08.30.08
Gooooood Morning
I found butter on my keyboard and my pants in the kitchen this morning.
Which would be way more interesting if I hadn’t come back from the bar by myself.
Apparently I decided that my pants hurt and I should eat an entire plate of leftover pasta over my computer.
At least that’s what I can piece together from the clues. Why do I always feel like I’m in the middle of some sort of hungover crime scene?
08.29.08
Oh
This morning I discovered that I’m out of coffee filters. Obviously I used the last one yesterday, but I’m the kind of girl that leaves the filter and grounds in the machine until the next use.
Judge away. It’s a Krups, and considering what it cost I operate under the assumption that the stainless steel sanitizes anything that goes on in that thing.
I rolled into work on time, actually wearing a cute casual Friday outfit. Meaning that it matches. And all items involved were purchased post 2007. I’m wearing mascara. But when I walked past my coworker on the way to my cube I got a “WHOA. Turn around.” So I did. “Are you hungover?” he asked, giggling. “Have we returned to Quarterandchange circa the summer of 2005?”. OK, probably well deserved considering that for an entire August of Fridays that year I showed up wearing the same thing I wore Thursday and potentially still drunk. I managed to do a great job, but it was amusing for all.
But, I was not hungover this morning, and I’ve showered in the past twelve hours.
This exchange made me sort of sad. I didn’t even have a glass of wine last night. Do I look that rundown and dehydrated without the magic combination of Splenda, skim milk, and caffeine?
Because, coworker, all I did last night was eat organic chicken nuggets and watch Weeds on DVD before going to bed by myself at 10.
08.28.08
Touched
I sort of assumed when I got divorced that I’d been getting a lot of action. Lord knows that I wasn’t getting any while married. I seriously thought I’d be thrown up against a wall by muscular arms on a regular basis.
Maybe because during the last steps of the divorce I was being pressed up against walls. And counters. And the occasional floor.
But now that the sometimes-date has shown a complete lack of interest in any combination involving me and furniture or hard surfaces I’m dealing with a serious, serious dry spell.
I did get used to the lack of sex in my marriage, but this new single thing is a bit different because it’s accompanied by a complete lack of affection. I can’t remember the last time I was given a hug, or goodnight kiss, or even had a hand on the small of my back in a crowded room. And, this, coupled with the lack of sex? ISDRIVINGMESORTOFINSANE.
I’m looking at men that I wouldn’t typically even notice. I swear, I’m turning into the equivalent of a 13 year-old boy. I can’t concentrate at work, I’m having restless dreams that send me reaching for the warm body in my bed that isn’t there, and I can’t talk about anything else. I’m making my friends crazy. The suggestion that I throw this energy into my workouts seemed to make sense until I got to the gym, started checking out a kid who can’t have been more than 20, and wondered if straight people really do have sex on weight benches.
Where are all the single men? I’m ok looking, and I just want someone to come lay on me for a bit. No strings attached, I promise. Just be disease free and hot. Brains a plus, but for this endeavor, not a total necessity (this isn’t about lowering standards and not being single. This is about action, not love).
Cause honestly, if I had known it was going to be like this, I might have considered staying married to someone I found unattractive and never had sex with. At least I got a tax break with that situation and someone else took the trash out.
08.27.08
And Then…
After the Thai single-stravagnza my mother insisted we go for ice cream since I’ve gone the entire summer without one.
I was pretty proud of myself for skipping the noodle, oil, rice, and booze portion of the menu at the Thai place.
Then I ordered the sugar-free, non-fat, 8 calorie per ounce chocolate Wow Cow soft serve at Red’s.
With peanut butter cups swirled in. And whipped cream.
That’s just how I roll.
We’re RELATED
I met my mother and younger brother for Thai last night. This is a treat on several levels– catching up with some of my favorite people and enjoying a meal that isn’t a Lean Cuisine lit by the glow of my television set and laptop. Plus, it’s free. But really, it’s about the company, I promise.
Sam and I don’t look alike. He’s quite tall, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. I’m really short, with blond hair and blue eyes. We don’t appear to be siblings. In fact, the only physical similarity we have is that our skin is the color of skim milk.
We were sitting at a table for four, with Mom on one side and Sam and I on the other. Within a five minute period a pretty girl in running gear and a good looking guy in a polo shirt were seated seperately at the counter area directly behind our table. I was too busy checking out the man’s shoes (shut up, you totally do that too) to notice what Sam was up to.
Until I realized that we both had started a conversation about Christmas at the same time. A conversation that involved directed questions to “Mom” and references to “Dad” and things like “I know you have a job, but sis, you need to take a couple weeks off so we can go to Brazil as a family“.
Cause, yeah, we both wanted the singles behind us to know that we were in no way, shape, or form dating. We’re related. We’re both available. You know, in case you wanted to hit on us in front of our mother and sibling. That’s totally normal. I can’t get hit on in a crowded, drunken bar, but I think it’s going to happen during a family dinner on a Tuesday night? And Sam thinks the same thing?
Maybe we do share the same confused genetic code.
08.26.08
First Love
Tomorrow’s the high school sweetheart’s 26th birthday. Though many, many men have pissed me off, he’s the only one that I can truly say broke my heart. Since I operate this blog anonymously (OK, CC ladies, you don’t count on that part) I think it’s perfectly acceptable to write this post. But it might be cheesy. You’ve been warned.
We met at the country club where we both worked, catering to the needs of our high school classmates that could sit by the pool all summer eating ice cream on their parents’ house accounts and judging. I was an overweight lifeguard, he was a moderately dorky guy who worked in the tennis department. We spent one fateful Sunday night watching TV together in the tennis lounge (FYI country club, no one swims in the outdoor pool at 8pm, but thanks for paying me $10 an hour to test the PH levels until 10pm).
In a supremely ballsy and unprecedented move, I left my phone number for him on a piece of club stationary. And in what I believe was an equally unusual move, he called me. And actually asked me out. On a real date. You can imagine the flurry of AIM messaging that went out to my friends on that one.
E. was mechanically brilliant, the first in a line of eventual engineers that I would date. He could navigate his way through anything. And he followed the directions I gave him from the club where I worked six days a week to the house where I’d lived for ten years exactly.
And ended up twenty miles north of where I lived. Thank god for the original Nokia brick cell phones, cause otherwise this thing might have ended right there. We missed the movie, but we had the best first date in history that didn’t involve sex. Heck, we didn’t even kiss.
E. was funny and confident, and he came from a great family with a beautiful house on the lake two towns over from mine. His face was interesting, and his body was insane from days spent outside wake boarding and mountain biking and doing all the things I never did. He drove a Ford Bronco, I drove a ‘95 Cabriolet. They both had holes in their respective roofs.
On his 17th birthday he took me down to watch the sunset over the lake and he kissed me. We fell in love– long phone conversations, every free non-working, non-studying, non-friend moment spent together. Hours upon hours in his basement (never, ever let your children have access to an entire floor of your house that happens to have a pool table and a sauna and a shower and a bedroom. Holy crap, even in retrospect that seems like a really inappropriate parental move).
We went on this way for a year, and then I got sick, and he got fed up as I’m sure any high school senior with an emotionally draining girlfriend would. Particularlyif girlfriend is too depressed to hang out with your friends and do normal things and cries a lot.
We broke up, and I bawled in bed for about two weeks. I didn’t even want to rebound. It was bizarre. I did, however, develop a love for Lucky Strikes. And Marlborough Lights. And Camel Turkish Golds.
But we kept in touch over senior year, and the summer before we left for college we found ourselves in each others arms and in love again. And it was sappy and disgustingly romantic and wonderful.
The day he left for college orientation we both cried. He called six times on the drive to New York. He emailed repeatedly when I left for Smith, and we planned a visit for October. We had a pretty good thing worked out– we weren’t dating, but it was particularly nice to know during that scary first month away from home that someone loved you.
October rolled around, and I drove three hours to pick him up and bring him back to school. My roommate was sexiled, and I was ecstatic. We went for dinner Friday night, a welcome break from dining hall food and three hundred other women. Across the flat-bread pizza he mentioned that he’d started seeing someone.
I pressed for more information. He met her the day he arrived at school. The day we cried and the day he called so many times.
This news wasn’t that shocking. I’d expected we’d both date, and if they weren’t exclusive, no harm, no foul.
But the news that followed in the next few weeks was shocking. He loved her, this tall and athletic girl that loved mountain biking and flying planes and math and everything that I hated. Yes, I google stalked her. My friends google stalked her. I’m pretty sure my dad even google stalked her.
It took a long time to let him go. I’m not sure that ever really did. Last I heard, they were still together, raising a Bernese Mountain Dog and being outdoorsy.
But if something has happened, and he’s single now? I’d happily press him up against that pool table for old time’s sake.
As long as his parents weren’t home.
08.25.08
Random Ten
Ten random things I’ve learned over this busy, emotionally exhausting, and sometimes really f-d up week.
10. Chocolate labs will find the slantiest part of the floor to use as an announcement that they have a UTI. Bonus points if that spot happens to be in front of the fridge, and the down slope funnels into your shoe storage area.
9. No one questions leaving work for a UTI. Canine or otherwise.
8. Wearing four inch heels will prevent you from really letting go in a dance-off. Just because you could do it in 2004 does not mean you can do it now.
7. Male friends have some good advice– “No, it doesn’t count as drinking alone if your dog is there.”
6. There are very few cute men left in Portland.
5. Match.com can be used as a weapon for pointedly insulting your ex-wife. Good luck with finding someone with that profile.
4. Sometimes you just need a mental health day.
3. I’d like to find more friends.
2. Being able to out drink your little brother is funny. The fact that he can then roll to breakfast wearing the same ridiculous outfit he wore to the bar without a second look is just unfair.
1. Going to the bars with a bunch of 23 year old guys is super fun– but a guarantee that you won’t get hit on. By anyone. In fact, you’ll get questioning looks as if you might be running some sort of male harem.
08.22.08
Beer Me
I met my friend Will for drinks at my new favorite bar last night. We grabbed some seats on one of the picnic tables outside and started catching up. It’s lovely to have a completely platonic male friend to talk to, especially one that has known you since the days of 7th grade dances and braces.
And can easily get out of you the fact that this is your new favorite bar because the server is really, really hot.
On one end of our table were two married couples having a great time and playing quarters. They were hilarious and fun and so cute together. On the other end was a couple that had obviously only started dating recently. The man was extremely attractive, and they were holding hands across the table while having the most awkward conversation ever.
They were discussing her future in radio. She was repeatedly arguing with him that she had applied everywhere and wasn’t going to be able to get a job and should just continue being a receptionist. He was trying to be supportive, giving her resume tips and job search ideas. And then they got into the “why didn’t you return my text message last night” topic.
Holy I.P.A. It was uncomfortable to watch, but impossible not to listen to. And I had a little daydream of hip-checking this chick off the bench and telling the guy that he really deserved a date with a brain.
So, fun and married on the left, crappy date on the right. And Will and I, two single friends, stuck right in the middle.
08.21.08
Ms. Obvious
At 5:30 this morning I rolled over towards the stack of pillows I’ve set up on the right side of my bed and tried to ignore the Labrador whining at the door.
And then I had an epiphany.
I’m alone. And for all practical purposes, single. And it might be that way for a really really long time.
Yes, this might seem like a stupid realization. But with the impending demise of the sometimes-date situation, I’ll be left with the have-no-date situation. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I’ve never really been alone before because I tend to build a relationship with someone that’s easy to have in my life but that doesn’t really meet my standards. Just because I’m not good at this being alone thing.
So, if I don’t lower these new standards, it could be a long time before I’m dating again. In a small incestuous city, where everyone seems to be in a relationship or dated your friend or is friends with the sometimes-date or your ex-husband, the pickings are slim. And if you want to find someone that is intelligent, motivated, strong, and hot? Good luck. They’re not lining up at Starbucks or next to you on the elliptical at Planet Fitness or standing at the bar at Gritty’s.
And even if you find that person, they have to like you back. Which is a whole different can of single worms.
I know that it may be best for me to be alone for awhile. But the question is, can I do it? Will I just succumb to my constant need for spooning, and, ahem, other things?
And on a related note, do they sell double AA batteries in bulk?
08.19.08
Disjointed
There are a lot of things I should be blogging about in order to vent and maybe even get some mental clarity. The fact that I’m meeting my mother for lunch to try to pull her out of an emotional tailspin and I’m not sure I’m the best girl for the job. The developments (or non-developments) with the sometimes-date that indicate it’s time for a change. The UTI Izzi might have been developed (while she was hit on at the Dog Park or perhaps before). The fact that I’m smoking again, a little bit. Yeah, believe me, I hate myself for that too.
But I think instead I’ll go back to the question I’ve been asking myself and anyone who will listen for years. Are my expectations just too damn high? I feel like it’s been decades of disapointment in the lack of romance and passion and lust in my life. I’ve had several men tell me that it seems like I keep pushing for more when I’ve just gotten what I said I wanted. I guess that part is true– I want it all. I’d like the flowers, I’d like the hot sex, I’d like the goodnight phone calls. Mainly I’d just like someone to see me, flaws and all, and want me even more.
Please note, those that say that I don’t seem to have any “deal breakers” but then set a minefield of a relationship are not helping the situation.
And maybe I’m not ready to have all those things right now, but that’s the goal. Is that bad? Unrealistic? Destined to make me single and bitter?
I blame Sex and the City. Really, I do.
