Dating Apps Freak Me Out

Dating apps make me never want to date. 

Wait, is this some crazy oxymoron? I don’t know, I’m not an English teacher. But I am a twentysomething that still believes in the traditional dating methods. By traditional, I of course mean going out for whiskey in Wicker Park, following each other on Instagram and analyzing behaviors with my girlfriends and gays on my morning commute on the 146. I’m not so old-school that I expect you to ask my mom permission, for you to show up to my apartment with flowers and to wonder what’s under my petticoat. Think 2005, not 1905. That’s fair right? Apparently not. That’s all I want. I want to meet someone while I’m at a networking event, through friends (which is a challenge since all of my Chicago friends are flaming homos), or any other circumstance that allows me to spend time with him without worrying I’m dating the Craigslist Killer.

I do not want to meet some rando through Tinder, OKCupid, whatever. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problems with these apps. Plenty of friends, straight and gay (helloooo Grindr, Scruff and Jackd), have had some fun experiences via these “dating,” apps and that’s totally great. It’s the fact that I know that I already have issues (see previous post, eek), and if I met someone on a site where they were talking to a bajillion other hot and interesting chicks, that will be in the back of my mind. I just don’t see that another twentysomething in the city would chose an app to find someone to start something serious with over other means. If it’s simply to hook up then, go get it man! I’m not into the hook-up culture that many of my peers are exploring right now and I feel a little left out. I’m currently in the awkward situation of a drunken night at the bar-turned pizza in bed the next day to figuring out what the hell is going on six weeks later… because I never put myself in these situations. This is exactly why: it’s not going to be graceful either way. Either it’s a one weekend fling, which I don’t do, or it leads into going out and, honestly, I don’t really do that either. Well, what is it that I do? Clearly nothing. After realizing that I’ve dated wrong guy after VERY wrong guy, I have little desire to jump into a relationship. Also acknowledging that I don’t do well with hook ups, I’ve managed to stay away from that culture as well. So, I mostly just hang out with my endearing and hilarious gays. I’m only twenty-four people. 

So, now that I’ve gotten way off topic, back to dating apps: just no. I’m 100% certain that I’m going to get fucked over because of one. I can’t blame the app, it’s not Tinder’s fault that what’s-his-name is a man slut. It is technology’s fault for putting hooking up onto the bottom shelf for everyone. Sure, I was Tiger Woods-ed the first years that Facebook around, back when you had to have a college email to utilize it (that makes me sound old, sigh), so it’s inevitable with or without technology. There will always be men (and women of course) that will find a way to cheat whether it’s via an app on their phone, drunk girl at the bar, fucking hieroglyphics, who knows. What I do know is that I don’t want to find out. I certainly don’t want to be with a cheater but I feel that these apps make even the most innocent of intentions turn south quickly. Did you know that there’s an entire site dedicated to married people seeking affairs? I get emails to join sent to my spam box (along with AARP, what the hell?), weekly! I’m not even close to being married the first time, folks, give me some time before I ruin my vows. 

All I know is that the minute I see OKCupid’s pepto-colored app, the douchey Tinder flame, and especially a bright orange Grindr mask (for more than one obvious reason!), on the guy’s phone, red flags are raised. I have enough issues resisting the temptation to overanalyze things with friends and shaking the thoughts of you with other women out of my head while we make out against the kitchen counter before opening the bottle of wine! The older I get the more unusual I realize I am, and it never bothered me until recently. Naïve was never a word that I would use to describe myself but I’m beginning to feel that way. Is there something wrong with me in that I want to be courted, not messaged through some shady server on my iPhone? I don’t want a notification that “Gold Coast Darrin,” sent me a message on Tinder, I want a text or a phone call from First LastName asking when I’m available because he wants to see me. The last thing I want to do is message about a meet up that won’t happen and if it does it’s either a) smashed at a bar because they only want to hook up or b) an 

awkward day time coffee date because he doesn’t want to waste the time or money on a real date. I want walks in Lincoln Park, craft beers and HBO marathons, I want to know about his family and where he grew up, I want to tell him about my psychotic mother and meddling gays.That is what dating is to me and I have no intention to change that to adjust to 2014 standards. 

I may be neurotic, a little bit old fashioned, and unrealistic but I’m happily single if it means I won't have to deal with the endless array of rejection, man-sluts and weirdos on freaking Tinder.

Well, duh

Here's the thing: I have some issues. I think I have close to thirty or forty posts by now and if you, as a reader, haven't figured that out, there is something seriously wrong with either your mental processing or your eyes. Perhaps both. So, anyway, issues. I'm the typical girl that has a dysfunctional family, has a parent sitting in a wooden box in the ground, and a collection of relationships-gone-bad. This equals (say it with me), trust issues! 

It's hard enough to meet someone thats intelligent, accepting, and fun that you find yourself attracted to. THAT ALONE IS A MIRACLE, OKAY?? Maybe it's just a miracle for me but guess what? This is my blog. So let's say that, by some act of higher power, I spend time with someone that meets most of my mental checklist, then what? We do the typical twentysomething dating dance (that I despise): snapchat, text, Instagram, hang out once or twice a week (one of which includes getting drunk), where from there? 

I don't know. 

Were you anticipating some revelation? I have news for you: you aren't going to learn anything you don't already know reading these posts. Actually, I'm the one hoping to learn something. 

In my experience, the next step after feeling at least invested enough to start referring to him by his actual name and not the nickname my homos and I have given to him, and spending time together sober, is a complete mystery. I don't think I've gotten that far with someone. The next step I have experienced so far is some act (or many) of doucheyness, making me less interested. I then over analyze the situation(s) and it's over. Sigh. 

Typically the thing that sends me into psychoanalyze mode varies; asking if I'm a lesbian because I haven't slept with him, telling me I have too many gay friends, ditching on plans too many times in a row, etc., none of which flies with me. The analytical part is what kills me though. The guy does something stupid, and I either write him off immediately or spend the next week or so coming up with a reason to cut ties. Hmm... 

I think we all know the answer here. My work husband frequently points out that I get annoyed with the guy that I'm seeing and I'm over it instantly. Yes, I'm absolutely over HIM, but am I over the situation? Absolutely not. Depending on the he level of stupid that he achieved while upsetting me, I'll spend the next 24 hour to seven days trying to figure out why I was a) attracted to him in the first place, b) didn't see the dumbass side sooner, and c) why I continue to fall into this rut and decide to look inward. Ugh. 

Maybe next time, y'all. But probably not. 

I Carry Their Hearts

‘i carry your heart’ by E.E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
  i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
  by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear
 no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
 and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud
 of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
 higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
  and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

I think this poem was written by E.E., with the intention of being a passionate, mountain-moving love letter. It is a love letter for me as well, but rather than a steamy, timeless romance, it is that of my sisters. They are eight and four and half (to the day!) years older than I. Anyone that has sisters or even siblings understands what it can be like: ups and downs, fights, tears, hugging, heartbreak, everything. That said, what is earth-shattering for a sixth grader is not the same for a senior in high school across town and significantly different for a senior in college on the other side of the country. While my oldest sister was planning a wedding, I was trying and failing to learn algebra. My middle sister was dating and I was playing Barbie's Dream House. Our lives were never quite on the same path, which made the dynamics between us tough. 

My oldest sister being eight years older was amazing from my perspective. She was mature enough to know the differences between what was important and what wasn't. James would listen to me complain about the mean AOL IMs I was receiving from a boy I liked in middle school. My high school cheerleading drama was probably something she would replay to her husband as a dinnertime laugh for the two of them. College procrastinations, identity crises, crazy theme parties, and cheating boyfriends brought plenty of late night phone calls with amazing advice that could only come from a big sister. My only issue I ever had with her was that she was too far away, as she moved for college when I was in seventh grade. The best memories include singing and dancing to golden oldies in dad's truck that became hers, staying up late in her dorm dancing to Mariah Carey, and sitting and talking at the beaches where she's lived for hours. I admire her in so many ways, she quickly became another mother for me when my family was weak and I have probably never thanked her for that. Now she's an amazing mother of two boys and I feel like I can take credit for giving her some practice. 

Now, my middle sister is a completely different story. We have been on every level of the love-hate spectrum and even made up our own. Jose is something else, and I say that because I don't know how else to describe her. She's passionate, impulsive, wears her heart on her sleeve, lost, reckless and beautiful. Everyone knows that being the middle sibling is the tough spot so I can't imagine what that's like. As mentioned in a previous post, I learned all the fun stuff from her: dealing with boys (she's practically married now), throwing the best parties (many that we still talk about), the beginning of my interest in fashion (I now surpassed the master), and facing my fears (working on this one). Many people back home know every bit of drama that has gone on between us, but Jose and I have a bond that washes everything that we do wrong away. Not to mention, neither of us are living in Nebraska so we couldn't care less what people say. I don't think I learned forgiveness and patience from anyone else. Even better is that I'm now so proud of her. Growing up, I often felt like I was her older sister but now, she is one of my main supports now that I need it most. My breakdown when I first moved here resulted in me whining to my mom, "I'm just depressed because even Jose has it together more than meeeee."  We all laugh about this, but in all seriousness, it was probably a turning point in my relationship with Jose and that makes me incredibly happy and proud. 

A few weeks ago, both James and Jose were visiting Chicago for the weekend. Life has taken us in about every direction: married with two kids moving from place to place every three to four years, freaking Louisiana (totally random), and I somehow wandered to Chicago. By some miracle, the three of us were able to find a weekend that worked for all of us to be away from our lives (husband, work, friends, children, furry children). We spent the weekend eating, visiting museums and Chicago sites, and mostly just eating and drinking. As we're each ordering our own cocktail, I realized that we are completely different people. Our likes, interests, hobbies, values, everything. Physically, we don't look alike either. Both to the eye and deeper, of course there are similarities, but we are individuals. Like the psych nerd that I am, my mind continues to spin with the why's, how's, and what-the-fuck's, after this most recent trip. But after they were both gone from the first weekend the three of us girls have spent together, no children, no work, essentially no responsibilities, in probably ever, I knew that I am this unique person thanks to them. They've made a few mistakes, a lot of right choices, and everything in between that shaped me into who I am. For that, you can love or hate them, but it's true. 

These two, and the incredible Peggy that raised us, are the only people I can say know me. There are some honorable mentions for the best friend that hand-delivered me to Chicago, as well as the roomie and T&V. Anyone with sisters knows that there's no competition. There will always be something between us that no one else, not James' husband, Jose's hilarious coworkers, or my amazing friends, will live up to. These two women know things about me that, unless I truly piss one of them off, know one will ever know. They experienced the death of the same man, though we were all in vastly differing life stages, they get what it's like not to lose a father but to lose MY dad. These two understand things about me that no one has ever even tried to uncover. Fortunately for me, they know my neuroses, insecurities, and fears and I trust them to love me not in spite of them, but because of them. Individually, the three of us women are radiant but put us all together? Forces to be reckoned with. They are my best friends that I love unconditionally through the vast distances, arguments over borrowed flannel shirts, nights spent crying over a missing can opener (I wish this was a joke), and empathizing over the painful recounts of how many loads of laundry our mom washed that week. We're far apart, but I carry them with me every day. 

Six Months and Counting!

It's nearing six months since I ditched the Husker gear and moved to the Windy City. Granted, those six months seem like a Game of Thrones-y "Winter is Coming," type thing. Everyone has heard about Chiberia, the highway sink holes, fifty below zero weather, and frozen eyelashes at the Belmont redline station. It often seems like just yesterday that the hot sun was tanning my skin at the lake, my bloody mary was waiting on the golf cart at the Valley, or I was cruising down the country road to Cherry's house blasting Eric Church. In what is simply six months, I'm learning a lot of lessons. Many of which I am finding unexpected, hard to take in but, as with all other things in life, better now than ever. 

1: Don't count on everyone that you once did
You're probably thinking, "well, duh," and I thought the same thing. It seems obvious, the distance will make everything harder. I wish that I could attribute the rifts built in my support system to distance. Interestingly, those that I used to turn to first have now slipped down the mental list of emergency contacts. The only way I look at this is a positive: as V has always and continues to tell me, "there are the friends that put air in your tires, and the ones that put holes in them, so which do you want?" It's a tough lesson, learning who is a cheerleader and who would rather see failure, but it is necessary. My friends are amazing, though few, but I will take that any day over a bunch of fake people that secretly spread my misfortunes around my hometown with a smile on their face. But, as V also says, "quit wasting your time on those fuckwads!" And again, that bitch is right.

2: Home isn't always home
Last Sunday marked the six month anniversary of my Chicago residency. This exciting date came and passed without so much of a blink until I realized it this afternoon, April 6th, while writing the date on a piece of paper. If someone asks where I'm from, usually in regards to the accent I apparently have, of course I tell them I'm from Nebraska. That said, Chicago is my home. It's rare that, aside from missing brunch with my oldest and closest friend or snuggling on the sofa with my pup, I feel homesick. When I do get a little bummed, I just have to remember exactly why I left and what I'm hoping to get out of living here. Nonetheless, Nebraska doesn't feel like home anymore, it never did. If anything, I felt homesick every day I spent there, the only thing that got me through it were the amazing people I surrounded myself with. 

3: Most importantly, manage your expectations
Oh my god. I'll say it again: manage expectations. I used to dread when I would hear this, as my ex would say it all the time. It honestly made me depressed. But, I now realize the importance of this, thanks to my brunch babe. If I adjust my expectations of said person, it ends up saving me a lot of pain and disappointment. Just typing that sentence shakes me and whatever moral standing that I have within my Grinch-sized heart. I hope that those close to me don't tweak their expectations to avoid disappointment with me but apparently, it's life. Sigh.  

4: Keep in touch with those that matter
Similar feelings to numbers one and two, but gone are the initial pangs of heartache while missing the windows down in my new car on "O" Street, seeing familiar faces at every bar and in the grocery store, and not having to worry about public transportation. Of course the gay bar with my queens, sitting on our Starbucks bench with Cherry, and the firepit with T&V cross my mind almost daily. Those friends are never more than a snapchat, phone call, or Mean Girls meme away, which makes me a very lucky girl. Though I may not see them every day, or even at all since I've moved, but they're the ones putting air in my tires every day and the first ones I think of whenever something good happens.

5: Take this time to fall in love with yourself
Boom. This is why I quit my job(s), packed up my shoes and moved here. Well, that and I couldn't bear to be away from my roomie. I felt suffocated in Nebraska. I was stuck while trying to decide where my career was headed, dating the same douchebag over and over, dealing with the same dumbass drama from people that barely know me, and frequenting the same terrible bars. Caged, whether I put myself into that cage is to be determined (answer: yes), but that's not a good feeling. I never believed that I was completely at ease. There was always some loser waiting to stir up some rumors, an insecure and humiliating boss trying to ruin your days, an ex still trying to get back together/ruin my life/both. It's not easy to be yourself while every move is under a microscope. I can be myself here. I don't know anyone, I have no one to impress, and even if I did, the last six months alone have taught me that it's not worth jumping through hoops for people that don't matter. Phew. 

I don't think any of these are groundbreaking, and for that I apologize. I can offer a few other pieces of advice: 
-sleep with the blinds open sometimes, waking up to the sun peeking over the lake is next to nothing
-get to Ann Sather before 10AM on Sunday, bring a bottle of champagne and enjoy mimosas with your cinnamon rolls and friendly homo
-don't take the train after a certain hour because you can't UNsee what happens at Grand and State at 5AM on a Friday (dirt angels on the platform, trash digging, and lots of drugs is the answer)
-fresh flowers. That's it. Keep them in the apartment, it's nice to have something alive when everything is covered in ice and snow (below)
-give up your seat on the train or bus, you never know who needs it more than you and what karma will come of it. Unless you're wearing stilettos because I always look like an ass when the driver slams on the breaks FYI
-Find a guilty pleasure and allow yourself to enjoy it, no matter what. I need my trenta iced green tea every day because it makes me think of T&V, feel refreshed and happy. Just as long as it's not blow or hookers, you'll probably be fine. 

A Crappy Massage

After a particularly stressful (redundant) week as a social worker, arguing with my then-boyfriend about his work addiction and searching all over my excuse for a city to find my best friend’s birthday gift, I was more than ready to unwind with a relaxing Friday off work. Plans for the day included sleeping in, going to the gym, a long-overdue massage and lunch with a friend.

My day started off with what classifies as one of my Top Ten Worst Hangovers - Ever. The birthday celebrations the night before included an aphrodisiac (don’t judge, it was around Valentine’s Day) food and wine pairing. Naturally, I had a drink prior to dinner to unwind from the craziness at work. What’s the saying about liquor before wine? Oh wait, there isn’t one because everyone knows it’s a poor choice. So, one vodka water and about 4 glasses of both white and red wine later, dinner was coming to an end. Only the boys had to work the following day, so the birthday girl decided to walk across the street to our favorite lounge and have a nightcap. That nightcap turned into three drinks, a few shots and a major headache. 

As with any night where you mix a good cabernet with shots of Crown Maple, I was ready to toss some cookies at any moment. Luckily for me, I had decided to pamper myself with a full-body, 90 minute Swedish massage and that was just the cure for an epic hangover. Or so I thought. I arrived to the spa fifteen minutes prior to my massage to have some water, unwind and circle the areas of my body that hurt (newsflash: everywhere). I was introduced to the masseuse, a sweet twenty-one year old from a small town nearby. She and I laughed as I told her about the night before, my crazy week at work with trials and adoption hearings, and that I hadn't gotten a massage in far too long. 

Before she left the room, I ripped off my clothes more passionately than I had in quite some time. I was waiting for her to enter the room, listening to the calming music and getting comfortable on the massage table. I had just drifted off into the first relaxed sleep in months, when an obnoxiously loud fart woke me. I'm talking so loud, I jumped! As if that weren't bad enough, the smell from said fart was so bad I could feel my nose hairs burning away. It was very evident that it was more than just a fart and more of a bowel movement. She asked if I would excuse her from the room, to which I had to respond, "you could have left prior to ripping ass, but of course!" 

The fart that ruined my life was roughly thirty minutes into my massage. With two-thirds left to go, I still felt confident that I could block out the stench of an old diaper and get through this hangover. The masseuse was lucky enough to leave the room, I, however, was trapped. Not only trapped with a rotten scent but also naked, covered in oil and now cold. I was able to grab my phone and check the time without the pool of oil on my lower back spilling. About ten minutes pass with the poopy-pants out of the room and I finally hear a knock on the door. I give the obligatory, "open," response while face down on the massage table, but was startled to hear a voice different from the girl that recently defecated herself. Just as a quick reminder, I'm completely naked at this time. The voice explains that my masseuse had an emergency (hehe) and had to leave. The voice asked if I wanted to have another therapist finish to which I replied, "I have a giant pool of oil, do I have a choice?" reluctantly. Clearly, this person didn't understand my sarcasm. 

Interestingly, my massage ended at the same time that it was scheduled to, despite the twenty to thirty minute delay. The rest of my massage, all I could think of was that the germs from the previous woman were being spread into my entire body. I couldn't leave fast enough when the manager of the spa asked how my massage was. I told her of the bowel movement that interrupted my massage, that I lost out on about thirty minutes, that I'm probably covered in germs and I can't wait to arrive home to bathe in bleach. Did she apologize? No. Offer to refund me or schedule a make-up session? Absolutely not. Explain that it's perfectly acceptable? Nope. 

Needless to say that this spa and their horrible customer service was the subject of my story for weeks to come. I feel for the girl, which is why I never shared her name, but the fact that there was no explanation, no apology, no request to have me return to their spa, is completely ridiculous. Over a year later, my mind is still blown and I continue to be apprehensive to schedule any spa service.