Monthly Archives: May 2013

Dirty Words, Nasty Thoughts

“There is no one who doesn’t shudder at the sound of an oath on a girl’s lips” Dorothy Dix, How To Win and Hold a Husband.

The one thing I’ve continually failed at in this experiment is not upsetting Ian with angry words and stressful stories.  One day I’ll make a deliberate undertaking of it, but for now, I’m merely self-conscious about after the fact.

In the last week, a bunch of idiots at my horrible grad program, Stonecoast MFA (sorry Elizabeth and Suzanne, you were great) decided that blah blah long story anyways, it ended with a bunch of CNF writers saying some really personal, hateful things to my writing partner, Matthew, which is NOT OKAY.

(now I can say this, because I’ve been in CNF workshops with all of them, and the girls in question are some of the most narcissistic bimbos I’ve ever met, like how B***** dad fighting in Vietnam TOTALLY RUINED HER LIFE. Call the waaaamublance.)

I take this kind of personally, because I had a pretty decent life, some trauma that I don’t like to talk about because it’s not really anybody’s business, parents who loved me, but I was told, by these same idiots, that my stories–and therefor, the life I lead–wasn’t worth hearing about, that my pain wasn’t painful enough.  My mentor, a man I formally respected, told me that I wasn’t allowed to use the word “addiction” because I guess he owned it or something.  That’s basically saying “You’re boring and no one cares.”  I didn’t write CNF for a long, long time because no one ever gave my work feedback, just told me what a horrible person I was (for what, I don’t know.  I wrote about records.  Sorry I wasn’t molested).

So I was ranting and raving to Ian about how these girls attacked me for no reason, and I called former classmate B***** a c****, because she is.  Her essays were all about her blowing dudes at NIN concerts for coke and she was TOTES ANGRY BECAUSE HER DAD WAS IN VIETNAM, plus she called me a bitch in workshop and the workshop leader let her get away with it.  And now she tried to use me against Matthew, like he should be ashamed of me and of himself for being friends with me.  I’m more hurt by her attacking him than I am at her attacking me.

But Ian, like most normal people, hates the c-word, so he got all mad at ME, and I ended up not only carrying my PTSD, but his stress about my dirty language.

I know I shouldn’t have said that about B***** because it was mean, and I don’t want to stop to her hateful level.  If I was a better person, I would pray that she finds some sort of happiness because she seems to hate everyone and everything, most of all, herself.  And I’m torn between feeling like I can lean on Ian when I’m terrified of my own ugliness and being afraid to let him see the ugliness inside of me.  I know Dorothy would say to keep it tucked in . . . but neither her, nor Arlene, nor HGB ever say what you do with that ugliness if there’s no outlet.

Throwing Shade

“Perhaps Arab women, swathed in veils, and Victorian maidens screening their complexions with scarves and parasols have the right idea”  Arlene Dahl, Always Ask a Man.

I was blessed with a lovely alabaster complexion that turns a hellfire red if I’m out in the sun for more than eleven seconds.  I usually slather on a nice SPF 50 before going out of the mail, but I decided to try out my vintage Chinese paper parasol, because I’m fancy.

It was cumbersome at first and took a bit to get used to.  I had to lug that and my purse, and I wasn’t going far, just from the car to the mall.  But I got a ton of compliments.

I went out to Brewery Ommegang with Mike, thinking we’d get some beers, eat some lunch and walk around the grounds.  I was still wearing high heels, but I figured that the grass was lush enough where I was going to kick them off.

We decided to eat outside because it was so beautiful out, but with two master’s degrees between us, we couldn’t figure out how to get the table umbrella up.  Ah well, I thought to myself, setting down my parasol.  We’ll only be here long enough to eat and then I’ll walk around with my parasol up.

Two hours later we’re still sitting there, just talk talk talking, and my arm and shoulder has turned bright, bright red.  And it hurt.  

So much for my delicate pale skin.  We’ll try the parasol when my 3rd degree sunburn finally heals.  But for now, aloe and long sleeves

  

How To Sound Like an Idiot

“Don’t look overjoyed when a man dates you up.  Act as if you could take them or leave them, and it doesn’t matter which to you.” Dorothy Dix, How to Win and Hold a Husband.

ImageSo let’s say there’s this guy I like.  Older guy, blonde, big muscled arms, beautiful lips. Okay, let’s just say that it’s Kenny Johnson from The Shield and I’ve had a crush on him pretty much since day one.  I even watched Major League 3: Back to the Minors so I could look at him in a leotard.

Now let’s say I follow him on Twitter, because Twitter allows us to stalk people.  And then let’s say, for the fun of it, that he follows me back.  And for kicks, we’ll add that it’s just before my birthday and OMG I’M GOING TO FAINT.

Now the question is, how on earth do I communicate with this person without sounding like a drooling idiot fangirl?  The answer is, I haven’t. All I do is get up every morning to check that he still follows me, try to think of something clever to say (“I want to write a TV show where Kenny Johnson solves crimes with dinosaurs”) erase it and go about my day in a semi-neurotic state (that’s my usual mode and has nothing to do with Kenny Johnson).

I’ve never really been good at talking to boys I like.  I have two modes: Manic Pixie Dream Girl and Coy Seductress.  Mostly Manic Pixie Dream Girl, where I act all weird and goofy and bubbly, and I ask silly questions and make mix CDs because there’s this thing called the 90’s and it’s gonna be around forever.  Because more than anything, I want to be liked and I want to be adored.  I want to be special to a man, even if it’s just as a friend, and not just another series in dumb forgettable fangirls.  

So what to say to a boy I like?  According to Ms. Dix, nothing, apparently, not unlike Morrissey’s “The More You Ignore me, the Closer I Get.”  

The Nervous Home-wrecker

So last night my bestie Rachel’s husband Dave took me out to see Warm Bodies.  We’d sort of half been planning this date for a while; namely, when I went to see The Hobbit with him and our friend Darcy (and was a GREAT date by NOT falling asleep and drooling on his shoulder, because I’m ladylike) and we saw the trailer and he half-asked me if I wanted to go because, like The Hobbit, he didn’t think his wife would be interested.  That’s me, the Movie Mistress.

I was strangely nervous, partially because I could tell he was a little skittish about being seen out with me (and rumors starting that he was stepping out on his wife) and partially because I think Rachel is one of the most awesome people in the entire world, and if I somehow acted like a goober, it would get back to her and she wouldn’t like me anymore, which would be a mega-drag.  Not being liked by Rachel and Dave is one of my biggest fears.  It might be my biggest fear, actually, because I think they’re both so cool, and I’m sort of surprised they let me hang out with them, because I am a dork.

A little bit about Dave.  I like Dave a lot.  He smiles out of the corner of his mouth like Han Solo, and  he laughs at my jokes, and he has a very sharp, dry sense of humor that I dig.  He’s a great husband and a great dad, and I think that’s what I like best about him.  (See also: he laughs at my jokes.)

He picked me up at 8:15 in his wife’s car and immediately handed me his iPhone.  “You pick the tunes,” he said, already starting the date off on an awesome foot.  I picked the soundtrack to Les Mis, partially because I’d been making fun of him about it for a few days and partially because I was afraid of the touchscreen.  He rolled his eyes and laughed and sneered, “Oh shut up” and then I laughed.

It also marked the first time I was taller than my date.  My wedges propped me up so I was just slightly above him.  He took it well.

He bought us Cokes and a Lindt chocolate bar, the movie was free and there was free freshly-popped popcorn.  “You’re a cheap date,” he said in a way that made me feel like a million bucks.

The movie was passable, but we both made fun of it for MST3K bonus points.

Afterwards, he took me out for a beer at the same bar he and his guy friends go to, which also made me feel cool.  He was treating me like one of the guys instead of some delicate hot-house blossom, which is exactly how the husband of my best gal-pal should treat me.  We talked local politics, we made each other laugh, and around midnight, we both realized that we had to get up early for the exact same Mystery Train performance in the morning and said goodnight.  No hug, no kiss on the cheek, just “Catch ya later.”

There was no expectation, no weird tension, no performance on either of our parts.  We went out as two friends, we watched a cheesy movie and drank delicious beer in an empty bar with “Shipping Up to Boston” playing on the jukebox (not our choice).  It was one of the most fun evenings I’ve had in awhile.

Geek Girl Goes Gams

My friend Rachel’s husband Dave is taking me out to the movies tonight, and because he teased me about my stiletto booties making noise coming down the hall, I’ll wear my brand-new American Eagle wedge sandals instead.

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Wedges are the greatest shoe invention ever.  You get all the lift and strut of a heel, with less of the falling down or foot murder that is stilettos.

Day Three in Heels

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If these had a Meowth and came in red, I would wear them every day of my life.

I went to high school in the late 90’s, when it was required by law that all girls shoes have at least a four-inch heel, because the Spice Girls were popular and nothing shows “Girl Power” as much as limping late into math class on a twisted ankle in sweet black stretch knee-high dragon patterned boots from Hot Topic.

But in high school, walking to math class was about as far as I ever had to go, so it was easy to strut around in ridiculous heels.  Once I got to college, I switched to sturdy, mid-calf Doc Martens, dependable punk boots I would stand at one of my several low-wage jobs in all day and dance in all night.

But now that I have a job that requires me to sit at my desk all day, I’m really enjoying wearing heels.  The furthest I have to walk is from the bus to my office, and yesterday, when I was wearing my Betsey Johnson booties and skinny black slacks, I just about caused a traffic accident from all the drivers turning to stare.  Yeah, I felt awesome.

What DIDN’T feel awesome was when I strut my stuff down to the post office, which gave me a blister and reminded me why I stopped wearing heels.  But damn, I looked good, and a little ego can balm any wound.