Well, this day has gotten off to a great start. Some asshole realtor called me at 9:27 am (on a Sunday!) to schedule a showing between 1:30 and 2:30, and although I went back to sleep I still I woke up an hour later with a splitting headache and my back still locked up. So slowly I hobbled around, cleaning up the house, which I have to do every single day for these house hunting fuckheads, and by 1:07 was jsut sitting down to check email before heading out for a couple of errands.

The doorbell rang. Damn it! They were here early, without even calling! Why do they do this? It is so inconsiderate. I could have been giving a guy a hand job, or taking a dump. What is wrong with these people? Furthermore, I did all that work for NOTHING because I am convinced that if the first thing potential buyers see when they walk through the door is you, you've already lost the sale. They can't ever not picture it as being your house, and plus the wife has to perpetually worry about her husband picturing me during sex. It's a total waste of a showing.

But I let them in, gathering up my crap and rushing out without enough water to get me through the day. And then, my car wouldn't start. I sat there cranking it over and over, knowing very well that they could hear every painful, desperate attempt. I kept going though, not wanting to interrupt their visit, but also worrying that at least subconsciously I was communicating information to them that would undermine my position as the seller.

Finally it started, after about fifteen tries. I drove off vengefully and was reaching for my phone to call and bitch to my sister about it when I realized I'd left my phone on the desk, in my hurry to get out of the house. Fuck! I couldn't do my errands now, not without my phone, now that I might get stranded somewhere and moreover now that I needed to complain to someone about my day and these fucking fuckhole fuckernut realtors and how much it SUCKS to have your house on the market, so I drove around the block and parked about eight houses down, lurking and watching like a weirdo.

After about fifteen minutes they left, and I pulled back into the drive to get the phone and write this blog. I'd better go. The car's still running.

Jaded at Last

Well, that’s it. I’m officially jaded.

I was doing gentle laps in the neighborhood pool this afternoon, swimming on my back and taking it easy on the knee. I stopped at the shallow end to do a few stretches and noticed a lean man with two little girls walking round the pool to the lap lanes. I wasn’t sure how cute he was yet, but I liked the way he carried himself. Probably married, I thought, but no harm in keeping an eye out. I do this instinctively, you understand, almost involuntarily. He stopped at the lane next to mine and took off his shirt to reveal an Asian-character tattoo over each well defined pectoral and a tan, tight abdomen. When I made it back to the deep end, he and the children were still getting into the water. We exchanged smiles, I did a ring check (none) and then I continued swimming.

It seemed we had some more eye contact, and I enjoyed hearing him work with the kids on their swimming. He sounded calm, patient, kind. When I got out of the water I wanted to talk to him but I froze up, couldn’t come up with an opener, and then he was off chasing the kids down the lane.

Once repositioned on my lawn chair a few paces away, I pretended to read while watching them. The longer I studied him, the hotter he got, until I began to seriously consider making an approach. But no sooner was I was rehearsing opening lines than I started to talk myself out of it. Normally I don’t go for tattoo guys, and he had more of them on his side and across his shoulders. You’ve seen the one I mean, some word or name arced across the traps in Gothic letters. He looked white but the girls were clearly Hispanic. Married or not, I could just imagine some hot-headed Latina kicking my blonde ass for encroaching on her man.

My lust fought a hearty battle, however, reminding me that it is the confident skinny ones that have the biggest dicks. I texted a few friends for moral support and waited for an opportunity. I continued staring over my book until he returned the gaze, clearly aware of my interest. I couldn’t tell whether his look said, “What are you waiting for?” or “What’s your fucking problem?”

And then I remembered all the reasons why I should not make a move. What would be the point? Getting dragged into some guy’s baby mama drama? Wasting another three months of my life traipsing down a man’s psychological yellow brick road? Setting aside opportunities to think and create and introspect and grow just to invest my energy in his concept of life? Acquiring yet another sexual conquest that was unlikely to be the slightest bit different from any one of the men I’ve had and done with already?

I’m sick of chasing dick. I have goals. I’m trying to do something with my life. I recently realized that almost every major mistake I’ve made, every derailment of my ambitions and much of the pain I’ve experienced has been because of some man, either because my judgment was warped by my relationship with him, or because he was just an outright asshole. Most men I have known sexually are not concerned with anything that does not directly relate to their particular penises, respectively. (That is why it is so much better to remain platonic friends with men.)

But there he was, still shiny and tasty-looking with his lickable pecs and sweet smile. Despite my great intellectual reluctance, I could not help indulging in a fantasy of intimacy and compatibility, and I very well might have acted on my yearnings had I not been committed to an appointment with my hot orthopedist. So I left, saddened by my own cynicism and wondering if perhaps he was the one.

When I got home I rubbed one out, shed a few tears over the one that got away, and headed for the doctor’s office. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I had taken a grand step toward overcoming my vaginally dominated pattern of behavior. When the doc was finished examining me I noticed how nerdy he was, which wetly blanketed my once fiery and now merely smoldering passion for him. He was wearing Crocs, and I hate those damned things. They are a perfect example of how the right amount of viral marketing can take a hideous accident of manufacturing and make it extremely profitable. I see now that my attraction was only the symptom of a hero complex I had developed over him the afternoon I had sobbed uncontrollably upon his diagnosis of my broken kneecap. (I’d still fuck him, though.)

I think my whole “is he the one?” way of thinking (“one-itis,” as it’s called in some circles) is just a sophisticated system of justification for straight up sex. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why I talk myself into dating someone I’m attracted to when most of my dating experience so far has taught me how much I prefer my own company to having some belching, sweating, farting, garrulous know-it-all breathing down my neck and constantly up my ass. What I want is for them to shut up, follow instructions, service me properly and then beat it, or make themselves useful around the house.

But instead of staying true to my genuine interests, I have to get into my silly little girl head, which has long been traumatized by Cinderella stories and modern Hollywood romance. This brainwashing has led me to invariably, upon meeting a potential partner, freak out over the likelihood and quality of a potential “relationship” rather than stick strictly to the bottom line. Lying there studying Tattoo Hottie and memorizing his muscularity, I thought, “Yeah, sure, it would be hot at first.” But I couldn’t help carrying the line of reasoning out to its logical end. It would be hot at first, but then he’d want to hang around my house all the time expecting me to cook and clean up after him, and I’d have to deal with his bitch ex-wife, and baby sit the kids, and listen to their bratty mouths all day. And we’d argue about everything eventually, because one person is always more insecure than the other, and for some reason men always want to play King of the Hill with me. And it would be a huge time-wasting disaster requiring many late night emails and phone calls with friends going over every last detail of a conversation or evening and by god, I have better things to do with my life.

Oh, also - I could not ignore the possibility that TH might be married, despite not having a ring, or that he might not be single, and I could not face the prospect of being shot down in front of all those people, and having the shame linger every time I returned for a swim. Shame lingering over me the way it did that time I tried to pick up the cutie working the gourmet sauces counter right across from the deli at the closest HEB to my house, whose regretful announcement that he was engaged (men should have to wear an engagement ring, too!) caused me to have to buy packaged lunchmeat for a year.

And that, my friends, is why I psyched myself out of talking to the hot guy at the pool today. But it’s a popular pool. He’ll be back.

Soul Sucking Day

Why do people think it’s so cute when they make fun of my leg injury? They say “Gimpy” or “Hopalong” to me like it’s a fucking riot, like they’re the cleverest person in the world. I am amazed by the number of people who think that this is funny, or even acceptable behavior. These losers have no idea what pain and misery I am in with this shit, or how much it has fucked up my life. And they think they are being cute, those insensitive morons with their undeservedly bendy knees and functional walking mechanisms.

And not only is it dumbass strangers saying this to me, my own so called friends think they are being cute by throwing such words at me. Of course these are the shit list friends, the ones hovering between receiving only occasional return phone calls and just being dropped remorselessly into the social Bermuda Triangle. The ones who are so insensitive and insecure that they feed on genuine disclosures from me for opportunities to prove their wit and friendworthiness. That’s the irony.

So I’ve just started driving again and going about without crutches. For a few days there, I was so excited to be out that everyone was a friend, and I had a huge grin plastered irrevocably upon my face. There were no assholes in my happy, energetic world, and my pleasure at being not confined to the one room of the house I can live in until I take it off the market completely overshadowed my difficulties.

But I got some bad news today, and it appears that one of my much-anticipated ventures is not going to pan out. I’m not sure exactly why, but there was something in that end that has really gotten under my skin and for the time, at least, seriously compromised my usually optimistic nature. It has been rather a shitty day, therefore, and so when I had to vacate the house for an hour and a half so that yet another snooty, probably government-suckling couple could waste my time and air conditioning for a house showing, I hardly wanted to wrench myself from the Explorer. Each time I did, it was into brutal waves of one hundred and five degree atmosphere that choked the oxygen from my lungs and brain.

First I had to drop off a movie at Blockbuster that I didn’t get to see because the stupid DVD wouldn’t read, and then I dragged my ass to the library only to find it closed during normal business hours for an employee meeting. After an hour of driving around and parking in shady spots, wishing I were home sleeping, I decided that the agent had had enough time to do her business; but as I returned home she and her minions were just pulling up. So I went to the HEB to get some lunchmeat.

Fuck, it’s a long walk from the parking lot to the entrance. And as I labored forth, keeping an eye out for the traffic and exiting shoppers, I noticed a troll loitering by the grapefruit bins at the entrance. A quick glance informed me that he was an Old Austin Letch, one of those Keep Austin Weird wannabe hippie scumbags with the long white hair and the stupid hat who perpetually hope for a grope from an unsuspecting Nice Austin Girl. I consciously avoided making eye contact as I approached the store, but my excruciatingly slow gait gave the bastard enough time to muster up the courage to run his game.

Here it comes, I thought, studiously ignoring him as he leered at me. What’s it gonna be? I wondered.

“Heh heh…You’re not moving too fast, now are ya?”

I thought, this is the best you can come up with? An admission of your own glee at encountering wounded potential prey? I glared at him, prepared to reduce him to ashes with a hearty “Fuck off,” but he looked very familiar; much, in fact, like my neighbor who’s been mowing my lawn. This is what I hate most about having an injury: having to supplicate. Thrilled by my acknowledgement, the human turd grinned and said, “How’s your leg?” Did I, in fact, know him from around the neighborhood? Damn. I felt years of self-administered therapy wither as Nice Girl took hold of my speech.

“Doing great, thanks for asking!” At least she had the decency to be sarcastic.

So I had wanted to emulate the "fun, easy to read" styles of popular contemporary writers in my storytelling, and I spent some time reading up on these folks online. An instructional writing book by one was indeed fun and easy to read (this description came from a library attendant), so I started building a plot model according to that writer's directions. It was going okay until I realized that I hated the whole story line and detected absolutely no credibility in it. In constructing it, I felt like I was having an interminable conversation with one of those super smiley bubbly married women who babble endlessly at excruciatingly high pitch about absolutely nothing of consequence. Frustrated, I left the computer and placed myself and my dead weight log of a broken leg onto the daybed to read one or two of this instructional and would-be inspirational author's novels, borrowed earlier that afternoon from a neighbor I met on the hobble back from the mail box.

It sucked. I couldn't make 4 pages without tossing it away in disgust. I felt like my brain had been violated by the staged, stereotypical speech of a CBS sitcom. I flipped through two other bestsellers with the same disappointment and despair. How will I ever be successful as a writer if I can't write crap? My only option was to nap, which I did ferociously. When I woke up I went back to the computer and wrote the final scene of my story, in which one of the characters sadistically dismembered and murdered the rest of the crew.

A friend I discussed this problem with said that I don't believe in a moral universe. I don't exactly agree; I believe that my own bubble of existence functions morally and that other people are capable of morality as well, but I don't think they're interested. So I'm going to go back to writing about stuff I actually see happening. Hope it works.

It's finally raining. I love it. Two days straight. It looks beautiful, wet and gray and relentless beyond the window. Reminds me of the lushness of Virginia, green and steamy as humid Houston.

I haven't been writing in the blog because each time I develop a topic I decide not to make it public. Two of them were about men, and how idiotic I think modern ideas about gender roles and relationships are. I feel like I've been acting out the same repetitive, programmed set of behaviors year after year, never realizing how full of shit my entire iterative ideology was. That's what genitalia will do to you. I've got to stop listening to that bitch; she's not a very good judge of character. Anyway, that's why I didn't post "Twisted Sexuality," "Egg Donor," or "Logicus Interruptus."

With my broken leg I've nothing to do but roll around and think, and I'm getting some good thought work done. That's what Harriet Lerner calls introspection, in her books about human relationships. She says that women tend to over- and under-function in all of their relationships, and that those disparities are what cause unsatisfying outcomes to occur over and over again.

I'm sick of the gerbil race. I'm still young and I want to make the best of the rest of it.

K that's it for now.

Angry at My Anger

The other day a friend said he had read my entry concerning niceness. I asked him what he’d thought of it.

“It seemed kind of angry.”

I was surprised to hear this, recalling how well I’d amused myself in writing it. Then I started to get angry.

“I suppose there may have been some anger in it, but that’s what often motivates me to write.” What else should inspire commentary but a strong, specific position? Should I write: “Dear readers, today I enjoyed ten hours of blandness and contentment. I am now a completely gelatinous entity, shapeless and formless save those parameters I absorb from the oozy, equally squishy suggestions of my environment. Tune in tomorrow!”

He changed the subject, but over the next couple of days I realized that my friend had identified an issue worth investigating. Why do people disapprove of strong emotion, particularly anger, in communication?

Another friend and I recently had laughs over our observation of forcibly diluted meaning in contemporary conversation. According to my friend, an accomplished technical writer, the trend in emails, research papers and political communication is to obliterate all statement of fact or purpose, with an increasing valuation of evasion and vagueness.

This is understandable, if abhorrent, given the massive bureaucratization of human organizations over the last century. This bureaucratization is characterized by diffusion of accountability, denial of causality and preference for politic over merit. The goal seems to be to implement a society of mindless drones, each devoid of sufficient individualism, ideology or character to do anything other than submit to the (fictitious) collective will. The vilification and dampening of anger in modern sociology is a collectivist strategy to make people more accepting of control, domination and subjection.

Anger is the most powerful enemy of conformity. A signal of danger or wrongdoing, anger is our protection against those who might harm us, deliberately or accidentally. We only need to learn to distinguish the deliberate from the accidental anger-instigator, and address each situation accordingly.

Some call this Anger Management. I call it Asshole Management. In each potentially pissing-off event, I ask myself: which kind of asshole am I dealing with here? One I can simply laugh at, avoid and complain about to my friends later, or one I need to warn sternly, now, against further infraction?

It is not possible to have an anger-free life (without becoming a complete tool), because humans are necessarily subjective. It is in our nature to have different preferences and conflicts due to competing interests. That’s not a problem itself, at least not one I would expect to change. The problem, meaning that which I do believe requires alteration, is a manner in which many people react to the inescapably subjective nature of human existence: with the use of coercion.

When coercion is inserted into anyone’s change strategy, said strategy becomes worthy of anger and confrontation. And those who use coercion to achieve their ends are often the ones to condemn the reactively angry, proving themselves as ad hominem as they are ad baculum.

Beware of Nice People

Niceness is not a character trait; it’s a strategy. Gavin De Becker, an author I quote often, writes some version of that in his book The Gift of Fear. Nice people should be regarded with the utmost suspicion, particularly when they are nice to you right when you meet them. With so much to do and so many things to worry about, time and energy are precious to everyone (or should be). So why would a complete stranger – your “nice” new acquaintance – be willing to do work, or expend valuable time and energy, for someone they don’t even know, and therefore can’t really value?

It’s possible that all your NNA wants from you is your approval, your time and attention. They may want more, like favors or sex. It’s also possible this person could be a dangerous potential enemy who, seeing you as a threat to her job, relationship or social status, has decided to keep her enemies closer and hopefully fool you into trusting her.

Some NNA’s are power junkies. They like having people around to torment, nag, annoy and feed off of. I know a strategically nice woman who watches with hungry eyes, ravenously consuming every detail of others’ lives in her desperation to overcome the cacophony of her own self-flagellating internal fugue. And there was an initially nice man I knew who, tortured by the voices in his head, really just wanted a perpetual sparring partner.

Niceness can be a strategy to combat fear. Your cube neighbor or counterpoint in another business unit who seeks you out on your first day of work to offer to help or show you the ropes: Run! This evil leech will fawn and compliment only to steal your ideas, undermine your confidence and spoil your press.

A nice behavioral system can be a powerful façade, too. The man who brings you flowers on the first date is particularly dangerous. He’s trying to distract you, and is guaranteed to be a Grade-A Asshole.

The best way to combat nice people is to pay attention to our instinctive responses. Usually when I’m in the company of a possible NNA, I get little warning signs like a dull headache and squirrelly feeling over my skin. I also become impatient and feel that the conversation is taking too long, going nowhere. When people talk too long, linger too much, that’s a sign they want something from you. When they ignore your social cues – that’s another sign, and moreover it suggests that what they want, they know very well you’d rather not give.

This leads me to my most unfavorite behavioral strategy: passive aggression. Passive aggression is a version of coercion that allows the perpetrator to make you the accomplice in your own violation. Most of us have relationships wherein there is some passive aggression, but sometimes I wonder if I might have had more than my reasonable allotment. Am I doing something to attract these vultures?

I’m probably being too nice.