My heart isn’t necessarily hardened against these sparse and half-hazard efforts, but it isn’t exactly open to them either. My heart still hurts, remembers.

My dad has been a tyrant, a monster, a controlling prick, a maniacal self-esteem crushing abuser. I’ll never forget how he treated- treats- my mother. I’ll never forget growing up feeling unwanted for bringing them both to that sacrificial altar. I’ll never forget the threats, the bullying, the name calling, the upside down pants around the ankles spankings with the leather belt or the spanking on roller skates that led to my falling on the lawnmower and cutting both my shins, the spitting in my face, the capitalizing on my every weakness until I was mentally and emotionally broken.  I’ll never forget how he suddenly subdued any lingering positive attention or encouragement when I turned 13, how he withheld his love.

His behavior has shaped and misshaped me in countless ways and echoes still. He may now say “I love you,” but he is still unable to say he’s proud of me- for who I’ve become and for all I’ve accomplished. In thinking of it, I break inside all over again.

So even though he’s now reaching out in positive ways, I can’t separate the version of the father I had growing up from the mellowed version of today. The adult I’ve become wants vindication for the little girl who had no advocate, no one to intervene on her behalf. The idea of not holding him accountable breaks me too.

And even yet, he’s my dad. The only one I have. What am I to do with that now?

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Behold, my list of unabated and MAJESTIC! snark…

• I hate the abbreviated usage of the word “appetizer.” I always think of Lincoln Park douchebags who begin most sentences with “a couple of my buddies and I…” These are the same fratastic Jäger bomb drinkers who spout “let’s get some apps” all the time. AH! Hate hate hate that. Which is only compounded these days by all the iPhone “there’s an app for that” bullshit. How about there’s an app for SHUT THE HELL UP?!

• People who don’t say “hi” back or look at me all “I don’t give a shit, you whore” when I smile politely at them as I pass by. Smile, dammit! I’m nice, despite all evidence to the contrary.

• Easter grass. The plastic static cling kind. I detest the stuff- always have. I hate how when you’re reaching for that hidden treasure (Reese’s egg), you invariably come away with the janky ass crap on your shirt sleeve, which transfers to your pant leg, which you find on the side of your couch two weeks later.

• Eat Pray Love. I proudly stand as my own one woman crusade of haterade for Elizabeth Gilbert. I think her book- and I read it cover to cover- is a misguided epitaph against mental health awareness. I should note that I’m supportive of therapists and anti-depressants from my own need for both and the benefits I’ve experienced as a result. Which is why I think it’s unethical for dear ole Lizzy to perpetuate the stigma attached to treating depression by her own ill advised decisions to treat hers with food, yoga, and a freaking man. Problem solved. Yeah, right.

• Board and/or card games, also known as my personal hell. Although I have been known to make exception for Scrabble, Uno, or Jenga. Mostly because I divide and conquer at Scrabble. Bring it.

• The words “loin,” “pussy,” “tits, “moist,” “fashionista,” “taint,” “va-jay-jay,” “discharge,” “c you next Tuesday”… hell, who am I kidding? We could be here all day. “Panty,” “vom,” “muffin-top”…

• Jeggings. Seriously people, just stop. Stop it. Back away from the overpriced stretchy fake ass denim “pants.” They cost as much, if not more, than honest to goodness jeans. And what’s with those pockets on the back? Why not just wear some effing skinny jeans and call it a day? While I’m at it, I hate crocs too. If you’re going to wear crocs, why don’t you just give up on life? Because that’s what you look like when you shuffle along wearing them.

• Sweetest Day. One word: LAME.

What gets you unabashedly snarky?

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There we sat, discussing a friend of a friend and the outlandish lengths she’s gone to in order to meet “someone,” expanding her geographic dating region rather than expanding her “requirements.” Apparently, she’s hit the jackpot because she found “someone,” has met him twice, and is set to move in with and marry him by year end. This is pretty much where my self-righteousness comes in. In fact, it made me go all Katie-Couric-Interviewing-Sarah-Palin up on my friend’s ass.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous- literally expanding her Match demographic to include men ANYWHERE in the US?” I responded after noting the obvious safety risks of hasty decisions like hers.

“Well, that’s what you have to do when you’re in your 30′s and still unmarried. It gets really hard to find the kind of guy that my friends and I would marry,” she adamantly reminded me while conveniently forgetting that I am also unmarried and turning 30. GASP!

“Really? Why?” I asked with feigned confusion.

“Because. You know,” she sheepishly shrugged with a shake of her head and widening eyes.

“No, not really. Why is that? And what do you mean by ‘kind of guy’?” I pursued.

 ”You know. Another [insert race],” she whispered almost apologetically.

My friend and Ms. Friend-of-a-Friend have told me over the years that it’s important to them to date men of their own race because he’d “understand our culture better, our customs and holidays, food and religion.” I guess I can see the point of their argument, however, does their statement mean no other race is capable of or considerate enough to gain familiarity with their customs? Is “true love” based solely on one’s inherent knowledge of another’s cultural background? And if a girl limits her dating pool based upon race, doesn’t that fundamentally make her a racist?

Here’s the thing: maybe their take on the necessity of cultural similarities in dating doesn’t technically make them racists. Maybe there’s some loophole of cultural integrity that I’m not party to. But I simply cannot relate, and neither can Emo who reports to me that he personally “loves all colors of God’s sexy rainbow.”  

The truth is, I’m white bread through and through. I grew up in a racist and anti-Semitic household, embarrassed by the comments and attitudes I was surrounded by and couldn’t control. Now as an adult, I find it shocking to see a form of my family’s thinking perpetuated and paraded about in social circles of my own choosing. It makes me feel icky in the worst way. And hearing their complaints about how difficult it is to meet someone only exacerbates what I see as a racial affront.

I understand that we all have our dating requirements, our “demographic,” our “have-to-haves” and “won’t settles” and what have you, and hold certain traits to be more attractive than others. I have my own ideas with which I contend, but over the years those ideas have changed. I’ve matured. I’ve realized that what matters most in a healthy relationship is sharing common values, an instinctual attraction, and a mutual respect. Everything else can flourish from there.

So even though I view these women as friends, I also view them as in the wrong and refuse to show sympathy for their dating difficulties anymore. I cannot and will not agree with someone who dates a race and not a person. And ultimately, I can’t help but wonder if they intend to apply the (if not antiquated, heavily frowned upon) Caste system in their potential spousal evaluations as well.

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Me (snot-laden and “sick dialing” from under a blanket): “Oh nothing. I was just, you know, thinking…don’t cheat on me, okay? That would suck.”

Boyfriend: “Huh? Where did that come from? Are you okay?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m just feeling gross and uncute and I just watched He’s Just Not That Into You on HBO for the second time in two days and the Bradley Cooper character cheats on his wife because they’re not having sex anymore and we don’t have a lot of that going on right now either and even though I know why that is and even though we’re nowhere near married I know that stuff like that still happens and I think about it all the time and how much that would really suck and kill me inside all over again especially when I’m all hopped up on cold medicine and see you flirting over twitter vulnerable.”

Boyfriend: “You’re not gross- you’re sick. And how could I cheat on you anyway? I work from home and hardly ever leave my house.”

Me: “….maybe they deliver?”

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I read an article today in December’s marie claire about the new male midlife crisis, the whole premise of which is to shed light on the growing and disturbing trend of man-boys who remain in long-term relationships with “keepers” whilst refusing to “put a ring on it.”

According to the article, “the old [male] midlife crisis was triggered by the pressure and routine of providing for a family that relied on a guy for survival; the new one- which comes before kids, often before marriage- stems from trying to keep up with a woman who may not need him at all…[who] offers a financial safety net, the patient acceptance of his neuroses, and blow jobs in equal measure.”

For me, the article felt very familiar and, for the most part, rang true. In a lot of ways, I feel I’ve lived it. Whether it’s been in a long-term relationship of my own or even a brief encounter with a hot/then cold guy, I feel certain I know this terrain well. And I’ve come away feeling that I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. The younger guys just want to play, want me to be aparty to their friends-with-benefits schemes. The older ones want the ego boost of a younger woman, making me an accessory to the crime. So what’s a girl like me to do?

In my case, I’ve historically struggled with Big Talkers, guys who promise much and follow through on next to nothing. It’s not that they won’t commit per se, but that they make it sound like- or even worse promise- that they will, that they want to. In the end, when *shockingly* they do not, I wind up feeling like there’s something wrong with me. I feel like a failure; that I’ve failed the relationship test, failed to be good enough.

It’s a horribly disheartening downward spiral. And all the while I see my friends go on and “master” the whole relationship thing, get married, and live The Dream- or somebody’s version of it at least. I look at them and wonder, what am I doing wrong? Why am I deigned not good enough? Why am I not the kind of girl for whom men want to ensure is theirs “forever”?

It’s sad and pathetic and everything you’re not supposed to admit, let alone write. Still, it’s how I inevitably feel each time another relationship ends and/or a guy intimates that a real relationship is not what he’s after, that “hanging out” is how he likes to operate.

The thing is, I’ve ridden that carousel, enjoyed it for its merits, and reached a point in my life when I’ve elected to relinquish my ride ticket. I may not be gunning to put on a white dress and call it a day just yet, but neither am I rearing to enter into a going nowhere fast relationship situation. But we were having fun, weren’t we? they say with that checked-out shrug. Yeah, “we” were having fun until one of us wasn’t anymore, until one of us realized that the ride you’re offering circles into PERPETUITY. Dicking around would be the phrase, I believe, with the accurate appendage providing the appropriate personification.

Guys like that, the carousel guys, are as the article claims, “part of a cause-less generation…spoiled as kids…now they want to spoil themselves as adults. The old cliche was that a man would wake up one morning and realize that he wanted his youth back. The new version is that he never reached adulthood in the first place…[he] feels entitled to fun; sacrifice is not in [his] vocab.”

There’s truth to that, if we’re to indulge in generalizations (and let’s face it, the article and this post are rife with them), but what about the man who has grown up, who has also chosen to debark the carousel (and maybe even cash out of “the circus” altogether)?

It cannot be ignored that I am in a long-term relationship again and that this very topic has arisen a number of times between us. It is, in truth, a hotbed of residual baggage for both he and I. He’s older, has been married and divorced without children, and has his own strong opinions about the matter. And I…haven’t.

I spent most of my twenties in an LTR that resulted in couples counseling and not much else. Sprinkle a handful of disinterested He’s-Just-Not-That-Into-You man-boys throughout for good measure and you’ve got a fairly accurate depiction of my adult dating life. So, no, I haven’t had any of the experiences that my boyfriend has. I haven’t even been given the chance.

Perhaps the article best captures our stalemate: “he wonders, do I really want to fill a slot, to be the final check mark in her idea of the ‘perfect life’?” And I wonder, is that how it comes across- as a check box? Is that really all it boils down to? For me and/or for him?

Without resolution between us, I read articles like today’s and ask myself who’s got it right, who’s the more “evolved” party? The modern woman who’s independent, successful,  well-rounded, and doesn’t need a man to provide for her beyond the provision of “love”? Or the modern man who’s fun-loving, successful, appreciative and supportive of her merits, but who doesn’t need marriage or babies to find happiness or “completion” in a relationship? Is it possible for these two “modern” halves to make for an honest and happy whole relationship? Or did women’s lib simply fuck us all over- men and women alike? Where the hell do any of us possibly go from here?

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You think you know a person, and then you google them, and learn all sorts of things. Things that lend themselves to questions you cannot ask. Tell me more, you want to say, tell me more about her.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s a locked drawer, mysterious box, or set of online search results…if you go looking, you’re bound to find.

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