Elephants and Carrots and...Vassholes? Yeah, no thanks.

**WARNING: KIND OF EXPLICIT**

As if I needed one more reason to defend my decision to remain a card-carrying member of Childfree Women:

10 Unrecognizable Post-Childbirth Body Parts

You've got to be fucking kidding me.  Yes, I know this is meant to be a lighthearted, tongue-in-cheek look at the sacrifices women make to bring children into this world, but if shriveled boobs and a vaginal pachyderm weren't enough,  I now have to feel sad that I've missed out on having one giant, gaping hole between my legs out of which all my bodily waste exits?

No.

No.

No.

And in case my answer weren't clear...no.

It's not that I'm vain.  Not at all.  I'm fat.  Obese.  Technically classified as morbidly so, in fact.  I have a host of issues with my physical shape.  From years of yo-yo dieting I've stretched out my skin and it's a mess.  I've got cellulite and a gut and a FUPA and all that.  But my boobs are fighting the good fight, and my vagina and my asshole are two separate and distinct entities and both are fully intact.  And for that, after reading this article, I am more grateful than ever.

And the next guy who wants to tell me I'm "defective" for never having had kids can go find himself an elephantine vasshole to fuck.  I'm happy with my setup just the way it is.

The Only Spinster in the Village

I've never been a serial monogamist.  I tend to take a really, REALLY long time between relationships.  Really.  Like, years. And this is why I've had a grand total of four serious relationships in my life (or five, if you count NOLA dude, but I usually don't, only because it was way more serious in my mind than it was in reality and had no honest potential).  This also accounts for why I've never been married.  See, none of these serious relationships, despite their seriousness, lasted very long.  The first one lasted four years.  The rest never made it to two years.  One didn't even make it to a year.   The most recent one was the only one that resulted in an engagement, but of course it didn't work out.

Yes, you heard correctly. I'm 41 and I've never been married.  And apparently I'm the only person on the face of the planet to boast such an achievement.

While this doesn't necessarily bother me, a great many others seem to be unable to receive this fact about me without a little fizzle, pop, and a "does not compute" error message in their brains. Suffice to say it really fucking irks me when people ask me why I've never been married, mainly because they ask it with such curiosity and incredulousness, as if I'm sporting a third eyeball and they want to know how it got there.  How should I answer this?  I have never quite figured out the one-size-fits-all answer. "Because no one ever asked" used to be my standard comeback, but that's no longer true.  My most recent ex DID ask me to marry him.  I bought the ring, but still, he did the proposing.  A few times, in fact.

I went on a date last weekend with a man who was quite possibly one of THE worst matches on record.  I feel especially bad saying this because it was a rare non-internet hookup through a co-worker/friend's father.  He thought this guy and I would make a good match simply based on the fact that we're both single, child-free, and in our 40's.  But other than those three things?  We had not a thing in common - which might not necessarily be a bad thing, except we had GLARING fundamental differences in spirituality, philosophy, politics, and life goals.  Nice guy, very polite - my friend's dad wasn't wrong on that count - but not my type AT ALL.  And he basically blew it fifteen minutes into the date when he turned to me and said, "so...how come you never got married?"

My bristling cringe must have been obvious, because he immediately said, "I'm sorry - that's a really personal question.  I shouldn't have asked."  I said, "no, it's okay," but inside I was seething.  Why did it fucking MATTER?  So I'm 41 and I've never married.  SO WHAT?! Am I somehow a better person if I'd gotten married and then divorced?  Does having spent tens of thousands of dollars on a wedding and then again on a divorce lawyer somehow make me a more valid individual for having had the experience?  Is making a life-altering mistake for the sake of sporting a diamond ring and walking down an aisle in a fluffy white dress and feeding 100 people chicken in bearnaise sauce before doing the Hokey Pokey and Electric Slide something I have to do to prove my worth to the rest of the world?  To make me "normal" in the eyes of potential mates?

FUCK. THAT.

I'm not opposed to marriage.  Quite the contrary.  Because I am a hopeless romantic underneath all this piss and vinegar, I view marriage not in the economical or political aspect, but as a spiritual bond representative of the deepest love one can share with another individual.  When two people pledge their lives to each other, it's kind of a big deal.  It allows for a deeper development in intimacy (not just sex, mind you - intimacy is way more than that), and the stakes are higher - not because the threat of divorce looms overhead, but because they have made a serious and binding commitment.  Yes, yes, I know..."why do you need a piece of paper to validate your commitment?"  Well...maybe you don't.  But my point is that I wouldn't enter into such a commitment unless I truly, deeply, honestly believed I would honor my vows to this person, and once I'd made those vows I would do everything in my power to uphold them.

And so far, in all my nearly 42 years, I've yet to find someone who feels the same way.

So I guess that's my answer.

Eternal Sunshine Obscured by Dark Clouds

I am in a funk.  And not in that good James Brown kind of way, either.  I'm in a full-on miserable, dark-cloud-over-my-head, pouty, irritated, stinking funk.

There are several factors in play here, but some of the most recent gloom has to do with the fact that I have been in brief touch with my ex.  I had something of his that he needed, and I reached out to him to give it back.  I didn't have to, but I was feeling charitable and thought that by doing so I'd be rising above the resentment I still feel toward him.  I even threw in a little "peace offering" of a local treat that he can't get where he is now.

I shouldn't have done it.  It kicked off a series of terse (on my end) exchanges that left me feeling...well, less than great. Look. No matter how much you think you're over something, no matter how much better off you know you are without someone, when the day comes when you've been replaced and have become completely irrelevant in someone's life, it's never an easy thing to swallow.

In "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," Clementine undergoes a procedure to have her memories of Joel wiped out after they split, and he is crestfallen when he runs into her and she doesn't recognize or remember him.  To make himself feel better, he has the same procedure done, but as Joel's mind is being purged of memories, he struggles to let them go and realizes he doesn't really want to forget Clementine. I think perhaps that's what happened to me to a degree.   The more I tried to forget him, the more I remembered.  And of course, selective memory when you're bumming is a dangerous thing.  Instead of remembering the negatives, I've honed in on the romanticized version.  Dangerous stuff.

After the breakup, I did my own memory purge of sorts and threw myself headlong into my life in an effort to get over it and get back to where I'd come from.  I had spent so much time and energy on the relationship that I lost a good deal of who I was.  So I had a reclamation of all the things that I couldn't do while he was around, and I blasted back on to the scene.  My friends jubilated.  "Welcome back!" they exclaimed.   I celebrated my newly reacquired independence with a vengeance; I tackled my house and made it mine again.   I was accepted into a professional chorus.  I started hosting friends and holding quirky dinner parties.  I traveled.  I wrote.  I performed. I worked.  I went out. I worked some more.

About a year after the breakup, I went to India for a month.  I had a brief whirlwind affair with a local man while I was there, which ended up being a catalyst to making the decision to start dating again when I returned to the States.  There's just one small problem there: I hate dating.  And I'm not very good at it.  I've made my feelings on internet dating quite clear before, but regardless of the method, dating just isn't my strong suit. At all. My ex, on the other hand, didn't seem to have any trouble getting back on the scene and finding someone new right away and falling in love and settling into a whole new life, complete with a ready-made family unit with two kids and a dog and a cat and whatnot.   And I suppose that's where most of the resentment stemmed from.  Why was it so easy for him?  If history is any indication, he'll probably marry this one, too (they ALL marry the one they find after me).

So this is what's got me down today. It's not that I miss him. I just wonder how come everyone else seems to be able to find love and fall right into it while I'm left holding a handful of broken pieces that never quite fit back together the same way.  It hardly seems fair.  Then again, not much in life is.

Teachers as militia? No thanks.

Back in July, after James Holmes shot up a movie theater in Colorado, I wrote a post about guns.

On Friday, when I learned of the shooting in a Connecticut elementary school, my first reaction was, "Oh, no.  Not again."  I checked in throughout the day as the story unfolded and watched with horror as the death toll mounted - most of them small kids.  I remembered the public's reaction to the Colorado shooting and the number of pro-gun folks who said, "if only there had been someone in that theater with a gun..." and thought, "I wonder if anyone will dare suggest that there should have been an armed person inside the school to save lives."  I doubted it.  I mean, who would even suggest such a thing?  It's an elementary school!

Sho'nuff, it didn't take long.

"They needed an armed, trained teacher in that school to take this guy down."

Hmm.  Okay.  Let's take a look at this argument.  Armed, trained teacher.  We're going to assume that this "armed, trained" teacher isn't Mrs. Rumpl, my 80 year old kindergarten teacher who wore coke-bottle glasses and saddle shoes.  Let's assume this "armed, trained" teacher is more like my 6th-grade teacher, Mr. O'Shei.  He was young, strapping, and physically fit.   

So.  "Armed, trained" teacher is teaching geography at the north end of the school.  He's engaging a classroom of young minds and showing the location of the Dead Sea on a map.  Suddenly the intercom crackles with the sound of chaos, and gunshots ring out from the south end of the school.  "Armed, trained" teacher first has to make a quick decision about the 25 young lives sitting in front of him.  He tells them to get under their desks as he sprints from the classroom, running toward the sound of the commotion.  His weapon is drawn, and he's running, full-speed, past terrified teachers and students.  He gets to the south end of the school and finds 27 bodies, including that of the gunman.  Oops.  Too late.

Scenario #2: The gunman forces his way into the school and enters the "armed, trained" teacher's classroom.  Assuming the gun is locked safely away, the teacher now has a split second to divert his attention from teaching, access the gun, and take the bad guy down, all while the gunman is aiming a Bushmaster at his head.   Perhaps, however, the gun is in "armed, trained" teacher's holster.  He is pointing out the Tropic of Capricorn when he hears a noise, looks up, sees a semiautomatic barrel in his face.  He reaches for his gun, but this crazed massacrer is quicker.  Boom.  Teacher's dead.  Let the bloodbath begin.  

Scenario #3: While those who are defending this line of action insist that this could never happen, the possibility does exist that a student could get hold of the teacher's gun and accidentally or purposely shoot himself or someone else.  And just imagine the backlash from that.  

There are too many variables and potential negative outcomes and moot points to justify this idea as a good one.  Guns are dangerous and do not belong in schools. Teachers are not paid to be militia.  Teachers are paid - and not that well to begin with - to teach.   I don't have kids, but that shouldn't affect how much weight my argument carries.  I have nieces - one of whom is 6 years old, like most of the Sandy Hook victims.  I have a nephew.  Many of my cousins have children or even grandchildren.  I am an "honorary aunt" to a number of my friends' kids.  I wouldn't want any of these children to be anywhere near a gun, regardless of how "well trained" the person is who's carrying it.  

There are a lot of "what ifs" in this situation, but what it comes down to is my previous argument that more guns are not the answer.  We tried that once, remember?  It was called the Wild West.  Surely we've evolved since then, no?

Prepare for the onslaught

I have a LOT to say in the wake of recent events.  Meanwhile, project deadlines loom (or pass), the mess in my house continues to pile up around me, my pets look at me with bewildered eyes wondering what's got me prone to spontaneous sobbing outbursts,  and all I want to do is write it out.  If I don't, I'm liable to nap my emotions away (one of my coping mechanisms involves what my ex called "fetaling"  - the act of curling up in a fetal position and falling asleep). And so I must write.

Three days ago, a 20-year-old mentally ill Connecticut man - boy, really -  killed his mother with her own gun.  He then drove her car to nearby Sandy Hook elementary school and shot his way in before gunning down the principal, a school psychologist, four teachers, and 20 children between the ages of 5 and 7.   We've all been bombarded with the details of the story, the names and faces of the victims, and a barrage of commentary in response.

I have so much to say that I cannot possibly say it all in one post without risking the loss of my readers' attention.  I have to break it up into segments, and so my next few entries will deal with my response to the tragedy, from the media attention to gun control to mental illness to the unbelievable reactions I'm seeing from people.

Stay tuned.  The Fat Prattler has something to say about all of that.

Here we go again!

It was recently brought to my attention that my ex is now dating a woman he met online.  They're evidently over the moon for each other, he's moved in with her already, and is in love with his "instant family," spending his weekends carting "his kids" to Chuck E. Cheese and whatnot.  And if the trend of my life is any indication, he'll probably marry her.  They all marry the one they date after me.  He always wanted children, so I guess I should be happy that he finally found someone to provide them for him.  Lord knows I couldn't do it.

I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but more than the fact that he's got a new girlfriend, I'm bothered by the fact that online dating actually worked for him.  He's one of about three people I know who've had any modicum of success with the medium, and it pisses me off.

I hate online dating.  I despise it.  I hate the fact that it's superficial and full of nonsense and preconceived notions.  It's an artificial construct that doesn't allow people to really get to know each other or allow people to give each other a chance because too many people will look at a list of interests, likes, and physical stats and think, "nope, not for me."  And that's not fair.  In real life I'm a pretty awesome person, and I'm not terribly bad-looking.  I'm overweight, but I see plenty of overweight women with boyfriends and even husbands - so that can't be all there is to it, can it?

Maybe it's just the area I live in, or the fact that I'm Childfree.  There's nothing "wrong" with me, other than the fact that I take a long time between relationships because the whole process is just a pain in the ass.  And at this age, the pickin's are pretty slim.  They consist of  lunatics, losers, and drunks, or married guys looking for something on the side.

Over it.  All of it.  I've done crazy, I've done loser, I've done drunk (all in one, in one case!), and I've done married.  None of it worked very well.  Crazy loser drunks tend to be abusive, and married guys will always put their wives first (as it should be).  You can't rely on these types of men, and that's such an important part of a relationship.  For if you can't rely on your partner, then what's the point?

Anyway, I was ranting about the whole online dating thing, and someone asked to see what I'd written in my profile.  My account had been deactivated for awhile, but once you log in again you're reactivated and cannot re-deactivate for another week.  So now I'm stuck for a week, and already the bullshit has started.

From "cublookin4cougar" I get this:

Hey there I know I'm a younger guy but I really love being with older women. There a real turn on for me. If you'd like to have some fun maybe we could grab some lunch sometime and talk too see if we could make it to the bedroom ;) lol

Oh, brother.  Yeah, why don't I just jump right into the sack with you?  Now, my friends are offering varying views on this.  Some are sympathetic, but others are telling me, "just go for it!" and "think of it as practice!"

Um. Practice?  Practice for what?  I don't need practice.  Jesus Christ, if you people had any idea what goes on behind my closed doors...practice?  None needed, believe me.  What I need practice in is interacting with men my own age, men who are emotionally available, men who want to treat me like a partner and not just a piece of fucking meat (literally).  I'm not knocking FWB situations, but I'm over it at this point. 

I'm told, "just hold on, it'll happen when you least expect it."

And to this I say, FUCK YOU.  And I mean that in the nicest possible way, because I know when people say shit like that, they mean well.  But here's what I don't understand.  I've been "least expecting" it for the better part of the last 20 years, only about 7 of which have been spent in any kind of actual relationship.  I'm 41 years old. How come some people find their soulmate at 25 or 30 but the rest of us have to "hold on?" Hold on to what? My face as it slides down my skull? My boobs as they travel down to my knees? The handfuls of hair I rip out of my head when I get messages from little pisspots who want to fuck an older woman so they can add it to their resume? Fuck that. And no, I will not go have fun, because little shits like this don't deserve the fun I know how to have.

Shit I think about when I'm drawing anthropomorphized elements

I'm currently illustrating a book about the elements.  I can't really say much else because, well, that's how it works in pre-publication.  I'm not really allowed to talk about it, show it to anyone, or discuss the story.  All part of the whole non-disclosure and being sworn to secrecy lest someone steal the concept.

Anyway.  It's been a long, arduous project, full of frustration, reworks, missed deadlines, and a LOT of dust.  I love the way pastel looks, but it is a very, very dirty medium.  For this reason I am thankful I have a studio space.  

So while I work, I have a lot of time to think.  I listen to music, draw, and think.  I also talk to myself a lot.  Working on a project is a great way to sort through things I might not otherwise have time to mull about.

This afternoon I was thinking about this person in whom I am interested.  His name is, well...I've been referring to him as "He Who Drinks My Coffee," and I think for the purpose of this blog he shall remain such.  I'm pretty sure this individual is currently attached.  Married, perhaps.  Not sure.  In any case, I found myself handing him my number yesterday afternoon after weeks - months, perhaps - of admiring him from afar.  We'll see if he calls.  I'm not holding my breath.  He did, however, deliver my forgotten coffee shortly after I gave him my number.  So if nothing else, he's thoughtful if not available.

As I am wont to do in these situations, though, I started really overthinking my behavior.  When he stopped over with my coffee, I found myself prattling on and on and on about various things that interest me.  In retrospect, however, I don't think any of them made me seem all that appealing.  I talked about my power tools, for the most part.  And moulding.  How romantic.  I appeared dressed in my cruddy art clothes - jeans, t-shirt, apron, hair in a messy bun with a pencil stuck in it, and pastel dust everywhere.  I'm sure he was like, "she got THAT dirty in a matter of half an hour?"  Serious Pigpen action, only in technicolor.  

It was hot out.  I started to sweat.  So I talked about power tools, home improvement, moulding, self-employment, and coffee while streaking ultramarine blue pastel across my sweaty forehead.  So attractive.

I hope he IS married.  At least then he has a convenient excuse to not reciprocate interest, rather than trying to figure out a nice way of saying, "sorry, fat manly artists aren't my type."

Oh well.  Back to work.