Make New Friends, But Keep The Old - One Is Silver and the Other Will Kick You Squarely In The Ass
Wow. What a bomb weekend.
From start to finish, the entire thing was a whirlwind, and I can't say that the influence of alcohol necessarily helped my memory, but I'll do my best to extrapolate what came out of this and put together an entertaining and informative post.
As you may know, this past weekend was the Annual Great Decatur Beer Festival weekend, which has - for my last two years - become a shitshow of sorts. Ghosts of High School Past come into town and, along with new faces and an asinine amount of alcohol, fuel a rockin' good time, if not an over-the-top display of tomfoolery and embarrassing antics.
This year, two of my very good girlfriends came into town, as well as good girlfriend's boyfriend, as well as assorted hooligans from the GOHSP (the acronym of which interestingly - and notably - is phonetically pronounced "gossip"). So what better than to mix with new friends, and stir to taste?
This is always an interesting weekend for me because it's the one distinct time each year where my past meets my present. Two completely different worlds collide, and the outcome, while almost always fun, is also very difficult to predict.
If you've ever moved away from home and started a "new life", as I've done twice now, I'd highly recommend that you find some weekend, if not a beer festival weekend, to mash up these two facets of life, because you gain immeasurable perspective.
And here's what I've learned: I have evolved so much as a person, but put me in the past for just one minute and I will revert back to the same behaviors, the same feelings, the same decisions, every time.
You can run from your past, but it will always catch up with you. You can run from people, and you can move on, but they will always tip your finely-honed sense of balance and put you in your place. Any unfinished business will always surface, and you had better be f*cking prepared to address it or your weekend can go from Fabulous to Flatlining in a mere matter of seconds.
Lately I've had a lot of reservations about my past. I've tried to put it behind me and focus on the future. And while that is absolutely the right thing to do - and something I think I've done a good job of, I did that without realizing that the second I came back into contact with those people, or those situations, that I would have to deal with it. It's very easy to run your whole life - to avoid people or places or things that make you uncomfortable. It's very easy to pick up and forgo all of the mess it would take to straighten things out and reconcile those situations because you don't put yourself back in a place where you're vulnerable to hearing the truth, or feeling whatever emotion it is you're running from in the first place. And a few of those situations - depending on the circumstances, deserve no less than a good marathon jog. But in others, a good jog will get you no understanding, no sense, and a serious case of shin splints.
In those situation, what's harder - but ultimately more rewarding - is facing those situations, and doing everything you can to make it right so that you can make sense of it in your head and move on.
And what I'm learning about that is this - the best way to move on is to accept the things you cannot change, and hey, even embrace it. Isn't that one of the tenets of Alcoholics Anonymous anyway? Let's face it - when I am around certain people, or when I'm in certain places, or when I'm at certain beer festivals, I will always be rushed with the same feelings, the same choices, and the same doubts. I will always be faced with the choice to ignore it or embrace it. And I choose to embrace it, because ignoring it is just too f*cking frustrating and ultimately unproductive.
So I did embrace it. And I made the best calls I could. And it wasn't so bad. It was great, in fact, and I was happy. I always appreciate my new friends, but I just now began to appreciate the old. Because like the subject heading of this post, one is silver, and the others are here to remind me of where the f*ck I came from and how I got here. And if that isn't the best course to determine where the hell I'm headed, I suggest you revisit the Peroni beer stand and come back when you're ready to talk.
Slide to Tide You Over?
As I recover from the three-day, shampoo-buzzed, booze-soaked weekend, I thought I'd post a slideshow to let you know that I'm not dead. Yet.
Plenty of witty banter forthcoming, but until then, enjoy!
The Way To A Man's Groin Is Through My Juice Box
I have made 3% progress in my "person of interest" quest.
Which would be fantastic metrics for one day if I didn't have to work my way back up from negative standing.
I don't think my "person of interest" is very interested. Well, in me, at least. In fact, as I mentioned to Mole the other day on the way out of the office, I'm not even sure he's interested in me as a homosapien, much less anything else. Despite the combination of some stimulating and flirtatious initial encounters and my self-inflated gauge of interest, our last four to five encounters have been shoddy at best. My overly sensitive radar senses dismissiveness and a general awkwardness on his part. Probably because I continue to speak English-As-A-Second-Language since I am a native to Planet Weird when I'm around him.
Anyway, our workplace, ever-encouraging of the work-play balance, has a soccer team. Due to my badness with balls, I refused to join, but did offer to be a cheerleader for the team.
Well, somewhere in my voluntary offer to be "head cheerleader" (not to be taken literally, at least for most of the players), my self-appointment was misconstrued and I was suddenly cast as "Team Mom". Players were bitching about not getting snacks after practice, and my reputation was tainted, because really, how can you parlay "Team Mom" into a vision that doesn't entail Jerzees sweatsuits, feathered hair, and a station wagon?
However, I pulled my thoughts (and my resources) together and decided that I was going to show some love for the team - and one player in particular - and "score two goals with one ball", or whatever. You know what I'm trying to say here.
My genius idea afforded one important objective: to show him interest the only way I know how.
I gave him a juice box.
I went to practice, risked being demolished by swarms of mosquitoes (it's still humid in Atlanta), and supported my team. Yes, that's right - I risked looking like a malnourished Sally Struthers "Feed the Children" advertisement eating cereal with my hands to hand-deliver a juice box. Good G*d is that romantic. Because really, have old cliches taught us nothing? Isn't the best way to a man's groin through a juice box?
I brought Finding Nemo fruit snacks and Capri Sun juice boxes for the whole team, but I did make sure he had the most unwrinkled package and the box with the most juice in it, because even though factories standardize that sort of shit, I don't standardize my choice in crushes. So within the powers vested in me, let the f*cking hunk get the most juice from what I can judge, okay? Only the best.
And it was well worth it.
Amidst a high-five and an affectionate "thank you", I saw him sip through that mini straw and catch my eye, and as he funneled his Pacific Cooler, I saw his eyes shine with desire - desire probably for me. Or maybe he was thirsty. And maybe when his eyes "shone", it was because a mosquito flew into it.
Shit.
Le Bureau of Important Affairs Says...Well, I'm Important
In spite of missing my alarm - and thus, the gym - this morning (because whose body clock wakes them up at 6 am, honestly?), I managed to recover quite well. I strolled into work on time this morning, albeit sleepy due to lack of exercise and consumption of Large Iced Cold Press courtesy of Caribou Coffee, and promptly packed my things up and left. Oh yes, you heard me.
Today, friends, I moved into my office ("Le bureau" for you French-speaking readers). Last week, I got the fabulous news that after four years of slaving away in cubicles, I was getting my own office - with a door, thank you very much. Nevermind that the door is currently broken and will lock me
into the office if shut all the way. But hey, that's getting fixed.
So while any normal person would act cool about the George and Weezy pilgrimage to the Upper Side of the office, I decided to indulge myself and act every bit of excited as I was. For the past week, I've been practicing expressions in the mirror: expressions of concern (while saying to myself, "I'm a little concerned...why don't we discuss this
in my office"), expressions of pensiveness (while saying, "Hmm...let's discuss this
in my office"), and even expressions of nonchalance (while saying breezily, "Yes, I'm about to head back
into my office to make the call"). And believe you me, this has been hard work. Faking nonchalance is a motherf*cker!
Most of my morning was spent happily transferring the manila folders that serve to document my productivity, as well as all of my "toys" and various knicknacks from networks and magazines over the years. (And yes, my sparkle lava lamp made the trip just fine - thank goodness no use for the "
what to do if you come into contact with the liquid" instructions).
I spent two painstaking hours getting everything just right, and feigning ignorance to anything that landed in my inbox. I mean, priorities, right? This is my
office. I have one chance to get it right and just the way I want it before it starts to overload with media kits, magazines, DVDs, and all the paperwork my vision can handle. This is the cleanest day of my little office's life! I had to make it good.
Once I ensured that my stapler and tape dispenser were perfectly aligned to my compulsive liking, I sat down
in my new office to work. And then, basically, I couldn't. I couldn't work! I needed time to adjust to my surroundings and admire the view of the filing cabinets. I needed time to go online and find just the right framed fine print of the Chicago skyline and the Andy Warhol "Lifesavers" ad from 1984 that I've been dreaming of hanging in my office, if I ever got one. I needed just a little more time to make sure that my Juniper Breeze hand sanitizer was in the right drawer, and that the pictures on my bulletin board that prove that despite working 12 hour days, yes I do have a social life - featured pictures of people I was still friends with and not the few token arm-around-arm pictures with ex-boyfriends or love affairs that dried as quickly as the correction fluid on a contract.
So I did. I did all of those things and then some. I admired the filing cabinets, but spent way too much time getting annoyed at how messy my predecessors had left them and ultimately decided to move on before I had the frenzied urge to organize them. I went online and searched for my prints, ultimately deciding to buy them later in a shopping spree mood, because I realized that moving office did not equate to a raise of any sort and my cheap conscience couldn't handle the expense of fine art at the moment. And by the way, there were some of those pictures. Most of them didn't go into the trash, but knowing myself the way I do, went into safekeeping in case I hit any of those guys up again and felt bad having thrown our pictures away.
And to cap it off, I sent off an email to any and all frequent daytime visitors, informing them of my promotion in the world. I was tempted to send to my "person of interest" too, but then realized that this would sound entirely too cocky and perhaps a secondhand rumor about my move would do the trick. After all, who wouldn't want to make sweet love to a yuppie chick like me? We could easily do it...
in my office.
Life Is Like A Pool At L.A. Fitness
Forrest Gump was wise.
He made a lot of really good points in his 1994 movie, like "Lieutenant Dan, y'aint got no legs," and "Jenny and I go together like peas and carrots," but as I was swimming laps today at the gym, I realized that Forrest Gump was - for better or worse - too poor and stupid to get the life metaphor right.
"Life is like a box of chocolates" - what the f*ck does that really mean? Certainly, life is unpredictable, but any person of reasonable intelligence knows that when you need to satisfy the sweet tooth, you go Godiva, or Vosges, or - if you're slumming - Russell Stover. All of which provide "chocolate legends" with each box, so that you can dive right in knowing what you're going to get. You know when you pick up the foil wrapped piece that you're getting the cherry-cordial-motherf*cker-who-I'll-see-in-divorce court, or that the horseshoe in the corner of the box is the chewy-caramel-boss-who-golfs-all-day-and-could-care-less-about-managing-anything. But you don't really know that in life, do you? So the metaphor is completely worthless.
I, on the other hand, know what life is really like. As I swam my laps today, I had an ingenious moment of clarity - life, my friends, is like a lap pool at L.A. Fitness. You start off in the shallow end, confident and sure of yourself. You test the depth and find that you can still stand up. You figure, "Hey, easy enough, right?"
You venture into deeper waters, a little unsteady, and at some point halfway through the lap, realize you can't touch the ground anymore (and yes, this metaphor does only apply to those like myself, who are under 5'4"). At this point, if you're me, you're panting a little and your arms are already kind of sore and you realize - no shit ain't gonna get you to the other side but yourself. So you take a deep breath and either go back to start to get the little floaty thing that will balance you and make it easier, or you suck it up and continue on to the other side, floating on your back the entire way, and kicking your arms and legs with abandon until you get there.
And then, once you do, you realize that the other side isn't all it's cracked up to be, because the ladder and the entrance to the pool are now at the other end, and that means you're going to have to swim all the way back.
Did I lose you? Okay, phew. I lost myself for a second there, too. My point is, life is like a lap pool because we are constantly swimming toward something, and then realizing that just because we made it there doesn't mean we're done. There's always another end of the pool to get to - somewhere else we need to go. We ultimately are responsible for ourselves, and the goal is to get to the end of the pool we're looking for in any way we can. Sometimes we need a little help from a floatation device - otherwise known as friends, or family, or significant others. Sometimes we get splashed by swimmers in other lanes on our way - unpleasant roadblocks or obstacles that serve to annoy us. But ultimately, we get what we want and keep on swimming, because if we don't, we get fat and look really bad in a bathing suit. And no matter what - we just hope that no one pissed in our pool, because that's disgusting.
Um...I guess that's all I have to say for now.
The End.
Taking "Stalk", Or The "Where's Waldo?" Approach to Dating
Three weeks ago I made a bet with one of my good friend that I had two months to run game on my "person of interest". Robert, ever the helpful buddy, thought that setting a deadline for me might incentivize me to get off my ass and...well, get some person of interest ass.
Here's the update: my estimated percentage of progress on this matter is 0%. Zero percent!
What has happened to my mojo? What has happened to the lingering "maneater" jokes thrown my way in college? In this case, I can no longer bat my Giant Green Bug eyes and mascara-ed lashes in my prey's direction and be guaranteed some attention. My Bug Eyes have failed me, and I can't figure out why.
What has happened, friends, is that this guy has me in knots for some mysterious reason. My charm's not off. My game is still great. I know this because I tested game on an ex last week and gotten not only the "all-clear" signal, but also a tempting offer for no-strings-attached sex (bonus). So it's not me, it's this guy. Every time I'm around this him, my tongue is tied and where intelligent, friendly conversation is concerned, I'm f*cked:
- Three weeks ago, he overheard me give a State of My Vagina address.
- Two weeks ago, at an office building barbecue, I voluntarily announced to him that "the pickles were my favorite part of lunch".
- This morning, he told me about an upcoming vacation and I proceeded to jokingly invite myself along and then sarcastically said, "Yeah! Thanks for inviting me!" like a jealous girlfriend.
I mean, who am I? For the love of Christ, I have no business acting jealous until I am his girlfriend, and even then, I still have to curb the jealous tendencies until we're solidly six months into the fake relationship I've already envisioned. Why don't I just boil a bunny and leave it on his stove? The guy must think I'm manic.
So, due to my lack of socially-acceptable behavior, I've resorted to trying to keep my mouth shut as often as possible around him and allow nonverbal signals - smiling, winking, and cupping my hand into a penis shape and mocking a blow job - do the talking for me. (The third signal is really just in there to reaffirm my desire for the guy in the event that he assumes that the first two are a contact lens issue.)
I've also resorted to "taking stalk", as I like to call it, which is a very fancy term for a concept that is - at an extreme level - a crime in 48 out of 50 states.
Don't panic - I'm not hiding in shrubbery or prank calling. I am simply trying to get to know him and "take stock" of the situation. I am doing things like putting in my daily check to his MySpace page to look at his relationship status, top friends, etc. I also Googled him in the hopes that I'd find an old State Track Meet record or something, but to know avail, as his name is somewhat common.
I am consistently checking up on his whereabouts and likelihood of hanging out with him in a group setting in the near future with a mutual friend, who I will call Mole. The poor girl, who I love to death, is practically programmed to peeping into his schedule every time a mass email goes out and we're all on it. Mole, by the way, is a most excellent friend. And every single time he is out somewhere, I am giving myself whiplash playing "Where's Waldo" and trying to figure out who he's talking to and what they're talking about and if he's having a good time and most importantly, what the likelihood of us ever going out on a date really is.
The third component of my "taking stalk" trifecta involves prayer, since Components 1 and 2 are not always foolproof. Since all I really do is look at his page and find out what's going on through my friend, prayer really becomes the cornerstone when all else fails. Y'all know I'm not a spiritual person, but if I had a dime for every time I prayed he'd randomly be at a bar on a night when I know I look good, or randomly pray he sends an email to his friend announcing how hot I am, but instead of addressing it to his friend he addresses to me so that his true intentions are revealed, I'd be a mother f*cking millionaire. No doubt.
I know this is an unhealthy habit, but it sure as hell is better than embarrassing myself any further. So until then, I will feel free to "take stalk". No shrubbery checks necessary.
The Root of All Evil Is Disguised As A Guido
When I was in Chicago last weekend, I drank. Heavily. I was celebrating, okay? I was back in my old haunts, seeing old friends who I haven't seen in well over a year, and bringing my thank-God-for-a-lower-cost-of-living-in-Atlanta salary to the city that used to denigrate my money (or lack thereof), often reducing me to eat odd concoctions like macaroni and cheese and tunafish.
Chicago made me hella nostalgic. I am far from being old as dirt, but I spent the three beginning - and most formative - years of my life there. And, through a series of deductions, I have been able to look back with my 20/20 hindsight and realize that my existence in those three years can be deduced to three key words:
1. poor
2. slutty
3. cold
While #1 and #3 are fairly obvious, #2 was obvious within two hours of my return, whereupon I walked into the very first bar of the night, and within fifteen minutes, spotted an ex fling who has definitely seen my breasts on multiple occasions. Fabulous. But this wasn't any old random person - this was THE random person.
Oh yes, there stood the very man who was responsible for giving me every single relationship insecurity I've ever had, with his McDreamy-like hair (which actually, looked a little McGreasy), sipping his Goose Island and giving me his signature smirk.
You see, I'm a big believer in that we all have issues. Issues that can be traced back to our first crush, our first boyfriend, or in my case, our first date to Sadie Hawkins. You see - McGreasy may be living in Chicago now, but he and I go back. Back to my freshman year of high school.
In 1994, I was a fluffy-haired, nervous freshman. New to a private boarding high school (which I later transferred out of, reasons of which had nothing to do with this particular relationship), I spotted McGreasy the first day of freshman year and was instantaneously entertained by visions of us walking to class together, going to upperclassman parties together, holding hands, and - gasp - making out. Like, possibly even under the shirt.
Fortunately for me, I shared an English class and morning meetings with him, and we had a few mini-conversations here and there. By November of that year, I was smitten.
I asked him to my Sadie Hawkins dance - the first formal dance of my life. He kindly accepted, and then turned around and told everyone in school that he was only going with me because he felt sorry for me. Having heard the gossip, I gave him multiple chances to back out, but he insisted that it was just high school gossip and that he really did want to go. I naively believed him.
Dance night came around (the night before my 14th birthday). I had gone to the salon and gotten my hair professionally done. The mop was in a manageable, soft, silky French twist - to hopefully match what would be my first-ever French kiss.
When the rented limo pulled up at McGreasy's house, he got into the car, gave me a sideways glance, and said "Nice beehive." He then proceeded to ignore me at dinner, at the dance, and thereafter - preferring instead to take pictures with his friends and their dates, and leaving me as the fifth wheel with my two girlfriends and their dates.
Shortly thereafter - and for the rest of my freshman year - McGreasy proceeded to call me "Beast" (origin of name still unknown), and hurl unsolicited insults my way in class. All the while, I convinced myself that he didn't like me because I wasn't cool enough for him, and spent most of the rest of my freshman year where he was concerned listening to "Hell Freezes Over" by The Eagles and wishing I was cool.
(Fast-forward to 2006: "Hell Freezes Over" is in my CD deck in my car, and I still wish I was cool. Hmm...evolution estimation? 0%.)Through mutual friends in college, McGreasy made a few feeble attempts to get in touch with me, but I shied away...until I ran into him on the streets of Chicago eight years later. We exchanged numbers, hung out a few times, and eventually fulfilled a lot of fantasies that my formerly-dreamed-for French would put to shame.
After a few on-and-off months of heat, someone stopped calling someone (and truthfully, I can't remember who stopped calling who), and we were over. But that feeling of inadequacy - of total and utter freakdom - had staked claim years before. And while I've turned into a healthy adult with a lot of self-confidence, every time I go into a relationship those same issues seem to rear their ugly, fluffy-haired, 14 year old heads.
Isn't it funny how we can let ourselves feel so small on account of one person, or one incident? How in a crooked smile, or a sideways glance, we place our bets on someone, only to be let down and f*cked up for the next 15 years. And while I'd say that my fears have been somewhat allayed since then, I felt just as small at the bar in Chicago last week as I felt walking to class in Ohio in 1994. Odd how that happens, right?
Fortunately for me, McGreasy didn't look so hot. Or smell so hot. Or act so hot. In fact, my friends who saw him used the words "greasy", "Guido", and "gross". The alliteration was purely incidental. Nevertheless, I felt great.
We said our quick hellos, and then I left him in the same place I've left Chicago and the last three years of my life - in the past, where they belong.
