Jake, we need to talk.
Can you put that down for a second?
Listen. We’ve know each other for a long time. More than a decade.
Frankly, sometimes I can’t believe how young I was when we first met. I mean, I was only 13.
If I’m honest, I find it disturbing that you would prey on the emotions of such a young girl. So weak and naive. A better man might have recognized how fragile I was and walked away. But my age didn’t even slow you down. And I never stood a chance.
You drove into my heart in your red Porsche, with your shiny hair and your so-called appreciation for awkward girls, and I was hooked.
Cumulatively, I wasted weeks–maybe even months–daydreaming about you in school.
I’m pretty sure you’re the reason I still don’t understand Algebra, Jake!
But did the time I wasted waiting for you to show up on my front door ever bother you? Nope.
You continued to play fast and loose with my emotions. Every time I saw you, you were the same, dreamy hunk, pretending to be looking around for a girl like me.
Well, I’m finally onto you, Jake Ryan.
You’re not looking for a serious girlfriend. You’re not looking for someone who you can love. You’re just playing the role of who you think I want you to be. You’re only toying with my emotions.
I should have seen this coming when you recklessly allowed a drunk minor without a license to drive your ex-girlfriend home, but I was too distracted by your sparkly smile. I should have know better when you never even followed up on the fact that, even though you made said minor explicitly promise not to leave your ex-girlfriend in a parking lot, that was exactly where she woke up.
You’re incorrigible, Jake Ryan.
Don’t look so surprised. And I’m sick of your empty promises.
You’re never bringing me a birthday cake. You’ve never called my grandparents up in the middle of the night to ask me for a date. And if my sister ever gets married, I know you won’t be waiting outside of the church for me.
Oh, the web of lies you constructed. Like a sad little puppy following you around, I believed every word. I thought all I’d have to do to get you to notice me was to write about how I might “do it” with you and then leave the note on the floor of an empty classroom.
Tried that. Nothing doing.
And those things you said about how guys “think it’s cool” if you stare at them? No one appreciates your sarcasm, Jake.
All of that feigned insecurity? The “I hope that nerdy girl likes me” garbage you threw my way? That was the worst. Guys like you aren’t insecure about anything when they’re 18. Young. Athletic. Unspoiled by baggage. You’re m*therf#cking invincible.
What finally did us in, though, was when I found out that you’ve been stringing THOUSANDS of other girls along–many of them even younger than I was.
What the hell kind of sociopathic man whore are you?
By now, I’m sure you’ve guessed that I’m here today to end it.
And you’re right. We’re through.
But there’s more to say than that.
Every time the Mr doesn’t perform a romantic gesture, I think of you. Whenever I feel awkward and particularly unlovable, a picture of you swims across my mind. You’ve destroyed me for other men, Jake. I want an apology. I need an apology.
I know this is a gesture you’re not capable of making, something I’ll never see you do.
But you deserve to know that while I used to consider your unchanging romanticism as warm and comforting, I now see you for what you really are: a life ruiner.
Jake Ryan: I will see you in hell.
Oh, Valentine’s Day! A day when we all fall victim to some kind (if not multiple kinds) of emotional shrapnel.
Here’s something that probably won’t surprise anyone: I’m not really a fan of Valentine’s Day.
At the risk of sounding cliche: I hate Valentine’s Day. I used to refer to Valentine’s Day as “Good luck finding me tonight, because I’ll be face down in a gutter somewhere” day. But it never caught on. (Weird, right?)
I don’t have a special reason to dislike Valentine’s. It’s just a whole bunch of expectations and over-the-top gestures and disappointment for a lack of over-the-top gestures. And I don’t really enjoy feeling like I’ve been set up to fail, you know? I mean, I can set myself up to fail just fine without the help of St. Valentine. So, to me, the holiday seems a bit superfluous.
This year, though, I’m having a hard time being mad at Valentine’s Day, because I have a new friend called the Internet.
You might be thinking, “Mrs, what do you mean new friend? The Internet’s been around since before forever.”
And you’re right the Internet has been around for a long time, but I haven’t spent much quality time with the Internet in years, not since I was in college, back when Facebook was just a tiny baby monster and you had to have a .edu address to play with it.
My excuses for why I’ve been estranged from the Internet barely even make sense to myself these days, but let’s just say I was doing other things. Working-my-face-off-in-a-job-where-I-only-got-to-use-the-Internet-for-research things.
It took me quitting my job, moving to a new town and not knowing a soul to really discover what the Internet has to offer.
Let me tell you a story. I like to call it: How I Found the Internet Five Years Later Than You
Our story starts a few months ago, when I was feeling pretty lonely in an unfamiliar city. Having exercised all of my usual outlets for entertainment (see: watching Netflix, reading magazines, organizing my pantry and composing songs for my dog), I decided to pay a visit to my old friend, the Internet.
*For the purposes of our story, the role of the Internet will be played by a stick-figure robot. You’re welcome (and I’m sorry.)
At first, the reunion was a little awkward. The Internet had changed a lot and so had I.
Of course, I wasn’t completely ignorant to the ways of the Internet, but save for a few YouTube links, my experiences with the Internet in the last five years had been mostly utilitarian.
I wasn’t even sure where to start. I had had some good times with the Internet, but that was so long ago.
It’s safe to say, I had no idea that the Internet was throwing the biggest, non-stop celebration of everything ever.
But I was mesmerized by the glittery good times.
I mean, the Internet was always fun, but five years ago, I feel like it was a lot more relaxed. More contained. Things moved slower.
If you’ve been partying with the Internet for a while, let me tell you from an outsider’s perspective: The first time you catch a glimpse of what’s going on on the Internet these days, it’s hard not to have a strong reaction.
My reaction? I was jealous. Even a little hurt. The Internet had created a thunderdome of mayhem, AND NOBODY TOLD ME! I wanted to party with the Internet!
So, I took a look around to get a lay of the land.
There were lots of Blogs.
And the Blogs were geniuses who had mastered every skill imaginable–cooking, writing, photography, making fun of poorly constructed cakes, telling the funniest jokes you’ve ever heard. You name it; they had done it.
Then, the Internet introduced me to Twitter.
And Twitter scared the bejesus out of me, because it moved super fast–like a cracked-out chipmunk–and I’m still not sure when it sleeps or bathes.
But after a few days of partying with Twitter, I think I kind of loved it. Although, I’m willing to believe that’s just the Stockholm syndrome talking. See, the thing about partying with Twitter is that I never want to leave.
I catch myself thinking, “What if someone tweets something hysterical, and I miss it because I’m brushing my teeth!?! I can’t afford to miss that! I CAN’T AFFORD TO BRUSH MY TEETH!!!”
There were also some things at the party that I recognized from the old days of hanging out with the Internet, like Spam. Which continues to crash the Internet’s party.
Despite all of the chaos, I’ve spent the last few weeks like a love-sick teenager.
I wonder what the Internet’s doing when I’m not around it. I wonder when I’ll get to party with the Internet again.
I look forward to the next time I send the Internet a new blog post.
You guys, I–I think I might be falling in love with the Internet.
Since the Internet has showed me such a good time and mostly treated me like a lady, I’ve decided to make the Internet my Valentine.
Now, I know that not everyone wants the Internet to be their Valentine. I mean, considering how far behind the curve I am, maybe you’ve already married and divorced the Internet twice.
To those people: I’m sorry it’s Valentines Day.
It could be worse, though. Today could be “Congratulations, you’re pregnant with a T-Rex day.”
And one more thing: Just in case you forgot to buy Valentine’s Day cards for your frenemies. I made this for you to share with the people you hate to love or love to hate:
I don’t know if you know this about me, but I don’t have any children. Not yet anyway.
Sometimes, I feel like an imposter, because I spend a lot of time romping around the internet, reading the blogs of stay at home moms and being like “You hate cleaning, too?!?!” or “You’re tired, lady with five kids? I’m tired! Ha ha! WE’RE THE SAME!”
But we are not the same. No, we are not.
In all likelihood, a woman with five kids is tired because she’s RAISING FIVE KIDS. But I’m tired because I had to dress myself AND brush my hair today.
Parents: Even if you have one child and you’re doing the bare minimum as a caregiver, your day is 150 times more taxing than mine.
I respect the crap out of parents. But I’m also kind of enjoying life on my side of the fence. You know, the side where, if I get out of bed in the morning, great! And if I don’t, no one starves.
Lately, though, the Mr keeps threatening to destroy the delicate balance of my life.
He wants a baby.
Now, I like babies. A lot. I coo over babies in restaurants. I lunge after baby clothes in stores. I’ve even already named and renamed our pretend children.
So, you’d think I’d be psyched and say, “It’s baby time! Let’s DO IT!” (Not “it” it, but you know, let’s go get us a baby) now that the Mr wants to start a family.
But I can’t be psyched, because I am pathologically afraid of pregnant woman.
I like to call this disorder: PREGNOPHOBIA.
When I find out a friend is expecting or I meet a pregnant woman at a bridal shower, I try to give the appropriate reaction.
In my head, though, the interaction goes a lot more like this:
And I end up having to fake a head injury on the spot just to get away from my own awkward laughter.
For the record, faking a head injury mid-sentence is pretty tough to do, but if you suffer from pregnophobia, too, and you find yourself needing to flee from a pregnant woman, I recommend you squint your eyes and chew on your own tongue a little.
Pregnant women and mothers of the world: Please don’t be offended. It’s not that I dislike you. My own mother was a pregnant woman once–four times actually.
I’m just scared.
I cannot wrap my brain around pregnancy.
When you get pregnant, you are physically afflicted for 40 weeks. Even drinking bleach isn’t that toxic. If you drink bleach, you’re going to get sick or you’re going to die. Either way, though, I have to believe it runs its course pretty quickly.
But 40 weeks! That is a long time. And the whole time, there’s all kinds of CRAZY stuff going on in there.
And I know this, because pregnant women don’t spare you the details of their pregnancies. They want to tell you about seeing the baby’s limbs as they get farther along. Hands and feet apparently move across the belly, and you can see them through the skin!
The pregnant women I have talked LOVE THIS! But all I can think when they tell me about this is: THERE IS SOMETHING TRAPPED INSIDE OF YOU AND IT IS ALIVE!
And in my case, it probably won’t be a baby. With my luck, this thing will be trapped inside of my uterus for 10 months:
Yeah.
I will probably be the first woman in history to be pregnant with a web-footed T-Rex.
But growing a dinosaur inside of my body, while uncomfortable and frightening, isn’t even the part that scares me so much I might pass out.
Because after a baby wanders around inside of you for 10 months, changing your body and eating your food and sometimes making you sick, THEN you have to deliver the baby (or the T-Rex, in my case.)
I have been so afraid of this process for so long that it has taken on a life of it’s own in my imagination.
Sure, I’ve seen flashes of delivery scenes in movies, but I’ve never actually been there for all of the 648 hours that it takes to make a delivery happen. And assuming I do deliver a T-Rex with webbed feet, it’s going to take some heavy-duty equipment to get that thing out.
And whether you deliver a dinosaur or a human baby, here’s what I’m pretty sure happens during delivery:
And it takes three shaman and unicorn tears to bring you back to life.
And then, I imagine, you have to be sworn to secrecy or your memory is erased or something, so that other women won’t find out about what happens in that delivery room. I know my friends’ memories have been tampered with, because after their babies are born, their descriptions of the delivery are always pretty vague. Like “Oh, I was in labor for forever” or “They had to sew me back together.”
But as I think my drawings have shown, I have a pretty firm grasp of what’s going on, and I will not be fooled by their efforts to downplay the delivery situation.
I’ve tried to explain all of this to the Mr, but he is not impressed with my pregnophobia. He keeps trying to sooth away my fears by saying, “Hey, it’ll be OK. I’ll be there”
REALLY, MR? I’m going to grow a human/possible dinosaur in my body for 10 months, and you’re going to “be there.” Pfft.
Needless to say we’ve reached a bit of a stalemate for the time being. I’m not throwing away my birth control this month. But I feel certain that the 21st Century household has been contaminated with full-blown baby fever.
Sometimes, I even think the fever is overtaking my pregnophobia.
And even though I try not to take it personally when I pass pregnant women in the grocery store, I feel like these women know my house is infected with the fever and that I am weakened by the sickness. Because every now and then, just for a second, I’m sure they are staring at me, and I can feel them willing me to join them. I think pregnant women know their bellies are load weapons–full of babies!–to a girl struggling with baby fever. And ever so softly I can hear them telling me to cast my pregnophobia aside. And I want to yell, “Hey! Don’t point that baby at me!”
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