Catnip for Asshats

I’m recently divorced.

And yes, I felt that collective eye-roll from my regular readers. I may have written about my divorce a time or two. Or ten. Cut me some slack — after all, at least my posts were not what one might expect from a chick going through a divorce.

Here’s the problem: I don’t hate my ex.

I don’t even strongly dislike him.

If pressed, I’d have to admit that I do still love him. You know, in that I-don’t-want-to-live-with-you-ever-again-but-should-you-need-a-kidney-I’ve-totally-got-a-spare sort of way.

The trouble with The Ex came into sharp focus for me recently, as I dipped a tentative toe back into the dating pool. Back in the day, before spending 7 mostly-happy years with The Ex, I was a magnet for Mr. Wrong. And whaddaya know? I’ve still got it! That tentative toe instantly drew approximately 5,324,089 jerkwads from the bowels of the dating pool and into my sphere. I was still reeling — and contempating life as a Buddhist nun—when I saw a post by Shannon Bradley-Colleary, a/k/a The Woman Formerly Known as Beautiful. She queried:

Are You Catnip for Asshats?

Why, yes! I thought. Yes I am! There it was, the very nature of my problem, spelled out in language I could understand. I was catnip for Asshats…but I’d forgotten that truth.

See, The Ex was many things, but an Asshat was not one of them. I mean, sure, he exhibited occasional Asshat-like traits (#2 below was my favorite), but in general, he was the anti-Asshat. He was always on time for dates. If he said he’d call and then he didn’t, either he or his phone was dead. He’d sooner remove his own testicles with a butter knife than cheat.

In other words, he made me forget what it was like to be an Asshat magnet. Luckily, there seems to be no shortage of men ready and willing to remind me. (Yes, that was sarcasm, which may be one of the ways I am repelling normal, decent men.) Luckier still — sarcasm aside—there is the lovely Ms. Bradley-Colleary, who survived her own single years with the parting gift of some hilarious stories. She found herself an anti-Asshat to marry and produce lovely children with. And she has now started what may be the funniest, most useful tool for single women ever: The Asshat Recovery Program. Hell yes, I’ve signed up.

With her permission, here is Shannon’s initial brilliant post on the subject and a link to sign up for her newsletter. You can check it out while you wait for that guy who isn’t going to call.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

10 Signs You’re Dating an Asshat, 5 Tips to Avoid Them

by Shannon Bradley-Colleary

Asshats. We’ve all been in love with at least one. Haven’t we? If you haven’t, do me a service and lie.

What defines an Asshat? (I’m going to refer to men, but Asshatism crosses all gender lines). My #AsshatCriteria:

1. He never does what he says he’ll do. He doesn’t call when he says he will. He doesn’t show up when he should. You frequently think he may be dead, then want to kill him when he’s not.

2. He is angry and grumpy for no apparent reason. He won’t talk to you and you don’t know why. There are long awkward silences that make you want to bash him in the face with your running shoe.

3. He secretly cheats on you. He overtly cheats on you. He cheats on you in a box, with a fox, wearing socks. He tries to make your feel crazy and paranoid when you offer your suspicions. When he is caught in the act he gets mad at you for being mad at him because he cheated on you.

4. You frequently try to break up with him, but you just can’t quit him.

5. You suddenly get religion. You pray for God to make him faithful. When that doesn’t work you pray for God to help you to stop loving him. When that doesn’t work you think God might be an Asshat too.

6. You start therapy, a 12-step group, Kaballah.

7. You start wearing crystals to clear your chakras, reading self-help books on co-dependency. You become a regular at the Bodhi Tree on Melrose Avenue where you buy over-priced Buddhas and nausea-inducing incense.

8. You see a Shaman, a Psychic, a Past-Lives Medium and a Hypnotist.

9. You read Men are From Venus, Women are From Mars and try to wait for your man to come out of his cave and snap back like a rubber band. You decide that motherfucker John Gray doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

10. You are unhappy all of the time. You feel lonely, desperate, grasping and fated to live your life forever dissatisfied or alone.

There’s more, but I think these 10 will have to suffice.

Now here’s the thing about Asshats. We don’t have to judge them or revile them. They are, quite simply, damaged people. We don’t know why they’re damaged and even if we think we do know why, we must accept that WE ABSOLUTELY CANNOT FIX THEM.

Here are my 5 tips for avoiding them entirely:

1. Do not, under any circumstances, allow your vagina (or penis) to choose a relationship. Just don’t do it!!!

There’s a reason some cultures still insist on chaperones and on arranged marriages. Because they don’t trust vaginas (if you’re male just insert penis every time you see vagina) to make good choices.

My vagina can walk into a room, instinctively find the biggest Asshat there and pounce on him. My vagina has, historically, gotten me tied down for years with men (two of them) prone to all kinds of Asshattery.

By the time I met my husband Henry, who is the antithesis of an Asshat, I didn’t trust my vagina anymore at all. True to form, when she met Henry she gave him the cold shoulder (yes, vaginas have shoulders).

She just didn’t find him intoxicating because he was reliable, kind, conscientious, a gentleman and he wasn’t swarthy.

Fortunately, I ignored her and decided to date Henry anyway. The irony is that in my previous relationships fraught with Asshatalism, the sex got worse and worse, whereas the sex life with my loving husband has gotten better and better.

I had to reprogram my vagina, which was a challenge, but so worth it.

2. Wait to have sex.

This is the follow-up to #1 because you really need time to get your vagina to simmer down.

How long is long enough?

In my case, I really think I should’ve waited at least three months before engaging in sexual activity with a prospective beau. I realize that in this day and age — unless you’re supported by your religious community — that’s it’s very difficult to wait.

But I have to take a page from the book of my babysitter’s 20-year old daughter, Lilly. When Lilly began dating in earnest as a teenager she informed any interested suitors that she absolutely would not consider having sex for at least six months. And if they weren’t okay with that then she’d understand if they walked away.

And many of them did walk away.

But Lilly stood her ground, weeded out the Asshats, and is now in her first (and maybe permanent) relationship with a loving, supportive boyfriend who treats her like a queen.

Which leads me to my next tip:

3. Come to know in your very bones that you are lovable enough, beautiful enough, talented enough, worthy enough to be treated with respect.

I offer you Exhibit A: Halle. Berry.

Halle Berry is ostensibly one of the most beautiful, talented women in the world. Yet again and again she has ended up with cheating Asshats (Fingers crossed that Olivier Martinez isn’t another one). And they didn’t cheat on Halle Berry because she wasn’t enough, they cheated because they were cheaters.

People who lie, cheat and emotionally abuse you aren’t doing it because you’re not worthy. Chances are they’ve behaved the same way with partners that came before you and will continue said-behavior with partners who arrive after you’ve made your escape.

Damaged people do damage. And it’s not about you. Unless you let them in.

4. Avoid the “Familiar” if you come from a home with damaged people.

From the ages of 2 to 10 my mom was married to my step-Asshat.

His specialty was rampant infidelity, which drove her to the brink of madness. After almost eight years of emotional abuse my mom pulled herself up by the bootstraps and finally walked away for good and into a much healthier more loving marriage a few years later.

But the dye was cast. As a young adult I was drawn to men who were just like my stepdad. Tall, dark, handsome, usually in very macho professions that yielded a coterie of adoring female groupies.

I instinctively responded to these types of men because they felt familiar. They felt like “home.”

Unfortunately, my “home” wasn’t one I wanted to recreate. And sure enough,infidelity on their part and madness on mine ensued.

Like George Costanza, when it came to dating again, I had to think about what I would normally do, then do the exact opposite to find a healthy relationship.

Which leads me to my last tip …

5. Give the regular guy/gal a chance.

I have a friend who doesn’t date. Ever. Being the inveterate match-maker that I am, I’m always trying to set her up. I’ve gone so far as to snap photographs of perfect strangers and get their information to send to her and she NEVER BITES.

The men are either too short, too round, too white, too black, too hairy, too hairless, too flabby, too muscular, too … you get my point.

Finally I exasperatedly asked her, “So who would be good enough for you to date?”

Without missing a beat she said, “Brad Pitt.”

Brad Pitt. I’m going to leave you with that for just a moment. Brad. Pitt. Well, who the hell wouldn’t want to date Brad Pitt. Reality check, he falls for women like Angelina Jolie.

We are not Angelina Jolie (although I worry she’s too skinny). We have got to start picking people in our ballpark, ladies and gents.

There are myriad lovely people out there who are capable of loving us back to Happiness. And once we are able to let that love in, they are no longer too short, too round, too white, too black, too hairy, too hairless, too flabby, too muscular. They are, quite simply, ours.

Considering my track record, marrying my best friend was more surprising to everyone than seeing pigs fly out of my butt. My four parents sat in the front row with mouths agape. Which wasn’t flattering, come to think of it.

That’s all I’ve got for today. Please let me know if any of this information was useful as I think this may be an area on want to focus on in the future. And be sure to sign up for our free updates below. xo S

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The Kids Are All Right

I’d like to take a moment to give myself a little pat on the back.

I have excellent taste in friends.

I think this is no small accomplishment, particularly since I am well known for making poor choices in general.  But when it comes to choosing friends?  I rock.  And apparently I always have.

I recently had a whirlwind weekend adventure with one friend I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade, and two others I hadn’t seen since high school.  It was the sort of thing that could have been a shitstorm of awkward moments.  Instead, it was an absolute blast.

If our younger selves could have glimpsed us - nibbling tapas, sipping drinks, laughing hysterically and sharing meandering tales of our lives in locations near and far - I think they’d be amused as hell.  They’d also be pleased that we didn’t call it a night at nine p.m., but instead made our way to a show and rocked on, drinking beer from plastic cups, into the wee hours of the morn.  That I was only carded because I had tickets at will-call is beside the point.

Today one of my new favorite bloggers, Aussa Lorens, posted about the wistful way autumn nudges us to reflect on the past and make plans for the future.  Summer girl that I am, I have always found fall especially bittersweet.  I am reluctant to trade my flip flops for boots, yet the storyteller within me is romanced by the chill in the air and the smell of woodsmoke.  I also find myself haunted by the ghosts of plans never realized, the trail of losses inevitable in life.  While I’ve had a lot of amazing experiences and have checked a fair number of accomplishments off my lifetime to-do list, there always seems to be more I have yet to attain.

But my friends…

I am sometimes amazed at how lucky I am to have so many kind, funny, creative people in my life.  Old and new, my friends remind me that while we cannot help the losses in life, the successes are worth celebrating.  We who were once thrown out of school for everything from questionable fashion choices (exposed nipple rings, anyone?) to day drinking in math class are now running successful businesses, creating art and music, exploring nature, raising children, rising above tragedy, doing our part to leave the world a little bit better than we found it.  I’m not sure what kind of youthful trouble the friends I met later in life have under their belts, but I know that whether they were buttoned-down overachievers or wild, fired-up messes, their experiences helped shape them into the sorts of people I am very, very glad crossed my path.

This year, as I move from bare toes in the sand to the crackle of a fire warding off that seaside chill, I will try to think less of what’s missing and more of the amazing blessings I can count as mine.

Real friendship, of course, chief among them.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

UnNaked

I had blue brie, crackers and hummus for dinner the other night.  It’s okay, though - I added some grapes to round out the leftover cocktail hour fare and make a meal of it.

Well, okay.

Fermented grapes.

Or, as the French might say, wine.

As some of my loyal readers have noted, I am no longer naked (read: alcohol-free).

My Naked in 2014 post explained some of my reasons for ditching the bottle as 2013 morphed into 2014.  I’ll try now to explain why I’ve picked it back up.  (And yes, one of the possibilities is simply that I’m a drunk and this is what we do.  But, hey - here goes…)

For starters, my Naked post wasn’t as naked as it could have been.  I had reasons for quitting that went beyond a desire to sift through past drinking-related behavior; namely the sudden downward spiral of my marriage and the way I was self-medicating with alcohol.  But that wasn’t stuff I was ready or able to discuss publicly just then.

If I’m entirely honest, The Ex and I got - and for seven years, stayed - together at least in part because we drank together.  And let me tell you, we were awesome drinking buddies!  It was the secret to our success.  We were a case of opposites attracting, but after a few drinks, who cares how whomever voted in the last election?  Who cares about bills or housekeeping or in-laws or any of the other baloney that comes to light in marital arguments?  Have a drink!  Have great sex!  Have…

A midlife crisis?

As 2013 wound down, it became clear to me that I had some big, tough decisions to make.  And that making them while intoxicated would be a bad idea.

I sobered up and assembled a widely-varied team of professionals to help me sort out how my past had led to my present - and how it might yet impact my future.  There was stuff I needed to work on, so I did.

I still do.

Probably always will.

See, I get it.  None of us is ever “finished” with this life stuff.  It’s forever a work in progress.  I could very well be a delusional alcoholic who’s gone back to happy hours and champagne brunches because, well, I’m a delusional alcoholic.

I could be someone whose circumstances led to occasionally unhealthy use of booze to avoid reality.

I could also just be an ordinary person who sometimes behaves well, sometimes doesn’t.

Here’s the thing: I like cocktail hour.  I like hanging out with friends and feeling that buzz and being silly.  I like beer on the beach.  I like wine downtown.  I like drinks on a train or in the rain, on a boat or with a goat, or with just about anything but green eggs and ham.  I like sometimes being a consumer of Chardonnay in unladylike quantities…and sometimes being the girl who sips tea while working on a manuscript.

What I don’t like is drinking to avoid talking or feeling or being real with the people in my life.  And I think I’ve put the brakes on that.  Full stop.  I am focusing on the honest, genuine, good stuff from here on out.

Naked or otherwise, I just want to be happy.

And, yes - have cheese and crackers and (fermented) grapes for dinner now and again.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

What Was She Thinking?

I want to give Jennifer Lawrence a hug.

Not only did someone hack into her private photos, steal them and share them with the world, but then came the sadly-predictable response.

Why on earth would a celebrity take nude photos in the first place?

What was she thinking?

I dunno.  My guess is that she thought she had a basic human right to keep her private life private.  That the very public nature of her job shouldn’t mean the public owned her.

No?

Ricky Gervais rightfully caught flack for Tweeting: “Celebrities, make it harder for hackers to get nude pics of you from your computer by not putting nude pics of yourself on your computer.”

As a social media acquaintance of mine commented: “That’s like saying if you don’t want your TV to get stolen, you shouldn’t have a TV.”

Duh.

This whole JLaw “scandal” makes me feel a few things viscerally.  Specifically:

1. We need to stop devouring celebrities.  Someone who makes movies or music or otherwise gives of themselves for our entertainment should not have to face mobs and flashbulbs and paparazzi while taking their kids to school or the grocery store.  They certainly shouldn’t have to worry that private pics will become public.  And don’t give me the whole bullshit they-make-so-much-fucking-money-that’s-the-price-you-pay argument.  No one should have to sacrifice their entire life to earn a living doing something they love.  The public needs to stop behaving like brainless animals in the face of celebrity.
2. We need to stop slut-shaming women.  Whether we’re talking about nude pics, short skirts, high heels, whatever.  Let’s make sure the next generation never utters the words, “She was asking for it.”    Because no matter who she is or what the context, no woman is ever - ever - asking to be violated.
3. That’s what the hack of Jennifer Lawrence’s private photos was: a violation.  As Lena Dunham Tweeted:  “the person who stole these pictures and leaked them is not a hacker: they’re a sex offender.”  Exactly.  Can we get that through our collectively-thick skulls, please?  If you hack into someone’s personal photos and steal nude pics, you are no different from the Peeping Tom under the window or the flasher in the park.  There is something wrong with you.
4. There is nothing wrong with taking nude pics.  Society needs to knock off the faux-prude baloney.  Women are hyper-sexualized in the media.  But take a couple of racy selfies and we’re all gasping and pointing?  Puh-leeze.  We all know you’ve got dirty shit somewhere on your iPad or smartphone.  It’s just not an issue because you’re not Jennifer Lawrence and no one wants to see you naked.

Look, if someone wants to hack into my pics and find some naughty stuff to make public, I’m thinking a good scandal might actually help with book sales.  So if you think the world wants to see shots of a chick lit writer who spends most of her time in boxer shorts and a David Bowie tee, writing sex scenes with a cat at her feet, chardonnay in her coffee mug, and a little crust of Toblerone and brie at the corners of her mouth, I’m your girl. 

Leave JLaw alone already.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

The Constant Gardener

One of the things I found most difficult when I left my home of the past five years was that it meant leaving my gardens.  When The Ex and I bought the property, there were no gardens.  There was an overgrown mess in the back yard, some vine-choked trees in the front yard, and a sparse lawn punctuated by muddy truck-tire ruts.

The Ex immediately arranged to have the dead trees removed, and shortly thereafter an actual driveway was installed.  But it was when I - a compulsive gardener - began excitedly making plans for flower beds and slate paths and bird baths that we had the first of our arguments about our new home.

You see, to say the house was in need of TLC would be to greatly understate matters.  We had our hands full with gutting and framing, flooring and sheetrock.  The Ex was correct in stating that the yard was the least of our worries.  He didn’t understand why, after spending a July afternoon ripping out 1970’s-era wood paneling and shag carpeting that reeked of stale dog urine, sweating bullets, I would choose to swing a pickaxe at the earth until the sun set and the mosquitoes devoured me.  He didn’t understand why I would rise early on a Sunday to machete my way through the brambles that had grown over a long-neglected vegetable garden.  He didn’t understand, and he made clear that he didn’t like it.

He’d come out of the house red-faced and scowling, waving his hands.  “Stop!  Stop!  What are you doing?”  I’d look around, trying to figure out what he meant.  Where was the emergency that had him so upset?

Oh, right.

I was gardening.

I just didn’t get why he was so bothered.  I didn’t mind if he felt it was time to sit down with a beer.  Why should he mind if I wanted to have my own beer while up to my elbows in mud and mulch?  I asked him that question every time he looked with disdain on my latest project.  He never answered.

Over the years, I transplanted a dozen trees, shrubs and perennials from locations they’d outgrown to places where they thrived.  I added more than three dozen new plants and trees.  The year my father passed away, I planted a dwarf blue spruce in his memory.  The variety?  Fat Albert.  It felt like a private little joke, as my dad’s name was Albert, but he was anything but fat.  I ran a 300 foot extension cord to the tree and decked it out in little white lights so it would sparkle in the darkest of winter nights.  I loved looking out my bedroom window on snowy evenings, the twinkle of that tree in the midst of my sleeping gardens making the child in me think of the lamppost in the woods of Narnia.

Recently, I greeted the real estate appraiser who’d come to our house as part of the divorce settlement process.  “I love your gardens!” she said as we walked the property.  “Great curb appeal.”  As she gushed over the lilacs, the hydrangea, the multiple varieties of holly, I felt faint.  While for years the story I’d told myself was that I was building a happy home, I realized every single shrub and flower bed held the memory of an argument.

"Some women buy shoes," I’d once told The Ex teasingly.  "I buy plants."

He never cracked a smile.

I never did learn what he so disliked about my gardening.  Was it that it took time away from him?  Was it that it cost money he felt shouldn’t be spent?  Was it that he’d been assaulted in childhood by a rogue rhododendron?

In the end, I don’t suppose the “why” of it matters.  The gardens I planted are no longer mine.  They are browning in the late summer, and I am moving on.  They will bloom again in the spring, and if The Ex doesn’t tend to them, I imagine my badass gardener self will suit up all in black and creep into the yard at midnight to prune and weed and water.

Yup.

When you hear of a woman in South County arrested for trespassing andgardening at night, you’ll know just who they’re talking about.

www.kcwilder50ways.com