I have my quirks — a couple of things I do out of a bit of fear that is so mild and silly that it is more superstition or habit than anything else. Each night I go through the apartment to make sure that the lights are all off. As I walk from my dark living area and into my bedroom, I speed up my pace a little bit and as I get about a foot and a half from the edge of the mattress, I leap right into the bed and quickly crawl to the middle, never letting my feet get close to the edge. When I was little I was afraid a witch was going to grab my tiny little ankles and pull me right down into her lair, which was under my bed. And 20-some-odd years later, I am still worried about this — but only at night. I also always check to make sure no one is in the shower when I go in the bathroom. Anyone's bathroom. My bathroom, my friends' bathrooms, my parents' bathrooms, bathrooms at a hotel, bathrooms at parties. You don't even want to know how many gross showers I had to peak in when I was at parties in college at some crappy house shared by four boys with one bathroom that they cleaned maybe once a semester when their parents were coming to visit. It is a mild obsession. I know no one is in the shower. But until I see that for myself, I am tense. My sister is the same way. It was mildly reassuring for me to know that I wasn't the only one who was checking for a psycho (dressed in a very scary clown mask, natch) in the shower with my conditioner, shower gel and exfoliating mitt. "It just makes sense to hide in the bathroom if you're a crazy axe murderer," my sister explains. "Because you'd definitely catch the person off guard and with their pants down." Not me. Because I have a plan. If I ever find someone in my shower, I'm going to pull the shower rod down and whack them over the head with it. And then run screaming into my bedroom, lock the door, push something in front of it and call the police. I just hope the Witch isn't under the bed when I get in there. * I know "of which I am scared" is proper grammar. But, seriously.
Note: Part 1 is here. Read it first! We snagged some barstools and I arranged myself confidently, shoulders back, purse in front of me on the bar, my light-pink tipped hands folded in my lap, enjoying slow sips of wine as I caught up with Single Girl, made plans for the next weekend when Party Girl would be in town and successfully defended myself from The Blackberry's numerous attempts to pick me up. He was persistent. Hand on my shoulder. Snappy lines. Invitations to dance – to this I rather cruelly drew his attention down my smooth legs to the heels I'd perched myself atop – they were black and tall and bare, with a mere one-inch strap of leather holding my foot in the shoe. "I don't own many shoes suitable for dancing," I said coolly. He left me alone for a bit after this. I texted Prom Date, "At the bar. You need to save me." And then I engaged one of The Blackberry's friends in a debate about who would maintain control of the Senate in the election and the friendly bet of a drink was wagered. Then The Blackberry was back, with two women flitting around him, both in costume. One was dressed as Tinkerbell, with the reddest of red lips to accompany. I recognized her immediately as the woman he'd bent over Prom Date's lap and kissed weeks before. Her friend was dressed in a mishmash of black clothes with a purple wig messily placed upon her head. A homemade sign taped to her said, "Getting Wiggy With It!" I was immediately glad I'd opted against wearing a costume to the bar. The Blackberry teased me about being cold, about not liking him, about having an agenda. "If I have an agenda, then I would love to see a copy of it," I snapped back, as I sipped from my second overfilled glass of wine. He tripped over his words and came up with, "You know what your agenda is." "No, I don't. When you figure it out, e-mail me a copy." He motioned to Tinkerbell and started talking. "The last time I saw her, you had her bent over to make out with her." He denied it, but not very convincingly. He ordered drinks for himself and Wig Girl. They took a few sips and he announced that they should dance, and left their drinks by me, with instructions to watch the drinks for them. Prom Date arrived and a few minutes later The Blackberry was back, with Wig Girl hanging on him. They retrieved their unscathed drinks and he looked at me. "You snooze, you lose," The Blackberry said, shooting a pointed glance at Wig Girl. "Oh really?" I said, with as little interest as I could muster. "You have such contempt for me," he said. "I don't understand why." "You don't like me because I'm honest," I said. "And contempt is a strong word. I have contempt for murderers and child molesters. I don't have contempt for you." At this point I'd ordered a third glass, but switched to my own tab, figuring that I didn't need to mooch off of The Blackberry all night. Single Girl was chatting with a professor who was now bankrolling her drinks. And as I reached for a third overfilled glass of wine, I was starting to feel a little warm and fuzzy. Like I needed a hug and a long slow kiss. Like someone should be taking advantage of my prettiness. Like me. So I flipped open the cell phone. The Crier/Good On Paper was out of town. And I landed on The Nurse. Now, I am not particularly proud of this, but after careful consideration, I decided that the pursuit of hugs was worth a little embarrassment. So I sent him a message. "Ok, I know we don't hang out. I am kind of loaded. My place later?" I regretted it the second I pressed send. Single Girl (who works at the same hospital as The Nurse) chastised me. Half-drunk Prom Date pointed out that even if he didn't call me back, I'd surely be no worse off – I wasn't really losing anything by asking. This sounded reasonable to me. The Blackberry was back. He had Wig Girl cornered off two barstools away from me. He'd still flutter over to me at times to make a comment. He opened his wallet to show me he'd kept my card – but he unwittingly pulled out someone else's before he finally located mine. I turned back to my wine. Single Girl continued talking to the professor. Not getting a response from The Nurse was grating on my nerves. I couldn't believe he wasn't calling me. I couldn't believe I cared. The Blackberry escorted Wig Girl out, I assumed to take her home with him. "Finally!" I slouched in my barstool. "I thought he'd never leave." A few minutes later he was back at my side. "Where's your friend with the Wig?" I asked. "She went home," he said. "And I'm saving myself for you." And he came up behind my barstool and slid his hands around my waist, pressing his body in closer to me. And he leaned in and – inches from my neck – he began whispering in my ear. I felt his hot breath on my skin and I straightened up in my chair as he told me he was going home and asked in hushed tones if I was going to come with him. "I'm good here, thanks," I said. He left alone and shortly thereafter Single Girl took me home. I straightened up around the house – possibly because I thought The Nurse might call. A few hours later, I woke up sitting in a chair in my living room, still dressed, still tipsy, still alone.
I have updated my blogroll. Finally. And it was waaaay out of date. I started with 148 blogs this morning. I ended with 233. That’s right. I added 85 blogs to my blogroll. And then I got tired. I am mortified that some people blogrolled me months and months ago and I am just adding them now. Mortified. Like forgetting to send a wedding present mortified. Like leaving the house in a white shirt with a black bra mortified. Sorry. I may take Charlotte’s lead and get a blog personal assistant. So, I went through Technorati links and my e-mail and my sitemeter and my comments. But I KNOW I forgot some. So, if I did, please e-mail me, comment here, comment on the blogroll page. Do all three if you want. Also, e-mail me if I misspelled your name or blog title or whatever. It was a lot of cutting and pasting and coffee. A few notables from the new additions to the ‘roll: Best blog title of the new bunch added to the ‘roll: I was told there would be bacon This is funny. Especially since I hate bacon. If I were told there would be bacon, I would not be excited. Best Halloween costume posted about on a new addition to my blogroll: The Franzia Box from bee-spot. Dear God, how much Franzia did I drink in college? My old roommate and I would alternate who bought the box. I want to puke just thinking about it. Fellow NaNoWriMo participant: Life of a Georgia Farmer Bring it. Because I have 50,000 words inside of me. I know it. The anti-NaNoWriMo blogger new to the ‘roll: Jen All Day I will not abandon my blog. I will not! Two men after my own heart: Girlfriend ’07 Because I also want to have someone special to make out with on New Year’s Eve. Pimping the online dating: Yahoo! Personals Blog Yes, Yahoo! Personals has a blog written by their online dating experts. If I date online any longer, I may become an expert on how NOT to online date correctly. E-mail me, Yahoo! Personals Dating Experts! You read my blog. You know I need serious help with the online dating. The blogger whose pain I feel because I am a professional wing woman at times: The Misadventures of Wing-Woman Because I always wanted to be a red head, but no amount of hair dye and watching “My So-Called Life” could do it: Thoughts of a Crazy Red Head Guys, this is who you blame when you have to ask your girlfriend to marry you in some crazy way. Because, seriously, if this works out for him … you’ll all be screwed. (“Flowers? Candles! HE PAID $2.5 MILLION FOR A COMMERICIAL!”): My Super Proposal Because I’ve always wished I had a British accent: Girl Dates London I really like the word copasetic: The Copasetic Fish
At some point during the day on Friday, I had decided that I was to look devastatingly hot that night when I joined friends for cocktails at a cigar bar. Devastatingly hot meant moisturizing, deep conditioning, plucking, exfoliating, polishing, moussing, straightening, brushing, combing, shadowing, concealing, powdering, smoothing, spraying and glossing entire sections of my body and being into a frenzy, boosting my bosoms with a cleavage enhancing bra and topping it all off with a black dress and three-inch heels, accessorized with dangling earrings and my new pink clutch from Latico NJ. This all took considerably longer than I’d hoped and left me craving a soft Henley and my sweatpants. But dressed to kill, I ran on my tippy toes to my friend Single Girl’s car as the wind whipped around my smooth legs, which were feeling excessively bare in the crisp October evening air. “Damn. You look hot. I just wore jeans,” Single Girl said. “You look great,” I said. “But I had to look fantastic tonight. I decided earlier today that because The Blackberry didn’t call, I was going to remind him of what he missed out on by ignoring that there was a process.” I checked my lips in my compact and smiled at my reflection. I was going to melt his smug face right off. “How do you know he’s going to be there?” she asked. “He will be there. He is always there.” “And so your plan is to …” “Look hot and see what happens,” I said. “So far, I can tell you that he isn’t my type and that I’m not going to go home with him.” “Uh-huh.” I don’t know why I was so intensely focused on this. Maybe I was a touch hurt that after weeks of bad flirting, I’d given him my number, sure that he would call. And his ego was too bruised from me rejecting him to call me. Which, in turn, bruised my ego because a man I didn’t really feel a great chemistry with had rejected me. It is the calculus of attraction. I didn’t make it up; I am just powerless to its equation. We entered in the back of the bar, past the band and I saw several men glance in our direction. The bar was running a bit slim on guys our age, and we passed through the loud back room and into the hall that would lead us into the area that is more of a smoking lounge. As I shuffled along the brick-paved hall, trying not to tip forward in my uncomfortably tall heels, The Blackberry breezed through. As he passed me, he looked me up and down and stammered, “Well, hello.” I nodded, tucked my clutch under my arm and walked by, channeling my inner catwalk queen. Single Girl was aghast. “That was him?” “I told you he wasn’t my type. Also, he’s in a Clark Kent turning into Superman costume. He doesn’t wear glasses.” We milled around the back bar waiting for drinks. Single Girl ordered Crown and Coke and I frustrated the bartender by ordering a wine that they didn’t have behind the bar. Single Girl sipped her drink and started a tab while I waited, quite impatiently, for my wine. No more than two minutes passed and The Blackberry whizzed back into the room, honed in on me, his target, and was at my side. “So, what’s going on? And will you be my Lois Lane?” “I think they couldn’t find my wine,” I said, ignoring his second question as I motioned to the bartender, who was uncorking the bottle and pouring me a generous glass. I introduced him to Single Girl. He shook her hand and then took mine and kissed it. “Hey!” he called to the bartender. “She drinks on me. And her too.” The bartender nodded and slid a very full glass of wine to me. “She’ll take care of you. She’s an ex-girlfriend of mine,” he said, sliding his hand into the small of my back. I tensed up and pulled my body from him as his fingertips grazed the soft fabric of my thin black dress and I turned to him to smile. He leaned in for a kiss and I turned my perfectly blushed cheek, thanked him for the wine and focused my attention back to Single Girl as he moved on to his next target. He was barely two steps away when Single Girl leaned into the bartender and said, “Transfer my drink to his tab.” And she slipped her credit card back into her purse. “[Single Girl]!” I gasped with mock horror. “Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes and pausing for a sip of Crown. “If he thinks showing off and buying our drinks is going to woo you, then I say that tonight the drinks are on him.”
A few weeks ago I did an interview with a content producer from Associated Content, which is a Web site of freelance writers. You can read the interview here. Kind of long. It is me talking about why I blog, my views on dating and relationships and the future. It’s kind of odd to be called an “up-and-coming” blogger and a “rising star” of the blogosphere. I’m going to hire that Nick Katers to write my online personals profile. And, yes, I mentioned that I’m doing National Novel Writing Month. So I guess that means I have to now, huh? Damn.
I am pissed at The Nurse. Not because of the disappearing act or anything like that. Life’s too short. Seriously. No, I’m pissed at him because he rocked my world and then took it away. He gave me exactly what I craved and left me without it. He introduced me to the only terrible hole-in-the-wall bar in town that serves Fat Tire – my favorite. Illegal to sell here, natch. And now I can never go there again. Bastard. I was contemplating this beer because it reminds me of my favorite upcoming season of all. Holiday Beer Season. I had my first of the year tonight, Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale 2006. The full flavor of ale, the slight bitterness, the extra oomph of a bit of spice. Divine. All I can think is, “Please let the Anchor Steam Christmas Ale get here soon. I am wasting away without it!” Melodramatically, I wrote bad rhyming poetry to mark this important occasion: Pilsners and ciders and stouts, oh my! So many varieties of beer to try. An ale, a porter, preferably on tap, Domestic beer, foreign beer, I don’t give a crap. But of all the beer I’ve come to toast; Holiday brews, I love you the most.
Last night at dinner we were sharing dating horror stories. It quickly became a competition to see who had the worst date story. Like a parlor game for singles, winner to be decided by the loudness of the groans heard 'round the table.
My friend went out with an engineer who had a very rigid schedule. When they were discussing lunch plans, he said he always took lunch for exactly an hour at 11:15 and said he liked only two restaurants. It did not go well.
I one-upped her with the guy who didn't drive because it was an "urban mindset thing."
She countered with the man she met for a sushi lunch date, who, upon receiving the check, agreed to split it with her (she offered) and then proceeded to pull out a rubber-banded roll of money, give her his half of the bill and tell her to put the whole tab on her credit card. Also, he didn't contribute for tip.
So I shared the story of the guy who cried when we saw "The Break Up" at the movies. And then talked about burning his ex-girlfriends things.
And I won.
I always win with that story.
Friday night, after a grueling work week, I did my best to drag my tired self out of bed and into the shower so I could go out. I’d sent out an e-mail to some pals telling them I wanted to go out and I wasn’t letting a 13-hour work day and plans to work all day Saturday keep me from a glass of Evolution No. 9. Not now. Not ever. I ditched the black dress I was planning to wear in favor of an outfit I love – jeans, my favorite boots and a silky maroon top with an empire seam right below my bust line. Topped with a cute shrug if it is cold. This is one of my favorite go-to outfits for a casual cute night out. An hour later, Prom Date picked me up and we headed to my favorite downtown wine bar. Love the wine and atmosphere, hate the pretentiousness of having to wait for a table or a couch or an ottoman. All of the tables are marked “reserved” and two men alternate stopping you at the door and keeping you from just sitting – they even went so far as to put a “Reserved” sign up as we were paying our tabs later that night, just to make sure no one took our table when we left. But the wine is good, the place is relaxing and kind of hip and it is smoke-free, which my recent throat surgery having self really appreciates. Prom Date and I caught up and were joined by his younger cousin. The three of us joked around and after two glasses of wine and a few chance meetings with a couple of friends and acquaintances from years ago, Prom Date and I headed to a cigar bar for another drink before bed. (This bar has a pretty good ventilation system for a cigar bar and the smoke doesn’t seem to stay in the bar for very long.) The cigar bar is a favorite of The Blackberry, who may or may not live in the attic of the bar, judging from how much he is there. I had seen him a few weeks before (didn’t write about it) and we’d actually had a normal conversation. He wasn’t terribly drunk as he’d been a few weeks prior and all was well. We’d messaged back and forth a few times later and that was that. I settled in on a leather couch with Prom Date, who gleefully lit a cigar and ordered a gin and tonic. I celebrated my long week with a cosmo. We were talking about work when the Blackberry came through the doorway of the back room where the band was playing and into the quieter room where we were drinking. He took one look in our direction and made a beeline to me. He barely grazed by Prom Date and slid in next to me on the couch. Kiss on the cheek, arm on the shoulder in less than a minute, clearly a record of some sort. He was in full flirting mode. Prom Date kept giggling and giving me these looks as the Blackberry teased me and checked me out and commented on how soft my hair was. (As it should have been, what with the deep conditioning, the pin straight mousse, the pin straight shine spray, the hair spray and the Brilliant Brunette shine cream. But I digress.) “You have to come dance with me,” he said. “You must.” I giggled and motioned to my full cosmo, which was clearly not dance floor appropriate. And I crossed my legs and The Blackberry looked down at my high heeled boots and was taken aback. He called them sexy and asked me to dance again. I declined again and he excused himself to the back to the listen to the band. Prom Date and I had barely had a chance to gossip about him when he returned, more persistent this time. He convinced Prom Date to watch my drink and me to join him for a dance. And even though I was clearly not in the mood, his earnestness was endearing and I took him up on the offer, wobbly sexy boots and all. I don’t remember the first song we danced to, but the second was “What’s going on” by Marvin Gaye. He was completely uninhibited on the dance floor and I still can’t decide if he was being silly or if he is equally earnest with his dancing style. He twirled me around and rested a hand on my hip. He was into me. Bad. A woman he introduced as his ex-girlfriend told me that he was a keeper. I smiled and tried not to break my ankle in my heels. After our second dance he leaned in and gave me a peck on the lips. And I led us back to the other room, unsure of how I felt. He introduced another female patron as an ex-girlfriend and I began to wonder if he’d dating every woman in the place and if he’d ever bothered to go to another bar in town. There are many. As the evening wore on, his flirtations continued. As I excused myself for yawning because I was tired and we paid our tab, he said, “So, your place?” “Excuse me?” “You’re place. Is right across the street, right?” “Yes.” “So, let’s go.” “I’m going to go. But alone. I need to get to bed because I have to work tomorrow.” “So?” “So, I’m going to sleep. Alone.” “I’ll wake you up nice and early.” “I’m sorry. I’m leaving alone.” He seemed playfully hurt. “You’re really rejecting me?” he asked. “I’m just saying that I’m going home alone,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. He gently argued a bit and I was firm in return. “I’m not going to randomly do that.” “You call this random?” He was referring to the months of missed connections. The Match.com. Seeing me out with Prom Date. Making an ass out of himself drunk. Being a gentleman the next time we hung out. “I’m going home alone. Because there is a process.” “A process.” “Yeah, like dinner,” Prom Date chimed in. He was ready to go home. I stood up and The Blackberry gave me a hug and tried to kiss me for real this time. I gave him a peck on the lips again. “You’re really leaving alone?” “Yes.” “Why?” I reached into my purse and fished out my business card. As I pressed it into his hand, I said, “Because there is a process.” And I turned on my heel and walked out.
From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate
Re: Grumpy mood
I should have worn more color today. I'm in all black!
From College Roommate
To: Charming, but single
Re Grumpy mood
I didn't realize color made your mood better. Are our ensembles like one giant mood ring?
From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate
Re: Grumpy mood
It is a theory I'm trying out. I'm in all black today. Except for my leopard ballet flats.
From College Roommate
To: Charming, but single
Re: Grumpy mood
I think my leopard flats are more casual than yours. I can only wear them with jeans. Not to work. What are you wearing yours with?
From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate
Re: Grumpy mood
All black. Black pants and a black shirt with 70s or 80s style batwing sleeves.
From College Roommate
To: Charming, but single
Re: Grumpy mood
I'm confused. Are you a leopard or a bat?
From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate
Re: Grumpy mood
I'm a leopard who might need to make a quick escape … hence the wings.
I can never sleep on Sunday nights. It doesn’t matter how much I do, how early I got up, what I have to do on Monday morning. I could run a freaking marathon and follow it up with a million push-ups on Sunday, and I still would be up until freaking 4 a.m. that night. It’s the anticipation. Of the week. What will happen? Will I work 80 hours this week? Will I have fun on my Margarita Date? Are my black pants ironed? Am I ready for my Tuesday meeting? Maybe I should get out of bed and iron those black pants. And if the black pants are ironed, what am I going to wear with them? Should I wear the round toe leopard print ballet flats or the pointy toe black flats? Is the fact that I purchased two pairs of flats to replace my big heels a sign that I’m losing my mojo? Is that soft cranberry sweater I bought this weekend dressy enough for Monday? No. It’s more of a Friday outfit. It has a hood. It is a soft sweater cranberry-colored hoodie. What was I thinking? I don’t wear hoodies. I stole my sister’s hoodie once. It was comfy, but I felt frumpy. I gave it back. Yes, the sweater hoodie and the flats. Signs of the loss of my mojo and impending doom. The kind of doom that will come because I’m on track to get maybe two hours sleep tonight. If that. And I have to bring doughnuts to work tomorrow. And yes, that date. Margaritas. Tuesday night maybe? That polka dot wrap dress would be cute for the Margarita Date. With a camisole underneath it because too much cleavage is inadvisable for a first date. Especially since I’m kind of sure that I really am not going to really mesh with him and I’m only really going out with him because I said I would and I’m a nice girl. Crap. It is 3 a.m. My alarm goes off at 5 a.m. Double crap.
Anonymous comments are back. Be nice.
One year in college I didn't think I was going to have the night off for Halloween. In fact, I never thought I was going to have the night off for Halloween.
When I did, I had to pull together something quick. I wore a dress from a formal in high school (always always always keep your formal dresses handy, ladies!) and made a sash with toilet paper. I carried a toilet brush (I cleaned it well first). I teased my hair within an inch of its life.
I was "Miss Tidy Bowl."
It was horrible. People didn't get it and I spent most of the night explaining that I didn't accidentally have toilet paper stuck to my heel. By the end of the evening I lost my toilet brush and had to go buy a new one to clean the bathroom in my apartment. I left a pile of toilet paper in my path and I lost my sash. I looked like a very sad high school senior in a navy blue gown with bad hair and makeup who managed to sneak into a college bar and then realized that college bars aren't fun when you're in tall shoes and a floor-length gown.
I was miserable.
I gave up on costumes after this disaster. I am really bad at planning ahead. Now I go with the time-honored tradition of wearing something slutty and putting on a combo of animal ears and a nose. (This year I'm thinking of wearing a mini dress with wings! Like a Slutty Butterfly!)
A few things:
- I have disabled anonymous comments. I have my reasons. I am terribly sorry to people who want to comment anonymously. Perhaps you should consider getting a Blogger username. (With Blogger Beta, I think you can even use a Gmail account.) Anonymous commenters who have issues with this policy can e-mail me and tell me how lovely I am directly.
- I want a life coach. Being sick, I watched a lot of “Made” on MTV. Those kids all did amazing things with the help of their life coaches. (Ok, fine, cheerleading coaches. But the damn show isn’t about being a beauty queen anyway.) (Also, I want to be a cheerleader.)
- I just got off of the phone with my salon and I think they think I’m nuts. Because I was scheduling my haircut and brow wax and I’ve been going to two locations because I liked the waxer at one and the colorist at another and now I’m not doing color anymore, so I am consolidating my services to one location and the woman I spoke with was like, “So, you want an eyebrow wax with [Waxer] and you don’t care who cuts your hair?” like I was crazy choosing my Brow Artist over my Hair Trimmer. And maybe I am. But I’ve been growing my hair out for months and I really just need someone with steady hands to trims off about an inch and shape my bangs. I wear it back to work most days anyway. My eyebrows, on the other hand, need special love and attention.
- Also, does anyone else’s salon make them fill out a medical form before getting a brow wax? This is a new thing my salon has implemented. I have to list my medications and allergies on a slip of paper before each brow waxing. I guess someone must’ve had a Bad Wax Reaction. Weird. I also have to sign the form. Perhaps I should have my lawyer look it over.
- I have a date next week, I think. He asked me to get margaritas after work one night and I asked what days he was free and he said, “All of them.” We’ll see.
- My friend the Social Worker started working at the hospital where The Nurse works. We joked that she might run into him and quickly dismissed this prospect, because it seemed highly unlikely that she’d interact with him. She worked in his service and ran into him on the FIRST DAY. Hah. She said via e-mail that we needed to have a serious talk because, “you are much better than that very terrible man.” I love my friends.
- Also, I would like to thank Crazy for calling me at 2 a.m., letting the phone ring and then hanging up. I certainly appreciated having my sleep disrupted.
Dear Men, Thank you for your interest in dating me. I am truly humbled by your decision to wink at me for free and/or e-mail me to comment on the size of my lips in my picture. I DO have Nice Lips, thanks for noticing! I see that you are from a very small town. I do not really know where that is, nor have I been there by choice, I am sure. Feel free to continue pursuing me; however, let it be known that I am probably not going to drive to Podunkville to meet you at some double wide trailer that’s been converted to a bar so that we can listen to Skynard on the jukebox and drink Budweiser. Read my profile. Does it say anything about Budweiser? If we date for several months and I like you, I may make a trip out to the homestead as part of the give and take of a relationship. But if you’re just casually seeing me in hopes of interacting with my Nice Lips, you will come to the city. That’s where my Nice Lips like to go out. But really, I’m getting ahead of myself. Because there are some major wrinkles in your profile that need to be ironed out before we can continue. Why are you wearing Denim Overalls in that picture? Look, I understand that not everyone works in an office. I live here too and I get that in some places, there are more oysters than offices. And I’m ok with you not being a briefcase-toting office inhabitant as long as you are a hardworker. That being said, why are you wearing Denim Overalls in that picture? Don’t send me a picture of you working, hunting, fishing, hanging out or generally being in Denim Overalls. Denim Overalls do not make me lose my breath. Put on jeans and polo and take a picture. It ain’t rocket science. Also, is that Robert E. Lee standing next to you? I thought he was dead! No? That’s your buddy dressed as Robert E. Lee? Oh, well since you explained that to me … NO. Civil War Reenactors are WORSE than Men in Denim Overalls (when there is no overlap). I’m almost glad that you have a picture with you and Faux-bert E. Lee on your dating profile, because I won’t accidentally go out with you now and have to text my girlfriends from the bathroom that “My Date reenacts Civil War Battles.” Come on, dude, do you think I’m going to explain to my girlfriends, “Oh, [My Boyfriend] can’t make it because they’re getting ready to re-enact the War of Northern Aggression and he’s in charge of making costumes?” while we sip cocktails? Hell no. I can’t even believe I just wrote “the War of Northern Aggression” out. I can almost get over the plethora of trucks and four wheelers in your dating profile. I don’t really like the guns. Or the dead animals. But when you are in your picture in Denim Overalls standing next to some dude dressed as Robert E. Lee, I draw the line. I like Southern Men. I really do. And if one of you would show up in seersucker on your profile, I’d swoon and e-mail your picture around to my girlfriends and write three drafts of the e-mail I was going to send you. Because I love me some Southern Gentlemen. But there are moments in my dating life when I start to wonder if there are any datable men here. When the Civil War Reenactors and the Confederate Band of Brothers start to wink at me? One of those times. Cheers, Charming
Duh, there's a new banner. Grapefruitish? Thoughts?
After having a so-so time with my first “round” of online dating (three men earned a date – one didn’t work out; one turned out to be a kind of nice guy I see casually sometimes; one I actually dated for a few weeks before he went missing), I was unsure of what to do next. It is October, and I have to be honest when I say that I had high hopes to be dating someone this fall. Spring stereotypically is a time for new love and being in love, or so they say. The flowers and birds and sunshine and nice weather. I get it, I do. For me the fall is a great time. Football. Crisp weather. Close-toed shoes and light sweaters. Friends in town for the weekend. Hot coffee instead of granitas in the morning. Warm jewel tones instead of brights. And it would be a fantastic time to be dating someone. That brings me back to the search. One thing I hate about online dating is the cost. I just subbed to Match.com for three months and the cost was more than $50. That isn’t exactly a huge amount to pay for three months of service – a nice dinner and night a out, a pair of shoes – and I’ll be glad to pay it if I end up getting some dates out of it. But if I continue to strike out, I’m going to wish I’d bought myself a new pair of heels and struck out to find a man the old fashioned way. I’d considered going back to Yahoo! Personals, but I tend to get messages from people who don’t live in the city there. And I’m more likely to get messaged by older guys, it seems. Perhaps it is a stereotype, but Match seems to be where the guys in my dating range in my city seem to be. Either that or I’ve spent more time on my Match profile. Who knows? Also, I’m not sure I’m ready to pay for two dating services at once. Even if it does mean doubling my chance of meeting potential fall dates. There are other things I hate about online dating. The lack of punctuation. The creepy pictures. The very odd e-mails. I got a very odd e-mail on a free dating site recently. (I wish I’d saved it.) It was from a man who lived about 45 minutes away. He was 37. And very direct. He said, “I’m not really here for dating or a relationship. I think that sometimes people have romance. And I’m getting older and it is time for me to have a child. Judging from your picture, our children would be beautiful. I’m sure you get a lot of messages on here. But if you’re ready to make love for a baby, please contact me.” The kicker? On his profile, he was NUDE and, um, AT ATTENTION. (I guess this site didn’t have screeners?) Anyway, I reported his profile for inappropriate photos and moved on. Because, hello, I am no one’s baby factory and far from that desperate. So I’m back to another three months of winks and e-mails on Match and the continuation of the quest to have someone to smooch on New Years Eve.
Ok, I didn’t die or stop dating or blogging. I had surgery. My tonsils out. And I really am fine. But having your tonsils out gets rougher as you age because healing takes longer. And I knew this going in. I did. But I still had this vision involving me lounging about on a sea of pillows and blankets, numb on pain medication, while I watched Grey’s Anatomy and The Office and my mom fetched my chocolate milkshakes, which I could drink without worry of calories because I wouldn’t be able to eat actual food anyway. And I would be able to wax poetic and write drippy posts (see: pain medication). Well, it was not to be. Apparently when a doctor carves out serious holes in the side of your throat, even the best pain meds leave something to be desired. The past week has been a sea of liquid medications, obnoxious pain, headaches, fever and near dehydration. And NONE of my doctors looked like Patrick Dempsey. And I couldn’t eat chocolate shakes because I can’t use a straw and because ice cream makes my stomach hurt. So my mom’s been going all Nurse Ratched and forcefeeding me popsicles and a custom cocktail of orange Gatorade and water (because pure Gatorade hurts my throat too much) on the rocks. In a fever-induced crying fit, I think I swore off ever having any kind of surgery again. Or having children. Also, I promised my mom I would make sure she got the best nursing home ever – with the good rocking chairs – for not letting me die. So I can’t really afford to have kids, because I hear long term care is pretty pricey. Sigh.