Tag Archives: Relationships

Calling When I Say I Will


I know I said I would call. You all but made me promise that I would. How could I say no? And it really isn’t work at all to pick up the phone and dial. I could do it while I walk home, or while I clean the dishes, or whenever. It is not a time thing. Anyone that says they don’t have time to call is either too poor to have a cell phone or completely full of shit. I just don’t want to talk to you. Sorry. I know how these things work. If I call, then invariably you will call me some other night, and I really do not want to hear about how your boss is a bitch, or how smart your cat is, or whatever else you think I would remotely care about.

And next time we run into each other, if you ask, I’ll say that it’s not you, that it’s me. This will be a lie. It is you. I just don’t want confrontation. I would rather things regress to awkwardness, than have to deal with them head on. Call me coward. Call me a caitiff. Call me a lying son-of-a-bitch. Just don’t call me. Please.



Valentine’s Day

Valentine's Day

Hating on Valentine’s Day is not uncommon. I too am one who rants against the overly commercialized holiday. But my rants aren’t about Hallmark cards or sappy ads or forced displays of affection. Truthfully, I support any opportunity to express love. This tirade isn’t about how I feel left out. I don’t even know if I want a boyfriend. (Though it would be nice to have someone around to change the light bulbs and take out the trash.)

Valentine’s Day is a bullshit holiday, because no one knows what to do with me. I don’t eat chocolate. Roses are tired and die too quickly. (I can barely take care of myself, let alone flowers.) Once, a boy took me to an expensive French restaurant although he should know I am uncomfortable eating around other people. Then there are too many “happy” couples crowding my favorite Lower East Side brunch spots. There isn’t even a bar seat where I can drink my Saturday morning mimosa(s).

The best Valentine I ever got was a simple text message a few years ago: “I wish we were avoiding this holiday together.” I was cooking dinner for my boyfriend and responded later: “So do I.”



Dumb Girls

miss south carolina

I should like dumb girls—most of my friends do—but I don’t. The bleached-blond ditz, with a perfect tan, that likes to home-make, and thought I would be impressed that she finished a Dan Brown book—He’s, like, so intellectual, you know?—does nothing for me; the whole fantasy of dating one seeming more or less equivalent to shacking up with a combo whore/live-in maid. And although I acknowledge the benefits of this arrangement, it all seems like a hollow artifice, akin to purchasing a Roomba with tits.

I’m not looking for a trophy-girl or even someone to take care of me. I’m looking for someone that I can love with all my soul; someone whose best qualities are not simply her ability to reflect nicely on me and mirror back some sham façade that I have cultivated. No, I’m in it for the enigmatic man-eater whose notions of love are drawn from Virginia Wolfe and not The Notebook.

I know the notion of some bluestocking MENSA broad is supposed to terrify me; her penetrating questions and donnish interests a tableau of all that is dull and ruinous for men. Yet somehow I find myself enamored with any girl that can handle partial derivatives or translate ancient Greek; my dream date involving a discussion of Rawls’ vale of ignorance, an acceptance of the Bloomian critique of poetry and joke about regressions to the mean.

This cannot possibly be evolutionary; she will ruin me. Oh well.