Monday, February 23, 2009
Karma Can be a B*tch (Slap)
At the risk of sounding bitter, I’ve aptly named the aforementioned potential Mr. Right. He will heretofore be known as Mr. Ass-Hat. Mr. Ass-Hat aroused suspicion last week when his online flirtations with one Ms. Red-headed-run-on-sentence-whore caught my attention. This flirtation wasn’t new, it’s just that something started nagging at my head more and I didn’t think it was her lack of grammatical form. After all, anyone reading my blog knows that grammar is not my sticking point. Being the forward person that I am, I asked him point-blank if he was seeing someone else. This would have been the time to say, “No, I haven’t been seeing someone else, but I was considering asking someone else out on a date.” In fact, even if he’d said, “I have not been seeing someone else but as soon as I can corner her, I plan to boink the daylights out of this chick,” would have been preferable to the path he chose. He went with the path that assures me that there’s no one else, and if there was, we’d discuss it FIRST. Fine, I took away from that conversation that there was the possibility that someone else could come along but I’d have warning before I found her posting pictures from his bed on her twitter page. That, my friends is what earns you nicknames like Mr. Ass-Hat. And let me be clear, when you hear from me and the first thing out of my mouth is a question about the 9am posting on the red-headed slut’s page of the picture of your dog in your bed, you should not assume that I’ll still want to go to the concert next week with you “as friends.” After all, my friends don’t go around performing the emotional equivalent of spitting in my face. That’s the level of respect you just showed me and I’d honestly rather stick forks in my eye than pretend for an entire evening that I’m having a good time with you when all I can think about is, “I wonder if he changed the sheets since the last time I spent the night?” It’s not so much that we’re not going to get a couple Labradors, reproduce wildly and live happily ever after. That part is a long shot in any new relationship. The really hard to swallow part is that Mr. Ass-Hat actually holds me in such low regard that he didn’t stop to care what the ramifications would be when I found out about the red-headed grammar whore. Well, I’m sure you two will be happy together and just remember that what goes around comes around. If karma exists, you just told her you’re ready for one serious cosmic bitch-slap.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
If this were AA it would be a much bigger deal.
Today is February 17th. It’s a relatively unassuming day. I was supposed to have the car emissions tested today since it’s registered to a family member still and technically the tags expire tomorrow (on their birthday). It’s not a holiday, President’s Day was yesterday. I didn’t get to observe President’s Day by sleeping in and being lazy like most of my friends did, my company doesn’t celebrate presidents. We didn’t celebrate Martin Luther King either. You can bet your bottom dollar that Arbor Day will go unnoticed as well. While I enjoy airing my grievances about not having all government holidays off work and my disappointment at the lack of respect for shrubbery-friendly holidays, this is not my point. My point is that this morning, February 17 didn’t seem important. I was wrong, it’s a milestone day and I’m just relieved I noticed before it passed by uncelebrated like the presidents and Dr. King in my corporate prison.
You see, I received a call about my most recent lab work from the doctor’s office. It seems that my thyroid hormones are still not high enough. Good grief, you people are determined to give me the metabolism of a jack rabbit on cocaine. I already spend half my day fantasizing about steak and burritos. Not to mention the plethora of excuses I’ve been coming up with in meetings to explain the obnoxiously loud stomach growling coming from my end of the table despite the fact that we just finished lunch 19 minutes ago. ("Sorry, I'm fasting for Arbor day - my tummy might rumble a little.") Anyway, I had to count back to figure out how long I’ve been on the increased dosage of thyroid hormone and in the process I realized that exactly one month ago today, on January 17th, I was clad in leather drinking whiskey meeting the aforementioned potential Mr. Right. *Gasp* It’s like an anniversary! Our first date was only two days later.
I had to share this with the aforementioned potential Mr. Right (wow, all of you just simultaneously gasped “No!” to your computers in an attempt to stop something that’s already been done). Now, I knew this was risky. But, he can take it. On Valentine’s day he pointed out that I was “being corny” (which I was) and it was now time to use it to my advantage. I typed into the yahoo chat window, “Permission to be corny, sir?” He granted me permission and I told him that I’d realized the event at which we’d met was a month ago today. At this point he reminded me that we technically had met years before so it was really a re-meeting. Way to take the wind out of my sails there batman. Somehow “Happy one month anniversary of meeting me the second time and being smart enough to ask me out this time” just doesn’t flow. I was sitting there thinking, “Geez, if this was AA, it would be a bigger deal.”
I think I’ll just celebrate any other anniversaries I come up with alone in my head. Maybe I’ll have a little glass of wine and toast to my own corny little milestone. If I come up with enough meaningless milestones to have wine for, I might just get to see what a big deal AA is after all. With that in mind, I’ll skip tomorrow’s anniversary – first phone call. After all, I need to get the car emissions checked. But before I go to bed, I am going to say, “Happy Anniversary” because second meeting or not, it was the start of something. I’m curious to see where it goes from here.
You see, I received a call about my most recent lab work from the doctor’s office. It seems that my thyroid hormones are still not high enough. Good grief, you people are determined to give me the metabolism of a jack rabbit on cocaine. I already spend half my day fantasizing about steak and burritos. Not to mention the plethora of excuses I’ve been coming up with in meetings to explain the obnoxiously loud stomach growling coming from my end of the table despite the fact that we just finished lunch 19 minutes ago. ("Sorry, I'm fasting for Arbor day - my tummy might rumble a little.") Anyway, I had to count back to figure out how long I’ve been on the increased dosage of thyroid hormone and in the process I realized that exactly one month ago today, on January 17th, I was clad in leather drinking whiskey meeting the aforementioned potential Mr. Right. *Gasp* It’s like an anniversary! Our first date was only two days later.
I had to share this with the aforementioned potential Mr. Right (wow, all of you just simultaneously gasped “No!” to your computers in an attempt to stop something that’s already been done). Now, I knew this was risky. But, he can take it. On Valentine’s day he pointed out that I was “being corny” (which I was) and it was now time to use it to my advantage. I typed into the yahoo chat window, “Permission to be corny, sir?” He granted me permission and I told him that I’d realized the event at which we’d met was a month ago today. At this point he reminded me that we technically had met years before so it was really a re-meeting. Way to take the wind out of my sails there batman. Somehow “Happy one month anniversary of meeting me the second time and being smart enough to ask me out this time” just doesn’t flow. I was sitting there thinking, “Geez, if this was AA, it would be a bigger deal.”
I think I’ll just celebrate any other anniversaries I come up with alone in my head. Maybe I’ll have a little glass of wine and toast to my own corny little milestone. If I come up with enough meaningless milestones to have wine for, I might just get to see what a big deal AA is after all. With that in mind, I’ll skip tomorrow’s anniversary – first phone call. After all, I need to get the car emissions checked. But before I go to bed, I am going to say, “Happy Anniversary” because second meeting or not, it was the start of something. I’m curious to see where it goes from here.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Practically Perfect in Every Way
I’ve been contemplating nicknames for the aforementioned potential Mr. Right. I’m still thinking that he needs a nickname that doesn’t imply that I’ve already picked out Labradors and named our children (and for the record no, I have not named our children or picked out pets).
I caught myself rambling about him to my best friend because that’s what I do, ramble and tell my best friend EVERYTHING. She shot her cocktail out her nose when I told her that he’s practically perfect. Once she stopped laughing and stopped making those faces you make when you get a carbonated beverage up your nose, she pointed out that I’ve obviously found a brand new pair of rose-colored shades because, “If it comes with a penis, it comes with problems.”
She’s right, it’s just a matter of time before I find myself waving the empty cardboard toilet paper tube in his face crying (I’m assuming I’ll have PMS when this happens) because I just used a page out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog to wipe. But we’ll jump off that bridge when we get there.
It’s the “practically perfect” comment that gave me an idea for his nickname. Mr. Poppins? I had to think about it for a second. He doesn’t remind me of Mary Poppins in any way at all. He doesn’t have an accent, I’ve never seen him with an umbrella, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t float about. However, as far as I can see through these rose-colored shades, he’s my idea of perfection right now.
Then I saw his bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I AM NOT JUDGING (and I’m certainly not volunteering to clean it up). I’m just saying that my fondest childhood memory of Mary Poppins was her ability to pick up everything off the floor with a snap of the fingers. He may be perfection to me right now but there’s been no finger snapping in his bedroom for quite some time. For the record, I’m a complete disaster myself. I really don’t care if his room is a mess, as long as I get to be in it with him (yes, you may turn away and puke – that was sappy, I’ll wait). I’m just saying, thus was the death of Mr. Poppins as a potential nickname.
I’ll keep pondering…
I caught myself rambling about him to my best friend because that’s what I do, ramble and tell my best friend EVERYTHING. She shot her cocktail out her nose when I told her that he’s practically perfect. Once she stopped laughing and stopped making those faces you make when you get a carbonated beverage up your nose, she pointed out that I’ve obviously found a brand new pair of rose-colored shades because, “If it comes with a penis, it comes with problems.”
She’s right, it’s just a matter of time before I find myself waving the empty cardboard toilet paper tube in his face crying (I’m assuming I’ll have PMS when this happens) because I just used a page out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog to wipe. But we’ll jump off that bridge when we get there.
It’s the “practically perfect” comment that gave me an idea for his nickname. Mr. Poppins? I had to think about it for a second. He doesn’t remind me of Mary Poppins in any way at all. He doesn’t have an accent, I’ve never seen him with an umbrella, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t float about. However, as far as I can see through these rose-colored shades, he’s my idea of perfection right now.
Then I saw his bedroom. Don’t get me wrong. I AM NOT JUDGING (and I’m certainly not volunteering to clean it up). I’m just saying that my fondest childhood memory of Mary Poppins was her ability to pick up everything off the floor with a snap of the fingers. He may be perfection to me right now but there’s been no finger snapping in his bedroom for quite some time. For the record, I’m a complete disaster myself. I really don’t care if his room is a mess, as long as I get to be in it with him (yes, you may turn away and puke – that was sappy, I’ll wait). I’m just saying, thus was the death of Mr. Poppins as a potential nickname.
I’ll keep pondering…
Sunday, February 8, 2009
When whiskey and leather pay off
There are certain times in life you find yourself looking for Mr. Right. You want that stable, dependable, smart and sweet guy that you can take home to momma as a potential future baby daddy. Then one day you realize there’s something fundamentally wrong with your relationship (like he’s so hairy you’re vacuuming the bed when he’s not in it or he’s boinking the neighbor and you wonder if she vacuums the bed so her husband doesn’t find out) and you break free and then you’re just looking for Mr. Right-Now. This is the guy you’d never vacuum a bed over (“Oh, let’s go to your place, mine’s being fumigated”) and certainly never cry if the neighbor was vacuuming her bed for him too because you’d just toss him away without a second thought.
And the last thing you’d expect is to put on a leather corset, go out with the girls, get wasted on whiskey and end up finding a Mr. Right. Yeah, I said Mr. Right. I was totally looking for a Mr. Right-Now. But…there he was and despite the fact that I was drunk, very agreeable, wearing leather, and (by the end of the night) making out with him, he asked me out on a date instead of just trying to take me home. Honestly in the state of mind I was currently in, taking me home would have been fine.
So, we went out on a date, where he kissed me goodnight. And another, where he kissed me goodnight. Five dates before he even tried to get to second base. Not what I would have expected out of a drunken leather-clad bar make-out scene. I kind of feel like I hit a jackpot.
It’s really too early to tell…but we’ll put “Mr. Right” down as a possibility for his nickname.
And the last thing you’d expect is to put on a leather corset, go out with the girls, get wasted on whiskey and end up finding a Mr. Right. Yeah, I said Mr. Right. I was totally looking for a Mr. Right-Now. But…there he was and despite the fact that I was drunk, very agreeable, wearing leather, and (by the end of the night) making out with him, he asked me out on a date instead of just trying to take me home. Honestly in the state of mind I was currently in, taking me home would have been fine.
So, we went out on a date, where he kissed me goodnight. And another, where he kissed me goodnight. Five dates before he even tried to get to second base. Not what I would have expected out of a drunken leather-clad bar make-out scene. I kind of feel like I hit a jackpot.
It’s really too early to tell…but we’ll put “Mr. Right” down as a possibility for his nickname.
Excuse me
I’ve been way too quiet. Not that any of you have been pounding on my door looking for updates, I mean, I’m not sure I actually have any readers. However just in case one should exist, I should not keep you waiting for so long! I do have an excuse though and not like the fat kid claiming to have a thyroid disorder kind of excuse either, this one is 100% valid. You see, I have a thyroid disorder. I’m serious. Actually, I don’t have a thyroid anymore because it was more “cancer” than “disorder”. I know you’re sitting there wondering how my thyroid excuse is different than the fat kid excuse but it is totally different. First of all, I’m not making excuses for being fat – I’m actually not fat. I’m making excuses for being far too exhausted to blog. Once I got all energetic enough to start doing stuff again, I went for stuff that paid the bills like my job and then I added in things like actually paying the bills so blogging ended up near the bottom of the list. So, as you can see: totally excusable.
Plus, during this whole cancer fiasco, I had no Mr. insert-catchy-nickname-here to blog about. Mr. Damn was still all stuck up on his high horse and too busy being mad at me still to bother with worrying that I might have a terminal disease (ok, so thyroid cancer is pretty curable but still…it is cancer and he did know). So, the rose-colored glasses with which I gazed upon Mr. Damn are effectively shattered. In fact, they were all nice and broken and then when I stumbled upon a facebook picture of someone he assured me wasn’t his girlfriend kissing him that pretty much knocked that rose glass right out of the frame. Color him not-rose; color me stupid. I had suspected, but let’s all face it without our rose-colored glasses: I didn’t really want to know so I chose to believe what I wanted. Unfortunately picking your own truth only makes you stupider, not your truth truer.
However, I’m okay. My thyroid is gone and with the doses of synthroid they’re giving me, I have an excuse to eat like I’m carrying octuplets and still can fit into my skinny jeans. That alone is worth trading in rose-colored glasses. Just to clarify, I’m not carrying octuplets or anyone’s spawn for that matter, I’m just eating enough to support a small solar system.
But most importantly…ok, second-most-importantly since that cancer thing was kind of a big deal, I have someone new to blog about. I’m still working on the nickname though. You see, I really like him and I hope it sticks so I have to be very careful about finding the correct “name” for him…after all, there’s always the chance he could find this. He does work in IT and he does know I have an anonymous blog somewhere. He must never ever be left alone with my computer.
More to follow, stay tuned.
Plus, during this whole cancer fiasco, I had no Mr. insert-catchy-nickname-here to blog about. Mr. Damn was still all stuck up on his high horse and too busy being mad at me still to bother with worrying that I might have a terminal disease (ok, so thyroid cancer is pretty curable but still…it is cancer and he did know). So, the rose-colored glasses with which I gazed upon Mr. Damn are effectively shattered. In fact, they were all nice and broken and then when I stumbled upon a facebook picture of someone he assured me wasn’t his girlfriend kissing him that pretty much knocked that rose glass right out of the frame. Color him not-rose; color me stupid. I had suspected, but let’s all face it without our rose-colored glasses: I didn’t really want to know so I chose to believe what I wanted. Unfortunately picking your own truth only makes you stupider, not your truth truer.
However, I’m okay. My thyroid is gone and with the doses of synthroid they’re giving me, I have an excuse to eat like I’m carrying octuplets and still can fit into my skinny jeans. That alone is worth trading in rose-colored glasses. Just to clarify, I’m not carrying octuplets or anyone’s spawn for that matter, I’m just eating enough to support a small solar system.
But most importantly…ok, second-most-importantly since that cancer thing was kind of a big deal, I have someone new to blog about. I’m still working on the nickname though. You see, I really like him and I hope it sticks so I have to be very careful about finding the correct “name” for him…after all, there’s always the chance he could find this. He does work in IT and he does know I have an anonymous blog somewhere. He must never ever be left alone with my computer.
More to follow, stay tuned.
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