Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Sunday, October 10, 2010

But seriously... This is NOT a relationship

So, I've mentioned Potential Paramour. This gent is the latest "catch" from Plenty of Fish.

I'm not going into his details--inappropriate--but I am going to talk about the whole "internet dating" thing.

Because I fucking hate it.

Now, let's be clear here: I am not a bar hopper. Never have been, never will be. I learned a long time ago that, due to my anxiety issues (and solid common sense), I prefer to hang in a place where I know the crowd, know the staff, and am close enough to home that I can either walk it or grab a cab if there's no designated driver. Well, I preferred that back in my drinking days. Now... post gastric bypass and post-everything else, I really don't have to worry about it.

I was also never a clubber, again, for some pretty obvious reasons. One, I am painfully shy. Two, I HATE being touched by strangers. I've almost slugged people for bumping me (back in my less-self-aware days; now, I do breathing exercises to keep myself calm in situations). Three, fat chicks... fat chicks don't do well in club situations. I never wanted to be the "pity fuck," the one who was last choice, y'know? I dealt with that enough on the playground as a kid because I was so hopeless at sports. Four... I hate listening to music that I don't know and don't like with people I wouldn't associate with anyway.

Understand, that I am one of those people who has all the presets programmed on the car radio; I keep it set to WFNX--hit the "5" button on the dash before I shut the car off--no, it's not #1, because I have a touch of OCD and LIKE THINGS IN ORDER! This is why I am a good cataloguer--I have a natural obsession with keeping things in order, either numerical or alphabetical. 92.9 is the #1 button--2 clicks to the left is The River, then two "seeks" to get to 93.7, 2 clicks to get to 94.1... #2 takes me to 'AAF, #3 is Mum's station (I skip this one), #4 is 'ZLX--2 clicks left, 2 clicks right gets me the NH stations, #5 is 'FNX, #6 is MIX [used to be 'BCN. *sigh*], and then, depending where I am in metro Boston, the "seek" will get me anywhere from two to five stations. If I'm awake enough and need contemplative music, I'll hit the #2 button and seek to the classical station. If all of this button pushing hasn't found me a good song or a Red Sox game, a quick flick of the finger sends the adaptor into the cassette slot and the Zune goes live. I will NOT listen to crap music. Life is too important to listen to shit.

This habit drives people crazy. This is why I do not usually play the radio when I have people in the car--a) I can't focus on conversation if I am singing along to the radio; b) I like the music LOUD and can't focus on conversation because I can't hear both; and c) it's rude. The only person who's ever been able to deal with it is Captain Strap-on because he does the same thing (or tried to, on my radio, and almost got his hand taken off. DRIVER'S CHOICE! Touch my radio without my permission, I'll kill you. Or throw you out of the car if the first warning is ignored).

But I digress.

About the only place I "hang" these days because of time commitments, etc., is Starbucks where I have met New Crush and Old Crush, and because I like both of them, of course, I haven't had the cojones to ask either out. Yeah, yeah, I know. Chickenshit. I own it. Goes back to Fat Girl Syndrome. I'm trying to overcome it. Besides,I hate awkwardness. I don't usually feel it--I mean, hey, you're not feeling the attraction that I am, no problem. I don't take it personally--I know how it goes. NO WHOOPER! (This is why the whole thing with Jim Jefferies didn't faze me--I can't imagine how many women proposition him, although he lists himself as "gay" on MySpace. That was a little weird, but hey, gotta check and see if people are paying attention.) But guys get weird in those situations, and I'd hate for anyone to avoid getting coffee because of fearing to run into me. The problem with Sbux is that the crowd in there is a little young--a lot of scenery, but I'm not into cradle robbing. Otherwise... WOW. I mean, it's not like I have a rating system like the movies--"No one under XX may date this woman"--but I also have a grasp of developmental issues. You don't stop growing and changing because you hit the age of 18, and we all develop and change and grow differently. However, I am 42--I've seen a lot of shit, and while I have a lot of compassion and understanding, I also have a limited amount of time and patience.

OK, back to Potential Paramour. Now, he initiated contact via POF (Plenty of Fish). We exchanged a few emails via the site, I gave the wahoo email address, and he sent his picture (normal pic, not a dick shot, thank the Gods). We started chatting via wahoo. It was fine--normal convo exchange, flirting, bit of sex talk. It was fine--normal for these things. He has been very complimentary, very sweet--he thinks I'm cute. OK. And beautiful.

Beautiful I'm OK with--to me, that word has deeper connotations than "cute"--it implies not just physical beauty (and I am pretty; I KNOW that), but something within the soul that shines through. It's why I notice eyes--New Crush hit me like a lightening bolt because of his eyes. (Yes, he's cute--noticed that AFTER--but his eyes... WOW! This has always been the way it works for me when I feel something for someone I meet face-to-face. That was what happened with the Mighty Lucifer--I noticed his eyes before anything else, immortalized in a short story as being like "burning suns"... Jim Jefferies has those kind of brown eyes. Mmmmmm... )

But cute? I am so NOT cute. I mean, I am acerbic, sarcastic, funny... but adorable? Nah. So NOT me. I mean... CUTE? "Cute" comes with a button nose, perky little tits, and a cheerleader attitude. Me... SO NOT cute. And I find that word such a diminutive when a man says it to me when I'm grouchy. I AM NOT CUTE when I am grouchy. I am a PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS when I'm grouchy.

There is NOTHING CUTE about stating I want to thin the herd of Cambridge bicyclists. Ditto for wanting to execute stupid people. Nothing cute about that--I'd be disturbed if someone I barely knew made statements like that, especially via IM. There is NOTHING cute about me when I'm ranting. I'm funny--hell, yes, I am funny if your sense of humor skews that way--but I am funny only if you are present for the rant and can hear the tone of voice and see the outrageous facial expressions.

I never found George Carlin "cute" when he was ranting; ditto, Celebricrush Jim. (THAT'S a good nickname! I like it better than invoking his full name--I really worry about coming off as a stalker/obsessive fan. I'm not. Following on Facebook is one thing; I have no plans to go to California or the UK over the next few months, nor will I be writing any "fan fic," because, although I do write amazing fucking porn, I prefer for it to be from direct experience.)

I find both of them scary during certain rants; that's what great comedy should be--you're pissing yourself laughing and shitting your pants in fear. VISCERAL. As unsafe as unprotected sex with an African hooker. (Yep, goin' to hell for that one. Join me at my private table by the fire, will you?) It's why certain comics never appealed to me... there were no risks in their material, nothing personal about it. I'd like to find the idiot who made a comment after Carlin died on his material that his earlier stuff was so much better--*SLAM* Louisville Slugger to the head for being an idiot. Or to the balls to make sure he doesn't reproduce. I mean, who would take the Hippy Dippy Weatherman over the Two Commandments? Really? Moron.

This is all a part of my "Sacred Fool" theory of theatre and comedy. I wrote a paper on it years ago; I need to dig it out and expand on it. No, I am not "selling out" and applying to Harvard or Yale or wherever for a Ph.D. (although I'm still toying with the Masters in Counseling/Psych--Dr. Panetta will howl with laughter over that one, if I ever ask for the recommendation. You know you've got something when your therapist wants you to be a therapist. Hey, I'm a director--you've GOT to be an armchair shrink to direct Shakespeare and get your actors throught it without them losing their shit or you losing yours).

Wow, I'm REALLY digressing and avoiding discussing relationships.

OK, back to Potential Paramour: the IMs have been intense. Sexually, we're on some of the same pages (he's a bit traditional; definitely wants to be the one "on top" as it were, which is OK to a point). What's bothering me is that we haven't met face-to-face yet; we've never even heard each other's voice, and he's pushed for a commitment.


Yeah. And I had to put my foot down.

Look, while I'll own to being a royal slut extraordinaire in the bedroom, I am NOT a whore. I don't play the field--even when I've had the option to, I haven't. I mean, I've been given permission to cheat and couldn't do it. Not my style. I mean, a threesome is one thing (and it's been years and years and years and I doubt it's something I'd ever do again. One man is enough, y'know? If I really want to go for the DP experience, there are toys for that, and another woman is out of the question. Been there, done that, booooooooooring), but cheating? Multiple discreet partners? *shudder* Gods forbid something slips and I end up pregnant. I don't think I could deal with the shame of not knowing who the father was. (And yes, I would be ashamed and embarrassed.) Hey, I think about these things.

Now, I've been in enough long distance/internet-based relationships to know that the person you deal with via IM is NOT the person you deal with in person. I am who I am--totally WYSIWYG. The crazy shit I say in this blog is the crazy shit I say in conversation. I am this person. I'm good with it. However, what you do not get via the blog is my voice--it's a big voice, loud when I laugh or get pissed off. You don't hear the revolving accents--from Standard American to Brit Posh to Thick Boston to Atlantic Canadian to Irish Brogue to Aussie to California Surf to wherever. You don't get the bouncing moods, from utterly manic to serenely calm to utterly outraged and furious to Writer Mode to grouchy to happy... this is normal me. I'm An Experience.

Not everyone can deal with the Empress Experience. I mean, I'm actually a fairly easy human being to be around, as long as I'm allowed a certain degree of control over myself and immediate surroundings. I let people be who they are and accept them. I only get contentious when someone tries to impose unnecessary demands and during the 36 hours of PMDD. (And then I take half a tab of Xanax, have a good cry, and sleep.) But I know that not everyone can deal with it, especially men.

So... I have not made a commitment, and I didn't allow myself to be manipulated into making one (which is raising a red flag already). We'll see how the face-to-face goes, but I honestly don't have a lot of hope. I'm going to give him a chance, but...

Ah, well.

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