D*mn it.
No sooner than the words come out of my mouth than what do I do?
I stay up half the night doing something stupid. And of course did not get up early today (never mind that I did three times already this week) and of course drank too much caffeine and ate too much sugar and am thinking “What the f*ck am I doing?”
And though I may not know what I'm doing, but I do know where I am. The Danger Zone.
(And didn’t I just talk to my therapist about the Danger Zoneand what I would do when I got there, and did I just not do the exact opposite?)
Another thing – I know there are biological drives and all that, but wouldn’t it make more sense if our drives actually drove us to make smart decisions instead of driving us to do the things that are completely stupid and yet which feel so GOOD.
Why are the smart decisions the hardest ones to make? Is there not something evolutionarily WRONG with that, people?
And you know what? At least I don’t feel sad today. That sad sh*t is getting real old. But I’m no fool. I know it’ll come back worse than ever once this sleep-deprived adrenalin-, caffeine-, and sugar- high wears off.
(Hey, but at least Lonely Planet guidebooks just hired me to write an essay about climbing Mt. Rainier. So at least my "art" is givin' it back a little right now. Even if my brain seems to have stopped functioning.)
Friday, October 31, 2003
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Hear ye, hear ye! I want you all to know I have turned over a new leaf. No longer am I stay up late-go on too many dates-kiss too many boys - sleep til noon Breakup Babe.
No.
I now live only for my art.
I go to sleep early. I read good literature. (Or the latest chicklit phenom as the case may be). I rise early. And I write.
Then I make it through the rest of the day somehow until that time when I can climb back into my new Certa® Euro-top mattress on my new Arts and Crafts Soaring Heart frame with flannel sheets, down comforter, 20 pillows, and stuffed elephant, and read “Good in Bed” – I mean, Anna Karenina.
I know you’re all waiting for Breakup Babe, The Book, The Movie, and soon-to-be franchise. Breakup Babe figurines that come with your McDonald’s Happy Meal, complete with thrift-shop minidress, knee-high boots, and little pink pill vial so she can remember all her meds!
Well, it’s only another ten or twenty years away! OK, maybe less. Just believe me, I’m working and I’m working hard. I’ve been working semi-hard for years now, but with my new laserlike focus; my new clean-living routine, well – we might see the fruits of my labor before the next decade.
And next month, thanks to a suggestion from Odious Woman, I’ll be feverishly churning a draft of the book for NaNoRiMo.
As for my addiction problem, well. Sounds like we all share that one. So far, at least, you’ll be happy to know I haven’t done anything stupid. Oh I’ve come close. Stupidity makes for better copy though, doesn’t it?
No.
I now live only for my art.
I go to sleep early. I read good literature. (Or the latest chicklit phenom as the case may be). I rise early. And I write.
Then I make it through the rest of the day somehow until that time when I can climb back into my new Certa® Euro-top mattress on my new Arts and Crafts Soaring Heart frame with flannel sheets, down comforter, 20 pillows, and stuffed elephant, and read “Good in Bed” – I mean, Anna Karenina.
I know you’re all waiting for Breakup Babe, The Book, The Movie, and soon-to-be franchise. Breakup Babe figurines that come with your McDonald’s Happy Meal, complete with thrift-shop minidress, knee-high boots, and little pink pill vial so she can remember all her meds!
Well, it’s only another ten or twenty years away! OK, maybe less. Just believe me, I’m working and I’m working hard. I’ve been working semi-hard for years now, but with my new laserlike focus; my new clean-living routine, well – we might see the fruits of my labor before the next decade.
And next month, thanks to a suggestion from Odious Woman, I’ll be feverishly churning a draft of the book for NaNoRiMo.
As for my addiction problem, well. Sounds like we all share that one. So far, at least, you’ll be happy to know I haven’t done anything stupid. Oh I’ve come close. Stupidity makes for better copy though, doesn’t it?
Sunday, October 26, 2003
OK, I feel it starting to creep up on me. That need to be held. That need to be kissed and touched and adored, and to have someone throw their arms around me as the autumn light seeps through the blinds on a Sunday morning.
This is the need that drives me to unwise decisions. It is not a need for s*x, mind you. That will come later, and will drive me to even more unwise decisions.
This is a human need right? It’s not just me, right? Or maybe I was just held a lot as a baby or something.
I remember when I first started seeing Indie Rock Dad. There had been a dry spell, punctuated by only brief cloudbursts, when he first took me in his arms and asked, with bedroom eyes, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I said. And I let him have his way with me.
“No,” I should have said, “but I’m hungry for love.”
And I didn’t trust him – not that first time, not ever – but I convinced myself I did, because I so much wanted to be held, because he offered me his warm embrace and his own confused version of love. And for three months, the power of touch made me feel like myself again.
Now? Well. I’m tempted to crawl into beds I shouldn’t crawl into for the sake of that drug. So far I’ve resisted, but how long can that last?
This is the need that drives me to unwise decisions. It is not a need for s*x, mind you. That will come later, and will drive me to even more unwise decisions.
This is a human need right? It’s not just me, right? Or maybe I was just held a lot as a baby or something.
I remember when I first started seeing Indie Rock Dad. There had been a dry spell, punctuated by only brief cloudbursts, when he first took me in his arms and asked, with bedroom eyes, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I said. And I let him have his way with me.
“No,” I should have said, “but I’m hungry for love.”
And I didn’t trust him – not that first time, not ever – but I convinced myself I did, because I so much wanted to be held, because he offered me his warm embrace and his own confused version of love. And for three months, the power of touch made me feel like myself again.
Now? Well. I’m tempted to crawl into beds I shouldn’t crawl into for the sake of that drug. So far I’ve resisted, but how long can that last?
Monday, October 20, 2003
The Collector
I have a talent for collecting random men. I find them at work, on hiking trips, through other friends. They’re so shiny and pretty, men! So easy to talk to when the chips are down or my computer needs fixing. So broad-shouldered, so adventurous, so…male.
But sometimes I get distracted by all the random men. I get confused by a comforting presence, a fun time, a glimmer of attraction. And because I’m so scared of being alone I grab for some sparkly man in my collection– usually the cheapest, flimsiest, prettiest one, – and think, aha, the answer to all my problems!
This has not worked well for me. And I want to know if it's possible to keep collecting but stop grabbing.
Out, Damned Spot!
I have been feeling like Lady Macbeth of late. Because there is a spot on the hardwood floor in my bedroom that is (will the squeamish please stop reading here) a remnant of bodily fluids left by Indie Rock Dad. I do not know how to get it out.
And it is always there, taunting me, every time I’m forced to open my closet door (which is often, considering I usually try on at least two outfits before leaving the house).
I obsess about this spot.
This morning I kept putting an unread copy of “Blind Assassin” over it, but I had move the book every time I opened my closet, and then replace it after I'd closed the closet door.
This is not the behavior of a well person.
A Good Kind of Spot
So you all know about The Garage. The narrow, 1920s garage that within two weeks of the start of our relationship put a nasty gash in my new Subaru.
Well. Having learned some difficult life lessons recently, I put a stop to our relationship soon thereafter, though it was tempting to keep trying. I mean, who wants to search for parking in a sketchy neighborhood at 2 a.m. in the rain, and then have to walk five blocks home carrying twenty bags and backpacks (as I am wont to do?)
As soon as I told my well-manicured and deceptively benign landlord, regretfully, that I would have to give up my new spot, he said “Oh, why don’t you just park next door in my other building?”
Having heard of the fabled “modern” garage in this building, I asked with some suspicion, “How much does it cost?”
“Oh,” he said, “it’s cheaper!”
Thanks for telling me about this before, landlord buddy.
But at least now my dented Subaru can rest in the embrace of a big modern garage that’s easy as pie to park in – even for moi.
I have a talent for collecting random men. I find them at work, on hiking trips, through other friends. They’re so shiny and pretty, men! So easy to talk to when the chips are down or my computer needs fixing. So broad-shouldered, so adventurous, so…male.
But sometimes I get distracted by all the random men. I get confused by a comforting presence, a fun time, a glimmer of attraction. And because I’m so scared of being alone I grab for some sparkly man in my collection– usually the cheapest, flimsiest, prettiest one, – and think, aha, the answer to all my problems!
This has not worked well for me. And I want to know if it's possible to keep collecting but stop grabbing.
Out, Damned Spot!
I have been feeling like Lady Macbeth of late. Because there is a spot on the hardwood floor in my bedroom that is (will the squeamish please stop reading here) a remnant of bodily fluids left by Indie Rock Dad. I do not know how to get it out.
And it is always there, taunting me, every time I’m forced to open my closet door (which is often, considering I usually try on at least two outfits before leaving the house).
I obsess about this spot.
This morning I kept putting an unread copy of “Blind Assassin” over it, but I had move the book every time I opened my closet, and then replace it after I'd closed the closet door.
This is not the behavior of a well person.
A Good Kind of Spot
So you all know about The Garage. The narrow, 1920s garage that within two weeks of the start of our relationship put a nasty gash in my new Subaru.
Well. Having learned some difficult life lessons recently, I put a stop to our relationship soon thereafter, though it was tempting to keep trying. I mean, who wants to search for parking in a sketchy neighborhood at 2 a.m. in the rain, and then have to walk five blocks home carrying twenty bags and backpacks (as I am wont to do?)
As soon as I told my well-manicured and deceptively benign landlord, regretfully, that I would have to give up my new spot, he said “Oh, why don’t you just park next door in my other building?”
Having heard of the fabled “modern” garage in this building, I asked with some suspicion, “How much does it cost?”
“Oh,” he said, “it’s cheaper!”
Thanks for telling me about this before, landlord buddy.
But at least now my dented Subaru can rest in the embrace of a big modern garage that’s easy as pie to park in – even for moi.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Last night, I went over to A & J’s house. They are my first refuge when I feel down, because: 1) They have two kids and so are always home
2) They are always excited to see me (at least they pretend that they are), and
3)They will feed me. Oh, and
4) They are a stable family unit, and therefore help me, Miss Flightiness, to feel more stable myself
Unfortunately, Darling Daughter #1 was asleep when I got there. DD #1 has recently become a fan of mine. I think it’s because she’s almost three – the age when kids first start to realize who the cool people are. So I was looking forward to a little adulation from DD#1, but when that didn’t work out, I tried to be a sport and pal around with Darling Daughter #2, who is only three months old.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like babies. Sort of. Not as much as kids who talk, and kids who adore me. I’m not the kind of person who goes into a house where a baby is and says, “OOhh, let me hooolldd it!” Though I am the type who will immediately gravitate towards the three-to-six-year-olds.
Anyway, I tried to hold DD #2. Twice. And both times, she went from a smiling, serene, little angel to a screaming banshee. Within five seconds.
So much for that ego boost,. But a reprieve came later in the evening. While A. was talking on the phone, holding DD#2, there was, apparently, a quiet thump upstairs. One that I never even heard. “Did DD #1 fall off the bed?” A. asked me, putting the phone down briefly, looking half-amused, half-concerned.
Since A. had her hands full, I tiptoed up the stairs, to see DD#1 lying face down on the floor, with a pillow on top of her. I worried for a second that she was dead. I held my breath and walked over, but no, in fact, she was just sound asleep. Just a tiny little girl sound asleep on a big floor. Looking so vulnerable and alone that my heart nearly broke.
I slowly picked her up and put her on her big bed. I tried not to wake her, but of course she woke up. “Mama..” she started to whimper. And I expected the floodgates to open when she realized it wasn’t her mother there in the dark with her.
But instead she opened her big blue eyes wide, saw who it was, and said my name as if I were throwing her a lifejacket in a stormy sea. “B***y!” Not once, but four times in a row, as if she couldn’t quite believe what God had sent her in her sleep.
I lay down on the bed next to her. Then she cupped my face in her hands, like, and said one last time, half-sigh, half-exclamation, “B***y!”
So I lay on the bed with her until she fell back asleep, and for a while afterwards.
And it was the best part of a very bad day.
2) They are always excited to see me (at least they pretend that they are), and
3)They will feed me. Oh, and
4) They are a stable family unit, and therefore help me, Miss Flightiness, to feel more stable myself
Unfortunately, Darling Daughter #1 was asleep when I got there. DD #1 has recently become a fan of mine. I think it’s because she’s almost three – the age when kids first start to realize who the cool people are. So I was looking forward to a little adulation from DD#1, but when that didn’t work out, I tried to be a sport and pal around with Darling Daughter #2, who is only three months old.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like babies. Sort of. Not as much as kids who talk, and kids who adore me. I’m not the kind of person who goes into a house where a baby is and says, “OOhh, let me hooolldd it!” Though I am the type who will immediately gravitate towards the three-to-six-year-olds.
Anyway, I tried to hold DD #2. Twice. And both times, she went from a smiling, serene, little angel to a screaming banshee. Within five seconds.
So much for that ego boost,. But a reprieve came later in the evening. While A. was talking on the phone, holding DD#2, there was, apparently, a quiet thump upstairs. One that I never even heard. “Did DD #1 fall off the bed?” A. asked me, putting the phone down briefly, looking half-amused, half-concerned.
Since A. had her hands full, I tiptoed up the stairs, to see DD#1 lying face down on the floor, with a pillow on top of her. I worried for a second that she was dead. I held my breath and walked over, but no, in fact, she was just sound asleep. Just a tiny little girl sound asleep on a big floor. Looking so vulnerable and alone that my heart nearly broke.
I slowly picked her up and put her on her big bed. I tried not to wake her, but of course she woke up. “Mama..” she started to whimper. And I expected the floodgates to open when she realized it wasn’t her mother there in the dark with her.
But instead she opened her big blue eyes wide, saw who it was, and said my name as if I were throwing her a lifejacket in a stormy sea. “B***y!” Not once, but four times in a row, as if she couldn’t quite believe what God had sent her in her sleep.
I lay down on the bed next to her. Then she cupped my face in her hands, like, and said one last time, half-sigh, half-exclamation, “B***y!”
So I lay on the bed with her until she fell back asleep, and for a while afterwards.
And it was the best part of a very bad day.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Oh, did I mention, besides feeling slightly sorry for myself this weekend, I also did this?
Not too shabby for a weekend, if I do say so myself.
- Went on a date with a charming hipster a la High Fidelity
- Responded to badly-spelled-mail from my 19-year old admirer
- Went on two bike rides (one with a beautiful boy)
- Went out to a two-hour dinner with three other boys
- Went to a party with aforementioned three boys
- Cooked a gourmet dinner for my best friend
- Saw "Under the Tuscan Sun" (I know, I know)
- Paid two social visits to two happy families in two lovely Seattle homes
- Spent several hours working on my soon-to-be-bestselling kiss-and-tell memoir
Not too shabby for a weekend, if I do say so myself.
Wednesday, October 8, 2003
Ok, people. I know you want to live vicariously through me. I know you want me to regale you with tales of lust-filled nights and love gone wrong.
I mean, the stupider the situations I get myself into, the more I have to write about, right?
But listen. I am now about mature. I am about practical. I am about screening. And making smart choices from the BEGINNING, when they're easiest to make. I am about not getting swept up into the moment, unless that moment has a future.
Oh sure I might get desperate again one of these days. I might let myself have a little fling if circumstances become dire.
But IRD was supposed to be a little fling, and look what happened with that?
So maybe, just maybe, you can think about my unborn children for once instead of your entertainment-starved little selves. Help me make the good choices, people!
Yeah I know. BORING, right? Well, so is living in the nursing home without anyone to visit me, OK?!
And meanwhile, I will help myself too. I am formulating a little questionnaire to hand out to potential...uh...whatevers. Questions will include these, and some others I haven't thought of yet.
Sugestions are welcome.
I mean, the stupider the situations I get myself into, the more I have to write about, right?
But listen. I am now about mature. I am about practical. I am about screening. And making smart choices from the BEGINNING, when they're easiest to make. I am about not getting swept up into the moment, unless that moment has a future.
Oh sure I might get desperate again one of these days. I might let myself have a little fling if circumstances become dire.
But IRD was supposed to be a little fling, and look what happened with that?
So maybe, just maybe, you can think about my unborn children for once instead of your entertainment-starved little selves. Help me make the good choices, people!
Yeah I know. BORING, right? Well, so is living in the nursing home without anyone to visit me, OK?!
And meanwhile, I will help myself too. I am formulating a little questionnaire to hand out to potential...uh...whatevers. Questions will include these, and some others I haven't thought of yet.
- What medications have you taken in the past?
- Why are you not taking them now?
- Do you hear voices?
- How long did your first marriage last?
- Why did you even marry that chick?
- Are you less than 15 years younger than me?
- Can you fix my computer?
Sugestions are welcome.
Tuesday, October 7, 2003
The Good News
I was innocently sitting at a cafe just now, working on my laptop and looking adorable in a tight gray wool mini-dress, when a cute-ish college student hits on me. Well, community college student.
The Bad News
I gave him my number.
The Good News
I like to encourage the hitting upon of women by men. It doesn't happen nearly enough, especially in Seattle. Oh, there's staring, and gawking, and meaningful eye contact galore. But so little action. I bet many men would be shocked to discover that all they have to do to get my number is ASK.
The Bad News
He now has my number. He might be psychotic. Scratch that. I don't think he's old enough to be psychotic.
The Good News
This guy is surrounded by cute 20-year-olds on a daily basis. He is cute enough to get some of them to date him.
The Bad News
I will have to turn him down.
The Good News
He probably has an unstoppable sex drive.
The Bad News
I should not even consider having s*x with someone so young.
The Good News
I will not consider it. I will take the compliment and go on my merry way.
La de da.
I was innocently sitting at a cafe just now, working on my laptop and looking adorable in a tight gray wool mini-dress, when a cute-ish college student hits on me. Well, community college student.
The Bad News
I gave him my number.
The Good News
I like to encourage the hitting upon of women by men. It doesn't happen nearly enough, especially in Seattle. Oh, there's staring, and gawking, and meaningful eye contact galore. But so little action. I bet many men would be shocked to discover that all they have to do to get my number is ASK.
The Bad News
He now has my number. He might be psychotic. Scratch that. I don't think he's old enough to be psychotic.
The Good News
This guy is surrounded by cute 20-year-olds on a daily basis. He is cute enough to get some of them to date him.
The Bad News
I will have to turn him down.
The Good News
He probably has an unstoppable sex drive.
The Bad News
I should not even consider having s*x with someone so young.
The Good News
I will not consider it. I will take the compliment and go on my merry way.
La de da.
It rained last night. When I emerged from work at 7:30, I saw the slick pavement shining in the dark and thought “Thank God!”
I thought, I can finally go home and have a relaxing night. I’d been on the run for four days – sleeping on strange beds in different cities. Escaping from my own thoughts, my own life.
So I drive home in the rain and it’s so mesmerizing, I don’t even turn on the radio. I don’t have to cry in the rain; it’s like the sky is crying for me.
I think about crawling into bed, reading a book, falling asleep at 9 p.m., sleeping clear through til 9 a.m. the next day – untroubled by sad, confused dreams.
But there is one more challenge I have to face before I can pull the down comforters over me.
The Garage.
I have been parking in The Garage under my building for only two weeks now. For over a year, I struggled nightly to find parking in my neighborhood, so imagine my delight when someone moved out of the building and I got one of the five coveted parking spots.
Well. I soon discovered that for the spatially challenged, navigating this narrow parking spot from a narrow alley is a nightmare. Within one week, I gouged, scraped, and dented the right side of my new car one dark night.
Facing The Garage has now become a harrowing experience. I sweat. My heart beats rapidly. And for ten minutes, I pull in, out, in, out, clipping the side mirrors, praying I won’t do any more damage, until finally, I get in safely – but usually with the car only two inches from the wall.
So you can imagine my state of mind last night when I approached The Garage in a loaner car from my dealership. Imagine my state of mind as I started the endless, fearful process of inching my way in. And you can imagine the complete and utter despair that gripped me when I heard the first crunch of metal against wood.
This time, though, despair notwithstanding, I did something smart. I got out of the car. Unlike last time, I did not try to fix the mess I had gotten myself into, therefore only making it much, much worse. Instead, I left the loaner car halfway in The Garage, hazard lights on, and made a phone call.
A somewhat pathetic, female phone call to GuyPal #1, which ended with me saying in a small, pathetic, female voice, “Can you come over and help me with this?”
Pause. “Well, I just ordered a pizza. And I’m in my pajamas…”
I held my breath.
“OK, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Then I got off the phone and cried. I cried for how pathetic I am. I cried for how lucky I am and how unlucky I am. I cried because I don’t have anyone to put their arms around me and say “it’s OK.” I cried because the sky just wasn't crying enough for me right then.
Half an hour later, GuyPal #1 arrived and miraculously saved the car from any damage. I threw my arms around him and thanked him profusely.
“You’re my hero,” I told him. And he is. He has been there for me countless times in the last year and a half. From waiting for me while I confronted Loser about his infidelity, to advising me on first-date and post-breakup strategies, from telling me how wonderful I am, to keeping me company in my darkest hours, he has been the best of friends.
I went to bed at 11:30 instead of 9, and my sleep was troubled, and I woke up too early, but at least I don’t have another banged up car in The Garage.
I gotta get rid of that parking space. Before it hurts me any more.
See, I'm learning.
I thought, I can finally go home and have a relaxing night. I’d been on the run for four days – sleeping on strange beds in different cities. Escaping from my own thoughts, my own life.
So I drive home in the rain and it’s so mesmerizing, I don’t even turn on the radio. I don’t have to cry in the rain; it’s like the sky is crying for me.
I think about crawling into bed, reading a book, falling asleep at 9 p.m., sleeping clear through til 9 a.m. the next day – untroubled by sad, confused dreams.
But there is one more challenge I have to face before I can pull the down comforters over me.
The Garage.
I have been parking in The Garage under my building for only two weeks now. For over a year, I struggled nightly to find parking in my neighborhood, so imagine my delight when someone moved out of the building and I got one of the five coveted parking spots.
Well. I soon discovered that for the spatially challenged, navigating this narrow parking spot from a narrow alley is a nightmare. Within one week, I gouged, scraped, and dented the right side of my new car one dark night.
Facing The Garage has now become a harrowing experience. I sweat. My heart beats rapidly. And for ten minutes, I pull in, out, in, out, clipping the side mirrors, praying I won’t do any more damage, until finally, I get in safely – but usually with the car only two inches from the wall.
So you can imagine my state of mind last night when I approached The Garage in a loaner car from my dealership. Imagine my state of mind as I started the endless, fearful process of inching my way in. And you can imagine the complete and utter despair that gripped me when I heard the first crunch of metal against wood.
This time, though, despair notwithstanding, I did something smart. I got out of the car. Unlike last time, I did not try to fix the mess I had gotten myself into, therefore only making it much, much worse. Instead, I left the loaner car halfway in The Garage, hazard lights on, and made a phone call.
A somewhat pathetic, female phone call to GuyPal #1, which ended with me saying in a small, pathetic, female voice, “Can you come over and help me with this?”
Pause. “Well, I just ordered a pizza. And I’m in my pajamas…”
I held my breath.
“OK, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Then I got off the phone and cried. I cried for how pathetic I am. I cried for how lucky I am and how unlucky I am. I cried because I don’t have anyone to put their arms around me and say “it’s OK.” I cried because the sky just wasn't crying enough for me right then.
Half an hour later, GuyPal #1 arrived and miraculously saved the car from any damage. I threw my arms around him and thanked him profusely.
“You’re my hero,” I told him. And he is. He has been there for me countless times in the last year and a half. From waiting for me while I confronted Loser about his infidelity, to advising me on first-date and post-breakup strategies, from telling me how wonderful I am, to keeping me company in my darkest hours, he has been the best of friends.
I went to bed at 11:30 instead of 9, and my sleep was troubled, and I woke up too early, but at least I don’t have another banged up car in The Garage.
I gotta get rid of that parking space. Before it hurts me any more.
See, I'm learning.
Thursday, October 2, 2003
Ode to Hot but Inappropriate Boys (HBIBs)
Well there is some poetic justice in the fact that an ex-boyfriend of mine, one who broke my heart into smithereens four years ago, seems to be pursuing me.
In fact, I think he’s been after me for the last year. (Yeah, the one I smooched on the dance floor as a defensive maneuver.) Is he just bored? H*rny? Or has he finally realized what a catch I am?
I don’t know and I don’t really care. I’m just going to take it for what it’s worth and say HA! I have no desire to get back together with him. (Hear that, Mom?) We are so NOT compatible. BUT. I admit, I like the attention. Is that so wrong?
If only there was a way to avoid unnecessary emotional entanglements and still have myself a barrel o’ fun. Remember, this is the boy who rules the dance floor, so maybe we could restrict our "activities" to “dancing?”
Speaking of Hot but Inappropriate Boys (HBIBs) I’m off this weekend to see the Strapping Outdoor Adventure God, who lives in Bellingham. Now I think that SOAG would like nothing better than to marry some hot chick who would tag along on his wordly adventures, mountain climbs, kayak races, bike trips, etc. And what more appropriate hot chick than moi?
But we are so not on the same intellectual wavelength. SIGH. He's smart , but hard to talk to and somewhat unsophisticated given the wordly adventures he's been on. A bit humor-impaired too, alas.
But tres babe. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, blonde, and in the most amazing Superman shape.
According to my Astroglide* horoscope, however, “Friday, October 3 should be lovely and romantic, when the Sun will send Neptune a beautiful white envelope filled with rose petals.”
Yeah, whatever. My whole month is supposed to be f*cking romantic. Maybe I could just have an itty bitty fling with SOAG. So itty bitty we wouldn't even notice it except for one night and then could go on our merry way being friends.
Now there is a hot but inappopriate idea.
*Nickname courtesy of Guypal #1
Well there is some poetic justice in the fact that an ex-boyfriend of mine, one who broke my heart into smithereens four years ago, seems to be pursuing me.
In fact, I think he’s been after me for the last year. (Yeah, the one I smooched on the dance floor as a defensive maneuver.) Is he just bored? H*rny? Or has he finally realized what a catch I am?
I don’t know and I don’t really care. I’m just going to take it for what it’s worth and say HA! I have no desire to get back together with him. (Hear that, Mom?) We are so NOT compatible. BUT. I admit, I like the attention. Is that so wrong?
If only there was a way to avoid unnecessary emotional entanglements and still have myself a barrel o’ fun. Remember, this is the boy who rules the dance floor, so maybe we could restrict our "activities" to “dancing?”
Speaking of Hot but Inappropriate Boys (HBIBs) I’m off this weekend to see the Strapping Outdoor Adventure God, who lives in Bellingham. Now I think that SOAG would like nothing better than to marry some hot chick who would tag along on his wordly adventures, mountain climbs, kayak races, bike trips, etc. And what more appropriate hot chick than moi?
But we are so not on the same intellectual wavelength. SIGH. He's smart , but hard to talk to and somewhat unsophisticated given the wordly adventures he's been on. A bit humor-impaired too, alas.
But tres babe. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, blonde, and in the most amazing Superman shape.
According to my Astroglide* horoscope, however, “Friday, October 3 should be lovely and romantic, when the Sun will send Neptune a beautiful white envelope filled with rose petals.”
Yeah, whatever. My whole month is supposed to be f*cking romantic. Maybe I could just have an itty bitty fling with SOAG. So itty bitty we wouldn't even notice it except for one night and then could go on our merry way being friends.
Now there is a hot but inappopriate idea.
*Nickname courtesy of Guypal #1
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