Flashback Post: The Men I Dated

Four years ago I wrote a post about some of the men I dated. The really awful ones. I discovered this because I was about to write the same post. This is a pitfall of being a long-time blogger: You may have already told that story. Oops.

I’ve decided that since I’ve been blogging forever and have some old posts worthy of seeing the light of day, I’m going to do a series of flashback posts. For those of you who have been along for the ride a long time (thank you!), these might sound familiar but for the rest of you it’s a new story.

A Preface: Back in my dating days, I used to make up nicknames for the guys I  went out with. This was at the request of friends who were like: WE CANNOT KEEP ALL THESE GUYS STRAIGHT! PLEASE CREATE A SYSTEM! So yeah, I had a few periods of what I’ll call Extreme Dating. I went out on a lot of dates- sometimes just once, sometimes a couple times, some would stick for weeks or months. In between a few good guys came along but I would usually screw that up royally because I wasn’t really into liking myself back then and I manifested my low self-esteem with my poor choices in men.

Enjoy!

*******

I’ve taken to re-reading my old journals. All 16 of them.

It’s sort of like watching a horror movie where you are half-covering your eyes and screaming out to the lead actress: DON’T GO IN THERE! THAT’S WHERE THE KILLER IS! But of course, she goes. She always goes.

In my case though I feel like yelling: STEP AWAY FROM THE ASSHOLE! Damn, I really did date some serious wankers. And all the while I took it on as some sort of mission to understand and grow and enrich my life. Blargh. What a load of crap. I sure wasted a lot of time on men who were very bad for me all for the sake of “personal growth.”

The worst part of re-reading these journals is seeing how much energy I poured into relationships that went nowhere. Blind people probably saw they were not going anywhere and yet, I kept at it. I suppose it was not all in vain. I did become wiser (and a little jaded). And I’ve certainly honed my ability to sniff out a jackass. Finally, at almost 36, I can recognize and appreciate a nice guy.

At least I think I can.

If not, let me live the lie for a little while longer.

I thought I’d share some of the wieners winners:

The Guider- Um, this could potentially be too graphic for my blog (Hi! Mom!) but he was the kind of guy who “guided” you to his cock. ALL. THE. TIME. Jesus, enough already. I know where it is and I will visit when I feel like it.

The Krazy Korean- Hi, stalker. He brought me a bunch of “gifts” from 7-11 when he first met me and then within the first 10 minutes said, “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I met you” and then promptly kissed me. Maybe that could be romantic in certain instances but it had only been TEN MINUTES. He then proceeded to call me at work when I never gave him my work number, show up unannounced repeatedly and tell me I had never dated a real man (until him, of course). Buh Bye.

Sweatpants- No man has ever made a compliment sound like a put down better than him.

Hairy Lizard- Maybe the first sign should have been that he wrote back to me from his on line profile when he was technically dating someone. (Why was it is still active?!) Maybe the second sign should have been that he told his girlfriend he was meeting up with some guy friend instead of me to see a concert in my town and then tried to dance all sexy up on me during the show. (It didn’t work.) Maybe when he was single weeks later and he finally kissed me I should have stopped right there. Because he kissed like a lizard.

Puff Daddy- Picture it: Me in my vintage 1940′s coat all gussied up and him, in an electric blue leather jacket, gold jewelry, gold sunglasses, driving up all smooth in his Cadillac. Within the first fifteen minutes as we rode up an escalator he tried to kiss me. When I pushed him back he said, “What? I’m just trying to get a little of your chapstick.” So I handed him the chapstick from my pocket and smiled. Side note: He ate sushi with a fork.

Self-Help Guru- This guy was a piece of work. He had a show on local access TV telling people how to live their lives fully. Every date was like visiting a life coach. He could do a wicked good Sean Connery impression though. Side note: Don’t simultaneously date guys who have one letter difference in their names because you will inadvertently call one by the other’s name possibly in the heat of a moment. D’oh! The end.

Pencil- The condom broke and after that he disappeared. Turned out he was seeing someone else after dating me for over a year. I had to find out from mutual friends who saw him with her. But with that break up came clarity, a loss of 60lbs and the end of my pot smoking days. Happy ending!

Mr. Grass- After a few weeks together he admitted he was a pot addict so while he was trying to get healthy we tried just being friends. That did not work. I believe at one point I said: How about we can the friends thing and just have sex? Priorities. I know. During the two separate times we “dated” he lived in the woods illegally or in his van. He also is the man who said to me once, “I don’t know what I’d say to someone if they commented on your body shape.” How about you say, “You are a shallow asshole”? Which is basically what I said to him.

King Ick- Do not get me started on this one. Years down the drain and multiple journals full of this King of the Horribles. Let’s just say that no one has ever made me feel more like a piece of shit than him. There is a reason I have referred to him as “the personification of my self-loathing.” Side note: He also lived in his van. Yes, that makes two homeless boyfriends. I AM A WINNER.

Mick- A one night stand that turned into a 6 month relationship. Proof positive I should avoid one night stands at all cost because I clearly do not know how to do them. Also, he was a pothead and hated himself and was probably a sex addict.  He would frequently punch walls, have complete freak outs and say horrible things to me out of his own self-hatred. He even fake cried when I broke up with him. FAKE CRIED.

And this is just a partial list!

Hangs head.

(originally posted as Wise Up on April 1, 2009)

 

Karaoke Terrorists: Episode 3

When last we left you, we had a face-to-face confrontation with the Terrorist neighbors. That was back in April. After that, we went full throttle into calling our Community Officer and writing to the landlord. And while the noise is somewhat lessened, it’s still a weekly thing. And we’re talking “lessened” as in our house no longer vibrates every time they karaoke, but yes, they are still karaoking. On top of that, since the weather has finally turned nice, they have taken to blaring Vietnamese pop music from the house sound system to the backyard while 10-30 of them gather every weekend to smoke and drink and be complete inconsiderate assholes. They have a car port behind their house which means their cars are all surrounding them as they hang out- sometimes 6-8 cars clog the driveway and the backyard as they sit around a makeshift table and grill, toasting with beer after beer, one upping each other in the volume department.

Are we supposed to be grateful that the noise isn’t AS bad? Because, fuck that shit. It’s still a nuisance, persistent, and rude. We cannot hang out in our own backyard if they are out there- the sheer volume of their conversation is enough to drive us away but then they add the music, OHMYGOD THE MUSIC IS SO BAD. I can’t even. Yesterday I stood outside my back door and filmed this 22 second clip of it:

Yesterday’s party started around noon and went past 8pm. We finally retreated to the basement living room to eat our dinner and watch TV so we could drown out the noise. Upstairs is the worst when they are partying and then our bedroom- even in the basement we can hear it because our bedroom window looks out onto their driveway and living room window. We called the cops around 7 when they started doing a sing along in the backyard. Someone pulled out an acoustic and they were kumbaya-ing in Vietnamese. A little bit later they cranked the karaoke sound system up because WHY NOT?

When we call the cops before 10pm, the dispatcher reminds us that the noise ordinance doesn’t go into effect until 10 but our Community Officer told us to call regardless. The cops will only come out if they aren’t busy. The last two times we’ve called, we didn’t speak to cops so we’re not certain they came by but the noise level lessened. Because they have turned down the bass, the noise level might not be as bad for other neighbors as it is for us now. There is no one sharing their yard from the back (the house is vacant) and we haven’t met the neighbors on the other side.

Maybe you’re tired of hearing me complain about these guys but can you blame me for venting? Would you want to come over and hang out in our backyard for a cook out when that was happening next door? I’d be embarrassed to have anyone over! We were considering getting a new fence put in but with them as our neighbors, why pour the money into it when we can’t go out into our own yard and enjoy it?

I’m calling our Community Officer again, talking to a lawyer friend about drafting a strongly worded letter, and writing again to the landlord but this time sending the first letter and the new letter certified mail to ensure it’s getting to her. I’m sick of feeling stressed out in my own house because of these inconsiderate dickheads.

 

First Houseiversary

If you can believe it (I can’t), we’ve officially owned our house for a year.

It feels like more time has passed since we packed up our one bedroom apartment in the heart of Capitol Hill and took residence in a 4 bedroom 1959 flipped house in South Seattle. Our lives have definitely changed. We don’t go out to eat as much because we like being home and because we spend our money on stuff for the house. Before I bought a house I thought I’d easily have the house fixed up by now. That was newbie thinking because, wow, they aren’t kidding when they warn you how money becomes scarce when you own a home. One major problem (hi, leaky basement!) can set you back financially and it can be months before you’ve got your financial footing. I daydream a lot about the improvements we can make and the ways to decorate each room but all of that takes money and I realize more and more that those things take time and they don’t matter as much.

What matters is the feeling you create inside your house, not if the rooms are styled in an Apartment Therapy-worthy way. A home is not just the stuff in it but the people who reside inside of it and the memories they create there. And in just one short year, this home is already packed with memories. I can picture our dearest friends having traveled from all over to gather in our home in anticipation of our wedding, chatting and laughing. I see our first Christmas tree lighting up the corner. I spy the mismatched spot of paint near where the curtain rod sits above the living room window and remember how we inadvertently discovered that the buckets of paint left in the garage are not a perfect match. Around the coffee table friends have sat for raucous rounds of board games, drinks, and catching up. The front porch where co-workers lovingly dropped off a huge bag of fruits & veggies for my juicing obsession on the day after I found out I had cervical cancer. My wall of cards of encouragement and love during that very hard time. The corner of our downstairs living room, before the water damage and the couch and the wedding, where Mr. Darcy and I sprawled out together in disbelief, trying to make sense of the cancer news while staring at the ceiling and crying. The cats favorite hiding places. The bird feeder from my mom hung outside the dining room window where I can watch pretty birds flit about in the morning as I sip my tea. The exact spot where I last kissed Darcy good-bye before next seeing him on our wedding day.

And this is just a smattering of the first year.

I moved to Seattle almost 7 years ago to make a new life for myself. One of my goals was to be a home owner. I sometimes shake my head in wonder that I did it- I found my person and we bought a house and we got married. Every time my faith wavers I remember that dreams do come true, they just come true in their own time.

Keep dreaming.

Advice for a 1st time Mammogrammer

One of the perks of turning 40 is getting a mammogram. I say perk because I’m lying to you. I recently had my first mammogram and I feel it is my duty to tell you two things. Because before going to get my first exam, I’d only heard women reference the uncomfortableness of having your breast squished between two bits of machinery. That’s it. No one clued me in on what to wear to my appointment and as a person who likes to show up as prepared as possible it would have been super helpful.

Listen to me now, hear me later: A) You should wear pants or leggings to your appointment.

I was brought back to a changing area with dressing rooms and lockers. She handed me a gown and directed me to a room, looking at my bare legs, boots, and dress saying, “You can remove everything but your shoes, bra and underwear I guess.” I disrobed and donned the gown, leaving on my shoes which created quite a fashion statement. I secured my stuff in a locker and headed to the back waiting area where women sat reading magazines, waiting their turn to get their boobs squished examined. I sat down and immediately noticed that every other woman was either wearing pants or leggings under their gowns. OH! So by wearing a dress without leggings to my first mammogram appointment I had completely outed myself as a newbie. Or an exhibitionist. Ooops. I sat, feeling their eyes scan my bare legs, as I tried to read up on the latest celebrity gossip.

Sitting among the clothed-legged ladies wasn’t the biggest embarrassment of the appointment though. Because when they called my name and took me into the exam room, I realized that I would be standing for the entirety of the appointment in boots and underwear with a robe off one shoulder like some kind of sick stripper.

Important to also note: B) If you’re going to go bare-legged, at least have the decency to wear cute underwear.

Luck for me, my radiology tech was a smooth operator probably used to such rookie mistakes made by patients. And while the exam itself is uncomfortable, it wasn’t terrible. All those appointments with my gynecologist examining my cervix made the boob smooshing a relative breeze. I’ll take the boob machine over the stirrups any day. The exam basically consists of the tech taking your breast and sort of (wo)man-handle it into place on a cold, flat piece of machinery and then positioning your arm so they can clamp down the top of the machine onto your breast, making a boob pancake.

Side note: I did not want to eat pancakes after this experience.

It’s relatively quick and soon, you and your boobs are getting changed out of your robe and you’re off to enjoy the rest of your day where hopefully your boobs will get a rest from being handled. Unless you like that sort of thing and have sexy plans for the evening.

If you haven’t had a mammogram and you’re in your 40′s or have a family history of breast cancer: GET YOURSELF AN APPOINTMENT. Early detection is key and you know how I feel about early detection. And wear some pants to your appointment!

**My mammogram results came back clear, thankfully, because my cervix is problematic enough. I don’t also need boob problems.**

Workaholism

When I lived in The Cruz, one of the jobs I had was at an AIDS organization. I started out as the Volunteer Coordinator then got moved into writing grants when a boss deemed my skills worthy (I did not enjoy it but I liked getting a bigger paycheck). From there, other duties were added on and by the end I was the Director of Development, managing the grants, fundraising events, donors, and a handful of staff and a couple interns.

I worked all the time. The amount of work required of me in that position just fueled my workaholic tendencies. The organization was quite broken thanks to multiple Executive Directors who mismanaged and one who the biggest lying egomaniac I’ve ever met (but he’s a story for another day). I put 120% of myself into that job. Despite its many ups and downs, it taught me a lot about who I am as an employee and a leader.

That was the last job I had before I moved to Seattle. When I arrived here I had no job but had five weeks worth of savings. I applied many jobs and went on something like 12 interviews. I turned down jobs (clearly, it was a different job market seven years ago) because I wanted to be sure I was accepting a job that I could do well in, in an environment that would not require me to be a workaholic to prove my worth. I moved to Seattle to change my life and that meant changing my work habits.

We live in a culture that glorifies being a workaholic and being perpetually busy- two things I strive to NOT do anymore. So many people I know have their work email on their phone or check it when they are not on the clock, or worse, on vacation. YOU ARE ON  VACATION SO BE ON VACATION. (Remember back before the internet when people just went on vacation from work?) I do not think that because you’re always checking into work you are a better employee than me. I do excellent work in my position. I help raise millions of dollars. And when I go on vacation, I make sure my work is done or tasks are delegated so that I can BE ON VACATION. When I leave work for the day, I leave it there. Because I have a personal life. Because life is too short to work all the damn time. Because there are people who deserve my attention, including myself who deserves down time and the opportunity for self-care.

I do not admire people who can’t turn work off. I don’t think it makes them a better employee or harder worker or more important. I feel sad for them, actually, because there should be more to life than work. I’m lucky that I have a job that I am good at, that helps the world be a better place, doing work I (usually) enjoy, and that I can leave at the office. I don’t ever want to go back to my old workaholic ways. It didn’t make me a better worker and it definitely didn’t make me a better person.

What about you? Are you a workaholic or a recovering workaholic? What do you think about this?

Remembering/Forgetting

I have six jars of curry, five deodorants, three bottles of Dove liquid soap, and two cans of unsweetened cocoa. I do not need any of these in bulk. It’s just that there are things I can’t seem to remember.

I have to write stuff down if I don’t want to forget.

I can vaguely conjure the memory of the deep sound of my father’s voice, the way his hands were tanned and bony and smelled always faintly of cigarettes. I have to count backward to remember what year I graduated college, traveled to England, chipped my tooth while eating broccoli, or had my first kiss. I couldn’t tell you what I got for Christmas when I was ten, how I learned to tie a shoe, what my GPA was in high school or what I scored on the SATs, when I started liking avocados, or the last names of many of the guys I’ve slept with.

I can vividly recall though the smell of the perfume my mom wore when I was a kid, sitting on little stools in the kitchen pantry with my sister pretending we were “scientists” and mixing spices and sauces with names I couldn’t yet read to create secret concoctions, the way our backyard looked in summer and how it felt to dive into our pool on a hot day, the way the birch trees out front our house rustled in the gentle wind as I lay on my bed reading. I remember my first kiss and how nervous I was and how squishy it felt (he had very big lips), the first time I got pulled over by a cop while driving, and walking across the stage when I graduated college.

I worry I am forgetting the little moments that make up my life. I want to get back to writing, or rather, to collecting my stories for prosperity so that later when I say I can’t remember, I can be reminded.

Celebration Hangover

Is it possible to have a celebration hangover? Luckily, I’m officially done celebrating turning 40. I spent over a week connecting with dear friends in California and Seattle. I love birthdays because it’s an opportunity to show up and celebrate people. Sure, we should do this every day but let’s get real, some days you’re more concerned about getting through the work day and not eating cereal for dinner. That chance to say, hey! I’m glad you were born and are in my life! is one I don’t like to miss. I am so grateful to all the folks who came out of the woodwork to help me ring in 40.

Mr. Darcy, a man who shies away from planning most anything and who is not a party person, stretched outside his comfort zone to throw me a birthday bash. I could not be more touched or more proud. So many of my close pals showed up to partake in cupcakes and beer and a pinata (yes, I love pinatas!). Here’s some photos from the party:

Love hug! Me, my sis, Jeni Angel, and Finn

Favorite people! My bro-in-law, sis, husband, and BFF Meghan.

I’m pretty sure my nephew was more excited than anyone for cupcakes & singing.

Lovebirds C & S.

BFF Jenny Two Times drove all the way from Portland for the party. <3

Hand sewn garland and happy birthday sign thanks to my talented sister.

Me & my pinata before I whacked it open.

Meghan handled the meat (tray). There are many jokes in that statement but I’ll refrain. I love her.

Heather & Aimee (former college roomies!) stopped by to celebrate with me.

2 friends both named Jen gave me the same awesome card. How cool is that?

Friends from work came by to partake in the fun.

Our wonderful moms. Mr. Darcy’s parents flew in from New Jersey earlier in the week. How nice is that?

My nephew makes any party fun.

Surprise of the weekend? Tomato flew up from LA to be there! 23 years of friendship.

I always say this but I always feel it: I am so lucky to be so loved.

I already am convinced 40 is going to be fantastic.

Hello 40

Today I turn 40.

How did that happen? I can blink and picture myself on my 30th birthday tipsy and laughing at party with my 50 closest pals, thinking forty sounded so far away. It’s amazing where life can take you and how quickly time passes the older you get.

My thirties taught me a lot about risk and faith and trusting myself and being brave. They taught me I am stronger than I thought and that being strong doesn’t mean being hardened to life, to being vulnerable, or feeling all the feelings. In fact, doing all of those things makes you strong. During the past decade I have made peace with parts of myself and parts of my life that I always wrestled with- my relationship with my father being the biggest one. I packed up my entire life in Santa Cruz, CA to move to Seattle where I knew 3 people and didn’t have a job and in that leap of faith, I got to experience living in a big city, being a single woman in a hip part of town, going on some good and some (very) bad dates that eventually led me to Mr. Darcy, and finding a life I wouldn’t trade with anyone.

In my 30′s I not only found my person, I found myself. I found a woman I am proud to be. Ten years ago I was in therapy writing out lists of qualities I liked about myself (the list was short and difficult to write) and a list of qualities I’d like to possess- the woman I’d like to be. It’s safe to say that I’ve spent the last ten years becoming that woman I dreamed of but didn’t think was possible. I’m imperfect but my flaws give color to my character and I’m okay with that. I make mistakes but I no longer shy away from trying out of fear of failing because I know that the attempt is sometimes as meaningful as the success. I no longer feel like I have to constantly be doing something, to be busy, to have plans. I don’t strive to multitask every aspect of my life. I relish in a day with nothing on my calendar. Who? Me? YES ME. I don’t give everything I have to everyone I know because I have finally learned that I don’t have to prove my worth, that I don’t have to be everyone’s friend, that (and this is a big one) people don’t need rescuing. I’ve retired my cape.

I’ve gotten more and more okay with people not liking me. I’m still flummoxed when it happens but, fuck it, that’s life and it doesn’t mean I am a bad person just because someone doesn’t find me delightful. I’ve learned that you can be hurt or hurt someone and repair the relationship if you’re both honest. That fighting doesn’t mean the end. That the people meant to stick around will stick it out with you even when it gets messy. I’m grateful to all the people who have lead me here, even the ones who broke my heart or made me cry, because all of it shaped me. I can now write a list about all the things I like about myself. I wish I could call up my therapist from when I was 30 and having a mini nervous breakdown, falling apart in her office on a weekly basis, and read her my new list. I’d like to say thank you to her for helping me when I felt like no one could.

And thank you to YOU. Ten years ago I didn’t know what a blog was but now I can’t imagine my life without this space and without all of you. I appreciate you reading, commenting, and supporting me through the years. You’ve cried and laughed with me. Today, let’s celebrate! I’m forty, damn it! In honor of my birthday and my journey to self-acceptance, I want to hear from you- what’s something you really like about yourself? And if you feel like it, what’s something you like about me? Let’s blow up my comment section with a lovefest, okay?

Here, I’ll start: I  like my honesty and my sense of humor. I really like that you show up for me.

Your turn. . .

Sunshine Celebrating

I spent the weekend in California, soaking up the sun and the company of old friends. There’s nothing like spending time with people who have known you for years, who you fall easily into conversation with as if no time has passed, who you can fight and make up with like siblings, who you can be completely yourself around. What better way to kick off my birthday week celebration than that?

It was great to see RaeRae and RunRun who graciously hosted me in their lovely Oakland apartment, to finally get to dine at my friend’s very popular and deliciously successful restaurant, State Bird Provisions, to meet up with Supple in Napa, and to enjoy a sunny brunch with James Dean, Natalie Wood, and Bird.

I could have tacked on a bunch of meet ups with other friends but I made the hard choice to keep this trip simple instead of shoving people into slots of time, running from cafe to bar to restaurant in an attempt to make everyone feel included. I always end up exhausted and I hate rushed visits with people I care about. I will be back in August for a family wedding and reunion so hopefully I can fit in get togethers with folks I didn’t get to see this time around.

Two days until I turn 40. . . I think I’m feeling okay about it.

“Enough”

I read some of my old journals the other day. You know, the kind where you use a pen and write words on paper. (I believe that’s considered retro now, that’s how old I have  become.) Entry after entry I talked about how I needed to lose weight. The pages were filled with body hatred and self-loathing, interspersed with boy drama. But the idea that I didn’t deserve love because I wasn’t thin, the notion that if I couldn’t get to a certain weight, nothing in my life would ever work out, was ever-present. It made me so sad to read. Because essentially I’ve spent my entire life feeling bad about my body.

I’m a week away from 40 and still haven’t figured out how to fully accept my size. I have wasted so much time and energy on this. I’ve been on every diet. I’ve been fatter; I’ve been thinner. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve tried everything except self-acceptance. I would go out on a limb and say that one of the biggest regrets of my life is that I’ve never been able to look in the mirror and say, “I’m beautiful.”

The biggest bullshit lie I’ve ever swallowed is that thin equals beautiful. I’ve spent a lifetime unable to love myself or feel worthy of being loved because I am not thin “enough.” This message is delivered to us pretty much everywhere we look. I’ve found it reinforced in the media ad nauseum and in my relationships, particularly with some of the men I mistakenly chose to give my heart to. The guys who said I’d be “really hot” if I lost weight (but they’d still have sex with me) or who claimed they didn’t know what they’d say if a friend of theirs commented on my size (no one ever had) or who casually mentioned over dinner that his friends looked down on him because he dated me (because of my body) (I never met these friends and assume they were imaginary). I could go on but I don’t really want to fall into a shame spiral this early in the morning.

When I turned 30, I quit smoking. I was an “occasional smoker” I’d say, but then I was smoking on breaks at work and on my drive home and at parties and after dinner and well, I was a smoker. But on my 30th birthday I gave it up, finally, after many failed attempts. I thought about how I wanted to become a mom and be around for as long as I could for my kid I’d someday have and so I quit.

For my 40th birthday I’m giving myself another gift: I’m quitting body hatred. I’m not going to stop working out or eating vegetables or taking care of my health. I’m just going to drop the ridiculous guilt and shame cloud that I’ve lived my entire life under. My problem hasn’t been not knowing what to eat or how much to work out. Rather, I’ve been stuck in my body loathing, operating from a place of hate and embarrassment rather than self-love. It’s just that, you guys, I’m tired of feeling less than because I weigh more than someone told me I should. I’m fed up with it defining my worth. I’m over the bullshit and done living out the lie.

Happy birthday to me.