He’s just not that into you.

“We’re taught that in life, we should try to look on the bright side, to be optimistic. Not in this case. In this case, look on the dark side. Assume rejection first. Assume you’re the rule, not the exception.”

― Liz Tuccillo, He’s Just Not That Into You

It’s been romcom season in casa di Malinqa these past two weeks. It’s a foolproof and must-have break-up recipe that never fails to deliver. Almost as good as a great rebound. (Who am I kidding. Nothing beats a good rebound.)

Hyperromantic and happy-ending-assured movies are still fuckdamn awesome though.

However. For all my years of avidly watching anything with the romcom tag (because I’ve done enough of the breakups to merit these choices) – I had never managed to get around to seeing ‘He’s just not that into you’. Until it appeared on my Netflix last week.

And hit me smack-dab in the face with some romcom wisdom (which tends to be alot wiser than regular wisdom for the simple fact that it’s a whole lot more dramatic). It’s the type of wisdom that rings even more true when you’re in a certain mental space. Mindset. State of being. It’s a lot like country songs totally making ALL of the sense when you fall in (or out of) love. Romcoms are thoughtfodder for the broken heart-and-brain.

You see….
I CAN appreciate the core of the message of this movie:

That all of those people with the happy endings. The people with the one true loves. The people with the perfect matches?
They are the EXCEPTION. Not the rule.
(Aka, you’re not failing at life by being by your lonesome, nope. They’re just overachieving)

I CAN’T mold my beliefs to fit that knowledge. Insane. But true.

Now. I’ve always been kinda great at determining the ‘he’s not that into you’ kind of dudes. The schmucks. Commitment-phobes. Untruthful bastards and unreliable Andy’s.
I have a better douche-dar than gay-dar and have been mildly successful in weeding most of them out before they found their way in.

Plus: as a pessimist-to-the-core…looking on the dark side has always come SO naturally to me. I’ve never really hovered over phones. Never really cyberstalked someone in hopes of grabbing their attention. Never ‘casually’ walked by their favorite restaurant hoping to get spotted. I’ve always assumed guys AREN’T into me. And acted accordingly.

Detrimentally so. Even.

Especially since I HAVE always had this thing for the ‘out of my league’ types of dudes. Who, as it so happens, are VERY RARELY all that into you. And if they ARE for some magical reason still into you…you acting like you’re thinking that they’re not is SURE to make them run for the hills.

I fuck up being together with someone, for the simple fact that (even though I LIKE BEING ALONE) I act like being alone is the end on the world. Because the world has taught me that it is.

It’s because everyone tells us those ‘perfect’ lives ARE the rule.
But They aren’t. They really aren’t.
And assuming that they are puts us in that horrendous spot of vulnerability and desperation that is SURE to deter any real chance of being genuinely open to something or someone new because we’re forcing ourselves to fit a standard that is both unrealistic and unachievable FOR MOST. Being in a ‘societally-judged-as-not-perfect’ situation IS THE RULE THOUGH. Not those shiny lives we’re pelted with all the time. Those are the exception.

But nevertheless we still (or at least, I do) still act like we, the ‘unlucky ones’, are the exception. Instead of the rule. And in thinking this – fuck up any and all chances at becoming the exception.

Because if we’re TOO determined. TOO forced. TOO cramped and needy and clingy and and and JUST because we’re SO determined to get a hold of that societal view of ‘happy’ – all we’re really doing is making sure that they’re NOT going to be all that into you.

Because there’s so much truth in the saying ‘you’ll find what you need, when you stop looking so very hard’
I know this. I KNOW this.

But I can. not. stop. myself. from. looking.
From wanting.
From needing.
Even though I healthily assume all of those ACTUAL potentially awesome peeps out there are just…not…that…into….me.
Even though I KNOW that I’m awesome on my lonesome.
Even though I believe that I don’t need to have a certain type of life to be the kind of happy that I’ve always aspired.

But I still want to be what we’re taught is the rule but is actually the exception.
Still act like I’m the exception, while I’m most definitely the rule.

And in doing so become exactly the type of scarecrow for potential happiness that this GODDAMN WAY TOO ACCURATE romcom warns us about.
Because as soon as they all stopped trying SO VERY HARD…everything just kinda fell into place.

Which might happen for me too. If I ever DID stop trying so VERY HARD.

Blinkers are like people.

A lot of the things I find awesome in life revolve around similarities and differences. Metaphors and similes. Tautologies and metonyms. Puns that smudge the borders between grammarnazi-ism and hilarity. You see this a lot in my writing. And in my humor – as well.

My favoritest joke (*which mostly proves that I am an acquired taste*):
**‘Do you know the difference between a tampon and a teabag?’**
*-confused silence, often followed by a ‘no’-*
**’Well. I’m sure as fuck not having tea at your house then!’**
*-insert me laughing hysterically-*

And I work through a lot of issues in my life by taking something entirely normal and basic from my day to day life – followed by finding the similarities between that simplicity and the complex world of feelings, and the bigger picture and my life’s meaning and goals and such. It’s surprising how often that works AND yields interesting thoughts and realizations (followed by, hopefully, some personal growth).
You will definitely recognize this if you’ve been reading my writings for longer than these previous 10 lines.

Today, as I was driving to the office, I pulled up at a crossroads near my house where people always drive like madmen. A car came up in the distance with its blinker on (*to turn into the road where I was waiting*).
I didn’t move.
And as I was standing there – unnecessarily unmoving – I realized that it was because I didn’t trust the blinker. He had that indication light on so far ahead that I figured he must’ve forgotten to turn it off at the last turn – instead of it indicating that he was indeed gonna pull into my road. I just waited to be sure.
He still pulled into the road.
My past experience had made me unnecessarily doubtful about the correctness of the blinker.

A couple of kilometers on in my journey I reached a roundabout and pulled to a standstill again because a car was already on it. Blinkerfree. Bound to pass right in front of me. This dude, however, pulled into the road next to me WITHOUT turning on the blinker, meaning I stopped for him even though I didn’t have to. Douchebag.

And sure enough, on the final stretch to the office I spent about 5 km driving behind a Skoda in the left lane with its left-turn-blinker CONSTANTLY on (even though there was no lefts anywhere to be had) because they forgot to turn it off. Only to be nearly killed by a Beemer pulling into a non-existing room between us WITHOUT using any sort of blinker whatsoever (as is mandatory for any BMW driver, obviously, dingleberries).

Blinkers have a very clear goal in life. They have a purpose. They have rules. They have etiquette and they have value when used correctly. Blinkers are awesome.
Thing is – SO many people in life are clueless about blinkers. Careless about blinkers. Bad drivers. Douchebag drivers. HORRENDOUS ‘PLEASE TAKE AWAY THEIR LICENSE’ DRIVERS (aka – me). We all know how blinkers SHOULD work and COULD work but adapt ourselves to be wary of them (*whether they’re used, abused or forgotten*) because of some special specimens that made us lose the trust in the system.

I find that blinkers are a lot like men. And red flags in dating.
Oftentimes we see them for what they are – we recognize, register and respect them for what we know them to be. However. Just as often we ignore them because we’ve been proven wrong in the past. Interpret them differently because we put them in our own contexts (usually blinded by love). Miss them, because we’re not paying attention. Forget them, because our minds are in entirely other places.

But with both blinkers, men and red flags: a mistake in interpretation could possibly mean a horrible horrible crash. We NEED to keep paying attention. But we also NEED to not take things blindly, just in case. A blinker isn’t always a blinker. And nothing blinking doesn’t necessarily mean safety. And just because it was blinking correctly once – doesn’t mean it’s gonna be an accurate blink every time. Because even though they’re awesome AND CAN tell us a lot of valuable things about someone’s driving or personality – they also might just be fucking bad drivers. Or Douchebag Dingleberries.

Blinkers you guys!
Blinkers are like flaggy people.


The ‘Not Enough/Too Much’ issue of love.

Breakups are the ideal time for self-reflection and a whole lotta talking. Personal growth – or so they say.

I usually just translate it to a lot of ‘self-care’ instead. Which pretty much translates to binging (drinks, fastfood and Netflix) the memories and pain away. Brutal but effective.

There always comes a point, however, when you get pensive. Start thinking. Try to figure out where you went wrong (again) and how you can prevent doing so in the future. And somehow – I feel like this is not a ‘separate’ activity throughout break-ups – but a buildup to a final answer. It’s truly like my love-life is an extensive calculation and I’m just adding the numbers that will eventually allow me to find the correct answer. And todays newest math-tip was, as always, a surprise.

When I said ‘it’s not me, it’s you‘ in my last sobby break-up post (I think I need to put a limit on this amount of whining on the blog) I meant it.

And though I was feeling a whole lot like a victim in that first one, these last few days a sense of self had descended upon me. Like vultures on weak and dying prey. No more victim. Culprit.

Now (though it might surprise a lot of people round here that I know this about myself): I’ve been whacked with the ‘narcissistic’ stick a couple of times too many when it comes to my radiant personality. But I DO know this. I’ve always known this. It’s not something that’s very easy to hide and it IS something that is very hard to change about oneself. And it inevitably weighs in to my (bad) choices in my dating career. Obviously. Let me demonstrate:

When I started off with my first crush – I obviously fell for the hot popular guy in school. And let us be frank – I was like EVERY main character in every romcom ever. Mousey. Invisible. Unkempt. It took me three years but in senior year – I scored the guy. It was like achieving a lifegoal, back then. Nobody expected it (least of all me). But it happened.

And it ended. Badly. Obviously.

It took dating two more infuriatingly ‘popular’ guys before I got the first part of my calculation. 1+1 can only equal 2 and then magically transform into 3 – when both of the ones feel and act like that one.
If either one of the two pretends to be a 10 due to unbelievable arrogance, or a 0 due to crushing insecurities…things break. They do.

Then I found love. The real thing with gooey eyes and soulmatey qualities and so on and so forth. Except – we somehow forgot to have all of the sex and thus fizzled into best-friends-living-together territory. So after I dated a 1 for 8 years, unsuccessfully, I figured out that some 1’s only look like a one but that somewhere in some subcalculation to make up that 1 – some numbers need to be present and that 20% awesomeness instead of the normal 10% could not compensate for 0% sexual attraction. The percentages that make up that 1 need to be just right (I conveniently forgot that he might actually be a 1, with me just being the wrong number in that calculation, but hey, narcissist. It’s never me).

Alas. After that I just proved time and again that I’m a stubborn goat, notoriously bad at math and hopelessly narcissistic by plundering Tinder for all the guys who were definitely-not-a-one but looked like a fucking 10. Gorgeous. Empty. Stupid.

Which is, suffice it to say, a pattern that I’ve always found hard to break. Mostly because I never really understood the reasoning behind why I picked the guys that I knew would never be a one in my calculations.

Well. After my previous break-up. I got a whole lot wiser, I think. Because (outside of the guys preferably having a sixpack and REALLY good hair) the one thing all of these men had in common was this:
They made me feel insecure in all the right places.

Because that’s how I was hit with the narcissistic stick. I need to feel ‘better’ than someone in all the areas that matter to me. Or at least. The areas that I pride myself in.
Looks never was one of them – so I prefer my man stupidly hot and way out of my league. I ain’t ever gonna be hot anyway. They can have that one.

Which is absofuckinlutely the stupidest thing ever – but it’s how my brain kinda works.
I need to be smarter than my partner. Which isn’t all that hard seeing as I have a pretty decent IQ and education even though that usually doesn’t show (my favorite humble brag, folks!). I need to have more ambition than my partner (because god, what if can outcompete me in the workfield?! THE HORROR). I need to have had it worse and recovered better from a desolate childhood (psychologists would have a field day. Which is obviously why I avoid them as avidly as non-vaxxers). And the list goes on.

But the area that I’ve never felt good about myself in? Looks? They can be ALL that ALL the damn time.

Let me tell you something though. Because even though I kind of think my tactic is brilliant – it also DOESN’T. FUCKING. WORK. LONGTERM.

You see – at the core of all of these bad picks and mismatches is one thing: I am a WHOLE lot scared to not be enough for someone.

Which is easily solved when you keep picking the dudes you KNOW you’re too much for. (As proven by the fact that I tried it the other way around once and almost crumbled at the blow when that exploded)

Key too the unavoidable too much/not enough issue is to simultaneously make sure that they have you on a constant level of insecurity about how you look while you’re pretty much feeling better than them in all other regards. (Over the top arrogance. It’s mah thang). They might be gorgeous. But you’re so smart. And successful. And and and. But fuck. You do need to start losing weight. Goddammit. Because two people who constantly feel like something’s off – are obviously meant to be, right? Not. Amirite? Sound lovely don’t it.

You catch my drift, right?
It’s a wicked form of self-sabotage when you sort of knowingly pick the wrong numbers for your calculation only because you’re afraid of getting the answer wrong even if you do pick the right ones.

Because it’s hella scary to work on feeling enough – instead of cheating yourself into a position where you are. Because then they’ll never be enough. Your ‘us’ will never be enough. And even though it does mean that your number is still whole and awesome and you ARE enough (or too much) – you’ll never get the right answer.

Because in the end all of those looks, and perks, and character traits and all of the rest don’t matter in the actual calculation. All you need is two ones and a bit of magic to come to a three instead of a two. The way love should be. You just gotta be willing to do the math right.

But hey. I suck at math. Don’t take it from me.

Wine Connaisseur

Contrary to the title – I am far from one. A wine connaisseur. Truly.
Which is something that I do regret, kind of, seeing as I do drink a (sometimes disturbing) amount of the godly nectar that makes your tongue go scrunch.

So when the finally got new wine for me at my softball club (how decadent is that, them changing brands just for me, because I’m literally the only one drinking wine there) I felt called out. I didn’t like the Chardonnay they had. But when asked what I did want, their guess was probably as good as mine. So I mumbled something about Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio and hoped for the best. And with success. The new wine is a boatload better! Even though no expertise was involved in the process.

I’ve said it a bunch of times this year (in every one of my resolutions updates, even). Something’s gotta change in that regard. It’s something I wanna know more about and grow more refined in. Because my current answer when non-wine-drinkers ask me what wine they should buy…is not making me sound any smarter:
‘Just get one with an animal on the label. Those are usually drinkable!’.

And it’s true, really. In the supermarket (see, this is already where I’m going wrong) there’s rows and rows of wines with Ducks and Cats and Bulls and Dragons and I just kinda go for all of those when I’m drinking. No pondering about the type of grape, or the aging. No worries about the subtle undertones of wood over fruit or the process of riping. Nope. I am doing to wines what illiterates do with books. Picking the ones with pictures.

I’m a wine illiterate. And I wanna be a connaisseur. Goals!

I did the math. And boy. Do I suck at math.

Yesterday I turned my mattress back the 180 degrees that I’d shifted it at the start of my latest attempt at an ‘us’.
Putting it back as it has been in the previous years of sleeping alone and in doing so drawing the line under what ‘we’ had been. Over. Now.
Moving it back into the single position (aka, the side that has a dent in the middle from always sleeping there by my lonesome) knowing full well that it might remain like this for a long while yet.

And as I nestled back into the familiar curve that my body dug into the foam – I felt torn.

I have been in ‘relationships’ for a good 13 of my 32 years. They’ve taught me a lot of things. About myself. The things I want, need and despise. The things that work, that break, that build and that end. But mostly – what they’ve taught me – is that I can no longer believe in what I think relationships are supposed to be. I can no longer believe that what I’m hoping for is out there to be found. And though this might be the ‘recentness‘ of it speaking – I know that this knowledge has changed me to my core.

In the past I have been stood up. Ghosted. All of that nasty business. But this was the first time I was broken up with. My first time getting dumped. Blindsided. Unexpected. Harshly. And that just ‘feels‘ different. It carries more meaning than I care to admit.

There was no classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘ this time. No. Though the words may not literally have been said, the message was there plain as day: ‘It’s not me. It IS you. And it will always be you.‘. And the worst thing is. I know that it’s true. Because everything corroborates that notion. Every love in my past shows that it IS me. The common denominator is but one thing. Myself.

My ideas on love, what it is and what it should be have shifted over time. A lot. And that’s natural progression. But in that change they’ve also slipped further and further out of my reach. Because what I know and want love and relationships to be these days – is almost an entire world away from what I could ever be. An impossible combination of things that are not likely to ever be found in that ‘one special person’. And the things that I want to do now, experience now, try now – take me ever further away from what I need to be for my kind of love – one step at a time.

Every attempt at love that fails miserably because of this is a piece of evidence on my court case of ‘not being made to be loved‘. At least not in the way I think I should be.

Every notch on my belt is a nail on the coffin of my chance at finding that ‘forever love’. Because I am ever less eligible for that type of love that I want.

So every ‘new’ love diminishes my worth for another. Every ‘fresh’ chance adds to the damaged package that is me. I feel the taint of my conquests. The weight of my body count. I feel the scars of my past. I feel exactly as dirty and empty and lost as I’m surely viewed by the ones that are still on the market for exactly those same reasons.

Yet the years keep ticking up. The failures keep adding up. The body count keeps rising. And I’m getting increasingly less attractive for a new partner with every time they do. I know this. I look at them the same way, don’t I. And I’m feeling increasingly less attractive as that realization sets in more and more. Who’s going to want ‘the afgelikte boterham’ in the end? What will I have remaining to offer up to another?
But at the same time my clearer vision on what works also means an evergrowing list of requirements and demands on the brave men that WOULD still make an attempt. Even though I may have no clue as to what WILL work – I have all the wisdom about what doesn’t. And add that to the calculations of taking the next chance.

The result of the sum of all of those actions is simple – Remaining chance at true love: 0.00000000maybesomethingifyou’relucky.

So I settle back into that comfortable pit in my mattress. Bury my face in the pillows that I no longer have to share. Fold myself up in the blankets that are once again all mine. And shed a tear for what is already lost, and what might never be found. Just this once.

Whole lotta nothing

Today is my first day back at work. Yay. Except not really. It just makes me realize that I need to win a jackpot sooner rather than later (even though I don’t even participate in any lotteries, so chances of that happening are even less than those at winning an actual lottery). Because I don’t wanna get back to work yet. Or at all. Or ever. I rather spend my days doing a whole lotta nothing.

Which is pretty much equal to the amount of things that happened in my three weeks leave. Guess the ship doesn’t sink when you leave. But it sure doesn’t move either. Although that does make it easier to pick…right…back…up…where…I…left.

The day AFTER vacations is always the worst. Not just because you have three weeks mail to plow through (although, admittedly, I’m the type of idiot who checked her mail about 20 times during my vacation to semi-clean-up-spam-shizzle to avoid pilesandpilesandpiles of plowing). And not just because there’s always that slight anxiety at ‘*what if something went wrong. What if I have nothing to do. What if I have EVERYTHING to do?*’. Nono. The thing I hate most about the vacation-return is the question-repeat-parade.

‘How was your holiday?’
‘Did you get all the rest?’
‘Did you go anywhere?’

Literally everyone opens with that, when you return. And though I appreciate the ‘concern’ (or general interest) – I do NOT appreciate having to defend my vacation time and again.

‘Vacation was great. We stayed home. It was awesome.’

Staying home, after all, is APPARENTLY the WORST thing you can do during your vacation. Colleague after colleague has to pick up their jaw from the floor at that simple notion that though I had 21 glorious days of freedom – I did not spend ANY of them at a tropical resort. Ski slope. Camping. Or hotel ANYWHERE.

‘But did you do….thisorthat?’
‘And did you go…thereorthere?’
‘Didn’t you see…somethingorother?’

My completely lovely and intensely delicious vacation consisted of maybe 3/4 outings and for the rest included A WHOLE LOTTA NOTHING. There was food. Movies. Series (I FINALLY finished Vikings!). Afternoons of sleepsleepsleeping while the boyfriend watched the Olympics. More food. And it was exactly as the doctor ordered.

Yet my colleagues seem to think that a vacation should be just as much of a planned-full, capped out and filled to the brim ordeal as every day life. And that NOT going on a holiday somewhere-that’s-not-here or spending time doing things-that-are-not-at-home means that I can’t possibly call my vacation succesful.

Well sorry guys and girls.
You’re talking to the girl that thinks travelling is a chore. And intensely bad for my mental state. And nothing to be desired in corona-time. Talking to the girl that maxes out her human-capacity after 1 day of intense people-contact and rather recharges 3 days afterwards than just keep working on depleted social batteries. Talking to the girl who, Well. Is a homebody. TO THE MAX. And also the girl who has a talent for doing as little as humanly possible.

I think I was a sloth in my former life.

Seriously. I LOVE doing nothing.
Whether I’m doing it poolside at a beachresort or right here in my backyard:
Filling my days with doing the most absolute amount of nothing is EXACTLY my preferred vacation. Sorry not sorry!

Diet NRE and True (bodily) Love

Every morning I turn into a bit of a sadomasochist. Emphasis on that latter part. It’s when I step on the scale and that damned thing tells me exactly what I never want to hear. The truth.
And every time I turn into that person I’ve come to hate. My boss. You know the type – they set an impossible target…you do EVERYTHING in your power to make it….and then when you do? They just set an even more challenging one. Like that’s a reward for all your hard work. I’m the same. I set a goal weight. Reach it after a world of pain and denial and all of the struggles. And then spot a roll of fat that’s still there and decide that number needs to be lower. So I decide that that number on the Scale needs to go down. At all cost.
Scale and I have been through a lot, been together a long time and as such our relationship has grown to that level where we’re so comfortable with each other that we always speak true, even when it hurts.

I cuss at Scale a lot. Yell at it sometimes. And sometimes I just stand on it a while – with a tear dripping down onto the little screen that shows me a number I don’t really want to see.Our relationship has become a routine. A given. A standard in both our lives that we’ve committed to and gotten used to.

I get up. I stand on Scale. We both sigh in resignation and remember better days. Like that time when I was 15, my metabolism hadn’t fucked me up yet, I was still lacking any sort of curves AND was playing a toplevel sport 5 times a week.
So Scale got to tell me a banging number every morning. 55-ish kilo’s. We never fought. We were just happy together. Possibly took that for granted a little. Good times.
And some days we just hope for better futures. Think about a time where we both get our shit in order. Turn things around. Go back to that once-coveted-weight and effortlessly skinny body. But we never really change at all. Such is our relationship.

Sometimes I’m sick of Scale. Sometimes I can’t take the truth he forces down my throat. Sometimes I just can’t stand it all and decide I want something new. Need something new. Need some change. So I go for something different.

Me and Diet have a long history as well. We’ve been on again off again for as long as I remember after that one time Scale and I hit a rough spot. Quitting my sport at around 17 – getting slapped with the puberty stick and now-not-so-proud owner of a metabolism who suddenly thinks a glass of water should add 2kg also meant that we couldn’t talk as easily anymore, Scale and I. Instead of comrades – he’d be the one bringing me down every morning by telling me about the numbers going up. I hated him for it, even though I realized I was partly at fault. But he’d never give me the reassurance I needed. Instead he’d just tell me that truth and threw numbers at me that I hated.

So I fled into the arms of Diet.
Diet and I would always be madly in love the first couple of weeks or so. We’d find each other, get super enthused about our possibilities. Endlessly planned and plotted the ways in which we’d change each others lives and make them better. God, we’d have such plans. And every morning Scale would tell me exactly what I was feeling – Diet was changing my life. Rapidly. Drastically. And that number would go down down down. I loved every moment of it. But it never lasted all too long.

Because Diet and me? That was always that crash-and-burn type of thing. An instant flare, quick change, instant results.
Our New Relationship Energy (NRE) meant everything. Every morning I’d step on Scale and be SO excited to see what me and Diet had achieved together. And Scale, even though he’d do it grudgingly, would show that I was right. That Diet and me were great together.

He’d never say out loud that what Diet and me had was toxic. He never said that we were bad for each other. He never pointed out how those fiery beginnings inevitably sidled down into a standstill and he never said ‘I told you so’ when I eventually had to realize that Diet and me would never be compatible for the long run. I’d always come back to Scale. Maybe a couple KGs lighter, maybe a lot. Hell – he still tells me every morning that I’m still 18kg down from that period-that-shan’t-be-named. But he’d stay silent about the simple fact that it’s never really been that number that mattered. I’d never just be able to be content with what it said.

I know I should be happy with what Scale and I have. And truthfully, deep down, I know that that ‘truth’ he tells me? That ‘number’ he shares? Isn’t everything there is to us. I know I shouldn’t just hear what he says on that little screen, but that I should dig deeper. Look at what he isn’t immediately telling me, but always feels. The much healthier fat percentages. The better muscle numbers. The increased hydration and better bone density. I take all of those words for granted when all I hear is that number that I don’t wanna hear.

And then flee back to Diet when it doesn’t suit me. Because that NRE is addictive. And what if this time it sticks? What if we do make it work? What if I can make Scale eat his stupid number and become what I want to be? Maybe it’s Scale that’s holding me back.

I’m pretty damn sure that this love-hate triangle I’m in with Scale and Diet, is and will always be the epitome of my toxic relations. And the only reason it exists, the only reason that it has lasted this long is because it is founded on that one thing I can’t really get the hang of: self-love. Which means that, because my foundation isn’t solid, this is logically followed by the inevitable: nothing I build will ever last. After all: you can’t find the love you want, if you don’t think you deserve it.

So I’ll probably end up being with Scale all the time, even though we don’t really make each other happy anymore. And I’ll probably always end up crashing into the arms of Diet…
At least until I learn (and I mean, really really learn) that in the end the numbers don’t matter and it’s always myself that I have to fall back on. Even if I tend to forget.


Yesterday was pizzaday. Except for the fact that we drove aaaaall the way to the pizza place – only to find that they were closed. Vacation. How dare they plan THEIR vacation in MY vacation. Bastards.

No harm no foul though (except for my mood) – because instead of pizza we drove to the McDonald’s. And I still have that childlike enthusiasm that pops up everyone someone mentions those two words to me.

McDonald’s. Yay!

Whether it was the birthday dinners as a kid. The late night sundaes in high school. Or the 5-times-a-week meals when I actually worked there for 2.5 years or ANY McMeal after. I love McDonald’s (and, as often mentioned round here, any other fastfood really).

So off we went to ‘de McDrek’ (McFilthy as it is often jokingly called round here for it’s not too healthy range of foods). And after an epic battle with the sliding doors (we lost and took the wrong way in because THEY WOULDN’T OPEN) and surviving the massive brain damaged and not-a-safe-distance-clue-having crowd (HOW LONG can you take in ordering a meal and HOW CLOSE do you think you can stand before I punch your lights out?!) we managed to get us some food to nom.

So we sat outside – enjoying our Mountain of Calories and pondered out loud how any trip to any restaurant, theme park or movie theatre is a safe reminder of how I really really really still don’t even remotely ever ever want to have any kids. McDonald’s kids are THE WORST. They’re loud. Rude. Always running AND falling and then obviously crying and their parents just sit their with their dead eyes and slouched shoulders and general ‘I’ve given up’ attitudes. Yikes!

Luckily – at some point most of the kids evaporated and we had the much more fun view of a bunch of rowdy sparrows living it up at the Mac. These little boys were so fat and plump – you wouldn’t believe it. And cheeky!

They flittered onto tables and under feet and they were PICKY. Because they could afford to be. Remainders of french fries were total winners, but the last remaining tomato-ketchupped-bit-of-onion from a quarterpounder was a nono. I thought it was hilarious. They had picked an awesome residence with an all-you-can-eat buffet all day every day.

So then I thought ‘why the fuck don’t more sparrows do this’. Why toil away in gardens for a little ball of fat with seeds and worms while you can live in fastfood walhalla?

And then the word Walhalla caused me to think about the show Vikings and Floki and how those weirdos ALSO chose to live and love a whole bunch of freezing cold and pretty much uninhabitable lands and kept fighting to make lives there instead of luscious England or France and I was boggled even more.

Which obviously led me to thinking about our current world. Where we STILL have people living in reaches of the land where there is nothing. Will never be anything. Can never be anything. And still find happiness there.

Strange – how McDonald’s sparrows just reflect the way of the world. Not everyone chooses that all-you-can-eat buffet even if they can. And some just don’t get the choice cause the territory is already taken by fat plump sparrows who can win any fight for food.

It just made me very happy once more…to be a McSparrow myself in my gorgeous fiest world country where my biggest problem of the day was the pizza place being closed.


Too cute to function!

Don’t you love those couples who seem to speak their own language? Full of inside jokes that aren’t funny to anyone, but has them unexpectedly bursting with laughter. Idioms no one gets. Words no one understands. A world of their own?

I know. I hate them too.
Unless I am in that couple.
Then it’s the goddamn best.

The thing is – for onlookers it can be way too showy. Too intense. Too over the top. Who are they to flaunt all of the love in the face of those who might have less.

I know. I envy them too.
Unless I am in that couple.
Then it’s the goddamn best.

What we don’t get to see, however, is how these things come to be. How those inside jokes are created. How those cutesy words are give life. And jealousy often lies in the assumption that those origin stories are epic. Awesome. A sign of true and real connection.

But that?
That’s sooooo not the case.
At least not always.

Sure – some might have amazing sagas at the roots of their adorable relationship quirks and quips. Tales of that one time they were hiking in the mountains of Tibet and found a monk setting cross-legged on a ledge with a mountain of fluffy alpaca furs piled around him who told them the secrets of the world in purely telepathic sense while staring deeply into their eyes and blessing her with a child who’s bound to grow up as the Messiah – so they now call eachother Fluffy (after those amazingly soft furs) and Twinkly-bear (after the twinkles in the monks eyes).

Holy shit. Can you imagine?

Sometimes though – those stories are a bit different. Less journey-of-life inspired but more of an exhibit of the weirdos-that-are-a-couple.

The boyfriend and me very rarely say ‘I love you‘ for instance. We both say ‘mowmow‘ (slightly like a double meow but without the e).

It sounds fucking adorable.

And I know it does. Which means I love doing it when there’s people around that then go ‘awwww…that’s fucking adorable!

Which is great to hear because;

  • a) It is fucking adorable
  • b) Because they have nooo idea.

You see – ‘mowmow‘ is the culmination of me being exceptionally BAD at lipreading. No epic origin story. No Tibetan monks. No story we’ll tell our grandchildren.

Just him silently forming the words ‘I love you’ and me consistently misreading that as ‘Mowmow?’. What are you trying to say? Mowmow?’
I blame his articulation. He blames my lipreading skills. We both embraced the outcome even though my career as an interpreter and lipreader ended way before it started. But hey. We got this cute-as-fuck couple-thing out of it. ‘Mowmow.’

Sportsloving by proxy

You know how they always say that dogs look like their owners? (Or, if you’re the mean kind, owners look like their dogs) It’s hilarious. Afghan hound owners rocking the same hippie hairstyle as their canine. English bulldog lovers with similarly scrunched up snouts. Dainty but feisty chihuahas with knitted sweaters, like their shrill-voiced yappy mommies.

But there’s a truth in it. Evety selfhelp book ever knows this too. They advocate the need to love yourself as who you are. To find and be your own person before opening up to another. To not lose yourself in your partner and to not absorb their whole identity. Julia Roberts portrayed it perfectly in ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ where she ‘became’ each of her partners in a (to me) very confronting scene about me-in-life.

I think it’s sort of inevitable. Spend a lot of time with someone and they WILL rub off on you. Whether that’s a conscious process or just the constant proximity doesn’t matter. But the longer you’re together with a loved one – the more the meshing happens. Inside jokes, dual hobbies, mutual acquaintances and preferences and traits. It happens. Even if you want to selfhelp-avoid-it.

I used to watch a whole lot of Dutch soccer. An ex fervently watched every Eredivisie match ever and would clear the books to be able to do so. So I watched a lot of soccer, because he did. I was very knowledgeable about the league in those years. These days I can barely name a soccer player with a matching team.

Then I used to see a loooot of dancing clips. And League of Legends streams. It’s what happens when you date a Caribbean with a love for gaming. Luckily – I liked both of those way before I liked said dude (and remained to love them after).

With my last ex it was much the same. I merged and molded to his intakes. Preferences. Hobbies. Overdosed on it. Discarded it after. Took some time to see our ‘together’ parts as just ‘mine’ afterwards too. But managed to separate the ‘me’ from the ‘us’ eventually too.

And now with the new bloke?

I already see it happening again. You can test me on the 2020(1) Olympics right now. I have watched a BOATLOAD of it. Not nearly as much as the lover, but because he eats, breathes and sleeps Olympics and (because I love him to bits) I now do watch a whole lot of it too.

And though I watch it because he watches it – I can’t help but love it. There’s so much bizarre sports. Superb sportsmanship. Weird tournament rules and awesome moments and just general epic medalbattles. So this morning, when I asked him jokingly what ‘we missed’ while sleeping…I realized that I was actually interested in the answer.

It’s happened. I’ve been turned into a sportslover-by-proxy again. Loving it because he does. But loving it none the less.

I mean….did you SEE that one dude ask if he could share his gold medal with his buddy? Awesomesauce.