I Literally Can't Even...

I think I have acquired a new boyfriend.

I really have some mixed feelings about it.

We met on OKCupid, and decided to meet fairly quickly. Decent match percentage, I guess, but I guess we were both somewhat lonely.

He's a demon in the sack. Which is good.

He doesn't seem very ambitious though, which is something of a concern...

Love in the slums. At least he's a creative type like me, I guess. Bit arrogant. Bit out there. It's like dating myself, and I'm not sure if I like it.

And of course, I wind up feeling like I'm cheating on my ex.

Considering I've known the guy for four days, I'm starting to think that maybe this is a rebound. Which I'm mostly okay with, but I don't know. I'm not even sure if I'll ever see him again.

And I might be okay with that.

All of this is very out of character for me.

Stop Telling Me I'm Pretty

I've been spending a lot of time on OKCupid lately, in an effort to get over my ex and remind myself that there are good men out there.

Sadly, this hasn't been the most successful of endeavours.

Online dating has left me incredibly jaded.

Seriously gentlemen... Stop calling me pretty. I get that you like the picture I put up. Yes, it is me. But that isn't everyday me, that is my best face. That's what I look like after half an hour of effort with make-up.

That's just the hook. What I want you to notice is my personality. I want you to notice that I write, that I go on adventures, that I'm happy with who I am, despite being a little too fat and sometimes kinda lazy.

You say I'm pretty, and you reduce me to nothing more than a masturbatory aid. And I feel... I feel like I will be rendered obsolete to you the minute you discover that I'm fatter and uglier than I look in my profile picture because I take really good pictures and am kinda good at make-up, even though I tell you that in my summary. Or worse, that I will become obsolete somewhere down the road, when you notice that I begin to sag and wrinkle.

And I don't know that that isn't accurate.

Yes, I'm pretty. Sometimes. And I like to look good, because I like myself. But that is the absolute least thing you could mention as an opener.

Ask me about who I am. Ask me about what I do. But don't tell me I'm pretty. We both already know you think I'm reasonably attractive, else you wouldn't have bothered to message me.

And when you call me pretty, I know that you are either supremely unimaginative, or you are pretty goddamn shallow. And why would an intelligent, self-assured, independent woman like myself want a shallow unimaginative man like yourself?

Did you ever get that far? Did you ever think that maybe you should be trying to prove yourself worthy of me, rather than tossing out a token compliment like a rich nobleman offering a trifle to a beggar in the street?

I am worth more than that.

Don't call me pretty. Don't start with that.

It is NOT what I want to hear. It is not what any of us really want to hear.

What we want to hear is that we are useful. That we are worthy. That we are interesting. That we have value. More value than the same word you'd use to describe a ten cent scrap of lace.

I Think The Universe Is Messing With Me

Been a few days since my last post even though I totally intended to update daily...

However, a sick kid and volunteer work has had me exhausted.

I wouldn't even have the energy to post today, did I not need to put it all somewhere.

Today I did a 14-hour shift. I met a gentleman that is interested in me and is actually somewhat local on OkCupid which I have been browsing to remind myself that there are other decent men out there...

I'm toying with the idea of going on a few dates, (avoiding relationships, I just need to get out) despite my feelings for my ex.

Who decided today was a good day to try having a big conversation to defend his sanity while I was stuck typing on a cell phone in-between trying to get work done. That conversation lasted for three hours and only served to convince me that his sanity is definitely not so present right now.

It has been a very strange day. I would like a strong drink.

Ode to Frank

Oh Frank, you have no idea how guilty I feel for ending your life.

When I go into my bathroom, and I see your corpse, I am reminded of my many failures.

Sorry Frank.

I was not strong enough to set you free like I ought to have. Instead, I suffocated you mercilessly, and left your corpse where it landed.

Now it is there, dried, dessicated, a hollowed-out husk, an object of mockery and self-loathing.

Frank, you didn't deserve death. I'm sorry for whatever sad misfortune led you to seek residence in my mop.

And I'm sorry I haven't given you a proper sea burial yet either. Life has been hectic of late, and while I've tidied the most important areas, the corner where you are enshrined has not been high on my list of priorities.

Perhaps, Frank, wherever you are, you will get this message, and you will forgive me.

Tomorrow I shall bury you properly.

May the lemony goodness infuse your soul.

Peace be with you dear Frank. It's not your fault you were born a spider and were thus my mortal enemy.  

Honour to you, Frank. Honour to you.

Shame on me. 

 

[It's late, my daughter has been a beast all day and I just don't have a good blog post in me, so yeah. That happened. I'm sorry. Let's never speak of this again.]

My Kid Is An Asshole!

My daughter is frustrating me today.

It seems like every five minutes she wants something that only I can provide to ensure her day-to-day existence remains stress-free and entertaining.

It's not that she wants things. That I can handle. It's that she has interrupted me three times since I started trying to write this post, first because she wanted a glass of iced tea, then because she though we should play, and this latest time because she can't get past the first three minutes of her DS game.

And it's always with the whine in her voice.

My kid is an asshole.

As a mother, my job is to make sure she turns into a decent human being. And I'm trying. But most kids are naturally assholes.

Sadly, my kid has gotten the message that she should be entertained 24/7 coming at her continually from a large part of society.

I feel that there are a lot of forces at work in the world that are turning people into total jerks. In my daughter's case, she's largely been raised by her grandmother or the daycare ladies while I was busy trying to bring in enough extra income to keep everyone fed and the whole family financially afloat.

In the daycare my daughter attended, the children are never told no. There is a multitude of activities to keep children busy all day long, and should a child have an issue with another, or grow bored with the activity they are doing, they are simply directed elsewhere.

Now, I'm all for keeping children engaged and involved, but it strikes me as setting a dangerous precedent; a precedent where children do not learn how to control their emotions, or focus their attention on a task that they deem less than scintillating. And in the real world, the world that they will have to grow up and interact in, those skills are essential.

We are raising our children to be ego-centric dickheads. Some of them are already walking around today, and we wonder why they're having zero success when we told them how smart and wonderful they were growing up, only to have them discover that the real world doesn't really give a shit that they were like, really freaking good at making friendship bracelets in 7th grade.

Amateurs. I can make one with like a whole eight strings. And patterns.

Now, being no saint in the "Let's distract the little shits so I can watch my shows" department, I'm not entirely innocent here. I love my electronics. I love how the tablet can occupy my kid when I really need to focus on writing or when I have to make an important phone call. I love how I can sit her down with Lego Star Wars on the DS and it makes car rides pain free. I love how she always wants to use my cell phone to play games when I have it out... Wait, no, I hate that shit. That is my toy.

But electronic babysitters also teach kids that they should be entertained all the time, right from waking up to going to sleep. That isn't the case. There's got to be a healthy balance. Kids need to develop real work ethic, and figure out how to find satisfaction in a job well done, even if it's a job they don't particularly enjoy or find all that fun.

Which is why, after I'd worked for twenty minutes-feeling guilty for yelling at her to figure out the game or put it down the whole time-I told her she would be helping me do the dishes and if we got them all done, we could make rice crispy cake after, but only if she did the dishes without fussing.

And you know what?

...

The little shit loved doing the dishes.

She wasn't supposed to have fun, dammit! She was supposed to learn work ethic!!

I'm not sure if I won today or not, but at least we have rice crispy cake now.

 

HTMHELL

So I intended to post something every day. Even if it was just something that happened during my day that I had to sensationalize. 

This post is barely squeaking under the self-set midnight deadline.

You see, I have spent the majority of my day elbow deep in HTML, all to deliver shiny new social media buttons in the sidebar for the all of four people who are actually read this blog.

But... I succeeded. I used this tutorial:

And it was really easy once I got the hang of it, even when I had to MacGyver a way to adjust my icon sizes.

It may have taken me all day to actually get the hang of it, where it would've taken someone familiar with HTML all of fifteen minutes, but by God, I learned something new today and I'm proud of myself. Both for learning something new, and for not smashing my computer like The Hulk in the process.

Because I sure freaking wanted to. 

What Would Social Justice Warrior Do?

Today I took my kid to the park.

All well and good.

But we get there, and this little boy starts immediately yelling at my daughter and beaconing her to come play. He was very demanding. Told her what to do from the minute we got to the playground.

Now, to be clear.. My daughter doesn't know this kid. I don't know this kid.

For some reason that little shit-head seemed to think he was entitled to make everyone around him his bitch. He's up in there calling on a race to the top of the monkey bars but of course he doesn't yell to race until he's already started running and is half-way there. And then he calls my kid over to whatever he's doing only to lose interest by the time she gets there and demand she go run elsewhere.

I did not like this kid.

And when this kid started to throw sand at my kid, I very nearly came unglued. It'd be one thing if she was a big eight year old like he was, but she's barely six, and small for her age. Not exactly going to let my kid get bullied while I'm right there.

However.

I am as lily white as they come. My daughter is also, so far as I know, even though she looks like she might have some brand of not-Caucasian blood in her somewhere.

And this little boy, this little dick-head of a boy, happened to be black.

Cue uncomfortable dilemma. Do I tell this little black child off like I would any little white child that was doing the same thing?

No. I can't do that. We're not allowed to do that, not in this town, I've been called a racist for less. Only ever by other white people, which seems a bit odd, but still. I do not need to have the reputation of a racist. (I dared to express dislike of someone not of my own colour. This was racist, I guess, because racism in a small town apparently = expressing dislike of any person of obvious minority, even if they are clearly a jerk by any standards.)

Pretty much everyone where I live is like this guy, only dumber. 

Suffice to say, the little black kid got to get away with being a total jerk today, but I bought my daughter some ice cream and have vowed to say something next time if I ever see that little shit act that way again.

And I suppose, if nothing else, my daughter and I both learned a valuable lesson about reality vs. idealism, and the universe probably got a smidge closer to balancing the scales. Some days you're the dog, some days you"re the hydrant, and black people as a whole have had a lot more hydrant days.

Today, that little boy got to be the dog to my white-ass hydrant. And I guess that's just how it is.

At least there was ice cream after.