Wednesday, August 31, 2011

He's Just Not That Into You...Yet?

Hello, my name is Haylah, and I’m a clinger.

[chorus of Hello, Haylah.]

I’d like to share my story with you, not just because I like to talk, but because I’m hoping to get some feedback, maybe some insight, or at least an opinion that isn’t the jumbled on I’ve had on repeat for the last 2 and a half months.

A couple years ago that book and movie, He’s Just Not That Into You came out.  I read the book, saw the movie, and I hated to admit it, but it made sense.  There’s one message that kept being repeated over and over, and it’s stuck with me: 

If a guy is interested, he’ll call; If he’s not interested, he won’t call.

For those of you who refuse to hear this, let me repeat:  IF A GUY IS INTERESTED, HE’LL CALL; IF HE’S NOT INTERESTED, HE WON’T FUCKING CALL!

A guy isn’t going to sit back and let someone he likes walk away or slip into the clutches of another for any reason.  Men are competitive by nature.  They like the chase.  They more than like it; they crave it.  When they see something (or someone) they want, nothing will stop them from trying to get it.  So if he isn’t calling, if he isn’t chasing you, he just isn’t that interested.

Now, this  does not mean that it’s your fault, fuck no.  Obviously that guy is a loser who needs to get over his issues and realize you are a god damn diamond!  But really, it doesn’t matter if he ever realizes it or not, because you are (or should be) long gone by then.


Yet, there are those of us who cling.  We cling to the idea that maybe he’s not calling because of some external factor that has nothing to do with us.  Like his job.  Or his family.  Or his wife.  No, no, no, scratch that last one.  The point is, the clingers among us need to realize that even if, yes, EVEN IF, he’s interested but not calling because of work pressures or exhaustion from waking up with his wife every two hours to feed the newborn, he’s no good for us!  

Repeat, please: NO GOOD FOR US!

[chorus of No good for us!]

We need, we want, we deserve a guy who has the time and the desire to call us.   I know, easier said than done.  Easier said than waiting for.  Easier when you don’t have the muddled thought that I keep having:

What about when he does call, but not in the way you expected?

No, I’m not talking about the Booty Call (“Booty, Booty, Where are you?”).  I mean the call where you talk, casually, as friends.  Hey, what’s up, how’s it going, how was your day, etc.  You’d say, ok, so he wants to be friends.  But, fuck, there’s so much more to it.

  • Met on a dating website
  • Started talking, getting to know each other, see if there could be anything there
  • Interest in each other, talk about meeting, then he pulls away
  • Comes back with an iron will not to meet because he’s “bad for you and you’re nice and [he’s] not and [he’ll] only hurt you so it’s for your own good”
  • Continue with intense conversations re: relationships, past struggles, how you’re both fucked up in the head, fears
  • Definite interest in you as a friend, sometimes seems like more, but then he pulls away, yet he continues to maintain friendship and initiate contact

So at this point, I ask, What the Fuck?  Is this a case of he’s only interested as a friend and I should accept it as that and forget about anything more?  Or is it a case of he’s not interested in (or ready for) more than friends yet?  Should I let things develop in their own time (by the way, I so do not have patience), or should I push a little more for the friendship to develop, like to us meeting and grabbing a drink (in friendship only)?

How long do you wait to see if a friendship can turn into more?  How many weeks does that little word, yet, allow you to cling before you become pathetic?  By no means am I saying you (or I) should put life on hold waiting for a yet that may never happen or stop looking for someone because of this one guy, but let's admit it: when you make a connection, no matter how small, you can't keep yourself from wanting to see if it can grow to more.  True, yet can be nothing but a shit word to keep you hanging on for too long, but sometimes shit can be the best fertilizer.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Izz Jeremy Crazy?

Ahh, the joy of meeting someone new.  A time when you don't know much about them, but still feel a little flash of excitement when you see a new email from them.  A time when there are endless possibilities, and you are thinking that maybe, this time, this will be the last new guy you ever have to meet.

Then he turns out to be bat-fuck-crazy.

Case in point: a guy I "met" online not long ago.  His screen name is izzjeremy.  No, I don't know what it means, and fuck no, I don't want to know what it means.  I can guess, and it makes me gag.

I received a message saying he had indicated interest in me by sending a flirt that read "Hello."   I sent him a message that said "Hello" back.  I know, I'm a conversational genius!  Here's out chat...

izzjeremy: hows my baby doin today...and hows my home state treating her*

Me: OK, um, a little fast, lol.I'm good today, you? Cold and rainy here :P 

izzjeremy: um?,,,a lil fast? being sweet and playful, yet what a shocker another woman who thinks every man must have her...dude ur not even that cute, yet thats how u act? get u girls see why men r dicks to u cause when theyre sweet u treat em like a punk...sorry this convo is a lil too fast for me, i dont know u therefor ill have to judge ur worthyness before i talk to u...looks like 2 just played ur game huh bitch...fuck off

Me: Wow, dude, can't take a joke, huh?  Idk what type of girls you've been talking to, but we're not all like that, you know, just like not all guys are dicks.  I didn't judge you or your worthiness.  If I did, I wouldn't have bothered to ask how you were doing today.  You're not going to get any decent and loyal women like that.  Peace out.

And then I hit that nice little doo-dad called the BLOCK button.  As my secret celebrity crush would say, Winner Winner, Chicken Dinner!

*PS, his home state was actually NOT the one I live in, so that made that chicken extra crispy.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Come on Irene, Rock Me Like a Hurricane

I LOVE storms.  Thunder and lightning, rain, hail, even snow storms as long as I have plenty of food and no place to go the next couple days.  But tropical storms and hurricanes are the best.  

I grew up on a small, steep, dead end hill that ended with a 30 foot cliff drop to old rail road tracks along the Providence River.  Mom grew up on the same street, in the gray house across from the brown one I grew up in.  Her Ma (my crazy Nana) actually grew up on the blue house to the left of the brown one I grew up in, but that’s another long and twisted tale for another day.

The street was perfect for storm watching.  No side streets to worry about cars driving through, a nice dip at the bottom of the road where the water would collect and make an impromptu pool, plenty of trees to sway and crack in the wind, and kickass views of the frothy white waves of the River.  When we were kids, Mom would bring me and my sis outside to sit on the open front porch of the house during storms.  We’d watch the rain come down, look for lightening flashes, falling tree branches, and get giggly excited every time we heard a thunder Boom-ing less than 3-Mississippi’s away.  We grew up fascinated by storms and loved being outside in them.  One of the best storms I remember as a kid was when the family was vacationing in New Hampshire one summer.  We all woke up in the middle of the night to bangs and clangs, thunks and thuds, dings and songs so loud we thought we were under attack by a Canadian Drum Corp.  Really, it was a thunder ad lightening storm with hail the size of golfballs barreling down onto the metal roof of the cabin we were in.   AWESOME!

During Hurricane Gloria in September, 1985, the whole street gathered on Mom and Dad’s front porch for beers and a cookout.  We had lost power early on, like everyone in town, and Mom and Dad were the only ones with a gas stove.  During the eye of the storm all the neighbors (only 7 houses on the street) walked down with their beach chairs, icy cold beers, and coolers packed with ribs and steaks and ice cream from the freezer, milk and cheese and perishables from their refrigerators, and set up camp on the front porch.  Dad pulled his grill around front of the house and began charring up the meats, while Mom pulled together one hell of a spread from the neighbors’ coolers.  Someone turned up the radio, good old battery operated boom-boxes back then, my sister and I danced around to Gloria which the radio played between every news update, and the Storm Porch Party was on!

Now, I may have been only 7 and a half during Gloria, but as you can tell, that storm has stayed with me for over 25 years.  Honestly, it was because of the Porch Party.  Even now, I love sitting on my own front porch, even just on a rainy day, and letting the storm pass over me.  Yeah, not many people get it.  But you can imagine how excited I was when good ol’ Mom and Dad insisted that I stay at their house during Hurricane Irene.  No, they weren’t being paranoid or overly protective; I came home from a week in the hospital on Friday, and the storm was going to hit on Saturday night.  And as much as I complained and whined and bitched and said “I’m 33!  I don’t need to be BABY-SAT,” I was beyond thrilled because all I could think was PORCH PARTY!

And yet… *sigh*

And yet, here it is.  4:35 pm on Hurricane day.  The first wave has hit us, the eye has blinked, and we’re coming to the end of the storm.  And what has happened?  What wonderful storm stories do I have?  Uhhhh, none.

Yeah, we sat on the front porch.  We lost power sometime around noon.  Some big trees split in half in the neighbors’ yard, poor Mrs. Chaise won’t be walking in her driveway anytime soon with the two trees that came down over there, and there’s lots of wet leaves and grass around.  Ho-hum.

I know I should be grateful and thankful that it was mild and not more severe and that not a lot of people were hurt or killed.  And I am, really.  I mean, I love storms, but even I’m not fucked up enough to wish for a Katrina to hit us.  But this wasn’t a hurricane.  It wasn’t even a tropical storm!  It was a rain storm, a wind storm, a god damn summer thundershower!  For fuck’s sake, the SUN IS OUT and I’ve written this whole post sitting outside on the front porch without a single piece of debris flying into my eye!

So yeah, I’m pissed.  Bored.  Tired.  Pissed.*

Thanks a lot for all the hype and none of the drama, Irene.  Next time you threaten to bring it, BRING IT, cuz bitch, I’ll show you how to Rock Like a Hurricane!

*Yes, doubly pissed.  Pissed because Irene sucked wind, and pissed because I was so bored it forced me to do work.  Bleh.