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Heather is a contributing editor at the-dah. She is a Los Angeles based writer, improviser, snacker, social media mistress, and aspiring adult. Read more of her food-stained stories about growing up weird at Terrible-Twenties.com, or follow her digital alter ego @MissHezah on Twitter.
It’s understandable why this text was submitted for translation: It’s riddled with mixed messages. But, as the astute Jack Berger once said in Sex and the City, season 6, “There are no mixed messages.”
And, he’s right. It’s been my experience that if a guy likes you, REALLY likes you, he’s going to go full Lloyd Dobler and hold a boom box over his head blaring Peter Gabriel right outside your window. Ok, that would feel a little anachronous, and ever trite if it actually happened. But, at the end of the day, if a dude likes you a lot, and thinks he could marry you, he’s going to do everything in his power to prevent you from moving on.
I don’t doubt that this suitor likes this girl. I don’t doubt that he misses her and, maybe in a fleeting moment, envisioned a walk down the aisle. But, this text makes one thing clear: he’s just not that into her, or the idea of her. There’s nothing really to translate, other than she needs to do what he suggests and on move. Only, she should never, ever look back. The end.
Well, it’s been a while, but I am back with another Translated Text. This one reeks of mystery, intrigue, and general WTFness.
To give some background on this text message, I will need to admit that I have access to several of my single friends’ online dating accounts. They want the help, and I am a bonafide Internet troll. It’s a sickness, but I can’t get enough profile scrolling. Ok, that’s not true; even I have my saturation point. But, for the most part, I love a good snap judgement. And, just so you don’t think this is a creepy Catfish situation, I’d like to clarify that my role is restricted to trolling for men and messaging the ones I feel my friends would like to get to know. If my friend receives a response, then I am out of the equation, and she continues the conversation. (Not true. I lurk around and check in on the messages.)
Anyway, you need to know all that to understand that I am probably directly responsible for this horrible, absolutely terrible text (sorry friend!). I messaged this ginger man because he seemed like a normal and nice person for my friend to date. Going through the motions in a half-hearted way, my friend engaged in a conversation online that ended with an invitation to Sunday brunch. She gave him her number, because best rule of thumb is to take it offline as soon as everyone feels ok about everything. He waited until late Saturday night to text her about brunch the next day. She fell asleep, missed the text until the next morning, and generously offered up the next night instead. He agreed, asked where she lived…and then had to mysteriously cancel FOREVER. What dramatic event happened in five hours?
The ladies throw a classy bridal shower. Who brought the lube?
We can all agree that relationships are hard, but it doesn’t make it any easier when a dress is actively trying to ruin it. Based on true events (yes, it really happened), this new sketch from UCB team Muddleberry follows a relationship turned sour at the hands (well, sleeves) of a super cute sundress.
Hey, can we just talk about the shower, and how it’s a safe place?
For an emotionally stunted robot like myself, it’s one of the few physical locations that allow me to drain my feelings (pun completely intended). In general I have a difficult time identifying and recognizing THE FEELINGS, especially negative ones. I internalize emotions so deeply that even I can’t find them anymore. It’s typical of my partner to notify me of when I am upset before I even realize it.
Bad feelings and confrontation are physically crippling for me. Sometimes I become paralyzed by my own emotions to the point of not being able to speak. I just need a lot of time to process, and I can rarely express myself in the moment. I wish I was that girl who could just yell at her boyfriend every time something upset her. But no, I have to be a stoic asshole who bottles everything up until I end up crying over a wrong order at Subway.
The only place that it’s somewhat easy for me to talk about how I feel in the moment is the shower, which is where I like to hold emotional summits with significant others.
Here’s why I think regular old showers are the best place to have the most important conversations of your life:
Two funny videos in one day? What are we, CRAZY??
What happens when your nerdy mom walks in on your girls sleepover, right as you guys were talking about sex? What happens if your nerdy mom knows way more sex terminology than you? Watch the lovely ladies sketch team, The Get Go, to find out!
Is there any type of girl that’s really the “marrying kind?” And conversely, are there specific girls that will just never see the altar? It seems a little too subjective to say and, yet, there is one girl who believes she knows the answer to both questions.
Ally Batista is a self-proclaimed “housewife in training,” according to her author bio on Elite Daily. A couple months ago, Batista wrote an article called, “Girls Who Are Never Getting Married,” a list that ruthlessly categorized, stereotyped, and ripped apart female groups such as coke whores, models, video vixens, princesses, and liars. It’s always a good idea to generalize on the Internet, right?
“There’s a hole on the side of your head,” he says looking at me discerningly. There’s water streaming in my ear.
“No, that’s a chicken pox scar,” I say confidently, rinsing shampoo out of my hair.
“No,” he replies holding up a soapy finger. “That’s not a pox mark.”
“Yes it is. I’ve had it forever; I can’t believe you never noticed.”
“Heather, it’s a scab. It looks like you picked your face.”
I stop for a moment, letting the warm water run down my shoulders. I think about the current state of my forehead and remember that bananas underground pimple I smugly popped a few days earlier.
“Oh yeah, I picked it.”
We do our almost choreographed shower dance to switch places so that he is now under the water, and I am left out in the cold to shave my legs.
“I guess maybe we are ready to live together,” he says nonchalantly. “It feels more normal to be together than apart.”
The Gillette Turbo stops halfway up my calf…are we?
You guys, I have a super unsexy confession to make. I can’t, and never have been able to, sleep naked.
I’m currently one half of a serious relationship that often sleeps in the same bed. His side desires no clothes, while mine wants all the clothes possible. I regularly sleep in about three layers of cozy sleepwear. My typical #OOTN (outfit of the night, y’all) is an old tee shirt, sweatpants, sweatshirt and socks. I know, where is the beanie and scarf? Now I realize that sounds excessive, but hear me out. I go to bed looking like Nanook of the North, and miraculously wake up in the morning with several layers removed.
I can’t, won’t and, don’t sleep naked, but I do a mean subconscious strip tease, complete with neatly folded socks at the end of the bed.
I have a new guilty pleasure, and it’s not one of the many awful reality shows on TV. It’s a blog/website/art project from two Brooklyn-based designers called 40 Days of Dating. The site is very well done, pretentious, and I just can’t get enough. Here is the premise in their words:
What do you do when you’re tired of the prospect of dating? Two good friends with opposite relationship problems found themselves single at the same time. As an experiment, they dated for 40 days.
Obviously, I am hooked on this idea. There were a few strict rules for the project that included seeing each other every day, weekly couples’ therapy sessions, and journaling the experience each day. Every day from July 10th – August 22nd, Monday through Friday, they release a journal entry from both Jessica and Tim. The journal entries are in chronological order and they mirror each other, so you get two sides of the story for every day of the project. The actual 40 days happened back in April/May, so it’s still a mystery whether or not they are actually together. Bachelor anyone?
If you have never heard of Candy Crush Saga, then you are probably a very high functioning member of society. For the upper echelon, allow me to explain that Candy Crush is a highly addictive game that is obtained by downloading the app. It is intended to connect with your Facebook account so that you can accumulate very unhealthy competitive rage with your not-so-close acquaintances who are too many episodes ahead of you. This social component also forces your every move to be publicly outed in the newsfeed, and encourages you to shamefully beg near strangers to give you lives or help unlock episodes.
While you are producing meaningful work and enjoying the company of real human interaction in the outside world, the dregs of modern civilization are glued to their phones trying to get the fuck past level 65. Don’t be upset that you can’t relate to our frustration with unexpected chocolate barriers, time limits, falling fruit or an endless road of sugary nonsense.
However, despite this crack-laced game’s obvious shortcomings, I have gleaned some very real benefits. This brain cell murdering recreational puzzle is actually improving my relationship.
OMG. How bad did I want to be Christina Ricci?? (The answer is bad, really bad.)
Everyone has a type. If the answer to the question is, “I don’t have one,” it’s a lie. Some people don’t want to admit it, while others live in denial, but the fact remains: EVERYONE HAS A TYPE.
Mine? For the past ten years, or really my adult life thus far, my boyfriend wake is littered with creative Jewish types with a lot of feelings and a whole lot of heart. And that is just my serious relationship track record. My single gal dating library card punches look a hell of a lot different with selfish, crazy, coked out, drug dealing, dirty, emotionally unavailable, distant, and ridiculous dudes. Clearly I have acquired a lesser sub-type to pursue in between relationships.
But it wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always a staunch advocate for the emotionally available, infinitely caring, funny, Jewish artist with blue eyes and a solid beard. Nay, my type has evolved over the years, and I mean years. I was born a flirt.