Charming, but single

A journal in dates and drinks

He's alive! (And shopping at my grocery store.)

Sunday afternoon I was minding my own business, shopping at the Pricey Fancy Grocery Store near my house. I try to avoid doing much grocery shopping at a place that has such reasonably priced wares as $8 bottles of maple syrup, $6 loaves of sandwich bread and $19 a pound mushrooms, for obvious financial reasons. But I love the smells and the tastes and so I sometimes splurge on Rosemary Sourdough bread and fancy cheese and the best damn salad bar in the world. Just because. I was dressed for the grocery store, wearing those jeans I wear when I’m not out to impress anyone – they slide down my hips a bit and they’re a touch too short to wear with heels – and a T-shirt from a football game in 2000 (I swear, there’s a date on it), with flip flops and my hair in a messy bun and no make-up whatsoever. I was there for goat cheese, not socializing. I’m shuffling through the aisles and getting some veggies from the salad bar and I look up and there he is. The Nurse. I wasn’t sure it was him until he looked up and I made eye contact with him, the guy who gave me butterflies and then took them away without reason or explanation or apology. Now, I’m not saying that there’s a right time to run into the most recent man to drop off of the face of the earth and reject you, because there isn’t. (Though I did have this fantasy involving me in a short dress with shiny hair on the arm of a Hot Doctor, but it was immature and unrealistic.) But Sunday, when I was in my crappy Around the House clothes with my crappy Around the House hair, I couldn’t think of a less right time to see The Nurse. Couldn’t I have least been in my nice jeans or in a cute shirt with cleavage? And brushed hair and lip gloss? I don’t know why I care about looking unkempt for someone who’s seen me first thing in the morning with bad breath and worse hair. And while in my fantasy I walked up to him with my stilettos clicking to punctuate each step and sexily say hello, in the cold hard reality of my grocery store nightmare, I rolled my eyes and headed quickly down the center aisle and away from the salad bar, past a case of frozen edamame, around to an aisle of fancy root vegetable chips. I flipped open my cell and called friends until The Lawyer* answered. I kept the conversation peppy as I checked out and loaded my bags into the car, but as soon as I was safely alone in my car, I spilled the beans. “[The Nurse] was in the store. I just saw him and he saw me and he hasn’t talked to me in weeks and he just saw me and IT WAS NOT GOOD,” I said, describing my old T-shirt and jeans and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s resting in my basket. “And so I had to be on the phone with SOMEONE to distract me.” The Lawyer commiserated with me and offered up this suggestion, “Maybe it wasn’t him?” “Maybe, but no, we made eye contact, I’m pretty sure it was him,” I said as I put the car in reverse and drove through the parking lot. I turned down the next row, heading to the street. And The Nurse was walking toward me with an older-looking woman and I had to laugh. “It is definitely him,” I told The Lawyer. “And he just saw me. He is walking in my direction looking at me in my car driving right by him. And he’s with a woman, but he’s not being affectionate. So it could be his mom or something.” I paused. “I could run him over.” She persuaded me against this choice and said, “You know I bet he calls you this week.” I just laughed because I knew this would never happen. “You laugh,” she said. “But boys forget. And now that he’s soon you, he’ll remember.” I appreciated her sweetness, but knew she could never be serious. BFE called me later and I told her about seeing The Nurse. “God, what was he doing in MY NEIGHBORHOOD,” I fumed. “That store is three minutes from MY HOUSE. He lives a ways away. There is another PERFECTLY GOOD grocery store near HIS HOUSE.” She laughed. “I mean, this is CLEARLY my grocery store,” I continued. “CLEARLY,” she agreed. “I should have run him over when I had the chance.” “Nah,” she said. “Messy.” * Things with The Lawyer are fine now, thanks for asking.

Pumpkin is the new black

Though BFE is not yet engaged, we've been gossiping quite a bit about wedding details and plans, which is still kind of fun to do now because the reality hasn't set in yet due to her nonengaged status.

Witness the following text message exchange:

Charming: So, all those years that you talked about orange bridesmaid dresses. You weren't serious, right?

BFE: We're hoping that the color of the wedding is going to be red-orange, yes.

Charming: I think orange is probably going to look bad on me. Are you absolutely sure I can't wear black?

BFE: I'm not going to be a Bridezilla, but absolutely no black. I'm pretty firm on this.

Charming: I just want you to know that you're the only person I love enough to wear an orange dress in your wedding.

BFE: I know, and I love you too. And you're going to look beautiful and having you around me will make me look beautiful too.
That boy of hers better pop the question before I lose my willingness to wear orange.

Apparently I get an itch every six or seven months to open the floor for questions. In case you have not noticed, I am a touch extroverted and I like to share. Also, as I am on mandatory rest this weekend, which means no men, no drinking, no going out, no eating out, no parties, no shoe shopping, no anything fun except for DVDs and orange juice and soup. Responsible Me has grounded Wild Child Me for letting Us get so fatigued. So you asking me questions is really just a way for me to have something to blog about without having to actually leave my apartment or stop watching Grey’s Anatomy, the McDreamy/McSteamy/McVet Season or risk doing something that involves make-up, a flat iron and a bra. Plus, I know people have questions – I always have questions for bloggers I read, but it seems in appropriate to just blurt them out. I am giving you permission to blurt them out. So rack your brains for good questions and leave them in the comments. I reserve the right to not answer them should I think they are too personal or mean-spirited. Yes, the PR person in me knows that “No Comment” equals “Guilty” or “You caught me!” or “Bite me.” Yet the woman in me doesn’t care. Previous question-and-answer sessions can be found here and here, so go see what y’all (the Royal Y’all, my reading public) have already asked me.

Makin’ her big sister proud

The other day I was hanging out at my parents' house before a family dinner. Talk turned to my still-in-high-school sister's dating life, which annoyed her to no end and thrilled me, since it stopped my mom from asking me for the 400th time if I was being careful with the "men from that –ahem!—'service' on the Internet."

"What happened to that guy from formal last year?" I pried with glee. "He was cute!"

He'd been a set up, a friend of her friend's boyfriend who went to another fancy school in town. They'd hung out several times and went to both of their schools' formals together, but it was clearly more out of mutual necessity than actual romance or chemistry.

(This is all fine and dandy with me because the child is still so young. She has all the time in the world to follow in the neurotic dating disaster footsteps of her fair sister.)

My parents ribbed her for his not calling. Just the way they've joked with me from ages 16 to 26. They mean to be playful, but it stings from time to time.

"I think he died and no one told your sister," Dad teased.

My sister narrowed her eyes at my parents and with turned a defiant gaze in my direction.

"I think he died and no one cared," she smirked to me.

Second fiddle? Hardly

The Friday night text messages started after I was already half in bed. I’ve been trying my best to rest and failing to do so each weekend. I’ve been sick off and on since July and I need to stay in for an entire weekend and lounge on my bed and drink orange juice and eat healthy food. But this wasn’t to happen on Friday night. Prom Date was at a bar that is right near my apartment and he suggested that I meet him for a glass of wine. He casually mentioned that The Blackberry was there, but quickly pointed out that they hadn’t spoken about me. I figured that one glass of wine wouldn’t kill me, so I slid into jeans and a flowy maroon top with some copper accents. I twisted my hair up and pinned it in a messy bun against my head, accessorized and added a light dusting of makeup. I didn’t really want to see The Blackberry, since he hadn’t made a move to ask me out even though he’s viewed my Match profile several times recently. But, I figured I had Prom Date there to entertain me. I found Prom Date and his friends quickly and ordered a Pinot Gris. Prom Date invited me to sit in an empty bar stool and as I did, he said, quite devilishly, “I’m sure [The Blackberry] won’t mind if you sit in his chair.” I giggled because The Blackberry was nowhere to be found. So I settled in with Prom Date and we talked about work and such for a while. The bar we were at is divided into two main rooms – the back half is darker and louder and home to a band most nights – the front, where we were, is a cigar bar. It’s brighter and quieter and more relaxing. I saw The Blackberry come into the front room, but I didn’t budge from my seat or my conversation with Prom Date and company. The Blackberry had a woman with him. She looked young and kind of drunk. He hung all over her while he talked to someone. Prom Date mouthed “I’m sorry” to me. I just giggled and shook my head. Truth be told, I couldn’t fault the dude for being with a woman, as we’d never been on a date or formally hung out since he started messaging me on Match. He had no idea I’d be at the bar, so no harm, no foul, right? It did feel kind of awkward that he hadn’t spoken to me. At one point, he was standing right next to my barstool and I didn’t even seem to register to him. Did my picture look that different? Did not having my hair down make that big of a difference? He was propped against this woman and made sure she’d agree to bring him home – but pointed out that he had to be up early to go out of town in the morning. I rolled my eyes for her. As soon as his Female Companion went to the back room again, he made reference to visiting his girlfriend out of town, noting that Female Companion didn’t know about that with a very hearty laugh. I rolled my eyes for both of them. Then with me, it was a different story. He turned and pretended to recognize me for the first time and made this show of asking if I remembered him. I smiled and said I did. He was drunk. Very drunk. For a guy who once bragged to me via instant message that he had one glass of merlot a night and that’s all, he was slamming back mixed drinks like a pro. I humored him in conversation, but I was pretty closed off to his advances – he’d been hanging onto another woman and joking about some out-of-town girlfriend. And my perch on my barstool put him at perfect eye level to leer at my chest, which he did without regard to if I’d care. He sloppily draped an arm around my shoulder and leaned in close to me to talk. I was trying to be polite but short to his flirtation, knowing full well he’d run back to his Female Companion as soon as she returned because she was a Sure Thing. “Remember when we used to instant message?” he asked. “On my Blackberry?” He patted the device, which hung from its holster on his belt. Cell phones are not accessories and should not be worn as such, except by doctors or others in times of crisis. This is a firm rule I abide by, although I must say that many men I know are phone-wearers, presumably because they don’t carry purses. “Of course, I’m not on it tonight,” he said, patting it again. “No Blackberry for me tonight!” He went on about how he’d been wined and dined by a contractor for work earlier in the evening and more about the Blackberry. He was trying to show off. “Well, I never bring my Blackberry out to bars,” I said. “Who needs to work that much?” I motioned to my personal cell phone and shot him a smug glance, because it takes more than a fancy cell phone to impress me. “Also, I never trust people who try to get me drunk.” Clearly, I was not going to play into his self-importance. Recognizing such, he tried another flirting tactic – “You look even prettier than in your picture,” he slurred. I rolled my eyes, for me this time. A few minutes later Female Companion came back. His hand flew from my shoulder and quickly went around her waist. I rolled my eyes for the both of us. He made a big show of flirting with her, even leaning her back onto Prom Date’s lap to grind against her and kiss her neck. Prom Date shot me this look of total pain and disbelief and mouthed, “I’m sorry” again. I just winked at him. Soon The Blackberry and Female Companion returned to the other room to dance. He didn’t even bother to wave to me or say goodbye. “I am so sorry about that,” Prom Date said. “I had no idea.” “He’s drunk,” I said. “Trust me, I’m amused. My married girlfriends depend on me for good stories like this one – they live vicariously through my single girl adventures. And I’ve never had a guy try to play two girls at one time so blatantly. And so poorly.” I kissed Prom Date on the cheek and headed out into the night. “You’re not going to tell [The Blackberry] goodbye?” he asked. “Hardly.” “He would be all about you normally. He just really wants to sleep with that other girl tonight, I guess.” I laughed. “I don’t need that. I have too many other prospects to deal with that.” And I walked out like I believed this was true.

How to lose a girl in 10 seconds

Saturday evening I met a pal up at a bar for a drink. I'd actually been to this bar three weeks in a row and I'd noticed that there was a guy who was checking me out, including when I was having drinks with On Paper*.

Saturday was no exception – this same guy was giving me The Eye from across the bar. He'd smile and say hello, but he seemed a bit shy to come over and talk to me.

I was giving off the right signals, I thought. I wanted Shy Guy to come say hello and have a drink with me, but having a female friend there probably wasn't helping my case. By the end of the night I was facing him completely as I'd turned my back to this other man who would NOT leave me alone. He stood obnoxiously close to our barstools and blatantly moved to come sit next to me. He introduced himself, I was polite and shook his hand, but he was awkward and dorky and unable to hold my interest.

So, my friend had a boy meet her and they decided to head home. I planned to finish my beer and do the same, but I told them not to wait for me, as I was hoping Shy Guy would come say hello since I'd be alone.

Sure enough, he did. I was immediately underwhelmed when he told me that he was 41, since that's not my age demographic, but we talked for a little while. He gave me his number and I called his cell so that he would have mine. I was thinking coffee or dinner one night with an older man might be good for me.

The bar neared closing time and I was ready to head home when Shy Guy asked a very forward question – "Where are we continuing this conversation?"

"I don't know about you, I'm but I'm going home to bed. Alone," I said firmly. "It would be terribly inappropriate for you to come."

He seemed a bit dejected, but offered to walk me to my car. I didn't really need an escort as I was parked right up front, but I accepted.

When Shy Guy got me to my car and gave me a hug, he immediately went in for a kiss and a grab. I twisted from his grasp and got into my car as he asked for me to follow him home. And then he said, "Or I'll just follow you home."

Having none of it, I said, "No. Just call me at a more appropriate hour."

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered what I'd do if he followed me. So I waited until he'd turned out and I turned and went the other directions, traveling away from my apartment while I called B on the phone. I  talked to B for a few minutes while I watched for Shy Guy's car. Not seeing it, I hit the Interstate to take the long way home.

Shy Guy called twice on my way home and then three times after I was safely in my bed, in my gated complex, behind a deadbolt, door chain and locked bedroom door – just for good measure. I never answered and don't plan to if he ever calls again.

Overreacting on my part? Maybe. But gentlemen, you should know that crazy doesn't get the ladies.

* FYI: "On Paper" is the new name for The Crier, because I feel like second chances deserve better nicknames.

Another notch in my lipstick case, part 2

Note: Read the first part if you haven’t already. Two Saturdays ago, bolstered by a new little black dress and some darling animal print kitten heels, I set out into the night for some good times with my friends. Truth be told, I was still reeling from my best’s friends announcement of her impending engagement and my soon-to-be bridesmaid status. This combined with my latest failed attempt at dating had me needing some validation that I was, in fact, great. Maybe it is unhealthy. I am enough most of the time. And I don’t need outside forces to make me feel good about myself. But there are moments when I lose sight of this and think I need to see myself reflected in someone else’s eager eyes to feel my confidence surge. It’s a nasty habit I fall back on. And, I know I’m not alone in this insecurity and the need to be indulged when I am down. Drugs, alcohol, shoes, shopping, men, women, cars, vacations, food, jewelry – we all have our vices. I composed the perfect sexy text message to The Nurse on my way to the bar. It was cute and flirty. I described my outfit from head to toe, undergarments and all. “You find any of this appealing?” was my closer. I didn’t send it at first. I waited until I was with girlfriends – Southern Belle and her sister. “I draft my texts in advance,” I bragged. “I am a professional communicator.” “Oh honey, no,” Southern Belle’s Sister said. “You gotta be coy on the first round. Make him come to you.” We settled on a less overt text. The Nurse replied immediately that he had to work in the morning. It was barely 10 p.m. and I was feeling mighty rejected. He could have met me for one drink if he cared. I blasted off the sexy text message, adding that I could keep him occupied until he had to be at work. I haven’t heard from him since, which is just fine, I guess. I was overzealous; I should have played it safe. But I’ve been playing it safe for 26 and a half years and, well; sometimes you just have to put it out there. As Best Friend Ever had told me earlier on the phone, “Babe, I know what everyone else has told you, but me, I go after what I want. And you have to make up your own mind, but if you want to see him tonight, you go after what you want.” The flip side to this is that now I was left looking like a million bucks and feeling like two dollars. And all of the Hoegaardens in the bar weren’t going to shake me from my bad mood. I flipped through the address book of my phone. Surely I had some sort of “In Case of Emergency” contact for these situations. I passed on many guys, B included. And then I landed on the Crier. Now, to back up a bit, I had seen the Crier weeks before. And he was still very into me. And I was talking to my College Roommate the other day and she said, “You know, we all thought that Crying Guy was too emotional, but now that I see the Nurse, I think maybe we were wrong.” This planted the seed in my mind, and after consulting with several other friends, I’d decided that maybe I was kind of a jerk to the Crier. He’s a nice guy who made a minor tactical error on a date and I’m the jerk who blabbed about it to everyone. So, I sent him a text message on that lonely Saturday night. And, like I knew he would, he called, ecstatic to hear from me. I felt a pang of guilt as I stood outside the bar and flirted with him on the phone, convincing him to come meet me for a late night drink. I all but skipped back into the bar. My friends couldn’t believe he’d agreed to meet me; I’d called him because I knew he would. My friends moved on for the night, so I parked myself up at the bar for a glass of wine while I waited for him to show up. Two men flirted with me unsuccessfully. (“That’s a nice Kenneth Cole bag” is NOT a pick-up line, FYI.) I didn’t see the Crier come in and he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders and said hello. We left my drunken suitors at the bar and found a table. The Crier bought me another glass of wine and settled in with a beer and we caught up. He has the best smile and he spoke animatedly about how glad he was that I’d reached out to him and how I looked fantastic. “That dress,” he said. “You look great in that dress.” As I talked to him, I realized that he really is Perfect on Paper. He’s about to turn 30, he has a good job, he’s just purchased a townhouse, he’s polite and well-mannered, he’s tall and husky, he is crazy about me and – this is the kicker – he coaches his nephew’s kid football team because the child’s father isn’t in the picture. He literally drives to another town for no other reason than to coach a six-year-old’s football team. (I think my ovaries just jumped a little bit.) But … there always must be a but. I just don’t get that punched-in-the-gut feeling when I’m around him, like I’m so nervous and so full of butterflies that I might need to run to the bathroom to throw up. I have a good time with him, but I don’t feel the urge to rip his clothes off or profess my undying affection. I’m never flustered around him. I feel as if he likes me much more than I like him. He speaks of making plans or trying a new restaurant and it doesn’t even faze me. He’s got these beefy arms that wrap around me so well – but I don’t have to have them there. My mind thinks, “Great!” but I can’t get breathless over him for some reason. We finished our drinks and he suggested watching a movie. I thought about resisting and going home alone. It would be unfair to lead him on, I thought. But he is so kind and sweet that I gave into desire and went to watch a movie at his place. He gave me a tour of the partially empty townhouse, noting that his living room furniture comes out of storage soon. He was so proud of his home, showing off places where he picked the colors himself and where he did painting and maintenance. He walked me through the upstairs and a guest bedroom he’s been working on and showed off the small balcony outside his master suite. “Not a bad view,” he joked, as I headed over to the railing. “Waterfront,” he giggled, motioning to the creek below. He was leaning against the door frame leading from his bedroom to the balcony, watching with glee as I tiptoed barefoot across the wooden floor. I turned and leaned my back against the rail, reaching out with my hands grasping the railing on each side of me. “Waterfront, eh?” I grinned. And he smiled and walked over from the door to his room, wrapped his hands around my waist and kissed me softly.

Another notch in my lipstick case

Note: The blog vacation was hard, because there were moments during the past two weeks where I just really wanted to write. This post is from two weeks ago, FYI. On Monday, after working most of the weekend, I finished a big work project around 8 p.m. I told The Nurse, he seemed happy for me. I was ecstatic – I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders as I scratched something off of my “To Do” list. I wanted my bed and possibly a massage, but first I wanted a celebratory drink. I sent The Nurse a text to meet me for a beer, he sent back that he was staying in. I, tired and emotional, quipped back, "Maybe I am just cranky and tired, but I feel like I have been trying to hang out with you for weeks and you don't care." I smiled as I sent it off. This was clearly going to be the text message that ended the whole damn thing and I was just happy I'd sent it. Because you don't go out with me several (six or seven) times and get intimate with me many times and then just stop. You don't get to just walk away like that without giving me an explanation. Because it isn’t nothing and you don’t get to pretend that it was. And I don't care what the books say. He doesn't have to be into me, but he can at least have the nerve to tell me instead of dropping off into oblivion. He texted back that we would hang out and that he'd been busy with school. I wanted to scream – I hadn’t had a day off of work in longer than I’d care to admit and I’d worked from 5 a.m. to 8 p.m. that day. I do appreciate that school is a lot of work, but I wanted to reply, “You don’t know busy, buddy. I am the Queen of Busy and I’m still managing to try to see your Not Busy Ass.” Cooler heads prevailed and I replied that I just needed some reassurance to make sure that I wasn't making an ass out of myself. (Which I was, but you know, c'est la vie.) Tuesday and Wednesday we talked and he acted like nothing happened. Thursday I asked what he was doing and he said he had plans with his church. I didn't even know he HAD a church. He certainly hadn't spent his Sunday mornings in July and early August inside of a church, if you know what I'm saying … And plans? He makes plans? On Friday as I rushed out the door in the morning, I felt a slight stab of disappointment. I caught a glimpse of a baseball cap The Nurse left at my house one morning. It was sitting on my table staring at me, a physical reminder that a guy I had really liked was in my house a week or so before and inexplicably not again. And this little flutter in my stomach told me that I'd been had, that it was over, that he wasn't coming back for his hat, or to return the books he'd borrowed or to hold me close to his chest and wrap his arms around me and kiss the spot at the base of my neck where my shoulders meet. And it made me sad, because it was a month or so of fun (and worry, of course) and I genuinely liked this man. I was mad that I cared. Friday night after dinner and two beers at a restaurant, I was to meet some girlfriends for wine at a bar. I went home to change and lounged on my bed for a few minutes, texted The Nurse because I am officially THAT girl and I felt the tight squeeze of disappointment wrap around me where his body should be. I wanted so badly for him to just reply and let me know that I hadn't been wrong about him. I started answering work e-mails and woke up the next morning, fully clothed, with all of the lights and the TV on, Blackberry snuggled next to me. I had missed text messages galore on my personal cell – from my friends, wondering why the hell I wasn't out on a Friday night. The only text I really wanted never came. Saturday after a few hours of work (are we seeing a trend here?), I joined the Banker for another Tent Sale, which was less vicious than the last. I bought a pair of really simple Steven by Steve Madden black flat sandals and some cute animal print slides. After working more in the afternoon, I decided that I would look fabulous and sexy and go out and do it up right. Screw The Nurse and his promises to call and then not calling. Screw them all for being predictable, for running for God knows why. And screw me for falling for their song and dance and thinking that this time would be any different than the rest. After some relaxing, I began getting ready to go out. I was Veeting my legs to smooth, hair-free perfection when Best Friend Ever called. “You’ve got 10 minutes before I have to jump in the shower,” I said. And I continued with the Veeting of the legs and washing my face and and plucking my eyebrows while she gushed about her fabulous boyfriend. I told her about The Nurse and the text message about making an ass out of myself. She listened and dutifully commented on how he was missing out on something great and how I was lovely and smart. Trite things always sound so sincere and special when Best Friend Ever says them – I believe her more than anyone else. “So, ok, not to make an ass out of myself,” she said. “But … I have some news.” “News?” My ears perked up, thinking it was gossip about someone from high school or an ex or something. “Well, you see, [Boyfriend] is going to ask me to marry him before the end of the year …” I felt my stomach drop to the floor and tears prickle my eyes. Like she had killed a man or something. She was leaving me. She was really going to leave me alone and become one of Them. I swallowed. “Really? You’re going to say …” I trailed off. “Yes.” I squealed and leaned against the bathroom counter. I really was happy for her. And I gushed, “He really is the nicest most wonderful man you’ve ever dated. And he treats you so well. And you are so happy.” “I know!” “Seriously, this is awesome,” I said. “This is so great.” I repeated it again, convincing myself. “So, hold [Date] of next year, because that’s my goal. We’re getting married here, so you’ll have to travel, so that’s why I’m telling you now even though he hasn’t asked me officially yet.” “Thank you.” I began mentally budgeting plane tickets and a bridesmaid dress and wedding presents and a hotel and time off of work. She gushed some more about the church where they were to get married, the discussions of the ring and other preparations, like the insane size of her wedding party, since he has a huge family and many friends. “You’re telling me I have just over a year to get a date suitable for the weekend wedding of my best friend.” “Yes.” “And to the gym.” We said our goodbyes and I leaned over the sink to regain the composure I’d lost in the last 15 minutes of the call. I was ecstatic for her, but I still felt like vomiting up my guts because I just wasn’t sure I was quite ready to see her walk down the aisle. I’d known her boyfriend was right for her, but there is a big difference between knowing your Best Friend is happy with a man and shopping for a bridesmaid dress. I looked up in the mirror and rubbed my eyes. And then I turned on the shower really hot and let it steam up the bathroom. By the time my shower was over, I’d washed the fear and sadness away. Twenty minutes later I finished lining my eyes and slid into a little black dress. I spun in front of the mirror, tucked my lip gloss into my purse and hurried out into the night to make some mischief.

Hiatus By The Numbers

I am blatantly stealing this format from excellent blogger Mr. Pinkerton, who does this every week. I will blog actual thoughts later, as it has been a busy break. (Also, to my newsletter posse, I sent a message a few days ago. Don’t know if you got it.) Pairs of shoes purchased at another tent sale: 2 Cost of said shoes: $21 Cost of said shoes if purchased at full price: $170 Boys kissed: 1 Times I saw The Nurse: 0 Times I tried to see The Nurse: At least 5 Times The Nurse promised to make plans: 3 Plans made with The Nurse: 0 Text massages received from The Nurse: 1 Times spoken to The Nurse: 0 Second chances given to another man (details to come): 1 Times listened to “Over My Head” by The Fray: at least 10 (a day) Hours worked: Too many to count Unread Blackberry emails: 400 (I obviously don’t know all of the tricks to working my Blackberry just yet, since I can't get the e-mails to show up as "read.") Time spent watching Pam and Jim fanvids on YouTube: 45 minutes Black dresses purchased from Target for less than $25: 1 Times cried on August 29: At least three (that I can remember) Hoegardens: Six(ish) pints Harmless Blog Crushes formed: 1 Tonsils that must come out: 2 Eyebrows waxed: 2 Sick Days: 1 Tailgates: 1 New tank tops in school-appropriate colors: 1 Numbers given out: 1 Psycho men: 1 Posts written: 3 Good stuff to come, I promise. Missed ya.

Charming, but single is 25 26 27(!), lives in the Southern part of the U.S.A. and likes both her drinks and her boys tall. E-mail (listed below) her and she may respond. You can also IM her in AIM/AOL. (If she ever remembers to sign on.)
Image hosted by

Former taglines of this blog: "A Journal in Dates and Drinks" and "A Dateless Journal of Drinking."

Those Particulars
Some Backstory
Memories of the Way We Were
Updates and Towel Snapping
One Year Wrap-Up
Just As She Is
An Open Letter to Myself
After 26 years, she HAS learned something
An Open Letter to the Men Who Message Me Through Match
Sharing a smoke

Associated Content Interview with Charming
The Hindu: Blog Sisters are here

Links (Updated!)


I'm a C-list Blogebrity

Image hosted by

Powered by Blogger

make money online blogger templates

Web Counters
Who links to me?

© 2006 Charming, but single | Blogger Templates by GeckoandFly.
No part of the content or the blog may be reproduced without prior written permission.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs2.5 License.