I'm A Refugee

I honestly don't know what has gotten in to me.  For most of my adulthood I've lived alone, and I really, really liked it.  I'd had roommates here and there, and that was fine for short-term, but I really loved living alone.  Then I spent a year living with a family, as their nanny, and their personal chef/assistant.  Surprisingly, I liked that too. 

I was nervous going into it, because well let's be honest, I'm kind of a jackass and I didn't know how well moving from my own place to a home with a bunch of people would sit with me.  Alas, I really didn't have a choice after my loving husband of seven weeks dumped me, and I called off of work for a week, and got fired, and could no longer afford my awesome apartment.  So I put my shit in storage (what was left after giving most of it away), and off I went.  And that's how my life in Chicago came to an end.

When it came time to leave Connecticut, and I decided to move back to my hometown, I thought to myself, "I don't want to live alone anymore.  I will get a roommate."  At first I was going to live with my Aunt, but as my plane was pulling up to the gate at O'Hare, I got a text from her.  Simply saying that I would need to find somewhere else to live.  Even worse, it came through twice.  So that was awesome.  I walked through the terminal wondering what the fuck I was going to do.  I threw away my life in Chicago for a man who never even wanted me.  There was no job for me to go back to in Connecticut.  There was no job waiting for me in South Bend.

Thankfully, my best friend in the world saved me by offering up her ex-husband's spare bedroom.  That was interesting.  He and I had never gotten along.  But desperate times call for desperate measures.  And there I was.  It was livable at best.  His live-in girlfriend hated me.  They had incessant parties until the wee hours of the morning.  My bedroom didn't have a proper door on it.  However, I sucked it up, as best I could.  Ultimately, the GF told him that it was her or me.  Guess who he chose.  It's kinda good though, because she had been trying to get pregnant the whole time I was there, and finally did a month after I left.  I'm not sure that he knows all of that.

So, I went to my dad's for a week, then to a friend's for three weeks, when finally, my friend, T, suggested I move in with his brother.  It's really not something I would have ever thought of, but again, desperate times...  Mind you, I am not working this entire time.  And frankly, it was hard to keep up with expenses.  When I finally found a job, it actually got worse.  Suddenly I had a car to pay for, and gas, and insurance, none of which I'd had up until this point.  Gas was the big thing.  HUGE!  Fuck gas prices, fucking oil Nazi's!  Needless to say, I couldn't keep up with the bills, and he showed me the door.  Did I mention that I've known him his whole life...from church?  Christianity, what a bunch of bullshit.  I still owe him like $80, but I'm being a real bitch about it because I didn't like his passive/aggressive behavior toward the end of my stay.  Oh and also, I was pissed that I was moving again.  And also, I was just plain pissed.

So, my boss (who was actually a friend first) told me to come live with her.  I stored my shit at my dad's and took only the absolute necessessities.  It's been fine, except for her one asshole dog.  Did you know dogs could be assholes?  I didn't either.  I do now.  I gave myself the summer to figure something out.  It's August now, and guess where I'm moving...in with my seven-week, ex-husband.  Which is really funny, because he "couldn't live with anybody" when we were together.  This should be super fun.  The best part about it is that now I can get all of my shit from my dad's, and storage, and the house in Connecticut.  I really miss my stuff.

The only knowledge I can glean from all of this... is that I'm insufferable.

Not My Choice

I am 38 years old and childless.  I want to have or adopt at least one child.   I kinda just kicked myself out of the dating pool.  I mean, I'm not even in the shallow end.

Here's my conundrum: Guys who already have kids don't want to date me because I want kids.  Guys who want kids don't want to date me because, well let's face it, my eggs are probably past their "sell by" date.  I may be an idiot, but I can see the writing on the wall. 

I feel like a criminal for wanting children.  I know I wouldn't be single right now if I had already had kids.  I think I probably wouldn't give a shit about being single if I had already had kids.  I've been dumped so many times for wanting kids it would make your head fucking spin...it should be noted, by men who already have children.

And boy do I resent them.  I resent them for having a child.  I resent them for rejecting my idea of a child, while expecting me to accept their children into my life.  I resent them for robbing me of the experience of motherhood.  I resent them for making me think my relationship odds would be better as a single mom with two different baby-daddies, rather than childless.  I resent them for not wanting to be part of raising a child with me, when they are obviously able to do so with someone else.  I resent them for making me think there would be something wrong with my child, like it wouldn't really be theirs, like they've already had their kids, why on Earth would they want mine?  I resent them because I think my best option is to go slut it up all over town in an effort to get knocked-up, rather than have a meaningful relationship with someone.

I have no problem with a man having children.  I love kids.  Kids have always been a huge part of my life.  I've been raising other people's kids for 20 years, what's a couple more?  I raise awesome kids too.  You should meet some of them.  You just wouldn't believe how fucking awesome they are.  I'm just saying, I'm really good at raising kids.

I can't help but think I've made a huge mistake by using so much birth control when I was younger, when I was trying to graduate from college, when I was trying to find my calling, when I was yucking it up doing improv.  I'm sure I missed many an opportunity then, because I was really slutty.  And now I've probably cheated myself out of something amazing.

Weight of the World

It’s no wonder really, that men walk away from me so quickly.  I carry a huge-ass weight around with me at all times, consisting of all of my past hurts.  Then, this really nice guy comes along, and I’m like, “Oh good.  You can help me carry this.  No... wait... you’re the man!  You can carry the whole thing!”  And I hand over that burden, not like he’s going to make it all better, but instead like I’m doing him a favor.  “You’re welcome, asshole!”, I’m probably thinking somewhere in my subconscious. Yet somehow I feel bad if I ask a guy to put my Lippy in his pocket.  Wow!  I am really fucked up.  

I know I don’t want to carry that shit around.  I would never want anyone I love to carry that shit around.  Why on Earth would I ever want a virtual stranger, who saw something in my world and thought he might want to be part of it, to carry that shit around?  The short answer is that I’m a stupid bitch.  The long answer is that I wouldn’t.  I would never want that, not in a million years...and also that I’m a stupid bitch.

Kicked to the Curb

Whenever I get dumped, or “my ass kicked to the curb”, as I like to call it, no matter what the "kicker", is saying to me, I am hearing one very loud and clear message: “There is something wrong with you.  You are unworthy of love in any way, shape, or form.  You will die alone and childless.  You are of absolutely no value to anyone.  No one will ever love you.  But seriously, you’re really funny and smart and pretty.”  Is that harsh?  

I wonder if any of these dudes doing the dumping really think that?  Probably not.  I’m sure their feelings for me never go that deep or get the chance to become that hateful.  However, that is what I hear.  And man do I hear it loud.  I feel it, like a kick  in the gut.  I see my whole worthless life pass before me, and remember every single time this has happened like it’s all happening, all over again, all at once.  To me, there is no, “I just don’t feel a connection.”  It is absolutely, without a doubt, “You are rotten to the core.  Nobody wants you.”  Period.

When I type that out loud, it sounds utterly ridiculous, as I often do, but that’s of little comfort when it’s what I feel.  I like to think that I am the only person on the planet who has it this badly, because somehow I’m so fucking special, but that’s probably not true either.  Probably, nothing I think is true really is true...  I am the world’s worst Buddhist.  How did I get here?  How does someone live their whole life thinking this way?  It’s terrifying.  It scares the shit out of me.  

This is not okay with me.  I am not condoning this type of thinking.  I am not okay with it.  I really hope there’s a pill for it, and that it’s available in a generic, and that I can buy it online from Canada, because this totally sucks ass.  Seriously, do not try this at home unless you’re looking for new, fun and exciting ways to perpetuate your own self-loathing.  If you are, congratulations!  You just hit the fucking jackpot by reading two paragraphs.  Oh and, you’re welcome.

It makes me want to vomit, and not the good kind of puking where you feel better afterward.  Just sick, and sicker, and sicker.  I have no solution for this, other than to say, “Lisa, don’t think that way!”  But that sounds an awful lot like trying to remember how much money is in my bank account, and to not eat an entire bag of Doritos, and I just have a really hard time remembering those kinds of things.  

Life is work, and the pay is shit.

Excuse Me for Being an Idiot

At my bridal shower I had this brilliant idea (all of my ideas are brilliant) for everyone to make a painting.  Well, contribute to one big painting, rather.  We got this giant canvas and put it outside with paint, brushes, palettes, blah, blah, blah... you get the idea.  Throughout the afternoon people went outside and painted on it.  Whatever they wanted.  Of course the kids had a blast.  The adults were terrified by it.  “What should I make?”  “Will it be good enough?”  Shit like that.  This is why I love children.  Just fucking paint!  One of the kids wrote “lip gloss” on it, an homage to my Lippy addiction, which was perfect.  I had actually received some Lippy as a gift that day.  If there are three things in this world that I love, it’s children, art, and Lippy.  

I, of course, was completely oblivious to the fact that C (the now ex-husband) had no idea what the purpose of such an activity was, and in no way, shape, or form thought it was a good idea.  I got the same response from him when I suggested we take a picture from our wedding and make it into a pop-art painting a la Roy Lichtenstein, of whom C knew nothing.  Not that I cared if he knew about Roy Lichtenstein, but come on!  That was a great idea (all of my ideas are great)!  I’m no art snob, but I am tickled by art.  Plus, who wouldn’t want to see one of their candid wedding photos in all of it’s comic book glory with a huge cartoon bubble that read, “You’ll do?”  Those were, after all, his wedding vows to me.  “You’ll do.”  Guess I really won’t.

There was such a disconnect between who I was and who C wanted me to be.  It took me a very long time to see it, but other people did.  I know because they’ve since told me so.  I have always just been me, in all of my glory and shame, mostly shame, but still just me.  I think it’s fair to say that most people enjoy my company, at least for awhile.  I’ve been told that my energy is infectious and it makes people want to be around me.  Maybe, but it does wear off.  I’m a rule-breaker, I have no respect for authority, and in general, do not give a shit what you or anyone else thinks about me.  Unless I do.  

There always comes a point when someone realizes that I’m not going to be reigned in anytime soon, and that could prove a slight inconvenience to the ideal world they’ve created for themselves.  No one wants to worry that their significant other will say, “These sweet potatoes are fucking amazing!”, in front of grandma at Thanksgiving.  For the record, sweet potatoes are fucking amazing, and it warrants repeating.

So, I walk around in my own little world most of the time, thinking that everyone totally gets me.  Until they don’t.  Then I’m devastated to learn that I could have been so wrong.  As is the case with C.  I’m pretty sure, looking back, that he never got me.  Oh he did a fine  job of acting like he did for awhile, and even though he kicked my ass to the curb, ultimately I got to see his true colors.  I’m actually very thankful for that.  I know people say this all of the time, but it this case it really is true, I deserve better than him.  I probably don’t deserve better than John Stamos though...oh baby...