Damn That Man

Dr. Seuss, Anesthesia, and the Cleaning Lady

2010-10-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

My cleaning lady is awesome. Seriously, I wouldn't trade her for the world. Not only does she clean my house, she knows where my gun and all my adult toys are hidden. You HAVE to trust a lady with that kind of information about you. She did suggest that keeping the economy size box of condoms in the same drawer with a loaded Glock might send the wrong message to overnight gentleman callers. I pointed out that the guys I bring home usually don't qualify as "gentlemen" anyway.

Last week I was at work when I get a phone call from the anesthesiologist responsible for "putting me down" before the foot surgery I had scheduled for that Friday. He said, "I'm calling do your pre-op questions but I tried calling your house first and some lady answered the phone screaming, maybe you should call home and check on her."

I was immediately concerned. "Screaming? Screaming what?"

He responded, "Well, there was a lot of noise, sounded like sirens almost, in the background and she answered the phone yelling stuff like 'I'm the cleaning lady, don't call the cops' and something about a password and Dr. Seuss. It was all very confusing."

I asked him if I could call home and then call him back.

Turns out my cleaning lady accidentally set my alarm off when she came in. When she tried to disarm it again to stop the noise, it didn't work. So, the phone rang and she assumed it was the alarm company but when she answered, she couldn't hear the person on the other end of the line and so she just started yelling, "I'm the cleaning lady, don't call the cops. The password is Dr. Seuss, the password is Dr. Seuss."

She finally got the alarm off, the alarm company called my cell with the same story about a lady yelling about Dr Seuss and don't call the cops. I explained. The police call was canceled. My cleaning lady was given permission to partake in the bottle of vodka on the counter. And I called the anesthesiologist back. His first question, "Who's driving you to surgery Friday, it's not your cleaning lady is it?"

Note: my password isn't actually "Dr. Seuss" (I just used that for the blog post) but the real password is equally ridiculous.

Working on Sunday is Hazardous

2010-09-12T13:49:00.000-07:00

So, I'm at work on a Sunday. Why? Well because...I just am.

My friends texting me to say, "What? Why aren't you *insert more fun activity here*?" you are not helping the situation.

So, I drank a lot last night, and the night before because it's my birthday week in which I manage to guilt random friends into taking me out to dinner every night until I've drilled a fresh hole in my liver from the free drinks and eaten at least 10 lbs of red meat. I refuse to feel guilty for all the calories...or the drunk texts. But as a result of such gluttony, my digestive system is making itself a little difficult to get along with today, if you know what I mean.

I headed into the ladies room thankful that I'm the only idiot stupid enough to work on a Sunday when I encountered a spider. And I don't mean a small but terrifying sort, I mean the kind that has a body the size of my big toe with furry legs and shit and is big enough for you to see the malice in his eyes kind of terrifying spider. And it was between me and the stall in the bathroom. In a panic fit I grabbed the air freshener off the sink and sprayed the beast as it ran and I did my "ew, spider" dance (which looks oddly like a cross between the chicken dance and Irish step dancing) and squealed.

I then dropped the air freshener and ran out of the ladies room because I was both terrified to continue my showdown with the spider and because of the overwhelming perfume-y "Springtime Fresh" smell of the air freshener was about to suffocate me.

Unfortunately, my "fight or flight" reflex is no match for the amount of alcohol and red meat I've consumed in the past 48 hours so I was forced to use the men's room because I'm pretty sure that the spider is waiting behind the ladies room door to eat me alive and because I'm pretty sure I'd asphyxiate in there after emptying most of the bottle of air freshener. This is okay because I'm the only one in the office...or so I thought.

As I got back to my desk, one of the men that works here comes into my office and asks, "do you know who else is here?" and I'm all, "Nope." And he goes, "Well, some one's definitely here, the men's room toilet is clogged and I just used it an hour ago and it worked fine." I tried to look innocent as I said, "Weird. Maybe they already left."

For the record, it appeared to flush just fine when I used it so I have no idea how it's suddenly clogged. Maybe that spider followed my trail and fell into it? That's probably it.

Fruit Flies are Perverts

2010-09-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

I have to tell you, things didn't work out with Mr. Melty-Pants. I know, you're thinking, "Wow, that was super quick." You're right. I knew he was still dating other girls and given that we had yet to consummate our growing lust, that was okay with me. However, when I started to feel more like the "backup plan" and less like the "go-to girl" I realized it was time to bow out of the race. After all, I have other guys asking me out and so there's no reason to play pinch hitter when Mr. Melty-Pants' priority girl is washing her hair or something.

But today I'm here to tell you about how I've discovered the perversion of fruit flies. I mean, really perverted.

It all started on match.com which is obviously where most stories about perverts originate, at least since Craigslist has now eliminated the "find a hooker" section of its site. So, this guy that Match.com thinks I'm compatible with has a profile including the story of how he ended his medical school career because he was thwarted by the triple recessive genes of the Drosophila Melanogaster.

I am far too much of a geek to just presume that this is a trivial part of the story and so of course I Googled it and learned that it's Greek for "dark-bellied dew lover" (I am not making this shit up). Also, it's the name that really dorky people use for fruit flies. I was quickly becoming bored with the Wikipedia entry for fruit flies when I spotted this picture (helpfully embellished by moi):

Moral of the story: Fruit flies are obviously perverts. I mean, I think it's pretty obvious from the above picture that the next thing that third fruit fly will do is try to turn this into a threesome.

Secondary moral of the story: WTF kind of medical school is teaching you about the triple recessive genes of perverted fruit flies? I know I'm not a doctor but how is this helpful when I'm having ha heart attack or some poor guy is having one of those dangerous four-hour erections all of those prescription impotence pill commercials are constantly warning about?

Tertiary moral of the story: If you have a dangerous four hour erection, you could just call me because I've now read all about fruit flies on Wikipedia and apparently it's the same stuff they're teaching doctors these days and frankly, since things didn't work out with Mr. Melty-Pants I could use a...I mean, I could probably save you the cost of an emergency room visit.

Whatever-comes-after-tertiary moral of the story: It's probably best to avoid any insect references in your online dating profile but if you have to reference one, pick one that's less perverted than fruit flies. I mean, I'm not responding to you because now I'm convinced that you're into voyeurism and threesomes.

Clearing my Karma

2010-08-19T07:54:00.000-07:00

Ok, so if we rewind back to like eons ago when I named Mr. Ass-hat and the "red-headed whore" he didn't even bother to dump me for but just invited over to spend the night (probably without even washing the sheets since the last time I had spent the night) and Twitter was the only way I even found out about the whole thing since she posted a picture of his dog in his bed at 9am on a Monday morning which I saw and immediately jumped to all possible conculsions and still don't really know which of those conclusions I was right and wrong about and don't care anymore but at the time felt scorned and therefore angry....caught up now? Yeah, so that's when I named him Mr. Ass-hat. I named her "the red-headed whore" and I think maybe even something about run-on-sentences which apparently bothered me at the time but since then I appear to have been smitten with the same affliction so yeah, whatever. Besides, I'm an engineer, not only are we the kings and queens of run-on sentences but we're not really even qualified to judge a sentence for it's run-onny-ness.

Anyway, after that I kind of started reading her blog in a "stalking your ex's new girl so you can find out why he thinks she's better than you" kind of way.

Then she started following me on Twitter which was all kinds of weird.

After several weeks, I followed her back...I still don't know why.

Then she started INTERACTING with me on Twitter...and like commenting on stuff I said and asking me questions and shit.

And, she makes me laugh. And when I've been sad, she's cheered me up. And when good things have happened for her, I'm genuinely happy for her. And when bad things have happened, I'm genuinely concerned. And, she's adorably cute.

And so, I don't really think she had/has any idea that she accidently lead to the scorning of me by Mr. Ass-hat. It actually wasn't her fault he wanted to invite her to spend the night in his bed with or without clean sheets (and when he's not wearing his ass-hat, he is adorable, so that's probably why she said yes). It wasn't her fault if he didn't tell her he was seeing someone (and if she did know, I don't want to know about that). AND, me and Mr. Ass-Hat were not exclusive...and I'd only stayed at his place once and that's mostly because a water pipe broke in my house.

And now, I find myself looking foward to reading her blog because she's got talent (and way more readers than I have). And, we have a lot of the same Twitter friends and they're awesome. And right now, she's sad...she's very sad and it actually hurts my heart because I know what it's like to be that sad. And if I ran into her out and about, I'd immediately recognize her because she's the cutest damn thing ever and I'd run up to her and hug her like the old friend she's sort of become to me (in an online communication kind of way). And when she's crying over Ass-hat, I'd let her do it on my shoulder...even if I was wearing something that is dry clean only.

And so, we will be renaming her...from here on out, she will be known as my Twitter-Sister. So, if you see someone sad today, give them a hug because for all you know, it might be her. And if you online stalk her like I did, you won't be able to help yourself...you'll love her too.

Savor This!

2010-08-16T12:10:00.000-07:00

I should NOT be eating french fries. This is because I joined Weight Watchers like back in February or something and I've lost zero pounds while my girlfriend I joined with is in an entirely new skinnier wardrobe while I still have to lay down to button my fat jeans. My skinny jeans are just taking some time off. And, don't get me wrong, you can have fast food on Weight Watchers, you just have to commit to broccoli for the rest of the day. I'm bad at committing to things like housework and vegetables and so as a result, I've lost no weight and even though I haven't been able to wear my skinny jeans they're still in the laundry hamper because why waste the effort to wash them if I can't wear them anyway?

Today I had a late doctor's appointment and so I waited to have lunch afterwards. I needed something quick. And what's quicker than Wendy's? I thought, I could just get a burger and skip the fries but then I also thought, "well, that's just retarded." So, I got a burger with fries and I was sooooooo excited. You'd think this was the first time I'd had Wendy's in like 3 days and it's really only been 2 (true story).

I taste my delicious fried potatoey treats only to realize, "Whoa these babies need salt." I searched my bag and alas, no salt. I was at a crossroads, either walk all the way to the front of the building carrying my Wendy's box of fries to search for salt in the kitchen or just eat them as they were. Since there was no guarantee of salt in the kitchen, I decided to eat them as they are using that well-known fact that if something doesn't taste as good as you wanted it to, it obviously has zero calories. This is the cornerstone of most diet plans. Eat food we tell you tastes just like the full fat version and when you're all disappointed, the calories disappear and you lose weight. It's been proven, I'm pretty sure.

So, I eat my calorie-free french fries and I'm down to the last one and I decide to savor it as I lean back in my chair with my eyes closed lowering it into my mouth and realize whatever I just put into my mouth is not a french fry at all...it's not even in the potato family! It's the salt packet. FOUND IT! Too late.

Thus, not only did I not get to savor my last french fry because it got upstaged by the salt but I also ate an entire thing of under-salted fries. I am so disappointed. I'm pretty sure that level of disappointment negated the calories from the Big Bacon Classic too. I can totally skip working out today.

Shower Yoga: Upward Facing Clam

2010-08-13T13:18:00.001-07:00

Ok, so you'll remember from my previous post that shower yoga with a razor was on my schedule for yesterday and I have successfully whipped the lady bits into shape with the now aptly named yoga pose "upward facing clam."

I was also asked out by a girl which is unrelated to my clam story. I mentioned this to Mr. Melty-Pants and he said, "I think you should go, and I should go too." Of course he does. But look, if I can't figure out which date is the "sex but not a slut" date then I surely don't know which date is the "group sex" date. Besides, I think I pulled a muscle doing yoga in the shower.

And Mr. Melty-Pants made plans with me for Sunday which sucks because by Sunday I will surely have to shave again and who knows if my pulled muscle will be healed enough to get my leg over my head again.

Seriously, I'm about to justify laser hair removal to myself because having to explain why you're late to work by saying, "Well, it's really important to stretch before showering but it takes some extra time," is just opening yourself up to awkward questions at the office.

Mr. Pants-Melter

2010-08-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

I met a guy a few weeks ago and I'm in trouble guys. I like him. A lot.

So, on our last date, he finally kissed me...in that up-against-a-wall kind of way. My biggest problem now is that I'm not sure what date it is that I can sleep with him without being a slut. I was never good at not being a slut apparently because it seems like remembering which date is the "sex date" is pretty important...like rule 1 of "No, I'm not a slut." So, sorry Mom. I'm probably going to screw this up. Good thing you don't read my blog.

So anyway, last night in a fit of bad decisions brought on by the fact that I was stuck at the office still at 9pm and there were no sporks available with which to gouge my own eyes out, I agreed to engage in some stress relief that did not involve ocular mutilation and meet him at his place for some late drinks. Plus he offered to massage out this knot going on in my back as a result of all this hard manual desk-labor. Don't look at me like that, this mouse is heavy if you're a lazy person that eats as much fast food as I do. Anyway, he bribed me with Jack Daniels and promises of massages...that's what I'm getting at. Plus, since the hella-awesome making out from the last date, I was pretty sure that this was going to end up in naked bodies on the floor in a sweaty pile of delicious fun but I wasn't sure if that was okay yet or if I need more dates to reach "not a slut" status. I decided to not care.

But, on the way to his house, I almost had a mental breakdown because I wasn't sure about the landscaping. I mean, I don't usually skip out completely on tending the front lawn but when I'm single it's more of a quick "weedwacker" fashion than a "yoga in the shower to get all the nooks and crannies" fashion. I decided to throw caution to the wind and hope that I could distract him with circus tricks or something if we got that far.

We did not.

Don't get me wrong, there was awesome snuggling, laughing, and some really hot making out. At one point, I kind of thought my pants might just fall off...or melt off...but they did not. And so I left to go home way too late and there was one incident in which his labrador tried to get in on the making out...but despite all that. I can't wait to see him again.

And I'm totally about to do some shower yoga with my razor just in case my pants melt next time I see him. Can't be too careful.

And thus he was dubbed "Mr. Pants-Melter"...God I hope he lives up to it.

Judas, Facebook, and Missing the Point

2010-05-06T21:38:00.000-07:00

First of all, yes I am aware that I've been delinquent in updating this blog but in my defense, I think there's only like one of you that reads it and I got busy. Last year of graduate school will do that to you. Not only was I juggling school, switching jobs, and a relationship (which is enough 'busy' to drive a woman straight to Coldstone Creamery for some stress relief) but I also have a new love in my life...it's called Shoedazzle. We all know I'm a shoe-a-holic and Shoedazzle is my fix...monthly! Go look it up but before you register, email me and I'll send you an invite. That way I get free shoes when three people register from my invites and let's face it, it's really all about what I get out of it, right? Of course, to get three invites off of this blog, someone is going to have to start reading it. Conundrum.

Ok, here's the real meat and potatoes because that title I posted up there doesn't have anything to do with the above paragraph.

As I mentioed above, I have been juggling a relationship as of late. Since I nickname all the men in my life something nice and appropriate for blogging purposes, we'll be calling him Judas. You're about to see why. So, I met Judas several months ago and did what every girl does when they meet a new guy that has asked them out: I tried to check him out through Facebook. As it turns out, he had no Facebook account. Seriously, I thought everyone had one. Even my grandmother has one. Now I understand there are a few people out there that are overly concerned with privacy settings and negative impact it could have on those looking for new jobs, etc. but I'm far too big of a narcissist to think the security ramifications outweigh the idea that people might be "studying" me. After all, I think I'm fascinating and I really just want other people to find me fascinating. So, this aversion to social media that my new beau had kind of ruffled my feathers? I mean, he hasn't opened a Facebook page if for no other reason than to go look at my page? Come on!

Seeing that there was nothing I could do to rectify the situation, I had no choice but to let it go. Now we can fast forward to about 2 weeks ago and I get a FB friends request from Mr. Social Media Averse. I'm all "Yay!" But not for very long. You see, as a newbie on FB, Mr. Social Media Averse wasn't completely clear on what everyone could and could not see from his stream. Oh the endless possibilities associated with that kind of confusion, right?

So, earlier this week I went to his FB page and noticed that this girl left him a wall post that said something along the lines of "Hey, nice to see you finally joined FB, it's about time!" No biggie, didn't even really catch my eye until I saw that there were 11 comments. I probably would have gone back to whatever I was doing if I'd seen it while I was at home but I was at work in the midst of a fit of procrastination so I clicked to see what the 11 comments were. I almost gave up after the first couple back-and-forth exchanges of small talk and "catching up." But then my eye spotted the last one. So, at one point she says, "How is everything going for you? Instead of trying to have a conversation on here, just call me when you get time and we'll finish catching up." His response to that is where we ran into a hiccup. It said, "I don't have a lady right now, so yeah, but you need to send me your number, I don't have it."

Um...what?

My first instinct was to respond with a message that said, "Well, you DID have a lady until I read THAT. Have a nice life." But, I did that thing where you take deep breaths and count to 10 and picture a "breakup argument" typed out in black and white and posted to Failbook. So, I did the next most immature thing and texted him. In my defense, he was at work and he can't really answer the phone much when he's at work. I asked why he'd say he doesn't have a lady and he comes back with this piece of literary genius, "I just don't want my personal life posted all over Facebook." Ok, Seriously, What?!

I got all Engineer on him which is what I do when I'm mad so I gave him an outline of how that is a stupid thing to say.
1. That statement has absolutely no bearing on why I'm mad at you.
2. She didn't even ask you about your love life so you didn't have to say anything about whether you're attached or single. You just offer up information about being single (which you aren't) to a girl that didn't ask? We all know what that is - it's a booty call request.
3. Even if she had asked, denying my existence is disrespectful. (Did you never read the story of Judas in the Bible growing up?) (insert A-ha moment where you understand why I'm naming him Judas)
4. You lied to her, what are you lying to me about?
5. Sitting here spouting off some bologna spin about how FB is ruining your privacy when I directly asked you why you lied about being single is even more disrespect to me.

So, I ended it....via text because I'm classy like that. He sent me roughly 846 texts over the last few days (Ok, so it was closer to 10) which I've mostly ignored. But, I don't feel bad about ending it.

But here's the kick on the throat...literally. So, if I count back, it was about 14 days ago that Judas called me from work to tell me he was going home early because he was running a high fever and had a super sore throat. I didn't think much of it and avoided him until after he was all well. But, I knew I'd seen him about 3 days before he got sick so I immediately starting bulking up on the Zinc and Vitamin C. And....I THOUGHT I was in the clear until yesterday...when I woke up with a sore throat. However, I live in Atlanta, it's pollen season, I've been known to have allergies...so maybe I'm not sick. Well, by lunch time I was running a fever and starting to feel like just drooling into a cup on my desk for the rest of my day was a viable and more attractive alternative than swallowing because my throat was hurting THAT BAD. So, I went to a drugstore clinic for a rapid strep test and damn if that Asswipe didn't give me strep throat.

Well, I get my antibiotics, figure the next day or so will suck major ass but I'll be fine. Fast forward 12 hours and I wake up in my bed shaking so hard from the chills that for a second I thought maybe someone had installed a magic fingers vibrating mattress on my bed. My temp was 103 and the pain was the worst pain I've ever ever ever had from a sore throat. The worst part was that my throat was so swollen that I physically was unable to swallow so I couldn't get the fever reducer or antibiotic in me. So, I was forced to go to the Emergency Room.

Let's just say that you know your case of strep is really bad when the doctor looks into your mouth and goes, "Holy Geez, that's impressive!" Not what I wanted to hear. So, I got antibiotic injections, I got steroid injections to reduce the swelling so I could swallow again. I got Valium because all steroids cause me to have anxiety issues. And most importantly I got liquid Vicodan because the pain is that excruciating. Unfortunately if the swelling behind my tonsil doesn't dissipate by Saturday, I 'm supposed to make an appointment to have it drained because having a giant needle jammed into my soft palate sounds hella-fun.

Disrespected and infected all in one week.

It's a Case of Perspective-Lapse

2009-08-21T13:57:00.000-07:00

I started this blog as a place to write about men and dating.

Someone emailed me the other day to tell me that my blog was "that of a crazy person." I thought, "Thank you for taking the time out of your day to be concerned with my mental health." He wasn't telling me anything I haven't already thought about myself. Come on guys, all of us girls are crazy, we just only let it out on anonymous blogs and to our girlfriends and mothers. Those of us that aren't anonymous about it are on The Real Houseives of Atlanta beating each other up down in Atlantic Station.

But then over the past several weeks news keeps showing up that makes me feel like everyone else is crazy (maybe because I'm not dating right now - I've taken a turn for the sanity?). Whatever it is, here's my advice to those of you out there with a little crazy of your own going on:

Today, the one thing that is standing out to me as a lesson is that I am easily outraged. Is it that or is it that everyone else is being so outrageous? Is my meter off kilter? Is it my problem or everyone else’s because I’m starting to think a lot of you are in a serious state of perspective-lapse.

Allow me to assist you in re-gaining some perspective.

Discliamer: I do not believe you have ALL lost perspective, but obviously a few people in very powerful positions, some of the general population, lawmakers in California, and most everyone at CNN is in some sort of perspective-viewing funhouse mirror.

Yea to my fellow Americans that voted on the CNN poll about whether or not they agreed with the release of the Lockerbie bomber. However, to the 9% of you that said that you agreed with the release (at the time that I checked it last) I ask, is it dark up there where your heads are? No terrorist should have a hero’s welcome. No murderer should step off a plane to flag-waving adoration. What a way for the world to spit in the faces of the families of the survivors. Shame on you! And Libya, shame on you too for not taking great measure to ensure a quiet (undeserved) homecoming. Congratulations, you have reignited a unified hatred for your country by not handling this with more discretion (at least with 91% of Americans that read CNN’s website). And…NO, he doesn’t deserve to die at home with his family. He took that right away from the 270 people he killed. So, 270 horrible deaths alone in a jail cell before he deserves any sympathy.

Disagree with me? Then should criminals with cancer be permitted to get away with murder? You know, as long as they’re sorry and stuff.

Now that I’m being all nice and abrasive, it’s time to insult California. You can’t be abrasive without insulting California. By the way, California is beautiful but based on some of news I read, I’m concerned that living so near a fault line may be screwing with your heads. Not everyone’s head seems to be affected, but perhaps some liberals have softer heads than others. I don’t know. And, don’t get all indignant, I said “some,” not “all.” Wait until you’re sure I’m talking about you before you get all snippy.

California is considering a bill that would release 27,000 inmates early. I thought that there HAS to be some rational explanation for such an absurd idea. Well, there was an explanation…rational is subjective. It seems a panel of three federal judges (ok, so there’s no proof these three are from California) issued an order that California must reduce its prison population by 40,000 inmates by September. Their reasoning is (and this is copied verbatim from the CNN website http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/08/21/california.prisoner.release/index.html ) “the crowded prison system violates prisoners’ constitutional rights.”

What?!?!?!
Excuse me, Your Horror…er…I mean, Your Honor, “What the #*$& about MY constitutional rights?!?!?!” What about the rights of all the soft-headed California liberals that haven’t committed crimes? I may not agree with them but I damned well support their right not to live in a more dangerous community because you’re an idiot. I’m not saying we shouldn’t work on a solution to fix overcrowding but turning them out into the streets isn’t a solution, it’s just lazy. Besides, when these prisoners committed crimes they were convicted for, we didn’t sentence them to the Marriott. We sent them to Prison. As far as I’m concerned, set up tents and cots in the prison yard. Take the money you spend on providing them cable and put it into the “build a bunk” fund. Do we really care if our prisoners miss an episode of The Hills? Do we really want our sexual predators watching America’s Next Top Model? Has ANYONE really thought this through?

Ok, I know the article also says that California is not releasing violent criminals but the recidivism rate in California is 70%. That’s not just for violent criminals. If you make this easier, shorter, more froo-froo comfortable, then how is that discouraging recidivism? And I don’t really care if Mr. Joe Prisoner wasn’t violent when he stole Ms. Beverly Hills’ TV, some criminals aren’t violent because they haven’t had the opportunity to get violent. Break into a house, no one is home, no violence. Break into a house, get surprised by a homeowner coming home, and that’s the turning point. So, there may not be as big of a difference between non-violent and violent criminals as you think. You don’t know who’s violent until they’re cornered.

So, I’m sorry California, I have the constitutional right to be able to go to California and be safe. Releasing 27,000 criminals that haven’t served their time isn’t doing your due diligence. Disagree? How about a little perspective? I bet Libya thinks this is a GREAT idea.

Shock me Amadeus!

2009-07-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

People surprise me every day – and not usually in a good way. There’s the guy that showed up on my doorstep 2 years after we broke up with roses begging me back. I know you’re thinking that this was sweet but we broke up after only a month and I’d moved since then so he had to go stalker-style to find me. And, since he had a history of showing up on my doorstep drunk and crying and screaming that he loved me (seriously a month people, just a month) back 2 years ago, I was forced to be extremely clear about what will happen next time he steps foot on my property. He makes me glad I own a gun and have an alarm system. However, if he tries the 2am screaming on the lawn thing again, he won’t have to worry about me shooting him. Since he sounds something like a wounded moose he should worry about my neighbor the hunter. Lucky for us all, he hasn’t been back (that I know of).

Then there’s the guy that walked up to me randomly one day at a gas station and gave me a single rose telling me he thought I was beautiful. I was both flattered and surprised and absolutely SURE he was going to rob me or shove me into the trunk of my car. I know, why can’t someone just do something nice for someone without everyone assuming they have bad intentions. I’m sorry, blame the people like my first example. Incidentally this man did not rob me or shove me in my trunk so it was just a very sweet gesture but he was at least 20 years my senior so we just didn’t have a chance. I’m sorry sir.

And it’s not just men that I find shocking. My friend’s daughter asked me when she was only 3 if I ever rubbed my vagina. I was speechless. I didn’t want to give the kid a complex about it but I didn’t want to encourage this kind of topic (or encourage her to spend too much time rubbing hers). And, I certainly wasn’t going to explain that it my age we have something way better called “the rabbit”. I told her that all vagina talk was for mommy. I have no idea how her mommy handled it but I’m pretty sure “the rabbit” wasn’t part of the conversation. However, she’s 6 now and she’s not asked me about my vagina again so I think I’m in the clear.

Today I was surprised by an acquaintance I made 3 years ago. Today I checked into myspace for the first time in months to see that I have a 2 month old email from him sitting there unread. Whoops. Turns out that 2 months ago he got divorced and can now admit that he’s had feelings for me since the day he met me 3 years ago. And yes, you read that correctly, I called him an acquaintance. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him in person. He’s invited me to a few house parties but I’ve never been able to go to any of them because of schedule problems. I’ve never talked to him on the phone. Our entire “friendship” was via myspace emails and comments and even those weren’t with any sort of regularity (as illustrated by the fact that one sat unnoticed for 2 months in my inbox).

I’d first like to point out that this is a lot of shocking information for an email. I had no idea your marriage was on the rocks. This is the kind of information that really should be broken slowly and in chunks, don’t you think? I guess there’s no protocol for the 3 year crush but simply telling me he got divorced was shocking enough for one email. Then maybe feel me out a little and ask about my life, if I’m dating anyone. Then if the coast is clear pull out the “I’ve wanted to ask you out for a long time.” I guess given the frequency with which I’ve check my myspace email he figured that could take years and it was better just to jump in feet first.

The problem is that I have no idea how I feel about the notion because I am so shocked. Unfortunately there’s no protocol for responding to such events either. I don’t know what to say first, “I’m sorry I didn’t check my email sooner,” or “A lot can change in two months, is this still accurate and true?”

I’ll tread slowly but I am going to say this. This guy claims he’s had feelings for me for three years based on a few in person conversations and some email banter. So, there’s a chance that all the guys I’ve given my number to in bars are just waiting for their divorces to be finalized before they act on their feelings and call me up. That finally explains all the times I’ve given out my number only to never be called. So, guys, when you do call, break the news slowly – after all, I’d have never given you my number if I knew you were married.

Bringing 'em to Jesus with Sarcasm

2009-06-30T19:32:00.000-07:00

I used my typical sense of humor in describing myself and what I’m looking for when I filled out my online dating profile. Apparently, no one else had a sense of humor about it because I have gotten a lot of emails commenting on how funny it was. Unfortunately, a lot of these emails are from people that aren’t good matches for me and even these guys know it. I’ve gotten all of the following:

“I wish I was a few years older”
“I wish I was a lot younger”
“I wish we lived in the same state”

But….this one is my favorite:

“I wish I wasn’t atheist.” (you see, I said it was important that my match shared my faith)

You hear that Jesus? I’ve nearly inspired faith in a non-believer through sarcasm. That’s pretty miraculous.

He has the cutest....dog...

2009-06-30T18:20:00.000-07:00

I recently admitted to myself that I wasn’t going to meet Mr. Right in any of the impossibly romantic scenarios I’d always imagined. Obviously we’ve long surpassed the chances of Mr. Right being my high school or college sweetheart. And that fantasy where my car breaks down and some hottie with a medical degree and a mechanical hobby pulls up behind me and fixes my car and subsequently proposes after he sweeps me off my feet is obviously never going to happen. First of all cars are far more reliable than they are portrayed to be in romance novels and when they do break down, the reality is that you call AAA and sit there for 2 hours in the sweltering heat and if someone does pull over to help you, he’s missing several teeth or he calls you “little missy.” And since I really hate jogging, I’m kind of putting my own wrench in that scenario where I twist my ankle on the trail and the same hottie with a medical degree stops to help me limp back to my car and by the time we get there he’s madly in love with me. So, my car’s not breaking down on the campus of a medical school of hotties in need of lovin’ and I’m not jogging in July heat in the southeast and it appears that men don’t just come knocking on my door to get a glimpse of me. I know, shocking!

As a result, I’ve decided to dip my toe into the online dating pool. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, however in previous experiences I’ve found that like the gene pool, someone should add more chlorine to the online dating pool. I still haven’t found the site where they pair up women that are college educated, career-oriented, financially stable, and successful with men deserving of such women. I have found plenty of sights where men living below the poverty line in mom and dad’s basement proudly display their GED on the wall and send me emails that say “your pretty” and “Theirs a lot more to me than you can read on my profile.” Yeah there is – there’s some proof that you shouldn’t have passed your GED if you can’t get the your/you’re their/there thing straight.

I’ve also found that online there seems to be a warped sense of reality. I didn’t specify the body type I’m looking for but I’ve noticed that people that indicate that they’re “a few extra pounds” have a different definition of “few” or “pounds” than I do. One guy looked like he may have eaten an entire civilization. Darling, that’s not a few extra pounds. And I understand a woman describing herself as curvy but what exactly is a “curvy” guy? Where are these curves exactly? What was wrong with “stocky” or “heavyset”?

All that aside, here’s my biggest problem. I’ve gotten several emails already. However, I realized that I’m responding to the guys with the cutest dogs in their pictures. Wait… Am I looking for a date or a dog? Maybe I’ve just assumed that if a dog likes him then he must be a good person. However, I’ve poked a hole in that theory too. The homeless guy that used to panhandle outside of the O’s games when I lived in Baltimore had a dog and I wouldn’t date him (but I would have taken his dog home). Am I just assuming that someone that has room for a dog in their life has a big heart? Well, let’s face it, dogs don’t come with a lot of baggage. They don’t complain about sleeping on the floor. They get excited over rawhide. I’m going to be a little more difficult to please at times. I mean, if you show up on my birthday with rawhide, we’re going to have issues. I obviously want these guys for their dogs. This is not how to get a dog.

A normal person would (have never ventured down the online dating road in the quest for canine companionship to begin with) go get herself a dog. She’d bond with it, love it, and then see how she felt about continuing the quest with online dating. The problem is that my schedule is so un-dog-friendly. A couple nights a week I don’t get home until after 10. I have a couple cats and they really love me. That should be enough. But a date would be nice and if I’m weighing my options, I may as well give a few brownie points to the guys with cute dogs.

Karma Can be a B*tch (Slap)

2009-02-23T22:09:00.000-08:00

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.

If this were AA it would be a much bigger deal.

2009-02-17T20:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Practically Perfect in Every Way

2009-02-11T19:22:00.000-08:00

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…

When whiskey and leather pay off

2009-02-08T06:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Excuse me

2009-02-08T05:57:00.000-08:00

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.

Silent Nothings

2008-07-30T18:30:00.000-07:00

Ambient noise is golden. I know, it doesn’t have the same ring as the whole “Silence is Golden” thing but whenever I’m in a room that is really truly silent (and it does not ever really happen in Atlanta), the silence hurts my ears. I can’t fall asleep at my mom and dad’s house usually because it’s too quiet without traffic noise and their oddly silent ceiling fans. I need something with white noise because the silence actually feels stifling. It’s heavy and I start to feel claustrophobic even though their house is bigger than mine and their nearest neighbor is over an acre away. In perfect silence, the air is thicker and time actually slows down – I am convinced of this.

But, even with ambient noise, silence still makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Mr. Damn has been silent for over two weeks now. Every day he is silent I find it harder to breathe. I’m never really sure if his silences are his way of punishing me when he’s angry or if he’s pondering how he feels or what but the longer he’s silent the more my chest aches as I struggle to continue to pretend life is normal.

I can’t interpret his silence. I know he’s mad but I have no method by which to offer any proof and so the only choices are for him to choose to believe me, to choose not to believe me but get over it, or to choose not to believe me and not get over it. I fear that prolonged silence indicates that he’s not getting over it. And in the silence I cannot defend myself or appeal to his sense of logic. In silence I cannot express my own frustrations. In silence I cannot know that he’s well or tell him that he is still loved despite the silence or quell my own anxiety.

Instead I sit in my purgatory of silence. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he is okay. I wonder if he knows how many times a day I think of him. I wonder if he knows how much this silence is crushing me – keeping me awake at night and making the air too thick to breathe.

When the going is tough - the tough go shoe shopping

2008-07-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s no secret that I’ve been a little down as of late. My method of dealing with these feelings is no secret either. When the going gets tough, the downtrodden go find something new to trod around in – preferably with a high heel and on sale. At least if I’m going to trod around with a long face my shoes will say “fabulous!” So, I made a pilgrimage to the Mecca of inner healing, DSW Shoe Warehouse. Don’t get me wrong, I love designer labels with hefty price tags that put me back a car payment but when I’m looking to fill empty holes in my heart, it’s quantity, not quality that counts. We all know that the rebound guy is never supposed to be the one you love forever and it’s the same with the “make me feel beautiful again” shoes. If you can get three for the price of one, well then that’s three days of decent reasons to get out of bed without the risk of resorting to ramen noodles for the rest of the month. So, my closet loses more space to shoes and I spent a lot of the weekend trying to figure out what to wear with that red and white patterned number I bought (instead of reasons why I’m not happy). I’m sure I’ll come up with something they’ll compliment. And don’t think all this shoe shopping was a picnic either – I am still healing from foot surgery so I could only try on left shoes. I even have to wait another two to three weeks before my foot is healed enough to wear my newest additions. But sometimes you just need something to look forward to – even if it is just putting on a new pair of shoes.

The Sith take revenge on my left ear...

2008-07-24T19:42:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I keep my sense of humor in my left ear. This is why I’m so pissy and un-funny when my allergies are really bad and I have Darth Vader Ear (you know what I’m talking about – Darth Vader Ear is where you can hear yourself breathing in your ear even though you know that whatever physiological road map inside your body that connects your ear to your lung has to be really long and twisty and so you can’t possibly figure out how it’s THAT LOUD). Darth Vader Ear doubles as my funny-bone inhibitor…or if you consider the fact that I’m a smart-ass, there’s some joke about constipation in there somewhere, but I’m too tired and impacted to get to it right now. Anyway, so I have always been prone to attacks of Darth Vader Ear and momentary lapses in the ability to amuse myself (and the other 4 people on earth that find me funny) however my Darth Vader Ear has become a constant phenomena as of late. Allegra used to clear it for 12 hours at a time. As it became less and less effective, I supplemented with random decongestants. However, at this point, all have failed me and I’m one “Luke, I am your father,” away from a black cape and some questionable choices in fashion head-wear.

So…today I consulted with a physician. Now, when I say I consulted with a physician, I mean, I called my “friend” as in a guy I went out with a couple times but we stay in touch and occasionally catch up over dinner or drinks. However, he’s totally qualified! He happens to be an ear, nose, and throat doctor so this is RIGHT up his alley…er…down his canal? I’m not sure how he’d feel about that analogy but you know what I mean. Anyway, and by “consult” I mean I called him and it turns out he was sitting by a pool at a hotel in Florida at a medical conference. So, it’s not like he looked at me or ran any tests or anything remotely scientific and stuff but he is qualified to make expert guesses over the phone. Anyway, he told me a few more decongestants to try over the next few days but he scolded me for letting this go on for so long and told me that depending on the results of the tests he IS going to run on my ear when he gets back, if medication won’t make my ears drain then I would be a candidate for surgery to have tubes put in. Ok, ok, ok…first of all, why do they say “candidate?” It’s not like the surgeons are standing there in pre-op electing which one of us “lucky” ailing patients gets to pay for their kid to go to Harvard or fund their new boat. I don’t have to prepare a speech to explain why I should be selected for today’s OR time. And if I did, what would I say?

“Look, I need these tubes, without them, I’m going to have to go light saber shopping because I can’t wear this cape and helmet and not have a light saber and do you really want a pissy girl with a constipated sense of humor on Atlanta’s highways wielding a light saber at rush hour? It’s really for the public health and safety that I ask you for this opportunity to be severed…er…I mean served.”

And secondly, this is a surgery they do on kindergarteners, not on someone that’s less than two months from turning 30. What’s going on? Kids need these things because their little ear tubs are too small and when they grow up these surgically implanted tubes just fall out because their little ear tubes grew and their bodies finally started working properly. What’s going on here, did my body just suddenly forget what its doing or am I going in reverse? Because if things on my body are going to start shrinking, I have some nominations for pieces that are great candidates but they don’t include my ear tubes. We can start with my ass and my thighs and go from there but leave the ears alone.

Anyway, I could be overreacting. It could be fixable with a different decongestant or something. But I ask you to keep your fingers crossed for my ear tubes because I’ve had a lot of surgery in the last 9 years. And I’m not talking all walk-in-the-park kind of surgeries. I have woken up from surgery in intensive care. I have had emergency blood transfusions. I have spent more than a month in the hospital at a time. I have had holes drilled in my spine. I have had large portions of internal organs removed so I just don’t have happy feelings about hospitals. So, if I could avoid exposing my head to any sort of cutting utensil, I’d like to do that.

And before I wrap up my left-ear issues, I’ll close by saying this. I could probably pull a little humor out of my other ear in my left-ear emergency status but I just haven’t felt up to it this past week. Mr. Damn is mad right now and hasn’t spoken to me in over a week. It’s easy for me to poke fun at us when we’re struggling to find the same page but when I’m afraid he’s closing (or closed) the book, I can’t find any levity – my heart is just too heavy. So apologies to any loyal readers (I know, I’m stretching…my ego) looking for updates but hopefully I’ll have more for you soon. In the mean time maybe I’ll get my ear un-impacted and find some other things to blog about.

Dear Mr. Damn,

2008-07-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

I have one episode of Scrubs permenantly recorded in my DVR never to be erased no matter how full the memory is. It's not even my favorite episode, but the last scene hits so close to home for me that I can't watch it without being reduced to tears.

I don't know how to fix the things that are wrong. I can't understand it.

So, I watched my recorded-forever episode of Scrubs last night because I imagine every day what life would be like with you. And right now, I feel like you're slipping away forever. Even if I don't know how to fix what's wrong, I am sure if this: If you slip away, I'll always believe that it should have been me.

I wish I could "Tell You a Hug"

2008-07-11T15:07:00.000-07:00

There are very few subjects that I will not poke fun at with my twisted view of the world and the people in it in order to amuse strangers. I can find a light note in practically any situation – that’s the beauty of sarcasm – when the humor is a little dark, it’s easier to find humor in the dark. However, today I feel the need to share this because this blog is my personal catharsis (that’s my excuse, why are you here?). However, I cannot throw this one around lightly.

Mr. Damn should be here tonight. We’ve both been looking forward to spending the evening together. And let me tell ya, spending the evening together is a huge event even if it just means we flip channels and eat microwave popcorn. Quality time with Mr. Damn is kind of like a solar eclipse. It happens now and then but you have to be in the right place to see it at the right time and it all depends on the weather. So, we were both really looking forward to whatever tonight turned out to be.

But, Mr. Damn is not here, and he is not on his way here. When he called I knew something was wrong.

Mr. Damn is on his way home – as in home to the town where he grew up. Mr. Damn’s father has suddenly become extremely ill. The empathy I felt for him overwhelmed any disappointment over not seeing him. Now I just feel helpless that I can’t do anything for him and frustrated that the English language isn’t advanced enough to convey the support, love, and comfort that I want to “say”. Sometimes there’s just nothing that can say it more succinctly than a hug. And there’s just no good way to “tell someone a hug.”

I’m sending all of my love and prayers tonight. If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll take a minute to send a prayer too.

An Open Letter to My Feline Terrorist

2008-07-11T15:03:00.000-07:00

My bed is a queen-size bed so if you are the size of a standard house cat, you have a lot of options for bed entry points. Since only one human sleeps in the bed, and she has been known to awake violently and toss you off the bed when you really startle her, one would think you would typically choose an entry point on the opposite side of the bed to avoid landing on her and possibly suffering a “toss off”.

One has obviously overestimated your intelligence or has overlooked the fact that you are a closet masochist. In fact, perhaps you are actually an evil genius and you planned the early morning attack scouting out locations from which to achieve maximum trajectory and impact to reach your target. Perhaps you conducted reconnaissance throughout the night as I slept to locate the appendage beneath the covers so you knew where to land. Perhaps you timed it so that I’d slept as long as possible before the alarm went off to ensure that the last pain pill I took at midnight had long ago worn off. And when it was time – you orchestrated it beautifully: a flying leap from the top of the armoire to the bed landing squarely with all four paws down on the foot I had operated on 2 days ago.

Was that supposed to be payback for the vet incident last week? Seriously, the punishment was extreme for the crime and I gave you your most favorite thing in the world when we got home: cheese. After I stopped rocking back and forth crying and chanting “OW, OW, OW, OW, OW!” not a single one of my favorite things were waiting for me. No Tiffany & Co. blue box? No Jimmys, Manolos, or Ferragamos? No bottle of whiskey (to numb the pain until the pain pill kicks in – okay, that might be a bad idea)?

Anyway – I just want to make sure this is really clear: you so much as glance in the general direction of my foot and you won’t have to worry about bed entry points because you’ll be busy trying to figure out some far more basic entry points – like the ones to get into the house.

Mr. Damn-Good-Job

2008-07-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

I have to preface this by saying that I’ve been under anesthesia. I signed paperwork stating that I would not change my will today, I would not drive a vehicle today, I would not operate heavy machinery today, and I would not enter into any legally binding agreements. However, I signed nothing stating that said I would not use the computer to express my opinions which means I am free to make as big of a public ass of myself as I wish – that is assuming this blog has an “audience” which I admit, is a little egotistical and perhaps a bit of wishful thinking.

My point is that I’m free to make an ass of myself to the four of you reading this and the hundreds of millions of you that might inadvertently stumble upon it and skim it out of boredom or morbid curiosity.

Anyway, I didn’t want to put this off until I’ve shaken the cobwebs of anesthesia and pain medication from my head. This is partly because I like the feeling and partly because I plan to continue to take the pain medication in an attempt to avoid pain and that returning sense of reality that can be such a downer. However, the main reason is because I don’t want to delay praise where praise is due in case Mr. Damn ever happens to be one of the lucky ones to find this page (no, to the best of my knowledge, he does not know this blog exists). He deserves for me to tell all of you that he did something really right today and made me really happy.

I’ve been dreading this surgery for a while even though it had to be done. It’s minor surgery and I’ve had it before and it’s just on my foot but I’ve had some really really horrible experiences in hospital operating rooms so walking into the pre-op area and finding myself surrounded by all those smells and sights and sounds brings that anxiety rushing back. I’d rather they come outside and knock me unconscious in the parking lot and THEN wheel me into the hospital but I’ve never managed to get a doctor to agree to it. However, they are well aware of my anxiety and had the syringe of happy drugs waiting for me so all they had to do was ask the main questions, find a vein and off to feeling drunk I went until they were ready for me. But the build-up over the last couple days was kind of brutal. I just hate operating rooms.

Well, as discussed in previous blog posts, Mr. Damn has been out of pocket and so I assumed that since I hadn’t heard from him when I went to bed last night that I wasn’t going to hear from him prior to going under the knife. I accepted this as just one of those things I cannot change and something I was not going to be upset about but if I really admitted it to myself, I really wanted him to call me to tell me he was thinking about me. However, most of the time, it’s not that he doesn’t want to call, it’s that location or time zones or job description prevents it (what, you mean my blackberry doesn’t work in every single corner of the globe????). I put myself to bed and tried to sleep but I dreamed some crazy dreams and woke up about 4:45am and lay awake staring at the clock and at 4:58, my cell phone rang.

Mr. Damn came through for me. He was finally in a location where he could phone me and he did remember and I was so relieved and elated to hear his voice even at that absurd hour (and I didn’t even have to lie about him not waking me – go figure). So I just wanted you guys to know that even though I tend to blog about things I’m angry or frustrated about, it’s the moments like this when he comes through for me that are the reason he still has my heart.

So, Kudos today to Mr. Damn for making it a lot easier to walk into that hospital this morning knowing he was thinking about me.

And Kudos to the Anesthesiologist for giving me this nice buzz, I have a soft spot in my heart for you too. And whoever shot up my foot with so much local anesthetic that I can’t feel a damn thing, kudos to you too. You did this last time and let me enjoy anesthesia day to the fullest. I know tomorrow I’ll be in a world of hurt but thanks for helping me enjoy my mind-trip.

Signing-off --- this may be the only day I’ve ever kind of wished I had the NASA channel so I could just watch the stars. I’m sure I can find an appropriate mindless substitute on daytime TV.

Word Econom....Ooohh, Shiny Thing!

2008-07-08T20:25:00.000-07:00

You might have noticed that I haven’t spoken of Mr. Damn in the past few days. This is because there’s nothing to speak of as he is currently only accessible by email. It’s funny how I have a lot less to complain about when I can’t really contact him. Well, I can send him email but I’ve learned that he needs word economy in an email. If an email doesn’t have a clearly defined point with information that was vital for him to know then he gets bored around the third or fourth sentence and you lose him to whatever shiny object happens to be lying near the computer.

I am not good at word economy. To further exacerbate the problem, I tend to write when I have something to get off my chest, like feelings and stuff. He doesn’t know why I need to share these things, but if I must absolutely tell him how I feel, he cannot understand how I can turn, “I’m frustrated” into a three page essay. He doesn’t see how understanding each little nuance of my day will bring us closer together instead he thinks I’m just trying to frustrate him too by eating away at time he could be spending playing with the shiny things around his desk…er…working.

Having a conversation with him isn’t that much different really. He has adult ADD so if he’s gone a little skimpy on his medication lately, you could lose him mid-sentence to a fork. I’m not kidding, it’s happened. Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to reach across the table and take away all of his silverware until I’ve finished saying what I needed to say. Often you can see that before you’re finished speaking he’s already on a different subject in his head and you just have to make a mental note to come back to this one later. It’s kind of like that game Perfection where you try to get all the pieces in before the timer goes off and throws them all over the room.

I rarely send him email anymore (or wear flashy jewelry when I see him). If I do send him an email, I have to keep it as brief as possible and put all the important stuff in the first couple lines and just keep my fingers crossed that there’s nothing shiny too close to his computer.

It all started with a box of Tampons...

2008-07-06T19:54:00.000-07:00

There was an “incident” at the grocery store several weeks ago that my friends still find every available opportunity to exploit for their amusement. It occurred when an influx of hormones aligned with my overzealous pitching arm too close to the shopping basket of an attractive male and resulted in a tragically errant box of tampons. In short, I was lobbing a box of tampons into my cart when it skidded across the top of a bag of cat litter, bounced off the paper towels, and landed squarely in someone else’s cart. The someone else happened to be a rather good looking guy who at the moment happened to be bent over engrossed in the dental hygiene products so he didn’t notice my blunder. I had a panic attack wondering how to dislodge my tampons from between his pasta and soda. I was running through the possible scenarios in my head and decided reaching into his cart was bound to attract his attention. I automatically nixed the idea of mentioning to him that I’d thrown my tampons in his cart because how do I exactly word that to the hot grocery shopper? “Hey, excuse me, I’m kind of moody, bloated, and obviously not a good pitcher so can you pass me the tampons over there by the rigatoni?” I’m sure he’ll ask for my number right away. However, before I came up with an idea for handling the situation, he selected his product of choice, smiled at me and walked away – with my tampons in his cart. I was far too befuddled to chase him down for a box of tampons so I abandoned the rest of my list, grabbed a new box, and headed straight to check out.

I did post an apology to him on Craigslist under Missed Connections which received a ton of responses. I was amazed at how many men were willing to ask out a girl that just admitted in print that she’s moody and bloated just because she has a sense of humor. In addition, this has been the butt of many jokes in my circle of friends. One friend asked me for some business cards to stick to boxes of feminine products so he could hurl them into the carts of guys he thought might be good matches for me next time he was at the store. Another guy suggested that I just throw tampons in random guys’ carts and then approach them and ask, “are you single or are those for me?” (Ok, so we were into the liquor when we came up with these.)

Well, today I was at the same grocery store to get some prescription refills and as I wandered through the greeting card aisle I looked up and found myself face-to-face with the tampon guy. I almost choked. He definitely noticed the shock on my face so there was no recovering or covering it up. I had to come up with some explanation for my behavior because he looked concerned that perhaps he had something hanging out of his nose or something. I didn’t have nearly enough time to think and before I could turn on the filter between my brain and my mouth I heard myself say, “I dropped tampons in your cart.” OH MY GAWD – NO I DID NOT. I did. Uugh. He looked so confused because at the moment – he had no cart, just one of those baskets you hand carry. “No.. I mean.. I did… not today… before… you walked off and… but I was embarrassed…so I didn’t stop you…I just got another box…” Is this what it feels like to drown in quicksand? He looked more concerned now than he did when he thought he might have something hanging out of his nose.

Deep breath – start over.

So, I started at the beginning attempting to use complete sentences and vocabulary that indicates that I have an education that extends beyond first grade. By the time I got to the end of the story, he was…laughing…and I wasn’t sure if I should turn and run out of the store or laugh along with him. Since I actually needed the prescriptions I was having filled, I was kind of stuck.

He admitted that he found them when he went to check out but he was too embarrassed to give them to the checkout girl and tell her that they weren’t his so he stuffed them in the candy bin. We had a good laugh but shockingly, he didn’t ask for my number. I don’t know why, I didn’t attempt to put any feminine products in his basket this time.

So, if you’re reading this and you were just too shy, I’ll meet you in the feminine products same time next week?

Porno-Vet

2008-07-05T09:20:00.001-07:00

I had a clear plan of how things were going to go this morning. I was going to get up, make myself look cute, take my cat to her appointment at the vet, and the proceed with my day. The cat had a different plan.

I started off wrong, I overslept. I had to go for “presentable” instead of cute. I could still make the appointment on time except I was thwarted by claws in the Berber carpet and the cat went one direction and the carrier went the other and I found myself sitting alone in the living room with brand new pin stripes in my left shin. Fresh blood is a good look. No time to sit and bleed, must locate beast and wrestle into carrier. I found her – she’s finally located the one piece of furniture she can hide behind and I have no chance of reaching her: the washing machine. I tried to chase her out with a broom and just managed to give myself a splinter. I located the vacuum and chased her out with the hose and managed to grab her but the damage was done, I was bleeding, she was shedding, and we were late.

In the car I decided to forgive her for the war wounds she inflicted. She decided to puke in the carrier.

There I am waiting for the vet and by now “presentable” has descended into something …well…less than presentable. My hair is disheveled. My white shirt has enough fur on it to build another cat and has a smear of cat puke on the bottom of it. My leg has a claw mark from knee to ankle which has mostly ceased bleeding. And I have a cat clinging to me like Velcro.

In walks the vet. Now, I haven’t seen the regular vet in a while because they sent her to a different vet for a skin problem so this is the first time we’ve been there in a while. He’s unbelievably hot – how did I not remember this? I’ve never had a fantasy that involved a cold stainless steel table and a diagram of feline anatomy in the background but the bad 70’s porno music was already playing in my head by the time he said, “Hi.” Then I remembered that I kind of looked like a wounded homeless lady with a cat growing out of her chest. So, while I was dubbing him, “Porno-vet”, I have a feeling that instead of giving me a sexy nickname, he was probably making a mental note to tell the receptionist to make sure I pay before I leave in case I gave a false address.

I guess even if I’d looked like an adequate leading lady for Porno-Vet it would have raised eyebrows at 9:30am. I mean, a clean shirt, a leg without a flesh wound, and some makeup could have gone a long way but who knows if I’m even his type. However, if I ever run into Porno-Vet out somewhere and I don’t have a cat hanging from my chest, I’m going for it.

Back in the game...kicking and screaming

2008-07-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

I decided a couple months ago that since Mr. Damn has had a year to realize that I’m the perfect woman and has yet to show up at my door on a white steed with a rock the size of a grapefruit begging me to be his forever (ok, that’s extreme – I’d really just like my previous position as ‘girlfriend’ and maybe flowers now and then) then it was time to start getting back into the game and start dating again.

It seemed simple enough except for one small hiccup (assuming we’re overlooking the fact that my heart is still all tangled up around Mr. Damn): I HATE “the game.”

I am a good sport though and so I put myself out there. I have to figure out where exactly I harbor the freaks and weirdos magnet and have that surgically removed but I did meet one guy that had some potential. He was able to carry on intelligent conversation. He was good looking. He was employed. He was well groomed and neatly dressed. He did not appear to have his head stuck up his ass. I had a friend verify that he did not appear gay (I was born without gay-dar). So, we chatted and he asked for my contact info and he asked me to lunch. Maybe I’m not as bad at “the game” as I thought I was!

I later tried to analyze what it was that attracted him to me so I could do it again. Maybe it was my witty banter. Maybe it was my intelligent conversation. Maybe it was my new dress. Maybe it was my smile. It was most likely that he was intrigued at the idea that an engineer (read: dork) could effortlessly walk in five inch heels. Note to self: shop for more five inch heels.

The thing is that he emailed me to ask me to lunch. Email? Is that fear of vocal rejection? Or is that trying to keep a certain level of impersonal going on so as to ensure that this is “hanging out” and not a date? And when does “hanging out” become a date? But the most important question that I have is: when do you offer to pay your half and when do you assume he’s paying? I’ve heard guys say that they’re offended when a girl assumes he’s paying for her. I’ve also heard guys say they’re offended when a girl tries to pay for her half. So, I can’t win. I go by the wording of the invite. If he uses the phrases, “I’d like to take you out,” I let him pay. If he uses phrases like, “Let’s meet for…” or “We should have lunch/dinner/coffee,” or says “get together,” instead of “go out,” I pull out my wallet to pay and give him the chance to say that he’s got it. If he doesn’t stop me, I pay my half. I really don’t know how else to handle it. See now why I hate the game?

Anyway, I meet the guy for lunch and he kicks off the conversation okay but when he asks about my family vacation and then tells me that the location my parents picked is "a step above white trash", I almost pointed out that he was a "step above asshole." Dude, it's my entire family including cousins, we're not going to jet off to an exotic island, we get a beach house - it's not "a step above white trash" it's what families that like each other do - location mandated by geography and gas prices. Not everyone in my family has a job as lucrative as mine - and I've already been to Dubai, Puerto Rico, Vegas and Mexico this year so I can handle a week at a "trashy east coast beach" (as he so elequently put it) with the family. But I thought, "maybe he wasn't trying to offend, maybe he's trying to be funny, even if I'm not amused." So, the conversation moves to the weekend plans. I told him I was planning on going to see the fireworks with a friend and her kids. He acted like I was voluntarily exposing myself to the boubonic plague. When I asked if he didn't like kids, he said, "not other people's." Um...so I'm going to take that as a "no" since you don't actually have kids then. Strike two. I mean, I don't expect you to want to go play with the kids, but these two I'm pretty attached to so don't act like I'm sending myself to the gallows because I like them. He also let me pay for my half - I really don't care at this point. And we put the final nail in the coffin with a firm handshake goodbye. Yeah, I’m classifying this as: Not a date.

I’ve also met some other pretty amusing guys in my “getting back out there” attempt (ok, half-hearted attempt). There was the lovely guy that watched the oversized TV behind me through dinner. That was nice because at least it gave me time to check out all the other men in the restaurant, make a grocery list in my head, and think about some ways to address those code violations for my big project in Dubai. Then there was the guy that complained to the waitress about the temperature and asked that it be adjusted; asked that they turn down the music because it was too loud; asked that they bring him a different bread plate that didn’t have water spots and a new knife that didn’t have “whatever this gunk is”; complained that his chicken was too dry and his vegetables were too salty; and finished it off by telling me he thought the waitress looked sloppy – you just convinced me that I will probably never make you happy either. There will be a movie about the woman stupid enough to marry you. Julia Roberts will star in it and she will shoot you at the end. Oh wait – they already made that movie.

So, it’s a weekend and Mr. Damn isn’t around (to the best of my knowledge anyway) and so I really should go put on those five inch heels or something and get out there and make some new friends but I have to admit – I HATE THE GAME. And my heart isn’t into it. My heart wants Mr. Damn to call me and tell me that he’s thinking about me too this morning. My heart wants Mr. Damn to realize that I’m worth the effort of a relationship so I don’t have to play the game. My heart knows he’s running out of time – I’ve felt neglected and unloved for so long that its just a matter of time before someone else comes along to fill the void and then…it’ll be too late.

Not really news-worthy...

2008-07-02T21:16:00.000-07:00

Today was a bad day…

It wasn’t a crushing kind of bad day. I’ve had plenty of those. But it was one of those days where everyone I talked to seemed to give me bad news. And, it’s not that this doesn’t happen now and then but let’s face it, most of the time you see bad news coming. Today everyone was a bad-news sniper. I didn’t know what was happening until I was sitting there with my new unfavorable knowledge all over me.

Sometimes you get bad news in waves but it sticks to a particular category, like work or friends. Today it came from all angles so there was no safe haven. I got it from the roommates, the friends, the office, and even the veterinarian. Note, that I do not see a veterinarian but I am rather attached to my fur-ball feline and she does. She’s a moody cat and she has this look on her face like if she could say something it would be really sarcastic and when I’m really busy and stressed out, she walks on the computer keyboard erasing documents and typing in foreign tongues that haven’t even been discovered yet. She knows how to find the “blue screen of death.” She and I have cohabitated for many years now and I’m used to her so the first one to make some comment about how stupid it is being upset about a cat will be ignored (or blasted with profanity depending on what kind of mood I’m in). Anyway, so my point was (before the cat tangent) that I was like the air traffic control tower for bad news today.

Now I haven’t talked to Mr. Damn since we ironed out that Myspace incident thing. And, my feelings are still a little hurt that he set his page to private so I can’t see it but whatever. All I’ve gleaned from that is the knowledge that life was definitely a hell of a lot less complicated prior to the internet. I told him via text I was having a horrendous day and he did ask what was wrong. It took a few texts to explain but I have learned that if he doesn’t call, he won’t answer the phone because he’s in a meeting or something so text message it is. And I asked for his help with something. Now, I know it’s a long shot and that he is probably scheduled to do something really important that day like rack up another 20,000 frequent flier miles or blog about his research which I’m sure is fascinating to people that understand it. And, I hate asking for help…from anyone…but especially from him because I know how busy he is. But I asked all my friends that are local…and after a year and a half, he qualifies as one of those. But after the text asking me what was wrong, there’s been complete “radio silence” all day. It drives me insane that I ask him a question and he won’t answer it. Just say no if you can’t do it! Don’t leave me sitting here wondering if you even got the text.

Not only that, but it was a bad day. And yes, Mr. Damn has contributed (usually unknowingly) to plenty of bad days but on those bad days that don’t have anything to do with him like today (well, other than the frustration at him not answering me), hearing his voice – even just for a minute – brightens the entire day. Then he always manages to wait until I have a drink in my mouth to pull out some inappropriate one-liner that makes me spit my drink out through my nose and let me tell ya, Mountain Dew in the sinus cavities will make you forget about a diabetic cat and botched raise paperwork and drama at the office while you wait for the carbonation to stop burning the back of your eyeballs. But even if he doesn’t turn my nostrils into soda fountains, it just makes me happy when I hear from him. And not happy in any sort of healthy way…happy in a completely manic, giddy, high-school girl with a crush, euphoric kind of way that is completely inappropriate for a woman about to turn 30. One time, I actually caught myself skipping down the hall after talking to him. Do you remember the last guy that made you skip? I didn’t think so. I get so excited when he calls that I still blush. So, he’s like a drug for me and today I needed a hit. But…I got nuthin’. My nostrils aren’t burning, I have no urge to skip, and the cat is headed for the keyboard. I think she just wants to say:

Ashyuuuuuuuuuuuuu[]]]]]]]]

And there you have it…straight from her …uh…paws…

It's all interpretation

2008-06-29T20:01:00.000-07:00

Everyone loved the fictional Carrie Bradshaw because…we’ve all been there. As women, we’ve all had a Mr. Big – the one for whom we will bend over backwards, turn ourselves inside out, lie to our friends, burn down our own houses, vandalize government property, and possibly even kick a puppy if we believe it will work out ‘this time’. The only one we will feel guilty about is kicking the puppy.

I have one. For the sake of anonymity we will call him Mr. Damn. I call him this because I met him online and I thought, “Damn, he’s funny.” I talked to him on the phone and I thought, “Damn, he has a deep voice.” I met him in person and I when he kissed me on that first date the only word I was coherent enough to utter was, “Damn.” And, now that we’ve dated, broken up and been doing the on-again-off-again game for over a year a la Carrie and Mr. Big, I spend lots of time stomping my foot and yelling, “Damn!” while tears stream down my face or sitting on the floor of my shower sobbing, “Damn him,” or holding a ridiculous pair of heels that I don’t need going, “These will be my ‘Damn-him-to-hell’ shoes.” At this point, I have an entire wing of my closet dedicated to ‘damn-him-to-hell’.

The really stupid part of this whole scenario is that we COULD work (I live in a neighborhood called 'Denial'). The only hiccup in the formula is that he can’t seem to get it into his head that I think differently than he does. If I could just find a way to get past his ears into his head that his interpretation of my actions is so far off base then we might actually have a chance of finding that common ground that could maybe be the first step to a working relationship (shut up mom - my blog, my opinion, my rose-colored glasses). Now granted, we have a few more steps than just this one to work thorough (I mean 'few more steps' in the same way there are a 'few steps' to get to the top of Mout Etna) but if we never get this one figured out, we’re fundamentally doomed. I don’t need him to think LIKE me, just get that I think differently than him.

Case in point: today he got mad at me. He got mad at me for looking at his myspace page and commenting (not on his myspace page but to him personally – via text message) on his new “interesting” friend. Now, when I say interesting, I’m not talking about interesting as in, “Hey, who’s this new girl?” interesting. I’m talking interesting as in, “Hey, who’s the chick with the raven black hair, leather corset, mini-skirt so short I can tell you what color her thong is, fishnets, and thigh high lace-up boots” interesting. And for everyone’s edification, I didn’t approach the subject in defensive “girlfriend mode”…after all, I am not his girlfriend. Right now, I’m the ex-girlfriend with benefits which comes with a lot more insecurity and no right to any of that extra insecurity. I said, “Hey, interesting new friend, I was going to wear that outfit today, but I thought I’d raise eyebrows at the supermarket.” This was his invitation to laugh and explain what I’d already conjured up in my head which was that she’d sent the friends request which he’d accepted because her profile was private and with that main picture he was curious to see the rest of them. I can chalk that up to male hormones and try to ignore the fact that her “location” is way too close for comfort and go about being oblivious. However, the response did not go as I’d planned. Instead he commented on the fact that I’d located his “new friend” within five minutes and what kind of stalker am I? Well…since I hadn’t been sitting on his page all day, I didn’t know it was a new development so that was just a lucky fluke on my part and secondly…whoa…that defensive posture tells me not only did I piss you off but I just pushed myself into paranoia overdrive and now I’m not allowed to ask anymore questions. Damn I hate ex-girlfriend status. I have to play this one carefully. Ignore it? Act hurt? Act pissed? Nah, We need snide with a hint of exasperation - it's imperative to portray that he's seriously over-reacting here. Snide is definitely the way to go. So, I tell him that everything I say lately pisses him off and I’m sorry that I asked – I didn’t realize he’d just done it since I didn’t sit on his page all day. And then I held my breath. It appears to have worked, my phone rang within 2 minutes.

Anyway, as it sits now, all is fine. He apologized, I apologized (for being snide - not for looking at his page) and he even explained who the new “friend” is and it’s even more benign than my “conjured up” story. But here’s the deal:

Why do I check his myspace page? Because I miss you dumbass! I’m not trying to keep tabs on your or stalk you or see who you’re conversing with but when the new friend’s picture is the biggest damn one on the page and she’s dressed like a hooker, it’s bound to catch my eye. You’re on the road 99% of the time and I haven’t seen you in almost two months and I wanted to lay my eyes on your mug. Now you may not miss me and looking at my picture may not satiate you in any such way when you do miss me but if it’s my way of dealing with the hardship of you being gone all the freaking time can you just cut me a little slack. I already feel so damn disconnected from you all the time that on the rare days when I do feel so inclined to look at your page and I see that you’re online or have logged in that day I have this (maybe silly) feeling of being a little more connected to you that day.

But you made your point, that is assuming your point was that you don’t want me to go feeling that silly little moment of happiness on occasion – because in your quest to ensure that I don’t go jumping to conclusions (ahem…at least one of us asked what was up) you made your page private and blocked me - thereby just adding one more layer to the disconnect between us.

I don’t expect you to think like me – just remember that I think differently than you do which means that you probably suck at interpreting my motivations.