The problem with change is that it’s often opposed by fear or force of habit. Wanting to be or do something different is easy, the execution...not so much.
For instance, it took me a long time to get over the fear of going back to school. Or at least to get over the fear enough to actually apply to one and make concrete plans to attend. I’m still terrified of being in a classroom again. I was stuck in a routine headed nowhere because it was safe and it was what I knew, but I wanted to go so badly that I finally said “enough” and grew a pair.
But my latest dilemma is a little more complicated than forcing myself to wade through paperwork and red tape. It’s not about just being afraid of change or being stuck in a rut. It’s also that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
Remember when I got tired of the single life, couldn’t seem to meet anyone new, and ended up dabbling in the online dating thing? And remember how, for my troubles, all I got was a few dinners, a few posts and a sore asshole? Yeah. And remember how I said I was done with that bullshit because it was time consuming, irritating and the majority of the guys are psychos?
Sigh. Well several months ago I inadvertently got drawn back into the snake pit. Seriously, it was not intentional.
I received an email one day from the dating site saying I had a new message. That was strange, seeing as how I hadn’t been on the account in months and, consequently, hadn’t had a message in months either. Apparently if you aren’t on there often, they don’t chat you up.
Being a curiosity killed the cat sort of woman I decided to see what it said and, as it turns out, it was from a guy I’d gone to high school with. I remembered him immediately – a tall, dark, bearded kid that wore big black tennis shoes and a trench coat all the time. In fact, he referenced his appearance himself in the email: “It’s me – Big creepy guy in the trench coat? I saw your profile and decided it’d be rude not to say “hi”.”
“No, no it wouldn’t be rude at all”, I thought, “Because we never spoke to begin with.”
What I said, however, was nice yet dismissive. Something along the lines of, “Yes, I remember you. Thanks for the message. See you’re still stuck in this godforsaken town too. Hope you’re doing well.” The subtext being, “Yep, we walked down the same halls. This is weird. You’re weird. High school sucked balls. Kthanksbye.”
What began then could best be described as a whirlwind of weirdness. I started to receive text messages and phone calls from exes that wanted to “hang out”, “catch up” and, my personal favorite, “go for a little swim...wink wink, nudge nudge”. And, I assume, because I’d logged onto my dating account, my inbox starting blowing up there as well. I went from no prospects to way too many in record time. It’s like they were all on the same period cycle or something.
I was chatting with guys again and trying to decide who, what, when, and where again. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be and I quickly realized that one thing I am not good at is juggling men. I had a hard time talking to more than one of them at a time because I would mix up details and forget things.
Not only that, but I like to focus all my energy on one thing, which is basically the anti-thesis of online dating. It’s not a hard thing to do when you’re the queen of the one night stand, don’t call me I’ll definitely be blocking your number club. But that wasn’t me anymore...or I didn’t want it to be. I still craved sex, sure, but it was now more about wanting the (gag) connection.
And it’s tricky because I’m such an overtly sexual person. I often don’t realize until later that I was being suggestive in the first place. Or, sometimes I know I’m doing it but I still can’t seem to stop myself. It’s hard to make a deeper connection when I’ve always been so immersed in the physical side of things.
So, I decided that since I was apparently giving dating another shot, I should take steps to change all that about myself – to make a concentrated effort to A) keep my hands to myself, B) watch my dirty mouth, and C) (the most difficult) stop thinking that wanting to have a relationship made me a needy girl and being ashamed of the fact that I was tired of being single.
At first it seemed to be going well. I went on a date with a really nice guy and we started talking on the phone and texting quite a lot. Occasionally there was a bit of flirting, but it was harmless and not at all risqué. I was feeling good about it, really excited that I was not only keeping myself in check but that we had so many interesting conversations.
But apparently we’d reached the statute of limitations on harmless flirting and interesting conversation, because he decided to nudge me in the opposite direction. With his penis. Or rather, with a plethora of pictures...of his penis.
Let’s see, there was one that was clearly taken at an upward angle, but zoomed in to make things appear larger than I suspected they actually were. There was the one following that at a slightly different angle that validated my suspicions about the first. And then there was “the montage”.
Allow me to commentate:
Photo 1: “This is a picture of my crotch covered in jeans. See that there? That’s the tell-tale bulge of my things-may-appear-larger, side-mirror-penis. Now wait for it, don’t get excited!”
Photo 2: “Oh! Oh! Look! He’s coming out to play! He’s a little shy at first, I know. That’s why he’s only poking his head out of my natty boxer shorts.”
Photo 3: “SHAZAM! Here he is in all his glory. And see?! He brought two ugly, hairy friends to make him look better!”
The whole thing was hilarious, with each picture arriving mere seconds after the other, but at the same time extremely disappointing. First, because I’d gone to such lengths to try and behave myself and he had to cheapen the experience. And second, because it was ill timed, terrible photography.
After that guy there was another with nearly the same story – great conversations, funny, interesting. Then the invisible switch flipped and he was making random comments about my tits and the like.
He didn’t actually use the word “motorboat”, but it was implied. And though I find the concept funny, the reality is actually quite awkward and slightly uncomfortable. It’s like when you’re running and not wearing a sports bra so they’re bouncing all over the place, only imagine them going that fast sideways, back and forth, instead of up and down. Though, given a choice, I’d certainly rather be “motorboated” than run without a sports bra...or run at all, for that matter.
Where was I?
Ah, then there was the slip up.
The “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t seem to meet anyone nice, so I’m going to agree to dinner with a guy friend that’s always liked me because, after all, we’ve been having lunch often and it’s been just fine.”
And even though I’d established ground rules about our friendship, mainly “you can compliment me all you want and we can be friends, but nothing else”, I ended up drinking way too much beer.
And even though we didn’t have sex, I did end up on my back.
Because he said, verbatim, that he’d been “dying to eat this pussy for years” and being under the influence I thought, “Self, how could you deny a dying man the treatment he needs?” I figured, why the fuck not?
I’d had sex with him years ago and that was horrific, so I wasn’t going there again. I’ve not had many good experiences in the oral sex department, and in fact I usually decline any offers, but I’d heard a rumor once from his ex girlfriend that he was excellent at it. So I shrugged and said, “As long as we don’t have to play Wheel of Fucking Fortune, go for it.” And he did.
I must say, though I was disappointed that I managed to break my ABCs of change rules, she was right. He was excellent. The only problem was, after two go rounds I was pretty sober and he refused to stop. I think it must have been some kind of ego thing, to see how many times he could make it happen. And no matter what some people may say, you can always have too much of a good thing. Especially if it comes with a nonstop commentary and demands to look at him, while he looks back with a creepy wet childish grin that screams “LOVE ME! I ALWAYS CLEAN MY PLATE!”
So, once again I said enough. No more online dating or hooking up with exes. “Self, you are unable to become involved with a guy, past the point of introductions, without getting penis pictures and offers to use your tits as bongos. Your vagina is not a frozen yogurt buffet for the needy and you just need to quit while you’re limping back in last place.”
Then I met someone – a friend of our new neighbors who has been hanging out on the lake with us nearly every weekend.
At first I didn’t even think of him that way. I simply liked hanging out with him, and everyone else, and thought he was funny. Then one afternoon we were floating together, cracking jokes and I realized, “Uh oh. I think I kind of like him.”
We’re both generally flirty people anyway, but it was when others started drawing attention to certain things that I really started to wonder if maybe he liked me too. Like when we all sat drinking one night on the dock and he lay down with his head in my lap, then held on to my hand when he finally got up to leave, releasing one finger at a time as if to hold on longer. Or how he somehow always ended up beside me or directly across from me on every boat ride and at every dinner. There were dozens of little signs that, had my confidence not been so wrecked by all my dating failures of the past, I probably would have jumped on, said “A Ha!” before suggesting, “Yo, let’s go make out behind the bleachers.” Or, you know, the classier, simpler version: “I like you.”
But maybe wasn’t good enough for me, I wanted to be sure. So I talked to his friends, our new neighbors, who’d quickly become my friends too. Basically I got the he’s always been a little flirty, but he’s actually quite shy speech. “I know he wants a serious relationship and he doesn’t just hop into bed with people”, she told me.
I decided then that my strategy would be to let him take his time and, if he was interested, he’d make a move when he was ready.
Unfortunately patience, shy men and subtlety are not on my list of specialties. So far I’ve gotten two kisses on the cheek, one “you’re so beautiful”, and a lot of disappearing acts. I’m not really sure any of those count as “moves”, except possibly the disappearing acts and that would be a move in the opposite direction. No bueno.
There’s apparently something fundamentally wrong with me, because it can’t be all these guys. I don’t know how to date AND I don’t know how to wait (patiently) for the sex.
My solution to this was to ask other people for advice, but unfortunately my friends and certain family members aren’t really qualified to give it.
Proof?
Claire: “Fuck him. He blew you off that one time. Ignore him. Wanna take a shot of this?”
Leigha (Yes, my 18 year old sister, Leigha.): “You should do what I do because it totally works. I don’t pay them any attention and they come running. Play really hard to get, mmk? They like it. Sigh. I love the game.”
Dave: “Put it on him. GET SOME, AL.”
Mom: “They all want one thing. Stop giving it to them. You did? Well, search me then!”
Grandma: “I’ve seen these commercials for products that help extend the penis. Does he own a house?”
Claire: “He’s probably gay anyway.”
Rachel: “You need to go out and get some strange.”
And we’re back to the beginning again, with virtually no improvement save for the realization that oral sex doesn’t always suck. The whole time. Back at the beginning with no idea what I’m doing, no current prospects (unless you count the one that’s “probably gay and wants you to be his beard”), and a cancelled dating profile.
The changing bullshit is hard.
Showing posts with label mental case. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental case. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Dear madam,
Every time I look into your eyes I can’t help but think, “My god, those are gorgeous. Like the golden brown of a perfectly baked pound cake.” And while it’s safe to say that I notice the imperfections – one eye just a shade larger than the other, the scar over your left brow, the occasional dark circles – they don’t make me love you any less. In fact, sometimes when you look less than your best, I think of you as a tragic figure in a novel, that’s been hurt and is in need of tender love and care.
A tragic figure in general, actually...if I’m honest. When I really stop to think about some of the hardships you’ve gone through, it nearly brings me to tears. And is there anything more romantic than tragedy? I daydream about your rescue. About your sudden lottery win, your unexpected discovery and ascent to the top of the best seller lists, your immense sexual satisfaction from the person you want most, and the eradication of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and shower gel. All things I know would make you immeasurably happy. I’d give them to you if I were able.
Adoring you isn’t easy, though. I’ve always been worried about what other people would think were they to find out just how involved we really are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you exactly, but it would be nice if you could behave yourself. Gallivanting around, throwing yourself at people that don’t understand you and appreciate you the way I do...well, it just doesn’t help matters. But it’s time for everyone to know that, for better or worse, it’s the two of us. And you must face it as well – it’s far too late for that “let’s just be friends” line. I love you.
I love the way you wrap your wet hair in a towel, even though you know it’s going to keep coming loose, causing you to curse and flip upside down repeatedly. I love the way you curse, actually – the way you say fuck out loud where everyone can hear, but mutter “darn” to yourself, then get angry because darn is such a pussy sort of word and you’re no pussy. I love the way you walk around the house brushing your teeth, bent slightly at the waist and leaning out so that no toothpaste lands on your shirt...yet it always does.
I love the way you make faces in the bathroom mirror, alternately attempting to look serious and seductive. It’s rarely the latter, but that’s ok because I don’t need you to seduce me. Our love making is perfunctory and that’s as it should be. Our relationship is about deeper emotions and commitment, not finger strokes in the dark (Well, sometimes in the afternoon when you’re stressed. Don’t ever say I don’t take care of your needs.).
I’ve never much liked mouth breathers, but I can’t deny it’s slightly endearing when you watch movies with your jaw lowered like a drawbridge, completely oblivious to anything else. Your lips are a bit too thin and your nose a bit too pointy, but you have simply marvelous tits. I know you’re well aware of this since you’re often seen shaking one or both of them at people...even me, which just makes me laugh.
I love that you often have to remind yourself to make eye contact when meeting someone new – because after some workshop years ago it was stressed that people take you more seriously if you do. Yet consequently, you end up over thinking the whole thing and staring at them in a rather intense, creepy way. I love the way you mingle at parties – staying close to the alcohol and the people you know until you’ve had just enough, plus maybe an Adderall, then making your way around the room introducing yourself like a politician. You’d be a shit politician, by the way.
Your ego is an issue. You have a bit of a problem with thinking everything is about you...all the time. When there’s a nameless insult, you automatically think it’s directed at you. And when there’s a period of silence, you automatically assume you caused it. This is more prevalent on Twitter, but it shows up in other social areas as well. For instance, you tend to believe that every man that smiles at you wants your vagina, even though I’ve told you a million times that isn’t necessarily the case. Those could be pity smiles, my dear. You’ve taken to leaving the house without makeup quite frequently over the past year. Still, I can’t help but admire you in spite of your navel gazing.
In spite of a lot of things, really. Your nose picking habit...in fact, your habit of constantly mentioning your nose picking habit. Your tendency to be louder than 85% of the planet – your voice carries, there’s no need to shout. Your abysmal finances, your refusal to take care of your car or learn how do anything with it other than drive (changing the oil is, I hear, not that difficult), your complete lack of patience, and your uncanny ability to drive people far, far away.
But let’s not dwell on your faults any longer.
My love for you is like a Kamikaze pilot - proudly plummeting toward a target, intent on going out with a bang. We’re perfect for each other. And as long as you’ll let me care for you, I promise I’ll never try to cut you or get you arrested (for anything larger than a misdemeanor), and to let you have sex with whomever you want (provided you haven’t been on an all night drinking binge). Because that’s what a real relationship is all about – trust, sharing, honesty, and the avoidance of herpes.
Always love,
Yourself
A tragic figure in general, actually...if I’m honest. When I really stop to think about some of the hardships you’ve gone through, it nearly brings me to tears. And is there anything more romantic than tragedy? I daydream about your rescue. About your sudden lottery win, your unexpected discovery and ascent to the top of the best seller lists, your immense sexual satisfaction from the person you want most, and the eradication of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and shower gel. All things I know would make you immeasurably happy. I’d give them to you if I were able.
Adoring you isn’t easy, though. I’ve always been worried about what other people would think were they to find out just how involved we really are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you exactly, but it would be nice if you could behave yourself. Gallivanting around, throwing yourself at people that don’t understand you and appreciate you the way I do...well, it just doesn’t help matters. But it’s time for everyone to know that, for better or worse, it’s the two of us. And you must face it as well – it’s far too late for that “let’s just be friends” line. I love you.
I love the way you wrap your wet hair in a towel, even though you know it’s going to keep coming loose, causing you to curse and flip upside down repeatedly. I love the way you curse, actually – the way you say fuck out loud where everyone can hear, but mutter “darn” to yourself, then get angry because darn is such a pussy sort of word and you’re no pussy. I love the way you walk around the house brushing your teeth, bent slightly at the waist and leaning out so that no toothpaste lands on your shirt...yet it always does.
I love the way you make faces in the bathroom mirror, alternately attempting to look serious and seductive. It’s rarely the latter, but that’s ok because I don’t need you to seduce me. Our love making is perfunctory and that’s as it should be. Our relationship is about deeper emotions and commitment, not finger strokes in the dark (Well, sometimes in the afternoon when you’re stressed. Don’t ever say I don’t take care of your needs.).
I’ve never much liked mouth breathers, but I can’t deny it’s slightly endearing when you watch movies with your jaw lowered like a drawbridge, completely oblivious to anything else. Your lips are a bit too thin and your nose a bit too pointy, but you have simply marvelous tits. I know you’re well aware of this since you’re often seen shaking one or both of them at people...even me, which just makes me laugh.
I love that you often have to remind yourself to make eye contact when meeting someone new – because after some workshop years ago it was stressed that people take you more seriously if you do. Yet consequently, you end up over thinking the whole thing and staring at them in a rather intense, creepy way. I love the way you mingle at parties – staying close to the alcohol and the people you know until you’ve had just enough, plus maybe an Adderall, then making your way around the room introducing yourself like a politician. You’d be a shit politician, by the way.
Your ego is an issue. You have a bit of a problem with thinking everything is about you...all the time. When there’s a nameless insult, you automatically think it’s directed at you. And when there’s a period of silence, you automatically assume you caused it. This is more prevalent on Twitter, but it shows up in other social areas as well. For instance, you tend to believe that every man that smiles at you wants your vagina, even though I’ve told you a million times that isn’t necessarily the case. Those could be pity smiles, my dear. You’ve taken to leaving the house without makeup quite frequently over the past year. Still, I can’t help but admire you in spite of your navel gazing.
In spite of a lot of things, really. Your nose picking habit...in fact, your habit of constantly mentioning your nose picking habit. Your tendency to be louder than 85% of the planet – your voice carries, there’s no need to shout. Your abysmal finances, your refusal to take care of your car or learn how do anything with it other than drive (changing the oil is, I hear, not that difficult), your complete lack of patience, and your uncanny ability to drive people far, far away.
But let’s not dwell on your faults any longer.
My love for you is like a Kamikaze pilot - proudly plummeting toward a target, intent on going out with a bang. We’re perfect for each other. And as long as you’ll let me care for you, I promise I’ll never try to cut you or get you arrested (for anything larger than a misdemeanor), and to let you have sex with whomever you want (provided you haven’t been on an all night drinking binge). Because that’s what a real relationship is all about – trust, sharing, honesty, and the avoidance of herpes.
Always love,
Yourself
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
"The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms.”
“Your grandmother thinks you need to be committed”, my mom said with a satisfied look on her face.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book. Here we go again. I moved my lips along with her next statement, parroting it word for word:
“Really, she does. It used to be that when you turned someone over to the loony bin, they’d give you $50. I hate they don’t do that anymore. I could definitely use the money and you could definitely use the help. Heh, heh, heh.”
My family just loves this “joke”. It makes the rounds every so often, along with:
1) You’re just like your father.
2) Men won’t date you because you have sex with them too soon.
3) We sometimes think you’re a lesbian, but it might be preferable to being a whore.
4) You’re not a nurturer. Just move out and leave the kid with us. You know you want to.
That last one is my favorite. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But I digress; let’s discuss this insane theory, hmm?
Mental illness runs in my family – manic depression, bipolar disorder. And I’m relatively sure my cousin is schizophrenic. No one ever knows who the fuck he’s talking to.
Aside from all that, I’ve always considered myself the “normal” one. While I might be weird to the general public, especially women, within my family I like to think that I collected all the marbles they lost and stored them up to use when needed.
I’ve seen my share of therapists, it’s true, but I attribute the majority of that to dealing with the neurosis of others. When you’re always around whack jobs you start to question your own sanity, to get drawn down into their rabbit hole of floating furniture and talking caterpillars that smoke the ganja.
My second to last therapist diagnosed me with ODD – oppositional defiant disorder. That’s about as crazy as I get. According to The Grandmother, this is enough to make a “vacation” necessary. Even though the diagnosis is from several years ago, it’s the only thing they have to cling to right now. Desperate people – grasping at straws!
But they have nothing left to fall back on because there’s no way I still have it.
Symptoms of ODD:
See? Equal opportunity refuser – that’s healthy, not crazy.
For example: If you just received a ridiculous sum of money from a dead relative I’m going to be resentful, I’m going to call you a lucky fucker, and I’m probably going to be angry that all my relatives are poor. It’s totally natural. But I’ll be happy for you as long as you share. Nevermind about your dead relative. You got money, ass cheese. Crying is for pussies.
“It’s not my fault she said ‘damn’ at school! You said it four times the other day and I usually just say ‘fucker’, which she didn’t say so there!”
“It’s not my fault that my car payment is late. The barman seduced me with Jack Daniels and karaoke!”
“It’s not my fault he likes me better. You should have slept with him first. I mean....”
I’m not in constant trouble. I occasionally get reprimanded for being late (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and for occasionally wearing “unprofessional” attire (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and I occasionally get the “oh, no you din’nt face” for saying things like “eff that shit in the ahole” and “your mom likes sausage” (and by occasionally...ok you get the point).
And just for the record, that last one is not fair at all. My boss is always saying things that cause me to make the “oh, no you din’nt face”. Like when she refers to lesbians: “licky splity”. Just...no.
For example: When my sister, the soul sucking twig of perfection, says something incomparably rude like “You’re a sucky mom” (I’m paraphrasing, but trust me, that’s exactly what it boils down to.) I respond with a bland facial expression and a quietly spoken:
“You listen to me you little asshole (soft smile). What you know about parenting could fit into your – A cup bra. When you push an 8lb squalling chunk of human out of your fucking vagina, in front of assorted strangers and one nurse turned paparazzi, then you can give me parenting advice. That may be happening sooner than you think since you can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Zing. Now, I suggest you turn around and toe-touch your little cheerleading ass out of the general vicinity before I decide to karate chop you in the face (innocent eyelash fluttering).”
Spiteful? All women are spiteful to a degree, even my 75 year old grandma.
Me: “I don’t want to go to church. I like gay people. I don’t care about politics, it’s boring. No, I don’t know anything about Al Gore and global warming because I don’t watch the news.”
G-ma: “I made this beautiful chocolate brownie pie with cream cheese icing. It’s absolutely delicious! You should try a piece. Mmm maybe a smaller piece, dear. *Hip poke, hip poke*. Actually, you know what, (takes back pie) you might just want to eat this piece of lettuce instead.”
Pause.
“How do you feel about gay people now?”
“What’s that clicking? Are you clicking something?” Cheeky grin from child in question. “You don’t fool me, I hear clicking.” 5 minutes later: “OH MY GAWD WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!”
“Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. OH MY GAWD WHERE ARE YOUR EFFING PANTS KID!”
Kid: “Mom, what are those?” Points in the general direction of a million different objects.
Me: “What are what?”
Kid: “Those!” Still pointing.
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which thing are you pointing at?”
Kid: “That right there!” Finger wavers over a plethora of things and stuff.
Me: “Seriously, kid.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Don’t start with the why stuff, please.”
Kid: “But why?”
Me: Deep breath...”holy mother...”
Kid: “Mom! WHAT IS THAT?!”
Me: Tugging on hair, eye sockets exploding - “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! CHRIST ALIVE, I DON’T KNOW!”
That kind of stuff goes on all day, every day. I’m thinking about having the closet sound proofed.
Obviously there is no need for me to be committed. I’ve been looking into new therapists, but I probably wouldn’t need one of those either if the stupid doctor would just give me some pills that make me deaf for 14 hours a day and every other weekend.
On second thought...how quiet are those padded rooms?
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book. Here we go again. I moved my lips along with her next statement, parroting it word for word:
“Really, she does. It used to be that when you turned someone over to the loony bin, they’d give you $50. I hate they don’t do that anymore. I could definitely use the money and you could definitely use the help. Heh, heh, heh.”
My family just loves this “joke”. It makes the rounds every so often, along with:
1) You’re just like your father.
2) Men won’t date you because you have sex with them too soon.
3) We sometimes think you’re a lesbian, but it might be preferable to being a whore.
4) You’re not a nurturer. Just move out and leave the kid with us. You know you want to.
That last one is my favorite. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But I digress; let’s discuss this insane theory, hmm?
Mental illness runs in my family – manic depression, bipolar disorder. And I’m relatively sure my cousin is schizophrenic. No one ever knows who the fuck he’s talking to.
Aside from all that, I’ve always considered myself the “normal” one. While I might be weird to the general public, especially women, within my family I like to think that I collected all the marbles they lost and stored them up to use when needed.
I’ve seen my share of therapists, it’s true, but I attribute the majority of that to dealing with the neurosis of others. When you’re always around whack jobs you start to question your own sanity, to get drawn down into their rabbit hole of floating furniture and talking caterpillars that smoke the ganja.
My second to last therapist diagnosed me with ODD – oppositional defiant disorder. That’s about as crazy as I get. According to The Grandmother, this is enough to make a “vacation” necessary. Even though the diagnosis is from several years ago, it’s the only thing they have to cling to right now. Desperate people – grasping at straws!
But they have nothing left to fall back on because there’s no way I still have it.
Symptoms of ODD:
- Actively does not follow adults' requests
See? Equal opportunity refuser – that’s healthy, not crazy.
- Angry and resentful of others
For example: If you just received a ridiculous sum of money from a dead relative I’m going to be resentful, I’m going to call you a lucky fucker, and I’m probably going to be angry that all my relatives are poor. It’s totally natural. But I’ll be happy for you as long as you share. Nevermind about your dead relative. You got money, ass cheese. Crying is for pussies.
- Blames others for own mistakes
“It’s not my fault she said ‘damn’ at school! You said it four times the other day and I usually just say ‘fucker’, which she didn’t say so there!”
“It’s not my fault that my car payment is late. The barman seduced me with Jack Daniels and karaoke!”
“It’s not my fault he likes me better. You should have slept with him first. I mean....”
- Has few or no friends or has lost friends
- Is in constant trouble in school
I’m not in constant trouble. I occasionally get reprimanded for being late (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and for occasionally wearing “unprofessional” attire (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and I occasionally get the “oh, no you din’nt face” for saying things like “eff that shit in the ahole” and “your mom likes sausage” (and by occasionally...ok you get the point).
And just for the record, that last one is not fair at all. My boss is always saying things that cause me to make the “oh, no you din’nt face”. Like when she refers to lesbians: “licky splity”. Just...no.
- Loses temper
For example: When my sister, the soul sucking twig of perfection, says something incomparably rude like “You’re a sucky mom” (I’m paraphrasing, but trust me, that’s exactly what it boils down to.) I respond with a bland facial expression and a quietly spoken:
“You listen to me you little asshole (soft smile). What you know about parenting could fit into your – A cup bra. When you push an 8lb squalling chunk of human out of your fucking vagina, in front of assorted strangers and one nurse turned paparazzi, then you can give me parenting advice. That may be happening sooner than you think since you can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Zing. Now, I suggest you turn around and toe-touch your little cheerleading ass out of the general vicinity before I decide to karate chop you in the face (innocent eyelash fluttering).”
- Spiteful or seeks revenge
Spiteful? All women are spiteful to a degree, even my 75 year old grandma.
Me: “I don’t want to go to church. I like gay people. I don’t care about politics, it’s boring. No, I don’t know anything about Al Gore and global warming because I don’t watch the news.”
G-ma: “I made this beautiful chocolate brownie pie with cream cheese icing. It’s absolutely delicious! You should try a piece. Mmm maybe a smaller piece, dear. *Hip poke, hip poke*. Actually, you know what, (takes back pie) you might just want to eat this piece of lettuce instead.”
Pause.
“How do you feel about gay people now?”
- Touchy or easily annoyed
“What’s that clicking? Are you clicking something?” Cheeky grin from child in question. “You don’t fool me, I hear clicking.” 5 minutes later: “OH MY GAWD WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!”
“Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. OH MY GAWD WHERE ARE YOUR EFFING PANTS KID!”
Kid: “Mom, what are those?” Points in the general direction of a million different objects.
Me: “What are what?”
Kid: “Those!” Still pointing.
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which thing are you pointing at?”
Kid: “That right there!” Finger wavers over a plethora of things and stuff.
Me: “Seriously, kid.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Don’t start with the why stuff, please.”
Kid: “But why?”
Me: Deep breath...”holy mother...”
Kid: “Mom! WHAT IS THAT?!”
Me: Tugging on hair, eye sockets exploding - “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! CHRIST ALIVE, I DON’T KNOW!”
That kind of stuff goes on all day, every day. I’m thinking about having the closet sound proofed.
Obviously there is no need for me to be committed. I’ve been looking into new therapists, but I probably wouldn’t need one of those either if the stupid doctor would just give me some pills that make me deaf for 14 hours a day and every other weekend.
On second thought...how quiet are those padded rooms?
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