Monthly Archives: July 2008

Oxymoron: Ideal Husband

Maureen Dowd: Give me a fucking break.

Actually, it’s not the topic or headline of her lame article that gets my panties in a twist, because, yeah, there ARE ideal husbands. (And I don’t think that’s an oxymoron. I was just being cute.) But a list of ideal traits for a husband from a priest? That’s all you can come up with Maureen? The list is fine, but really, you get paid for top 10 lists? On an Op-Ed column? No commentary? No insight? You dated Michael Douglass or something. Shouldn’t you have something jaded and cynical to say? Or go for the supportive vibe because God knows if you sass what a priest says, you’re just asking for a one-way tix to H-E-double hockey sticks.

In WAY more interesting and opinionated news, I talked to Neighbor and we’re being Neighborly again. He realized what an ASSHOLE he was being and apologized. So now we’re friends again. It’s weird to be friends with someone you want to rip clothes off of you’re kind of attracted to but actually don’t have that much in common with. I’m kind of like, if we’re not going to have sex, what’s the point? But then if we did have sex, it would be over very very quickly. Just like all those other guys I got involved with without really knowing and only had the physical connection to keep us, uh, connected. Ultimately, I really am looking for the this (thanks Moe) and we’ll just have to see if Neighbor is that. It’s not looking likely, given the behavior, but I’m willing to check it out for a little longer. Nothin else to do.

The good news is I don’t have to give up rent control. Yay me.

It’s a little bit funny…

Hottie Hottie Hot Hot

Hottie Hottie Hot Hot

…this feeling inside. I’m not one of those who can easily hide.

That’s from Moulin Rouge when hottie hottie hot hot Ewan MacGregor sang to Nicki K. (I’m going to start calling Nicole Kidman that. Maybe it will catch on.) I think Ewan was talking about love.

I’m not hear to talk about love. At least not in it’s happy form. I’m hear to talk about jealousy, anger, rejection and annoyance, because those are the feelings inside me. Not necessarily in that order, but sort of all jockeying for top billing in my stomach so I kinda feel like I want to puke. (This could also be from the ONE MILLION beers I downed last night.) Here’s the thing (and yes, I realize I only blog when I’m mad or sad and I’ve cheated you out of months of pure silliness from dating around a seriously nice set of boys. But it’s tough to write about when I’m actually dating because…WHAT IF THEY SEE IT? And we all remember what happened last time.)

To recap, Midwestern Stock and I went out a smattering of times, had a perfectly wonderful road-trip-beach-date, so much so that I totally overlooked the fact that he:

1. Owns a speedo that he wears (only in Brazil)

2. Wears a toe ring (everywhere in the world)

But then we went to the Holocaust Museum, and that was pretty much the end of it. Holocaust Museum is not a good date. Ever. Doesn’t matter how long you’ve been dating. The Holocaust Museum will break you up. Period.

Then there was Music Man. I went out with him one time last year and then by weird small-world-small-town coincidence, we find each other again and go out a bunch of times. We even went on a motorcycle ride, which was awesome, but not nearly as hot as it should have been. That’s the thing about Music Man—we liked each other, but our relationship pulse whimpered at a slow crawl across a barren field. And after going out, oh, five times, there should at least be a little of that funny feeling of I want to throw you down and rip your clothes off. Right?

Throw into this mix Neighbor, who moved into my building a couple months ago and I, against all better judgment and a million sighs of disapproval from friends, pursued a relationship with him. We didn’t get very far and he was gone for a long spell, and I spent the whole time vacillating between “I really like you and want to rip off your clothes and throw you down” and “Please. Don’t touch me. Or talk to me.” I just didn’t like him being so close to home. I felt my boundaries were getting trampled on and I’m terrible with boundaries anyway especially as my feelings swung from one end of the love meter to the other. (Did I just say “love meter”? I did.)

So after a few days of throat-clenching panic, I went to talk to him about it. We both decided to step back, be friends. Let our relationship evolve that way and see. It seemed like it was going to be okay. That was two days ago. And do you want to know what he did the first time we see each other since this conversation? He fucking ignored me. All the neighbors on the roof deck drinking and having pre-4th-of-July-fun and he comes up with his friends, sees me and makes a beeline for the other side of the deck and stands with his back to the fucking group for, oh, the whole time. Pretty solid body language telling me to stay away. But after an hour, I’d had enough. So I walk over to him and his friends (hello! scary olive branch in enemy territory where I’m outnumbered) and try to be funny and talk to them. His friends were nice but he barely acknowledges my existence. So I just walk away. Tail between legs. I’m not so sure we are going to be able to be friends.

Oh, and I’m leaving out the part where the cute blonde girl across the hall from him is his new buddy. She was invited to his private vodka-shot party that was going on during the roof deck party and I’m sure they are having hungover sex right now.

So yes. I get it. I rejected him. Sort of. But I also made myself vulnerable in the process and told him all of my feelings. And now he has rejected me so I guess I can feel just as lousy as he does. And I do. Thanks Neighbor.

My friend J. was right. He told me “Don’t shit where you sleep.”

I want to move now. If anyone knows of any real cheap apartments anywhere in the world, please let me know.