Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
When I first moved to LA, I was involved with a guy who called me Blue Eyes. Never Lyndsey or even Lyn. Always Blue Eyes. He was enamored with me in a way that I often wished someone else could be and when he looked at me it was always a penetrating stare intended to locate a part of me I had no intention of sharing.
This eventually ended up in two years of stalker phone calls every night at three am and the occasional break-in to my apartment building to bang on my door while declaring his endless devotion.
I have been hearing a lot about my eyeballs today presumably because I chopped off all of my hair and dyed it a dark cherry brown this weekend out of boredom. My boss asked me if I got colored contacts. I told him they were the same as they had always been.
I got stopped in the line at the grocery store, in the parking lot and in the park. Comments about my appearance. Frightening a little.
And the thing is I felt like shit. All day. I just wanted to close my eyes and cry but my stupid eye balls always give me away.
I have felt this way for the better part of the week. Yesterday I hit the swings at lunch. I took a note pad and wrote to look slightly less crazy.
Last night I sweated to the oldies.
Today I met my girlfriend and her puppy at the park. I brought sandwiches. She brought the cheer.
I don't get angry very often but when I do it is worse than the stomach flu. Long after the illness is gone, a gross feeling lingers on.
There is nothing worse than fighting with people you care about, except for perhaps hot understanding why there is fighting in the first place.
I feel like I should be quippy but I just don’t think I have it in my. I am just going to cover up my blue eyes and wait for this to pass.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
I finally get a chance to check my emails today and what do I find?!? 37,000 replies from my lovely ladies. Seriously, this guy sounds dreamy!! What kind of girl doesn't want the random dude she just suffered with for 3 hours to show up unannounced at her doorstep? Sure, you didn't give him your address or even your last name, but his persistance is endearing. I did want to let you know that I've filed a police report and have BJ's information on hand in case you go missing. Don't worry Lyndsey, I have your back.
We need to have a little discussion about abandoning your lady friend's with creepy Craiglist-killer type stalkers. Though I'm sure the stories today would not be quite as entertaining if you had stayed by her side all night, it troubles me that you up and left in the name of a [boy crush]. I'm guessing I'm more troubled because I'm jealous, not worried for Lyndsey (Mrs. City-gal can handle herself)...
Overall, the only thing that I can think of to make the evening a bigger success would be flowers sent to your work, drunken phone calls tonight or if he had taken the opportunity at the end of the night to shove his tongue down your throat and slobber on your upper lip. Ah, the love that could have been if only he had taken the leap.
To be quite honest, I feel for this young BJ. If I know his kind as well as I think I do, I'm quite certain that he is Facebook stalking you at this very moment and showing his co-workers his new "girlfriend", the hot Russian. How do I know his type so well? Not only have I had the delightful experience of fending such men off, but I have now become one of them. I was embarassingly giddy as I showed my coworkers the Facebook page of MY new "boyfriend” Lyndsey is supposed to set me up with. Have I spoken to him? Only in my dreams. Has he even seen a picture of me? Highly unlikely. However, our children's names have been picked out and the picket fence surrounding our future home is bright white. This foxy young man is mine and doesn't even know it. So let's all just give BJ a break because it is easy to see why he would swoon and drool over a classy lady like Lyndsey...and because if we don't give him a break, we will be inadvertently insulting yours truly.
Hopefully, sometime in the near future you will all be able to see things from BJ's perspective as I gush about the "fabulous" blind date I had with my new delicious boy and how I contacted him no fewer than 4 times before midnight after he dropped me off at my house. So Lyndsey, please do us all a favor and set this girl up so you can be entertained by the stories of my blind dates.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Okay, I wasn’t going to do this. I had thought about it and decided the decent thing to do would be to refrain, but kids, the world must know (or at least the 20 people who read this blog) that stalkerrificness is never ok.
I am fairly sure that my account of the evening is going to be quite different than those of the other individuals involved, including my girlfriend who set it up but you must not listen to her as she is filled with lies.
Let me start by saying that my ‘date’ goes by the moniker BLOW JOB.
“It’s Brian but everybody calls me BJ, as in Blow JOB.” Yep.
Blow Job, to be fair, was a nice enough guy. He made pleasant conversation, however, he did look at me with googily eyes from time to time that kind of freaked me out.
As I had mentioned previously, my date had researched me and the first words out of his mouth when I arrived were about my blog. He google stalked me – fair enough. I am highly googleable and it is my own fault for putting it on the internet and setting a precedent for honesty for the evening but he just knew to much and it was just, well creepy.
I mean, I know that I am going to write about our exploits but it kind of ruins the fun when my subject has the heads up.
But we chatted and like I said, it was decent enough. Nothing that made me want to start planning a walk down the aisle, but at least it was not excruciating. When we parted company, I was left thinking it wasn’t the most horrible quasi-date I had ever been on but nothing I really wanted to go through again.
And this, my friends, is where the evening started to get interesting. Up until this point I was thinking that I would probably forgo writing about the date because he seemed like an ok-enough human being.
But then the contact began.
Within 1 hour of our parting he had logged onto my website and used the contact feature to send me the following email.
“I am far removed from this, so I apologize for my indiscretion. You are inordinate which is very refreshing. If you are going to be around this weekend please give me a call. Have a good night!”
While clearly there were some inappropriate word choices, most likely made through the use of theasaurse.com, I appreciated the effort, as futile as it may be.
However, an hour later I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize and then around 11pm I got the following text message – “My apologies 4 not asking 4 you number and getting it off your site.”
He contacted me 3 times with in 4 hours of meeting me.
Kids, let this be a lesson to us all. Stalking, no matter how innocent the motivation is never ok. One follow up post-date is sweet. Three or more gets you blacklisted.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Happiness is a fairly new discovery for me. I am not being flippant; it is just that it has taken me the better part of 27 years to get acquainted with the feeling and sometimes I still feel like I did right after my growth spurt, all clumsy and awkward, my reach far greater than my understanding of my grasp.
I have regular discussions, with those girlfriends of mine who have been kind and generous enough to let me explore this new happy me without judgments or condemnation, that I regularly find myself to be obnoxious.
It is like that voice inside my head that constantly condemned every word I said, every action I made, every choice I dared to take, it is like that voice finally took a hike and it happened to take my filter along with it.
And now I am just this obnoxious person but not just in real life, in the digital world too – a la blogosphere.
My choice, my penalty, right?
Well, tonight I went on a blind date, another first, and while it was a relatively benign experience, it was the first time I had ever been researched.
He had openly google-stalked me and read, in detail, the contents of my blog.
I felt like superman without my cape. Not only would it be impossible for me to write what I actually thought about the set up – even I have some couth – but it was like a predetermination had been made about exactly what kind of Barbie I was supposed to be. Apparently blatantly honest, ballsy, self-amused Barbie.
It felt like a total rip off.
Despite popular perception, even BS Barbie gets scared, timid and shy. DUH. The bravest face is usually just a big fat act.
These days I am happy and I feel freer now to be myself than I ever have before and yeah, a lot of times that means enjoying the crazy. But no one can be a jester all the time.
Every girl needs the safety of a little mystery and, sure, every girl hopes that curious eyes will one day scour her pages looking for that one line that explains what makes her tick. But no one wants to be thought an open book.
This week my girlfriend got an email from her coworker that simply read, "I think you have a secret admirer” and included a link to Craigslist.
Yep, Craigslist.... as in Missed Connections.
For those who don’t know, Missed Connections is a place where people go to post things like, “I saw you at Subway. You ordered a six inch cold cut combo and you smiled at me. Call me sometime.”
I knew that the site existed only because the above mentioned quote was actually a line of dialogue from a play I did this summer. I never actually expected to know anyone who had been on it.
So, my girlfriend, clicks the link and sure enough there it was.
“You stopped in today to grab a coffee on your way in to work. I asked you about your car and how it was damaged, loved your response. I would like it even more if you came in again so that I could ask you out.”
“My first thought was that somehow we got hacked at work,” she later emailed me, “but our IT guys are Nazis about hackers so I went ahead and followed the link. I was totally baffled for about 30 seconds... then it clicked.”
She had stopped into an organic coffee shop on the way to work and chatted with the guy making her latte. He asked about the missing piece of her bumper, and she informed him that a raccoon committed suicide with her car.
They made pleasant, commonplace chit-chat about work and whatnot and she didn’t think a thing of it. But then she got to work and found that email from a coworker who gets Google alerts anytime her company’s name is mentioned online.
He had referenced it in the subject heading.
“I didn't know that Missed Connections existed, on Craigslist or elsewhere!” she said. “Nothing is private on the Internet!”
She sent me the link with a note, “I thought of you and your blog because, seriously, there's nothing normal about dating anymore! Not that I'm dating but, if I were single, what should I make of that?”
And then she added, “Of course, now the wheels are turning.” She was referring to one of our single gal pals on a quest for a man. “Hey, he's cute, he's obviously single, and he's a business owner. Can't hurt to think about it, right?”
And thus the way the female mind works. There are always opportunities for men – as long as they are just this side of crazy.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
You can’t force life. As much as you try to manipulate, coerce, cajole, it won’t work. Life, like boys, comes around when it is good and ready.
I have been – past tense – notoriously pushy when it comes to just about everything. I want what I want when and how I want it, and I want it with a friggin’ cherry on top. Don’t even think about making me wait.
Yeah, that hasn’t worked out so well for me. So I have adopted a more go with the flow outlook as of late and I have to say, it has been working out quite swimmingly.
The thing is, however, I’ve started to get bored, anxious even, not for anything in particular but more for the opportunity to cause a little trouble – basically so that I had more to write about.
I even talked about stunts I could pull – dating like my friends for example, just so I could test the bounds of what is socially acceptable.
I went out with girlfriends. I chatted up strangers in the bar. I interrogated them about their matting practices.
Life said un-huh. It said just be patient and what you are looking for, the kind of great once in a life time foolishness will just present itself.
When I had passed out all the faux bravado I could handle for one evening, I decided that life was just not going to be that eventful and I would just have to settle for good friends and pleasant enough conversations. I said my goodbyes and made my way out the door, bound for pjs and some chick-lit.
“Evenin ma’am.” I was less startled that he called me ma’am, we were in Kansas after all, and hardly registered the county twang but the little curtsy thing he pulled right there in the middle of the parking lot was a bit disconcerting. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, he hollered.”
“it is not a curtain. It’s a big white truck.” At the time I thought I was clever – now I am thinking not so much. Perhaps my sashay was what really sold it.
“Where are you going?! We haven’t even danced yet.”
“Aww. It is my bedtime.” I said. “I’ve got to take off before I turn into a pumpkin.”
I gave him my best half-wink, which probably looked more like a facial spasm than flirting and I climbed in my car. It took me a couple of minutes to get myself situated to leave and in that time my suitor was joined by another man and a young woman.
I backed out of my parking spot and turned the corner to pass his vehicle and there he was, standing in his boxer shorts trading pants with the other man.
What does one say to that??
I figured the only appropriate thing to do was to come to a screeching halt in front of them, lights blaring and roll down my windows for a little cat call action.
“Who-Hoo! Maybe I left to early after all.”
“MmmHmm. You take care ma’am. Drive safe now.”
Just when I thought life was getting unwritable, the world handed me a silver plate of what translated to literal ‘cross-dressing’ cowboys.
Life is good.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Of all the friends I could have made in KC, somehow I ended up with a bunch of blondes who live in the burbs. I feel like Miranda, only it is my friends who have abandoned me and Manhattan for Brooklyn or in this case, Overland Park, Lenexa and Prairie Village – yuck.
No offense to the minivan driving suburbanites who have settled down in domestic bliss but it is just so, so not my thing.
And yet, I am repeatedly being drug out to – gasp – Olathe for these ladies I adore.
Saturday night was just another example of this personal sacrifice. Not only did I make the trek to the burbs but I was hoodwinked into attending a barbeque, which was in actually a couples baby shower. Little People – EVERYWHERE. I like the kiddos as much as the next chick with a ticking clock but seriously, I make it a point to keep my booze and my babies separate.
And because we were in KANSAS, we really had to go out of our way to secure said alcohol. I still really don’t understand why you can’t buy booze in the same place you buy soda but it is perfectly acceptable to have a liquor store sandwiched between a HYVEE (grocery store) and a Christian book store. Something about that just seems wrong.
To add insult to injury I knew better than to imbibe and drive through Kansas, those cops are crazy.
I diligently made idle chit chat about the latest maternal devices but when I asked about this weird baby carriage thing, my girlfriend just laughed and said, “I am glad I know you are not really a bitch.”
Apparently, when I exclaimed, “What will they think of next!?” my tone came off a little more snarky than impressed.
I was far to sober to manage conversation between sweet as sugar suburbanites and newly married couples gushing over two year olds.
I needed a beer. And as I stood there with a cold one in hand, I heard a small voice, mutter from below.
“Blue Moon?” asked the rumbled five year old. I nodded. And then he nodded back approvingly. “Niiiiiice.”
“You intrigue me. I want your stories. No blog”
I wasn’t sure if this was a request or a statement alluding to a lack of interest/
I figured if he didn’t want me to post anything he would have been more specific.
Wishful thinking but if my parents, my boss and my friends aren’t safe then no one is.
He lingers in the land between business acquaintance and friend and I am hoping if I play my cards right he will move into a whole other category…mentor. - Jeez people! Not everything is about my love life or lack there of. Sometimes it is about meeting people who will help me exploit said lack of booty and Mr. Undefined is just the kind of creative inspiration a girl like me needs.
In fact my interactions with the opposite sex have been heavily supplemented by men providing occupational opportunities – hey now!– for no other reason than they like my work.
Hallelujah Midwest! Decent men do exist and they can be supportive and friendly and effusively in love with their wives and children. Think about it, if more women had friendships or work relationships with dudes who gushed about their families, think how many fewer women would tolerate doucebags? Women would have more representations of what good guys look like and hopefully wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Regardless, someone likes my ramblings and is interested in them as art.
I am pleased.
Friday, September 18, 2009
I have not been getting into nearly enough trouble lately - too much work and not enough play.
I got this group to donate the redesign of my organization’s website and had to go to a 4 hour meeting with them last night. A group full of middle-aged techies and me. I felt like Princess Leia at a Star Wars convention. They were very nice and should be commended to for taking on such an arduous task but I swear I understood maybe one out of every five words they said.
At one point one of the members of the cold fusion team – and no, I do not have any idea what cold fusion means – asked me a question about platform options or something and I just stared at him, slack jawed and barked, “I have no idea what you are talking about!”
My mocha latte may have been spiked with Goldschlager.
“It’s okay, Lyndsey. We’ll figure it out. You speak English and we will figure out a way to turn it into nerd.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I LOVE Pureology conditioner. Despite its ridiculous price tag, the cream’s tingly sensation invigorates my scalp with the aroma of peppermint and slowly wakes up my aching mind, making it well worth the cost.
Hmm, I wonder what would have happened if I had made it to the conditioner?
Instead he dumped me – right there, in the shower – mid-shampoo.
Our relationship had always been a bit of a train wreck but I figured I was at least owed the decency of getting dumped after I dried off.
He was Mr. I’ll Get You Next Time, as oblivious as I was crazy, and as I struggled to rinse the suds out of my eyes without tearing up – no, I would not give him the satisfaction – it became obvious that I had been clinging to misery and that this absurd and disturbing farewell was just what I deserved.
In all honesty, he kind of looked like a wet dog, slouched against the shower wall pitifully standing his ground.
Later, I will think about this moment and laugh. I mean how many people can say they got dumped in the shower. But there interrupted before my peppermint bliss, I was just pissed.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Shake the ugly.
I need to shake this ugly mood that has taken over.
I need to shake this ugly mood that has taken over my Monday morning and is infiltrating my Monday afternoon.
I fucked up. I was up until 4 o’clock in the morning trying to figure out if I should call the cops on the domestic disturbance that was going on under my window and if so, how I could do it with out actually calling 911.
I set two alarm clocks and put them on top of my running shoes so I would have no excuse not to exercise before my 7 am call-time for my AIDS presentation in Olathe.
I woke up a little before 8. I had 9 missed calls and a dozen text messages.
I fucked up. It was no ones fault but mine and one of those crappy things that happened despite my best attempts to be prepared.
My partner had been trying to break into my apartment building for a half hour. It was so unlike me everyone thought I might be dead.
When I saw his face I wished I was. Instead I had just been dead to the world.
It was a shitty way to start the morning and even though my employer was very kind about it – only putting me on mandatory probation instead of firing me like I suggested, I couldn’t help feeling shitty all day.
Self-flagellation. Not as fun as it sounds.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
How should one respond to a text that says, “What’s up sweet thang?”
I suppose the proper response would not be to put it on the internet for everyone to mock but I feel like I need a little universal clarification.
When I was a little girl my after school day care was playing pretend in the darkened courtroom attached to my step-father’s chambers. He was a judge and for a while I thought I might want to be one too. Then I figured out I passed enough judgments in my day-to-day life that I probably didn’t need to make a career of it.
Still I would make up fake cases, write up dockets and play judge, jury and prosecution to my imaginary foes.
Today I started imagining a new case. The case of the Mind Boggling Not-Quite Suitor
Here are the facts of the case as they have been presented to me to be regurgitated digitally now.
I have received a handful of text messages from someone I had fun with once, and whom I have not really made an attempt to speak with since.
I have seen this individual out in group settings. And he has been vetted by mutual friends. He has passed the douche bag test but the results are not yet in on whether or not he is a giant ho.
He has never called me or actually made any effort to contact me other than through text, which by all accounts is a sure sign of a booty call.
I have been, perhaps, a little too blatant with my lack of desire to date. I don’t outwardly deny all offers; instead I simply broadcast my disdain of leg shaving on the internet. I figure this will pretty much clear away anyone who expects me to do the chasing.
Still, I like this person. He is nice and funny and dickish in a way that I have always found charming.
So the case in question is whether or not someone is sucks just because they are only half-assedly perusing you. Is it possible for someone to be a great human being but completely lame in the realm of courting or communication?
Truthfully the whole thing seems like a waste of time for all involved.
So here is my verdict:
I am not looking for romance, but if it comes knocking on my door, I expect it to be fully present, not with half a foot ready to run in the other direction. And it would be nice if it came with flowers.
Girls always like flowers.
Have you ever had an “I know!” conversation?
One of those conversations, where you can’t say anything without the other person saying, “Wow, that sounds just like me!”
It is a little freaky. I say this only because I generally consider myself an odd duck and when I come across other odd ducks, I begin to worry about the fate of our universe. Too many odd ducks and what will become of the human race? I am goin’ with divine bliss or total anarchy – either way it would be an interesting ride.
I had a lovely lunch to day with a handsome young gentleman who I met through a mutual friend. (One who is probably reading this now, hopefully not too embarrassed that I called him a: handsome or b: young.) And even though it was a business meeting it was a welcomed break from a florescent lit, rat-raced day.
I have noticed in a generation of young people who are often discontent with their above average existences that it is rare to sit with someone and talk about how much you love your life. You are supposed to have something to bitch about right? Something is supposed to suck.
And yet today I got to talk with someone who likes his life, loves his job and is content in his own single relationship status. When I looked at him, it felt like looking in a mirror – a mirror with a beard.
It was entertaining and enlightening and totally relaxing . Just what I needed - you know, accept for the part where I repeatedly spilled corn salsa on my chest, my acute awareness of a tendency to talk with my mouthful and my dire need to pee throughout the entire 2 hour lunch.
See there! I totally have something to bitch about.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I have come to the realization that evaluating everyday for its potential bloggability has actually offered me a unique opportunity to become a beacon of positivity. I know, I know, anyone familiar with my early years of teen angst would find this hard to believe but it is true.
Sick narcissistic voyeurism has its advantages.
It is like my yoga teacher. Bitch is scary. And she makes me cry. But I dig her – as much as I can dig anyone who contorts me into all sorts of f-ed up positions and doesn’t even have the decency to buy me dinner first. She talks a lot and last week, as she began her final class before taking off for India, she spoke for a while about expansion, about the need for human beings to soften to new experiences so that they can let them in. We talked about ego, which we do regularly in yoga. Ego is what will get you hurt or what will keep you from reaching your edge.
Ego is what gets us stuck. It is what has gotten me stuck, in jobs, in relationships, in life. It has kept me from being forward moving, open and expansive. Ego is, to quote my yoga teacher, what makes us say, “I am this kind of person or that kind of person so I am going to dress a certain way and do certain activities to prove this to the world.”
I used to think it was a quest for self-definition, trying on other people’s lives until I found one that really fit. It was ego that was searching for definition.
My yoga teacher was onto something when she discussed softening, giving up but not giving in.
I am happier these days than I have ever been and ironically, I think it has as much to do with my lack of definition as it does my broadening scope of opportunity. It is that shift in perspective my students talk about.
I like that it is possible to be equally content in fishing waders as I am at a red carpet premiere. I like that tomorrow might go completely against my plan and I like that certain situations still make me nervous or insecure, that dressing rooms and dating will never be exactly comfortable. I am enjoying the honesty of my imperfections and I am somewhat looking forward to my next great flub and the fodder it will give me.
I might not be perfect and I might say too much but at least – hopefully – it will be entertaining.
He was wearing the ugliest sweater I had ever seen. It was speckled grey with tiny snowflakes. It was the kind of sweater a grandmother might inflict upon an unsuspecting youngster hoping for toys, treats or cold hard cash. He wore it with pride.
My skin had been worn rough and angry from the winds and water of Moscow and now, laying there with my cheek pressed firmly against his chest, I desperately wished he was wearing cashmere instead of wool. I wanted to fidget, to remove the holiday brillo pad from my face but I was too exhausted to move. I was happy and warm in his arms.
I felt safe. I always felt safe with him.
And for the longest time that had been it all. Safety, security and the love of a true friend.
I had been unkind, in a way that proved how truly heartless I could be, but there, wrapped inside his embrace it felt as though all had been forgiven. I should have known better. Nothing is that simple, at least nothing that survives my wake.
I was so exhausted that melding into him was almost involuntary.
It would be different when I woke up, when we pealed apart, when I began to make my exit from the life I had built, which once offered a special place only for him.
I felt like I should say something meaningful, something for the ages. But I had nothing.
All I could think about was that ugly ass sweater.
That damn sweater was the reason I loved him. And the reason it would never work. What is it they say? Good in theory? Maybe. But there, pressed against me, it was all too much.
I had hurt him for no other reason than because I could, because I was angry at the world and all those who had hurt me and yet he took it, and when I made my decent back into the land of palm trees and pretend, he was there waiting for me.
It would end, this beautiful slumber and the quiet. I would leave and he would claim that he only loved me because I didn’t love him back. And then he would be gone.
When the snow falls and melts into the grey of a bitter winter yet to give into its duration, I will think of him. I will imagine our smart-ass repartee and I will laugh. Our end was one I can’t explain and though I know I am to blame, I can’t help feel like I did everything I could to save it.
But there is no such thing as going back. You can’t take back a stolen first kiss, an angry word, a too-honest confession.
You can only learn and you can honor the memory of a moment.
In the end, he started to stir and I knew it was time to awake. It would be different. It would be over. I couldn’t look at him. Instead, I found his breath through sleepy eyes and moved my face to his.
I stopped laughing at his ugly sweater long enough to offer him the kiss I knew I had stolen.
It was too late. It wasn’t the first. I wish more than anything it had been.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I have had the strangest dreams lately. I have been dreaming about people I used to love visiting me in precarious situations and asking me to be their friends. It is odd. I don’t want them and I don’t want them to love me but I want to protect them from my happiness and it kills me to see them in their new lives.
Dreams. Over and over again. The same dream with different faces, different places and the same ol’ me.
I think it means I have been watching tv.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Dating in any city is difficult but in this technologically advanced age, truth is always at your fingertips. Bad boys beware. You will be found out and you will go home alone. To this point, I have the following requests:
If you are going to cheat on your significant other, please do not look for someone to do it with on match.com. It sullies up the future of on-line dating for all of us desperate girls everywhere.
If you are going to ask me on a date AND to be your facebook friend, make sure you aren’t telling the world that you are currently, “in a relationship.” This will result in me blocking your facebook, email and phone calls.
If you are going to send other girls pictures of your you-know-what, please don’t do it with your camera phone and then show the pics off. This just makes you a moron.
Respectfully abiding by these requests will make you a lot less of a douche and will greatly enhance the chance of you getting some.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Today I got to spend the day with two of my favorite females in the whole world, my best-friend since practically birth and her almost three year old daughter Maddy – my goddaughter and pretty much the greatest thing in the whole world. Seriously – she kicks sliced breads ass.
Maddy is beautiful and funny and super smart. I like to think she takes after her God-Mother but maybe that is just me.
She is becoming such a little person. She has all sorts of opinions and ideas and she has no problem expressing them. We were playing in her toy room and she wanted me to get in her play house. I told her I was too big and she said, “NO! You get in. There is plenty of room. Plenty of room for your big butt.”
Yep, she is astute too!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
We all like Project Runway and are somewhat, if not greatly, frightened by my antics.
Lately my girlfriend has been hosting a Project Runway night every Thursday at her apartment. This has made me very happy as I love Project Runway but refuse to get TV. PBS and snowy ABC through my bent bunny ears are just fine with me.
Plus, I am always game for a good girls’ night.
For as many times as I have moved, I have long-since figured out that the key to making it in any city is a hefty pack of estrogen. Some girls move to a new place and immediately start looking for a man. Not me. I have learned better. First build your posse, your support network, your outlet for cheap happy hours, borrowed blouses and the always necessary shoulder to cry on. Then you can look for a man. Reversing this order will leave you resentful, lonely and inevitably alone – at least that has been my experience.
So I will always take up an invitation to meet more friends and hopefully triple my shoe supply. Add to that an evening with booze, treats and gay men sashaying, “Make it work!” and you have yourself a recipe for a good time.
However, sometimes even taffeta, Milano cookies and a finely executed Mojito are still not enough to melt the ice of an oddly mixed crowd.
I pride myself on being adaptable, on molding my flare for the dramatic to fit the appropriateness of the situation but sometimes my radar is just slightly defective.
I did not realize this until I made a snarky comment during the first episode about the recovering meth addict being ‘a p*ssy’ for crying within the first fifteen minutes. “I mean really, he “can’t handle the pressure” and he hasn’t even started sewing yet. You have got to be kidding me!
Okay, I suppose that was a little heartless but you would have thought I said I like to drown puppies for sport.
It wasn’t until I took account of the dropped jaws and bulging eyeballs that I realized, “Toto, I don’t think were in LA anymore – we are in freakin’ KANSAS!”
There are those moments when you realize that you have taken a big fat step into it and there are very few options for recovery. I chose to keep my mouth shut – as shut as possible for the rest of the evening until I could better assess the situation. Everyone seemed nice, very nice in fact and I felt like a miscreant.
Later I talked to the host and found out that I was dealing with a group of very good girls – the work for GOD for goodness sake. She assured me that they weren’t the judgmental kind but I still couldn’t help reevaluating every word that came out of my mouth in their presence.
I made a vow that the next week I would be better.
Better. I am not even sure what that means.
Unfortunately, tonight came around and work had kicked my ass this week and I was in the mood to vent. I needed booze, a hug and a group of girls to share my pain. I was a little skeptical how my high strung, tornado of drama entrance would be welcomed but I was pleasantly surprised. Turns out even chicks who work for Jesus understand the stress of a bad day.
They were pretty cool and I did my best to keep the f-bombs to a minimum. I am not sure if I succeeded but I did notice a notable lack of jaw-dropping and eye bulging, except that directed at latest designer to get the ax.
Now that was bad.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
“Where are all the girls who just want to have fun?” he complained. “They are all looking to get married and have babies, like tomorrow.”
It is not like I have any answers. I am relationship-challenged. I am certainly not looking to get married or have babies anytime in the next say decade but I am also not a “just have fun” kind of girl, at least not in the sense that he was talking about.
That’s one of the things that sucks about being a girl. There are very few women who I know who can have the type of emotionally detached relationship that men might classify as “just having fun.” I am not trying to down-talk my gender our stereotype us as a whole. It is just hard, for me anyway. If I am not emotionally invested in you, than why bother.
Unless of course you are smokin’ hot, promise not to speak and can get the hell out before I wake up – oh and promise never to call or run into me in public. That just makes it awkward.
Still as much as my girlfriends give me crap for being a Samantha, and having the balls and well, tactlessness to say what most people are thinking, even I have standards.
Relationships are just so much work, though and I got what my new friend was talking about.
“I am not looking to do a relationship right now,” he said “and I really don’t want to deal with break-ups.”
“I don’t break-up with people.” I quipped. “I just get all passive-aggressive and act like a raging psycho until they break-up with me.”
“Me too!” he practically shouted over the crowd. “I get all worthless, until they don’t know why they are with me and then they are forced to call it off.”
“Works everyti--” I was considering throwing him a high five when I realized that we weren’t having this conversation alone.
“You guys are terrible!” The young woman hovering behind us hissed. I don’t know her very well but she seems really cool. Unfortunately, I don’t think she appreciated our stance mutual exit plan. Maybe she has been on the receiving end of this strategy a few too many times. Come to think of it, so have I. “You guys should just be honest.”
My co-conspirator and I shared a few sideways glances before the corners of his moth started to pull up in a dastardly grin that I was sure got him off the hook with every weak-kneed girl who ever cornered him in such a situation. “Yeah, I know but that is so much work.”
But then again, this guy really was smokin’ hot. I could do fun…maybe.
I think I might just be a dude.
I am having a sad day. This happens sometimes. Not as much as it used to. And these days I know better than to think that the world is coming to an end, that my life is in crisis or that it will last forever. I know – not just know, but am highly conscious of the fact that it is temporary. The sadness is a weight, a true physical manifestation, a painful heaviness and I know it will pass. I know it is not my fault and there is nothing I can do but wait.
I harbor less resentment at my chemical imbalance than I used to, when I would cry and wail, pissed that the uncontrollable misfires in my brain would interrupt my otherwise happy existence.
Now I look at it with the mild disgust of a bad case of cramps.
I breathe and I wait, knowing anything I do to try to speed up the wave of sadness will only exacerbate the effects. So I let it wash over me, it is part of who I am. And it is not as bad as it used to be – Hallelujah, modern medicine. But it will always be there. Now I just acknowledge it, wave hello, let it do its thing and continue on with my life. I don’t expect it to return but I understand that it might. I am prepared now.
Soon. It will be over soon.