Fruit Flies are Perverts

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.

Shower Yoga: Upward Facing Clam

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

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

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.

Shock me Amadeus!

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

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...

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)

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.

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

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

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.

I wish I could "Tell You a Hug"

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.

Mr. Damn-Good-Job

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!

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.

Back in the game...kicking and screaming

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.