It’s no secret. I read craigslist. All the time. It makes me feel better about my stupid life to read people’s Rants about dead birds in their mailboxes, or Raves about the homeless person that crapped in their yard. Occasionally in the Best of Craigslist, I stumble across a dating post. I found one earlier that sparked my interest, more on that later.
Having spent the past 10 years serving time in one failed relationship after another it may be time to evaluate my dating methods. A good place to start is by evaluating how I’ve spent the past 10 years.
Ex #1: The Nearby Guy
Everyone has this. It’s the first guy you dated, the guy you lost your virginity to, the guy that took you to prom. This particular boyfriend is rarely ever selected on any rational scale of criteria. Reasons such as: he sits next to me in English, my friend’s think he’s cool, he does a wicked kick flip, etc. are perfectly acceptable. Why does this relationship end? Maybe you go to different colleges. Maybe you find out he was sleeping with the entire cheerleading squad the whole time. Or maybe, as in my case, you suspect that you are merely the cover story for a closeted gay man. Whatever the reason, it matters little.
Ex #2: The Whoopsydaisy
My second boyfriend, and also: the greatest guy I’ve ever known. I was doomed to screw this one up. He was perfect: told great stories, loved his family, hardworking, ambitious, smart, loves Led Zeppelin. But as it was my first REAL boyfriend, I was awful: jealous, obnoxious, a terrible influence, smoked too much pot. I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting it, while at the same time convincing myself that he’ll spend the rest of his life deranged, strapped to an institution gurney and screaming my name.
Ex #3: The Townie
Having a townie boyfriend in a college town is a blessing and a curse. Pot connection? He’s got it. Off-campus party house? He’s got it. Problem? He’s also got: a crappy job, alcoholism, no personal ambition and a serious lack of respect for things like class, exams, papers, and sleep. And, if he’s my ex boyfriend, he also has a secret speed addiction. These horrible things aren’t the reason you break up with him. No, no. That would be too easy. I broke up with my ex because I was moving out of the state. Or, did I move out of the state so I could break up with my ex? Doesn’t matter…
Ex #4: The Young Buck
I recommend that every woman, at some point in her life, take a man’s virginity. And no, losing your virginity at the same time doesn’t count. Pros: young, impressionable, will be completely devoted to you, can pick you up at the bar, mom is a fantastic cook. Cons: can’t go to the bar with you, lives at home with mom, keeps pressuring you to go to prom, shit head friends want you to buy them beer, probably not that smart. My young buck was great. My friends still love him and talk of him fondly. I still call him when I’m hammered and need a pick me up. After the intense shit show that is a relationship with me, he is ready for any situation. He’s been cleaned up and house trained. Unfortunately, I’ve also completely fucked his head. Apologies to the next girl he dates.
Ex #5: The Asshole
It’s inevitable. After dating a guy that is nice, sincere, genuine and thoughtful you must, MUST, date a total and complete asshole. He should be a gluttonous, insecure, overbearing, stubborn, alcoholic, unsupportive philanderer. Why don’t you break up with him? Because he’s soooo funny, smart, charming, cute, whatever. It’s always something. I stayed because I was convinced it would get better….or I was bored, I can’t decide. In any case, you only break up with this guy for good when you have absolutely had enough. I recommend watching “Diary of a Mad Black Woman.”
Basically the entire catalog of my boyfriends displays a strong disposition towards self-sabotage, punishment and misery. All of this led me to believe that everything I held true about myself, and the kind of partner I was looking for, was a load of bullshit. Not only that, but I’ve dated every stereotype, every type of guy, and constantly tried different variables. Now, I’d rather not spend the rest of my life cranking Dashboard Confessional and crying into an empty wine bottle….so I have no choice but to consider the one option that never occurred to me. Is it possible that the secret to dating isn’t as simple as “opposites attract”? Maybe we aren’t supposed to find someone that challenges us, is different, teaches us new things, or any other overused cliché. I should just give up and go for someone simple who fulfills my basic needs. He doesn’t have to be interesting, challenging or supportive. I have friends for that.
This leads me back to the craigslist post. Is this my next boyfriend?
http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/doc/m4w/860408505.html
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Trials and Tribulations of Mr. Fancy Pants
Once upon a time I lived in Fairfax. I lived in a tiny house with 3 other girls and their various animals. The only animal of consequence in regard to this particular story is one Mr. Fancy Pants.
Mr. Fancy Pants was a cat of overwhelming personality, and we became fast friends. Despite my severe allergy to cats, I often drunkenly snuggled him and insisted he sleep in the nook my body created when I slept in the fetal position.
Mr. Fancy Pants was an outdoor cat, and as I was often the only one home at odd hours of the night, I usually let him into the house. He was also quite the curious little monster. He would regularly find himself stuck on the roof, lacking the ability to get himself down. On many occasions I would build a rudimentary ladder of chairs and coolers to retrieve his silly ass.
I soon grew tired of this.
I began to scold Mr. Fancy Pants quite loudly when I would exit my domicile to hear him meowing from atop the roof.
On one particular afternoon after class, I comfortably positioned myself in my bed and surround myself with all of my favorite things.
Huge glass of water. Check.
Bong. Check.
Pot. Check.
Cigarettes. Check.
Ashtray. Check.
Cell phone. Check.
Remote. Check.
Lighter. Che----SHIT
I threw my bedspread off in disgust, slipped on my house shoes and made for the door. DAMMIT. So close to total bliss and now THIS. A venture into the cold after being so tightly tucked in bed.
I swung open the front door and stepped onto our front stoop.
“MEOOOOOOOW.”
I turned in every direction, searching for the source.
Again I heard, “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I stepped into the yard, and there he was. Mr. Fancy Pants standing on the edge of the roof staring at me as if I had the answers to all that ails the world.
He let out one more loud “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I had finally had enough.
“FUCK YOU FANCY PANTS!” I yelled as I stomped off to my car to retrieve the aforementioned lighter.
After acquiring said lighter I turned to return to my house when I saw him.
There he was, sitting on his porch bench, glaring at me. My 65-year-old neighbor.
Then it occurred to me, “Fuck you Fancy Pants” it’s not something one usually hears.
Shit.Oh well. Like THAT’S the strangest thing I’ve ever done. Please.
Mr. Fancy Pants was a cat of overwhelming personality, and we became fast friends. Despite my severe allergy to cats, I often drunkenly snuggled him and insisted he sleep in the nook my body created when I slept in the fetal position.
Mr. Fancy Pants was an outdoor cat, and as I was often the only one home at odd hours of the night, I usually let him into the house. He was also quite the curious little monster. He would regularly find himself stuck on the roof, lacking the ability to get himself down. On many occasions I would build a rudimentary ladder of chairs and coolers to retrieve his silly ass.
I soon grew tired of this.
I began to scold Mr. Fancy Pants quite loudly when I would exit my domicile to hear him meowing from atop the roof.
On one particular afternoon after class, I comfortably positioned myself in my bed and surround myself with all of my favorite things.
Huge glass of water. Check.
Bong. Check.
Pot. Check.
Cigarettes. Check.
Ashtray. Check.
Cell phone. Check.
Remote. Check.
Lighter. Che----SHIT
I threw my bedspread off in disgust, slipped on my house shoes and made for the door. DAMMIT. So close to total bliss and now THIS. A venture into the cold after being so tightly tucked in bed.
I swung open the front door and stepped onto our front stoop.
“MEOOOOOOOW.”
I turned in every direction, searching for the source.
Again I heard, “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I stepped into the yard, and there he was. Mr. Fancy Pants standing on the edge of the roof staring at me as if I had the answers to all that ails the world.
He let out one more loud “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I had finally had enough.
“FUCK YOU FANCY PANTS!” I yelled as I stomped off to my car to retrieve the aforementioned lighter.
After acquiring said lighter I turned to return to my house when I saw him.
There he was, sitting on his porch bench, glaring at me. My 65-year-old neighbor.
Then it occurred to me, “Fuck you Fancy Pants” it’s not something one usually hears.
Shit.Oh well. Like THAT’S the strangest thing I’ve ever done. Please.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Becky
It occurs to me that I never posted this here, although it's very popular on facebook...
by popular demand...here it is.
but first: a brief disclaimer: This is one of the stupidest stories EVER told, seriously. If you don't think I'm funny, or don't get my humor, don't read anymore. It will only serve to enfuriate you further.
When I was younger I swam on the River Road Country Club, in which my grandparents and parents are members. At 12 years old, I had taken the past few years off from swimming to attend summer camp. This was my triumphant return. Only...no one remembered me...at all. My first day back, a young blonde girl came bounding up to me and introduced herself. Over the whistles of the coaches and the splashes made from bodies hitting the water I shouted "Maggie!" "Becky?" she said back. Before I could correct her she grabbed my arm and led me to the edge of the pool and faced me to a gaggle of giggling girls half heartedly doing their water excercises. "Everybody!! This is BECKY! She's awesome!"
Well, whoever this Becky person is, she got quite the introduction. I hadn't the heart to let her down in front of this impressive crowd, and thought it best to clear up the misunderstanding later. Later, however, never came. The legend of Awesome Becky grew to proportions beyond my control. After victorious mario brothers matches in the game room, successful relay races, and the demonstration of the ability eat 4 saltine crackers in a minute, Becky had become quite popular. She moved from public displays of ridiculous talent to all out mischief. The flags marking holes on the golf course were shuffled to the confusement of the senior members. Quarters were super glued to the game room floor. Cans of soda in the snack shack were shaken within a modicum of bursting. To the dismay of the on duty lifeguards, there was ample running in the pool area. Becky was on fire.
My then 65 year old Grandmother, whom also served as one of the elders of the country club, came to me one day after practice. "Whoever this Becky girl is, you stay away from her. I'll not have Cameron women associating with that lot."
Uh-oh. The day of reckoning was coming. I managed to eek through to the last day of swim practice. Always watching my back, keeping a steady eye fixated on the parking lot waiting area, engaging in shenanigans under the most controlled of circumstances. I was going to make it! As I strutted to my grandmothers car, confident in my anonymity, I looked over my shoulder to give one last ever-so-cool wave to my new cohorts when...
"BECKY!! See you next year!!"
The blonde had foiled my attempts at a hasty escape.As I shut the door to Gram Cameron's minivan she paused before pulling away. "Becky?" She gave me a look of utter disapproval, which immediately wiped from her face to reveal what can only be described as a smirk. "Well....figures."
Nothing more was said of Becky, and I never swam at River Road Country Club again.
the end.
by popular demand...here it is.
but first: a brief disclaimer: This is one of the stupidest stories EVER told, seriously. If you don't think I'm funny, or don't get my humor, don't read anymore. It will only serve to enfuriate you further.
When I was younger I swam on the River Road Country Club, in which my grandparents and parents are members. At 12 years old, I had taken the past few years off from swimming to attend summer camp. This was my triumphant return. Only...no one remembered me...at all. My first day back, a young blonde girl came bounding up to me and introduced herself. Over the whistles of the coaches and the splashes made from bodies hitting the water I shouted "Maggie!" "Becky?" she said back. Before I could correct her she grabbed my arm and led me to the edge of the pool and faced me to a gaggle of giggling girls half heartedly doing their water excercises. "Everybody!! This is BECKY! She's awesome!"
Well, whoever this Becky person is, she got quite the introduction. I hadn't the heart to let her down in front of this impressive crowd, and thought it best to clear up the misunderstanding later. Later, however, never came. The legend of Awesome Becky grew to proportions beyond my control. After victorious mario brothers matches in the game room, successful relay races, and the demonstration of the ability eat 4 saltine crackers in a minute, Becky had become quite popular. She moved from public displays of ridiculous talent to all out mischief. The flags marking holes on the golf course were shuffled to the confusement of the senior members. Quarters were super glued to the game room floor. Cans of soda in the snack shack were shaken within a modicum of bursting. To the dismay of the on duty lifeguards, there was ample running in the pool area. Becky was on fire.
My then 65 year old Grandmother, whom also served as one of the elders of the country club, came to me one day after practice. "Whoever this Becky girl is, you stay away from her. I'll not have Cameron women associating with that lot."
Uh-oh. The day of reckoning was coming. I managed to eek through to the last day of swim practice. Always watching my back, keeping a steady eye fixated on the parking lot waiting area, engaging in shenanigans under the most controlled of circumstances. I was going to make it! As I strutted to my grandmothers car, confident in my anonymity, I looked over my shoulder to give one last ever-so-cool wave to my new cohorts when...
"BECKY!! See you next year!!"
The blonde had foiled my attempts at a hasty escape.As I shut the door to Gram Cameron's minivan she paused before pulling away. "Becky?" She gave me a look of utter disapproval, which immediately wiped from her face to reveal what can only be described as a smirk. "Well....figures."
Nothing more was said of Becky, and I never swam at River Road Country Club again.
the end.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
My Love Affair With Dove Soap...
It's that time again....another classic Maggie story that helped shape who I am, while also identifying me as that nerd alert.
By popular demand, as usual, I submit: My Love Affair with Dove Soap:
I've always had an intense fascination with smells. I know that is a strange way to begin ANY story, but nonetheless I feel it is an important character quirk that you must comprehend before we go any further. I have the most difficult nose there is. It's not that my nose is unable to smell, quite the opposite actually. Instead, my problem arises whenever the nose becomes obstructed, which is just about all day every day. I was struck with this horrible affliction at an early age. "But Maggie," you say, "surely the marvel of modern medicine could you provide you some assistance?" True. Developments in this important field have brought us not only Nyquil and Benadryl (legal crack) but have also inspired Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (who's greatest accomplishment was as a hilarious joke in Talladega Nights). However, at my young age the standard method of treatment for allergies was either a shot (no thank you) -- or -- a giant yellow horse pill the size of my pinky finger taken in conjunction with a nasal spray. The pills I could handle. Thanks to years training my throat to swallow those ginormous things....well....nevermind on that. Anyways, my problem arises with the nasal spray. It smelled of fish and tasted of cheetos. Not pleasant. I refuse to touch the stuff, let alone shove it up my nose. Therefore, I pretty much can't smell anything, ever.
Here's where the soap comes in. I CAN smell soap. Not only CAN I smell it, I LOVE to smell it. To me, Dove Soap is the greatest smelling thing on the planet. Yes, moreso than Clinique Happy mixed with weed (my signature scent).
When I was younger I would spend countless wrinkle-inducing hours in the bathtub literally sniffing soap. (Ok, if you didn't think I was weird before, this is right around when you go WTF?). At a certain point of eath of my baths I would convince myself that if soap SMELLED this good, surely it TASTED good as well. I would slowly lift the bar of soap to my mouth, stick my tongue out and swipe the soap as fast as I could. Then I would cringe into scrunch face for which there was no cure, howling all the while as the disgust that befell my mouth.
BUT, like clockwork, the very next day I would find myself staring at the soap, grasped tightly between both hands in front of my face. Convinced that THIS time it would be good. THIS time it would be different. As I pressed the soap to my tongue, there was the brief moment where the wonderful smell masked the horrible disgustingness and for a split second I would think "AHA!" Which was immediately followed by "EWWW" as I would turn the faucet on and frantically splash soap into my bubbly mouth.
Here's where it gets weird, as if it hadn't already... This bathtub scenario repeated itself for years. From ages 6 to about 12. Finally, at age 12, I sat myself down for a nice long talk about this "soap thing." Right then and there I decided to go all in, balls to the wall. If soap was EVER going to taste good, now was the time.
So I did it. I took a BIG BITE out of a bar of Dove Soap. It sat on my tongue for all of 10 seconds before I spit it into the tub and immediately began washing my mouth out. I was unsuccessful in that attempt.
Needless to say EVERY TIME I drank ANYTHING for the next week there were bubbles in my mouth. I've never tried again to taste soup, but its a constant daily struggle not to.
Big thanks to Deb who bought me an economy size pack of Dove Soap for Christmas, which I immediately sniffed right then and there, to her horror. While the sight of boxes of soap on my desk, and the sweet smell during my morning showers are a constant reminder of what could be, I now know the difference between "smells good" and "tastes good".
For those of you that ever eaten anywhere with me before, YES....this is why I smell my food....but that story is for another day.
I am an asshole.
By popular demand, as usual, I submit: My Love Affair with Dove Soap:
I've always had an intense fascination with smells. I know that is a strange way to begin ANY story, but nonetheless I feel it is an important character quirk that you must comprehend before we go any further. I have the most difficult nose there is. It's not that my nose is unable to smell, quite the opposite actually. Instead, my problem arises whenever the nose becomes obstructed, which is just about all day every day. I was struck with this horrible affliction at an early age. "But Maggie," you say, "surely the marvel of modern medicine could you provide you some assistance?" True. Developments in this important field have brought us not only Nyquil and Benadryl (legal crack) but have also inspired Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (who's greatest accomplishment was as a hilarious joke in Talladega Nights). However, at my young age the standard method of treatment for allergies was either a shot (no thank you) -- or -- a giant yellow horse pill the size of my pinky finger taken in conjunction with a nasal spray. The pills I could handle. Thanks to years training my throat to swallow those ginormous things....well....nevermind on that. Anyways, my problem arises with the nasal spray. It smelled of fish and tasted of cheetos. Not pleasant. I refuse to touch the stuff, let alone shove it up my nose. Therefore, I pretty much can't smell anything, ever.
Here's where the soap comes in. I CAN smell soap. Not only CAN I smell it, I LOVE to smell it. To me, Dove Soap is the greatest smelling thing on the planet. Yes, moreso than Clinique Happy mixed with weed (my signature scent).
When I was younger I would spend countless wrinkle-inducing hours in the bathtub literally sniffing soap. (Ok, if you didn't think I was weird before, this is right around when you go WTF?). At a certain point of eath of my baths I would convince myself that if soap SMELLED this good, surely it TASTED good as well. I would slowly lift the bar of soap to my mouth, stick my tongue out and swipe the soap as fast as I could. Then I would cringe into scrunch face for which there was no cure, howling all the while as the disgust that befell my mouth.
BUT, like clockwork, the very next day I would find myself staring at the soap, grasped tightly between both hands in front of my face. Convinced that THIS time it would be good. THIS time it would be different. As I pressed the soap to my tongue, there was the brief moment where the wonderful smell masked the horrible disgustingness and for a split second I would think "AHA!" Which was immediately followed by "EWWW" as I would turn the faucet on and frantically splash soap into my bubbly mouth.
Here's where it gets weird, as if it hadn't already... This bathtub scenario repeated itself for years. From ages 6 to about 12. Finally, at age 12, I sat myself down for a nice long talk about this "soap thing." Right then and there I decided to go all in, balls to the wall. If soap was EVER going to taste good, now was the time.
So I did it. I took a BIG BITE out of a bar of Dove Soap. It sat on my tongue for all of 10 seconds before I spit it into the tub and immediately began washing my mouth out. I was unsuccessful in that attempt.
Needless to say EVERY TIME I drank ANYTHING for the next week there were bubbles in my mouth. I've never tried again to taste soup, but its a constant daily struggle not to.
Big thanks to Deb who bought me an economy size pack of Dove Soap for Christmas, which I immediately sniffed right then and there, to her horror. While the sight of boxes of soap on my desk, and the sweet smell during my morning showers are a constant reminder of what could be, I now know the difference between "smells good" and "tastes good".
For those of you that ever eaten anywhere with me before, YES....this is why I smell my food....but that story is for another day.
I am an asshole.
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