My Little Phony

Lately I’ve been going through a phase of “nothing is how it seems.” I’m misunderstood more often than not. I’m like a dark gray My Little Pony, an “ironic” knock-off with a skull and crossbones on its butt (quirky and sweet, yet mysterious and a little badass). Perhaps these misunderstandings are why The Illusionist resonated with me so deeply the other night – it was so reaffirming to see that the illusion, the misunderstanding, worked out in a way that was meant to be; not in the train-wreck that seems to be my life as of late.

Or perhaps that was just Edward Norton resonating with me.

Whatever. There was a message, and I got it. The message was that there is hope.

Even though I’m still single. Dammit.

An Open Letter to the Creep Who Mows the Lawn

Dear Totally Creepy Building Caretaker with No Sense of Boundaries,

Remember the time when you let yourself into my apartment when I was in the shower to deliver a refrigerator? I hated that, but it was understandable – you thought I wasn’t home, so you thought it was okay to enter.

How about the second time you let yourself into my apartment when I was in the shower because you wanted me to move my car, which was blocking your trailer? I hated that, too, and any reasoning you may have had is unfathomable to me - you saw my car, thought I was home and couldn’t get my attention, so you thought it was okay to enter? What if I was having sex? Perhaps that is what you were hoping for.

Or how about the time when I was home with the flu and you were changing my storm windows, and you came inside to remove my air conditioning unit, sat down on a chair without being invited and proceeded to ask me about my work? Remember how I repeatedly corrected your notion that I was not a social worker, despite your insistence – and I suggested that perhaps you thought I was a social worker because I worked at a synagogue for a year – and you froze and with wide eyes and stammering voice asked if I was “THAT?” (um, how about trying the word “Jewish?”). I also hated that.

Now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure you also asked me to attend a church group with you when I first moved in. I hate even partially remembering that.

I guess what I wonder most of all is at what point, between me yelling at you to “get out of my apartment,” “get out of my apartment,” “no, I’m not Jewish, but what does it matter?,” and every time you come around to mow the lawn and I purposefully shut all of my blinds on beautiful days, and the installation of additional locks on every single one of my windows and the front door did you think that I might be interested in going out on a date with you?

The fact that you were hovering outside my door on Saturday morning and only announced your presence as I was unlocking the door to leave for the day was unnerving at best. The fact that you let your puppy run into my apartment and climb on my furniture was, despite the inherent cuteness of puppies, even the ones that are soon to be totally messed up by God-freaky weirdos such as yourself, annoying at best. The fact that you asked me to attend a play with you, and when I, in an utter state of shock, responded, “No. I just couldn’t,” yet you kept pushing the matter with “my wife is now my ex-wife,” and, “I was just thinking of this very special lady, who is you,” and, “I just want to make sure you know that I think of you as more than a friend,” quite frankly leaves me alternately bewildered and nauseous.

Especially coming from someone twice my age who has a key to my apartment that I didn’t give them.

In summary, you're a creepy, creepy man, and you need to stay the hell away from me. Thank you.

Sincerely,
The Person Who Constantly Looks Up Your Name on the Sex Offender Registry

Discovery of the Day

Northwest Airlines employees fail to recognize and comprehend customer frustration vocalized as, “What? You've got to be kidding me. That is retarded.”

The Truth

I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time at home in front mirrors. I am not proud of it, but there it is. There’s the medicine cabinet mirror in the bathroom; next to which is placed a wall-mount mirror with a 360-degree swivel that has a normal side and a magnified side; a framed Renoir poster in the shower (yes, IN the shower...shut up, it's peaceful) in which I can see my silhouetted reflection; and a full-length deal in the bedroom. I watch myself do things that don’t require watching – brushing my teeth, putting on lotion, washing my hair, talking on the phone…you name it, I’m sure I’ve watched myself do it.

I’ve always been slightly ashamed of this behavior, yet this morning I had a breakthrough. A newfound rationalization, if you will, to make me feel less crazy. Because I do not find myself beautiful, and I do not find the act of watching myself entertaining, and because watching me is a matter of habit rather than intrigue, it cannot be chalked up to predictable old narcissism. I’ve come to the conclusion that I watch myself because it makes me feel like I have company. It’s the same reason that I think out loud when I’m home alone – I don’t want to feel like I’m really home alone. It’s comforting to see another person that is familiar, to hear a voice that I know. It’s a way to combat loneliness.

Although now I’m pretty sure that in voicing that, I’ve rationalized the inwardly crazy to the point where now I just appear outwardly crazy. Great.

Aaaaand, we’re done.

ME: (ring, ring)

HIM: hey.

ME: Him! It's Petra!

HIM: yeah. hey.

ME: So, how did your paper go?

HIM: what?

ME: your paper.

HIM: what paper?

ME: um, the big paper that you said was due on Monday.

HIM: oh, that's due NEXT Monday.

ME: oh. I thought it was due this Monday. Well, nevermind.

HIM: (silence)

ME: SO. um, I've got a friend coming into town on Saturday and we're going to make dinner, and I wanted to grab a couple bottles of wine after work tomorrow to have on hand. I thought I'd see if you'd like to go with me to lend your expertise.

HIM: uuuuuuuuuuh, um, well, I really don't know THAT much about wine (editor’s note: two nights prior over dinner he made a big hairy stink about the merits of a fine wine – and how what we were drinking was not a fine wine). It'd be like the, um, how do you say.... "inexperienced tutor." (awkward pause) And I have class until 6:30. And I have to get up early and be downtown the next morning.

ME: (overly-chipper) okay, well, I'll just go by myself and get advice from some whacked-out liquor store employee.

HIM: (begrudgingly) well, where were you planning to go?

ME: just for nostalgia's sake, I was going to go to that wine place in my old neighborhood.

HIM: that one on, um, Grand?

ME: yep.

HIM: (still begrudgingly) well, I guess I could go with you; I guess I could learn something too.

ME: okay. cool. what time?

HIM: how about 7:30?

ME: I think the liquor stores close at 8 on weekdays, right?

HIM: okay, how about 7/7:15?

ME: sounds good.

HIM: okay.

ME: see you tomorrow.

HIM: bye. (click)

ME: b- oh.

God, it was like pulling teeth. Actually, I'd rather have my teeth pulled, because at least the dentist numbs you first. ACTUALLY, I just now realized that I had a messed up dream last night that my teeth were falling out. They kept coming out in threes and fours, and I was having a really hard time trying to chew. Finally I just pulled them all out so I could gum my food. It was nasty. Ugh. Deconstruct THAT.

And just for the record, he showed up. At 7:30.

Jeepers Peepers

I got contact lenses for the very first time yesterday. Aside from it being just shy of totally freaky (fighting the primal urge to get whatever that shit is in my eye OUT, the constant nagging paranoia that I’ve left my glasses somewhere and I need them, the burning) they’re pretty cool. Upside #1: I can see if people are checking me out from across the room without squinting at them. Upside #2: I can check people out from across the room without squinting at them. Game on.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

HIM: I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore. It’s just that you look exactly like this psycho girl that I dated in college.

ME: But I’m not psycho.

HIM: I know that. But, you see, it’s like this: it’s like fighting in Vietnam, and then coming back to the U.S. after the war and walking into a Vietnamese restaurant and freaking out.

ME: You were born in 1979.

HIM: I know, but…

ME: I’m supposed to be the Vietnamese restaurant?!

HIM: Well, yes…

Useful Advice

“A scent should be discovered, not announced.” – Dear Abby

Or maybe it was Ann Landers.

Whatever, they were both batshit crazy most of the time anyway - they only came out with a gem once a decade. I know this, because I read their columns for 11 years, over the course of which they only produced two gems – the one above, and the other one which involved getting fooled and shaming. But I shan’t share it now, because there’s no need to blow my advice-columnist-adages wad in one sitting.

A Recipe For...

Upon being asked how I was doing last week:

"Eh, it's going okay. [Insert comment on freaking out about upcoming, scheduled, life-altering event here]. Add to that my new singlehood after being off the market for two years, my recent decision to resign from [organization that shall remain nameless to protect the innocent] in efforts to seek stronger advocacy, and the fact that last night I finished off a small tub of raw Keys Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough that I started a week ago and my almost-certain pending case of salmonella poisoning, and you've got a recipe for a very special mix of several neuroses. Where the heck are we supposed to meet people in this town?! I think I need to start hanging out in the library or coffee shops alone and see if I can get myself picked up. Terrible."