Lately I have been thinking a lot about dating. More than I have in sometime actually. It has been so long since I thought about it that my bitch boots are somewhere in my closet collecting dust. Notice I said somewhere. I don’t even know where the bitch boots are located, or where the low cut “fuck me” dress is either. Okay, I have a shallow, immature view of love. I get it. Maybe that is why I am so unlucky in that department to begin with.
Yeah, I have been through it all. There was the engagement, and then the different mailing address. I know the terms stalking by-proxy and not to give up my dreams for a man. Hard lessons learned young. After that were a slew of ex-cons and other undesirables who seemed better than the nightmare I left behind. Which prompted me to (almost) get my shit together. After that I pretended to enjoy an unfulfilling relationship with someone who I ended up cheating on quite a bit. (At least this one didn’t hit me). Only to find out he had a big old lying problem. Then there was other riff raff, yeah some were married. Never said I was a saint. But when you cast a play in hell you don’t have angels as actors.
Then my friend Chacho died. The gay version of me, he too liked men with a criminal record and other questionable angles. Then again, he had a criminal record too. I remember when we were both dating a married man at the same time. Talking about it now makes me feel a little trashy, but it is still kind of funny in a fucked up sort of way. But the drugs and lifestyle got my buddy. I still remember the sting in my heart when he died. What I figured was he would want me to live constructively. So I decided to stop fucking around with bullshit guys (well almost) and focus on my dreams.
I stopped dating, and the drive I used to chase these losers went to my career. I did more in the year after he passed than I think I had in three. However, since then I have become so enmeshed in my career it’s how I define myself. I am becoming successful as a ventriloquist and comedian, but it has been after a lot of work. This past year I have headlined not one but two big cabaret rooms, so I am earning my wings as a cabaret diva. Over the past few years I have published a book and written for some high profile blogs, so I am prepping for the NY Times Best Seller List. Then I did some stuff with music including a hit song on the internet, so there is that. Oh and these days I am almost financially stable. I said almost. Hold your horses, I am still working on buying a bed.
So my DVD is aptly named, Broke and Semi-Famous.
Lately I have found myself tired. Some of it is the last few months have been so busy the rent has taken care of itself. However, I almost feel a hole somewhere in a place I cannot locate. An emptiness of some sort. I don’t know what it is. Then it clicked the other day. I am lonely as a mutherfucker. Yeah, I want someone to take me places and shit. It doesn’t even have to be anywhere that is expensive. We can go to the damn park. I just feel this ache in me. Like something is missing. Yeah, the career is almost where I want. The last few years I have worked my ass off as my friends got married and others backed off from the game to serve a significant other. I have my costumes, my puppets, my box of books, my music I have to memorize. As of late they are not doing shit for me. SHIT.
The truth is I am afraid to really put myself out there again. My success rate in dating has been terrible. Actually, the correct term is clusterfuck. I don’t ride The Tunnel of Love for a reason. Who would I ride with? When nice dudes hear about the shit I have been through, they either run because they make a judgment, or they want to be the one that is different. Usually if they run, they weren’t so nice. They were judgmental ass weeds who I am better off without. If they want to be different they walk away bitter when they see they aren’t. So I just end up with some dude in a step down program from some drug rehab facility that needs to best use his day pass. When we make out, he’s not so spooked by my psychotic exes that are armed and dangerous with pick axes, or their wives/girlfriends who also hate my guts that possess flame throwers. We speak the same language, and most of the time he has his own and then some. Then we agree, next time skip The Tunnel of Love.
So nice dudes don’t want me. Fuck the nice dudes. I don’t know what to do with them anyway. I know the drill when he has a probation/parole officer. I know the drill when he is in a facility. I know the drill when he is married. But the surprise visits and curfew gets old. It’s a little stressful to walk down the street, and when I see a black sedan slow run like I saw Godzilla. That’s when the window goes down, the bullet comes out, and we are all featured on an episode of Snapped.
Of course you have to balance your love life and work life. I have no idea how to do that. Most of the time I keep my Mr. April Bruckers as far away as possible. They want to know more, but I have to keep them in the dark. Since the former fiancé tried to take my puppet babies away it’s the way I do business. Most dudes who meet me at random are always surprised by how much I have done. My thing is the more someone talks about a career the less it exists. (I should take my own advice on this blog, clearly). Also, I want to keep them out. This is mine and it has nothing to do with them.
Of course sometimes it is cool, that is, until I am away working and cannot be available as their hood ornament. Then there is the fact I keep weird hours, and sometimes can’t hang out late into the night with their friends who I for the most part can barely stand. Or their family members will assure them that while my hours are weird, once I truly become committed to them I will slow my ambitions to be their maid and professional baby maker. And then there is the meeting of my fan base, which is mostly male. It’s cool until suddenly it isn’t. It’s usually after the reading of the fan mail. That is when there is an epic bitch fit.
That is when I ask, “Wasn’t I supposed to be the woman here, wait???”
Or they turn into the ultimate dickhead chauvinist assuring me my dreams will never come true and I should just suck their dick and settle. I dump them when that happens. Usually I get some attention, media related, and there they reappear to congratulate me and worm their hooks back into my life.
Or there is the bitch fit over most of my friends being male. Yes these are friends I adore to no end. My circle swarms with these thoughtful lads who always support me, and are honest with me to a fault while knowing I am cat shit crazy. I prefer male friends actually. They are less drama, and less likely to go Benedict Arnold when they are jealous of you. Not to mention I fit in as one of the guys. I love sports, action flicks, and conversations about war. Sure, I don’t understand dirt bikes or tools but I never said I was a guy. However, their lady pals all embrace me because they know I have no romantic interest in their dude whatsoever. She can sleep with them and put up with their pain in the ass mothers. I enjoy just making prank calls and being an idiot with a heart of gold.
On a visceral level I identify with my dude friends more. When I fight with them, we all want to make up. Not to mention we hate drama, and sometimes just want to have fun with a person we don’t care about. Or we just can’t stay loyal. It’s not that we are bad people, we get bored. Perhaps this is why I have difficulty keeping a man. Oh, and I so don’t cook. Okay, I put it in the microwave and it cooks.
The whole dating thing is a supreme pain in my right butt cheek. You go out and dress up for some idiot who probably shouldn’t even be breathing your air in the first place. Most of the time, it goes badly. Or you like them and they turn out to be a complete asshole that was just hiding it. Or things get hot and heavy and then they disappear. Or you disappear because you couldn’t handle it and then no one can handle it. Or things go well, and then three dates later it’s revealed they are a Nazi. Or your friends fix you up with someone they think you would be perfect with, only to find out you have to date during daylight because they are a werewolf. That’s when they become ex friends. Question: Who can handle this shit? Maybe this is why people stay with people they hate. So they don’t have to deal with this shit again.
Then there is the question of who is going to pay. I hate it when the dude pays, because I am an independent woman, have my own money, and can pay my own way. But it’s always that weird moment. The check comes. Do I let him pay as a test of his character to see if he is a “true man?” Do I split it, because I am a feminist and believe in what the Second and Third Wave fought for, staying sincere in my fight against the patriarchy? Or do I become what most feminists are, screaming about equality but then whining when a man makes me go Dutch? Or do I just insist on going Dutch so the asshole doesn’t feel he owns me and that way he can’t dream of demanding sex at the end of the night like all guys secretly want to do? So many questions.
On top of that I am actually super shy. Most of the time, when I am out with friends there is always some dude I want to talk to. I always let him make the first move. When he doesn’t do it, I get pissed that somehow he couldn’t read my mind. Or then some beef cookie who is wearing no clothing makes the first move. That’s when I call her beef cookie in my mind. Then I talk to her, find out she’s okay, and feel bad about insulting her internally. It’s just an out for my own lack of game when it comes to dudes. Or the guy does talk to me and I give him my number. Then he texts me and I don’t know what to do. Or we hang out and I end up scaring him away. Or I go on his facebook page and find out he has another female friend vying for his affection. That is when I say, “No, junior high is over. You can have him.”
Months later, he’s all hurt I didn’t call him and blah blah blah. Then I don’t know who is the bigger idiot. Me for bowing out and assuming I was going to get hurt, or him for getting emotionally invested in a quasi-stranger. I think it’s a draw. Either way, I had a full relationship in my mind with him and dumped his ass like a bag of spoiled Chinese food long before we meet again. So well adjusted I know.
As for the whole dude thing, in some ways I have heard it all before anyway. I get it, he can talk about his ex girlfriends all he wants but the second I mention my past he goes ape shit. I don’t do double standard, sorry. Or he is okay with me being smart and successful, that is, until I am smarter and more successful than he is. Then there is bro time, where I have to grin and bear it while he and his boys act like assholes and I have to pretend to get along with their wives and girlfriends. No thanks, it’s more fun to be one of the guys. After that each guy thinks they are God’s gift to sex, and they will be the one to shatter the Earth after a night in the sack. Truth: In the morning the Earth is still moving and it is several hours of my life I have wasted being underwhelmed and will never get back. Most men more lost around a woman’s body than Moses was in the desert. After that all dudes, yes I am generalizing, have some chip on their shoulder from childhood that creates endless license to bitch and moan and girlfriends become a cheap alternative to therapy. I just want to scream, “I KNOW YOUR MOTHER DIDN’T LOVE YOU. I DON’T LOVE YOU EITHER YOU WHINING, COMPLAINING ASSWEED. I WANT TO DRINK AND LOCK YOU IN THE BASEMENT MYSELF!!!”
Yet I have my retarded yearnings. I want to picnic in the park. I want to have a Mr. April Brucker on my arm. I want a romantic weekend away at the beach or at the mountains. I want to say I love you and mean it. I want to find some truth in the silver lining lies women are told as child. Actually, fuck it, I want it to be all truth.
I want a nice dude worthy of my time too. Not my usual shit in the bag. Then again, I have come to peace with the fact I am a damaged woman and really don’t know how to treat someone nicely. I can’t be nice so I am not going to get someone nice. But healthy relationship, affection……I don’t know if I can give those things and it actually makes me feel like a trashy, damaged Christmas ornament kicked by the drunken uncle shortly before he insulted grandma and passed out. So yeah, when it comes to men I have the self-worth of a cumquat. Oops, cumquats don’t get engaged on the third date.
Eh, enough of my rambling. May Wilson busted her teeth and I need to play Puppet Mama. I also have some other crap on the agenda. Things must be done. Until then, the bitch boots will remain dusty and the “fuck me” dress lost.