Tag: divorce

My murderversary

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Today is International Women’s Day?! I didn’t know that was a thing! Thanks to Facebook, yet again, for informing me about things that I would otherwise be entirely unaware of. Apparently, in other countries, like Russia, it’s an official national holiday. (Thanks for telling us, Anastasia!) I feel like it should be far more widely recognized here too. Learning this now has had a profound affect on me. Just a few days ago was the one year anniversary of the day my husband tried to take my life. The past year I’ve learned and grown a lot and become stronger than I ever was before in more ways than I knew were possible. There has also been a tremendous amount of attention and some controversy with women speaking out about harassment and assault, whether it’s sexual assault, physical violence or emotional abuse and also, the general inequalities we still face daily in our lives and in the workplace. It’s been a hell of a year for women and we’ve all spoken up for ourselves, shouted out for each other and are only getting stronger. So, fuck YOU, to the scumbags! We’re comin’ for ya!

This week has consisted of several days of reflection and thinking about how different things might be today if just a few decisions last year had been different. What if I let someone else’s “happiness” and desires dictate the rest of my life? Had I not asked for a divorce I would still be depressed and married to a man I had no love for, who only had love for himself. I’d still feel lonely even in his presence and my vagina would still have cobwebs. (The HORROR!!)

On the other hand, if I hadn’t asked for a divorce, I would maybe not have been beaten, thrown around my living room and strangled until I lost consciousness. (At least, not that day…It would have probably eventually happened though. I’m convinced of this after countless nightmares of being strangled to death or beaten with a hammer by my ex and being found in a shallow grave. No joke.)

Everyone who knows anything about my situation over the last year has asked, “What the fuck happened that day!?” (I may or may not have added the word “fuck” for dramatic effect.) It’s not something I’ve ever typed out and shared for all you sick bastards before but after my Murderversary and on International Women’s Day, seems like a perfect time, so here goes…

As I think I’ve made clear in earlier stories, I had been wanting to tell my husband I was leaving him for quite some time. I started thinking about it during the wedding planning process and I pushed the idea from my mind, trying to convince myself that marriage was a good idea. I kept pushing that idea as far out of my brain as possible for the whole year we were married but I couldn’t totally get rid of it, like I finally got rid of my husband. This idea kept pushing back at me, harder than I could push back, much like my husband, only stronger. (He ain’t that tough!)

Finally, on March 5th, 2017, we woke up in the morning and entirely ignored each other, per usual. I showered and listened to music and then got ready for brunch with friends and played with my dogs. He did dishes, made his coffee and sat down to check his bank accounts and the weather, as old men tend to do. I thought nothing of it since most of our time “together” was silent and separate. When I went to join him in the living room is when I realized his demeanor was off. He was angry. His clenched jaw and flared nostrils told me this. I tried to ask a question about the basketball game that was on the TV but he was staring through it, not watching it. He didn’t answer me. He took a low, deep breath and exhaled quickly, open-mouthed. Without looking at me, he tightened his fist and asked what I did the night before.

Should I tell him I went out with the one guy he loathed and was threatened by? We were with other friends but my husband would be enraged knowing I was with him without any of the other friends he knows. It was me, my “best friend” and all of his friends, celebrating two guys’ divorces. A lovely evening of debauchery and some casual flirting.

So, I left out the details and just said, “I went out with my friends…like I do every Saturday night while you’re working. Nothing special.” Another deep inhale and sharp exhale from him before he asked, “Where…did you go?” I listed the 47 places we popped into the night before but felt the way I did when I was little and was about to get yelled at or punished for something I didn’t feel was right. When I was younger I’d be too scared to speak up for myself and say how I felt so I’d just take the scolding or spanking and be angry and sad but never express it.

This day was different though. This day I was done. I’d had it with the emotional distance between us. I’d had it with the lack of sex and any physical affection. I was done with the lack of communication. “Did you eat dinner” and “have the dogs eaten” were our only topics of “conversation” besides, “Do you want to watch Criminal Minds?” The last time we had sex we had a black president and the Cubs were lovable losers. That was at least four months prior and our sex life the past two years had been a joke. I once caught him attempting to masturbate when I was in the shower but even that seemed to make him agitated so he quickly gave up. I know why the guy is so angry and violent now. I get it. I would be too if I was a loser with a Limp Bizkit.

I had planned to dump his sorry ass in our marriage counseling session the next morning but this felt like my moment. I was fed up and disgusted by him right then while he was acting like my father and I was a teenager who got caught riding in a car with boys or sneaking in after being out past curfew. I’m a grown ass woman and I’ll be damned if any mother fucker is going to tell me what I can or cannot do. Being a wife, or being in a relationship, does not mean I’m someone’s property. I’ll do what I want, with whomever I want, whenever and wherethefuckever I want.

I seized the moment. “Look, you know I want a divorce,” I said. It was the word we mentioned quietly and quickly every so often over the last few months. In my head, when I thought of this moment, every single day since November, I thought that all of the anger management counseling he had been in since 2012 would come into play and we’d have a civilized, mature, adult conversation. He would probably sob like a baby while I stayed firm and stoic in deciding divorce was the logical option for us. He would eventually agree and I would get a hotel with my dogs for a few nights while looking for a new apartment. We would agree on how to split our belongings and finances and we’d meet once every few months for lunch and remain friendly. That would all make sense and seem like the way it would go if you’re dealing with a normal human being. The one thing I forgot to factor into this whole scenario I envisioned, was he’s a violent, narcissistic psychopath. Well, shit…

His immediate response to me saying I wanted the divorce was, “Are you cheating on me?” (Because a person like this can’t fathom that anyone would just not want to be with them. There had to be another factor at play here.) To which, I replied, “No, but I feel a stronger emotional connection to pretty much any other man I meet.” “Like who then,” he asked. I went on to list my clients, my friends’ significant others, my “best friend”. Holy hell, there it is. I said the trigger word. He hated my best guy friend with the power of 1000 suns and an army of 12 billion soldiers. (That’s a lot.) “I can’t believe you’re fucking cheating on ME!!! You FUCKING whore. You FUCKING bitch!!!!” He got up and destroyed everything in our kitchen. I still don’t know what he was throwing and hitting and stomping on but I’m fairly certain he was crushing everything and picturing himself crushing my skull while he was doing it. In the meantime, I was still lounging on the couch and started texting my friends to let them know I finally did it. I finally told him I wanted that ‘D’. I also mentioned he was a little angry. I was pretty desensitized by his violent fits of rage at this point so I didn’t think this one would be bigger than all the others. Telling them that he was “a little angry” was surely an understatement.

He came back to the living room to demand that I get out. He wanted me gone “IMMEDIATELY” and again he called me a “fucking WHORE!!!” I smirked and laughed a little because at that moment I was thinking that my hymen had likely regrown itself with this sex drought and also, it was MY apartment that he moved into before we were married so if anyone would be leaving now, it would be him since this “conversation” was not going the way I’d imagined. My response did not please him. In just a quick blink, he had gone from the doorway, spitting on himself and screaming like a goddamn lunatic to right in front of me, hands around my throat, still screaming at me and bashing my head into the wall. The next thing I knew, I was flying – actually fucking flying through the air. I saw myself hitting my head on the corner of the mantel and I knew it was all over. Instead I landed between the mantel and the radiator somehow, likely by the grace of God and sweet, baby Jesus. (Although, if they existed and had any grace, I think they would have teleported Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in at that moment to flick my ex gently and send him soaring to Lichtenstein or Kazakhstan so none of the rest of this story would have happened.) I tried to get up to run or fight back but he grabbed me before I could move and he threw me again…and again. After the last time, he grabbed my by my neck again and repeatedly slammed the side of my head against the wooden arm of a loveseat until he wrestled me to the floor.

Once he got me on my back, all six feet and two inches of him got on top of me and with both knees in my chest and both hands around my throat, he screamed over and over, “I’m going to fucking kill you, you whore! I want you dead, you whore!” The whole time he’s red and shaking, spitting on me and my dogs are shrieking to the point that they too are losing their breath and voices. The few short minutes this was happening, I only remember repeating, “Rob, I never cheated on you” and “Babies, it’s ok. No barking.” I wasn’t even shouting any of it. I just said it all in a normal, conversational tone because I think it still had not dawned on me the severity of what was happening. It wasn’t until I was on my back like this with my hands grasping and pulling and scratching at his arms to get him away, that I realized this really might be the end of my life. He was not budging. He was still yelling but I couldn’t hear his words anymore. He was squeezing my neck tighter and tighter and I remember seeing so many veins popping from his arms and neck. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t dead yet. Quickly though, I started seeing black spots in front of me and I noticed my arms were heavy and weak. I couldn’t fight back anymore. I couldn’t talk or scream or cry out. My eyes were heavy and then…darkness and silence. I still wanted to fight him. I wanted to run away. I wanted to live my life away from him and create things and feel energized and more like myself again instead of a shell of a person. I wanted to be more than the happy couple in the picture on Facebook that was secretly the dysfunctional couple that was good at playing pretend for the public. I was done though. I was dead. I was turning into dust faster than I could imagine possible. I could feel it. All of my energy was gone and I barely had any fight in me. My body was still there but I couldn’t move it. I was so tired. There was a teeny flicker of light that I could see but I could not move toward it. It was fading so quickly and getting away from me.

After who knows how long, my limp, almost-dead body twitched and my eyes opened. I was lying there, blinking for a few seconds before I realized I was alive. I could see again. I stared between blinks at the blank, white ceiling. Slowly, my hearing came back and I heard my husband cleaning up the mess he made in the kitchen. All of the life and energy and electricity came back into my body and I jumped up when my brain processed what was now happening. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. My dogs had pooped all over the living room rug, as my husband had literally scared the shit out of them. I sneakily opened the front door so if he came back in the room, the dogs could run out of the apartment and not get hurt, but I knew they probably wouldn’t leave me. My call was answered and I started to explain to the dispatcher the scenario and give him my information and address. As I was doing this, my husband came back in the room and calmly , peered down at the spot on the floor where I’m sure he thought my dead body would be and when he saw an empty carpet, he looked up at me, crouching in the corner by the window, talking on the phone. “I can’t BELIEVE you’re calling the police on ME!!! On ME?!?!?” He was hysterical again now. I stood up straight and pulled my shoulders back, staring at him in his eyes. He looked like a rabid animal and I never thought I could feel more disgust toward a person in my life. I still don’t think I can. This time, I clenched MY jaw and My nostrils were flaring. I was ready fight again.

He stormed off to get dressed and flee the scene, as he has done time and time again in his over 20 years of abusing women. He’s been here before. This is a rerun for him. He’s been in worse situations before. He’s comfortable in this chaos and violence. He has control. He also thinks he has done no wrong. In his head, I’m the cheating whore and I got what I deserved. No, I deserved to die, actually, in his mind, and he’s furious that I didn’t. He shouted more foul things at me before storming out, moments before the police showed up.

I stood there in what had been a war zone and a crime scene moments before. I stood there in silence, holding my phone. I stood there knowing he wasn’t coming back to hurt me. I stood there waiting for the police. I stood there. Shaken. Shaking. Confused. Heart racing. Heart. Beating. I was alive.

Sex and the City the movie, part 12

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Every now and then, I need to re-watch Sex and the City from beginning to end. I get sick to my stomach with anxiety during all of season 3 when Carrie is secretly having an affair with Big while he’s married to Natasha and she is in a committed relationship with, the perfect, Aidan. I’m currently nearing the end of season 4 after Aidan proposes to Carrie and she needs “more time”. I instantly felt nausea watching these episodes, listening to her reasons for not being excited about her marriage and watching Charlotte tell her that she just had cold feet while Carrie was wearing the engagement ring on a necklace instead of her finger. I related when Carrie threw up after seeing the initial engagement ring Aidan was going to give her. I remember wishing I could hide my beautiful engagement ring every time a cute (or even not-so-cute) guy seemed even slightly  interested in me.

I’d say more than half of the people in my life were not surprised when they heard I left my husband last year. Several of my friends and clients commented that I never liked to talk about my wedding, or my ex, and I would always change the subject when they asked me about any of it. I never got excited over my wedding and got bored or angry when people brought up “him”. It was an event that I was planning. That’s it. I had to get things booked and paid for but there was no emotional attachment to any of it. I also thought maybe I just didn’t have the “bride gene”. I never pictured my dress. Never dreamt of a wedding. Hell, I never imagined myself being married at all. I remember more often than not, when someone asked me my plans for the future or my wants and desires, my response was, “I want to take over the world.” There is no ring or man or dress or ceremony involved with that and thinking back on my response now, I honestly have no idea what is involved in taking over the world. Who did I think I was? Hitler?!

Do I hate Carrie for cheating on Aidan with Big and then accepting his marriage proposal, just to tell him she’s not ready?? Yeah…kinda… At least she gave back the ring though. Aidan is THE. FREAKING. BEST. I mean, could he BE any more manly, generous and sweet!? Big, on the other hand, had never given Carrie what she needed. He fucked with her heart and dragged her along. He pushed her and pulled her in different directions and screwed up her relationship with Aidan too many times. He was a selfish asshole. Who can stand him besides Carrie?! His only appeal? Money. Yeah, he was cultured and well-traveled but what else did he really have to offer her? He was “emotionally unavailable”; the term I’ve learned this past year from dating very similar men. He was a selfish, narcissistic prick. We can’t just make him seem like a great guy because after a year or so of being a dickhole, he throws some money or gifts at her and calls her “kid” with his stupid, fugly smirk.

Looking back now though, as much as I can relate to Carrie’s feelings about not being the “marrying type” or having cold feet, my situation had its similarities and its differences. I too felt sick to my stomach when I thought about the wedding and the future of FOREVER with a person…THAT person. I, unfortunately, did not call it off when I should have, like she did, when I realized I didn’t want that life. When I realized he made me want to vomit. When I hated the sound of his chewing or watched him licking a plate when he was finished eating. When he had me by my throat against a wall and my dogs were shrieking in fear. I should have called it all off when I knew but we had planned and paid for so much. Maybe some of my friends were right and it was just a feeling every bride-to-be gets. I couldn’t take back everything and cancel now, right? Looking back, I know better. Looking back now, I know to trust my gut.

What appeal did my “was-band” have? He might have been a loser who had a mattress on the floor and only owned furniture that were garbage from his family members. He might have only worked three nights a week at a jazz club and was content making enough to pay the bills and not think about the future at the age of 42. He might have been a violent drunk but he went to counseling and made me a promise he had changed forever! Plus, he had a super hot body. Lookin’ like a Chinese/Irish god with that bod… He was a tricky son-of-a-bitch though, as most narcissists are. They are so confident in their greatness, they can trick you into thinking they are great too! He would buy me beautiful dresses and shoes and jewelry and knew exactly my size in every brand. He would take me to operas and ballets and concerts in the park. We’d go to the nicest, old-school Chicago places. He faked all of the money and culture that Big had and flaunted with Carrie. It was easy to get caught up in the show and let those things be a distraction to reality. For a while at least…

I clearly remember one afternoon after I ordered a dry-erase wall calendar, he insisted he’d hang it on the wall, despite the fact that I was in the middle of doing it myself, since I’m I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, do you know what that means?! For over an hour, I sat in another room while this giant man-child screamed profanities and pounded and drilled holes in my rented wall. I kept listening as my security deposit dwindled. I could have had this handled myself with 3M Command Strips in MINUTES!

As days and months and years went by and he became less and less appealing and attractive to me, I also started to slow down and think about my own happiness for once instead of doing what I thought I was supposed to do and trying to make everyone else around me happy. (That’s a Libra trait…or curse.) At least Big had a sense of humor and they had a sex life. My old man was dry, negative and boring and couldn’t even get a boner. So, like…Ok, Carrie. I can’t hate on you. I’ve made my mistakes too but I am fixing them! I think we need ANOTHER Sex and the City movie where Carrie realizes her fuck ups and Aidan never REALLY had a baby with someone else and Carrie dumps Big and he dies sad and alone, thinking about what a twat he always was. Then, Carrie and Aidan pick RIGHT up where they left off after he proposed with that gorgeous ring. Why don’t you marry the sexy, manly, self-made, nice guy instead of the Big?? Or, stay alone and “fabulous” forever?

That’s what I’m working on now. I met the Greek version of Aidan after dumping the angry, knock-off, Chinese version of Big. Just like most knock-offs from China, this one didn’t fit properly and I kind of want my money back but it’s a total pain in the ass. Like Carrie says though, it’s time to let go of my marriage past, to get on with my dating future. I’ll give the sexy, manly, nice guy a shot for once and actually be myself instead of people-pleasing and getting caught up and tricked by smoke and mirrors. Unfortunately for this guy, I’m learning that I can be kind of an asshole. I’m working on that though. I’m learning from Carrie’s mistakes.

Does that have calories? I don’t eat calories.

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When I ditched the ex I also moved and left everything I owned behind. It was stressful, whether I knew it at the time or not. When I’m stressed, I have ZERO appetite. I didn’t want to eat anything at all for two months. I only ate Dunkin’ Donuts Wakeup Wraps because I knew I had to eat something to stay alive. Those were fast, cheap and easy, much like myself. I dropped a lot of weight quickly and had friends asking me to eat more because I didn’t look well. I fucking loved it. I took more naked selfies in these two months than I ever had in my life. The more my ribs protruded, the happier I felt. It was not sustainable though. It was a wakeup call when I had two weeks of copper-colored urine with blood in it. I was killing myself. Quickly. I had to put more in my body than Dunkin’ and booze.

Inevitably, I gained weight back when I started taking better care of myself and consuming more than 300 calories in food a day. I also started working out again and developed a routine and (relatively) good habits. I became much more healthy physically and emotionally. I also rediscovered Reece’s cups which might not have been a good thing. Although I had been dating the entire time, it wasn’t until I got healthy again that I could say I was actually ready to be dating. My confidence now though was high with my body changing that way. With my ex-husband, I never felt confident about my body. I never felt skinny enough, toned enough or sexy enough. I couldn’t even tell if he was attracted to me physically at all. There was no indication that he was since he rarely looked at me, complimented me even less and we stopped having sex all together.

Everyone has some insecurities when dating but for women, body and appearance are the biggest worries. There is so much pressure to look a certain way and it’s overwhelming and impacts us in a big way. Self-confidence wanes and negative thoughts about ourselves creep in. Everyone is worried that a potential partner will look at us the same way we look at ourselves and get hyper-critical. They won’t like how our thighs touch. They will think the little bulge over our bra is disgusting. They’ll hate the peach fuzz on our cheeks. We look at ourselves under a microscope and panic at any imperfection. Even when I was at my smallest size, there were still things I disliked about my appearance. I was at my ideal weight but was still picking myself apart in other ways. I needed bigger boobs. I needed Botox. My skin was too pale. My belly button was ugly.

I know I’ll never be completely satisfied with how I look but I’ve been actively trying to change my negative mindset in regards to my appearance. Every time I judge myself too harshly, I force myself to look at pictures of people who are truly fat and ugly so I stop throwing myself a pity party. Someone always has it worse than we do, am I right? RELAX! I’m kidding. All we can do is take care of ourselves. Go for walks, eat well, workout, overindulge once in a while instead of everyday. We’ll probably never be our own idea of perfect but we have to accept that. Someone probably sees us and thinks we’re their idea of perfect, so let it go. Your wrinkles are fine. That belly roll is cute. Your thighs look like they’re trying to escape from your jeans? Fuckin’ work it. Show it off. People will always talk shit no matter what. They judge no matter what. When it comes to dating, you won’t always be everyone’s favorite flavor but you will be to some.

When you wanted to be the dumper but end up being the dumpee

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I obviously was not a big fan of the guy who looked like a goldfish but I continued to see him when I was bored. He always showed up when I told him to and was a really good time when he wasn’t being annoying. It helped that he liked to always tell me that I look like the woman who plays the role of Wonder Woman in the new movie that was coming out. After our first week of hanging out, he sent me a text saying, “Happy one week anniversary!” I gagged. We got into a fight during that week too because he says really stupid things and interrupts people incessantly so I tell him to shut up and stop being a rude toddler.  He said that if we can get through that, we can get through anything.

He was also not a fan of the fact that I knew someone everywhere we went. He got jealous when I would talk to people I saw in public and started to resent me, I think. This lead to him picking on me for anything I said or did and he laughed about it when I got mad at him. When I asked him why he enjoyed pushing my buttons so much, he said I was just a spoiled princess who was used to everyone giving me everything I want and no one ever calls me out on my shit so he was going to continue to basically be a total dick.

Excuse me, Nemo!? I’ve worked my ass off for everything my whole life and never expect things from other people. No one calls me out on my shit because there’s no shit to call me out on! I can be a little (a lot) bossy sometimes but only when I need to be. Most of the time I get whatever I want from subtle manipulation so the bossiness doesn’t have to come out! I’m not a princess at all, either. How insulting! I’m a fucking goddess, dickwad.

I already planned to dump him that weekend when he would inevitably ask to see me. I would have done it sooner but I was in the middle of a 5 day drinking bender so it would have to wait. (Hey, it’s summer in Chicago and I’m single for the first time in years. I’m having fun! Don’t be a judgmental prick.) Saturday comes and he, of course, wanted to hang out when I got out of work. He spent the day on a boat with friends and told me he would meet me after he got cleaned up. I didn’t have to tell him where I was because after just a short time of knowing me, he assumed I’d be at my neighborhood bar since I didn’t have any plans. He assumed correctly.

By the time he showed up I was already hammered. I was not just drunk but straight up wasted. That’s what happens when you’re at the end of a 5 day bender, apparently. It doesn’t take much to get you there when you’re body is probably made up of about 90% alcohol at this point. Someone recently described this to me as the shampoo effect. A post in Urban Dictionary very eloquently explains this phenomenon. The fifth entry is my favorite.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=shampoo+effecthttp://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=shampoo+effect

My friend Alyssa met me as well and she had to explain the night to me a few days later since after they showed up, I remember nothing besides waking up on my toilet in the middle of the night with my phone in my hand. We apparently went to two other bars and Jon just kept picking fights with us and she and I did a lot of eye-rolling and had plans to ditch him. He started an argument about whether there were stray cats in the city of Chicago or not. (He doesn’t think they exist.) I think the topic was brought up because of  Alyssa’s bewilderment over pigeons who only have one leg and why they end up that way, but I’m not entirely sure. Either way, what a fucking stupid thing to argue over! Our plans to ditch him ended in failure. Somehow Alyssa ditched us instead and he ended up at my apartment around the corner.

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The only goldfish we like are our crackers.

 

When I woke up from my toilet nap, I shot him a text asking what the hell happened the night before and where he went. He explained to me that I irritated him because he knew I was in the bathroom ignoring him and he was positive I was not sleeping. So he left me in there and didn’t try to find out what’s going on!? Why the hell would anyone hide out in their own bathroom? I could have been dying! Maybe I was choking on my own vomit! Maybe I drowned! He just left me there to die like Elvis! Wonderful…Could you imagine how mortified you’d be in your casket after reading your obituary??

Just as I started typing my crushing dump message, he texts me to say we shouldn’t hang out anymore because together we are “explosive”. He goes on to tell me I’m like a hurricane or firecracker, and not in a good way. Also, I’m “terrifying” to him. I’m absolutely flattered by all of this but am PISSED I didn’t send my message first! It’s so unsatisfying when you’re looking forward to something so much and it’s taken from you in an instant! Either way it’s done though. I tell him good luck and to let me know if he ever wants me to destroy him in Pac-Man or Skee Ball again like I did on our first date. AS disappointed as I was for not getting to do the dumping, I never had to see Flounder again and that was a good thing.

(Side note: Does anyone else think it’s hilarious that I said “dump”, “pissed” and “explosive” in a story in which I slept on a toilet?? Literal tears are streaming down my face from laughing so hard. Also, I have a clogged tear duct right now so that might be why but, I still can’t stop laughing. Also, I swear I only peed before taking my toilet nap.)

Jesus, take the wheel…

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Surprisingly, I was dateless on a Thursday night, so I went to my neighborhood bar for a drink after work. It was charity night with guest bartenders which sounds great but I usually dread it because I prefer my dive bar to be empty besides a handful of my closest alcoholic friends who are also regulars. I spotted two of them this night and plopped my ass right beside them. Bartender Doug slid my drink down before I even got settled and the guys and I started talking. Babes with Blades Theater Company was throwing the event for the night and had temporary tattoos for us to fuck around with. We made friends with Annie who was guest bartending and she and I talked about an old dive called the Oasis in Rogers Park and the badass woman named GiGi who has worked there for decades. One drink turns to two drinks and a shot and the boys and I chat back and forth about online dating while encouraging Annie to drink more Malort. We notice our beloved dive bar now is lacking their gorgeous 100 bottle Malort shrine and they’ve replaced it with a 20 bottle mystery shot shelf. (Not quite as impressive, Pat! Still cool though.) 20170526_235647167_iOS.jpg

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Vik asks us which bottle appeals to us most based on appearance and number. All of the bottles are covered in brown paper bags and numbered 1-20. Immediately I compare it to online dating. I tell them it’s similar to all of the dating apps because you have to just pick a random and hope for the best. You’re going in blind really. All you know is you’re not picking the short, fat bottle because it looks dangerous, just like you’re not picking the short, fat guy because EW. We come up with our own ideas for dating apps that we think would be better than Tinder and Bumble and all the others. “Jesus Take the Wheel” was the name Vik gave to our app idea that you’re not allowed to swipe on at all. It’s guided and directed by your friends and family only. We plan to market that one in the Bible Belt first, of course. I’m not expecting that one to do as well in Chicago to start.

Then, Vik drops some life-changing truth on us:

Women are the gate-keepers to sex. Men are the gate-keepers to commitment.

This explains why he swipes right on everyone and waits to see which fish bite. The more chances of getting laid, the better! But he’s right, unless GHB is involved. (Sorry. Not funny. True though!) Women decide who they want to have a second date with usually or who they want to go on a date with in the first place. At least I do. When I left my husband I lined up dates every night. Mostly because I knew I had no idea what I was doing on dates. I’ve been in non-stop relationships since I was 24 pretty much. As soon as I’d lose a guy, another would steal me and keep me a while before he did something awful and we split up. I needed to practice and get good at this dating thing again. Out of all the dates I’ve been on the past few months, few have ended in a second date and, obviously, fewer have ended in sex. I AM the gate-keeper!!! (Of sex, at least.) Most of the guys I had dates with wanted to see me again which means they had a strong interest in penetration as well. Duh. I controlled the outcome.

Men are the controllers of commitment and relationships though. Once you’ve dated for a while and you’re in a sexual relationship with someone, it means (usually) that the woman has decided she likes you enough to have a relationship. What it means to guys is, “Fuck, yeah! I bang this chick!” And he probably bangs a few others as well. Guys have the ball on this one though. They decide if it’s a green light or red on being committed most of the time. I’m currently waiting for the light to change with the guy I’m dating. It’s been two months. I’m stuck at yellow. I’m impatient though and I want to know where this is going, like yesterday!

In the meantime, I’ll get the Jesus Take the Wheel app going and pray to Malort that my friends and family can choose my match better than I can if this gate-keeper of commitment gives me the red light.

Why not meet a guy the old-fashioned way?

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I’ve been asked multiple times why I’m on dating apps instead of just waiting around to meet a guy the “old-fashioned way”. First of all, what’s that? What exactly is the old-fashioned way? How old-fashioned are we talking? You want my parents to arrange my marriage to a strapping young lad who lives in our village and has plenty of cows and chickens? Should I let that jock from my chemistry class take me to a sock hop and then out to the diner for milkshakes? Old-fashioned for my generation is meeting a guy at a bar and drinking our faces off together all night, possibly exchanging numbers, making out or going to someone’s house to do the deed. I used to be REALLY good at meeting guys that old-fashioned way but things have changed and that doesn’t happen anymore.

Walk into most bars now and everyone is staring at a screen, whether it’s a game they’re watching on the televisions or Facebook that they’re scrolling through on their phone. Hey, maybe they’re swiping around and matching with hot babes on Tinder! Technology consumes us all and meeting men in bars is just not something that happens often because no one looks up.

The few times I recently made eye contact with a man in a bar it has gone one of two ways. He either stares at me off and on throughout the night and never makes a move or it’s the kind of guy that I accidentally locked eyes with briefly and am not attracted to whatsoever. THAT guy always approaches! That guy is also pushy and gross and doesn’t get subtle or obvious hints. He usually is also the guy who will still insist you can be friends after you lie and tell him you have a boyfriend.

So why the off and on eye contact and no moves? Some people say that maybe the girl should make the move instead. While I used to agree, after dating for the past few months I feel like it’s the girl who puts forth all the effort now. I’m sick of it! I want to see that a guy has some balls and isn’t scared to approach me and initiate conversation. I feel like men have developed this strong fear of rejection in face to face interaction but can’t wait to send you a picture of their semi flaccid penis over a dating app! (Side note here: Does that ever work for you guys?? Girls, how often do you get pumped over a stranger sending his wiener to you?! Can this stop being a thing that guys do? For the love of dogs and wine, please??)

Now for everyone insisting I’m “pretty enough” that I don’t “need” to be on these apps and should meet someone the old-fashioned way, first explain to me what that means to you. Second, go out there and try to meet a potential love interest face to face. I know I’ve never met a guy at Whole Foods or the gym! And lastly, try and take everyone’s phones away at a bar so they’re forced to interact with other humans and tell me how well that works for you. I’ve tried it and I was immediately not well-liked. To everyone else who is trying to figure out this modern dating world, good luck! Keep swiping even if it leads nowhere 99%  of the time!

The Bobcat

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I matched with a guy on Tinder and actually reached out and sent him a message. I did this only because I thought I was on Bumble and had to send the first message. I like to get the weird out of people right away. I want them to open up and spill everything to me and I’m good at getting them to do that. Too good at it. People often tell me things that I never wanted to know because for some reason they can smell the “Don’t Give a Fuck” on me. I’m rarely shocked by anything because I’ve seen and heard it all.

My first message just was asking what kind of trouble he got into over the weekend. He wouldn’t tell me at first but with some prodding he finally admitted that the night before he had a threesome and did cocaine all night long. Perfect. Now we’re getting somewhere. While this might be a huge red flag for most girls and they go running in the opposite direction, I need to know more. I need to meet this guy.

Throughout the rest of the day we end up realizing we graduated from the same high school 5 years apart. (Go Bobcats!) We talk about what we like and dislike in a potential partner and what kinds of hobbies we have outside of sex and drugs and drinking. He asked me to tell him about a bad date so I told him about a guy who made me pay for brunch after he was the one who invited me out!  This guy tells me I’ll never have to bring my purse when I hang out with him because he’s some kind of baller apparently and he says I’ll never have a story to write about him in my blog. I highly doubted that. Look who was right! He asked me to go on a date the next night. I’m in.

We meet at Celeste because he knows the owners apparently. He must not know them too well or they may have told him that they are closed on Mondays. We cab it over to London House instead. We want a rooftop! My fellow Bobcat and I drink, and drink and talk and laugh and he keeps giving me a hefty bag of blow every time I leave to use the bathroom. I like him! I take him to my secret spot on the rooftop. Don’t ask where it is, I’ll never tell. We sit there, looking at our gorgeous city that I fall more in love with almost every single day. I show him the spot where I got married and told him all about the marriage and pending divorce. He’s not bothered by it. We take pictures of the skyline and river and each other. It was a perfect night if you’re into any of these things. Unfortunately now the rooftop is closing so we have to leave.

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It’s now that I realize I lost my vaporizer. What’s a girl to do!? Cocaine and alcohol in my system and no nicotine!? I’ll die! We hop in a cab and I get out at 7-11 to buy a crappy e-cig so I don’t go buy a pack of cigarettes instead. We head over to one last spot in River North for another drink or two before calling it a night. Everything is going well until I laugh so hard and lean forward, catching a glimpse of a shiny bald head and immediately my heart stops beating, my body gets as hot as lava and my eyes almost pop out of my head. “We have to leave right this second. My ex husband is here and he’s a very dangerous person. Pay the tab and let’s go out the emergency exit.” Without skipping a beat, this guy does exactly that but first asks the bartender if an alarm will sound if we go out the backdoor. She has no idea so I tell them both that we’re all about to find out!!

SUCCESS! We escaped without being murdered by my ex and no alarms went off! Woo! The Bobcat put me in an Uber and paid for me to get home and checked on me to make sure I was safe when I got there. Despite the Monday night drug use, I think I found a winner! It doesn’t hurt that he has a bad ass condo and two cute dogs.

 

My First Bumble Nightmare

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Immediately after leaving my husband I started swiping. I could not WAIT to get Tinder! I wanted it my whole life! The night I moved out I sat, surrounded by my suitcases in my best friend’s condo and she and I swiped and giggled while drinking wine until the wee hours of the morn’. ( Well, until maybe 11 pm. She has an infant so bedtime is early for parents apparently.)

That night I felt free. Granted, I was homeless and without my dogs but free nonetheless! I matched with a guy who was the opposite of my type – computer engineer by day and actor by night, short guy with long, wild hair. We messaged back and forth until messaging turned to texting and that turned into late night phone calls. We finally decided to meet. He wanted to take me to a “fancy” restaurant which was his favorite place in the city. I was pumped! My first date!

That Sunday while shopping with my friend, he texted and asked if I wanted to meet at Dave and Buster’s. Dave and mother fucking Buster’s?! Not the fancy place I was expecting but I was going with it. My friend immediately insisted I abort this mission because the loser vibes instantly hit her. She’s far more perceptive than I am.

I got dressed but not overdressed and ventured to our meeting point, as awful as it seemed. The floor was sticky, children were running amuck and I felt like Zsa Zsa Gabor if she were to walk into an unkempt barn surrounded by wild chickens and pigs, flinging horse shit onto her Dior gown. I was in actual hell. “Fuck it,” I thought, “man up and do the damn thing.” So I did. I ordered a beer from the sweatiest human being I’ve ever laid eyes on. I sat and nursed that beer for 45 full fucking minutes waiting on this asshole. Just as I was leaving, I was hugged by a smelly imp. He looked like a warped version of his pictures. He looked like my Mr. Potato Head after my younger siblings rearranged the eyes, nose and mouth to piss me off. My excitement for my first date waned substantially after the whole Dave and Buster’s thing but now it was drained entirely. Gone. It would never return and my head was spinning, trying to think of ways to get out of this ghastly situation. This was my first date though and I had ZERO plan here and no idea what to do.

He ordered a Sprite which was delivered to him in a bucket-sized plastic cup. He slurped it down and we made small talk. He kept smiling and touching my knee and I stared at him in horror and repeatedly moved his hand to his own knee. “Let’s get out of here and get dinner” he said. Fuck yes. The sooner we do that, the sooner I get out of here. He doesn’t have Lyft or Uber on his phone yet, he explained to me, because he just moved to the city from the suburbs six months ago. WHAT!? I didn’t even want to ask and hear an explanation of why he hasn’t taken 10 seconds to download a stupid app so I just got in the cab with him and prayed to dogs that this would all be over soon.

We arrived at our destination. Our fancy restaurant. The BEST in the city. The Cheesecake Factory.