Fork in the road

Father’s Day came and went. I scrolled through captions with messages like “thank you to the best daddy ever,” “so thankful for all you do,” “couldn’t do this without you.”

The last one kinda struck like a dagger.

Couldn’t do this without you.

Hmm. I’d have to. Let’s say I’m blessed enough to conceive a child with as little of fertility treatments helping me out as much as possible. Let’s say the plan actually works.

It’s just gonna be me. (Fuck, I read this high and it came out in N’Sync lyrics.)

Nah, I know. The village will help. I 1,000% believe and know the village will help.

But there is no partner, no daddy, at least for any foreseeable future. Just me.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t think that I’m up for the challenge, it’s that my life has really come to this junction. We’re fucking here, guys. I made it to this fork in my life. I said I would do this for years. I’ve said it out loud enough to my closest friends and family that I’ve normalized it, I’ve digested it. But it doesn’t get any easier trying to go through the motions.

I finally made a gyno appt. to prep for an appt for a fertility clinic.

I have an initial consulting appointment at a fertility clinic—it’s next week.

It’s weird saying that out loud. It’s difficult to verbally articulate each step of this process because I barely got over the first. 

I’m not scared of what happens if everything works out, I’m scared if it doesn’t. I’m scared as fuck of getting bad news and having to process the potential disappointment in not fulfilling a life long dream of mine. But that’s the cart getting front of the horse, I’ll cross that bridge if I get there—but I hope I don’t have to.

I’ll only take in this life what is meant for me and if a biological child is in the cards then I have every ounce it takes to be a single mom (and more) and if it’s not… well, there are alternatives.

I guess we’ll all find out soon enough…

Off the Dome: 2020 Edition

I’m sorry.

I should have plenty of time to write. I have plenty of things to say.

But trying to say anything feels like you’re walking on eggshells or treading on fine lines. Nothing you can say is inclusive or sensitive enough in shitty times like this. As a matter of fact I feel selfish as fuck using my own blog to complain.

*actual sigh*

IDK, what can I say?

People are still dying from Covid. Racism still runs rampant in 2020. There are entire groups of people who fail to realize the inequality that visibly exists in America. The corruption of power and hipocrasy I’m witnessing within our “democracy” is astounding. The simple ask of wearing masks in public is a political debate.

I feel small, powerless, and exhausted.

I’m just trying to remember that life goes on. We’ll progress again—eventually.

We’ll get through these shitty times. We’ll get to go on vacation again and hug our parents and witness major strides for females and people of color (even if we see some backasswards shit rn). *Ahem, cough. Amy Coney Barrett*

On the other hand Pope Francis just cosigned his approval for same-sex civil unions. Thousands of people who never voted before are finding their voices. 

So… there’s that. I’ll keep counting the wins and those are major.

Heart 2 Hearts

I’ve been having a whole lot of heart-to-hearts recently.

They run the gamut. 

One couple I know is getting divorced, their collective journey has come to the end of the line. I’ve spoken to both of them individually and I hear/see them both.

Another friend I have is gay, fresh out of a long-term relationship, is constantly trying to set me up or just get me back out into the dating scene.

“I know you say you’re happy. (It’s true. I am.) But imagine how much happier you could be if you were on a beach, with Tako, and some guy who fills in that empty space.”

He’s not 100% wrong.

(Note: The only reason I mention his sexuality is because he doesn’t have to deal with the same dating pool. I have no single heterosexual female friends trying to entice me to get back out and explore dating—they already know its a shit show.)

But I think about the caliber of man who would have to fill those shoes and they are large shoes to fill.

It’s part narcissism, part general confidence. I have a whole fucking lot to offer someone. In all my years of dating I haven’t found anyone to match everything I have to give.

I’m not saying I’m the baddest, funniest, most intelligent, compassionate, etc etc etc etc. I’m self-righteous, stubborn, prideful, and super emotionally unavailable. I’m not that great sometimes. It’s just—I’ve discovered that a good chunk of men are basically insecure or broken creatures. A whole lot of them are disloyal/unfaithful. Many suffer from imposter syndrome or fragile egos. I’m so tired of listening to a man explain to me how important he is with all his various flexes. I seem to attract the ones that prefer to numb themselves by drowning their problems in alcohol. They know it too, alcoholics are generally my type.

Meanwhile the “fairer sex” has to deal with all their insecurities, bullshit, and emotional baggage, all while getting reprioritized.

The dating pool was already pretty shitty for me. Of course I’m not diving head-first during a global pandemic. Who really wants to add more disappointment to an already challenging year?  

I’m tired of explaining myself. 

I hear a lot of stories, being in a relationship isn’t necessarily everything it’s cracked up to be. Society doesn’t wanna see you alone. They dont want to see a single successful (aging) woman waste away the good years of her life by herself. There’s plenty of women out there unhappily married, unhappily living their lives with all of society’s boxes checked all in order—wishing they could trade it in or run away from it all. That goes for “happy men” in relationships as well.

I can’t further prove to you that I am thriving (by myself) unless you take my word. I got plans and I am happy. It’s offensive to suggest I am not the most content and happy I can be as a sole entity.

I don’t need a man for that shit.

P.S. Unless it’s on the level of “Insecure” Season 4, Episodes 8 & 9. Cause that is the only level of nonstop witty banter, love, and intimacy I’m trying to have.

Let's Get the Show on the Road

Technically I’m supposed to be writing everyday. I’m taking David Sedaris’ Masterclass course and I’m supposed to keep a diary. Writer’s keep diaries. 

I constantly have to be productive. I can’t sit still. I can’t just relax, not when there is something to get done. Even when you’ve just been in sweatpants, hair ties, and chillin’ with no makeup on for two solid months—there is always something to do.

Have you scrubbed the entire interior of your fridge? Have you rearranged your furniture to maximize room for activities? Have you filled every inch of your space with plants (of which you have familiarized yourself with their scientific names)? I think I’ve done everything there is to do except clean my makeup brushes.

Fuck makeup brushes.

I’ve spent the past half hour on IG sulking and reposting memes that compare 2020 to “Black Mirror” and then finding news about “Dave” getting renewed for season 2 and rejoicing. I don’t know why I post stories. I probably to it to show how relevant anything is and mostly to say something funny. That’s exactly it, I just want to be perceived as funny. 100%.

I’m not trying to stir up conversations via DMs, especially if you’re a man and we haven’t hung out on a pure friend-to-friend basis. It takes energy to evade men politely. Please note I said “politely,” I’m very close to just leaving messages on seen. If we’re being honest I don’t want the attention or conversation. There is no place in my life for a man right now, especially one I wasn’t checking for. I have no emotional availability for that.

The true love of my life isn’t gonna come through via DM. He’s just not, so let’s cut the bullshit.

In January I went to the doctor and I uttered the words: 

I am interested in intrauterine insemination with donor sperm. I turn 37 in August and I would like to be referred to a fertility specialist.

I’ve said a combination of those words multiple times to different people on separate occasions but holy fuck… you have an out-of-body experience when you say it with such confidence to your gynecologist—I mean really… Shit. It’s wild.

I think I was high off endorphins for hours after that visit.

I should be going in for blood tests about now, the process should’ve started. But Covid-19 happened and well… that put a wrench in my plans.

I just wanna get the fucking show on the road.

I’m tired of refusing the advances of men I’m not interested in (I know, “boo hoo, poor me”), I’m tired of being this solo entity (sorry Tako, people don’t consider you to be my real child—they’re fucking crazy), and I’m mostly tired of not being able to move on to the next phase of my life just because I refuse to settle to settle down. Those are my true sentiments. I’d type that last statement again for emphasis but I’ve recently found I do that A LOT. (My Masterclass is making me hyper aware of my writing habits.)

I realize I’m setting myself up for a difficult journey.

I know this is a two person job (minimum, in most cases) but I tried finding that other person to be that other half for me and he just never showed up. I don’t have any more patience to hope or see if anyone is worthy of that position—at least for now.

I’m done waiting around, my eggs are done waiting around.

Hurry the fuck up, Coronavirus. Just die.

I’m trying to knock myself up.

21 (BORING) Questions

All I asked was “How’s work?” 

I didn’t really want to start a conversation but he kept steadily responding to my IG stories with default emojis. Plus the only real reason I asked is because he’s a respiratory therapist at an ICU in San Diego. I was curious to hear a first account perspective of someone battling Covid-19 from the frontlines.

Had he not been a respiratory therapist dealing with Coronavirus during a global pandemic I wouldn’t have bothered with the simple question of “How’s work?”

Then I got hit with: “Can I text you? I still have your number from last year.”

GREAAAAAAAT. He found his in. Shit. I shouldn’t have even bothered.

Of course I’m not a complete bitch, so I allowed it. But it didn’t take much time for me to regret the permission to text.

I thought the questions regarding my distance from various points of interest in the greater San Francisco area were a fluke at first, maybe just trying to get a feel for my general environment, but they just kept coming.

The lame questions just kept coming.

I realize this image may seem like its out of context, but honestly most questions came out of left field without any context. Some would be the first question of the day, or a double text left after the first question went unanswered for maybe a few hours. He just shot these like a dart, hoping to hit a target—I guess.

Note: The questions are in chronological order, sent over a period of 4-5 days. I deleted the rest of the conversation and compiled all the questions as a list.

By the 3rd day you should have a better question, preferably one that deals with my preferences, likes, dislikes, plans, etc etc rather than my geographic distance to my workplace. 

It was safe to say I ended the conversation shortly after the last text. He kept trying to say he was going to visit me after travel was possible again that didn’t sound like anything I was remotely interested in. The double text was the nail on the coffin. I saw your first one and I didn’t jump at the chance to answer it.

Ask me if I heard Gambino’s latest album. Ask me what I’m streaming right now. Ask me how I’m dealing with home workouts. Ask me WTF I’m planning to do as soon as social distancing is over. Ask me what I plan on doing as soon as we can resume the regularly scheduled program. 

ASK ME ANYTHING ELSE, BRO. Learn about me, not how many miles I am from the nearest grocery store.

Even while the world is going through the biggest health and economic crisis of the century I would rather keep my peace and not talk to anyone than be texting a man I am not interested in. Lastly, your girl can still get hollered at when the world has shut down—she still got the juice but DNGAF.

Relationship status: Happily single > Annoyed / bored / settled with the wrong one

Divine Intervention

Jenn was one hour away from leaving for the airport when Trump announced he was closing the borders from travelers from Europe starting Mar 13 at midnight, US citizens exempt—BUT STILL… that was the sign we were waiting for. 

All day the three of us were going back and forth on whether or not we were going to leave for vacation. Earlier that afternoon we took a vote, I had already voted not to go, but Jenn and Mees voted yes—pending we see what Trump says during his 6pm press conference.

What exactly are we looking for in terms of an announcement? Do we need to hear that they’re raising the travel advisory level?

I just wanted clarification so that the executive decision could be made swiftly once our idiot as a president shared his piece.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night. The announcements of closed borders and the NBA cancelling the rest of their season is like nothing I’ve ever heard of. I didn’t even mourn the loss of a vacation we had planned so tediously and looked forward to for nearly a year. I was relieved as fuck that the decision not to travel was already made for us, call it a blessing in disguise, call it divine intervention or whatever you will… I 100% believe that the universe/God/all the higher powers that be were looking out for us.

Spain went into lockdown the Friday we would have arrived. Morocco closed its borders completely, exactly when we would’ve been there. US travelers are stranded, the embassys haven’t been the most helpful, and all the stories I’ve read on the internet sound like living nightmares.

Shout out to all the things that don’t work out in life, for the better.

Lost in You

My brain has beaten my heart into submission. Logical thoughts are the only things that run through my head. I no longer have the ability to daydream unless I am incredibly high. My only real opportunity for this is a 5 minute span of time, right before I fall asleep, where I get to imagine that romance exists in my life.

It’s always relatively simple things, like someone trustworthy enough to hold Tako outside a coffeeshop on a Sunday while I order coffee and breakfast sandwiches inside (IRL I don’t tie Tako anywhere for fear someone will steal him—it’s a completely rational fear). That’s basically the extent of it. The ideas are always ordinary.

As a result of my inability to imagine a romantic future for myself I still watch a hell of a lot of romantic movies (even the shitty ones, the lifetime ones, the impossible plots and the most fictional sounding men) and I listen to a hell of a lot of love songs.

Sometimes when you can’t feel butterflies you might imaginarily manufacture them, like with the help of Childish Gambino singing covers.

Funny Sad Single Girl

I apologize.

I’ve been wishing Black Mirror technology exists. Something that can take all these random thoughts in my head down while I’m doing menial tasks. I’d have a hell of a lot more posts if a chip in my brain could write a rough draft of a stream of consciousness.

The story of my life is incredibly mundane right now. 

Last Friday I discovered the canned wine section at BevMo. I stood there for a minute, contemplating which canned $5 chardonnay might be the oakiest until Tako’s patience completely ran out.

Yes. I walk Tako to Bevmo, he’s so familiar with this route that he expects to go inside even when we’re not on a wine run.

I digress tho.

Sometimes I think my life should be sexier. Like maybe I should hit up a bar with one of my hot GFs with the intention of taking someone home. Maybe I should try and fulfill that random bucket list item of fucking a bartender. Part of me still think’s that would be an interesting occupation to check off. But that’s not gonna happen, because I don’t think intimacy or even an orgasm with a complete stranger is the least bit fulfilling—besides, I’ve been nothing but disappointed about the quality of D I’ve gotten since moving back to SF. I’m not trying anymore. I’m not adding any more “L’s” to the body count (if I can help it, GOD willing).

So just picture me at Bevmo (on a Friday night), standing in front of a wall of canned wine. Picking up each chardonnay and trying to figure out what the fuck the copywriter means by the random description they had to write. 

Just tell me how buttery your chardonnay is, please. That’s all I really want.

You can imagine why I’ve been struggling to pen a post. My life is just the perfect amount of funny sad single girl.

Still more funny than sad. 100%.

Why Bake Bread When You Can Stack It?

Growing up my mother was never much of a baker or cook. When I used to check out cook books at the library she used to ask me why I needed to bother.

“Why do you want to buy ALL THE INGREDIENTS then take the time to bake something? You can buy chocolate chip cookies in the bakery section of the grocery store.”

Side note: my parents are both practical AF—so I get it. I GOT IT, if you understand what I’m saying.

This debate happened pretty frequently, especially during the summer months when I wanted something productive to do. I wanted fresh baked treats. She thought my time could be better spent elsewhere. “Just buy them already made…” She advised, over and over.

It never occurred to me that food was never a passion for her. Up until a few years ago I used to get extremely frustrated at the fact if I wanted a Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving I would have to make it myself. I could never come home from New York and ask her for kare kare or dinaguan upon arrival. We would have genuine arguments over the fact there was never any food in the kitchen when I came home.

I don’t really know what I expected. I was so conditioned to interpret food as love that when there was no food I was caught off guard. I’m not even sure where that came from, probably just social conditioning I guess, especially since I’m Filipino. 

WHO DOESN’T MAKE SURE YOU’RE WELL FED IN A FILIPINO HOUSEHOLD? 

That’s straight blasphemous, right?

But this isn’t a post to bash on my mother’s lack of desire to provide home cooked meals.

My point is that it literally took decades for me to realize that my mom’s unspoken love language was to set up my sister and I for success. I might not have any recipes to hand down but shit I will happily gush about financial planning, 401ks, and ask you what stock tips you may have.

She drilled it into our heads that we should live life as fiscally lean and independent as possible. 

To be fair it’s difficult to appreciate lectures about saving for rainy days when you’re an adolescent, but I guess her nagging came through one way or another because my sister shared her personal financial spreadsheet and it is almost exactly like the one I’ve created for myself. It even has separate tabs for different purposes like I do. The key takeaway there is… nag the fuck outta your kids and I guess they’ll get it—eventually.

Ever since I have come to this realization I’ve had a newfound respect and love for my mother, because who else is gonna teach you about financial responsibility if it isn’t your actual parents? And fortunately for her, Alton Brown of the Food Network taught me how to cook/bake anyways.

I never really thought there were other love languages out there, but why shouldn’t there be? Humans probably have endless ways to express love, and instead teaching me how to bake bread—my mom taught me how to stack it.

Nah love, I'm good. Go away.

I’ve hard-deleted all of my dating apps. I usually just put the accounts on pause, at least until I muster up the patience to be disappointed (over and over again).

I’ve decided—searching for a viable partner no longer fits within my timeline. I don’t want to waste this last year of mental and emotional freedom on men.

• Men who don’t know what they want. 

• Men who are all talk and no execution. 

• Men who are cowards.

• Men who enjoy the idea of you but not the work involved.

• Men who simply cannot get their shit together.

Nah love, I’m good. Go away. *Drake voice*

I have begun putting mental roadblocks up and my blinders are on full effect. I started subconsciously avoiding the advances of men months ago.

I have it all figured out, you know.

I’ve accepted that what comes into and leaves my life is meant to be, whether that’s people or opportunities. I’m secure with my path, who join me along the way and those who are meant to diverge onto their own routes.

Plus, I believe the timing is always perfect. No matter what kind of bullshit or heartache, highs and lows I go through… that shit is right on time.

Regardless of what I do… my life will end up however it’s supposed to.

But for now, here’s a PSA for all the selfish dudes out there in the world. There’s a whole fucking lot of you.

This is 35

I turn 36 in two hours, but I can’t share that kind of knowledge with you yet, so for now I’ll tell you how old I feel as 35.

• I complain to myself if the grass needs to be cut at City Hall or any other public park where I walk Tako. “This grass is really due for a cut. It’s getting out of hand.”

• Sometimes when my excuse is “I have plans” it means “I have plans, by myself—to do nothing.”

• My back now audibly cracks when I’m laying down and I twist to one side. What the fuck is that? Why? Why does it do this? It’s as if I hear every single vertebrae telling me: Bitch. You. Old. As. Fuck. 

• If the bar is loud and crowded—I don’t want to go. If I can’t sit—I don’t want to go. If I can’t hear your recap of life from the past 3 weeks—I don’t want to go. There are so many places we can quietly get alcohol in this city, let’s go there.

• I get motion sick when I ride the elevator to the 61st floor at work. It easily has one of the best cafes and views San Francisco has to offer (for free), yet I avoid it because I feel extreme discomfort by just going up/down the elevator.

• I believe in sprints, not marathons. If you invite me to Vegas, I will go. I will go hard for 24 hours and not a minute more. I’m like a supernova, I will burn bright—then slowly fade. Then you won’t see me for 2-3 weeks because I will be hibernating to get back to my normal state.

• I’ve mended my relationships with most alcohol spirits despite me swearing them off at various points in time. Except cognac, cause cognac is gross.

• I refuse to deal with the reality of my parents aging. To me they will always be the strongest, most responsible people on the planet—but I see them slowing down, I see them becoming frail as the months go by but I’d rather not accept it. I’m in denial about heart valves, and ailments, and colonoscopies and all that other really serious shit that surfaced in this decade.

• It has occurred to me that my parents were right. I get it now. I understand why they were strict as fuck, why they didn’t let us sleep at random friends houses, why they made sure to nag the hell out of us, why they did everything in their power to keep us safe. I. Fucking. Get. It. They kept us safe.

• I judge how clean everyone keeps their toilets. It takes 2 minutes to clean your toilet, weekly. No one has an excuse to have a shitty toilet. Pun intended.

• I “you got food at home” myself all the fucking time. If you ever need convincing you’re a fully fledged adult just rationalize with yourself that you don’t need to buy takeout or delivery because you actually have food in your fridge. 

Off the Dome - 060919

I try to sound brave whenever I tell people my plans to conceive alone.

I probably sound naive as fuck. 

After all, most of them are parents with partners. Who the fuck chooses to be a single parent out the gate?

I guess a woman who knows she’s running out of time.

I get asked multiple times why I want to wait for this arbitrary age to hit before I start taking it seriously.

The truth is I want to give the universe a chance... just in case there’s any magic out there for me in the next year or so. I know it’s corny, but who the fuck knows, maybe another true shot at love is just around the corner...

That’s so corny. I kinda want corny tho… If I’m being completely honest.

I just know that once I start taking the baby plan seriously—I can’t turn back. I will have to permanently share my time, and I was hoping to share myself with a nice man, before anyone little came along.

I used to cry after Tako and I got home from his puppy kinder classes. I was always the only solo dog parent, most of the training exercises required two people, so the instructor always helped me out. Still—I was frustrated most times because I just felt alone.

Imagine going through all the motions alone with a human child…

I promise I honestly try when it comes to the opposite sex.

I give chances to men I’m not necessarily attracted to, interested in, or don’t see a future with—because maybe, just maybe… my over-analytical/smart ass/know-it-all-self can be proven wrong.

I just keep running into men who don’t respect my time, don’t see my value, or simply have nothing in common with, and that’s fine… I can accept that. 

But… GOD… this process has taken it’s toll on me.

I’m so sad I have to prioritize a dream of creating a little life before I can feel taken care of, because as fucking strong and independent as I am…

I would love to just be taken care of.

Even for a little. Even if it’s just folding my clothes. Or having dinner on the table. Or picking up my favorite snack…

Consistently.

Because I deserve that.