So, the much awaited spawn of Brad and Angie has arrived. I tell you, there is no justice in the world.
Consider this: A woman steals another woman's husband, is knocked up within weeks, publishes photographs of herself and stolen husband "playing house" in a major national magazine, proceeds to rub nose of stolen hubby's ex in endless pictures of stolen husband, mistress, and adorable children romping everywhere from Kathmandu to Kenya. What is the appropriate "karmic payback for said woman?"
1. Voted most beutiful person alive (inside and out)
2. Stolen family voted most beutiful family
3. Snags major spokesperson contract for much $$$$ from hot designer
4. Love child with stolen man is honored by her birthday becoming an official holiday in a mid-size Southern African nation
Meanwhile, wronged ex wife makes three bad movies in a row (yes, it is true The breakup was panned by the Hollywood reporter) and (drumroll please) walks off into the sunset with a bruised ego and one slightly doughy boyfriend replete with receeding hairline.
This is the "what goes around comes around" stuff the self-help schlocks are always talking about?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
I Need Some (Cyber)Space
I hav'nt even gone on my first date, yet I have to get away from the boards for a while. First off, let me say that if you want a man your own age, you're considerably out of luck. The common male preference is something like this: Male, 38; searching for women age 25-35. So some of us are already cut out of a pool of guys our own age.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?
When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)
I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?
When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)
I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Internet Dating for Dummies
First off...NO MS.DunThat you CANNOT re-email someone with a better picture of yourself after you went and sent him a picture where you looked like a the dude from "The Mask" in hippy-dippy tie-dye tank top. It is beyond cyber-stalking. It says "I am not only desperate, I am also crazy".
To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.
That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.
From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.
To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.
That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.
From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.
Internet Dating Starts Off on a Bad Foot
I remember that video. I think they were dancing in a diner, or something. Brangelina woudn't ever be in a situation like this because a)they would never park in the discount parking lot, b)Angelina wouldn't be caught dead traveling with John Voight, and c)Brad isn't allowed to hang out with his parents. The only thing Mrs. BeenThere's weekend had in common with a Brangelina vacation was the signature oversized child on hip.
Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.
Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"
Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?
Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.
Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"
Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?
Sunday, May 21, 2006
ROAD TRIP!!
Ms. DunThat's past reminds me of another vacation I took with my commitment shy guy (our very first vacation as a matter of fact). This vacation was to a developing nation with unreliable road transport. We were planning to do a lot of walking, biking, etc. to get around. One week before the vacation he decided to run a major city marathon (27 miles) WITHOUT TRAINING--just a couple of hurdler stretches at the start gate and he was off!. He finished the race but had to be on crutches and a cane for our whole trip. Perhaps he was trying to tell me something? But, I digress. This post is actually to you about my latest vacation...to the midwest...with my parents.
So, we finally make it out of the house and to the airport. Just as we are parking the car at the remote parking lot (to save money) a huge cloud appears and the sky gets all dark and all that so my father says I should drop him, ny mother, and my 3 year old at the bus shelter so they don't have to get wet. so, I drop them off and park the car. As I'm getting out of the car it starts raining cats and dogs. I'm holding my 18 month old who weighs twenty seven pounds and I've got a HUGE bag over my shoulder. As I'm hobbling towards them (getting pelted with rain) I see my parents and 3 year old get on the airport shuttle, which then begins speeding out of the parking lot. I start running like mad with this heavy kid and even heavier bag, in the rain. My kid is laughing his head off, like it is some huge joke.
We finally make it into the terminal and we are standing in line. My mom (who is, by the way, 72 years old) for some odd reason, is wearing a pin striped man's tailored suit and jacket. Not exactly comfy travel wear, if you know what I mean. Her suit was exactly like the one Janet Jackson wore in the 'Alright' video during her 'Rhythm Nation' days--except my mom didn't have that hanging glass pocket watch thing that Janet did. She did, however, have extremely high heels on. Further complicating things is the fact that she has recently put her hair in extremely long extension braids (much like the kind Janet Jackson had in the Poetic Justice movie come to think of it). Unlike Janet, however, she did not have a headband or any kind of elastic band to hold the braids out of her eyes. Which is probably why the following accident happened.
So, she is holding my 3 year old by the hand and he is holding his little brother's hand. The three year old decides to bust that move that the kid did in Jerry Maguire, you know, when you are being held by two people bigger than you and you kick up your feet while you are walking and swing in between. The problem with this is that, unlike the kid in Jerry Maguire, he was not being held by two adults. Rather, he is holding hands with a 72 year old Janet Jackson impersonator and a baby.
Well, you can guess what happened. He kicks up his legs and they all went down like a house of cards. The three year old crashes into 'Janet' (aka grandma) those spiked heels gave out and she went crashing to the ground. The three year old fell on top of her and pulled the 18 month old down on top of him. They crashed into our pile of suicases. It was a three car pileup.
The flight was reasonably uneventful. When we got to the hotel, however, thr 'fun' started up again. We get to the front desk and try to check in. My husband had made the reservation over the internet. However, he was not with us. When we get to the front desk I try to check all of us in. The clerk will not let us take posession of the keys becuase my husband is the only name on the reservation. He and I don't have the same name b/c (being the modern missy that I am) I didn't change my name when we got hitched. So, basically she says she can't let me in the room b/c I could be an imposter or something.
I try to call my hubhby so he can tell her he authorizes me to get into the room. He of course has his cell phone off. Things are getting hairy and my parents are meling down. Further complicating things is the fact that when I was on the plane my sinuses started acting up due to th change in pressure and my ears went all funny as well. When we landed something in my nose and ears 'popped'. My nose would not stop running. It was gushing like a fountain. I, of course, had no tissues and had to keep using my sleeve. In addition, I was now temporarily deaf in one ear. I kid you not, I could hear nothing but muffled sounds out of my right ear.
The snotty clerk says 'we need a photo ID with the last name of the person who is on this reservation--nothing less'. My nose is gushing like Niagra Falls. I have no tissue, and I can't hear. So, in a moment of desperation I pull out my 18 month old kid's passport (I travel with it to prove to people that he is actually under 2 and can fly for free since they never believe he is under 2 since he is so huge). So, I pull out the passport, the photo on which was taken when he was 2 weeks old and he looks dazed and angry. (Ms. DunThat thinks he looks like a miniature Albert Brooks, which he does).
Miraculously, it works. Since he and dear hubby have the same last name and the baby had a photo ID, we were able to use his ID to get into the room. I think they gave in b/c my nose was dripping onto the reservation counter. Just as we are checking in (finally) I hear a huge commotion behind me. Hotel employees are running from everywhere. As I move closer to the elevators I see what is going on. My kid (the mini Albert Brooks one whose ID we have just used) has plunged into the decorative waterfall that is the centerpiece of the lobby and is soaking wet. He has also gotten water EVERYWHERE. As I approached and scooped him up, they were putting up all these yellow sighs that said CAUTION, HAZARD, SLIPPERY SURFACE.
Our last act of the disastrous day was to go to the 'Happy Hour' sponsored by the hotel. Everyone wanted to go, so we had no choice but to take the little kids with us. So there we are: me, my parents who are in their seventies, and two small children sitting at a hotel bar eating mini-hotdogs (pigs in a blanket) and driking free apple martinis. Somehow I don't think Brangelina ever have to deal with things like this....
So, we finally make it out of the house and to the airport. Just as we are parking the car at the remote parking lot (to save money) a huge cloud appears and the sky gets all dark and all that so my father says I should drop him, ny mother, and my 3 year old at the bus shelter so they don't have to get wet. so, I drop them off and park the car. As I'm getting out of the car it starts raining cats and dogs. I'm holding my 18 month old who weighs twenty seven pounds and I've got a HUGE bag over my shoulder. As I'm hobbling towards them (getting pelted with rain) I see my parents and 3 year old get on the airport shuttle, which then begins speeding out of the parking lot. I start running like mad with this heavy kid and even heavier bag, in the rain. My kid is laughing his head off, like it is some huge joke.
We finally make it into the terminal and we are standing in line. My mom (who is, by the way, 72 years old) for some odd reason, is wearing a pin striped man's tailored suit and jacket. Not exactly comfy travel wear, if you know what I mean. Her suit was exactly like the one Janet Jackson wore in the 'Alright' video during her 'Rhythm Nation' days--except my mom didn't have that hanging glass pocket watch thing that Janet did. She did, however, have extremely high heels on. Further complicating things is the fact that she has recently put her hair in extremely long extension braids (much like the kind Janet Jackson had in the Poetic Justice movie come to think of it). Unlike Janet, however, she did not have a headband or any kind of elastic band to hold the braids out of her eyes. Which is probably why the following accident happened.
So, she is holding my 3 year old by the hand and he is holding his little brother's hand. The three year old decides to bust that move that the kid did in Jerry Maguire, you know, when you are being held by two people bigger than you and you kick up your feet while you are walking and swing in between. The problem with this is that, unlike the kid in Jerry Maguire, he was not being held by two adults. Rather, he is holding hands with a 72 year old Janet Jackson impersonator and a baby.
Well, you can guess what happened. He kicks up his legs and they all went down like a house of cards. The three year old crashes into 'Janet' (aka grandma) those spiked heels gave out and she went crashing to the ground. The three year old fell on top of her and pulled the 18 month old down on top of him. They crashed into our pile of suicases. It was a three car pileup.
The flight was reasonably uneventful. When we got to the hotel, however, thr 'fun' started up again. We get to the front desk and try to check in. My husband had made the reservation over the internet. However, he was not with us. When we get to the front desk I try to check all of us in. The clerk will not let us take posession of the keys becuase my husband is the only name on the reservation. He and I don't have the same name b/c (being the modern missy that I am) I didn't change my name when we got hitched. So, basically she says she can't let me in the room b/c I could be an imposter or something.
I try to call my hubhby so he can tell her he authorizes me to get into the room. He of course has his cell phone off. Things are getting hairy and my parents are meling down. Further complicating things is the fact that when I was on the plane my sinuses started acting up due to th change in pressure and my ears went all funny as well. When we landed something in my nose and ears 'popped'. My nose would not stop running. It was gushing like a fountain. I, of course, had no tissues and had to keep using my sleeve. In addition, I was now temporarily deaf in one ear. I kid you not, I could hear nothing but muffled sounds out of my right ear.
The snotty clerk says 'we need a photo ID with the last name of the person who is on this reservation--nothing less'. My nose is gushing like Niagra Falls. I have no tissue, and I can't hear. So, in a moment of desperation I pull out my 18 month old kid's passport (I travel with it to prove to people that he is actually under 2 and can fly for free since they never believe he is under 2 since he is so huge). So, I pull out the passport, the photo on which was taken when he was 2 weeks old and he looks dazed and angry. (Ms. DunThat thinks he looks like a miniature Albert Brooks, which he does).
Miraculously, it works. Since he and dear hubby have the same last name and the baby had a photo ID, we were able to use his ID to get into the room. I think they gave in b/c my nose was dripping onto the reservation counter. Just as we are checking in (finally) I hear a huge commotion behind me. Hotel employees are running from everywhere. As I move closer to the elevators I see what is going on. My kid (the mini Albert Brooks one whose ID we have just used) has plunged into the decorative waterfall that is the centerpiece of the lobby and is soaking wet. He has also gotten water EVERYWHERE. As I approached and scooped him up, they were putting up all these yellow sighs that said CAUTION, HAZARD, SLIPPERY SURFACE.
Our last act of the disastrous day was to go to the 'Happy Hour' sponsored by the hotel. Everyone wanted to go, so we had no choice but to take the little kids with us. So there we are: me, my parents who are in their seventies, and two small children sitting at a hotel bar eating mini-hotdogs (pigs in a blanket) and driking free apple martinis. Somehow I don't think Brangelina ever have to deal with things like this....
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Traveling with a Commitment-Phobe
Mrs. BeenThere, there are so many of us out there who feel your pain. Each of my ex BF's tended to develop commitment-itis when confronted with an approaching vacation. I have also witnessed the psychosomatic illness. But now that I think about it was really manufactured illness and personal injury. Mr. BeenThere had a choice- to either eat the questionable shellfish or leave it alone. A previous ex boyfriend was even better than your husband. We were supposed to go to the jazz festival in Montreal, and he was sooo not excited about it. He took his mountain bike out the evening before, in the dark, and flipped over it, puncturing something in his shoulder that would actuallyrequire surgury. For the next week, instead of staying in a nice hotel, we stayed at his parents house where I slept on the floor next to his bed, and if memory serves me correctly, holding his hand. Gag, ugh, ughh, gag. I can totally imagine Brad having exploding diahrrea on a vacation with Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and David Arqette.He would probably eat some stale pork rinds to avoid having to participate in group karaoke or something. But he wouldn't with Angelina, or George Clooney for that matter. They would look down on him if he had to take a day off from working in the soup kitchen or whatever he's doing that day. Plus, Angie would so rip him a new one and go sleep with that Jenny Shimuzu model.
My most recent ex, you know, the BIG ONE also had a bad case of travel jitters. But he was truly the worst. Countless times he would take me on a field trip to the Barnes and Noble, to look excitedly through travel guides. I can't describe to you hhow excited he was. He would say things like, "I'd love to stay at a little rustic pensione just like this, with a window just like this." Then I would start to really plan the vacation, and after confirming he was available and booking the tickets, he would mentally back away and act like he was doing me a favor, like I'd been nagging him to go with me. Like it was all my idea! I swear, I would be on the cover of 'Duh' Magazine!
My most recent ex, you know, the BIG ONE also had a bad case of travel jitters. But he was truly the worst. Countless times he would take me on a field trip to the Barnes and Noble, to look excitedly through travel guides. I can't describe to you hhow excited he was. He would say things like, "I'd love to stay at a little rustic pensione just like this, with a window just like this." Then I would start to really plan the vacation, and after confirming he was available and booking the tickets, he would mentally back away and act like he was doing me a favor, like I'd been nagging him to go with me. Like it was all my idea! I swear, I would be on the cover of 'Duh' Magazine!
Namibia is for Commitment-phobes
You know how they say Paris is for lovers? Well, I have a new promotional schame for the Namibian tourism board: Namibia is for Commitmentphobes. I was reminded of this story when I read Ms.DunThat's post about her ex's aborted trip to visit her. I too, have a similar story.
Most of you are probably aware that Brangelina and family are tucked away at a $5,0000 a night resort in Namibia. This makes me sour for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I once went on a "vacation" with my boyfriend (we got married ten years after this happened but I'm still sour about it). He was in a heightened state of commitment-phobia and didn't even want to be on vacation with me. I begged and begged him to go on vacation with me. I really wanted to go on vacation becuase we were living in Southern Africa at the time and we lived with a bunch of other Americans who were Peace Corp volunteers, Fulbright scholars and the rest. Anyway, come to find out these people who I thought were my friends planned this huge vacation, rock climbing and safari-ing. Like ten people were going, and they didn't invite me. I felt like I had like the biggest "L" for LOSER tatooed on my forehead. My boyfriend was like "who cares, those people are dumb." But I, of course, did care. A lot. So, anyway, I really needed to go on a vacation to make myself feel better and so it wouldn't look like I was such a total loser to these people. Anyway, since my boyfriend didn't even want to be my boyfriend he didn't exactly want to go on vacation. But I begged and he relented. We chose Namibia becuase it was within driving distance. Well, it was like ten hours away. But it was cheap.
Instead of staying in a $5,000 a night place, our place cost $50 a night. It was about 103 degrees everyday in Namibia and the place had no central air. Only a rickety fan. At that time my boyfriend's commitmentphobia generally manifested itself in various forms of illness. Usually stomach related. Anyway, one night we went out for fish. I ate a couple of bites of mine, but it didn't taste right, so I left it alone. My boyfriend, however, decided to eat the fish I said smelled funny. He wolfed it down. About six hours later he got a really bad case of exploding diahrrea, which lasted the rest of the horrendous trip. We couldn't do anything in that god-forsaken country except sit in that hot room which, quite literally, smelled like ass. WE only left the hotel once, to go to an open air market and buy these baskets woven out of grass. My boyfriend thought it would be really funny to go up to the guy selling baskets and say: "I need six baskets, one for my girlfriend, and one for each of my wives". Har-de-har-har.
On the last night of our trip he dropped another bomb on me (this time outside the bathroom). He told me he had been offered a job in Europe and was leaving the following week. I was like, huh? And then he left me and we had a long distance relationship (different time zones) for like the next four years.
Once I saw this Dr. Phil show and this woman had made really bad choices in her love life. Dr. Phil looked at her and said "What are you? The center=fold for Duh-Magazine?" I guess if she was the centerfold, Ms. DunThat and I have lifetime subscriptions!!
Most of you are probably aware that Brangelina and family are tucked away at a $5,0000 a night resort in Namibia. This makes me sour for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I once went on a "vacation" with my boyfriend (we got married ten years after this happened but I'm still sour about it). He was in a heightened state of commitment-phobia and didn't even want to be on vacation with me. I begged and begged him to go on vacation with me. I really wanted to go on vacation becuase we were living in Southern Africa at the time and we lived with a bunch of other Americans who were Peace Corp volunteers, Fulbright scholars and the rest. Anyway, come to find out these people who I thought were my friends planned this huge vacation, rock climbing and safari-ing. Like ten people were going, and they didn't invite me. I felt like I had like the biggest "L" for LOSER tatooed on my forehead. My boyfriend was like "who cares, those people are dumb." But I, of course, did care. A lot. So, anyway, I really needed to go on a vacation to make myself feel better and so it wouldn't look like I was such a total loser to these people. Anyway, since my boyfriend didn't even want to be my boyfriend he didn't exactly want to go on vacation. But I begged and he relented. We chose Namibia becuase it was within driving distance. Well, it was like ten hours away. But it was cheap.
Instead of staying in a $5,000 a night place, our place cost $50 a night. It was about 103 degrees everyday in Namibia and the place had no central air. Only a rickety fan. At that time my boyfriend's commitmentphobia generally manifested itself in various forms of illness. Usually stomach related. Anyway, one night we went out for fish. I ate a couple of bites of mine, but it didn't taste right, so I left it alone. My boyfriend, however, decided to eat the fish I said smelled funny. He wolfed it down. About six hours later he got a really bad case of exploding diahrrea, which lasted the rest of the horrendous trip. We couldn't do anything in that god-forsaken country except sit in that hot room which, quite literally, smelled like ass. WE only left the hotel once, to go to an open air market and buy these baskets woven out of grass. My boyfriend thought it would be really funny to go up to the guy selling baskets and say: "I need six baskets, one for my girlfriend, and one for each of my wives". Har-de-har-har.
On the last night of our trip he dropped another bomb on me (this time outside the bathroom). He told me he had been offered a job in Europe and was leaving the following week. I was like, huh? And then he left me and we had a long distance relationship (different time zones) for like the next four years.
Once I saw this Dr. Phil show and this woman had made really bad choices in her love life. Dr. Phil looked at her and said "What are you? The center=fold for Duh-Magazine?" I guess if she was the centerfold, Ms. DunThat and I have lifetime subscriptions!!
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