That Girl has been pretty quiet lately... biting her tongue and such. It's really more that I've been over-stressed, over-worked and underwhelmed. As I enter the last Monday of my 29th year of life, I've been quite reflective this weekend. In an effort to regain some sense of control over my life, I spent my whole weekend cleaning, organizing and trying to mentally purge some of the negativity that has been all consuming lately. Sometimes you just get those feelings that you can't shake, but I did get a sense of relief while separating my shirts and pants and hanging them all appropriately. I nearly had a moment like in the movie Running with Scissors where the two kids stood on the kitchen table with brooms destroying the ceiling tiles with all of their pent up angst. When asked why they did it, they simply replied "We needed high ceilings." I need more than high ceilings... I already have those.
I've received several text messages asking me about my upcoming birthday. In just over 3 days, I'll be 30. Truth be told, 30 is an age I never though I'd see. After all, at the ripe age of 13, I had an incredibly vivid dream in which I died at the age of 27. I had awoken with such a sense of peace as opposed to fear and panic, that I took it as truth. It's made the last 3 years almost surreal as I never expected to wake up during them but wasn't disappointed when I did.
Birthdays were never a big deal in our house as a kid. I can remember being little and having a Halloween themed costume party in the old stone basement at my parents old Victorian. As I got older, my birthdays lost their magic. I can remember my mother practically begging girls to show up for a sleepover here and there. It's hard to have friends when your the fat girl. Kids are just fucking cruel. As I became a young teenager, the birthday parties had all but ceased and seemed to even go unnoticed by my own family except for the occasional gift. The best birthday I ever had included lunch at McDonald's (we never ate fast food), several present for me to open, all wrapped elegantly and a chocolate cake. I somehow felt like this birthday was more out of pity as I was turning 16 and spent the entire afternoon at the hospital getting a CAT scan to see if I had a brain tumor. It wasn't a tumor, just a terrible migraine. Other than that, we never really celebrated birthdays. My older brother always got a homemade lemon cake from my mom... his favorite. My younger brother always got some weird St. Nicholas' day tradition of putting his shoes outside the bedroom door. When he awoke, he always had a few more goodies than the rest of us.
I always wanted a surprise party with all of my friends. I wanted a group of people to think about my birthday before I did. I wanted some handsome beau to send me a beautiful bouquet of flowers to my work with a simple note saying nothing more than "You are beautiful." with only his first name attached to the card, inciting a few whispers from coworkers. I wanted my family to throw me a dinner where they use the China and my siblings come because they want to be there, not because they are begged by my mother. I wanted a day to celebrate me. But who doesn't... right?
So far, I've had a wonderful lunch with my oldest friend who still manages to put up with my ass after all these years. She gave me a card with strict instructions not to open it until Wednesday, so far so good. Looking back on the last year, there's been a lot of changes and a lot of time lost. Looking back on the last 10 years, all I can say is... wow. I have grown so much, learned so much, made so many wonderful mistakes. I have been pushed, pulled, dragged and beaten. I have experienced love and hate and lust and rage, sometimes all at the same time. I have built up walls and broken them down and built them back up again.
I have tried new things... like online dating. Just a word of wise to the single 30 something men out there. If you are trying to impress somebody, do not, I repeat, DO NOT take professional photos with your cats. That's right, I said cats, plural, as in more than one. And even more importantly, DO NOT spoon your cat and pay someone to photograph it in hopes that it will find you a mate. It won't. My guess is, that's the only pussy that guy is ever gonna get.
I didn't make my weight loss goals, but I'm still thinner than I was at 17. I'm looking pretty good for my age... I think. Others may disagree... Skippy for example... well, he skipped out. No surprise there. I told you last time, I knew it was over but there was a part of me that still wanted to hope that he was gonna be different than all the others. I'm not gonna lie, I started to put another layer on the the ol' wall. There's a sense of loneliness that's been all encompassing lately. This city can get really fucking big sometimes.
I'm not really a futurist and maybe that's why it is so hard for me to deal with turning 30. I find it hard to believe that I have survived 30 years, let alone that I may live another 30. I am both terrified and excited to see what the future holds but I still want the flowers and a fucking chocolate cake. Is that too much to ask?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Walk of shame? More like a limp actually...
So That Girl has been working so much (as usual) that she was having a hard time relaxing. I had already planned a 4 day weekend to go back to the small town that I lived for so long... good friends and always a good time ensues when I'm there. As I've said before, life is just easier there. It's as if all of the expectations go away as soon as I pull into that town. I had a feeling it was going to be a good weekend but I had no idea what would happen. As usual, I shouldn't have done some of what I did, but I did anyway!
Skippy texted me on Tuesday night but I didn't hear it and didn't text him back until much later. I hadn't really heard from him since our sunrise makeout session the last time I had been there. I shot him a text the next night and asked what his plans were for the weekend.
"Well, I was hoping to run into those BLE's"
"BLE's?"
"Best lips ever. You were blessed."
I giggled, blushed and thank dog he couldn't see me. I enjoyed kissing him. Alot. I'm not gonna lie... we've got chemistry.
Friday was full of binge drinking wheat beer for 10 hours and ending up in the ex's bed. Now, this happens on occasion that I end up in his bed. He's not a bad guy now that we've learned how to be friends and nothing ever happens. I show up, drop my pants, crawl into bed and get one of the best nights sleep ever. Eventually, he will roll over and spoon me and I sleep like a fucking baby. Maybe it's just that it's comfortable. I don't really know, but we both agree, it's nice. And there's no awkwardness the next morning. Generally, as I was this weekend, I'm greeted with "Good morning baby. There's ibuprophen on the dresser. I gotta start locking my door at night so these crazy crackhead women quit wandering into my room." followed by a smack in the face with his pillow.
Saturday I awoke, rested but with a killer hangover... mainly just a headache. Nobody and I mean NOBODY in their right mind should ever drink wheat beer for 10 hours. Holy Hangovers, Batman. My head was fucking killing me. I smelled like a god damn brewery and I was exhausted. Oh, and I still hadn't seen Skippy. He was being good Friday night and we were going to meet up on Saturday.
After a nap, a shower, some terribly delicious diner breakfast food... I was ready for round 2. Skinny jeans, check. Hot shirt, check. Killer heels, check. Perfect lipstick for my lips... check, check, check.
Skippy showed up in new jeans, a new shirt and new shoes. I totally thought it was adorable and so I called him out on buying a new outfit to impress a pretty girl. I was greeted with an awkward half hug as if he was trying to hide his excitement just a little. You see, he'd already been texting KimKim, my chinese friend, to see if I was with her and to see where we were heading. He pounded a few drinks as he didn't get to the bar until later. Between Skippy and Nasty Nate, I was getting compliments all night long. I was apparently beautiful that night and I'll be honest, I felt it.
As the drinks flowed, Skippy and I moved closer to eachother physically. He asked what I was doing for the night and I told him that I didn't have any plans... I didn't have a car (had left it at a friends and rode with KimKim) and that I didn't really know where I was sleeping. "You're sleeping with me," he said. "Do you want to stay with me?" he asked almost realizing that he had nearly demanded it.
"Yeah, I'll stay with you." I was blushing. I was half excited, half anxious. I was gonna make out with a hot boy again.
Sitting on his couch, he grabbed me by the chin and pulled me into him. He's delicious and oh so smooth with his moves. At one point, he turned his head right as I went to bite his cheek just a little. I ended up with a mouthful of his hair. We both laughed. "My hair? really? Well that's a first." he said.
"That has got to be the most retarded thing I've ever done," I said, picking hair out of my mouth. I'm such a dumbass sometimes but we'll just blame it on the alcohol.
Kissing Skippy is like... tasting ice cream for the first time. It's a surprise birthday party with all of your closest friends. It's one of the best feelings ever. It is sooo... entrancing. Before I knew it, one thing led to another and my toes were a curlin'. It was sweet and a nice mix of animalism and gentleness. I'll leave the details to your imagination but I walked out an earring short and limping due to a broken toe. Turns out, I'm much more flexible than you'd believe. I'd always wanted to have a night of decent sex to Bob Marley and The Wailers album "Legend". Mission accomplished.
He texted me the next day after he'd taken me back to my car, where we made out some more. He was having Sunday Funday and I was going to go back over after I finished my obligations for the day... pre-planned visits and such. I never made it back over but did spend a portion of the evening texting him back discussing our previous evening. He had fun. I had fun. He apologized for breaking my toe. He found my earring in the couch. He'll be up here for a visit in a couple of weeks. We may get together then.
I'm not gonna lie... I know it's all over. I know that this little fling is done. That's how my cookie always crumbles but damn... what a good fucking cookie.
Skippy texted me on Tuesday night but I didn't hear it and didn't text him back until much later. I hadn't really heard from him since our sunrise makeout session the last time I had been there. I shot him a text the next night and asked what his plans were for the weekend.
"Well, I was hoping to run into those BLE's"
"BLE's?"
"Best lips ever. You were blessed."
I giggled, blushed and thank dog he couldn't see me. I enjoyed kissing him. Alot. I'm not gonna lie... we've got chemistry.
Friday was full of binge drinking wheat beer for 10 hours and ending up in the ex's bed. Now, this happens on occasion that I end up in his bed. He's not a bad guy now that we've learned how to be friends and nothing ever happens. I show up, drop my pants, crawl into bed and get one of the best nights sleep ever. Eventually, he will roll over and spoon me and I sleep like a fucking baby. Maybe it's just that it's comfortable. I don't really know, but we both agree, it's nice. And there's no awkwardness the next morning. Generally, as I was this weekend, I'm greeted with "Good morning baby. There's ibuprophen on the dresser. I gotta start locking my door at night so these crazy crackhead women quit wandering into my room." followed by a smack in the face with his pillow.
Saturday I awoke, rested but with a killer hangover... mainly just a headache. Nobody and I mean NOBODY in their right mind should ever drink wheat beer for 10 hours. Holy Hangovers, Batman. My head was fucking killing me. I smelled like a god damn brewery and I was exhausted. Oh, and I still hadn't seen Skippy. He was being good Friday night and we were going to meet up on Saturday.
After a nap, a shower, some terribly delicious diner breakfast food... I was ready for round 2. Skinny jeans, check. Hot shirt, check. Killer heels, check. Perfect lipstick for my lips... check, check, check.
Skippy showed up in new jeans, a new shirt and new shoes. I totally thought it was adorable and so I called him out on buying a new outfit to impress a pretty girl. I was greeted with an awkward half hug as if he was trying to hide his excitement just a little. You see, he'd already been texting KimKim, my chinese friend, to see if I was with her and to see where we were heading. He pounded a few drinks as he didn't get to the bar until later. Between Skippy and Nasty Nate, I was getting compliments all night long. I was apparently beautiful that night and I'll be honest, I felt it.
As the drinks flowed, Skippy and I moved closer to eachother physically. He asked what I was doing for the night and I told him that I didn't have any plans... I didn't have a car (had left it at a friends and rode with KimKim) and that I didn't really know where I was sleeping. "You're sleeping with me," he said. "Do you want to stay with me?" he asked almost realizing that he had nearly demanded it.
"Yeah, I'll stay with you." I was blushing. I was half excited, half anxious. I was gonna make out with a hot boy again.
Sitting on his couch, he grabbed me by the chin and pulled me into him. He's delicious and oh so smooth with his moves. At one point, he turned his head right as I went to bite his cheek just a little. I ended up with a mouthful of his hair. We both laughed. "My hair? really? Well that's a first." he said.
"That has got to be the most retarded thing I've ever done," I said, picking hair out of my mouth. I'm such a dumbass sometimes but we'll just blame it on the alcohol.
Kissing Skippy is like... tasting ice cream for the first time. It's a surprise birthday party with all of your closest friends. It's one of the best feelings ever. It is sooo... entrancing. Before I knew it, one thing led to another and my toes were a curlin'. It was sweet and a nice mix of animalism and gentleness. I'll leave the details to your imagination but I walked out an earring short and limping due to a broken toe. Turns out, I'm much more flexible than you'd believe. I'd always wanted to have a night of decent sex to Bob Marley and The Wailers album "Legend". Mission accomplished.
He texted me the next day after he'd taken me back to my car, where we made out some more. He was having Sunday Funday and I was going to go back over after I finished my obligations for the day... pre-planned visits and such. I never made it back over but did spend a portion of the evening texting him back discussing our previous evening. He had fun. I had fun. He apologized for breaking my toe. He found my earring in the couch. He'll be up here for a visit in a couple of weeks. We may get together then.
I'm not gonna lie... I know it's all over. I know that this little fling is done. That's how my cookie always crumbles but damn... what a good fucking cookie.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Beers, boys and bruised bladders
That Girl has had several busy weeks in a row and finally decided that it was time to take a mini road trip to see friends and remember what it's like to love the shit out of life for a weekend. So, like the ol' Cheers adage goes, I wanted to "go where everybody knows your name". So I did. And it was awesome. You can't plan weekends like this one. I spent part of the day with the ones I love the most, playing with the kids, shopping with my sister and enjoying a bit of normalcy.
Come sundown though, it was time for beers and debauchery. Lots and lots of debauchery. I wanted a night that wouldn't soon be forgotten and that's exactly what I got. Starting at one bar, I was greeted by friends I hadn't seen in months with comments about how good I look. It was a giant step up from a bar with Big Mac. Got my beers and my girls, what more do you need, right?
The night got interesting as we hopped from bar to bar. Finally settling in our favorite watering hole, I find myself sitting next to an old friend from the summer of Special K. You see, that summer was an experiment with ketamine and a wide range of hallucinogenics and coed softball. Dub as I will refer to him, was a much welcome blast from the past! As we reminisced and caught up, Dub, who was double fisting it, knocked me on my ass and took my breath away.
"What are you doing these days, Dub?"
"I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow," he said.
"Really? Wow. That's too bad."
"You should have sex with me. I mean, I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow. You could be the last woman I ever have sex with. It's, like, your patriotic duty! It would be un-American of you NOT to have sex with me! Are you an American?!"
I laughed so hard, saluted him, said God Bless America, spread my legs under the booth and said, "Well, in that case, climb on in!" It had to be one of the best pick up lines ever. And it was definitely classic Dub.
As the bar closed, we found ourselves in the parking lot trying to figure out plans for the rest of the evening. Dub invited us back to his friend Skippy's house for more beers. We kindly obliged. As the hours moved on, the moon moved past and the beers dwindled, our laughs became louder, the jokes better and the bond stronger. These are the nights that I miss living in the city. In that small town, there's always a porch to sit on in the dark and watch the stars crawl slowly by as the trains whistle in the distance.
Sitting at Skippy's, I came out of the bathroom to find TJ, another flake from the summer of Special K, sitting in my lawn chair. After hugs and high fives and a few quick quips from the past, we continued our socialization and antics.
"Hey, come here for a second," TJ said, not moving from his lawn chair.
I walked over and bent down next to his chair as he motioned me closer, as if he had a secret to tell.
"Can I just see, like, one of your nipples?" he asked with a straight face, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"No! I am a classy lady!" I quipped.
"I know you are, that's why I asked discreetly and I just meant me, not everybody else." TJ's logic was flawless. He had me there. But Skippy had heard. Skippy announced it, told TJ to leave me alone and we all had a good laugh, a hearty laugh, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.
TJ's antics, Dub's commentary and the additional beers culminated in even more pick up lines. My heart was truly won over when Skippy asked if he could "bruise my bladder later". I laughed so hard, I nearly peed my pants!
Slowly the crowd faded away. One by one, taxis arrived, couches were found, short drives were made and I found myself sitting on the stoop with Skippy enjoying the last of my now luke warm beer. We talked about music, being middle children, our siblings, and what seems like a million more single sentence conversations. Before I knew it, the sky began to turn a deep turquoise-lavender. A train rolled by a few blocks away blowing it's whistle loud enough to break our speech and stop our lips. It was in that moment that we found ourselves in one of those awkward moments of direct eye contact, the kind where you can feel the kinetic connection, the kind where you feel like your touching but you're not... the kind where your breaths synchronize themselves but your heart beats take on a mind of their own.
Skippy leaned in, gently grabbed my chin, and kissed me. The next moments were lost until the train whistle stopped and was replaced by birds chirping. I opened my eyes and it was light. The sun was coming up. That morning, I laid myself softly down in Skippy's bed. We continued to make out for what seemed like hours. As I traced the tattoo on his right bicep with my finger, I felt a roughness. I could tell it was a scar.
"What story does this tell?" I asked him quietly.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to know it all." I replied.
"Have you ever heard of the USS Cole?" he said quietly. I could feel his heart racing through his chest as it laid on top of mine.
At 20 years old, Skippy was serving in the US Navy when the ship was bombed. He still has shrapnel in his arm and memories, more like nightmares, burned forever in his brain.
Skippy kissed me again and again. It was that kind of making out that makes your whole body tingle, that removes every stress, every insecurity, and fills every bit of time and space.
Skippy called last night to see if I made it home okay, to see when I was coming back and to tell me that he missed my lips. I know, that this night will never happen again, but the memory of it all is enough to keep me smiling for at least the next few days. Besides, who needs a hamburger when you've got peanut butter? I'll take the Skippy's of the world over the Big Macs any day.
Come sundown though, it was time for beers and debauchery. Lots and lots of debauchery. I wanted a night that wouldn't soon be forgotten and that's exactly what I got. Starting at one bar, I was greeted by friends I hadn't seen in months with comments about how good I look. It was a giant step up from a bar with Big Mac. Got my beers and my girls, what more do you need, right?
The night got interesting as we hopped from bar to bar. Finally settling in our favorite watering hole, I find myself sitting next to an old friend from the summer of Special K. You see, that summer was an experiment with ketamine and a wide range of hallucinogenics and coed softball. Dub as I will refer to him, was a much welcome blast from the past! As we reminisced and caught up, Dub, who was double fisting it, knocked me on my ass and took my breath away.
"What are you doing these days, Dub?"
"I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow," he said.
"Really? Wow. That's too bad."
"You should have sex with me. I mean, I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow. You could be the last woman I ever have sex with. It's, like, your patriotic duty! It would be un-American of you NOT to have sex with me! Are you an American?!"
I laughed so hard, saluted him, said God Bless America, spread my legs under the booth and said, "Well, in that case, climb on in!" It had to be one of the best pick up lines ever. And it was definitely classic Dub.
As the bar closed, we found ourselves in the parking lot trying to figure out plans for the rest of the evening. Dub invited us back to his friend Skippy's house for more beers. We kindly obliged. As the hours moved on, the moon moved past and the beers dwindled, our laughs became louder, the jokes better and the bond stronger. These are the nights that I miss living in the city. In that small town, there's always a porch to sit on in the dark and watch the stars crawl slowly by as the trains whistle in the distance.
Sitting at Skippy's, I came out of the bathroom to find TJ, another flake from the summer of Special K, sitting in my lawn chair. After hugs and high fives and a few quick quips from the past, we continued our socialization and antics.
"Hey, come here for a second," TJ said, not moving from his lawn chair.
I walked over and bent down next to his chair as he motioned me closer, as if he had a secret to tell.
"Can I just see, like, one of your nipples?" he asked with a straight face, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"No! I am a classy lady!" I quipped.
"I know you are, that's why I asked discreetly and I just meant me, not everybody else." TJ's logic was flawless. He had me there. But Skippy had heard. Skippy announced it, told TJ to leave me alone and we all had a good laugh, a hearty laugh, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.
TJ's antics, Dub's commentary and the additional beers culminated in even more pick up lines. My heart was truly won over when Skippy asked if he could "bruise my bladder later". I laughed so hard, I nearly peed my pants!
Slowly the crowd faded away. One by one, taxis arrived, couches were found, short drives were made and I found myself sitting on the stoop with Skippy enjoying the last of my now luke warm beer. We talked about music, being middle children, our siblings, and what seems like a million more single sentence conversations. Before I knew it, the sky began to turn a deep turquoise-lavender. A train rolled by a few blocks away blowing it's whistle loud enough to break our speech and stop our lips. It was in that moment that we found ourselves in one of those awkward moments of direct eye contact, the kind where you can feel the kinetic connection, the kind where you feel like your touching but you're not... the kind where your breaths synchronize themselves but your heart beats take on a mind of their own.
Skippy leaned in, gently grabbed my chin, and kissed me. The next moments were lost until the train whistle stopped and was replaced by birds chirping. I opened my eyes and it was light. The sun was coming up. That morning, I laid myself softly down in Skippy's bed. We continued to make out for what seemed like hours. As I traced the tattoo on his right bicep with my finger, I felt a roughness. I could tell it was a scar.
"What story does this tell?" I asked him quietly.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to know it all." I replied.
"Have you ever heard of the USS Cole?" he said quietly. I could feel his heart racing through his chest as it laid on top of mine.
At 20 years old, Skippy was serving in the US Navy when the ship was bombed. He still has shrapnel in his arm and memories, more like nightmares, burned forever in his brain.
Skippy kissed me again and again. It was that kind of making out that makes your whole body tingle, that removes every stress, every insecurity, and fills every bit of time and space.
Skippy called last night to see if I made it home okay, to see when I was coming back and to tell me that he missed my lips. I know, that this night will never happen again, but the memory of it all is enough to keep me smiling for at least the next few days. Besides, who needs a hamburger when you've got peanut butter? I'll take the Skippy's of the world over the Big Macs any day.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Want some fries with that shake?
That Girl had an incredibly surreal experience this past week as she went on her first blind date with someone that she met from the internet. Yes, apparently, wish and you shall receive. As I stated in my last blog posting, I was going to give myself 83 more days to go on a date. Well, only a few days later, I found myself having a drink with the Big Mac. You'll find out why I call him that momentarily.
First, allow me to regress and tell you what had been going on prior to this encounter. See, in the month that I've been on this dating site, I spent a few nights on the phone with W. telling her "bedtime stories" which consisted of me describing the photos of the creepers and crazies and then deciding that a few were cute enough to send a virtual wink to. Okay, I'm not gonna lie... I winked the shit out of the internet that night just to see the responses that I would get. I didn't get much but I did get one... Big Mac.
Big Mac sent me an email that was incredibly well written, formatted properly, and was quite interesting! I might add that this email arrived around the same time that I encountered "Rope Fiend" (see previous posts) so receiving this email left me both skeptical and a little anxious. I responded to his email by answering all of his questions about me and inquiring about the attributes and interests that he had shared with me. After a few emails back and forth, Big Mac asked for my phone number and since technology allows me to block creepers... I said, what the hell and emailed him back with my number. After all, you only live once and lately, I haven't been really living life as much as I've been watching it happen around me.
The night that he called me, I let it go to voice mail. I wanted to see if his voice sounded like Mike Tyson on helium before being caught off guard. His voice was deep, not quite like Marvin Gaye's but soothing. His words were well enunciated, crisp and relaxed all at the same time. I called him back a little while later and we talked for over an hour. We talked about our jobs, touched lightly on past relationships as he openly divulged that he is divorced (married his high school sweetheart and best friend of 20 years... decided they were better friends than lovers... it was really quite a touching story), and joked about politics and current events.
"So what it is that you do?" I asked.
"I'll give you a hint, I work for the world's largest corporation and you drove by 5 of them on the way to work today."
"Walmart?" I asked... slightly hesitant.
"No. You stink at the guessing game."
"I'm brain dead... it's 9:30pm and I've been at work on the phone all day."
"I work for McDonald's."
cricket. cricket. cricket.
"Oh, what do you do there?" I asked forcing a bit of intrigue into my words.
"Drive-thru in the morning and fries in the afternoon."
cricket. cricket. fuck me. cricket.
"I'm kidding!" he said. "I'm in charge of blah blah blah. I have a very important blah blah blah." You can fill in the rest.
I sighed with relief as he spoke about budget projections and all of this other uninteresting business bullshit. But I was still interested... he was interesting.
He asked about my plans for the weekend. I actually had some and they were family obligations so I would feel bad standing them up for a blind date. I was leaving on vacation for a week and he said he'd call when I got back. Oh, and if you didn't figure it out by now asshats, I call him Big Mac because he works at McDonald's.
On countdown day 81, I had a date to meet for drinks at a bar within walking distance to my apartment. I got up early, made sure I looked super cute but not like I was trying. I wore an outfit I've worn before, did my hair the same way I do it all the time and made sure to roll on a little extra deodorant. I made sure I had some cash in my wallet (just in case I needed to take a cab... those heels weren't meant for walking) and headed out to my day. I was running late to the date and texted him as I was leaving work. He said he would get a table.
I'm not going to lie... I was nervous. I haven't had a date like this, with someone I didn't really know, where I hadn't initiated any part of it, since 2001. Seriously.
As I approached the table, I could see he was on his blackberry. He greeted me with... a total stink eye.
"I'll be right with you," he said as he gazed his eyes slowly up and down over me... eyebrows raised, mouth slightly dropped open... as if I had the plague on my face or something.
"It's nice to meet you." I said. He didn't reply.
The next 10 minutes were filled with awkward and mundane conversation regarding my day at work, his day at work. He told me about a project that he had due the next day. I could see through his excuse like Paris Hilton's panties. We had already discussed everything we were talking about... his love of golf, his job, his birthday being right around the corner, his job, his job, oh did I mention we talked about his job?! This was getting painful. The waitress came by to ask about appetizers, he told her we weren't eating. Bitch wanted some bruschetta but apparently, I wasn't hungry.
"So you were at the gym for 2 hours last night?" he asked in utter disbelief.
"Yes, I'm usually at the gym for about an hour and a half 4 days a week," I said.
He looked me up and down, shrugged, huffed and said, "Really." again. Okay, about this time, I wanted to rip the earrings, all 4 of them, out of his ears, but I was really trying to just see what happened. I wasn't going to be rude, it's not fucking classy.
"So you don't eat McDonald's?!" he asked in disbelief again... we've already talked about this. I explained that I try to eat pretty clean, I already have a potty mouth, no need to put a bunch of shit in it. For the next 30 minutes I sat through a sales pitch. 101 reasons why I should eat McDonald's including receiving the profit margins and calorie count of their most popular items.
"Oh, I brought you something," he said as he dug in his pocket. He pulled out 2 cards and handed them to me. I looked at his hands. I always find men's hands to be interesting. You can tell if they are a worker and somehow I think you can see comfort in them. You can see strength. His fingers were short and stubby, his palms ridiculously small. All I could think of was that Burger King commercial and "MY TINY HANDS!" I made sure my mouth was closed and looked up to make sure he hadn't seen my reaction as he handed me what he had pulled from his pocket. I stared in shock at the items in my hands: free coupons for a smoothie and a frappe from none other than McDonald's. fuck me. fuck me. you've got to be fucking kidding me. fuck me.
The waitress came and asked if we would like another round. As much as I was in desperate need of another glass of wine, he again answered for both of us, replying that we are fine and he's going to need to go soon to finish that presentation he has in the morning. Thank dog! I can see the finish line!
The waitress inquired about the check and whether it was together or separate. I can still hear the utterance ringing in my ears like church bell's on a Sunday morning...
"Ummmmm...." he said.
I looked at the waitress who appeared to be in shock and casually replied, "Whatever is easiest for you." She returned with split checks at which I left mine sitting on the table long enough to realize that this asshole was not going to pay for my wine. Just to reiterate... he asked me out and I ended up paying for my own drink. Big Mac is a big douche.
The date began at 6pm and I was home by 7:05pm. I immediately walked to my fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, popped the cork and opened the cabinet to get a glass. As I was staring at the glass, I realized that I had already pressed the top of the bottle to my lips and proceeded to tip it! That night, I finished the whole bottle, with each sip becoming more appalled at Big Macs behavior. As I slurred myself to sleep that night, I had visions of McChicken's squawking after me.
I woke up in the morning with my eyes nearly swollen shut (it happens with too much wine). Looking at the hot mess of a reflection in the mirror, I told myself that Big Mac could take his free smoothie coupons and suck it.
First, allow me to regress and tell you what had been going on prior to this encounter. See, in the month that I've been on this dating site, I spent a few nights on the phone with W. telling her "bedtime stories" which consisted of me describing the photos of the creepers and crazies and then deciding that a few were cute enough to send a virtual wink to. Okay, I'm not gonna lie... I winked the shit out of the internet that night just to see the responses that I would get. I didn't get much but I did get one... Big Mac.
Big Mac sent me an email that was incredibly well written, formatted properly, and was quite interesting! I might add that this email arrived around the same time that I encountered "Rope Fiend" (see previous posts) so receiving this email left me both skeptical and a little anxious. I responded to his email by answering all of his questions about me and inquiring about the attributes and interests that he had shared with me. After a few emails back and forth, Big Mac asked for my phone number and since technology allows me to block creepers... I said, what the hell and emailed him back with my number. After all, you only live once and lately, I haven't been really living life as much as I've been watching it happen around me.
The night that he called me, I let it go to voice mail. I wanted to see if his voice sounded like Mike Tyson on helium before being caught off guard. His voice was deep, not quite like Marvin Gaye's but soothing. His words were well enunciated, crisp and relaxed all at the same time. I called him back a little while later and we talked for over an hour. We talked about our jobs, touched lightly on past relationships as he openly divulged that he is divorced (married his high school sweetheart and best friend of 20 years... decided they were better friends than lovers... it was really quite a touching story), and joked about politics and current events.
"So what it is that you do?" I asked.
"I'll give you a hint, I work for the world's largest corporation and you drove by 5 of them on the way to work today."
"Walmart?" I asked... slightly hesitant.
"No. You stink at the guessing game."
"I'm brain dead... it's 9:30pm and I've been at work on the phone all day."
"I work for McDonald's."
cricket. cricket. cricket.
"Oh, what do you do there?" I asked forcing a bit of intrigue into my words.
"Drive-thru in the morning and fries in the afternoon."
cricket. cricket. fuck me. cricket.
"I'm kidding!" he said. "I'm in charge of blah blah blah. I have a very important blah blah blah." You can fill in the rest.
I sighed with relief as he spoke about budget projections and all of this other uninteresting business bullshit. But I was still interested... he was interesting.
He asked about my plans for the weekend. I actually had some and they were family obligations so I would feel bad standing them up for a blind date. I was leaving on vacation for a week and he said he'd call when I got back. Oh, and if you didn't figure it out by now asshats, I call him Big Mac because he works at McDonald's.
On countdown day 81, I had a date to meet for drinks at a bar within walking distance to my apartment. I got up early, made sure I looked super cute but not like I was trying. I wore an outfit I've worn before, did my hair the same way I do it all the time and made sure to roll on a little extra deodorant. I made sure I had some cash in my wallet (just in case I needed to take a cab... those heels weren't meant for walking) and headed out to my day. I was running late to the date and texted him as I was leaving work. He said he would get a table.
I'm not going to lie... I was nervous. I haven't had a date like this, with someone I didn't really know, where I hadn't initiated any part of it, since 2001. Seriously.
As I approached the table, I could see he was on his blackberry. He greeted me with... a total stink eye.
"I'll be right with you," he said as he gazed his eyes slowly up and down over me... eyebrows raised, mouth slightly dropped open... as if I had the plague on my face or something.
"It's nice to meet you." I said. He didn't reply.
The next 10 minutes were filled with awkward and mundane conversation regarding my day at work, his day at work. He told me about a project that he had due the next day. I could see through his excuse like Paris Hilton's panties. We had already discussed everything we were talking about... his love of golf, his job, his birthday being right around the corner, his job, his job, oh did I mention we talked about his job?! This was getting painful. The waitress came by to ask about appetizers, he told her we weren't eating. Bitch wanted some bruschetta but apparently, I wasn't hungry.
"So you were at the gym for 2 hours last night?" he asked in utter disbelief.
"Yes, I'm usually at the gym for about an hour and a half 4 days a week," I said.
He looked me up and down, shrugged, huffed and said, "Really." again. Okay, about this time, I wanted to rip the earrings, all 4 of them, out of his ears, but I was really trying to just see what happened. I wasn't going to be rude, it's not fucking classy.
"So you don't eat McDonald's?!" he asked in disbelief again... we've already talked about this. I explained that I try to eat pretty clean, I already have a potty mouth, no need to put a bunch of shit in it. For the next 30 minutes I sat through a sales pitch. 101 reasons why I should eat McDonald's including receiving the profit margins and calorie count of their most popular items.
"Oh, I brought you something," he said as he dug in his pocket. He pulled out 2 cards and handed them to me. I looked at his hands. I always find men's hands to be interesting. You can tell if they are a worker and somehow I think you can see comfort in them. You can see strength. His fingers were short and stubby, his palms ridiculously small. All I could think of was that Burger King commercial and "MY TINY HANDS!" I made sure my mouth was closed and looked up to make sure he hadn't seen my reaction as he handed me what he had pulled from his pocket. I stared in shock at the items in my hands: free coupons for a smoothie and a frappe from none other than McDonald's. fuck me. fuck me. you've got to be fucking kidding me. fuck me.
The waitress came and asked if we would like another round. As much as I was in desperate need of another glass of wine, he again answered for both of us, replying that we are fine and he's going to need to go soon to finish that presentation he has in the morning. Thank dog! I can see the finish line!
The waitress inquired about the check and whether it was together or separate. I can still hear the utterance ringing in my ears like church bell's on a Sunday morning...
"Ummmmm...." he said.
I looked at the waitress who appeared to be in shock and casually replied, "Whatever is easiest for you." She returned with split checks at which I left mine sitting on the table long enough to realize that this asshole was not going to pay for my wine. Just to reiterate... he asked me out and I ended up paying for my own drink. Big Mac is a big douche.
The date began at 6pm and I was home by 7:05pm. I immediately walked to my fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, popped the cork and opened the cabinet to get a glass. As I was staring at the glass, I realized that I had already pressed the top of the bottle to my lips and proceeded to tip it! That night, I finished the whole bottle, with each sip becoming more appalled at Big Macs behavior. As I slurred myself to sleep that night, I had visions of McChicken's squawking after me.
I woke up in the morning with my eyes nearly swollen shut (it happens with too much wine). Looking at the hot mess of a reflection in the mirror, I told myself that Big Mac could take his free smoothie coupons and suck it.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
83 days.
83 day. 2014 hours. 120,841 minutes. The amount of time until I turn 30. My life will be at least 1/3 of the way over.
I can't even begin to reflect on the last 29 years of my life as it seems as if only the last 5 have meant anything. I've grown so much as a person, changed so much physically, mentally, emotionally... sexually. I keep hearing that 30 is the new 20 and that scares the hell out of me. Pretty sure I should have died during my 20's a few times. And lord knows, I can't party like I used to. I now have to plan two days of recovery for every 1 night of party. My days begin by popping vitamins and mixing protein shakes. My evenings end by applying moisturizer and wrinkle cream. I spent 2 days on the beach... and 2 weeks checking for moles that looked kinda funny.
In the last year, I have had 1 date. Yep, one. And it wasn't even that great of a date. Still trying to shake that bucket of crazy out of my past but he keeps popping up. You may remember A. I'm not even sure that I know how to do this whole "dating" thing. I remember my 8th grade homecoming dance. It was the first time I was going out with a boy but I didn't really think of him as a boy. I had known him since I was 6 years old. We'd been classmates for years. I bought this red glitter shift dress with matching red lipstick. My mom let me wear her gold stud earrings and bought me some pretty black shoes and shiny pantyhose (to suck in all my kid fat and so that I could sound like I was a walking zipper as my pubescent thighs rubbed together with every step that I took). As we were leaving my house that night, I remember my mom looking at me and saying, "Let him hold the door for you." I didn't get it at the time. I didn't get it later than night when he continuously tried to open every door for me but I just kept barging through them like I did every day.
"Let him hold the door for you."
It still didn't really make sense until this year when I realized that I've spent the last 12 years of my life working so hard to do things on my own and my way that I've never let anybody hold the door for me. My mentality has always been that at the end of the day, nobody is looking out for me but me.
83 days.
I'm giving myself 83 days to lose 25 more pounds and to have at least one more date where I let someone hold the door for me. I've been doing this online dating thing for nearly a month now and it's just getting depressing at this point. I've had one nice conversation with one nice guy who asked me to have drinks but hasn't contacted me since. My inbox is filling up with creepers and crazies and nothing promising.
83 days and then what? Just another day I suppose. Or maybe the start of a whole new life. I suppose I'll let the stars decide.
I can't even begin to reflect on the last 29 years of my life as it seems as if only the last 5 have meant anything. I've grown so much as a person, changed so much physically, mentally, emotionally... sexually. I keep hearing that 30 is the new 20 and that scares the hell out of me. Pretty sure I should have died during my 20's a few times. And lord knows, I can't party like I used to. I now have to plan two days of recovery for every 1 night of party. My days begin by popping vitamins and mixing protein shakes. My evenings end by applying moisturizer and wrinkle cream. I spent 2 days on the beach... and 2 weeks checking for moles that looked kinda funny.
In the last year, I have had 1 date. Yep, one. And it wasn't even that great of a date. Still trying to shake that bucket of crazy out of my past but he keeps popping up. You may remember A. I'm not even sure that I know how to do this whole "dating" thing. I remember my 8th grade homecoming dance. It was the first time I was going out with a boy but I didn't really think of him as a boy. I had known him since I was 6 years old. We'd been classmates for years. I bought this red glitter shift dress with matching red lipstick. My mom let me wear her gold stud earrings and bought me some pretty black shoes and shiny pantyhose (to suck in all my kid fat and so that I could sound like I was a walking zipper as my pubescent thighs rubbed together with every step that I took). As we were leaving my house that night, I remember my mom looking at me and saying, "Let him hold the door for you." I didn't get it at the time. I didn't get it later than night when he continuously tried to open every door for me but I just kept barging through them like I did every day.
"Let him hold the door for you."
It still didn't really make sense until this year when I realized that I've spent the last 12 years of my life working so hard to do things on my own and my way that I've never let anybody hold the door for me. My mentality has always been that at the end of the day, nobody is looking out for me but me.
83 days.
I'm giving myself 83 days to lose 25 more pounds and to have at least one more date where I let someone hold the door for me. I've been doing this online dating thing for nearly a month now and it's just getting depressing at this point. I've had one nice conversation with one nice guy who asked me to have drinks but hasn't contacted me since. My inbox is filling up with creepers and crazies and nothing promising.
83 days and then what? Just another day I suppose. Or maybe the start of a whole new life. I suppose I'll let the stars decide.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Cyber + Nature - Nay = BUTCHER!!! or why online dating is a contact sport
So, despite the lack of conversation from my faithless readers, I decided to play around with the online dating thing. I am going to be very careful in how I speak of this particular event because I don't have the fucking money to pay for slander charges... although it would be pretty fucking cool.
So, I made a small start, baby steps you might say. I chose a rather reputable dating website and created an online profile. It took me so long to fill in the "about me" section that I had to sign back in to finish it and of course, it got deleted because of the time-out. I read the examples, study the highlighted notes as if I were cramming for finals, and followed the designated tips to creating the perfect profile. I uploaded a recent picture and cropping it so you could only see my face and my neck... no boobs, no shoulders, no arm fat flailing in the wind. After receiving the initial emails from website stating that my photo was deemed appropriate and my profile was approved, I had a bit of a better feeling about this whole thing. I like that they screened me. I mean, dog knows, if they knew me they wouldn't let me within inches of their precious bit of Internet real estate. But they don't and I'm smart enough to navigate around their crazy blocker so I was in.
Now, I wasn't really completely ready to commit to this whole thing, so I didn't pay for it. I wanted to see what would happen first. Within an hour, the emails began rolling in. The first one showed me my first 12 matches. 12?! This was a definitely a step up from the last website that I had played with last summer that resulted with a "There are no matches in the world for you" comment in 24 point bolded font. I double checked to make sure that website wasn't run by my mother and moved on.
As I perused through the matches, I became slightly intrigued by many of the photos... not bad looking. I began matching our attributes and reading through each of their little blurbs of verbal vomit about themselves. There were a few that caught my eye, snagged my interest and then ended with me clicking the not interested button and throwing them back into the virtual dating pond. I'm not going to lie, I'm incredibly intimidated by this whole thing. I look at some of these guys and I think, their too hot for me. I look at them and I've seen their kind before, the kind that wouldn't give me CPR if I dropped dead in front of them. I realize this is me being judgemental, but isn't that what online dating is all about? Genetically engineering a date?
Bachelor #1:
34, never been married, no children but wants them some day, has a bachelors degree, enjoys lifting weights, watching movies and traveling.
Not bad huh? Too bad there were 12 pictures of him in bike shorts and muscle tee's on his profile. Kinda sucked all the mystery out of that one.
Bachelor #2:
30, divorced, Master's degree, enjoys outdoor activities such as canoeing and camping.
Now, I'm not turned off by his divorce. I'm not intimidated by his Master's degree... I gots mine too! (And no, it obviously wasn't in fucking English). I love spending a weekend on the river and waking up in nature. But I'm totally opposed to being the third wheel and since this particular individual mentioned God 17 times in his 2 paragraph profile, I think he'd feel like he was cheating on Him with me. I'm spiritual, not religious, and I don't have anything against those that are but this just isn't for me.
Bachelor #3:
31, job in management making about 120K a year, enjoys wine tastings and traveling, grew up outside my favorite city in the Midwest... Chicago.
Um... did a double check... and yeah, it's my friends boss who also, as far as I knew, was in a relationship. Did a triple check, yep, he had been "active in the last 5 days" and yep, yep, you bet your ass I immediately picked up the phone and ratted his ass out to my friends. One conference call later, my face hurt from laughing and I pressed the "not interested" button. Turns out he's a serial online dater, even when he's in a committed relationship. Ass hat.
Finally, I came upon Bachelor #4:
29, bachelors degree, enjoys alternative music and outdoor activities. Never been married and wants kids some day. Spiritual not religious.
Wowza... sounds good so far. Oh, and did I mention that he doesn't mind a girl with a little extra weight?!
His pic was... interesting... he wasn't wearing a shirt, sitting in front of his web came, tattoo on his upper arm slightly exposed although not recognizable. Slightly square glasses perched upon his nose and he didn't appear to be wearing the man-hair sweater so that's good. I don't want a man I have to groom.
I remained a little intrigued and began reading his profile... a very telling little paragraph about how he's a stubborn man and enjoys playing in the woods. Then there were the words, in tiny 10 point print, that made my heart race, my palms sweat and my asshole tighten. He wanted to tie me up in the woods and tease me for hours... and that's a direct quote. It reminded me of the wedding scene from the movie Secretary where Maggie Gyllenhall was tied up against a tree getting fucked like pedophile in prison. Only, in the movie it was kinda hot. On this dating website, it was kind reminiscent of a mediocre midweek crime drama on network programming. All of a sudden I saw myself becoming the victim of a serial killer and ending up on some 20/20 special on Internet dating and fetish killers. (Oh and had I checked his screen name a little closer, I would have seen this coming... rope fiend.)
I clicked "not interested" and slid my debit card back into my wallet without subscribing to the website. Then I took a shower and scrubbed all the dirty sex-voodoo off me. Between rinse, wash and repeat, I prayed to the gods for protection against creepers and woodsmen.
I can't decide... is it worth the $35 a month for entertainment purposes only?! I have always wanted to be on the side of a milk carton... or a billboard... hmmmm. Eh, fuck it. Why not, right?!
So, I made a small start, baby steps you might say. I chose a rather reputable dating website and created an online profile. It took me so long to fill in the "about me" section that I had to sign back in to finish it and of course, it got deleted because of the time-out. I read the examples, study the highlighted notes as if I were cramming for finals, and followed the designated tips to creating the perfect profile. I uploaded a recent picture and cropping it so you could only see my face and my neck... no boobs, no shoulders, no arm fat flailing in the wind. After receiving the initial emails from website stating that my photo was deemed appropriate and my profile was approved, I had a bit of a better feeling about this whole thing. I like that they screened me. I mean, dog knows, if they knew me they wouldn't let me within inches of their precious bit of Internet real estate. But they don't and I'm smart enough to navigate around their crazy blocker so I was in.
Now, I wasn't really completely ready to commit to this whole thing, so I didn't pay for it. I wanted to see what would happen first. Within an hour, the emails began rolling in. The first one showed me my first 12 matches. 12?! This was a definitely a step up from the last website that I had played with last summer that resulted with a "There are no matches in the world for you" comment in 24 point bolded font. I double checked to make sure that website wasn't run by my mother and moved on.
As I perused through the matches, I became slightly intrigued by many of the photos... not bad looking. I began matching our attributes and reading through each of their little blurbs of verbal vomit about themselves. There were a few that caught my eye, snagged my interest and then ended with me clicking the not interested button and throwing them back into the virtual dating pond. I'm not going to lie, I'm incredibly intimidated by this whole thing. I look at some of these guys and I think, their too hot for me. I look at them and I've seen their kind before, the kind that wouldn't give me CPR if I dropped dead in front of them. I realize this is me being judgemental, but isn't that what online dating is all about? Genetically engineering a date?
Bachelor #1:
34, never been married, no children but wants them some day, has a bachelors degree, enjoys lifting weights, watching movies and traveling.
Not bad huh? Too bad there were 12 pictures of him in bike shorts and muscle tee's on his profile. Kinda sucked all the mystery out of that one.
Bachelor #2:
30, divorced, Master's degree, enjoys outdoor activities such as canoeing and camping.
Now, I'm not turned off by his divorce. I'm not intimidated by his Master's degree... I gots mine too! (And no, it obviously wasn't in fucking English). I love spending a weekend on the river and waking up in nature. But I'm totally opposed to being the third wheel and since this particular individual mentioned God 17 times in his 2 paragraph profile, I think he'd feel like he was cheating on Him with me. I'm spiritual, not religious, and I don't have anything against those that are but this just isn't for me.
Bachelor #3:
31, job in management making about 120K a year, enjoys wine tastings and traveling, grew up outside my favorite city in the Midwest... Chicago.
Um... did a double check... and yeah, it's my friends boss who also, as far as I knew, was in a relationship. Did a triple check, yep, he had been "active in the last 5 days" and yep, yep, you bet your ass I immediately picked up the phone and ratted his ass out to my friends. One conference call later, my face hurt from laughing and I pressed the "not interested" button. Turns out he's a serial online dater, even when he's in a committed relationship. Ass hat.
Finally, I came upon Bachelor #4:
29, bachelors degree, enjoys alternative music and outdoor activities. Never been married and wants kids some day. Spiritual not religious.
Wowza... sounds good so far. Oh, and did I mention that he doesn't mind a girl with a little extra weight?!
His pic was... interesting... he wasn't wearing a shirt, sitting in front of his web came, tattoo on his upper arm slightly exposed although not recognizable. Slightly square glasses perched upon his nose and he didn't appear to be wearing the man-hair sweater so that's good. I don't want a man I have to groom.
I remained a little intrigued and began reading his profile... a very telling little paragraph about how he's a stubborn man and enjoys playing in the woods. Then there were the words, in tiny 10 point print, that made my heart race, my palms sweat and my asshole tighten. He wanted to tie me up in the woods and tease me for hours... and that's a direct quote. It reminded me of the wedding scene from the movie Secretary where Maggie Gyllenhall was tied up against a tree getting fucked like pedophile in prison. Only, in the movie it was kinda hot. On this dating website, it was kind reminiscent of a mediocre midweek crime drama on network programming. All of a sudden I saw myself becoming the victim of a serial killer and ending up on some 20/20 special on Internet dating and fetish killers. (Oh and had I checked his screen name a little closer, I would have seen this coming... rope fiend.)
I clicked "not interested" and slid my debit card back into my wallet without subscribing to the website. Then I took a shower and scrubbed all the dirty sex-voodoo off me. Between rinse, wash and repeat, I prayed to the gods for protection against creepers and woodsmen.
I can't decide... is it worth the $35 a month for entertainment purposes only?! I have always wanted to be on the side of a milk carton... or a billboard... hmmmm. Eh, fuck it. Why not, right?!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Remote Control Relationships
"I don't get it," she said. "Why isn't anybody hitting on you?"
Looking around, I notice group after group of men, sitting together, staring at each other, drinking their beers and not generally saying a word. For a moment, I double checked our location to make sure we weren't in a gay bar... not that there's anything wrong with gay bars but as a 29 year old single woman, spending endless hours in a gay bar will not help my dating life.
"We don't do things that way anymore," he said. "You have to go online now. Nobody goes to a bar to meet people. You go to hang out with the people you already know."
Really? I have to go on the Internet? Is that what we have come to is meeting people through pixels and digital signals? I mean, if I wanted an electronic relationship, I'd stick with Mr. Buzzy. But after weeks of contemplation and yet another endless weekend spent laying on the couch watching bad TV, old movies and an outing at Walmart, I'm beginning to think that something needs to change.
Living in the city is great but can be so incredibly lonely at the same time. I mean, at 29, I feel like I don't really need to make any new friends, as most my close friends have been around for nearly a decade or more. How do you replace that? You can't. But it's even harder in the city. The majority of the people that I speak with daily are my coworkers, or the rude customers on other end of the phone line. Believe it or not, but I will go days without my phone ringing and the truth is, I quit doing all the calling when I realized that I was the one doing all the calling, visiting, driving, etc. It's hard when your friends aren't where you are, and even harder when you start to realize that maybe your friends aren't the only thing geographically displaced, but the relationship itself.
I never thought striking up a relationship, or even getting a dinner date, would be so difficult. There was a nice piece of dark chocolate that kept hanging around my cubicle, talking to my coworkers and giving me the shy eye. He was tall, handsome and at least I know this one has a college education. Then he saw me standing outside smoking a cigarette... hasn't looked at me since. Whatever happened to not judging people? It's not like I was shooting heroin into my eye or anything. Oh well, I don't really like sleeping where I eat if you know what I mean.
The creeper at the gym continues to end up on the treadmill behind me, on the weight machine next to me, and pretty sure if he could follow me into the locker room, he would. He's nice enough but I'm not attracted to him, and I don't think that's judging, I think it's chemistry. But this dry spell is beginning to really bother me. Even the homeless men aren't giving me any attention. I think that may be an all time low.
"I'm not going to lie, you're intimidating," she said.
"Now that I know you, you're awesome, but if I didn't, I'd be scared to death to approach you," he said.
FLASHBACK: 4th grade. New boobs. Catholic school. Nearly shear blouses. Torture.
I was bullied all through grade school, middle school and most of high school. I used to be quiet and shy, overly sympathetic, a premium listener and an all around good person. Somewhere in those years of puberty and emotional distress, I had turned into a pushover, always wanting to be part of the cool crowd. A follower by fault, I often found myself getting into sticky situations, constantly jeopardizing my better judgement for a moment of fitting in. I was a doormat. But somewhere, somewhere I developed a huge fucking pair of steel balls and razor sharp forked tongue. Somewhere I became the people that I hated. Somewhere in learning to stand up for myself, I became, well, cold, callous and unforgiving. In learning to protect myself, I started a war.
I don't think I'm ready for Internet dating. I'm not sure that I would even know how to begin. It all seems so awkward to me. I'm too old fashioned. I want to believe that I will meet "the one" or even "the one for right now" through some serendipitous moment. I want a TV embrace. I want kinetic energy and chemistry. I want a dark room with bright lights in the corner and for that first meeting awkwardness to feel exhilarating.
The truth is, I want the same thing every other girl wants. I've learned to be dominate in every other area of my life out of necessity and survival. So, when it comes to men, I don't want to have to pursue them. I don't think that there's anything wrong with wanting to be chased a little. Don't get me wrong, I don't like games, but I don't want to be the only one reaching out. Besides, even my last booty call left with no warning, and without giving me any booty. I mean, I get hit it and quit it, why do you think I called? But it's hit it THEN quit it, not just quit it. I needed a little action and I eventually got some from ol' faithful, Mr. Buzzy, but it's not the same. Off track. Anyway, I want someone to want to spend time with me, to want to take me out to dinner and hold the door open for me like a gentleman, to not get embarrassed when I laugh a little too loudly. At the end of the night, I don't want them to be afraid to pull my hair a little when we're in bed. Like I said, I want the same thing as every other girl.
So faithful readers, how do YOU feel about online dating?
Looking around, I notice group after group of men, sitting together, staring at each other, drinking their beers and not generally saying a word. For a moment, I double checked our location to make sure we weren't in a gay bar... not that there's anything wrong with gay bars but as a 29 year old single woman, spending endless hours in a gay bar will not help my dating life.
"We don't do things that way anymore," he said. "You have to go online now. Nobody goes to a bar to meet people. You go to hang out with the people you already know."
Really? I have to go on the Internet? Is that what we have come to is meeting people through pixels and digital signals? I mean, if I wanted an electronic relationship, I'd stick with Mr. Buzzy. But after weeks of contemplation and yet another endless weekend spent laying on the couch watching bad TV, old movies and an outing at Walmart, I'm beginning to think that something needs to change.
Living in the city is great but can be so incredibly lonely at the same time. I mean, at 29, I feel like I don't really need to make any new friends, as most my close friends have been around for nearly a decade or more. How do you replace that? You can't. But it's even harder in the city. The majority of the people that I speak with daily are my coworkers, or the rude customers on other end of the phone line. Believe it or not, but I will go days without my phone ringing and the truth is, I quit doing all the calling when I realized that I was the one doing all the calling, visiting, driving, etc. It's hard when your friends aren't where you are, and even harder when you start to realize that maybe your friends aren't the only thing geographically displaced, but the relationship itself.
I never thought striking up a relationship, or even getting a dinner date, would be so difficult. There was a nice piece of dark chocolate that kept hanging around my cubicle, talking to my coworkers and giving me the shy eye. He was tall, handsome and at least I know this one has a college education. Then he saw me standing outside smoking a cigarette... hasn't looked at me since. Whatever happened to not judging people? It's not like I was shooting heroin into my eye or anything. Oh well, I don't really like sleeping where I eat if you know what I mean.
The creeper at the gym continues to end up on the treadmill behind me, on the weight machine next to me, and pretty sure if he could follow me into the locker room, he would. He's nice enough but I'm not attracted to him, and I don't think that's judging, I think it's chemistry. But this dry spell is beginning to really bother me. Even the homeless men aren't giving me any attention. I think that may be an all time low.
"I'm not going to lie, you're intimidating," she said.
"Now that I know you, you're awesome, but if I didn't, I'd be scared to death to approach you," he said.
FLASHBACK: 4th grade. New boobs. Catholic school. Nearly shear blouses. Torture.
I was bullied all through grade school, middle school and most of high school. I used to be quiet and shy, overly sympathetic, a premium listener and an all around good person. Somewhere in those years of puberty and emotional distress, I had turned into a pushover, always wanting to be part of the cool crowd. A follower by fault, I often found myself getting into sticky situations, constantly jeopardizing my better judgement for a moment of fitting in. I was a doormat. But somewhere, somewhere I developed a huge fucking pair of steel balls and razor sharp forked tongue. Somewhere I became the people that I hated. Somewhere in learning to stand up for myself, I became, well, cold, callous and unforgiving. In learning to protect myself, I started a war.
I don't think I'm ready for Internet dating. I'm not sure that I would even know how to begin. It all seems so awkward to me. I'm too old fashioned. I want to believe that I will meet "the one" or even "the one for right now" through some serendipitous moment. I want a TV embrace. I want kinetic energy and chemistry. I want a dark room with bright lights in the corner and for that first meeting awkwardness to feel exhilarating.
The truth is, I want the same thing every other girl wants. I've learned to be dominate in every other area of my life out of necessity and survival. So, when it comes to men, I don't want to have to pursue them. I don't think that there's anything wrong with wanting to be chased a little. Don't get me wrong, I don't like games, but I don't want to be the only one reaching out. Besides, even my last booty call left with no warning, and without giving me any booty. I mean, I get hit it and quit it, why do you think I called? But it's hit it THEN quit it, not just quit it. I needed a little action and I eventually got some from ol' faithful, Mr. Buzzy, but it's not the same. Off track. Anyway, I want someone to want to spend time with me, to want to take me out to dinner and hold the door open for me like a gentleman, to not get embarrassed when I laugh a little too loudly. At the end of the night, I don't want them to be afraid to pull my hair a little when we're in bed. Like I said, I want the same thing as every other girl.
So faithful readers, how do YOU feel about online dating?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I Pledge Allegiance to My Ass
As I sit perched on the couch, under my lap blanket, watching the season finale of Law & Order: SVU, I can feel my thighs slowly expanding. I haven't been to the gym in over a week as I've been battling a combination of a cold and allergies. Hard to run when you can't breathe. I feel terrible. Like I've broken some sort of pact with myself... like I've betrayed my cellulite. Damn Catholic guilt.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Golden Oldies
I can't believe that I haven't written in a month or more. This is what happens when The Girl becomes involved in a long distance relationship (see previous blog). But that is all over now. No more A. And I'm okay with that. I broke it off. Long story short: don't lie. Don't lie about something stupid. Don't say things you don't mean. Regardless, he's still texting nearly daily which means that That Girl must be awesome in the sack. Not to toot my own horn but beep mother fuckin' beep!!!
Anyway, down to business. The month of April was full of all sorts of craziness. Intense sessions at the gym were concluded by overweight elderly women walking buck ass naked through the locker room on nearly a daily basis. Now, these women have a sense of comfort in their body that seems to be lost on my generation. I was intrigued by sagging breasts and old vagina... catching glimpses when I wasn't trying to look. Do not be mistaken. Old vagina is a trainwreck. If ever in the situation, you must look at old vagina to see, if nothing else, your future as you, too, one day will either a) possess an old vagina of your own or b) be married to someone who has an old vagina. After weeks of encountering breasts so saggy that they could accidently get caught in the zipper of their pants if not careful when putting them on, I found myself being much more confident in my own nudity in the locker room. I, however, make sure that I keep the lawn trimmed... something lost on that generation. I swear I saw more bush than you could find in a South American rainforest.
There is a downside to being surrounded by old vagina. Old vagina isn't generally aware of what's going on around them. I mean, I'd think if they were aware, they'd put on some fucking panties. Regardless... one morning, after finishing an intense session with my trainer, I had showered and laid out my work clothes on the bench in front of me. I often get excessively warm while blow drying my hair and putting on my makeup, so I decided to go topless to finish my grooming routine. Standing in front of the vanity I dry and straighten my hair, paint on my makeup perfectly so and do a double check before heading back to my clothes a mere 15 feet away. As I approach my area of the locker room, I find my gym bag to be dumped on the floor, shoved out of the way without a second thought. I pick it up, place my things back inside and take a deep breath. I'm sure that somebody was trying to move it and just accidently knocked it over. That is until I can't find my work shirt. A grey cotton tunic type shirt with a deep low cut front and balloon sleeves. Looking around, my mouth drops open as I realize that there is in fact dripping wet old vagina and ass sitting on my shirt! This crazy old lady must have worked a little too hard at the water aerobics or she's just a total bitch because she stripped off her swimsuit, still soaking wet, and sat it right down on top of my shirt. She moved my bag, but she couldn't move my shirt?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I was shocked. For the first time ever, the filter between my brain and my mouth was clogged... no words could escape. Nothing could explain what happened in my head. The woman stood up, I picked up my shirt and was thankful that I had packed 2 that morning, unsure of what I would want to wear.
I left the locker room that day disgusted. I made a point to tell my trainer during our next session and to walk up to the pool window and point her out. Apparently, she's crazy. Still not an excuse for sitting her dripping wet old vagina and ass on my shirt.
The month of April was full of strange observations. I found people on the highway picking their nose while driving. I don't mean just a single digit in the ol' nostril. I mean elbow high, knuckles bent, digging for gold in a mine that is empty! One guy had his elbow out the drivers side window! Found another asshole reading their kindle while driving. Seriously? I love reading, too, but not enough to do it at 70 mph in rush hour traffic.
April was here and gone, but I'm back and will be writing far more regularly! I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging. Oh, and I hope none of you get nightmares from reading about old vagina.
Anyway, down to business. The month of April was full of all sorts of craziness. Intense sessions at the gym were concluded by overweight elderly women walking buck ass naked through the locker room on nearly a daily basis. Now, these women have a sense of comfort in their body that seems to be lost on my generation. I was intrigued by sagging breasts and old vagina... catching glimpses when I wasn't trying to look. Do not be mistaken. Old vagina is a trainwreck. If ever in the situation, you must look at old vagina to see, if nothing else, your future as you, too, one day will either a) possess an old vagina of your own or b) be married to someone who has an old vagina. After weeks of encountering breasts so saggy that they could accidently get caught in the zipper of their pants if not careful when putting them on, I found myself being much more confident in my own nudity in the locker room. I, however, make sure that I keep the lawn trimmed... something lost on that generation. I swear I saw more bush than you could find in a South American rainforest.
There is a downside to being surrounded by old vagina. Old vagina isn't generally aware of what's going on around them. I mean, I'd think if they were aware, they'd put on some fucking panties. Regardless... one morning, after finishing an intense session with my trainer, I had showered and laid out my work clothes on the bench in front of me. I often get excessively warm while blow drying my hair and putting on my makeup, so I decided to go topless to finish my grooming routine. Standing in front of the vanity I dry and straighten my hair, paint on my makeup perfectly so and do a double check before heading back to my clothes a mere 15 feet away. As I approach my area of the locker room, I find my gym bag to be dumped on the floor, shoved out of the way without a second thought. I pick it up, place my things back inside and take a deep breath. I'm sure that somebody was trying to move it and just accidently knocked it over. That is until I can't find my work shirt. A grey cotton tunic type shirt with a deep low cut front and balloon sleeves. Looking around, my mouth drops open as I realize that there is in fact dripping wet old vagina and ass sitting on my shirt! This crazy old lady must have worked a little too hard at the water aerobics or she's just a total bitch because she stripped off her swimsuit, still soaking wet, and sat it right down on top of my shirt. She moved my bag, but she couldn't move my shirt?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I was shocked. For the first time ever, the filter between my brain and my mouth was clogged... no words could escape. Nothing could explain what happened in my head. The woman stood up, I picked up my shirt and was thankful that I had packed 2 that morning, unsure of what I would want to wear.
I left the locker room that day disgusted. I made a point to tell my trainer during our next session and to walk up to the pool window and point her out. Apparently, she's crazy. Still not an excuse for sitting her dripping wet old vagina and ass on my shirt.
The month of April was full of strange observations. I found people on the highway picking their nose while driving. I don't mean just a single digit in the ol' nostril. I mean elbow high, knuckles bent, digging for gold in a mine that is empty! One guy had his elbow out the drivers side window! Found another asshole reading their kindle while driving. Seriously? I love reading, too, but not enough to do it at 70 mph in rush hour traffic.
April was here and gone, but I'm back and will be writing far more regularly! I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging. Oh, and I hope none of you get nightmares from reading about old vagina.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Love Is A Battlefield
Spring is rolling in and That Girl is beginning to realize how much has changed in a year... how much SHE has changed in a year. At this time last year, she was 70 pounds heavier, incredibly unhappy, in a dead in town with a job that just fired her... she was trying to survive. At the end of this very long and unseasonably cold winter, That Girl is anticipating spring with an anxiety she hasn't felt in a long, long while. To quote The Byrds' famous hit Turn turn turn, to every season, there is a change, and a time for every purpose under heaven. (okay, I removed all the "turn, turn, turns"... I think you got it smart folks!)
Things are changing and I'm always really insecure with change. I am a control freak and I like being able to at least have a finger on a situation if not both hands around it's neck. I have started a new job that came with its' fair share of challenges in the past weeks. And... sigh... there's a new man in my life. This alone brings an incredible amount of anxiety, insecurity and reckless thinking and day dreaming.
Let me introduce you to A. We met when I walked into that trashy little bar mentioned in the last post. He's a regular but before you get the wrong idea, he's there for the cheap booze and free entertainment... just like me. He's clean cut, handsome in a familiar way and was apparently immediately smitten as he watched me walk confidently into the bar, best friend, W taking the lead. As W walked up and said hello (she already knew A), she stuck out her hand to shake his. She was greeted with a disappointing smirk and open arms, an invitation for a hug. She obliged and I immediately became aware that he was whispering in her ear as he was leaned down and she is significantly shorter than he. I just had this feeling that he was asking about me. And he was. He introduced himself with a firm, soft skinned, handshake.
We stood having drinks and making idle chit chat for a good portion of the evening. I was really comfortable talking and joking around him which is highly unusual as it has been my experience that when I feel attracted to somebody the filter between my brain and my mouth that generally doesn't exist comes out of nowhere with a fierce vengeance and I can't seem to put a sentence together. It's as if all my years as an awkward teenager compound into moments of sheer stupidity and I end up looking like a total ass. But somehow, with A around, I didn't have a problem... making an ass out of myself! You see, as the evening neared to an end, A looked at both W and myself and said, "So, what are you ladies doing later?" to which I promptly responded without missing a beat, "Your mom if she's lucky!"
A, W and the others erupted with laughter and I became overwhelmed with embarrassment. I felt my face turning red, a shade of red that you can only find in the big box full of Crayolas. I immediately apologized... what if his mother was dead? Why do I always think that a "your mom" joke is appropriate humor? (Remind me to fill you in on the your mom joke shouted down the hallway of the high school I used to teach at when a students whose mother was on the school board yelled "What are we doing in class today?"... you do the math on how that one worked out!)
Within moments of A leaving the bar that night, he texted W and said, "Your friend is really cute." She of course told me about the text because that's what friends do. I smiled. He was cute, too.
The next evening, we went back to the same place and secretly I hoped that he would be there. He wasn't immediately but as we neared the end of our first drinks, he strolled in and right past us as he appeared to be looking for someone else and he was on his cell phone. Not wanting to appear... well, stupid... I didn't try to flag him down or anything. A few minutes later, there he was, sliding into the booth next to W, across from me. We chit chatted, discussed our plans for the evening and commented on the locals.
I'm not quite sure what it was or is, but somewhere between two sentences that were ending and beginning paragraphs, there was a line break, a moment of silence that was filled with my brown eyes meeting his. My stomach didn't flutter, my lady parts didn't quiver, my palms didn't sweat. Instead, my shoulders relaxed, my breathing slowed and so did my heartbeat. Somewhere between the period and the capital letter, there was a sense of peace that I've never felt before. I'm not sure that I blinked. I know that he didn't.
9 days, over a thousand text messages, a few hours of phone calls and an email later and I keep waking up with a smile on my face and fear in the back of my mind.
A lives 200 miles away. A didn't graduate high school although he is highly intelligent and tells me that he wants to go back and get his GED. A makes me think about things that I haven't thought about ever... like actually deserving love. A thinks I'm beautiful.
Sigh... I'm not THAT girl... the girl that swoons over men... the girl that ignores her head and lets her heart lead her feet... the girl that lets magic interrupt her paragraphs. Geez... it's only been 9 days and this guys gotta grip around my head already. Don't get me wrong... A isn't perfect by any means. In fact, there are a few parts of his past that aren't very appealing (nothing terrible, I promise!) but can I hold his past against him? Not unless I expect him to hold mine against me, I suppose.
It's spring... the season of love, or in this case, a really REALLY big like. I can't help but wonder... can I be that girl?
RENT: five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes... how do you measure a year in a life? how about love.
Things are changing and I'm always really insecure with change. I am a control freak and I like being able to at least have a finger on a situation if not both hands around it's neck. I have started a new job that came with its' fair share of challenges in the past weeks. And... sigh... there's a new man in my life. This alone brings an incredible amount of anxiety, insecurity and reckless thinking and day dreaming.
Let me introduce you to A. We met when I walked into that trashy little bar mentioned in the last post. He's a regular but before you get the wrong idea, he's there for the cheap booze and free entertainment... just like me. He's clean cut, handsome in a familiar way and was apparently immediately smitten as he watched me walk confidently into the bar, best friend, W taking the lead. As W walked up and said hello (she already knew A), she stuck out her hand to shake his. She was greeted with a disappointing smirk and open arms, an invitation for a hug. She obliged and I immediately became aware that he was whispering in her ear as he was leaned down and she is significantly shorter than he. I just had this feeling that he was asking about me. And he was. He introduced himself with a firm, soft skinned, handshake.
We stood having drinks and making idle chit chat for a good portion of the evening. I was really comfortable talking and joking around him which is highly unusual as it has been my experience that when I feel attracted to somebody the filter between my brain and my mouth that generally doesn't exist comes out of nowhere with a fierce vengeance and I can't seem to put a sentence together. It's as if all my years as an awkward teenager compound into moments of sheer stupidity and I end up looking like a total ass. But somehow, with A around, I didn't have a problem... making an ass out of myself! You see, as the evening neared to an end, A looked at both W and myself and said, "So, what are you ladies doing later?" to which I promptly responded without missing a beat, "Your mom if she's lucky!"
A, W and the others erupted with laughter and I became overwhelmed with embarrassment. I felt my face turning red, a shade of red that you can only find in the big box full of Crayolas. I immediately apologized... what if his mother was dead? Why do I always think that a "your mom" joke is appropriate humor? (Remind me to fill you in on the your mom joke shouted down the hallway of the high school I used to teach at when a students whose mother was on the school board yelled "What are we doing in class today?"... you do the math on how that one worked out!)
Within moments of A leaving the bar that night, he texted W and said, "Your friend is really cute." She of course told me about the text because that's what friends do. I smiled. He was cute, too.
The next evening, we went back to the same place and secretly I hoped that he would be there. He wasn't immediately but as we neared the end of our first drinks, he strolled in and right past us as he appeared to be looking for someone else and he was on his cell phone. Not wanting to appear... well, stupid... I didn't try to flag him down or anything. A few minutes later, there he was, sliding into the booth next to W, across from me. We chit chatted, discussed our plans for the evening and commented on the locals.
I'm not quite sure what it was or is, but somewhere between two sentences that were ending and beginning paragraphs, there was a line break, a moment of silence that was filled with my brown eyes meeting his. My stomach didn't flutter, my lady parts didn't quiver, my palms didn't sweat. Instead, my shoulders relaxed, my breathing slowed and so did my heartbeat. Somewhere between the period and the capital letter, there was a sense of peace that I've never felt before. I'm not sure that I blinked. I know that he didn't.
9 days, over a thousand text messages, a few hours of phone calls and an email later and I keep waking up with a smile on my face and fear in the back of my mind.
A lives 200 miles away. A didn't graduate high school although he is highly intelligent and tells me that he wants to go back and get his GED. A makes me think about things that I haven't thought about ever... like actually deserving love. A thinks I'm beautiful.
Sigh... I'm not THAT girl... the girl that swoons over men... the girl that ignores her head and lets her heart lead her feet... the girl that lets magic interrupt her paragraphs. Geez... it's only been 9 days and this guys gotta grip around my head already. Don't get me wrong... A isn't perfect by any means. In fact, there are a few parts of his past that aren't very appealing (nothing terrible, I promise!) but can I hold his past against him? Not unless I expect him to hold mine against me, I suppose.
It's spring... the season of love, or in this case, a really REALLY big like. I can't help but wonder... can I be that girl?
RENT: five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes... how do you measure a year in a life? how about love.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tales from the Lipped
That Girl has been a very, very busy beaver lately (pun intended!). My weekends have been full of one hilarious event after another... events that make me contemplate the need to shock the gene pool like it's being prepped for the summer season! You see, people have not stopped amazing me. Each and every moment is full of another astonishingly stupid human move!
Encounter at IHOP on a Saturday night:
Let's set the scene. It's nearly 2am. I've had a couple of beers... literally a beer or two. Pulling up in front of the local IHOP, I'm greeted (and blinded) by four police cruisers, cherries blazing.
Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by a girl holding a towel against her bleeding face. Interesting, I think to myself. As we are seated, I look towards the restroom to see a police officer holding open the door and a girl washing her eyes out with soap and water. What the fuck happened here, you ask? Well, apparently, a small food fight turned into a domestic battery incident as the girl in the bathroom had apparently thrown a glass that shattered as it hit the other girl in the face. Then, there was apparently some pepper spray, blood splatter and a whole lot of commotion. Really? It all started with a tasty little sausage link to the forehead and ends with the emergency room, assault and battery charges and a face full of cayenne pepper. Sounds like an eventful evening to me! Stay classy ladies!
Oh, speaking of classy ladies, I've been notincing a lot of VPL's (visible panty lines) lately. In fact, as I picked at my scrambled eggs, the restaurant began to fill up with bar goers. Here's a wise word to all my well-rounded...uh...er... or just round women out there: just because it went on a mannequin doesn't mean that it should go on you! Leggings should not be painted onto legs that look like they are tree trunks that just survived a hail storm. Oh, and they definitely shouldn't be trying to conceal your granny panties because we can all see that your panties are migrating towards your ass crack , or they are ruffled. Either way... um... textured panties (whether natural or because you're a fat ass) don't belong under spandex pants. I know they say that fashion can hurt but I think they were referring to ultra high stilettos, not MY EYES!
A weekend away... slummin' it!
This past weekend, I traveled to a city just a few hours away to visit a very dear friend. Upon arriving late Friday night, we ventured out for a few cocktails. We were tired. I'd already worked eight hours and then driven three. She had been off work for nearly 6 hours anticipating my arrival. We decided to go to a divey little bar with cheap booze where she knew that we didn't have to do any sort of "maintenance" before leaving the house.
Side note: I love divey bars. I really enjoy being with salt of the earth people as they tend to be incredibly entertaining. This particular evening and the one that followed left my gut as sore as a Canadian whore's vagina after the closing ceremony of the winter Olympics.
Upon entering the bar, we were greeted by the smell of cheap cigarettes and Walmart. When I say that this bar was divey, I mean, it was trailer park central... and not the good ol' double wides, but the aluminum can variety. We were by far the best looking and classiest ladies in the bar. I could have shit my pants and still been a step up from at least a third of the patrons.
It was kareoke night. Oh how I love white trash kareoke! I spent the evening listening to a woman who had some pipes but really thought that she WAS Whitney Houston. I wanted to tell the woman that crack is whack and that she should keep her day job but instead I just giggled and lip synched as she wailed and warbled her way through "I Will Always Love You". She was a Kareoke Queen...
The show wasn't over though. It was filled with people taking the stage, which was really a patch of dirty tile next to the pool tables, singing one bad rendition of a good song after another. This was their American Idol moment... repeated every Friday and Saturday night. My ears were bleeding and my mouth was running a million miles a minute. I spewed a running commentary regarding the performers, their lack of singing ability and filled the moments in between with my own song lyrics (generally crude).
The highlight of the kareoke encounter included a death metal version of Micheal Jackson's "Beat It" and a boy-on-boy duet of "Nightshift" by the Commodores. The scream-o "Beat It" boy screamed better than the man that sang like he was Elton John... the only problem was that the Elton impersonator couldn't sing, nor could he read and therefore only said about half of each fucking word. Really? Really. The boy-on-boy duet was pretty fucking amazing, as it was quickly turned into "The Mother Fuckin' Nightshift". I like to think of it as an urbanization of a classic. Thank you boys for the creativity! It was a delight to my ears... especially in comparison to any of the other vocal vomiters...er...singers.
The truth is, I don't really have the balls to do kareoke. I know I can't sing well. Why would I try? I barely sing outloud in the shower, let alone in a crowded bar. I could have laughed all night at the dumbasses that really though they were fucking good! The sad part is that I could tell that this WAS their moment, the moment they lived for every fucking Friday and Saturday! How sad for them...
The weekend was topped with more trailer park moments... the kind that make you rethink ordering another drink at the fear of becoming what you're surrounded by. Example: 50+ year old woman, shit faced drunk, fighting against gravity will all she had. She began her evening with one man and ended it with another. Neither gentleman was eye candy... in fact, more like eye composte. Her dirty jean jacket and stained denim jeans (wedged firmly between her ass cheeks... the pants, not the jacket) were only the tip of the iceberg. She danced, and then fell down. She stood up and then fell down. She walked over to our table as we took bets on how long it would be before she fell down again... looked at us and slurred "eeny, meeny, miney, mo".
"You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around," I replied. She fell down. I guess that's what it's all about.
I've done the kareoke thing. I won't be doing it again any time soon. I mean, really, there's not a stage that's ready for another rendition of Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time". Instead, I think I'll just keep on being a dancing queen.
Encounter at IHOP on a Saturday night:
Let's set the scene. It's nearly 2am. I've had a couple of beers... literally a beer or two. Pulling up in front of the local IHOP, I'm greeted (and blinded) by four police cruisers, cherries blazing.
Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by a girl holding a towel against her bleeding face. Interesting, I think to myself. As we are seated, I look towards the restroom to see a police officer holding open the door and a girl washing her eyes out with soap and water. What the fuck happened here, you ask? Well, apparently, a small food fight turned into a domestic battery incident as the girl in the bathroom had apparently thrown a glass that shattered as it hit the other girl in the face. Then, there was apparently some pepper spray, blood splatter and a whole lot of commotion. Really? It all started with a tasty little sausage link to the forehead and ends with the emergency room, assault and battery charges and a face full of cayenne pepper. Sounds like an eventful evening to me! Stay classy ladies!
Oh, speaking of classy ladies, I've been notincing a lot of VPL's (visible panty lines) lately. In fact, as I picked at my scrambled eggs, the restaurant began to fill up with bar goers. Here's a wise word to all my well-rounded...uh...er... or just round women out there: just because it went on a mannequin doesn't mean that it should go on you! Leggings should not be painted onto legs that look like they are tree trunks that just survived a hail storm. Oh, and they definitely shouldn't be trying to conceal your granny panties because we can all see that your panties are migrating towards your ass crack , or they are ruffled. Either way... um... textured panties (whether natural or because you're a fat ass) don't belong under spandex pants. I know they say that fashion can hurt but I think they were referring to ultra high stilettos, not MY EYES!
A weekend away... slummin' it!
This past weekend, I traveled to a city just a few hours away to visit a very dear friend. Upon arriving late Friday night, we ventured out for a few cocktails. We were tired. I'd already worked eight hours and then driven three. She had been off work for nearly 6 hours anticipating my arrival. We decided to go to a divey little bar with cheap booze where she knew that we didn't have to do any sort of "maintenance" before leaving the house.
Side note: I love divey bars. I really enjoy being with salt of the earth people as they tend to be incredibly entertaining. This particular evening and the one that followed left my gut as sore as a Canadian whore's vagina after the closing ceremony of the winter Olympics.
Upon entering the bar, we were greeted by the smell of cheap cigarettes and Walmart. When I say that this bar was divey, I mean, it was trailer park central... and not the good ol' double wides, but the aluminum can variety. We were by far the best looking and classiest ladies in the bar. I could have shit my pants and still been a step up from at least a third of the patrons.
It was kareoke night. Oh how I love white trash kareoke! I spent the evening listening to a woman who had some pipes but really thought that she WAS Whitney Houston. I wanted to tell the woman that crack is whack and that she should keep her day job but instead I just giggled and lip synched as she wailed and warbled her way through "I Will Always Love You". She was a Kareoke Queen...
The show wasn't over though. It was filled with people taking the stage, which was really a patch of dirty tile next to the pool tables, singing one bad rendition of a good song after another. This was their American Idol moment... repeated every Friday and Saturday night. My ears were bleeding and my mouth was running a million miles a minute. I spewed a running commentary regarding the performers, their lack of singing ability and filled the moments in between with my own song lyrics (generally crude).
The highlight of the kareoke encounter included a death metal version of Micheal Jackson's "Beat It" and a boy-on-boy duet of "Nightshift" by the Commodores. The scream-o "Beat It" boy screamed better than the man that sang like he was Elton John... the only problem was that the Elton impersonator couldn't sing, nor could he read and therefore only said about half of each fucking word. Really? Really. The boy-on-boy duet was pretty fucking amazing, as it was quickly turned into "The Mother Fuckin' Nightshift". I like to think of it as an urbanization of a classic. Thank you boys for the creativity! It was a delight to my ears... especially in comparison to any of the other vocal vomiters...er...singers.
The truth is, I don't really have the balls to do kareoke. I know I can't sing well. Why would I try? I barely sing outloud in the shower, let alone in a crowded bar. I could have laughed all night at the dumbasses that really though they were fucking good! The sad part is that I could tell that this WAS their moment, the moment they lived for every fucking Friday and Saturday! How sad for them...
The weekend was topped with more trailer park moments... the kind that make you rethink ordering another drink at the fear of becoming what you're surrounded by. Example: 50+ year old woman, shit faced drunk, fighting against gravity will all she had. She began her evening with one man and ended it with another. Neither gentleman was eye candy... in fact, more like eye composte. Her dirty jean jacket and stained denim jeans (wedged firmly between her ass cheeks... the pants, not the jacket) were only the tip of the iceberg. She danced, and then fell down. She stood up and then fell down. She walked over to our table as we took bets on how long it would be before she fell down again... looked at us and slurred "eeny, meeny, miney, mo".
"You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around," I replied. She fell down. I guess that's what it's all about.
I've done the kareoke thing. I won't be doing it again any time soon. I mean, really, there's not a stage that's ready for another rendition of Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time". Instead, I think I'll just keep on being a dancing queen.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Hibernate or penetrate?
So, I recently started a new job... I'm one week in and I hae to say that I was shocked on the first day of training. You see, there we are going through pages and pages of corporate policy and procedure when all of a sudden I turn a page and in big bold letters is a section titled BLOGGING POLICY. YIKES! Can you believe that they actually have a blogging policy?! Well they do, so, I won't tell you who it is that I work for because well, I need the job dammit. If you happen to know me, and you happen to know who I work for, please do NOT place any comments on my page that reference the said employer. I will further refer only to the employer by calling them Giant Corp, or GC for short, in this and all future posts.
This week has been trying as I have had to examine my own personality and avoid things like cussing and being openly mean. I've also been trying to control my facial expressions as I sit at the back of the training room listening to hours and hours of instruction, some interesting, some not. There is one particular person that seems to make a comment about EVERYTHING. You know the type, the "one-upper" who has to always trump a story, example or question from other people in the training class. His commentary is generally a waste of time, having only 1 out of every 5 comments or questions referencing anything useful. I haven't been openly mean... YET! But I can guarantee you that as soon as I lose all cognitive control, this guy is getting a huge fucking piece of my mind and maybe my fist! I might just have to hit a bitch!!
In addition to the one-upper, we have THAT GUY. In fact, he was refered to as THAT GUY today... you know the type: the guy that brags about everything including, according to him, the $900 watch that he was wearing today. REALLY? You are sitting in a fucking office and you feel the need to tell us tha tyou have a $900 watch on?! WHY?! Overcompensating much? I think so buddy, I think so. Poor little guy... pun intended! I forsee me putting him in his place sometime in the near future and it will be EPIC!
The beginning of this work week caused me some personal confusion. As I walked into the training room full of individuals that I have never seen before, with the exception of my interviewer, I caught myself immediately looking for wedding rings on all of the men. I hadn't even looked at their faces yet! Shocked at my own behavior, I took my seat and decided that I would simply focus on the task at hand...
4 hours in and it's time for lunch. I take my place at a table next to two gentleman who are younger than my baby brother! UGH! They are fresh out of college... I mean, you can still smell the sorority whores and cheap beer on them! They are nice guys, naive, uber excited for this employment opportunity. Another veteran decides to sit at our same table and is filling us in on all of the perks of working for Giant Corp. He casually looked at my left hand and said, "Oh, you're single? There's lots of single people who work here so it tends to be a good place to date out of as well." Since when do corporate slogans include things like "Work here. Breed here." SERIOUSLY? And why did he assume that just because my 29 year old finger wasn't covered in platinum and diamonds that I was SINGLE?! And why is it considered a dirty word?! UGH!
Only a few posts ago, it was raining men.... so, it's raining outside but in my bedroom it's a total dry spell. Granted maybe it has something to do with throwing D. to the curb (see a previous post if you don't know what I'm referring to). Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I haven't been out socially since New Year's Eve... at least not in the city anyway. Am I raising my standards or just hibernating for the winter!?? I haven't even been on a date with BOB lately and that was once a daily ritual. Maybe it's just because I've been working so much... tired, worn down, and cold.
I have a wedding to go to tomorrow which will officially leave me the last single person in my family that is of legal marrying age. The next youngest is 10. I'm sure that I'll be scoping for rings at the reception and everywhere else I go, as it's become kind of an involuntary reflex. I'm really contemplating this online dating thing...
Can't a girl just get a little penetration?
This week has been trying as I have had to examine my own personality and avoid things like cussing and being openly mean. I've also been trying to control my facial expressions as I sit at the back of the training room listening to hours and hours of instruction, some interesting, some not. There is one particular person that seems to make a comment about EVERYTHING. You know the type, the "one-upper" who has to always trump a story, example or question from other people in the training class. His commentary is generally a waste of time, having only 1 out of every 5 comments or questions referencing anything useful. I haven't been openly mean... YET! But I can guarantee you that as soon as I lose all cognitive control, this guy is getting a huge fucking piece of my mind and maybe my fist! I might just have to hit a bitch!!
In addition to the one-upper, we have THAT GUY. In fact, he was refered to as THAT GUY today... you know the type: the guy that brags about everything including, according to him, the $900 watch that he was wearing today. REALLY? You are sitting in a fucking office and you feel the need to tell us tha tyou have a $900 watch on?! WHY?! Overcompensating much? I think so buddy, I think so. Poor little guy... pun intended! I forsee me putting him in his place sometime in the near future and it will be EPIC!
The beginning of this work week caused me some personal confusion. As I walked into the training room full of individuals that I have never seen before, with the exception of my interviewer, I caught myself immediately looking for wedding rings on all of the men. I hadn't even looked at their faces yet! Shocked at my own behavior, I took my seat and decided that I would simply focus on the task at hand...
4 hours in and it's time for lunch. I take my place at a table next to two gentleman who are younger than my baby brother! UGH! They are fresh out of college... I mean, you can still smell the sorority whores and cheap beer on them! They are nice guys, naive, uber excited for this employment opportunity. Another veteran decides to sit at our same table and is filling us in on all of the perks of working for Giant Corp. He casually looked at my left hand and said, "Oh, you're single? There's lots of single people who work here so it tends to be a good place to date out of as well." Since when do corporate slogans include things like "Work here. Breed here." SERIOUSLY? And why did he assume that just because my 29 year old finger wasn't covered in platinum and diamonds that I was SINGLE?! And why is it considered a dirty word?! UGH!
Only a few posts ago, it was raining men.... so, it's raining outside but in my bedroom it's a total dry spell. Granted maybe it has something to do with throwing D. to the curb (see a previous post if you don't know what I'm referring to). Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I haven't been out socially since New Year's Eve... at least not in the city anyway. Am I raising my standards or just hibernating for the winter!?? I haven't even been on a date with BOB lately and that was once a daily ritual. Maybe it's just because I've been working so much... tired, worn down, and cold.
I have a wedding to go to tomorrow which will officially leave me the last single person in my family that is of legal marrying age. The next youngest is 10. I'm sure that I'll be scoping for rings at the reception and everywhere else I go, as it's become kind of an involuntary reflex. I'm really contemplating this online dating thing...
Can't a girl just get a little penetration?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I'm not gonna write you a love song
As another Valentine's Day has come and gone, I thought that I'd write a few "love" letters. You see, I spent my Valentine's Day single and working... just like every year before. I can't remember that I've ever been in a relationship, dating someone or even casually sleeping with someone on a Valentine's Day. Never have I received the stereotypical flower, chocolates and greeting card expression of another's feelings for me. Did I feel lonely? Upset? No more than usual.
Anyway, I spent the weekend observing Janes and Johns as they were on their Valentine's Day dates and I have to say, there are a few of them that I wanted to give a piece of my mind to... so here goes:
Dear Jane,
For a 60+ year old woman, you have amazing tits. That's right, I said, amazing! I only wish that at almost 30, my breasts could be as large and round as yours. I also wish that since you are sitting at a Sushi bar in a crowded restaurant, you would cover up your amazing tits. I mean, afterall, you are 60+ years old and sitting with a man who appears to be half your age. While you may consider yourself a cougar, you are far too old to be a cougar... more like a panther. And since panthers prey on the innocent and the young, I can only imagine that that is what you are doing with your big, round, wrinkly tits thrusting in and out of the young mans face. At least cougars pretend to love them before they rip their hearts out... panthers... prey and kill.
Nice boobs but please, put those bitches away.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Jane,
I know you wanted to look beautiful for your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy... whatever the hell you call him. Either way, you look ridiculous... I've seen clowns with less makeup on, the amount of product in your hair is single handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer and never under any circumstances should your garters be visible under your 1980's jean skirt that is both too tight and too short. Garters? Really? I mean, I couldn't help but notice them when you stood up, and walked across the entire restaurant to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're too fat for them too. Your legs looked like two Christmas hams, bursting through the mesh wrapper.
I don't get it... at least someone loves you... thank dog it's not me.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Family of 7 with 5 children,
Are you related to the Duggars? Why did you bring 5 children under the age of 5 to a sit down restaurant and then ask that your food be rushed because your children's calm timer is about to run out? Have you ever heard of take out? We offer it.
Also, did you think that the 10% tip you left me included cleaning up the fucking giant mess that your 5 sex trophies decided to throw all over the fucking floor and table? NOPE!
Fuck you,
That Girl
Dear John,
It is apparent to me that you have a giant sinus infection. You look terrible... the bags under your eyes, puffy face, obvious lack of energy. I almost feel sorry for you. I would except for the fact that you apparently don't know how to blow your nose at almost 30 years old. Instead, you are sitting there sucking the snot back up your nasal passages and then swallowing it loudly. You've done this at least 30 fucking times today. Stop it. Not only is it disgusting but it will only make you sicker to digest mucus that is full of infection. I know because it caused my brother to get an infection in his colon that resulted in a colonoscopy at 25 years old. Actually, swallow away. And when you're getting your colonoscopy, ask the doctor to see if he can locate your head that is obviously stuck up your ass.
Thanks,
That Girl
Dear Ghetto fabulous couples,
Yes, there were 2 of you sitting at my table. As your server, it's my job to serve you. That means that I may have to ask you questions like "What would you like to eat tonight?". That means that you should probably get off your fucking phone long enough to look at the menu and acknowledge my presence. Oh yeah, and don't act annoyed when I come back to check on you. It's my fucking job! And no, I'm not flirting with your boyfriend... I'm flirting with both of you to get a good tip. You must have though I was a 2 dollar whore because that's all you left me.
People like you are why I sought employment outside of the service industry. Stay out of restaurants until you learn some manners.
Thanks,
That Girl
p.s. I sneezed on your dinner before I left the kitchen. It was totally an accident but after your behavior, it felt like Karma was in fast forward.
Dear Fatties,
Yes, this is going out to all of you women that have gained a massive amount of weight since you got married. I'm not talking like 10 or 25 pounds, I mean, those of you who have gained like 200 pounds because you now weigh close to 400 pounds. I'm a fatty. I've always been a fatty. How did you get a boyfriend/husband? I want to know...
Was/is your boyfriend/husband a chubby chaser? I saw several of you indulging in a meal that consisted of fried rice, steak covered in butter and then you topped off the meal by drowning it in hollandaise sauce. The sight of it all made me throw up in my mouth. Your boyfriend/husband is good looking and not really overweight. I'm sure you're a lovely person but I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago. I want to know what you looked like when you met eachother. I want to know if it's true what my mother has always said, that one day a man will be forced to look past my physical appearance and will see my personality instead. I hope so, because my personality is just a skinnier version of the big sassy bitch that I actually am.
Love
That Girl
p.s. skip dessert. please.
Anyway, I spent the weekend observing Janes and Johns as they were on their Valentine's Day dates and I have to say, there are a few of them that I wanted to give a piece of my mind to... so here goes:
Dear Jane,
For a 60+ year old woman, you have amazing tits. That's right, I said, amazing! I only wish that at almost 30, my breasts could be as large and round as yours. I also wish that since you are sitting at a Sushi bar in a crowded restaurant, you would cover up your amazing tits. I mean, afterall, you are 60+ years old and sitting with a man who appears to be half your age. While you may consider yourself a cougar, you are far too old to be a cougar... more like a panther. And since panthers prey on the innocent and the young, I can only imagine that that is what you are doing with your big, round, wrinkly tits thrusting in and out of the young mans face. At least cougars pretend to love them before they rip their hearts out... panthers... prey and kill.
Nice boobs but please, put those bitches away.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Jane,
I know you wanted to look beautiful for your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy... whatever the hell you call him. Either way, you look ridiculous... I've seen clowns with less makeup on, the amount of product in your hair is single handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer and never under any circumstances should your garters be visible under your 1980's jean skirt that is both too tight and too short. Garters? Really? I mean, I couldn't help but notice them when you stood up, and walked across the entire restaurant to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're too fat for them too. Your legs looked like two Christmas hams, bursting through the mesh wrapper.
I don't get it... at least someone loves you... thank dog it's not me.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Family of 7 with 5 children,
Are you related to the Duggars? Why did you bring 5 children under the age of 5 to a sit down restaurant and then ask that your food be rushed because your children's calm timer is about to run out? Have you ever heard of take out? We offer it.
Also, did you think that the 10% tip you left me included cleaning up the fucking giant mess that your 5 sex trophies decided to throw all over the fucking floor and table? NOPE!
Fuck you,
That Girl
Dear John,
It is apparent to me that you have a giant sinus infection. You look terrible... the bags under your eyes, puffy face, obvious lack of energy. I almost feel sorry for you. I would except for the fact that you apparently don't know how to blow your nose at almost 30 years old. Instead, you are sitting there sucking the snot back up your nasal passages and then swallowing it loudly. You've done this at least 30 fucking times today. Stop it. Not only is it disgusting but it will only make you sicker to digest mucus that is full of infection. I know because it caused my brother to get an infection in his colon that resulted in a colonoscopy at 25 years old. Actually, swallow away. And when you're getting your colonoscopy, ask the doctor to see if he can locate your head that is obviously stuck up your ass.
Thanks,
That Girl
Dear Ghetto fabulous couples,
Yes, there were 2 of you sitting at my table. As your server, it's my job to serve you. That means that I may have to ask you questions like "What would you like to eat tonight?". That means that you should probably get off your fucking phone long enough to look at the menu and acknowledge my presence. Oh yeah, and don't act annoyed when I come back to check on you. It's my fucking job! And no, I'm not flirting with your boyfriend... I'm flirting with both of you to get a good tip. You must have though I was a 2 dollar whore because that's all you left me.
People like you are why I sought employment outside of the service industry. Stay out of restaurants until you learn some manners.
Thanks,
That Girl
p.s. I sneezed on your dinner before I left the kitchen. It was totally an accident but after your behavior, it felt like Karma was in fast forward.
Dear Fatties,
Yes, this is going out to all of you women that have gained a massive amount of weight since you got married. I'm not talking like 10 or 25 pounds, I mean, those of you who have gained like 200 pounds because you now weigh close to 400 pounds. I'm a fatty. I've always been a fatty. How did you get a boyfriend/husband? I want to know...
Was/is your boyfriend/husband a chubby chaser? I saw several of you indulging in a meal that consisted of fried rice, steak covered in butter and then you topped off the meal by drowning it in hollandaise sauce. The sight of it all made me throw up in my mouth. Your boyfriend/husband is good looking and not really overweight. I'm sure you're a lovely person but I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago. I want to know what you looked like when you met eachother. I want to know if it's true what my mother has always said, that one day a man will be forced to look past my physical appearance and will see my personality instead. I hope so, because my personality is just a skinnier version of the big sassy bitch that I actually am.
Love
That Girl
p.s. skip dessert. please.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My.tacky.space
Recently, as I was perusing social networking sites, something that I spend far too much time doing, I began noticing a trend. Apparently, belonging to a social networking site gives you super powers, makes your life look far more interesting than it is and gives you the creative license to becoming anybody that you freakin' want! I love it!
What is not to love? Crop your profile picture to make you look way better than you do in real life... photoshop it first, please. Oh what the hell, find an unfocused picture of a celebrity and pass it off as yourself. In fact, if you want to make it a trend, update it as your current status and see how many other people will do it! (This is how I found out that I have a frightening resemblence to Molly Ringwald!)
Okay, okay, those little games are goofy and fun and while they are somewhat annoying, fighting the urge to keep from participating is like peeing with a UTI... you know it's gonna burn but you gotta do it anyway! (eww... I know.)
I denied my mother's facebook friend request. Why? Because I could. I don't think that my parents have any business knowing that my weekends are often filled with massive amounts of debauchery and very little shame. My mother does not need to know that I "went for a run, ate a sandwich, made a happy plate, took a poop and headed to work". Not that the rest of facebook needs to know either but for some reason, people just can't get enough of it. My mother even asked me in person why I didn't "friend" her. I explained that we weren't friends. She's my mom. We don't have THAT relationship. So, I pressed IGNORE with a great sense of satisfaction.
"I can't believe that he de-friended me and then tried to re-friend me!" This overheard at work. First of all, I don't believe that the words "defriended" and "refriended", hyphens or not, are an actual part of the English language. Secondly, why are people trying to work out their personal problems on a social networking site? Confrontation is not something that you do on a facebook page! I find it incredibly immature that people will scream at eachother through instant messages by using all capital letters. AM I GETTING MY POINT ACROSS? No, just making it easier to read. That's all. My life is not going to change if you do not chat with me, write on my wall or if you "defriend" me. Oh no she di'n't. (insert ghetto head bob here)
I suppose if facebook relationships are now defining friendships, that's up to those parties involved and it doesn't affect me. However, things that people post publicly do affect me. In fact, there are things that I have seen posted on peoples social networking profiles that just seem, oh, I don't know... TACKY!
Example: (oh and these are all real)
1. pictures of your breasts, ass or any other body part that you wouldn't show your mother... seriously. If you've never changed clothes in front of me, lived in the same home as me or had sex with me, I obviously didn't want to see it then and don't want to see it now! If I wanted to see porn, I have network TV and the internet. Nasty put some clothes on.
2. intestinal updates: "can't quit vomiting", "gotta drop a duece before dinner" or any other reference to problems regarding your bowels. Eat a piece of fruit, take a laxative, open a window, but please keep your ass issues to yourself.
Dude, your dookie is your business, not mine! (Notice that this is example number two... pun intended!)
3. Putting up a status update that causes people to wonder if you are in dire straights is like wearing a giant sign that says "I'm a douche"... and no, it doens't matter if you are male or female. This phenomenon actually has a slang name: vaguebooking. It is defined by Urban Dictionary as: An intentionally vague Facebook status update, that prompts friends to ask what's going on, or is possibly a cry for help.
If you need attention, please, come see me. I will be happy to bereate, belittle, or mock you to your hearts content. It will be my pleasure. Really.
4. In reference to childbirth... I do not need to know that your child was delivered vaginally. In fact I don't think that the word vagina in any form of conjugation should be used on a social networking site. Please use the word "naturally" as it is not nearly as disgustingly visual as the word vagina or vaginal. Last I checked, babies naturally came out of vaginas so unless you specify "c-section" which sounds more like the area on a standardized test, we already knew that your pregnancy would put your baby-chute to good use! Thanks.
Okay, so this is more of a rant on my observations but I urge each of you to look closely at your social networking profile. 1. remove the word "vagina" in any and all forms, 2. paste some clothes on those titties, and 3. just tell people what the hell is going on already.
What is not to love? Crop your profile picture to make you look way better than you do in real life... photoshop it first, please. Oh what the hell, find an unfocused picture of a celebrity and pass it off as yourself. In fact, if you want to make it a trend, update it as your current status and see how many other people will do it! (This is how I found out that I have a frightening resemblence to Molly Ringwald!)
Okay, okay, those little games are goofy and fun and while they are somewhat annoying, fighting the urge to keep from participating is like peeing with a UTI... you know it's gonna burn but you gotta do it anyway! (eww... I know.)
I denied my mother's facebook friend request. Why? Because I could. I don't think that my parents have any business knowing that my weekends are often filled with massive amounts of debauchery and very little shame. My mother does not need to know that I "went for a run, ate a sandwich, made a happy plate, took a poop and headed to work". Not that the rest of facebook needs to know either but for some reason, people just can't get enough of it. My mother even asked me in person why I didn't "friend" her. I explained that we weren't friends. She's my mom. We don't have THAT relationship. So, I pressed IGNORE with a great sense of satisfaction.
"I can't believe that he de-friended me and then tried to re-friend me!" This overheard at work. First of all, I don't believe that the words "defriended" and "refriended", hyphens or not, are an actual part of the English language. Secondly, why are people trying to work out their personal problems on a social networking site? Confrontation is not something that you do on a facebook page! I find it incredibly immature that people will scream at eachother through instant messages by using all capital letters. AM I GETTING MY POINT ACROSS? No, just making it easier to read. That's all. My life is not going to change if you do not chat with me, write on my wall or if you "defriend" me. Oh no she di'n't. (insert ghetto head bob here)
I suppose if facebook relationships are now defining friendships, that's up to those parties involved and it doesn't affect me. However, things that people post publicly do affect me. In fact, there are things that I have seen posted on peoples social networking profiles that just seem, oh, I don't know... TACKY!
Example: (oh and these are all real)
1. pictures of your breasts, ass or any other body part that you wouldn't show your mother... seriously. If you've never changed clothes in front of me, lived in the same home as me or had sex with me, I obviously didn't want to see it then and don't want to see it now! If I wanted to see porn, I have network TV and the internet. Nasty put some clothes on.
2. intestinal updates: "can't quit vomiting", "gotta drop a duece before dinner" or any other reference to problems regarding your bowels. Eat a piece of fruit, take a laxative, open a window, but please keep your ass issues to yourself.
Dude, your dookie is your business, not mine! (Notice that this is example number two... pun intended!)
3. Putting up a status update that causes people to wonder if you are in dire straights is like wearing a giant sign that says "I'm a douche"... and no, it doens't matter if you are male or female. This phenomenon actually has a slang name: vaguebooking. It is defined by Urban Dictionary as: An intentionally vague Facebook status update, that prompts friends to ask what's going on, or is possibly a cry for help.
If you need attention, please, come see me. I will be happy to bereate, belittle, or mock you to your hearts content. It will be my pleasure. Really.
4. In reference to childbirth... I do not need to know that your child was delivered vaginally. In fact I don't think that the word vagina in any form of conjugation should be used on a social networking site. Please use the word "naturally" as it is not nearly as disgustingly visual as the word vagina or vaginal. Last I checked, babies naturally came out of vaginas so unless you specify "c-section" which sounds more like the area on a standardized test, we already knew that your pregnancy would put your baby-chute to good use! Thanks.
Okay, so this is more of a rant on my observations but I urge each of you to look closely at your social networking profile. 1. remove the word "vagina" in any and all forms, 2. paste some clothes on those titties, and 3. just tell people what the hell is going on already.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Pluckin' G Strings (and not the kind on your guitar)
So recently I had to do something that I absolutely loathe and trapse into one of those big box retailers to get my oil changed while picking up some muscle rub (due to sore muscles from hot yoga) and some groceries. The convience of getting to do it all in one place at one time was far too inticing, especially since the day was cold, complete with blustery wind and snow. Had this been a beautiful spring day, I would have been more than happy with leaving work and moving from store to store to shop at more local retailers while enjoying the drive between each establishment with the windows down and the music blaring.
However, on this particular day, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I pulled my vehicle up in front of the garage of the big box car lube place to find a young girl, far too heavy for her age, standing outside in short sleeves with no coat on. I roll down my window and offer to step inside to write up the ticket for the oil change to which she replies, "No, it's okay." while shivering. The snow was accumulating on her hair, her breasts and her bare arms. I thought for a moment that this girl was going to turn into a real life snowperson right in front of my eyes and I nearly giggled outloud.
As I walked through the store, in my work uniform mind you, I realize that I must pee. Seeking a bathroom, I realize that my underware has thoroughly shifted from where it should be. My boyshorts were quickly becoming a thong. Unsure of how long my panties had been migrating towards the depths of my butt crack, I quickly waved my hands along my buttcheeks to feel for my pantylines. They were definitely not where they were supposed to be. Finally rounding a corner through an aisle of permanent markers and yarn, I find the bathroom. Ah, relief.
As I exited the bathroom, I walked a little taller, not only because I was no longer weighed down by a massively full bladder but also because I confidently knew that my boy shorts were a mystery once again, having put them back in their proper place, I could now glide comfortably through the aisles.
I am fully aware that I suffer from the VPL on many occasions. VPL? Visible panty line. They aren't generally attractive but there are moments that I don't care. Those moments tend to be when I am at work. I am currently between pant sizes and the larger size are too saggy while the smaller size tend to lie like latex on my ass. Oh well, I'm at work... I figure that most people aren't looking at my ass because I spend my days facing my guests and talking directly to them. Also, I can't work in certain panties as my job is incredibly active and there are certain underware styles that just don't mesh with active movement.
Contemplating all of this as I walk through the big box aisles, shopping quickly for my list: Bengay, fresh spinach, cereal, turkey, apples, I realize that the VPL really isn't that big of a deal. Figuring that my vehicle is probably done getting it's lube job, I make my way to the back of the store and find a woman sitting on a bench crocheting. "She must be getting her tires fixed or something," I think to myself as I sit down on the end of the bench opposite her. There is nobody at the counter... no employees in sight except for one woman on crutches who is apparently in charge of staring at the door that nobody is going in or out of.
After sitting for a good 5 minutes, I glance at the counter and see some papers with my car keys on top. I look at the woman on crutches and say, "These are my keys, my vehicle must be ready." to which she replied, "Oh, I don't work back here, I'm just standing here because I got hurt."
My head cocked to the left, a perplexed expression on my face, I can't help but wonder how much she's getting paid to stand next to a door. "Someone will be back in a few minutes," she says. At this point, I could feel my blood start to boil, I had things to do, the weather was crappy and I had been at work all day. I just wanted to get home and make dinner and settle in for a cozy evening with my roommate.
As the clock on the wall ticked by, I could hear my blood pressure rising. A single piece of paper lay on the floor under the door woman's feet. Turning around and bending down to pick it up, I find my eyes popping out of their sockets at the same time that my mouth dropped open! I could not believe that this woman was not only wearing pants that were incredibly too tight but that I could see the perfect definition of the whale tail of her thong right through her pants! This was a total OMG moment as I could not believe that 1. she was wearing a thong to work at a big box retailer, 2. that a thong could be comfortable with an ass as big as hers, and 3. that her pants were so tight you could see the nearly invisible underware right through them!
It was at this moment that I realized that my VPL's were not nearly as impressive or as important as this womans. I no longer felt insecure where as you might think that I would be now more insecure regarding the visibility of my panties through my pants. I wear only black pants to work which naturally minimizes what you can see. This woman was wearing light colored khakis. And ever since that moment, I have been noticing that more and more women have taken control of their control tops and that you don't see too many whale tails or other forms of the visible panty line. I have instead noticed that in order to avoid such fashion faux pas, we are now getting to see more butt cracks than ever. I'm not sure which is the lesser of the two evils.
Ladies, take notes, if your pants are so tight that you have incredibly visible panty lines, putting on a thong is not going to fix the problem. Buying bigger pants or losing some weight will fix the problem. I don't like spending my day picking my underware out of my butt and readjusting them. I have more important things to do. However, if you want to spend your day pluckin' your own g-string, be my guest.
However, on this particular day, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I pulled my vehicle up in front of the garage of the big box car lube place to find a young girl, far too heavy for her age, standing outside in short sleeves with no coat on. I roll down my window and offer to step inside to write up the ticket for the oil change to which she replies, "No, it's okay." while shivering. The snow was accumulating on her hair, her breasts and her bare arms. I thought for a moment that this girl was going to turn into a real life snowperson right in front of my eyes and I nearly giggled outloud.
As I walked through the store, in my work uniform mind you, I realize that I must pee. Seeking a bathroom, I realize that my underware has thoroughly shifted from where it should be. My boyshorts were quickly becoming a thong. Unsure of how long my panties had been migrating towards the depths of my butt crack, I quickly waved my hands along my buttcheeks to feel for my pantylines. They were definitely not where they were supposed to be. Finally rounding a corner through an aisle of permanent markers and yarn, I find the bathroom. Ah, relief.
As I exited the bathroom, I walked a little taller, not only because I was no longer weighed down by a massively full bladder but also because I confidently knew that my boy shorts were a mystery once again, having put them back in their proper place, I could now glide comfortably through the aisles.
I am fully aware that I suffer from the VPL on many occasions. VPL? Visible panty line. They aren't generally attractive but there are moments that I don't care. Those moments tend to be when I am at work. I am currently between pant sizes and the larger size are too saggy while the smaller size tend to lie like latex on my ass. Oh well, I'm at work... I figure that most people aren't looking at my ass because I spend my days facing my guests and talking directly to them. Also, I can't work in certain panties as my job is incredibly active and there are certain underware styles that just don't mesh with active movement.
Contemplating all of this as I walk through the big box aisles, shopping quickly for my list: Bengay, fresh spinach, cereal, turkey, apples, I realize that the VPL really isn't that big of a deal. Figuring that my vehicle is probably done getting it's lube job, I make my way to the back of the store and find a woman sitting on a bench crocheting. "She must be getting her tires fixed or something," I think to myself as I sit down on the end of the bench opposite her. There is nobody at the counter... no employees in sight except for one woman on crutches who is apparently in charge of staring at the door that nobody is going in or out of.
After sitting for a good 5 minutes, I glance at the counter and see some papers with my car keys on top. I look at the woman on crutches and say, "These are my keys, my vehicle must be ready." to which she replied, "Oh, I don't work back here, I'm just standing here because I got hurt."
My head cocked to the left, a perplexed expression on my face, I can't help but wonder how much she's getting paid to stand next to a door. "Someone will be back in a few minutes," she says. At this point, I could feel my blood start to boil, I had things to do, the weather was crappy and I had been at work all day. I just wanted to get home and make dinner and settle in for a cozy evening with my roommate.
As the clock on the wall ticked by, I could hear my blood pressure rising. A single piece of paper lay on the floor under the door woman's feet. Turning around and bending down to pick it up, I find my eyes popping out of their sockets at the same time that my mouth dropped open! I could not believe that this woman was not only wearing pants that were incredibly too tight but that I could see the perfect definition of the whale tail of her thong right through her pants! This was a total OMG moment as I could not believe that 1. she was wearing a thong to work at a big box retailer, 2. that a thong could be comfortable with an ass as big as hers, and 3. that her pants were so tight you could see the nearly invisible underware right through them!
It was at this moment that I realized that my VPL's were not nearly as impressive or as important as this womans. I no longer felt insecure where as you might think that I would be now more insecure regarding the visibility of my panties through my pants. I wear only black pants to work which naturally minimizes what you can see. This woman was wearing light colored khakis. And ever since that moment, I have been noticing that more and more women have taken control of their control tops and that you don't see too many whale tails or other forms of the visible panty line. I have instead noticed that in order to avoid such fashion faux pas, we are now getting to see more butt cracks than ever. I'm not sure which is the lesser of the two evils.
Ladies, take notes, if your pants are so tight that you have incredibly visible panty lines, putting on a thong is not going to fix the problem. Buying bigger pants or losing some weight will fix the problem. I don't like spending my day picking my underware out of my butt and readjusting them. I have more important things to do. However, if you want to spend your day pluckin' your own g-string, be my guest.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Crack is Whack
Tonight the President of the United States of America spoke the annual "State of the Union" address to millions of viewers. I was not one of them. I was at work wondering if he was telling me anything that I didn't already know... the state of the union sucks right now. Unemployment blows ass unless you are lazy and incredibly comfortable with living off the system and it's at it's highest in years. There are multiple issues that the President didn't address that I feel are more much pressing though. These issues became incredibly impressive on me this past week and I feel that I must address them in order to finally find some peace with them.
For those of you who know me and those of you who don't, I've begun taking hot yoga classes. This is simply a 90 minute intense cardio yoga class done in a room that is heated to one hundred and ten degrees farenheit. This literally causes you to sweat your ass off while contorting your body into multiple pretzel forms. In fact, while leaving the first class, I'm pretty sure that I stepped in more than one puddle of melted ass. Now, don't be confused, I'm not turning into one of those "fully centered, focusing on my third eye" weirdos... I'm simply trying to build strength and flexibility. However, there are plenty of yogi's... yep, that's the actual term, in the classes that are into all that bullshit. I mean, I felt completely exhilerated after the class, relaxed, and yes, centered, but I think it had more to do with endorphines than some damn sun salutation.
There are things about the class that I didn't expect though... I didn't expect a man in 1970's short shorts with a giant (I'm talking puts Santa to shame!) sized beer belly to be in the class. Thank dog that he was in back, but seriously, does the room have to be lined in mirrors? Talk about finding a focal point... his giant belly button was it! I didn't expect Big Foot to be taking the class. Or maybe it was a Wookie. Either way, this had to be one of the hairiest individuals that I have ever seen! Add 110 degrees, tons of sweat and I swear to dog, he looked like a lake creature from one of those bad 1960s B movies with the screaming girls and the terribly impossible plot lines! (Swamp Thing is what I will refer to this individual as in future blog posts.) I mean, after 90 minutes, this guy smelled like he'd crawled out of a toxic sewer! I'm just glad he was behind me and that I wasn't downwind.
There are two rules to taking hot yoga:
1. You must wear spandex or very little clothing. This has more to do with the changing of positions than it does with the sweating, but I think if I had layered up, I would have literally died due to dehydration... would have looked like one giant piece of beef jerky. (Btw... sorry for everyone who had to look at my fat ass in leggings but holy shit, was it hot in there!)
2. You must abstain from eating or drinking anything but water for at lest 2 to 3 hours prior to taking the class. Too much heat + digestion = puke. No bueno. Also, there are plenty of moves that put pressure on the internal organs, massaging them to create a release of toxins thus resulting in a better body balance.
Now, when you don't follow either of these directions, this is what happens: strange sweat stains and farts. Yep, farts. That's right. Try keeping your mind focused when the fat ass in front of you has his oversized basketball shorts firmly tucked between his puckered ass cheeks. Why were they puckered? Perhaps it was because he was trying to avoid blowing ass in class. Too bad... he did it anyway! Multiple times! Apparently this is normal, as I can remember my older brother telling me that HE was the one who farted in a yoga class, packed his things, left and never went back. However, this jackass just kept on ripping them like they were going out of style. 40 people, 110 degrees and this jerk doesn't flinch as he flatulates all over the place! Nobody else seemed to notice except me and my friends who tried desperately to keep from busting out laughing at each flutter of his ass cheeks.
I was releasing endorphines. That guy was releasing last nights fourth meal! Thanks for the leftovers asshole!
Now, I wish that this had been the most interesting part of my weekend but this was only second to the events that occured on Saturday night. You see, in typical fashion of celebrating a friends birthday, I ended up in a strip club. Not unusual as I have been multiple times and actually quite enjoy the outing, often viewing it as a sociological experiment. I spend most of my time people watching, sitting at the side of the stage, intently watching the men, both old and young, as they view each dancing woman as if they are pubescent teenagers catching their first glimpse of a naked body. This particular evening did not provide this sort of entertainment however. Instead, I began critiquing the girls, their outfits, facial expressions (or lack thereof), and taking particular interest in their pole tricks.
I'm going to pause here and give props to the athleticism that is demonstrated by strippers. Most of these women were doing moves that even the advanced yogi's in my yoga class couldn't do and they did them while completely naked, in front of a crowd on a cold stage. Kudos ladies... kudos.
Okay, I regress. As a tall blonde entered the staging area, all three of us verbally noted that she must be older because her hair was covering her face. We were right, she was 38 as we would later find out. As we sat watching, tossing singles on the edge of the stage to draw her towards us, her long legs twisting and turning across the floor, our conversation became more intriguing than the dancer. A moment later and I noticed that she was right in front of us, fully nude. "There ya go buddy! Happy birthday! Here's a crotch shot for ya!" I said to my friend. "I don't think she's looking at me," he said. And sure enough she wasn't. She had her eyes right on me, legs spread open, waving at me with one finger.
So where am I going with this? I think that if you are going to have a job stripping, you should probably get your hemmorhoids taken care of prior to showing up for work, removing your clothing and then spreading your butt cheeks in front of someones face and expecting them to give you money. I wanted to give her money, to have hemmorhoid surgery... not to keep her dancing in front of me. Long story short, she later came over and wanted to give me a lap dance. As flattered as I was, I sacrificed my friends' wife to the wolves and let her get the hemmorhoid rub down.
So this weeks lessons: a. get your butt fixed and b. don't eat before yoga.
If only all of life's lessons were so simple!
For those of you who know me and those of you who don't, I've begun taking hot yoga classes. This is simply a 90 minute intense cardio yoga class done in a room that is heated to one hundred and ten degrees farenheit. This literally causes you to sweat your ass off while contorting your body into multiple pretzel forms. In fact, while leaving the first class, I'm pretty sure that I stepped in more than one puddle of melted ass. Now, don't be confused, I'm not turning into one of those "fully centered, focusing on my third eye" weirdos... I'm simply trying to build strength and flexibility. However, there are plenty of yogi's... yep, that's the actual term, in the classes that are into all that bullshit. I mean, I felt completely exhilerated after the class, relaxed, and yes, centered, but I think it had more to do with endorphines than some damn sun salutation.
There are things about the class that I didn't expect though... I didn't expect a man in 1970's short shorts with a giant (I'm talking puts Santa to shame!) sized beer belly to be in the class. Thank dog that he was in back, but seriously, does the room have to be lined in mirrors? Talk about finding a focal point... his giant belly button was it! I didn't expect Big Foot to be taking the class. Or maybe it was a Wookie. Either way, this had to be one of the hairiest individuals that I have ever seen! Add 110 degrees, tons of sweat and I swear to dog, he looked like a lake creature from one of those bad 1960s B movies with the screaming girls and the terribly impossible plot lines! (Swamp Thing is what I will refer to this individual as in future blog posts.) I mean, after 90 minutes, this guy smelled like he'd crawled out of a toxic sewer! I'm just glad he was behind me and that I wasn't downwind.
There are two rules to taking hot yoga:
1. You must wear spandex or very little clothing. This has more to do with the changing of positions than it does with the sweating, but I think if I had layered up, I would have literally died due to dehydration... would have looked like one giant piece of beef jerky. (Btw... sorry for everyone who had to look at my fat ass in leggings but holy shit, was it hot in there!)
2. You must abstain from eating or drinking anything but water for at lest 2 to 3 hours prior to taking the class. Too much heat + digestion = puke. No bueno. Also, there are plenty of moves that put pressure on the internal organs, massaging them to create a release of toxins thus resulting in a better body balance.
Now, when you don't follow either of these directions, this is what happens: strange sweat stains and farts. Yep, farts. That's right. Try keeping your mind focused when the fat ass in front of you has his oversized basketball shorts firmly tucked between his puckered ass cheeks. Why were they puckered? Perhaps it was because he was trying to avoid blowing ass in class. Too bad... he did it anyway! Multiple times! Apparently this is normal, as I can remember my older brother telling me that HE was the one who farted in a yoga class, packed his things, left and never went back. However, this jackass just kept on ripping them like they were going out of style. 40 people, 110 degrees and this jerk doesn't flinch as he flatulates all over the place! Nobody else seemed to notice except me and my friends who tried desperately to keep from busting out laughing at each flutter of his ass cheeks.
I was releasing endorphines. That guy was releasing last nights fourth meal! Thanks for the leftovers asshole!
Now, I wish that this had been the most interesting part of my weekend but this was only second to the events that occured on Saturday night. You see, in typical fashion of celebrating a friends birthday, I ended up in a strip club. Not unusual as I have been multiple times and actually quite enjoy the outing, often viewing it as a sociological experiment. I spend most of my time people watching, sitting at the side of the stage, intently watching the men, both old and young, as they view each dancing woman as if they are pubescent teenagers catching their first glimpse of a naked body. This particular evening did not provide this sort of entertainment however. Instead, I began critiquing the girls, their outfits, facial expressions (or lack thereof), and taking particular interest in their pole tricks.
I'm going to pause here and give props to the athleticism that is demonstrated by strippers. Most of these women were doing moves that even the advanced yogi's in my yoga class couldn't do and they did them while completely naked, in front of a crowd on a cold stage. Kudos ladies... kudos.
Okay, I regress. As a tall blonde entered the staging area, all three of us verbally noted that she must be older because her hair was covering her face. We were right, she was 38 as we would later find out. As we sat watching, tossing singles on the edge of the stage to draw her towards us, her long legs twisting and turning across the floor, our conversation became more intriguing than the dancer. A moment later and I noticed that she was right in front of us, fully nude. "There ya go buddy! Happy birthday! Here's a crotch shot for ya!" I said to my friend. "I don't think she's looking at me," he said. And sure enough she wasn't. She had her eyes right on me, legs spread open, waving at me with one finger.
So where am I going with this? I think that if you are going to have a job stripping, you should probably get your hemmorhoids taken care of prior to showing up for work, removing your clothing and then spreading your butt cheeks in front of someones face and expecting them to give you money. I wanted to give her money, to have hemmorhoid surgery... not to keep her dancing in front of me. Long story short, she later came over and wanted to give me a lap dance. As flattered as I was, I sacrificed my friends' wife to the wolves and let her get the hemmorhoid rub down.
So this weeks lessons: a. get your butt fixed and b. don't eat before yoga.
If only all of life's lessons were so simple!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Go text yourself.
As the information age and technology continue to grow and take over our daily lives, the way that we communicate is changing rapidly. We communicate quicker than we ever have before rapidly sending emails, voicemails and text messages with the push of a button. I mean, if it weren't for the interweb, my blog wouldn't exist. It would simply be a fifty cent composition book with a hard cover and woven binding, "My Diary" scribbled in permanent marker on the front, modge podged with cutouts from magazines read too many times.
I'm a big fan of the quick communication. I like sending an email to someone at my leisure and getting a response at theirs, often only minutes later. I enjoy chatting with people on social networking sites, having hours long conversations that don't require holding a hot, sweaty phone up to my ear, elbow cramping all the while. I am especially a big fan of text messages for short, simple conversations.
However, as I continue to navigate the world of "relationships", seeking out my perfect soul mate, the text message seems to be making or breaking said relationships. How? It's simple. Any "relationship", be it friendship or other, can be evaluated by the text message.
1. If you text after the hours of 11pm and all the text says is "Yo", the text is not the invitation to begin a conversation, but instead an invitation to copulate... er... it's a freakin' booty call.
2. Text messages should never be received before 8am unless it is an emergency or prior arrangements had been discussed.
2a. DON'T TEXT ME AT 7AM TO SEE IF I WILL WORK FOR YOU AT 2PM, ESPECIALLY WHEN I WAS STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU AT 11PM THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!! Texts should not replace a face to face conversation when the conversation was so simple and could have happened without waking me up! Jerk.
3. Dates should not be made and/or confirmed through text message. This lesson was recently learned the hard way (no pun intended so get your heads out of the gutter!). Said date was scheduled via text message. No communication was had the day of the date, so I knew I was going to be stood up. I decided not to humiliate myself and stayed at home instead. At four o'clock the next afternoon the following text was received:
LL: Yesterday was that spoken word thing wasn't it? Oh shoot, I completely forgot.
First of all, "OH SHOOT"??? WTF? What are you? 60? My mom says oh shoot... not my boyfriends. And it was apparent that you were fully aware of the obligation that you made as you completely avoided communication the entire day when the previous 7 days were filled with text conversations during your lunch break and your evening.
Oh shoot, guess I forgot to respond. Shuckey darns.
Now, there are parts of text messaging that I find enjoyable. For example, I like flirting through text. Sometimes it's just really nice to be able to send a little somethin' somethin' in their general direction to entice them and make sure that they are thinking about you throughout the day. I do NOT condone sending pictures through text of yourself, your body or anything else. (See previous blog regarding the boy who texted me a picture of his erect penis... impressive and disturbing, especially since I'm pretty sure that those weren't HIS flowery pillow cases in the background based on the last time I had been in his bedroom.)
There are other parts of texting that I hate though. This would be the annonymity of it all. I do not know who some texts are from, in which case I generally respond with "Who is this?" or I do not respond at all. Recently, I had a 6 week long fling with a gentleman that I will refer to from this point forward as D. D. is/was a passionate lover (I know, it's geeky but true). He and I had a wonderful time for awhile and then things just started cooling off. I began working more, he wasn't working at all (laid off, but who isn't these days). Here's the lowdown on D.:
*has no job and isn't looking for one
*has been drinking every time that we've talked
*apparently has a couple of kids that he STILL hasn't told me about
*has changed his phone number 4 times, yes, 4 times!!! since I've met him.
When D. texts me, I have no idea who it is and he disappeared, totally M.I.A. for over 4 weeks, then texts me at 2am with "Yo" as the message. The following conversation was had yesterday, times included:
Random number: 2:05am Yo
Random number: 8:39am oh yeah it's d
Random number: 7:24pm so u not tlkin 2 me anymore at all?
Me: 7:56pm Really? I haven't heard from you in like a month and I've been at work all day on a double.
Random number: <7:57pm> oh sorry bout bein mia
Me: 8:03pm Yeah? What happened? Do you even know that T. moved to Wisconsin?
Random number: 8:04pm yea
Random number: 9:46pm so how u been
Now, there are multiple things that bother me regarding this particular text. Emotion is absent. He obviously didn't understand that I wasn't going to respond after not hearing from him for so long. He copped an attitude with ME and then can't type a full sentence or use punctuation. I know for a fact that he owns a phone with a full QWERTY key board so there's no excuse for a lack of vowels, consanants, or ending punctuation.
Guess what... D. now stands for DONE! I'm done!
Make it or break it, but the text message is a helluva way to evaluate a relationship, or lack thereof. Text messaging is great in social situations that require a level of discretion, such as business meetings or large dinners, commenting things that shouldn't be overheard. But don't abuse the privilege. Don't use it as a primary form of communication, only secondary... especially if you're trying to establish a relationship with me. There's nothing sexier than looking into someones eyes while having a deep, heated conversation. The kinetic energy that occurs between two people can't be felt or embraced through some plastic and a computer screen (I'm not knocking internet porn people! But remember, those girls/guys aren't performing for just you... just you and 12 crew members (pun intended), the director, and 4 million other people that are watching the same website you are!)
I'm sure I'll revisit this topic again as there is so much more to say! I didn't even get into confrontation via texts. Til we meet again... go text yourself!
I'm a big fan of the quick communication. I like sending an email to someone at my leisure and getting a response at theirs, often only minutes later. I enjoy chatting with people on social networking sites, having hours long conversations that don't require holding a hot, sweaty phone up to my ear, elbow cramping all the while. I am especially a big fan of text messages for short, simple conversations.
However, as I continue to navigate the world of "relationships", seeking out my perfect soul mate, the text message seems to be making or breaking said relationships. How? It's simple. Any "relationship", be it friendship or other, can be evaluated by the text message.
1. If you text after the hours of 11pm and all the text says is "Yo", the text is not the invitation to begin a conversation, but instead an invitation to copulate... er... it's a freakin' booty call.
2. Text messages should never be received before 8am unless it is an emergency or prior arrangements had been discussed.
2a. DON'T TEXT ME AT 7AM TO SEE IF I WILL WORK FOR YOU AT 2PM, ESPECIALLY WHEN I WAS STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU AT 11PM THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!! Texts should not replace a face to face conversation when the conversation was so simple and could have happened without waking me up! Jerk.
3. Dates should not be made and/or confirmed through text message. This lesson was recently learned the hard way (no pun intended so get your heads out of the gutter!). Said date was scheduled via text message. No communication was had the day of the date, so I knew I was going to be stood up. I decided not to humiliate myself and stayed at home instead. At four o'clock the next afternoon the following text was received:
LL: Yesterday was that spoken word thing wasn't it? Oh shoot, I completely forgot.
First of all, "OH SHOOT"??? WTF? What are you? 60? My mom says oh shoot... not my boyfriends. And it was apparent that you were fully aware of the obligation that you made as you completely avoided communication the entire day when the previous 7 days were filled with text conversations during your lunch break and your evening.
Oh shoot, guess I forgot to respond. Shuckey darns.
Now, there are parts of text messaging that I find enjoyable. For example, I like flirting through text. Sometimes it's just really nice to be able to send a little somethin' somethin' in their general direction to entice them and make sure that they are thinking about you throughout the day. I do NOT condone sending pictures through text of yourself, your body or anything else. (See previous blog regarding the boy who texted me a picture of his erect penis... impressive and disturbing, especially since I'm pretty sure that those weren't HIS flowery pillow cases in the background based on the last time I had been in his bedroom.)
There are other parts of texting that I hate though. This would be the annonymity of it all. I do not know who some texts are from, in which case I generally respond with "Who is this?" or I do not respond at all. Recently, I had a 6 week long fling with a gentleman that I will refer to from this point forward as D. D. is/was a passionate lover (I know, it's geeky but true). He and I had a wonderful time for awhile and then things just started cooling off. I began working more, he wasn't working at all (laid off, but who isn't these days). Here's the lowdown on D.:
*has no job and isn't looking for one
*has been drinking every time that we've talked
*apparently has a couple of kids that he STILL hasn't told me about
*has changed his phone number 4 times, yes, 4 times!!! since I've met him.
When D. texts me, I have no idea who it is and he disappeared, totally M.I.A. for over 4 weeks, then texts me at 2am with "Yo" as the message. The following conversation was had yesterday, times included:
Random number: 2:05am Yo
Random number: 8:39am oh yeah it's d
Random number: 7:24pm so u not tlkin 2 me anymore at all?
Me: 7:56pm Really? I haven't heard from you in like a month and I've been at work all day on a double.
Random number: <7:57pm> oh sorry bout bein mia
Me: 8:03pm Yeah? What happened? Do you even know that T. moved to Wisconsin?
Random number: 8:04pm yea
Random number: 9:46pm so how u been
Now, there are multiple things that bother me regarding this particular text. Emotion is absent. He obviously didn't understand that I wasn't going to respond after not hearing from him for so long. He copped an attitude with ME and then can't type a full sentence or use punctuation. I know for a fact that he owns a phone with a full QWERTY key board so there's no excuse for a lack of vowels, consanants, or ending punctuation.
Guess what... D. now stands for DONE! I'm done!
Make it or break it, but the text message is a helluva way to evaluate a relationship, or lack thereof. Text messaging is great in social situations that require a level of discretion, such as business meetings or large dinners, commenting things that shouldn't be overheard. But don't abuse the privilege. Don't use it as a primary form of communication, only secondary... especially if you're trying to establish a relationship with me. There's nothing sexier than looking into someones eyes while having a deep, heated conversation. The kinetic energy that occurs between two people can't be felt or embraced through some plastic and a computer screen (I'm not knocking internet porn people! But remember, those girls/guys aren't performing for just you... just you and 12 crew members (pun intended), the director, and 4 million other people that are watching the same website you are!)
I'm sure I'll revisit this topic again as there is so much more to say! I didn't even get into confrontation via texts. Til we meet again... go text yourself!