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.
Friday, May 9, 2003
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.
Thursday, April 24, 2003
Hear ye, hear ye, I have decided that Cute Train Boy (CTB) and I are tempermental opposites, and therefore unsuitable for one another. I, after all, am a Gemini, and His Royal Slowness is a Taurus. Lookie here what ivillage's astrology Web site has to say about THAT:
Taurus's sedate, practical approach to life differs greatly from Gemini's more light, intellectual approach...Taurus is simply looking for a dependable, sensual partner, so Gemini's brilliance may be lost on the Bull.
Yes, god dam* it, when am I going to find someone who appreciates my BRILLIANCE, that's what I want to know?
Oh wait, I did once. Loser used to tell me I was brilliant. Loser used to tell me I was beautiful. Loser used to tell me -- SHUT UP!
Right. We weren't compatible anyway. He was a Capricorn, after all.
Capricorn needs security and Gemini needs freedom. Not a good pairing. Gemini is freewheeling and adventuresome and Capricorn is conventional, steady, and conservative . Capricorn likes order and routine, Gemini doesn’t. Gemini makes Capricorn feel too insecure to have any kind of lasting relationship. Capricorn is too sober for Gemini.
Yeah, that's me, freewheelin, fun-lovin' and freakin' brilliant! Not many men can deal with THAT combo, I tell 'ya!
Anyway, I've decided that on our next date (Saturday, in THEORY, if he doesn't go into another "reclusive funk"), I'm going to tell CTB we are unsuitable for one another. Complete opposites. Him sedate, me brilliant, etc. I will cut him a deal, however: Make out with me and I'll consider our suitability a bit more.
Tomorrow, though, I have a date with the Kickass Lawyer Jew (KLJ). Our prospects look a little better, since he's a Saggitarius.
Gemini is an Air Sign and Sagittarius is a Fire Sign. This is quite the active relationship! Air spreads Fire far and wide, helping it increase in power. Gemini and Sagittarius together have just this effect on one another. Theirs is a very fiery, passionate connection.
HA. Finally a man who will appreciate my mercurial side instead of whining about it. We are going kayaking together tomorrow afternoon (in the rain, no doubt), then if all goes well, having s*x. I mean, dinner. After one date, I still don't like him as much as I like CTB, who is UNSUITABLE FOR ME (despite being a very nice person, I must add), but I am hoping KLJ will grow on me. In more ways than one.
(I KNOW I've used that joke before and I apologize. My brillliance begins to wane a bit around 10 p.m.)
Love Always,
Breakup Babe
Taurus's sedate, practical approach to life differs greatly from Gemini's more light, intellectual approach...Taurus is simply looking for a dependable, sensual partner, so Gemini's brilliance may be lost on the Bull.
Yes, god dam* it, when am I going to find someone who appreciates my BRILLIANCE, that's what I want to know?
Oh wait, I did once. Loser used to tell me I was brilliant. Loser used to tell me I was beautiful. Loser used to tell me -- SHUT UP!
Right. We weren't compatible anyway. He was a Capricorn, after all.
Capricorn needs security and Gemini needs freedom. Not a good pairing. Gemini is freewheeling and adventuresome and Capricorn is conventional, steady, and conservative . Capricorn likes order and routine, Gemini doesn’t. Gemini makes Capricorn feel too insecure to have any kind of lasting relationship. Capricorn is too sober for Gemini.
Yeah, that's me, freewheelin, fun-lovin' and freakin' brilliant! Not many men can deal with THAT combo, I tell 'ya!
Anyway, I've decided that on our next date (Saturday, in THEORY, if he doesn't go into another "reclusive funk"), I'm going to tell CTB we are unsuitable for one another. Complete opposites. Him sedate, me brilliant, etc. I will cut him a deal, however: Make out with me and I'll consider our suitability a bit more.
Tomorrow, though, I have a date with the Kickass Lawyer Jew (KLJ). Our prospects look a little better, since he's a Saggitarius.
Gemini is an Air Sign and Sagittarius is a Fire Sign. This is quite the active relationship! Air spreads Fire far and wide, helping it increase in power. Gemini and Sagittarius together have just this effect on one another. Theirs is a very fiery, passionate connection.
HA. Finally a man who will appreciate my mercurial side instead of whining about it. We are going kayaking together tomorrow afternoon (in the rain, no doubt), then if all goes well, having s*x. I mean, dinner. After one date, I still don't like him as much as I like CTB, who is UNSUITABLE FOR ME (despite being a very nice person, I must add), but I am hoping KLJ will grow on me. In more ways than one.
(I KNOW I've used that joke before and I apologize. My brillliance begins to wane a bit around 10 p.m.)
Love Always,
Breakup Babe
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