Meet Frank (Who Just So Happens To Look An Awful Lot Like Tom Selleck)
As you can see, Frank has guns. And he works me good, too, in case you were wondering.
I am sick and tired of being asked if I am dating someone. Sometimes it's by nosy co-workers. Sometimes it's by random friends-of-friends while I am out. Most of the time, it's at the bar, being asked by guys who fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. So here goes...
Random Imbecile: So KA, do you have a boyfriend?
KA: Yes, for your f*cking information, I do.
Everyone, it's time to meet Frank. Frank is my pretend boyfriend who I invented this weekend, while most of you were grilling Johnsonville brats, or drinking yourselves into a coma. Due to the nature of special relationships being sacred, I can't tell you much about Frank, except for the following:
Frank looks a lot like Tom Selleck in his "Magnum P.I." days.
In his spare time, Frank enjoys Hardy Boys novels, the ice luge competition at the Winter Olympics, and whistling.
Frank works in Waste Management, but this is by choice. He is also a card-carrying member of MENSA. He just doesn't like to flaunt his smarts.
Right now, Frank and I are just "boyfriend/girlfriend". We've been together for quite a while now, but neither one of us is looking to make a definitive commitment. We believe that marriage ain't nothing but a piece of paper. Well, that, and we're not really sure how to combine our finances into a joint bank account. But otherwise, we're as good as married. So leave me the f*ck alone.
Marx Was Left, Stalin Was Right, But I Am Ambivalent
Conundrum: on Sunday night, I went out with my friend Amy. I'm sure many of you know of, or even know Amy, as she has become a very welcome, regular fixture in my new surroundings.
Amy and I were quite unsuccessful in our manhunt. We went in with full makeup and cute outfits, all set out to woo and impress good-looking guys, and came out with bellies full of calamari, vino - lots of vino. There was also a random episode of Cabernet McDrunky and not-so-projectile vomit on the side of my car at the Taco Cabana drive-thru, but I digress.
Anyway, we met up with some of Amy's friends, and I spent the better half of the last few hours at Apres Diem talking to one of them. He was cute. Nice, even. But I was kind of tired of the scene at that point and just wanted to go home and pass out, so I let down my guard. I was working my D- game - throwing out my very worst fliratious lines - that I didn't think he would possibly even take me seriously. Honestly, I was just f*cking with the guy, really. But, per the usual, it totally backfired.
After the obligatory exchange of phone numbers, he actually called my bluff and called me tonight. And I feel terrible, because I have absolutely no feelings for him one way or the other. Well, actually, I'm lying. I kind of liked the fact that he is a part-owner of a Dairy Queen (ahhh the smell of an Oreo Blizzard...just rocks my socks off right now). I mean, free Blizzards are nice, but could I even stand to look him in the eye the next morning? I just don't know.
Rare is the occasion that I find myself completely ambivalent to someone's affections. Per my post earlier tonight, I can usually tell right off the bat if the guy is f*ckable or not. (I think more like a man...
this has already been established.) Two good examples:
Dustin Diamond: Not do-able. I never liked Screech, even when he was with Violet, which was a simple, yet pathetic ploy by the "Saved By The Bell" producers to show Screech's soft side.
Brad Pitt: Call me. Call me, call me, call me.
The guy from Sunday: Hmm...smooth vanilla goodness with sprinkles???
(Unrelated tangent: Remember when Dairy Queen had a "sister" restaurant called "Brazier"? What the hell was it, how the hell do you pronounce it, and what the hell happened to it? Five bucks via PayPal to the first person that can answer all three questions in succession.)See how easy that free word association game is?
So now I am stuck in the dilemma of whether to call this guy back or not. I really am a nice girl, but I just don't think that the promise of free fro-yo is worth the agony of a date.
The Laws of Attraction (Or A Chronological Timeline)
Okay, with help from Beth, and while discussing the difference between how men and women assess relationships from a chronological perspective, we managed to figure out the following. Feel free to provide feedback on this in the comments section (and bear in mind, timelines are approximate and not exact):
The Male Mind and AttractionWithin 1 minute, he's decided whether or not he'd sleep with you.
Within 1 week of casual conversation, he's decided whether or not he'd ever ask you out on a date.
Within 1 month, he's decided whether or not this will be a more serious relationship or whether he's sleeping in your bed because he's lonely.
Within 1 year, he's decided whether or not he's going to be with you for the long haul, or he's going to cheat on your ass and drop you.
The Female Mind and AttractionWithin 1 minute, she's decided whether or not she's disgusted by you.
Within 1 week of casual conversation, she's decided whether or not she can stand your personality.
Within 1 month, she's decided whether or not you are friend material or someone she'd want to see naked...in broad daylight.
Within 1 year, she's decided whether she's going to spend the rest of her life with you and drive your future kids to soccer games. If not, you're getting dumped.
Warning: Objects May Be Closer Than They Appear
In an homage to one of my writing idols,
Aaron Karo, I am sticking with the themed post tonight. Here goes:
Automobiles.
Driving in the city of Atlanta is a lot like playing ice hockey with running shoes (or broomball, for you Redhawks): both require balls, you know that a collision is inevitable at some point, and when someone cuts you off en route to the goal, you tell them to go f*ck themselves.
That said, driving in Atlanta is also comparable to my love life: I know my destination, but the only thing that helps me head in the right direction is taking a really wrong route; everyone else seems to know where they're going and getting there, except for me; and every time I get lost, I end up finding a Dunkin' Donuts and stuffing my face with creme-filled long johns.
On my way to my sister's house, I was tailing a Jaguar convertible. The guy in front of me seemed good-looking, at least from the back-of-the-head view. As I changed lanes, passed him, and prepared my best inter-vehicle flirtatious glance, I noticed that he was at least 50 years old, and clearly in the throes of a midlife crisis. And it occurred to me: I'd rather not sit on Daddy's lap and feed him Viagra in exchange for driving around in that beautiful car. I'll take the hot guy in the Ford Festiva, thank you very much.
I've noticed that since I've moved to a city where having a car and driving everywhere is a necessity, the trunk of my Pathfinder has become a veritable closet. Wearing high heels to work? No problem. I drive in my flip-flops and change footwear in the parking garage. No time for makeup in the morning? No problem, that's where the makeup case in the glove compartment can help. Not-so-fresh breath? No problem. That's what the mini-mouthwash is for. But I can see this going to excess. When I find myself stashing a box of Trojans and a spare pair of underwear in there, I'm forcing myself to buy a MARTA pass and start taking the train to work.
On my way home from work tonight, I heard on the radio that
Jesse McCartney is playing in Atlanta this week. And I found myself wondering if I could negotiate with Ticketmaster and cut a deal like they do in the movie theaters: half admission for those over the age of 12 to encourage more adults to attend. This is pathetic.
Last weekend, while driving, my "check engine soon" light came on, and it hasn't turned off yet. I'm going to get this fixed (one of my many errands for the upcoming long weekend), but what the f*ck kind of warning light is this? Check engine
soon? Well, okay, why don't I just check it along with the oil, the air filter, the wiper fluid, and all the other shit that all drivers know they need to check, none of which have designated lights to remind me? What would be more helpful to me in this situation would be a "change CDs in changer" warning, a "close the sunroof because it's supposed to rain" warning, or maybe even a "you're out of condoms in the glove compartment" light. F*ck me.
Girl Secret #1, or the Patrick Swayze Theory
Alas, a new installment on the blog. An installment I like to call "Girl Secrets". I will post on this whenever and wherever the mood strikes me, because it's my blog, dammit.
Girl Secret #1: Every girl wants to be the "special" girl.
This came up earlier tonight while I was talking to my awesome friend Hilla. Here's the thing: with any - boyfriend, love interest, sex toy - that a girl has, we like to believe that we are the special girl that not only has the power to change the guy, but also, long after we've left the bedroom and the door has definitively shut (or been "slammed", ahahahhhahahaha), we like to think we're the girl that was never forgotten.
Remember that movie "Dirty Dancing"? I've yet to meet a girl my age that hasn't seen that movie and memorized almost every line (including my favorite, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner"). Every girl is looking for a guy like Patrick Swayze. He was tough, he was emotionally constipated, and he could bust ass on a dance floor -- until he met Baby. (Well, he could still bust ass on a dance floor, but once he met her even that went down the tubes - "I've Had the Time of My Life" was a definite downgrade from the watermelon scene.) Anyway, Baby rocked his socks off and turned him into this sensitive, loving guy we always knew he was.
Well, whether it's the guy that won't go down on any girl, or the guy that's never said "I love you", we, as women, like to believe that our mere presence, love, and affection will conquer any of these obstacles in a given man's life. We choose to believe that while dating or being involved with the guy, he has never complimented her or given her the swirly or whatever quite like he has done with us. We are special. We are the girl that will change his life, and render him an empty, hollow shell if and when we choose to drop him on his ass.
And here's the catch - it doesn't matter if the boyfriend was in high school, or college, or two months ago - we will always feel this way. Call it a territorial thing, if you will. If I find out that anyone I ever dated is remotely serious with another girl, I haul in the troops. Many girls do. We call up our good girlfriends, tell them what the juicy story is, and usually begin the dissection and analysis with a disclaimer of some sort, usually situational, i.e. "Well, even though I never called him back after I realized that he had commitment issues, I don't really care, but I just thought it was interesting that..." and BOOM! Dissection time.
Dissection time is like a ping pong match. The complainer (aka server) serves up a thought, and the job of the opponent is to match that with an equally substantive thought or theory. The game lasts until both players are exhausted, or someone's cell phone battery gives. An example of this might be:
KA: Okay, so even though I told him to f*ck off after he got really drunk that one night and tried to get me to have a menage a trois with some blonde bitch from the bar, I really don't care. But I did find it interesting that he's now f*cking another girl and took her home to meet his parents.
Friend/Opponent: Are you f*cking kidding? He probably took her home so they could announce that the times of not being careful while f*cking have paid off and now she's knocked up.
After about a half hour (or longer, depending on seriousness/length of time of relationship) of ping-ponging, and on the part of the overly-emotional girls, crying, the conversation usually ends like this:
Friend: Well KA, who cares? He's obviously a coked up/unemployed/heartless/stupid loser, and who needs that? You're better off without him. You were out of his league to begin with. You're [insert positive descriptive adjectives] and if he couldn't see that, f*ck him.
KA: You're right. F*ck him.
And yes, gentlemen, even if this was a girl you dated 10 years ago and barely rounded second base with, this will happen. No ex is immune to this conversation, or this type of behavior. It's just the way girls are. But like that horrible email of "Reasons Why Guys Love Girls" with the really bad girl-bashing jokes preceding it has magically forwarded itself to me regardless of how hard I try to ignore it, that's why you guys love us, right?
Do I Have To Throw Out My Training Bra If I'm A Grown-Up?
Monday night. Wow, pressure is on. I feel the onslaught of self-criticism every Monday, because I know that I'd better start the week off with a bang. But not too good of a bang. Writing a really good post on Monday is like going out and having great sex on Friday night, and then sitting at home on Saturday, alone, nursing hangover, and watching "Gilmore Girls" repeats on ABC Family because you used up all your good mojo the night before, not to mention the bruising. (Not that I don't love Rory and Lorelei, but seriously. I'd rather have a hot naked guy in my bed.)
Today was Day One of the Workout Competition in my office. Despite having objected to this at my old job, and even protesting - I held an informal contest with another non-participating co-worker to see how many calories we could rack up without burning them off - new job, new me. I am in the competition. There are 8 chicks, and the three winners at the end of the month get treated to mani/pedis by the losers. I never met a bottle of OPI nail polish I didn't like, so I immediately agreed to enter, and here I am, Day One.
Today coincidentally marks Day One of my Extreme Life Makeover (ELO) program as well. Last night, after much thought and a few too many cheeseburgers, I conceded that I need to start acting more like a grown-up. I think I've taken Britney's "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman" mantra a little too much to heart lately. And I can handle that truth, bitch.
So as part of my ELO plan, I am going to make a concerted effort to implement the following:
-I must work out at least three times a week (five is ideal).
-I must do crunches (upper and lower, which I
hate) three times a week, to combat the aforementioned cheeseburger intake.
-I will pay all of my bills on time. With "on time" defined as the week that they're due.
-I will not open tabs at bars - cash only. This will (hopefully) help to control the cash flow. As if it's really even flowing (more like trickling), but whatever.
-I will do laundry every single Sunday night, one load for whites, one for darks, and one for sheets and towels. None of this eighteen-loads-every-three-weeks shit.
-I will not go to bed past midnight on a school night, unless there's a special night out (criteria to be determined), or I have a date. A really, really good date.
-That said, I will stop dating losers. I will no longer settle for the dumb hot ones, and I will actually take into account personality, education, and felony history, and judge based on that.
-To that end, I will stop meeting boys in bars. What kind of marriage story is that anyway? I don't want to tell my future unborn children that I met Daddy after five shots of Patron and a condom breakage. Sick. (
Not that this has ever happened...it's more of a preventative rule.)
-I will stop checking my Hotmail every five minutes in the event that my buddy Dave has professed his undying love for me.
-I will eat more fruits and vegetables, even though I'd rather be eating a slab of meat. I will pretend that my bowl of blueberries is, in fact, a big ass, medium-rare cow with some seasoning salt and a dash of paprika.
-I will stop talking to God only when I am in the throes of passion and/or need a favor, and will start discussing life in-depth with our Divine Being on a regular basis.
-I will stop imagining what my male co-workers look like naked when I talk to them, and try to listen to what they're saying in order to better understand my client's needs and improve my work ethic.
-I am going to be a better friend to my girlfriends, and send them various e-Cards regularly to let them know I care.
Looking back on this list, it seems a little overly ambitious. I can probably swing the e-Cards, the laundry, the non-tabs, and the God thing. But everything else is a little sketchy, like me. At least it fits.
My Beautiful Soul (and not a bad rack, if I do say so myself)
NAUGHTY CONFESSION:
Move over, Paul. I am obsessed with a new McCartney. The cute boy from "Summerland",
Jesse McCartney, apparently sings, in addition to being a C-list teenage actor. I can't change the radio station here without my ears being subjected to one of the new songs off of his new album, "I'm young and blonde, but haven't been molested by Michael Jackson," or whatever it's really called.
Ordinarily, my music taste does not mirror that of a thirteen year old girl, but I must admit that this "Beautiful Soul" song almost moves me to tears. I mean, seriously, whichever middle-aged woman dug deep down into her heart and wrote that song for him is brilliant. I really want someone to like my beautiful soul. Isn't that what dating is all about? Seriously. There is something very sexy about a guy who pursues you at all costs. Someone who knows what they want, decides that it's you, and writes a cheesy song about it. Dammit. Where is that guy?
Desperately Wanting
I named this post after one of my favorite Better Than Ezra songs, because let's face it - Better Than Ezra is underrated, and it seems like an appropriate title for the bullshit that is about to follow.
I must really like this guy, because I cooked tonight. I COOKED. Food. Edible food. A meal of food, as Frank the Tank might say. I made a bet with a co-worker, and I lost. The terms were that I would have to pack him a lunch tomorrow. And let me assure you, the lunch has been packed. Packed with desperation, and feeble attempts at impression that few guys have ever been on the receiving end of. Why is it that if we like someone - really and truly like the person - that we find ourselves doing things that we wouldn't normally do in the hopes of conveying traits that we're not sure we really have?
Yes, I'll admit, I like to cook. But in the 7 years that I have been out of the house, I have managed to master very few dishes, if any. I'm not sure if ramen and Easy Mac count, but if they do, then maybe I'm not as bad a cook as I thought. But my cooking ability is really limited to turkey chili, pasta with marinara, cereal, stuffed mushrooms, and toast. Years of working at the Food Network, and I have mastered toast. Not good.
Usually, I don't cook because I don't have the time or the patience to experiment with shit. I have worked until 7:30 every night this week, and when I don't head straight to the gym after that, or catch the latest season finale (Did anyone else see the The O.C.? Was it not amazing tonight?), I am...well, sleeping. I don't have time to f*ck around with food.
But I always pay up on bets. And I really like this particular co-worker, and want him to think that I am a domestic goddess, because I sense that he's probably impressed with that kind of shit. I know, I know. I am a relatively attractive girl with a Master's degree, and the second a good guy walks into the picture, I bat my eyelashes and whip out the DustBuster. This goes against my independent woman grain, and Gloria Steinem would probably beat the shit out of me, but what can I say? I am an old-fashioned girl at heart.
So I hauled my overly ambitious ass to the grocery store tonight, and proceeded to buy every ingredient necessary for making pasta with pesto and a fresh tomato-mozzarella caprese salad with basil. How the f*ck I decided on this, I have no idea. I think he mentioned once that he liked pasta. With a little help from my elves, Amy and Hilla, who were kind enough to lend their kitchen, cooking skills, and dishes, I made little Ziploc containers full of pasta, and now I feel sick. Not from the food, but the fact that I went to such great lengths to impress a boy. And the worst part was that I didn't even buy some breath mints for after lunch. Maybe I'll stop and get a pack of gum from the restaurant downstairs at work before I go in tomorrow.
For added obnoxiousness, I bought him a little Matchbox car at the store as a "prize". I'm not sure who I'm kidding here, but I was just trying to put myself in his shoes. A girl who pays up on a bet, makes a quasi-gourmet lunch for you, brings it to work, and buys you a little matchbox car? Shit, if I weren't me, I'd fall in love with me.
Anyways, it just makes me wonder how far people go to impress those they like. It's kind of funny, in that sad sort of way.
Bon Appetit.
Paging Julie Andrews
Okay, so, tonight, because I am weird, and also because I was tired of watching Britney Spears aim the camera up her nose for the full hour of her new UPN show, I compiled a list. As you know, making lists is one of my favorite things to do, and so I thought making a list of favorites as one of my favorite things to do would surely cheer me up. It's the little things in life, right?
So for your entertainment pleasure, I have chosen to share my list with you:
Things That Excite Me
by KA
(in no particular order)
freshly-washed sheets
a good hearty lunch
thunderstorms
making out
black-tie events where I can wear a little black dress
the designer jean department at Nordstrom
salmon sashimi
grocery shopping
Chappelle's Show (sadly, indefinitely defunct until he comes back from South Africa)
happy hour
the first page of a brand-new book
strong, muscular biceps on a guy
singing in the shower
writing in this blog when I have a good story (!)
Owen Wilson movies
hot-stone massages
getting letters in the real mail
fuzzy socks
hooking up with old crushes
AOL Instant Messenger
drinks that are served in fun martini glasses
garbage disposals
funny Hallmark Fresh Ink cards
anything and everything at Target
the Electric Slide (okay okay, that one's a joke)
my Ralph Wiggum picking his nose t-shirt that says, "Pick Me"
I'll let you know if I think of any more as time goes on.
Humpy's Date and a Belated Birthday
Hey, sorry, not much to post here. I am really good at dating girls, though. If only that would magically osmote (I know that's not a word, but I love it) into the male gender, we'd be all good.
Last night, I had a "date" with my friend Humpy (aka Erica) from work. She came over, I cooked my one and only specialty aside from toast - turkey chili - we drank a delicious pinot grigio, and ate until I almost fell into a coma. Oh, and we watched "The Bachelor", which is like reality heroin for the incurable romantic like myself. Every season I swear I'm not watching that stupid shit, and every season I end up wanting my three hours back. Charlie O'Connell is a chode.
So Humpy and I had good times on our little date last night. We even held hands when Charlie had to go in and reject someone because it was rather nerve-wracking, despite my best attempts to stay calm. I have been dumped before and it sucked - I can't imagine said dumping taking place on national TV by some total tool who wished that he got the part in "Goonies" instead of his brother. I love Humpy, but I must admit that when we held hands, I wished it was my good old buddy Dave from last week. You know, the one with oodles of dough and arms of steel. Damn.
Humpy left at 11, and despite my best attempts to do laundry, I succumbed to the bedroom and promptly passed out, belly full of turkey.
Unrelated tangent: Happy birthday to Michael, whose birthday I completely forgot about yesterday. Sorry about that, buddy. I'm telling you, if it ain't on Friendster, I ain't gonna remember.
Kelly Clarkson Sucks A Fat One
If I hear that "Since U Been Gone" bullshit on the radio station one more time, I am going to lose it. The very chorus incites me to commit road rage in the car, self hair-pulling in my house, and the potential to break a keyboard while I'm at work. I f*cking hate that f*cking song. If you ever want to torture me, please put it on repeat. But you wouldn't torture me, would you? Yeah, that's what I thought.
Who is Chris Cherry?
I have missed 7 phone calls over the past three days from some random 678 area code which obviously isn't in my phone. Now, I probably have at least 150 numbers stored into my phone - anyone from my best friend to my mom's cell phone to some dude I probably met at a bar and have been too lazy to erase, even though I have never and probably will never call. So when someone from a random number calls me, you could see how I would be suspicious.
Finally today, after phone call #7, I decided to take the plunge and return the call, since obviously this person has been merciless in trying to get ahold of me. It rings and rings and the pleasant voice mail lady tells me that I have reached the voice mailbox of Chris Cherry (or something that sounds like cherry). Who the f*ck is Chris Cherry? I've tried to rack through my brains, thinking of anyone I've met recently named Chris, but I'm pretty sure that I have no idea who this guy is, and it's killing me.
A Joker, A Smoker, and a 1am Toker (and I Won't Tell You Who Is What)
Yesterday was a bad day. But a good night.
All week, I have been told about how great
Dave is. He's young, he's hot, he has his own television show on Food Network (click on the link to find out more about my ideal man, there are some pictures of His Hotness on there, too). And really, who would be a better quasi-celebrity girlfriend than me? My friends were convinced that it would be a good time (or at least a good story) to meet him while he's in town, and I obliged. Who am I to turn down a sexy boy, much less a sexy boy who cooks? (As I've always said...to myself, "Self, A boy who knows how to cook knows how to eat. And both of those are some good qualites to have.") Plus, I love famous people. Perhaps this was going to be better than the night I saw Tom Arnold in for the All-Star Game, and he bought me a drink and told me I "had a nice rack", which is really another story for another time.
So here was the original plan: he was going to a work dinner, and after that, we were going to meet up and hang out with a rising star, drinking and laughing until sunrise.
Here was my plan: he was going to a work dinner, and after that, I would walk into wherever he was, dazzle him with my charm, make him fall in love with me, and plan our walk down the aisle.
Here's what really happened: I met up with him and the rest of my friends after midnight. We met at the chef/owner's house from the hip restaurant they were at earlier. This owner is loaded, with the most amazing kitchen I've ever seen. We sat around, drank, talked, and watched as Dave whipped up his "very special" chocolate chip cookies. Which just so happens to be the best cookie I've ever f*cking eaten. And now I'm in love. Okay, not love. But definite like.
fdfkerlktesofdfgfkglfgkogtjspokaopskfsd;zfkmdxlcvmlkcfxjgfdkg;dfkg;dflgkdfopgrk.....
Sorry for the pause, I had to wipe off some of the chocolate chip smeared on my face. Yum. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that there was definitely some chemistry. It wasn't a fly in the eye or contact lens trouble -- he looked interested, and I'm guessing looked like I wanted to make out with him until I couldn't see straight, because that was the damn truth. So there was some hand touching and knee brushing. And we talked a lot. As we talked, I managed to find out the following:
We were born in the same year.
We both love dogs and hate cats.
We both went to college (he must be a moron; he went to Yale).
Along those same lines, we both dabble in books (he has written one, I have read one).We are both members of the tribe (does anyone hear a glass breaking in the near future?).
We are both very into cleaning up after ourselves around the house.
I'd say that's a
soul mate, right there, eh?
So I did what any self-respecting girl would do: I threw myself at him mercilessly and offered my body as a sacrifice for...well, nothing. Just kidding. I actually acted like a polite lady and just gave him my number and my email and told him to call me or email next time he was in town. He agreed and suggested we hit the town up for some good bars.
And he commented on my good penmanship, and said my email address out loud to himself, as if he was trying to commit it to memory. Then came a nice big hug (he cooks, he eats, and he works out, as I was introduced to Smith and Wesson, his major guns, at this point in time) and a kiss on the cheek. Score - KA 1, Rejection 0.
Psych check: I meet a cute, nice, intelligent, funny, single, successful guy who baked cookies for me, continuously touched my knee, and wants to call me next time he's in town (which he is in town quite often, as he is a research and development chef for Delta)? Well....no, no, I really have no issues with that whatsoever.
So now that it's 3:45 am, and the cookie goodness has long since worn off, I am going to bed. To sleep. To dream about the two loves of my life: food, and my little quasi-celebrity crush.
Where's My Paxil?
You ever have one of those days when you wake up in a bad mood and from there, the wheels just fall off the bus?
It all started when I couldn't get my contact lenses in this morning because a) putting them in stung my eyes, and b) I kept sneezing every five seconds, making it really hard to poke my eye with my finger.
Since then, I am hypersensitive to a wrong look, word, or sentence, and all I want to do is lay in my bed and cry and watch Lifetime.
What is wrong with me?!!!!!
The Barren Land of the Infertile
I feel that
we didn't do the monkeys justice, so I'm giving it a go with the whole one-topic tie-in yet again this week. I have the feeling I won't stay on topic, but I'll try. Sometimes I think writing a blog is like taking the SAT or the GRE - puzzling, challenging, and a necessary evil without the promise of a good result.
Good thing I wasn't planning on having a family anytime soon. True to my promise, I tried my sister's spinning class at the gym. (She's a spinning instructor, when she's not busy making assloads of money as an attorney while I'm eating tunafish out of those little pouches for dinner because I make less money than your average McDonald's cashier.) I am confident after an hour of having my feet strapped in stirrups and sliding my ass on and off that seat in an attempt to shrink it, that I will be unable to reproduce for a good long while. Which reminds me of a good joke I just made up:
Joke: How are taking a spinning class and going to the female doctor different?
Punchline: I have no idea.
On second thought, maybe infertility will make me more marketable to men in the short-term?
Speaking of the market, I wish someone would take me off of it. There is a boy. He is
really interested in me. I am not interested in him. I think we have less in common than Alf and Pat Robertson. I do not want to go out with him. He keeps calling. This hasn't happened in awhile, and I am beginning to feel like a hypocrite. Whenever this happens to a friend, I am always an advocate of being polite, but honest, yet somehow, I am having a hard time breaking this guy's heart, for fear that I'll leave him emotionally infertile and scarred for life. Imagine that.
Has anyone been surfing
E! Online this week?! I'm sure their ad rates have skyrocketed recently, because they have hit the jackpot with celebrity gossip, and everyone I know is talking about it. Apparently, Renee Zellweger married some country Chester guy or something...wait, did anyone just hear that loud noise? It sounded like a shotgun. Expect a baby announcement from Zellweger shortly. Trust.
The Amazing Race - what a bunch of babies. Just kidding. But seriously, I couldn't be happier that Uchenna and Joyce took the $1 mil. And as soon as the host asked them what they're doing next and Uchenna said, "We're going for a baby," my sister and I just about lost it. I was sobbing...slightly. Or maybe there was something in my eye. Yes, that's it, something in the eye.
Why is it that the second you stop paying attention to a guy, he starts acting like a baby, trying everything in the book to get your attention? I finally decided to start ignoring someone who was bugging me, and now he's buying me candy bars (smart one - he obviously knows my heart is through my stomach) and acting like an infant to get my attention. I swear, it's like weaning him off the nipple.
I just compared male-female interaction to a nipple. Time to stop posting.
Highlights and Notes to Self
Here's a recap of my weekend:
Eating Indian food, with all due respect to Indian people, is harmful to your personal hygiene. It will seep through your pores, infiltrate your clothes, and render you to smell of curry for the next three days, no matter how many showers you take. It is the herpes of foreign cuisine.
Sydney Bristow is pregnant. So much for my self-actualizing visualization of looking like her while I'm at the gym. If I wanted to visualize being an inflated beach ball, I'd stay at home, eat some chips, and admire Britney Spears' ever-increasing ass. But I do wonder if the Garner/Affleck child will be a jowly, ass-kicking gambler, or a giant (he's 6'3"), costume-wearing drinker?
Guys, take note: if you call a girl more than once in a 24 hour period, she will be annoyed. If she calls you back, that is a good sign. If she doesn't, get lost.
On that note, asking someone out for a Sunday night on a Saturday night is a little creepy. Put a sock on it. Nothing's gonna get licked or nibbled on.
Women of all ages
need (not want, not should have, but
need) a girls' night every once in awhile. Recommended dishes: appetizers (Cheetos), refreshments (real Coca-Cola and red wine), entree (pizza with mushrooms and pepperoni), and dessert (more red wine, and Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche ice cream). Entertainment should be lighthearted, mindless, and preferably stupid (like this weekend's entertainment, "She's All That", starring Rachel Leigh Cook, Freddie Prinze Jr., and guest-starring Sisqo and Lil Kim).
Ladies, waxing is good. Working out is good. Tanning is good. Just try not to do all three within a four-hour time span or you will end up looking like the "before" in a ProActiv infomercial. Trust.
Buying your mom a $60 bouquet from FTD.com will come back four-fold, as hopefully, if you have my luck, your mom will be the very last delivery of the day at 6 pm and she will get not only the beautiful tulips (and poem!) you sent her, but also the three other bouquets from recipients that weren't home. I'm betting there are three very pissed-off moms out there. Oh well, at least the roses look nice in the living room, or so I hear.
She's so cute.
This is Sandy. She is one of my best friends - a best friend that I left when I moved.
After I
stole this picture from a most excellent fellow blogger, I came to the very accurate conclusion that the only reason why she could possibly be out and having fun without me is because she needs to drown her sorrows in booze now that one of her partners in crime has left the Chicagoland area (with only Bethany left to hold down the fort).
San, I miss you. Hope you had a nice Cinco de Sando.
Let the Games Begin
Here we go again.
I'm back in the game. After a lengthy "guy-atus", I am going to venture back into the dating world. Dating is, in my opinion, a whole lot like Christmas. Much like Santa Claus, I have made my list, checked it twice, and have been at the gym, trying to shave off some pounds in the hopes of stuffing myself down someone's chimney, bag full of presents in hand. (Or "presence", I should say, ahahahahahaha.) There have been a couple of offers from friends here to set a little sumthin' sumthin' up, and I am finally ready to take the plunge. I hate blind dates, but I'm willing to give it a try in a new city where I no absolutely no one, except for my sister, a few scattered friends, and the 200 people I work with. Well, and the personal trainer, who looks like a monkey, and is married.
My fear of blind dates takes me back to three years ago, when my parents tried to set me up with a son of their family friends who I had never met, after I had just moved to Chicago. Nevermind the fact that I was dating someone else at the time, nevermind that the blind date was in the midst of a quarterlife crisis at the time and had just dropped out of stock investing to bartend at a sushi restaurant, and nevermind that our two prior phone conversations were awkward and it seemed like we had nothing in common -- I was going on this date, like it or not. I mean, I had to - when parents start scheming to set their kids up, it's like the modern-day equivalent of an arranged marriage. Like it or not, you have to at least go, or else your parents don't get the three sheep and herd of cattle they've had their eye on since last season.
Not wanting to disappoint my parents, and also slightly curious and optimistic (two traits that could be considered downfalls in the world of blind dating), I obliged. We met at a Thai restaurant he insisted on taking me to (knock #1, I hate Thai food), and my first impression was less than stellar. My parents, who had met him before, told me that he looked a little like an exotic Casey Affleck. The truth of the matter was that he looked like a cross between Owen Wilson and the "Where's the Beef" lady. And I still suspect, to this day, that he had a bit of a lazy eye.
Dinner was awkward, and made even more so when his cell phone began to ring off the hook. He took every call. This was almost a relief, as his conversations with other people meant we didn't have to talk, but still. I had to look at him, and that alone was painful. The best call came about halfway through dinner when he answered and said, "Yeah, I'm out with her...hmm, I don't know, I mean, she's cute, but we'll see..." and then looked at me and winked. Yikes. After dinner, one of the friends who had called wanted to meet up, so he tells me, "I'm sorry, but I really should go..." I replied, "No, no problem. I totally understand." And then he kind of cocked his head at me and said, "Well, are you sure? I mean, you're not mad that I didn't invite you? You can come, I guess, but I really haven't hung out with him in a long time." I was so disappointed that a winner like himself had decided that "we'll see" meant, "I'm going to hang out with my friend because I'm probably just gay and trying to cover it up", but I put my heartache aside, politely declined, and stated that I was taking a cab ride home. Sensing that I was really irritated at having wasted my time, he offered to pay...and then handed me three dollar bills. Wow! A whole three dollars? Can you imagine what would have happened if I would have kissed him? Shit, I may had even been able to get myself to Lake Shore Drive. The three dollars was not nearly enough to cover even half of my $10 cab ride, so again, I declined. But I was so pissed at this point that I lost the temporary brain filter I had tried so hard to have and said, "No thanks, I'm not a hooker. You're disgusting," and walked away. Not surprisingly, I never heard from him again.
The other two blind dates I've had in my life weren't nearly as bad, but they certainly weren't nearly as good, either, so you can see where I'm skeptical. But hey, you never know, right? Let the games begin, bitches. If nothing else, I'll at least have some good stories to share.
Topsy-Turvy
Today was one of those days where something felt wrong. I couldn't figure out exactly what it was, until this afternoon, when I discovered that I had put my underwear on inside out today. Is this dementia, or stupidity? You be the judge.
Otherwise Engaged
I think I was just proposed to. For the first time. Over Instant Messenger.
A good friend of mine from college, sophomore year in particular...well, we were pretty tight. So tight, in fact, that we always fielded the question of why we never dated. We hung out every single afternoon and night of every day for at least four months, with little hanging out with anyone else. We went out together, we studied together, we had dinner...it was sort of funny, almost like having a tail. The truth of the matter was that we really were just such good friends that dating would have ruined it. And there was another reason, one that I couldn't put my finger on, until the day that he came out of the closet about halfway through the year. And...well, there's your reason.
A few of my good friends are gay or lesbians, which I have no problem with whatsoever. I've taken a lot of heat from my conservative friends for this, but I think that love and sexuality are personal business, and what one does with that choice is completely up to them. Personally, I've never been attracted to a girl, or even been with one (unless you count the one time that my friend Val and I had to make out for a minute as part of a dare, New Year's 2003), and I highly suspect that if it hasn't happened yet, it probably won't anytime soon, but even so...I'm not necessarily opposed to the idea. I mean, you love who you love, right? And I just happen to love boys. But who am I to judge anyone else?
So anyway, when he came out, I was really supportive. He eventually left school and did his own thing, but we've hung out a couple of times over the years, and I even went to Go Go Boy night at Cocktail in Boystown with him one night, followed by a trip to Manhole, in support of my boy-loving friend. In fact, I found that we had a hell of a lot more in common after that.
Tonight we're having one of our random conversations on IM, and I am hit with the news - six years later - that my friend might really be bisexual. We end up having a nice, long conversation about bisexuality, and I told him that anyone that really loved him would respect the fact that he loves who he loves, as long as he was faithful and chose someone he would be with forever. It was then and there that he sent me a picture with a 2.6 round-cut Tiffany's diamond ring in a blue box, and a line that says, "Move to Seattle. Be my wife.". Ahhh...everything I've ever wanted. (Well, except for I'd prefer a princess cut, but whatever. Well, and I always thought it would be a different guy, but still.) So I did what any good friend would do - I accepted. I mean, it was a little weird typing "yes" into the dialog box, instead of screaming it out and wrapping my arms around the guy in a big bear hug. I tried to insert a crying smiley face, but there was only a frowny one, so I had to explain that I was crying with a big shit-eating grin on my face. Tough times.
So, distance notwithstanding, we are otherwise engaged. I must say, it was very nice being quasi-proposed to, and it is also nice being quasi-engaged. Perhaps he can give me
the quasi-wedding I've always dreamed of. And hey, at the very least, it definitely broke me in for the real proposal, which I'm confident will come from the right guy in the next 20 years. I wonder if breaking the news of my impending quasi-nuptials to everyone will make the crush jealous. At least it will put the marriage talk from everyone in metro Atlanta to rest. It's about time.
My Father, The Hero
He's remarkably fresh-faced and dark-haired...could I have really liked him? My type has really evolved so much over the years. He's too pretty for me now.
Speaking of, and before I get to my point, anyone remember that movie? It had the girl from "Grey's Anatomy" in it, and Blossom's boyfriend was her island crush that she met on vacation. And even though she was 14, she had everyone on the island believing that Gerard Depardieu was her boyfriend, and not her father, in the worst attempt at playing the jealousy card that I have ever heard of. It's like today's version of putting Ben Affleck in front of a f*cking blackjack table. (Or a movie screen, for that matter...either way, you're guaranteed a loser. Sorry Ben, cheap shot.) I used to watch that movie all the time and pretend that Blossom's boyfriend was my boyfriend. Hell, I'd still love to pretend that kid was my boyfriend. He was cute. What was his name? David Lascher. (Thank you, IMDB.) Where is he now...jail? Rehab? Ohhhh...I spot some more recent pictures. Looks like that rhinoplasty didn't work out so hot for him...hmm...I'll just deep-six that fantasy.
Anyway, inspiration comes in all shapes and forms, and sometimes, from some unexpected sources. I've always admired my parents in a lot of ways and for a lot of reasons, but recently, I had a very nice, long phone conversation with my father, who is thinking about going back to school. LAW SCHOOL. Yes, after 30 years of poking people's eyes out for a living, he is considering spending the first little bit of retirement in law school, taking classes. Why? Because it fascinates him, which is reason enough.
Let me tell you: I couldn't be more proud. If considering this isn't a testament to how cool my Dad is, I'll show you his movie collection. (Oops, I mean, if that isn't a testament, I don't know what is.)
You see, if I'm fascinated by something, I usually hook up with it. Or read a book about it. I dabble in the fascination and then I'm over it. This might explain why I'm single, or why I have very few long-lasting hobbies (although writing and eating have made the cut, thankfully for them). At first, I was shocked and sort of put off by it. Are you kidding? I can just envision my mom packing my dad a lunch for his first day at school, and him showing up with a Jansport backpack and a pocket full of number two pencils (actually, the tablet PC is more like it, and I would make him buy a cool messenger bag), heading off to school, wondering if he passed his exams. Awww....it's so cute. I think I might cry. But seriously, it's a funny picture to imagine. And a strange one. I mean, here I am, 24 years old, probably having finished formal education forever, and my dad, who apparently isn't satisfied with 8 years of med school, could be going back for 3 more years.
But once I got over the shock, I realized what an inspiration he is. If he does do this - if he does go back to school - he is living proof that life can still be incredibly exciting and fulfilling, even after your Social Security checks start rolling in and you need the paychecks now that your kids have sucked your savings account dry, like blood from a stone. It provides evidence that your occupation, or even your education, doesn't have to define who you are as a person or what you will know or not know for the rest of your life, which is an idea that I struggle with on a daily basis. And it's refreshing to see someone who doesn't see retirement as a chance to sleep in and play Bingo and wait until the bucket kicks. (Or you kick the bucket. Or something gets kicked into the bucket. Shit, you know what I mean.)
It's good to see that inspiration, with this particular inspiration hitting closer to home than most, is still alive and well. And much cooler than Gerard Depardieu.
Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back...We Come Together Cause Opposites Attract
Just take it from Laura Bush, who had
the following to say about her husband at the White House Correspondents' Dinner last weekend (link courtesy of
The Chief Source):
"George and I are complete opposites -- I'm quiet, he's talkative; I'm introverted, he's extroverted; I can pronounce nuclear..."
LB also understands the female need to check out other men...
"One night, after George went to bed, Lynne Cheney, [Secretary of State] Condi Rice, [Bush adviser] Karen Hughes and I went to Chippendales," she said, referring to a strip club where women tuck cash into male dancers' skimpy thongs. "I wouldn't even mention it except [Supreme Court Justices] Ruth Ginsberg and Sandra Day O'Connor saw us there. I won't tell you what happened, but Lynne's Secret Service code name is now 'Dollar Bill.' "
Reactions were mixed. Some tight asses were not impressed:
"It was very risque," the Nation's David Korn said yesterday on Fox News. "I was wondering what the social conservatives and James Dobson had to say about all these jokes that were laced with sexual innuendo. Not a very family-values-type speech. I'm not sure I want to explain a lot of those jokes to my 4-year-old."
I say f*ck 'em if they can't take a joke. I have a newfound respect for LB. She could be the conservative yin to my yang on this blog anytime.
The Cookie Monster Within
In another episode of my
recurring sleeping disorder, I awoke to find an previously-unopened package of low-fat iced lemon cookies next to my bed, and an empty Fruit-2-o bottle. If this is any indication of how my "eating week" is going to start, I'm f*cked, plain and simple. At least I'm working out, right?
A Pretty Good Weekend
I'll admit at the outset of this writing that I don't have anything major to report. In fact, I was pretty much useless until this morning, when my Friday night hangover wore off.
There's nothing like breaking in your new co-workers with a taste of what you're like when you're drunk. We had a big happy hour on Friday, and initially, my strategy was to break them in nice and easy. This was not so. In fact, my strategy turned into "let it all hang out" so that next time, I'll look tame by comparison.
Here's a little math lesson for you - if you add the following:
5 vodka tonics
1 shot Jager
1 shot redheaded slut
2 shots buttery nipples
1 shot tequila
$15 cab fare to retrieve car the next morning
$60 tab you had to have Co-Worker Jeff sign because you couldn't read the numbers right
18 drunken phone calls, some of which were repeat calls to people I had forgotten I had dialed before...
you get 1 crazy night that ends up with you waking up at 4 am on the floor of your hallway next to the bathroom with a down comforter and a pillow, 3 wee hours of the am spent getting sick, 1 Arby's hangover meal that was only purchased because you were too lazy to drive a little bit farther to get to Chick-Fil-A, and a wicked hangover that renders you useless until Sunday. Yikes.
So that said, I took it easy last night and went out for a really great girls-only dinner with Amy and another friend. We went to a really good tapas/sushi restaurant and proceeded to order the entire menu. Expensive, but totally worth it. The drinks were also good, or so I hear, as I was chugging glass upon glass of water the entire evening, trying to remember if I had said or done anything mortifying. I came to the conclusion that since I couldn't remember, I haven't. I'm satisfied with that.
Next up: Cinco de Mayo. I think my work is throwing a party for us, so this should, yet again, be interesting. But one thing is for sure: I will not be drinking that much again. Like, ever. In my life.
