Evil Eye, One too Many.

I have begun to believe I am cursed.

Coming from a long line of black forest "witches", aka people from Deutschland who live in the deep deep parts of the woods and have festivals that revere "witches", this is not such an impossible stretch. In fact our village translates into "Dead moss", we have at least 2 witch carnivals (spring and winter), most of my family has "pointy chins", and my house is currently adorned with witchy relics (see photo, one of the native witches, carved from wood).  Needless to say, I grew up in a family dripping with superstition and lore. 

My grandmother would say to me, "Spinnen am morgen bringen Unglueck, Spinnen am abend bringen Glueck." (See a spider in the morning brings bad luck, see a spider in the evening brings good luck).
My mother,  any time a major life moment would happen (or I would get on an airplane), would spit in the air, and holy cross me. Touching my eyes, my lips, and my heart. 

Above all else, my family believed in the power of three. You do bad unto others, then bad will come back to you three fold, same if you do good. If 1 person died, 2 more would follow, same as in births. 
To top it off, they believed in the power of curses. No they did not practice curses and no I do not either, nor do I have a voodoo doll of an ex lover under my bed (only because sewing that shit gets expensive, and what would I do with all of those dolls)...but they did believe that what you said could be carried onto the wind, and that things should be said with caution in case certain elements were listening to interpret in their own way.

So I have begun to believe that I am love cursed.

Mainly because at the age of seven, when my big sister was talking about boobs and David Bowie's package, I told her that I hate all the boys who flirt with me, but I lamented about how I wanted big tatas (because obviously I had none at that time). Well I ended up becoming well endowed, and while yes I still have a lot of boys who flirt with me, the ones I do end up falling for are truly awful human beings. So whomever, or whatever, was listening in to the conversation between my sister and I, all I have to say to you is, well played, indeed....and enough with the funny.

Now, granted, I realize this makes me sound insane. In fact, from a very scientifical mindset, the kind I received from my engineering dad, what I am feeling is completely heuristically based. Meaning, I am finding meaning, when no logical meaning is apparent. The rational part of brain is just plain ole exhausted trying to figure out the variables of my many many failed dating moments, so the irrational part of my brain steps in with its shining family coat of arms and suggests the impossible. That I am cursed.

I often joke that my quests with men must somehow be some form of super power, in which I have not figured out how to harness for the good of mankind; but I think we would all agree that super heros do often feel cursed. But come on Universe, before I adorn a cape, it would have been much more awesome if my curse involved heightened physical capabilities: speed, flight, invisibility, super strength, reading minds, chameleon tendencies...you know, the normal choices. Alas, instead I am cursed with the ability to be the black hole of asshole nation.

This last one happened to be a beautiful part Cherokee of a man, with smooth creamy coco skin. He was even a teacher, so cute, and so un-artsy. He had a smile that charmed the socks off of me, and eyes that twinkled brightly. I was soon to find out that he was a true skinwalker, with teeth like a wolf. I was immediately smitten, in which case, I should have immediately run for the hills before he devoured me whole;  I have begun to wonder if my immediate attraction to men is an ultimate warning sign, like if I feel my loins quake it means break out the mace, but if on the other hand I feel like my vagina just dried up like a hot desert, then I should probably marry that person.

But yes the Cherokee smile, per usual we seemed to hit it off divinely, he whispered sweet nothings into my ear, held my hand while we walked around in the chilly christmas weather, told me how he was falling for my doe eyes...all the good stuff that movies are made of...and I lapped it up. Lapped it up so hard. Then, one day, it was like a rift happened, and it kept opening up wider and wider, much to my dismay. Of course, I asked him about it, I said I was getting a vibe, and wondered if he were getting cold feet...and he responded simply, bluntly, and shortly, "my feet are freezing, sorry"...and with that, The End. All the pretty words, and all the hand holding, and all that jazz didn't even get credit acknowledgement.  There is something so stilling about truncating things when your imagination is still in game time. And so afterwords, I seriously began to ponder this curse idea.

On a side note, tribute song to the Cherokee: http://www.last.fm/music/Juliette+Lewis/_/Romeo

I suppose I could also blame me. I am an only child, I can be demanding, harsh, critical. I don't always play nice with others in the sand pit. I am aggressive, argumentative, I am also self conscious. I push myself to exceeding lengths, I think I can always do better, and usually this translates into other people as well...but past all the hard crusty bits of my outer shell, I am also a sensitive one. I care deeply about those around me and I would do anything for most. I am kind, passionate, quirky, creative, deep, intelligent, and thoughtful. I know I am not easy, and perhaps most want easy, but what I find heartbreaking, is that I have been entangled in a dating game. The more intelligent the quest, the more they are intrigued about check mating me. With each pierce, and each knock down, I have learned to laugh it all off with a tearful smile, and then wrap it up into another wall. My curse has made me into a diamond. Multifaceted, pretty, easy to cut with, and hard to break...I worry not that I am cursed to meet more and more douchebags (this is more than likely a fact of my life), but that when the magic (aka knight of all knights) does come to break this curse, I may swallow them whole, and effectively, curse them.

Let's just be friends

Let's keep it real. We have all used this line. We have all been on the receiving end of this line. Either way it is not always a fun conversation to have. About a year ago, I was confronted with redefining this terminology with the Norwegian.

Now the Norwegian, was this dreamboat of a man, whom my friends declared as "too pretty for his own good." When I first met him, my breath literally caught in my throat, in fact I think I even choked on the fruity martini I was drinking (I bring classy to any party!) and it didn't help that his voice was pure manly butter (if you need me to explain this then you have never experienced manly voice butter before, suffice to say its deliciously scrumptious...Odin godlike even). Of course, right off the bat, it was incredibly obvious I was NOT his dreamboat. In fact, if he turned himself anymore in his stool he would have been out the door, and yet for whatever reason, we still seemed to hit it off. Conversationally, that is. Score one for me being a smarty! NERDS UNITE!

So as the night ended, and I was driving home, I realized that I wasn't about to let hunk-a-chunk go without some sort of battle cry,  and thus I devised the "let's be friends" war strategy...Which, in most cases, you receive after coming on too strong, or having to let someone down easily, but I figured if this was offered up on the plate from the get go, without the disinterested party preempting it, then I would still have an IN into the batcave. The deliciously Norwegian batcave (where unicorns spawn).

He, in turn, readily accepted (under friendly fire) my invitation. Ensue many hangouts later, under the glorious gaze of his magnetic stare (<~~~someone read way too many romance novels as a child),  I realized, one inherent factor, I just literally screwed myself into a broken-hearted corner. I just went to war with myself and it left me wondering if I should have just cut my loses, licked my wounds, and run for the hills. Instead of slowly doing what my friends like to call "the long con" and woe him with my charm, I was stuck pretending to be another one of the guys, listening to stories of him making out with other girls (oh yeah, pure romance here), and texting him like a 19 year old. "Hey dude, whats up? How's it hanging? OMG did you see the new spiderman movie? It's so lame!!!!"

Of course, the messed up thing of it all is that I knew better, in fact I knew so much better that every glass menagerie paraphernalia was mocking my intelligence for falling into such a dumb trap. While part of me gaga-ed, the other part of me wanted to sucker punch my face. And while yes, I learned many many a thing from the Norwegian about the ways of men (and no not kinky ways, dammit), I realized inevitably, the friend "trap" can never work out. There is just too much of a chemical imbalance to immediate physical attraction for it to ever convince your mind or your emotions that things can be anything but. So i had to end it with the Nord. Over rock climbing none the less. As we were bouldering our way to success, I simply told him, "Thanks, Batman", climbed back down, and called it a day. Every now and then I get a text from him wondering about life, and what the hell Batman was all about, and I still get those butterflies from his husky voice, but as I learned, you just can't redecorate the batcave. Not even as catwoman.

The "Wrong Type"

Maybe you are dating the "wrong type."

This is something I often hear. That my type is often off-kilter, and perhaps this is true, I have a fascination for creative types with dirty hair and full blown beards. The problem being, most of these creative types are A. moochers B. sycophants C. egomaniacs D. antisocialiates or E. all of the above (I am actually a huge fan of the all of the above, those types are probably the most emotionally satisfying). So needless to say, I tend to get my romantic hopes up and dashed by "my type" more often then I can count.

My dad thinks that I need to stop dating the "artist type" and instead date the "business type":

Dad: "You need a wealthy man."
Me: "I don't really care about that sort of stuff Dad."
Dad: "Well this is why you date moochers, and let me tell you, they will only suck you dry, if not financially, emotionally"
Me: "So you want me in turn to mooch off someone else? I feel like this is a recipe for disaster"
Dad: "Well they could fund your art...you know I have this friend..."
Me: "Is he younger than 40?"
Dad: "58?"
Me: "Dad...wth?"
Dad: "ok, baby steps."

My friends suggest I date a "real" man:

Friend 1: "You date skinny boys, you need a man" (this is usually followed by hand gestures of what muscles might look like)
Friend 2: "You date emotionally immature boys, you need a "real" man who will be there for you when you cry" 
Me: "I already have enough gay friends"
Friend 3: "You date such young things, why not a "mature" older man"
Me: "Did you just talk to my dad?"

My mother suggests that I date ugly:

Mom: "You date men who are too good looking, they will cheat on you, you should date someone who is good in their heart, not their looks."
Friend: "Yeah I agree with your mom, ugly guys will adore you."
Me: "...enough with friend/parent dynamic...the world is imploding as we speak..."

So after all of that hoopla of worldly advice I figured fine, instead of staying the course, I will change the course. So off I went, signing up for Match.com, because someone unwisely told me that men who pay for dating sites take dating more seriously than on free sites; Yeah let me be the small granule of wisdom and say that is 100% not true.

First gent, after date 1: "So when can we have sex?"
Second gent, third email: "So when can we have sex?"
Third gent, intro email: "So when can we have sex?"

Second granule of wisdom for said gents: If you have to ask a girl when you can have sex with her, she probably does not want to have sex with you....ever.

I did manage to attract a business/sporty/ex frat-boy Texan, aka someone I would never approach/date/sexually fantasize about in a million years (I mean, Texas, seriously, gross)...but he surprised me with his wit, so I figured, why not. Lets play ball.

Hence our dating story: Interest interest interest. He would send me lovely postcards from the places he was traveling to for business (ROMANTIC), he would write me beautifully thought out long emails (DOUBLE ROMANTIC)....everything was off to a good start; on a foot note, all of this was going on for over three months, our schedules making it near impossible for us to meet, though my mother/friends began to wonder if he had a wife...which was not the case, as he had recently broken up with his ex Brazilian girlfriend of 3 years (oh i know i know i know, warning signs, but he sent me postcards!!! God I am easy). We finally scheduled a time to meet, and it was fireworks, or at least it was fireworks from my end. I was met with hard bodied manliness, beautiful smile, easy conversation, lovely little twang...I was hooked from the hello. I left our date in lalaland thinking wow maybe my familia was right...and that is when everything went straight back to douchville.

Welcome to Douchevilliness.

Suddenly he was too busy to meet up for a second date, which trust me, I know the signs, and in fact I am so good at reading the signs, that I usually meet them at the impasse with, "Hey you know what, no hard feelings, lets be friends"...of course the strange turn of events in this case, is he assures me that that is not the case, that his job is keeping him busy, and he is uncertain of venturing into a new relationship, but that so far he adores me, and blah blah blah blah blah. Still lingering from the postcard bliss, and the euphoric memory of his smile, I figured ok buddy, second chance, but seriously, that was your out. And perhaps, this is where I usually go wrong. I have found that the more truthful I am about a situation, the more that I can call a spade a spade, the more the gent will go out of his way to convince me otherwise. I have found that these "men" just cannot admit defeat unless they are the ones defeating. Which i find very strange, if a girl gives a guy an out, with a pat on the back and a see ya around the bend, that's a good thing, that means there is still a possibility of friendship, if he continues on down the route of deceit, of playing with the possibility of a "what if" romance, that girl will eventually resent the living shit out of him and probably do psychotic things to his person in her head.....but alas...onward I went, thinking, he could not POSSIBLY be as douchetastic as "artist types."

So ensued his checklist of date requests; I did what all my girlfriends, and parents, and male friends recommended, I feigned disinterest. I did not overtly overwhelm him with texts of unicorns and poppies. I did not do overtly romantic things for him (like illustrate him monsters), I kept the weird in check, and above all else  I DID NOT contact him for additional dates...no no, I due-diligently waited until he made the move. I allowed him to play that alpha game. Here here lion, I be the fragile gazelle.

Date 2: Scheduled....AND...Cancelled day before because of business meeting.
Date 2: Second Attempt, Scheduled....AND....Cancelled day of because his dog was run over by a car (four days prior, alive, broken leg) and he needed to take it to the vet for a checkup (at 8:00 in the evening). Ok so now my intelligence has just been insulted.
Date 2: Third attempt, Scheduled....AND...Never happens as he just disappears off the face of the planet. Sure I could have called, texted, written, shown up on his door step with a sign that simply said "Really?"...but why bother? He didn't.

Now, this sort of stuff royally irks the alpha female in me. I played the coy part, and had my time wasted. And I began to wonder if the major difference between artist types and business types is the priority to one's time. The artist type will always ALWAYS be neurotically emotional about everything. They will always either get super angry, or super sad, or super bossy, or super quiet, or super super something, so you almost always know something is amiss, and you always leave going, well that was a roller-coaster, thank god THAT is over. And it is an end. With this opposite type, what I just experienced was a complete and utter lack of caring about another persons time. I did not even have a moment to figure out my emotions, because I was so busy trying to figure out how our schedules meshed. And yes, this will probably come off as a huge generalization, because all in all a douche is a douche is a douche, no matter what his attire. Still, life lesson: Never date a Texan. Hook um', my ass.