Hey Darling Ones,

It was one of the summers of 2017-2019 when I was really invested in dating and dating apps. I get like this occasionally, where I tire of waiting for Prince Charming to hack through the brambles, find me half asleep in my castle, kiss me. Fairytales are never not creepy as fuck.

When I get like this I sign up for all the dating apps and spend a ridiculous amount of time flipping through a catalog of humans and growing more lonely and depressed by the swipe.

Dating is hard. I hate it. I super hate it not just because I’m an arrogant, awkward introvert who made it this far without romantic male companionship, but also because I live in a body that is frequently fetishized. I am not a fan of being someone’s fetish object. When I’m fetishized all the great things that make me Jodi Chromey are erased except for my fat, freakishly-tall body.

Talking about my body is my least favorite activity. It’s why I haven’t been in a grocery store in two years (aside from the pandemic). Every time. Every. Single. Time. All of the times I’ve gone to a grocery store I’ve been stopped by a stranger who wanted to talk about my unusual height.

Back to the summer of 2017, 18, or 19. I was ding the dating apps and this 5’9″ fellow we’ll call Josh, because that’s what he said his name was one time, chased me all over those apps. I’d block one account and he’d pop up under another name.

It was the summer of pesky pervert whack-a-mole. Josh was a submissive who really, really liked feet and wanted me to be his Dom. For the record, I don’t think being into BDSM makes you a pervert. It’s not my jam, but you do you. I am not here to kink shame. Or fetish shame.

I recently learned the difference between kink and fetish and feel really smart about it and wish I had more occasions to use this new knowledge.

Josh was good at his game. He’d slide into my DMs talking about books and music and I’d fall for it, because I am a sucker. Eventually his desire to be bossed around, whipped, humiliated, and literally worship at my feet always got the best of him and I’d figure it out. I’d tell him to fuck off, and go away and block him. This whole dance happened so many times.

I don’t know how stupid Josh thought I was because I always figured it out. Of course, he did have varying degrees of success because at one point he got my actual phone number and would text me.

This fellow, who may or may not be named Josh, has been on my mind lately because Wendell, my cat is obsessed with cuddling with my feet. This new habit of his is completely adorable and only mildly annoying. Wendell’s kind of a dick when I want to change positions, get up to use the bathroom, or do any manner of activity that disrupts his sleep.

He’s lucky I find it so charming because I got roughly no hours of sleep last night due to his sleep-disrupting activity + how oddly hot it was in my bedroom, and maybe the full moon? I don’t know. I’m tired.

So that’s the story of foot-worshipping Josh (he once suggested I could use him as a footstool while I worked and he was dressed in a French maid costume) and my cat’s new obsession.

Not really a foot-person myself,
Jodi

The post Worship at My Feet appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hey Darling Ones,

Did I ever tell you about the time back in aught-something when I ghosted a man I had been seeing for months on Valentine’s Day? Of course I didn’t because that awful woman ruined the sharing of romantic entanglements for the lot of you.

Ghosting someone after Valentine’s Day is a dick move. I am not proud of it even though I had good reasons for ending the relationship. In hindsight I should have handled it better in the moment.

I can’t remember how many months I had been seeing this guy by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around. Six? Five? Nine? It was a lot of months, especially because when it comes to romantic relationships I’m ol’ Jodi Fortnight. I can’t remember the exact reasons why, but I made it very clear to the dude that I did not want to celebrate or recognize Valentine’s Day in any way, shape, or form. No flowers. No candy. No dinner. No hanky panky. In fact, I’m pretty sure we didn’t even have plans to see each other that entire week. It must have been one of those years where I was anti V-Day. Sometimes I’m very pro V-Day. It all depends on my fickle moods.

So imagine my surprise when dude shows up at my place of employment with flowers, candy, and a stuffed animal. Did I say surprise? I mean my utter fury.

I remember walking with my friend Gage from the lobby to my desk. He was helping me carry all the crap.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Gage asked in a sing-songy, grade-school voice.
“Not anymore,” I said.

The guy had made a habit of crossing boundaries I put up. And there were a lot because I have a defensive fortress around my heart. Still, he was one of those guys who would show up where he was not invited. First Ave shows. Bars. Etc. I frequently gave him a pass because I knew he was really into me, but come to my work was not cool. So I just stopped. Shitty. So shitty of me.

The dude forgave me somewhat because we hooked up a few times after the ghosting. So it was only a semi-ghosting, I guess? The first time we slept together after the ghosting he was all, “It was Valentine’s Day, wasn’t it? I knew that was a bad idea.”

A couple years ago when I was re-doing my dining room Sister #2 found that stuffed animal in a box of toys the niblings used to play with when they were little. I was debating on whether to keep all the toys, some of the toys, or whatnot because they reminded me of the nibs.
“This is cute,” she said, turning the monkey around in her hands. “You should keep it.”
“I got that for Valentine’s Day from a guy and then I dumped him.”
“Donate,” she said, tossing it into the box and shaking her head in disgust.

For Valentine’s Day, Darling Ones, I made you another mix tape (I even figured out how to make YouTube playlist, special for you). Last year’s was Paul Westerberg’s 13 Best Songs of Love & Longing. My plan was to tell you about these songs, how if I had the courage I would send this mix to all my crushes personally, but I am a coward and so am sending it to them generally through this post. I was gonna tell you why I love “Bittersweetheart” by Soul Asylum so much.

But this other story popped out instead.

Hauntingly yours,
Jodi

The post A Dick Move on My Part appeared first on I Will Dare.

Dear Darling Ones,

Right off the bat: I loathe the way we monkey with time. Every time change fucks me up for at least a week. My grasp on time has been pretty flimsy since I started freelancing in 2009. You adding falling back and springing forward and I’m lucky if I can remember my own name and whose president.

I super hate the fall time change. I don’t know if it’s the end of or beginning of daylight’s saving time. Some people are passionately pedantic about this distinction. I am not those people. All I know is we change the clocks in the fall and then live in darkness for six months. It’s depressing and it sucks. Sometimes I think I’m solar-powered. Too many gloomy grey* days in a row bum me the fuck out. When my funk magically lifted yesterday I gave credit to the sunshine and blue sky.

Because of the aforementioned funk I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to be grateful for what I have and find joy in small things. This may come as a surprise to a lot of people, but there’s a lot of joy in my small, quiet life when I choose to notice it.

To wit, a list of things that I enjoy a great deal once the dying of the light **
commences.

• Since the dying of the light coincides with the dropping of the temperatures, Wendell, the vengeance demon, becomes my BFF. He spends a majority of his day curled up next to me, his head resting on my wrist as I work or on top of the yellow blanket I just finished (not to be confused with the yellow blanket I am currently making). After work he’ll spend the night sleeping between my legs because he knows that thick thighs save lives. It’s so adorable and cozy I could die.
• One of my very favorite things to do is listen to music on my cans in the dark. I don’t do this as often in the summer because it gets dark at like 9:30 and by that time I have the TV on and what not. But when it gets dark at four I usually still have the music going. It’s excellent.
• Another thing I like to do in the dark? Type. I’m writing this right now with all the lights off listening to Maia Sharp’s “Nothing But the Radio.”
• Flannel Pajamas Pants. I realize I could wear these suckers all day every day for years on end. Somehow I have decided plaid flannel pants are for slacking and not working. Please note that frequently the difference between slacking and working is simply a matter of whose website I am typing on. However, once the light dies all bets are off. It’s anarchy here. I’ve been wearing these flannel pants for three days now.
• Baked potatoes & peas. There are a lot of nonsense, inconsequential rules I have for my life (see above). One of those rules is you don’t eat winter food in the summer and you don’t eat summer food in the winter. Baked potatoes with peas is a winter food. I’m not sure why, especially because peas are in season during summer food time. However, frozen peas are in season all year round and I eat those little green badboys with baked potatoes so often during the dark season I’m probably gonna get scurvy or whatever disease you get when a large portion of your diet is baked potatoes and peas. For the record, peas might be my favorite vegetable. I love them in all ways, shapes, and forms and not just with baked potatoes.

There are probably other things, but my baked potato is done and I’m starvation nation over here.

Yours truly,
Jodi

 
*I realized after a twitter conversation the other day that I do not know the proper American spelling of the color. As I told them, I let my heart choose and it usually goes with grey.

 
**I KNOW the poem is about death and not the ending/beginning (whatever) of daylight saving time. I’ve already given one lit-related lecture about magical realism vs magical thinking this week, don’t make me give another one.

The post A Few Things in Favor of the Dying of the Light appeared first on I Will Dare.

Ok, Darling Ones, before we get into this latest bit of nonsense I need to remind you of two things.

1. My inner-monologue is a vast, unending musical where songs can become sentient beings and people both real and imaginary frequently sing back to me.
2. My ultimate romantic goal is to live in a house with a porch located in a small town with a cowboy.* There’s also lilacs bushes and sometimes a library is involved.

So, it was Thursday afternoon and I was out in Ruby fetching my groceries, aimlessly singing along to the oldies station as I am wont to do while in Ruby. For the record, the three songs I had sung thus far in the trip were, in order, “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel, “We Built this City” by Starship, and “When Doves Cry” by Prince. I fucking love the oldies station.

I’d just cleared the roundabout at Spencer & Vierling when Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” came on. I was singing it as loud as possible as I made my way down Spencer. It was when I got stopped at the light on Seventeenth that I had the sad fantasy.

What if I met a man I think I might want to be my cowboy and I sing him “Cowboy Take Me Away” and he responds with “Wanted Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi? What if he is sincere and not simply hilarious? How devastating would that be?

I can’t fuck someone who seriously loves Bon Jovi above all else. Back in the early aughts, Sister #4 was engaged to be married to a man whose all-time favorite band was Bon Jovi. I believe he told me the fandom referred to “Wanted Dead or Alive” as the national anthem. They called off their wedding like a month before it was supposed to happen. Bon Jovi, surprisingly, had nothing to do with that turn of events.

Not gonna lie, I can get down with the Jovi on occasion, especially if I’m feeling oddly nostalgic for ninth grade (rarely happens, junior high was the kind of trauma I’ll never get over). I listened to a lot of “Slippery When Wet” on my pink Walkman in ninth grade. I had made my own tape from the record I had bought with the money I earned as a dishwasher at Country Kitchen.

I liked to take the pink Walkman to all family events and then sulk in the corner listening to Bon Jovi as loud as I could while all my boy cousins made fun of me for listening to devil music. These were the same cousins who had the Aerosmith “Toys in the Attic” record the cover of which scared me when I was a kid because of whatever is going on in that left corner.

So, for the length of a red light I was wrecked over finding an imaginary someone who wanted to makeout with me who was a legit Bon Jovi fan. But then the light turned green and I had to flirt with some of the trees with the sexy red leaves. I was home and closing the garage door before “Wanted Dead or Alive” was even over.

In case you are wondering, the only correct response to me singing “Cowboy Take Me Away” to you is any line from “Wild Horses.” I really hope that was obvious.

I’ve seen a million faces & I’ve rocked them all,
Jodi

 
*An actual cowboy is not required. He could be a Paul Bunyany type or a big city cutie with slim hips and nice shoes. I’m not picky. He does have to be GenX, have a taste in rock & roll I can respect, enjoy a vigorous debate, and maybe be amenable to some cowboy role play. I’ve dated Millenials and Boomers. It didn’t work out so well for me and not just because their taste in music is suspect. Also, tangentially, yesterday I had a crush for about 25 minutes on a boy born in 1994. NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY FOUR! If I hadn’t just sprung from the shower upon the realization that I had tattoos older than that young man, I would have jumped back in to scrub myself clean. In my defense, the kid had just said and I quote, “the pedagogical prowess of Boyz II Men and Jodeci has shaped me.” I am only human.

The post Something Wild & Unruly appeared first on I Will Dare.

Dear Darling Ones,

I am frustrated. I’m nearly 50* and not only do I still get crushes on men, I still get all sad and stuff when those crushes start seeing women who are not me. It sucks. Isn’t this a stage of life I should have outgrown by now? Why does this keep happening and when will it all end?

God, why does being attracted to someone and having feelings have to be so embarrassing all the time? I hate it. I need my ice-robot heart to re-engage and save me from this humiliation. I’m blushing as I type. This is all so gross.

To make matters worse my stupid brain keeps singing those two lines from The Replacements’ “Valentine” on repeat. Are you strung out on some face? Well, I know it ain’t mine.” Sometimes my brain is a real jerk. I get it, brain, he does not like like me. Thanks for being an asshole about it.

I’m not shattered by this development. It’s not a cry your eyes out while listening to “Someone to Pull the Trigger” situation. It’s more annoyance. I don’t even want to date anyone right now. At least I don’t think I do. I keep telling myself that I will investigate that portion of my life once I finish revising The Beast. And yet here I am, low key angry that he doesn’t want me back. How dare he find someone more appropriate and who knows what they want and is not me? Rude. How dare he not want to spend his free time making me feel good about myself and listening to me talk about the new Liz Phair? Disrespectful. How dare he give up the opportunity to make me feel less alone while I spend my time figuring out if I want to be in an actual, factual relationship? Barbaric.**

Ugh. I am burning with so much shame I picked up my phone to see what the temperature was because it suddenly feels very warm in here and I kind of need the AC to kick in ASAP.

Today I finished reading a biography of Truman Capote and at one point after he breaks up with a lover Capote says something like, no matter, to really write one must be truly alone. I keep trying to hold the idea behind the sentiment in my chest, but then my fucking brain keeps singing Are you strung out on some face? Well, I know it ain’t mine.”

All I want in life is to have two contradictory things at once. Also, someone to figure out what to have dinner every night for the rest of my life. And also, to go back in time two hours ago when I returned that biography without finding that passage and writing it down.

In happier, unrelated news, I got another new shirt. This is technically my third new shirt. First was Stevie Nicks, then Joan Jett, and now the wise old owl. I’m digging wearing clothes that were made for women and have some character. I am not digging how expensive clothes for women are. I think the last time I bought shirts they were from the Big & Tall Men’s store and I got six of them all in black or navy blue for like $40.

Also, as you can see, I’m still knee-deep in my yellow period. What you can’t see in the photo above is that my underpants are also yellow. That wasn’t planned. It was just a happy accident.

In fact, I’m so deep into my yellow period that when the plant store that I ordered my birthday tree emailed me to say they were out of yellow pots I had to have a long, frank discussion with myself about whether I should choose another color or cancel the order. I decided the tree was more important than the pot so I chose another color, but I wasn’t thrilled about it.

Bleh. I’m gonna go eat some ice cream and try not to think about stupid crushes and being embarrassed by being so stupidly human all the time.

Jodi

P.S. I am for sure eating a Tootsie Pop while wearing a Tootsie Pop shirt. Much like the yellow underpants, it wasn’t planned, just a happy accident. After I popped the sucker in my mouth I was all, “Oh, I’m gonna take a picture.” I keep a small jar of Tootsie Pops on my kitchen counter because I’m a grown-up and I can.

 
*I’m only eight days into being forty-nine, but I’m just gonna play up this FIFTY thing for an entire year. Deal with it.

 
**I spent a lot of time writing today and with the thesaurus because I tried to use the word “pain” thirty-nine times in one paragraph.

The post Sometimes My Brain is a Real Jerk appeared first on I Will Dare.