Lately, I’ve been bopping around my life...happily. And after the past few months of the doldrums that have battened down my hatches for a cold winter’s nap – it was most welcome and refreshing. The pony tail swings now as opposed to a little constricted bun at the nape of the neck, y'know? Last Saturday, I even stopped into a neighborhood bar all by myself (there was a pull of a sound check and some guy with a guitar, gets me all the time) on my way home from watching the horses. After a few rounds of eye contact, I was striking up a conversation with a James Dean look-alike. Damn hot. I proceeded to share a few beers with him and then mysteriously disappeared into the night. Or maybe he didn't notice. He hasn't filed a Missed Connection yet.
So...happy with and by myself. Right?
But then something happened to slap my happy face into Fuck! This sucks! all over again. [Cue: Violins. Crickets. And an annoying harmonica. All in black and white.] This week was enough to remind me that I DO need that hug at the end of the day because hugging yourself is only fun when someone is watching you from behind.
This week I was selected to report for jury duty. And out of the 70-or so people reporting that day, I was actually selected with 6 other people to sit on a jury. We were hearing a drunk driving case.
I thought the odds were against me. Especially after I was questioned on being a law librarian and my training to that end. I explained my legal research training and general law librarian code of ethics (I left out the geekiness of that line) that does not in any way, shape, or form allow me to interpret the law. So: clueless. AND after I admitted to being rear-ended by a drunk driver when I was 15. I left out the severity of the accident and when questioned on this, I admitted that I could, in fact, remain impartial. (This proved to be true.) I also had to admit to driving under the influence at times. We all did.
Damn, I wish I would have fought harder for dismissal - the excuses were there for me. Because in the end, I – along with my fellow jurors – had to send some guy who made a really bad decision one night to get behind the wheel of his car to jail. For 10 days. It is two days later and THAT still sits with me.
We listened to this case for 2 days and we deliberated on it for 3-ish hours. I won't talk about the specifics of the case, because there were dynamics. It wasn't cut and dry, yet it was. The defense could have had a case but had no hard evidence to dispute the one piece of evidence that stood - which is the guy blew a .24, three times the legal limit. But there was no reason not to believe that result given all the evidence (of which there was none) and witnesses (of which there were none) that the defense presented. YET, it took me that long to get on board. I wanted to cut the guy a break. I wanted to bring it down to just a DUI. But in the end, I had to check the (bleeding) heart at the door – the compassion that believes in the general good of people, good being redeemable, and the ability to make mistakes and correct it and learn from it and give-a-guy-a-break philosophy. Looking at the issue objectively, resulted in a conviction. Objectively, there was no other way to rule.
Yeah, he was wrong. But it did not feel good. I was emotionally invested in that case. At the end of the day, I went home and sobbed into my pillow. I hated that. It felt hypocritical to say, yeah, I've been there dude, but nanny-nanny-boo-boo you got caught so go sit in the corner for 10 days and think about it. What high horse am I on? See? THAT doesn't sit right with me. [Disclaimer: I don't do that anymore. I, thankfully, live in walking proximity to watering holes, cabs, and metro and Mav is marrying our Designated Driver when locations take us yonder.]
I was emotionally-invested and, as such, I got emotionally-attached to one of the jurors. (Which I didn't even notice at the time.) He was cute but that is really besides the point. I didn't see Cute. I saw strength. He was smart (very) and he helped me, in his way, find where I needed to go with this. I guess I identified with him. He thought like me, but more rationally. He helped me wrap my mind around where it should have been. He had that kind of presence. Something I haven't seen since my dad. It was something I could buckle to. So somewhere between conflicted emotions, vulnerability, and being scared shitless, I approached Needy territory (or what felt like neediness). Something I never thought was "pretty." I would never show a guy - who didn't know me - THAT. I felt like I wasn't having a big girl moment. I should be confident! And sure! And tough! But in succumbing to something so innate to my being - some vulnerability - I saw what it could get me. Because as we were walking out of the courthouse, His Sweetness reached out to me and gave me a hug. And it wasn't a gratuitous hug. He reached for it, he meant it. He asked me if I was going to be alright. I said, I would be. He assured me that we did the right thing. I trust that.
Showing posts with label There's a tear in my beer and other whine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label There's a tear in my beer and other whine. Show all posts
Friday, May 11, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
What The Funk?
I have been in a little funk lately, tempered only by the occassional tryst with Pompadour. I become blinded by the champagne and drowned in the music.
The space in between is Anxiety. That birthday is looming and for the very first time in my life I have actually thought it would be pretty cool to have a little minnie Me. This tells me that aside from my general lack of self-esteem I must like myself somewhat and, hey, I might be kind of cool to hang out with. And I never wanted children before but lately I picture a little girl with Princess Leia buns on the side of her head and a shirt that says, "Anarchy in the Pre-K."
I don't know, the stars are not aligned or is this some pre-mid-life crisis? Am I going to go out and buy a PT Cruiser, carry a paisley duffle bag for a purse, and put ice cubes in my wine?
I'm the first to admit that my occassional dance with depression is rather self-indulgent, knowing this I guess keeps me sane. But I still have to muster up some charm for lunch with III tomorrow...
The space in between is Anxiety. That birthday is looming and for the very first time in my life I have actually thought it would be pretty cool to have a little minnie Me. This tells me that aside from my general lack of self-esteem I must like myself somewhat and, hey, I might be kind of cool to hang out with. And I never wanted children before but lately I picture a little girl with Princess Leia buns on the side of her head and a shirt that says, "Anarchy in the Pre-K."
I don't know, the stars are not aligned or is this some pre-mid-life crisis? Am I going to go out and buy a PT Cruiser, carry a paisley duffle bag for a purse, and put ice cubes in my wine?
I'm the first to admit that my occassional dance with depression is rather self-indulgent, knowing this I guess keeps me sane. But I still have to muster up some charm for lunch with III tomorrow...
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The Proof Isn't In The Pudding, It's In My Thighs
I am having a love-hate relationship with food - nope, scratch that - with sugar and carbs - at the moment. Gloominess is triggering the indulging or the indulging is triggering the gloom. I'm not sure of the whereabouts and that is why I can't seem to find my way out of the deep forest of Overeating where oompah loompahs are the ideal and YOU, my friend (and by "my friend", I mean "me"), are the Oddity.
Fact #1: My diet (i.e., cravings) are really dictated by what is going on at any given day in my life. And so each day is unlike the next. Will I stymie cravings easily with the "Get Lost" tea and "Fit and Slender" water drops? Or will I forget I have these placebos in my possession, decry their "false advertising," and yearn for the Dr Pepper, potatoes, rice, and chocolate bars as Must-Do-Or-Die? (Please send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com, the architect of my own private Chubby-O. Heh.)
Case in point: One day last week I popped over to the "greek deli" for lunch. Anyone who works in my neighborhood knows the greek deli and knows it as mm-mmm-good-eatin'. Think Seinfeld, Soup Nazi. Store-front, loooong lines, and terse (tonge-in-cheek) service. When I go here, I am just about the only girl in line. (In a galaxy far, far away, Shamrock would accompany me.) In fact, I think all the men in the city culminate here for lunch. (Ladies, forget match.com, looking for men in DC? Put down your salad and your computer and hit the Greek deli!) Anyway, on this particular visit, and amongst the distraction of all these men, I panicked at the counter because I WAS going to order the chicken soup which is lemony and delicious - and broth-based - so I could be on par with my salad sisters. But, like I said, I panicked. So..."I'll have the heathly, delicious, yummy broth and hold the bread!" instead came out like,...."I'll have the big greasy slab of meatloaf with a mound of orzo, throw a few potatos on the side, don't forget the buttery bed and, hell yeah, wrap up the chocolate chip cookie with a sugar kiss!" And so I lugged the overflowing styrofoam container back to my office holding steady with two hands because of a) the sheer weight of all this food and b) the girth of container to hold said linebacker meal. And as I sat in my office and caught up on some blog reading enjoying the sheer genius of this greek feast, not once thinking about my thighs swishing together or my snap busting to break free UNTIL an email popped up on my screen from some heretoforementioned jerk by the name of Pompadour asking what I was up to that weekend. (Well, he segued into that, but the point...) And instead of hitting delete on Mr. Fly-By-Night I lost all appetite for the meatloaf, put it in the refrigerator for a rainy day (i.e., Must Eat All Fat In The Vicinity Day), perked up and ate an apple for lunch instead and plotted what outfit I would wear on the "implied?" champagne date. ("what are you doing this weekend? I owe you champagne!" Hence the implication?)
And so just like that I went from Ms. Piggle Wiggle, The Little Ball of Pudge, to Miss Piggy Get-Me-Some-Kermit.
And then when the weekend went by and there was no word from him (wtf? or, rather, yeah, I fell into that trap), I opted right back to the Sunday movie popcorn (with lots of butter!), a bagel (with lots of butter!), a baked potato (with lots of butter!), and not one, but two(!), Dove chocolate candy bars in the course of a day. Alright, I exaggerate, but I did have two candy bars, I didn't get butter on my popcorn, but I did have a fat baked spud with tons of butter. No bagel was actually involved in this pig fest.
And so NOW just like that I went from salad and fruit and whole grain and free-love to a stick of butter, a stick of butter, and a pound of sugar and self-loathe.
So it is the same cycle and I can not consistently get into a groove of healthy eating. And it is really not that I eat a lot, because I really don't. It is just that my choices are not the most healthful. Hey! Have I ever told you how much I love potatoes and gummy bears? (Please, I beg of you to send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com.)
And now on top of my own Self-Critiqueing and Mirror Bashing (I am not what I see in the mirror is what I tell myself to which myself responds: Yes, hon, that is all you), I am now paranoid that everyone else sees what I do.
Case in point #1: The other day I was in a dance shop buying ballet shoes and I decided to get a leotard too. The salesperson recommended a large for me because, as she said, "..don't worry because they run really small! Do not take offense to the size. It's like a bathing suit." "OK," I thought, "but I wear a size 4 or 6 in bikini. Have I changed that much since 4 weeks ago?" So I took her advice and pulled a size large off the rack and held it up to me. So for old times sake, I grabbed a medium too. And while I don't like the way the leotard looks on me, the medium will do just fine. In fact, the large was way too big. [Yes, editor, that should be an emphasis on "way", thank you.]
Case in point #2: There is this guy at work. (For those keeping score at home, Snow White's Ex.) He is a super nice guy and the other day he stopped by my office to chat which doesn't happen very often. We chatted about mutual friends. I blabbed about my new house. You see, what I thought was a chatty conversation. I had much to say! And then the next day, he came by my office again and started the conversation with, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want...." Which, holy Freddy Kreuger, scares the living daylights out of me with all the possibilities of that kind of preface coming from a very good friend's ex-boyfriend. But he was merely asking me if everything was ok with me because I seemed a little "down" yesterday. Which is weird, but then again, not so weird. He was the one person who really helped me after my dad died as he had just lost his brother the year before I lost my father and he is just one of those people you find it so easy to talk to. So he is just that kind of guy. But, my point - and remember I am not always the most rational formula in the math book - is I automatically assumed he meant that I looked like I packed on 30 pounds and was headed down a path of self-destruction. Dare I ask him if this is an overeating intervention?
Case in Point #3: When I told a friend the other day that I was taking ballet, she responded with, "You're taking ballet??" Emphasis on "you're" in a very questioning tone punctuated with double question marks, exclamations, and cookies and pies. Then that makes me paranoid that what she was thinking - what everyone is thinking - is "How absurd, you don't have a dancer's body, what are you doing in Petite and Limber Land?" And I would just respond, "Apparently stick figure was not a requirement for the class."
So, you see, when you are in a funk as I am, the food trap I have described as my own personal journey of despair leads to negative (irrational) body issues. I can almost see how eating disorders come about. In all seriousness.
My lawyer's want me to point out that I am not poking fun at food addictions, eating disorders, or the Overweight. All opinions are my own and relate to my own personal body space - my own personal issue - which is about 10 pounds heavier than I would like to be. Do you know how much 10 pounds is?! That is the weight of my Greek Deli fare (see: above) that I did in fact find a rainy day to empty said contents into my "dancer's body." 10 pounds later! In which I pose a question to my lawyer's: Can we sue the greek deli as the sole responsible party to my overindulging as they knew (not me!) that by eating 10 pounds worth of their, albeit yummy, food that I would gain 10 pounds too? That 10 pound styrofoam take-out should post a box with the surgeon general's warning that the "contents will cause pudge." Or, should we sue Pompadour and men of his ilk who drive poor little ole me over the ledge of overeating and into the arms of greek deli meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies to overcome the sting of their rejection? Is that the root of the evil? Because I am not responsible for my own actions, oh no, I am not!
Ok. Ok. With all this Living in Chubbyville talk, you, dear reader, might be yelling at your screen right now. Don't worry, I have heard those shouts and I saw those eye rolls (which makes me very self-conscious so if you can look away when you do that you might not hurt my feelings). So I should point out that I do get off my butt. I have been a little more active than shoveling food in my mouth (arm curls), catching gummy bears in my mouth (basketball), and walking to the Food Store to replenish the cupboard/belly (so, equivalent of say, the marathon?). In fact, Dear Prudence and I have been walking to work every morning which is a 2.5 or 3 mile walk. I've got the ballet going on. Trying to do a little Pilates in the evening as I watch the boob tube. Plan to start my laps at the pool again real soon. Plan to start running. (Did you catch that? I went from "doing" to "trying" to "plan to"....the thought that counts!) Anyway, I understand the importance of exercise. So there's that.
But mentally I just can't get it all together. And that is where I am folks. There's got to be a better way of coping. One that doesn't involve eating all these pies somebody keeps emailing me.
Fact #1: My diet (i.e., cravings) are really dictated by what is going on at any given day in my life. And so each day is unlike the next. Will I stymie cravings easily with the "Get Lost" tea and "Fit and Slender" water drops? Or will I forget I have these placebos in my possession, decry their "false advertising," and yearn for the Dr Pepper, potatoes, rice, and chocolate bars as Must-Do-Or-Die? (Please send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com, the architect of my own private Chubby-O. Heh.)
Case in point: One day last week I popped over to the "greek deli" for lunch. Anyone who works in my neighborhood knows the greek deli and knows it as mm-mmm-good-eatin'. Think Seinfeld, Soup Nazi. Store-front, loooong lines, and terse (tonge-in-cheek) service. When I go here, I am just about the only girl in line. (In a galaxy far, far away, Shamrock would accompany me.) In fact, I think all the men in the city culminate here for lunch. (Ladies, forget match.com, looking for men in DC? Put down your salad and your computer and hit the Greek deli!) Anyway, on this particular visit, and amongst the distraction of all these men, I panicked at the counter because I WAS going to order the chicken soup which is lemony and delicious - and broth-based - so I could be on par with my salad sisters. But, like I said, I panicked. So..."I'll have the heathly, delicious, yummy broth and hold the bread!" instead came out like,...."I'll have the big greasy slab of meatloaf with a mound of orzo, throw a few potatos on the side, don't forget the buttery bed and, hell yeah, wrap up the chocolate chip cookie with a sugar kiss!" And so I lugged the overflowing styrofoam container back to my office holding steady with two hands because of a) the sheer weight of all this food and b) the girth of container to hold said linebacker meal. And as I sat in my office and caught up on some blog reading enjoying the sheer genius of this greek feast, not once thinking about my thighs swishing together or my snap busting to break free UNTIL an email popped up on my screen from some heretoforementioned jerk by the name of Pompadour asking what I was up to that weekend. (Well, he segued into that, but the point...) And instead of hitting delete on Mr. Fly-By-Night I lost all appetite for the meatloaf, put it in the refrigerator for a rainy day (i.e., Must Eat All Fat In The Vicinity Day), perked up and ate an apple for lunch instead and plotted what outfit I would wear on the "implied?" champagne date. ("what are you doing this weekend? I owe you champagne!" Hence the implication?)
And so just like that I went from Ms. Piggle Wiggle, The Little Ball of Pudge, to Miss Piggy Get-Me-Some-Kermit.
And then when the weekend went by and there was no word from him (wtf? or, rather, yeah, I fell into that trap), I opted right back to the Sunday movie popcorn (with lots of butter!), a bagel (with lots of butter!), a baked potato (with lots of butter!), and not one, but two(!), Dove chocolate candy bars in the course of a day. Alright, I exaggerate, but I did have two candy bars, I didn't get butter on my popcorn, but I did have a fat baked spud with tons of butter. No bagel was actually involved in this pig fest.
And so NOW just like that I went from salad and fruit and whole grain and free-love to a stick of butter, a stick of butter, and a pound of sugar and self-loathe.
So it is the same cycle and I can not consistently get into a groove of healthy eating. And it is really not that I eat a lot, because I really don't. It is just that my choices are not the most healthful. Hey! Have I ever told you how much I love potatoes and gummy bears? (Please, I beg of you to send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com.)
And now on top of my own Self-Critiqueing and Mirror Bashing (I am not what I see in the mirror is what I tell myself to which myself responds: Yes, hon, that is all you), I am now paranoid that everyone else sees what I do.
Case in point #1: The other day I was in a dance shop buying ballet shoes and I decided to get a leotard too. The salesperson recommended a large for me because, as she said, "..don't worry because they run really small! Do not take offense to the size. It's like a bathing suit." "OK," I thought, "but I wear a size 4 or 6 in bikini. Have I changed that much since 4 weeks ago?" So I took her advice and pulled a size large off the rack and held it up to me. So for old times sake, I grabbed a medium too. And while I don't like the way the leotard looks on me, the medium will do just fine. In fact, the large was way too big. [Yes, editor, that should be an emphasis on "way", thank you.]
Case in point #2: There is this guy at work. (For those keeping score at home, Snow White's Ex.) He is a super nice guy and the other day he stopped by my office to chat which doesn't happen very often. We chatted about mutual friends. I blabbed about my new house. You see, what I thought was a chatty conversation. I had much to say! And then the next day, he came by my office again and started the conversation with, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want...." Which, holy Freddy Kreuger, scares the living daylights out of me with all the possibilities of that kind of preface coming from a very good friend's ex-boyfriend. But he was merely asking me if everything was ok with me because I seemed a little "down" yesterday. Which is weird, but then again, not so weird. He was the one person who really helped me after my dad died as he had just lost his brother the year before I lost my father and he is just one of those people you find it so easy to talk to. So he is just that kind of guy. But, my point - and remember I am not always the most rational formula in the math book - is I automatically assumed he meant that I looked like I packed on 30 pounds and was headed down a path of self-destruction. Dare I ask him if this is an overeating intervention?
Case in Point #3: When I told a friend the other day that I was taking ballet, she responded with, "You're taking ballet??" Emphasis on "you're" in a very questioning tone punctuated with double question marks, exclamations, and cookies and pies. Then that makes me paranoid that what she was thinking - what everyone is thinking - is "How absurd, you don't have a dancer's body, what are you doing in Petite and Limber Land?" And I would just respond, "Apparently stick figure was not a requirement for the class."
So, you see, when you are in a funk as I am, the food trap I have described as my own personal journey of despair leads to negative (irrational) body issues. I can almost see how eating disorders come about. In all seriousness.
My lawyer's want me to point out that I am not poking fun at food addictions, eating disorders, or the Overweight. All opinions are my own and relate to my own personal body space - my own personal issue - which is about 10 pounds heavier than I would like to be. Do you know how much 10 pounds is?! That is the weight of my Greek Deli fare (see: above) that I did in fact find a rainy day to empty said contents into my "dancer's body." 10 pounds later! In which I pose a question to my lawyer's: Can we sue the greek deli as the sole responsible party to my overindulging as they knew (not me!) that by eating 10 pounds worth of their, albeit yummy, food that I would gain 10 pounds too? That 10 pound styrofoam take-out should post a box with the surgeon general's warning that the "contents will cause pudge." Or, should we sue Pompadour and men of his ilk who drive poor little ole me over the ledge of overeating and into the arms of greek deli meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies to overcome the sting of their rejection? Is that the root of the evil? Because I am not responsible for my own actions, oh no, I am not!
Ok. Ok. With all this Living in Chubbyville talk, you, dear reader, might be yelling at your screen right now. Don't worry, I have heard those shouts and I saw those eye rolls (which makes me very self-conscious so if you can look away when you do that you might not hurt my feelings). So I should point out that I do get off my butt. I have been a little more active than shoveling food in my mouth (arm curls), catching gummy bears in my mouth (basketball), and walking to the Food Store to replenish the cupboard/belly (so, equivalent of say, the marathon?). In fact, Dear Prudence and I have been walking to work every morning which is a 2.5 or 3 mile walk. I've got the ballet going on. Trying to do a little Pilates in the evening as I watch the boob tube. Plan to start my laps at the pool again real soon. Plan to start running. (Did you catch that? I went from "doing" to "trying" to "plan to"....the thought that counts!) Anyway, I understand the importance of exercise. So there's that.
But mentally I just can't get it all together. And that is where I am folks. There's got to be a better way of coping. One that doesn't involve eating all these pies somebody keeps emailing me.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Cock(y) And Bull(shit)
Today.....could it be? Can it be? Shield thy eyes. We got sunshine! Pick up your jaws and wipe your lenses, because, yes, sunny-come-lately, we are witnessing our first sunshine in one whole week! Which, a week with cloudy/rainy weather is a sad, depressing state for yours truly. But I think I am slowly coming out of my funk that has a lot to do with nothing and a little to do with everything.
You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.
So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)
1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.
2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.
3. Back to knitting!
4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.
So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?
But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.
Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!
So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."
And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.
Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.
Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.
The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."
Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.
But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.
So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.
Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!
Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."
We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!
You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.
So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)
1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.
2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.
3. Back to knitting!
4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.
So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?
But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.
Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!
So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."
And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.
Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.
Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.
The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."
Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.
But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.
So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.
Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!
Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."
We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!
Friday, May 12, 2006
Look What The Snow Storm Brought In
The time was circa 1992. I was in college. And the forecast was calling for a record-breaking snow storm to bombard the entire east coast - pretty much down to northern Florida. Snow in Florida and, oh yeah, it's Spring Break. Mukluks and bikinis!
I was an "old married girl" at this time living in sin with my wee bit older boyfriend who was long gone out of college. Instead he had a job. And he was sweet as pie. And probably the only guy I ever dated who actually "got me." We dated/lived together for most of 3 years. Ironically, my college romance was the most mature relationship I probably ever had. We actually talked about things. And he was an artist type - a damn good writer - so sometimes he would go into his shell when he needed to dip deep into the well to regenerate. Kindred. In fact, the only time he ever really annoyed me was when he was "blocked" and would play the harmonica to blues tracks. This annoyed me about him and I remember thinking at the time, "I can't live with this forever!" - knowing I was never going to commit to him long-term. Now I put up with much worse than harmonicas - the "sound of settling"? (but that is beside the point.)
His name was Pete.
This particular blustery Spring Break we decided to rent a car and drive all the way to Fort Wayne to visit my parents. They were living so far away at the time and I only got to see them a few times a year. Pete knew how much I was looking forward to this trip. And he loved my parents too. In fact, we were so damned determined that we were going to make it there, we ignored the blizzard warnings thinking there is no way Georgia was going to get that much snow and by the time we hit the more northern states, it would be long gone. Our plan was golden.
Were we ever wrong.
By the time we hit Georgia we were definitely driving in blizzard conditions. Sensible and patient Pete carefully maneuvered the highway as we crawled our way up 95. The carrot at the end of the stick - my momma and daddy. Well it finally got so bad that they were closing the highways down and forcing people off the road. The one exit we had to get off at had only one hotel and, oh, about a million people in our same predicament. I bundled up my "winter coat" - which was some flimsy suede jacket I got in a thrift store and had no lining. I was praying for a warm bed and - if I may push the envelope a little here - some cable tv. We weren't in line 15 minutes when the hotel turned on the No Vacancy light, with ne'er a care for the momentarily homeless.
"Shoo people. There's no room at the inn," said the Inn Keeper.
And I said, "Dammit!" The stress of the day and the disappointment welled up inside me. I knew we could not sleep in the car that night. We would freeze. I could feel the tears forming and a patented Lara temper tantrum starting to take shape.
When lo and behold Desperation and a Plan B appeared before my watery eyes when a young guy probably my age - college student - spoke up, "Hey I have a room - with two beds - and it is only me - if anybody wants to share."
To put a brand-new-in-2006 romanticized spin on the story....he was looking at me when he said this. Why, our souls connected. And yes, it was love at first sight! (So in the made-for-tv version of my life make sure that we reconnect years later and fall madly in love. That will make a nice Lifetime Original.)
I pushed Pete forward and yelled, "We do!" I was going to fight and claw my way if I was faced with competition. Heck, at that point, I could have starred in Indecent Proposal. His Redford to my Demi. (And Pete was a Woody, come to think of it.)
So that is how I spent the night in some northern GA hotel in a blizzard with some absolute stranger. I can't remember much about our Hero that night. I do remember he had to call his parents too. I can't even remember what I told my dad. But he knew I was with Pete so he probably didn't worry as much. I had the weirdest dreams that night that I was sleeping with some Ted Bundy. Pete, I know, slept with one eye open.
Alas morning came. And we were alive. And warm. And very tired. And the sun was shining!
BUT - to rain on my morning sunshine parade - there was lots of cleaning up to be done and Tennessee decided that they were going to barricade their lovely state from any other vehicle messing with their plans to plow. The TN border was closed. And they didn't anticipate it opening for a long while. Our options were to (a) wait in the small town at least all day and where nothing was open or (b) turn around and go home. We made the decision to go home.
I cried most of the way home.
And I didn't perk up until Pete said, "Well, I have the whole week off work anyway. How about we go the shelter first thing and get a cat?"
And this came out of the blue. I don't really remember us ever talking about getting a cat. But somehow, at this moment, it seemed like the best idea I had ever heard. Like, duh...this is going to make the crybaby feel better. I knew it. On any other day, I probably would have brushed off the idea. But, see, Pete knew me. And he always knew - even before I did - what was going to cheer me up.
The carrot at the end of the stick now....a little fur ball of my very own!
So the next day we drove to the shelter and when I walked in I was immediately drawn to this one fat sultry looking momma cat just kind of laying there nonplussed by all the people oohing and aahing over her competition, the kittens. Lindsey Lohans to her Meryl Streep. Amateurs. She wasn't playing up to anyone.
I looked at Pete and said, "That's Sophie."
Well, actually her name was Muffin. That was what the cage said. But she certainly didn't give off "Muffin air." It also said that she hated children and other animals and she liked to be the center of attention. It was a match made in heaven - I knew we could be fast friends! And when I held her in my arms I knew that from that day forward I was now going to shelter her from the snow storms.
On that day, I gave her a second chance at life. I learned that my little Miss Grumpy was going to be put to sleep the next day as she had overstayed her welcome at the Inn. If it wasn't for that snow storm....
It's fourteen years later and I had to make the very difficult decision to let her go yesterday morning. Her health failing, there wasn't anything I could do for her anymore. Deep down I know it was the right thing but it doesn't feel right. I made the mistake and stuck around the vet's office until it was over and I will never forget the bellowing I heard from her room. They say she went in peace but I doubt that. That breaks my heart.
I cried all the way home and through the night.
I wonder what Pete would say or do to cheer me up now....
RIP Little Miss Sophie Mae
c. 1987 - 2006
"...I'll show you in spring
It's a treachorous thing
Miss you
Kiss
The Lovecats..."
--The Cure
Thursday, April 13, 2006
A Wee Senstitive Little Girl
I am uber-sensitive. Especially in my relationships. That is why I like a guy who takes the lead and takes me along for the ride. I can grab hold of coat tails with a mean grip. If you are nice, hot, and funny enough I will probably fall for you. What I can't be is the Head. I'm a Behind kind of girl. When I have to call even a few shots, I question whether he "is just that into me." It is a big deal - or rather, it takes a lot for me to ask a guy to "go with me..."
....like, to dinner.
Because when it happens - my showing some initiative and plunging into "I'm the girl with a plan" mode - and then he agrees. Well, then I get confident! I ask again! And he goes again! Then I take that "yes" ball and run with it tucked under my arm. I never expect the yes ball to deflate. To flat NO. It's then when I feel chubby, gross, and fugly. Because the minute he does turn one of my invitations down, I take it personally.
"He's just not that into me" is what it always boils down to in my book because why would he ever have something more important to do than see me? And what I am is just disappointed.
So in the interest of weepy Senstive Me, I will look into everything for the "he's not into you, ya dumb bitch" result that inevitably will come up. Recently, this is what has me stirring:
When we are having a conversation about architectural styles and I say I prefer older over contemporary and then give one of my dorky references: "I'm more Flintstone than Jetson, ya'know?" And he responds, "I know you are doll." I look into that.
When I ask him to go see a band he loves and has seen with me before but he turns me down because he has to clean his apartment because his mom is coming in town the next day? I look into that.
When he says he is going to look into housing for jazz fest for me and my friend at his own provocation and then never follows through with it. I look into that.
When he invites me over on Saturday night for dinner and a personal concert and I have to decline because I have a previous engagement but invite him to come along and he turns that down? I look into that.
When I text him because I am in his neighborhood - actually in his building - and he calls me four hours later because he was at happy hour in the neighborhood when I texted - yet didn't invite me over when he received the message? I look into that.
Sure he's there. He sends me "good morning" messages. He serenades me. He vents about his frustrations to me. He talks to me on a daily basis. He meets me for lunch. He has me help him shop for clothes. We go out one night a week. He waits until 8 on Friday night to see what I am doing (no, I don't answer unless I'm on a bad date). He makes me laugh.
Yet he never asks me out, takes me out, or winds me up for that matter.
And then it hit me: Duh, we are friends. Harry and Sally kind of friends. He is just not that into me LIKE THAT.
OK, I'll be sure to remember this next time he kisses me and pats my lovely behind.
....like, to dinner.
Because when it happens - my showing some initiative and plunging into "I'm the girl with a plan" mode - and then he agrees. Well, then I get confident! I ask again! And he goes again! Then I take that "yes" ball and run with it tucked under my arm. I never expect the yes ball to deflate. To flat NO. It's then when I feel chubby, gross, and fugly. Because the minute he does turn one of my invitations down, I take it personally.
"He's just not that into me" is what it always boils down to in my book because why would he ever have something more important to do than see me? And what I am is just disappointed.
So in the interest of weepy Senstive Me, I will look into everything for the "he's not into you, ya dumb bitch" result that inevitably will come up. Recently, this is what has me stirring:
When we are having a conversation about architectural styles and I say I prefer older over contemporary and then give one of my dorky references: "I'm more Flintstone than Jetson, ya'know?" And he responds, "I know you are doll." I look into that.
When I ask him to go see a band he loves and has seen with me before but he turns me down because he has to clean his apartment because his mom is coming in town the next day? I look into that.
When he says he is going to look into housing for jazz fest for me and my friend at his own provocation and then never follows through with it. I look into that.
When he invites me over on Saturday night for dinner and a personal concert and I have to decline because I have a previous engagement but invite him to come along and he turns that down? I look into that.
When I text him because I am in his neighborhood - actually in his building - and he calls me four hours later because he was at happy hour in the neighborhood when I texted - yet didn't invite me over when he received the message? I look into that.
Sure he's there. He sends me "good morning" messages. He serenades me. He vents about his frustrations to me. He talks to me on a daily basis. He meets me for lunch. He has me help him shop for clothes. We go out one night a week. He waits until 8 on Friday night to see what I am doing (no, I don't answer unless I'm on a bad date). He makes me laugh.
Yet he never asks me out, takes me out, or winds me up for that matter.
And then it hit me: Duh, we are friends. Harry and Sally kind of friends. He is just not that into me LIKE THAT.
OK, I'll be sure to remember this next time he kisses me and pats my lovely behind.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Stupid Is As Stupid Does
It's not enough that Johnny Jerkface essentially broke my heart with the coming on strong courtship morphing into the Disappearing Freak. A patented act of the average 12-year old. ("Done with the new girl, what else is out there? If I ignore her, maybe she will go away.")
It is also not enough that he had to put on the whole Making Out With Bimbo Show for my own personal viewing pleasure in a bar that one night he was supposed to be thinking about our relationship because he didn't want to lose me or something like that.
But NOW he has lurked on over into Mav's world. Because, HE HIT ON MY FRIEND by way of an online wink - a friend HE HAS MET BEFORE and not to mention I am actually IN ONE OF HER PICTURES. Am I that distant of a memory that he couldn't even recognize me?
I think it is that he is just that into himself that he probably looked at a few of her pictures saw "fun" thrown around her profile and thought, "This chick will love me."
Um, he would be wrong.
And so I wonder what he thought when she responded with, "Are you f-ing kidding me?!" Did he put two and two together or did he just get his ego slapped down a peg as in "do you really think I would ever go out with someone like you?" Either way, embarrassment or blatant rejection -well - he walked right into that one. Smug and cocky as he is.
It is also not enough that he had to put on the whole Making Out With Bimbo Show for my own personal viewing pleasure in a bar that one night he was supposed to be thinking about our relationship because he didn't want to lose me or something like that.
But NOW he has lurked on over into Mav's world. Because, HE HIT ON MY FRIEND by way of an online wink - a friend HE HAS MET BEFORE and not to mention I am actually IN ONE OF HER PICTURES. Am I that distant of a memory that he couldn't even recognize me?
I think it is that he is just that into himself that he probably looked at a few of her pictures saw "fun" thrown around her profile and thought, "This chick will love me."
Um, he would be wrong.
And so I wonder what he thought when she responded with, "Are you f-ing kidding me?!" Did he put two and two together or did he just get his ego slapped down a peg as in "do you really think I would ever go out with someone like you?" Either way, embarrassment or blatant rejection -well - he walked right into that one. Smug and cocky as he is.
Monday, February 06, 2006
The Friday Night Lineup At The Convenience Store
I have to start dating all over again. And, um, quite frankly, DC is hard. On one hand are the Hill people - which, I am so not into. And never mind that DC is so transient, people come and go. And everyone is getting younger and younger because the people my age? Married.
Friday night I had drinks with my friend Shamrock and a co-worker of hers. I learned that this girl is 32 and going through a divorce. (I guess it could always be worse.) So we started trolling the crowd for the "cuties." Um, there were none. Oh yeah, there is one, but look at that, he's with a girl. Then there was one guy whom we were debating his age. I was sure he wasn't a day past 29 and then when I saw his buddies I didn't think he was a day past 25. So what does the Divorcee do? She goes up to the guy. Kudos to her but when she came back after exchanging business cards with the "boy" I learn of her "line" which, unbeknownst to me, involved me.
"Oh, I told him that you thought he was cute."
Oh. Whatever. I have no energy. If she needs to use me to get her confidence up to speak to the boys, go right ahead. Because I am not talking to them.
After drinks, I decided to stop by the little market by my house. I love the little guy at the market because he gives you chocolate with your purchase. Sometimes it is the kind with hazelnuts in it and I don't like nuts at all. One time, however, I was so desperate for the chocolate, I picked out the little teeny, tiny hazelnuts. But when I am lucky he passes out a Lindt truffle. I loooove the Lindt truffle. I was taking a gamble that he would treat me right that night.
Do you need the evidence of how hard it is to date in DC. I present to you the Friday Night Lineup At The Convence Store. A sum total of three decent-looking girls lined up at the cash register.
Girl #1: Buying a pack of smokes and a pack of gum.
Girl #2: Buying a bag of potato chips and a pint of Ben & Jerrys.
Girl #3 AKA ME: Buying a bottle of wine.
And we each got a little Lindt chocolate to complete our own pity parties. We should have convened on my balcony, watched the drunks walk to the bars, and toast our truffles.
These are the gals I would rather be hanging out with. Instead I had to see my Downer Friend - I promised her lunch and shopping on Saturday. She feels kindred now that I have been dumped in a BIG WAY and this is her conversation with me: "What is wrong with us? I tell ya', these guys are all the same. It'll happen for us some day. What are we doing wrong? Did we sleep with them too soon?"
I hear this over and over and over. Groundhog day, indeed.
Really there is no "we" in this equation. We have two totally different circumstances. But since we both just happen to be single at the same time she uses this as an excuse to call me THREE TIMES A DAY to have the same conversation because all she can do is dwell on it. Atleast the guy whom she was casually dating actually BROKE UP WITH HER. That is what my BOYFRIEND should have done. Broke up with me and not just ignored my phone call to avoid the BREAK UP. I can't keep having this conversation with her. Our lives are so, so different. She thinks people who love Vegas have gambling problems and people who drink an occassional bottle of wine are alcoholics. She has always been my "small dose friend."
Yet I can't "break up" with her. She means well. So I just act like I am not bothered in the least by what has happened and I try to be the strong one so she will get over this guy. She is amazed at my resiliency. Little does she know that I am not really. This guy actually got me in a big way. Peter Pan NEVER called on the date that HE set as the END to THE BREAK. And guess what? That Lindt truffle is still sitting in the bottom of my purse. I have NO desire for the chocolate. Something IS wrong with me....
Friday night I had drinks with my friend Shamrock and a co-worker of hers. I learned that this girl is 32 and going through a divorce. (I guess it could always be worse.) So we started trolling the crowd for the "cuties." Um, there were none. Oh yeah, there is one, but look at that, he's with a girl. Then there was one guy whom we were debating his age. I was sure he wasn't a day past 29 and then when I saw his buddies I didn't think he was a day past 25. So what does the Divorcee do? She goes up to the guy. Kudos to her but when she came back after exchanging business cards with the "boy" I learn of her "line" which, unbeknownst to me, involved me.
"Oh, I told him that you thought he was cute."
Oh. Whatever. I have no energy. If she needs to use me to get her confidence up to speak to the boys, go right ahead. Because I am not talking to them.
After drinks, I decided to stop by the little market by my house. I love the little guy at the market because he gives you chocolate with your purchase. Sometimes it is the kind with hazelnuts in it and I don't like nuts at all. One time, however, I was so desperate for the chocolate, I picked out the little teeny, tiny hazelnuts. But when I am lucky he passes out a Lindt truffle. I loooove the Lindt truffle. I was taking a gamble that he would treat me right that night.
Do you need the evidence of how hard it is to date in DC. I present to you the Friday Night Lineup At The Convence Store. A sum total of three decent-looking girls lined up at the cash register.
Girl #1: Buying a pack of smokes and a pack of gum.
Girl #2: Buying a bag of potato chips and a pint of Ben & Jerrys.
Girl #3 AKA ME: Buying a bottle of wine.
And we each got a little Lindt chocolate to complete our own pity parties. We should have convened on my balcony, watched the drunks walk to the bars, and toast our truffles.
These are the gals I would rather be hanging out with. Instead I had to see my Downer Friend - I promised her lunch and shopping on Saturday. She feels kindred now that I have been dumped in a BIG WAY and this is her conversation with me: "What is wrong with us? I tell ya', these guys are all the same. It'll happen for us some day. What are we doing wrong? Did we sleep with them too soon?"
I hear this over and over and over. Groundhog day, indeed.
Really there is no "we" in this equation. We have two totally different circumstances. But since we both just happen to be single at the same time she uses this as an excuse to call me THREE TIMES A DAY to have the same conversation because all she can do is dwell on it. Atleast the guy whom she was casually dating actually BROKE UP WITH HER. That is what my BOYFRIEND should have done. Broke up with me and not just ignored my phone call to avoid the BREAK UP. I can't keep having this conversation with her. Our lives are so, so different. She thinks people who love Vegas have gambling problems and people who drink an occassional bottle of wine are alcoholics. She has always been my "small dose friend."
Yet I can't "break up" with her. She means well. So I just act like I am not bothered in the least by what has happened and I try to be the strong one so she will get over this guy. She is amazed at my resiliency. Little does she know that I am not really. This guy actually got me in a big way. Peter Pan NEVER called on the date that HE set as the END to THE BREAK. And guess what? That Lindt truffle is still sitting in the bottom of my purse. I have NO desire for the chocolate. Something IS wrong with me....
Monday, January 30, 2006
God Works In Mysterious Ways (And She Moves In Mysterious Ways)
Last Thursday night, I was just minding my own business, squeezing onto an over-packed metro train, when I ran into a friend. She ended up dragging my ass out to a bar to see a band - a band from the "beach house years." So I thought that this might be just the thing I need - a little nostalgic shakedown of happier times because - if you have been reading along - January kind of sucks for me right now. I thought this night had happy potential.
"Oh God, take me to that happy place!"
So God looked down on my wishes and said, "Well I do have something in store, you won't be happy about it, but in the long run you will be in a happy place. Know that this is for you. Put on some tight jeans, put some silk mist in your hair and some black eyeliner, and go to that bar. Trust me." Then the basket of money was pushed under my nose and I knew I had to ante up my $5 charitable contribution - for the Lord speaketh (or cometh).
So what did before my eyes I see? But a tool in the likeness of Peter Pan, of Break-Back in 2 weeks!-Mountain fame. And so the bizarre story of Boy Who Was In Hot Pursuit Of Me nosedives - out of control - into Boy Who Is Purposely Fucking With My Heart. Because this boy was being quite friendly with some ugly girl with a big nose and 3 inches on him and a bad dye job - if I must be frank. I mean we look nothing alike - style or appearance-wise. But the worst part of all this? He KNEW I was there, we exchanged a very brief "hi" earlier and then he put on the show for me.
Cheeseball gropes The Nose. Tickets are NOT going fast. Pretty people sell pictures and they couldn't sell out the theater even if Francis Ford C. was directing. On second thought, they might be good extras in the next Star Wars. Yoda, anyone?
But I ask: For the love of God - WHY????
And this is when God graced me with consideration again. He listens to prayers because I was on the brink of either: (a) taking a turn to Crazy Town and confronting him (and her) and subsequently Lorena Bobbitting him right on the spot ("Yeah, go try hanging out in your white sweat pants now!"), or (b) cry, cry, cry, crying.
But God answered the prayers and decided to spare me Embarrassment. For that, I am grateful so I put an extra $5 in the money basket. Because at that very moment he sent in a savior in the form of - get this - a Cute Boy! I told Cute Boy the deal, expecting Cute Boy to run for the hills but he hung out with me and I did my own dirty dancing with the boy.
So I put on my own little show. Boa Gets Her Ass Grabbed. Private and limited engagement.
And I am all of 12 now.
At the end of the Dance Showdown I let the Boy With No Name walk me home and - in a possessed state - I invited him up for water. Isn't that an enticing offer? "Would you like to come up for a nice glass of water. I've got a Brita pitcher!" And he wanted water. Perhaps he thought he was getting more. It was 2 o'clock in the morning at that point. I did what any girl would do in that situation - I made out with him. I still was possessed - the visions of the night were haunting me. And first I kissed him and I thought, "Ooo, this is nice." And then no, not such much. He kept doing this downward jab with his tongue. So then I was bored and I was sad and the weight of all that happened that night just hit me. I sent him off and I laid in bed for the next four hours in and out of sleep with the weirdest dreams. Peter Pan making out with The Nose. Peter Pan moving on. Peter Pan being mean. Peter Pan as a totally different person. A wolf in sheep's clothing?
Sad. Sad. Sad.
But I gave the Boy With No Name my phone number. I totally see what is going to happen. This guy is going to be all over me because he knows that I am not interested in HIM - and since he is 25 I will NEVER date him anyway. But he just might be my distraction for the time being to get over Peter Pan.
I wonder if he is going to keep to our Feb. 5th date now...because by the looks of Thursday night he didn't appear to be giving our relationship any thought. I was caught off guard running into him in the first place and I snubbed his advance to hug me and kiss me. I was confused. But that is because we never discussed the paramaters of the "break" especially if we were to run into each other. And I have never been able to think on my toes.
Therefore if he is going to blow me - blow the whole thing off - then God, I have one more wish. Can you put Idiot Boyfriend in those white sweat pants again for my viewing pleasure? It helps as a model for the ugly picture that is being painted.
"Oh God, take me to that happy place!"
So God looked down on my wishes and said, "Well I do have something in store, you won't be happy about it, but in the long run you will be in a happy place. Know that this is for you. Put on some tight jeans, put some silk mist in your hair and some black eyeliner, and go to that bar. Trust me." Then the basket of money was pushed under my nose and I knew I had to ante up my $5 charitable contribution - for the Lord speaketh (or cometh).
So what did before my eyes I see? But a tool in the likeness of Peter Pan, of Break-Back in 2 weeks!-Mountain fame. And so the bizarre story of Boy Who Was In Hot Pursuit Of Me nosedives - out of control - into Boy Who Is Purposely Fucking With My Heart. Because this boy was being quite friendly with some ugly girl with a big nose and 3 inches on him and a bad dye job - if I must be frank. I mean we look nothing alike - style or appearance-wise. But the worst part of all this? He KNEW I was there, we exchanged a very brief "hi" earlier and then he put on the show for me.
Cheeseball gropes The Nose. Tickets are NOT going fast. Pretty people sell pictures and they couldn't sell out the theater even if Francis Ford C. was directing. On second thought, they might be good extras in the next Star Wars. Yoda, anyone?
But I ask: For the love of God - WHY????
And this is when God graced me with consideration again. He listens to prayers because I was on the brink of either: (a) taking a turn to Crazy Town and confronting him (and her) and subsequently Lorena Bobbitting him right on the spot ("Yeah, go try hanging out in your white sweat pants now!"), or (b) cry, cry, cry, crying.
But God answered the prayers and decided to spare me Embarrassment. For that, I am grateful so I put an extra $5 in the money basket. Because at that very moment he sent in a savior in the form of - get this - a Cute Boy! I told Cute Boy the deal, expecting Cute Boy to run for the hills but he hung out with me and I did my own dirty dancing with the boy.
So I put on my own little show. Boa Gets Her Ass Grabbed. Private and limited engagement.
And I am all of 12 now.
At the end of the Dance Showdown I let the Boy With No Name walk me home and - in a possessed state - I invited him up for water. Isn't that an enticing offer? "Would you like to come up for a nice glass of water. I've got a Brita pitcher!" And he wanted water. Perhaps he thought he was getting more. It was 2 o'clock in the morning at that point. I did what any girl would do in that situation - I made out with him. I still was possessed - the visions of the night were haunting me. And first I kissed him and I thought, "Ooo, this is nice." And then no, not such much. He kept doing this downward jab with his tongue. So then I was bored and I was sad and the weight of all that happened that night just hit me. I sent him off and I laid in bed for the next four hours in and out of sleep with the weirdest dreams. Peter Pan making out with The Nose. Peter Pan moving on. Peter Pan being mean. Peter Pan as a totally different person. A wolf in sheep's clothing?
Sad. Sad. Sad.
But I gave the Boy With No Name my phone number. I totally see what is going to happen. This guy is going to be all over me because he knows that I am not interested in HIM - and since he is 25 I will NEVER date him anyway. But he just might be my distraction for the time being to get over Peter Pan.
I wonder if he is going to keep to our Feb. 5th date now...because by the looks of Thursday night he didn't appear to be giving our relationship any thought. I was caught off guard running into him in the first place and I snubbed his advance to hug me and kiss me. I was confused. But that is because we never discussed the paramaters of the "break" especially if we were to run into each other. And I have never been able to think on my toes.
Therefore if he is going to blow me - blow the whole thing off - then God, I have one more wish. Can you put Idiot Boyfriend in those white sweat pants again for my viewing pleasure? It helps as a model for the ugly picture that is being painted.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Great, Who Will Be My Wedding Date Now?
Occurrence: I got dumped by my wedding date.
My reaction: Wow! This dating thing is fun!
Occurrence: I got dumped because he would rather see his tailor.
My reaction: Yes, friends who warned me, the signs are pointing to Gayville.
Occurrence: So now I have no wedding date.
My reaction: *blink* *rubs eyes*
Occurrence: EVERYONE else has a date.
My reaction: OK, normally don't care. Very independent, never bring date just to bring date. But...everyone but me? Wah.
Wait. Let me repeat this for my own understanding. I just got dumped - via email - by a guy who - emphatically (as in no hesitation with the yes) - agreed to go with me, who knows the bride and groom, and who assured me - when I asked if he needed to check his schedule before he so "emphatically" agreed - that he was indeed free the whole weekend and was looking forward to it, especially the overnight aspect because we had not taken our "relationship" that far yet. And the Dump Email came after not hearing from him for 2 weeks in which I finally sent him a Hello Email and his reply was not "hello back" but Dump. What's with The Mean? Was he ever going to tell me?
My real reaction: Asshole! Yes, OK, not that into me. Got that. He's not flaky anymore, he's transparant. Fine. But he could have handled the let down quite differently. At the very least a "sorry, but..." would have probably been sufficient. Not the blunt, "Can't go, going to the tailor in NYC now. Won't be back in time. Period." So, I...delete his contact information from any recording of it, contemplate sending an "oh, thanks a lot email in response" but decide to just ignore and not respond and write him off. Sometimes silence is the loudest response. And now moving on, dateless.
So, a plea!
One dateless, very pretty (I have professionals working on me that day who plan on making me pretty), smart (or I can pretend to be), and sassy (I will probably fall at some point in the evening) girl in a yellow dress SEEKING a flake-free, date-free, gay-free, hilarious and unassumingly handsome man (who will pick me up when I do fall, by the way, or fall down with me) to be Wedding Date. And can you wear a pink shirt with your suit? I kind of have a thing for pink button-down shirts. We will drink, dance, and maybe sing. Surely, we will laugh a lot?
I've seen movies about this kind of thing. On Lifetime and in the theaters. It works for them.
Mom, you'd be proud of me pimping myself on the 'net.
My reaction: Wow! This dating thing is fun!
Occurrence: I got dumped because he would rather see his tailor.
My reaction: Yes, friends who warned me, the signs are pointing to Gayville.
Occurrence: So now I have no wedding date.
My reaction: *blink* *rubs eyes*
Occurrence: EVERYONE else has a date.
My reaction: OK, normally don't care. Very independent, never bring date just to bring date. But...everyone but me? Wah.
Wait. Let me repeat this for my own understanding. I just got dumped - via email - by a guy who - emphatically (as in no hesitation with the yes) - agreed to go with me, who knows the bride and groom, and who assured me - when I asked if he needed to check his schedule before he so "emphatically" agreed - that he was indeed free the whole weekend and was looking forward to it, especially the overnight aspect because we had not taken our "relationship" that far yet. And the Dump Email came after not hearing from him for 2 weeks in which I finally sent him a Hello Email and his reply was not "hello back" but Dump. What's with The Mean? Was he ever going to tell me?
My real reaction: Asshole! Yes, OK, not that into me. Got that. He's not flaky anymore, he's transparant. Fine. But he could have handled the let down quite differently. At the very least a "sorry, but..." would have probably been sufficient. Not the blunt, "Can't go, going to the tailor in NYC now. Won't be back in time. Period." So, I...delete his contact information from any recording of it, contemplate sending an "oh, thanks a lot email in response" but decide to just ignore and not respond and write him off. Sometimes silence is the loudest response. And now moving on, dateless.
So, a plea!
One dateless, very pretty (I have professionals working on me that day who plan on making me pretty), smart (or I can pretend to be), and sassy (I will probably fall at some point in the evening) girl in a yellow dress SEEKING a flake-free, date-free, gay-free, hilarious and unassumingly handsome man (who will pick me up when I do fall, by the way, or fall down with me) to be Wedding Date. And can you wear a pink shirt with your suit? I kind of have a thing for pink button-down shirts. We will drink, dance, and maybe sing. Surely, we will laugh a lot?
I've seen movies about this kind of thing. On Lifetime and in the theaters. It works for them.
Mom, you'd be proud of me pimping myself on the 'net.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Ennui: Not So Far To Go
[Cue: harmonica. Oh, and make yourself a jack and coke.]
I am trying to think of something to write about. The fact of the matter is that I am bored. In both my professional and personal life. I'd like to put a funny story up here but all the funny is happening to everyone else these days. I realize I am just experiencing one of those ruts I think we all experience from time to time. I know change isn't going to happen unless you drag your pity-ass off the couch and do something about it. So I have put those wheels in motion.
I am looking for a new job. I certainly can't complain about my job. I feel appreciated and I know I am compensated fairly. It is just that there is not much work these days to keep my days busy. I feel so intellectually stationary right now. Must do more crosswords. I seriously feel like I am seconds away from being Milton from Office Space. Using my office as storage space, using my office as the supply closet, and eventually relocating me to the basement. And holding up my paycheck. So until I find a new job that challenges me I will try to keep busy by journaling. Hello blog - you are my occupation (of mind and time). Stapler, anyone?
I am "dating" again. To those who know me, it is no secret that my heart was broken by the Bayou Boob. I could certainly whine about the fucked-up life he is heading towards. (What a lovely meal of bitter. Pass the salt!) Instead, I am going to take care of myself. And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally. So I am testing the waters of online dating. But...I had a date on Sunday and I wish I could say YEAH or PSHAW, but all I can muster is a grunt of MEH. BLAH. YAWN. It wasn't a bad date. It just was just...boring. See the theme here?
So I am in a rut y'all.
Nothing a stiff drink, buckets of money, and a GOOD MAN can't turn around. Can I skip ahead to that page? Because this story seriously needs to move along...
I am trying to think of something to write about. The fact of the matter is that I am bored. In both my professional and personal life. I'd like to put a funny story up here but all the funny is happening to everyone else these days. I realize I am just experiencing one of those ruts I think we all experience from time to time. I know change isn't going to happen unless you drag your pity-ass off the couch and do something about it. So I have put those wheels in motion.
I am looking for a new job. I certainly can't complain about my job. I feel appreciated and I know I am compensated fairly. It is just that there is not much work these days to keep my days busy. I feel so intellectually stationary right now. Must do more crosswords. I seriously feel like I am seconds away from being Milton from Office Space. Using my office as storage space, using my office as the supply closet, and eventually relocating me to the basement. And holding up my paycheck. So until I find a new job that challenges me I will try to keep busy by journaling. Hello blog - you are my occupation (of mind and time). Stapler, anyone?
I am "dating" again. To those who know me, it is no secret that my heart was broken by the Bayou Boob. I could certainly whine about the fucked-up life he is heading towards. (What a lovely meal of bitter. Pass the salt!) Instead, I am going to take care of myself. And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally. So I am testing the waters of online dating. But...I had a date on Sunday and I wish I could say YEAH or PSHAW, but all I can muster is a grunt of MEH. BLAH. YAWN. It wasn't a bad date. It just was just...boring. See the theme here?
So I am in a rut y'all.
Nothing a stiff drink, buckets of money, and a GOOD MAN can't turn around. Can I skip ahead to that page? Because this story seriously needs to move along...
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Dear Frosty
Dear Frosty,
You know I love you. But come on already. All winter, you're either half in or half out the door, and frankly your half-ass is not welcome anymore. This winter at least.
Sure, you have called plenty of times - a lot of times actually. Even when you weren't expected, you sneaky devil you. But you never really came now did you? With the exception of one or two "small deliveries", you usually just blew in and blew out leaving nothing but ice, rain, icy rain, sniffles and general malaise.
And I actually really, really like you. Each and every time, I have anxiously awaited you. I even went out this year and bought snow-appropriate trend-wagon Uggs in anticipation of burying my luxury-wrapped sausages deep within your fluffy, powdered purity. Instead all I got were puddles and my Uggs are like, "fashion victim." It's like driving an SUV in the city. Utilitarian? I think not. Aesthetics.
Now you are saying you may come - maybe Friday - maybe Saturday - you know, whenever you feel like it. Don't bother. I think we need some time apart. For personal growth. And I am going to personally grow right into the spring collection at Anthropologie. And flip flops.
So take your old silk hat, corn-cobbed pipe, button nose, and jolly happy ass home. That's right. Thumpety-thump-thump look at Frosty go. Cuz we all know you will be back again someday.
Love, Me
You know I love you. But come on already. All winter, you're either half in or half out the door, and frankly your half-ass is not welcome anymore. This winter at least.
Sure, you have called plenty of times - a lot of times actually. Even when you weren't expected, you sneaky devil you. But you never really came now did you? With the exception of one or two "small deliveries", you usually just blew in and blew out leaving nothing but ice, rain, icy rain, sniffles and general malaise.
And I actually really, really like you. Each and every time, I have anxiously awaited you. I even went out this year and bought snow-appropriate trend-wagon Uggs in anticipation of burying my luxury-wrapped sausages deep within your fluffy, powdered purity. Instead all I got were puddles and my Uggs are like, "fashion victim." It's like driving an SUV in the city. Utilitarian? I think not. Aesthetics.
Now you are saying you may come - maybe Friday - maybe Saturday - you know, whenever you feel like it. Don't bother. I think we need some time apart. For personal growth. And I am going to personally grow right into the spring collection at Anthropologie. And flip flops.
So take your old silk hat, corn-cobbed pipe, button nose, and jolly happy ass home. That's right. Thumpety-thump-thump look at Frosty go. Cuz we all know you will be back again someday.
Love, Me
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