October 07, 2008
creepiness
Somewhere in my post-idea queue is "creepiest moments of my life." It's been there for years. Who really wants to write such a thing? As I added two recent events to my notes there, I realized that I'll likely never write the post.
Those additions are about recent site phenom Poor Sarah. #2 was when she dropped by and gave me a warm, full-body hug on the very same day it was confirmed she'd lied about doing Rich. As she pressed her body against mine, I didn't move. I was paralyzed by ick. Massive waves of ick. But that was nothing. That ick was fleeting.
No, #1 was during our breakup conversation, when she closed with "Thank you for treating me so wonderfully." What's so creepy about that little parting mindfuck, you ask? They're the exact same parting words Fucking Amy used 13 years earlier. Not a mere echo. Word for word. Want to seriously creep me out? Match Amy cadence for cadence.
Two women managing to thank me as they used my back as a sheath. I hope the pretense made them feel better, 'cause it just made me feel vomitous.
posted by john at 07:45 AM • solamente
September 08, 2008
two more
Two more forgotten Poor Sarah stories, both funny.
After she left without explanation beyond an evasive "It is what it is," I stewed for a week. Then I got drunk and wrote to my much-maligned predecessor, to see how he'd been treated. He wrote back a thoughtful response. "It was what it was," read his subject line.
No, I hadn't mentioned the line to him.
In that week, there was a good deal of back and forth in email between me and Sarah. I was talking about my place in her grand panorama of deceptions, including her affairs, and she was saying helpful nothings like "I've said all I can say." I talked about her slimebaggery in great detail. She was forwarding our mails to her former co-worker, Gay. And in doing so, Sarah accidentally forwarded one to Gay's old work address....which was automatically rerouted to the manager at work, who got an eyeful of Sarah's serial skankitude.
Delightful. Delicious. I can only hope that it made the rounds.
posted by john at 11:11 AM • solamente
August 26, 2008
exhausted!
And with that, gentle reader, I have exhausted all the Sarah stories in my post-idea queue. Even though I started sketching that one out before the breakup, I put off writing it because...well, look at it. It's long. But today's the six-month anniversary of "it is what it is," so I figured it was now or never.
And thus does Poor Sarah join the others in the annals of Stank history. To commemorate her unique status, I gave Poor Sarah her own category.
And because I'll get this question 100 more times today, here's why I dated her.
posted by john at 10:45 AM • solamente
the sarah users' guide
The first time I ever noticed Poor Sarah lying to me, my dog had just died. Sarah was planning a weekend roadtrip with an acquaintance, and for the first and last time in our relationship, I asked for something for myself: please stay here. I didn't want to be alone all weekend in my Edless house. Sarah argued with me about the dubious merits of the acquaintance and the trip, and I became concerned that I rated so lowly the one time I needed her. After a good 45 minutes of this, she bitterly blurted out "Well, just so you know, I already canceled the trip for you."
Even though I'd gotten my way, this revelation wasn't particularly welcome. It was an obvious falsehood, a way of winning the argument by any means necessary. It was seminal for me. It was the first time I'd ever known Sarah was lying to me. It sadly wouldn't be the last. In the months that followed, I developed an elaborate taxonomy of Sarah's lies. So here they are, in chronological order:
Faux a machina
The above. Introducing fabricated evidence just to win the argument.
Strategic omission
Telling the truth with certain elements conspicuously omitted. Like gender pronouns.
Example: "So I went to this physical therapist friend of Dawn's. The physical therapist made my back feel a bit better."
Red herring
Responding to suspicion by offering a sizzling distraction.
Example: When I later hear about her going out with Dawn and Dawn's friend Rich, I say "Jesus Christ, your friends are already introducing you to guys?"
"No, no. In fact...I think Dawn and Rich might be fucking! And she's married!"
Containment
Telling everyone a different, tightly controlled version of events.
Example: Everyone in her life thought my role was different. Dawn, for example.
Definition
Discrediting detractors
Example: after a previous affair dared to send her a Happy Birthday email, he was denounced as "crazy," "psycho," and "scary."
Overexplanation
Offering details not asked about and not natural to the conversation, as a means of dispensing disinformation
Example: "So the other day, Rich, who I consider a new friend, said..."
Censorship
An abrupt loss of access to information
Example: Sarah made her myspace private and ignored my repeated requests that she add me as a "friend." Suspicious, I waited until she was at my house, put my laptop on her lap, and said "Please add me."
Offense
Acting outraged when you're cornered.
Example: Sarah flew into a rage, shoving the laptop away. I pointed out that we had a trust issue abrewing. She was offended by that, too.
Ad hominem
Deflection via personal attack
Example: "Frankly, it's a little creepy that someone your age wants to see people's myspaces."
Self-beatification
Claiming unwarranted character
Example: "Right, because I lie all the time!"
Sanitization
Trying to win the argument by altering the evidence
Example: She went home and later called me, saying that she'd added me. A few days later on her myspace, Rich posted that he loves her.
Victimization
Making my suspicion and not her lying the offense.
Example: "It really hurts me that you think I'm lying."
Glittering generality
Not having an argument, resorting to meaningless cliche
Example: she's dumping me. We both know why, but she's of course unable to say it. "It is what it is," she repeatedly says.
Stonewalling
Rather than give this post more entries, the liar refuses to say anything
Example: three hours of silence during my breakup call
Unoffense
The liar isn't offended by what an innocent would be offended by
Example: "Is this about Rich?" I asked.
"No," she replied, with a curious lack of offense at the charge.
Ennoblement
Spinning a lie into something noble
Example: "What's next for you?" I asked.
"I'm going to be alone for four years!" Sarah eagerly injected.
Elimination
Banishing witnesses
Example: The moment I asked about Rich, she went from "Can we please please please still be friends?" to "I never thought I'd say this, but I can't have you in my life."
Delegation
Having friends reinforce your lies
Example: When I told her friend about my Rich suspicions, well into Sarah's overt relationship with Rich, the friend replied "Oh, I don't agree. In fact, I think he and Dawn are doing it!"
Revision
Well after the fact, flipping the blame script
Example: Two months into her relationship with Rich, Sarah showed up and informed me that she'd dumped me because she was ashamed of me.
A lot of that going around.
posted by john at 08:55 AM • solamente
August 05, 2008
spy earlier
"Never violate a trust you want to keep."
- John's third law
This has been a pretty lousy year. Certainly the lousiest in modern times. It started with my dog, Ed, dying a year ago next week, and then things got unpleasant. The reasons are several, but if I had to narrow it down to one theme, it would be that this thought prevails: "Gosh, that sounded an awful lot like a lie."
People lie all the time. I do too.
"I'm fine," I tell the cashier.
"What a lovely vase. That really makes the room," I tell the new acquaintance in lieu of projectile vomiting in said vase.
"So-and-so is really producing," I tell management.
These aren't the sort of lies I'm talking about. These are part of the background noise of living in polite society. I don't look for 'em, and I don't notice 'em. But when a loved one starts monkeying with pronouns and timelines, I notice. When their overexplanations puree credibility, I notice that too. Mostly, I notice that my intelligence is being insulted.
What do you do in those situations? My philosophy has always been self-elimination. Take Poor Sarah. I noticed her evasions about Rich well into last year. Smoke and fire, as the saying goes, tend to have a 1:1 correlation. And there was smoke aplenty, most of it being channeled directly through my sphincter. But I didn't try to catch her in the lies. I was still trying to make it work, and I don't see any kind of relationship surviving the breach of trust it would take to catch her. So even though I thought she was lying to me, and even though history proved that hypothesis correct, I let events take their course. I gave her my trust, daring her to be worthy of it. I let her self-eliminate. Sensible, no?
Then how come I still feel like a sucker?
When the end came with Sarah, it came abruptly and after several intensely wonderful weeks. She offered no explanation beyond "It is what it is," and I was desperate to get my head around the swift turn of events. Only one explanation fit the facts, and several awful hours into the conversation, I finally asked about it. "Is this about Rich?"
"No." Silence. Painful, suspicious silence. I tried to encourage her to come clean for once in her life.
"Because it would make it a lot easier on me if it were," I said.
"Really?"
"Yes. Because it would make a modicum of sense."
Silence.
And thus did Sarah opt to throw me into a torturous, sleepless, two-month spiral of doubt and second-guessing. A simple sentence would have spared me, but she'd rather protect her rep, I guess, than another human being's psyche. And when I finally broke down, violated her trust and confirmed what I already knew, it was like a switch was thrown inside me. Pain, gone. Click.
Thanks heaps, Sarah. Thanks for working so hard to deny me this peace of mind.
That's what I really hold against her. I'd always kinda expected her to cheat. Appearances notwithstanding, that's clearly who she is. But I didn't expect her to sacrifice my mental well-being just to protect her image. Criminal selfishness, that.
Now healed, I cynically wonder about the implications for my future. Is the lesson here "spy earlier?" Does verifying stories equate to relationship death, as I've always assumed, or can it actually be a constructive means of affirming character? And most of all, where's the line between honoring a trust you want to keep and being a trusting fool?
posted by john at 01:47 AM • solamente
July 30, 2008
sarahndipity
I just had one of the most delicious, evil laughs of my life.
I was rummaging through my cookbooks when a plastic sleeve fell out. It didn't take me long to recognize the writing on the cards within. All of the instances of "your" instead of "you're" were a dead giveaway. These were Poor Sarah's. I lunged into the sleeve, hoping that the one recipe I want above all others is in there. Alas.
But if you want her cherry chocolate torte recipe, it's all yours.
Also included was a printed-out email. It was from her grandparents and dated a couple years ago.
All points bulletin....This just in...No, that wasn't where I laughed.Sometimes events in our lives turn out to be a bit more special than could realistically be hoped for. Saturday, August 9th turned out to be one of those days that make the downside of life all worth the struggle.
Sarah Nicole, our first granddaughter and glowing survivor of a recent bout with teenage-ism...
...became Mrs. Name Withheld. The bride is now 23, is an art student...There's the laugh. Maybe she took a class at the nearby community college, but by that measure, I'm a Ph.D. in Physics.
...and is one happy lady.The email goes on about the wedding day and concludes with
It's safe to suppose, [sic] that no one present will forget that day and the good feelings associated with it. Especially Mr. and Mrs. Name Withheld and the (at least) 3 guys in 3.5 years with which she will cheat on him.I might have added that last part.
The big laugh came where, you ask? At the To line, where I found the names and email addresses of all of Sarah's relatives. Big laugh. Poor Sarah. What a thoughtful present! Really, it's a fair exchange for the gifts she said she'd return and found reason not to.
"John! Use your powers only for good!" said Blondageof my news.
"Fuck that noise. Test your powers!" said Dirt.
"Seriously, how does stuff like this always fall in your lap?" said Allie.
posted by john at 05:45 PM • solamente
July 24, 2008
sarah's six guys
This story has been in my queue for a long time, and I'm giddy that I finally get to tell it. Yes, even when I'm crazy in love with a girl, I still jot down the awful stuff so that I might post it here after she's gone. Ever the optimist.
For our first romantic getaway, Poor Sarah and I went to San Francisco. I went all out. I planned the trip meticulously. When we got off the plane, a limo would be waiting for us. From the limo we would enjoy a driving tour of the city, then it would drop us off at a top French restaurant, where her favorite flowers would be waiting on our table. When we got to our hotel, it would be nestled next to her favorite store in the world. I couldn't wait for the plan to unfold.
During the two hour flight toward romance, we exchanged many stories. Mine covered the gamut, but hers, at first seemingly random, had a common theme.
- There was the time a drunken guy was hitting on her so much that a stewardess felt sorry for her and moved her to another seat.
- Oh, that reminds her: she's noticed a lot more guys checking her out lately. Isn't that odd?
- One time she pretended to be a Steven Seagal groupie and he propositioned her.
- There was a discussion among the Port Gamble folks the other night in which it was determined that Sarah's body was ideal.
Onward the plane flew. By the time she got around to her ex with the enormous "porn star dick" that hurt her so, so much, I was mentally tabulating how much this romantic getaway was costing me. Sarah isn't normally one to go on about her own attractiveness. She at least feigns modesty. But on this flight, in perhaps the worst moment possible, she suddenly did. And man, did it ever put me in a romantic mood.
The next day, we went to the Bone Room, a specialty store where you can buy, among other things, animal and human bones. I was aware of the proprietor leering at Sarah while we were in there, but this happened a lot, so I paid it little mind. Then he asked me to leave because of the Velamint in my mouth. Rolling my eyes, I went outside. I was bored anyway. A few minutes later, Sarah emerged.
"He offered me a job!" she beamed.
"I'll bet he did," I snarled.
A huge fight ensued. I don't remember much, but I remember I was her persecutor. "You don't think I could get the job offer based on my qualifications, and that hurts me," wailed the high school graduate cum housecleaner waitress.
I wish I always had the capacity for mental math that I do in such moments.
posted by john at 05:54 PM • solamente
July 14, 2008
i stand corrected
I think it was when Roeper mentioned "Best Picture nomination" and "Batman" in the same sentence that this new film reached critical mass. For all the hype, it had better fry what's left of my hair off.
Allie and I were discussing the movie's impending release and our plans to not see it together. At some point, I expressed relief that Katie Holmes was dumped from the cast. "Ah yes," Allie said. "Yet another dewy beauty who broke your heart."
I chuckled. "Yeah, I supposed I have to hand that much to Poor Sarah, anyway. She never fucked Tom Cruise."
"Yet."
posted by john at 09:19 AM • solamente
July 11, 2008
twipple dipper
I visited Dorkass and her spawn, Kelsey, last night. The kid's two, and as such she's asking what everything is. And brother, you're answering. "That's a video game. That's dog poop. That's your poop. That's John's laptop. That's its mousepad. That's a red dot. Can you say 'red' in Spanish?" and so forth.
Speaking of my laptop, Dorkass was amusing herself by looking at the folder labeled "Sarah Conviction" when, inevitably, Kelsey piped up. "What's that?"
"That's Sarah. Can you say Triple Dipper?"
"Twipple Dipper."
We roared. The kid knew she had to seize the moment. "TWIPPLE DIPPER! TWIPPLE DIPPER! TWIPPLE DIPPER!"
It's almost cute when a child says it. Almost.
posted by john at 11:40 AM • solamente
July 07, 2008
of apples and trees
Sarah remains a popular topic of conversation in my circle. The nickname situation has yet to resolve itself. "Poor Sarah" has been around over a year, and I suppose it remains my favorite. "Triple Dipper" has gained some traction, though, in honor of her comparison-shopping three guys at once early this year. Perhaps the most obscure is "White Strips," in honor of her asking me to use them on my teeth—then dumping me four days later, while I was wearing them.
Lately friends have speculated about how she reconciles history with mythology. Specifically, how does she reconcile the idyllic romance of new love with the deceitful creepiness of how she got there? Alas, there's no mystery. I've seen her do it too many times. She has chucked me under the bus. And she didn't hesitate.
Yes, I can say with certainty that I've joined every other person she's wronged. First we're diminished in importance, and then we're vilified. Her first affair, for instance, was dismissed as an "out of body experience." A nine-month out of body experience, as it turns out. And he was reviled as a scary psycho for infractions like e-mailing her once in eight months, to wish her a happy birthday.
Yeah, a complete psycho.
Her traditional stratagem does double-duty: it excuses whatever drastic measures Sarah had to undertake to defend herself (typically, inserting a new penis inside her), and it's a tremendous source of new pity. Poor Sarah. Victim of so many unsavory characters. She deserves better. Poor, poor Sarah.
I've written before about the Poor Sarah effect. If Seatards introduce themselves by ticking off the trends they're into, Sarah introduces herself by ticking off the abuses she's suffered at others' hands. Extorting pity works for her. It's all she knows.
Two stories.
Poor Sarah
A few days after I posted this and told a mutual friend that I was seethingly angry, Sarah showed up. She had dumped me on the phone, so I hadn't seen her for two months, since the last time she dropped by and had me buy her dinner.
Anyway, she took me on my deck and held my hand and told me about her new life of integrity and honesty. There was simply no place there for me, and now she has to work on her. Sounds like a great plan, I thought sarcastically. "I have a new therapist." Yeah, you probably don't wanna tell the old one that you're still up to your old tricks. Or did you just sleep with the old one's husband? She talked for a half hour and took no questions before bolting. She didn't admit to Rich, who I already knew about. Nope, she just wanted to play her victim card and get out.
"And John," she said meaningfully, her voice cracking and her eyes trying but failing to well with tears, "There's more sexual abuse stuff. In my past. That I never even told you about."
She offered no further detail. This latest seemed unlikely, as I already didn't believe half of what she had told me about. But I appreciated her Poor Sarahing me one last time. Most girls just give you a goodbye boink. This was more personal.
Poor Deb
Not two weeks after the breakup, with Sarah leaving me no explanation and ignoring my calls and emails, I was desperate for a little insight. So I wrote my predecessor, who was actually far more honest and helpful than Sarah has ever been. Sarah found out. My desperate search for answers persecuted her, of course. And soon my phone rang. It was Deb, her mother. I liked Deb.
Sarah doesn't know I'm calling you, she lied. I just want to ask you not to hurt my daughter.
I asked what the hell she was talking about, so she changed tactics furiously.
I'm afraid that she might harm herself. John, you've never met my daughter. She's mentally ill. I've begged her to get on medication. You're older than her; you should know better than to think this would have worked. And on and on. And then, without warning, she uttered a sentence that would, like a switch was thrown, make sense out of everything for me. "John," her voiced cracked. "I just can't handle this. I mean, John, do you know...about...how I was abused during childhood?"
"Holy shit," I said to the friend next to me. "I just got Poor Debbed."
posted by john at 06:21 AM • solamente
June 30, 2008
new quotes
I've updated the sidebar with a new quote from Allie:
"When you were first starting out after college, could you have imagined a day when you'd be looking at the ocean while calling into a business meeting and whizzing off your deck? You have officially arrived."and a new Life Lesson I Learned Too Late, this one courtesy of a more recent, less-honored ex:
When a woman volunteers that "whore" is the most insulting thing someone can call her, wonder why.
posted by john at 07:00 AM • solamente
why sarah
You've asked me a lot of questions about Sarah in recent weeks, each of them some variation of "Why were you ever with such a lying hussy?" Only you didn't say "hussy." I cuted it up.
Good question. I will now attempt to provide an answer that doesn't make me look like a complete fool.
Anyone who meets Sarah adores her. She's self-effacing, articulate, funny, sparkly, sweetly vulnerable, and genuinely interested in whoever she meets. These are attractive qualities in their own right, but when embodied in a pretty girl, it's a perfect storm. She makes a ridiculously good impression. Male or female, you adore this Sarah, and until November or so, it's the Sarah in whom I religiously believed.
That Sarah was the one who initially opened up to me over margaritas, who bravely told me about all the ghosts that haunt her, about her lifetime filled with fear. Every guy she'd ever been with was downright mean or psycho. Parental neglect, spousal neglect, physical danger, sexual abuse and confusion—it was all covered. Poor Sarah. Poor, poor Sarah. And over the course of that evening, I felt unprecedented feelings of love and protectiveness toward this woman. I vowed to always have her back. She held my hand and cried. We would both later say this was the moment we fell in love.
"Jeeeeeeeeeesus Christ," said Allie at the time. "Why doesn't she just change her name to 'Poor Sarah' and get it over with?"
Months passed. I'd already started to detect whiffs of self-pitying bullshit ("What exactly did Josh do that was psycho, again?" I asked). Then along came The Gender Neutral Physical Therapist and my attendant suspicions. By 2008, I sensed she was hiding things, but she was doing a curious job of it. During an all-too-frequent eruption of self-pity that I'd come to call her Poor Sarahing me, for instance, she said she'd told "Rich who I consider a new friend" all about her ghosts. He'd remarked on how remarkably remarkable she was for having endured all that.
"How charming," I smoldered to myself. "Rich had his very own margarita moment. I wonder how many times she's tapped that particular well?"
That's when the cracks really started to widen. That's when I started to think "Gee, that sounded an awful lot like a lie" with alarming regularity. But I ignored my instincts. I did so for two reasons: 1) I very much wanted to believe in the best Sarah I'd observed, not in the mounting evidence of a worser nature, and 2) I'm a firm believer that trust is an integral part of the partner-vetting process. Yeah, I was starting to suspect that this is a woman who feels entitled to sleep with whomever she damn well pleases, but what of it? Even if your trust is betrayed, well, that's still a successful vetting.
"Never violate a trust you intend to keep," reads John's third law. And so I did not spy on her, even though my instincts (and a few friends) were screaming for me to. I plowed ahead and did my best in the relationship, but I was not naive. I knew she was self-vetting. I knew she was lying. (She's a pro. I actually identified 18 distinct types of lies in her repertoire. I could write tomes about her deception playbook and entitle it the Sarah User's Guide.) I knew she wouldn't leave until she had a warm bed to land in. And she did. By astounding coincidence, it was exactly the bed I'd asked her about, and that she'd denied, the night we broke up.
"You're, like, totally psychic. Got any stock tips?" Allie asks.
Emphatically denying her new relationship to me (in person and by proxy), Sarah paradoxically integrated herself into it as quickly and as publicly as possible. The conflicting motives, I presume, are a desperation that I know one Sarah and that everyone else knows another—a Sarah whose blots like me are erased from history. One thing I know for certain: because I had the temerity to exist when she wanted to fuck someone else, I've become mean or psycho. Probably both.
Make that 19 types of lies. And counting.
posted by john at 04:49 AM • solamente
June 24, 2008
speaking of pigs
I tend not to post about drama that I'm currently in. I detest blogs that do that, especially when the blog becomes a none-too-subtle participant in the drama. That's uninteresting and self-indulgent. So Sarah and the AW did not exist here until they no longer existed, period. Between them, that's five years of backlog waiting to burst forth. And when the dam finally breaks, well, it's all I want to write about. I resist, though. I can't expect y'all to slog through that every day for a month. So pardon me while I ration.
I saw this remarkable photo on the AP wire the other day. That would be three pigs stranded on a roof during a midwestern flood. I have no joke, although "three little pigs" lines abound.
posted by john at 06:35 AM • solamente
June 23, 2008
last chips
Hagar and I saw our relationships collapse around the same time, and we vented to one another from 6000 miles away.
"So you were quoted on the radio," she told me Saturday night.
How's that?
"A friend of mine has a talk show, and I'd told her about your 'last chip' thing, and she liked the analogy so much that she shared it with her listeners."
Fantastic. Now I'm a whiney loser in three hemispheres. I should have whined to a co-worker in South Africa and gotten the quadfecta.
The "last chip thing," in a nutshell: in recent years, it's felt like life doles out a stack of chips to each of us. These chips are for us to gamble on love as we see fit. Some people yell "Whoo hoo! I'm rich!" and rush straight to the cashier. Others gamble on relationships, watching their stacks dwindle for a while before saying "Nuts to this" and cashing out after a modest win that helps them recoup some of their losses. And then there's people like me. Decade after decade, I grind it out at love's gaming tables, hoping to hit it big, instead watching my stack slowly, inexorably vaporize. Sometimes I lose a mass of chips all at once; occasionally they replenish; usually they just erode.
Nevertheless, since high school my stack has whittled down to a nub. I can hold my remaining couple of chips in one hand now, and I hold them tightly. Recently, my stack took a big hit when I walked up to the roulette wheel and said "Half my stack on 00!"
Interestingly, people under 22 don't get this analogy. People over 30? They wince.
posted by john at 07:15 AM • solamente
June 20, 2008
hate: it's what's for dinner
"Don't say you hate someone" says Stank troll Marta. "You're better than that. Hate means kill."
With respect, Marta, no I'm not and no it doesn't. Murder and assassinate and mortir mean kill.
Hate means I wish I had chlamydia just so that I could have passed it on to Sarah.
There's a difference.
posted by john at 10:23 AM • solamente
June 19, 2008
glass cases
I shoulda seen it coming. Feedback on yesterday's cheating post uniformly observed the gender difference and posited that for some reason, women must blame other women and not the cheating man. I can't speak to that, but it feels right, in a crazy competitive female way. Tell me more.
I can say that my not knowing Rich is a huge variable. Here's the sum of what I knew about him before Sarah's massive disinformation campaign began.
- In November, he was her new physical therapist (Warning),
- about whom she avoided gender pronouns. (Warning.)
- By January, his full name was "Rich, who I consider a new friend" (Warning!)
- and when they went out he was remarking on how truly remarkable Sarah is for having endured so, so...I don't know what, but definitely reasons for pitying Sarah. (Warning! Warning!)
- By late January she'd gotten weird and angry about letting me see her myspace (ah-OOO-GAH!)
- and in February she disappeared without explanation for an entire day.
That's it. Not exactly the stuff of hate. Rather, it's not exactly the stuff of hating him. After all, this is a woman who we now know banged four different men over four consecutive Springs, all while married. Who comparison-shopped two of 'em while in marital counseling with a third. Hate the guys? The guys are immune from hate as long as Sarah's involved. That creepy little skank is a hate lightening rod.
I should note that if he'd been a friend of mine, that would be entirely different. Not only would it humanize the offender (Rich is, in the end, just a proven hypothesis to me), but it would violate the guy code about one another's women. There's no guy lower than the guy who sleeps with a buddy's girl. Hell, we ask permission to date his ex-girlfriend, and even then, I never do it because it just feels wrong.
Now, strangers' women? Not so much. We're stupid that way.
I'm now inspired to include a little "Bring the Pain" from Chris Rock. I've thought of it often ever since Sarah busted out the first "Rich, who I consider a new friend." Enjoy.
posted by john at 07:38 AM • solamente
June 18, 2008
next
"You're a bigger man than me," Lilly said, shaking her head and using a slightly disgusted tone. She clearly didn't consider this a remotely good thing. "I would want to kill him."
At issue was who to hate: the cheater or the cheatee. Lilly focuses on the person who's sleeping with the person she loved. I might, too, except:
- I'm much more angry about Sarah lying at my expense than the actual cheating, which I saw coming.
- The absolute certainty that he doesn't know I existed.
Besides, given her impending impoverishment, she'll need a place to live. His place will do.
"Don't get me wrong. I got bags of hate," I told an skeptical Lilly. "It's just stowed in the right compartment."
posted by john at 08:12 AM • solamente
June 05, 2008
pity whores
I just came across this, written by sociologist Martha Beck. Does this make anyone else think of someone they know?
Poignant, tragic, funny, outrageous --most of us have at least one story we tell (and retell) to explain our emotional bruises. But there's a big difference between understanding the past and being stuck in it.I regret to say this describes someone I know rather well. Other people's pity is her oxygen, her raison d'être, and collecting it is her only skill. A considerably marketable skill, at that.Self-pity, a dominant characteristic of sociopaths, is also the characteristic that differentiates heroic storytelling from psychological rumination. When you talk about your experiences to shed light, you may feel wrenching pain, grief, anger, or shame. Your audience may pity you, but not because you want them to.
Obsessing aloud, on the other hand, is a way of fishing for pity, a means of extorting attention.
And if someone dares say so, why, we should all feel sorry for her.
posted by john at 08:23 AM • solamente
June 02, 2008
your cheatin' heart
Speaking of cheating, Jen has the line of the month. Granted, the month's two days old...
We were talking about all the bullshit rationalizations that cheaters use, about how they'll grab any nonsense within reach to make it anyone else's fault but their own. And by "anyone's fault," I mean "their victim's." The cheater's partner is disengaged, negligent, frigid, scary, a source of shame, probably cheated themselves, blah blah blah.
Indeed, when confronted, the cheater will deny the truth with a vigor and devotion that puts their bedroom performance to shame. Observes Jen:
It seems to be much easier for people to come up with ANY excuse other than "I wanted to fuck someone else."
posted by john at 11:33 AM • solamente
cheating beauty, part deux
Responses to the cheating beauty survey have been predictably few but thoughtful.
A sampling of thoughts:
I suppose it's also the same mechanism that makes death worse when it's someone young.I wouldn't have that reaction. I always think it's crappy when someone is cheated on. How beautiful they are makes no difference. Nor does gender. How good they are might make a difference to me, though. Like if someone cheated on a cheater, it wouldn't be as bad to me as if someone cheating on a loyal partner.
Most people don't realize that relationship issues are a result of unresolved subconscious issues. People cheat because mommy drank. People cheat because mommy said sex was dirty. We pretend like it can all be fixed once we have a grown up house and a beautiful spouse. But guess what, beautiful spouse becomes...you guessed it, MOMMY!!! So we punish Mommy or try to escape her. The fact that someone is beautiful brings this issue more to the surface because it isn’t about physically, it’s pathology. It’s harder to deny that we can escape our feelings of inferiority and that the world we live in is an illusion and a projection!
Because we assume that beautiful people are automatically more sexually desirable. And since cheating is assumed to be about sex, why would someone cheat on someone who is very sexually desirable?
Beauty is always considered more valuable. "She's so beautiful!" implies she is worth more as a human being, regardless of her character or moral standpoint. What if she is a bitch? Does that imply she "deserves" it? What if the man is an asshole? Is he more likely to "deserve" it? If it is a "beautiful man" cheated on, most women would react with a "how stupid was she?" Maybe the "beauty" is the problem.
Last question first: I don't think the first stereotypical ideal we assign to men is his hotness...in the long run, anyway; and certainly not if he's in a heterosexual relationship. If he's cheated on, we tend to think of his value and what the crazy bitch (because, that's what she is now, right?) doesn't deserve... Obviously, there's a certain cultural value placed on beautiful women; regardless of whether or not they actually deserve a special place in the pecking order. This being said, I've heard plenty of my guy friends say, "Show me a beautiful woman, I'll show you a guy who's tired of f**king her."
These graze what I was thinking: we assume cheating is about sex, for the man anyway, and along those lines we can't imagine why he'd want to stray from a beautiful woman. But when I flipped the genders, I couldn't think of an example where I thought "She's an idiot. He's so beautiful." No, to evoke this sentiment I had to use things like how well he provides for/takes care of her. Which is how many of us measure value: women for their beauty, men for their money and security. It's a generalization, of course, but I'm pretty comfortable making it.
posted by john at 11:02 AM • solamente
May 12, 2008
forgetting sarah
My first experience with relationship debris was in the immediate post-Fucking Amy aftermath, when the movie "Chasing Amy" hit theatres and remained there for 162 years. Was that really necessary, God? Was it?
Now I'm in the post-Sarah aftermath, and along comes "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," or as every theatre owner designates it:
There's just no avoiding relationship debris. It's not like I didn't try. By now I know the drill: throw out nothing, but hide everything where you don't have to see it. So the day after she tossed me on the pile with her other discards, I spent hours sanitizing my life of her. Every last note, toothbrush, and sock was stuffed into a box. I went into iTunes and deleted pretty much every song I purchased in the last year. I moved her email to the Estranged section. I would not be made to think of her involuntarily.
Which is to say that every day for the three months since, I've come across a scarf or shoe or underwear or hair. Several times a day. Especially the hair. The chick sheds like a Newfoundland. And then there's two TV shows with Sarah in the name, each of which has ads (with the word "SARAH" prominently emphasized, naturally) embedded into the shows I watch. Because to marketers, in "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles," Sarah is apparently the operative word.
Nothing, not even the real Sarah abruptly dropping by two weeks ago to try to placate me with platitudes, has had the effect that the iPhone did. See if you can follow this. I had to transfer my Verizon number to AT&T, which meant losing my saved voice-mail. I had many vmails from Sarah that I don't want to hear but that I don't want to throw away, either. Verizon provides no way of saving voice mail, so I hired a third company to record it for me and mail it to me in an MP3. And so they did. And iTunes invisibly—and quite thoughtfully—sucked it into my library and put it on my iPhone, which played it when I was hurtling down I-5 the other day.
"Thank you for loving me," Sarah cooed over the stereo as I swerved all over the interstate, trying in vain to find the skip button.
I have exactly two religious beliefs:
- There is a God.
- He's out to get me.
posted by john at 06:55 AM • solamente
April 22, 2008
sarahdox
How do you teach a much-needed lesson to someone for whom sympathy is the drug of choice? How can you so much as pick up the phone and call a liar a liar when said liar will spend the next three months accepting sympathetic hugs, gifts, bouquets and erections from her carefully selected legions of enablers?
Quandry, that.
posted by john at 09:09 AM • solamente
February 27, 2008
muse
Another lesson I've learned after it's too late:
You know a rejection from a woman is needlessly hurtful and nonsensical when, just for your own peace of mind, you're desperate to hear that it's about another guy.
posted by john at 07:24 AM • solamente
February 14, 2008
smitten
First of all, whereas about 15% of my total hits normally respond to a survey post, some 90% of you responded to a survey about dog crap. What's wrong with you people?
Until I posted that no, it wasn't Percy, almost every single guess was a variation on "That bastard Percy put it there." Once I waived people off the P-train, the guesses stopped coming almost entirely. My favorite:
I'm not sure if I could come up with something feasible even if Ed was still alive - that's pretty high up. But I'll give it a go. Dorkass/Allie/Sarah/Beth/Somebody wanted to give you a Valentine. She knows the thing you loved most in the world was Ed, so when she stumbled across a fossilized pile in the far corner of your yard, she couldn't resist. Since you were about to do a February pruning of the bush we can see to the right of the frame, she knew you'd be getting in the tool shed soon. She shoveled it up there and stuck a little note with it, too, that said - just droppin' a note from pup heaven, love Ed.That's fairy tale nonsense, of course. No one ever does anything for me for Valentine's Day.
No one guessed the real story. And really, who could? Who could imagine laziness like mine? For you see, a year ago, I scooped up Ed's droppings and placed them in a paper bag. Not wanting to dispose of them right away due to the aforementioned laziness, I placed said paper bag on top of that shed. Six months passed. Ed died. Six more months passed. And finally, the wind blew the bag down, leaving desiccated Ed crap atop the shed and, for the briefest moment, intrigue.
Yes, it's still there.
posted by john at 08:39 AM • solamente
February 11, 2008
fuckity returns
Every office has that preening dimwit, oblivious to their own ineptitude, with whom everyone else is forced to cope. In my office, I'm pretty sure it's me. In Sarah's office, it's Rhonda. Rhonda's daddy owns the business, and naturally she's in charge. She drips her fetid slime on everyone's work, which brings us to last week.
When Sarah needs to vent, she sends me the advertising copy Rhonda writes. To say it's written at the eighth-grade level is invite a class-action defamation suit from 13 year olds. Cute characters, all caps, underlining, exclamation points—IT'$ ALL THERE! Once when Rhonda wrote that there were "to many" of something, I changed it to "too." Rhonda changed it back.
You get the idea.
So last week, I was reading some particularly vile copy and was inspired to bust out my favorite editorial expression of utter frustration. I wrote: "WHAT THE FUCK? I MEAN, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?"
When Sarah replied, she said that she particularly enjoyed the "fuckity" comment.
I realize this is a pretty lengthy preamble for a link, but now read this chestnut from six years ago. What are the odds?
I called Katrina, long a fan of the Annette story, to share this latest chapter. She was delighted. She also shared that she, just the day before, had used the term "fuckity" and thought of me. I suppose I'd be flattered...if I'd ever in my life used this word. The words I like to think I made up, like "Yoko" and "McMansion?" No credit. "Fuckity?" It'll probably be on my tombstone.
posted by john at 06:36 AM • solamente
February 05, 2008
we
I am, like most, delighted that the Giants spoiled the smug Patriots' tainted bid for perfection. It's God's work they did.
I was explaining the nature of the Pats' evil to Sarah when, resigned, she uttered, "I don't think I'll ever be the fan of a team. I'm just not wired that way."
Then we talked about the nature of developing fandom. She suggested that people don't start following a team at her age. I disagreed. As a challenge, she asked how I'd feel if she suddenly became a Steelers fan. I chuckled. There is no such thing, I said. You can suddenly start watching games. You can suddenly wear a lot of team-themed crap. You can suddenly start using "we" to refer to the team, as in "We won big today." But none of that makes you a fan. Girlfriends, especially, have seem predisposed to that route; I've always looked away in utter disgust.
"When they break you heart and you come back for more, and then they break it again and you come back for thirds, and then they break it again and you come back for fourths, then maybe you can use 'we.' Until you suffer, until you put in your time, not so much." I said. On the other hand, when they're good and advance deep into the post-season, you don't much enjoy that either. It's just nauseating, really.
She didn't see the upside. Smart.
posted by john at 07:09 AM • solamente
January 22, 2008
cloverfield
When I bought my movie ticket yesterday, I was confident that Sarah would not call. She was deathly ill, and I was on ambulance duty. "Call me if you need a ride to the doctor," I'd said.
"Okay."
"Seriously. Don't be proud."
"Okay."
We both knew she would be exactly too proud, and shortly after I got my morning phone call ("Even though talking on the phone for 20 seconds utterly exhausts me, I'm well enough to drive a car for an hour"), I was sitting in a movie theatre. Bring on Cloverfield!
For the first twenty minutes of the movie, nothing happens. Just-too-cool, pretty 20-somethings Babble Importantly about the fluffy drama of their lives, as if any of them will even know one another into their 30s. And then a monster attacks New York City. This is the exact moment Sarah called for a ride. She'd changed her mind.
On vibrate, my phone felt remarkably like a noisy, yet-unseen monster decapitating the Statue of Liberty. As if in response to the events on screen—no one told me this was a monster movie!—I stood bolt upright, without bending my knees, and I dashed from the theatre, never to return.
"Oh, go finish your movie," wheezed Sarah.
"It's okay," I said, suddenly overcome with concern for her well being. "I really wouldn't mind if those people never saw me again."
posted by john at 08:14 AM • solamente
January 07, 2008
stan: making the world safe for adults, one screaming brat at a time
The first time the AW and I ate at Holly Hill Gardens, we, like everyone, were dazzled by the beauty of the landscaping and the warmth of the restaurant area. Lousy with doilies, mood lighting, and $9 jars of jelly, Holly Hill is the quintessential Best Places to Kiss kind of restaurant.
The kitchen is closet-sized and nestled in the corner of the seating area. If you want, while you dine you can watch the cook pivoting from sink to stove to cutting board. Perhaps the best of the cooks is the owner, Stan. Stan looks like a jovial hippie burnout who, more to his surprise than anyone else's, somehow managed to survive ingesting truckloads of drugs in the 60s and 70s. And not flatbeds, either. Big rigs.
On our first visit there, the AW and I sat outside in the gardens. She ordered an omelet. It was bland. Not finding salt and pepper on the table, she asked the server for some. Stan stormed outside to our table, sans salt and pepper, and demanded to know what was wrong with her eggs. "Eep," said the AW.
The waitress apologized and explained that Stan is, in fact, pretty much an asshole. He had screamed at her for trying to sneak seasoning out the door. She is banned from putting salt and pepper on the tables, as he's already seasoned the food perfectly for all possible palettes.
"Can you get me some ketchup?" I asked her.
She shuddered, hoping this was just an unfunny joke. "N-N-No."
Book in hand, I was dining alone at Holly Hill one day. Sarah was there, ignoring me so that she could attend to the party of 8 behind me. Stan was in the kitchen, positively enraged that nine assholes presumed to give him money all at once.
At the large table was a child, maybe 5 years old. Old enough to know better. He soon started making bratty noises, and slowly but surely he crescendoed into a full-on, bratty wail. The kid's cry was piercing, obnoxious. And then Stan blew. Everyone in the restaurant leaped in their seat at the sound of Stan's scream. It was an explosion of pure, malevolent rage.
"OH, HELL NO!" he bellowed from the kitchen, pointing a bloody 10-inch chef's knife directly at the child. "NOT IN HERE!"
I'll give Stan this: the child immediately shut up. As did the parents. And Sarah. And me. I was deliberating whether Stan was a hero or villain when I glanced at Sarah. She looked back meaningfully, then buried her face in her hands in the international sign for "Fuck me. I just worked today for free."
We look back on this as the day we bonded. We're war buddies now. Terror and violence do tend to have a cohesive effect. And Stan? He doesn't remember the incident. Maybe it's all the drugs. Or maybe it just wasn't unusual enough to make bar. Wistfully, I choose the latter.
posted by john at 06:52 AM • solamente
December 28, 2007
good santa
From the other end of the spectrum comes Sarah's graphite drawing of Ed. Someday I hope to be able to look at it without getting all weepy and disgusting.
That's a 2x3 parchment. Sick talented, isn't she?
posted by john at 09:08 AM • solamente
December 19, 2007
desecration
Every Christmas, I bake loaves of kolachi for a few folks. Kolachi is a Polish pastry; the recipe is my immigrant grandmother's. You slice its loaves into one-inch slices, each of which is a spiral of dough, pecans, sugar, butter, and cinnamon. I tell you this so that you can be properly horrified by the following.
Sarah told me last night that she likes her kolachi best when covered by a fried egg, its runny yoke oozing into the pecans, cinnamon, etc. Positively vomitous. And I thought Sue was weird for putting hers in a toaster.
Grandma is spinning like a lathe.
posted by john at 10:08 AM • solamente
October 02, 2007
critical mass
I just had a visit from Amy. No, the other one. (Having given considerable thought to what the opposite of Fucking Amy would be, I've settled on "Fuckless Amy.") She was visiting from Maine for training at her new job. In fine fashion, Microsoft repeatedly stepped on its own dick and rendered her trip utterly pointless. Except for seeing me, of course. Cough.
Sarah, Fuckless and I loitered around a bit. When the social fabric of your life is composed almost entirely of critical women, an unfortunate phenomenon happens. They meet. They drink. They compare grievances against you. They drink some more. And then, worst of all, they start planning your life for you. In this case (after I told the old last-time-I-saw-my-dad story), they very much agreed with one another that John should write a book of whiny reminiscences. They were insistent.
"No one wants to read that crap," I objected. Then they brainstormed a list of best-selling whiny reminiscences.
"Okay, maybe I don't wanna read that crap."
They made me a reading list.
posted by john at 11:04 AM • solamente
September 18, 2007
fun with racists
A fake graphic designer, Sarah created some marketing materials for a client. They liked what she'd done, came the response, but could she please use another picture? She thought it odd that they didn't provide more specific feedback. She asked what exactly they didn't like. "Just use another picture, please," they replied.
She examined the picture she'd used. It was of a guy in a suit. A black guy. Nah, she thought. It couldn't be that.
To disprove her theory, she gave them another picture of another black guy in a suit. And they asked for another picture, for unspecified reasons again. And so it went. Sarah antagonized the client until she exhausted her supply of minorities and had to use a white guy.
"This is great," they said. "Thanks!"
posted by john at 05:43 AM • solamente
August 15, 2007
mixed messages
Sarah and I were walking across a parking lot when my turning head got me into trouble. I was ogling a Saab convertible. Sarah groaned.
"John, don't get a penis car."
"Saabs are penis cars?"
CUT TO: THREE MONTHS LATER
"If you want a convertible, there's only one you should get," she held forth haughtily. "A Porsche."
I leave it to you assembled trolls to try to deconstruct what her criteria are for "penis car" status. Good luck to you.
Exhibit A, the Saab:
Exhibit B, the Porsche:
posted by john at 09:17 AM • solamente
February 15, 2007
happy birthday
Normally I only post about rudeness I've personally observed, but this one was just too ripe not to publish.
Sarah and a group of co-workers went out after work to an elegant restaurant. At a neighboring table, a man quietly sat alone. He ordered a dessert, which came with a burning candle. One of the women, upon seeing this, drunkenly declared that "We need to sing Happy Birthday to him!" His mouth full, the man held up his hands in protest, but the drunk ignored him. He had to interrupt the song with pleas for them to stop.
He showed them the picture on his table. It was a photo of his dead wife. It was her birthday, he explained. She was recently killed in a traffic accident.
"THEN LET'S SING TO HER!" the unflappable drunk squealed. And then, over his protests, she boisterously sang to the dead wife, butchering her name.
Nested rudeness: when the man ruefully said that his wife's death was the reason for a new local traffic light, another member of the party felt compelled to point out that "See? Some good comes out of everything."
posted by john at 08:22 AM • solamente
March 26, 2006
consistency of character
After some solo boating, I visited a restaurant that the AW and I used to frequent. Dining alone with a good book is one of my favorite activities. I find reading and having food brought to me to be incredibly relaxing. And thus was I deep in a don't-talk-to-me trance, engrossed in my book, when the server shattered my peace and quiet. She set her tray down on my table and assumed an alarmingly meaningful tone, looming above me, so near that her waist was all I could see. Utterly mortifyin'.
"I just have to thank you!" she gushed nervously.
I tried to remember even making eye contact with her. "Pardon me?" I said to the waist.
"I have to thank you. On my first day here, a really horrible day where I almost quit, everyone was awful to me and you were the only person who was kind."
That certainly didn't sound like me.
"That certainly doesn't sound like me. I think maybe you're confusing me with someone else?"
"No, it was you. I remember. You were here with a blond woman, seated right at that table over there. You were on your way to the Film Festival."
Oh. That was me. That was me three years ago, but it was me.
"And you saw that everyone was pissed off at me, and you told me that I was doing great, to go ahead and neglect you two so I could help everyone else, and then you gave me a tip that was big enough for the whole room—practically the only money I made that day."
"Anyway, um, thanks. My name's Sarah." And then she got flustered and left.
I thought back to the original incident. Even though she was clearly set up to fail, even though she was obviously hustling her ass off, the other customers—a great mass of preening assholes—bitched about the service when she was absent. That, I remembered. I never forget a preening asshole. But what on earth had possessed me to do the right thing?
As I contemplated my inconsistency of character, the waitress came into full view. I actually stopped breathing. She's utterly gorgeous. And when she turned her head to smile at someone, a silky, bouncy brown ponytail whipped around her neck.
Ah. Order to the universe, restored.
posted by john at 02:01 PM • solamente