This land is your (Port)land, this land is my land
When I started blogging two months ago, I wrote that I hoped it would lead to a book deal and dates. So far, if you’re keeping score at home, I’m 0-2.
The closest I’ve come to being asked out was last week, when a lady named Lacey left the following comment:
hey! i just found your blog and you’re amusing and i’ll date you. i’m a 29-year-old-girl-dating-girl too. and i’m single and awesome. and i am totally in love with the bloggess, so we have that in common. and, you know, my love for her won’t interfere in our (yours and my, not the bloggess’s and my) relationship, because of victor and everything. so it’s pretty much perfect. i’m in portland, though. i don’t think you’re in portland ’cause i didn’t recognize any of those bourgeois-sounding Stations or Squares. sigh.
Sigh is right; I live far, faraway on the other side of the country in Boston. We are 3,096 miles apart. I know this thanks to Google, which is helpful and not helpful all at the same time.
Lacey and I have been exchanging e-mails. We talk about role-play sex. And Tina Fey. And how flattering it is to be stalked. And doughnuts. I think I’m in love and want to have her catbabies. She seems cool.
But alas, large-ass America is coming between us. America says, “Jessica, ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.” And I’m like, “Shut your face, America. I pay taxes, and I’ll fill out my census form. Probably. I’m not asking, I’m telling you to get me laid by a human who lives in a three-state radius.”And America is all, “The only one who wants you lives in Portland. Suck it.” And *this* is why everybody hates America.
Frankly, I’ve never even been to Portland, but I’ve had just about enough of that backstabbing city to last a lifetime. Several years ago, my then-girlfriend Vicky traveled to Oregon to visit Jen, a friend from elementary school, and her strapping boyfriend, Hans, and they had the superest most amazingly awesome time ever hiking up mountains and camping in the wilderness and digging holes to shit in and not getting eaten by bears. Then she came home to me and the cats and announced, “I love Portland and want to move there! Also, I want to break up with you because you don’t share my love of the outdoors.” That’s not a direct quote. It was a long time ago. But she definitely used the words “Portland” and “the” and “you.”
We stayed together for a while after that, but our dynamic had shifted. I was always looking over my shoulder, expecting that fat, home-wrecking, burly slutbag Portland to appear from out of nowhere, toss petite Vicky over her plaid-clad shoulder and haul her away to a tent in the woods, where they’d live out their days free from the burden of indoor plumbing and electricity, sleep on the wormy, bug-ridden ground, don unflattering garb from sporting-goods stores, wear headlamps and nibble nuts and berries and Thai curry with tofu and mixed vegetables. Apparently, you can cook some cool shit over a fire. By “you” I mean “not me.” Please.
In conclusion: First I had a girlfriend. Now I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says, “I love not camping.” And a blog, that has yet to land me a date or a book deal. It has, however, reeled in a pen pal who lives in the city that ripped out my non-hiking heart.
Touche, America. Touche.