, or what the person across from me is thinking. Or if I'm a good enough girlfriend, or if someone is going to call me . . . or what it means if he doesn't call me. The waitress doesn't care about my hair. The bookstore employees are probably annoyed that I'm up to chapter 24 and still haven't bought the book, but they'll never voice it.

Back to what is perhaps a self-centered existence. And it feels soft and warm and safe. And I feel the need falling away. And I'm back.

I Do Terrible Things

Potential problem with picking up men at Starbucks . . .

While going to get my "fix" today, with paper in hand, discovered that golf guy was sitting near my usual table with his cronies. Now golf guy is nice . . . or I wouldn't have given him my phone number . . . but I didn't feel like talking to him today. Not after all the anti-semitic crap his friends threw around before he started talking to me.

And I keep getting ghost phone calls with no message, which I assume is golf guy. In my current attitude about men (which is not the best attitude I've had) or I should say people in general, I don't think I have time for people who don't leave messages . . . or are too afraid to leave messages . . . or whatever rationalizing BS we can come up with for the ghost phone calls.

So I turned on my heel. Thought about leaving, but I had coffee and a scone in my hand and for as much as I spend there, it might as well be my coffee shop. So went to the other side of the shop, stuck in the headphones in and made the best of it. I twitched every time someone picked up their coffee from the barista, thinking it might be an ambush. But read the whole paper, a couple of chapters in my book and finished my coffee. And wasn't noticed at all.

So I do terrible things . . . as if you didn't know this already.

Dyke Spikes and a Death Spiral

I am death spiraling currently . . . looping on a line of text I read yesterday, which caused me to delete things and wait to return phone calls. Trust me, you didn't want me to return the phone call.

On a lighter note, it turns out that my haircut (at least when I stick it up) has a name. "Dyke Spikes" is what it is called by my students. Before you think I was offended in class or embarassed by a teenager, the teens were actually describing another student's hair, when I caught the word "dyke" which is not appropriate for my room. A conversation ensued about how they were really talking about "dikes", you know, the kind that hold back water and you stick your finger into . . . yeah, right. Anyhow, the boy's haircut is very similar to mine. (the students were so kind. they wouldn't admit that his hair was like mine . . . no, not at all)

So I have a dyke spike haircut . . . wonderful.

Now with less sarcasm?

"Well most of your blog was about how you didn't have a life . . . so now you have one." Having a life makes one very tired. And doesn't leave much time to write. And lately, I haven't had much that I want to write about . . . well, nothing that I want to tell the entire internet about anyhow. Perhaps I'm too happy to blog?

Okay, the new music obsession is The Dresden Dolls, which I bought on a whim (because it was less than nine dollars . . . and therefore "free"). I had checked their stuff out before, but I really like the new album. I'm teaching English 10 next year . . . thus climbing slightly out of the primordial ooze that is high school English. It's like I've grown little stumps and crawled up on the sand. Or grown lungs. I need to dye my hair. My neighbor tells me that I'm doing a "great job" . . . I'm not sure what he means, at being a single woman? at mowing my lawn? at being friendly to him? Anyhow, I'm doing a "great job" at something.

See? This is just boring . . . no enchanting sarcasm . . . I feel so blocked, or edited. (I'm doing all the editing myself, by the way) What was that Nirvana line again?

In a Handbasket

Are we noticing a hell theme to the post lately? Wonder what that is about?

I am now on day two of the worst hangover in my entire life. Day two has been considerably better in that 1. there is no throwing up 2. there is no being trapped on a plane for six hours (with the possibility of throwing up) 3. I managed to get down some solid food.

Yes, yes, Vegas was fun. The last night was a little too fun, so I will be abstaining from alcohol for say . . . a year or two. At least. As Mr. Crabbypants said, "You're too old for that . . . how did that happen?" and I know you are all wondering . . . how did that happen? Well, first there was a phone call from school and a newspaper article and then there was some major self medication, with mixing and things that were "on the rocks", which looking back was so not a good phrase.

Princess and E2 are the greatest girls ever and they wrangled me with grace . . . which considering the damage I have done to my liver (did I mention that we are on day two of the hangover?) was not easy . . . or pleasant, I imagine. So now I am on the good girl plan.

Good Intentions Line the Road to Hell

Isn't it funny how I can pick one sentence from a conversation . . . a sentence that I did not react to at the time . . . and now loop precariously toward the death spiral about it. And I suppose I should just have another conversation, to clear everything up, but I don't want to. I don't want to know what it meant. I don't want to talk to anyone about anything at this moment.

The sentence was meaningless and nothing was meant by it. It wasn't malicious or hurtful . . . maybe just truthful, but it is now looping in my brain. It won't leave. I wasn't promised anything and everyone (especially M2 . . . thanks) has been very upfront about their thoughts. I suppose I will just have to let it play itself out. I will have to play with the various possible meanings and intentions until something turns off my head. I will have to mull and make jabs, turning the subtle impossible nuances over and over until I am utterly sick. All this for one sentence, which again probably meant absolutely nothing.

So yeah, that just sucks.

Walking B Movie

I've had the same headache for 36 hours now . . . and my palate hurts, so my sinus "thing" might be back (sounds like a sci fi B movie, "The Girl with the Thing in her Sinus).

My days are being spent in either the 5th or 9th circle of hell and the sad thing is I can't tell anymore . . . logical thinking is not in play.

But as I'm supposed to cheer the F&*k up . . . good news. The yearbook is done!

Miss Crankypants

I don't know whether it that I just spilt my dinner on the floor, or if it's because I'm turning 35 in less than a month, or my hormones are outta wack, or that my profession is currently located in the 6th level of Dante's inferno, or what . . .

but I'm really cranky today. I've been cranky for the last few days and I can't seem to shake it. Princess has suggested that it's the haircut. I pointed out that my ovaries are shrinking like raisins . . . so maybe it is a "I'm turning 35 and this is not what I pictured my life to be" crisis.

Anyhow, I need to get over it.