Red Flags

If you’ve been following along at home, you are likely aware of the following:

• I have been ‘window shopping’ the dating sites for quite a while.
• For various reasons, some of which stem from me and others from the persons with whom I have communicated, I have made very little progress.
• I have One Very Good Reason to be extremely wary when vetting potential romantic partners, which does tend to make it marginally more difficult to even try in the first place--and while I know that this is on me, it’s not going to change a damn thing because it is important.

That said, I recently had a bit of a flutter in the ‘someone’s actually willing to talk to me’ department on an app where the lady has to make the first move. Now, my usual tactic is to find something in the other person’s profile that I can spin out into a starting point that proves I’ve put some thought into it, rather than just saying, “Hi!”

I’m going to sidetrack here for a second and revisit an old train of thought which in part consists of the below:

• As concerns online dating profiles, I sincerely doubt that anyone does as much outdoorsy shit as they would have you believe.
• I also sincerely doubt that anyone has the bandwidth to do as much traveling as they would have you believe--unless of course they travel for work or are a trust fund baby.

Sidetrack over, back to your regularly scheduled nonsense.

This particular person mentioned that their next trip was likely to be to Machu Picchu in Peru. (An unquestionably interesting--if magnificently clichéd--destination.) My opener was mostly me stating that any trip to the ancient Incan city should include many, many llamas with colorful kit, and could this person please not shatter that dream. They very politely pointed out that it was much more likely that there would be horses or mules doing the pack-animal-ing than llamas, but perhaps there would be llamas along the way. I was satisfied with this response. Then they went on to say that their big dream was to go somewhere there were giraffes, and ride one. I directed them to Giraffe Manor in Kenya, a place on my personal bucket list ever since I saw a mini-documentary on it on PBS years ago.

Mini-sidetrack: Elizabeth LOVES giraffes. Seriously. They’re just so dopey and adorable.

Anyway, I sent the link to Giraffe Manor and said, “I doubt they let you ride them, but they will stick their noggins in and share breakfast with you!”

Their response? “I’d find a way to jump on the back of one.”

My reply: “Don’t you think the giraffe might object? YMMV, but I personally wouldn't want to be told off by a giraffe. There’s a lot of power behind those long legs. Ow.”

Them: “Giraffes are my spirit animal. It would want me on its back.”

At this point, friends, I stopped and read, and re-read, and re-re-read, and clicked out, and haven’t said anything since.

You may be sitting there thinking why, though? They’re probably just being funny. And perhaps they are. I don’t know. But what I do know is how that statement struck me as possibly being indicative of something deeper. Something that made me very uncomfortable indeed. To me, it read as a warning regarding this person’s view of consent.

“Whoa. Hang on, crazy lady. This is a hypothetical giraffe. Not even a hypothetical person, but a hypothetical animal. It’s doubtful that any sane person would actually follow through on a plan as ludicrous as trying to ride an enormous African quadruped bareback. And this connection you’re making? Equally ludicrous. Relax.”

Well, yeah, maybe. But we develop opinions about people by watching their interactions with others, right? If someone is a dick to waitstaff, or they don’t hold doors for old ladies, or they kick puppies, we don’t usually think, oh, that’s a person I want to share my life with.

At least I don’t.

So I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to draw the parallel between this person possibly disregarding the interests of a giraffe in order to satisfy their own wishes and doing the same to another human being.

AND THAT FUCKING TERRIFIES ME.

Should it terrify me? Am I overreacting? It’s possible. But here’s the thing--I’m not particularly keen to allow logic to apply in this particular instance.

GASP! SHOCK! I can just hear my therapist right now. “You? The Queen of Logic? You’re going to throw that out the window and concentrate on a feeling?! Have I finally managed to get through to you? Oh, frabjous day!”

Yes, it’s true. Logic doesn’t even enter into it right now. All the logic in the world can’t rid me of the memory of the instant chill that pair of sentences gave me. All I know is that there was a feeling of cold, shuddering fear that washed over me. It was physical. It was visceral.

I did not like it, Sam I Am.

Maybe I’m willfully walking away from something with the potential to be more based on one off-the-cuff remark. But you know what? That’s a gamble I’m willing to take.

Spring Cleaning...In February.

Not that ‘Spring’ really means the same thing in this part of California as it does in places that have, you know, seasons.

I have now lived in my condo for six years. I have a good, therapeutic clearout at least once a year--independent of season--but it’s been a good long while since I’ve put this much effort into it. As in dusting and all. Moving things around to make better use of what little space I’ve got--and there ain’t much of that, lemme tell ya. Not that I’m complaining, mind. The less space one has, the less unnecessary rubbish one can stuff into it, which makes a good, therapeutic clearout all the easier.

You see, I have this horrible tendency to stack things. It’s a trait I seem to have inherited from my father, much to the chagrin of my mother. Anyway, I stack on all the available flat surfaces until there aren’t any more upon which to stack, and then I either have to put things away properly or do a strategic shuffle and make some stacks higher in favor of clearing some space in the more visible areas of my abode.

Guess which tactic gets used first, and possibly to death?

Obviously part of the whole ‘have a clearout’ philosophy is to rid oneself of excess stuff. On the surface, that might be enough. Thing is, though, it can also be something of a catharsis. There are plenty of cultures where an annual cleaning spree, usually in conjunction with a major religious festival or new year, is a chance for a new start in life. “Out with the old, in with the new” and all that. If you enter a new phase of life without the chattels of the one you’ve just left, you have a better chance at happiness and good fortune and probably a whole host of other things. Traditionally there’s far more to it than tossing all your old clothes into a box to take to Goodwill. Jumping over fire, sweat lodges, or even the Polar Bear Plunge are a few of the more well known physical methods of renewal, though you wouldn’t find me doing any of them, thanks. No, I think I’ll stick with reorganizing my pencils.

In a way, though, I’m using this impulse to get rid o’ shit as a sort of realignment of my...psyche? Mental cupboards? Aura? Whatever you want to call it, I’m definitely doing it. Much as I may let things stack up around me, I am definitely a slave to my environment. Every so often I have to have a mini-blitz to get this place into a less cluttered state or I cease to be able to function. It takes a while, of course, because I can also be stubbornly and willfully oblivious to things piling up around me, but sooner or later, something’s gotta give.

Before the foundation of the house does.

Kidding. I’m on cement slab. I could invite sixteen elephants to tea and while it would ruin my laminate it wouldn’t do a darn thing to the substructure.

Honestly, though I’ll be the first to admit it was likely beyond time for this clearout to happen, I’m not entirely sure what it was that finally lit enough of a fire under my ass to actually do it. Maybe it has something to do with my new job. Maybe it has something to do with my consistent lack of a date. It most certainly couldn’t have been the pact I made with my editor that if she did her dresser, I’d do my desk… ::shifty eyes::

Maybe I was just finally sick and tired of the dust.
Whatever it was, it was about damn time, and the urge to tidy up has extended itself beyond the confines of my desk and into my closet, my kitchen, my pantry, my living room, and...okay, I’m out of rooms now. I told you, it’s not a big place. But it’s getting closer and closer to being clean, and I suppose, ultimately, that’s the main thing.

Unpopular Opinions

Unpopular opinions. We all have them. Every single one of us has at least one thing that we just can’t stand, and the rest of the world thinks we’re cuckoo bananapants when we own up to it. They’re usually something mundane, something other people take for granted as a universal truth, which is why everyone goes apeshit when you say, oh, I don’t know, “I don’t like parfait”.



Oh, Donkey. That will never NOT be funny.

To be honest, I’m not that mad about parfait, but I wouldn’t blackball it from my list of things I’ll eat. No, the unpopular food opinion for which I take the most flack is my aversion to strawberries.

Yeah. Strawberries.

I really don’t like them. I have a visceral reaction to the smell of them. In the summer, when all the grocery stores have them right inside the front doors, I have to hold my breath when I go in--otherwise… ::HURK::

I come by this particular food quirk honestly. On my father’s side, my grandmother and one of my aunts absolutely love the things, but everybody else exists somewhere in the realm of ‘meh’. They’ll eat them, but they aren’t the highest on the list of berries they’d like to be eating. As for me, I can’t handle them on their own. Again, ::HURK:: If there are strawberries in a smoothie--not as the primary fruit--I’m okay, but if it’s straight strawberries, or anything strawberry flavored or centric, NO, THANK YOU.

So that’s my biggie.

But this next one, oh, this next one...you’re probably all going to come find me with your torches and your pitchforks and then you’ll drag me out in the street and shoot me.

Are you ready? Do you think you can take it? Do you think you can handle this opinion of mine, which is possibly one of the most unpopular opinions there ever was and ever will be, amen?

Well, all right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

::takes deep breath::

GIRL SCOUT COOKIES ARE TERRIBLE AND OVERRATED. YEAH, I SAID IT. I’M SORRY, BUT IT’S TRUE. THEY’RE OVERPRICED AND THEY TASTE LIKE CARDBOARD.

::hides behind sofa to write the rest of this post::

Yes, you read that correctly. I think Girl Scout cookies are a waste. I have nothing against the Girl Scouts, I think they’re a wonderful organization. I also think that their annual fundraiser is a very nice tradition and the proceeds go to good things and blah blah blah.

BUT THE COOKIES THEMSELVES ARE GROSS.

Everyone goes loopy and hunts down all the nine-year-olds they know around this time every year in order to buy ten thousand boxes of Thin Mints, and I just don’t get it. I’m sorry, but I don’t.

…

…

…

Are you done being incensed yet?

I think that might be my most controversial opinion, really, at least insofar as foodstuffs are concerned. It’s practically un-American, isn’t it? But I shall not remain silent any longer! I HAVE AN OPINION, AND IT WILL BE HEARD! Even though you probably all hate me for it. And you’re all going to shun me forever. I just don’t get the appeal. Girl Scout cookies aren’t worth the price, and they don’t live up to the hype. There are plenty of other cookies out there I’d rather shovel into my gaping maw. And don’t even get me started on all the nonsense fringe products they’ve made over the years in Girl Scout cookie flavors. Nobody needs Thin Mint flavored lip balm!

Anyway, I bet the strawberry thing doesn’t seem so weird after that, does it?

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”

I’m off on a new adventure, friends.

I started a new job this week.

I know some of you are sitting there going, “Oh, thank gawd, now she’ll stop moping and moaning and generally being a wet blanket.”

Weeell, let’s not discount that outcome completely, but for the time being, yes.

It’s weird having to start all over. It’s like the first day of school, except you don’t have the easy conversation starter of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox. Well...I mean, you might, but it doesn’t quite work the same way as a grown up.

Now I want a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox.

Anyway, the ‘starting all over’ bit is just really, really weird. It’s not bad weird, it’s just...weird. I mean, you’ve been seeing more or less the same people every day for however many years, you’ve been doing the same kind of work, parking in the same spot, drinking the same crummy coffee. And then you’re doing the same thing, only with different people, and a different parking space. But you have to re-learn everything, don’t you?

You might walk through the door with a whole pile of previous knowledge and experience (and if you aren’t doing that, then you’re an exceptional bluffer in interviews), but you’re still completely lost until someone points you in the right direction--usually with hours and hours of agonizingly boring and tedious training. And you don’t have anyone to talk to at lunch. And the coffee maker makes a weird noise if you don’t set it up just right.

Actually, none of those things has happened to me this time. Everyone has been lovely and reasonably talkative (but not TOO talkative), and the coffee maker works perfectly normally, and so far the training--while a necessary chore--has actually been, if not exactly exciting, informative and challenging and kind of like a big puzzle.

And I looove a puzzle.

I’m a bit tired at this point from all the newness--new schedule, new personalities to get used to, new...newness--so I’ll leave it here for the week. Brevity is the soul of wit, and all that.
 
I think this new gig is going to work out just fine.