Relations***

I find myself having conversations about relationships all the time with my friends, and even strangers. We shouldn’t feel validated or defined by the quality of our relationships or lack of being able to procure a good one with the person we want to be with, but almost all of us feel that way.
When we are in a relationship, our confidence is elevated. We feel good, perform better at everything and are happier. I get it.

We all have an idea of who we want to end up with but with every failure, our standards drop until we’re literally ‘bottom-feeding’ at local meat market spots during the weekly sausage-fests, hoping to catch a sliver of the guy or girl we dream about finding one day. We make exceptions – but no one is the exception – because generally, if it wasn’t meant to be, then it won’t work no matter how hard you try to make someone fit in your life.

Movies like “He’s Just Not That Into You,” “Valentine’s Day” and “Friends with Benefits,” while funny, romantic and possessing some truth, give people false hope. I’m not saying FWB relationships can’t turn into something more, or that the girl or guy who tries hard enough can’t win their crush over, but most of the time those are relationships of circumstance. Sometimes, you’re convenient or the last one standing.

The biggest complaint among girls is, “Why can’t I find a good man? Why do they turn out to be douchebags?”

Well, I think that the term douchebag gets thrown around a lot and some of those guys don’t really deserve it. Never thought you’d hear me say that, did you?

There are a few reasons guys get labeled douchebags:

 Girl gets dumped before she’s ready to let go of the guy.
 He used the girl for sex.
 He made her think he wanted a relationship.
 Just stops calling and texting.
Cheated.
 Most of his wardrobe consists of Affliction, Tapout, tank tops, salmon colored shorts and boat shoes.

1. With the exception of No. 5, none of those are valid reasons to label a guy a douche. And, as much as it pains me to admit this, just because the guy dresses in douche-labeled brands, it doesn’t make him a douchebag. I have a few guy friends and a brother who wear those brands and they are not tools.

2. Girls, if you wait to have sex with a guy until you are sure things are going somewhere, maybe they won’t feel like they can use you for sex.

3. Also, let’s face it, no one can make you think whatever you started is heading for a serious relationship. If you listen, he probably said a lot of things to clue you into his general feelings about relationships – mainly whether he wants one or not. Most guys will tell you straight up if they want one or not or if they are open to seeing how things end up. Just ask.

And it goes both ways: men, ladies aren’t bitches and whores because they put out too soon, break up with you to date someone else or dress like the girls at the gentlemen’s club – but I admit perception is reality in our society and we constantly judge based on the majority or from experience.

Guys want to know "why do girls want dbags?"

Well, you didn't act like a douchebag when we met you. No guy is and even if his reputation precedes the initial meeting, guys have a way of charming the panties off a girl. Literally. So, we form our own opinion and, generally, it’s a good one so we stick around long enough that by the time you turn into douches, we can’t rationalize through our feelings and think if we stick it out long enough, things will get better.

No one said we were smart.

If a guy or girl breaks up with you, fair and square, regardless of whether they told you they are going to love you forever and EVER the day before, you have to appreciate that they respect you enough to actually end it before moving on – and not just 12-stepping the relationship down.

Slowly steps down calling/texting
Not hanging out as much
Withdrawing affection - no more making out like bandits
No longer invites you to friend functions/outings
No more compliments
No more pet names
Doesn’t make future plans
Finds arguments where there are none
Does not do what they say they will do
Does not return calls/texts
MIA for days at a time
Drops off the face of the earth

Guys and girls both blame past relationships for their current behavior and that’s bulls***.  One, two or ten people cheated on you or treated you like dirt. You didn’t like how that felt, so why would you do it to someone else? And why would you let that keep you from giving someone a chance that might actually turn out to be something good for you? No one deserves to be douchebagged.

Except the douchebag or douchebaguette who cheated on  you. 

Father's Day

It’s Father’s Day.

My dad isn’t here - he's in Hawaii right now - but I’m thinking about him today. I know I blog a lot about things that shouldn’t really matter, but I figure if it helps someone by making them laugh or to see a similarity in their own situation and know they aren’t alone, then I’ve done my job. But today is not about me. It’s about my dad – the best dad on the planet.

My dad is a great guy. He’s the kind of guy every girl should hope to meet. I’m sure he isn’t perfect, and my mom will probably attest to that, but he has good morals, values, is responsible, has a great sense of humor, is smart (I mean, he knows EVERYTHING) and no matter how hard things might have been when we were growing up, he never quit – life, work or family.

My dad was a single dad by the time he was 25-years old. My brother and I were still toddlers. I’m sure he had no idea what he was doing, but he didn’t pawn us off on family so he could experience being in his mid-20s as a single guy. I don’t remember much about the time before he met my step-mom (an amazing woman whom I just call mom because she is mom), but when he was stationed in Korea on an unaccompanied tour, we went with him – and stayed in the barracks until we were caught and he had to live out on the economy. Or something like that.

We weren’t rich, there were times he had to work more than one job and sometimes we didn’t get what we wanted. But he always made sure we had what we needed. We went to church, ate meals at a table and not in front of a TV and went on family vacations. We have family photo albums that are not on the computer.

He never tried to be our friend more than he was our dad, raising us to be good, responsible adults. My brothers turned out to be just like him. Even though my middle brother is taken, anyone who gets to my little brother will be a lucky girl.

I might have failed being a responsible adult, but it wasn’t his fault. And he’s always been behind me, helping me pick up the pieces leftover from my terrible decisions. I never have to tell him when I need to talk to him, it’s like he knows and he always knows what to say. Sometimes I might not want to hear it, but I always appreciate it and eventually concede that he’s right.

He’s like that with all of us. And for that and more, I love him. 

In honor of Father’s Day and my dad, I am going to share just a few of my favorite memories of my dad:

My dad loves Led Zeppelin. I’m ambivalent about them. However, one time he was dropping me off at the train station to go back to boarding school and he had an LZ tape in (yes, I said tape). He sang the first line of the song before getting out of the car to check the train schedule, his intent being to start the music when he got back in the car. When he got out, I switched the tapes and put a Beatles one in so when he pressed play ... Hahaha. I actually didn't do that twice. 

My dad bringing me my first walkman and Madonna tape for my 16th birthday when he came back from TDY.

"What?!" is how he answered the phone once we had caller ID. 

It was my first summer in North Carolina and I was recruited to be his battle buddy to a 4^th of July mandatory fun event at … I don’t know, probably Smith Lake. I didn’t do anything or eat anything until I saw a super cute, shirtless guy sit down at a table. My dad was nowhere in sight. So, I decided to grab a plate and put  myself in a position to get to know this guy who, incidentally, had a red devil tatted on his left pectoral muscle. Then, like magic, my dad materializes out of nowhere and sits next to me. When I suggest he go help clean up, he realizes my motive and immediately goes on a rant about what he would do to the guy who would take his daughter out. It was smooth, funny and embarrassing at the time time. I wish I could remember word for word what he said, but I was busy giving him the silent treatment on the way home, even when he threatened to call the guy, who happened to be one of his soldiers, to make him take me out. I didn't date in high school.

When I finally bought my dad something he could use – a Norelco shaver – for Christmas one year. It’s the only gift I’ve ever bought him that wasn’t terrible.

Going to lunch with my dad when he had his computer shop on Bragg Blvd. 

The first time he babysat my daughter when I went on a job interview. He took her to McDonald’s and shopping. When I went to pick her up, he had bought her a few things at the store. When I asked him why he did that, he looked at me helplessly and said something to the effect of, “She said you told her to beg me to get her stuff.” It might not have been those exact words, but I remember telling her not to beg Grampa to buy her anything because she already had a lot of stuff.

We had my daughter’s 3^rd birthday party at the skating rink. She disappeared and my dad helped me look for her. We found her sitting atop the boys urinal. My dad walked away. I think that’s the first time I heard him belly laugh.

All the times my dad would skype or facetime me from some new phone or tablet and tell me all about some new gadget that came out and how useful it was or wasn't going to be. And pretending to know exactly what he was talking about while I was Googling it to keep up. 

Hearing my dad tell me he loves me for the first time since ... forever last year was kind of amazing. And the only thing I needed to hear to get my ass back on track with my priorities. 

I didn't see my dad enough when he was here. 

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I wish I could be with you right now.

The Ex-Chronicles: Sexting the masses

It’s no secret my ex and I had one of those intense on-off-again relationships I tell everyone to avoid. I’ve probably blogged it to death. For that, I am not sorry because it’s my blog. But, as I was talking to one of the girls whom he had d-bagged almost as bad as he did me, I realized a lot of the shit I put up with was blog-worthy and I wasn’t blogging about it enough. Don’t judge, folks, because we’ve all been there at one time or another. Just laugh, because it’s funny.

So, this actually happened a while back:

You would have thought being on complete opposite sides of the US would mean the ex would stop harassing me, trying to convince me he missed me and wanted me back. It didn’t. As a matter of fact, I think I’ve heard from him more since our relationship finale than when I was living with him.

I’m pretty sure he has a form of anti-social personality disorder to get busted for as much as he has and somehow think saying ‘sorry’ and writing sweet, hand-written notes, sending adult toys and mass-sexting on (what he thinks is) ‘the down-low’ will make everything okay.

It isn’t. But to be fair, I did put up with it, so at some point, it stopped being his fault and started being mine. Hey, I can be honest. But I digress.

So,  mass-sexting the dirty bits to a group of girls is never a good idea. Because when everyone responds, everyone gets it. Imagine my surprise when my phone was ambushed by several numbers from his area code, saying things like, “Mmmm, so delish!,” “Sexy!,” “Can’t w8 2 (censored),” and “U r so haaaaaawt!”

I was like, “Holy crap! How did these people know I was having a good hair/face day?”

Kidding.

I immediately knew what that was about, even if I had ignored the initial pic-text. What’s more annoying is, a few weeks before then, he had sent me what I thought was a heartfelt email/text about his feelings, me, us and how he wanted to move to be with me. I could have almost believed that, except I knew better.

And with that one mass-sext of his jiggly bits, he negated every word of what he had said, like I probably knew he would somewhere in the back of my mind.

So, I did what every other girl wouldn’t have the balls to do - I put my class on a shelf and mass text all the numbers who  replied to my phone the same image he had sent me (and everyone else) along with the ‘heartfelt’ one and said basically said, “catfight, go.”

Some of the girls were ‘shocked and appalled’ while others wanted to debate the validity of everything I sent them as well as my motive for doing so. The driving force behind what I did was being annoyed that I was still dealing with his douchebauchery.

So, I blocked all their numbers along with his and imagined the field day he was having with that mess. I’m sure he wasn’t worried – he knows how to clean up his own mess – no pun … okay, pun intended.

Anyway, all I could do was shake my head because if he stopped for a minute to look at the angle of the photo he sent, he would have seen it wasn’t the most complimentary angle for his junk.  As a matter of fact, the photographer part of my brain sized up the pic and came up with at least two other angles that wouldn’t necessarily have made it look any bigger, or more like anything I wanted to see, but perhaps he could have at least made it look less ‘nubby.’

Seriously, this reminded me of the first offense which took place eight months after we started dating:

He left his email up on my computer one day – and, guys, if you do this and expect a chick NOT to take a peek, you expect too much from us.

So, he leaves his email up on my computer, but I think it’s my email at first. So, I start digging trying to figure out where all my mail went. It didn’t take long for me to figure out it wasn’t my account. Especially after I went to the sent folder and saw about five multimedia messages he had sent from his phone to some girls of his junk.  With sexy captions underneath the photo to help illustrate how desirable he thought his no-no parts looked in the photo.

And out of all those girls, he didn’t even think to send me one – his GIRLFRIEND.

Not that I wanted a pic of his junk, but if anyone was more entitled to that, it would be me – the GIRLFRIEND. Right? And no matter how you describe it, man-junk is never going to be cute, so why dress it up with a caption? Saying things like, “thinking about you” and “this is all yours” doesn’t make it more appealing, especially if "all of that" was shot an an angle that made it look like a baby carrot. 

Haha, but boy, was I pissed! Not just because I wasn’t even considered to be on the recipient list of that little gem – no pun intended – but also because it was a douchebag move. And even though I called him out with the proof right in front of him, he tried to deny it. It wasn’t speculation and allegation … it was confirmation – and he looked me right in the eyes and said, “I didn’t do it, babe.”

Whaaaa -for serious?

But, that was the beginning of the end, ladies and gentlemen. Once that line was crossed, my ‘forgiveness’ was mistaken for ‘acceptance’ and … well, the rest is a historical waste of time. 

Remember when Hugh Grant got caught with the transvestite hooker?  And he owned it on national television and every other media outlet? I was torn between, “ew” and “wow … respect, son.” Not like ex-President Bill Clinton trying to convince the nation that getting a blow job was not in the same category as having sexual relations when discussing the mess he left on Monica Lewinsky’s dress, which he eventually conceded could, in fact, be construed as sexual relations.

Not that either guy is a role model. And why the hell would that girl not have the dress cleaned?  Presidential sperm is not really worth money ... just a scandal for all involved. 

Ah, but again, I digress. 

ATM fail

I haven’t live in Fayetteville in over two years. In that time, a LOT has changed, including the locations of places I use to frequent, like my bank in particular.

So, there I was, pulling up to the drive-thru ATM at my bank located on Morganton Road. I needed to make a deposit and it was on my way home. It was a long day and I couldn’t wait to get home, shower and relax.

I get the deposit ready and swipe my card. Then I enter my pin and look for the deposit option on the screen to pop up.

It doesn’t.

I keep looking for it on the screen and my only options are to withdraw, transfer and get a balance inquiry. I cancel the transaction thinking maybe the machine didn’t read my card correctly.

After removing and re-inserting my card several more times, I give up and offer a few swear words at my bank for apparently installing a deposit-free ATM. How inconvenient. Not everyone has the time to make it to the bank during normal operating hours and my bank isn’t open on Saturdays. 

Maybe I should switch to a more accommodating bank.

Yeah, that’ll show ‘em.

I decide to withdraw some cash before leaving the ATM, since I was already there.  I insert my card one last time and select all the options leading up to a successful withdrawal of cash. Wait a minute …

What’s this?  A $2.50 FEE?! At my OWN bank?

How DARE they?! Do I accept?!

HELL NO!

Pssshhhh. No other bank charges their customers for using the ATM.

Canceling THAT transaction, I’m furiously making a mental promise to myself to change banks at the first opportunity when I notice the ATM screen’s final message to me:

“Thank you for your transaction, idiot. This is a Vantage Bank, not your bank. If you would have checked the sign when you drove up, maybe you wouldn’t have expended so much energy in pissing yourself off at your own stupidity. Have a nice day.”  

My bank moved locations two years ago.

Does this blog make me look P.H.A.T.?

I can’t fit into my pants!!!

I’d like to blame everything else but my fall off the workout wagon and the subsequent widening of my waistline, but I can’t. Truth is, since my return to North Carolina and the crazy schedule with my new job, I’ve skipped working out more times than I had excuses for. On top of that, although I don’t eat a lot - okay, I eat a lot. But I'm a grazer and a closet eater. That means, in public, I'm modest about what I eat. Behind closed doors, however, you can find me in and out of the kitchen eating anything I convince myself is a small enough portion to be okay - except that I'm eating multiple small portions.

And one spoon of frosting turns into two or three - an hour. 

After almost three months, my butt and thighs can’t even be shoe-horned into my size five jeans. At least not without a decent amount of muffin-top pouring out of them - which makes it look like I'm wearing a pool toy around my hips.It doesn’t help to see my 15-year old daughter effortlessly slip on the same jeans I only months ago was able to get into.

So, I resolved to start working out again. I had to – a new wardrobe isn’t cheap. And I want my jeans back from my kid.

Working out itself is not hard – it’s the getting started part and being consistent that’s difficult. It’s so easy to over-nap and blame a long day at work. Trust me – I’ve definitely procrasti-napped. I've also found that a lot more cleaning and laundry get done while I'm trying to keep up with a workout schedule. But, I’m running out of clothing options and without the paycheck to support new clothes, working out has gone from being a choice to a necessity.

My first day, I made it a half mile and felt as if my lungs were going to explode. Every breath was like fire and ice - an icy fire. There was no WOD after, only a temporary death on my living room floor that lasted into the next morning. The pain was almost unbearable , I couldn't move my body in fear of something dislocating.  

Seriously, that was the first day. My body was arguing with my resolve, telling me I could wear stretchy pants and tunics and no one would care.

But I would. And yes, I said tunics. 

So, I forced myself to work out at least three to four days a week, starting small and working up to a decent workout.

Here I am, just a few weeks later and I’m up to two miles a day and a short crossfit or body weight workout after on the days I am able to work out. I’ve included the squat and ab challenge on alternate days. We won't even talk about how hard it's been to sit on my ass after the squats. It hurts. 

Have I lost weight? Not a lot. But everything is toning up and I really like having an ass and thighs that look healthy instead of skinny. 

I made a commitment to get back into the shape I was in a few months ago. I’ve stopped making excuses and started fitting my workouts in my schedule. I’ve also let my daughter know, all those clothes she took from me because I couldn’t fit in them – she should hang on to them just in case I don’t get all the way back into them.  

Haha. 

Picture this ... my dirty bits ...

So, guys like to sext me pics of their dirty bits. That's a true story I wish wasn't ...

Boyfriends, just friends and even guys who are not my friends at all ... think that getting the digits is an invitation to telephonically  share the ugliest part of their anatomy with me.

Because the penis is what attracts me to a man first. Not his soulful eyes, playful smile or chiseled features.

Nope ... it's his naked package.

Like, I'm going to look at it and think, "Damn, that's a pretty penis, how did I get soooo lucky to get that ... package?"

Right.

What I'm really thinking is, "Is that the best angle he could take it at?" because I'm a photographer. Then the realist in me begs to ask, "Is this what courtship has evolved into?"

One of my exes loved to sext his dirty bits. He was (and I imagine he still is) very proud of something that performed better than it looked - and that was just most of the time. He didn't just share it with me, either, he sent his man bits to quite a few girls who pretended to be as impressed as I did. How I found out about that is another story. But I digress.

Honestly, there is nothing impressive about a penis unless it, or the person attached to it, performs exceptionally well.

However, when it's your boyfriend sending the pics, there is a certain, obligatory etiquette to be followed which includes a script of flattering replies to send after receipt that will boost the ego and ensure he will not try to overcompensate by making a lengthy 'performance' in leiu of his shortcoming(s). Pun intended - every single one that can be made from that statement.

And, I'll admit, I'd rather he send it to me and not a bunch of other women.

But, there is nothing like getting that random 'test shot' from a guy I've never even thought about sexually or in general. The one that's just accompanied by a smiley face followed by the awkward pause to see if you're gonna bite ... no pun intended. I've gotten so many of those, I could publish a coffee table book and call it "The Definitive Cockumentary." It would work because each one is so different ... ly ... ugly ...

Let's see, there was the one I thought was fake because his tool was ten shades darker than the rest of him; the banana split; shortstack; the bedazzler; and the boomerang - just to describe a few. I could make them all look like Polaroids, not unlike the ones serial killers like to take of their victims in all the movies.

Maybe once these tools see their tool from my point of view, it might dawn on them how silly they were to think it was sexy. At all.

Yes, I know it works both ways - chicks sext their girly bits all the time. Let's face it, fellas ... girls are just prettier. Unfair? Maybe. Fact of life? Absolutely.

When did people first start to think sending selfies of their dirty bits was a good idea? It's like smart technology has made the average person lose their mind and morality.  It's become sort of a phenomenon, with political figures and celebrities entangled in scandals involving the over-sharing of their naughty places accidentally on purpose. But technology has made it just as easy to call a douche out as well as to creep.

It's embarrassing, if you ask me.

So, if you are one of the many who gifted a pic of your junk to me, rest assured that I have deleted that nonsense from my phone. There won't be a 'cockumentary' or a dedicated social networking page with phone numbers attached to each photo as I so often joke to my friends.

If you're a guy contemplating sending his junk to a girl hoping to catch her attention ... let me suggest that flowers might work better. Unless it's me. I can tell  you right now, I'm not interested.  But if you insist ... be warned: I will take that as an open invitation to critique the anatomical value of your ... member - without mercy.

No place like home .. wherever that may be

"To be honest with you, I hated being in Fayetteville," ~ A.D.
"Funny, I thought I did, too, until I moved somewhere that felt worse than Fayetteville to me," ~ me

In one of my favorite movies, "The Wizard of Oz," Dorothy dreams of a magical place "over the rainbow" that's colorful and away from the black and white of her Auntie Em's farm. She gets caught in a tornado and is magically transported to the place of her dreams, but found something was missing. It took her 101 minutes to figure out what that might be.
 

We spend most of our young lives dreaming of moving away from the small towns where we grew up. Then, when we leave the town and our families and friends, we discover the outside isn't as glamorous as we fantasized it to be.

I was a 'military brat' and moved from place to place so often that by the time I had somewhere to call home, I was almost an adult. It didn't stop me from dreaming of the day I would leave the confines of my adopted hometown in North Carolina, my family and all the drama (real or imagined), for the big city. Which big city, you ask? Any city other than the one I was in and that offered instant fame as an actress, model or comic book illustrator.

No such city exists, by the way, and there is no mainstream fame in being a comic book illustrator - only the recognition of comic book geeks worldwide. It's not a huge demographic or a lucrative career. Acting and modeling wasn't in the cards for me either, however, that's another story.

But, I digress.

I stayed in my hometown well after I graduated high school and eventually got married, had a baby and found a career and a passion that I enjoyed - not in that order. But I never stopped dreaming of the day I would "get out of this place."

Well, two years ago, I finally did.

The guy I was dating was PCSing to Texas. I had been laid off and was working as a freelance photographer and collecting unemployment, and thought moving to explore this relationship and a new job would be the opportunity to get out of town that I had been waiting for all these years.

"Be careful what you wish for, folks, because you may get it."

I always tell people it's not where you are, but the people you are with, that make the place whatever it is you want it to be for you. It's a true statement. Home is where you make it, but there's no home without your family and good friends.

When I left for Texas, I left the most important people behind, including my daughter. It wasn't a permanent move. We were planning on moving back to my hometown when the boyfriend got out of the military, so I didn't even bother to settle in for the first year. I slept on an air mattress and the only furniture I had was a used futon and a cheap entertainment center I bought from Walmart for the TV I acquired from someone who was moving at the time.

It wasn't even a flat screen, it was an old RCA.

One of the first things I noticed about the town I had moved to was that there was a lot of stuff spread out over a great deal of space, but there was nothing to do. I drove around town the first few weeks I was there and the best description is that it's a lot like Fayetteville was 20 years ago. You didn't want to go downtown and everything you wanted to do was at least an hour away.

My boyfriend was deployed the first year and I made friends at work, but the only one who could do anything ended up leaving when her husband PCS'd to another duty station. Before she left, we traveled all over Central Texas, worked out and went to movies together - friend things. Once she left, I realized just how little there was to do on my own or even in the town I was living in.

A fact that I made clear to one of the city officials one morning while I was covering a story for the newspaper. He asked me where I was from and was curious to know about Fayetteville.  Describing it to him, I was surprised to come to the realization that the "most awful place on Earth" was all of a sudden not so bad in comparison to some other places.

And I missed it terribly.

I had spent so much time disliking my hometown for things I could change that I had made it my prison. A prison I felt I had broken out of when I moved. Don't get me wrong, it's not perfect, but no place is, right?

Maybe if I had been working towards making Texas my home, I would have felt differently, but I doubt it. Home is where your heart is and even though I had followed part of my heart to Texas, the biggest part of it was still in North Carolina.

 I didn't find a yellow brick road, Emerald City, magical munchkins or a salon that could dye my eyes to match my outfits in Texas. What I did find were the things that are important aren't always apparent until they are not in front of you anymore. And while I miss the few friends who became 'family' that I left behind in Texas, there really is no place like 'home.' Because home is where my heart is and right now, my heart is with me in North Carolina.