do over: I only wore the ugly shoes because you’re short

in my world, there are about three general responses i could have when i run into an Ex in the street.

1.Point and laugh.

2.Vomit.

3.Run.

(sometimes a combo.)

i imagine it is awkward under even the best of circumstances. not that i can really imagine what the best circumstances would be. perhaps:

1. You run into your Ex on the way into the book signing for your best selling novel.

hillary duff booksigning

“oh. hello…who is this made out to? jerkface? how do you spell that?”

2. You run into your Ex in the crowd at the ribbon cutting ceremony your hometown has just put on commemorating the library and park erected in your honor.
giant scissor

“oh. hello. could you hold my giant scissor?”

3.You run into your Ex at the airport baggage claim returning from your honeymoon in the Maldives with your new wife who is a rockstar-slash-underwear model-slash-biochemist. 
hot chemist

“that guy? i bet he knows nothing about the practical importance of a phenomenological theory of particles.” or “oh”

or

4.You run into your Ex in a late model pickup truck or SUV with stolen plates… reverse, and do it again. Then drive off into the night, cackling, vengeance yours.

truck

“boom”

I’m kidding.

Sorta.

but there’s always that one person from your past where the relationship went sour like milk and you wouldn’t even want to run into them in the street without a Nobel Peace Prize in one hand and a can of ‘told-ya-so’ in the other and yet you still effing do.  i know a guy like that.

in the first years and a half since that break-up i ran into that guy five times.
five fingers

FIVE.

(one of the run-ins was a semi-drunken late night exchange in front of a 24-hour McDonald’s walk-up window.  his friend threw a chicken mcnugget at my friend’s head. nothing good can come from french fries at 2am. nothing.)

my mother still occasionally asks
“whatever happened to that guy? he had such nice teeth!”
right. you know who else have perfect teeth, ma?
tom

sociopaths.

at first, i’d practice all the scathing remarks and perfectly arched eyebrows that would speak volumes, specifically “eat shit volumes 1 and 2”– that is, just in case i’m not walking with my rhodes scholar super hot french and cameroonian life partner because she’s off leading a pilates retreat in mexico that week.
or, alternately, pretend i am method acting for the lead in a movie about a blind woman by specifically not seeing him.
(constantly wearing sunglasses aids this method considerably)
or, channel my inner ancient ninja and disappear into a rice paddy or the crowd of hustling rush hour commuters.
but, none of these are the right thing to do. as i’ve said – with me as well as with jennifer aniston— the best response may be to ‘just keep livin’, but the best revenge is to
live well.
 
so even if my future life partner IS really a rockstar and a master yoga instructor teaching a course in mexico… but isn’t here with me at the moment of concern because i don’t actually know her yet– i STILL should act as tho’ oprah is about to endorse my book on the OWN network by next week. because without the drama from that guy in my life i AM living better than well.
double rainbow
ok, ok, ok. all of that best inner life, fully transcendant stuff is all well and good.
but if i WAS to run into that guy again, there’d be ONE snarky thing i would definitely have to say:
“I only wore the ugly shoes because you’re short”
ugly sneakers
that would probably settle that.
Advertisements

ok cupid, match this

he’s playing a sad, sad song just for me

thats the thing about the internet dating.
its so easy to fall for the okey-doke.
for days and weeks you are strung along thinking you are talking to prince charming
and then  your first face to face meet comes and he looks more like
the hind end of prince charming’s horse
and he’s brought his own saddle
and whip
and wants you to use it.

there is no way of knowing beforehand if the photographs they put up are from 15 years or 15lbs ago.

so, you’re on a local football team?”

…a fantasy football team

“what! you made $85,000 this year?”

…in credit card debt.

“yeah, i agree a bungalow is more than enough space for two”

yourself and your mother.


anything can happen. anything can be fraudulent. but you’re already internet dating so you have no choice but to be hopeful.
and so,  you arrive– pressed, polished, primped.
(pathetic? no. its the way of the future. sally forth*.)

you are poised on the bar stool with your good side to the room and your nonchalant face on.

waiting and anticipating and
can’t figure out (until it is much muchmuch too late)
why this balding beer bellied yahoo, clutching that sad bunch of bodega roses is standing
in front of you (looking hopeful)
blocking your view of the restaurant door.

(is he really wearing tevas?)

no matter how short you manage to make the night it is always, always too long.

better (or worse) than the photo fraud perpetrators are the disappearing acts.
these heartbreak houdini’s come from nowhere– never appeared in your matchsearch before and then blammo you’ve got an inbox full of the cleverest of one-liners, the most meaningful email messages and a e-heart full of goo.

“what? you’ve got a head full of hair and a real job that you love AND tattoos AND a dog AND you like skydiving AND listen to  rachmaninoff AND wu tang clan AND [insert hyperbole ad nauseum]?”

nope. he’s the real deal.

and then…
*POOF*
one fine day
you wake up, check your personal emails, your work emails, and then (finally, phew!)
the dating site emails – looking for,  nay expecting some
sweet e-nothings from this man of your internet fantasies and irl dreams…
and that’s exactly what you got:
e-nothing.
as in exactly nothing.
no profile,
no log of page visits,
no insightful journal entries about politics and pop culture,
no tasteful shirtless photo on a foreign beach,
none of all the things that tipped you over into e-heart with him
nothing to even prove that he existed at all.
nothing but the hilarious and introspective and wry and perfect 13 printed pages long email chain
(better than first date small talk any day)
now seemingly sent from an anonymous paramour because this one is just …
bermuda triangulated.
eharmonious match forfeit.
gone.

but, you are resigned  and determined to be hopeful. you are already internet dating after all. you keep your eye on the prize of  one day writing your own email testimonial complete with photos of you and your beau kayaking or posing in front of yosemite.  you sally forth; culling new batches of matches. composing more insightful emails. crossing your fingers.

like that one kid playing musical chairs that would sit on every other chair – music stopped or not.
maybe now?
maybe now?
… maybe now?
sometimes, in the schoolyard game of internet dating (as with musical chairs and life)
you end up on your ass.

*or cathy, lol. i bet she would have internet dated.

journal pull 2/09: jennifer aniston as a parable for life

(editor: i wrote this a while ago. but its funny. and jennifer aniston is semi-naked. again.)

I watched Jennifer Aniston on tv this morning.

I’d like to say ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ if  it would assure me to be as fit as she is at 40.  Or should I? Sometimes it seems all shes having is alot of walks on the beach sandwiched around public breakups and rom-com movies with sadly ironic titles.

If I were her I would probably be ecstatic about the day when I could finally do an interview without wondering if the audience is holding their collective rubber-necky breaths thinking “Ask her about Brad! Ask her what she thinks of Angelina’s ovaries! Ask her if she cries alone at night  into a tub of Ben&Jerry’s! Do it Robin Roberts! Do it for us all!”
Could I be her and not be bitter? Could I keep it classy and such? The best response, I think, goes right along with the teachings of Captain Bongodrum. (omgWhatthehellishisname?? He’s in that Dolce&Gabana cologne ad? He’s from Texas. He’s always running on the beach and is seemingly allergic to shirts??*) Ugh. As Whats-his-face would say: “just keep livin” and I think that this is the best response.
Otherhandwise, the best revenge is to live well.

To keep going and ascending.To maintain a sixpack at all costs. To have healthy and highly publicized relationships with extremely attractive, younger men.

(see: Halle Berry – Eric Benet + Gabriel Aubry or

Demi Moore – Bruce Willis + Ashton Kutcher.)

And to NOT TALK ABOUT YOUR EX.

She’s saying: ‘Give it a rest, already!’, right?

But could I keep it classy and keep it moving as she seemingly would like to do?
I ask myself this because this could totally happen to me.
Not in the way that Jennifer Anniston is supposed to be this American girl-next-door-ish everywoman.
A little bit more because  her birthday is 2/11 and mine is 2/1 so I emphathize with my astrological sign sister. But mostly because  that is the kind of shit that happens to me relationshipwise without fail.

I’ll be cruising along, comfortable in the relationship, my guard down like automatic windows. And then, seemingly  out of nowhere the whole relationship will come to a screeching, burnt rubber halt.

Dude will stop the forward momentum, turn to me and say he’s just going to walk the rest of the way from here on, thanks. And I can keep the car and that soundtrack to the Breakfast Club in the cd changer… Wait, what? Can you turn the radio down and repeat that?

Blammo.
Something unseen went down probably started by a butterfly wing blowing a blade of grass or me watching music videos over his shoulder during dinner or  me playing the same song on the radio over and over even tho’ I know he hates it or something…

(maybe i was sleep when we hit the speedbump shaped like a co-stars vagina?)

but just
blammo. Its all oh-so-over
and I’m sitting looking around at this confusing wreckage that is my lovelife saying,
Damn.  Will you look at that.

oil rig fire

uhm.. happy valentine’s day?

And only a creepy, jealous, insecure harpy would blame just the man for the mess. And a worse kind of woman would still be talking about it– especially if it had been years (…and years… and years) later. So you’ve got to stiff-upper-lip it. And not bring it up.  Even if it is eating away at you. And especially  if you can see it  eating away at  the studio audience with their semi-pitiying faces wanting to bring the torrid shit up just to watch the emotional trainwreck that they assume will ensue.

(you know, becuause everyone has a studio audience)

audience

but is your life a talk show or a wacky game show?

What is wrong with Jennifer Anstion’s media karma? In a scenario that happend a  zillion hollywood years ago involving  herself and two other people she’s the only one that’s not allowed to move on?
Granted, this is me looking at it not only from the outside but from the checkout line in the Duane Reed as I run in to get a protein bar and a bottle of water before the gym or whatever.
She could very well be over it and it’s the tabloids that wont let it die.

But watching Jennifer Anstion’s  being  interviewed by Robin Roberts on Good Morning America (sidenote: the most addictive tv show ever for me right now, btw)  about a movie that may in actuality  end up being OK  or in fact,  be the steaming pile of I-can-never-get-those-two-hours-of-my-life-back   that I think it will because her main costars are that guy with the nose (who I like) and A DOG.
A FLIPPING DOG for christcryingoutloudsakes a DOG! All you can really think about is: A) Damn. This movie has a dog in it.

and

B) starts with a ‘B’ and is commonlaw married to Angelina Jolie.

And so Jennifer Aniston and Robin Roberts  are discussing life on set with her costars and what it is like to work, no, not with Owen Wilson who is a living breathing human being who can communicate in actual words but with the DOG who, for the record shits outside and then buries it and licks its own arsehole…
and then there is a side bar of ‘Gee, Jen  you sure look amazing at 40’
specifically
here in this [airbrushed?] photo of you on the cover of a men’s magazine wearing naught but a smile and a necktie. And in the article therein which regales you for your good humor and hello, your 90% nakedness.

I am on the fence about all of this. The seminaked spread (no pun intended) may or may not shriek ‘Hello, I am desperate. Look at me please! Lookatmelookatmelookatme!‘ It …may or may not. I’ve not decided. And desperate ploy or no, I repeat empatically that if I look like that at 40,(and I will, dammit!) it will be a good thing indeed.  And if so when that time arrives I may very well be publicly naked 45% of the time, too.
The interview continues and it did not once address the 300lb gorilla in the room. Nor his 68 kids. Or the otherworldly level of hot, humanitarian woman the gorilla left Jen for a zillion years ago and how she allegedly still can’t get over it.
No, none of that.
I wonder, if afterwards she looks back on how the interview went and remembers that they spent two of its 10 minutes talking about dog hair  and feels some kind of way about it.
I wonder, did she look around her dressing room not really seeing it, more seeing snippets of moments of her life that had just passed which had’nt seemed so bad at the time but assuredly  didn’t seem like it would lead up to well, this confusing wreckage. Causing her to scratch her head and say,
damn, will you look at that?

Blammo.

Le sigh.

All of that rant because I identified w Jennifer Aniston this morning and she’s in a movie with a dog.
Yeah, I know. I probably should be worried.

*Matthew McConaheywhatever. Dammnit.