So the new guy is no more per his parting words that if he left tonight, that was the end.
To quote Paramore, "maybe I know somewhere, deep in my soul that love never lasts. And we've got to find other ways to make it alone or keep a straight face. I've always lived like this... keeping a comfortable distance. And up until now, I have sworn to myself that I'm content with loneliness.... because none of it was ever worth the risk."
Along with being completely head over heels for the new guy, I've been privy to the few woodwork guys who've come forth during the theoretical K-Going-Out-of-Business-Sale who've professed their undying love to me, etc.
Why haven't I gone for them? Why have I chosen to stick around for the guy who's not sure after a month whether or not I'm girlfriend material?
Why do I listen to said guy contemplate whether I even rank up with such a title when others would bend over backwards for such? (or so I've heard.) :-)
I've been content being my island thus far.... looks like it's time for more Caribbean tales. Haha :-)
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Foot-in-Mouth Disease - Part 1
Yet another fun first-date story… because, it’s required, right? Well, it should be. Not having a good meeting/first-date story should be grounds for annulment in my book. If you can’t tell that one with some laughs, then you have no business being together in the first place. J
Without further ado, here is the meet-cute of me and The New Guy.
The New Guy.
The New Guy and I met over drinks following a long day at work. I had zero expectations. In fact, I was more looking forward to my delicious chicken dinner waiting for me at home than getting drinks with a relative stranger. Yay for blind dates! :-/
But nonetheless, I went. And within seconds of meeting TNG, I came down with a terrible case of foot-in-mouth disease (not to be confused with foot AND mouth disease – which really is terrible… my fake ailment was tragic at best). I could not say anything right. In fact, I’m not sure whether he felt bad for me and this was part of an outreach program… or he just had nothing better to do… or maybe he really found my ramblings endearing... (My money would be on the second option.)
First horrible interaction of the evening:
(Following several exciting stories of his world travels, etc…)
Me: “So what do you do for work again?”
TNG: “I’m a rep for Generic Financial/Insurance Company.”
Me: (Eek! *Obvious roll-of-the-eyes*)
TNG: “Um…. What was that all about?” (referring to my less-than-stealth eye-rolling).
Me: “Um… nothing. I mean…. Ok… let me explain” (This is where I should have just apologized and changed the subject… but no… I continued) “my ex-boyfriend was not very good… at life. And we ended up breaking up over some financial issues. And months after we broke up he called me to tell me he had gotten a job as a financial rep with Generic Financial/Insurance Company so I just assumed they took anyone. And really… a monkey must be able to do that job if they hired him…”
(and as the word-vomit continued, he sat stunned)
Me: “But, I mean, you’ve done all these wonderful things with your life and now… you just work there?”
...How he didn’t just get up and walk out is beyond me. But I couldn’t stop it. It’s not how I felt about the company OR him – it was just the only association I’d ever had with GF/IC. There was nothing I could really do about it except apologize for my ignorance. And apologize profusely, I did. And blush out of extreme embarrassment, I did as well.
But he hung in there.
Because my foot-in-mouth disease was not anywhere near healed…
More on that later.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Wars are based on religion. :-)
Now don’t get me wrong… I LOVE a good smart guy. Someone who can keep me on my toes and can make me question whether or not I’m right (in a rare case when I am not sure). However, there is a fine line between intelligent and douchey.
Enter: The Master Debater.
The Master Debater and I met for drinks on our first date and we hit it off. We decided that we didn’t want the date to end just yet (since it was only mid-afternoon) so we figured we would see a movie together. It was easier to take one car, so into his little s#%!-box I went (first clue?).
His iPod was hooked up, and if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that a man’s choice of music says a lot about him. Scrolling through the artist list, it was like a little trip through TMD’s inner-workings. While there was definitely a variety of musical genres represented (kudos to him), I apparently was in the mood for some Bob Dylan. Success! “Forever Young” is one of my favorite songs. And he had six versions of it. Not one of which, however, was the one I had on my iPod – the one they play at the opening of the TV show “Parenthood” – the fun, upbeat, not-nearly-as-depressing-as-the-rest version.
Now, I told him that he was missing one of the crucial versions of a classic song. HE responded by telling me that I was crazy – and that said version of that song did not exist. Oh, but it did. And thus began the beginning of my crusade to prove myself right.
Even in the world of smart phones, Google, and YouTube – I could not manage to find “proof” that the upbeat version of “Forever Young” existed before the movie started – the only thing I could find was that the Planet Waves album might be the one that had it (he, however, insisted that he had that album, so no such song existed). While a normal person might concede that the guy with SIX versions of ONE song would be right instead of a girl with only ONE version, that normal person would still be wrong. I seethed throughout the movie. When it was over, and TMD drove me back to my car, I made him come into my car to hear the version I had, which he decided, would be a cover.
But, no dice for the Master Debater… it was indeed Bob Dylan. It was indeed the upbeat version. And it was indeed from Planet Waves.
Katie – 1. TMD – zip.
Fast forward to our second date: another lively topic of discussion comes up – ethnicity – one of my favorites! When people play the ethnicity game with me, they consistently get it wrong. The answer I hear most is “Eastern European” thanks to my dark hair, dark eyes, and light skin. However, then I get to explain that I am a mutt – my dad is mostly English and bits of other various wasp-y origins and my mom is half-Cuban and half-mutt-y as well. To which 99.9% of people reply, “You’re part Cuban? But you don’t look it!” The Master Debater was no exception to this rule.
The second part of my explanation is always due in part to the “You don’t look Cuban!” commentary. I began to explain to him that Cuba is like America where there are Caucasian-Cubans and African-Cubans – and my family was of the Caucasian persuasion. TMD said “no.”
Um… huh?
The Master Debater decided to tell me how wrong I was. He told me that all Cuban’s were African-Cuban. And all Cubans had dark-skin. So I was wrong.
Um… what?
So I began to explain the second part again. He stopped me right away. He said we should agree to disagree.
Um… about history?
It’s not like I was making a subjective statement. Like saying all wars are based on religion. J (Which clearly is not subjective at all, but is an inside joke for one of my favorite readers – thank you all for just going with it!). Regardless, the presence of both Caucasian AND African backgrounds in Cuba is a fact. It’s pretty much black and white. Ha.
So, agree to disagree in some scenarios – I get. But not in this case. I am not conceding that history is subjective – especially the history of my own family. I was pretty sure the next sentence out of that guy’s mouth was going to be something about the Holocaust not being real or that 9/11 was a government conspiracy.
Clearly, that was the end of that date. Debates – I love. People who cannot admit when they’re wrong and ridiculous spouting off the cuff – I can definitely do without.
After all, the Bob Dylan thing… I could have been wrong (even though I wasn’t). The Cuba thing? Come on. Looks like he’ll be debating by himself for a while…
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I think, therefore I am... not?
Well… I just started seeing someone. Henceforth, he shall be known as “The New Guy” (unless things go sour – then, of course, he’ll receive a more descriptive moniker which I hope not to use anytime soon). J So, yeah, The New Guy and I just started seeing each other, and of course he was unaware of “The Middle Headache” until I let it slip. And then he ‘let it slip’… to his sister, his father, and I’m not sure how many other impressionable people whom I have yet to meet but who now have entirely too much insight on me. Keeping that in mind, I obviously will be keeping The New Guy out of my postings as much as possible. (And I will be praying that I make a fabulous first impression when/if I meet the sister/father/insert-other-relative-here in order to make up for this blog… )
That being said, to the past we go!
Jim.
I’m still not entirely ready to share the whole Jim story/fiasco, but some new information recently came to light that makes for an interesting piece of trivia I’d like to share with you here. The background information you do need to know before I continue is… Jim and I dated during his senior year (my freshman year) of college and the following summer. Jim was my first real love. And Jim broke my heart in a way that if our relationship had been a movie, the audience would be sure it was pure Hollywood – and that people don’t really do that in real life.
So the interesting piece of trivia… Jim wrote a book about his senior year of college. Yep. That year. The year we were together. I had heard about said book a year or so ago but figured it was more or less about his trials and tribulations of his prison-like college experience, and that perhaps, he might leave out the girlfriend part of that year altogether since there was more than enough fodder for a book with the school experience itself.
And then I did a quick search of the book online. And there was a review that read something to the effect of Jim’s recollection of his college experience being so universal… including the relationship aspect. Uggh. Now I have to read the book. He talks about relationships… which was obviously about our relationship – as I knew for a fact he didn’t date much prior to me and we were pretty serious for that while year in question.
So, by now, you might be thinking to yourself, “K. Why would you want to read that? It might be pretty hard to read.” And I answer that by asking you, dear reader, how could I not?
Being a self-published book, I didn’t want to order it myself, so I had my best friend from college order it. I started to forget the whole thing until the other day, when my phone rang:
Me: Hello?
BFFC: Hey there. I’m reading a pretty interesting book.
Me: (Oh God.) Oh yeah?
BFFC: Yeah, I wasn’t sure whether or not he would talk about relationships, but I skimmed through and there was at least one chapter purely dedicated to relationships… and…
Me: (Oh God.) Oh man…
BFFC: Yeah… you don’t exist.
Me: Huh?
BFFC: You don’t exist. It’s not like he just referred to you as a generic girlfriend or anything. And he does talk about some girl he went on one date with and how she was the one who got away. But, he specifically says he was single… during his entire time at college.
Me: Huh?
BFFC: Yeah. You don’t exist.
I don’t know if it would’ve been worse to read insight into our relationship or not, but I can’t help but feel entirely weirded out by the fact that, according to BFFC, EVERYTHING else is pretty accurate and he uses real names and everything. But he completely erased my existence from his world. (Sounds a little Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-y to me.)
I have yet to read the book. And BFFC has yet to read it in it’s entirety. But I’m pretty sure when I do, I will find the same thing – that I was removed from stories. That I am erasable – not forgettable or unimportant – because if I was, mentioning me would not have been a big deal, right?
Regardless, this was years ago… but I just find it odd the way some people actually do exist.
So far, in this blog alone, I’ve been stalked, condemned to Hell, ditched at a restaurant, etc, etc, etc… and now, my new favorite guy-move…
…erased from existence.
Not to wax philosophical or anything, but Descartes would tend to disagree.
Photo Credit: Brian Hillegas
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Apparently, there were movies there, too...
Where to begin?!? This past week has been quite eventful to say the least. Since it is fresh in my mind, here are some fun little stories from my experience with the local film festival... The "Guy-related" edition.
The Actor and The Writer/Director.
The arts are in my blood. I have been eating, sleeping, and breathing the arts since the age of two. Whether it be dancing, singing, acting, viewing or working on a production (of any kind) - I can't help but be drawn to the world of entertainment. Thus, I spent my weekend volunteering for the local film festival.
While the experience of working for the festival is almost worthy of a posting in and of itself, I'd rather focus on the blog-related incidents that crossed my path... First, there was The Actor.
The Actor was there to promote his new documentary - and for some reason, I (the Newbie!) was the Venue Manager for the location where his film was premiering... and where he would be in attendance. *Side note: Up until 2 days before, I was not even sure of The Actor's real name - I am not actually a fan of his super-popular HBO Series. In fact, I've never seen an episode. I only recognized his face from one of my favorite late-90's teeny-bopper flicks. I was a stellar Venue Manager - thank God, I didn't have to introduce him or anything.* Anyhow, long story short (because The Actor Story is not nearly as interesting as The Writer/Director Story) everyone knew The Actor was coming that day, and they were all very excited. When he finally came into the lobby (as he clearly didn't want to screen his own movie, he preferred to just go in for the last few minutes and do his Q&A and Press Conference), all the other people were star-struck. Mind you, moments before I had been hearing how much everyone loved The Actor and couldn't wait to meet him. Now, they were all nothing but popsicles. Everyone frozen. So I introduced myself and got him to take pictures with us all. Mission accomplished. What was his name again?
Well, The Actor was supposed to go to the Festival After-Party that night, but I was so tired that I didn't end up going. Working the festival makes for a long day... throw volunteering for yet ANOTHER cause this same weekend, and that makes for a very tired K. It was all I could do to make it on time for my shift today.
But I did make it back to the Film Fesitval today, and towards the end of my shift as Venue Manager in location number two, I started to notice one of the guys with an "Artist" lanyard hanging out by my table... periodically trying to make small talk with me. Next thing I know, the night is over and I have to close up the venue. I call up one of the Festival Big Wigs to see what he'd like me to do with the cash box, and he tells me to bring it to the After Party (guess there's no getting out of this one). ;-)
The "Artist" overhears this conversation, waits for the space to clear out, tells me I'm "very pretty" and then asks if we can meet up at the After Party. Um... ok... but only because I have to go. I'm not staying long.
So I head over to the After Party, and as I'm waiting outside of the venue, who walks up right behind me? You guessed it... the "Artist". No need to introduce himself, everyone around me knows him. Apparently, he's one of the writer/directors of one of the films submitted to the festival... and instead of schmoozing with the other industry players... he starts chatting me up.
We finally make it inside the venue - more industry players abound - actors, writers, directors, etc as far as the eye can see. The Writer/Director asks to buy me a drink. Um... ok... but only because I've waited outside for so long, I might as well get some sort of payoff.
The Writer/Director literally spends the entire evening talking to me. Asking me anything and everything - fascinated that I didn't know who he was (nor did I really care). He told me about himself, but my life story seemed to be his real focus (as much as I tried to change the subject - at no avail).
I mentioned that I had worked at The Actor's venue the day before, to which he told me that he already knew that tidbit. He had seen me there.
Awww.... that's flattering... and also a little creepy.
You know what else was creepy? The ring on his left hand. Not the ring itself, but the fact that he was wearing one. Not only was he one of the most persistent men to ever hit on me, but he seemed genuinely interested in me as a person... and not just the me under my clothes. So the fact that he was wearing a ring, that was a little sad to me as a woman. Boys suck - in any line of work or station in life.
So the night drags on and while he went to get another round of drinks (which he subsequently spilled on another famous actress/director nearby), I quickly put my coat back on and worked my way to the door. He saw me pass buy and immediately offered me more drinks, extra passes for tomorrow's festival selections, a free copy of his film, whatever I wanted...
But you know what? Married or not, he gave me something I needed more than anything else... the ego-boost of the year!
...And a good story to tell...
Guess who's definitely signing up to work next year's festival?
The Actor and The Writer/Director.
The arts are in my blood. I have been eating, sleeping, and breathing the arts since the age of two. Whether it be dancing, singing, acting, viewing or working on a production (of any kind) - I can't help but be drawn to the world of entertainment. Thus, I spent my weekend volunteering for the local film festival.
While the experience of working for the festival is almost worthy of a posting in and of itself, I'd rather focus on the blog-related incidents that crossed my path... First, there was The Actor.
The Actor was there to promote his new documentary - and for some reason, I (the Newbie!) was the Venue Manager for the location where his film was premiering... and where he would be in attendance. *Side note: Up until 2 days before, I was not even sure of The Actor's real name - I am not actually a fan of his super-popular HBO Series. In fact, I've never seen an episode. I only recognized his face from one of my favorite late-90's teeny-bopper flicks. I was a stellar Venue Manager - thank God, I didn't have to introduce him or anything.* Anyhow, long story short (because The Actor Story is not nearly as interesting as The Writer/Director Story) everyone knew The Actor was coming that day, and they were all very excited. When he finally came into the lobby (as he clearly didn't want to screen his own movie, he preferred to just go in for the last few minutes and do his Q&A and Press Conference), all the other people were star-struck. Mind you, moments before I had been hearing how much everyone loved The Actor and couldn't wait to meet him. Now, they were all nothing but popsicles. Everyone frozen. So I introduced myself and got him to take pictures with us all. Mission accomplished. What was his name again?
Well, The Actor was supposed to go to the Festival After-Party that night, but I was so tired that I didn't end up going. Working the festival makes for a long day... throw volunteering for yet ANOTHER cause this same weekend, and that makes for a very tired K. It was all I could do to make it on time for my shift today.
But I did make it back to the Film Fesitval today, and towards the end of my shift as Venue Manager in location number two, I started to notice one of the guys with an "Artist" lanyard hanging out by my table... periodically trying to make small talk with me. Next thing I know, the night is over and I have to close up the venue. I call up one of the Festival Big Wigs to see what he'd like me to do with the cash box, and he tells me to bring it to the After Party (guess there's no getting out of this one). ;-)
The "Artist" overhears this conversation, waits for the space to clear out, tells me I'm "very pretty" and then asks if we can meet up at the After Party. Um... ok... but only because I have to go. I'm not staying long.
So I head over to the After Party, and as I'm waiting outside of the venue, who walks up right behind me? You guessed it... the "Artist". No need to introduce himself, everyone around me knows him. Apparently, he's one of the writer/directors of one of the films submitted to the festival... and instead of schmoozing with the other industry players... he starts chatting me up.
We finally make it inside the venue - more industry players abound - actors, writers, directors, etc as far as the eye can see. The Writer/Director asks to buy me a drink. Um... ok... but only because I've waited outside for so long, I might as well get some sort of payoff.
The Writer/Director literally spends the entire evening talking to me. Asking me anything and everything - fascinated that I didn't know who he was (nor did I really care). He told me about himself, but my life story seemed to be his real focus (as much as I tried to change the subject - at no avail).
I mentioned that I had worked at The Actor's venue the day before, to which he told me that he already knew that tidbit. He had seen me there.
Awww.... that's flattering... and also a little creepy.
You know what else was creepy? The ring on his left hand. Not the ring itself, but the fact that he was wearing one. Not only was he one of the most persistent men to ever hit on me, but he seemed genuinely interested in me as a person... and not just the me under my clothes. So the fact that he was wearing a ring, that was a little sad to me as a woman. Boys suck - in any line of work or station in life.
So the night drags on and while he went to get another round of drinks (which he subsequently spilled on another famous actress/director nearby), I quickly put my coat back on and worked my way to the door. He saw me pass buy and immediately offered me more drinks, extra passes for tomorrow's festival selections, a free copy of his film, whatever I wanted...
But you know what? Married or not, he gave me something I needed more than anything else... the ego-boost of the year!
...And a good story to tell...
Guess who's definitely signing up to work next year's festival?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Solo Cups and Disney World. (Now try to figure out the connection...)
I spent this past weekend with my best friend from college... so get ready for some old-school dating gems. :-) BFF helped me remember some classic guy-related moments from our college days - some of which are appropriate to share - some of which I'll be taking to my grave... (She'd better, too.)
Winston. Sleepy Pete. Walt. The Hick. Conversational Rob. Neil. The Military Guy. Special Paul. ...and that was just a sampling of the stories we started remembering... (fondly?!?!)
Here's a sample story to get you started, while I figure out which of my other stories are blog-worthy.
Perfect Bill.
We'd definitely made our way around Frat Row at the guys' college we used to frequent. (Let's be honest, going to a womens' college did not always make for the best weekend events.) So by the time we made our way to the Dry Frat's house on Frat Row, the beer goggles were securely on. (Side note: Being a "dry frat" apparently just meant you had to drink your alcohol from a red Solo cup.) While my BG's have been everywhere on the spectrum from Beer Contacts to Beer Cataracts - this was just a plain ol' Beer Goggle night I'm about to recall.
I have always had a pretty set list of what I was looking for in my "perfect guy" and, for some reason, I did not put it out of my head even when I was drunk at a frat party. (Because, clearly, that's when I was going to meet the love of my life, right?!? *My apologies to my BFF who DID indeed meet the love of her life at a frat party - haha - you are the exception to that rule.) So anyway, let's recap... I'm drunk. At a frat party. A DRY frat party. With a list in my head of my ideal guy.
Enter Bill.
And this is apparently what went down. I met Bill - had a five minute conversation - decided he was "the one" - and went off to find my BFF to tell her the good news! "Hey BFF!!! I've met the PERFECT guy!!!! He's Republican. He likes dogs AND Disney. He's perfect!" Check. Check. Check. ....and that was it. Obviously those are THE three defining factors needed to establish a lifelong connection. Did I mention he was also a hot mess (inside AND out)? Man, my standards were high! And my friend was so impressed by all of this (or rather entertained) that she not only agreed... she egged me on... he WAS perfect. Go K!
And so I went.
Until the beer goggles wore off.
I later found out that Perfect Bill married some 17-year-old Canadian girl while he was still at college. She claimed her step-dad was Bon Jovi and her step-sister was the 80's pop icon Tiffany. (How VH1 Behind the Music missed out on this family connection is beyond me!?!?) ;-)
Man, am I kicking myself now. The world is severely lacking other Republican, dog-loving, Disney fans! Don't I know it...
Winston. Sleepy Pete. Walt. The Hick. Conversational Rob. Neil. The Military Guy. Special Paul. ...and that was just a sampling of the stories we started remembering... (fondly?!?!)
Here's a sample story to get you started, while I figure out which of my other stories are blog-worthy.
Perfect Bill.
We'd definitely made our way around Frat Row at the guys' college we used to frequent. (Let's be honest, going to a womens' college did not always make for the best weekend events.) So by the time we made our way to the Dry Frat's house on Frat Row, the beer goggles were securely on. (Side note: Being a "dry frat" apparently just meant you had to drink your alcohol from a red Solo cup.) While my BG's have been everywhere on the spectrum from Beer Contacts to Beer Cataracts - this was just a plain ol' Beer Goggle night I'm about to recall.
I have always had a pretty set list of what I was looking for in my "perfect guy" and, for some reason, I did not put it out of my head even when I was drunk at a frat party. (Because, clearly, that's when I was going to meet the love of my life, right?!? *My apologies to my BFF who DID indeed meet the love of her life at a frat party - haha - you are the exception to that rule.) So anyway, let's recap... I'm drunk. At a frat party. A DRY frat party. With a list in my head of my ideal guy.
Enter Bill.
And this is apparently what went down. I met Bill - had a five minute conversation - decided he was "the one" - and went off to find my BFF to tell her the good news! "Hey BFF!!! I've met the PERFECT guy!!!! He's Republican. He likes dogs AND Disney. He's perfect!" Check. Check. Check. ....and that was it. Obviously those are THE three defining factors needed to establish a lifelong connection. Did I mention he was also a hot mess (inside AND out)? Man, my standards were high! And my friend was so impressed by all of this (or rather entertained) that she not only agreed... she egged me on... he WAS perfect. Go K!
And so I went.
Until the beer goggles wore off.
I later found out that Perfect Bill married some 17-year-old Canadian girl while he was still at college. She claimed her step-dad was Bon Jovi and her step-sister was the 80's pop icon Tiffany. (How VH1 Behind the Music missed out on this family connection is beyond me!?!?) ;-)
Man, am I kicking myself now. The world is severely lacking other Republican, dog-loving, Disney fans! Don't I know it...
Monday, September 27, 2010
OK, Universe... I get it.
Here’s a fun little parable...
A farmer is in Iowa during a flood. The river is overflowing. Water is surrounding the farmer’s home up to his front porch. As he is standing there, a boat comes up. The man in the boat says, “Jump in, and I’ll take you to safety.”
The farmer crosses his arms and says stubbornly, “Oh no thanks, I put my trust in God.” The boat goes away. The water rises to the second story. Another boat comes up. The man says to the farmer, who is now at the second floor window, “Hurry, jump in. I’ll save you.”
The farmer again says, “Oh no thanks, I put my trust in God.”
The boat goes away. Now the water is inching over the roof. As the farmer stands on the roof, a helicopter comes over, and drops a ladder. The pilot yells down to the farmer, “I’ll save you. Climb the ladder.”
The farmer yells back, “Oh no thanks, I put my trust in God.”
The helicopter goes away. The water continues to rise and sweeps the farmer off the roof into the swiftly moving water. Unfortunately, he drowns.
The farmer goes to heaven. God sees him and says, “What are you doing here?”
The farmer says, “I put my trust in you, and you let me down.”
God says, “What do you mean, let you down? I sent you two boats and a helicopter!”
… So I’m thinking perhaps I’ve been sent waaaaay more than a few boats and helicopters in my day. There’s a good possibility I may be a little pickier than I should be. But should I be settling for less than ‘the thump?’ (Some may call it “butterflies”, some may call it “lust” or even “love” – but it’s all the same… it’s the thing we’re hoping for when we meet someone and ideally hit it off).
Not that I’m trying to get religious here, so I’ll just use the term ‘universe’ – but I kind of think there is a fixed number of ‘boats’ the universe is actually going to send me…
…and let’s just say they’ve been more of the dingy persuasion rather than yachts. ;-)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Best. Breakup. Ever.
"It's not you. It's me." "We want different things in life." "Either you're not the right girl or it's not the right time." Of all the crappy lines I've been thrown at the end of a "relationship" (and I use that term loosely), Steve's was the best.
Steve... the Saint.
Let me give you a little background first. I went to college in the deep south - the bible-thumping, NASCAR-loving, grits-eating, closed-on-Sunday - south. And I... went to a liberal women's college in the middle of it all. (Get it?)
Ok. Moving on.
So while I was down there, I worked at the local bar where I met Steve. Steve worked at a bar. Steve drank like a fish. Steve smoked Newport Menthols (among other things). Steve partied like a rockstar. And... Steve went to THE most prominent religious university in the area. (And unbeknownst to me, considered himself a saint, or something along those lines.)
(Side note: I never understood the Steve-oxymoron as it was my understanding that going to Bible U. meant you had to shun all things of pleasure and basically resign yourself to four years in your little Church-School-Church-Study-Church-Bed-Wakeup-Repeat bubble.)
Apparently, Steve liked to walk the line between the real world and Bible U.'s brainwashing, because he dated me and the God-thing really never became an issue until.... the end.
Steve cornered me one afternoon as we "needed to talk" (yeah... that usually means something good, doesn't it?!?). He didn't give me the ol' "It's not you. It's me." crap. No. It was me. And he was going to tell me why...
Ready for the reason???
He said he had to break up with me because I AM GOING TO HELL.
Apparently, since I was not a Reformed Presbyterian (essentially a Calvinist), I was clearly going to hell. And Steve wanted all of his loved ones with him in Heaven when he died. So, knowing I wouldn't be there... he didn't want to date me anymore. It was too hard.
Let me say that again, but just the gist.
Steve. Broke up with me. Because I am going to hell.
A guy... condemned me to hell.
Best. Breakup. Ever.
Amen.
Photo Credit: Natalie Maynor
Steve... the Saint.
Let me give you a little background first. I went to college in the deep south - the bible-thumping, NASCAR-loving, grits-eating, closed-on-Sunday - south. And I... went to a liberal women's college in the middle of it all. (Get it?)
Ok. Moving on.
So while I was down there, I worked at the local bar where I met Steve. Steve worked at a bar. Steve drank like a fish. Steve smoked Newport Menthols (among other things). Steve partied like a rockstar. And... Steve went to THE most prominent religious university in the area. (And unbeknownst to me, considered himself a saint, or something along those lines.)
(Side note: I never understood the Steve-oxymoron as it was my understanding that going to Bible U. meant you had to shun all things of pleasure and basically resign yourself to four years in your little Church-School-Church-Study-Church-Bed-Wakeup-Repeat bubble.)
Apparently, Steve liked to walk the line between the real world and Bible U.'s brainwashing, because he dated me and the God-thing really never became an issue until.... the end.
Steve cornered me one afternoon as we "needed to talk" (yeah... that usually means something good, doesn't it?!?). He didn't give me the ol' "It's not you. It's me." crap. No. It was me. And he was going to tell me why...
Ready for the reason???
He said he had to break up with me because I AM GOING TO HELL.
Apparently, since I was not a Reformed Presbyterian (essentially a Calvinist), I was clearly going to hell. And Steve wanted all of his loved ones with him in Heaven when he died. So, knowing I wouldn't be there... he didn't want to date me anymore. It was too hard.
Let me say that again, but just the gist.
Steve. Broke up with me. Because I am going to hell.
A guy... condemned me to hell.
Best. Breakup. Ever.
Amen.
Photo Credit: Natalie Maynor
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Game, Set, Match.
There's a new CB in town... (well, let's go with CG - Current Guy.... I'm upgrading from Boy)... and there's a good possibility he reads my blog, so I am going to refrain from writing about him for the time being. :-)
So, let's revisit some older stories...
Brett vs. Mr. Perfect
Brett and I went on our first date three years before our second date. Side note: he may actually be the inspiration for me writing this blog - as we had talked about writing a book together at one point - a book about the the three years in between the first date, the myriad of random dates in between, and the theoretical happily-ever-after that followed the second date (which was more of a happily-three-months-or-so-after).
Obviously there was a connection with Brett, but I couldn't get past his overly-charming, seemingly player-like personality. So our second first date, luckily, was followed by a first date with Mr. Perfect. And my head and my heart had a hard time deciding between the two.
Valentine's Day was the following weekend, and the big question was 'who would be my Valentine'? Mr. Perfect or Brett? I decided to do the big Saturday night event with Mr. Perfect and then meet Brett on Sunday for day-after festivities. But I hit it off with Mr. Perfect - Valentine's Day was perfect.
I met my best friend for brunch the next day to weigh the options, and I decided, why go down the Brett-road (that never got off the ground three years prior anyway) when I have a great guy right in front of me? Case closed. My head won (suck it, heart.) I called Brett from the parking lot and told him I wouldn't be meeting him for lunch that day... or ever.
And that was the end of that.
Except it wasn't. I thought I had made my decision. But Brett didn't give up. He called, emailed, sent carrier pigeons, anything he could think of to get me to give him a chance. And after finally wearing me down, I agreed to meet up with him one more time... After all, I was pretty set on the fact that I was going to see where things were going with Mr. Perfect.
But my head was obviously taking a backseat to my heart, because when I saw Brett for that third time. I knew that was what I wanted. Clearly, it wasn't what I needed - but game, set, match nonetheless. In retrospect, I don't think I made the wrong choice - because it seemed right at the time. The months that followed with Brett were some of the best (and worst) of my life (more on that later).
...but if I'd listened to my head? If I'd chosen Mr. Perfect? Would he really have lived up to his moniker?
And if so, I may have never have met my new CG :-)
So, let's revisit some older stories...
Brett vs. Mr. Perfect
Brett and I went on our first date three years before our second date. Side note: he may actually be the inspiration for me writing this blog - as we had talked about writing a book together at one point - a book about the the three years in between the first date, the myriad of random dates in between, and the theoretical happily-ever-after that followed the second date (which was more of a happily-three-months-or-so-after).
Obviously there was a connection with Brett, but I couldn't get past his overly-charming, seemingly player-like personality. So our second first date, luckily, was followed by a first date with Mr. Perfect. And my head and my heart had a hard time deciding between the two.
Valentine's Day was the following weekend, and the big question was 'who would be my Valentine'? Mr. Perfect or Brett? I decided to do the big Saturday night event with Mr. Perfect and then meet Brett on Sunday for day-after festivities. But I hit it off with Mr. Perfect - Valentine's Day was perfect.
I met my best friend for brunch the next day to weigh the options, and I decided, why go down the Brett-road (that never got off the ground three years prior anyway) when I have a great guy right in front of me? Case closed. My head won (suck it, heart.) I called Brett from the parking lot and told him I wouldn't be meeting him for lunch that day... or ever.
And that was the end of that.
Except it wasn't. I thought I had made my decision. But Brett didn't give up. He called, emailed, sent carrier pigeons, anything he could think of to get me to give him a chance. And after finally wearing me down, I agreed to meet up with him one more time... After all, I was pretty set on the fact that I was going to see where things were going with Mr. Perfect.
But my head was obviously taking a backseat to my heart, because when I saw Brett for that third time. I knew that was what I wanted. Clearly, it wasn't what I needed - but game, set, match nonetheless. In retrospect, I don't think I made the wrong choice - because it seemed right at the time. The months that followed with Brett were some of the best (and worst) of my life (more on that later).
...but if I'd listened to my head? If I'd chosen Mr. Perfect? Would he really have lived up to his moniker?
And if so, I may have never have met my new CG :-)
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
CB Update.
I'm pretty sure CB (Current Boy) needs a new name. More than likely, he'll soon be known as "the guy formerly known as CB" or some more nondescript moniker like "Mr. Coach" I think that works fine... we'll go with that.
Mr. Coach.
He's totally not "my type" - and let's be honest, I have a type. Oh lordy, do I have a type (5'10", brown/brown, medium build, clean cut, tattooed, military-types pretty much sums it up). Well, Mr. Coach is short, has auburn/reddish hair, and no tattoos to speak of. He is wicked outdoorsy and lives too far for my taste. But since "my type" hasn't really been working - I figured... why not? I'll give it a try.
And for all the things that don't work, there are several things that do. Like the fact that there is always something to talk about - but we NEVER talk about past relationships. We have the same schedule (which is almost impossible to find in a guy). We both like country music (among other types). He's a teacher/coach, so he likes kids - bonus. We have a good meeting story. And he kisses right.
But he doesn't seem to like me the way I want him to. I think dating several wonderful guys over the years really raised the bar to what I want to get out of a relationship - especially in the early stages. At the risk of sounding cliche - he just isn't that into me. (Which, by the way, is a very valid point - incessantly driven home over and over again by my best guy friend/dating confidant).
But maybe I'm just not that into him as well? Or I'd clearly be a little more broke up over the fact that he hasn't called. But then again, I haven't called him either. And I hear these phone things work both ways.
So am I sad that Mr. Coach may no longer be my CB? Apparently not. And that says a lot.
I guess that means I'm currently accepting applications for a new CB.
Inquire within.
Mr. Coach.
He's totally not "my type" - and let's be honest, I have a type. Oh lordy, do I have a type (5'10", brown/brown, medium build, clean cut, tattooed, military-types pretty much sums it up). Well, Mr. Coach is short, has auburn/reddish hair, and no tattoos to speak of. He is wicked outdoorsy and lives too far for my taste. But since "my type" hasn't really been working - I figured... why not? I'll give it a try.
And for all the things that don't work, there are several things that do. Like the fact that there is always something to talk about - but we NEVER talk about past relationships. We have the same schedule (which is almost impossible to find in a guy). We both like country music (among other types). He's a teacher/coach, so he likes kids - bonus. We have a good meeting story. And he kisses right.
But he doesn't seem to like me the way I want him to. I think dating several wonderful guys over the years really raised the bar to what I want to get out of a relationship - especially in the early stages. At the risk of sounding cliche - he just isn't that into me. (Which, by the way, is a very valid point - incessantly driven home over and over again by my best guy friend/dating confidant).
But maybe I'm just not that into him as well? Or I'd clearly be a little more broke up over the fact that he hasn't called. But then again, I haven't called him either. And I hear these phone things work both ways.
So am I sad that Mr. Coach may no longer be my CB? Apparently not. And that says a lot.
I guess that means I'm currently accepting applications for a new CB.
Inquire within.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Thirty-Year-Plan
My Thirty-Year-Plan is getting married. So... there goes my plan. And since I'm nearing thirty myself (not tomorrow... but soon, nonetheless) I figured I should pay homage to him (and he may or may not read this blog - so I'll be nice). :-)
Thirty-Year-Plan
The timing was never quite right with Thirty-Year-Plan. I think I met him literally seconds after I met Jim - the best/worst thing ever to happen to me and whom I've chosen not to write about just yet. So like I said, the timing wasn't right at first meeting. Hell, I wasn't right at first meeting. (Umm... college party, anyone?) I'm pretty sure it was because of my altered state that I was able to meet him at all. I'm not sure how we actually started talking, but I know that I decided early-on in the conversation that TYP was going to be my new best friend. And that was that.
We had our Tuesday Night Movie Club (which lasted for, I believe, two weeks). He listened to me talk about my new boyfriend (begrudgingly). He let me paint his nails (also begrudgingly... and I have the pictures to prove it). He hooked up with my (female) best friend (which was a funny story in and of itself, but is not mine to tell). And he patiently waited in the wings (aside from the BFF hookup) playing his own version of Survivor - trying to Outwit, Outplay, Outlast - the new boyfriend, Jim.
And he did outlast Jim... in theory. But TYP dated other people during the meantime - so when I became single, he was not. The timing was never right. So we made a pact - if we were both single in ten years (age 30) - WE would get married. And why not? All of the pieces fit... except the timing.
But I left college shortly thereafter, and only saw TYP one more time during a visit a year or so later. Since then, we've kept in touch thanks to MySpace and now Facebook. Every once in a while, I'll get a random text or phone call and my mind goes back. And every once in a while, a picture of him and his new fiancee shows up on my newsfeed and I realize... that train has sailed (*sigh* Austin Powers reference).
But I'm happy for him. And although our conversations are not as frequent, I still get butterflies when I see a message from him in my inbox. I wish him nothing but the best with his fiancee, but I can't help but have the slightest bit of jealousy... because for the past eight years or so... that was me.
His un-official fiancee.
His Thirty-Year-Plan.
Thirty-Year-Plan
The timing was never quite right with Thirty-Year-Plan. I think I met him literally seconds after I met Jim - the best/worst thing ever to happen to me and whom I've chosen not to write about just yet. So like I said, the timing wasn't right at first meeting. Hell, I wasn't right at first meeting. (Umm... college party, anyone?) I'm pretty sure it was because of my altered state that I was able to meet him at all. I'm not sure how we actually started talking, but I know that I decided early-on in the conversation that TYP was going to be my new best friend. And that was that.
We had our Tuesday Night Movie Club (which lasted for, I believe, two weeks). He listened to me talk about my new boyfriend (begrudgingly). He let me paint his nails (also begrudgingly... and I have the pictures to prove it). He hooked up with my (female) best friend (which was a funny story in and of itself, but is not mine to tell). And he patiently waited in the wings (aside from the BFF hookup) playing his own version of Survivor - trying to Outwit, Outplay, Outlast - the new boyfriend, Jim.
And he did outlast Jim... in theory. But TYP dated other people during the meantime - so when I became single, he was not. The timing was never right. So we made a pact - if we were both single in ten years (age 30) - WE would get married. And why not? All of the pieces fit... except the timing.
But I left college shortly thereafter, and only saw TYP one more time during a visit a year or so later. Since then, we've kept in touch thanks to MySpace and now Facebook. Every once in a while, I'll get a random text or phone call and my mind goes back. And every once in a while, a picture of him and his new fiancee shows up on my newsfeed and I realize... that train has sailed (*sigh* Austin Powers reference).
But I'm happy for him. And although our conversations are not as frequent, I still get butterflies when I see a message from him in my inbox. I wish him nothing but the best with his fiancee, but I can't help but have the slightest bit of jealousy... because for the past eight years or so... that was me.
His un-official fiancee.
His Thirty-Year-Plan.
The Million-Dollar Question
I had lunch the other day with a former fling who currently reads my blog. Apart from the original "so when/what are you going to write about me/us?" question I get ALL the time now... he posed another interesting question:
"K, you write about all of these dates that you go on.... and how they never go right, etc... With all due respect, have you ever thought the problem might be you?"
Gee... thanks. That thought has NEVER crossed my mind.
If I had a nickel for every time someone threw that line at me, I'd be rich. So, ok, I'll bite. What's my problem? Is it that I have such low standards that I go out with pretty much anyone? I will sadly admit that I have a very Anne-Frank-like mindset most of the time (deep down everyone is good at heart) and I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt (however naive that may be). Or is it that I make bad choices? (Oh to reform a bad-boy... Isn't that every girl's secret dream?) Am I "too picky" with my bad choices and low standards that I never get past the first couple of dates? Or am I afraid of commitment? Or is it something else? A combination of the above?
I like to think that there's no right answer and he was asking more rhetorically. (Delusion is a wonderful thing) :-)
To answer the question, would be a little too much self-insight for this gal.
I just throw it out to slim-pickings. Being my late-20s now, dating is kind of like second-round draft picks. Most guys in my dating-pool age-range now are either taken, divorced, single fathers, or are toting some other kind of baggage. And let's be honest, much older means waaaay more of the aforementioned. And much younger... well, I just won't go there... again.
So... yeah.... is the problem me? Or is the problem just dating in general?
I don't think my stories or experiences are all that different from anyone else...
Are they?
"K, you write about all of these dates that you go on.... and how they never go right, etc... With all due respect, have you ever thought the problem might be you?"
Gee... thanks. That thought has NEVER crossed my mind.
If I had a nickel for every time someone threw that line at me, I'd be rich. So, ok, I'll bite. What's my problem? Is it that I have such low standards that I go out with pretty much anyone? I will sadly admit that I have a very Anne-Frank-like mindset most of the time (deep down everyone is good at heart) and I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt (however naive that may be). Or is it that I make bad choices? (Oh to reform a bad-boy... Isn't that every girl's secret dream?) Am I "too picky" with my bad choices and low standards that I never get past the first couple of dates? Or am I afraid of commitment? Or is it something else? A combination of the above?
I like to think that there's no right answer and he was asking more rhetorically. (Delusion is a wonderful thing) :-)
To answer the question, would be a little too much self-insight for this gal.
I just throw it out to slim-pickings. Being my late-20s now, dating is kind of like second-round draft picks. Most guys in my dating-pool age-range now are either taken, divorced, single fathers, or are toting some other kind of baggage. And let's be honest, much older means waaaay more of the aforementioned. And much younger... well, I just won't go there... again.
So... yeah.... is the problem me? Or is the problem just dating in general?
I don't think my stories or experiences are all that different from anyone else...
Are they?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
What I learned at lunch.... (reposted from a previous blog 8/26/09)
I had heard most of these before... and figured (naively hoped) some were just old-fashioned generalizations that did not apply nowadays, but alas, this is straight from the 30-Something-Guy's mouth...
In no particular order...
1. A guy can/will not decide whether or not he even likes you until several weeks/months of you wondering have passed.
2. Said guy will, however, decide whether or not he wants to "hit that" within moments of meeting.
3. "Hitting that" within the first month of dating guarantees that point #1 will most likely be a "like her enough to continue to sleep with her, but not enough to call her my girlfriend"
4. "Hanging out" does not count as "dating".
5. If a guy doesn't pursue you daily (ie. call/text/send carrier pigeon) - he's really not interested.
6. Girl should not be hanging out with the guy's friends alone unless a title has been previously established (ie. bf/gf or husband/wife). Moreover, girl really should not be hanging out with guy's friends alone. Period. Guy's friends should respect the 'mancode' and not allow this to happen in the first place.
7. Girls can, however, have guy friends - but this is not preferable.
8. Co-ed softball leagues never lead to anything but drama.
9. Over time, the 80-20 rule (you should love 80% of a person and put up with the other 20%) will be downgraded to 50-50.
10. There is no chance of getting married past the ripe old age of 31. Resign yourself as a lifelong bachelor now, gentlemen.
11. If you're not invited to the party... you're not the front runner.
12. If a guy is casually dating a girl, he's casually dating 4-5 other girls at the same time as well.
13. That means she's dating other guys, too, most likely.
14. A drunk foursome is not the beginning of a thriving romance.
Note: 30-Something-Guy continued to give me more... but I chose to leave them out :-)
In no particular order...
1. A guy can/will not decide whether or not he even likes you until several weeks/months of you wondering have passed.
2. Said guy will, however, decide whether or not he wants to "hit that" within moments of meeting.
3. "Hitting that" within the first month of dating guarantees that point #1 will most likely be a "like her enough to continue to sleep with her, but not enough to call her my girlfriend"
4. "Hanging out" does not count as "dating".
5. If a guy doesn't pursue you daily (ie. call/text/send carrier pigeon) - he's really not interested.
6. Girl should not be hanging out with the guy's friends alone unless a title has been previously established (ie. bf/gf or husband/wife). Moreover, girl really should not be hanging out with guy's friends alone. Period. Guy's friends should respect the 'mancode' and not allow this to happen in the first place.
7. Girls can, however, have guy friends - but this is not preferable.
8. Co-ed softball leagues never lead to anything but drama.
9. Over time, the 80-20 rule (you should love 80% of a person and put up with the other 20%) will be downgraded to 50-50.
10. There is no chance of getting married past the ripe old age of 31. Resign yourself as a lifelong bachelor now, gentlemen.
11. If you're not invited to the party... you're not the front runner.
12. If a guy is casually dating a girl, he's casually dating 4-5 other girls at the same time as well.
13. That means she's dating other guys, too, most likely.
14. A drunk foursome is not the beginning of a thriving romance.
Note: 30-Something-Guy continued to give me more... but I chose to leave them out :-)
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
...and in no particular order... I present the next story: "Everyone should have a stalker"
I just realized that there's really no rhyme or reason to my postings. But I suppose that's the point. It's really just the random collection of my mis-adventures in dating. And speaking of random...
The Stalker Bi-Product: The Cop.
In my early twenties, I worked at a video store. You remember those, right? Not one of the mega-chains like Blockbuster or Hollywood Video with their fancy DVDs and such. Nooooo... I worked at the local VHS rental store straight out of Clerks. Which meant, that for the most part, I worked alone.
The video store was in a P.O.S. town filled with hillbillies and me. I lived and worked there... I was not from there. (And I made that very clear to anyone who asked). Anyway, I started noticing this weird guy coming in to browse the videos now and then. (Nothing really out of the ordinary... it was a video store afterall). But then I noticed, that he really didn't ever rent anything. He'd just stand in the back corner and watch the TV - which was constantly playing either Atlantis or Shrek - both of which I think I have fully memorized. And then I noticed, he wasn't watching the TV at all. He was watching me.
And once he would leave the store, he'd sit in his car in the parking lot and watch me some more. Creepy - I know. My skin is crawling as I write this. Once this combination of creepiness was realized, I promptly called P.O.S.'s Finest.
The boys in blue showed up, chased the guy and told him not to come back or he would be arrested. And then the cute one came in to take my full statement. (A big emphasis on the cute part.) When all was said and done, I couldn't just leave it at that...
I ran out and made one of my ballsiest moves ever. I asked out the cop who took my stalker report. And he said yes.
We went out on our mediocre date, where I got the impression.... let's just say - I don't think I was his type. Ya know, anatomically speaking. :-)
What a waste...
It would've been a great meeting story!
Photo Credit: goodrob13
The Stalker Bi-Product: The Cop.
In my early twenties, I worked at a video store. You remember those, right? Not one of the mega-chains like Blockbuster or Hollywood Video with their fancy DVDs and such. Nooooo... I worked at the local VHS rental store straight out of Clerks. Which meant, that for the most part, I worked alone.
The video store was in a P.O.S. town filled with hillbillies and me. I lived and worked there... I was not from there. (And I made that very clear to anyone who asked). Anyway, I started noticing this weird guy coming in to browse the videos now and then. (Nothing really out of the ordinary... it was a video store afterall). But then I noticed, that he really didn't ever rent anything. He'd just stand in the back corner and watch the TV - which was constantly playing either Atlantis or Shrek - both of which I think I have fully memorized. And then I noticed, he wasn't watching the TV at all. He was watching me.
And once he would leave the store, he'd sit in his car in the parking lot and watch me some more. Creepy - I know. My skin is crawling as I write this. Once this combination of creepiness was realized, I promptly called P.O.S.'s Finest.
The boys in blue showed up, chased the guy and told him not to come back or he would be arrested. And then the cute one came in to take my full statement. (A big emphasis on the cute part.) When all was said and done, I couldn't just leave it at that...
I ran out and made one of my ballsiest moves ever. I asked out the cop who took my stalker report. And he said yes.
We went out on our mediocre date, where I got the impression.... let's just say - I don't think I was his type. Ya know, anatomically speaking. :-)
What a waste...
It would've been a great meeting story!
Photo Credit: goodrob13
Monday, August 30, 2010
One of the many reasons I hate "The Mexican Restaurant"...
I'm sure I could launch into literally hundreds of reasons of why I hate "The Mexican Restaurant", but one of the main reasons, is that I have NEVER had a good date experience there. (Yet I keep trying.... hmmm.... interesting.)
Here's one of those stories...
Tom.
Tom and I actually made it to date number two, which was no small feat. Said date was at "The Mexican Restaurant", which at that point, was still a place I enjoyed going. We sipped a few beverages, ate a decent meal, had some good conversation - all part of what one might refer to as a successful second date.
...and then Tom excused himself to the restroom.
Five minutes go by. Ten minutes go by. The waitress comes over to see if I want another drink or something. I tell her that I'll wait until he gets back - we'll probably have another round.
Fifteen minutes go by. Twenty minutes go by. Ok... we are at a Mexican restaurant... we're still in the range of possibility. Not everyone has a Teflon stomach.
Twenty-five minutes go by. The waitress comes back. Yeah... at this point... I'll take the check.
Well over thirty minutes have gone by at this point and I am coming to the realization that my date just ditched me in a restaurant AND stuck me with the check. I begrudgingly settle up and grab my coat to leave, at which point, Tom comes speeding around the corner with his cell phone glued to his ear.
While still on the phone, mind you, he motions to me to sit back down. And for whatever reason, I oblige.
He finishes up his conversation and apologizes that he 'had to take that call'. Now, being a reasonable person, I could conceivably understand the 'important call' excuse. However, being a girl who has sat alone for the past thirty-some-odd-minutes thinking her date has pulled a dine-and-dash, all reason had left me. Sorry, but important phone call or not, there had to be some point early on in those thirty minutes that he could have alerted me to the fact that he needed to make/take a phone call (I was never sure how he ended up on the phone in the first place). But no. Clearly, common courtesy was not Tom's specialty.
Needless to say, that was our second and last date.
I know it's not really "The Mexican Restaurant"'s fault... but unfortunately, that is not my only bad date story that takes place in their establishment. Oh yeah... my track record at TMR sucks... worse than their food.
Anyone up for Italian?
Photo Credit: Glenda Wilburn
Here's one of those stories...
Tom.
Tom and I actually made it to date number two, which was no small feat. Said date was at "The Mexican Restaurant", which at that point, was still a place I enjoyed going. We sipped a few beverages, ate a decent meal, had some good conversation - all part of what one might refer to as a successful second date.
...and then Tom excused himself to the restroom.
Five minutes go by. Ten minutes go by. The waitress comes over to see if I want another drink or something. I tell her that I'll wait until he gets back - we'll probably have another round.
Fifteen minutes go by. Twenty minutes go by. Ok... we are at a Mexican restaurant... we're still in the range of possibility. Not everyone has a Teflon stomach.
Twenty-five minutes go by. The waitress comes back. Yeah... at this point... I'll take the check.
Well over thirty minutes have gone by at this point and I am coming to the realization that my date just ditched me in a restaurant AND stuck me with the check. I begrudgingly settle up and grab my coat to leave, at which point, Tom comes speeding around the corner with his cell phone glued to his ear.
While still on the phone, mind you, he motions to me to sit back down. And for whatever reason, I oblige.
He finishes up his conversation and apologizes that he 'had to take that call'. Now, being a reasonable person, I could conceivably understand the 'important call' excuse. However, being a girl who has sat alone for the past thirty-some-odd-minutes thinking her date has pulled a dine-and-dash, all reason had left me. Sorry, but important phone call or not, there had to be some point early on in those thirty minutes that he could have alerted me to the fact that he needed to make/take a phone call (I was never sure how he ended up on the phone in the first place). But no. Clearly, common courtesy was not Tom's specialty.
Needless to say, that was our second and last date.
I know it's not really "The Mexican Restaurant"'s fault... but unfortunately, that is not my only bad date story that takes place in their establishment. Oh yeah... my track record at TMR sucks... worse than their food.
Anyone up for Italian?
Photo Credit: Glenda Wilburn
Sunday, August 29, 2010
But I was a good sport...
While I definitely have plenty of bad first-date stories, I figured I'd touch on a few that weren't exactly terrible. In fact, this one led to one of my longest relationships to date... in spite of how it went.
Sebastian Something-French-ish.
For our first date, Sebastian picked what I had thought to be this fabulous Italian restaurant in the city. I'd never been there, but I had heard good things. It did, in fact, turn out to be a very nice restaurant (I think), but that's about all I remember as far as the restaurant itself is concerned. The situations that transpired inside said restaurant are much more vivid in my memory...
First of all, as we were walking to the restaurant, Sebastian casually mentioned that his parents enjoyed the food there also. I brushed it off, thinking that was a piece of Seb-trivia that didn't need to be processed. But then we walked in the door and lo and behold... who is dining at said establishment tonight as well? You guessed it - Ma and Pa Something-French-ish. (To be honest, I clearly wouldn't have known them from a hole in the ground, except for the fact that Sebastian enjoyed pointing out this fact, almost as much as his parents did.)
But that wasn't enough. There were plenty of empty tables in this establishment, but apparently, the dating-gods (and the hostess) thought they'd get a good chuckle out of sitting us near Seb's parents. No. Let me rephrase that. Not near... NEXT to his parents. And by "next to", I mean our tables were literally less than a foot apart. No pressure there.
But I was a good sport. And I really liked Sebastian... so I put up with it. It wasn't that horrible, just very uncomfortable - especially on a first date. But Ma and Pa Something-French-ish left shortly thereafter, so Seb and I actually did have a chance to dine on our own.
And then the bill came. He gave them his card and every guys' first-date fear started to take place: DECLINED.
But I was a good sport. And I really liked Sebastian... so I put up with it. (Are we starting to sense a theme here? Trust me... this should have been the motto of our entire relationship.)
When all was said and done, I had paid the bill, met the parents, and managed to keep my sense of humor throughout the entire evening thinking 'hey, at least we'll have a good story!'
...and we did. :-)
Photo Credit: Lucia Restaurant
Sebastian Something-French-ish.
For our first date, Sebastian picked what I had thought to be this fabulous Italian restaurant in the city. I'd never been there, but I had heard good things. It did, in fact, turn out to be a very nice restaurant (I think), but that's about all I remember as far as the restaurant itself is concerned. The situations that transpired inside said restaurant are much more vivid in my memory...
First of all, as we were walking to the restaurant, Sebastian casually mentioned that his parents enjoyed the food there also. I brushed it off, thinking that was a piece of Seb-trivia that didn't need to be processed. But then we walked in the door and lo and behold... who is dining at said establishment tonight as well? You guessed it - Ma and Pa Something-French-ish. (To be honest, I clearly wouldn't have known them from a hole in the ground, except for the fact that Sebastian enjoyed pointing out this fact, almost as much as his parents did.)
But that wasn't enough. There were plenty of empty tables in this establishment, but apparently, the dating-gods (and the hostess) thought they'd get a good chuckle out of sitting us near Seb's parents. No. Let me rephrase that. Not near... NEXT to his parents. And by "next to", I mean our tables were literally less than a foot apart. No pressure there.
But I was a good sport. And I really liked Sebastian... so I put up with it. It wasn't that horrible, just very uncomfortable - especially on a first date. But Ma and Pa Something-French-ish left shortly thereafter, so Seb and I actually did have a chance to dine on our own.
And then the bill came. He gave them his card and every guys' first-date fear started to take place: DECLINED.
But I was a good sport. And I really liked Sebastian... so I put up with it. (Are we starting to sense a theme here? Trust me... this should have been the motto of our entire relationship.)
When all was said and done, I had paid the bill, met the parents, and managed to keep my sense of humor throughout the entire evening thinking 'hey, at least we'll have a good story!'
...and we did. :-)
Photo Credit: Lucia Restaurant
4 out of 5 dentists agree...
In light of all the crappy first dates I've been on recently, I figured I'd recap some more...
Here's a slight variation on the "Awkward Alan" tale. Let's call this one...
"The Flosser"
Eww.... even his pseudonym is gross. The Flosser was cute - don't get me wrong - and we seemed to have a lot to talk about. And then somewhere along the line, things went horribly wrong. I'm all about random topics, but all of the sudden our somewhat decent conversation had hit a new level... dental hygiene. How we even got started on the subject is beyond me. (Anyone who knows me, would know that 'good teeth' is pretty much tops on my list of requirements in guys I date - but talking about it, not so much). Well, in this conversation, I learned there is a fine line between good hygiene and OCD and TMI.
Flosser tells me he flosses - get this - FIVE times a day. Five times a day is too much - I don't care how much corn you eat. And the details on WHY one would floss five times a day is waaaaaay too much information to share.... with anyone, especially someone you're probably hoping to kiss later. Not only that, but you probably shouldn't throw out that little nugget of trivia while said future-conquest-hopeful is trying to enjoy her never-ending pasta bowl. Spaghetti... floss... can I vomit now?
Now I realize, by this point in my story, you are probably thinking "she's just way too picky" but think about it... a mid-dinner, detailed account of how/why someone flosses FIVE times a day. Maybe it's not even the amount. Maybe it's just the talking about flossing that made me want to grab a container of Glide and try to hang myself with the world's smallest noose.
So, dinner ends, we get in his car and the "so whaddya wanna do now?" question is raised. I pull the "Well... I have to get up early.... (yawn)" line. Classic. Now we've previously established that while this line sounds like an obvious "I do not wish to continue this date any longer" retort - apparently, to some guys, it's the green light for a 'now or never' initiative!?!?
And he leans in for the kill. And by kill, I mean I didn't even have time to unbuckle my seatbelt! Or jingle my keys! I was trapped! And Flosser was on top of me - attempting to give me a private oral exam of his own. I was thoroughly disgusted and managed to end that kiss (if that's what you want to call it) as abruptly as it began... Thank god.
Fast-forward to the next day... I get the "when can I see you again?" call (which probably would've been an in person thing the night before had I stuck around - but I got the hell out of Dodge). I'm not a mean girl, so I tried to let him down gently with the good ol' "I just didn't feel a connection" line. I know... it's cliche. But it works. Sometimes.
This was not one of those times, because he replied, "I don't know how you can say that? What about our kiss?!?!"
*How I replied in my head: "Umm.... generally speaking, kissing is team sport. I'm pretty sure that thing last night was a solo venture. And really we should just refer to it as your kiss. There was a reason it was one-sided."
How I actually replied: "Yeah... no. Sorry... Good luck with everything!" Click.
Oh man... if talking about flossing wasn't bad enough... trying to give me a first-hand look/taste (eww/shudder) at the product of 5xDaily Flossing is officially the ultimate deal-breaker.
So I hung up the phone... and sat home... alone... again.
...and instantly felt the need to floss.
Photo Credit: D Sharon Pruitt
Here's a slight variation on the "Awkward Alan" tale. Let's call this one...
"The Flosser"
Eww.... even his pseudonym is gross. The Flosser was cute - don't get me wrong - and we seemed to have a lot to talk about. And then somewhere along the line, things went horribly wrong. I'm all about random topics, but all of the sudden our somewhat decent conversation had hit a new level... dental hygiene. How we even got started on the subject is beyond me. (Anyone who knows me, would know that 'good teeth' is pretty much tops on my list of requirements in guys I date - but talking about it, not so much). Well, in this conversation, I learned there is a fine line between good hygiene and OCD and TMI.
Flosser tells me he flosses - get this - FIVE times a day. Five times a day is too much - I don't care how much corn you eat. And the details on WHY one would floss five times a day is waaaaaay too much information to share.... with anyone, especially someone you're probably hoping to kiss later. Not only that, but you probably shouldn't throw out that little nugget of trivia while said future-conquest-hopeful is trying to enjoy her never-ending pasta bowl. Spaghetti... floss... can I vomit now?
Now I realize, by this point in my story, you are probably thinking "she's just way too picky" but think about it... a mid-dinner, detailed account of how/why someone flosses FIVE times a day. Maybe it's not even the amount. Maybe it's just the talking about flossing that made me want to grab a container of Glide and try to hang myself with the world's smallest noose.
So, dinner ends, we get in his car and the "so whaddya wanna do now?" question is raised. I pull the "Well... I have to get up early.... (yawn)" line. Classic. Now we've previously established that while this line sounds like an obvious "I do not wish to continue this date any longer" retort - apparently, to some guys, it's the green light for a 'now or never' initiative!?!?
And he leans in for the kill. And by kill, I mean I didn't even have time to unbuckle my seatbelt! Or jingle my keys! I was trapped! And Flosser was on top of me - attempting to give me a private oral exam of his own. I was thoroughly disgusted and managed to end that kiss (if that's what you want to call it) as abruptly as it began... Thank god.
Fast-forward to the next day... I get the "when can I see you again?" call (which probably would've been an in person thing the night before had I stuck around - but I got the hell out of Dodge). I'm not a mean girl, so I tried to let him down gently with the good ol' "I just didn't feel a connection" line. I know... it's cliche. But it works. Sometimes.
This was not one of those times, because he replied, "I don't know how you can say that? What about our kiss?!?!"
*How I replied in my head: "Umm.... generally speaking, kissing is team sport. I'm pretty sure that thing last night was a solo venture. And really we should just refer to it as your kiss. There was a reason it was one-sided."
How I actually replied: "Yeah... no. Sorry... Good luck with everything!" Click.
Oh man... if talking about flossing wasn't bad enough... trying to give me a first-hand look/taste (eww/shudder) at the product of 5xDaily Flossing is officially the ultimate deal-breaker.
So I hung up the phone... and sat home... alone... again.
...and instantly felt the need to floss.
Photo Credit: D Sharon Pruitt
Friday, August 27, 2010
Save Yourself!!! (Or "how NOT to have me write about you")
So.... turns out.... a lot of people have a lot to say in regards to my new blog. So say it! Here, please. (not in my private email). It's easy, I promise! And guess what? That's when the fun starts - when you comment here and other people do, too! A dialogue is made and discussions (and feedback) ensue.
So.... go ahead.... or I'll start writing about YOU. :-)
Yes, you.
And that's a threat. *wink wink*
So.... go ahead.... or I'll start writing about YOU. :-)
Yes, you.
And that's a threat. *wink wink*
Thursday, August 26, 2010
You have to have a good meeting story...
That's a rule. You have to have a good meeting story. Whether you meet at prison-like window under duress, ended up getting a call from the friend of a guy you were no longer seeing, go on your first date together three times, or whatever... (all real stories by the way)... it's all about the meeting story. No one wants their Maid of Honor/Best Man's speech to be something boring. And we all know how annoying "So how'd you two meet?" can get when your answer is 'at a bar' - or any other equally unexciting response.
So yeah... when a good meeting story happens, it's a good sign.
Current Boy (CB).
Current Boy and I have a good meeting story. No... not Awkward Alan... don't worry. CB and just started dating, but I've been dating other people as well (for the time being). Hey! It's allowed! We're not official or anything... yet. But it looks like it could possibly be headed in that direction, and we do have the story - so that's half the battle.
CB and I were supposed to meet at a restaurant - we'll call it the White Chicken - on a Sunday at 1:30pm for drinks/lunch - pretty much the standard first-date option. Saturday (the day before said date was to take place - for those of you easily confused), I was at my parent's house for one of their infamous parties. Mid-afternoon (and clearly mid-drinks), I go check my phone and I have a text and a missed call... both from CB. And both from approximately 1:45pm. It was now 2:30ish.
First text: 1:40pm - "I'm standing in the lobby of the White Chicken."
To which I thought, hmmm... that's weird. Why would he be going to the White Chicken two days in a row? We're going there tomorrow. He must really love it!
And then I saw the voicemail notification still blinking... and it clicked. He thinks our date is today! ...and that I stood him up. Eek!
I listened to the voicemail message and my fears were confirmed. I felt so horrible... but wait!?!? He was clearly a FULL DAY EARLY for our date! There was no mistaking our plans. When we had originally made plans, I told him about the party at my parents house and the fact that we had to meet on Sunday instead... just for that reason.
So either I "stood up" the dumbest guy ever or (more to the point) CB was just so pumped to meet me that he showed up early... very early. (Don't judge... I like my delusion of the the latter reasoning!)
After the confusion was all straightened out, he asked me if I would still want to get together the next day - same time, same place (I'm sure the hostess was excited to see how this all played out as well). I agreed... hoping he wouldn't try to 'stick it to me' by not showing up...
But he did show up. And so did I. And we had a fabulous first date... on Sunday... at 1:30pm... as originally planned. :-)
So yeah... when a good meeting story happens, it's a good sign.
Current Boy (CB).
Current Boy and I have a good meeting story. No... not Awkward Alan... don't worry. CB and just started dating, but I've been dating other people as well (for the time being). Hey! It's allowed! We're not official or anything... yet. But it looks like it could possibly be headed in that direction, and we do have the story - so that's half the battle.
CB and I were supposed to meet at a restaurant - we'll call it the White Chicken - on a Sunday at 1:30pm for drinks/lunch - pretty much the standard first-date option. Saturday (the day before said date was to take place - for those of you easily confused), I was at my parent's house for one of their infamous parties. Mid-afternoon (and clearly mid-drinks), I go check my phone and I have a text and a missed call... both from CB. And both from approximately 1:45pm. It was now 2:30ish.
First text: 1:40pm - "I'm standing in the lobby of the White Chicken."
To which I thought, hmmm... that's weird. Why would he be going to the White Chicken two days in a row? We're going there tomorrow. He must really love it!
And then I saw the voicemail notification still blinking... and it clicked. He thinks our date is today! ...and that I stood him up. Eek!
I listened to the voicemail message and my fears were confirmed. I felt so horrible... but wait!?!? He was clearly a FULL DAY EARLY for our date! There was no mistaking our plans. When we had originally made plans, I told him about the party at my parents house and the fact that we had to meet on Sunday instead... just for that reason.
So either I "stood up" the dumbest guy ever or (more to the point) CB was just so pumped to meet me that he showed up early... very early. (Don't judge... I like my delusion of the the latter reasoning!)
After the confusion was all straightened out, he asked me if I would still want to get together the next day - same time, same place (I'm sure the hostess was excited to see how this all played out as well). I agreed... hoping he wouldn't try to 'stick it to me' by not showing up...
But he did show up. And so did I. And we had a fabulous first date... on Sunday... at 1:30pm... as originally planned. :-)
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Do you know why people "Cheers"? (A story from the "old days")
Sometimes on a blind date, I like to break the ice a little by spouting off one of my favorite bits of trivia (whether or not it's actually true, I really never bothered to check... but I enjoyed hearing it from someone else, so I figure some people might find it interesting as well... and telling said bit of trivia requires drinking - usually something alcoholic - so it's all good to me!) Here's what I usually say...
When I returned from what I would assume to be the first of many potty-breaks that night, I started to take a sip of my beer. Mid-sip, I was greeted with "You know... you should never leave you're drink alone." Sam continued very matter-of-factly, "You never know if someone might have slipped you something." ...and I spit my drink back into my pint glass.
Check, please!
If only we had 'cheers-ed' my return from the ladies room! Huzzah! (Guess I should've kept my favorite ice-breaker for later on in that date!)
Really, Sam? I understand the point he was trying to make, but maybe when a first date returns to her drink with a relative stranger she's thinking she has at this point built a rapport with, that's probably not the time for him to be giving her life lessons.
***
And would you believe that Sam actually called me later to 'figure out where he went wrong'?!? Hmm.... alluding to the fact that you may have slipped me a roofie probably wasn't the best move... Just sayin'...
Photo Credit: vmiramontes
"Do you know why people 'cheers'?" After waiting for the obligatory shaking of the head, I continue. "Back in ye olden days, when people poisoned each other's drinks, people would bang their cups together (ie. "cheers-ing" - is that even a verb?) as an act of good faith. This would cause the liquid from both cups to spill into the other - thus proving that they, in fact, did NOT poison each other. So... Cheers! I didn't poison you!"
We clink glasses and the ice is officially broken. Date on.
Except in the case of... (and I really couldn't help the pseudonym here... haha)
Sam.
Sam was yet another awkward dater. (Aren't we all to some extent?) But he and I hit it off enough that our date made it past the first drink. Hell, we made it past the first bar! So after I ordered the first drink at bar number two, I clearly need to "break the seal" and so I excused myself... and my drink... as I took a trip to the ladies room.
When I returned from what I would assume to be the first of many potty-breaks that night, I started to take a sip of my beer. Mid-sip, I was greeted with "You know... you should never leave you're drink alone." Sam continued very matter-of-factly, "You never know if someone might have slipped you something." ...and I spit my drink back into my pint glass.
Check, please!
If only we had 'cheers-ed' my return from the ladies room! Huzzah! (Guess I should've kept my favorite ice-breaker for later on in that date!)
Really, Sam? I understand the point he was trying to make, but maybe when a first date returns to her drink with a relative stranger she's thinking she has at this point built a rapport with, that's probably not the time for him to be giving her life lessons.
***
And would you believe that Sam actually called me later to 'figure out where he went wrong'?!? Hmm.... alluding to the fact that you may have slipped me a roofie probably wasn't the best move... Just sayin'...
Photo Credit: vmiramontes
Monday, August 23, 2010
Something Old, Something New... Let's start with "New"
So I figured I'd make my blog a combination of current and past dating stories. And after the events of the last five minutes... today's post will be a "current" story. :-)
Awkward Alan.
We've all been on those awkward dates, right? You know the ones... where you can't wait to get the hell out of there. Well I went on one of those dates last week and then decided to give the guy the benefit of the doubt and go out again. No dice. Awkward date number two was tonight.
Let's give Alan a little credit. He was a VERY nice guy. And we all love 'nice' guys - don't we, ladies? But good lord was he boring! But... he was cute, too. Quite the conundrum. However, the nicest, cutest guy in the world still cannot keep my attention if he speaks like a cliche '80s high school teacher (Bueller? Bueller???).
Fast forward to an hour and a half into boring dinner conversation - he was one of those "I'm funny and sarcastic because I say I am" types (but in reality is not even slightly witty - nor does he probably have a firm grasp on the concept of sarcasm in the first place). So he asked me what I wanted to do next? (Um... get as far from you as possible? Is that an acceptable answer?) But I smiled... told him I had to get up early... and prayed that was the end of it all.
...And then the most inevitable, awkward point of ANY date comes along. The end of said date. He insisted on walking me up to the door of my apartment building, where the following conversation took place:
Alan: "So when's good for you and I to get together again?"
Me: "Um." (Fidgeting)
Alan: "I mean IF you even want to get together again... haha" (He laughs... as if this would be an absurd concept - of course I would want to see him again!)
Me: "Um... to be honest... you're a really nice guy.... but... I don't think we really connect... like that..."
Alan: "So what your saying... is that I should make my move, huh?" (He winks and leans in to 'make his move')
**EEK!!!!**
Me: "Um... no. That is not what I'm saying at all. You take care."
(...and I quickly run up the steps... waving goodbye)
I hope my neighbors enjoyed the show and the peel out, courtesy of a pissed-off Alan.
Is there really any way to avoid these creepy exchanges? This wasn't my first time letting someone down gently. And not even my first time today. Seriously... I'm really not a bitch, I swear!... I just know who I DON'T want to date.
But usually not until after I've gone out with them...
And therein lies the problem.
***
On a separate note (sort of related)... How do two people go on the same date and have two DIFFERENT concepts of how said date went? How was he surprised by my reaction? I may have been a theater major for a hot minute, but I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face was saying "get back in your car."
Awkward Alan.
We've all been on those awkward dates, right? You know the ones... where you can't wait to get the hell out of there. Well I went on one of those dates last week and then decided to give the guy the benefit of the doubt and go out again. No dice. Awkward date number two was tonight.
Let's give Alan a little credit. He was a VERY nice guy. And we all love 'nice' guys - don't we, ladies? But good lord was he boring! But... he was cute, too. Quite the conundrum. However, the nicest, cutest guy in the world still cannot keep my attention if he speaks like a cliche '80s high school teacher (Bueller? Bueller???).
Fast forward to an hour and a half into boring dinner conversation - he was one of those "I'm funny and sarcastic because I say I am" types (but in reality is not even slightly witty - nor does he probably have a firm grasp on the concept of sarcasm in the first place). So he asked me what I wanted to do next? (Um... get as far from you as possible? Is that an acceptable answer?) But I smiled... told him I had to get up early... and prayed that was the end of it all.
...And then the most inevitable, awkward point of ANY date comes along. The end of said date. He insisted on walking me up to the door of my apartment building, where the following conversation took place:
Alan: "So when's good for you and I to get together again?"
Me: "Um." (Fidgeting)
Alan: "I mean IF you even want to get together again... haha" (He laughs... as if this would be an absurd concept - of course I would want to see him again!)
Me: "Um... to be honest... you're a really nice guy.... but... I don't think we really connect... like that..."
Alan: "So what your saying... is that I should make my move, huh?" (He winks and leans in to 'make his move')
**EEK!!!!**
Me: "Um... no. That is not what I'm saying at all. You take care."
(...and I quickly run up the steps... waving goodbye)
I hope my neighbors enjoyed the show and the peel out, courtesy of a pissed-off Alan.
Is there really any way to avoid these creepy exchanges? This wasn't my first time letting someone down gently. And not even my first time today. Seriously... I'm really not a bitch, I swear!... I just know who I DON'T want to date.
But usually not until after I've gone out with them...
And therein lies the problem.
***
On a separate note (sort of related)... How do two people go on the same date and have two DIFFERENT concepts of how said date went? How was he surprised by my reaction? I may have been a theater major for a hot minute, but I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face was saying "get back in your car."
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I wish I could say I was a neo-feminist “Sex and the City” independent woman who doesn’t need a man (but still has plenty of options) in a major city like New York or LA, but alas, I am a small town girl. When I say small town, I mean a blinking yellow light is our version of “traffic control” and the height of fun centers around where a cow takes a dump at the annual town fair. So why don’t I get out and move to the city? Because, rarely does someone escape the clutches of a small town, and if they do, it’s only for a year or two and then only to one of the equally-hopeless surrounding rural communities. At that point, it’s almost better to stay put.
I grew up in one of those sleepy towns in Northern New England stuck in a time warp that’s slowly-but-surely being overrun with breeding yuppies looking to get away from the bustle of city life. Half-million dollar houses are popping up next to 18th-century farmhouses. Needless to say, I am not small-town-born myself, but I was part of the original 1980’s suburban invasion so I consider myself a small town native and I see the new residents as the intruders. I am a hypocrite, apparently.
Before I can give a proper argument as to why I am “still single and this is a bad thing” as opposed to the “you’re young and should enjoy being single” crap I’m fed every day, let me explain my first life. Because maybe that would explain why I’m stuck in my second life. Maybe… but that’s just a theory. (More of a hope, really).
I was a sheltered, small-town girl.
Need I really say more?
Join me in the constant migraine that is my life :-)
I grew up in one of those sleepy towns in Northern New England stuck in a time warp that’s slowly-but-surely being overrun with breeding yuppies looking to get away from the bustle of city life. Half-million dollar houses are popping up next to 18th-century farmhouses. Needless to say, I am not small-town-born myself, but I was part of the original 1980’s suburban invasion so I consider myself a small town native and I see the new residents as the intruders. I am a hypocrite, apparently.
Before I can give a proper argument as to why I am “still single and this is a bad thing” as opposed to the “you’re young and should enjoy being single” crap I’m fed every day, let me explain my first life. Because maybe that would explain why I’m stuck in my second life. Maybe… but that’s just a theory. (More of a hope, really).
I was a sheltered, small-town girl.
Need I really say more?
Join me in the constant migraine that is my life :-)
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