~Wednesday, January 31, 2007

A Random Act of Kindness

I had a good wallow for a couple of hours this evening. Appropriately, Last Holiday arrived in the mail and I watched Queen Latifa do everything right with what seemed like no return in life.

Afterwards, I drove to Blockbuster to return the movie and pick up another one. It was late for weekday hours, a little after 10 PM. Ahead of me in line was a nice looking black family: parents and a little girl no older than four. She had her hair in two little puffs on either side of her head. I was always jealous of little black girls' hair. I think it's the cutest thing ever with the braids and the barrettes or the puffs and ribbons. She was fussy and beginning to cry. Normally I get really irritated when children cry in public, but this was a cute cry. It was tired with not much threat behind it.

In her hand was one of my favorite movies, An American Tail. The mother gave the case to the Blockbuster clerk who noticed that there was no disc inside. The little girl figured it out and began to cry harder. The mother called to the father, "Go get Fievel Goes West! Quickly!" and he disappeared behind the shelves.

The man in front of me was called to the checkout and I moved to the front of the line. The little girl began to fuss harder until the mother took her back to the children's section. A minute later the little girl returns with tear-stained cheeks, but the unmistakable cover of Fievel Goes West is in her grip.

I bend down and look at her, "Did you find your movie?"

She begins to wail. The mother looked at me and whispered, "She knows it's not the original Fievel."

"What? Are you serious?"

The mother nodded. I looked to the crying girl, "But it's Fievel! Everyone loves Fievel Mousekewitz!"

The mother said a little less patiently, "Fievel is Fievel."

The girl, with puffs on either side of her head, cried harder.

I loved An American Tail growing up. When the movie came out I had a little red radio Walkman and I would drain the battery by leaving it on at night so I could hear "Somewhere Out There" one more time. As I began to quietly sing along to Linda Ronstadt, my brother would inevitably charge into my room and rip my red Walkman away. I still haven't completely forgiven him yet.

In the video store I knelt down and looked at the girl and began very quietly, "And even though I know how very far apart we are/ It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star." She had to stop crying to hear what I was singing. I hit the next verse a little louder, "And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby/ It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky."

It was somewhere around here that the rest of the people stopped to pay attention to me singing in a video store at 10 o'clock on a Wednesday night.

"Somewhere out there if love can see us through/ Then we'll be together somewhere out there/ Out where dreams come true."

Unfortunately, this did not have the desired effect. Somehow I think I envisioned her singing along and smiling and laughing, but it just made her miss her movie even more and cry harder. I'd like to think she wasn't wailing over the quality of my song. The mother, however, laughed and thanked me.

"Well it was my fault for making her cry the second time by bringing it up."

"She would have cried anyway."

And no, I didn't make that little girl smile, but I made myself smile. In hindsight, I think I sang the song more for myself than I did for the little girl.

And that little girl had a point, Fievel Goes West doesn't hold a candle to An American Tail.

I need a little patience. And a lot of other stuff.

I think my heart is too big for me. I wish I could take a little of my heart and good nature and convert into, oh I don't know, breast size. My cup does not runneth over.

Because of my too big heart, I often help people that I probably shouldn't. When I was in college, I held a supervisory position at a telemarketing company and was in charge of hiring, training, and monitoring about 50 people. The girl Conor left me for needed a summer job so I gave her one. I didn't know at the time that she hated me because I was Conor's ex. I, in the meantime, was trying to stay on her finicky good side because Conor was still a friend of mine even after the breakup.

The biggest sin one could commit while working for a telemarketing company is to swear while on the phone. It's violates FCC regulations, which could result in a fine for the company, and is grounds for immediate termination. Conor's girlfriend didn't care and kept dropping the F-bomb on the phone. She said that she couldn't help herself, but here's the thing: she never swore outside of work.

After returning from a day off of work, several employees tell me that the girl just sat there and talked trash about me all day long. Me. The one who gave her a job. The one who excused her swearing not once, but twice. My supervisor had to step in on my behalf.

My supervisor later pulled me aside, "I thought you recommended her for the job because you know her personally."

"I do."

My supervisor, not happy, gave me a warning about who I recommend for jobs. That I'm attaching my name on her reputation. She did at least let me fire the horrible bitch.

Last week, I handed my current boss an application and a cover letter. "This is a friend of mine from college. He's a brilliant guy." And he is. I admired him for his writing for years before I met him as my then-boyfriend's roommate. He and I have since become really close friends. He's still living back at school and still working for said telemarketing company.

He had been asking me recently about technical writing positions, telling me that he had begun putting in applications for a Real Job.

"We actually have openings in my department," I said.

"Really? Well if this application I just put in doesn't pan out, do you mind giving a good word for me?"

"No problem."

So I handed in his application and answered what questions my boss had about him. I called him yesterday and gave him the scoop. "She has your resume. I explained to her about the job situation up at school, so she understands why you have a lot of jobs in a short period of time. Listen, she's in her best mood in the morning, so call up tomorrow morning and be really energetic and positive. Say, 'I'm so excited to talk to you regarding the position. When can I come in?'"

"Okay, I'll do it tomorrow on my break at 10 AM."

"Good deal."

I watched the phones all morning; he never called. He has already put in his two weeks notice at his other job and hasn't even bothered to call to follow up yet. It took me fours months of unemployment to find this job, and here I am handing him a $10,000 salary increase and he can't be bothered to call.

I complained to my father that I've had to work so hard for everything, but it seems like other people just get handed opportunities.

"Honey Bun, you are the most generous person I know. Tell me how you spent your Saturday again."

"Ugh, Dad, I already told you. I spent it at the animal shelter. Then I stopped by a homeless men's shelter to donate some sweaters."

"All you do is give to other people. One day this will come back to you and reward you. You are creating good karma for yourself."

Really? When? Because I'm out of patience. I'm tired of giving to people who perhaps don't deserve it (I'm not referring to the dogs or the homeless). I worked hard to get this job. My rent is going up $100 a month. I haven't been on a date this year. My friends are being fucktards. I have a pimple on my chin. The OC is being canceled after a comeback season. I haven't gotten laid in almost 3 months.

Where the fuck are my puppy dogs and rainbows?

Blog Therapy

Some of you have seen this before, but a lot of people have come over today looking for this post so I made it easily accessible.

List ten things you want to say to ten people you know, but never will for whatever reason. Don't say who they are. (Duh.) Use each person only once and only use one sentence.

  1. I know how much it would mean to you if I could say, "I love you," but I just can't.
  2. You tried so hard to get rid of me, but I'm still here and you're not.
  3. I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me, but I can't handle being vulnerable in front of you.
  4. I can't believe you married him; you were her best friend.
  5. You didn't try hard enough.
  6. You should get that lazered off your face.
  7. I need a break from you-- I think it's the only way for me to come around.
  8. I secretly thought you were an idiot the whole time I was with you.
  9. I don't think I ever gave you enough credit.
  10. I know you want a relationship with me, but you never said you were sorry.
Let me know if you did this meme and I will give you a link.

Edit: Venting did it here.

~Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Predictive Neglect

I knew it would happen. I told N and she dismissed my complaint when I brought it up last week. Last Friday, E's longtime crush was dumped by his girlfriend. He called E to renew the friendship and she took him back without so much as an apology for not talking to her during his entire relationship.

"I understand," she told me. "It's not appropriate for guys and girls to be friends when one is seeing somebody."

"Uh, yes it is. And whomever I date better get comfortable with the fact I have a lot of guy friends. Otherwise, he's on the curb, not my friends. I've known them a lot longer and they have never left me."

"Well we hung out only one-on-one, never in a group. You can't do that when both aren't single."

"Yes you can."

And we agreed to disagree.

So when the boy came back, not only did she not admonish him for being a crap friend for the last six months, but also she declared, "I want Saturday nights!"

When he called her on Tuesday, she jumped up and down before answering the phone. I don't jump up and down when my friends call. She's still in love with him. She's still in love with him after two years during which she declared her love for him, got rejected, then watched him get into a relationship with someone else, and then not speak to her for six months.

E was always a flighty friend when she was in love with him. She would hang out with us around his schedule, always checking her phone to see if he had called, and then would cut the night short to go hang out with him when he did. When he didn't call, which was more often than not, every conversation revolved around him.

I saw it happening again when she jumped up and down (in an elevator no less, scaring the mud out of me) when he called. Within two days, every conversation was about him again. I saw it and N thought I was being paranoid.

Saturday evening E calls. She was supposed to hang out with him (remember, she immediately declared Saturday nights) and-- shocker, shocker-- he didn't call. What made her think things would be different in time?

She wanted advice. I gave it to her and then changed it to what she wanted to hear. She called him and then called me back; his phone was off.

"Now I don't have any plans tonight. What are you doing?"

Here we go again, revolving around his schedule. "I was going to watch my movies that came in the mail this week."

"Do you mind some company?"


So she came over and we drank my bottle of wine and ate the dinner I cooked. By nine o'clock she was putting her shoes on to leave; I knew it was to call him again.

Sure enough, that's exactly what she did. I'm back to being the interim entertainment when he's not available. She didn't financially chip in, or offer to return the gesture, or even thank me for providing the evening.

But I'm a friend. And a friend is supposed to be there during the hard times. A friend wouldn't think twice about it. But here I am, irritated I see the old patterns again.

When I asked N what do we do when she drops us and he neglects her again, she said, "We will pick her back up; it's our job."

And I will.

It looks like I've already started.

But it's not fair.

~Monday, January 29, 2007

Snow Day!

Dear [Metropolis],

Thank you so much for installing that fiber optic cable underground over the summer, consequently clogging up the streets with your lane closures.

And, hey, thanks for poking a hole in the sewage system and not noticing it, so there has been sewage leaking underground for six or so months.

Who knew that all that sewage was going to burst the water main? I sure didn't.

The district that I work in has no water today due to this little faux pas. Apparently buildings can't function without working restrooms, so they closed my high-rise.

Snow day! Erm, without the snow, but it is really cold today. I'm sitting at home in my jammies with a cup of hot chocolate and my bubble bath is calling me as soon as I catch up on my blogs.

I might even turn the heat on.

So thanks, [Metropolis], for the day off. I'll let you get back to work seeing as it sounds like you have a lot of shit to deal with.


Confessions of Selling Out

"I spend a lot on all the clothes that I got
Cuz all the geeks that I meet, they all look cooler than me...
Tell me I sold out, Tell me I sold out go ahead"
-- The Marvelous 3, "Freak of the Week"

I came home Friday afternoon and found a note taped to my door. It's time to renew my lease on my loft. I knew the rent was going to increase exponentially, which was why I was so grateful when I got my raise at work because all it meant was that I wouldn't have to move.

I grabbed the paper and opened it. I was expecting an increase somewhere between $80 and $100 a month. So wouldn't you believe I almost fell over when I saw that they increased my rent by $115 a month. My threshold was $100 and that extra $15 just hurt.

So I went down to the leasing office armed with floorplans and pricing from the competitive lofts down the street and threatened to move there unless they lowered my rent. They agreed to knock my rent increase from $115 to $100 a month, and then took another $100 off one month's rent for renewing early.

Still feeling broke, I took a second job to help afford me my yuppie lifestyle. This blog sold out and went corporate. That's right, I sold my soul and became a corporate wordwhore.

Nothing will change except for a completely random post about once a week that has nothing to do with me. And understand that I would not have taken this route had the evil complex not raised my rent by $100 freaking dollars a month.

I love my yuppie poseur way of life.

~Thursday, January 25, 2007


I have sort of a big deal going on tomorrow night. I've nominated myself the cruise director and I've spent the better part of a week e-mailing and calling everyone to invite them to said Big Deal. While driving home yesterday, I called those who had not yet responded to e-mails. And I saw his name on my list:


David is a frustrating situation. Thing is, I don't really like David-- not romantically. I don't want to get married and have babies with David. I don't even want to see him every Friday night.

But it's been a few months since I've gotten laid and, dammit, David is my top candidate. I like him enough to sleep with him, and don't like him enough that the situation wouldn't hurt me, no matter the outcome. He's disposable.

I slid my phone shut and kept driving. I don't call boys; it's just not something I do. I'm not comfortable with it because too many times I have dialed and the boy on the other end was in a bad mood and consequently I spend the rest of the evening/weekend/week thinking I did something wrong. It's just not worth the hassle.

Then I thought of the other people I had called: Conor, Mike, Geoff, Bryan... all boys. And I didn't have problems calling them because they're my friends and nothing more. David is a friend and by not calling him I would be treating him differently, and that's not any better.

When I got home I looked at the white board on my fridge for the list of boys' names that I refuse to have in my phone and dialed David. And got no response.

Within the hour I heard back from him. Via e-mail. And because I'm so excellent with subtext, I'm including it in his response:


sorry i've been unreachable...lot of stuff goin on. (I'm still in love with my ex.) work's been killin me. (We're fighting, which means we're on some sort of speaking terms.) been gettin up at 4:10 am, and getting back well after 6 pm. (I'm not sleeping well because I've been up at night, searching for clues in our fights that she still loves me.) physically exhausted, and i've had to work out too. (I've been leaving emo song lyrics as my away messages on AIM.) so, i might need to just relax and sleep this weekend. (I'm staying home in case she reads my lame-o away message and wants to call me.) hopefully won't have to work this weekend too. (I really want to be home so I'm there when she realizes dumping me was a huge mistake.) but, we'll see. (She's not going to call.) i'll let ya know. (I love her so much.) holla. (E-mail me again and I won't respond.)

Too bad David couldn't read my subtext, otherwise he'd be getting some this weekend.

~Wednesday, January 24, 2007

If you like pina coladas and live-in girlfriends

I have finally heard a speed dating story worse than mine. Actually, I've never heard a good speed dating story, but the stories themselves are always good.

A friend of mine in Florida went to speed dating earlier in the week. Granted she's in the older grouping, but only seven men showed up. Of the seven, she got matched with two.

I received this e-mail this morning:

I've never been on the receiving end of such e-mails, thank goodness. This is what I get for giving a Republican a chance -- glad to know she still has her sense of humor after it all.

~Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Cell Phones Versus Little Black Books, Round Two

Scorpy's post on the twelve steps of Blogging Singles Anonymous sparked a hilarious discussion on drunk dialing.

I am a notorious drunk dialer. Scratch that. I'm a notorious booty-calling drunk dialer. (Was that really my Valentine's post from last year? I'm such a tool.) If I'm going to call someone drunk, I'm going to have fun with it: I'm going to sing songs, tell stories, act out parts of plays, etc. There was the incident where Conor and I got drunk and played a tin flute into his mother's answering machine while singing about his roommate's magical forest. There may or may not have been a bongo accompaniment. I still remember waking up the next morning to his mother screaming in his answering machine over the message. So hilarious.

It's gotten to the point that I refuse to put a boy's number in my phone. My phone is just too accessible and I'm too unpredictable. If for some reason I do need to call a boy, I immediately delete his number from my call log, otherwise I'll scroll through it when I'm drunk. I'm less likely to drunk dial my friends, but when I do, they know me well enough to appreciate the message and take it for what it's worth. Conor is a huge fan of my messages.

Of course there is an incident that made me delete all boys' numbers. I hadn't heard from a particular boy in a month and after a happy-hour-turned-all-nighter, I slid open my cell phone and pressed the call button next to his picture. In between uncontrollable bouts of laughter, I sang this entire song on his voice mail:

Needless to say, I never heard from him again.

What was the worst drunk dial you ever made?

~Monday, January 22, 2007

Like a Virgin

I was oddly punctual considering I refused to valet my truck on a Sunday afternoon and chose instead to park along a side street and take a short walk. It's my favorite district of the city: I live on the outskirts of it and would love to combine incomes one day to actually live in the midst of it. I was lucky when I moved in town and didn't know anything about the city's different districts and ended up in the one where I fit in the most. It was easy to choose where to meet Lil Bit for my very first blogger meeting.

I walked into the restaurant and was immediately eyed by an older gentleman. I nodded at him and took a seat. "Can I have a beer menu please?"

"Are you looking for me?" swayed the older gentlemen.

"Why? Are you where all the beer went?"

The female bartender doubled over laughing. Outside a convertible pulled up to the crosswalk. In the back were two large dogs. The older gentleman saw them and began to bark from his stool inside the restaurant. The bartender picked up the phone to call him a cab. Drunk on a Sunday afternoon: I love it.

In walks Lil Bit and I instantly recognize her. She proves that there is such a thing as a hot blogger with her slim body that's easily half a foot shorter than mine and we hug and make our way to the patio, because it's January and it's the south and Al Gore's global warming allows us to eat outside on a winter afternoon.

Lil Bit doesn't take long to order her own beer while I'm wondering how long I should wait to get a refill on mine. We finally get to have a conversation that I've been wanting to have for years now -- we talked about blogging. Us bloggers think differently: bad things don't happen to bloggers, blog posts happen. Each post is a story that we're constantly writing in our heads and it was so great to finally talk about this to someone who not only understands, but lives the life as well. We laugh and get the scoop and elaboration on posts we've each written.

"So what happened to David? I'm dying to know."

"You know, everyone kept saying to not take his shoot down seriously, but my gut felt differently. We flirt via IM and MySpace, but it hasn't gone and further than that." And then I reenacted his denial because sometimes voice doesn't carry over very well in the written word.

"Well sometimes you just have to trust your gut."

"I know. I feel okay over it though. So tell me about your recent drama!"

The conversation flowed from blogging to bloggers (hehe!) to other things we had in common. The food was good, the beer was excellent, the weather was perfection, but Lil Bit made the afternoon. She's proof that there are perfectly normal people on the internet. Her personality that comes through her blog is real and genuine and is exactly what she showed me when we were in front of each other.

As an added bonus, she can verify that I have all my fingers and all my toes (okay, I think she took my word on the toes part, that would have borderlined on weird) and says I have a great smile and laugh, validating that I'm a perfectly normal person too.

Read her version here. She explains in a little more detail why there is a salad on top of her pizza. Meeting another blogger was such a good experience that we talked about meeting up off blog and in the real world again. Too bad geography keeps me from meeting nearly everyone (AT takes second place with a three hour drive), but there is a trip to London planned for May of 2008, so all y'all Brits watch out!

~Friday, January 19, 2007

You know, because they keep bobbing around

I click on the thumbnail and huff. His headline reads, "I'm mildly drunk in this picture." What a tool.

His profile finishes loading and I fall out of my chair. The mildly drunk person on the screen is Kissing Bandit, who I have already unceremoniously dumped not once, but twice.

What a tool indeed.

I, for one, have too much pride to wink at someone online who has already dumped me. Twice. 99% of the people I know also have too much pride for that. Never let it be said that pride isn't a good thing. Because before you know it, someone will be blogging about how weird you are.

And how you can't kiss.

~Thursday, January 18, 2007

When love and hate collide

For another post, I had to remind myself who I was during a certain year. I thought I kept a diary that year so I walked into my bedroom, knelt in front of my small bookcase, and removed all the books on the top shelf. Then I reached to the back and pulled out my diaries.

I live alone and I still hide my diaries.

While it turns out I didn't keep a diary for the year I was looking for, I found the one I kept during the destruction of my engagement. In the face of a disaster, I chose to rubberneck.

With a fresher mind, a colder heart, and unclouded eyes, I relived those six months. In those pages I brightly wrote about how I was going to change for the boy. I encouraged myself and documented my progress to accomplish the goals that I set. That wasn't the difficult part to read. The difficult part was to slowly watch the boy completely change personalities as he slipped further and further into alcoholism. He'd abuse me emotionally, and the whole time I blamed myself. I hadn't changed quickly enough.

Only it wasn't me who had changed. It was the boy.

I've always blamed myself for the demise of that relationship. That's what he told me. He would come home drunk from the bar and scream at me -- he thinks he can do better than me, he doesn't want me anymore, that I didn't know what love is because he was the only person I had slept with -- and he'd wake up in the morning and not remember a thing. If he couldn't remember the night, I couldn't get upset.

So I wrote with more fervor, striving harder to reach my goals faster. I'd chide myself and took to heart everything he said to me. But no matter how hard I tried, nothing was good enough; I failed at maintaining the relationship.

His fraternity started calling me to tell me that he was different and had a problem. They'd take his car keys and he'd punch someone. They wanted me to intervene to save the boy, but I couldn't. The boy said the decision not to marry me was the best decision of his life.

I've carried that guilt around with me: I couldn't save him. I couldn't save him because he hated me. Because I wasn't good enough.

I don't know. Maybe I could have. Maybe if I didn't pay so much attention to myself and my wounds, driving myself crazy with little goals, I could have seen his earlier. But every night when he came home drunk, it grew to the point where I couldn't stand the sight of him. Deep down I knew that if I couldn't love someone at all times, then I probably shouldn't be with him. And I didn't love him when he was drunk. I hated him. I hated him and the words he spoke to me and the picture frames he threw at me.

The worst part: he still left me. I wasn't strong enough to leave the abusive alcoholic. He had quit loving me and I couldn't stop loving the person he used to be. I was going to marry and have a family with that person. It was hard to distinguish between the two -- the person who loved me versus the person who drank -- because the exterior was the same. The memories were fresh.

They still are.

~Wednesday, January 17, 2007

A Call for Answers: Coupling

Thanks to General Boy, my new metrosensual best friend, I have now watched the entire series of BBC's "Coupling." (Oddly enough, the US version barely deviated from the British version, yet the show tanked in the States. If it had made it past three episodes, however, it would have had to digress majorly because no way would that stuff see the light of day on network TV.)

Due to cultural differences though, a few jokes are lost on me and require further clarification. I am calling for answers.

"Gusset, gusset, gusset!" Jeff

What is a gusset?
I tried Googling it, but I still have no idea what it is. It seems to be Jeff's favorite word though, especially when his lady-friends don't speak English.

"It is the four pillars of the male heterosexual psyche. We like: naked women, stockings, lesbians, and Sean Connery best as James Bond, because that is what being a boy is." Steve

Steve: She just leans over, looks me in the eyes and says "I'm wearing stockings".
Jeff: Nooo...
Steve: And she has never worn them before. Not once in the entire relationship. I BEGGED!

What are stockings?
I think pantyhose when I hear stockings. However, the men repeatedly mention their attraction to stockings and I just don't get it.

"I guess I wasn't man enough for her." Patrick

How often do you check out each other at urinals?
Is it just me, or is there a lot of urinal peeking on that show? As a non-urinal user, it was my understanding that there is a Urinal Code: you don't use the urinal next to a guy unless there is a "full house," you don't shake more than three times, and you don't check out the guy next to you. A survey of drunken coworkers confirmed this. Is it like that in other countries?

Next Post: The Melty Man...

The name lives on

After an obnoxious sneeze, a Kleenex flutters down my cubicle wall and lands on my monitor.

"Thank you," I sniffed, looking towards the direction of RHFDSC's desk.

It took me a minute to realize that the tissue did not come from RHFDSC, but rather his replacement.

~Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Indiana is no help at all. At all.

(I didn't take a proper screen shot here. Sorry)

~Monday, January 15, 2007

Who's your daddy?

It was Really Hot, Freshly Divorced, Straight Coworker's last day at work. We were splitting our fourth pitcher of margaritas and I was wearing his name tag.

"So what did you decide to get your daughter for Christmas?"

"I'm thinking about not getting her anything."

"RHFDSC! You can't just *not* get your daughter anything for Christmas and then give your son a bicycle! You'll give that poor girl a complex that Daddy doesn't love her!"

"Well my ex decided that since this is our first Christmas apart, that I should just come over to the house and we'll do it all together. Her mother got her a puppy anyway so there is no chance I could top that as a gift. I'm hoping she just won't notice."

"How old is she again?"


"She's young. She may not." I took a sip of my frozen marg, realizing that although I don't feel it, I should be quite drunk by now. All it would take is me standing up and walking across the restaurant towards the restroom for the drunkity-drunkness to kick in. "You know, my parents divorced when I was five."

RHFDSC began laughing, full body shaking, "Yeah I should have my ex meet you so she would take me back!"

My eyes stung and I didn't really have a response for him. Ouch. I can take a lot of joking, even the Bodily Function Sarah, but to be the poster child against divorce, to be a living example of the repercussions of dysfunctional families, hurt.

I thought about a vacation with my father and step-mother back when I was still in college and didn't know my father at all. We were talking lightly and tentatively about divorce. "We think everyone turned out okay," he said. I smiled. He took another drink from his Natural Light, "Except for you. We're still worried about you and how you're going to turn out."

Not the words a daughter would expect to hear from her father, We haven't figured out how crazy and damaged you are yet. So it's widely acknowledged that I'm the freak show of the family. The youngest of six, I am the only one who hasn't settled down by my age. My nieces and nephews are confused as to why I don't have a family of my own. Every time they see me, they ask where's my daddy. And then when their grandmother points to their grandfather and says, "That's her daddy," they get all befuddled.

I know RHFDSC's joke didn't mean any harm, but it hit a little too close to home.

Whatever that is.

~Saturday, January 13, 2007

Living Dead

"I am a writer, writer of fictions...
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones"
-- The Decemberists, "The Engine Driver"

I don't know if I didn't want to publicly acknowledge Adam's return for fear of calling a false alarm or for fear of jinxing it and having him disappear again.

He said he wanted to be friends. He said he "actually [meant] it this time." However, our e-mails had been getting further and further apart. Adam had become less responsive about the details regarding his life and had just been inquisitive about mine. I somewhat understood the situation: he had a new relationship that required his nurturing.

Sometime in late November I had sent him a "where are you?" e-mail. He responded within a half-hour, saying he was really busy with finals for law school and that I would receive a proper response over the weekend. The weekend came and went. The following week came and went. It took him two weeks to respond and even at that, it was composed of roughly two sentences.

I knew I had to let Adam go. Every time I sent Adam a letter or a response to his, I was giving away pieces of myself to him that I would never get back. Adam had been very good about keeping tabs on me: he still visits another one of my blogs daily and checks my MySpace in addition to his e-mails. However, I knew nothing about him. I deleted his last response and walked away.

When I returned from my beach vacation right before New Year's, I logged on to my computer for the first time in almost a week. And I almost toppled over. Adam had sent me an e-mail on Christmas Day. I clicked over and read his first. It was a personalized e-mail, not a mass one. Moreover, he sent it at 11:45 AM instead of around 4PM when the magic of Christmas wears off and everything is kind of... boring.

Adam thought about me on Christmas morning. Did I think of him? I'm not sure. I do know that at 11:45 I was driving across the state to switch families and do Christmas with my father. I didn't get any other messages on Christmas Day. Matter of fact, I didn't even respond to the three text messages I received. Was he lonely? Did he not have his daughter? It would have been his first Christmas without her. Where was his girlfriend? If that relationship was a long time coming like he said, they should be practically living together by now. Why was he thinking of me?

Stunned, I couldn't respond to his e-mail. I was fixing to go back out of town to spend New Year's Eve with David; I didn't have time to anguish over an e-mail that wouldn't get a response. Sometime in the new year right before I started work again, I sent him an "Adam" response: I'm well. I had a drama-free Christmas and I just got back from vacation.

Within a couple of days Adam broke tradition and responded, requesting more details and elaborating on his own. So I did. And he did. It's been a couple of weeks like this. Friday morning my inbox was filled with several messages from Adam. The building I live in was apparently featured on "House Hunters" and he had been giving me updates from the show.

The old Adam is back: Classic Adam. I liked Classic Adam. I liked Classic Adam a lot. Ex-Adam, not so much.

I am hurt: Classic Adam chose someone else over me. I played the game right, and I lost.

I am angry: I am friends with 99% of my exes for one reason: they all leave me and they all come back. If I am so cool and valued like they say I am, then why to they leave in the first place? What about me is so volatile that they walk way? I already know why they come back. Just once I'd like to break this cycle -- I want someone who knows what he has and doesn't throw it[me] away.

I am confused: What's with the sudden return? Did something change? I'm a person who prefers the dark as opposed to knowing the truth. Because in the dark there's hope.

Am I hoping?

I guess I am.

~Friday, January 12, 2007

I don't know

I had a post up for about 10 minutes today. Something about it made me feel uneasy so I edited and picked it apart until I jabbed the Delete This Post button.

What I realize a few hours later is that the post was not aimed at other bloggers, like it was intended to be, but rather aimed at myself.

Here is the orginal post as best as I can recreate it:

While catching up on my blog reading today, I learned that it is Blogger's Delurking Week.

What? Since when has comments gained such importance? Think back to why you began your blog -- you had something you wanted to say. When did your little space on the Internet become a popularity contest? When did it stop being about your words? Is blogging even fun for you anymore? What stress that must create.

In the face of Delurking Week, I dare you to post that story you're too afraid to show the Internets instead of worrying what other people have to say.

This afternoon I stared at my Blogger Dashboard. It pretty much reads like this, Draft, Draft, Draft, Post, Draft, Post, Draft, Draft. I am the one who has something to say, but am holding back. I'm not doing it for fear of no one commenting, concerns like that have always bewildered me, but I am holding back for fear of being judged. Not that anyone on here has ever judged me (well current readers, anyway).

Somewhere between beginning the blog to get over moving to a new city for a boyfriend that would change his mind after I was here for two weeks and today, I have created an indentity for myself. I receive e-mails from strangers hoping for advice on their love lives. The thing is, and the thing I don't want to tell them, is I don't know. Just as you e-mail me, I e-mail and IM others. I don't know; I don't have the answers.

I've had things on my mind that I haven't been forthcoming about. I want to seem strong to you. I want to seem put together and brave. But some days, some weeks, I am not.

I don't want Phil to think I'm being a whiny little girl. I don't want Indiana to think I'm not intelligent. I don't want Mez to think I'm any less cool than I already am. I don't want Amber to think that I'm not brave. I don't want Pink Jellybaby to pity me. I don't want General Boy to think that I'm not desirable.

I'm not posting these things for the same reasons I hide from even my best friends when I get upset; I don't want you to think poorly of me. I'm going to finish those posts and I will publish them, but just be careful with me.

I'm feeling vulnerable.

~Wednesday, January 10, 2007


I can't get into where I've been or what I've been doing, but I am absolutely exhausted at the end of the day. I don't have the energy to even put forth even the crappiest of posts, so I'll be back in a few days when this is all over.

~Monday, January 08, 2007


Laugh all you want, you MyHaters, but MyStalkingTM is critical for the single college student up through the 20-something. There is some very important and necessary information that can and should be learned by someone before agreeing to go out with another. MySpace is easy to access and someone's page can be found with an e-mail address or even a name. With time, it can also be found through circle of friends' friends lists.

Is he single? Check the relationship status box, does it say In a Relationship or Single? People are quick to change that when relationships go sour, so it's an accurate indicator.

What is he here for? Is he here for Friends? Dating? Serious Relationship? Although no one actually uses MySpace to meet new people (at least no I know does, we use it just to keep in touch), his answer will indicate what he's looking for and how serious he wants to get. Having Dating listed, but not Serious Relationship, will give you an idea of his mindset.

Does he have his shirt on in his profile picture? Seriously? Do you really want to date that guy? You know, the one who doesn't have his shirt on in his profile picture? Forget MyStalkingTM, that's just a good rule of thumb.

Who is in his Top 8? Is it all girls or is it a mix of males and females? What do the girls look like? If it's eight barely-clothed, slutty looking girls, he's a player. If it's eight normal looking girls, he might just have a lot of female friends, however, most guys will at least have a best bro in the Top 8. It's just not normal to have a unisex Top 8. The same applies to guys who have all-male Top 8s.

What do his comments say? Check out his comments section: who is leaving them and what do they say? 20-something girls are fairly conniving and will leave, "Thanks for last night ;)" all over a guy's MySpace as an attempt to stake claim on him. How often do these comments appear? Do they appear from the same girl, or different girls? You can also check the date for frequency. In the case of an ambiguous flirtation, click on the girl's profile to see what he has written to her. This is often a missed, but very important step.

And, for the MyStalkingTM Pro, try reverse stalking. Put a stat counter that works without javascript on your MySpace page. This is the one I use. Because MySpace doesn't allow javascripts, the stats are going to be limited, but you're still going to get a location and an IP address and anyone with a blog stat counter knows how to use this to figure out who someone is.

It's how I found out despite limited messaging through MySpace, David still visits my page at least 4 times a day. And every visit is a thought.

Still nay say about MyStalkingTM as a reference check for future dates? My friend in New York City found out through a combination of MyStalkingTM and Googling a potential suitor was fired from his school teaching job for molesting children. If that's not a reason to start, I don't know what is.

~Thursday, January 04, 2007

New Year's Eve



"You didn't!"

"I did, what's wrong with that?"

"This is why you're single. This moment right here. You need me to move back in with you to dictate all your e-mails," scorned Satchel. I called him in Florida to get the scoop, if any, on his friend that he so highly recommended. "Read it to me again."

"David, thanks for the offer for New Year's Eve! I have a few more calls to see what's going on tomorrow and then I'm going to weigh my options. I haven't even settled the debate on which city I'm going to spend it at yet. I'll give you a call tomorrow when I know for sure. Sarah."

"You're awful, you know that?"

I eventually worked out a plan: score an invite to at least two more parties back at school and then accept David's invitation. If David gave me an insincere invite, I would have places to fall back on and I wouldn't have made the drive for nothing.

Poor David's party was lacking. I made 5 people, and I was the only chick. While the others watched 12 Monkeys, David and I stood in the kitchen and gathered all the information that we were too distracted to get last time. There was a definite vibe coming from him that my invite was sincere.

After an hour and a half of standing in his friend's kitchen and drinking beer, my phone began to ring incessantly. The other two parties wanted to know where I was. David drained another beer, "You know of other parties?"

"Yup, the one I went to last year that I had such a good time at is not a mile from here."

"You wanna go?"

"Your friends won't miss you?"

"Naw, it's cool."

We grabbed our coats and made our way to his truck. He opened the door for me, I swooned and kissed him. I made my usual party entrance into Bryan's house: people saw me and screamed my name and cheered (sometimes I have no idea why I left that place).

Bryan, the boy I hooked up with last NYE, meet David, this year's slot. Maybe this is why I left that place. We drank and socialized with my circle of friends and then the door opens. In walks two families. Families. Two middle-aged women and their children. I cannot cannot be drunk around children. I gathered David and a couple of boys and headed to the third party at a bar downtown.

Because of the blue law in the south, only one place was open. State law says no bar can be open on Sundays unless it earns half its revenue from food sales. Even at that, last call is at 11:50. I bought a round of drinks when the band began announcing the time.

I eyed David, "Are you going to be my midnight kiss?"

"I think I can make that happen."

"Because, if not," I pointed to the crowded bar behind me and flashed a sinister smile, "I'm sure I can find it elsewhere."

David wrapped his arms around me, "No, I want to be it."

And just like that people were counting and David and I leaned in to each other and kissed a long slow kiss. I turned and looked at another friend of mine who came out with us. He was sort of standing off to the side, watching everybody celebrate. His glass of champagne was empty and my heart lurched for him. I walked up to him and grabbed his face and kissed him and gave him a hug.

Not five minutes after midnight, they were ushering everyone out of the bar. I can only imagine how many establishments lost money by being forced to be closed. Driving back to Bryan's party, I popped a cork of champagne and took a swig from the bottle and passed it on to David.

We stumbled back to more cheers and thankfully the children had left. Conor was there and his girlfriend was already passed out on the couch, under a comforter. I don't understand why she couldn't have done that a week ago at the Christmas party. The silly antics and socializing really began as I drank the rest of our champagne from a Dixie cup and administered shots of vodka between Conor, David, Bryan, and I.

When I was in conversation with someone else, I heard Bryan turn to David and ask, "So are you with Sarah? Are y'all dating?"

And David gave a pretty emphatic no. It was less than, "Oh god no," but more than "Not really." If I was being honest, it was much closer to "Oh god no," then the latter.

Which is fine, I'm a big girl. He does live an hour away and I only just met him last week, but I was so embarrassed he would say that to my friend. That he would imply with his rather emphatic no that I wasn't someone worth being with. Moreover, to my friend I was very briefly involved with. My feelings weren't hurt; my pride was hurt.

I guess David just answered my question on whether he was being sincere or just a gentleman with me. Since I wasn't a part of the conversation, I didn't react to it. After I was done talking to a friend I sat down on the couch and took some more photos of friends. David collapsed on the couch next to me and put his arm around me.

What the hell. I just heard him say that he wasn't interested in me in pretty much any capacity and then he puts his arm around me. It pissed me off. He would talk to my friends about me like that and then be affectionate towards me-- I don't understand what he's thinking.

He caressed my shoulder with the side of his thumb and I leaned my head against him. It was getting late and I was not a part of the conversation and technically I'm not supposed to know anything. We sat and watched everyone party; the two of us were pretty drunk and tired.

David says quietly, "I guess I should take you back to your car."

Remembering the conversation I had with him before I made the drive, that if I come up to school, I need to spend the night at school. I had finagled Conor's couch, but Conor was drinking 10 feet away, and I was pretty much done with the party as well. "Do you want to get some food?" thinking that food will allow me to drive home.

"No, if I eat, I'll throw up."

Okay then. He picked up my hand in his truck and put it in his lap. I thought back over the night to see if I had said or done anything to make David say what he did. I couldn't come up with anything; I was on good behavior: I didn't talk too much or say anything wildly shocking or inappropriate. "Okay, well have a good night," and I slid out of his truck and into my own.

I stopped at a gas station and refilled my tank and bought a bag of Combos to soak the alcohol before I made the 30 mile drive to my father's house, where the closest bed lay. Leave it to me to bring out the inner asshole of even the nicest of people.

~Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Drunken Photo Envy

I woke up face first on my mattress like a floating dead man. It was 1 PM on the actual Christmas Eve and I was supposed to be driving across the state to see my mother. My mouth was fuzzy, my eyes were fuzzy, and, most importantly, my head was fuzzy from alcohol and its subsequent dehydration.

I dressed slowly and packed a bag that lacked a toothbrush, deodorant, and a hair brush and leashed up the dog and got in the car. At a stoplight, I saw my camera sitting in the passenger seat, still sleeping from the night before. I turned the camera on and laughed so hard I almost threw up.

That's right, I went to a party and took nothing but crotch shots. I mentioned in my 100 Things that I'm a persistent girl: when I get something stuck in my head, I have to follow it through. That night, apparently I wanted crotch shots.

And not to be outdone (or maybe it was drunken penis envy) I made a self-portrait.

Sometimes even I don't know what to do with myself.

~Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Christmas Eve (well it was after midnight)

"David, he took my car. My car!"

"Shh. It's okay. I told you I would give you a ride." He grabs a bottle of beer from the cluster between us and pushes it towards me. "Here, drink some more."

After a few more rounds of cards, and a visit from some very nice police officers, the party winded down and the boys and I headed off to Waffle House. While walking to David's truck, he pulled ahead of me and opened my door. Swoon. While walking into the diner, I fell behind and David reached both his hands behind him and wiggled his fingers. I hopped forward and grabbed his hand.

I had fun with the boys. I usually do. While I had never been out with this group before, I am an official invitee to Boys' Night Out in two different cities. Hanging with the boys is just something I do well. And I don't even like sports that much.

While walking back to the car, David again ran ahead of me to open my door. Sigh. Good manners will get you so far with me. My only fault is I can't tell the difference between him being a gentleman, or being sincere. We dropped another boy off and David's hand immediately found mine. We asked tentative questions of each other: he travels into the city frequently for work. We've met each other several times before, but neither of us really remember. We went to the same elementary school.

"When did you graduate from high school?"

"You just want to find out how old I am," I joked.

"No seriously, I want to see if you knew some people that went there."

"It was a big school, so probably not. Anyway, I graduated in '99."

"I'm 19."

I howled with laughter and half-shrieked. I quickly did some math in my head to figure out if that was a possibility. It wasn't.

"Look at how quickly you snatched your hand away!" He laughed.

I returned it into his. Swoon.

At Conor's he put the truck in park and stopped the engine. He followed me inside while I fumbled in the dark and swore while I tripped over the various Christmas presents left discarded on the floor, reminding me of the discomfort of this evening's earlier activities. I finally found a light switch.

"You've never been here before?"

"Nope, they just moved in together." I wanted my car keys to go home; I didn't want to stay in this house after Caroline's bitch fit. I found them three rooms into the house, alone on a coffee table. "Aha!"

I killed the lights and we left. I paused in front of my car door. David kicked the dirt in front of him and shrugged his shoulders, "When will you be back at school?"

"When you call me."

He leaned in and kissed me. They were butterfly kisses: very soft, light, and quick. He would pull back and land again. It was welcomed after the Kissing Bandit's aggression. I tried to put both of my arms around his neck, but my arms were restrained due to my Penny Lane coat. He kept pulling away and landing until I pushed him further and the breathing got heavier and my fingers intertwined with his belt loops while he kissed down my neck. I groaned.

We began to make out pretty heavily and his hands wandered. Up my skirt was okay, but when he went under my shirt, I was afraid he'd feel the "insulation" I've acquired since Thanksgiving (which will be immediately shed now that it's the new year).

A car pulled up and stopped in front of the driveway. I wondered what kind of pervert would stop and watch two people making out in one ex boyfriend's driveway, but it was so late (or early) that it was the morning paper being delivered. It was our cue to part ways.

"You seem like a nice girl."


David made a satisfactory noise. He took my number and promised to call. And I made my hour drive back to the city by sunrise.


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