Be Honest - You're Not That Into Him Either

I'll be honest: I don't remember much about Be Honest - You're Not That Into Him Either. I grabbed the book out of my pile of giveaways shrugged "huh." But apparently I liked it when I read it and reviewed it in 2006.

I remember a story in the beginning, about a girl who wasted her night in a bar for a guy who didn't show. She waited an embarrassing amount of time before going home alone, sans man and sans pride. This book addresses the collective lowering of standards of women and pining over men who don't deserve our affections. And, somehow, how to break that cycle. The chapters are cleverly titled, "You're Not That Into Him, But You Slept with Him Anyway," "You're Not That Into Him, But You Dated Him in the Meantime," and "You're Not That Into Him, But You Needed Him to Be Into You."

So there it is. Leave a comment if you want my copy.

I've suspended story posting until I get my new blog up and running.

Crazy

A girlfriend from my book club asked to join Abraham's and my kickball team. I informed her of the immediate interest from boys in the league. She's fresh meat.

"One guy asked me on a scale of one to ten how crazy she was," laughed Abraham.

"What did you say?"

"Three."

"What's my ranking?"

"Before or after the engagement?"

I snorted. He had a point.

I feel like Life handed me a big Fuck You since I got engaged. Oh, you're happy? Well let me shit all over it.

Moving was hard, despite hiring movers and taking the entire month of April to pack. I knew it would be stressful, but I didn't think it would make me this miserable. I'm still realizing things are lost or broken. I'm tangled in disputes with the moving company and am considering taking it to small claims court. The company recently offered to replace items that were damaged, but when I went to pick them up, I realized they gave me a fake address. That's just not right. Abraham wants me to drop the dispute for my health and sanity.

We've traveled out of town for four of the last six weekends. I realize what an asshole I sound like complaining about that. "I told my fiancé we simply have to not travel so much." I'd hate me too. But I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I moved and three days later we flew to Florida for a wedding. Then four days after returning, his parents came in town to meet my parents. And that was one of the weekends we were in town. Five days later and we're driving out of town for another wedding. Three days after that, we're at the beach. We have this weekend home, and then we're flying to Dallas. I've barely unpacked. I haven't been home long enough. The first day we were at the beach, I slept. I wasted an entire day. I couldn't even hold conversations with people. I just slept.

All this traveling means other areas of my life have fallen apart. We haven't been home long enough to buy fresh food, so we've been eating out. I haven't had a regular schedule to run, so I'm sure I've fallen out of shape and lost my endurance.

Work has been hell. Normally work is not something that stresses me out, but I've worked overtime every day for the last three weeks in a row. I've just been overloaded.

Not to mention the car accident. I rear-ended an Audi A4 on the way to work one morning. I just gave him my insurance card—let him keep it—because I simply couldn't handle another stressor. Thankfully, he took my card and called my insurance company and got his bumper fixed. I'm sure my premium will go up in the fall.

People tell me I look awful.

I feel like Abraham proposed and I haven't smiled since. I've done a 180 on him. The crazy to which he referred was the night I packed to fly to Florida and cried because I just wanted to sit down. I wanted the chance to be bored. I wanted to eat three regular meals a day.

Jenna texted me out of concern after seeing me last week. I know you're busy, she wrote. Try scheduling downtime on your calendar like you do other activities.

So last night when all I wanted to do was sleep, I forced myself to cook dinner instead of going out. Spaghetti, but it counts. Then I unpacked a single box. After that I knit for an hour and showered and went to bed. The difference is noticeable. I feel like I actually got something done and did something for myself. I think I'll just focus on the small steps, even if it means a blog post is a whiny, self-indulgent one.

Tonight I'll try and unpack my luggage before we have to pack it back up again.

Winner

Tiffany! You won! Email me with your address.

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man

When I got dumped by Valdosta, the lovely and wonderful Tex in the City put together a care package for me with love from Texas. I still think about this gesture at least once a week. This is a woman I have never met, although we do share a mutual friend in real life, and she did one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me in my life.

The care package consisted of:

• A blank diary, "to write all of your blog posts that are too personal to publish."
• A pair of fabric handcuffs. "Wear them when you need to feel powerful," she told me. "Just one will do."
• A book of great love letters "to keep the hope alive."
• Scented pheromone perfumes. "I swear to God these work."
• A copy of daily affirmations from my favorite self-help book, Co-Dependent No More. I have since passed this on to my mother who needed it after her divorce, who then passed it on to her co-worker's adult son, also going through a divorce.
• A copy of Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man

I'm not sure how Steve Harvey transitioned from stand-up comedian to love guru, but this book was a #1 New York Times bestseller. He tells women to not hate the player, but to hate the game, because we decide how we get to be treated. He advises women to ask interview-like questions on the first date. He refers to sex as "the cookie," which is instantly annoying.

But he gave one piece of advice that I have found to be irrefutably correct: men are driven by three things: who they are, what they do, and how much they make. "These three things make up the basic DNA of manhood—the three accomplishments every man must achieve before he feels like he's truly fulfilled his destiny as a man. And until he's achieved his goal in those three areas, the man you're dating, committed to, or married to will be too busy to focus on you."

I don't know if "busy" is the word I'd use. "Busy" is an optimistic word, like he's pounding the pavement actively trying to achieve these goals. I've dated my share who weren't. "Distracted" seems more accurate.

If men don't know who they are, which is very tied up in what they do and how much they make, they do not have room in their minds or hearts for you. A quick history:

• S: Drug addict. I was not drugs. And every penny he made (and stole from me) went to drugs. At no point did he plan for any future with me.
• Christopher: Unemployed for 2-1/2 years before we reconnected and then for another year while we were together. He was incapable of loving someone else when he didn't like who he was: a waste of space and a black hole of resources.
• There were countless other one-date wonders who generally seemed lost in life. The Musician comes to mind. So does Jack.
• I was lost in life for several years, but I wasn't cognitive enough to sort myself out first. I think these men were the same. I don't think it's a conscious decision.

I had a friend who had a dating criterion of only dating men who have made a major purchase in life: whether it be house or car or appliance. I thought she was a genius when I learned of it. It means that the man is stable enough to organize his money to buy something big. It indirectly follows Steve Harvey's rule.

For this reason alone, I'd recommend Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man. Leave a comment if you would like my copy. It will be sent with love from Texas. And now from Georgia.

Singled Out

Any time someone mentions a great person looking for love, I'm all "I know loads of single people!" And then when I try to think of those said single people, it turns out I don't know any. Mel just celebrated her one-year anniversary. Swayze landed a dream girl we all love. My fun coworker has been in a relationship with Abraham's neighbor for a really long time now. 

[On a side note: I've noticed that weddings don't do the bouquet toss anymore. "Yeah, that's out," Abraham's roommate informed me. "We've hit that age where the bouquet toss is embarrassing because there aren't many single people left. People don't want to do it and compete with two-year-olds."

"But I've always wanted to do the bouquet toss," I whined. "I was going to attach the garter to a football for Abraham to throw."

"You can still do that, and that's a cute idea," she consoled.

That night Abraham and I compiled our guest list to get ready to start wedding planning. It was 270 freaking people. Of those, we counted about 25 who were completely unattached.  The bouquet toss is up in the air (pun intended).]

Where did all the single thirtysomethings go?

And then I remembered him: Schmoozer. He's since turned 30 and is officially on the market, proclaiming he's ready to date someone for at least six months. He'll have to reconsider for any time longer than that. 

"Oh! I know someone for your sister-in-law!" I exclaimed. "She'd have to pay her own way though."

My friend laughed. "That's cool. She's used to paying for the guy too, so this would be a solid step up for her."

Thinking of Schmoozer's criteria I asked, "Does she have a job?"

"Yeah."

I reached into my purse and grabbed my phone. Want to go on a blind date? I  texted Schmoozer. 

Depends who you set me up with. I'm willing but... you need to be aware that I'm picky (which you probably are). Is this person short?

Ah, Schmoozer's fixation with short people. He's insecure about his 5'10" frame.

I looked at the text message. He's self-proclaimed picky. To go on a blind date, one must have an open mind. I could already tell Schmoozer's mind wasn't open. 

I sent him a picture of her anyway. 

How old is she? he asked. 

Too many questions. He didn't even comment as to whether he thought she was cute. I got bored of Schmoozer and put my phone away. It was my turn to be picky. 

"He doesn't get to go out with her," I announced to the table. "He's acting too entitled."

Buzz. She's cute.

Buzz. So... is she willing to meet me?

Buzz. Send her my photo.

Buzz. You should bring her to my house party.

I watched as this girl's stock rose through my ignoring of his texts. There is something to be said about being unavailable.

Life after Yes

Life after the engagement:

• Drinks. Lots of drinks. Most of them free. I drank more in the following week than I had all year.


• A birthday! Thirty-two was not exciting. I had so many friends come out to dinner that the restaurant said our party was too big and refused to accept our reservation. This was both touching and stressful as I spent the afternoon calling businesses (and failing). We ended up at a fondue place downtown that may or may not be going out of business, according to the rumors.


• Moving into Abraham's. After he slipped the ring on my finger, he told me he'd never let me move in with him without being engaged. So he knew this was happening since we set a move-in date last October. I thanked him for not letting me be a hussy even though I obviously had no qualms about being one.


• The move itself was terrible. Awful. To even write about it would bring back terrors. It was the worst move of my life, including those half dozen college moves where everything I owned was shoved into the back of a pickup truck and I prayed that nothing would fly out into the highway, like someone else's ironing board I just drove over. The sight of U-Haul trucks gives me rage flashes even though that company wasn't even involved in the move. But, as people try to console, the move is over and I get to live with my fiancè. Even though that means ordering parts off the Internet to get my dryer working again because I watched people drop it down a flight of concrete stairs while I screamed helplessly. And now I'm angry all over again.


• Did you see me work in the word "fiancè"? It took us over a week to start using it, similarly to what happened after the initial I love you. It's there but it's still a bit scary, so we'll just not call it by name.

Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice.

Failed Engagements

• Going to our favorite restaurant that we visit every week and having the bartender deliver my plate of tater tots spelled out to read WILL YOU MARRY ME. I like that restaurant and my tots and all, but I'm glad the bartender talked him out of it.


• While ice skating. Initially sounded cute, but one of this friends reminded him that the only people who go ice skating these days are pre-teens. Kind of awkward for a marriage proposal. Besides, Abraham has never been before and would probably spend more time on his butt than on one knee.


• Having our favorite singer do it during a show. This almost happened. We drove up to Nashville to see him for the weekend, and Abraham had the ring in his pocket the whole time. The venue had trouble getting in touch with the singer to see if he would do it. It would have been awesome, but 30 minutes before the show I spilled barbecue sauce down my silk shirt and it left a one-foot stain. I'm glad all on my engagement pictures don't have me with the world's largest stain down my shirt.

I'm glad it happened the way it did. He proposed in the most meaningful way possible, and it was so simple. So simple that had zero inclination that it was a possibility.