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It's Not You, It's My Chemical Imbalance (Part 3 of a Series)

Where did we leave off? It’s been kind of awhile. I blame the whirlwind of holiday parties and holiday shopping and  holiday family fun-time I’ve enviously been watching other people indulge in and pretending like I don’t care about that kind of stuff (but more on that in my next post).  Back to the matter at hand: crazy bitches and why we’re all so crazy.

To recap: ...When the crazy bug bites, pull out the laminated print-out of this multi-part post that you always keep handy and consult and send me a signed blank check for graciously bestowing my considerable knowledge upon all you damsels in dementia out there:

P.S. I am offering a $1gazillion reward to anyone who can teach me to follow my own advice.

-It’s Not You, It’s My Chemical Imbalance. Well, this one is going to make me sound like a huuuuge hypocrite, but...oversharing is NOT caring, and showing a guy you’ve been seeing for 2 weeks your Eli Lilly-sustaining stash of psychosomatic prescriptions in order to insure yourself against being grouped in with all those other ‘crazy girls who are just crazy’ because you have a  LEGITIMATE MENTAL DISORDER is not a good move, and although Natalie Portman rocked a helmet in Garden State as evidence that she was ‘damaged-and-vulnerable-but-worth-it-because-Zach-Braff-loved-seeing-the-world-through-her-kaleidoscopic-freak-colored-glasses’, few things are scarier to anyone than real-life crazies, and you are not as cute as Natalie Portman and therefore the helmet would just look stupid on you, anyway.
And while we’re on the subject of medical excuses, stop vilifying the period. “I only called you 36 times in half an hour because I’m PMS-ing right now and I’m all bloated and hormonal” is not an exonerative declaration, and Aunt Flo shouldn’t have to come to your aid.  
Even if you really ARE certifiable, and even if you really DO turn into a Gorgon the week before you menstruate, there’s actually no such thing as a “good excuse” for any of the maniacal chicanery with which we continue to afflict ourselves. So stop looking for one.

-WWCBD? (What Would Carrie Bradshaw Do?) Oh, Carrie! Champion of the Single Girls Everywhere, always impeccably dressed (cute ballgown you're wearing at THIS OUTDOOR ARABIAN SPICE MARKET), so quirky and adorable and, yay!, she landed her man after chasing him desperately around New York City (and once on a train to San Francisco) for over a fucking decade, displaying all sorts of erratic behavior (poor Aidan probably got it the worst - she didn't even want to wear his ENGAGEMENT ring around her finger) that lots of unsuspecting and very handsome men found charming and sexy along the way...
Wait. Stop. Most of us aren't obscenely rich, self-obsessed cunts, and life is not an HBO sitcom.  So next time you think some guy is going to find it endearing that you MADE UP A FAKE BOOK IDEA IN ORDER TO MEET HIS PUBLISHER/EX-WIFE AND ENDED UP BEFRIENDING HER, realize that just because HBO is not TV, that doesn't make it reality, either.

So, where’s the life lesson in all of this?

Kind of.

Our ill-conceived incongruities are really just the petulant offspring of Helplessness and Desperation. We act crazy because we don’t know what else to do or how else to act, and even though it isn’t the right thing to do, it happens sometimes, but a case of the crazies is easily treated with a stern admonishing and a little compassion. I’m not saying that we should have carte blanche to behave like completely demented head cases every time some poor schmuck doesn’t notice our new highlights or fails to return a missed call within 30 fucking seconds (OR ELSE ALL HELL WILL BREAK LOOSE), but cut us some fucking slack sometimes, ok?

And, ladies, if all else fails, and your demented high jinks get you eighty-sixed AGAIN, hold your heads up high, pop a benzo, and warble in your best breathy, sleepy, Nembutol-induced Marilyn,

“If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you don’t deserve me at my best.”

Then march your ass home, put on a slutty outfit, and find a Karaoke bar. Chances are they have that ubiquitous Gloria Gaynor girl power tune cued up and waiting for you.

It's Not You, It's My Chemical Imbalance (part 2 of a series)

Apologies for the 2-day delay. You know how things get after a[n] (8-month-long) holiday weekend/employment "sabbatical", as I've been calling it to assuage the internal pain and shame.

Any-hoo, happy Thanksgiving. As thankful as I am for you, my ardent fans, I would be even more thankful if you guys would evangelize the shit out of Insert Clever Pun Here; but not because I asked you to - because you want to (and I know you do).

Previously, on Insert Clever Pun Here... When the crazy bug bites, pull out the laminated print-out of this multi-part post that you always keep handy and consult and send me a signed blank check for graciously bestowing my considerable knowledge upon all you damsels in dementia out there:

P.S. I am offering a $1gazillion reward to anyone who can teach me to follow my own advice.

I have chosen this song for the opening credits:

-What to Expect When You're Expecting. Harboring expectations is a surefire way to incite the crazy mob to start rioting in your brain.  For instance, I hate shaving my legs.  It is time consuming, it gives me dry skin, and I have to change my blade more frequently (and that shit gets expensive).  This gripe applies only to my legs and NO OTHER body parts.  Anyway, I think that the amount of mental frustration I've overcome in order to drag a dulling Venus blade across BOTH of my legs while the hot water runs out because of the extra time I have to spend in the damn shower should be rewarded with appropriate praise from the person who benefits from my silky smooth-ness: "Oh wow, thank YOU so MUCH for shaving your legs tonight, they feel great! You're. The. Best. EVER!"  Obviously this is not an appropriate thought to entertain, and I know this, but I have it, nevertheless, every single time I go compliment-less after I shave my legs, and I am left feeling empty and frustrated.  This is a psychological theory called Cognitive dissonance, and basically it explains the mental discomfort that we feel when our expectations conflict with our experiences.
So, take your stupid expectations and throw them away, in the putrid grease disposal bin in your alley where they belong, and console yourself with the new, comforting fact that it doesn't matter that you've been dating for 11 years and he still hasn't introduced you to any of his friends or family, and that you've never been out anywhere together in public, because you are one of those super-cool girls who just goes with the flow.  This go-with-the-flow-iness will save you from ever crazily demanding why you have to leave his apartment at 5am on Sunday mornings (because you don't EXPECT to be allowed to stay later than that, anyway).

-Shut the FUCK up! When your feeble attempt at not expecting jack shit inevitably fails, you will want to Talk About It, and how it made you feel (brazenly desperate and depressed), and why the fuck he doesn’t feel like that, too, and why doesn’t he even WANT to feel like that, anyway, because all you want is for him to want you to be happy, right? RIGHT? Before you launch into a screeching diatribe, be it in person, over the telephone, or, in most cases, with a relentless and unending parade of text messages brightly hued in a gorgeous rainbow of expressions (unbridled rage, self-pitying apologies, pathetic guilt-tripping tactics, rhetorical ultimatums, and faux-self-assured sayonaras), remind yourself that guys don’t like Talking About It, because they don’t have feelings.  It’s not called “bitching” arbitrarily, so get out that industrial-strength needle and thread to sew your yap shut and throw your cell phone and computer down a well, because Silence is Golden.

-Mum’s not ALWAYS the word... If you keep your insipid weaker-sex anathemas to yourself all the time, you WILL spontaneously combust, spewing an avalanche of vile verbal excrement all over the poor shmuck who left the toilet seat up FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, buddy.  And you will subsequently be exiled to Elba, the island where all neurotic, conflict-crazed bedlamites go for their time-outs.  Pick your battles, and pick them wisely, because you can’t blame anyone else for driving yourself insane.

To be continued ... Visit me next week for more tips from the embodiment of a Cautionary Tale.

I have chosen this song for the closing credits:

It's Not You, It's My Chemical Imbalance (Part 1 of a series)

Readers, friends, readers who are friends, I would like to sincerely apologize for the lengthy delay.  I had slightly less to complain about than usual, having taken a brief foray into "normalcy", maybe even “happiness” (getting laid on the reg by the same person and generally having more spring in my step), and normal, happy people lack the wherewithall to pound out bitter tirades against the unfairness of life and publish them to the Internets (which is probably why, according to a 2006 study conducted at my alma mater Indiana University, “Diary writing has traditionally been associated with females, and politics and external events, the mainstays of filter blogs, have traditionally been masculine topics. Furthermore, previous research shows that females write more diary blogs, and males write a disproportionate number of filter blogs”).

Why do guys insist on holding us to higher standards of sanity when we spend a nearly quarter of our lives BLEEDING OUT OF OUR VAGINAS?  Please, please, PLEASE don’t misinterpret this as any sort of pro-feminist sentiment; most of the time I like being a girl, but we don’t get to pee standing up, or become President, and a pubic 5 o’clock shadow doesn’t have anywhere close to the sexy-scruffy allure that the one on your chin has.  If boys spent ½ the amount of time we did holding in all outbound colonic movement, they’d go fucking insane, too.

That said, I know that the entire male species isn’t just going to shout “Eureka! This girl is SO right and pretty and smart!” and start making decisions with anyone in mind but themselves (which is just one of those frustrating turn-ons that gets me all hot and bothered, anyway), and actually become COMPASSIONATE and SENSITIVE (which would also make them a bunch of sissypants ‘nice guys’ - and nice guys finish dead last), and throw us a goddamn bone for once, and stop seductively inducing the maniacal antics out of us whenever they possibly can (thereby absolving themselves of any culpability for what went wrong). It would be nice, though. A utopian paradise where men are kind and it is an accepted truth that bitches be cray cray.

Because it is an empirical fact that all girls are crazy. Even you. And you. And you, over there, shaking your head judgmentally and thinking smugly that you're sooo above drama. You're not.  However, many of you are at least less masochistic enough to extricate yourselves from an histrionic-episode-inducing situation before you lob a cinder block through dude's windshield ("It was sitting right next to your parking space, begging me to throw it, and you're the one who had some skank answer your phone and tell me you were too busy with 'Jessica' to answer my call.").

Anyhow, enough sharing.  Besides, that was YEARS ago; I've come a long way since then and restraining orders don't last forever.  When the crazy bug bites, pull out the laminated print-out of this  multi-part post that you always keep handy and consult and send me a signed blank check for graciously bestowing my considerable knowledge upon all you damsels in dementia out there:

P.S. I am offering a $1gazillion reward to anyone who can teach me to follow my own advice.

Aaand scene! Come back on Monday or I will call/text/e-mail you inexorably AND break into your apartment.

It's [not] a Date!

Hello, friends, family, stumblers, and strangers I've drunkenly handed my card to at a bar ("I write my own blog!").  It's been awhile.  I've been experiencing some blockage of the writing constitution, but 3 economy-sized tubs of Metamucil later, I'm back.  Oh, I'm back.

While picking out a job-interview-friendly outfit this morning (you know, one that says, I may have gotten fired for blogging about the evils of office smalltalk, but HIRE ME, for the love of God), I noticed that the "date clothes" section of my closet was quagmired in dust and cobwebs, and carefully cordoned off with yellow CRIME SCENE! DO NOT CROSS! tape.  Utilizing the forensic skills gleaned from 5 months of CSI reruns (and the interrogation tactics I picked up from 5 months of The Closer reruns - I'd consider crossing over to lesbianism for Kyra Sedgwick), I delved deep into the seedy, torrid underbelly of post-dating-era-Chicago(when you're me).  Here's what my investigation turned up:

1.  There is no seedy-torrid underbelly of post-dating-era-Chicago.  Dating, in the conventional sense of the word, is alive, well, thriving even.  Our country may be on the verge of a debt crisis the likes of which we've never seen, but the market for "intimate, small-plates restaurants that encourage sharing (and alcohol-induced easy conversation - but only with small-batch, artisanally-sourced craft cocktails, duh)" is in excellent health - not so much as a benign, microscopic breast lump to be had. 

2.  I set the bar low for what it takes to get me to like you. Like one of my friends said, "You're too easy going and easy to talk to".  I'm sure it's refreshing for some of you to hang out with a girl who doesn't demand the 14-courser (with wine pairings) at Alinea in order to get in some face time.  But just because I suggested a public pool for our first date doesn't mean you can suggest Blue-Box and a Netflixed 30-Rock marathon for our second.  I didn't comment on your shrinkage.  Reward me with a pat on the head and a nice meal.

3.  I'm so fucking cool it's easy to forget that I am [in some ways] just like every other girl. As in, there's supposed to be some anticipation when it comes to picking out an outfit for a date.  I LIKE standing in front of my mirror with different shoes on each foot deciding which one makes my calves look thinner.  I don't mind letting you see me without my makeup on (and not in the "we've just had a drunken one-night stand and I accidentally drooled on your now-mascara-smeared pillow" way) or in flip-flops and cut-offs, but I would also like to at least attempt to earn one of those wide-eyed, totally mesmerized ogles a la the movies when I descend my stairs fully decked out.

4.  This is the part of my investigation where I discovered that number of dates spent sexually withholding have a fairly direct correlation to the number of stars Zagat gave the restaurant you go to.  Moving on ...

4.5  Not ready to move on yet.  This is heinously unfair.  I shouldn't be penalized for having a libido (and being attracted to you) by having to shove down the $15 3-course seafood feast at Red fucking Lobster on our 3rd date (unless you are taking me there ironically in which case I actually do really like the cheddar bay biscuits).

5.  Please stop trying to be chivalrous by asking me where I want to go.  I am sympathetic to the state of our nation's finances, and yours, too; and painfully self-aware of my own.  When I say, "oh, I don't care, you pick," it means, "I really want to check out the place I read about on Grubstreet a week ago but I feel guilty speaking up because I am broke and therefore would only insincerely be offering to pay when the check came so I'm just going to hope that you read my mind and pick somewhere interesting".  I overdrew my checking account springing for a round on $1 domestic night at Kendall's, ok?  Call me old fashioned, but you're the guy here.  Hold the fucking door open and TELL ME where we are going for dinner.  I'll usually make it worth your while.

In closing, I discovered that the real culprit is me.  I guess I will just become an aloof, prude bitch like all those girls I see smugly enjoying their pan roasted halibut at Girl & the Goat while I'm lugging homemade [serrano & manchego] sandwiches and a bottle of Cava I purchased to watch a *free* movie in the park.  I hope my never-worn black halo dress makes someone at the Salvation Army very happy.

A Social [Media] Commentary

Not to get all nostalgic, but sometimes I wish we could harken back to the PFB era (that's Pre-Facebook).  I'd say, "those were simpler times", but they really weren't.
Facebook has robbed us of one of the most joyful and complex aspects of the human condition: face to face interaction.  Now, you naysayers can say "nay, Facebook facilitates interaction by bringing people together - in fact, I found my pre-school crush on the book the other day and now we chat all the time and one day we are going to get coffee," and then, "we got engaged - and I posted a photo of the ring on my profile," and then "I used a Facebook invite to throw my engagement party" (cheapskate - spring for printed invites), and the-en "I uploaded all of my wedding photos into 17 different albums so my single friends can look at the pictures and get increasingly depressed about the fact that they're all going to die alone while I ride off into the sunset with my pre-school crush... who I met ON FACEBOOK."  We get it, ok?  Without Zuck, love can't happen in the 21st Century.

I know that I shouldn't fight technology.  Rather, I should embrace it (you are, in fact, currently reading my BLOG, derived from the words Web Log, which I advertise on Facebook), and I am grateful to social media for quite a bit, but it's a reluctant gratitude.  Here's why:
1. Because it's not SUPPOSED to be easy. Life and love and relationships are hard.  They're the reason why some people kill themselves.  Remember in 3rd grade, when you had those stupid Valentine's Day mailboxes and you could send people cards without fear of rejection?  Yeah, Facebook is kind of like that.  Click a button to "Add as Friend".  Wait for the person to accept your "Friendship".  Fire off a carefully crafted to sound as though you don't give a shit message inviting your new friend to grab a drink sometime - be sure to include a "How do you know Harold Greenfield?" (you don't even know Harold Greenfield, but you are Facebook friends with him, so it's fair game).  If he never answers, it doesn't hurt - you tried, right?  Wrong. You didn't try.  You didn't weigh the embarrassment and extra visits to your therapist if he said no IN PERSON, or OVER THE PHONE (remember phone conversations?  None of my friends do.  Actually, 2 of them IN THE SAME DAY asked me "Why do you call people instead of texting?") if he said no versus the sheer elation you would feel if he gave you a real, genuine YES.  I understand that self-protection is paramount when it comes to our fragile human egos.  But I also believe that without ever having to experience thesting of rejection, the sheer elation of acceptance just doesn't have the same shiny-new-penny-ness to it.

2. Because people don't care [about you].  If they did, they would ask.  But Facebook never gives them the chance to ask about your dinner (you posted pics of it, as you do with your Lean Cuisine every night), what music you've been listening to/books you've been reading (those lists are easily accessible on your profile), or who you voted for in the Alderman election (duh.. you already answered a Question with your chosen candidate).  Remember when you were going away to college and your mother warned you that no one would buy the cow if you were giving away the milk for free?  Facebook is not a Wisconsin Dairy Farm, people. Lock it up.
Oh, and by the way, to all you newly single/have a new crush that you want to notice you users out there:  your ex/new crush doesn't NEED to know or WANT to know what you are doing/where you are/who you're with every goddamn nanosecond.  If he likes you, he'll like you.  If you feel the need to remind cyberspace how popular, well-liked, and generally fabulous you are (or when you just got a bikini wax), he won't like you.  So next time your fingers are itching to write "Riding around in R. Kelly's limo while he pees on my best friend and I as we drink Cristal" as your status so that your ex will be jealous of how amazing your life is after him, do yourself a favor and refrain.

3. Because chatting 24/7 isn't natural. If you say EVERYTHING to EVERYONE all the time, it cheapens your statements that actually carry weight and meaning.  Just saying.

4. Because 2 hours is not a long time [to go without human contact].  I long for a return to the days when it didn't matter if I didn't talk to someone for a couple of days, weeks, months.  When I had time to wonder what someone was doing, if he was thinking about me and going to show up unannounced at my apartment with some fun activity, or if his head was sandwiched between a coworker's thighs in the coat room at work, fucking bastard... I digress. The point is,  constant communication shouldn't be the norm. The expectation of instant gratification has made us all into whiners.  And wimps. With no willpower.  Who can't entertain ourselves without a MacBook Pro and some internet bandwidth.  I can't do it; I don't remember how to enjoy my own company.  Unless I'm updating my profile, "Liking" various pages (John Cullerton Bringing You Sandwiches shout-out), and waiting for someone, anyone, to sign on and talk to me.

5. Because humans should be tactile beings.  I'll never get a Kindle - there's something so rewarding about turning a page in a real-life book. It used to be a treat to get together with your pals, to talk to them, to hold their photo albums in your hand, to pass notes in class.  What better feelings are there than a first kiss, two hands intertwined, getting your cranium pounded against a headboard?  I challenge you to find a virtual alternative. And no, Skype-fucking is NEVER a legitimate substitute for the real thing. Ever.

6. Because having 1200 "friends" isn't normal. Friendships are SPECIAL and UNIQUE!  And as much of a rush that you got when EVERYONE in your class signed your yearbook, does "Have a nice summer!"  REALLY ever compare to a 1/2 page note from your best friend filled with inside jokes and memories? 

7. Because you're SUPPOSED to miss out on some stuff (and so are other people).  If you do EVERYTHING, see EVERYTHING, know EVERYONE, etc, life loses its allure, its panache, its je ne sais quois.

By the way, this is coming from someone who is currently logged into 2 chat programs and has a stream-of-consciousness blog. 

Give Me Your Friends Or I'll Shoot

I have never really wanted to pick my friends' noses.  I sometimes enjoy picking my own, though.  One thing I do, often to my detriment, for my friends, is introduce them to my other friends.   You all know me as self-deprecating, but even I have to admit that I have a lot of friends and acquaintances.  This is not by accident.  I appreciate all of the friendships I have.  I work hard to maintain my relationships with other people, and I value my friends immensely.  Which is why it really fucking pisses me off when I introduce friends of mine to other friends and they think it's OK and ACCEPTABLE to just hijack my friends and treat them as their own.  They aren't your friends, ok?  They're MY friends that I was kind enough to let you meet.  Perhaps that sounds harsh, even scary, but think about it:
You introduce friend A to group B of your friends.  She immediately fucks 2 of them and then starts calling them ALL to make plans without your knowledge, even going so far as to lie about it and hide it from you.  How the hell would you feel?

My friends are my Kool-Ade. So get the fuck off my Kool-Ade.