This one goes out to Kim & Ashlee:

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

One of my greatest abilities, and worst characteristics, is that I often spend more than my fair share of time over-evaluating where I am with, and in, my life. Currently, I am single, I live alone with my 4 pets and I am 27 years old. Most of that kinda sucks and I find myself scheming for ways to get myself out of at least 1 of my most defining criteria. Unfortunately, a struggle ensues and I usually just end up MORE single with MORE pets and even MORE 27 than before.

Dictionary.com defines dating, among many definitions, as “a social appointment, engagement, or occasion arranged beforehand with another person: to go out on a date on Saturday night.” Sounds simple enough, so why is it so difficult to actually participate in? Going out to bars to meet men does nothing but elicit sweaty passes and beer burps, so I tend to shy away from that scene. I burp enough on my own, but at least it doesn’t smell like recycled brew. Besides, it’s mostly college kids and those experiencing the pub scene, legally, for the first time. I’ve found over the years that I prefer men my age, or older, and at least on a similar level of intellect. It’s a huge turn off when a guy looks over my shoulder and snidely states “Why are you reading?! That’s not gonna do anything for ya. A-hyuck.” I dated this guy once who would look at me like an ape whenever I used a word with more than 3 syllables; like NEANDERTHAL.

I’m not looking for an immediate commitment out of anyone right now, but I somehow feel like more of a person when I can tack phrases like “I went on a date” onto the list of things I did this weekend. It seems so futile to even go over my weekend with anyone since it’s usually the same house work, yard work, hung out with {insert friends name here} and laundry that it always is, weekend after weekend.

Part of my issue may be the fact that I am not actively looking. As much as I sit here and complain about being single, it’s really a challenge to find a compatible guy, and so as with most things, as soon as the going gets tough, I get going. Away from it. I bail, give up, punk out and bug out when I feel outmatched, and dating is definitely something that makes me feel as much. I don’t know how to approach such a situation as I’ve never really been enveloped in the dating scene - I’ve been in long term relationships since I was 17 and it’s taken me the last 2 years of being single to make me realize that I have a lot to learn when it comes to choosing the “right” kind of man.

And so here I am, in the midst of assisting with the planning of my sisters multiple wedding/bridal showers, not the mention the wedding itself, and I’m pulling my hair out over showing up to yet another major event stag. Call me selfish, hell, I’ll take that as a compliment, as that is what my therapist keeps telling me I need to be a little bit more of, but the reality is that, although I can do and be a lot independently, there is a plenty to be said for having that someone to come home and cook dinner with, to curl up and watch Battlestar Gallactica with, to lay next to at night and to wake up with their arms around you in the morning. Being single has a lot of good aspects to it, but I’ve played this game for a couple of years now, and although for most of those couple years, I was barely able to take advantage of being single since I was so codependent I didn’t know where I even began, I finally feel like I am ready to start TRYING. I don’t need a roommate or a husband, but I would like to go out on a real, genuine, bonafide date every now and again, damnit.

Today is a sad day, my friends. My beloved Cornelius has turned belly up and kicked the bucket. I have to say that I am rather upset regarding this turn of events. I mean, Cornelius wasn’t just a COOL fish, he was THE AWESOMEST fish, ever - he watched me when I was in the kitchen, he’d always get real excited whenever I was around his brandy snifter, and he was definitely a decor accessory since he was just about the same color as my kitchen walls. It was cool to watch him puff up and get all crazy over his reflection, too. I’ve walked past his fish bowl countless times this afternoon, only to catch myself sighing when I don’t see his little red and blue fins swimming around. Honestly, I noticed about 2 days ago that he was acting strangely. He had lost his voracious appetite and appeared to have a belly so swollen, he looked like he was going to give birth. It was later in that day when I noticed his equilibrium being off - and anyone that has ever had a fish knows that as soon as they start doing that sideways swimming/floating crap, it’s only a matter of time.

As I watched him quickly deteriorate today, I remembered why I used to hate having fish. I hate watching them go - it’s always very long, violent, sad process. Most of the time, you’re lucky enough to just find them floating in the morning, but when they go during a time where you keep seeing them, keep walking past them as they fight against dying…it’s really difficult. I hate death in general, be it by man, animal or vegetable, but there is something about watching a fish essentially suffocate which is really heart wrenching. Eventually, after some convulsions and incessant laps around the tank, they just stop swimming altogether or they start laying sideways and you can see them gasping for air. I always seem to end up feeling this complete and utter helplessness. The one when you know that they’re sick, but there is literally nothing that you could do for them? I hate that feeling…There were a couple of times where I had to tap the glass to see if he was actually still among us, or if he had shuffled off to meet his maker, and it was the third time I tapped that there was no response. Suddenly, and finally, my poor, ill fated Cornelius had reached the end of his all too short life span.

His funeral was short and brief, he wouldn’t have wanted me to make a fuss, but you must know that he will be missed. I will have to evaluate the joy vs resentment that this stint of owing a fish again, has brought up inside of me, before I decide if I will purchase another or not. It seems silly, but I just don’t think there will ever be another Cornelius. And I’m not really one to settle for second best anymore.

My birthday is again approaching, and I again, am feeling this overwhelming urge to get my life more in order. Something about aging a year always seems to make me reevaluate where I am in the great game. I am single, I have no children, I live alone, I drive the same car that I’ve been driving since High School, I finally just got myself into a job that I could potentially consider career worthy, and I have started to realize the immensity of owning a home. Not to mention all of the labor that comes with it. And cuts. And scrapes. And bruises.

When I was getting ready to turn 25, I was fresh out of a longterm relationship and I was really looking singledom in the eye for the first time since I was about 17. Instead of reveling in my new found freedom, I started to look at all of my friends and their lives as a kind of road map to where I thought I needed to be at this stage in my life; and in turn, I started to freak out over what a failure to progression I had become. I realized most of my friends were either married, or had children or were in relationships in which some sort of future seemed imminent and I somehow gave myself the notion that all people in their mid 20’s should be trying to find someone to settle down with and that fact that I was without somehow meant that I was less of a person than everyone else and meant that I was going to end up dying alone. I became obsessed with my singularity, I started to focus so intently on how I was without a relationship that I refused to deem it anything but being ALONE. I wasn’t single, I was ALONE. I wasn’t taking a break from dating, I was ALONE. I wasn’t free, I was ALONE. I wasn’t recovering from a ridiculously tiring and difficult relationship, I was ALONE. I wasn’t trying to spend time working on myself and all of my Mental, I. Was. ALONE. And very unhappy with that fact.

In all honesty, it’s taken me most of the last 2 years to realize that it’s really ok to be right where I am. Most of my friends who are married, or with children, wish that they were in my shoes. One friend’s marriage is in shambles, another friend’s relationship is in jeopardy, another friend has 2 kids to think about and so she stays where she shouldn’t….the list goes on. It started to creep into my mind that I’ve really got nothing to be jealous of. My path has not brought me to the point of children, and marriage, and husbands, and “ever after,” yet. Who knows, maybe I’ll change my mind about all of that anyway, and instead, devote myself to building up my rapport of being the “Crazy Cat Lady” of the neighborhood. It doesn’t mean that I don’t still have this unnerving feeling that I am missing out on something, I am just beginning to realize that I don’t want to just accept things turning out a specific way. I would rather CREATE my life, instead of circumstantially falling into one.

I still worry over my mistakes and the choices that I have made which have gotten me to where I am. But it is through the assistance of therapy, and possibly due to the fact that I might actually be becoming remotely rational, that I’ve started to realize that “settling” for someone just so that I can have that feeling of companionship is not something I am willing to do. I am too independent of a person, I have too many opinions and dreams and wants to do so; and I have no intentions of becoming that codependent rag that I once was. So, it is with 5 days to go until I age yet another year closer to 30, I have instead, decided to do all that I can to keep my mental at bay long enough to just enjoy what I have and who I am becoming, and to stop wishing for things I don’t have and will never be. For today, I am going to trust enough in fate for it to guide me in the right direction, and I hope that one day, I will find all that I am looking for. Whatever that is.

I really don’t know how I feel about this one. I mean, there is something hugely drawing about having the ability to write my name in pee in the snow, and I definitely know the pain of having to go, but not being able to risk contracting herpes or cancer or a cold or something off of the disgusting toilet seats in public restrooms. But as I watch this video, there is some wee little voice in the back of my head that begins whispering to me that I should stop shaving my legs and armpits and devote my life to recreating Woodstock or something…

I wasn’t even going to write a post tonight. I was going to take my melodramatic self to bed after a shower as I had little interest in putting forth enough thought to write a post. I wanted to turn my head off, fall asleep to South Park and wake up tomorrow hopefully having slept through my neuroses. Alas, such was not to be.

Since I spent 3 hours of my evening helping to clean my best friends new house, I didn’t have the opportunity to partake in my usual computer dorkiness this evening. I came home from work, spent all of an hour with my dogs, then corralled them back up in the kitchen and headed out to her house for a Dyson Vacuums vacuuming euphoria. And let me just tell you that I am damn lucky that I like vacuuming, cause they got carpet in EVERY. ROOM. Literally, 2 hours and 40 minutes of that time was spent with the vacuum running. It was like, the NY Marathon of vacuuming. And I loved every moment of it. The carpet marks that this thing makes are just UNBELIEVABLE. Almost spiritual, even. You’ve really just got to try one to understand.

Anyway, as I was on my way home from that rousing 3 hours of cleaning, I had a conversation with a friend of mine about some things that I was struggling with that he was not aware of. Then, once I got home, and since I am such a creature of habit that I would barely be able to sleep tonight did I not check all of my daily websites - email, blog, various online communities, reader feeds, and….MY HOROSCOPE - I fired up the laptop and started working my through the multitudes of urls I visit on a daily basis.

Sometimes, I really wish that I wasn’t so damn cheap and that I’d just pay for a daily text message of my horoscope to be sent to my cell phone. It would REALLY save me a lot of grief if I knew what it had to say to me BEFORE I actually lived it. I very well might handle situations differently had I the knowledge that some random astrologer had the foresight to tell me what was going to happen, and how to handle it. So, my dear Sampson, I can only imagine how absolutely out of touch with reality you must thing me to be, but you were right - I just need to relax. And I need to be honest, and I need to just BE. So noted. So noted…

It feels like you’re living in a fishbowl, and that private emotions are on display for everyone to see. But that’s all in your head. If anything, loved ones need a clearer understanding of what’s going on with you.

I had always imagined that the sun would surely supernova before I ever uttered these words: I just haven’t had a lot to say lately. I know, those who know me are thinking “Is she sick?!” “OMG! She must have been on the Psych floor!” or “The girl has finally lost it” but rest assured, I am not, was not and did not. Life has just been busy and I’ve been doing all that I can to remain as active in the evenings as humanly possible, as that is what has been keeping much of my negativity at bay. Something about being outside just releases endorphines or something and I always feel BETTER about life and myself.

Anyone that I speak to knows that I have been having a fence built. Mainly, it’s to cage my 4 legged children in my yard and to alleviate everyone in the neighborhood from hearing me scream at them each time I let them outside. STAY! IN! THIS! YARD! is a call not often heard any longer, as my fantastically awesome fence is FINALLY complete, and I really couldn’t be happier about it!! It was a long time coming - I’ve lived here for 3 years now - but oh was it worth it. Both of my dogs are of the terrier variety, and both typically have more energy than me, and both often times drive me to threats of tearing off their legs within the first hour of me being home thanks to their hyperactivity. Especially Russel - I love him, but some days, I really think it would be easier to come up with my own plausible theory on the creation of the universe than it would be to cope with his “puppy-ness.” On top of him only being - OMG! He’ll be a year TOMORROW! - I totally just realized that - ::BLINK:: Anyway, on top of him being only a year old he’s a Jack Russell Terrier (and no digs on the ridiculousness of my pet’s naming conventions). Yeah, shoot me now.

Thankfully, the awesomeness that was 4 Mexican’s over the course of 3 weeks - yeah, I know, but we had a LOT of rain - has turned out to be the best thing to happen to me since the first time I heard the sound of Jimmy Page’s guitar. God bless illegal immigrants!

And, since I’ve been so wrapped up in distracting myself I managed to completely forget about Russel’s birthday, I must apologize publicly for my oversight. *I’m sorry, Russel.* And I will take the fact that you follow me to the bathroom with such blatant disregard to personal space that even Howard Stern would blush, as an acceptance of my apology.

With promises of blogging again more religiously, all-the-while continuing to work on not being so damn self deprecating:
Unrequited