humans are funny

Category: brain matter

  • Do you think the Stegosaurus ordered special meals on planes?

    In my mere thirty years on this planet, I have had lots of boyfriends. LOTS. Like, hundreds. First one: Pat McGovern, 1st grade. We were in different classrooms, but we each took a casual stroll to the bathrooms at the same time. He leaned his three-foot-two body against the pink tiled wall and waited for me to walk by. Then, just at the perfect moment, he told me I looked smashing (It was picture day, so I was slinging the old A game.). This was the first of many cheesy pick-up lines thrown at me from men leaning against walls, and I ate it up like Haagen-Das.

    Days later we were kissing under the slide at recess. That was my dating heyday, when relationships were easy. First: attraction. Then: coloring. Then: birthday parties, moms getting friendly on field trips, maybe some conversation about how the Stegosaurus was a vegetarian. And then: onto the next.

    Now it goes more like: attraction, fun times and laughter, imagining future together that is bright and perfect, time passes, perfect future slightly mired by his pot smoking and video games, six months pass, finally decide that future together indeed looks horrible, snoring no longer deemed ‘cute,’ ‘break’ requested, awkward friend period, mutual disgust. And repeat. And repeat again. And repeat again until you have had so many relationships that the index card holder you got as a teenager to record all your relationships won’t close anymore. (Yes, I record them all. Big fan of data entry.)

    And what happens to all those men busting out of your relationship box? They’re all still out there. And they’ve moved on. And they have wives and kids and they are much much happier without your constant requests for compromise or time alone to write your blog. (Yes, I’m using the universal ‘you,’ but this is obviously all about my friend.).

    There’s always been some selfish part of me that has wished those exes wouldn’t move on. I have caught myself hoping they would freeze in Ex-land, waiting for me just in case I’d made an awful mistake by ending things. In the past, I’ve heard about an ex getting married or having four kids, and I’ve cringed and perhaps had a snifter of wine, thinking WHAT IF THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME? I could have a house and kids by now. I could be ‘settled’ into a comfortable life right now. WHAT WAS I THINKING? WHAT IF I MADE A MISTAAAAAKE?

    Interesting to note that the act of settling down has the word ‘settle’ in it.

    I recently had my astrological chart read, and the kind astrologer told me I need to “grow up and throw out my idealism.” She also told me I need to dress in a more mature fashion. She acted like it’s not cool to wear stained sweats all the time.

    I get that there isn’t a man out there who is perfect. I GET IT, okay. You guys, seriously. I get it. You can stop reminding me. Mom. I get it. Many people encourage me to settle, and that’s very thoughtful of them. But it’s not like I’m going around saying, “Oh, lord, that guy eats oatmeal with his left hand. The horror! Get him out of here AT ONCE.” It’s more about how he wears his jeans or what brand of knives he uses. No! Not that either. Seriously, it all comes down to his credit score. No, not that either. What’s going on is that I’m learning valuable lessons from each fine lad about what I want in a relationship and how I want to show up in a relationship. Each experience is making me better for the final taker. Based on my box of index cards, I have learned a lot. I am a relationship pro. I could write a relationship book. On index cards.

    The other day I saw (by accident… I swear) a picture of my 2006 live-in boyfriend. We had been on the road to Serious Town not that long ago, and now he’s smiling in a Facebook photo with his mom (who I loved), his wife, and his new baby boy. This time, instead of feeling that well-known anxiety, all I felt was relief. Lots of relief. The relief of one millions sighs, so happy that it wasn’t me in that picture. I learned A LOT in that relationship (mainly that I don’t want my partner to talk on the phone during the entirety of my grandmother’s funeral), and I’m confident that it’s not supposed to be me in that picture.

    So, there’s a moral here… wait for it… It is that people come into our lives to teach us something. People come and people go and people make a difference. And it’s okay that they’re not in our lives anymore. It feels weird to be imagining a future together one year and then well-wishing a few years later, but that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

    Just think how lucky some fella is going to be when we finally do have a relationship. He’ll get to be with someone who has already learned all her relationship lessons and knows everything.

  • This is what I’m thinking when I’m not thinking about really important global issues and solving world poverty

    I have been working towards an intense deadline this week, not leaving my cave of an apartment, not changing from my pajamas, and not cleaning the spilled coffee beans and Indian food delivery boxes scattered about my bed. I’ve pillaged my brain for words this week, and thus have none left to compile on this beautiful Blogger template. So let’s try something new. I’m going to write whatever comes to my mind. I’m just going to write and hit send. No morals or story lines or grammatical checks. Just do it. Written improv. It’s spontaneity firsthand, and I’m trying with all my life force to not be neurotic about it. Oh man, I’m so tired.

    Please, add the very first thing that comes to your mind as well, and we shall sew together a quilt of inappropriate spontaneous stories for today’s society of voracious blog readers.

    One.
    I’ve used bad pickup lines in my life. When I was living in the trashy suburb of Addison (a la Jersey Shore), we’d go out to clubs and ask guys if they were Italian because, like Snooki, we too wanted to meet juiced up Guidos (True story. Sorry).
    “Hey, nice tan and spiked hair. Are you Italian?”

    But nothing beats the one I got recently from a man who could be my father:
    “Oh, I see you rode your bicycle here. Was it a long ride?”
    “About a mile.”
    “Lucky bicycle.”
    Um, I think he’s referring to my vagina, and I don’t want a man my father’s age referring to my vagina. I just don’t. Get my vagina out of your mind, sir. Please give it to an established thirty-year-old with dark hair and a sexy beard. Thanks.

    Two.
    I saw Eat Pray Love last week. I’ve always been jealous of that Gilbert bitch. ONE- Because that’s my story. I’m supposed to write that book. And TWO- Because that’s my story. I’m supposed to WRITE THAT BOOK.
    Julia Roberts was a horrible casting choice. ONE- Because that’s my story and I’m supposed to be in that movie. And TWO– Because nobody believes that her skinny ass can’t fit into a pair of jeans when she ‘overeats’ in Italy. Right.

    The real reason I call bullshit on that movie is the wardrobe. Come on. The chick never once repeated an outfit. You’re a backpacker, lady. You don’t have myriad shoes and tunics in your pack. You just don’t. You wear the same thing every day. I wore my Obama t-shirt so many times in so many countries that I alone am responsible for creating his global popularity.

    Three
    I really miss having an answering machine. Remember when you used to come home and be excited to hear who was thinking about you during that day? And then, if it was a really good message, you’d save the little tape to listen to later. I have a lot of little tapes. Anyone have a little tape player? Also, remember the radio?

    Four
    Why do people say they ‘lost’ someone when a person dies? “I lost my father in July.” Obviously, you weren’t that careful with him, so it’s kind of your fault. Pay attention to where you put your father, people.

    Five
    My friend was recently trying to sell me on the idea of spray tanning because ‘it makes you look skinny.’ So I got to thinking… Black people are lucky. Darker colors are automatically slimming. Think of how much fatter Oprah would look if she were white. Think about it… lucky! Black is the new Spanx.

    Six
    I recently went to a club. A club. I used to go to those back in aught ’98. I think I should probably write about that weird time in my life when I actually took the date rape drug on purpose and dated a drug dealer ten years older than I. Oh, hey mom. Did you know that guy was a drug dealer? Talk to you later. So now, in 2010, I went to a club again. Not to actually go clubbing, but to support a friend. Swear. It was filled with shirtless people and gyrations just like it was back in the day. Two men hit on our group of girls. One tried to get our numbers by bragging about how he makes $15 an hour. And the other tried to woo us with his specialty gloves. He had lights sewn into the tips of each finger so that he could mesmerize us with his jazz hands. He did jazz hands right in front of my face. And the only thing I could think was that I’m so glad I don’t go to clubs anymore. And that somebody out there who knows how to make gloves has a goal in life to make jazz hands cool again. You’re getting there, man. Great progress.

    Seven
    That hair I referenced here. It doesn’t bode well for folks who sit in one chair all week and can’t remember the last time one of their teeth was brushed. I’m gross. And crusty. And all of a sudden, I have an entire generation of geckos living atop my head. Itchy. Itchy. So itchy. Perhaps this is what water boarding feels like. I found three pens in there this week. And a few batteries. Also some Vick’s (i think. it was slimy and not in any kind of container), a glue stick, 43 paperclips, a bottle of absinthe, and one Venice homeless guy. So, fair warning: brush your weave. Most important lesson of the day, everyone. Brush your weave.

    This is what’s in my brain today. I wish it were more than this. I wish that floating inside my head you’d find more facts about cheese and John Adams. Or witchery and secret political codes.

    Alas, I’m shallow and unimportant. Like everyone secretly is.
    What is in your brain?