sarahntastic

I’m over it.  Entertaining myself at night with a buzz.  I never used to do that.  I never used to have alcohol in the house.  I’d certainly have drinking nights out but until this last year, never did I entertain myself in the evenings with drinking.  I used to do things like read, and write, and simply be bored if I was bored.  Drinking feels like shit.  And has stunted my weight loss.  And makes me feel like a complete idiot.

So, I just poured out 2 bottles of vodka and 4 bottles of wine.  Peace out, party of one.

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.

Ohhh, where to start?  How about, I was looking through the Target magazine rack for a goddam holiday magazine for cookie decorating ideas and the only thing I found was this bullshit?  What is the point of this?  Obviously to sell magazines, but the girl is already selling her album.  Why does she do this?  Why do any of them do this for that matter?  We all know I’m not a prude, but I certainly will call you out on your naked-for-no-reason idiocy.

This talented girl could capitalize on sympathy for the rest of her life, if she is interested in making money on something other than her talent.  But no.  She needs to show her “power” and her “femininity” and her what, exactly?  What goes through a young woman’s mind when she is super popular, super talented AND got the shit beat out of her by America’s Boy Sweetheart so-will-forever-have-our-hearts, when she does a photo shoot like this?  I wish she had a woman in her life to explain to her you do not empower yourself by giving it away to millions of people.

I’m disgusted.  And sad.  And angry.  Mostly disappointed she made this choice.

So, I was wrong.

I thought I figured out how to not be obsessed with, and controlled by food over the last few years having fairly easily lost nearly 100 pounds and starting a decent work-out routine after doing neither in my life before.  But, it turns out, 2009 was a huge piece of shit.  And not big piles of shit, but various and many smaller piles of shit that I didn’t always notice until I realized the fetid smell following me was not going away.

I am more and more bogged down and depressed as time passes.  More later on the deep fear I have of  another depressive episode.  I’ll leave it at this:  it can’t happen again.  I won’t survive it, I am sure.  And not in the suicide-type of survival way, but the simple emotional-type survival way.

Food.  My greatest love, and my worst enemy.  My sustenance both physical and emotional.  My hobby and my joy.  My poison and my torment.

I’ve gained nearly 20 pounds this year, most of which piled on in the last few months–the hardest months I’ve had in a long time.  When I binge, I know intellectually I am hurting, and bandaging with food.  I hover above myself, watching the preparation of snacks and meals comprised of ingredients that have not, until recently, even crossed the threshold of my front door for years:  peanut butter, butter, chips, tortillas, cookies, candy, half and half.  I used to allow myself a dinner out for these trigger foods, and the results were fine.  However, I’ve talked myself into believing I somehow have control over these things, so I’ve brought them into the house.  But of course, that’s a huge lie.  I’ve brought them into the house for bandaging and love and support.

Funny thing about medicating with food.  It has the opposite affect of what you want.  It’s the same as any addiction.  Goddam, I feel good right in the minute.  The tastes, the smells, the textures, the sensual memories.  And then.  It ends quickly.  The high is gone.  Maybe it doesn’t come at all depending on how much I’m hurting, how deep the hole is that day.  Sometimes I graze forever.  Sometimes I have the strength to sit on my hands as it were.  Most of the time I don’t.

I have no answers here.  I carry my pain and fear in a constant lump in my throat, on the verge of tears most minutes of the day; in my folds of flesh that reveal my weakness and hurt to the world; in my chest that is always tight; in my head that always aches.  Today serves as a day of forcing honesty.  Reminding myself I’m fooling no one, least of all me.  I need to somehow get back to the high I got from losing weight, getting into the next smaller size jeans, people noticing my confidence and happiness and lightness–and not the size kind.  Because I’m not sure how my mind twists from knowing how good it feels to lose weight and being in control to bingeing on food and false control.

It started with the realization that my COBRA subsidy ended December 1.

It continued with deepening depression about my financial situation.

Then there was a really shitty bff birthday party.

Then sweet Miss Callie went to doggie heaven.

Then competition and nosey-ness reared its ugly head.

Then sweet Miss Abby went to doggie heaven.

Then I had to figure out how to pay bills.

Then I couldn’t stop eating.

But.

I spent days and days with Cutest Baby.

I got two (small) cupcake orders.

It’s looking like I might just sell the BMW and get a little cash to live on.

I met fantastic women who will help me build the diaper bank.

But.

I am still hoping for a few less things that suck next week, though.

I’ve always had a very small group of women around me I trusted and loved and admired.  And there have always been the women who come and go.  Those who offer something for a time, or those who I might something to for a time, and then they are gone.  But the group has always been small nevertheless.  I have never felt like I quite understood women.  I never played along well with games the mean girls played, especially because I was most often the target of the meanness.

After high school I found the same mean girls in the work place.  Of course there were a few I loved to work with, but there were so many who still played the game of brutal competitiveness, which could include anything from outright sabotage to subtle exclusion.  I tried to stay above it all, but that made me more of a target.  I maintained a sense of understanding that these women were raised to believe they needed to behave this way.  I always attempted to manage my employees and team members with civility and respect.  My mantra has always been “you are most powerful when you show people, rather than tell people, what you can do”  or “you don’t have to be a dick to get people to do good work.”

Most managers saw this as a positive quality and I was promoted quickly and often everywhere I worked.  But still, many women I’ve worked with, and in my industry, I have worked with a super-majority of women, have not been comfortable with what I consider to be the best way to comport oneself in business, and many have rejected it outright for the management version of Mean Girls.

So it has been with much delight and surprise I have been introduced to amazing women this year who not only spend their time, energy, entrepreneurism, motherhood, friendship, blogging, and neighboring in the space of generosity and kindness.  Since being laid off I’ve started volunteer work in the non-profit world, played with social media, thought seriously about starting a business, and generally just branched out from my tiny hovel of a living room to find moms, non-moms, and just any smart women I can get in touch with to work on their projects, my projects, anyone else’s cool projects that come up, and just plain old conversation.

I can honestly say, every single woman I’ve met this year through Twitter, SV Moms, and diaper drives have been genuinely excited about my ideas; have been generous with brainstorming, including tons of follow-up and coaching; have been monumentally generous with networking and their contacts; and have simply been kind and inclusive to me.  These are all women who are successful at home, with work, with their families, and they absolutely know what I know:  showing their personal power through example and generosity is exactly why they are successful.

Thank you to all my new friends and mentors (even if you don’t know I’ve appointed you to the position).

Tranny Ambush:  when your friend that’s a boy that plays boy sports, sweats like a boy, talks like a boy, drinks like a boy, acts like a boy, dresses up like a frumpy woman to pick you up for lunch not having forewarned you of such.

Also used when said boy wants to date you then reveals at some point when you already like him “I think I’m a girl, a lesbian, in fact.”