A smattering of nattering.

My brain’s all over the joint so, as a result, this post will probably cover 18 katrillion topics and I’m not 100 percent sure it will make any sense, let alone come to any sort of point. But hey, Monday's almost over. Let’s roll the dice and see what comes out of my idiot head.



I’ve been ruminating on this comment I read over at Jezebel a couple of weeks ago:

...do we ever tell single men to just suck it up and be happy alone? To me, it seems like we just want these older single women to shut up because there aren't any solutions.

It rang my bell something fierce, and since then, I’ve been paying slightly closer attention to the various message boards and whatnots that I peruse and it really is rather striking how older single fellows bemoaning their single status are given the “keep yer chin up, buddy, she’s out there/don’t give up, man, Ms. Right’s right around the corner!!” platitudes and rah-rahing, but us older single women…yeah, why don’t we shut our traps and be happy with what we have, huh? Be grateful that you have friends/family/a roof over your head/a job to go to/two legs to stand on/two eyeballs to see out of/the sun shines/the wind blows etc. etc. etc. and fucking on and on. You don’t NEED a relationship, you know. So BE GRATEFUL, and you’d damn well better keep any of those stupid thoughts about how it pretty much sucks being the third wheel/ignored/alone to yourself so the rest of us aren’t bummed out.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. Bitter and kind of furious at times, actually. I know I trot out this song-and-dance more often than anyone really gives a rat’s ass about, but as I’m preparing to embark on one last ridonk attempt at online dateage, perhaps I’m trying to pump out the last remnants of bitterness from the lower decks of my very large failboat, the U.S.S. Chunky-n-Doom’d in order to embark upon this project with some semblance of optimism. Or, at least, the ability to put on a convincing show of it. But I think we all have that moment of “bwuh!!!” when someone tells us of a double-standard and then we see it in practice for ourselves. And mercy, am I bwuhing my ass off lately. I think it’s the most hurtful when it comes from people who you’re close to, be they family or friends. When my mother trots out the old saw about “Life Lessons” and “Everything happens for a reason”, I would like to put her in the shed because I’m waaaaaaaaaaay over Life Lessons Happening For a Reason. I’m at the point in my life where I would much rather just be presented with a list of all the Reasons the Life Lessons are happening and what I could do in order to pass the next exam. Someone tell me where I can pick up the Cliff’s Notes and I’ll study up something fucking fierce.

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I had this thought many times today: JUST FUCKING EAT FUCKING EAT FUCKING EAAAAAAT. No, not directed at myself, but overhearing co-workers getting tight over calorie counts and dress sizes and being "disgusting" and "pigs" and the usual foorahrah, accompanied by oohing and aahing over a co-worker just back from maternity leave. The same woman that insisted I'd lost weight while I was overseas was borderline frothing as she told New Mom she'd lost weight ohyesyouhavethebabyweight'salmostallgoneohmygoodness! I really loathe how diet conversation has become a lo-cal substitute (har har) for CONVERSATION. That discussing one's diet/exercise regimen and how many calories are consumed and what "bad" things you avoid eating and how "bad" you've been if you had a cookie is considered interesting chat while at work or out with friends. Not that I'm looking to have a deep, philosophical chat with my co-workers, but good gravy, could it be chatter that isn't a competition to see who can come up with the most colorfully hatey ways to deride oneself? I suspect I may be repeating myself, but it's appalling to me that self-loathing has become a rite of passage. It's absolutely acceptable for a person to participate in a conversation that consists primarily of which body parts of ours we find to be horrifically disgusting and how we HAVE to get in shape (the only appropriate shape being thin) and coveting bodies that it is downright scientifically impossible to have. I think about Dara Torres, the 41-year-old Olympic swimmer that made so many headlines because she was coming back to compete at *gasp* the ancient age of 41 AND *super-mega-gasp* after having had a BABY! You know goddamned well millions of women saw the photographs of her and her washboard abs and muscular thighs and immediately thought themselves shitty because they didn't have those abs and muscular thighs--never mind the fact that Dara Torres' job...is being a SWIMMER. She spends $100,000 a year on a head coach, a sprint coach, two stretchers, two masseuses, a chiropractor, and a nanny. That's why she's got friggin' washboard abs and muscular thighs--because she can devote every friggin' free moment to flopping around in the friggin' pool, friends. But that kind of logic doesn't penetrate our brains because we are so caught up in the magic being sold to us each and every day that our lives will practically turn into a never-ending utopia of awesome and unicorns if we could just stop being such out-of-control hogbeasts and GET. THIN. Oh, I mean, GET IN SHAPE.

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Lastly, I do wish to report I'm in love with something shiny, pretty, and with a blinky light. I bought a 500GB hard drive tonight and it's...it's a delight, frankly. A couple of years ago, I had a massive hard drive implosion that ate much of my writing, including 15 or so completed screenplays. Yep, a LIFE LESSON if there ever was one. Not that I've been able to write shit since then, but I suddenly came over all "must have external hard drive now" this evening and trotted out to pick myself up my new best friend. We'll just overlook the large amount of surge-protecting power strips I have in my Bachelorette Lair (a.k.a. my room in my parents' house) *cough* because it's important that my bass amp be at the ready at all times in case I feel a need to jam, or it only take mere seconds for my PC to leap to life because dammit, I NEED TO KNOW WHERE CHRIS MAKEPEACE IS.

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It's okay to want more...right?

So I'm kind of half-heartedly wading through the online dating "scene", just kind of scoping out my options. My general attitude about it is probably not the best, in that I irk easily and I have certain things that I just cannot let go of: my preferences when it comes to religion and children...and spelling and grammar.



I thought it would be in my best interest to head to websites that are specifically geared towards teh fats. I dutifully put up my profile and pictures (I think the one where I'm wearing a hat shaped like a shark is bound to attract scads of fellas), and sat back to await the flood of interested parties.

Because of COURSE there would be a flood, people, COME ON. I'm ME.

The flood...well...the flood consisted of some of the most violent spelling errors I've ever witnessed. Now, don't get me wrong--I'm not talking about a transposed letter here and there. We're talking passages of spelling errors. And apparently, my religious beliefs (or lack thereof, I should say) as well as my disinterest in having children...let's just say it didn't stop me being messaged by a gentleman whose entire introductory profile paragraph was about his love for Jesus and how if I didn't love Jesus, we would not be COMPATIABLE(sic). Dude, it says very very blatantly in my profile that I am an atheist. Therefore...I must say one could conclude that I do not love Jesus. He's a nice guy, we just don't have much in common and don't run in the same circles.

Then I had another message from a guy who loves "weman" and wants me to know that "weman were made for us men". Which is...fine...I guess? I mean, rock on with your bad self, if you want to go with that approach. But the most lolleriffic thing for me was that why yes, he was willing to relocate for his perfect lady love. And why wouldn't you be willing to relocate when you live...IN GHANA.

Of course, there's the voice in my head that says I'm being too picky, that I'm being too much of a snob to be so bent and unmoving about the spelling and grammar, that I'm being a pedant. And someone like me (that is, FAAAAAT) shouldn't be so picky. Rather, shouldn't dare to be so picky. After all, who do I think I am? I'm old, I'm plain, I'm certainly no fashion model--who am I to be such a stickler when I should be grateful that any male is paying attention to me?

Thing is, though, no matter how irritated I get with myself and how downright hateful I can be to myself, there's still enough of an ego in me where I know I deserve better. At the very least, I deserve someone who can write a semi-snappy, well-crafted motherfucking dating profile, for Christ's sake. Frankly, I've still enough of my ego preserved from my teenage years where I thought I was the shit where I'm occasionally genuinely baffled as to why I've been rejected by some of the men I've been rejected by. Especially when seeing what kind of women they wind up with. Back in high school, I had myself a little crushola on a guy that was a year younger than me. My kind of guy--kind of shy, fairly geekish, could play the piano like a son of a bitch, and had a very dry, silly wit that made me swoon. He knew that I found him foxy and didn't seem that perturbed by the concept. Little did I know that a girl that I was mentoring somewhat in the high school radio station had her eyes on him, and dammit if she didn't snatch him right out from under me.

When it all went down, I was truly, truly baffled. I barely thought "shit, it's because I'm such a fat fucking cow"--it was more "what the FUCK??? She's--she's--she's EWWW!! And dumb! And not funny! And weird (not in the fun way, either)!!" I was boggled for months. Even looking back now, I'm having a moment of "BWUH???". But that could be the ridiculous amount of snot that is currently coursing out of my nose thanks to a sinus infection breaking up.

I'm sorry, my sinuses derailed my train of thought. All right. Yes. Got it. Bottom line, I know what I want. And what I want is what I want, and can spell "want" correctly. And at the end of the day, I sincerely and wholeheartedly mean it when I say I would rather be alone (despite my whinery) than settle. Because I deserve what I consider the best, and the size of my ass is not going to alter my criteria.

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