Daffy Doormat

When exes read your blog.

The other day I received an email from someone I once dated, commenting on my musings here. The email was actually kind of sweet; he wanted me to know that he never thought of me as a doormat. That's nice. Thanks! Truth of the matter, though: I knew that. He was one of the men in my life who treated me nicely. Once in a while someone did come along who unabashedly adored me and still managed to get my attention. For good reasons I had to pass on this man, but now I can't tell you what those are because... Hello!... he reads this blog. The big issue at hand: when you write a blog, do you edit yourself, consciously or not, because people whom you know (and perhaps slept with) might stop by for a read? When I began this site, no one knew about it and no one read it. Since then, I have come out to my friends and now it's all not so anonymous anymore. So I feel self-conscious writing about, you know, the size of a guy's pecker. Unless, of course, it was enormous and they'll take it as a HUGE compliment. Get it? Huge. Haha. What? No, I don't mean YOU! I'm being hypothetical here. Seriously though, I was reminded by my ex how easy it is to overshare and sometimes results can be a bit embarrassing. Or hurtful.

While I try to navigate my way between the pitfalls of blogging, I want to assure you exes-of-mine, you need not fret. Readers of these pages know it's not penile measurements I typically write about (though I'd gain a bigger audience, I'm sure). I just try to answer the age-old question "What were you thinking?" with a few sweet 'n' salty anecdotes from my life. If you're in any of them — and I've known you in the biblical sense — just take it lightly and remember that a certain tongue-in-cheekiness applies to everything that's written here. And take it as a compliment. A HUGE one.

This one even I haven't done.

Traveling for work today, so I must keep it short. I came across this short from Slate's funny "What Was I Thinking?" series. Dating a porn star... sounds like something I could've done. But I didn't.

Why dating a famous guy can suck.

Some years back, I went on a date with a well-known politico/TV personality. I met him on the job. I was working in TV then and we both attended the same political function. Exchanging phone numbers led to phone calls and witty email exchanges, swooned over by my office colleagues, who wet their panties with every "ping" coming from my mailbox. "Is it from him?" they'd call out. I tend to overshare, I know. It gets worse.

After days of furious emailing, email-checking and general obsessing, I went on a date with this man. He was, according to the tabloids, shopping around for a wife in those days, gallivanting through New York's nightlife, basking in the glow of his own, fabulous eligibility. His usual diet consisted of semi-famous starlets with careers in decline, so I was not a natural pick. A news producer who gets maybe one hit if you google her? Not exactly his type.

On the night of the date he took the subway to Brooklyn. He actually came to my neighborhood, which I though was nice. It seemed unpretentious. Then again, I live in one of the most pretentious neighborhoods in Brooklyn, so my assumption may have been too kind. I took him to a local place for dinner and we had a reasonably nice time. The waitress nearly fainted when she saw him and tripped all over herself to be extra-charming. I was beginning to second-guess my choice of venue. I got through my food without choking, was all smiles and seemed to reasonably charm him. After dinner, we went to yet another local hangout, where everyone was stealing glances. His celebrity status distracted me. I kept checking my own behavior, wondering if what I was doing (sitting there) is what I should be doing (stand, suck it in, look cool, pose, pout, whatever). My anxiety-level rising, I suggested we leave. Then, I walked hand in hand with him down the main street of my hood. Big mistake.

We ended up listening to music, making out and then some at my place, and he left in the wee hours of the morning, because, you know, he was a busy man. I would be lying if I said that I didn't hope for him to call. I'd be lying even more if I said that I actually thought he would. Something about his demeanor, his nonchalance gave me that hint. I think he was used to dating and sleeping with a slew of attractive New York girls and was just going through the motions of someone who has too many chicks available to him. His hype, by the way, way outshone his actual personality or performance. That just as an aside.

But the real kicker in this story is that I had shat where I ate, as they say. The next day I ran into several acquaintances, who greeted me with some version of "Hey, I heard you were walking hand in hand with XYZ down Bedford Avenue last night? So-and-so said so!" Crap. It was only Saturday. I still had to deal with the expectant faces of my colleagues on Monday and was not looking forward to it. It would be hard to hide the absence of a constantly pinging mailbox. That Sunday I curled up in bed, watched TV and felt bad. I had put myself in this position of weakness. It was pretty clear what he had wanted and my expectations should never have been anything beyond that. I knew, despite the assurances of my salivating girlfriends, that he wasn't going to call. And now I'd have to walk the walk of shame. Just as my misery was peaking, I switched TV channels and... there he was. Coiffed, suave and grinning, and surely thinking not a moment of me. I turned off the TV, dreaded Monday morning and cried myself to sleep.

The Lovely Sparrows - Year of the Dog

It's probably about a year old, but I just found this on another blog called OMG I Love Him.

A very cool video.

Getting over it.

Many times over the past decade I found myself arguing with friends and family about why, oh why, I don't just finally get over the fact that my parents were flawed. And inevitably those discussions made me feel awful, because now I felt not only inadequate, but, in addition, incapable of resolving my feelings of inadequacy and my need to place blame. To any of you who have been in relationships, romantic and otherwise, that made you feel and act doormatty, you know what I mean. It's not like you flip a switch and pouf! Years of agonizing and expensive therapy (see prior posts on the subject) are necessary to build what was left unbuilt: a strong and healthy sense of self.

So when I hear that I need to get over it from someone, I want to gently, kindly remind that dear friend that I most likely never will. Parental love, attention and — when done right — the resulting emotional health is something you can never recreate later in life. You cannot think yourself into feeling loved. The foundation simply isn't there. It takes years of hard work to build from scratch something that even remotely resembles the power you receive from those first two decades of unconditional belonging. All the failed relationships, the cried-through nights and the idea that nothing will ever change, because somehow YOU, and only you, are singled out to fail, are the emotional equivalent of a Mt. Everest, a mammoth rock blocking the way to even the humblest slice of happiness and peace.

Every day I inch closer to filling that empty cup that sits where my self-esteem should have been. It's more than half full now. Will I at some point entirely get over the fact that I was handed an empty cup? I may let go of it. But never get over it.

And here you find...

... the reason why giving up the top of the roll (or the bottom of the muffin, whatever the preference) is so important. 

Scroll down to Janet and Rudyard Colter. 

Nuff said.

Couples share secrets of love, marriage

Look mom! No kids!

Since the fact that I don't want or have children is a continuing subject matter in my life, I perk up when I see other people's musings on the subject. Via Twitter, I found the blog of Karyn and Eric Murphy. Karyn — from what I understand — is a Los-Angeles-dwelling, workaholic assistant to Ashton Kutcher. She started a blog about her choice not to procreate and it is done in a funny, empathetic and non-judgmental way. For all you other dried up and shriveled uteri out there (I kidd, I kidd!), here's the link:

Reasons To Be Happy That You Don't Have Kids