I've been MIA the last couple of months. I know I've been missed greatly by my readership, and for that I apologize. But....it has been for an amazing, if not surprising, reason.
I, Chelsea Magruder, have a serious boyfriend. These last 3 months have been spent spending time with a man who actually wants to spend time with me and likes me. I know....it's mind blowing.
So of course, this post will be about this important change in my life.
When I was six years old, I took swimming lessons during the summer. It was my favorite thing about those hot, humid Kansas days. In the morning I would go learn the finer techniques for not drowning and then in the afternoons I would convince my mom to take me back to the pool so I could pretend I was a mermaid or just splash around like a normal annoying little kid.
As the summer progressed and my non-drowning skills improved, I was granted permission to swim in the deep end. I moved from the 3 feet area to the 5 feet area to the 12 feet area of the pool. I was a big shot, swimming where the big kids swam. Yet, there was still one more hurdle to overcome...that one big kid thing that would seal the deal on my mad swimming skills: The Diving Board.
The Diving Board stood as a symbol of maturity and bravery. You were granted permission to jump off it only when you had been deemed worthy of its responsibility and skill level. It was the grown up apparatus of the pool.
The diving board was at least 5 feet above the water. And I was afraid of heights. Subsequently, I was terrified of the diving board. The thought of jumping off it froze my brain and body. I just knew that if I made that jump into the deep end, I would drown. My body's energy from the jump and the laws of gravity would propel me to the bottom of the pool where I would meet my end. It was a catastrophic thought with little if any rationality, but my six year old mind was convinced this was what would happen. I would jump off the diving board into the deep end where the endless abyss would claim my little chubby body.
Yet....I had worked sooo hard in conquering my body's natural urge to sink to the bottom of the water that it felt silly not to complete this last task. Prove my maturity, skill and bravery by taking the plunge. It was a matter of being confident in my ability and being sure of myself. I could ride a bike, dress myself, brush my own teeth and spell my name; I could jump off the diving board.
So the day came when I walked up that ladder. I walked down the length of the diving board to stand at the end and peer over the edge. My body started to scream NO NO NO NO NO NO at me while I stood there, but my mind stood firm. I could see the surface of the water, but not much further past there. I knew there was an end to it, a bottom, but it just wasn't something that was completely clear to me. After what felt like a lifetime, I took a deep breath, gathered my strength and jumped.
And obviously I lived. This blog isn't being written by a six year old ghost. I kicked my little pudgy legs and broke the surface. I felt good and happy and invincible.
This is how I feel about my relationship with my boyfriend, Matt. My past experiences, past relationships, past whatevers have all been training me for our relationship. I've come to a point in my life where I feel sure of who I am and what I want. I moved my way up from the 3 feet end to the diving board.
It's scary to sit at the edge of something wonderful wondering if you should jump or just escape. You can peer over the edge, imagining what lies beyond. Will you sink or swim?
I got to that point with Matt. There I was, looking over that edge. I knew that if I took the leap there was a chance it wouldn't end well. I couldn't see the ending, see the future for us, but I knew that I had to take that chance. Be a big girl and take the plunge.
With Matt I'm swimming. I took a deep breath and took the jump, said the L word and meant it. He's an amazing man. He's smart, cute, witty, caring, understanding, funny, adventurous, kind and he challenges me.
I wasn't sure there was someone out there like that for me or that I'd ever really be able to be in love again. But here I am; in love and happy as a clam.
So yeah...that's what I've been doing the last 3 months. And expect more posts, my friends, as the past 3 months have provided a long list of topics and thoughts to share.
Be excited or not. Whatever. I'm still gonna write, biatches. :)
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, March 05, 2011
Geek Sex Moments
Geek and sex would seem to be mutually exclusive words. Geeks, traditionally, are portrayed as beings who are adverse to, if not terrified of, sex. Sex is not something that smiles upon geeks, bestowing gorgeous good looks and smooth moves to those inhabiting Geekdom.
Now, I'm not saying I don't find geeks attractive. Because I very much do. I was a big fan of the whole "Geek Cute" movement when it came about in popular culture. I embraced Adam Brody as Seth in the OC. I've always been a fan of men who enjoy reading and wearing glasses, so the fact that it became 'cool' to wear glasses and read books excited me. Cardigans and tweed jackets, too? I was one happy girl living in geek-ed out world.
The magnetism that geeks hold for me is strong. I am drawn to them like I am drawn to Chubby Hubby ice cream or tea cup pigs. Deep down I wish to bond with a geek, form our own covalent bond. Sharing parts of each other to make a new molecule, stable with in its codependent nature.
And let's be honest here, I'm pretty geeky myself. I'm not a Bond girl or a Playgirl. I'm Sabrina Duncan, the brunette, "smart" Charlie's Angel. I'm Velma from Scooby-Doo.
So of course my sexcapades are definitely not straight out of COSMO. It's simple math:
GEEK BOY + GEEK GIRL + SEX = UNSEXY TIMES
To prove my mathematical equation, I will use some personal experience:
DARTH VADER'S A LOVER NOT A HATER
This geek boy was getting his doctorate in biochemistry. He was explaining his research to me once, and what I remember from it was that he inserts microchips in rats' brains. He has a poster of some molecular bonds and equations up in his study. His bookshelf is full of MICROBIOLOGY and CHEMISTRY textbooks. And I had a fear of falling asleep around him, convinced I might become his new brain project, inserting something in my brain that would make me want to bake cookies for him and have sex with him 24/7. A Stepford Mistress. Hey, it could happen.
Well one night after doing our own kind of bonding, he went to the bathroom. He came back into the bedroom with a Darth Vader helmet on. Now, it wasn't just the helmet, because that would be lame. It had a voicebox that let you either talk and sound like Vader or push a button to state a famous Vader phrase. He was wearing nothing else, just the Vader helmet. One of the buttons let you make the creepy heavy breathing noise, so he kept pushing that one for awhile. He then came back into bed, telling me that the force was strong with me and that I didn't know the power of the dark side. We then had an intimate conversation about the two kids he had and his plans to build a moon like superweapon. This also brought on a "Who's your Daddy?" discussion. This lasted for I'd say 15 minutes. I then decided it was time for me to get out before he killed me with his force grip.
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA
This geek asked me to come over and hang out, watch some television or a movie. So, I went over, assuming that this was cover for him wanting me to come over so we could at the least make out. When I get there he is watching Battlestar Galactica. I've never watched an episode of this show and my knowledge of it is seriously limited. I told him this much. He decided he needed to educate me on the inner workings of this sci-fi universe. He gave me some tidbits of information while we waited for this particular episode ended. He informed me that he had been watching a whole season via Netflix. After the episode ended, I thought our conversation of sci-fi would end and the lip locking would begin. But, that's not exactly how that went down. Instead, he stood up, walked over to me, and kept talking about the show and how cool it was. How it was one of the best series on television, explaining the complexity of the characters. He kept talking, moving closer to me. Still discussing the immortal nature of some of the characters who would just be rebooted into new humans if their old human suits failed, he began to undress and take off my shirt. No joke. Battlestar Galactica had become foreplay.
So, no, these sexual situations were not taken from Cosmo or a Romance novel. Instead of a man telling me all the dirty things he was going to do to me while shedding my clothes I had a man telling me the major differences between the two races of beings inhabiting Earth. I didn't get sweet pillow talk and cuddling after sex; I got Darth Vader sharing his life plans and his troubled past.
Which of course might sound lack luster and pitiful. And super humorous (because these stories are laughable). But for me, these situations were interesting and memorable as they were unique. How many lucky girls can say they slept with Darth Vader? Not many I'd say. And now I'm much better educated in Battlestar Galactica and associate this show with sexual relations which I think most Geeks will find a desirable quality in a woman.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that sex is never perfect. It's never a scene from a Romance novel. It's never going to be that scenario described in Cosmo or Glamour. Because life happens and spices things up. Who wants cookie cutter sex anyway? Each individual brings something to sex, so when you pair up with someone this experience will be unique and different from previous hook ups. It might be a hot, passionate hook up or one that's full of laughter and fun. Either way, it's good in its own way.
Until next time, may the force be with you....
Sunday, February 13, 2011
VD: Something Worth Experiencing?
The most common association with VD would be venereal diseases. I suppose that is what most people think of when first seeing those two letters strung together. But for me, VD stands for something a little different. But, what it means to me is just as frightening, irritating and uncomfortable; Valentine's Day.
Yes. How typical for a single girl to compare the symptoms of serious diseases to a tradition that is suppose to stand for love and romanticism between two people. I actually had started a different post yesterday because I thought posting about this blasted holiday was too predictable and contrived. That was until I went to the local grocery store for my weekly stock up.
Now before I recount this story, I would like to note that I wasn't totally unaware VD was coming up. I saw the signs; the creepy, misogynistic diamond commercials, the FTD commercials, the hearts everywhere. Just small reminders that VD was fast approaching. But As I walked through the doors of my grocery store, making a strategy of how to navigate the usual busy Sunday shopping crowd, I was immediately bombarded with VALENTINE'S DAY. It appeared that little baby cupids had been massacred all over the front of the store and that Love had actually thrown up all of its mushy gushy insides. And I can't say I blame Love for vomiting as that was my initial reaction, too. My retinas burned from all the bright blood red, neon pink and glitter. My nostrils stung from the pungent onslaught of roses, carnations, and tulips. It was sensory overload.
Despite the confusion and disorientation I felt from this full on attack, I successfully made my way to Produce to gather myself amongst the eggplants, artichokes and turnips. It was at this point, surrounded by the despised, neglected vegetables, that the desired effect of Valentine's Day's agenda hit me; my poor little chronically single heart felt a spasm of loneliness and longed to be brought to life by LOVE.
This moment of weakness brought with it a vision. A vision of a gorgeous man in tweed, who loved me and respected me. He was down on one knee, declaring his undying love for me and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. He presented a ring pop. After I of course said yes, we sat down to a romantic dinner of cream cheese pizza. He then brought out dessert, Chubby Hubby ice cream, which was thoughtful as it was my favorite ice cream and clever as he would soon be my hubby. Then we had incredible sex.
After this wonderful fantasy, I looked at the disgusting vegetables I was around and felt a sort of connection with them. We were good for people, worthy of love, but here we were, alone and despised. I then made a beeline for the Frozen Food aisle. It was there that I bought myself my own damn Chubby Hubby ice cream.
So, in an effort to take a stand in the on going war I have with Valentine's Day, I ultimately decided to post about it.
Valentine's Day and I have a complicated history. Which is true for most people I would say. Yet, to illustrate my point as I always feel the need to do, I will share some of the more memorable VDs of my life. And they'll be in chronological order as I am OCD.
1. Will You Be My Enemy?
In grade school, we all take part in that wonderful tradition of turning a normal, ho-hum shoe box into an magical Valentine mailbox. It's covered in hearts and glitter and lace. You spend extra time to make it stands out so you can be sure to get the good Valentines. The ones with candy or Lisa Frank stickers. Fourth grade was about the time my class started having boyfriends and girlfriends, so the stakes that year were extra high. The day finally came for our Valentine's Day party. We played lame games, consumed mass amounts of sugar, and then came the time to read our Valentines.
I was all hyped up on the 2 cups of punch and 3 cupcakes I had, so I tore open my shoebox like it held the boobs I kept hoping I'd get soon. There they were, a plethora of Valentines from my peers. I started reading them, anticipating there would be some pledge of love from a boy. Any boy, like the other girls in my glass seemed to be getting. Instead, mixed among the typical "LYLAS" messages from my girl friends, were Valentines from boys stating how ugly I was and how they despised me. One was even threatening, saying this boy hated me and that I should watch my back. My little heart was crushed. I never told anyone, not even my Mom. I went straight home and discarded that lame box of hatred in our garbage can, salvaging the candy and Lisa Frank stickers to console myself with.
The next year, fifth grade, was much the same. I received odd threats and notes of despise. That was also the year when my 'boyfriend,' after giving me a huge chocolate kiss, broke up with me to date my enemy. Again, I went home with that kiss, and silently cried in my bed, eating the chocolate and asking my Ty Beanie Baby Seymour how this could have happened to me.
2. Secret Admirer
8th grade came, and with it came those boobs I had always been longing for. I was still not Miss Popular, but gone were those evil boxes and Valentines. I thought the terror of VD was over. But I became aware of a new, horrible facet of VD; Yearbook Roses. A person could buy a rose from the Yearbook people and they would deliver it to your sweetie on VD. I was still single after the whole 5th grade break up fiasco, so I wasn't expecting anything. Maybe just a pity rose from my Mom and Dad. I was in choir when it happened. The Yearbook people came in and started handing out roses. My girl friends, who did have boyfriends, were cooing and awwing. I felt like vomiting, by then they handed one to me. I was confused, and looked at the rose with skepticism and awe. Usually they have a message attached to them, but mine was missing one. I asked who sent it, but the person just told me they wanted to remain anonymous. I was flattered and my brain started turning as I tried to figure out who sent it.
Then the boys in my class started to snicker. The alpha male asked who sent me a rose. I replied I didn't know. He just smirked and said, oh, we know who did, and then they just all snickered some more. It was then I was convinced that either a) they had done it themselves, just to see my face when I thought that I might actually be admired or desirable so they could crush it or b) they had convinced someone they knew would be social suicide to receive a rose from to send me one.
In the end, no one fessed up to it. I brought it home and explained the story to my parents. My Mom was convinced that it was from some secret admirer and made me put it on the bookshelf in the living room so everyone could see it. I think for her it was a symbol that I wasn't a lost cause in the boy department. She refused to throw it way, so one day, when it had long past died, I was cleaning and just chucked the thing in the garbage, to follow the dreaded box from the past. But, I think her hope (and admittedly, my hope) of me being lovable slowly withered and died just like that damn rose did.
3. Material Misrepresentation
I've only had one VD where I was in a serious relationship. It was in college. I was somewhat excited as I loved this boy and I was hoping that this VD would validate the reason why people kept celebrating it. It was for those in love, and finally, I was a part of that exclusive club. But, something interesting happened. I found that there was more to this holiday then I expected. It wasn't just enough to be in love and spend extra time with your boo on this day and do something special. Oh, no. You had to show your love through material goods. This was crucial. One false purchase could lead to relationship failure. I thought I had done well. He wanted a KU jersey and I had saved up to get it for him. But he blew it out of the park. I had to ask him what he wanted, he just knew what I wanted. He got me a cd I had been talking about and he got me a movie that I had seen with my sister and told him how much I loved it.
Don't get me wrong, this was by far one of my best VDs. But, I just can't help but reflect on how the rest of the night I felt that my gift just wasn't as good as his. I felt that somehow, this had to be a reflection of our relationship. Was he really more in tune with 'us' than I was? Of course, I over analyzed the whole exchange of gifts, but this VD drove home the point that VD for grown ups is all about the material representation of love. And that's a scary, scary thing.
4. Anti-Valentine's Day Day
During college, my best friend Allision and I decided to celebrate being single on VD instead of feeling sorry for ourselves for being single or beating ourselves up for not having a boyfriend. This consisted of us going to Chili's to stuff our faces, going to the liquor store to stock up on the essentials, and then going back to her place to drink and be merry. We invited over some single fellas, too, and we all just sat around, laughing and drinking, enjoying each other's company.
This is probably the best VD ever for me. I was surrounded by people I loved and had a great time just hanging out. No one sent me a Valentine of hate, no one sent me a mocking rose and no one had to show their love to me through a material exchange. It was simple and perfect.
I guess in the end, all of these experiences have taught me that VD only has as much power as you give it. I don't beat myself up because I don't have someone special on VD to share a "Lady and the Tramp" moment with over a meatball . I avoid feeling worthless or unloveable come February 14th just because someone didn't go to Jared's for me or buy me a VS push-up bra.
These experiences have also taught me that elementary aged boys are little assholes and that chocolate is amazing.
Now I'm off to go eat some Chubby Hubby and dream of a man in tweed....
Yes. How typical for a single girl to compare the symptoms of serious diseases to a tradition that is suppose to stand for love and romanticism between two people. I actually had started a different post yesterday because I thought posting about this blasted holiday was too predictable and contrived. That was until I went to the local grocery store for my weekly stock up.
Now before I recount this story, I would like to note that I wasn't totally unaware VD was coming up. I saw the signs; the creepy, misogynistic diamond commercials, the FTD commercials, the hearts everywhere. Just small reminders that VD was fast approaching. But As I walked through the doors of my grocery store, making a strategy of how to navigate the usual busy Sunday shopping crowd, I was immediately bombarded with VALENTINE'S DAY. It appeared that little baby cupids had been massacred all over the front of the store and that Love had actually thrown up all of its mushy gushy insides. And I can't say I blame Love for vomiting as that was my initial reaction, too. My retinas burned from all the bright blood red, neon pink and glitter. My nostrils stung from the pungent onslaught of roses, carnations, and tulips. It was sensory overload.
Despite the confusion and disorientation I felt from this full on attack, I successfully made my way to Produce to gather myself amongst the eggplants, artichokes and turnips. It was at this point, surrounded by the despised, neglected vegetables, that the desired effect of Valentine's Day's agenda hit me; my poor little chronically single heart felt a spasm of loneliness and longed to be brought to life by LOVE.
This moment of weakness brought with it a vision. A vision of a gorgeous man in tweed, who loved me and respected me. He was down on one knee, declaring his undying love for me and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. He presented a ring pop. After I of course said yes, we sat down to a romantic dinner of cream cheese pizza. He then brought out dessert, Chubby Hubby ice cream, which was thoughtful as it was my favorite ice cream and clever as he would soon be my hubby. Then we had incredible sex.
After this wonderful fantasy, I looked at the disgusting vegetables I was around and felt a sort of connection with them. We were good for people, worthy of love, but here we were, alone and despised. I then made a beeline for the Frozen Food aisle. It was there that I bought myself my own damn Chubby Hubby ice cream.
So, in an effort to take a stand in the on going war I have with Valentine's Day, I ultimately decided to post about it.
Valentine's Day and I have a complicated history. Which is true for most people I would say. Yet, to illustrate my point as I always feel the need to do, I will share some of the more memorable VDs of my life. And they'll be in chronological order as I am OCD.
1. Will You Be My Enemy?
In grade school, we all take part in that wonderful tradition of turning a normal, ho-hum shoe box into an magical Valentine mailbox. It's covered in hearts and glitter and lace. You spend extra time to make it stands out so you can be sure to get the good Valentines. The ones with candy or Lisa Frank stickers. Fourth grade was about the time my class started having boyfriends and girlfriends, so the stakes that year were extra high. The day finally came for our Valentine's Day party. We played lame games, consumed mass amounts of sugar, and then came the time to read our Valentines.
I was all hyped up on the 2 cups of punch and 3 cupcakes I had, so I tore open my shoebox like it held the boobs I kept hoping I'd get soon. There they were, a plethora of Valentines from my peers. I started reading them, anticipating there would be some pledge of love from a boy. Any boy, like the other girls in my glass seemed to be getting. Instead, mixed among the typical "LYLAS" messages from my girl friends, were Valentines from boys stating how ugly I was and how they despised me. One was even threatening, saying this boy hated me and that I should watch my back. My little heart was crushed. I never told anyone, not even my Mom. I went straight home and discarded that lame box of hatred in our garbage can, salvaging the candy and Lisa Frank stickers to console myself with.
The next year, fifth grade, was much the same. I received odd threats and notes of despise. That was also the year when my 'boyfriend,' after giving me a huge chocolate kiss, broke up with me to date my enemy. Again, I went home with that kiss, and silently cried in my bed, eating the chocolate and asking my Ty Beanie Baby Seymour how this could have happened to me.
2. Secret Admirer
8th grade came, and with it came those boobs I had always been longing for. I was still not Miss Popular, but gone were those evil boxes and Valentines. I thought the terror of VD was over. But I became aware of a new, horrible facet of VD; Yearbook Roses. A person could buy a rose from the Yearbook people and they would deliver it to your sweetie on VD. I was still single after the whole 5th grade break up fiasco, so I wasn't expecting anything. Maybe just a pity rose from my Mom and Dad. I was in choir when it happened. The Yearbook people came in and started handing out roses. My girl friends, who did have boyfriends, were cooing and awwing. I felt like vomiting, by then they handed one to me. I was confused, and looked at the rose with skepticism and awe. Usually they have a message attached to them, but mine was missing one. I asked who sent it, but the person just told me they wanted to remain anonymous. I was flattered and my brain started turning as I tried to figure out who sent it.
Then the boys in my class started to snicker. The alpha male asked who sent me a rose. I replied I didn't know. He just smirked and said, oh, we know who did, and then they just all snickered some more. It was then I was convinced that either a) they had done it themselves, just to see my face when I thought that I might actually be admired or desirable so they could crush it or b) they had convinced someone they knew would be social suicide to receive a rose from to send me one.
In the end, no one fessed up to it. I brought it home and explained the story to my parents. My Mom was convinced that it was from some secret admirer and made me put it on the bookshelf in the living room so everyone could see it. I think for her it was a symbol that I wasn't a lost cause in the boy department. She refused to throw it way, so one day, when it had long past died, I was cleaning and just chucked the thing in the garbage, to follow the dreaded box from the past. But, I think her hope (and admittedly, my hope) of me being lovable slowly withered and died just like that damn rose did.
3. Material Misrepresentation
I've only had one VD where I was in a serious relationship. It was in college. I was somewhat excited as I loved this boy and I was hoping that this VD would validate the reason why people kept celebrating it. It was for those in love, and finally, I was a part of that exclusive club. But, something interesting happened. I found that there was more to this holiday then I expected. It wasn't just enough to be in love and spend extra time with your boo on this day and do something special. Oh, no. You had to show your love through material goods. This was crucial. One false purchase could lead to relationship failure. I thought I had done well. He wanted a KU jersey and I had saved up to get it for him. But he blew it out of the park. I had to ask him what he wanted, he just knew what I wanted. He got me a cd I had been talking about and he got me a movie that I had seen with my sister and told him how much I loved it.
Don't get me wrong, this was by far one of my best VDs. But, I just can't help but reflect on how the rest of the night I felt that my gift just wasn't as good as his. I felt that somehow, this had to be a reflection of our relationship. Was he really more in tune with 'us' than I was? Of course, I over analyzed the whole exchange of gifts, but this VD drove home the point that VD for grown ups is all about the material representation of love. And that's a scary, scary thing.
4. Anti-Valentine's Day Day
During college, my best friend Allision and I decided to celebrate being single on VD instead of feeling sorry for ourselves for being single or beating ourselves up for not having a boyfriend. This consisted of us going to Chili's to stuff our faces, going to the liquor store to stock up on the essentials, and then going back to her place to drink and be merry. We invited over some single fellas, too, and we all just sat around, laughing and drinking, enjoying each other's company.
This is probably the best VD ever for me. I was surrounded by people I loved and had a great time just hanging out. No one sent me a Valentine of hate, no one sent me a mocking rose and no one had to show their love to me through a material exchange. It was simple and perfect.
I guess in the end, all of these experiences have taught me that VD only has as much power as you give it. I don't beat myself up because I don't have someone special on VD to share a "Lady and the Tramp" moment with over a meatball . I avoid feeling worthless or unloveable come February 14th just because someone didn't go to Jared's for me or buy me a VS push-up bra.
These experiences have also taught me that elementary aged boys are little assholes and that chocolate is amazing.
Now I'm off to go eat some Chubby Hubby and dream of a man in tweed....
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.
I'm a sucker for classic movies, as a list of my Hollywood crushes will support. Something about the plots and relationships fascinate me in a way today's cinema usually fails to do. Maybe it's the honest and complex relationships, the strong females who do their thang in a misogynistic era, and awkward kissing that isn't almost pornographic. Or maybe it's just that I'm a movie snob who hates the Enlightened Sexism Hollywood panders to women as "Feminism" through Rom-Coms and even some of the Dramas as of late. Whatever the reason, my DVR and DVD rack is full of classic movies.
After recently watching Breakfast at Tiffany's on TCM, I found that there was something else I love about these gems; the theme song. Breakfast at Tiffany's has "Moonriver." Casablanca has "As Time Goes By." A Star is Born has "The Man That Got Away." The Way We Were has, well, "The Way We Were." These aren't your modern day pop diva or Disney clone child star theme songs. There is not auto-tune or riffs or ear splitting notes. You have truthful melodies that blend in with the film effortlessly, harmonizing with the emotions and plot of the film. Usually the theme song is closely related to the leading couple's relationship. You can see how the they relate and parallel each other in interesting ways. These are songs that stand the test of time and don't end up on Karaoke lists to be sung by drunk people as a joke.
Which got me to a ponderin'....is this why we feel the need to have "a song" with another person? Every wedding features the first dance where the couple dances to "their song." Or, there's always that awkward conversation with a boyfriend/girlfriend where the topic of "your song" comes up and you're thinking some indie song sung by an emotionally aware, vulnerable singer whose song is a sweet ballad while he's thinking of a rock song sung by a sex-driven rock god who refers to you as some dessert. Tay Swift even has a song about this phenom, aptly titled "Our Song."
And all of this made me stop and think about my past relationships and the music associated with them. Upon much reflection, I had a disturbing realization; the soundtrack to my relationships is horrible. The melodies and lyrics just add an almost comical background for most of my liaisons with men. Yet entertaining. So obviously I will share it with you with fun stories to accompany...
Track 1: "Fever for the Flava" Hot Action Cop
So....I was hanging out with this one guy quite a bit. And by hanging out I obviously mean hooking up. He was funny and a decent kisser, so it was good times. Out of the times we hooked up, I'd say that 70% of them were us in his room on his futon. I know, a futon. But cut me some slack. It was college and if you haven't messed around on a futon during college, I highly doubt you can say you truly experienced college and all it had to offer. To add to the traditional nature of the college hook up, the only other furniture featured in his room was a desk which had his nice computer which had the ever wonderful iTunes. Before we could start anything in his room, he had to go over and put iTunes on shuffle. It was his ritual.
But, the bad thing with shuffle is that you never know what is going to come up. Cue "Fever for the Flava" which is basically all about a man bemoaning his infliction of desperately seeking some booty. Of course, like the mature woman I am, I just started giggling once the first line came on; "Do you think that I can get some jiggy jiggy," and the giggles became uncontrollable at "Maybe just a little uh uh nookie nookie". This song was just on spot for the current situation. Quite the serendipitous event. He even had to stop and acknowledge the comedy of the moment. We soon regrouped and I did my best to cure his fever. For the flava.
To this day, I can't help but think of him and his futon when I hear this song.
Track 2: Sportscenter theme song
Sportscenter...the tv mecca for men. It's like some sort of security blanket for them, swaddling them in testosterone. Any guy I've hooked up with on a regular basis has initiated sexual acts after the start of Sportscenter, as if Sportscenter got him pumped to do his thing. Even worse, after a certain time of night, Sportscenter just plays over and over and over, playing it's theme song multiple times. One guy in particular stands out. We would talk and watch tv, then he'd decide to watch Sportscenter and BAM! He's hitting a home run. He's making a great tackle. He's penetrating the lane. It was as if ESPN was Viagra.
Because of this I have a sort of conditioned response to this particular intro. I hear "Da na na na, da na na na,' my ears perk up and I'm salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs.
Track 3: "Everytime We Touch" Cascada
Now, Cascada is a techno goddess. I'm not going to say I don't love her music and listen to it when I want to dance around my apartment in my underwear. But, I can't say that I'm completely thrilled to admit that "Everytime We Touch" was the song associated with my only true serious relationship. My boyfriend LOVED this song. We were friends before dating and we would rock out to this song and quote it to each other just for laughs. He even got into a fight with one of my best friends about the nonsensical lyrics. The line "your arms are my castle" was a hot topic. My friend explained, with a valid point, that the lyrics were dumb and this wasn't a good song. My boyfriend argued that this was a great love song and the lyrics were touching. It was almost as great as the Lincoln-Douglas debates of 1858.
What does this song convey about my relationship? Well, like Cascada's club anthem, it had a good foundation. A strong something to build upon. Unfortunately, those damn lyrics he fought so strong to defend are what did us in. Her lyrics are so idealistic and contrived. She says all the right things of how you're suppose to feel when you're in love. But it's not a very honest, real look at love. Which is what our dialogue mostly was. Us believing that love would conquer all without us taking a honest look at how as a romantic couple, we were caustic to each other.
And thank god we broke up because I think I would die if I had to dance to this song at my wedding. Rave dancing is not my forte.
Track 4: "The Reason" Hoobastank
One of my boyfriends decided "The Reason" was our song. If we were together and this song came on the radio he would reach for the volume button, hit + and comment on how this was our song. Now, the following is going to sound egotistical, because it is, but this boy was IN LOVE with me. As in he was planning our whole future together and discussing relocating to follow me to college. There was no doubt in his mind that what we had was TRUE LOVE. And he made it a point to tell me how I helped save him and how I made him a better person, really inspired him to be more, do more. He made me feel like a goddess, as if I could do no wrong. He worshiped me. I think mostly because we were teenagers and I let him touch my boobs. But, you know.
This song perfectly conveys his maniacal view of me and his inability to see the whole picture. The song is about a man who has wronged a woman. He's basically grovelling, saying I'm so sorry, you've really taught me a lesson. So yes, the chorus is about how this woman is the reason for him to become a better man, which is why this boyfriend decided this was our song. But, boyfriend completely just ignored the other part of the song, as in all of the song except the chorus.
Needless to say, this was a short lived relationship because I can only be worshiped so much and can only stand on that damn pedestal for so long.
So, there's a short playlist of some of my past songs. Of course I over simplified everything because relationships are way too complex to be condensed into a 4 minute song, but it's fun just to think about what they say about your relationship or how you remember them in relation to your relationship. Because there are those days when you're driving home and that song comes on and you smile, thinking about those old times.
And because 20 years down the line when you're in the car with your children listening to the Oldies station and "Everytime We Touch" comes on, and they say in appalled tones, "OMGZ, Mom, you listened to this and LIKED it?" you can reply, "You bet your ass I did. And just count your blessings you weren't conceived to it."
After recently watching Breakfast at Tiffany's on TCM, I found that there was something else I love about these gems; the theme song. Breakfast at Tiffany's has "Moonriver." Casablanca has "As Time Goes By." A Star is Born has "The Man That Got Away." The Way We Were has, well, "The Way We Were." These aren't your modern day pop diva or Disney clone child star theme songs. There is not auto-tune or riffs or ear splitting notes. You have truthful melodies that blend in with the film effortlessly, harmonizing with the emotions and plot of the film. Usually the theme song is closely related to the leading couple's relationship. You can see how the they relate and parallel each other in interesting ways. These are songs that stand the test of time and don't end up on Karaoke lists to be sung by drunk people as a joke.
Which got me to a ponderin'....is this why we feel the need to have "a song" with another person? Every wedding features the first dance where the couple dances to "their song." Or, there's always that awkward conversation with a boyfriend/girlfriend where the topic of "your song" comes up and you're thinking some indie song sung by an emotionally aware, vulnerable singer whose song is a sweet ballad while he's thinking of a rock song sung by a sex-driven rock god who refers to you as some dessert. Tay Swift even has a song about this phenom, aptly titled "Our Song."
And all of this made me stop and think about my past relationships and the music associated with them. Upon much reflection, I had a disturbing realization; the soundtrack to my relationships is horrible. The melodies and lyrics just add an almost comical background for most of my liaisons with men. Yet entertaining. So obviously I will share it with you with fun stories to accompany...
Track 1: "Fever for the Flava" Hot Action Cop
So....I was hanging out with this one guy quite a bit. And by hanging out I obviously mean hooking up. He was funny and a decent kisser, so it was good times. Out of the times we hooked up, I'd say that 70% of them were us in his room on his futon. I know, a futon. But cut me some slack. It was college and if you haven't messed around on a futon during college, I highly doubt you can say you truly experienced college and all it had to offer. To add to the traditional nature of the college hook up, the only other furniture featured in his room was a desk which had his nice computer which had the ever wonderful iTunes. Before we could start anything in his room, he had to go over and put iTunes on shuffle. It was his ritual.
But, the bad thing with shuffle is that you never know what is going to come up. Cue "Fever for the Flava" which is basically all about a man bemoaning his infliction of desperately seeking some booty. Of course, like the mature woman I am, I just started giggling once the first line came on; "Do you think that I can get some jiggy jiggy," and the giggles became uncontrollable at "Maybe just a little uh uh nookie nookie". This song was just on spot for the current situation. Quite the serendipitous event. He even had to stop and acknowledge the comedy of the moment. We soon regrouped and I did my best to cure his fever. For the flava.
To this day, I can't help but think of him and his futon when I hear this song.
Track 2: Sportscenter theme song
Sportscenter...the tv mecca for men. It's like some sort of security blanket for them, swaddling them in testosterone. Any guy I've hooked up with on a regular basis has initiated sexual acts after the start of Sportscenter, as if Sportscenter got him pumped to do his thing. Even worse, after a certain time of night, Sportscenter just plays over and over and over, playing it's theme song multiple times. One guy in particular stands out. We would talk and watch tv, then he'd decide to watch Sportscenter and BAM! He's hitting a home run. He's making a great tackle. He's penetrating the lane. It was as if ESPN was Viagra.
Because of this I have a sort of conditioned response to this particular intro. I hear "Da na na na, da na na na,' my ears perk up and I'm salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs.
Track 3: "Everytime We Touch" Cascada
Now, Cascada is a techno goddess. I'm not going to say I don't love her music and listen to it when I want to dance around my apartment in my underwear. But, I can't say that I'm completely thrilled to admit that "Everytime We Touch" was the song associated with my only true serious relationship. My boyfriend LOVED this song. We were friends before dating and we would rock out to this song and quote it to each other just for laughs. He even got into a fight with one of my best friends about the nonsensical lyrics. The line "your arms are my castle" was a hot topic. My friend explained, with a valid point, that the lyrics were dumb and this wasn't a good song. My boyfriend argued that this was a great love song and the lyrics were touching. It was almost as great as the Lincoln-Douglas debates of 1858.
What does this song convey about my relationship? Well, like Cascada's club anthem, it had a good foundation. A strong something to build upon. Unfortunately, those damn lyrics he fought so strong to defend are what did us in. Her lyrics are so idealistic and contrived. She says all the right things of how you're suppose to feel when you're in love. But it's not a very honest, real look at love. Which is what our dialogue mostly was. Us believing that love would conquer all without us taking a honest look at how as a romantic couple, we were caustic to each other.
And thank god we broke up because I think I would die if I had to dance to this song at my wedding. Rave dancing is not my forte.
Track 4: "The Reason" Hoobastank
One of my boyfriends decided "The Reason" was our song. If we were together and this song came on the radio he would reach for the volume button, hit + and comment on how this was our song. Now, the following is going to sound egotistical, because it is, but this boy was IN LOVE with me. As in he was planning our whole future together and discussing relocating to follow me to college. There was no doubt in his mind that what we had was TRUE LOVE. And he made it a point to tell me how I helped save him and how I made him a better person, really inspired him to be more, do more. He made me feel like a goddess, as if I could do no wrong. He worshiped me. I think mostly because we were teenagers and I let him touch my boobs. But, you know.
This song perfectly conveys his maniacal view of me and his inability to see the whole picture. The song is about a man who has wronged a woman. He's basically grovelling, saying I'm so sorry, you've really taught me a lesson. So yes, the chorus is about how this woman is the reason for him to become a better man, which is why this boyfriend decided this was our song. But, boyfriend completely just ignored the other part of the song, as in all of the song except the chorus.
Needless to say, this was a short lived relationship because I can only be worshiped so much and can only stand on that damn pedestal for so long.
So, there's a short playlist of some of my past songs. Of course I over simplified everything because relationships are way too complex to be condensed into a 4 minute song, but it's fun just to think about what they say about your relationship or how you remember them in relation to your relationship. Because there are those days when you're driving home and that song comes on and you smile, thinking about those old times.
And because 20 years down the line when you're in the car with your children listening to the Oldies station and "Everytime We Touch" comes on, and they say in appalled tones, "OMGZ, Mom, you listened to this and LIKED it?" you can reply, "You bet your ass I did. And just count your blessings you weren't conceived to it."
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Resolve, Not Just for Dirty Carpets
2011. A New Year. A new decade. A new cycle.
People lose their shit over it. It's a marker, symbolic of a new phase in our lives. Another twelve months to make ourselves better human beings. A time to reassess our lives and years gone by to make a positive change. Get rid of that ratty old beat up you in exchange for a bright, shiny new you.
We just eat it up. We see gimmicks for a "NEW YEAR, NEW YOU!" A "NEW START ON YOUR LIFE!" A "NEW YEAR FOR A NEW LIFE!" We just see these all capped statements as a sort of chant, a mantra; Newer is Better.
Which leads us to my most hated American tradition; New Year's Resolutions.
Resolutions are evil. They set us up for failure. In our eagerness for change and in a haze from all this positive, power changing brainwashing, we convince ourselves to make resolutions that are impossible. "I'll lose 50 pounds!" "I'll find the one!" "I'll quit my crappy job and find my dream job!" Year in and year out, we set ourselves up for failure. So come December 31st, we look back and realize instead of losing 50 pounds you gained 60, you had a 6 month relationship that crashed and burned faster than the Hindenburg, and you're still working your crappy, dead-end job. And that is why come New Year's Eve we drink ourselves into drunken stupors. Because we don't focus on all the small success of the past year, but all the huge failures we set ourselves up for. The promises we broke to ourselves. Then after our hangovers on January 1st, we get caught up in the rah rah rah of the New Year, just to repeat the cycle.
And I'm always perplexed with this newness obsession people have this time of year. That new shiny you is just not as beautiful and intelligent as that old ratty you. That old ratty you made mistakes, had experiences, lived life. You got scars and wrinkles, stretch marks and pounds. There's a story behind all of those. Not to say you shouldn't change, but why are people always so willing to just sluff off the old in exchange for the new? Working toward a better future means making positive changes based off what you've learned. Not just saying, hey! It's a new year, let's just start over, clean slate!
Now don't get me wrong. I'm a goal oriented person. But the first thing you have to know about goals is that they have to be reasonable abd should stem off things you've learned about yourself and your enviornment. Things you know you can actually accomplish.
And that brings us to my not so typical 2011 Resolutions:
1) I will not become morbidly obese. I will not bring home buckets of KFC and gravy, 5 2 liters of Pepsi Cola and gallons of Chocolate ice cream just for my dinner. I will not need a crane to lift me from my bed to the toilet or a bulldozer to knock down my wall so I can be transported from my bed to the ER because of a heartattack brought on by my weight. I will not need a circus tent for my clothing.
2) I will not become a crack whore living off the streets and selling myself for some blow. I will not have a pimp to handle me and offer my wares to eager customers.
3) I will not become a stripper and change my name to Candi Sparkles.
4) I will not move back to my hometown and become bare foot and pregnant to spend the rest of my days living with a sometimes boyfriend who would rather go fishin' and huntin' then discuss the major themes of A Tale of Two Cities. Mostly because he's illiterate.
5) I will not get genital herpes, even though the people from those commercials do exciting things with their partners like kayak and go on picnics.
6) I will not adopt 5 cats and name them Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, Marcus Flutie, Eric Northman and Phineas Tucker, and talk to them as if they were actual human men. I.e., I will not adopt 5 cats and name them after literary men that I wish were real to make me less lonely.
7) I will not buy skinny jeans and delude myself into thinking they make me look good or make me look skinny. Because they will do neither. Instead they would just accentuate my already rather larger ass and thighs, in which case it would be better the call them the definitely not skinny jeans.
8) I will not become a Hoarder, saving that one piece of paper because it was from that one night this one guy I thought was cute used it was a napkin and when he left I picked it up to remember how I almost could have married him.
9) I will not become Miss Havisham, jilted and closed off from the world and the chance to love again, perpetually looking at a clock that reads twenty to nine while outside the minutes tick away.
10) I will continue to write in this blog, submitting the world to my point of view and thoughts. (Pikachu, help you all)
So, there they are. 10 resolutions I am resolved to meet. And the great thing is come December 31st, 2011, I will not be drinking myself into stupidity because of my failure, but because of my outstanding success!
Or so I hope. Because I really don't want to become a morbidly obesese stripper/crack whore hoarder named Candi Sparkles who has genital herpes and wears skinny jeans, living back home with children whose father is an illiterate redneck, and 5 cats in a house where my clocks always says 8:40 am.
People lose their shit over it. It's a marker, symbolic of a new phase in our lives. Another twelve months to make ourselves better human beings. A time to reassess our lives and years gone by to make a positive change. Get rid of that ratty old beat up you in exchange for a bright, shiny new you.
We just eat it up. We see gimmicks for a "NEW YEAR, NEW YOU!" A "NEW START ON YOUR LIFE!" A "NEW YEAR FOR A NEW LIFE!" We just see these all capped statements as a sort of chant, a mantra; Newer is Better.
Which leads us to my most hated American tradition; New Year's Resolutions.
Resolutions are evil. They set us up for failure. In our eagerness for change and in a haze from all this positive, power changing brainwashing, we convince ourselves to make resolutions that are impossible. "I'll lose 50 pounds!" "I'll find the one!" "I'll quit my crappy job and find my dream job!" Year in and year out, we set ourselves up for failure. So come December 31st, we look back and realize instead of losing 50 pounds you gained 60, you had a 6 month relationship that crashed and burned faster than the Hindenburg, and you're still working your crappy, dead-end job. And that is why come New Year's Eve we drink ourselves into drunken stupors. Because we don't focus on all the small success of the past year, but all the huge failures we set ourselves up for. The promises we broke to ourselves. Then after our hangovers on January 1st, we get caught up in the rah rah rah of the New Year, just to repeat the cycle.
And I'm always perplexed with this newness obsession people have this time of year. That new shiny you is just not as beautiful and intelligent as that old ratty you. That old ratty you made mistakes, had experiences, lived life. You got scars and wrinkles, stretch marks and pounds. There's a story behind all of those. Not to say you shouldn't change, but why are people always so willing to just sluff off the old in exchange for the new? Working toward a better future means making positive changes based off what you've learned. Not just saying, hey! It's a new year, let's just start over, clean slate!
Now don't get me wrong. I'm a goal oriented person. But the first thing you have to know about goals is that they have to be reasonable abd should stem off things you've learned about yourself and your enviornment. Things you know you can actually accomplish.
And that brings us to my not so typical 2011 Resolutions:
1) I will not become morbidly obese. I will not bring home buckets of KFC and gravy, 5 2 liters of Pepsi Cola and gallons of Chocolate ice cream just for my dinner. I will not need a crane to lift me from my bed to the toilet or a bulldozer to knock down my wall so I can be transported from my bed to the ER because of a heartattack brought on by my weight. I will not need a circus tent for my clothing.
2) I will not become a crack whore living off the streets and selling myself for some blow. I will not have a pimp to handle me and offer my wares to eager customers.
3) I will not become a stripper and change my name to Candi Sparkles.
4) I will not move back to my hometown and become bare foot and pregnant to spend the rest of my days living with a sometimes boyfriend who would rather go fishin' and huntin' then discuss the major themes of A Tale of Two Cities. Mostly because he's illiterate.
5) I will not get genital herpes, even though the people from those commercials do exciting things with their partners like kayak and go on picnics.
6) I will not adopt 5 cats and name them Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, Marcus Flutie, Eric Northman and Phineas Tucker, and talk to them as if they were actual human men. I.e., I will not adopt 5 cats and name them after literary men that I wish were real to make me less lonely.
7) I will not buy skinny jeans and delude myself into thinking they make me look good or make me look skinny. Because they will do neither. Instead they would just accentuate my already rather larger ass and thighs, in which case it would be better the call them the definitely not skinny jeans.
8) I will not become a Hoarder, saving that one piece of paper because it was from that one night this one guy I thought was cute used it was a napkin and when he left I picked it up to remember how I almost could have married him.
9) I will not become Miss Havisham, jilted and closed off from the world and the chance to love again, perpetually looking at a clock that reads twenty to nine while outside the minutes tick away.
10) I will continue to write in this blog, submitting the world to my point of view and thoughts. (Pikachu, help you all)
So, there they are. 10 resolutions I am resolved to meet. And the great thing is come December 31st, 2011, I will not be drinking myself into stupidity because of my failure, but because of my outstanding success!
Or so I hope. Because I really don't want to become a morbidly obesese stripper/crack whore hoarder named Candi Sparkles who has genital herpes and wears skinny jeans, living back home with children whose father is an illiterate redneck, and 5 cats in a house where my clocks always says 8:40 am.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Chelsea-ness
I think on some level we all have an intrinsic set of traits that make us who we are. Mostly I believe that your traits and personality are heavily shaped and influenced through experiences, and to me, experiences are always different to each individual, as in no two people experience the same event in the same way. Although we can share similar traits, personalities, likes, dislikes and experiences with other people, no one ever has the exact same trait set as you.
You are unique.
I have come to find out two crucial things about my uniqueness: my uniqueness is my "Chelsea-ness" and that my uniqueness is maybe not as special as I once thought.
First of all, I would like to state that if I am being completely honest, I not always 100% sure I know who I am. I feel like at this time in my life, who I am changes daily in subtle yet paramount ways. I am constantly making choices that shape or shift my perspective, making me redefine my reality. So to say that I know exactly what my "Chelsea-ness" is not a whole truth.
Which is why having people in my life refer to my behavior and personality as my "Chelsea-ness" is disconcerting. Because this implies that obviously they have an encyclopedic knowledge of me and what makes me tick. Yes, I know that we are creatures of habit and that I will repeat behavior and it's not likely that I'm going to stop liking ice cream or collecting pigs, so it's fair to say that if a friend was posed with a question like, "Would Chelsea have a one night stand with a complete stranger?" they could make a nice educated guess on the answer. But acting like you've spent years studying me and my nuances and inner workings, and wrote a book entitled "Chelsea-ness" based on your research is crossing a line.
This just so happened to happen to me twice in my life. I had a guy friend talking to me about guys hooking up with me. I was lamenting about my lack of suitable, serious suitors and how it always happens that I am the second choice for guys. That I am always the girl on the back burner that boys feel the need to pull to the front burner once they have been burnt by the girl they really want. This was also they way I was feeling about a current turbulent relationship I was in. Now, obviously there are some bright marker flags in this. I would say that in my relationship with the one guy I was seriously letting myself be the back burner girl. I was so convinced I was in love with him, that I was willing to just be that stand by, answering his calls for booty calls and being his emotional outlet when he felt he needed me. I guess I'm just saying that while I was lamenting and complaining, I knew I had some responsibility in it. The other situations weren't as true. I just always found myself being the side kick that gets the side action to best friends.
After I explain my side of it, my guy friend proceeds to tell me that's just my "Chelsea-ness." I make myself available for guys to fall back on. You can imagine how excited I was to hear his evaluation of me. I was pissed. This "friend" was basically telling me how I was just the type of girl that would hook up with any guy who throws attention my way, an easy target so to speak. Intrinsically, I was a slut. All this coming from a guy who was guilty himself of constantly putting me on the back burner and my best friend on the front burner. I think some of his flawed reasoning rang true, I do tend to let people walk all over me. But, I didn't agree that was what defined me as a person. That is not what I would call my "Chelsea-ness."
Then there was a best friend from high school. We were talking about how I feel like guys, whether they really know me or not, just seem to think I am some sort of nympho. A Cosmo junkie. I was telling her how it's hard for me to even attempt to date when I feel like men look at me and think "easy" and "sex." Since I felt this was a pattern in my life, I asked her if I did something or acted a certain way that would imply this. She explained to me that, no, I didn't exhibit any set patterns of behavior that would lead one to assume that I am a porn queen who is DTF 24/7 and capable of fucking your brains out. Yet, that was just part of my "Chelsea-ness." That having guys assume I am some sort of trollop is just part of my being, something I just ooze out my pores.
Again, I was flabbergasted by her response. I do not in any way think of myself as a sex kitten or even sexy. How was this something I just projected when I wasn't even aware of it? Where was this fuckable aura coming from? Especially since at the time this conversation took place, I had yet to have sex with anyone.
Then there's the unsettling fact of learning you are not as unique as you thought you were.
And the worse person to find a doppelganger in is your ex's new boo.
So I am going to fess up to some embarrassing facts. Come clean, so to speak. With this new lovely age of the interwebs, Twitter and Facebook, stalking people has become an easy task. I think anymore it's even kind of expected. Of course when my ex starting dating this new girl, I felt the need to stalk her, take part in that ever self-loathing tradition of sizing up the new girl and comparing her to yourself. Finding those differences that make her better dating material than you and searching for any reason to not like her, anything you can count as a flaw. Usually you find big differences to latch on to; She likes to extreme bungee jump and you like your feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you very much. It's almost a ritual to move on. This new girl is something you weren't, so you can understand why he is with her. Yet, what happens when you're stalking doesn't reveal differences, but samesies?
The result is some serious frustration and self-doubting, my friends. This new girl likes the exact same shit as me. In the beginning it was just kind of coincidence. We're both college aged girls, so it's not that surprising with both enjoy the same bands and enjoy Twilight. And it's not that strange we were both English majors or that our favorite books just happen to be Jane Austen books and the Jessica Darling series. Or that our favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls. These are easy to see as something I could have in common with most girls my age. Yet, once I stumbled upon her Twitter, things got weird.
She has a blog that deals with love and dating. Now, that's not weird in and of itself. What is weird is that the very first post is about Dorothy Parker and how much she enjoys her, which is my first post, too. And that the way we word things or phrase things is oddly similar. Or how when I started reading Hunger Games she was reading them, too. Or how when I dyed my hair red, she did, too. Or how she is a serious bibliophile that enjoys cardigans just as much as I do.
Okay, so obviously I became a bit obsessed. Can you blame me though? I was seriously just weirded out that this girl was so much like me. Everything I thought was unique about me, that made me who I am, was also manifested in this girl. And this girl just so happens to be dating my ex, and that I think kept me digging. I had to find that difference, that thing that made her better than me since we have soooo much in common. Pathetic, I know.
I guess lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about my "Chelsea-ness," which is what brought all of this up. I've come to realize that I let what other people think of me weigh heavily on my mind. I've also come to realize that there are people who are basically the same as you, but in the end, you are still unique.
Despite all of the similarities, you've been places and done things the other person hasn't. And despite what other people think my essence is, I am the one who defines who I am.
It's just too easy to get loss in the abyss of what you are or who you are. Relinquishing the power to some sort of maelstrom of judgements, perceptions, expectations, histories, experiences, other people. I do this too easily. Get tossed around, banged up, dwelling on stuff like that. Drowning in the overwhelming fear that I'm never going to be someone I'm proud of or sure of.
But on days like today, when I get some perspective, I can take some power back. I'm still going to come out with some bruises and heartache, but it's what truly makes me a stronger person.
Because after letting myself drown in misery, I come out with a better understanding of myself.
And if you're wondering, for me, my "Chelsea-ness" is best understood through this blog; A girl who can be completely honest and completely cynical, but copes with life through ice cream, literature, sarcasm, self deprecation, and small spurts of optimism.
You are unique.
I have come to find out two crucial things about my uniqueness: my uniqueness is my "Chelsea-ness" and that my uniqueness is maybe not as special as I once thought.
First of all, I would like to state that if I am being completely honest, I not always 100% sure I know who I am. I feel like at this time in my life, who I am changes daily in subtle yet paramount ways. I am constantly making choices that shape or shift my perspective, making me redefine my reality. So to say that I know exactly what my "Chelsea-ness" is not a whole truth.
Which is why having people in my life refer to my behavior and personality as my "Chelsea-ness" is disconcerting. Because this implies that obviously they have an encyclopedic knowledge of me and what makes me tick. Yes, I know that we are creatures of habit and that I will repeat behavior and it's not likely that I'm going to stop liking ice cream or collecting pigs, so it's fair to say that if a friend was posed with a question like, "Would Chelsea have a one night stand with a complete stranger?" they could make a nice educated guess on the answer. But acting like you've spent years studying me and my nuances and inner workings, and wrote a book entitled "Chelsea-ness" based on your research is crossing a line.
This just so happened to happen to me twice in my life. I had a guy friend talking to me about guys hooking up with me. I was lamenting about my lack of suitable, serious suitors and how it always happens that I am the second choice for guys. That I am always the girl on the back burner that boys feel the need to pull to the front burner once they have been burnt by the girl they really want. This was also they way I was feeling about a current turbulent relationship I was in. Now, obviously there are some bright marker flags in this. I would say that in my relationship with the one guy I was seriously letting myself be the back burner girl. I was so convinced I was in love with him, that I was willing to just be that stand by, answering his calls for booty calls and being his emotional outlet when he felt he needed me. I guess I'm just saying that while I was lamenting and complaining, I knew I had some responsibility in it. The other situations weren't as true. I just always found myself being the side kick that gets the side action to best friends.
After I explain my side of it, my guy friend proceeds to tell me that's just my "Chelsea-ness." I make myself available for guys to fall back on. You can imagine how excited I was to hear his evaluation of me. I was pissed. This "friend" was basically telling me how I was just the type of girl that would hook up with any guy who throws attention my way, an easy target so to speak. Intrinsically, I was a slut. All this coming from a guy who was guilty himself of constantly putting me on the back burner and my best friend on the front burner. I think some of his flawed reasoning rang true, I do tend to let people walk all over me. But, I didn't agree that was what defined me as a person. That is not what I would call my "Chelsea-ness."
Then there was a best friend from high school. We were talking about how I feel like guys, whether they really know me or not, just seem to think I am some sort of nympho. A Cosmo junkie. I was telling her how it's hard for me to even attempt to date when I feel like men look at me and think "easy" and "sex." Since I felt this was a pattern in my life, I asked her if I did something or acted a certain way that would imply this. She explained to me that, no, I didn't exhibit any set patterns of behavior that would lead one to assume that I am a porn queen who is DTF 24/7 and capable of fucking your brains out. Yet, that was just part of my "Chelsea-ness." That having guys assume I am some sort of trollop is just part of my being, something I just ooze out my pores.
Again, I was flabbergasted by her response. I do not in any way think of myself as a sex kitten or even sexy. How was this something I just projected when I wasn't even aware of it? Where was this fuckable aura coming from? Especially since at the time this conversation took place, I had yet to have sex with anyone.
Then there's the unsettling fact of learning you are not as unique as you thought you were.
And the worse person to find a doppelganger in is your ex's new boo.
So I am going to fess up to some embarrassing facts. Come clean, so to speak. With this new lovely age of the interwebs, Twitter and Facebook, stalking people has become an easy task. I think anymore it's even kind of expected. Of course when my ex starting dating this new girl, I felt the need to stalk her, take part in that ever self-loathing tradition of sizing up the new girl and comparing her to yourself. Finding those differences that make her better dating material than you and searching for any reason to not like her, anything you can count as a flaw. Usually you find big differences to latch on to; She likes to extreme bungee jump and you like your feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you very much. It's almost a ritual to move on. This new girl is something you weren't, so you can understand why he is with her. Yet, what happens when you're stalking doesn't reveal differences, but samesies?
The result is some serious frustration and self-doubting, my friends. This new girl likes the exact same shit as me. In the beginning it was just kind of coincidence. We're both college aged girls, so it's not that surprising with both enjoy the same bands and enjoy Twilight. And it's not that strange we were both English majors or that our favorite books just happen to be Jane Austen books and the Jessica Darling series. Or that our favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls. These are easy to see as something I could have in common with most girls my age. Yet, once I stumbled upon her Twitter, things got weird.
She has a blog that deals with love and dating. Now, that's not weird in and of itself. What is weird is that the very first post is about Dorothy Parker and how much she enjoys her, which is my first post, too. And that the way we word things or phrase things is oddly similar. Or how when I started reading Hunger Games she was reading them, too. Or how when I dyed my hair red, she did, too. Or how she is a serious bibliophile that enjoys cardigans just as much as I do.
Okay, so obviously I became a bit obsessed. Can you blame me though? I was seriously just weirded out that this girl was so much like me. Everything I thought was unique about me, that made me who I am, was also manifested in this girl. And this girl just so happens to be dating my ex, and that I think kept me digging. I had to find that difference, that thing that made her better than me since we have soooo much in common. Pathetic, I know.
I guess lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about my "Chelsea-ness," which is what brought all of this up. I've come to realize that I let what other people think of me weigh heavily on my mind. I've also come to realize that there are people who are basically the same as you, but in the end, you are still unique.
Despite all of the similarities, you've been places and done things the other person hasn't. And despite what other people think my essence is, I am the one who defines who I am.
It's just too easy to get loss in the abyss of what you are or who you are. Relinquishing the power to some sort of maelstrom of judgements, perceptions, expectations, histories, experiences, other people. I do this too easily. Get tossed around, banged up, dwelling on stuff like that. Drowning in the overwhelming fear that I'm never going to be someone I'm proud of or sure of.
But on days like today, when I get some perspective, I can take some power back. I'm still going to come out with some bruises and heartache, but it's what truly makes me a stronger person.
Because after letting myself drown in misery, I come out with a better understanding of myself.
And if you're wondering, for me, my "Chelsea-ness" is best understood through this blog; A girl who can be completely honest and completely cynical, but copes with life through ice cream, literature, sarcasm, self deprecation, and small spurts of optimism.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Love Wears Sunglasses
Love is famous for being blind. Look at art through the ages and you'll find little Cupids with blindfolds flying around with bows and arrows. Which sounds super dangerous, and you would think those Cupids would fly around and hit things, but I guess they must use some sort of Sonar like bats to navigate. But, I digress.
This phrase is used to comfort us. We are helpless victims to Love. It picks and chooses on whim and without reason or rhyme. We get shot in the heart with a painful arrow and when love moves on and the arrow is pulled out, you're left with a damaged, bloody heart. Not much of a comfort really....just more of a fact. And my pessimism doesn't shade that at all.
So here's a question, if Love is already blind, why do we have a tradition known as Blind Dates? Isn't that just begging for disaster with all this not seeing and not being able to see in front of you? Two blinds don't make a right. Or a match.
I know they're called Blind Dates because you don't know the other person or, at least traditionally and with no thanks to Facebook, don't know what this other person looks like. He or she is a sweet person, who is PERFECT for you. A friend of a friend, and they just KNOW you'll get along. You have so much in common! And he or she is soooo cute! So, you're going in without much knowledge. Just the over enthusiastic praise and building up from your friend who appears to be already planning your wedding for you.
But, in this case, Love was not blind enough. Or deaf enough. Because this other person is not you're type of cute and not perfect for you and just not for you at all. The conversations are strained and you just go through a horribly awkward experience.
I've only been on one Blind Date. Our mutual friend thought we were just perfect for each other. A match made in heaven. He was cute, but that was about it. Our views were polar opposites. He was rude. He turned every conversation into something about him and how totally awesome he was. At the end of the night he felt it necessary to explain that he would not be kissing me goodnight. Bleh. And to make the whole experience even better, when my friend asked him after the date who it went, he just replied that I was pretty, but too shy and weird for him. All I had to say was that we just didn't connect, but I was happy to hear that in our limited time together he was able to put me down. Definitely wish this could have been Deaf Date.
Then, there was this almost Blind Date. When I was back home after college, a high school teacher of mine knew of a single man looking for a single lady. Of all places, she asked me over Facebook if I was single and then told me she was going to set me up with this guy. I tried to think of good reasons to deflect, but honestly, she told me he had a college education and for being back home, that was enough for me to be interested. So I agreed. My high school had a play and there is a dinner before it. That was to be the magical night I met the ONE.
The night of the date came. I wasn't super excited, but I guess we (and by we I mean me but like to say we so I don't feel so desperate/pitiful all by myself) all get to a point where what we are doing isn't working out, so we might as well accept the help we are being offered. Well, I get a message (over Facebook) that "he got sick" and wouldn't be able to make it like...maybe 30 minutes before this was all to go down.
Seriously, who gets cancelled on on a blind date? It's like the ultimate slap in the face. In a normal date situation you usually meet the person, then make an educated assessment on whether or not spending time alone with that person would be worthwhile. Even if you originally agree to such an engagement, you know that if upon reflection you change your mind, you can cancel. On a Blind Date, you don't know anything about the other person. I guess what I'm saying is that I felt even more worthless as someone who had never met me felt it necessary to cancel a date on me. As if he could just sense my lack lusterness. I think maybe he peeked under the blindfold Love offered.
The reason I am dwelling on all of this currently is because this situation appears to be presenting itself again. A friend is wanting to set me up. The typical assurances of the other party's amazingness have been stated and restated with real life examples. Although he already has a hurdle to overcome as he shares the same name as my ex.
I am faced with a choice: To Blind Date or not to Blind Date.
Again.....I'm just at a point where it's almost a resignation to why the hell not? I am not making any progress as sitting in my bed on Saturday night writing in my spinster blog shows. If Love is truly Blind, who am I to scoff at it? Maybe Blind Dates, although typically awful experiences, are just part of the game. Who knows. Maybe this guy can be amazing. Just the guy for me. The odds are always against you in Love, so there's no good listing of the probabilities that show this date will not result in the one.
So, I guess I'll say yes. Just let the blind lead the blind. Give Love a chance.
Or Facebook stalk the shit out of this guy before I say yes.
Hey, Love can be blind all it wants, I just choose not to be.
This phrase is used to comfort us. We are helpless victims to Love. It picks and chooses on whim and without reason or rhyme. We get shot in the heart with a painful arrow and when love moves on and the arrow is pulled out, you're left with a damaged, bloody heart. Not much of a comfort really....just more of a fact. And my pessimism doesn't shade that at all.
So here's a question, if Love is already blind, why do we have a tradition known as Blind Dates? Isn't that just begging for disaster with all this not seeing and not being able to see in front of you? Two blinds don't make a right. Or a match.
I know they're called Blind Dates because you don't know the other person or, at least traditionally and with no thanks to Facebook, don't know what this other person looks like. He or she is a sweet person, who is PERFECT for you. A friend of a friend, and they just KNOW you'll get along. You have so much in common! And he or she is soooo cute! So, you're going in without much knowledge. Just the over enthusiastic praise and building up from your friend who appears to be already planning your wedding for you.
But, in this case, Love was not blind enough. Or deaf enough. Because this other person is not you're type of cute and not perfect for you and just not for you at all. The conversations are strained and you just go through a horribly awkward experience.
I've only been on one Blind Date. Our mutual friend thought we were just perfect for each other. A match made in heaven. He was cute, but that was about it. Our views were polar opposites. He was rude. He turned every conversation into something about him and how totally awesome he was. At the end of the night he felt it necessary to explain that he would not be kissing me goodnight. Bleh. And to make the whole experience even better, when my friend asked him after the date who it went, he just replied that I was pretty, but too shy and weird for him. All I had to say was that we just didn't connect, but I was happy to hear that in our limited time together he was able to put me down. Definitely wish this could have been Deaf Date.
Then, there was this almost Blind Date. When I was back home after college, a high school teacher of mine knew of a single man looking for a single lady. Of all places, she asked me over Facebook if I was single and then told me she was going to set me up with this guy. I tried to think of good reasons to deflect, but honestly, she told me he had a college education and for being back home, that was enough for me to be interested. So I agreed. My high school had a play and there is a dinner before it. That was to be the magical night I met the ONE.
The night of the date came. I wasn't super excited, but I guess we (and by we I mean me but like to say we so I don't feel so desperate/pitiful all by myself) all get to a point where what we are doing isn't working out, so we might as well accept the help we are being offered. Well, I get a message (over Facebook) that "he got sick" and wouldn't be able to make it like...maybe 30 minutes before this was all to go down.
Seriously, who gets cancelled on on a blind date? It's like the ultimate slap in the face. In a normal date situation you usually meet the person, then make an educated assessment on whether or not spending time alone with that person would be worthwhile. Even if you originally agree to such an engagement, you know that if upon reflection you change your mind, you can cancel. On a Blind Date, you don't know anything about the other person. I guess what I'm saying is that I felt even more worthless as someone who had never met me felt it necessary to cancel a date on me. As if he could just sense my lack lusterness. I think maybe he peeked under the blindfold Love offered.
The reason I am dwelling on all of this currently is because this situation appears to be presenting itself again. A friend is wanting to set me up. The typical assurances of the other party's amazingness have been stated and restated with real life examples. Although he already has a hurdle to overcome as he shares the same name as my ex.
I am faced with a choice: To Blind Date or not to Blind Date.
Again.....I'm just at a point where it's almost a resignation to why the hell not? I am not making any progress as sitting in my bed on Saturday night writing in my spinster blog shows. If Love is truly Blind, who am I to scoff at it? Maybe Blind Dates, although typically awful experiences, are just part of the game. Who knows. Maybe this guy can be amazing. Just the guy for me. The odds are always against you in Love, so there's no good listing of the probabilities that show this date will not result in the one.
So, I guess I'll say yes. Just let the blind lead the blind. Give Love a chance.
Or Facebook stalk the shit out of this guy before I say yes.
Hey, Love can be blind all it wants, I just choose not to be.
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