I have bizarre dreams. Sometimes I wake up and wonder whose brain I’ve been inhabiting, or, more likely, what pop-culture obsessed alien has entered my gray matter during the night simply to torture me.
But, then again, I am erratica, right?
Sometimes, though, the little grey (guessing here) fuckers are just plain cruel. Not like scary and bad and monstrous in the traditional satanic boogeyman sense, but more like the nonsensical sort that make me wake up and vow never to mix Benadryl and beer again…
The other night, I swear to you, I dreamt I was in love with Nicholas Cage. And not the Raising Arizona version, but the annoying nasally Scientology one. Eep. I am doomed.
Or perhaps it is simply another manifestation of my inability to commit. Although, could anyone really blame me in that particular situation?!!?
Thinking back at my tortured, er, storied romantic history, however, I’ve realized that while not every freak I’ve let into my life has been totally bad, for the most part they have been downright wrong — for me. And so I’m dreaming of the polar opposite type I’d ever consider getting nekkid with has me thinking — is that a sign I need to look beyond the usual broken boys?
Oh, but aren’t they fun?
Got sucked into the evil electric cable beast again this evening, and, left to my own devices (as all my roommates have lives…) wound up watching some random show on graffiti artists, which sorta’, in my kinetic brain, ties in with the conversation in my head, which goes something like:
“Was it necessarily a wise idea to invite a crew of taggers over to the SF Folsom Street flat many moons ago to help ‘paint’ the livingroom? Probably not, especially as I think the resulting flack induced a nervous twitch and ulcer in the landlord, who threatened to toss us onto the street if we didn’t paint over it.
“But damn it looked good and someday when I actually own something I’m going to bring my friends in to paint as many satanic cherubs, fuzzy pink bunnies, candy canes and assorted other images as I want.”
(And it’s the thought that some dot.com yuppies paying many thousands more than we were in 1998 occasionally get the fright of their lives as they lounge on their Ethan Allen furniture when the light is right and the spray paint pokes through the paint that makes me smile. And someday I’ll find the photos I took.)
Yet back then I was willing and able to spend inordinate amounts of time and energy dwelling on dudes who didn’t give a shit about me, or anything else except the spray paint, bike, paintbrush or drugs in hand. And I wonder if it ruined me.
Am I simply too old, tired and/or jaded to make an effort? Or will it all work out in the end? When even my mother turns to divine intervention to get me off the shelf I’m more than happy to lounge on I have to wonder if I’m doing it right.
Until recently I figured that fate, karma and the universe would happily align once I’d spent my merry time wandering and wondering and figuring out stupid shit like which country I want to live in and what I’m willing to do to pay the rent, and when I’d worked through the bulk of the bullshit would deliver my own personal Mr. Darcy to my doorstep, and I’d live happily ever after, or at least no longer be forced to be miserable alone.
Unfortunately MoDo’s tossed that theory to the wolves with her latest tome, Are Men Necessary?
For those not familiar with Madame Dowd, she writes what she thinks, thinks a lot, has opinions, knows what’s going on in the world, and she’s hot. In short, she and I are practically twins. (Ooookay, I embellish. It’s my blog, I can do what I want.) According to CNN:
“There’s a body of evidence now that the Y chromosome is rotting at such a fast rate that it will go out of business in about 100,000 years,” she said on “American Morning.”
“So now that women don’t need men to reproduce and refinance, the question is, will we keep you around? And the answer is,” she added puckishly, “you know we need you in the way we need ice cream, you’ll be more ornamental.” (A Times book reviewer has noted that other research indicates the Y chromosome has stabilized.)
She’s biting, looking for trouble, exceptionally well paid, attractive, high-positioned as one of a dearth of female news columnists, and, here’s the problem: single. And it’s a chronic condition for her.
Katie Roiphe writes in Slate:
In the most inflammatory and intriguing passages, she claims that men are put off by women in power, that they prefer the women who serve them—maids, masseuses, and secretaries—to their equals.
She attributes the fact that she is unmarried to her powerful position as an op-ed columnist at the New York Times. Then she notes her own family history of domestic service and concludes that “being a maid would have enhanced my chances with men.”
Oh shit. I’m fucked.
Or am I? Is my doom my own doing? Or undoing?
Because, as badass as I can be, I’m also ridiculously backward in my silly Cinderella visions of the storybook ending. And yet I’ve read The Cinderella Complex, I know better.
Nonetheless, I’m the one sitting here waiting for fate: I don’t need to put myself out there, I don’t need to maybe get up in someone’s face I’m attracted to and force them to notice I exist, the right person will magically float, as if on fairy dust laden air, to my side, and Tinkerbelle will fly by and the heavens will open and drop candy-covered thousand dollar bills and marzipan pigs.
So I’m torn: Do I chase after those I’m interested in, or do I continue to trust that the universe and fate really are in cahoots, and someone great will just pop onto my radar? I really don’t know.
And it’s not like I’m miserable, or desperate. It’s just, well, the part that worries me is this: Did MoDo, and the women like her who’ve hit the trenches ahead of us, assume fate would take care of it all too?