Last night I watched “Scott Pilgrim vs. The World.” I have never had anyone fight Kung Fu-style for my attention, so I couldn’t really relate. But then Scott’s love interest Ramona says, “I’ve dabbled in being a bitch.”
That I could I could relate to.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t done my own dabbling in bitchcraft. In fact, I’m pretty sure in high school I considered it my job. (If you are unaware, teenage are girls clinically insane.)
This blog would be a lie if I said I was always a perfect angel who never hurt anyone. You can’t go through this whole dance of dating and mating without at some point being totally heinous. So, of course, there has been more than one occasion where I was a bad Amanda. OK, more than bad, I was a raging bitch.
I’m not going to list my offenses because frankly, most of them are not that interesting. Although, I did dump someone on Valentine’s Day. . . after he drove three hours to visit me. . . with flowers. Probably not my finest moment. I don’t regret ending that relationship, but I could have perhaps had more tact.
And in retrospect, it hurt me too to be so awful. My only defense is that’s kind of what growing up is. You hurt people, they hurt you, and the more times you’re smacked in the face by idiocy/douchbaggery/cheaters/fecalpheliacs and those that have yet to be potty trained, the more you learn.
Lesson learned: The kinder, gentler, adult (sometimes) Amanda is much nicer when it comes to dating. I’ve mellowed some with age, and I’ve also learned how awful it feels to hurt someone else. That’s not to say my bitch streak doesn’t occasionally rear its ugly head. I’m still a girl after all. But I like to think that I’ve learned to play nice. At least most of the time.
Infant Brit and I met online. I can’t say that it was love at first sight, given that our first date was on a freeway exit ramp where his car had broken down on his way to meet me. I waited with him for the tow truck and we chatted. He was very British. So British that he had a tattoo of an English bulldog holding a British flag on his bicep and he carried a Ziploc bag of tea with him everywhere he went.
We went out again on a proper date and he charmed me even more. Within three weeks I was beginning to think the word “boyfriend.” Then the unthinkable happened: he was deported. Yes, a second guy I was dating was being shipped back to Europe. (see entry: dearly deported) This would be why I secretly think my life is one of those dreaded romantic comedies.
For three months while he attempted to have his work visa renewed, he called me every day. He even offered to buy me plane tickets to England to see him. This, finally, was my whirlwind international romance!
And then he came back.
I was thrilled, thinking finally I had met a wonderfully nice, normal guy that actually liked me. We went out to dinner his first night back followed by drinks with my best friend where he immediately insulted her about her impending divorce.
This was a bad sign.
My friend told me to give him a second chance, even though his behavior around her was appalling. She blamed jet lag.
Infant Brit had no shame for his comments. He simply shrugged and said “I’m British.” He did, however, dislike my resentment and attempted to make it up to me by getting highly intoxicated. As in falling down drunk. I had to carry his hefty British butt out to a cab.
We went to my house where he promptly crawled into the bedroom and passed out on my bed with his shoes on. This was not the romantic, running-through the fields with passion in our eyes reunion I had envisioned.
Tired and somewhat bitter, I fell asleep next to him.
Sometime later I heard a sound. It was odd, like I had left the tap running in the bathroom. Then I felt something wet on the back of my arm. I rolled over to see that Infant Brit has stripped off all of his clothes and was urinating on the headboard, the wall, the bed, and of course, me.
It took me a minute to comprehend that a slightly pudgy, naked, European was actually marking his territory on my wooden headboard. Was this really happening? Was the charming boy who insisted that my tea collection was substandard standing up in all his glory and urinating on me?
Yes, yes he was.
I immediately punched him in the leg and screamed “What are you doing?”
“Wha?” he said, still in a charming accent. “I’m out back.”
“Out back of where?!?”
He chuckled drowsily, saying again he was out back and with a fart, proceeded to lie down in the puddle of urine and snore.
I showered and spent the rest of the night on my couch. We did not work out.
Lesson learned: Any boy over the age of two should not be urinating on you, ever. Add to my list of requirements for dating: potty training.
Everyone who knows me knows that I really hate romantic comedies. I’m pretty sure watching them might actually burn my retinas. Why do I hate them so much? Because nothing about them is actually romantic. They all remind me of a scribbled-on notebook in some 13-year-old girl’s backpack. (Of course if you threw in a zombie or two, I might be interested in watching that. )
I wrote my own romantic comedy in approximately 16 minutes. It is basically every romantic comedy you’ve ever seen, condensed and with all of the fluff taken out.
Real romance, from what I’ve experienced, is quite different. But because this standard of tween Justin Bieber- romance is stuffed in our face nearly every commercial break, I think most people forget that.
Lesson learned: Love is more complicated than Ashton Kutcher.
Just like for 2010, I got to start out 2011 horribly sick. It’s as if legions of bacteria have communicated with each other to completely destroy all efforts for New Year’s resolutions. It’s hard to get in a workout when your tonsils are swollen like golf balls. Or maybe I’m just making excuses.
Being sick this past weekend did leave me with way too much time on my hands and unlimited Internet access. After clearing out my DVR, I perused some blogs and came across one that was going to tell me the seven reasons why I am still single. I have always wanted a blog to tell me exactly why I’m man repellent.
Some of the things I could see being true such as looking for the wrong type of guy, introducing him to your ventriloquist dummy on the first date or having a bad attitude. (Ok, perhaps that one applies to me). The final “reason” listed on this blog is that apparently every single woman has elevated expectations.
I actually get this criticism from people all the time. Even from people I barely know.
“Maybe your standards are too high?”
My standards involve:
1) Walking upright
2) Having a job, or at least a willingness to support themselves
4) Able to read
5) Treats me with respect
Are these outlandish? Maybe, the problem is that my expectations are not high enough. My parents have been married for 36 years. The secret to their success? They actually like each other. Is it so wrong to rather be alone than be trapped in a relationship with someone I loathe?
Perhaps the problem isn’t me at all. Maybe it’s all of these other women who have lowered their expectations to make it acceptable for men to ask me my cup size on the first date or expect me to be OK with them cheating on me or stealing money from my purse.
I’m sorry, I have some self esteem.
Lesson learned: There are no perfect men. I’m not a perfect woman. But it’s OK to have an expectation of respect.
I’m always somewhat amazed by how candid people can be at times. I’m all for honesty, but I’m also a fan of tactfulness. On a few occasions, I have been blatantly propositioned by men within minutes of meeting them. This usually happens in a bar, but not always.
For instance, during my sophomore year of college, one of my roommates invited some of her high school friends over for a party. Unfortunately for me, my dinner of choice that night was canned soup. I have since come to realize that soup is the worst possible food to eat before imbibing. I was young then, and poor, and an 89¢ can of soup was considered a good dinner. Plus I had spent most of that week’s allowance on my beverage of choice for the evening—Kahlua.
My roommate’s friends arrived as did the rest of the party and the music thumped,the patio filled with smokers and I started drinking. Eight Kahlua and creams later, I was feeling sick. I tried to mingle, but I could barely stand upright anymore. My stomach was cramping angrily and I needed desperately to get to my bedroom.
I groped my way across the living room wanting nothing more than to get away from people. As I rounded the couch an arm caught around my waist and I was pulled down into the lap of my roommate’s high school friend, a boy which I had known for approximately half an hour.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“I’m not feeling well, I need to lie down,” I answered, trying to figure out how to get his arms from around me.
“You should stay here with me.”
I shook my head vigorously and tried to push my way out of his lap. “Need to lie down,” I muttered. The room was tilting in an unpleasant way.
“How ’bout I go with you?”
I stopped my struggles to stare at him blankly. In my drunken haze I wondered why he would want watch me to curl up in the fetal position on my bed.
He smiled at my incomprehension. “You could, you know, give me a BJ.”
I grew up fairly sheltered. It’s not that I didn’t understand what he was asking for; it’s more that I wasn’t aware that people said these things to virtual strangers. At that point, no one had ever propositioned me this way and I wasn’t sure really how to respond.
Fortunately, the Kahlua responded for me.
I opened my mouth to speak and vomited. Actually, I projectile vomited. I credit the liquid dinner to giving me that kind of water pressure. It sprayed like a fire hose of Kahlua scented barf.
His arms dropped away instantly, at which point I jumped up and announced: “I feel better!”
Lesson learned: Alcohol can often lead to poor decision making. Sometimes, it can also make the decision for you.