tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102725112024-03-08T15:04:58.873-08:00Charming, but singleA journal in dates and drinkscharming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comBlogger312125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1169423207889681332007-01-21T15:35:00.000-08:002007-01-21T16:04:07.223-08:00Cha-cha-changesI am excited to announce some changes at this here blog. This girl, she’s moving on up. To a deluxe blog with its own domain.
That’s right. I am now the proud owner of <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.com">www.charmingbutsingle.com</a>. Effective today, all future Charming, but Single knowledge will be dropped over there.
Why am I moving?
For a lot of reasons, really. I’ve wanted to take the blog to its own domain for a while now. I’ve outgrown Blogger – as evidenced by the fact that I actually can’t transfer my blog to New Blogger. I’m told my blog is too big – too many posts or comments.
I wanted to move to WordPress, which is generally regarded as a superior blogging tool. And it seemed silly to move the blog to WordPress and NOT get a domain. So here I am.
For you, the reader, things should pretty much be the same. The template of the new blog is almost identical to the old blog, only without some of the annoying quirks when you read it in Firefox (and you should be using Firefox, because, hello. Way better than IE). You won’t need a Blogger or Google account to post comments. You can post using a WordPress account, but you certainly don’t have to.
There are still some quirks to work out. I've got to add Technorati links and some other things to the sidebar. But you can still e-mail me at charmingbutsingle at gmail dot com. And everything will be back to normal -- only BETTER normal -- soon. For starters, I’ve written a slightly longer bio that you can read on the “About” page.
Please update your blogrolls to reflect the new address, www.charmingbutsingle.com. The old Blogger site will stay up for awhile, but I’m going to slowly fix the links on the new site so that it doesn’t link back to the old one. I’m sure this will take awhile (unless anyone knows how to make universal site changes in WordPress!). I have turned off comments on this blog so that you will HAVE to use the new blog. (Don’t worry! All of your old comments? Totally on the new site!)
To recap: A better blogging experience at <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.com">www.charmingbutsingle.com</a>.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1169188022389956502007-01-18T22:24:00.000-08:002007-01-18T22:27:02.450-08:00Year TwoToday is the second anniversay (blogiversary?) of Charming, but single. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – this started out as a way to kill some time. I never intended for it to last this long, but here I am penning this second-year post.
After two cosmos, obviously.
I enjoy it. I have no idea what the future holds for this blog and how long I’ll keep it up. But having my own little corner of the ‘sphere to wax poetic about myself and men and anything else that tickles my fancy is something I love. Cherish is a silly word. But sometimes I think that it fits.
What have a learned in two years of blogging? More than you’ll ever know. It is alternately thrilling and gut wrenching to chronicle these moments from my life. Sometimes writing makes me erupt in deep belly laughs. Other times I feel tears running down my flushed cheeks.
I’ve had more than 146,000 visitors in the two years I’ve blogged, which amazes me. It really does. I am nervous that more than 800 people now read Charming, but single each day. But it warms my heart to see so many people come back to read my tales. Even when I am sappy. Even when I am sad. Even when I am cranky.
I don’t know where you people keep coming from. Only 21,000 people read in the first year of the blog, so you have to be coming from somewhere. This is my 322nd post. I don’t write every day, but I write enough. I’ve had 3755 comments. Jesus. Do you people do anything at work? (Totally joking. Y’all rock.) That’s about 2800 comments in a year. Am I really that interesting? (Don’t answer that.)
I am far from perfect and anything but wise. I make the same mistakes over and over again and yes, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t do my dishes each night and I never really make my bed. I screen my calls and forget to iron and I’m constantly stumbling in my three-inch heels.
But I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been, if you can believe that. I’d love to be in love. One day, my friends. He won’t know what hit him.
Here’s to hope and eternal optimism. To writing. To dating. To those who got away and the ones I’d wish would never come back.
Cheers –
Charming
<span style="font-style: italic;">P.S. I’ll post a wrap-up post of my favorites, the most popular and the most significant this weekend. <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/01/year-of-wit-and-witticism-by-charming.html">Just like last year</a>.</span>charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1169101739690179772007-01-17T22:23:00.000-08:002007-01-17T22:28:59.756-08:00To do: Be a girlBecause I anticipate that <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/sadness-turns-to-rage-sort-of.html">Man Detox 2007</a> (three days strong!) will certainly be a smashing success this upcoming weekend, my head has been swimming with fantastically relaxing ways in which I plan to rid myself of the crankiness that’s resulted from months of settling for so-so interactions with the male of the species.
My ever-growing list of activities involves a typical regimen of hair, skin and nail care. I have this fantastic new exfoliating scrub that I want to use on my feet. I might touch up the color of my hair. I need a manicure.
I also plan to aimlessly wander the aisles of a bookstore selecting some things to read – perhaps <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0060843276?tag=stephaniedine-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0060843276&adid=0NGTJCKE2EQ0JRG5CF4D&">Straight Up and Dirty</a> by <a href="http://stephanieklein.blogs.com/">Stephanie Klein</a> next? (So far this year I’ve read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/BreakupBabe-Novel-Rebecca-Agiewich/dp/0345484002/sr=8-1/qid=1169099759/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/105-8578567-8138816?ie=UTF8&s=books">BreakUp Babe</a>, which is a great book by a <a href="http://rebecca.agiewich.net/">blogger I love</a> that you should really go read, especially if you enjoy reading this “genre” of blogs, as she tells her story with a combination of blog posts and narrative, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/customer-reviews/0140293248/ref=cm_cr_dp_pt/105-8578567-8138816?ie=UTF8&n=283155&s=books">The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing</a>, which was okay, but not quite what I expected it to be.)
Also, trips to gym (2 planned) with newly created “Girl Power” workout playlist. Healthy food, tea instead of coffee at my Sunday power writing session, salad bar from Fantastic Fancy Grocery Store and one glass of wine on Friday night.
Possibly shopping because I need more <a href="http://www.benefitcosmetics.com/gp/product/B000FBF5BI/sr=1-9/qid=1169100755/ref=sr_1_9/104-4391475-4788726?ie=UTF8&n=164983011&bcBrand=core">BADgal Lash</a>. (I’d strayed from this mascara with a Clinique product, but my lashes are begging for me to go back to Benefit.) Also, I might break down and buy the <a href="http://hobobags.com/pages/item_detail.asp?t=1&ItemCatID=&ItemCatSubID=12&ItemID=363">Lauren by Hobo International</a> because I’ve been obsessed with it for too long now.
Also, football. Because, HELLO. One game until the Super Bowl. <a href="http://www.neworleanssaints.com/">Go Saints!</a>
Cheesy and predictable? Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1169012289834301112007-01-16T21:34:00.000-08:002007-01-16T21:40:30.733-08:00There are songs about all of them, Part 3<span style="font-style: italic;">Note: This post was not supposed to be about this song. But now it is. Read <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2005/02/there-are-songs-about-all-of-them.html">part the first</a> and <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/03/there-are-songs-about-all-of-them-part.html">part the second</a>.</span>
Dating does things to us. It makes us doubt ourselves, but it can also give us an inordinate amount of self confidence, almost to the point where our egos swell and we think we are perhaps the hottest piece this side of the Mississippi (regardless of which side of the River we actually live on).
Such is the case with “Break Your Heart,” by the Barenaked Ladies – as an aside, you should go see them live in concert, because they are fantastic and I enjoyed their set both times I saw them, and really I think seeing them live adds something to the experience.
During my senior year of high school, “Break Your Heart” was one of my favorite songs on one of my favorite albums, “Rock Spectacle.” <span style="font-style: italic;">(I’d argue that the “Rock Spectacle” version is the best. And really, you should buy the whole CD – the whole thing isn’t on iTunes and if memory serves me right, you can’t copy this CD to your computer in hopes of using it in iTunes, because of the security they placed on the CD. Bastards.)</span>
Anyway, Best Friend Ever and I both loved the song “Break Your Heart.” And I don’t know how many times we listened to it – a lot, I think I wore my copy out – but we had this little ritual that I never did with anyone else. We’d be sitting in her parents’ powder blue Ford Taurus station wagon and we’d blast the CD, turning it up as loud as possible at about two and a half minutes in.
See, at three minutes into the song, there is this fantastic surge of emotion and sound – I don’t know technical signing terms because I couldn’t carry a tune in a paper sack.
It starts low.
“You arrogant man …” we’d sing softly. “What do you think that I am?”
We’d look at each other and take a deep breath. Because it builds.
And then at the top of our lungs, as loud as we could, we’d sing “My heart will be FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE … JUST STOP WASTING MY TIME! OH NO! I know that you will be okay and that I’ve got what I want, and that’s rid of you …”
And we’d pause.
“Goodbye!”
And some nights we’d collapse into laughter and others we’d immediately go back to the middle of the song and do it all over again. It was just what we needed sometimes. Our fun little game. Our secret way to let out whatever stress it is that teenagers feel about Homecoming dances and whatnot. (Only not so secret now, since, you know, I just told all of y’all.)
Of course, at age 16 we only thought we knew heartbreak and sadness. We had no idea of the true pain, and conversely, true joy, that life had in store for us. I wish I could shake 16-year-old me and say, “Look at you! You are beautiful! You have clear skin and sure you don’t have washboard abs, but Jesus Christ, stop tying flannels and sweatshirts around your waist, throw away those smelly Converse One Stars, brush your hair out of your face and pluck those eyebrows. Because YOU are missing it all, young lady.”
“Break Your Heart” is basically a sad song about how sometimes we stay in relationships too long because we don’t want to hurt the other person. We are conceited and think that the other person will be crushed without us.
I don’t consider myself a heartbreaker by any means. But dating does weird things to us and it causes us to believe that we’re going to hurt someone more than we will, so we string them along for no reason. <span style="font-style: italic;">(Like the guy I dated freshman year in high school, who when I finally told him, “I don’t want to hang out with you anymore” turned around and asked me to Homecoming sophomore year. And I was mean and wouldn’t go with him and told everyone I’d rather not go if I had to go with him and then NO ONE else asked me and so I sat at home and moped about it and my parents wanted us all to go to dinner and I made them take us to restaurant about a half hour out of town so that we wouldn’t run into people eating before the dance. And they did, because they rock. And also, the restaurant has some of the best fried catfish ever. Ever.)</span>
Good times.
Anyway, if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of this treatment you know it hurts. Not only because you’re hurt for being dumped. But because the person dumping you was so bold to think that you would just die without them. And the truth is that if they’d just TOLD you, you wouldn’t have been so invested in the relationship and you wouldn’t end up feeling like a pile of dung.
Really, the song just reminds me of being young and melodramatic. And it makes me miss simpler times and that damn blue station wagon that we once crammed like 12 girls in to go to a football game or something.
Ah, yes. Memories.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168957361743931792007-01-16T06:20:00.000-08:002007-01-16T06:23:21.896-08:00Sadness turns to rage (sort of)<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/he-dropped-bomb-on-me-baby.html">Sunday night was a bit of a wake-up call</a>. First, I curled up under the blankets and wondered if I should cry or punch a hole in the wall. I’m unsure was to why hearing that an ex had impregnated the next woman he’d dated after me made me so mad – I think it was all of the groveling and the “you have beautiful eyes” and the “you truly do not know how much I’ve missed you.”
By Monday morning my sadness and confusion has pretty much become anger. I convened my girlfriends for coffee and gossip. They had predictable reactions – what a jerk for telling you, what a moron for not being more careful, what a loser for acting like he missed you. Also, a lot of, “Whatever you do, don’t ever ever ever see him again ever.”
I’m not angry because he got someone else pregnant. I’m angry because he’d acted as if I’d be around to hang out in a few months, once he was passed all of this baby unpleasantness, or whatever. (Unpleasantness was my word, not his.) As if I’d forget how he treated me, forget how I felt unwanted.
At first I thought The Nurse was 100 percent right when he said I didn’t act like I wanted a relationship. But the more I really think about it, the more I think that is partially just him making excuses for his actions. We talked about if he was dating other people and I told him I wasn’t. I had to all but beg him to take me out. He claims I only wanted to see him after I’d been out at bars, but I inquired a lot about what he was doing at other times – he was working or studying or had other plans.
He pushed me away. And I stood for it. And I shouldn’t have. All of those times when the voice in the back of my head said, “Tell him. Teeeeell hiiiiiim,” I should have listened.
I feel like I’ve lost my way with men. That said, I think I’m going on a man detox for now. I’ve lost my way. I’m settling for less than I deserve and want. I’ve got to get back on track so I don’t keep making the same mistakes over and over again.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168846982303832052007-01-14T23:40:00.000-08:002007-01-14T23:48:46.160-08:00He Dropped A Bomb On Me – A Baby<span style="font-style: italic;">Note: This is long. But after you read it, you'll understand why. I promise.</span>
So, I happened to be online last night. Unable to sleep and bored by my Grey’s Anatomy DVDs, I logged online to kill some time until my eyelids became heavy.
<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/08/raining-on-sunday.html">The Nurse</a> sent me an IM – which was kind of nuts since he pretty much dropped off of the face of the earth. And he starts in with how he’s starting his official nursing job tomorrow and why am I up so late on a Sunday, etc.
I talked to him, but to say that I wasn’t at least a touch confused would be an understatement. Why now? After<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/happy-friggin-2007.html"> ignoring numerous drunken text messages from me</a> and <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/09/hes-alive-and-shopping-at-my-grocery.html">seeing me in public and not speaking to me</a>? Crazy.
We exchanged pleasantries and he said that he figured I’d never want to speak to him again and that he was a jerk and that he was sorry. And we had one of those talks that you can have after you’ve really gotten all of the hurt out, when you can be honest and while it still stings, it doesn’t crush you.
Then he dropped the bomb.
“I made a mistake. And now I’m going to be a dad.”
I blinked when I saw those words.
“It wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen, but oh well.”
I blinked again.
“You were wonderful. You are wonderful.”
“What?”
“The woman you saw me with is pregnant.”
And I remembered. <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/09/hes-alive-and-shopping-at-my-grocery.html">The grocery store</a>. About six weeks after he’d dropped me. He was with a woman. I’d assumed she was his mother because she looked older.
She was his girlfriend. His now-pregnant 29-year-old girlfriend.
He went on to tell me that’d he’d really missed me. But he’d made a mistake.
“I do miss those eyes, though.”
“Eyes?” I said.
“You have pretty eyes. I miss those eyes.”
“That’s cute,” I said. “But forgive me if I don’t believe it.”
“Oh if only you knew.”
“I made an ass out of myself,” I said. “I don’t normally chase.”
“You didn’t make an ass out of yourself. I was a prick. But you do have a nice booty.”
We kept talking. I don’t know why.
“I wanted to call,” he said. “Maybe if I had …”
“What would you have said?”
“That’s the tough part.”
“I really liked you. You didn’t seem into having a relationship.”
“I wasn’t, it just happened.”
“With who? With me? You call that a relationship?” I asked.
“No, with Her. It just happened.”
He went on to tell me that he wasn’t planning on staying with Her. He was going to have the child and be in its life, but he wouldn’t be with Her if he hadn’t gotten her pregnant.
“I wanted to be with someone. Like an adult. Not just drinking in bars,” I said. “I guess I didn’t articulate that well.”
“You only seemed to text message after drinking at bars.”
“I thought that was what you wanted. You were busy with school and I was trying to not be a big demand on your time.”
He is right. I didn’t ask for what I wanted – I was too scared of being hurt to put myself out there and say, “[Nurse] I want a relationship. I expect a relationship.” I was so worried that he’d deny me this and that he’d think I was nuts.
Hearing that he didn’t understand what I’d wanted from him didn’t make me feel much better. I wanted to be able to blame him for everything that went wrong. But I was part of the problem. And I knew that.
<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/10/shes-alive-and-on-medication.html">
We talked about me having my tonsils out</a>. About how he felt bad because he knew I was sick and having surgery and he didn't call. Still. About how She hates vegetables and thinks instant potatoes are better than homemade garlic mashed potatoes and how he’s watching her diet to watch out for the baby because she’d turn it into a fast food junkie.
“I don’t eat mashed potatoes anymore. Or popsicles,” I said, noting that I’d eaten a lot of both after my surgery.
“I might have to make you real mashed potatoes with the skins on. Maybe in a year if you’re not in love with someone else.” he said.
“Hah.”
“What was that ‘Hah’ for? Like you wouldn’t ever be in the same room with me?”
“Just Hah.”
“Won’t commit one way or the other, huh?”
“I’ve got to look out for myself. Can’t go around getting hurt again.”
All of this was a bit much for me. Part of me wanted to cry because I finally knew the truth. And because I wondered what would have happened if I’d forced the issue of us dating. Or if he had called. If either one of us had done what we’d really wanted to do in our hearts.
He said it was time for him to go to sleep – something I knew I wouldn’t do for hours after this conversation.
“Good night. Remember that you are beautiful and you deserve a decent guy.”
“I never doubted that,” I said.
This was a lie, but in this situation, I think you just have to fake it until you make it.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168811951224581712007-01-14T13:58:00.000-08:002007-01-14T13:59:54.030-08:00Not with a bang, but with a whimperMy subscription to Match.com expired this weekend. I didn’t renew. <span style="font-style: italic;">(I cancelled it so that it wouldn’t auto-renew, which, as y’all probably know is the way that online dating services squeeze money from you. For the uninitiated, the vast majority of online dating services have it in their terms of service that your subscription auto-renews if you don’t cancel it before it ends. Meaning, if you have a three-month subscription like I did? You end up being auto renewed for three more months, having your credit card charged for $50 more and then feeling like you should be trying if you’re paying for it, right? So, you end up subscribed for months longer than you’d intended and your heart isn’t in it so you’re not getting much benefit from it. And I’m not saying $50 is a ton of money, but personally I’d rather go shopping or get a manicure than be forced to online date for even a minute longer than I desire. But that could just be me.)</span>
And, no, I don’t want to talk about how I went on zero Match.com dates this cycle. Yeah, I got e-mails and winks and profile views. But none of the men were quite what I wanted. I spoke with several of them and I generally wasn’t thrilled with my selection. And I sort of feel like I keep getting the same 10 people in my “Your Matches” e-mails. And most of them, hello, live in The Sticks around my smallish city. And not to beat a dead horse, but I do NOT like to commute to date. Hell no.
Well, right before my subscription ended, I happened upon a profile for a guy who really seemed great. Early 30s, never married, tall, interesting answers to the standard dating profile questions. And I added him to my favorites but decided against e-mailing him. What was the point? I was going to be done with Match in two weeks anyway.
Truth be told, I kept wondering about him. As I continued to get e-mailed and winked at through the site, I’d see his little picture in my list of favorites and ultimately decided to e-mail him. This time I didn’t send my standard, “Hi, I’m [Charming], here is a bit about me, I liked your profile, please drop me a line if you would like to chat” e-mail. This time, I put a little more thought into it. I noted that “I liked your profile” was the cheesiest line ever used on Match.com, but that it was true. I had like his profile and at first glance he seemed nice and normal and I’d certainly like to get to know him better if he was interested.
I got an almost immediate response. He said he understood how difficult it was to craft an e-mail to a perfect stranger and he appreciated that I’d put some time into my note. His response to my response was a nice length – much better than the incomplete sentences most guys seem to throw together as a way of flirtation. And thus began several days of e-mailing. I learned a lot about him – he’d moved back to the South recently, he’d been a lawyer, he was into real estate now, we liked a lot of the same music.
I’d react with excitement when I’d get an e-mail from him. He always responded within a day of my last message. And though he hadn’t asked me out yet, I was confident that he would, as I don’t exchange six or seven paragraph e-mails with people in whom I don’t have at least a passing interest.
On Thursday morning, realizing that my time on Match was winding down, I closed my e-mail to him with a note that my Match subscription was ending this weekend. I said I wasn’t subscribing again, but noted that I was still going to be dating and that I’d like to keep corresponding with him. I gave him my e-mail address and asked that he e-mail me there.
And … nothing. No e-mail response on either Match or in my e-mail account. I checked and he’s definitely signed on each day since I sent him the e-mail. He’s even viewed my profile between then and now. But no response or note to my e-mail account – I’ve even checked my Spam folder.
I swear, the amount of knowledge I have about men could fit in a thimble. Because I seriously have no idea why it would matter that I wasn’t subscribed to Match anymore. Does he think that means I want to date him exclusively and that I’ve stopped looking? Does he like the semi anonymous nature of Match.com and is he just not willing to get rid of that quite yet? Am I simply reading too much into this? Will he e-mail me this week?charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168581456483908392007-01-11T21:57:00.000-08:002007-01-11T22:00:10.813-08:00So. Damn. Clueless.Wednesday night, the inevitable happened.
I saw the Blackberry. (<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/mortification.html">And this time I had to talk to him</a>.)
I was running late to meet Prom Date at the cigar bar for a drink. It is one of my favorite bars and I figured I couldn’t stay away forever and for all I knew, The Blackberry wouldn’t be there.
Prom Date called because I was running late and I could hear The Blackberry yelling into the phone for me. I didn’t want to see him and would have preferred if he would have fallen off of the face of the earth after our <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/happy-friggin-2007.html">New Year’s make out session</a>, but what was I to do? I could go home and bail on Prom Date or I could be an adult and deal with The Blackberry.
I chose the later.
I strode in wearing my work clothes, as I’d had an after work dinner. I was in a knee-length black pencil skirt, a black top and black high heels (didn’t feel like ironing!) and the look was topped off with a trench coat. My hair was in a low bun on the base of my neck.
He immediately moved seats so I could sit between him and Prom Date, who could tell something was up between the two of us, but didn’t ask until later.
Our cocktail waitress came over and The Blackberry made a show of putting my wine on his tab – noting that Prom Date could pay his own way. It was possibly mean of me to accept the glass of wine, but I worried refusing it would cause a minor scene.
“You can put her drink on my tab,” he said.
“That’s not necessary, but thank you for the drink.”
The cocktail waitress brought the wine over and I had a sip.
“You’re not going to thank me?”
“Um,” I said. “I thanked you before. But thanks again.”
Later, he said, “Wasn’t it nice of me to buy you a drink?”
“Yes, thank you. It is literally the NICEST thing that anyone has EVER done for me before.”
“Well that warms my heart – I do have one, you know.”
He later asked if I was mad at him for not calling.
“I thought about it, but since I never called, I didn’t know if I should call.”
“Why would you start calling me now?”
A few minutes went by and he said, “So, did you enjoy your New Year?”
“Yes, I slept in, recovered from my hangover and saw my parents,” I said curtly.
“Technically, you also, you know … we were … on New Years … it was after midnight.”
I ignored him.
He was annoying me later and said, “Can you not see the disdain I have for you?”
“You didn’t have disdain for me a few nights ago.”
Then he left for a few minutes.
“Dear God,” I told Prom Date. “This is what I’m going to have to deal with for the rest of my life! When I am in the nursing home, he is going to roll his wheelchair over and try to flirt with me.”
Then The Blackberry was back and begging me to dance. I refused, yawned and downed my wine so I could leave.
“Where are you going?” he asked as I slipped on my coat.
“Home, because I need to sleep.”
He leaned in to me and in a whisper said, “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Um, NO.”charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168438687842116532007-01-10T06:17:00.000-08:002007-01-10T06:18:07.946-08:00Saturday Night (A Few Hours Later)<span style="font-style: italic;">See also: </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/saturday-night.html">Earlier that night.</a>
“I am starving.”
I turned to look at him and reached out to rub his shaved head – he bristled earlier when I called him bald, noting that he shaved, not lost, his hair. It was almost 2 a.m. and the last thing I wanted was food or to move out of bed.
“But you already ate,” he said.
I nodded and pulled closer to him. I never understood how men could think of eating when cuddling and sleeping seemed so much more logical. I couldn’t imagine walking downstairs and cooking. I didn’t want to speak or do anything but just breathe, quietly ini the dark, as we nodded off to sleep.
“I have an idea. Why don’t we toss on some clothes …”
“Yes …”
“And we’ll go downstairs and I’ll walk you to your car, kiss you goodnight, and go find some food.”
I half sat, propping myself up on my forearm. I scrunched my eyebrows, though I doubt he could see this in the dark.
He was kicking me out.
I wanted to protest, to slap him for being nuts. It was raining. And he never kicks me out.
But I bit my tongue, reminded myself that we’re not in a relationship. And I’m not going to stay if he doesn’t want me to.
The sky was on the edge of a major storm when I felt my heels click on the concrete. I opened the car door and turned around so that the door was between us. He slipped around the door and gave me a kiss.
“I brought my A game tonight, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, you brought your A game tonight, babe.”charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168326742513194242007-01-08T23:10:00.000-08:002007-01-08T23:12:22.576-08:00Saturday Night“Will she eat my shoes?” I asked, motioning to his new dog, which is four years old but still acts like a puppy.
“No, she will not eat your shoes,” <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/taking-stock.html">On Paper</a> assured me as he walked into the living room. Earlier, when I was leaning up against the kitchen counter sipping a glass of sweet tea, he’d brushed some hair behind my ear and taken my inexpensive dangling earrings in between his thumb and forefinger.
“I like that you always wear these long earrings. They’re special.”
“They’re leaves. Little metal leaves,” I said quietly, as if identifying them was somehow profound. “Falling leaves.”
“I know.”
He was standing across from me in his little kitchen. We had the whole house to fill, but he stood close to me as we drank our sweet tea. I was in a black dress, a sweater shrug and three-inch stain peep toe heels with a sling back. I’d dined and seen a show with my girlfriends. And, as was coming slightly customary, I’d ended up at On Paper’s house on the intersection of Chemistry and Uncertainty.
He stood before me in jeans and an untucked tee. Barefoot, he towered over me in my heels. He used to play football and I feel overwhelmed by his physical presence sometimes, like when I see how little my hands are when our fingers are intertwined.
I’d announced that I needed to sit. No more sweet tea; my feet were killing me. I slipped one shoe off and then the other and placed them gently on the floor near the couch, eyeing the puppy as I let them drop. She took one look hungry at them and I knew not to trust her. I scooped them up by their black backstraps and deposited them on a table.
“Well, come here.” He reached out to me. He’s settled in on the couch and his hand pulled me to sit by his side. “Give me those feet.”
And he leaned over and grabbed one knee to twist my legs across his lap. I squealed and screeched like a five-year-old schoolchild being chased on a playground.
“You cannot touch my feet. They are gross,” I insisted, trying to tuck them underneath my skirt.
“They’re fine,” he said, tugging at an ankle.
“No! No! No! No feet!”
“Why?”
“They’re gross and my toes aren’t polished and I need a pedicure like crazy,” I said.
“Seriously? Just let me rub your feet. You said they hurt from those shoes.”
I shook my head, crossed my arms across my chest and narrowed my eyes stubbornly.
He grabbed a throw from the back of the couch and spread it across his lap. I squealed again as he pulled my feet to the throw and then covered them. And then he rubbed my feet through the blanket.
“No touching of the feet. No seeing of the toes,” he said, clearly proud of his ingenuity. My strong reaction to him touching my feet was confusing – of all the places he’s touched me, of all the angles he’s seen of me, I doubt my slightly callused heels would have been in any way shocking.
“They’re ugly.”
“Nothing on you is ugly,” he said, shaking his head.
And then he kissed me before I could self deprecate again.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1168240632913831962007-01-07T23:16:00.000-08:002007-01-07T23:17:13.073-08:00Why I blog (aka A Right to be Wrong)I stared at the screen for a few minutes not knowing where to start, which is different for me. I may no know where I’m going when I start writing an entry, but I almost always know where I want to start.
I don’t blog because I’m some dating goddess. I don’t blog because I think I know more than you do. I don’t blog because I want to be your best girlfriend or because I think I can give you dating advice. I don’t blog because I want you to tear me apart. I don’t blog because I need your validation. I don’t blog because I need the attention.
I don’t blog because I’m a bitch. I don’t blog because I think I’m always right. I don’t blog to bring other people down. I don’t blog because I want you to be your girlfriend. I don’t blog because I want your opinion. I don’t blog because I think I am perfect.
I blog because I love to write.
No, really. Love. To. Write.
I’ve written little newsletters, short stories, bad poetry and journals since I was very young. (I wrote this one story many many years ago that wasn’t so much a story as it was an homage to my favorite color combination at the time – pastel pink and pastel green. In the “story” everything the girl has is pink and green and swirled and lovely. And I don’t remember exactly what happens to her, but I am certain that her watermelon-flavored pink-and-green lip gloss was VERY central to her ultimate salvation.) In the perfect world, I’d lounge about on a pillow and write all day and people would drive trucks up to my house and bring me money in exchange for the writing.
But the trucks haven’t gotten here yet. And they’ll probably never come. So I blog to give my passion for writing somewhere to go.
Blogging is tricky business. If I didn’t want to be read, I wouldn’t publish this on the Internet, right? But being read isn’t the only reason I do it. Some days, I think it was easier to blog when no one read.
Do I need a thicker skin? Probably.
I do LOVE that people read the blog. I love that people sometimes see a little piece of them in my writing. I have blogs that I read in the morning as a break from my mundane existence. The peek into someone’s life makes me happy. And if I can be that to a few people, then that’s great.
But that is just a side effect of blogging, really. Because I do this for me. It helps me work through my feelings and remember the glorious things we don’t always – it is easy to forget the flush we get about something when it ends poorly. In addition to allowing me to look at myself, this blog allows me to cherish those perfect little moments that would otherwise be lost in the bigger picture.
If you do love to write and you do open your blog up to comments, you’re bound to get unsavory remarks from time to time. You come to expect them. But, as I told a commenter on the last post, negative comments on your journal feel like some intruder has stormed into your home and taken a dump on your carpet. And I guess you could say that I opened the door. But there is a difference between constructive criticism (which, FYI, I’ve never really asked for, though I do appreciate it at times) and outright meanness (again, also never asked for and appreciated to a much lessor extent).
Maybe, I think, I should shut the door from time to time.
In closing, I’d remind you that you don’t know me. We haven’t had lunch and cocktails and mani-pedis. You know what I let you know about me. And if I sound defensive, it is because care about myself. If I’ve learned anything from being fiercely independent and opinionated, it is that you have to protect your own heart and soul.
And desiring to do so doesn’t make me a weak person.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1167979532506911922007-01-04T22:29:00.000-08:002007-01-07T10:40:29.713-08:00More than a mouthfulI have a crush. A big crush. A crush that comes at such a terrible time for me that I just want to cry and pitch a fit about how unfair it is that my New Year’s Resolution is to get in better shape and I pick this particular moment to have a crush on a food blogger.
Fine, it isn’t a real crush. It’s a blog crush. Her name is Deb, she writes at <a href="http://www.smittenkitchen.com/">Smitten Kitchen</a>, and she blogs the best best best food recipes and cooking tales with fantastic pictures that are just beautiful and I wish I could reach right on in through my laptop screen and take a bite. Not a little princess nibble, but a huge, hulking mouthful of yumminess – even my quasi-vegetarian self would probably eat anything, meat included, that looked as appetizing as Deb’s delights.
This is precisely the problem.
I am supposed to be eating green leaves with a light dusting of oil and vinegar! A properly measured serving of Cheerios with skim milk and half a banana! A small portion of baked fish with half a baked sweet potato! Not lusting after <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/12/mounds-of-awesome">truffles</a> and <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/12/aww-yeah-1017-grams-of-butter">pecan bars</a> (damn you Ina Garten!) and <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/11/candy-corn-for-really-lucky-grown-ups">Bourbon! Pumpkin! Cheesecake!</a>
How trite of me to blog about overeating in early January, right? There should be a Technorati tag devoted to heavily clichéd posts about eating better in the New Year. But what disappoints me is while I never expect to be a tiny, waiflike thing, I know how to eat healthy food in a way that doesn’t cause me to gain weight (and, wonder of wonders, allows me to lose weight). And it doesn’t kill me. And it does taste good. And I do get to eat. In fact, the most successful diet I’ve ever been on allowed me to eat three normal-sized meals and two to three snacks a day.
Mayo-free tuna salad. Natural peanut butter and bananas in pita pockets. Homemade blue cheese vinaigrette <span style="font-style: italic;">(yes, I was consulting my nurse practitioner about healthy eating strategies – seriously, try this, your medical professional has really good pointers and also will be excited to share them with you, promise – and she said that a modicum of cheese is okay and that she makes fresh salad dressing every day and that she’d rather me worry about cutting out tons of sugars, fried things and overeating than an some olive oil in my salad dressing)</span> on my greens. And, ohmygod, if you have not had the sugar free Jell-o instant pudding in cheesecake flavor? Stop what you are doing and go to the store. I will wait for you to get back.
Back? Good. Seriously, sliced strawberries (you really only need a few) on top of that pudding? Maybe it was because I’d cut my sugar intake down and assaulted my body with daily work outs, but that was my favorite after dinner dessert while I pondered how hot I was going to look after all of this.
My point? I don’t have one. Except that I’m pissy that Monday is my “diet day.” (I always start diets on Mondays because I figure I’m already in a bad mood anyway.)
Also, I cancelled my Match.com subscription. But if I happen to meet some awesome guy between now and the end of my subscription next week, I’m making this <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/11/ganached-guinness-goodness">Guinness cake</a> to lure him into my apartment, where I will lock the door and we will do nothing but eat cake all day long and never go on diets or climb onto elliptical machines.
That’s my plan.
<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Updated 1/7/06: Charming's diet discussion in the comments.</span>charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1167781013488807382007-01-02T15:36:00.000-08:002007-01-03T05:30:06.520-08:00MortificationWhen I do things and immediately regret them – like, say, <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2007/01/happy-friggin-2007.html">most of what I did on New Year’s Eve</a> – I almost immediately want to change my habits so that I won’t have to run into the other parties involved. Find a new neighborhood. Leave my regular haunts. Move to a different city and change my name. (I think someone stands to make a lot of money by implementing a Witness Protection Program-style relocation project to help embarrassed singles escape multitudes of dating disasters.)
I never know what to say and avoid confrontation like the plague. I won’t go to the Cigar Bar for at least two weeks now that I’ve kissed The Blackberry. Avoidance might not be the most mature answer to the question, but at least it saves me from having to face my mistakes like an adult.
There is a problem with this approach to life. You can’t hide from people forever. And this has never been more evident than right now, at this very moment, when I am sitting in the coffeehouse by my apartment, otherwise known as my writing sanctuary. I try to avoid only writing at home because I get distracted and watch TV and cook dinner and chat on the phone. But armed with a $4 cup of coffee and my headphones, I write amazingly well because it is busy enough to keep me working and relaxing enough for me to really reach my creative place. Plus, there are fewer distractions and no pillows to beckon me back to bed. When I feel like I need to write as detox, to feel the thrill of my fingers flying across the keys of my ThinkPad, to revel in the release of just getting it all out of my system, I come to the coffee shop and it is just me and my laptop up against the big bad world of dating.
Not today, unfortunately.
As I type, The Blackberry is sitting across the coffee shop. He has seen me. I know this. But I have kept my head down and my iPod on. I look focused, like I could be working, when really I just want to die because he is here. It feels like he has invaded my personal space, which is ridiculous because I have no more claim to it than he does. And even though I know that he has no idea what I am working on, I worry that he can feel me ripping him to shreds. And I am embarrassed for the both of us. Such an unmatched pair. I despise him (even more so than I did before) and he knows it. I think it turns him on.
I must leave in a half hour to go meet a friend to see a movie and The Blackberry is sitting right by the door. I could rush past and not say hello. It would be almost impossible for me to pass through the door and not see him. And he’d likely say something to me.
I could ignore him. But I wonder if I am that cruel.
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Update:</span> Not still trapped in the coffee shop. He got up from his table, I left through the opposite door as he was coming back. I'm kind of a moron for not thinking of that earlier. And I don't feel so cruel, because it's not like he came over and spoke to me. Do I think he thinks Sunday night was a mistake? Hard to tell. Here's to hoping ...charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1167718030840979152007-01-01T22:01:00.000-08:002007-01-01T22:56:55.733-08:00Happy Friggin’ 2007<span style="font-style: italic;">Note: This is long. Like almost 2,000 words long. Deal with it! There is actual boy gossip at the bottom.</span>
My <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/plans-we-dont-need-no-stinkin-plans.html">low-key New Year’s Eve</a> turned out to be a flurry of text messaging and alcohol that ended with me hiding my head in my blankets and pillows, mortified that I’d let myself act so needy and ridiculous and wishing I could ask for a redo.
I started the evening by opting to wear one of my go-to black dresses, dangly red earrings (that broke midway through the night) and black satin platform peep toe shoes with a backstrap. I figured that I should be dressed like the hottest thing to go to bed alone. I topped my look with heavier-than-normal eye make up (it was New Year’s Eve, after all) and my newly perfected nighttime hairdo, which involves many products that both volumize my hair while also smoothing it so that it hangs flat after some light straightening.
<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/08/boys-boys-boys.html">Prom Date</a> arrived right at 9 p.m. and we cracked open the first bottle of white wine. I’d already had two beers of the yummy delicious localish seasonal brew variety. We planned to hang out for a little while before descending upon the cigar bar for the actual New Year.
It was not to be. Prom Date’s friend (and <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/10/will-you-be-my-lois-lane-part-1.html">The Blackberry</a>’s former roommate) called to say that our beloved bar was charging a $20 cover and that very few people were there. (See: $20 cover.) I would have paid the cover, but the boys seemed highly perturbed that the bar where we always hang out, which is hardly a happening hotspot, would charge a cover. And so we decided to celebrate chez moi with wine and champagne and bowls of yummy wasabi peas and sesame sticks and fresh-from-the-box brownies.
Another glass of wine later and I was ready to start spreading the text message love all over my cell phone’s address book. <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/2006-good-year.html">On Paper</a> and I had exchanged a few texts – I’d assumed he didn’t want to see my anymore after some quite cold behavior on his part, but he called this week and we’d talked. I have no idea what he wants or if I can give it to him, but we’ll hopefully be hanging out this coming weekend, as he had a cold and did not go out New Year’s Eve. (Which I am inclined to believe, as he is pretty forthcoming about his plans.)
I’d thought I’d seen <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/09/hes-alive-and-shopping-at-my-grocery.html">The Nurse</a> as I padded through the Fancy Chain Grocery Store earlier that evening to buy some last-minute supplies and two slices of olive-heavy pizza. It wasn’t him. Rather, it was a man of his height and approximate stature with reddish hair and similar features who was dressed and styled the way I’d always secretly wished The Nurse was. He had short hair (The Nurse had a tendency to let his get a touch too long) and a beard (not necessary, but cute in the winter) and was wearing well-worn jeans that actually fit and did not have tapered legs and a cream colored sweater with a zipper that clung to his frame just right.
Well, this faux Nurse sighting got me thinking about the actual Nurse and of course I turned into a blathering idiot who thought it was a good idea to send him some early New Year’s greetings via text. Much to my surprise, he actually responded in kind. However, when I attempted to flip this into a late night visit to my place, I was summarily rejected as he ignored the several poorly-spelled texts I’d tapped out.
At some point, I’d decided to instant message <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/10/will-you-be-my-lois-lane-part-2.html">The Blackberry</a> to see what the crowd at cigar bar was like. And this led to some stupid flirting. And the boys sent several messages to The Blackberry posing as me. I teased him that he didn’t have my gate code and wouldn’t be able to get into my apartment complex. I eventually gave him the code.
“You better watch yourself,” Blackberry’s Friend told me. “That boy likes you. And if I know him, he sees your flirtation as an invitation to set up camp outside your apartment until you relent.”
“Hardly. I have been quite clear about my intentions from the get go and I can promise you that I will not be sleeping with him. And I have told him this many times before.”
“I’m just saying that it doesn’t matter what you say if someone believes the exact opposite.”
But I was drunk and I didn’t think The Blackberry would actually come over when he had a whole bar full of women to hit on. He is a man of numbers – he’s said so himself – and the numbers were in his favor at the bar.
As the night crept past midnight, champagne glasses were emptied and refilled and then emptied again. And the boys headed home around 2 a.m. I locked the door and curled up on the love seat. When I stayed still, I felt as if the room was spinning and I needed to grab onto the edges of the sofa to steady myself. I was near sleep when my cell phone went off. Someone was at the front gate for me.
I groaned because I knew exactly who it was. And I could have ignored the call. But I figured he’d just keep calling until I buzzed him in, so I did.
A few minutes later we were having beers. I was sitting in an easy chair and he was on the love seat. I’d chosen my seat strategically so that he couldn’t sit next to me. This worked for about five minutes until he asked me to join him on the love seat and I bragged about how comfortable my chair was. The next thing I knew, I’d volunteered to switch places with him so he could feel how comfortable the chair was. And then it took another three minutes for him to join me back on the loveseat.
And then we were making out. He is an aggressive, tongue-happy kisser who is a bit sloppier than I enjoy. And he let his hands travel down my sides and I stopped him and told him, in no uncertain terms, that I was not going to sleep with him, take off my clothes, take off his clothes or anything else like that. He was mostly respectful of this, though I had to remind him of it a few times.
He suggested several times that we move to my bed, but I shot him down each time. “We’ll just kiss, I swear,” he pleaded. But I was not giving in and his insistence began to wear on me.
Finally I got up and sat on the chair.
“It is time for you to go home,” I yawned.
“I want to stay here.”
“No,” I said firmly, motioning to the door. “It is time for everyone who doesn’t live here to not be here anymore.”
He argued with me.
“I won’t touch you, I swear.”
But I never relented. I was losing my freewheeling buzz and I did not want him in my house when I woke up. Because I’d realized that this was a mistake. <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/snippets-from-friday-night-part-3.html">I’d worked so hard to continuously shoot him down over the past few months</a>, as he is a terribly inappropriate man to date. He’s cocky to a fault and he talks about women like they are conquests. And I fear that I’m now going to be on that list of women he talks about as they walk through the bar.
“See baby, see her? I know her REAL WELL, ifyouknowhwhatImean,” he says as he sees former flings. Whether or not he has slept with them, no one knows. But he leaves little doubt in people’s minds that he has bedded them all. Perception is reality in this case.
I don’t want to be one of those women. And so he had to leave before I preemptively slapped him for saying such things about me. And before I realized that I would have to stay away from my favorite little cigar bar for the next few weeks to avoid his smugness. And this did not please me. At all.
“You have to go now,” I said. I walked to the door and opened it, like a flight attendant giving him directions off of a plane.
“Baby, I want to stay.”
“No.”
“I will just sleep on your doorstep.”
“Go.”
I closed the door and waited for him to leave. But I could see his outline in my window. He wasn’t going to leave.
I pulled the door open.
“I knew you’d change your mind, baby.”
“I have not. Please go home. I am serious. Go home.”
I shut the door again, flipped off he outside light and locked the deadbolt. I walked to the kitchen to get some water. But I could hear him talking outside my door. I didn’t see him in my window or peephole.
I opened the door and he tumbled backwards onto the floor. He had been sitting on my doormat.
“[Blackberry]! GO HOME!”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Get off of my porch.”
“Fine,” he said. And he stood up and walked midway down the stairs and sat again, still talking.
“I have NEIGHBORS,” I hissed.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Like a stray cat. He’d tasted the milk I’d given him and he wasn’t going to leave now without eating a feast first.
Well, I know a few things about stray cats. Not having a hose nearby, I decided I would have to improvise.
The concrete felt cold beneath my bare feet and the wind whipped around my legs as I tip toed down the steps to where he sat.
“Oh baby, you changed your mind,” he said, looking up at me hopefully.
“No, I didn’t. You either go or you get wet,” I said.
It was then that he realized I had a very full cup of water in each hand.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“I will,” I said, tipping one cup slightly so that a dribble of water sloshed over the side and onto the step behind him. “Either you go or I will soak you.”
“Baby, I don’t want to go,” he said, as he eased up to a standing position.
“Then sleep in your car,” I said, cocking my arm back, ready to splash him and his tan linen Miami Vice wannabe jacket.
“Babe,” he said, backing up.
“GO HOME.”
He looked in my eyes and realized that I was dead serious and that he would soon be drenched if he called my bluff. So he went down the stairs, turned around and looked to me, begging for a reprieve. I tip toed back up to my apartment, pulled the door shut, locked the dead bolt and set the chain. I turned off all of the lights and climbed into bed, but not before I gulped down one of the huge cups of water.
The next morning I woke up, moaned and reached for the other cup of water, which I’d wisely placed on my nightstand. I went into the kitchen to get some Advil for my pounding head, which felt like someone had sawed it open, replaced my normal-size brain with a much larger brain and stapled my head back shut.
My computer was still on and I had an instant message from The Blackberry.
“I got home safely. I had fun, did you?”
I slammed my laptop shut and sulked back to my bed.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1167593124279806302006-12-31T11:24:00.000-08:002006-12-31T11:25:24.383-08:00Plans? We don't need no stinkin' plansSo, this New Year’s was supposed to be a couple of friends at my place. Snacks, drinks and a late-night trip to the little cigar bar across the street. Simple, relaxing, low key.
Gone are the years of big house parties, renting out the back room of a bar, going out of town. Big New Years plans always end up causing too much stress – where are we going to stay, how much will it cost, what will I wear, who will drive us home, etc.
“People who make huge plans for the New Year are really partying amateurs,” College Roommate informed me. “We don’t need to have some big to-do for New Year’s Eve because we are partying all-stars.”
I’d agreed enthusiastically. Perhaps we were both covering up for our subpar plans. Me, drinking with a few people in the bar where I always go. Her, hitting bed early because she had to be up at the crack of dawn to drive to go see her boyfriend’s college football team play in some lame bowl game. (Our college plays in an ACTUAL bowl next week, thankyouverymuch.)
I turned down an offer to go to New Orleans for a party that sounded like fun. I didn’t have a place to stay, wasn’t going to pay for a hotel room and was less than thrilled by the prospect of being anywhere near the French Quarter on New Year’s Eve.
The last time I did that was several years ago and the guys we were with ended up getting in a fight with some guys from New York as we walked down Canal Street to the Quarter.
I remember they were from New York because College Roommate had yelled, quite drunkenly, “I am from NEW ORLEANS. Why don’t you go back to BROOKLYN where you belong!” And I thought this was pretty funny because while my dear friend was from the general vicinity of New Orleans, she definitely didn’t live within the city limits. (Which I guess is splitting hairs when you’ve consumed countless cups of daiquiri, purchased in “milk jug” size for the occasion, while preparing to go out, so we let her slide.)
And then the cops showed up and I remember crying for the purely selfish reason that if these guys got arrested, it was going to be me and my drunken belligerent friends wandering the city streets alone without a ride, unable to return to the suburbs where we were sleeping that night because I simply didn’t know the address of the apartment complex, so we wouldn’t even have been able to hail a damn cab. I love New Orleans, but I get lost almost every time I go. I have a terrible sense of direction and I don’t know the city well at all – I once led an expedition of revelers five blocks the wrong way down Canal because I didn’t pay attention to the fact that cross streets changed names – Bourbon becomes Carondelet, Royal becomes St. Charles.
Alas, on that New Year’s Eve many years ago, the guys were able to slip out of the cops’ sight, grabbing us and pulling us down a side street and away from the action. “Outta mind, outta sight,” one guy, another friend’s older brother, told me as he patted a little bit of blood off of the side of his face.
I nodded and wiped my eyes. I was 22. I’d seen my share of bar fights, but this was my first walking-to-the-bar fight. After some bar hopping and ridiculously overpriced drinks, we ended up at someone’s house in God-knows-where. (I thought we were on the West Bank, but each of my girlfriends has a different opinion as to where we actually were come 3 a.m.) I have a sneaking suspicion that our male tour guides insisted we go to this house to buy drugs – because no one offered us any drinks when we got there, which is pretty much unheard of for the Big Easy, and because we didn’t stay that long.
After the hellacious hangover that I’d tried to stave off by drinking mint juleps the next morning with my Dad at Pat O’Briens before we went to a football game, I swore off New Orleans for New Year’s Eve and I’ve stayed closer to home.
Since my overnight house guest just cancelled and it is looking like it is going to be a much smaller affair chez moi tonight, I’m thinking I don’t need to go buy more wine and chips at the store, as I planned. I also probably shouldn’t bake the brownies I’d planned to share with my guests.
But I will.
Just in case there is an early morning brownie-related emergency to which I need to attend.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1167176823094073472006-12-26T15:42:00.000-08:002006-12-26T16:59:01.153-08:002006 -- A good year?The end of another year has turned my thoughts to what I have achieved in the past 12 months and what I haven’t.
I have gotten a better job. I have become friends with my parents. I kept my New Year’s Workout Resolution for three whole months. I’ve grown up considerably, even though I still have moments of panic, like on Christmas Eve when I realized I left my spare casserole dish at the office potluck and didn’t have anything to contain the Christmas Morning Breakfast Strata and called my mom freaking out and later flipped out while I was wrapping gifts because they looked so ugly and you would think that I would be GOOD at gift wrapping because everyone else in my family is and I am so talented at so many things, like falling down in high heels, spilling things and, to a lesser extent, dating.
Dating. Oh, have I dated.
I was hoping 2006 would be THE year. You know, the year where I fell blissfully in love over romantic candlelit dinners, afternoon picnics and evenings at home cooking and had a date for weddings and parties and Saturday nights and got flowers on my birthday and had someone other than my brother for whom I could buy comfy sweaters that I would later steal and wear because they smell so much like a man I loved. <span style="font-style: italic;">(I love my brother. I won’t be stealing his sweaters because that’s kind of creepy and he has a girlfriend to do that.)</span>
Not so much.
I did, however, find a surge of confidence in the Spring and decided to get out there and online date – which has proven to be every bit as scary as I thought it would be. But it has also been fun. And as much as I complain about it, I will probably continue on for a few more months at least and take advantage of the confidence boosting effects of my New Year’s Resolution workout plan. <span style="font-style: italic;">(Finally putting that gym membership to good use!)</span> But I’ll probably be switching to Yahoo! Personals when my Match.com subscription runs out in January.
Maybe.
And I did learn a lot of about how you can be happy even when you’re alone and how you at times have to buy those flowers for yourself and not rely on other people – especially men – to make you feel sexy and loved and special and beautiful and charming and irresistible.
Sometimes.
That will be the case this New Year’s Eve, as I seem to have alienated <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/taking-stock.html">my only chance at a midnight kiss</a> <span style="font-style: italic;">(or after hours fun)</span> for the glorious celebration of the changing year. The whole detailed mess is probably best left between the two of us. I can’t decide if, in the end, I owe him an apology or if he owes me one or if the whole thing is being blown royally out of proportion.
Suffice it to say that the correct response to your divorced Man du Jour when he tells a story that ends with, “And that’s the main reason why I’m not married anymore,” is NOT “Well I know one person who is <span style="font-weight: bold;">very glad</span> that you’re not married anymore,” followed by a soft kiss on the lips.
No matter how cute you are.
No matter how drunk you are.
No matter how low-cut your dress is.
No matter how sexy you look in those shoes.
Just, you know, for future reference, in case you ever find yourself in that situation after a night of too many cosmos with one of your girlfriends while she downs something on the rocks and laments the parting of her boyfriend of six weeks <span style="font-style: italic;">(She really felt like he was the one, y’all!)</span> and you decide that a late-night visit to your Man Candy’s house is, like, totally the best way to occupy the hours between closing time and hangoversville.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1166719919894861402006-12-21T08:51:00.000-08:002006-12-21T09:30:40.293-08:00Well now I’m distracted …So, my "Romantic Daily Horoscope" from today says the following:
<blockquote>Astral influences indicate that love and abundance are coming your way, but you have to clearly visualize the bounty. It's your job to figure out how to improve your life using your vast store of inner resources. </blockquote>I'm sorry, I can't move on to figuring out how to tap my inner resources to improve my life. I'm too busy clearly visualizing every sweaty moment of the hot, juicy bounty of sexy, tall, cuddly man love that I'd like to come my way.
Look, the horoscope said I had to VISUALIZE these things! And WHO am I to argue with MY HOROSCOPE?
So tonight's birthday celebration? Could be looking up.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1166509007660280302006-12-19T00:14:00.000-08:002006-12-18T22:17:28.716-08:00Another year older, a new one's just begunAs of today, I am no longer in my mid-20s.
I’m in my late 20s.
I’m almost 30.
Twenty-seven used to be my “scary” age. The age when I was starting to get old. I don't have words of wisdom.
I should HAVE some words of wisdom by now.
Aw, hell.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1166508142554664852006-12-18T21:56:00.000-08:002006-12-18T22:02:22.653-08:00Now accepting chick lit suggestionsFor some crazy reason, I want to read chick lit this holiday season. First on my list is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/BreakupBabe-Novel-Rebecca-Agiewich/dp/0345484002/sr=8-1/qid=1166507856/ref=pd_bbs_1/102-0322297-6256923?ie=UTF8&s=books">BreakupBabe</a>, which I bought months ago and never read, not because I didn't want to read it, but because I haven't really had the time.
Then I could sift through all of the publicist-gifted books I get. "Dating Up" or "How to avoid marrying a Jerk," to name a few. <span style="font-style: italic;">(Seriously, Publishing Publicists, I love the free books. I do. Keep on keeping on. But don't fashion publicists want to help a sister out? Maybe some </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.ninewest.com/n/browse/product.s?productId=2774686&source=category&index=2&prodIndex=2&listSize=53&categoryId=1056">cute</a> <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.ninewest.com/n/browse/product.s?productId=13822&source=category&index=2&prodIndex=2&listSize=30&categoryId=47010">shoes</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.ninewest.com/n/browse/product.s?productId=13820&source=category&index=8&prodIndex=8&listSize=23&categoryId=504808">like</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.ninewest.com/n/browse/product.s?productId=13858&source=category&index=42&prodIndex=42&listSize=61&categoryId=504808">these</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> or a </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://hobobags.com/pages/item_detail.asp?ItemCatID=&ItemCatSubID=%7BBA288D9D-6281-4DD4-8643-B7E6AB122696%7D&ItemID=50">Hobo International clutch</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> in, say, Ocean? Didn't I once call </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml?id=P90001">"Envy Me" by Gucci</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> the official scent of this blog? I also like the </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml?id=P136025&categoryId=C13272">new Burberry scent</a><span style="font-style: italic;">! </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://ypersonalsblog.com/">Free online dating</a><span style="font-style: italic;">? Don't you people want to use me for something other than book reviews that I sometimes don't even write? No? Just books?)</span>
Leave book suggestions in the comments. Remember, I’ve never brought myself to read an entire Shopaholic book. But I did like Bridget Jones.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1166425722279823752006-12-17T23:06:00.000-08:002006-12-17T23:08:42.446-08:00Coming attractionsSunday afternoon I saw “The Holiday.” I happen to love seeing matinee movies alone with a big diet coke and candy, which I bring in my large purses, naturally. I get there early, pick out a good seat – high and in the middle.
As the previews began, it was obvious to me that there was a projection error. There was a two-foot black stripe at the bottom of the screen and the actors’ heads were cut off at the top. I am not one to settle for a subpar movie experience. Theatres cannot always control their patrons. People will talk. Cell phones will ring. But they can definitely fix projection issues.
So I abandoned my good seat, gathered my purse and diet coke and headed to the lobby to find a staff member. A theatre manager quickly agreed to have the project fixed. By the time I got back to the theatre, the film had been corrected so that it projected correctly. Fantastic.
Not wanting to disturb my fellow moviegoers, I hunted for a row with several empty seats on the end. And as I found one, I missed a step and fell face first into the row. My drink splashed on me. My purse flew open. I was in a denim skirt, so I bashed my knees against the hard floor and I felt a breeze on my bottom. The theatre was dark, but everyone around me saw and the women around me gasped and jumped up to offer assistance. I was mortified. It was all I could do to reach under seats to put my belongings back in my purse and slouch in a seat so that I could examine my knees and assure everyone I was okay.
Cheeks burning, I swigged from the diet coke that hadn’t spilled on me and slumped in my seat, hoping that the start of the movie would distract from my faceplant on the dirty movie theatre floor.
The Holiday was good. Not spectacular, but entertaining.. It had all of the elements of a good romantic comedy – beautiful women finding their way in a cruel world, montages of budding romances, idyllic settings, charming male leads, great clothes, predictable plot. Exactly what I wanted.
It won’t be a spoiler for me to say that one woman makes movie trailers. Needless to say, this is sort of a running theme, as she has a few flashes of what the movie trailer of her life would look like.
This, of course, started me thinking about what the booming voice in a movie trailer would say if narrating the trailer to my little life.
<blockquote>“[Charming] grew up with in a typical Southern family …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cut to footage of 23-person family dinners.]</span>
“… surrounded by opinionated women …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cue shots of gossipy Southern ladies]</span>
“… who married young and raised children …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Montage of cousins running through the house]</span>
“But when [Charming] was 17, she laid out a life plan ...”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cut to footage of our young heroine telling the other girls at the lunch table, “I’m not going to be one of those woman who gets married and has babies young just because! I’ll wait until I’m 25 before I settle down! And then I’ll have my kids in my late twenties.”]</span>
“ … ten years later, [Charming]’s finding out that the best laid plans of Southern girls …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cue montage of clicking down the street in heels with coffee in hand, chatting on a cell phone, “It’s a date!”]</span>
“ … often go awry …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Montage of falling on her face; hissing into her cell phone, “my date is CRYING about his ex wife!” and announcing “I’m going to be the ONLY single bridesmaid in the wedding!”]</span>
“ … This Spring, follow one woman as she tries to get herself back on track …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cue clips [Charming] making to do lists, going to the gym, smiling at men, with voiceover, “This will be the year that I get it all together.”]</span>
“… and finds that sometimes straying off course …”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cut to [Charming] covering face and moaning to friends, “I was supposed to be married by now!”]</span>
“ … brings you where you need to be.”
<span style="font-style: italic;">[Cue powerful chick lit pop music and scenes of dancing, kissing hot men, fabulous shoes]</span></blockquote>I swear. I am too cheesy for words.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1166377144249599312006-12-17T09:38:00.000-08:002006-12-17T09:40:29.670-08:00From bad to worseA few nights ago I was sitting in the cigar bar with Prom Date, after having been out to two bars after work with co-workers. I spied The Blackberry across the bar. He was talking with a Tall Man and it took me a few minutes to realize that they were looking at me pointedly.
<a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/snippets-from-friday-night-part-3.html">The Blackberry</a> came over.
“What did you and your friend have to say about me?” I asked The Blackberry
“Oh, he wants to f—k you.”
I almost choked on a sip of Merlot. I dismissed him as being silly.
But then the Tall Man came up behind The Blackberry and mouthed, “I want you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I want you,” he mouthed again and motioned to the bathroom.
I grimaced and shook my head.
They walked off and I died laughing, “Do I look like the woman who has sex in the bathroom of a bar?”
A few minutes later, The Blackberry was back.
“You should thank me. I got that guy to go away.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yes, I told him you were my girl.”charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1166116939377934082006-12-14T09:22:00.000-08:002006-12-14T09:22:19.986-08:00Advice?<span class="gmail_quote"></span>So, say you were shopping for your younger (24) brother's girlfriend and (probable) future fiancée. And you need a present that says, "I'm sorry my brother is a dirty hippie who would rather wear Birkenstocks and an old Phish T-shirt than get dressed up and shave and take you out to dinner, but I really do like you and hope that you marry him some day because even though you are very different people, you complement each other very well and he is always so happy to be with you and we all know that he is a very sweet man and will be a good father one day and I swear I am going to be very happy on the INSIDE when you tie the knot, even though on the OUTSIDE I'll be sitting in the corner of the reception mumbling into a champagne glass about being an Old Maid without a date to my own little brother's wedding. Oh, also, Merry Christmas." <br><br>Note: I have previously given her a gift basket of relaxation and beauty products and a scent diffuser (<a href="http://www.pier1.com/catalog/productdetail.aspx?oid=114608&returnURL=http%253a%252f%252fwww.pier1.com%252fcatalog%252fcollections.aspx%253ffh_location%253d%252f%252fpier1direct%252fen_US%252fcategories%253c%257b110296%257d%252fcategories%253c%257b110313%257d%2526fh_refpath%253dfacet_59433287%2526fh_start_index%253d0%2526fh_view_size%253d8%2526fh_view%253dlister&fh_location=//pier1direct/en_US/categories%253C%7B110296%7D/categories%253C%7B110313%7D&fh_refpath=facet_59433287&fh_start_index=0&fh_view_size=8&fh_view=lister" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)"> like this one, but more expensive</a>) and various members of my family throughout the years have gifted many picture frames and journals and candle sets.<br><br>Also, I've got a long shopping list. Less than $50. (And $50 could be pushing it.) <br> charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1165988259957330692006-12-12T21:35:00.000-08:002006-12-12T21:37:40.040-08:00Oh …Welcome Glamour.com readers and much thanks to Alyssa Shelasky for the shout out on her blog <a href="http://www.glamour.com/sexmen/blogs/alyssa">See Alyssa Date</a> on Glamour’s Web site. I was shocked – shocked – to see 400 to 500 extra readers today.
Go visit <a href="http://www.glamour.com/sexmen/blogs/alyssa">Alyssa’s blog</a>, where you can vote on her every dating move, and tell her that being evil makes for better blogging.charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1165943146650367722006-12-12T09:05:00.000-08:002006-12-12T09:05:47.333-08:00Snippets from Friday Night, Part 3After I left the show at the dive bar, I headed over to my regular cigar bar for a glass of red with Prom Date. I'd planned to do this all along – my other friends aren't night owls as I am. While they turned into pumpkins at midnight, I was still looking for some fun. <br><br><a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/12/snippets-from-friday-night-part-1.html">As previously discussed</a>, I looked cute – sheerish wrap top over a camisole, jeans, pointy heels and smooth hair, thanks to the bitter cold that scared away the humidity. I didn't check my cell for texts before heading into the cigar bar, so I had no idea that <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/10/will-you-be-my-lois-lane-part-1.html">The</a> <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/10/will-you-be-my-lois-lane-part-2.html">Blackberry</a> had been asking for me. (Until I later checked my phone and saw a cautionary text from Prom Date. Too late. I was already in the bar.) <br><br>"Well there she is," The Blackberry commented as I walked in. I was mildly horrified that the only barstool left was next to him.<br><br>"And she sits next to me."<br><br>I rolled my eyes and ordered a Merlot. The Blackberry immediately started his pursuit in full force – complimenting me, doling out mild insults immediately followed by "I'm kidding! Just kidding, baby!" <br><br>I was having none of it and tried to maintain the cold exterior I keep up so well when he is around. The best offense is a good defense, especially when you're dealing with a terribly offensive guy who will stop at nothing to bed you and any other woman in a skirt who walks into the bar. <br><br>The Blackberry made a point to speak of text messages from another woman who needed a ride home – joking that she needed more than just "a ride in my car, if you know what I mean." He was clearly trying to bait me into showing some jealousy, though it clearly wasn't working. As I clicked through some late-night e-mails on my blackberry, The Blackberry complained that I never texted him. <br><br>"I don't have your number."<br><br>"I'm only going to tell it to you one time," he said, and then told me his number. I responded by sliding my blackberry and cell phone back into my purse.<br><br>"What was that?" I teased. <br><br>He repeated himself. Realizing that I wasn't taking the number down, he showed me that he had me in his blackberry – but only the address I use for junk mail and online personals.<br><br>"See, I have your information." <br><br>"You also have my blackberry number and e-mail address," I informed him. "So, no, I don't feel bad about not texting you. You've had my number for months. <a href="http://charmingbutsingle.blogspot.com/2006/10/after-26-years-she-has-learned.html"> Because there is a process</a>."<br><br>He paid his tab and leaned over so that only I could hear him. In the lowest of voices, he made his final serious plea.<br><br>"You know you want to come home with me."<br><br>"No." <br><br>"You do, I know you do. You want me."<br><br>"No."<br><br>"You just live across the street."<br><br>"No."<br><br>Defeated, he stood up and announced that he was going to pick up the woman who'd been begging for a ride home. He made reference to a local figure, a notorious playboy, and said, "You know why he got a lot of women? Because he didn't let rejection get him down. Nine out of 10 women may say no. But one will say yes." <br><br>He paused as he stood up and walked over to shake hands with Prom Date.<br><br>"The law of averages," he said, looking at me.<br><br>And then he walked back over to me.<br><br>"You were giving me this look like you were upset that I didn't kiss you goodbye," he said. <br><br>I rolled my eyes and turned my cheek, denying him a kiss on the lips. He wrapped an arm around me for a hug, but I looked forward and did not acknowledge it.<br><br>As he left, his friend said, "You do realize that he just called you a statistic, right?" <br><br>"I know."<br><br>"And that was a pretty good line about needing to give you a goodbye kiss," his friend said. "It caught you off guard and you didn't have time to protest."<br><br>At this point, the female bartender had to step in. <br><br>"Oh please, that is a terrible line," she said, rolling her eyes. "Notice that she didn't jump up and go home with him." <br><br>"Amen, sister," I said as I leaned over the bar to give her a high five. charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10272511.post-1165870382081316372006-12-11T12:53:00.000-08:002006-12-11T12:53:03.180-08:00Snippets from Friday Night, part 2"That guy, sitting behind you, is cute," I told my married friend. We'd settled into a table and in the group sitting nearby was a guy I'd spotted at the crowded bar earlier. He was most decidedly my physical type, which is so certain that my friends could point to the men I'm checking out at any given moment in any given situation. He was tall, broad-shouldered and stocky with dark hair. <br><br>She glanced over her shoulder and spied an older man. I shook my head no and talked her through the crowd until her gaze landed on the gentleman of the hour.<br><br>She nodded in agreement as I straightened up in my chair and coyly played with a section of my hair, trying to casually make eye contact and draw his attention. <br><br>A few minutes into this game of me silently willing him to notice me — a technique that I have much hope for, though it has been largely unsuccessful thus far — he stood up and left his table. As he walked by, my friend's husband leaned over to me and interrupted my thoughts, which at this point consisted of if I could trip this guy and make it look like an accident so that he would notice me and fall madly in love. <br><br>"See that guy walking by?" <br><br>"Yes …" I answered, planning to continue with, "Isn't he hot!"<br><br>My friend's husband interrupted me, "That guy, he is a total ASS."<br><br>I slumped back into my seat and shook my head, my dreams of innocent injury causing love halted by cruel reality. <br><br>"Of course he is." charming, but singlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01086847189288799347noreply@blogger.com