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Posts Tagged ‘relationships’

Memorial Day is not the best time to contemplate one’s mean and bitchy emotions.  But I find myself experiencing feelings I haven’t had in years, possibly since childhood.  These feelings are making me doubt whether I’m a decent person.  And doubting whether you’re a decent person is an even less enjoyable way to spend a weekend.

I don’t like someone.  I wouldn’t say this person merely “bothers” me or makes me want to hide whenever I see her on the street.  No, I’m talking low down, teeth grinding, wish-I-could-hurl-a-basketball-at-her-head contempt.  Certainly, I’d feel bad if something terrible happened to the gal.  But if she ripped her favorite blouse or had a bird crap on her head, I’d pay to be around to see it.

Usually, I’m able to shrug off unpleasant behavior.  I believe people only act like jerks when life is handing them lemons.  I can look past the jerkiness and see the wounded soul.  Moreover, I have a fairly peaceful temperament, so there’s no inner rage to rattle by folks who are acting like boobs.

In truth, this person is no beast.  She’s just petty, selfish and breathtakingly thoughtless.  Though disagreeable, these qualities are not enough to flip my emotional switch from patience to disdain.  However, when these qualities result in behavior that significantly reduces my personal happiness quotient, well, heads will roll.

Fortunately, the realization that I have no fondness for this particular person was quickly followed by an important, somewhat life-altering epiphany.  Perhaps I’ve not allowed myself to dislike many people because of my own need to be liked.  If I actively dislike someone, chances are they won’t like me either.

So I guess I have this person to thank for aiding the maturation process.  What better sign of wisdom and self-possession than not giving a rat’s backside whether everyone in the world thinks you’re swell?  Once I decided it was okay to dislike this person, I stopped accommodating her ridiculously selfish needs and stopped making excuses for her grisly behavior.  I silenced my diplomatic, rational self and showed some anger and teeth.  Man, did it feel luscious.

And I didn’t even need a basketball.

[Image from http://www.blindgossip.com]

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Well, I’m screwed again.  Apparently, I am so not getting remarried.  In fact, I can’t believe I even managed to walk the aisle the first time around.

The University of Texas has released a report suggesting the romantic lives of curvaceous women are destined to revolve around one-night stands, extramarital affairs and general whoredom.  After interviewing 375 males and females, the research team concluded “men categorize women with attractive, curvy bodies as short-term partners, whereas a woman with a pretty face would more likely be considered for a long-term relationship.”  Something about fertility.

Curves?  I got ‘em.  But my shape is only numero uno on the list of strikes against me.  I’m also a woman of color, which we recently discovered means I’m more likely to provoke yawns than proposals from the average dude.

Studies similar to U of T’s have long confirmed smart women make rotten marriage material and are even considered less desirable by some guys.  Then years back, a Forbes writer came along begging men to steer away from career-driven women with degrees because they suck as mothers and screw around.  Professional goals and college education?  Guilty as charged.

Man, what was wrong with my first husband?  What kind of freak wants a good-looking woman with a nice shape and personality?  My only hope is that his next wife is an ugly dog with a brain the size of a salt granule.  I’m thinking of going down to the next Tea Party rally to see if I can find him a date.

Fortunately, I’m in no hurry to retie the knot.  But when I am ready to convince Mr. Right to marry me, I now have a plan: get a breast and butt reduction, grow a mustache and hit myself in the head with a hammer to snuff out the smarts flitting around my brain.  That way, my man can appreciate me for the scrawny, average-looking dipshit I’ve always longed to be.

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If only my friend Maria dug bondage, she’d have boyfriends coming out of her ears.

In three months of dating online, Maria has been asked by a stranger if she likes spankings and watched a man whip out his johnson, unsolicited, in the midst of a conversation on Skype.

The kicker was a guy Maria started crushing on after they’d emailed a few nights in a row.  During an innocent chat about favorite films and restaurants, the guy suddenly wrote, “I want to lick you from head to toe.”

Maria recoiled and started typing out a livid response. Then she got another message, saying “I am into kink, rope and bondage.  I’m learning and enjoying putting women into rope, playing with bondage and learning many newer things BDSM related.”  In a snit, Maria instructed the guy never to contact her again.

“Pity,” he typed.  “You’d look delicious in a rope dress.”

I know Maria.  I see how men react to her.  They talk about how cute and shy she is, how sweet and dare I say, wholesome.  There’s nothing about her demeanor or even her flirting techniques that say, “Tie me up, big boy.”  I’d call her personality more “prom gown” than “rope dress.”

Maria and I pored over her online content and pics to make sure there was no veiled raunchiness she’d inadvertently included in her profile.  But after talking to other friends who date online, we came to an important realization.  It’s not us, it’s them.

“Them” being the weirdoes, pervs and fetishists who dwell online.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for being weird and pervy, though I’m lukewarm on the fetish thing.  But judging from my friends’ experiences, the chances of coming across a deviant quadruples when you meet him or her on the Internet.  Seems the freaks come out online.

Like the girl who sent a nude picture of herself to my friend Corey after their first coffee date.  Or the guy whose initial email greeting to my colleague Rose was “so, you’re from the Caribbean.  Does that mean you know how to back that thing up?”

Then there was my friend Carla, a black woman who started communicating with an older white gentleman on a dating site.  Sensing a possible connection, Carla agreed to meet said gentleman for a drink.  When she arrived, the guy told her he’d brought her a gift.  Nervously, the guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dark, strangely shaped chestnut.

“What’s this?”  Carla asked.

“A chestnut,” the man answered.  “It reminds me of your black booty.”

Carla, needless to say, was speechless.

Arguably, the upside to these premature announcements is the certainty their dates can have about intentions.  If all you want is someone to chain you to the bed, why not put that out there tout de suite?

It’s also kind of interesting to see what manifests in yourself and others when hidden behind the anonymity of online communication.  If you’re commenting on someone’s blog, you can call her every name in the book without having to look her in the eye or let her identify you to retaliate.  If you want to relieve yourself of your erotic fantasies by spewing them at strangers, it’s much easier if you’ve got an outdated photo and sign off under the name “KeepItFunky69.”  Be offensive, be disgusting, hell, create an entirely new identity.  Online, there are no repercussions.

People ask why I’d never date online.  I say I’m too much of a romantic so don’t like the coldness.  Besides, I can’t even stay on top of my email inbox, let alone manage winks and pokes and whatever else online daters do.  But now I think the best reason not to date online is to avoid having freakazoids ask whether I’m naughty.

At least until the first date.

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