I've been pet-sitting a lot this spring. No, I didn't lock myself out the house again (see Spare Keys). I've also been finding a lot of lucky pennies lately (see Lucky Charms), and found a few more pennies since that post. I found another one today, on the floor of the bus. But yesterday pet-sitting and lucky pennies merged in a strange way. I was walking Milish (star of Spare Keys) and she took a crap in a planter on the outskirts of the local high school. When I picked up her pile of poo, I received a special surprise: a penny! It wasn't in her poo, but was about 3 inches to the left of it. I contemplated leaving it behind since it was probably laying in a place where other animals pooped and peed, but my superstition about having bad luck if I didn't pick up a penny far outweighed the potential grossness of picking up that penny. Naturally, I picked up the penny. I would have good luck that day. This penny came at a good time, because the Egyptian called me (whether intentionally or accidentally, I'm not sure) about a hour before I took Milish for her walk, but I was sleeping so I didn't answer my phone. Thinking of the shitty situation in which the Egyptian I found ourselves, and other shitty situations to which I've been a part, the penny reminded me that good things come from shitty situations and with luck (persistence + opportunity) everything will be okay. I sent a wish to the Universe that the Egyptian would find his way, and that I would find mine. Later I sent him a text acknowledging his call and saying that I hoped he was feeling better. I haven't heard from him again. Good or bad? Who knows. In any case, the penny I found next to Milish's poo is now my favorite lucky penny.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Lightening Things Up
Given all my "serious" posts of late, I need to lighten things up.
I recently read a lovely and enlightening article in the Huffington Post about Demonic Deville, a clown you can hire to stalk and torment your children before their birthdays. Deville will send threatening text messages, leave menacing notes, and make scary phone calls to your children to let them know the end is near. Muah ha ha ha ha (<--- evil laugh). The threats culminate with Deville throwing a pie in their faces. Here's the news article: Demonic Clown
I want to have children just so I can hire Deville to scare the bejesus out of them. Deville looks scarier and creepier than the clown from Stephen King's It. When I shared this story with my dad, he assured me that I wouldn't need to hire Deville because he would provide the service for free. Sweet. And I wonder where I get my sick and twisted sense of humor...it's been inflicted on me since I was an infant, or probably since I was in the womb. He probably read A Clockwork Orange to me as a bedtime story (and if he did, I would have liked it). For one of my dad's photography classes, he took photos of me after he or my mom threw a pie in my face. I was probably one or two, so I was defenseless against their attack. My parents have photographic evidence of this and it's displayed prominently in Grammie's den for all to see. Why would they keep such inflammatory evidence? I have since implanted my own traumatic memories of this event, but have never discussed it in therapy. Probably because I enjoyed it. Who wouldn't like a pie thrown in his or her face? And my parents claim it was more of a "gentle placement" than anything else.
On another note, a couple weeks ago my friend BB sent an email to me and some friends with the heading: "[phelan's] childhood picture." Hummm. I thought "this could be interesting" since I've known her for about 8 years and she doesn't have any childhood (aka blackmail) photos of me. Or does she? I guess childhood and blackmail photos are not one in the same. Rather than a photo, the email contained a link. Hummm. I was more intrigued. Unaware of what lurked on the other side of the link, I followed it. I found the photo below.
Oh. My. God. She's right! It was my childhood picture! I had just taken a sip of my tea, so I had a mouth full of hot liquid which I nearly sprayed all over my computer monitor because I began laughing so hard. I nearly choked, my eyes teared up, and a bit of the liquid came out of my nose, but my monitor was spared.
If you want your own zombie garden gnome, you can order it by following this link: Zombie Garden Gnome, but they're on back order so you'll have to wait. Drats!
Next to come: my (fortunately very limited) dating adventures with Jay! If you're married or otherwise coupled, you will be thankful because this dude is what awaits you in allegedly "greener" pastures. I'd rather date the zombie garden gnome than Jay.
I recently read a lovely and enlightening article in the Huffington Post about Demonic Deville, a clown you can hire to stalk and torment your children before their birthdays. Deville will send threatening text messages, leave menacing notes, and make scary phone calls to your children to let them know the end is near. Muah ha ha ha ha (<--- evil laugh). The threats culminate with Deville throwing a pie in their faces. Here's the news article: Demonic Clown
Demonic Deville
I want to have children just so I can hire Deville to scare the bejesus out of them. Deville looks scarier and creepier than the clown from Stephen King's It. When I shared this story with my dad, he assured me that I wouldn't need to hire Deville because he would provide the service for free. Sweet. And I wonder where I get my sick and twisted sense of humor...it's been inflicted on me since I was an infant, or probably since I was in the womb. He probably read A Clockwork Orange to me as a bedtime story (and if he did, I would have liked it). For one of my dad's photography classes, he took photos of me after he or my mom threw a pie in my face. I was probably one or two, so I was defenseless against their attack. My parents have photographic evidence of this and it's displayed prominently in Grammie's den for all to see. Why would they keep such inflammatory evidence? I have since implanted my own traumatic memories of this event, but have never discussed it in therapy. Probably because I enjoyed it. Who wouldn't like a pie thrown in his or her face? And my parents claim it was more of a "gentle placement" than anything else.
On another note, a couple weeks ago my friend BB sent an email to me and some friends with the heading: "[phelan's] childhood picture." Hummm. I thought "this could be interesting" since I've known her for about 8 years and she doesn't have any childhood (aka blackmail) photos of me. Or does she? I guess childhood and blackmail photos are not one in the same. Rather than a photo, the email contained a link. Hummm. I was more intrigued. Unaware of what lurked on the other side of the link, I followed it. I found the photo below.
 |
| Phelan's Long Lost Childhood Picture? Source: http://www.etsy.com/listing/73913334/zombie-garden-gnome-walking-dead-back |
Oh. My. God. She's right! It was my childhood picture! I had just taken a sip of my tea, so I had a mouth full of hot liquid which I nearly sprayed all over my computer monitor because I began laughing so hard. I nearly choked, my eyes teared up, and a bit of the liquid came out of my nose, but my monitor was spared.
Next to come: my (fortunately very limited) dating adventures with Jay! If you're married or otherwise coupled, you will be thankful because this dude is what awaits you in allegedly "greener" pastures. I'd rather date the zombie garden gnome than Jay.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Hot Chocolate
I was at Chocolati
(cayenne hot chocolate = yummy) last night and feel the need to report that I saw one of the most amazing looking men I've ever seen in Seattle. Of course,
he was brown. I resisted my initial desire to inquire
if he was involved in an arranged marriage. I even paraphrased the question in my head: "Hi! I'm Heidi. If you aren't already married to your cousin, will you be participating in an arranged marriage?" If he said yes, my plan was to beat him
down in a fit of displaced anger, but then I thought better of it: he had a very muscular upper body with
big, bulky arms and a very lovely broad chest and shoulders. He would have
crushed me in five seconds flat. He was taller than
me, probably around age 25 or 30, had short black hair, and amazingly long eye lashes protruding from his big brown eyes. Yes, I was salivating.
If I was my friend BB, I would have needed a bib. He was reading alone so I'm
guessing he was single (as if reading alone in Chocolati = single; and I call
myself a scientist...humph) but given my current state of frustration with
brown skinned men, I just admired his molten hot chocolate yumminess and left it at
that. Baby steps...
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Leopard Dress: Part 2 pf 2
So, after my venting yesterday (Cougar Nights: Part 2) it's time to continue the leopard dress story. For the first part of the story, see Leopard Dress: Part One. Creative titles, I know.
And now for part two of the leopard dress ...
I was at Slim's Last Chance and someone was eyeballing me from the end of the bar. I smiled at him, then turned my attention back to the music. I could still feel him staring at me, so I glanced over and smiled at him occasionally. Eventually he walked over to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. I smiled and nodded yes. (Score! I wouldn't have to go in the bathroom and secretly use the alcohol in my flask to top off my drink. How I hate spending my money on alcohol - spending men's money on alcohol is okay.) He put his arm around my waist and led me to the empty bar stool next to his. Aaron and I talked (yelled?) during the entire music set, with the whole gettin'-to-know-ya chit chat. He had a rugged looking face (not stomped-on-with-golf-cleats rugged, but he had some minor acne scarring), but was good looking with short dark blond hair and brown eyes. He was a little taller than me with an average build. He'd already had a few drinks, after a long day at work. He's a mechanic at a car dealership. We had a great conversation as I sipped on my free Sailor Jerry and diet Coke.
When the Hillbilly Hellcats came on, I wanted to pay attention to the music because I went to Slim's to see them. So, I swirled around on my bar stool, turned my back to Aaron, and watched the band. Aaron started massaging my neck and shoulders. It felt good, so I didn't stop him. Then he ran his hands down my sides and slipped them down the back of my dress and found the top of my shapewear (busted!) When he started caressing the outer sides of my breasts (one of my favorite spots), I nudged his hands gently away with my arms, so he caressed my ass instead. He ran his hand over my collar bone and pulled me toward him so my back was on his chest and whispered in my ear one of the most romantic things I've ever heard: "Let's go to your car. I want to fuck you right now." I turned around and smiled at him, ignored his comment then focused my attention on the Hellcats. I came to see the Hellcats, and I was going to see the Hellcats damn it. Plus, after my encounter with Carwash Boy (see Southern Comfort at the Carwash), I already decided that I didn't want to be a hook-up girl. Even so, I let Aaron continue to explore my body and he eagerly enjoyed my topography.
When the music ended, he suggested that we go to my car. By this time, the man had already felt every inch of my torso so there was no way he was date-able material, and I really struggled with the whole hook-up girl thing. I thought "This isn't what I'm looking for, so why do I want to invite it into my life? I should be assertive and say that I'm not interested in hooking-up but that he could call me if he wanted to take me on a date." Then I thought again: I let the man explore my body while sitting on a bar stool in front of him, for anyone who was watching to witness. What a fucking tramp! I obviously didn't want to date this guy, or I would have played the game. And, well, I was trying to stop loving my Middle Eastern man and was in a self-destructive mood, so why the hell not?
Aaron and I went to my car. Under the sheen of the street lamp, he pressed me against the side of my car and kissed me hard, pinning my arms above my head with one hand and running his other hand along the side of my body. Aaron's hand went up my dress, then two men walked past us. Suddenly, Aaron froze, then his hand came out from underneath my dress, he removed his tongue from my mouth, and laughed and said "Sorry, man." "No worries," one of the guys replied as they laughed too. Aaron and I must have looked like we'd gotten caught with our hands in the cookie jar. We crawled in the back seat of my car and made out for a while. He penis came out (surprise, surprise) and I said I didn't want to have sex in the car. That was my passive way of trying to stop things before they went to far, but I wasn't very successful. He suggested we go to his house. I agreed.
He hopped on his Harley and I followed him in my car to his house in West Seattle. Yes, I guess I'm crazy. For a brief moment I thought "What the fuck am I doing? I don't even know this guy!" but I never felt any weird vibes from him and wasn't afraid. His house didn't have much furniture, but what he did have was from the 50s, which I loved, I didn't see any apparent torture chambers, so that was good. We made out on the sofa, on top of a green sleeping bag which I guessed was his son's because there was a Happy Birthday Dad card on the fireplace mantle - check out me and my sleuthing skills! His penis came out again (why do they do that?), and I insisted we use a condom (what is it with men and their disregard for condoms?) He was either too drunk or had erectile dysfunction because his dick wouldn't stay hard. He ate me out, then disappeared for a minute.When he came back, he was carrying something that looked familiar. Was that a vibrator?! Hell yeah. He turned it on and stuck it in my pussy, moving it in and out slowly. I briefly wondered if he cleaned it first, but it was too late. It was already in. I hoped any disease carrying bacteria or virus had died long ago. He fucked me with the vibrator, I sucked his cock (who knew where it'd been...ewwww), and we fooled around for a while. Then he passed out on top of me...and started snoring. Great. I laid there naked, staring at the ceiling, with a snoring naked man passed out on top of me. How I hate snoring. I never feared for my life, but I began to fear for his. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and he eventually woke up. It was about 4am and he had to be to work by 8am. He suggested we go to bed. I didn't particularly want to sleep over, but I was too tired to drive home, so I followed him to his bedroom in hopes of getting some sleep.
Aaron wrapped his arm around me and pulled my body against his. I felt like I was caught in a spider's web and I was his prey. Then I felt sad because I missed snuggling with my Middle Eastern man (we used to sleep like pretzels; I still miss the feel and smell of his body against mine while we slept) and I was on the verge of tears when Aaron's snoring brought me back to reality. I thought "What the fuck am I doing here?!" But the sound of the human chainsaw continually disrupted my thoughts. It was like a dysfunctional meditation practice, where I focused on the sound of Aaron's snoring to help redirect my thoughts. I nudged Aaron periodically to quiet the snoring beast, lest I take a chainsaw and hack him to pieces. The sound of snoring brings out violent tendencies in me. I didn't know what time it was, but thought it would be rude to leave. Rude? What was I thinking? It was a hook-up and nothing more.
I didn't sleep at all. When Aaron woke up, we'd fool around for a bit and then he'd fall back asleep. I'd endure his snoring, plot his death, then shake him so he would stop snoring, then he'd snore again, I'd plot his death again, and repeat. When would he get up to go work?! Ugh. Finally, he woke up for good and I'd soon be released from his clutches. His dick was fully functional, so we fucked for a while (yes, he wore a condom). I didn't care enough about the encounter to try to achieve an orgasm. I was tired, ready to leave, and wanted him to get off so I could be on my way. I stared at the ceiling, thought about the things I wanted to do that day, etc. Finally, he shot his wad into the condom and it was over. We both got dressed, he asked for my number (why bother, really?), and we went our separate ways.
I don't know if my leopard dress is really lucky, but I do know it takes a lot of self-confidence to wear it. If meaningless hook-ups are a good thing, then it's lucky. When I wear it again, I doubt it will help me attract dateable men. We'll see what happens. Maybe I'll have another leopard dress story to share soon.
And now for part two of the leopard dress ...
I was at Slim's Last Chance and someone was eyeballing me from the end of the bar. I smiled at him, then turned my attention back to the music. I could still feel him staring at me, so I glanced over and smiled at him occasionally. Eventually he walked over to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. I smiled and nodded yes. (Score! I wouldn't have to go in the bathroom and secretly use the alcohol in my flask to top off my drink. How I hate spending my money on alcohol - spending men's money on alcohol is okay.) He put his arm around my waist and led me to the empty bar stool next to his. Aaron and I talked (yelled?) during the entire music set, with the whole gettin'-to-know-ya chit chat. He had a rugged looking face (not stomped-on-with-golf-cleats rugged, but he had some minor acne scarring), but was good looking with short dark blond hair and brown eyes. He was a little taller than me with an average build. He'd already had a few drinks, after a long day at work. He's a mechanic at a car dealership. We had a great conversation as I sipped on my free Sailor Jerry and diet Coke.
When the Hillbilly Hellcats came on, I wanted to pay attention to the music because I went to Slim's to see them. So, I swirled around on my bar stool, turned my back to Aaron, and watched the band. Aaron started massaging my neck and shoulders. It felt good, so I didn't stop him. Then he ran his hands down my sides and slipped them down the back of my dress and found the top of my shapewear (busted!) When he started caressing the outer sides of my breasts (one of my favorite spots), I nudged his hands gently away with my arms, so he caressed my ass instead. He ran his hand over my collar bone and pulled me toward him so my back was on his chest and whispered in my ear one of the most romantic things I've ever heard: "Let's go to your car. I want to fuck you right now." I turned around and smiled at him, ignored his comment then focused my attention on the Hellcats. I came to see the Hellcats, and I was going to see the Hellcats damn it. Plus, after my encounter with Carwash Boy (see Southern Comfort at the Carwash), I already decided that I didn't want to be a hook-up girl. Even so, I let Aaron continue to explore my body and he eagerly enjoyed my topography.
When the music ended, he suggested that we go to my car. By this time, the man had already felt every inch of my torso so there was no way he was date-able material, and I really struggled with the whole hook-up girl thing. I thought "This isn't what I'm looking for, so why do I want to invite it into my life? I should be assertive and say that I'm not interested in hooking-up but that he could call me if he wanted to take me on a date." Then I thought again: I let the man explore my body while sitting on a bar stool in front of him, for anyone who was watching to witness. What a fucking tramp! I obviously didn't want to date this guy, or I would have played the game. And, well, I was trying to stop loving my Middle Eastern man and was in a self-destructive mood, so why the hell not?
Aaron and I went to my car. Under the sheen of the street lamp, he pressed me against the side of my car and kissed me hard, pinning my arms above my head with one hand and running his other hand along the side of my body. Aaron's hand went up my dress, then two men walked past us. Suddenly, Aaron froze, then his hand came out from underneath my dress, he removed his tongue from my mouth, and laughed and said "Sorry, man." "No worries," one of the guys replied as they laughed too. Aaron and I must have looked like we'd gotten caught with our hands in the cookie jar. We crawled in the back seat of my car and made out for a while. He penis came out (surprise, surprise) and I said I didn't want to have sex in the car. That was my passive way of trying to stop things before they went to far, but I wasn't very successful. He suggested we go to his house. I agreed.
He hopped on his Harley and I followed him in my car to his house in West Seattle. Yes, I guess I'm crazy. For a brief moment I thought "What the fuck am I doing? I don't even know this guy!" but I never felt any weird vibes from him and wasn't afraid. His house didn't have much furniture, but what he did have was from the 50s, which I loved, I didn't see any apparent torture chambers, so that was good. We made out on the sofa, on top of a green sleeping bag which I guessed was his son's because there was a Happy Birthday Dad card on the fireplace mantle - check out me and my sleuthing skills! His penis came out again (why do they do that?), and I insisted we use a condom (what is it with men and their disregard for condoms?) He was either too drunk or had erectile dysfunction because his dick wouldn't stay hard. He ate me out, then disappeared for a minute.When he came back, he was carrying something that looked familiar. Was that a vibrator?! Hell yeah. He turned it on and stuck it in my pussy, moving it in and out slowly. I briefly wondered if he cleaned it first, but it was too late. It was already in. I hoped any disease carrying bacteria or virus had died long ago. He fucked me with the vibrator, I sucked his cock (who knew where it'd been...ewwww), and we fooled around for a while. Then he passed out on top of me...and started snoring. Great. I laid there naked, staring at the ceiling, with a snoring naked man passed out on top of me. How I hate snoring. I never feared for my life, but I began to fear for his. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and he eventually woke up. It was about 4am and he had to be to work by 8am. He suggested we go to bed. I didn't particularly want to sleep over, but I was too tired to drive home, so I followed him to his bedroom in hopes of getting some sleep.
Aaron wrapped his arm around me and pulled my body against his. I felt like I was caught in a spider's web and I was his prey. Then I felt sad because I missed snuggling with my Middle Eastern man (we used to sleep like pretzels; I still miss the feel and smell of his body against mine while we slept) and I was on the verge of tears when Aaron's snoring brought me back to reality. I thought "What the fuck am I doing here?!" But the sound of the human chainsaw continually disrupted my thoughts. It was like a dysfunctional meditation practice, where I focused on the sound of Aaron's snoring to help redirect my thoughts. I nudged Aaron periodically to quiet the snoring beast, lest I take a chainsaw and hack him to pieces. The sound of snoring brings out violent tendencies in me. I didn't know what time it was, but thought it would be rude to leave. Rude? What was I thinking? It was a hook-up and nothing more.
I didn't sleep at all. When Aaron woke up, we'd fool around for a bit and then he'd fall back asleep. I'd endure his snoring, plot his death, then shake him so he would stop snoring, then he'd snore again, I'd plot his death again, and repeat. When would he get up to go work?! Ugh. Finally, he woke up for good and I'd soon be released from his clutches. His dick was fully functional, so we fucked for a while (yes, he wore a condom). I didn't care enough about the encounter to try to achieve an orgasm. I was tired, ready to leave, and wanted him to get off so I could be on my way. I stared at the ceiling, thought about the things I wanted to do that day, etc. Finally, he shot his wad into the condom and it was over. We both got dressed, he asked for my number (why bother, really?), and we went our separate ways.
I don't know if my leopard dress is really lucky, but I do know it takes a lot of self-confidence to wear it. If meaningless hook-ups are a good thing, then it's lucky. When I wear it again, I doubt it will help me attract dateable men. We'll see what happens. Maybe I'll have another leopard dress story to share soon.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Cougar Nights: Post Script 2
I spent the weekend with Nephew and his mom/my friend. Mother's Day was a bit rough for the ladies. Nephew's mom had some things going on, and I received 17 text messages from my Middle Eastern man who's majorly depressed due to his sense of obligation to marry his cousin which obviously conflicts with his desire to be with me. Boo fucking hooo. It's his choice regardless of the consequences. He said that if (If? Not "when"? - I'm grasping tightly onto that straw...) he marries his cousin, he thinks he will be an unfaithful person who's killing my heart. He's perceptive. That he doesn't deserve me or my love. Probably. That he thought he had principles but he was wrong. Maybe - what's the boy gonna do? He fell in love with me and we cannot control that. That I'm more pure than him. Um, from a Muslim to a non-religious American, I found this statement funny but I think he's right but he hasn't read any of my blog entries so who knows. That he hasn't respected anyone (his cousin or me). Perhaps. That I should piss on his face. Tempted. He said some other things and we'll talk about it later this week but, with all of this weighing on me, Nephew informed me that Pak (his friend that hit on me - see Cougar Nights and Cougar Nights: Post Script) just agreed to an arranged marriage. Seriously? I think I'm cursed. I got a fortune cookie on February 1, 2011 (yes, I put dates on them) and it said "You will be successful in romance." LIAR! Not that I thought anything would come of my encounter with Pak, but it's sort of ironic: attracted to two different men who are involved in arrange marriages. This rarely happens once in someone's life, let alone twice. Obviously the situation with Pak is nothing like my situation with Middle Eastern man but the moment I'm finally open to welcoming in another relationship in my life and I encounter this man. On the upside, I my fortune cookie from July 7, 2011, that said "Boats and water will be in your future" and a couple weeks later I had the random opportunity to learn how to sail and I spent some time in sailboats on the water so I guess that fortune was accurate. And I also did crew that summer too. Maybe I'll have success in romance after all? Stupid fortune cookies.
On the night I met Pak, we talked about arranged marriages because the boys wanted to know what was up with my love life: in love with someone who also loves me but will marry his cousin out of obligation so just living my life. Yet Pak failed to mention he was involved in an arranged marriage situation. Of course. Why would he? He was attracted to me, hit on me, and made out with me. On our drive home, he said "I don't know about arranged marriages" - in the context it meant he wasn't sure how he felt about them. Well, I guess he figured that out. Not that I need to be anyone's moral compass, but WTBF? (B = bloody). If you're committed to a familial or cultural obligation for an arranged marriage then leave me and anyone else the fuck alone! Stick to your arranged marriage path and don't mess with anyone's feelings. If you want to play in the garden of forbidden delights, hire a damn prostitute. Or be honest about your situation so the other person can decide how to proceed. If you want to experience true love, then get the courage to stand up to your family, reject the arranged marriage, and deal with the goddamn consequences. Fuck. What's wrong with me? Why do I attract all this weirdness? If I start mate-searching again via dating websites, I plan to clearly state "If your culture or family has a tradition for arranged marriages and you feel obligated to adhere to it, please LEAVE ME ALONE or I will cut you." I'm tired of this bullshit.
On the night I met Pak, we talked about arranged marriages because the boys wanted to know what was up with my love life: in love with someone who also loves me but will marry his cousin out of obligation so just living my life. Yet Pak failed to mention he was involved in an arranged marriage situation. Of course. Why would he? He was attracted to me, hit on me, and made out with me. On our drive home, he said "I don't know about arranged marriages" - in the context it meant he wasn't sure how he felt about them. Well, I guess he figured that out. Not that I need to be anyone's moral compass, but WTBF? (B = bloody). If you're committed to a familial or cultural obligation for an arranged marriage then leave me and anyone else the fuck alone! Stick to your arranged marriage path and don't mess with anyone's feelings. If you want to play in the garden of forbidden delights, hire a damn prostitute. Or be honest about your situation so the other person can decide how to proceed. If you want to experience true love, then get the courage to stand up to your family, reject the arranged marriage, and deal with the goddamn consequences. Fuck. What's wrong with me? Why do I attract all this weirdness? If I start mate-searching again via dating websites, I plan to clearly state "If your culture or family has a tradition for arranged marriages and you feel obligated to adhere to it, please LEAVE ME ALONE or I will cut you." I'm tired of this bullshit.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Leopard Dress: Part 1 of 2
After my second husband and I split up about four years ago, I bought a leopard dress (see 10th photo on the right) along with several other sexy dresses, pin-up girl heels, sexy undergarments, make-up...all the props a newly single lady needed to feel good about herself and attract men into her lair. Muah ha ha ha (<-- evil laugh). I love my leopard dress but it was about three years before I felt comfortable enough to wear it out and about. I've only worn it out twice - both times with great success. I say it's one of my lucky charms, but in reality I need rock solid self-confidence to wear it so of course it would be lucky because I'd be exuding self-confidence. What's more attractive than self-confidence? If I was Superman and wore my leopard dress (he wears a cape, so wearing a dress isn't that far fetched), not even kryptonite would thwart me. Did you know that, unlike Superman, Superwoman doesn't have a weakness? Maybe I'm Superwoman when I wear my leopard dress?
One night last summer, I went at Slim's Last Chance to see Hillbilly Hellcats and some other live bands. I couldn't convince anyone to go with me, so I went by myself. Armed with self-confidence (and shapewear), this was the coming out party of my leopard dress. I primped and preened, put on the leopard dress, and hit the road. After a few wrong turns even though my GPS was leading the way, I arrived at Slim's Last Chance. I parked my car, opened the driver's side door, swirled around in my car seat, and eloquently placed my feet onto the curb. It was like the bat signal was shining on me, but it was just a street lamp. I'd like to say that the light glistened on my black, patent leather, strappy, spiked heel pin-up girl shoes, but, valuing comfort over beauty, I wore black matte flip flops. Anti-climactic, I know, but who would look at my feet anyway? I wasn't out to score someone with shoe fetish. Did you know that there have been several serials killers who've had shoe and foot fetishes? One of them chopped off his victims' feet and stored them in a floor freezer in his garage and dressed them up in various high heeled shoes, unbeknownst to his wife. Anyway, I wasn't out to score anyone or anything other than an enjoyable evening of melodious (or cacophonic, depending on your musical taste) live music for my soul.
I got out of the car, and walked toward the entrance. There were at least 30 motorcycles parked along the street, a lot of them Harleys. What type of crowd was this? Should I have packed heat or a switchblade? I didn't have either, so it didn't matter. I hoped it wasn't a Wild One crowd, unless it came with a young Marlon Brando look-a-like. After a quick glance at the motorcycles, I approached the doorman, paid the $10 cover, and slinked on in. It was about 10pm and Slim's was packed. Like a slow motion mosher in a mosh pit, I eventually nudged my way through hordes of people and landed at the bar. I don't recommend elbowing folks; instead, just place your hand gently on their lower backs and lead them out of your way. Works for me.
While waiting at the bar, a man standing behind me told me I smelled so good that he couldn't continue to be near me lest he tried to molest me which would make his girlfriend none to happy. I laughed and thanked him, then gave him some unsolicited advice: buy Mediterranean by Elizabeth Arden for his girlfriend as a gift to himself. Awwww. After I had my Sailor Jerry and coke securely in hand, I checked out the scene, then wriggled my way to the far end of the bar away from all the people. My feet gave thanks to the flip flop gods as I stood there comfortably and sipped my drink.
The music was loud and fantastic. I enjoyed watching people swing dance and felt a pang of jealously because I longed to swing dance too, but, alas, I had no partner. Then I had this strange feeling that someone was watching me, so I glanced down the end of the bar. There he was. The love of my life, staring longingly at me. My soul mate. Our eyes locked in a smoldering visual embrace; imaginary stars swirled around my head; my heart felt like it would beat right out of my body! Then, as if brought together by a magnetic force, he approached me and asked me to dance. Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. Six months later we were engaged! Yeah, right. I smiled at him, then turned my attention back to the music.
To be continued...
One night last summer, I went at Slim's Last Chance to see Hillbilly Hellcats and some other live bands. I couldn't convince anyone to go with me, so I went by myself. Armed with self-confidence (and shapewear), this was the coming out party of my leopard dress. I primped and preened, put on the leopard dress, and hit the road. After a few wrong turns even though my GPS was leading the way, I arrived at Slim's Last Chance. I parked my car, opened the driver's side door, swirled around in my car seat, and eloquently placed my feet onto the curb. It was like the bat signal was shining on me, but it was just a street lamp. I'd like to say that the light glistened on my black, patent leather, strappy, spiked heel pin-up girl shoes, but, valuing comfort over beauty, I wore black matte flip flops. Anti-climactic, I know, but who would look at my feet anyway? I wasn't out to score someone with shoe fetish. Did you know that there have been several serials killers who've had shoe and foot fetishes? One of them chopped off his victims' feet and stored them in a floor freezer in his garage and dressed them up in various high heeled shoes, unbeknownst to his wife. Anyway, I wasn't out to score anyone or anything other than an enjoyable evening of melodious (or cacophonic, depending on your musical taste) live music for my soul.
I got out of the car, and walked toward the entrance. There were at least 30 motorcycles parked along the street, a lot of them Harleys. What type of crowd was this? Should I have packed heat or a switchblade? I didn't have either, so it didn't matter. I hoped it wasn't a Wild One crowd, unless it came with a young Marlon Brando look-a-like. After a quick glance at the motorcycles, I approached the doorman, paid the $10 cover, and slinked on in. It was about 10pm and Slim's was packed. Like a slow motion mosher in a mosh pit, I eventually nudged my way through hordes of people and landed at the bar. I don't recommend elbowing folks; instead, just place your hand gently on their lower backs and lead them out of your way. Works for me.
While waiting at the bar, a man standing behind me told me I smelled so good that he couldn't continue to be near me lest he tried to molest me which would make his girlfriend none to happy. I laughed and thanked him, then gave him some unsolicited advice: buy Mediterranean by Elizabeth Arden for his girlfriend as a gift to himself. Awwww. After I had my Sailor Jerry and coke securely in hand, I checked out the scene, then wriggled my way to the far end of the bar away from all the people. My feet gave thanks to the flip flop gods as I stood there comfortably and sipped my drink.
The music was loud and fantastic. I enjoyed watching people swing dance and felt a pang of jealously because I longed to swing dance too, but, alas, I had no partner. Then I had this strange feeling that someone was watching me, so I glanced down the end of the bar. There he was. The love of my life, staring longingly at me. My soul mate. Our eyes locked in a smoldering visual embrace; imaginary stars swirled around my head; my heart felt like it would beat right out of my body! Then, as if brought together by a magnetic force, he approached me and asked me to dance. Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. Six months later we were engaged! Yeah, right. I smiled at him, then turned my attention back to the music.
To be continued...
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Burnin' Bonnie BBQ
In December 1998, I bought a 1961 Ford Galaxie Sunliner convertible. If anyone could have a love affair with a metal object on wheels, it was me. S.S. Bonnie Parker aka Bonnie was a big, red convertible with a 390 V8. As with men, I had a lot of trials and tribulations with this car (see The Bonnie Chronicles post). Basically, I spent 2+ years and about $9,000 out of my pocket restoring Bonnie's cosmetics and making her mechanically sound so she could be my daily driver. The only thing I had left to do was get the interior redone and she would have been perfect. But...
One night in June 2001, I met up with my ex-boyfriend Mark (the one from the Cock Island post) in a hotel for an evening of amazing sex. He lived in a different city and was in town for work. I was still very much in love with him. We'd broken up about a year prior, but always kept in touch. At the time, I was seeing Alan, who I'd known since I was 11 because he was one of my best friends' older brother. He confessed that he'd had a crush on me since I was 16.
The day after my hotel encounter with Mark, I went out of town to watch Nephew and his brother while their mom was out of town. It was a perfect excuse to escape from Alan for a while, who was very clingy. Alan and I had been seeing each other for a couple months, but I wasn't really that into him. I'm not sure why I kept seeing him. Maybe it was the fantastic oral sex he gave me? The night I got back into town, I parked my car in front of the house and left the convertible top down. It's summer. Around 2am, I'm woken up by the annoying, continuous sound of a horn. I looked out the window, only to see giant flames roaring out of Bonnie's interior, and they're setting fire to the leaves on the tree in the parkway. I called 911.
When the firemen arrived I was outside in my t-shirt and underwear, laughing hysterically and trying to put out the fire with a water hose. Apparently, the fire had melted the horn wire which is why Bonnie started honking. Bonnie's entire interior was charred, and soaked. Half the front windshield was gone; the exterior paint was bubbling; only the skeleton frame of the $2,500 convertible top remained. I couldn't sleep so I watched The Violent Years. Later that morning, I attended the wedding for which I came back into town. I wasn't very happy at the wedding, but did my best to fake it. I called Alan later that day to tell him that someone set Bonnie on fire. His reply: "Oh." That seemed like a really strange reaction to me. Then I called David (who would later become my second husband); he was so devastated about Bonnie that he drover over immediately to console me, and then whisked me away from my misery.
The next day, I emailed Mark (also a classic car enthusiast and had one himself) to tell him the news about Bonnie's torched crispiness. He felt bad, but he had news of his own too: he got married! Unbeknownst to me, I was his bachelor party...the night before his wedding. Swell. I knew he'd been seeing someone but I didn't know they were committed let alone getting married the day after our hotel romp! I felt betrayed. Men forget to share the oddest tidbits of information, don't they? I was completely devastated. Were the gods punishing me? Yeah, it really sucked that Bonnie was torched but that was nothing compared to Mark's convenient withholding of information. What a fucker. To say that I was not a happy camper is a severe understatement. Mark's wife wasn't too happy either. It was a messy mess and took us over a year to sort out.
Back to Bonnie...I hoped that the insurance company would pay to repair the interior. I was really excited at the prospect of Bonnie being fully restored. Was that the silver lining in this mess? Nope. My mechanic pronounced her dead and a shop that specialized in interiors said the integrity of the metal was compromised. The insurance company totaled her out. So, I had no car, Mark was married, I was dating Alan who I wasn't into, I was a full-time student living on tuition grants and student loans, and I was waiting for an appraisal on Bonnie so I could negotiate with the insurance company about a settlement. And I was living in Southern California. You can't get very far in So Cal without a car and I wasn't able to buy one because I had no job and my bank account was virtually empty.
In swooped Alan, eager to cart me around Los Angeles and Orange counties. We got closer, became boyfriend/girlfriend, he told me he loved me, and in the wake of Mark's marriage I told him I loved him too. A few months later, Alan gave me ring and I sort of freaked out. He picked fights with me all the time about Mark, and grew increasingly jealous. I began suspecting that he set Bonnie on fire. Winter break was coming and I didn't want to spend my break with Alan, so I went to Germany for 2 weeks to visit a friend instead. Then I moved to D.C. for 3 months for my internship; I asked Alan not to visit me because I was "too busy." When I returned from D.C., things just got more creepy and I didn't feel comfortable with him anymore. He used to do covert operations in the military and I think he was using his contacts to have me followed in D.C., because he knew things that I never told him and never shared in emails. While I was in D.C., he would come to my apartment in California and stay for weeks at a time which creeped out my apartment mate.
It had almost been a year since Bonnie was torched and summer break was upon me, so I bought another car: a burgandy Saturn. A few weeks later, I broke up with Alan. During that conversation, I talked about Bonnie's fire and explained that, at the time, I was crying mostly because Mark had gotten married and that I'd found out about it when I contacted him about Bonnie's fire. Surprise, surprise...Alan already knew about my hotel encounter with Mark and a lot of other things that I didn't share with him. As far as I was concerned, they were none of his business because we were not committed at the time. Apparently we saw things differently.
My suspicions were correct: Bonnie got torched because Alan was jealous of my feelings for Mark, and Alan knew I would never have similar feelings for him. After we broke up, Alan continued to do creepy things. He sent me a lot of emails with details that implicated he was watching me. My apartment mate and I thought our apartment was bugged because he knew so much, especially since he wasn't hanging around our apartment anymore. It was scary at first, but I started ignoring Alan. Things dissipated over time and stopped altogether when David and I started dating about 6 months later.
Since Bonnie was a classic car and relatively rare, she was an investment. All the money I put into her, I got back in the insurance settlement. She was supposed to be in a car show three weeks after she got torched but, in her absence, I shared her story with spectators and participants, and she was voted for the Hottest Flames award. I have her ashes in a red miniature BBQ that was pen striped by a friend of a friend. Next to it sits her Hottest Flames award, along with some charred remains that were in her trunk. Until I moved out of California, I had Burnin' Bonnie BBQs every year.
One night in June 2001, I met up with my ex-boyfriend Mark (the one from the Cock Island post) in a hotel for an evening of amazing sex. He lived in a different city and was in town for work. I was still very much in love with him. We'd broken up about a year prior, but always kept in touch. At the time, I was seeing Alan, who I'd known since I was 11 because he was one of my best friends' older brother. He confessed that he'd had a crush on me since I was 16.
The day after my hotel encounter with Mark, I went out of town to watch Nephew and his brother while their mom was out of town. It was a perfect excuse to escape from Alan for a while, who was very clingy. Alan and I had been seeing each other for a couple months, but I wasn't really that into him. I'm not sure why I kept seeing him. Maybe it was the fantastic oral sex he gave me? The night I got back into town, I parked my car in front of the house and left the convertible top down. It's summer. Around 2am, I'm woken up by the annoying, continuous sound of a horn. I looked out the window, only to see giant flames roaring out of Bonnie's interior, and they're setting fire to the leaves on the tree in the parkway. I called 911.
When the firemen arrived I was outside in my t-shirt and underwear, laughing hysterically and trying to put out the fire with a water hose. Apparently, the fire had melted the horn wire which is why Bonnie started honking. Bonnie's entire interior was charred, and soaked. Half the front windshield was gone; the exterior paint was bubbling; only the skeleton frame of the $2,500 convertible top remained. I couldn't sleep so I watched The Violent Years. Later that morning, I attended the wedding for which I came back into town. I wasn't very happy at the wedding, but did my best to fake it. I called Alan later that day to tell him that someone set Bonnie on fire. His reply: "Oh." That seemed like a really strange reaction to me. Then I called David (who would later become my second husband); he was so devastated about Bonnie that he drover over immediately to console me, and then whisked me away from my misery.
The next day, I emailed Mark (also a classic car enthusiast and had one himself) to tell him the news about Bonnie's torched crispiness. He felt bad, but he had news of his own too: he got married! Unbeknownst to me, I was his bachelor party...the night before his wedding. Swell. I knew he'd been seeing someone but I didn't know they were committed let alone getting married the day after our hotel romp! I felt betrayed. Men forget to share the oddest tidbits of information, don't they? I was completely devastated. Were the gods punishing me? Yeah, it really sucked that Bonnie was torched but that was nothing compared to Mark's convenient withholding of information. What a fucker. To say that I was not a happy camper is a severe understatement. Mark's wife wasn't too happy either. It was a messy mess and took us over a year to sort out.
Back to Bonnie...I hoped that the insurance company would pay to repair the interior. I was really excited at the prospect of Bonnie being fully restored. Was that the silver lining in this mess? Nope. My mechanic pronounced her dead and a shop that specialized in interiors said the integrity of the metal was compromised. The insurance company totaled her out. So, I had no car, Mark was married, I was dating Alan who I wasn't into, I was a full-time student living on tuition grants and student loans, and I was waiting for an appraisal on Bonnie so I could negotiate with the insurance company about a settlement. And I was living in Southern California. You can't get very far in So Cal without a car and I wasn't able to buy one because I had no job and my bank account was virtually empty.
In swooped Alan, eager to cart me around Los Angeles and Orange counties. We got closer, became boyfriend/girlfriend, he told me he loved me, and in the wake of Mark's marriage I told him I loved him too. A few months later, Alan gave me ring and I sort of freaked out. He picked fights with me all the time about Mark, and grew increasingly jealous. I began suspecting that he set Bonnie on fire. Winter break was coming and I didn't want to spend my break with Alan, so I went to Germany for 2 weeks to visit a friend instead. Then I moved to D.C. for 3 months for my internship; I asked Alan not to visit me because I was "too busy." When I returned from D.C., things just got more creepy and I didn't feel comfortable with him anymore. He used to do covert operations in the military and I think he was using his contacts to have me followed in D.C., because he knew things that I never told him and never shared in emails. While I was in D.C., he would come to my apartment in California and stay for weeks at a time which creeped out my apartment mate.
It had almost been a year since Bonnie was torched and summer break was upon me, so I bought another car: a burgandy Saturn. A few weeks later, I broke up with Alan. During that conversation, I talked about Bonnie's fire and explained that, at the time, I was crying mostly because Mark had gotten married and that I'd found out about it when I contacted him about Bonnie's fire. Surprise, surprise...Alan already knew about my hotel encounter with Mark and a lot of other things that I didn't share with him. As far as I was concerned, they were none of his business because we were not committed at the time. Apparently we saw things differently.
My suspicions were correct: Bonnie got torched because Alan was jealous of my feelings for Mark, and Alan knew I would never have similar feelings for him. After we broke up, Alan continued to do creepy things. He sent me a lot of emails with details that implicated he was watching me. My apartment mate and I thought our apartment was bugged because he knew so much, especially since he wasn't hanging around our apartment anymore. It was scary at first, but I started ignoring Alan. Things dissipated over time and stopped altogether when David and I started dating about 6 months later.
Since Bonnie was a classic car and relatively rare, she was an investment. All the money I put into her, I got back in the insurance settlement. She was supposed to be in a car show three weeks after she got torched but, in her absence, I shared her story with spectators and participants, and she was voted for the Hottest Flames award. I have her ashes in a red miniature BBQ that was pen striped by a friend of a friend. Next to it sits her Hottest Flames award, along with some charred remains that were in her trunk. Until I moved out of California, I had Burnin' Bonnie BBQs every year.
Bonnie posing with a fireman
Bonnie posing with her Hottest Flames award...Awwwwww
Friday, May 4, 2012
Paranormal Activity?
A couple years ago, I worked part-time for a research institution coding and entering data to supplement my meager graduate student income. Nearing the sniping point (aka having a difficult day), I took a break to geek out a bit and wrote this, which was later published in the institution's newsletter:
"Paranormal Activity at [Research Company]?
In all the
times I used the fifth floor women’s restroom, I never heard any strange noise
so I was taken aback the first time I stepped into the third floor women’s
restroom after my transition to a new position. Each time I enter the third
floor women’s restroom, I hear a soft rustling noise. After I round the corner
to the left to make my way to a stall, I invariably hear this rustling noise.
At first I thought “Is there someone else in here? Is she alerting me to her
presence by rustling a toilet seat cover?” Maybe so, but certainly not each and
every time I go in there. But I checked anyway and, after a couple weeks, I did
not find any evidence to support that hypothesis – the subject(s) and data just
weren’t there. My next hypothesis was that there was a motion sensor
strategically placed so that when a patron crossed it, it triggered this
rustling noise; but, again, I did not find any evidence to support this
hypothesis. And why would someone put a motion sensor in there to trigger this
rustling noise? My next hypothesis: I was imagining things. But would I really
hear the same rustling noise each and every time I rounded the corner in this
restroom? I suppose it’s possible but I was, and still am, certain (fairly
certain?) that my mental and auditory faculties are in proper working order…at
least for now. And, quite frankly, I didn’t want to collect any data to support
or reject this hypothesis; ignorance is bliss. Then I began to entertain the
idea of paranormal activity. Perhaps there’s a restroom ghost and he or she is
making friendly rustling noises? Or maybe even unfriendly rustling noises? Was
the ghost trying to communicate with me? How was I to know if the ghost was
friendly or sinister? Could he or she be related to Moaning Myrtle? I’ve never
encountered a ghost that I know of, but I experienced no harm when I entered
the restroom so I concluded that it must be a friendly ghost. Finally…some
data! But, alas, not enough to support my paranormal activity hypothesis. Lack
of harm does not equal friendly ghost, or even just a ghost. Even so, the
rustling noise continued and I favored my paranormal activity hypothesis.
After
about eight weeks of using this haunted restroom, I asked my co-worker Rita if
she too heard the rustling noise. She had! Gasp! Oh no…the restroom ghost was
haunting both of us! Many thoughts ran through my mind: we could seek help from
Steven Spielberg, the producers of Paranormal Activity or the Blair Witch
Project, or perhaps even the History Channel and PBS? Maybe Dan Aykroyd and
Bill Murray? They’d know what to do about this ghost. After entertaining these
ideas for a bit, I remembered that I saw a wastebasket inside the restroom
right by the door. I asked Rita, “Do you think the noise is coming from the
trash liner in the wastebasket, which is being moved by the breeze caused by the
door when it closes?” Another, yet extremely farfetched, hypothesis! Humm… On
my next visit to the restroom, I again heard the rustling noise. Darn ghost!
Then it dawned on me to perform an experiment to test out this farfetched
hypothesis. As I stood by the door and wastebasket, I opened the door and let
it close, with my ears perked and my eyes locked on the wastebasket and its
accompanying trash liner. Sure enough, the breeze from the door moved through
the mesh wastebasket thus causing the trash liner to bellow in its breeze
resulting in the rustling sound. It’s not a ghost after all! Alas, there was a
logical explanation for the rustling noise. While I’m a Ph.D. student in the
midst of my dissertation and I’ve earned a minor in statistics, I have not yet
been able to make a coveted causal statement…until now: in the third floor
women’s restroom, the breeze caused by opening or closing the door causes the
trash liner in the mesh wastebasket (which sits near the door) to move
resulting in a rustling sound. Yes, there is support for my door breeze
hypothesis and it can be supported by further experiments…for those who dare…"
Alas, my research was useful because other women were wondering from where this noise came. And no one got sniped. Yay me!
Thursday, May 3, 2012
(Mis)Match Dot Com
In May 2011, I started dating. In August 2011, I stopped. After a couple of my early encounters, I sent out this email to some of my friends and family:
"So, as you probably know, I've started dating with the help of Match.com. A man named [Adam] contacted me a few weeks ago and wanted to get together with me for a drink. I gave him my number and he sent a text message a couple weeks ago and we exchanged a few texts. I told him I'd be available after this coming Friday (I'm working on my dissertation since I'm presenting my topic to my department tomorrow, and already had a date or two planned). According to his profile, this man is in his late 40s and claims to be looking for a serious relationship and he wants children. Score. Anyway, I sent him a text last night to see if he was still interested in meeting sometime this weekend or next week. His reply: "Still interested. But I started dating someone, and the sex is great." Seriously?! WTF? I responded "Wow. It's a wonder you're still single. Enjoy the sex." Then he replied "I didn't say it was the greatest sex and she's 16 years younger." Then I replied "I'm dating casually and don't plan on having sex until I meet someone who I want to date seriously" (which is true - gotta put the reins on these blokes). Amazingly, he has not replied. Or maybe he has replied but I wouldn't know because...
I did have two wonderful dates with a Croatian man named [Alex]. We canceled our third date because he was (allegedly) sick. We had our second date this past Saturday night, planned our third date for the next day and he got sick during our date (I saw it happen!) and he's not been feeling well the day before either, and (supposedly) felt more miserable the next day so we canceled the date. Of course, I think he was feigning illness because he doesn't really want a third date, that I've done something wrong or said something wrong, etc. (dating is bringing out my insecurities and fears, that's for sure, so I'm working on not being such a girl and not taking things to personally). But he could very well not be interested in seeing me again. Anyway, this afternoon I sent him a text (what's all this texting about anyway?) to inquire about how he was feeling and to see if he's up for getting together this weekend. I hadn't received a response within an hour so I have since put my cell phone in the car so I don't obsessively check it to make sure it's working, to verify that my service hasn't been disconnected, that the battery is charged, etc., since I'm supposed to be working on my dissertation. Ugh. :)
On my first date with another guy he mentioned an unofficial rule that women will have sex on the third date. Have any of you ever heard that? I read about it in a book about dating but that was the first I heard of it, but then this is my first entree into the world of dating so maybe it's been circulating in the dating world for a long time. My reply: "Well, I'm not one for following rules, much less unofficial rules, so if we don't have sex on the third date (and we won't) don't be disappointed." He was eager for a second date and I gave him one. Now he's eager for the third. I'm sure he's wondering if I'll stick to my word. I will.
If I was savvy, I would post all of this on Facebook but I definitely don't want this aspect of my personal life visible in social media (where I could potentially meet men!), but I still wanted to share with you all because, well, I find it funny. And I left out the story of [Jay], because that's a long one and most of you have heard the tale already. Think good thoughts for me! For those of you who are in committed relationships, be thankful you no longer have to go through this dating process. I'm surprised the dating process alone isn't enough to reduce the divorce rate, at least for women. It's fun and exciting for sure, but it's also trying, time consuming, disappointing, anxiety provoking, a real test of one's self-confidence, and a crude lesson in the need to let go of expectations."
Post script:
I heard back from Alex later that day and we set our third date for that Sunday. He was a no call, no show. I didn't contact him again, but he contacted me about two months later and we reconnected. He'd decided to move out-of-state and didn't want to tell me that on our third date, so he dropped off the face of the earth instead because he was certain that if we continued dating we'd get attached. Yeah, some man logic. At least he apologized later, and his dropping off the face of the earth had nothing to do with me. Humph.
I had four dates with "sex on the third date" guy. We didn't have sex, not that he didn't try. After our second date - which I refer to as "dog saliva" date - I knew I didn't want to date him anymore but I gave it two more goes then I kicked him to the curb. I need to write about the dog saliva date.
And I definitely need to write about Jay.
"So, as you probably know, I've started dating with the help of Match.com. A man named [Adam] contacted me a few weeks ago and wanted to get together with me for a drink. I gave him my number and he sent a text message a couple weeks ago and we exchanged a few texts. I told him I'd be available after this coming Friday (I'm working on my dissertation since I'm presenting my topic to my department tomorrow, and already had a date or two planned). According to his profile, this man is in his late 40s and claims to be looking for a serious relationship and he wants children. Score. Anyway, I sent him a text last night to see if he was still interested in meeting sometime this weekend or next week. His reply: "Still interested. But I started dating someone, and the sex is great." Seriously?! WTF? I responded "Wow. It's a wonder you're still single. Enjoy the sex." Then he replied "I didn't say it was the greatest sex and she's 16 years younger." Then I replied "I'm dating casually and don't plan on having sex until I meet someone who I want to date seriously" (which is true - gotta put the reins on these blokes). Amazingly, he has not replied. Or maybe he has replied but I wouldn't know because...
I did have two wonderful dates with a Croatian man named [Alex]. We canceled our third date because he was (allegedly) sick. We had our second date this past Saturday night, planned our third date for the next day and he got sick during our date (I saw it happen!) and he's not been feeling well the day before either, and (supposedly) felt more miserable the next day so we canceled the date. Of course, I think he was feigning illness because he doesn't really want a third date, that I've done something wrong or said something wrong, etc. (dating is bringing out my insecurities and fears, that's for sure, so I'm working on not being such a girl and not taking things to personally). But he could very well not be interested in seeing me again. Anyway, this afternoon I sent him a text (what's all this texting about anyway?) to inquire about how he was feeling and to see if he's up for getting together this weekend. I hadn't received a response within an hour so I have since put my cell phone in the car so I don't obsessively check it to make sure it's working, to verify that my service hasn't been disconnected, that the battery is charged, etc., since I'm supposed to be working on my dissertation. Ugh. :)
On my first date with another guy he mentioned an unofficial rule that women will have sex on the third date. Have any of you ever heard that? I read about it in a book about dating but that was the first I heard of it, but then this is my first entree into the world of dating so maybe it's been circulating in the dating world for a long time. My reply: "Well, I'm not one for following rules, much less unofficial rules, so if we don't have sex on the third date (and we won't) don't be disappointed." He was eager for a second date and I gave him one. Now he's eager for the third. I'm sure he's wondering if I'll stick to my word. I will.
If I was savvy, I would post all of this on Facebook but I definitely don't want this aspect of my personal life visible in social media (where I could potentially meet men!), but I still wanted to share with you all because, well, I find it funny. And I left out the story of [Jay], because that's a long one and most of you have heard the tale already. Think good thoughts for me! For those of you who are in committed relationships, be thankful you no longer have to go through this dating process. I'm surprised the dating process alone isn't enough to reduce the divorce rate, at least for women. It's fun and exciting for sure, but it's also trying, time consuming, disappointing, anxiety provoking, a real test of one's self-confidence, and a crude lesson in the need to let go of expectations."
Post script:
I heard back from Alex later that day and we set our third date for that Sunday. He was a no call, no show. I didn't contact him again, but he contacted me about two months later and we reconnected. He'd decided to move out-of-state and didn't want to tell me that on our third date, so he dropped off the face of the earth instead because he was certain that if we continued dating we'd get attached. Yeah, some man logic. At least he apologized later, and his dropping off the face of the earth had nothing to do with me. Humph.
I had four dates with "sex on the third date" guy. We didn't have sex, not that he didn't try. After our second date - which I refer to as "dog saliva" date - I knew I didn't want to date him anymore but I gave it two more goes then I kicked him to the curb. I need to write about the dog saliva date.
And I definitely need to write about Jay.
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