Catch and Release

No resolutions, just retrospection.

Disclaimer: I’ve discovered that almost my entire life can be played out in a series of gifs from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, Shameless, The Inbetweeners, and anything by Chris Lilley…so there are a couple animated pictures embedded in this post. Some might consider them to be a bit dark, considering the content, but I am choosing to add a bit of levity to a normally dismal situation. You have been warned. Many gifs ahead.

I’ve never been one to adhere to New Year’s resolutions or to say things like “new year, new me.” The handful of resolutions I have tried in the past usually had to do with either improving my physique or finding an acceptable love interest. However my love of ice cream and assholes has always outweighed my resolve for self-improvement, and I tend to resort back to my old, untoned, trainwreck self. So this year, instead of looking to how I’m going to change myself in the upcoming year, I’m just going take a look back and reflect on the things that have occurred over the past twelve months.

The year started out in a confusing and depressing place. As I’ve discussed in previous posts, my work situation wasn’t ideal and I actually wasn’t sure of my relationship st atus come January 1. An ever-tumultuous ride, the person I was/wasn’t seeing was away, so I spent NYE with my family and the first kiss I got was a sloppy one from my dog, Ace. I also had to make sure I got back to Boston as soon as I could, since I was expected to be at work the next day. The rest of the winter only went downhill from there and I ended up having the first of a couple breakdowns at work, leaving halfway through the day and seeking solace at my friend’s house outside the city. This was also the point in the year where I decided talk therapy wasn’t enough, and I worked with my therapist to find a psychopharmacologist to see if medication was necessary. Spoiler alert: it was. Also, my “relationship” was less and less existent, which only made dealing with things more difficult.

Fortunately, winter is only three months long and with the reappearance of the sun also came an improvement in my situation. After working with my therapist, I was able to get my apartment to allow me to have a dog as an emotional support animal. There was a time in my life where I had considered working this angle to get a pet, but with everything going on personally and mentally, Ace was a completely necessary addition to my life (as I write this now, he’s got his head on my lap and I have to type with one hand…but I would’t want it any other way). There was definitely an adjustment period (along with a couple weeks where Ace had to go back to New Hampshire to learn how to go up the stairs…there was no way I could carry his 100 lb. butt up five flights every time he had to take a shit), but having him around made me get into a routine that I was severely lacking. It also forced me to be more active than I’d been, walking the two miles to and from work and consistently hitting the 10K steps that my FitBit suggested I walk daily. We are still working on the tandem running thing; whenever we try, it’s more like run 10ft…stop to let Ace sniff another dog’s piss puddle…run another 10ft…pull Ace away from the crotch of the person walking by us, and my usual 8-9 minute mile ends up being 16+. Regardless, it’s been nice having him around to keep me company.

Between a rough time at work and the diagnosis of a 5cm uterine fibroid, I hit another breaking point in the summer, requiring a sabbatical from work and three weeks in Europe. I’m not going to bore you with the details (if you really want to know what I did while abroad, there are a multitude of previous posts that discuss everything), but I came home after that trip feeling better than I have in years and wanting to make some changes in my life. I immediately started looking for new jobs, both in Boston and in London, and decided that I wanted to write more. I also started to rethink my stance on dating as a sport. Before, I would go into dates assuming that they would end shittily and not caring how I came across to the other party.Now, I’m being much more selective in the vetting process, not letting the potentially shitty matches through and only going out with people that I think will have some kind of impact, whether it be as a…ugh…love match or as a lesson-learned. Needless to say, I’ve gone on far fewer dates recently that I would like to admit, due mainly in part to the lack of viable matches on Tinder, Bumble, etc.

Autumn brought the biggest change: unemployment for the first time in my adult life. While there was an initial feeling of failure and depression, ultimately I know that leaving that job was and will be for the best. Side note: This was actually one of three instances in my life where things didn’t end the way I wanted/expected and I’ve had some trouble getting over it (the other two occasions that I still get nightmares about were 1. when I was 17 and had to quit dance my senior year of high school (due to dance mom politics) and wasn’t able to do the senior dance in the recital that spring, and 2. when I was ghosted by someone I was dating for a year and never got the necessary closure). Eventually, after some time and introspection, I went from feeling like shit to feeling hopeful and that this was exactly the push I needed to incite a real change in my life. The past couple months have had their fair share of ups and downs (job searching is always a fucking shitshow, but then add to that the extra stress and work that comes with international job searching…), and I won’t gloss over the fact that I’ve been more down than up recently. However, unlike last winter, I now have the tools necessary to deal with it (read: “medication”).

So yeah, like I’ve said, I’ve never been one for resolutions, but I’ve always been really good at going back and analyzing things….and reanalyzing and reanalyzing. Actually, if I were to decide to make a resolution, that might be one thing I try to change in the future: taking out one instance of reanalyzing and only overthinking things to a small degree. And also to try letting things from the past go…at least things that occurred when I was a teen that still give me nightmares…fucking Walker’s Dance.

It’s highly likely that this will be the last post on this site. I have been working with someone over the past couple months to migrate everything over to a new site, which should be live early in the new year. This is a venture that is both exciting and terrifying for me, and I appreciate all the support I have received. So thank you in advance for being avid supporters of the new site (because clearly, you’ve made it this far into my ramblings and need to see where things go from here) and here’s to a successful and prosperous new year for everyone.

All I want for Christmas is a UK work visa

I feel like I’ve hit a wall.

For the past few months, all I’ve wanted is to be able to find a job in London so I can move over there. I’ve applied to DOZENS of places and have been receiving a lot of rejection, mainly because of the work visa issue. I have even been extremely open regarding the kinds of positions I’m applying for, thinking that it might give me a better shot of landing something. But I’ve been told so many conflicting things about what kinds of positions are able to apply for Tier 2 visas that I’m starting to get nervous that I won’t be able to get one. And I’ve been putting so many eggs into this London basket, I’m afraid I’m going to have to give up soon and start looking for jobs around Boston again, which is really upsetting. I mean, I have friends and family here, which of course makes Boston a good place for me to be, but I also feel like I’ve been here for far too long. I need to make a change happen, especially while I’m young enough (relatively) to move without uprooting too much. Sure, I could go to another city in the US, but none of the other major cities (NYC, Chicago, LA, San Francisco) have made me feel as at home as London.

I think it’s a real shame that the visa situation is as stringent as it is currently. I’ve been told that if I had applied for a Tier 1 (general) visa a few years back, it wouldn’t have been a problem. And that was the visa that allowed you to come over to live and THEN find a job. As always, I’m a little late to this game.

So yes, this post is short, mainly because I’m feeling a little too complain-y and don’t want to keep ranting. Also, I made a short vlog about this as well, so I feel like I’m also repeating myself.

Ups and Downs

Like with most things in my life, I sometimes have a hard time figuring out the best way to start these posts. If they are light and funny, I can usually just come up with a quip or comical observance, and that gets the ball rolling. However, when it’s more serious, I tend to write and delete and write and delete and write and delete, like I have just done for the past 20 minutes. I’m hoping that this time, I’ll be okay with how this post has started, and can move on to the topic at hand…

A few months back, I wrote a piece that some of you will remember. I received a lot of feedback on it, and how it was brave of me to write. While I understand that it might seem that way, given the topic, I don’t necessarily agree that it was a “brave” thing to do. It’s just something I did because I felt like I needed to say it. But anyway, that’s not the point.

Since then, I’ve had many people ask about how I’ve been doing, so I thought I’d give a genuine update.

Sometimes the things I write or post have an “Instagram filter” on them. By that I mean that I’m mostly posting about the positive things that are happening and how I’ve been feeling significantly better than I was in the summer. And while that is absolutely true, there are also times where I feel down. It’s just the nature of having a chronic depressive disorder: sometimes you are up, sometimes you are down. I’ve been trying to make my life have more ups, like writing more, spending more time with friends, traveling, etc. But sometimes there are just days where something is off and I’m feeling down.

Today is one of them.

I’m not even sure why, but I woke up this morning feeling extremely down and defeated. Nothing really happened overnight that would cause me to feel this way, but I do. And please, before anyone starts to worry, it’s most definitely not to the extent that I was feeling depressed in July. I’m truly okay and I’m safe. I’m just feeling a bit blue…da ba dee da ba daa, da ba dee da ba daa, da ba dee da ba daa (trying to insert a little levity here with obscure 90s one-hit wonder lyrics). Anyway, the only reason I finally got out of bed this morning (at 11am) was because I wanted to write about this.

For those of you who haven’t dealt with depression, it’s a strange phenomena. It really can come over you instantaneously and for no apparent reason. Just yesterday, I decided to walk the two miles from the bus station to my apartment, cutting through Boston Common and the Public Gardens. And I was so glad I did because I ended up getting some truly beautiful shots of the fresh snow against the setting sun. I was listening to my music and feeling happy. Sometime later that evening, the down started to kick in and I could feel myself getting sad. Part of me thinks that it might have to do with my current state of (un)employment and the fact that I get nervous about taking care of my responsibilities. Another part of me thinks that it might have to do with the fact that I am really getting excited about the prospect of moving to London, and seeing all the snowy pictures this weekend made me want to be there immediately. Either way, I went to bed feeling slightly depressed, and woke up this morning feeling it even more so. Despite the fact that it’s a sunny day and the snow is still fresh (and not shitty looking), all I wanted to do was stay in bed. I woke up at 8am and spend the next three hours dreading the fact that at some point, I would need to force myself out of bed (to pee, if nothing else). And eventually, I did (like I said, I made myself get up so I could write this) and I’m feeling a little better.

I think the main reason I wanted to write about this is because for the past few months, I have been feeling such a high and thought that maybe I was past all the shitty feelings I was having earlier in the year. I thought that eliminating some of my stressors (work and a toxic relationship), I could work past everything and be better. But that’s not really how little “d” depression works. It’s chronic and something I’ll always have to be conscious of. The big “D” instances come on strong and serious, but eventually those go away. I might never be fully okay, but I think that I’m currently in a significantly better place than I was a few months ago, even without a job or relationship.

And just like I have a hard time starting the seirous posts, I also have a hard time ending them. So….

This has to be the un-sexiest shower ever.

Recently, I’ve been doing this thing where I curl up in a ball in the shower and just sit under the stream of water. It’s not as depressing as a Crying Game shower, but more of a way to relax and unwind. Those of you who know me know that I am usually a speedy shower-er, in and out within 5-7 minutes. I go in with a game plan (a modified “face, front, fanny” with some extras thrown in) and just get it done. So for me to spend at least 10 minutes on the floor of the tub is really out of character for me. But I’ve actually found that it’s allowed me to do something that activities like yoga and meditation haven’t been able to do: I’m able to shut my brain off for a bit. Or maybe not fully let it shut off, because, well, that’s just not me. But it allows for a sense of clarity that I sometimes have trouble achieving. Case in point, the shower I took a couple days ago.

I just came back from a nice run (the weather wasn’t all that bad for December in Boston) and I was able to clear my sinuses enough before heading out so I wasn’t gasping for breath the entire time. It wasn’t an amazing time or distance, but I was feeling pretty good, so I was really happy to hop into the steamy shower. I took my usual position (upright fetal on the balls of my feet, facing away from the showerhead, face in arms) and let the water fall over me. I had a great sense of contentment, and started to let myself think about things. I don’t know if everyone has this, but I will sometimes fall into a rabbit hole when thinking about certain things. It is sometimes something as innocuous as peanut butter → peanut butter cups → Halloween → Addams Family → I wonder what Christina Ricci is up to now. However, this time was it a different rabbit hole.

This one went as follows: this shower feels amazing → I wonder if the next person that lives in this apartment will fit into it → I was lucky that (insert the name of the ex that lived with me here, or let’s just call him Voldemort for the purposes of this exercise) was short or we couldn’t live here → has anyone else been in this shower with me? → have I even been in any shower with anyone else? → oh right, there was that bath that was drawn for me by (insert British ex’s name here, or just Mr. Beans for this post) → and that really cool shower in Cartagena with (other ex, or, I don’t know, Tall Turtle for this) → oh wait, Tall Turtle didn’t get in that shower with me, but there were a couple times in his shitty tub in his apt → those were my last three exes → I guess they all have that in common → is there anything else they have in common? → not height, or complexion, or temperament → I guess I don’t really have a type → although they all ended up being major assholes, and that’s a type, right? → and they all cheated on me.

And there it is. The point of this entry. And perhaps a few subsequent entries, depending on how deep I want to delve into this nightmare. Considering I’m pretty wordy, I’m guessing this might end up being a small series.

Okay, so yes, I *just* realized that my last three boyfriends cheated on me. Some I knew at the time, some I figured out after the fact, and some I still don’t have actually confirmation of, but all signs point to “yes, he fucked someone else.” Also, each instance of “some” in the last sentence should really read “one,” but anyway. This was just the first time I lumped them all together and realized that this is a common thing, at least in my relationships. So then I started to think back a bit further and the rabbit hole went as follows: whoa, the last 3 out of 6 have cheated on me → at least the one before Voldemort didn’t → but shit, my second boyfriend did too → not to mention the whole “getting another girl pregnant” thing with my very first boyfriend (yes, that happened and will probably be discussed further in another post explaining why I’m most likely fucked up).

So all in all, over the course of 17 years, 5 out of 6 of my serious boyfriends have cheated on me.

Now the only reason I’m going into this right now is because of the last three exes (Voldemort, Mr. Beans, and Tall Turtle). I think they have been the ones that have caused the most issues in my life. Sure, the story behind my high school boyfriend probably lit the fire of fucked-up-ed-ness, but the last three stoked it to extreme levels. Tall Turtle asked me early on when we were seeing each other why I was having a hard time making myself vulnerable and was being standoffish with him….well, I’d have to say that the last decade and a half was why. And also, it doesn’t help that he also cheated on me. Mr. Beans lived a bi-coastal life and was either a spy for MI6 or had a wife and kids in L.A. He also broke up with me via text message and then completely ghosted. And Voldemort, as the name suggests, was probably the worst of them all: five-ish year, on and off again relationship, filled with cheating and a variety of other things (again, to be discussed at a later date). Like I said earlier, these guys didn’t have anything in common really, besides being assholes. And that they all dated me. Which made me start to think that maybe I’m the fucking problem.

So at this point in my rabbit hole slide, I was completely waterlogged and starting to get really upset. I then started to think about a book I read in my early 20s (ironically enough, during the time I dated the only loyal ex I’ve ever had). It was basically justifying why men cheat and the biology behind attraction. At the time, I found it really interesting, and have used it to dismiss the actions of some of my boyfriends (the ones that I found out were cheating while we were together). But you know what? Fuck that. It’s a shitty thing to do to someone. And it really does mess people up for a long time. And if I’m being completely honest, the things that have happened to me are absolutely what has caused me to take on a more blase attitude about dating. I’m not looking forward to making myself vulnerable again. Just thinking about it makes me think of a quote from Sex and the City (yes, yes, I know, how cliche, but it’s applicable).

“Being someone’s girlfriend. No good can come from it.”

Yeah, that’s where I’m at right now. The anger I initially felt when I started this post has subsided, but I will still most likely get into the messy cheating details of the ghost of exes past at some point, because, while some of it is messy and hard, some of it explains a lot about me and why I am how I am.

And no, I don’t think that I’m the (only) problem. I’m realizing that I’ve just come upon a treasure trove of asshats that have a wandering eye.

The Last Couple Months in Review: a Gywneth Paltrow reference, a new love interest, and a jar of coconut oil.

Since I haven’t posted in a while and since I’m also not quite ready to unleash the new series I’ve started writing, I figured I’d do a quick post about how things are currently going and what I’ve been up to recently…. In short, everything has been a bit confusing.

For starters, I had a conscious uncoupling with work about a month after I got back from my 3 week sabbatical. I say this because all parties knew things weren’t working out, so there was a split. Part of me hates that it had to happen that way, while the other part of me is actually a bit excited to be able to do something new right now. Besides looking for new jobs, I’m also trying to work on my own projects (like this blog and a new venture to be discussed later). For the better part of the last two years, I’d been devoting so much time to my job (12 hour days can only be done for so long) that I haven’t really been able to do the things I like. I’ve been able to read more, and go on longer walks with Ace, and work out (sometimes), and find new and better ways to keep myself busy. So far, it’s been successful, and I don’t hate it.

My personal life is a bit “meh” at the moment. Although I haven’t been writing about them, I have been going on some dates (although not nearly as many as before my summer trip). And for the most part, they haven’t actually been too bad, which is why there hasn’t been really anything to write about. (I do have one that I will fill you in on later in this post, just to sate the voyeurs that read this blog to vicariously live through my failed attempts at romance.)

But anyway.

I have also recently fallen in love. Good god, please get your head out of the clouds. It’s not with a man. Or with a woman, you pervs. It’s with a place.

For a long time, I carried on a Carrie Bradshaw-esque love affair with a city. Boston, to be exact. But cold, lonesome winters and almost a decade and half of a tumultuous love affair, I’ve decided to end it. We have become very attached, so it’ll most likely be one of those slow and extremely painful breakups, but it’s just something that has to happen for us both. That being said, I wish Boston all the best with it’s future endeavors and I hope that we can still remain friends.

But this new city I’m seeing is fucking awesome.

When I was 16, I came to London and felt like it was a really cool place where I’d ultimately like to live. Coming back in August and September cemented that fact. I’ve been applying for jobs here and am also looking into alternative ways to obtain a work visa. I’m so set on making this place my next home, that the day after I got back from my trip in September, I booked a flight back for November (now). I was initially planning on only staying a weekend so I didn’t take more time off work, but with the situation being as such, I have been able to extend it out ten days. I’m hoping the unadulterated time in the city will give me a good feeling about what it’s actually like to live here. The summer here was amazing, due in part to great weather and wonderful people/dates. This time around, it’s autumn and I can’t wear tank tops to attract the boys. My plan this week is to try to do some networking (both professionally and personally), get a lot of writing done, and begin to foster this budding romance…again, not with a man (or woman), but with the city.

So now that you’ve caught up with my life in general, I will now reward you with a date story. We shall call this…

“World Series and Tea is the new Netflix and Chill” …or perhaps “The Coconut Oil Affair”

After being out of work for a week, I was starting to become somewhat stir-crazy. Needing to get out of the house and interact with humans (Sorry, Ace. I love you but mummy needs some same-species time), I popped on Bumble one afternoon to find a new match. Seeing that the guy was only in town for a couple days, I figured this could be a good, non-committal way to get back into the dating scene, since I hadn’t actually gone on a dating app date since early September. We chatted back and forth a bit and decided that we’d meet at the intersection of Newbury and Arlington, so he could pick up a sweater. He was from a warmer climate and left his jacket at the hockey rink (we will get to that in a second). We met and started walking down Newbury to find a store that was still open at 8pm and had something in his size. Being six and a half feet tall and weighing at least 250, he really didn’t have many options at Banana Republic, so we went to Nordstrom Rack, where he finally found something. As we were in line to pay for the sweater, a random man looked at him and said, “Wow, I sure hope you play for one of our sports teams!” He replied that he doesn’t play for one, but he works as a trainer for the NHL team that was visiting that weekend to play the Bruins. At that point, I realized how ridiculous we must look together, with him being about a foot and half taller than me and weighing 8-9 stones more (I’m using stones because I need to start getting acclimated the British measurements system). I also caught a glimpse of us in the reflection of the door as we walked out, which confirmed my assumption (him = giant; me = dwarf).

Once we left, he asked if I wanted to go to a movie with him. Most people know that a movie is never a viable option for a first date. Hell, I think you can really only go to the movies once you have started actually dating someone seriously, because at that point, you aren’t trying to get to know one another, so two hours of silence is actually sometimes a nice break from the person while actually still being around the him. But being that this was my first date in a while and I wasn’t really feeling too into chatting, I said that was fine. On the way over to the theater, I found that he was more interesting that I initially assumed he’d be, although I was certain this wouldn’t be someone I’d probably end up communicating with after the weekend. When we arrived, he used his per diem to get the tickets, some popcorn, and a couple bottles of water. My friends and I have recently started discussing the “who pays on a date” conundrum, so even though I offered to split it, it was nice that he (or the LA Kings finance department) paid. Chivalry isn’t completely dead.

During the movie, there were times where he would rest his arm on my leg or play with my knee through the rip in my jeans, and after a month-ish affection-drought, it was nice to have someone flirt and show interest. So imagine my surprise when the movie ends, we leave the theater, and he gives me a hug before walking over to his hotel across the street. Confused by the abrupt ending, I walked through Boston Common and decided to just send a friendly “That was fun and thanks for hanging out” text. He replied back saying he had fun too and ended up apologizing for choking at the end. I guess that he was interested in hanging out more, but he didn’t know how to approach the subject, thus choking and running away. He then said that he was going to watch the World Series game in his hotel and have some tea, and then asked if I would like to join. Not having anything else to do for the rest of the evening, I agreed and started walking back towards the Ritz (professional sports teams only book the best for their players, and apparently that trickles down to the trainers as well).

Once there, I found out he didn’t actually have any tea (which was a bit of a bummer), so we started to cuddle and watch the game…and eventually started to kiss. After a bit of that, he hopped out of the bed and went to his bag, saying he needed to find something. Adults well-versed in safe sex can come to their own conclusion on what is USUALLY pulled out of the bag at that point. I will even allow the more perverted among you to guess that he was perhaps even pulling out some kind of toy or BDSM shit. However, only the hipster-crunchiest of you were right if you guessed that he was looking for a jar of coconut oil.

Now, please imagine not only my surprise, but also the terror going through my head as I was thinking about WHAT he wanted to do with the coconut oil. Best case scenario: he wanted to give me a coconut oil hair conditioning treatment (which was actually quite a lovely thought). Worst case scenario: he was going to try to use it as lube for a hole-which-must-not-be-penetrated-until-marriage-or-at-least-a-seriously-committed-relationship.

The reality of the situation: he wanted to give me a massage. So although I hate massages, I allowed him to rub my back with the oil. Some would find that incredibly sext; I found it really weird for a first date, but whatever. At least he wasn’t trying to use it as lube.

It should also be noted that it was the same jar of coconut oil that he uses on the players and he ended up sending me a picture of it the next day during the game. We haven’t talked since, and I’m not really expecting to ever hear from him again. But if the Kings come back into town and I get a message from him, I’m going to ask that he does a deep condition coconut oil hair treatment instead.

Part II of this date is continued in my vlog.

Neat and Cheap: When Dreams Become Nightmares (pt 2)

Once he woke up we decided to make the best of a terrible situation and go to Salem for “Haunted Happenings.”

He didn’t disappoint. He ordered eight whiskeys over lunch and dinner and bought a 50ml bottle of whiskey from a liquor store that we passed while walking around.

“You’re not bringing that into my car opened,” I pointed out.

After buying the bottle, he began “sneaking” sips all evening. He didn’t think I would notice. He was wrong. I notice everything. I am an ethnographer. Noticing things is what I do.

“Throw the bottle out,” I reminded him as we approached the car.

“Ok. I will get rid of the whiskey,” he assured me as he brought the bottle to his lips and chugged what was left.

All I could do was roll my eyes at the stupidity of the moment.

“At least the bottle was empty,” I thought.

As the days continued on, his alcoholism became more obvious and more painful to watch.

We had some fun times in Salem too. We enjoyed a quiet lunch, found some quaint boutiques, and took character photos with Winifred, Sarah, and Mary Sanderson, the infamous coven of witches from Hocus Pocus. Salem was great for these sorts of things! But our fun was largely possible because I’d lost my will to care about his wellbeing, his future, or any possibility of a relationship. I was just biding my time before I could cut him from my life once and for all.

“I can do this!” I convinced myself. One. More. Day.

We woke up at 8am to catch the Metro North into New York City. On the way he ironically read, Nobody Likes a Quitter: The Loaded Life of an Outlaw Booze Writer and Other Ways to Avoid Rehab by Dan Dunn. He made sure to point out the book he was reading.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He smirked.

He seemed to love his alcoholism. It had become a part of his identity in a way that was toxic and dangerous. I was glad to be getting rid of him soon.

While in New York we had a few minor squabbles about him wandering off. But it was what happened over lunch that galvanized my now hatred for him.

It was almost 4pm and I had not yet eaten. I had been relying on a 160-calorie protein shake to keep me from passing out. But it was wearing off. I needed food. We went to the Headless Horseman at Union Square so I could eat and so he could order a few drinks.

“Do you have a food menu?” I asked.

“We don’t start serving food until 5:30pm. Would you like a drink?” The bartender asked.

“Yes!” Mikey responded before I could answer.

“No, I need to eat. We are going somewhere else,” I glared.

“I will take a whiskey – neat,” Mikey ordered.

“Mikey. I am starving. I am getting lite-headed. I need food.”

“Would you like to open a tab?”

“No!” I said.

“Yes!” Mikey responded.

I was starving. I needed to eat. He didn’t care. He opened a tab. His drinks were more important than my health. It was at this point that I realized Mikey wasn’t just an alcoholic – he was also a terrible person. I was more committed than ever to end this date and remove him from my life once and for all.

“Since your drinks are so important to you. I am leaving. I will be back in an hour to collect you. I need to eat. If you aren’t here when I get back I am leaving New York and you can figure out the rest on your own,” I barked.

I wanted him to be gone when I returned. I wanted him to make the choice. I wanted to be given the permission to leave him and make his return home as difficult as possible. But I couldn’t bear to make that choice alone. Sadly, I wasn’t given the chance. When I returned he was there and ready to leave.

We made our way to Grand Central Station and onto the Metro North in silence.

“I am sorry this didn’t work out. I really wanted to come here and fall in love,” he offered.

“Me too, Mikey.”

“I want you to do better. I want you to get help and stop drinking. I want you to get a hold of your life. Three years ago when we met it was your passion and your vision that attracted me. Now, the alcohol is beginning to drown those things out. You can’t let that happen. You’ve already ruined any possibility a relationship with me, don’t let alcohol ruin your future too,” I offered.

He cried softly for most of the trip home. Then at 4am we woke up and I took him to the airport.

“Mikey, don’t forget what I told you. You need to choose you.”

“I guess I just don’t care enough about myself to do that.”

And with that he grabbed his luggage and disappeared into the airport.

I was relieved. He was finally gone. During his stay, Mikey drank three bottles of whiskey. That’s nearly ¾ of a bottle per day. Mikey’s drink of choice, whiskey – neat and cheap – was the perfect metaphor for this date. He managed to fool me for three years with a clean, neat, and oftentimes elegant appearance. When he was doing make-up he was in his element. He was happy, attractive, and neat. But, there was another side to Mikey, a cheap side – symbolized by the cheap Jim Beam whiskey that haunted his thoughts and motivated his actions in terrifying ways. In this guise, his words, appearance, and future were all cheap. There he was, like his drink, in his signature style – neat and cheap.

Mikey and I were too different. Our difference in education and self-worth intersected to make us incompatible. So, my search continues for a man who isn’t neat and cheap. Someone who is focused, intelligent, and driven. And yes, even someone with whom I can enjoy a drink, so long as it’s not a cheap whiskey served neat.

tl;dr: I admired a man for three years. I eventually bought him a ticket to visit me for a long weekend date. Over four days Mikey drank three bottles of whiskey. Because of his drunkenness, I wanted him to leave. But he couldn’t leave because he didn’t have money or a credit card. I was stuck with him for four days unable to escape as we visited Boston, Salem, and NYC. Each day became worse and worse as the alcohol consumed him. His desire to drink resulted in the worst date of my life and ended in the destruction of our friendship.

Thanatos is a 30 something gay anthropologist, living somewhere between New York City and Boston, looking for someone with whom he can share a life that could be described as anything but neat and cheap.

Neat and Cheap: When Dreams Become Nightmares (pt 1)

As previously mentioned, I’m trying to open my blog up to guest bloggers who have also had interesting/terrifying/noteworthy dating experiences. This is the first part of a two-part entry, penned by my friend, Thanatos (bio below), and follows a hellacious mega-date.

ethnothanatos@gmail.com

For three years, I’ve admired Mikey from 1,500 miles away. A friend introduced me to Mikey over dinner in 2014 while they were dating. After their relationship ended in a fiery mess, Mikey and I struck up a friendship that was largely realized online. He seemed perfect in so many ways. He’s wildly creative. He’s a fantastic visionary. He’s beautiful. Not handsome. Beautiful. I was enamored. Three months ago, I took a cross country road trip and stopped in his hometown. While I was there, we had dinner and the tiny spark that I had been carrying for Mikey reignited. This time we agreed that he’d come to the East Coast and visit. He would come on a Wednesday, leave on a Monday, and we’d go to Boston, New York City, and eventually, Salem for the village’s annual “Haunted Happenings.” We were both excited and I was eager to have some alone time with Mikey after three years of dreaming of what could have been. I paid for his airline ticket, $325. I did it because I knew that Mikey did not have a lot of money and I didn’t want money to be the reason we never connected.

“Do what it takes to make this happen,” I told myself. “Don’t let another three years go by,” I thought.

For six weeks, we talked on the phone and planned our long date weekend. Five weeks into our phone-relationship he confided in me that he was recently arrested for a DWI and that this was not the first time. I wanted to cancel the trip. I should have cancelled the trip, but I didn’t.

“Don’t be judgmental,” I told myself. “People make mistakes,” I thought. “I know Mikey. This isn’t who he is,” I convinced myself.

I was wrong.

That’s exactly who he is.

On the way to the northeast, he ordered a drink at both his departing and connecting airports and one on the plane. When he arrived on Wednesday night he hit my wet bar and had another whiskey – neat. Before lunch on Thursday he had already popped three Adderall capsules and at lunch he had two more whiskeys. By Friday he had ordered eight whiskeys and consumed a fifth of cheap whiskey that he purchased from a liquor store that we passed while enjoying an evening out in Boston.

He’s an alcoholic.

He’s a drug addict.

His substance problem made him unbearable. But I tried to rally. I had planned a trip to New York City for us both and I was determined to enjoy the experience.

“What do you want to do in the city while you’re there?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“How about we go to the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art? It’s a fantastic and moving museum. We should also go to Stonewall while you’re here. It’s the place where the fight for LGBTQ+ rights began,” I offered.

“Why would I want to do that?” he whined.

“Why!? You’re able to walk the streets while wearing make-up because of the queens at Stonewall, that’s why!” I lamented.

“It’s just not important to me,” he shrugged.

I was annoyed. I tried to use this as a teaching moment and show him why queer spaces are important and why “sacred” queer places like Stonewall have become important queer pilgrimage sites. But he didn’t get it. He just didn’t care about LGBT history.

“Is he uninterested or dumb?” I wondered.

I was perplexed. I tried to dismiss my frustration and give him the benefit of the doubt. I tried to explain this away as a product of the differences in our educations: I have a doctorate in anthropology and he has an associate’s degree in art.

Maybe, I told myself, “I care more because of my academic interests. Maybe I am the odd one.”

Even so, I figured even a novice art student would enjoy the work of Barbara Hammer or Robert W. Richards. I expected the art to speak vividly to his personal struggle as a gay man. I was wrong. All the rationalizations in the world couldn’t make up for his apathy. He was the type of gay man I despise: The type who wants to benefit from the hard work and blood of other queers so they can live their lives peacefully, while refusing to acknowledge the pain it took to get them there.

“This date is awful,” I told myself. “I just need to survive until Monday,” I thought. “You can do it!” I cheered myself on.

My frustration was building.

I tried to power through.

Friday evening I had to go to the gym. The week before I signed up to start CrossFit, and at $175 a month, Mikey – now, the bane of my existence – was not worth missing a class. At this point, I was more excited to do deadlifts, medicine ball tosses, and an ungodly number of burpees than I was to spend time with him. If you know what burpees are, that’s saying something.

Burpees are awful. But he was worse.

He wanted me to take him to the mall before I spent the evening nearly dying at my local CrossFit Box. Before I dropped him off I reminded him that I was cooking dinner. I had already purchased the ingredients, some fresh candles, and had a nice soundtrack planned for our evening at home. Despite everything, I still wanted to make the best of my time with him. After the gym, I picked him up and we went home. We began talking about our Saturday excursion into New York City. You know, the one without Stonewall or the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art. He apparently also didn’t want to see the 9-11 memorial, go to the Natural History Museum, go to any of NYC’s famous stores, or walk in Central Park. He didn’t care about what the city had to offer him as a person, an artist, or as a gay man. He just wanted to “wander” aimlessly like a vagabond moving from bar to bar and drink to drink.

I resisted asking him what he meant by “wander,” I just didn’t care. Instead I turned on some music and started cooking while he poured himself another whiskey, in his signature style – neat and cheap.

After 45 min in the kitchen, I set the table and called from the other room,

“Mikey, dinner is ready!”

“Oh, I am not hungry,” he said. “I ate something at the mall.”

I lost it.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t hungry before I started cooking! Before I set the table. Before I wasted my time?”

I was done.

“Mikey. Look. You’re being rude. We’re clearly from different worlds. We aren’t compatible. I think we need to be honest about this. This is no longer a date. There isn’t a chance for anything between us.”

He started crying.

Crying!

“How is he not aware that all of this has been a nightmare,” I wondered.

After two hours of talking, we came to an agreement. It felt good. It was sad to come to the realization that what I wanted for three years, what I had wished for, would never happen. But it felt good to be able to say it. It felt like a burden had been lifted. I was sure that we could just enjoy the remaining two days as friends without the pressure of a pending relationship. I felt a wave of relief come over me. For the first time since he arrived I felt okay about him being in my home.

It was short lived.

“Can we go to [the local gay bar] and have a drink?” He asked as I cleaned the kitchen from our failed dinner.

“We need to be up at 7am to catch the train to the city. It’s too late,” I responded.

I was not about to enable his alcoholism. I was not about to drive him somewhere to get a drink. The fact that he wanted to go out to have a drink – another drink – when we were in the process of planning a day in New York City was all I could handle. I put my foot down.

“Mikey, this needs to stop. You’re an alcoholic. I am not going to help you to get drunk. We entertain ourselves differently. I am more cocktail parties and theater and you’re more …”

“White trash! I am more white trash! Say it! Just say it!” He shouted.

It was over.

“Mikey. You need to leave. I realize you flew in to see me. But I can’t have you in my home anymore. This has become too much.”

I was spent. I was done. I was despondent.

Over the next three hours, we fought, threw insults that were meant to cut deeply, and tried to figure out his exit plan. I said some things I regret. I said some things he needed to hear. It felt good. I felt liberated. I felt free of a burden. He was leaving!

He didn’t leave.

He poured himself another drink – this time a double, and like always – neat and cheap. He informed me that he didn’t have a credit card. He couldn’t pay the $269 change fee and I was not willing to pay, no matter how bad things had become. I had simply wasted too much money on this hellish date. He also couldn’t get a hotel because he doesn’t have a credit card to hold a reservation.

I was stuck. He was stuck.

He slept on the sofa, until well after noon. He drank more throughout the night.

He could not leave because he didn’t have the basic adult resources that he needed to go home. For my part, unless I wanted to throw him out into the streets, I simply could not force him out of my home.

I have to admit, I enjoyed visualizing him dragging his luggage through the streets and sleeping in the local park. I wanted to force him out to fend for himself. Just this once, I wanted to be mean, truly mean. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t allow myself to be merciless, even to him. The nightmare needed to continue.

“How am I going to survive this?” I wondered.

…to be continued.

I don’t always break the rules. But when I do, I break them HARD.

This post is rated PG13 for some sexual content and strong language. Parental units (mine) may wish to proceed with caution…but you might not like everything you read.

Also, before I get into this post, I wanted to address something from the last post. It has been brought to my attention that what occurred on my last date was atypical. I completely agree with this and wanted to stress that I am in no way trying to normalize that or am saying that it’s okay. I had been conversing with this person for over a month and we had discussed a lot of personal things already (not necessarily sexual). So while it was technically the first time meeting, there was a good deal of conversation beforehand. I’m okay and I’m not upset by what occurred. There really isn’t a need to be concerned. I promise.

For too long, I’ve been told that there are certain rules to follow when dating to ensure the desired outcome (a long-term relationship). Sure, I know that not everyone is looking for that certain someone to settle down with, and if that’s you, then disregard this whole thing. I, myself, am not as convinced that I need to find that perfect life partner at this point. I’ve gone through periods of togetherness and singledom throughout my life, and have found that while I can deal with both, sometimes the freedom of being single outweighs the pressures of a relationship…a fact upon which many people would agree.

But let me get back to this rule shit. Warning: I went off on some tangents below, so I apologize if it’s hard to follow.

So there was a point in my life where I was obsessed with Bravo. Those reality shows seriously know how to draw you in and get you hooked. From table flips on RHONJ to the crazy antics of the bourgeoisie on Southern Charm, I thoroughly enjoyed almost all of their programming. However, there was one show I had some trouble getting into – Millionaire Matchmaker. Besides the premise being really off-putting (singles clearly looking for a meal ticket, not a life partner), I also had trouble liking the matchmaker, Patti Stanger. Sure, she was really fucking funny at times with her bluntness, but she made all of her singles (and millionaires, for that matter) follow certain rules. I did a little research on her before writing this and found that she actually wrote a book on finding the perfect mate in 8 easy steps. (Side note: Amazon now thinks I might want to purchase Finding a Husband After 35 (Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School) and Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl — No, Amazon. I do not want either of these books.) I also found that she has never been married herself….which I thought was interesting. But maybe those who can’t do, teach, right?

Anyway, she really had a few rules that I think are just absurd. And please note: these are all really geared towards the woman, basically allowing men to act however they want. Hm….I think we’ve heard this before. To refrain from going off on a tangent about rape culture, I’ll get back to her shitty, shitty rules…

Let the man take the lead – What? I know that Trump is trying to make America great again by reversing decades of progress, but have we really travelled back in time? I’m pretty sure with the inception of women’s lib, this concept went out the door. I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable with allowing the guy to do everything. If he picks the place to meet/go out, I will almost always pay (or attempt to). Patti says that this might be considered emasculating, but I’ve never had a guy say “C’mon now, don’t chop off my balls. Let me pay.” Usually they seem to appreciate it.
Don’t talk about your past – Okay, I’m not saying that I want to hear all about his exes or tell him about mine right away, but still. I think that maybe knowing what caused the most recent breakup will be a good indicator as to if the person is even in a place to date at the moment. If you are out with someone who has an ex that is still trying to get back into his/her life because they only recently broke up, I might be a bit hesitant to go out for a second date, at least until that situation has cleared itself. Lord knows I’ve already dealt with my fair share of crazy ex-girlfriends. Don’t need another one.
Two drink maximum – I don’t drink usually during the week. And I don’t go out places (especially with someone I don’t know) expecting to get wasted. But depending on the amount of time you are spending on the date, two drinks could be nothing. While some people might get a little too chatty or too hands-y, I find that alcohol can be a good equalizer. I know that if I’m feeling comfortable with a person and we are having a good chat, I’m not going to end the night because I’ve already reached my two drink limit.
Act like a lady – Oh. Fuck. That. One of the main things she talks about with this one is cursing. I’m from Boston and we tend to drop the F-bomb quite liberally here. I do try to curb it a smidge as to not sound like a lunatic, but it will occasionally slip out. You know why? Because it’s part of who I am. I cuss. And I blame it on my Catholic school upbringing…which brings me to the next rule.
No sex before monogamy – Okay, maybe Catholicism isn’t really related here, but I like to blame it for my “loose set of morals.” Let’s be honest. An all-girl Catholic high school is a breeding ground for…loose-moraled women. I don’t know how else to say it without offending my fellow alumni, but some of us (I will include myself here) were a bit on the wild side. You know who you are… Anyway, I’ve gone on a weird tangent here. So no sex before monogamy makes no sense. I get why some people who have been brought up a certain way might wait until marriage (and more power to those who can do that). But for the rest of us who have been in previous relationships that have included sex, it doesn’t really make sense to forego it until there is a commitment. Especially in this age, where we can order a date like we can order a pizza and no one really seems to want a commitment…or to split a Hawaiian pizza with me (I don’t care what anyone says, I love it). Fuck, if I waited until I had a commitment from my last boyfriend, I still wouldn’t know if he had a penis or not because we never had that “Let’s be bf/gf!” conversation. I can agree that sex the first date is probably not a super idea, but I still don’t see the harm in testing out the merchandise before buying it (in the exclusive sense, not marriage).

So perhaps some people adhere to these rules and it all works out magically in the end, with a woman finding her prince and mice sewing her wedding dress. I mean, Disney has brainwashed us to believe things like this can happen if we, what, wish upon a star? Oh good god, I just can’t even. My attention span is that of a goldfish right now. This has gone so many different places. I apologize and I’ll wrap it up now.

In summary, I guess I’ll just have to come to terms that I’m not going to be getting married in a year (which is what Patti advertises), so I’ll continue to swear and drink and fuck.

Footnote: I actually applied to work at a matchmaking company a couple years ago. The job would basically entail going out with the prospects to see if the client would get along with them. I really think I would have enjoyed that gig. I’ve always found dating and interviews to be basically the same thing, except sex is usually only involved in interviews when reading erotica, like Belinda Blinked….yes, that’s a reference to My Dad Wrote a Porno. Fucking amazing podcast.

Not-so-subtly not giving a fuck. It’s an art.

PARENTAL ADVISORY – Mum & Dad & any relative really, do not read any further. You won’t like it. But seriously, just don’t. Please.

As I continue my attempt at adulting, there is a growing list of things that I’m finding to be extremely difficult to almost impossible:

Putting a duvet inside the cover
Walking down a slick or icy sidewalk/my front stairs without falling on my ass (I swear, I need to get spikes for my shoes)
Poaching an egg
Giving a fuck about dating

And now, as I enter from my early 30s to my mid-30s, I’m realizing it’s not going to get any easier. However, I’m also of the mindset that I don’t really give a shit, so it’s really a strange place in my head at the moment. Sort of like this endless loop of “do I care or do I not care?”

Most recently, I’ve been going into dates with a complete kamikaze attitude: just be myself, do whatever the fuck I want, and if the guy doesn’t like me, good riddance/fuck right off. I figure that I’m too old at this point to waste time pretending to be the “cool chick” (thanks, Gone Girl, for defining what I’ve found to be my approach for the past decade), so I’m just going to be me. There have been dates where I haven’t worn any makeup, where I’ve left directly from work while wearing running tights and sneakers, and so so so many dates where I’ve brought Ace along. (I figure if you can handle my dog being all over you until you feed or pet him, then you’re probably worth keeping around for a bit.) And more often than not, I will just be a little bit of a bitch. Nothing outrageous, just basically my everyday, sarcastic (maybe slightly mocking) self.

A great example of this happened somewhat recently…

Before I went to Europe, I matched with and started talking to a guy just outside of Boston. He seemed pretty cool (insanely tall, bearded, kind of lumberjack-y) and our conversation clicked. We continued to chat while I was away, with things getting more flirty/semi-sextual (and yes, I meant sext, not sex). At one point, he ended up saying something that just rubbed me the wrong way, and I stopped chatting as much. By the time I returned home, I didn’t think that anything would come from hanging out with this guy, but a super shit work week clouded my judgement and I met him at his apartment after work one day. The intention was to watch a movie, but I knew in his mind it would be more of a Netflix and chill kind of thing. Before I left, I made a point to text him that I would NOT be sleeping over, to which he replied, “Well, I didn’t ask you to.” A blasé attitude on my part is okay, but when a guy does it (especially regarding a potential sexual encounter), it’s a total turn off. Anyway. As I rode over in an Uber, I could feel myself becoming less and less interested in hanging out and started to think about what I was going to do.

When I got there, we said hello and settled on the couch to watch a terrible movie, Deepwater Horizon (I love our local boy, Marky Mark, but trust me, don’t bother). There was some chit chat, but I just wasn’t feeling into it at all. Eventually I realized that he had mentioned earlier in our text conversation that he was sick, and coming over was an even stupider idea than I initially thought…but it was also my way to politely remove myself from the situation.

Casually, I looked at my FitBit and said “Okay, I’m still on London time, so I need to leave here in an hour to get to bed. That being said, I’m not going to hook up with you because you are sick, so let’s just watch the rest of the movie and then I’ll take off.” Pretty sure he wasn’t expecting me to say that, and he quickly tried to impress upon me that his sickness wasn’t contagious at this point (Uh, still, no thanks. Don’t want to risk it.). He then proceeded to ask me if we weren’t going to make out, could we still do other stuff? I told him that because of all the shit going on with work, my head just wasn’t in a good space to do anything (which was actually 100% legit), but if he really wanted, I’d watch him. Ugh, I know. I hate myself for even allowing it, but having come out of a relationship where that kind of thing was par for the course, I figured it’d be fine. Once he took care of himself, I said something along the lines of “cool, well, that was nice” and summoned an Uber. Side note: I’m going to make a point to restrict my distance in these apps to avoid the expense associated with these crap encounters; at least if they are going to be shitty, I want them to occur within walking/T distance of my apartment. But anyway.

With all that occurred, I was extremely surprised to get a text from him the next day asking how work was (it appears he was listening when I told him I was considering quitting the next day). We had some friendly messages back and forth and then stopped talking.

There is a little more to this story, but it goes along with one of my next topics (ghosting) so I’ll touch upon the rest in an upcoming post. But long story short, sometimes it’s fun to go into these dates just not giving a shit, but not expecting too much. And don’t bother going if it requires an Uber.

But first, let me do some admin.

Before I start, I’d just like to say thank you to everyone who reached out this weekend. I had a great, relaxing birthday, and was able to celebrate the 30th of one of my best friends. So far, I have to say that 29 (for the 5th time) isn’t so bad. It’s only been a day, but whatever.

Second, now that my birthday has passed, I will now acknowledge the changing of the seasons….just in time for an Indian Summer to kick in (winter IS coming, right…? <<yes, that’s an obligatory GoT reference, as I’m writing this on a Sunday night and am clearly having withdrawals). Can’t say that I hate the fact that it’s supposed to be in the 80s this week, but I know that this is the point in the year where I’m most likely going to get deathly ill, so we will see how that goes.

So I’ve decided to open up this blog a bit, so you will see some new things coming up in the near future. Besides a possible change of venue and a solidified posting schedule, I’m also thinking about opening up a couple polls to make it more interactive, as well as having some guest bloggers. I know for a fact that I’m not the only person who has been on a horrific date (or a couple dozen), so I’d love to hear what kind of shitshows you guys have experienced. Also, if you don’t want to necessarily write about it yourself, just tell me what happened, and I can translate it to maximize the horror/humor (so I’d basically ghostwrite your guest blog….which is a confusing concept, I know). And it doesn’t just have to be about a shit date. I’ve opened up about other issues in my life, so if you have something you’d like to share with the group, I’d be happy to facilitate.

When I first started this, I wanted to keep it anonymous and really only open it up to family/friends. As time passes, I’m getting more comfortable with this and don’t really care to keep it a semi-secret anymore. That being said, I’m trying to open it up to a bigger audience, so shares/likes/comments/critiques/whatever are always welcome. I actually like the feedback, even if you say “You know nothing, Erin Duggan.” <<yup, I am definitely having GoT withdrawals.

Okay, now that the admin shit is out of the way, I can share the following with you:

In one of my last posts, I talked about how I was hopeful-ish that my ex/downstairs neighbor moved out. Well I can confirm that isn’t the case. Not only was there a recent awkward encounter in the stairwell, but as I was waiting to have some food delivered this afternoon, I observed a female coming into the building using the intercom (no one else besides him and I have recent codes). So this was someone coming over to hook up with him (based on the fact that I could hear it happening as I walked by after getting my food…gag). I found it a little comical that this was clearly a different girl from who he was “seeing” before I left for Europe (and who he told me he was trying to start a real relationship with). But shitty encounters aside, I am realizing that I just don’t care anymore. When I got back into my apartment, I started to think about how gross the whole situation was and I just felt so so so dirty. It’s been so long since he and I have been together (so long that I legit don’t even remember the last time), but it still made me want to take a Crying Game-esque shower. Ugh, just yuck, yuck, yuck. It also makes me want to warn any females within a 50 mile radius (since he sets his Tinder up to the furthest distance for the max number of possible matches). I won’t call him out publicly, so if anyone you know is swiping in Greater Boston, send her my way and I can tell her who to avoid. Trust me, it’d be in her best interest. And I’m not even saying this as a scorned ex, but as someone who is looking out for the greater good of my fellow females, in a sense.

Final thought: when I first started seeing him, he was completely disinterested in reading this blog. He claimed it was because he knew that I was probably ripping apart the guys I was dating and didn’t think it was very fair of me. In reality, he was just an unsupportive asshole. He also always assumed that he was somehow incorporated into the blog, even though I was assuring him while we were together that I wouldn’t do that to him. But it is somewhat interesting, or even something of a self-fulfiling prophecy on his part, that now I’m doing exactly what he was concerned about initially, but wasn’t actually doing to him at that time.

…Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? But not really ironic, because that would be an improper use of the word.

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