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.

Top 10 things I liked about New Orleans

1. Pralines
   
   
   
   
2. Drinking on the street
   
   
   
   
3. Sultry evening air
   
   
   
   
4. The sense of elegant decay
   
   
   
   
5. Block after block of mansions
   
   
   
   
6. Balconies covered in flowers
   
   
   
   
7. People talk to you in bars
   
   
   
   
8. Wearing my most revealing clothes without having to wear a sweater, jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves over them
   
   
   
   
9. 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

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 (á 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?

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.

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

• 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?
  
  

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