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.

Homework Help

After an evening that consisted of dinner, a bottle of wine and snuggling in bed, the old roomie and I were up to our old tricks: messing with his mother. She called because his sister was working on a project for school that needed some stories for a family tree. Since I made the executive decision to be part of their family, I determined that the best way to do this project would be for both he and I to respond to the questions and allow his sister to choose which answer was better. The following was the result:

 

1. Most memorable moment from early childhood.

-When I was learning to ride my bike, my mom, sisters and I were going on the path to Mahoney Park. My older sister was mean and told me that if I fell off my bike, I would be grounded. Of course I was nervous so when we turned the curve to go onto the bike path, I fell into a garbage can full of freshly mowed grass. I'm pretty sure I left with numerous wounds, a very bruised ego, and a fear of bikes/my sister.

- When I was a little girl, I once stole a pen from KMart. It wasn't a pink sparkly gel pen, though one might think. I really wanted a nice pen to draw and I just put it in my pocket and left with my mom. That night, she saw the pen that I had asked for in the store and immediately knew what had happened. My mom took me back to KMart and made me explain what I did. Waitresses, doctor's offices and Domino's delivery drivers fear me.

2. Most memorable moment from high school years.

- My time spent as Year Book Editor was a big accomplishment, as it offered many benefits. I got to meet fun people, go to school events, and have lots of fun. This may have included skipping class.

- I don't remember high school. It was too long ago, I was kind of naughty and drank a lot.

3. Most memorable historical event in your lifetime.

- When I discovered Joseph Gordon Levitt in 10 Things I Hate About You. My life hasn't been the same.

- The day that I met NotsoCarrie, the destruction of all mankind, is tied with the day Elton John came out of the closet.

4. Describe an event in your family ( funny or serious) that stands out in your memory.

- The morning my father passed away.

- Ditto.

(Betcha can't guess who wrote that)

5. Most memorable vacation

- Puerto Vallarta, if I could remember it. hehe

- This time I went to Mexico with an ambitious, attractive, older man. Prior to the trip, everyone asked if we were getting engaged. During our stay, we were given honeymoon upgrades, newly-wed limos and treated like the hottest young couple. I broke up with him two weeks later.

Dear family,

Please use your judgement to determine which child is the one you need.
Also, he will send legitimate responses once he gets home. Which will be soon. I hope because she's on my side of the bed.

NIGHTY NIGHT 

This is the email that his family received. I don't know which responses were included in the school project but I believe the obvious answer is mine. More importantly, this Q&A session was a much needed distraction for my roomie and I. As one can see, we have a lot in common: embarrassing stories, dead parents (DPC), a love for Joseph Gordon Levitt, and a need to return to Mexico to make memories for one reason or another.

A Douche-Vestigation

Both the roomie and I have had our share of awkward dates, atrocious men, and possibly the worst of all: feelings. We were discussing our recent prospects this afternoon and how it is more of a ticking time bomb to see when the bad will come out. 

Will it be on the first date, which would be nice so there's no further investment, or will they reel you in first, adding insult to injury? Sometimes you can pull the loose screws out like a magnet within minutes of meeting awkwardly at the coffee shop. But you can't always be so lucky. It could be two years into a relationship that you assume is heading toward engagement when you panic and think, what in the fuck am I doing? 

So here we are, talking about our upcoming plans with these guys. Will it work out with the 30 year old that talks about his god-daughter? I hope so because a guy that adores children and pampers his little princess is an automatic winner, especially since my roomie is constantly obsessing about turkey-basting me so he can have a little diva of his own. I love hear about his dates and the guys that he's talking to. Within minutes of showing me their text messages or discussing where they went on their date, I know if there will be another second one. I can tell just because I know my gay husband and what he's looking for as well as what he deserves, but I can also by his tone of voice, what he discloses to me and what he wore on the date. He should be in a relationship with no one less than incredible, as he's the greatest guy I've met. A catty bitch from time to time, but that's why we adore one another. 

Same story with many of my girlfriends. Cherry has had many less than amazing men treat her terribly and I usually tell her my thoughts on these guys. She's the most romantic, loving and optimistic woman I know and I'm still waiting for her to gallop off into the sunset with the Prince Charming she belongs with, not some douche that looks okay in white and can ride a horse. When my sister Jose was in high school, I would point out that the guy she was going out with that seemed "weird," which is the way a twelve year old says, "he looks like a fucking deadbeat," in case you were unaware of that. I've told my friends, "no, just no," as well as, "absolutely fucking not," when needed. I'm also quick to determine whether this is just a fling or if it's something serious and list the pros and cons of each and if the guy adds up. 

So here's the mystery: why am I completely incapable of doing this for myself? Do I love my friends in such an unconditional way that I haven't quite learned to feel for myself? If I were my therapist, I would say absolutely (and send a $225 bill with it). In the mean time, I would say it's because I like to see the best in the people that I'm interested in. That quality might be what draws some men in, but it's also what makes me such an idiot. The frustrating part is I don't think my expectations are unrealistic, I'm not desperately searching for something right now and I think I'm pretty damn amazing. I'm just not going to waste my time with some douche who:
a) is an untitled brat that uses his parents money for everything and can't appreciate that I'm a hard working, ambitious badass. 
b) is also career driven but only thinks of himself, his work, and his friends while expecting me to drop everything for him. 
c) is only looking for a hook up (sorry, you're with the wrong girl), but then gets upset when I indicate that I'm going out with friends, meeting people and I'm not available. This one may or may not include a minor freak out when I stop talking to him all together. 
d) of course the friend, coworker, man-in-a-relationship, that has no reason all together to  try to court me anyway. 

I'm not actively searching for Mr. Right at this time, but I also don't want Mr. Dumbass either. This is why I'm satisfied with my extremely attractive tribe of well-dressed and hilarious homos until we all find our mister.

Apologies: A lost art?

An art that seems to have faded away with long division (thank god), hand-written letters and using paper maps that are a bitch to fold back together, is offering a genuine and appropriate apology. 

First of all, I'm certainly at fault on missing the apology cue on numerous very important occasions. Recently the love of my life and I were both overworked, ridiculously stressed, not to mention going through a drought. He's the homosexual gay version of me, complete with feisty big hair, a sassy attitude, and an insatiable appetite for wine. Needless to say, a few days of not accidentally downing an entire bottle of wine turned into a week. That week of not falling asleep on the grandpa chair he was reupholstering while I had a narcoleptic fit on the couch with my favorite fluffy grey blanket of his turned into too many weeks. Then it hit me: I've been a snotty bitch. I was upset and hurt that he had broken plans with me, not asked what happened to the guy I had been hanging out with (answer: absolutely nothing), but then I realized that I hadn't been making fun of his gap-toothed, bitch of a boss via text with him, teasing him for his busy week of back to back dates, or inviting him over to laugh at my pathetic excuse for an apartment. I could have focused on the ways that I was disappointed and hurt because of him, but instead I decided to not be a selfish bitch and admitted to myself that I was in the wrong. 

I did what any well spoken, eloquent lady would do: I sent a Facebook message at 6AM. I went to sleep thinking about how upset I was with myself for letting this incredible guy, amazing friend and hilarious bitch drift away. I woke up telling myself that I wouldn't go through the day without making things right. I sent a fairly long message to him with the main theme being, "I'm sorry for being a cunty brat the last couple of months. I love you, I miss you. Can we hang out soon and make fun of random things?" And what do you know? Life is good again. He was over a couple of nights ago eating our JK Date Night Pizza and attempting to hang my curtains. He left weighing three pounds heavier with a bandaid on his hand. 

On the flip side, I've been in need of the "I suck, I'm sorry," message from a few people recently. Part of the reason my long-lost-homo and I are such a great duo is because, as sassy as we may be, we have huge hearts. Just as he helped me with job hunting, offering a place to live for a couple months, and mostly just supporting me emotionally, I have done the same for others. When I care about someone, I truly care for them unconditionally. And that exactly why it upsets me to feel taken for granted and used. As if being a selfish jerk while you're in town to supposedly visit me and bring me out of the depression I've been in isn't bad enough, a lingering apology drags the hurt on and on. I've had friends completely forget about me now that I'm a whopping eight hours away, insinuate that I've "lucked into everything," since I've moved here (it's called months of hard work and patience, assholes), and jump to point out all the mistakes that I've made. Are these the people I want in my life moving forward? Actually no. I guess I should continue to rid my life of the negative and keep a positive mind. 

Of course sometimes you just need to let things slide and I absolutely feel that I am a very understanding person. I know my friends, every detail to what's going on at work, that their love-life is imploding in front of them, that their grampy is having health issues, and I respect that they aren't the finest version of themselves at all times. That said, if you blatantly use me, avoid the truth, blow me off, or insult me, you've probably crossed the line. I'm a fairly laid back girl and I do make the most awful jokes so it takes a lot to even SEE the line that one shouldn't touch. All I'm saying is, if you're sick, worried about someone you love, or pissed at your psychotic boss just preface your bitchiness with a text. "Hey, Idaho is being a raging mircomanager this week and I'm on the man-period from hell," will say everything. Or send a Facebook message with the link to the upcoming event you're prepping for and tell me you can't wait to hang out once all is complete. Life isn't hard, people. 

Are Facebook messages and texts the apology of our time? Probably.  Honestly, I don't care how the point gets across as long as it's genuine. Send a damn smoke signal, carrier pigeon or take me to DOC for a glass of wine but mean exactly what you say and all will be forgiven. I think that every one of us has hurt someone, done something stupid and massively fucked up on a semi-regular basis that it shouldn't be unheard of to take the time to acknowledge that something was dumb, unintentional and let's move onto catching up on the crazies we saw on the CTA this week.

Enablers or Friends?

There's absolutely a fine line between friends you can count on and those that enable bad habits. Whether it's a mother in denial that her teenage daughter has a substance abuse problem, a girlfriend refusing to see that her guy is a workaholic, or the coworker thinking that her peer showing up with vomit on their designer pants more than once just means he's a partier, we've all tip-toed along that line. It can be due to naivete, denial, lack of interest, ignorance - maybe a combination of everything. 

In my depression escaped only by high-fat foods and Netflix, I've started to consider that maybe my recluse state is something to be concerned about. I was particularly upset last night after being blown off by a friend. Instead of taking my fabulous newly cut and colored hair out to a loft party, I laid in my bed and watched more Sex and the City in boy shorts and a supersoft Victoria's Secret tshirt with my phone on silent so I'm not interrupted from Samantha talking about "funky tasting spunk."  A friend of mine that completely identifies with my "hermit-age," as he refers to it, consoled me about my newly open Saturday night. The night was ruined, as was my hair from taking a nap, and we decided to just meet for Chicago's best cinnamon rolls the next morning. 

Following mimosas at my apartment this morning, we headed around the corner and discussed the pleasant "spring-like weather," which in Chicago means 20 degrees and sunny. As we strolled to Ann Sather, I was mauled by a rabid pigeon, dripped on by ice-cold water from a building, and almost sipped coffee from a disgusting mug.  It was explained to him that this is precisely why I have been refusing to leave the comfort of my cozy apartment. Why leave when I have the essentials? Netflix, booze, and snacks. I walk one block toward the Lake to catch the 146 bus only to be dropped off directly across the street from work. I have a Walgreens a couple buildings down that contains endless bottles of whiskey, gummy worms, and household cleaning products. Finally, I use a grocery delivery service and have befriended the Slavic man to the point that he puts my fresh fruit, Nutella and mixers in their rightful homes. Yes, I'm truly taking advantage in the city where I have endless options to meet new people, find new hobbies and be independent. The Summer of Yes version of me would be quite pissed. 

 So, while at brunch, we discussed our mutual hermitage. The feeling that I can't leave my house without something bad happening  such as a bird attack like Tippi  Hedren in a Hitchcock movie, is not normal for a relatively sane twentysomething. I don't suffer from agoraphobia or any other debilitating psychological disorder. What I do suffer from is adorable, enabling, gay minions. You know those darling little minions from Despicable Me? They are Gru's best friends, closest confidants, and he trusts them to watch his daughters - that's quite the relationship! I have a few gay friends that I tell everything to, spend all my time with and absolutely adore. They have been here through my bad dates, accidental lunch dates, frustrating days at work spent in my unofficial office/fitting room/crying chamber, and offer to take me out after my plans are cancelled. What I'm trying to say is that these boys are the best!! What they aren't the best at is giving me the big slap in the face that I've needed lately. 

I didn't realize it until today when my brunch date pointed out that I have, "gay minions that enable these bad decisions." For example, I was in a bad mood on Valentine's Day. How original, a single girl that's bitchy on Valentine's Day. Not because I'm single but because I've spent the last fifteen Valentine's Days with one of the only people I allow myself to completely love: Peggy. Since I was 11, I've attempted to make dinner of some kind (boxed Pasta Roni in middle school which evolved to coconut shrimp curry over the years, thank you!), watched a movie and played games with my mom. Sometimes girlfriends would join us, gay friends came over and watched Lifetime movies one year, and last year my ex joined us. This year was empty without my mom. 

K&K were well aware of my generally shitty attitude, lack of clothes and newfound desire to stay in. Instead of saying "smell ya later betch," and take their handsome butts to Boystown, they showed up at my apartment with booze, creepy wide-eyed stuffed animals named Smitten and Charming (so cute), and a Seamless order for Pad Thai. Side note: grocery/restaurant delivery service is probably the single best thing about living in a city. Anyway, it was for this reason that I've realized that I have some well-meaning enablers on my hand. No, I don't want them to stop drinking with me - I need someone to join me for extra dirty martinis after work. I don't want to put an end to my Netflix movie nights where we watch Disney movies together. And I most certainly WILL NOT cease my relationship with Grub Hub and Seamless delivery services. Rather, I will get my fatass out of my memory foam bed, crawl out from under the flannel sheets and down duvet, and get my fresh blonde locks ready for a night being complimented by gay men that are prettier than I with some of my favorite men.

"That girl"

After about a week of depression only satiated by binge-watching Sex and the City, champagne and chocolate cookie dough frozen yogurt, I need to get my shit straight. Let me start off by saying that I'm only writing on this topic because it's a major source of insecurities, frustration and internal nagging at the back of my mind. I want to understand two things: why I give off the vibe that I'm "that girl," to chase when one is already in a committed relationship and why is it okay for men to approach me as friends when they only have one goal? 

So, the first issue that's been consuming my brain is why I'm perceived to be "the other woman." I've accepted two invitations to lunch recently, only to find that it's been an attack lunch date that has made me very uncomfortable. Side note: if you want to go on a REAL date, don't ask me to fucking lunch. Cocktails or dinner, please, lunch is for friends. Then this sweet guy that I've seen as a buddy confesses that the woman in his life, whether it's a girlfriend, wife, whatever, isn't working out and then, again in my innocent and friendly mindset, I console him. As a psych-nerd, I am 100% a problem-solver. I ask questions about why it isn't working, suggest ways to improve the situation, and the next thing I know the handsome man I view as only a friend is paying for my meal, helping me into my coat and, to my dismay, trying to hold my hand or even worse, kiss me!!! 

I left both of these pseudo-dates completely puzzled. Explain this to me, someone, please. Am I giving off the "mistress," vibe with my lesbian-chic side braid, Hunter rain boots covered in snow-salt, and open confessions that the only relationship that I'm in is with that of my maintenance man that fixes my haunted window shade? The hard part is, I see these men as friends so I've confided in them. They know that I'm sick of feeling alone in this big city and, until recently, I've been assembling complicated furniture with kitchen shears and a giant jar of almond butter. These guys know the genuine version of me and not the wall that I put up to guys that I date, which also means they know my weaknesses, secrets and fears. Are they using this against me? What they don't know though, is how much it hurts to feel reduced to a distraction from the nagging women in their lives. What I think is a great co-ed friendship is actually a fantasy to get them through the rough patch in their relationship. And that feeling sucks. Never good enough for the relationship but definitely good enough to be sought out for the glamorous role of the "other woman." Oh wait. 

Secondly, I thought my dating life would be far more interesting in Chicago than what it has been. Yes, being overwhelmed with work, sick with the rotating cold/stomach-flu mixture for about a month, and generally crabby, has more than likely put a damper on my romantic adventures. That said, the vast majority of men that have asked me out have, in fact, not asked me out. It's either been to a sneak-attack lunch date of a partnered up peer, or a guy just wanting to hang out as friends. I'm new in town and perhaps my "small-town," friendliness is interpreted as flirty. Let me just clear one thing up: if I'm flirting with you, you will know it!! Okay, that said, I love people. New friends make me happy and meeting anyone is intriguing to me.

Anyway, back to me being outgoing and friendly. Apparently this is frequently misconceived as my "game." For example, I talk about my mom constantly. Peggy is my best friend and to say I was thrilled that she would be visiting is a very significant understatement. Anyone that talks to me more than once has heard about my mom's drunken antics and our obscene conversations about every topic from our sexy dentist, the not-so-sexy but very creepy guy that delivers my groceries, and my brother's newfound single life. So, naturally, when she was visiting Chicago, I invited a couple "new friends," to join us at a chain bar known for dueling pianos. I showed them the video of her kissing some twenty-something random guy on the cheek and rubbing his abs at bar in Kansas City and the guys I invited were instantly in. A couple nights later was my mom's time to shine and my time to fire up the video setting on my iPhone for blackmail. Since I'm new, I'm simply excited to know anyone and I was thrilled to have a couple acquaintances join us at the bar. However, my joy quickly sizzled and found it's self in the shot that I was throwing back. I overheard one of the guys say to the other, "Why are you even here? You have a girlfriend. I don't, she is mine." Yes, I am adorable and sometimes very charming but I'm not a fucking puppy that you call dibs on at the pound. Guess what, boys? I am only interested in both of you as friends. The guy that attempted to call shot-gun on my vageen is clearly out of the picture, needless to say. 

It truly hurts that I accept offers to hitch a ride from an old friend and when I ask about his newborn, he leans in for a kiss. I've been told that someone and his long-time girlfriend broke things off weeks prior so I agree to go on a date only to find out the next day at work that he and the woman just planned a vacation together. Another guy told me that he's not interested in me (which was great because the feeling was very mutual), to have him drunk text me for the next three weeks about "hanging out," at 1am. We all know the only thing hanging would be panties from the bed post, hard pass. I guess what I'm trying to determine is why I'm not good enough to be asked on a real date, by an actually available man. Don't hide behind a friendship and trick me and definitely don't be in a relationship while trying to cultivate a relationship with me. So, needless to say, the Chicago dating scene has left me severely underwhelmed. At least there's a hometown man that sent me a hammer to replace the almond butter jar I had been using as a hammer and he's, to my knowledge, available, thoughtful and definitely not in the friend zone.

Dating Douches Syndrome

Cherry and I were discussing the fear we feel when a new prospect enters the picture. Words like "respect," "romantic," and "thoughtful," were being said, at which point I had to pull out my Webster's to determine the meaning of such words in this context. No, this isn't a "chivalry is so dead," rant. I've had the pleasure of meeting the great gentlemen that are blessed to be with both of my sisters and a few of my girlfriends. Rather, this is a "why am I such an idiot?" rant. 

Why is that typically normal gestures end up being red-flags to me? Negative, degrading thoughts are at the very least crossing my mind, but more than likely being discussed with my mom or a girlfriend. Oh my gosh, he said I'm beautiful and was genuine about it? What the fuck is wrong with him? Oh, a good morning text, REALLY? Did his parents beat him senseless as a child? He's asking my girlfriend about me, not to find out if I'll put out but to see if I'm like a good person. He's clearly a devil! Holy balls, he didn't even TRY to have sex with me....does he have a small penis? Does he even have a penis? What's he trying to get out of this? 

I'm not sure who reads these posts aside from my mom (because she's obviously forced to do so), so it's hard to determine the general reaction to these thoughts. Because most of my friends are girls or gays, they can relate. What I can't get over is, why is it accepted as "normal," for people to feel this way? I'm not going to bitch about the nightmare that is my dating and relationship history. Wah wah, poor me. All I'm saying is that the aftermath of a bad breakup, toxic relationship, or sketchy dates should be recognized as potentially damaging to our well-being. 

Because we're both psychology-nerds, my evening was spent texting Cherry, trying to think of a catchy name for this type of dating related PTSD. What I admire in her though, is something I completely lack. No matter how many times she's been hurt, Cherry always goes into a date, a Tinder swipe, a night out in River North with an open and optimistic mind. Cherry is just one of too many amazing friends that I've seen truly suffer due to the actions of a terrible person. Let me be completely clear: I've been on both sides of this before, both the heart-broken mess that drops to a weight below one hundred pounds due to depression as well as the selfish and hurtful person that makes stupid mistakes that continue to haunt my brain from time to time. Neither position is one that I ever want to find myself in, nor those that I care about. 

So I guess the question is, what can I do about it? Do I continue on this neurotic path? I can keep my fingers crossed that the DSM-IV includes a diagnosis of Dating Douches Syndrome with the treatment recommendations being new stilettos, drinks with girlfriends and dancing at a gay club. I'm certainly aware that thinking every man that is somewhat respectful toward me wants to cut me up into fifteen mason jars and store me on a shelf in the basement doesn't typically cross one's mind in a time of gratitude. Rather than butterflies the minute I (gasp!) agree to go on a date, I feel as though that I'm sealing my fate to be turned into a skinsuit. Instead, I think I need a very intense reality check and maybe, just maaaaaybe, next time I'll opt for the giddies instead of the crazies and see how it goes.

Year in Review

Of course I have a Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and everything else under the sun and I've been looking at the cliche New Year's resolution statuses, Instagrammed photos of Christmas and New Year's engagements, and tweets of how irritating the previous two items are to most viewers. So, naturally, when I logged onto Facebook on an actual computer and saw the "2013 Year in Review," I had to go for it. Who can turn down the option to view your top 20 posts from 2013? Well, almost anyone, but since I have a cocktail in my hand to chase away my raspy man voice and my slumber party buddies ready for a laugh, I decided to go for it. The result?

MY YEAR SUCKED! Who would have thought? In 52 weeks, I did the following:
- Changed the direction of my career. Twice. 
- Ended a two year relationship and actually enjoyed the whole "being single" thing. 
- Moved to Chicago. Found my first apartment. Experienced public transportation and aggressive homelessness for the first time.
- Traveled to Mexico, Vegas, and Polk (It's in Nebraska, duh) for the first time. 
- Cut ties with a lot of friends, rekindled with some old ones, and made a ton of new friends (okay, maybe just a couple).
- Found some new hobbies such as golf, whiskey, and trying to cook. 

Clearly, I'm pretty damn cool. Did my Facebook reflect this? Definitely not.  What did I get? Hideous Instagrammed #TBT photos of me from 2006, status updates tagging me in places that I would prefer no one know that I'm associated with (Dominick's for the fourth time in two days), uploaded photos with people I'm no longer associated with, and tweets full of embarrassing things that I've "supposedly" said (okay, I did).

After reading my inaccurate summary of 2013, I told my work husband that it was depressing and underwhelming. Then I decided that what would be more bleak than what was offered to me as my "highlights," is a Facebook profile that actually was full of my biggest moments. My favorite moments of 2013 are those not captured by any social media because it means I was 100% committed to the moment. The events that would be on 2013 Yearbook include:
-Hugging my BFF for the first time in "our" (his) apartment in Chicago after moving here. 
-My birthday at the Valley and my last weekend working there prior to moving. Over the summer, those men both traumatized me and made me realize that not every man is a horrible slutbag. 
- Phone calls and FaceTime dates with my friends around the country that include the sharing good news of job offers, pictures of their cat and tales of how nauseatingly cute their boyfriend has been this week. 
- Receiving the call at 8PM on a Friday night from my current boss with a job offer (yay!!)
-Helping my favorite couple/mentors pack up their gorgeous suburban home to prepare for a move to a penthouse in New York. 
- Arriving home on Christmas Eve to see three giant boxes of clothing from my current employer but getting more excited to see a little pink box with mom's awful handwriting on the top. It contained my prescriptions, homemade cookies and a card with my mom's version of a thoughtful note. 

It's a snow day and my brain, like Facebook, doesn't always function properly, so I've forgotten other top moments of the year. Guess what? There's going to be a lot more this year and I'll be happier if they're not on my social media. 

Now excuse me while I paste the link to this post on my Twitter and Facebook. Ahem.