sarahntastic

I didn’t want to get married the first or the second time I did so.  The first time I was trying to out-reverse psychology my parents.  I ended up married.  Sobbing and hyperventilating down the aisle, yet still ended up married at 19.  The second time was for pragmatic reasons that ultimately were for naught, yet there I was, married again.

Neither time did I think I was following through on a life-long desire to partner up with someone.  In fact, both times I knew very well the decisions would likely lead me to disaster of some sort.  I’m the person who desired love and commitment more than anyone I knew, even at a young age, but never, ever did I think that meant marriage.

I believe in long-term relationships.  I believe in fidelity and commitment and partnership and team work and building a family and sharing lives.  More than a lot of people I know, certainly.

I think it is unnatural for humans to spend long periods of our lives alone.

I think we are at our best when we live with and alongside someone we care for deeply, support faithfully, trust absolutely.  He is the person you are willing to get dressed in front of unabashedly.  He is the person you know you can puke in front of and in return he can do the same.  And then you are willing to clean up the sick and the poop and the snotty kleenex.  We know what the other wants to say, even when we can’t spit it out.  We know favorites:  food, perfume, magazines, literature, films, television.  Because this is how you are for someone you love.

And you might argue.  You might even fight hard and mean and tough once in a while.  But those times are rare.  Because you know that you cannot make it if this is how you are most of the time.  Because it is how things were before, and it never worked.  Because none of the others were the one.

None of this means I care to be married.  Certainly there are pragmatic reasons that might change my mind like getting health insurance and making end-of-life decisions.  But there are other ways to manage these things.

I believe in forever more, happily ever after, not wanting something good to end, ever.  But all of this does not mean marriage to me.  And frankly, I think I’ve used up my marriage tries.  I gladly give up any more to those who legally cannot marry but want to.

you can’t have just the best parts of me

you can have my kindness and my generosity and my I-will-always-make-you-feel-special

but you must have my wounds and my mistakes and my temper

you can have my trust and my adoration and my I-will-always-make-you-laugh

but you must have my tantrums and my over-thinking and my jumping to conclusions

you can have my love

and you must have the rest of me

or you can’t have any of me

Many years ago I had a friend who challenged me to my core.  Often in manipulative, unrealistic, and simply insane ways thinking back on it all, but at the time, I thought she was wise and smart.  Her AA, OA, NA and whatever else Anonymous theories I met mostly with a “get over yourself” attitude, but I certainly was not, am not, perfect.  So I listened.  I learned what I could.

She was considerably older than me.  I was 24 when we first met and she was near 40.  She had had a life, a child, a couple divorces, many boyfriends, many dates, many a fall-out with her family, and of course the addiction battles.  I was divorced but still very naive.  I hadn’t yet had my first cocktail, never smoked, never did drugs, and never really dated, having married my second serious boyfriend when I was 19.

Mostly I thought she was a mature, confident woman who did whatever she wanted, and I wanted to be like her.  She talked about sex like no one I’d ever known.  She told men off for being bad in bed.  She was honest with men and required them to be honest with her.  She was confident at work.  Confident with women.  And I was fun, single, and pretty much willing to let her take me on as her project for awhile.  We were perfect for each other at that particular time in our lives.

After a couple years, though, I wasn’t cutting it with her.  I never did meet her expectations.  After all, I was still me.  Certainly I learned a bit more about men and relationships and making a place for myself at work.  I learned I was lucky to have a supportive family, something she did not have.

But it all ended when she challenged me in an honest and forthright way during a time I was particularly depressed and lost.

She wanted me to commit to a trip, a seminar, a plan for my life–many things at once that I had been putting off.  We argued, I cried, she was frustrated with me, I was frustrated with me.  I wouldn’t commit to anything.  I remember, vividly, the final phone call.  I said over and over again that I was confused and unsure of what to do with myself.  Finally she said, “Sarah, confusion is a delusion your brain allows you so you don’t have to make choices.  It’s an excuse.  You aren’t confused, you are scared and so you choose nothing.  But you are not confused.”

And there it was.  Straight truth.

I know what I want.  I know who I love and care for.  I know who is good for me and who isn’t.  I know that I put myself in situations that allow for the delusion of confusion to be cultivated so that I have an excuse not to be myself, not to do anything, not to commit, not to move forward, not to find a man who wants to be with me fully and completely.

I am not confused.  And neither are you.

1969

1991

When she married my dad in 1969, she was 19.

When I married in 1991, I was 19.

I thank all that is good and right in the world that the best of these marriages is still in tact, successful, fun, silly, weird, crazy, and loving.

I was married to a wealthy man from a wealthy family.  I don’t say this to brag my way out of your heart.  Obviously you know me well enough to know I wouldn’t do such a thing.  But just to lay this out:  I had an engagement ring and jewelry I was embarrassed to own, and never wore, mostly because its value was the same as a home in Silicon Valley; extravagant trips; extravagant gifts; gorgeous cars; successful investments; and so on.

But none of it meant anything to me.  Because I wanted a rich marriage, not a rich husband.  My former mother-in-law actually brought thousands of dollars worth of jewelry to me the day she arrived to take her son home to marry another woman.  My parting gifts, apparently.  I used it as an opportunity to finally tell her no.  She thought I was foolish to turn down the payoff.

As many nice things I’ve owned, seen, done, nothing matters if, well, if it doesn’t matter.

So the other day a friend said a particular car is sexy, and my reply was “I don’t think cars are sexy, I think paying rent is sexy.”  And by that I mean, taking care of your family in the simplest way is sexy.  Cars? eh. I’ve had them.  But trust, reliability, hysterical funnies, generosity of one’s heart?  Much, much sexier than a car.

*  “did you just say ‘paying rent’ is sexy?” quoted from this funny guy.

I don’t miss him.  He did, after all, leave me. For another woman.  And marry her before we were divorced.  And had a kid with her.  After he (we) had been so distraught about my miscarriage the year before.  And ruined my credit.  And left me with no savings or retirement.  And left me to rot on the couch in paralyzing depression.  And after all that I still allowed him to be my best friend as he had been for 10 years.  And it was OK.  Because we had that history.  And it served a purpose for me, too.  Until he stole a lot of money from me last year and cut off all communication from me.

So no, I don’t miss this specific person.

But I miss the familiarity.  The best-friendship.  The jokes that only we thought were funny.  Because dude and I were super funny together (we all already know how funny I am, yo.  He was, too).  I find myself still, now, even last night, nearly saying something out loud something only he would know was hysterical.

Funny men, let’s do this.  Because I need some new funny.

OK, a question for my friends:  is it better to have caught a tiny glimpse of a person you **know** would make a good partner or remain ignorant that such a person exists?

I’m not trying to be all dramatic, you know I suck at choosing partners, and I don’t have a clue what it’s like to be with someone who adores me, who I adore equally.  It just has never happened for me.

Right now I’m thinking ignorance is what I would have preferred, but that might just be the PMS poopy-head talking.

Tell me what you think.

His profile listed going to The Blank as one of his passtimes.  I was going that night.  I okcupid’ed him to tell him to meet me there.  No biggie.  He wasn’t terribly good looking but I thought it might be fun.

He ignored me the whole night, but texted me.  How old are we? He was less cute in person.  But I had to start somewhere.

Some events will remain un-described here, but let’s just say, after he came over a few times, he is now known as Three Strikes.

He texted and called many times.  I ignored him.  I was, after all, by this time, all gushy over a real man I met in the in between time.  But then lonliness got the best of me and I agreed to a real date.  One that includes dinner, talking, being nice to me.

The Night of The Date arrived and Three Strikes leaves work late, then has hot water problems at home (“I am NOT going out if I have to take a cold shower” he texted me.  Very romantic.), then finally picks me up at 9pm.  I was nearly passed out from too much wine and irritation and just plain old disinterest.

He has no plan for dinner.  Mind you, dude has lived here all his life like me.  He knows the goddam restaurant line-up around here.  He only says “It’s WAY too late to go to a movie.”  Don’t treat me too right, motherfucker.  So, I’m trying to be on my best behavior ever, and you all know me.  This kind of shit from anyone usually results in some kind of demerit.  Like sending the fucker home, say.  I suggest a number of restaurants.  He won’t choose.  He pretends he’s never heard of the moderately priced places.  The man who makes $150k can’t deal with a $100 dinner, apparently.  So I jokingly suggest a coffee shop with a bar.  The one that has half-price appetizers and well drinks.  Dude jumps on this.

I do not kid here, people.  The Flames on a Friday night.  This means two grown-ups are going where kids go for $4 nachos after the movies.  Fuck. Me.

But I’m starving.  So we go.  We take a cab.  I tell him he is paying for everything.  This is so out of character for me.  I never allow anyone to pay for anything.  But I’m furious now.

We sit. I drink. I order mini corn dogs and a salad. He complains about how ENORMOUS the portions are.  I say “motherfucker, if you talk about the food one more time, I will throw this mustard in your face.” By now my manners are gone.  I eat, he eats (mind you, dude is NOT a small man, he can pack it in, but has some need to discuss portion size). I try to have a conversation about his job, my previous work.  He wants to talk about the things he wants to cook for me.  I’m thinking, fuck if I’m going anywhere else with you or near you again.

He paid.  I said I would pay.  The bill was 24 bucks.  He said “you don’t have a JOB, Sarah.”  Look, cocksucker, I already have a dad, thank you very much.

We leave, walking back to my place, I ask him about work again, since he continues to complain about it.  Then, the clincher.  He goes “it’s not like you can have a SERIOUS conversation right now, Sarah.”  What. The. Fuck.  So I can’t take it anymore.  I start saying, loudly “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t inform you that I’m retarded BEFORE we left the house.” and “I can’t exactly use my brain after you take me to The Flames for dinner.” and “YOU’RE A MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKER.”  I tell him he’s abrasive and rude and his answer is “everyone always tells me that, I’m me, I am what I am.”

I wanted to just go home, but I stopped at a bar for a last drink.  I was hoping someone I knew would be there.  I know the bartender.  She gave me sad eyes and nodded to Three Strikes like “what happened to you and why are you out with this fucktard?”

In the lounge he softens a bit, telling me that “maybe he should change since everyone tells him he’s an asshole.” And that I should help him with it.  My answer?  “No, you are 39 years old, I am not running a How to Be A Grown-Up Man Service here.”  He gets grabby.  I get stabby.

We take a cab home.  Because Mr The Portions Are Too Big can’t walk a mile.  I run inside yelling “PEACE OUT, BITCHES” to him.

What has happened since?  Texts.  Bazillions of texts.

“I miss you, what are you doing?” me: “that’s weird, we obviously are not compatible. You’re a dick and I’m nice.” him: “I don’t want to believe that’s true.”

And who texts just now as I write this? Weeks later?  Three Strikes.  Like he has it like that with me.

Dating over.  The End.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I like you

Hurry up and like me

Roses are red

Violets are blue

No, taking me to The Flames is not an appropriate date.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Don’t imply that I am stupid

I won’t kick you in your junk

I read this today and all my insecurites are running wild.  Not that they are normally under control.  Certainly not.  However, on days like today when I’m already planning to take a risk, I read about nasty men and just want to stay home.  I’m not perfect.  I have work to do on myself, on my body, on my health.  I’ve backtracked steadily the last few months, creating a brain space that is not conducive to realigning, restarting, re-Getting The Fuck Back Together.  But I’m almost there.  I’ve mostly stopped the self-hate talk.  I’ve gone back to the gym.  I’m not pushing it, but I’m keeping my routine.

But guess what, motherfuckers?  I don’t need YOU to contribute to my mind-fucking.

I commented on ST’s post that men’s idea of body and beauty perfection is pervasive and transcends ethnic groups.  Read any white dude’s personal ad and you’d think they live a life of X Games and humping skinny chicks – no matter if their own appearance is none too pleasing.

Boys, I SEE you out with chunky girls and you are HAPPY.

It’s not that we should be attracted to things we aren’t, but the idea that men, simply because they own a dick, can cut a woman to her knees by ticking off all of the things he finds physically unattractive has got to stop.  Because you know what?  That penis you have between your legs?  The thing that society tells you gives you the power to behave this way?  It’s not even cute.  Sometimes it’s tinier than Pepper’s. One beer and it doesn’t even work!  Sometimes it doesn’t work if we asked you to take out the trash one too many times and now your feelings are hurt.

Look, I want a boyfriend, a partner, someone to love, to adore, who adores me.  But I’m not putting up with this crap anymore.  Go away, shallow, empty men.  Or I might have to figure out a way to marry my dogs and Charles Shaw.