You may or may not have noticed, but I’m not chasing boys around as much as I used to a few months ago.
I know it doesn’t seem that way, what with my moaning over CTB, SBEB, and ACB, but check it out: twice in the last month, people have wanted to set me up with coworkers or friends and I actually thought about it both times – once for more than a week! – before saying yes. A few months ago I would have been like “Yes give me their e-mail I will contact them right away let’s get married!”
Now well, I’m trying to sit with my sad, lonely self just a little bit, and not run down so many dark alleys and dead ends lookin’ for luv. It’s only part of me that’s sad and lonely anyway. The other half is writing, working, hiking, biking, partying, traveling, and having a blast.
I can be sad. I can be lonely. I can miss the relationship that ended almost exactly one year ago. I can feel scared and lost and like no one will ever say to me “I’m all yours” like that hunky Jake Gyllenhal in “The Good Girl,” in that scene I watched three times. I can feel it all and I can do it without getting freaked and desperate.
Just watch me.
*Sponsored by “Better Living through Pharmaceuticals”
Friday, May 30, 2003
Wednesday, May 28, 2003
Coming back from vacation is such a joy. First, there is the pile of unpaid bills. Then receipts you’ve been meaning to organize. A bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned in a month. And absolutely no voicemail from cute boys.
You go from daydreaming on the sultry streets of New Orleans, daiquiri in hand, to sitting alone in a windowless office staring at a computer. You’re clobbered with a backlog of e-mails with subjects like: Worm Virus "w35/Paloh@MN" update, and XSLT Fix: Overloaded titles will now render array parameters properly. And not a single e-mail from a cute boy.
Oh, except from Alt.Country Boy saying he’d “really wanted to call” but had been “laid up” with some “bizarre, horrible cold,” and besides, he really “wasn’t a good person to get involved with anyway.” Yeah, well no duh.
And I know you’ve all been waiting for the juicy gossip from the South, but really, folks there ain’t any. Oh, I had a blast and all, but there was no action. Not one single ounce of action.
Except Memphis Boy fondling my thigh once or twice and giving me a few chaste kisses on the lips. The boy was very sick, after all, and about to go in for surgery for Crohn’s Disease. He was very happy to see me but s*x certainly was not on his mind.
Even so, it was nice to have someone put their arm around me. Touch me, even if it was just a little. And he kept telling me how much it cheered him up to see me. For once, I guess, it was nice to be there for someone else and not expect that much in return. Though that is certainly not easy for yours truly, who wants to be noticed and paid attention to all the d*mn time.
Also, I worked myself up into enough of a sex-starved frenzy to confess my attraction to Sexy-Blue-Eyed Boy while we sat in front of the shark tank at the New Orleans Aquarium. In a short yet very effective conversation, I was told that I'd lost my window of opportunity to date him at some specified time in the past (though I didn’t inquire exactly as to when that time might have been).
Embarassing? Slightly. But whatever. It was a fever. It broke. I’m over it. Even though I think one of the reasons I like(d) SBEB is he’s got a real mean, dark sense of humor like my Dad and he makes me laugh more than anyone else I know. Who doesn’t want to be around someone like that? Especially me, who's never had a funny boyfriend in my life.
But, anyway, we moved on and continued our long-standing friendship, one that is intimate enough that it prompted the guy sitting next to us on the plane yesterday to ask if we were a couple and tell us, when we said no, that we “really seemed like one.”
I had one chance to do something halfway stupid, with the drunken boys at Tipitina’s who were in the city for a bachelor party. One of them was a nice, cute boy from San Francisco who told me I was “spunky” and seemed like a good prospect for a little fun. But when the band finished their first set, they all left for a topless bar on Bourbon Street and tried hard for 30 seconds or so to get me to go. “Come on R., you have to go, you’re one of the guys now!” (yeah, RIGHT).
But my guypals were nowhere in sight, and if they were, I would have dragged them along for safety. “You can call them from the car!” said SF Boy. I was tempted, yes I was. It would all be good, innocent fun, right? Getting drunk at a topless bar with a bunch of cute boys – whoohoo!
Yeah, maybe. But more sordid than innocent, probably. And I guess I got too much early training from my parents about getting in cars with strangers. So they left, I stayed at the bar with my pals, and skipped the opportunity for drunken debauchery.
Just as well, since we were going on a kick-ass swamp tour the next day, and I wouldn't have wanted to be so tired that I fell in the water with the gators or anything. (Speaking of which, I tried a gator dog after the tour. Tasted like sausage).
Every night, no matter how late we’d get home, the three of us would sit outside on the porch in that lovely, heavy evening air to drink water and recover. It was one of those big Southern porches complete with a swing.
And no matter how hard I close my eyes and try to imagine it, this damn ergonomic chair in this damn windowless office don’t feel like no damn swing on a New Orleans porch in flower-scented late May.
You go from daydreaming on the sultry streets of New Orleans, daiquiri in hand, to sitting alone in a windowless office staring at a computer. You’re clobbered with a backlog of e-mails with subjects like: Worm Virus "w35/Paloh@MN" update, and XSLT Fix: Overloaded titles will now render array parameters properly. And not a single e-mail from a cute boy.
Oh, except from Alt.Country Boy saying he’d “really wanted to call” but had been “laid up” with some “bizarre, horrible cold,” and besides, he really “wasn’t a good person to get involved with anyway.” Yeah, well no duh.
And I know you’ve all been waiting for the juicy gossip from the South, but really, folks there ain’t any. Oh, I had a blast and all, but there was no action. Not one single ounce of action.
Except Memphis Boy fondling my thigh once or twice and giving me a few chaste kisses on the lips. The boy was very sick, after all, and about to go in for surgery for Crohn’s Disease. He was very happy to see me but s*x certainly was not on his mind.
Even so, it was nice to have someone put their arm around me. Touch me, even if it was just a little. And he kept telling me how much it cheered him up to see me. For once, I guess, it was nice to be there for someone else and not expect that much in return. Though that is certainly not easy for yours truly, who wants to be noticed and paid attention to all the d*mn time.
Also, I worked myself up into enough of a sex-starved frenzy to confess my attraction to Sexy-Blue-Eyed Boy while we sat in front of the shark tank at the New Orleans Aquarium. In a short yet very effective conversation, I was told that I'd lost my window of opportunity to date him at some specified time in the past (though I didn’t inquire exactly as to when that time might have been).
Embarassing? Slightly. But whatever. It was a fever. It broke. I’m over it. Even though I think one of the reasons I like(d) SBEB is he’s got a real mean, dark sense of humor like my Dad and he makes me laugh more than anyone else I know. Who doesn’t want to be around someone like that? Especially me, who's never had a funny boyfriend in my life.
But, anyway, we moved on and continued our long-standing friendship, one that is intimate enough that it prompted the guy sitting next to us on the plane yesterday to ask if we were a couple and tell us, when we said no, that we “really seemed like one.”
I had one chance to do something halfway stupid, with the drunken boys at Tipitina’s who were in the city for a bachelor party. One of them was a nice, cute boy from San Francisco who told me I was “spunky” and seemed like a good prospect for a little fun. But when the band finished their first set, they all left for a topless bar on Bourbon Street and tried hard for 30 seconds or so to get me to go. “Come on R., you have to go, you’re one of the guys now!” (yeah, RIGHT).
But my guypals were nowhere in sight, and if they were, I would have dragged them along for safety. “You can call them from the car!” said SF Boy. I was tempted, yes I was. It would all be good, innocent fun, right? Getting drunk at a topless bar with a bunch of cute boys – whoohoo!
Yeah, maybe. But more sordid than innocent, probably. And I guess I got too much early training from my parents about getting in cars with strangers. So they left, I stayed at the bar with my pals, and skipped the opportunity for drunken debauchery.
Just as well, since we were going on a kick-ass swamp tour the next day, and I wouldn't have wanted to be so tired that I fell in the water with the gators or anything. (Speaking of which, I tried a gator dog after the tour. Tasted like sausage).
Every night, no matter how late we’d get home, the three of us would sit outside on the porch in that lovely, heavy evening air to drink water and recover. It was one of those big Southern porches complete with a swing.
And no matter how hard I close my eyes and try to imagine it, this damn ergonomic chair in this damn windowless office don’t feel like no damn swing on a New Orleans porch in flower-scented late May.
Tuesday, May 27, 2003
Top 10 things I liked about New Orleans
More "juicy" details to come regarding confessions to Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy, what happened with Memphis Boy, and how I almost ended up in a nudie bar with a bachelor party. (And no, Pretty Plus, I won't just leave you hanging this time.) Once I catch up on my sleep, that is.
- Pralines
- Drinking on the street
- Sultry evening air
- The sense of elegant decay
- Block after block of mansions
- Balconies covered in flowers
- People talk to you in bars
- Wearing my most revealing clothes without having to wear a sweater, jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves over them
- Everyone calls you “baby”
More "juicy" details to come regarding confessions to Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy, what happened with Memphis Boy, and how I almost ended up in a nudie bar with a bachelor party. (And no, Pretty Plus, I won't just leave you hanging this time.) Once I catch up on my sleep, that is.
I'm back, I'm alive, I got older; I sho' enough had fun in New Orleans, and you'll be hearing from me SOON. I didn't mean to abandon y'all, but I just couldn't pay money to sit in front of some slow-ass computer when I could be out drinking hurricanes on the street and flashing my you-know-whats. Stay tuned!
Love,
BB
Love,
BB
Saturday, May 17, 2003
The Not Quite Right Report for Saturday, May 17
What is not quite right in the world of Breakup Babe today, I’m sure you’re wondering to yourself. I mean, her life is so glamorous most of the time. Full of soirees, liaisons, intrigue. Does anything ever go wrong for her?
Lest you feel intimidated by my razzle-dazzle existence, I thought I’d share just a few things that are not quite right today.
Me
Drugged up, sleep-deprived, hung-over, crushed out, and suffering from existential despair. Oh, and let’s not forget sex-deprived.
My hangover
It is not a good kind of hangover. Like an “I-got-drunk-and-had-such-a-blast-and-got-it-on-all-night-with-a-cute-boy” kind of hangover (รก la two weeks ago). It’s more like, “I-was-sick-to-begin-with-than-stupidly-drank-way-too-much-because-I-wanted-to-tell-Sexy-Blue-Eyed-Boy-about-my-crush-on-him-but-he-was-flirting-with-another-girl-all-night-so-I-just-kept-drinking-and-smoking-p*t kind of hangover.”
The cranberry and vodka drink I spilled all over my sexy new halter top last night while getting pointelessly drunk.
I need to be swaddled head-to-toe in a giant rubber bib.
My crush on SBEB
It won’t go away and he is one of my best friends. Plus, he’s joining the par-tay in New Olreans. Who bets I spill my guts one sultry night under the influence of too many mint juleps while wearing a cranberry and vodka-stained halter top?
Alt.Country Boy (ACB)
Who? Oh, that guy with the hearbreaking hazel eyes, who promised to call me this week and DIDN’T? He's been relegated to Acronym Hell, forced to spend the rest of eternity with other assorted rejects like SBDB, HLB, SB, CEB, MMB, and CTB.
My final karaoke number last night
I strayed from the tried-and-true Bette Midler and Blondie and attempted Rod Stewart. And this was right after SBEB’s stellar spoken-word performance of “Papa Don’t Preach” that brought the house down. Bad move.
The fact that I have to get on an airplane in three days
Love to travel, hate to fly. I'm going to die, I know it. Luckily for me, there exists the happiest palindrome in the world, Xanax. And lest some of you worry that I’m becoming a doped up drug fiend, you’re right. Please worry.
My writing
The new antidepressants are messing with my edge, man.
There's just one drug I want and I don't have it.
Love. Anyone know where I can get some? The real kind?
What is not quite right in the world of Breakup Babe today, I’m sure you’re wondering to yourself. I mean, her life is so glamorous most of the time. Full of soirees, liaisons, intrigue. Does anything ever go wrong for her?
Lest you feel intimidated by my razzle-dazzle existence, I thought I’d share just a few things that are not quite right today.
Me
Drugged up, sleep-deprived, hung-over, crushed out, and suffering from existential despair. Oh, and let’s not forget sex-deprived.
My hangover
It is not a good kind of hangover. Like an “I-got-drunk-and-had-such-a-blast-and-got-it-on-all-night-with-a-cute-boy” kind of hangover (รก la two weeks ago). It’s more like, “I-was-sick-to-begin-with-than-stupidly-drank-way-too-much-because-I-wanted-to-tell-Sexy-Blue-Eyed-Boy-about-my-crush-on-him-but-he-was-flirting-with-another-girl-all-night-so-I-just-kept-drinking-and-smoking-p*t kind of hangover.”
The cranberry and vodka drink I spilled all over my sexy new halter top last night while getting pointelessly drunk.
I need to be swaddled head-to-toe in a giant rubber bib.
My crush on SBEB
It won’t go away and he is one of my best friends. Plus, he’s joining the par-tay in New Olreans. Who bets I spill my guts one sultry night under the influence of too many mint juleps while wearing a cranberry and vodka-stained halter top?
Alt.Country Boy (ACB)
Who? Oh, that guy with the hearbreaking hazel eyes, who promised to call me this week and DIDN’T? He's been relegated to Acronym Hell, forced to spend the rest of eternity with other assorted rejects like SBDB, HLB, SB, CEB, MMB, and CTB.
My final karaoke number last night
I strayed from the tried-and-true Bette Midler and Blondie and attempted Rod Stewart. And this was right after SBEB’s stellar spoken-word performance of “Papa Don’t Preach” that brought the house down. Bad move.
The fact that I have to get on an airplane in three days
Love to travel, hate to fly. I'm going to die, I know it. Luckily for me, there exists the happiest palindrome in the world, Xanax. And lest some of you worry that I’m becoming a doped up drug fiend, you’re right. Please worry.
My writing
The new antidepressants are messing with my edge, man.
There's just one drug I want and I don't have it.
Love. Anyone know where I can get some? The real kind?
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Being a cute girl has its perks sometimes.
Today on the way to work I went to my favorite coffee place, where I have a small crush on one of the baristas, who shall henceforth be known as Sparklehorse Barista Boy (SBB) due to the t-shirt he was wearing this morning. (As you may recall, I'm fond of boys in band t-shirts.)
A few weeks ago, before I had a crush on SBB, he deeply disturbed yet impressed me with his inside knowledge of the music scene, when he told me, about Lucinda Williams, one of my favorite singers: "Dude, she played with my friend's band once, and, dude, that chick is sooo high on heroine!"
Now I'm not like GuyPal #1 or Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy, both of whom get crushes on cute server girls all over Seattle (Baristas, in my experience, are to boys like rock stars are to women). I get crushes on other boys. Mostly pretty, young, commitmentphobic ones without any jobs at all (Speaking of which, has Mr. Alt.Country "I'm very attracted to you" Boy called? NO. NO. NO.) But that's besides the point.
I haven't had a nice barista crush since back in the day when I lived in a basement and was getting over my last breakup. Back then, there was a cute barista boy at Cafe News in Maple Leaf, who used to provide an extra shot o' lovin' with my coffee each morning. A few flirty glances from him helped me drag my sorry, self-pitying a*s out in the world each day.
BUT. He was never quite as sweet as SBB was today.
There I was, standing in line, looking at SBB, hoping he would notice me and trying not to look like I was hoping he would notice me. He wasn't noticing me. Or so I thought. But then, suddenly:
SBB: "Hello darling."
BB: Darling? Did he call me darling? "Hello." I am cool. Revealing nothing, like the ice-princess you all know me to be.
BB "Fine thanks. How are you?" (Is it any wonder I'm known as a world-class conversationalist?)
SBB: "Oh fine." Pause. "What's your name anyway?" There is just the hint of a sweet, shy look in his mocha (or are they hazelnut with a touch of vanilla?) eyes, which look at me. And then away. Oh so subtly.
BB: "R. And yours?"
SBB: "S." The air crackles.
BB: "Hi." I have undoubtedly reached new heights in the realm of sparkling repartee. S. smiles. He looks a little bit like my ex-friend who looks exactly like Eddie Vedder, only he is cuter than the ex-friend.
SBB: "What would you like this morning?"
BB: "Oh just a small drip coffee." Cause I'm high as a kite already on twenty different kinds of antidepressants and Lord knows I don't actually need any caffeine. SBB pours my coffee than hands me the cup. He has olive skin. Have I mentioned I like olive skin?
SBB: "Hey, that's on me today, R." And before I know it, SBB hands me my free-for-being-a-cute-friendly-girl-I-like-you-dontcha-know cup of coffee that starts my day off on just the right happy note.
It later took a brief turn for the worse when I [ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!] But I swear to God, it's not happening next time that weasel (thanks to B. for the new, and oh-so-apt Loser descriptor) comes within 10 feet of me.
Anyway, three more days til the great southern adventure begins. Did y'all know I'm going to visit Memphis Boy before heading down to New Orleans? Most of you are too young to remember him, but he was a Breakup Babe favorite for a while there, 'til he had to move back to Memphis.
One can only hope I'll forget about Alt.Country Boy while I'm there and find myself some REAL country boys. Hmmph.
Today on the way to work I went to my favorite coffee place, where I have a small crush on one of the baristas, who shall henceforth be known as Sparklehorse Barista Boy (SBB) due to the t-shirt he was wearing this morning. (As you may recall, I'm fond of boys in band t-shirts.)
A few weeks ago, before I had a crush on SBB, he deeply disturbed yet impressed me with his inside knowledge of the music scene, when he told me, about Lucinda Williams, one of my favorite singers: "Dude, she played with my friend's band once, and, dude, that chick is sooo high on heroine!"
Now I'm not like GuyPal #1 or Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy, both of whom get crushes on cute server girls all over Seattle (Baristas, in my experience, are to boys like rock stars are to women). I get crushes on other boys. Mostly pretty, young, commitmentphobic ones without any jobs at all (Speaking of which, has Mr. Alt.Country "I'm very attracted to you" Boy called? NO. NO. NO.) But that's besides the point.
I haven't had a nice barista crush since back in the day when I lived in a basement and was getting over my last breakup. Back then, there was a cute barista boy at Cafe News in Maple Leaf, who used to provide an extra shot o' lovin' with my coffee each morning. A few flirty glances from him helped me drag my sorry, self-pitying a*s out in the world each day.
BUT. He was never quite as sweet as SBB was today.
There I was, standing in line, looking at SBB, hoping he would notice me and trying not to look like I was hoping he would notice me. He wasn't noticing me. Or so I thought. But then, suddenly:
SBB: "Hello darling."
BB: Darling? Did he call me darling? "Hello." I am cool. Revealing nothing, like the ice-princess you all know me to be.
BB "Fine thanks. How are you?" (Is it any wonder I'm known as a world-class conversationalist?)
SBB: "Oh fine." Pause. "What's your name anyway?" There is just the hint of a sweet, shy look in his mocha (or are they hazelnut with a touch of vanilla?) eyes, which look at me. And then away. Oh so subtly.
BB: "R. And yours?"
SBB: "S." The air crackles.
BB: "Hi." I have undoubtedly reached new heights in the realm of sparkling repartee. S. smiles. He looks a little bit like my ex-friend who looks exactly like Eddie Vedder, only he is cuter than the ex-friend.
SBB: "What would you like this morning?"
BB: "Oh just a small drip coffee." Cause I'm high as a kite already on twenty different kinds of antidepressants and Lord knows I don't actually need any caffeine. SBB pours my coffee than hands me the cup. He has olive skin. Have I mentioned I like olive skin?
SBB: "Hey, that's on me today, R." And before I know it, SBB hands me my free-for-being-a-cute-friendly-girl-I-like-you-dontcha-know cup of coffee that starts my day off on just the right happy note.
It later took a brief turn for the worse when I [ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!] But I swear to God, it's not happening next time that weasel (thanks to B. for the new, and oh-so-apt Loser descriptor) comes within 10 feet of me.
Anyway, three more days til the great southern adventure begins. Did y'all know I'm going to visit Memphis Boy before heading down to New Orleans? Most of you are too young to remember him, but he was a Breakup Babe favorite for a while there, 'til he had to move back to Memphis.
One can only hope I'll forget about Alt.Country Boy while I'm there and find myself some REAL country boys. Hmmph.
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
OK, due to popular demand, I am going to start a weekly wrap-up feature so I stop leaving you poor babies in the dark about some of my romantic (mis)adventures. Look for it early in the week.
It’s a Wrap for Last Week
It’s a Wrap for Last Week
- Dump Mr. Millionaire Boy (you know, the one with the condos in Whistler) due to zero physical attraction. Plus, he was a weenie. Trust me on this one.
- Charming Elfin Boy tells me he thinks I find him about as “interesting as a stuffed vole.” Unfortunately, this is true, except that he is charming and exhibited fine dating behavior and will make someone a wonderful b*yfriend some day. Just not me. We end our dating experiment.
- In one of the most mortifying e-mail faux pas ever, last Friday, I accidentally send an e-mail destined for GalPal #1 to Alt.Country Boy, in which I chatted all about him, Cute Train Boy, other boys, etc. I spend Friday in a tizzy.
- Alt.Country Boy thinks it’s funny; forgives me; we go out on Saturday night.
- I expect another steamy, marathon hookup section; instead ACB tells me he has a “history of rushing things,” and manages to resist me (though not easily) when I pounce. Damn those Pisces and their need for "transcendental love!" I guess they can only do the cheap hookup when they've had nine beers! (i.e. the previous weekend).
- He assures me that he is “very attracted to me” and will call me this week.
- Uh-huh. Am waiting.
- Am mostly over crush on Cute Train Boy. We had heart-to-heart e-mail two weeks ago in which he told me he had not sought out relationships for the last “eight or nine years” (he’s only 31!), and was a “solitary person,” who needed to move very slow.
- Right. As mentioned before, at the pace of a disabled snail. Luckily, infatuation with Alt. Country Boy turned up just in time.
- But is hard being infatuated with someone, thinking they are the ONLY one for you, yet knowing that just last week, you thought someone else was the ONLY one for you.
- That’s why I’m taking a break from infatuation.
- Dr. recommends a new drug to boost the effectiveness of poor Celexa, the effects of which have been flagging lo these past few months – as you might have noticed. Yay! Soon I will be Miss Happy Girl again! Instead of Miss Bad Dreams Crying into Her Beer I’m Nothing but Dust in the Wind Girl
- OK, have I left anything out?
Sunday, May 11, 2003
Did you ever get a big crush on someone just 'cause they're so pretty?
So pretty you can't see straight around them, and for all you know they're the most obnoxious loser on the face of the planet or maybe not even that cute -- but you wouldn't know, 'cause (as mentioned before) you can't see straight.
And all you want to do is play with that pretty thing and think about that pretty thing and escape your life, which isn't so bad really, it's actually quite good, but which lacks any kind of center or reason for being (in the absence of religion, a mate, children, or even a freakin' pet), and thus you get swept up into mindless infatuation as easily as a scrap of paper picked up by a strong wind?
Well, if you have, you're an idiot, that's all I can say. Because I certainly never have. And I certainly haven't with Alt.Country Boy, oh no.
Meanwhile, since there's nothing to discuss there, do me a favor. You're such a sweet and supportive group, I ask that you visit Voodoo Lady, and her blog entry from May 1, and please tell her in your sweet and supportive way to get the h*ll out of the abusive relationship she's in.
I don't think she's got many people to talk to, or maybe she's just not talking, but she is talking on her blog, and all we can do is try, OK?
Hugs,
BB
So pretty you can't see straight around them, and for all you know they're the most obnoxious loser on the face of the planet or maybe not even that cute -- but you wouldn't know, 'cause (as mentioned before) you can't see straight.
And all you want to do is play with that pretty thing and think about that pretty thing and escape your life, which isn't so bad really, it's actually quite good, but which lacks any kind of center or reason for being (in the absence of religion, a mate, children, or even a freakin' pet), and thus you get swept up into mindless infatuation as easily as a scrap of paper picked up by a strong wind?
Well, if you have, you're an idiot, that's all I can say. Because I certainly never have. And I certainly haven't with Alt.Country Boy, oh no.
Meanwhile, since there's nothing to discuss there, do me a favor. You're such a sweet and supportive group, I ask that you visit Voodoo Lady, and her blog entry from May 1, and please tell her in your sweet and supportive way to get the h*ll out of the abusive relationship she's in.
I don't think she's got many people to talk to, or maybe she's just not talking, but she is talking on her blog, and all we can do is try, OK?
Hugs,
BB
Friday, May 9, 2003
I'm sending my hopes away.
They need a little vacation. It'll be only the best for my hardworking little hopes, who've been up and down so many times in the last year they can't see straight. Preferably a private hospital somewhere warm, where the garden smells of jasmine at night and the Xanax flows freely.
Just one more week, little hopes; just get yourself over this one like you've gotten yourself over all the rest, and then it will be time for your hard-earned break.
I'll take myself off to New Orleans for my birthday where anyone I might meet is just going to be a one-night stand anyway; I'll forget about the cold-blooded Seattle boys; and we'll both come back different. Tanned and refreshed and ready to do battle again, but in a less frenzied sort of way.
It's been a year now, little hopes, and we just have to accept that someone is not coming along to replace Loser right away. We have to accept that every cute boy we meet is not The One; that it's OK to be alone; that we won't be alone forever, and even if we are, that's OK too.
It's time to relax, darlings, so we don't drive ourselves into the asylum for good.
They need a little vacation. It'll be only the best for my hardworking little hopes, who've been up and down so many times in the last year they can't see straight. Preferably a private hospital somewhere warm, where the garden smells of jasmine at night and the Xanax flows freely.
Just one more week, little hopes; just get yourself over this one like you've gotten yourself over all the rest, and then it will be time for your hard-earned break.
I'll take myself off to New Orleans for my birthday where anyone I might meet is just going to be a one-night stand anyway; I'll forget about the cold-blooded Seattle boys; and we'll both come back different. Tanned and refreshed and ready to do battle again, but in a less frenzied sort of way.
It's been a year now, little hopes, and we just have to accept that someone is not coming along to replace Loser right away. We have to accept that every cute boy we meet is not The One; that it's OK to be alone; that we won't be alone forever, and even if we are, that's OK too.
It's time to relax, darlings, so we don't drive ourselves into the asylum for good.
Thursday, May 8, 2003
OK, I've discovered a brilliant new technique:
Write e-mail to boys and don't send them.
Get that babbling, nervous, insecure sh*t onto the page and just SAVE it. The close e-mail. Simple. Beautiful. Effective. Until I open the e-mail again; see that there's no e-mail from the Obsession du Jour, in this case the tres beau Alt.Country Boy (ACB) and am tempted to send aformentioned draft.
SOLUTION: Tinker with it some more. Add a line about how you really want to see him again. Take it out. Fix that stupid line where you babbled about Emmylou Harris. Take his e-mail address out of the "To:" line in case you accidentally send it. Save draft. Quickly close e-mail again before you can send it.
Ahh. Safe for another hour.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm all for girls taking the lead and not sitting around on their a*ses waiting to hear from some useless SOB, who they might as well find out is useless sooner rather than later. Which is why, after a marathon three days (from whence springeth this patience, I do not know), I called ACB yesterday.
He seemed thrilled to hear from me, though what do I know? I could have been imagining the longing, the desire, the PASSION, that surged through the wireless towers of Seattle when he said, "Yeah, sure, let's hang out on Friday night."
If only things were that simple. There are some complications having to do with some friend of his arriving from some foreign country, possibly on Friday night, so I am now WAITING. To hear from ACB. My absolute least favorite activity on the face of the planet, since patience is a virtue I do not possess in any way, shape, or form.
So. Waiting. Fiddling with the draft of my e-mail that I will NOT send because I have no need to chase men around. But still. Is he going to call? Does he care? Were he and all his by-golly-you-sher-are-a-purdy-gurl compliments just a way to weasel his way onto the Red Couch o' Love?
Hmmph. It is easy to keep my mind off such things though, because I am editing some VERY interesting, top-secret documents right now featuring all sorts of fascinating acronyms such as IIS, ASP, C++, CGI, YAWN, and .NET, all which must be appropriate trademarked lest we get sued. Who needs love when you have such an exciting job anyway?
In other news, Cute Train Boy (CTB) has been downgraded to Friend+, Mr. Millionaire to Friend -, and Charming Elfin Boy (who wrote me an e-mail in which he said, quite charmingly, that he thought I found him to be about "as interesting as a stuffed vole") to Friend Maybe. The L'il Rockclimbing Spy is available for good times when he is in town, which is only once every six weeks (luckily).
Did you know I kissed three boys last week? Only enjoyed kissing two out of the three. An exhausting week in all.
Write e-mail to boys and don't send them.
Get that babbling, nervous, insecure sh*t onto the page and just SAVE it. The close e-mail. Simple. Beautiful. Effective. Until I open the e-mail again; see that there's no e-mail from the Obsession du Jour, in this case the tres beau Alt.Country Boy (ACB) and am tempted to send aformentioned draft.
SOLUTION: Tinker with it some more. Add a line about how you really want to see him again. Take it out. Fix that stupid line where you babbled about Emmylou Harris. Take his e-mail address out of the "To:" line in case you accidentally send it. Save draft. Quickly close e-mail again before you can send it.
Ahh. Safe for another hour.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm all for girls taking the lead and not sitting around on their a*ses waiting to hear from some useless SOB, who they might as well find out is useless sooner rather than later. Which is why, after a marathon three days (from whence springeth this patience, I do not know), I called ACB yesterday.
He seemed thrilled to hear from me, though what do I know? I could have been imagining the longing, the desire, the PASSION, that surged through the wireless towers of Seattle when he said, "Yeah, sure, let's hang out on Friday night."
If only things were that simple. There are some complications having to do with some friend of his arriving from some foreign country, possibly on Friday night, so I am now WAITING. To hear from ACB. My absolute least favorite activity on the face of the planet, since patience is a virtue I do not possess in any way, shape, or form.
So. Waiting. Fiddling with the draft of my e-mail that I will NOT send because I have no need to chase men around. But still. Is he going to call? Does he care? Were he and all his by-golly-you-sher-are-a-purdy-gurl compliments just a way to weasel his way onto the Red Couch o' Love?
Hmmph. It is easy to keep my mind off such things though, because I am editing some VERY interesting, top-secret documents right now featuring all sorts of fascinating acronyms such as IIS, ASP, C++, CGI, YAWN, and .NET, all which must be appropriate trademarked lest we get sued. Who needs love when you have such an exciting job anyway?
In other news, Cute Train Boy (CTB) has been downgraded to Friend+, Mr. Millionaire to Friend -, and Charming Elfin Boy (who wrote me an e-mail in which he said, quite charmingly, that he thought I found him to be about "as interesting as a stuffed vole") to Friend Maybe. The L'il Rockclimbing Spy is available for good times when he is in town, which is only once every six weeks (luckily).
Did you know I kissed three boys last week? Only enjoyed kissing two out of the three. An exhausting week in all.
Wednesday, May 7, 2003
I’ll put this out on the table right now: I’m vain.
And it seems I get more vain with each passing year, or else my memory is going, so I can’t remember how vain I was the year before.
My dad used to say about me that I “never met a mirror I didn’t like.” And it’s true. I’m a pretty girl, though certainly not pretty enough to justify how much time I waste preening in the mirror every day – as if I’m afraid I look different or worse or older than I did just an hour before.
There’s more of a desperate edge to my vanity now too. I’m 34, almost 35. I look at least ten years younger and get carded everywhere I go. This is comforting in one way, but another it’s weird to have people think I’m so much younger than I am, and it ends up making me feel old. ‘Cause let’s face it; I’m getting up there.
Though a guypal generously reassured me a while back that I’ll be attractive “into my 50s,” I know I’m reaching the top of the hill and am about to go down the other side. Or, to use another rather tired metaphor, I’m in full bloom right now. And we’re talking gaudy, ripe, deliciously-scented full bloom. That’s going to fade before I know it.
I fit into sizes I haven’t fit into since I was 13. I can’t leave the house unless I look sexy. I can hardly be around myself unless I look sexy. Guys on the street and in bars stop and exclaim “You’re beautiful!” And I feel beautiful. Which is great, I guess, except for all the neurotic sh*t that comes with trying to maintain it. And the fact that it’s an empty kind of “happiness," and I'd be much better off finding God or doing Yoga more frequently. But life is easier for me because of being pretty, no doubt (as Fragrant Lotus recently pointed out).
I’m scared too, though. Scared that any day now, age is going to become more and more visible in my face. I watched a video of myself the other day, and all I could see were the wrinkles in my forehead. To my frightened eyes, my forehead looked like a road map that had been crumpled in someone’s pocket for days. And, shallow as this may sound, I'm scared of the day when the male gaze starts to turn somewhere else (as IF the male gaze has ever gotten me anywhere but in trouble).
And while I still can, I want to be beautiful for someone. While I’m still in full bloom. Someone other than the men on the streets or in bars, or the various men who flit in and out of my life (or, rather, the men whose lives I flit in and out of, but that's changing the metaphor, so screw it).
If there is one nice thing I can say about Loser (and there are more, but I’m still not ready to forgive that f*cker), it was that he made me feel beautiful all the time. He never let me put myself down. If I tried to make a critical comment about my own looks, he immediately corrected me and told me how perfect my body, my face, my thighs were.
Almost every day, he complimented me. “You look so cute today!” he’d say with delight in his voice. As if he never got tired of seeing me. Or, my favorite, said in a reverent tone of voice, "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever known." It was easy to go out in the world feeling kick-ass with him around. And I liked having someone to look good for, other than plate glass windows.
I guess though, there's no point in being scared. The bloom is going to fade and that's that. I might not find someone to love while I'm at my most seductive, but hell, I guess that's OK. Whoever loves me is going to love me roadmap and all, right?
Meanwhile, I can bring a little happiness to the busy bees around me, some of whom know how to toss out a good compliment or two.
Plus, there's always Botox.
And it seems I get more vain with each passing year, or else my memory is going, so I can’t remember how vain I was the year before.
My dad used to say about me that I “never met a mirror I didn’t like.” And it’s true. I’m a pretty girl, though certainly not pretty enough to justify how much time I waste preening in the mirror every day – as if I’m afraid I look different or worse or older than I did just an hour before.
There’s more of a desperate edge to my vanity now too. I’m 34, almost 35. I look at least ten years younger and get carded everywhere I go. This is comforting in one way, but another it’s weird to have people think I’m so much younger than I am, and it ends up making me feel old. ‘Cause let’s face it; I’m getting up there.
Though a guypal generously reassured me a while back that I’ll be attractive “into my 50s,” I know I’m reaching the top of the hill and am about to go down the other side. Or, to use another rather tired metaphor, I’m in full bloom right now. And we’re talking gaudy, ripe, deliciously-scented full bloom. That’s going to fade before I know it.
I fit into sizes I haven’t fit into since I was 13. I can’t leave the house unless I look sexy. I can hardly be around myself unless I look sexy. Guys on the street and in bars stop and exclaim “You’re beautiful!” And I feel beautiful. Which is great, I guess, except for all the neurotic sh*t that comes with trying to maintain it. And the fact that it’s an empty kind of “happiness," and I'd be much better off finding God or doing Yoga more frequently. But life is easier for me because of being pretty, no doubt (as Fragrant Lotus recently pointed out).
I’m scared too, though. Scared that any day now, age is going to become more and more visible in my face. I watched a video of myself the other day, and all I could see were the wrinkles in my forehead. To my frightened eyes, my forehead looked like a road map that had been crumpled in someone’s pocket for days. And, shallow as this may sound, I'm scared of the day when the male gaze starts to turn somewhere else (as IF the male gaze has ever gotten me anywhere but in trouble).
And while I still can, I want to be beautiful for someone. While I’m still in full bloom. Someone other than the men on the streets or in bars, or the various men who flit in and out of my life (or, rather, the men whose lives I flit in and out of, but that's changing the metaphor, so screw it).
If there is one nice thing I can say about Loser (and there are more, but I’m still not ready to forgive that f*cker), it was that he made me feel beautiful all the time. He never let me put myself down. If I tried to make a critical comment about my own looks, he immediately corrected me and told me how perfect my body, my face, my thighs were.
Almost every day, he complimented me. “You look so cute today!” he’d say with delight in his voice. As if he never got tired of seeing me. Or, my favorite, said in a reverent tone of voice, "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever known." It was easy to go out in the world feeling kick-ass with him around. And I liked having someone to look good for, other than plate glass windows.
I guess though, there's no point in being scared. The bloom is going to fade and that's that. I might not find someone to love while I'm at my most seductive, but hell, I guess that's OK. Whoever loves me is going to love me roadmap and all, right?
Meanwhile, I can bring a little happiness to the busy bees around me, some of whom know how to toss out a good compliment or two.
Plus, there's always Botox.
Tuesday, May 6, 2003
MUST. NOT. CALL. CUTE. BOY.
Has only been two days. He'll call sooner. Or later. BUT.
I fondled his phone number last night. It's tucked away in my nightstand, on a little sticky pad with his e-mail address. I haven't brought it to work with me though I have his e-mail address memorized from gazing affectionately at the sticky pad.
He still doesn't have a nickname. The guy is so odd(ly appealing) I'm not sure what to call him. Maybe alt.country boy because when I Googled him, I found all his Amazon wish lists and noted with approval all the alt.country and folk music he wanted. Guypal #1 suggested I could call him Friend of Cute Train Boy (FOCTB). A worthwhile suggestion, but I dunno. Or else The Cowboy 'cause of those sexy boots and turquoise jewelry.
Hmm. I am being oddly boring right now. Perhaps it's because I'm at work, where I don't usually blog, but instead pretend to work while compulsively checking personal e-mail. Oh I take that back. I work sometimes. I mean, B*ll G*tes needs to be a little richer, doesn't he, and who's going to help him, if not me?
Plus, I'm feeling a little self-conscious because a reader (my MOTHER) told me yesterday that the blog is "disturbing" her because I've been so obsessed with s*x lately. #@$#$! I told her, politely,
"Mother, you are not supposed to be reading the blog. The only reason you found it is because Li'l Sis accidentally said the name out loud which was bound to happen, but still. If it disturbs you, don't read it! And don't tell me how obsessed I am with s*x because damn it, I know it, and don't you think I have it hard enough feeling like a 34-year old desperately searching for a husband who is trying hard not to act like a 34-year old desperately searching for a husband, and doing a pretty good job of it by dating 24-year olds yet pretending they're suitable husband material?? And FURTHERMORE, I'm not actually HAVING s*x! We're talking second, maybe third base here! Because I'm not that kind of girl! Good grief, Mother."
Anyway, I am trying to think of other suitable things to write about. I mean, I have a lot of interests, you know. I guess I've gotten so caught up in writing about my (lack of) sex,I forget that, hey, maybe I could write about something else. Like...
Uh. I'm a little tired right now. I'll think of something else to write about later.
But hey mom, at least I'm not like my boy-obsessed-blogger-in-arms, Sweet Jezebel, who has a Sex Meter on her blog indicating exactly how many days it's been since she's had "relations." Of course, if I've thought of it first, I would have put it on my site (it's been longer for me, hahaha), but doesn't the fact that she thought of it first prove that she's more obsessed than me?
Has only been two days. He'll call sooner. Or later. BUT.
I fondled his phone number last night. It's tucked away in my nightstand, on a little sticky pad with his e-mail address. I haven't brought it to work with me though I have his e-mail address memorized from gazing affectionately at the sticky pad.
He still doesn't have a nickname. The guy is so odd(ly appealing) I'm not sure what to call him. Maybe alt.country boy because when I Googled him, I found all his Amazon wish lists and noted with approval all the alt.country and folk music he wanted. Guypal #1 suggested I could call him Friend of Cute Train Boy (FOCTB). A worthwhile suggestion, but I dunno. Or else The Cowboy 'cause of those sexy boots and turquoise jewelry.
Hmm. I am being oddly boring right now. Perhaps it's because I'm at work, where I don't usually blog, but instead pretend to work while compulsively checking personal e-mail. Oh I take that back. I work sometimes. I mean, B*ll G*tes needs to be a little richer, doesn't he, and who's going to help him, if not me?
Plus, I'm feeling a little self-conscious because a reader (my MOTHER) told me yesterday that the blog is "disturbing" her because I've been so obsessed with s*x lately. #@$#$! I told her, politely,
"Mother, you are not supposed to be reading the blog. The only reason you found it is because Li'l Sis accidentally said the name out loud which was bound to happen, but still. If it disturbs you, don't read it! And don't tell me how obsessed I am with s*x because damn it, I know it, and don't you think I have it hard enough feeling like a 34-year old desperately searching for a husband who is trying hard not to act like a 34-year old desperately searching for a husband, and doing a pretty good job of it by dating 24-year olds yet pretending they're suitable husband material?? And FURTHERMORE, I'm not actually HAVING s*x! We're talking second, maybe third base here! Because I'm not that kind of girl! Good grief, Mother."
Anyway, I am trying to think of other suitable things to write about. I mean, I have a lot of interests, you know. I guess I've gotten so caught up in writing about my (lack of) sex,I forget that, hey, maybe I could write about something else. Like...
Uh. I'm a little tired right now. I'll think of something else to write about later.
But hey mom, at least I'm not like my boy-obsessed-blogger-in-arms, Sweet Jezebel, who has a Sex Meter on her blog indicating exactly how many days it's been since she's had "relations." Of course, if I've thought of it first, I would have put it on my site (it's been longer for me, hahaha), but doesn't the fact that she thought of it first prove that she's more obsessed than me?
Sunday, May 4, 2003
Superego: It is so sleazy to go home with a guy you just met at a bar!
Id: Excuse me, it was not a bar, it was a birthday party being HELD at a bar!
Superego: Yeah, whatever. I mean, what are you, some kind of s*ut?
Id: You gotta admit, that guy was CUTE.
Superego: If you go in for that sort of thing.
Id: WHAT sort of thing? Tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned, good-looking well-dressed boys?
Superego: You mean chain-smoking, beer-swilling, shit-kicker wearing cowboys, don’t you?
Id: Just cause he’s from Okanagan and was wearing cowboy boots doesn’t mean he’s a cowboy. Anyway, the boots were sexy.
Superego: Oka- who?
Id: And I’m not a sl*t! Do you KNOW how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to fool around with anyone I’m remotely attracted to? It’s natural, I tell you! N*A*T*U*R*A*L. And oh my gosh, was he sweet. And those eyes. Did I mention how beautiful his big hazel eyes were?
Superego: Not to mention you were at Cute Train Boy’s birthday party and you left with his FRIEND.
Id: Yeah, but CTB is not my boyfriend! He won’t even make out with me!
Superego: All the same, I’m sure it made him feel just grand to see you guzzling tequila at the bar all night while you cozied up next to that chain-smoking cowboy in those pants that showed your butt crack.
Id: God, why did I ever invite you over? I thought you’d be happy for me that I finally got a little of the sweet stuff with a boy who makes me swoon (for the moment, anyway). And now the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy is coming over and I’m going to get even more action though really I should just be sleeping since I stayed up all night last night, and—
Superego: Did you ever think your dating habits might be a little compulsive? That your slu*ting it up might be preventing you from finding The One? That you could be doing better things with your time than going out with every Bill, Dick, and Harry who is remotely cute?
Id: Well sometimes. But did you ever think you should just shut up and let those of us who can actually HAVE a good time have one before we get old and wrinkly and not interested in sex and/or married and not interested in sex? AND that there is nothing more natural than lust AND that it’s all about the JOURNEY not the destination? Huh?
Superego: Oh, you are so tiring.
Id: You too! But it's my blog so I get the last word and I WIN. Ha! Go start your own blog; I bet it will be real interesting.
Id: Excuse me, it was not a bar, it was a birthday party being HELD at a bar!
Superego: Yeah, whatever. I mean, what are you, some kind of s*ut?
Id: You gotta admit, that guy was CUTE.
Superego: If you go in for that sort of thing.
Id: WHAT sort of thing? Tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned, good-looking well-dressed boys?
Superego: You mean chain-smoking, beer-swilling, shit-kicker wearing cowboys, don’t you?
Id: Just cause he’s from Okanagan and was wearing cowboy boots doesn’t mean he’s a cowboy. Anyway, the boots were sexy.
Superego: Oka- who?
Id: And I’m not a sl*t! Do you KNOW how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to fool around with anyone I’m remotely attracted to? It’s natural, I tell you! N*A*T*U*R*A*L. And oh my gosh, was he sweet. And those eyes. Did I mention how beautiful his big hazel eyes were?
Superego: Not to mention you were at Cute Train Boy’s birthday party and you left with his FRIEND.
Id: Yeah, but CTB is not my boyfriend! He won’t even make out with me!
Superego: All the same, I’m sure it made him feel just grand to see you guzzling tequila at the bar all night while you cozied up next to that chain-smoking cowboy in those pants that showed your butt crack.
Id: God, why did I ever invite you over? I thought you’d be happy for me that I finally got a little of the sweet stuff with a boy who makes me swoon (for the moment, anyway). And now the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy is coming over and I’m going to get even more action though really I should just be sleeping since I stayed up all night last night, and—
Superego: Did you ever think your dating habits might be a little compulsive? That your slu*ting it up might be preventing you from finding The One? That you could be doing better things with your time than going out with every Bill, Dick, and Harry who is remotely cute?
Id: Well sometimes. But did you ever think you should just shut up and let those of us who can actually HAVE a good time have one before we get old and wrinkly and not interested in sex and/or married and not interested in sex? AND that there is nothing more natural than lust AND that it’s all about the JOURNEY not the destination? Huh?
Superego: Oh, you are so tiring.
Id: You too! But it's my blog so I get the last word and I WIN. Ha! Go start your own blog; I bet it will be real interesting.
Thursday, May 1, 2003
Ok, is there someone, anyone out there who wants to make out with me?
Wait a minute. Scratch that. I know there are. In fact, I’m going out with one of them tonight. Mr. Millionaire Boy (MMB). ‘Cept I feel sort of ho hum about the whole thing which is actually kind of refreshing because I, for once, get to be the passive one and let myself be pursued.
And, I think to myself, I don’t really want to make out with him, but maybe I will just because I’m so freaking revved up right now. And people, you know if I’m thinking "maybe," it probably WILL happen, especially when I’m worried about matching underwear when I stumble out of bed at 6 a.m.
Actually I came so close last night to making out with someone who makes me honestly, not just possibly, hot. No, not Cute Train Boy (CTB) alas, but more on how I’ve played it so uncool with him later. Because, to my great joy, (and to the chagrin of my friends, who hate to see me sucked back into meaningless flingdom), my favorite youngster has returned to town after months at sea: that international playbaby known as the L’il Rockclimbing Spy (LRS).
The LRS is no longer a spy, he's now, in fact, a videographer for some adventure travel company and gets to travel the world on their dime. But it doesn’t have quite the same ring to call him the L’il Rockclimbing Videographer, so he'll retain his trusty acronym. Anyway, he’s in town for a week before shipping out again to El Salvador (now why can’t I have a job like that?), and I was so desperate -- I mean eager -- when I heard from him last night, I almost had him come over at midnight before thinking better of it.
And this was after I’d accidentally deleted the phone number of a cute 26-year old off my cell phone with whom I was supposed to have a late-night rendezvous last night. He jumped out at me from the unwashed masses who’ve replied to my personals ad because he’s 1)young (I’m weak, I know!) 2)cute 3)a writer, and 4)witty, and yesterday, in my desperation – I mean eagerness – I wrote him back and said what are you doing tonight, cute l’il youngster?
Then I go and delete his message from my cell phone as soon as I hear it because I'm so discombobulated from thinking about how uncool I’ve played it with CTB (more on that later), so no late night rendezvous pour moi. Damn!
But enough of my sex-deprived babbling. You’re probably all hanging on the edge of your seats waiting to hear what happened with last week’s dates.
Well. How about this? Nothing!
OK, OK, that’s not strictly true. Sigh. Some *stuff* happened, just not the kind of stuff I need to happen right now, if you get my drift. Anyway, here's the scoop:
Kickass Lawyer Jew (KLJ)and I went for a pleasant little sea kayaking jaunt in Lake Washington, where we saw all sorts of wildlife, and were soothed by the roar of the 520 freeway overhead. Five minutes into it, he pulled out his stash and said “I can’t remember the last time I went sea kayaking without smoking d*pe!” Uh-huh.
Not that KLJ’s drug addiction would so much if we had any chemistry whatsoever. Because, make no mistake, this boy is pretty. And not in an egocentric, I’m-so-hot-kind-of-way. His hair is a little too long and he wore an unhip shirt out to dinner post-kayaking, but, can you say Baberaham Lincoln? And he’s Jewish, has a nice house, and is a world traveler/adventurer of the first class.
Anyway, it’s too bad there are no sparks because otherwise we could get married and have beautiful, big-eyed children and travel the world in folding kayaks while he fights for truth and justice and I write my bestselling novels. Sigh.
As for CTB, well, we had fun on our date. Unlike KLJ, who looks at me like I’m from Mars (or is it Venus?) every time I make a hi-larious joke (as I am wont to do on a frequent basis), CTB laughs in all the right places and seems to find me quite charming and delightful. SO. WHY. WON’T. HE. MAKE. OUT. WITH. ME?
I tried. I really did. I flung myself upon him in the car as we were saying goodbye and put him in lip lock. Most red-blooded males would jump (literally) on this opportunity. But it only worked sort of. He kissed me a little more than he has in the past; we shared a few intimate moments in the car; and that was it. No steamy makeout fest occurred.
Throwing myself at him, however, was not the worst of the whole thing. It wasn’t until yesterday that I played it totally uncool; however, I’m just not up to discussing it right now so let’s wait until next time, shall we? And we can all rest better knowing I might get some action from other sources this weekend. OR ELSE.
Wait a minute. Scratch that. I know there are. In fact, I’m going out with one of them tonight. Mr. Millionaire Boy (MMB). ‘Cept I feel sort of ho hum about the whole thing which is actually kind of refreshing because I, for once, get to be the passive one and let myself be pursued.
And, I think to myself, I don’t really want to make out with him, but maybe I will just because I’m so freaking revved up right now. And people, you know if I’m thinking "maybe," it probably WILL happen, especially when I’m worried about matching underwear when I stumble out of bed at 6 a.m.
Actually I came so close last night to making out with someone who makes me honestly, not just possibly, hot. No, not Cute Train Boy (CTB) alas, but more on how I’ve played it so uncool with him later. Because, to my great joy, (and to the chagrin of my friends, who hate to see me sucked back into meaningless flingdom), my favorite youngster has returned to town after months at sea: that international playbaby known as the L’il Rockclimbing Spy (LRS).
The LRS is no longer a spy, he's now, in fact, a videographer for some adventure travel company and gets to travel the world on their dime. But it doesn’t have quite the same ring to call him the L’il Rockclimbing Videographer, so he'll retain his trusty acronym. Anyway, he’s in town for a week before shipping out again to El Salvador (now why can’t I have a job like that?), and I was so desperate -- I mean eager -- when I heard from him last night, I almost had him come over at midnight before thinking better of it.
And this was after I’d accidentally deleted the phone number of a cute 26-year old off my cell phone with whom I was supposed to have a late-night rendezvous last night. He jumped out at me from the unwashed masses who’ve replied to my personals ad because he’s 1)young (I’m weak, I know!) 2)cute 3)a writer, and 4)witty, and yesterday, in my desperation – I mean eagerness – I wrote him back and said what are you doing tonight, cute l’il youngster?
Then I go and delete his message from my cell phone as soon as I hear it because I'm so discombobulated from thinking about how uncool I’ve played it with CTB (more on that later), so no late night rendezvous pour moi. Damn!
But enough of my sex-deprived babbling. You’re probably all hanging on the edge of your seats waiting to hear what happened with last week’s dates.
Well. How about this? Nothing!
OK, OK, that’s not strictly true. Sigh. Some *stuff* happened, just not the kind of stuff I need to happen right now, if you get my drift. Anyway, here's the scoop:
Kickass Lawyer Jew (KLJ)and I went for a pleasant little sea kayaking jaunt in Lake Washington, where we saw all sorts of wildlife, and were soothed by the roar of the 520 freeway overhead. Five minutes into it, he pulled out his stash and said “I can’t remember the last time I went sea kayaking without smoking d*pe!” Uh-huh.
Not that KLJ’s drug addiction would so much if we had any chemistry whatsoever. Because, make no mistake, this boy is pretty. And not in an egocentric, I’m-so-hot-kind-of-way. His hair is a little too long and he wore an unhip shirt out to dinner post-kayaking, but, can you say Baberaham Lincoln? And he’s Jewish, has a nice house, and is a world traveler/adventurer of the first class.
Anyway, it’s too bad there are no sparks because otherwise we could get married and have beautiful, big-eyed children and travel the world in folding kayaks while he fights for truth and justice and I write my bestselling novels. Sigh.
As for CTB, well, we had fun on our date. Unlike KLJ, who looks at me like I’m from Mars (or is it Venus?) every time I make a hi-larious joke (as I am wont to do on a frequent basis), CTB laughs in all the right places and seems to find me quite charming and delightful. SO. WHY. WON’T. HE. MAKE. OUT. WITH. ME?
I tried. I really did. I flung myself upon him in the car as we were saying goodbye and put him in lip lock. Most red-blooded males would jump (literally) on this opportunity. But it only worked sort of. He kissed me a little more than he has in the past; we shared a few intimate moments in the car; and that was it. No steamy makeout fest occurred.
Throwing myself at him, however, was not the worst of the whole thing. It wasn’t until yesterday that I played it totally uncool; however, I’m just not up to discussing it right now so let’s wait until next time, shall we? And we can all rest better knowing I might get some action from other sources this weekend. OR ELSE.
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