He Loves Me

We began with a bang. How cliché is that. What isn't cliché, however, is that the bang was me laying a Vespa down in the middle of the road.

That particular bang was a year ago, today.

At 12:01 a.m. Scott went outside to get something out of his bike while I climbed into bed and opened a book. He brushed back the curtain that separates the bedroom from the rest of the loft and carried a bouquet of roses and a card. "Happy anniversary, baby," he said.

The roses are beautiful; I've never seen anything like them. At first glance it looks like the petals are aging, but actually they're red with darker red tiger stripes. I tried looking the breed up this morning to see what kind they are, but I haven't found them yet. The card personified Scott's personality: it was sweet with a hint of romance, but it opted for the joke instead of exaggerated sentiment. It was like it was written for him.

"I decided to give you this tonight instead of tomorrow because I won't be here," he explained. "I asked the girls at work what I should do, and they said to give you this tonight, otherwise they said you're just going to sit at home alone tomorrow and stew. I'm sorry I can't be here."

The scheduling between us has been difficult. By the time he gets home from closing the restaurant, we only have about an hour before I have to go to bed in order to be up for the morning. He works weekends too so there isn't going to be an anniversary date. Not even a dinner. He even has to stay late tonight, so I'll probably be asleep before he gets home.

I understand this and I'm not upset over it. I was the one who wanted a better job for him; he took it for me. For us. And these are the consequences.

I spent the morning trying to think about my other one-year anniversary with The Alcoholic-- Mark and I split up three weeks before our one-year anniversary, so The Alcoholic would have been the only one. I wondered what I did all those years ago. How we celebrated. But I couldn't remember a single detail about it, not even what season of the year it fell on. It took me hours to realize that we didn't have one either. We took a break two weeks before our anniversary and got back together two weeks afterwards. This is the first time in my life I have ever made it an entire, consecutive year with someone. This is my first anniversary.

It makes me wish we could do more-- do things properly. But the fact I'm going to be spending tonight watching The Other Boleyn Girl while eating Chinese takeout doesn't even matter, because I think about all I have gained within the past year: I fell in love, I gained a partner, I gained a roommate, a car washer, a scratcher of backs, a lover. Someone who laughs when I painstakingly clean out the refrigerator, but forgot to turn it back on so everything in the freezer melts over my efforts. Someone who holds my hand during the season finale of Grey's Anatomy. And I am just so unbelievably happy.

Five Days

Thursday night I abandoned my end of Scott's dresser behind my couch in the living room. The black piece of furniture laid stark against my white carpet and muted couch. It was then it sank in: Oh my god, Scott's things are going to touch my things. It was one thing to have Scott over sleeping in my bed, using my towels, and drinking out of my glasses, but that black dresser... his things are going to touch my things.

I collapsed woozily on the floor, with my back resting against the back of the couch and my legs stretched out in front of me. I was dizzy and overwhelmed and I didn't know if it was from the pint of blood I donated earlier that afternoon or one of my anxiety attacks. It was probably a little bit of both. I was glad Scott was back at my truck fishing out the dresser drawers and not witnessing my doubt.

I had been living in my new apartment for a week and a half when Scott got the call from his landlord. Apparently Scott had told him he was interested in breaking his lease when he originally asked to move in with me. His landlord had begun showing his apartment and found a renter and he was to be out by the first of October. When Scott received the call, we were sitting at my new kitchen table and looking over our hypothetical budget should we ever move in together.

He didn't even ask me. We both already knew. I was tired of fighting what felt like every move in the universe pushing us to live together.

He hung up the phone and we went back to the newest spreadsheet as if the call never came in. "Rent is late by 6:00 pm on the 3rd, so you give me your half of rent when you get paid on the 20th and I will be responsible for it," I said, pointing my finger to the rent box and the payday column. "How many days do we have until October first?"

"Five days."

I groaned. Another fast move. Another fast move in two weeks.

And now his dresser was in my living room.

It was just his dresser. We wouldn't have time to move anything else until Sunday. We had my annual company party on Friday and his mother's birthday dinner on Saturday, so I had time to adjust with his dresser in my house.

I was nervous and scared, but I was also excited. I've never lived with a boyfriend before. I have a loft in the city with my boyfriend and my dog. I get up every morning and put on ironed clothes before I go to my 9-to-5. It sounds like someone's else's sophisticated life—not mine.

I got up off the floor and pushed Scott's dresser through my bedroom door and straight into the closet. No one would see it anyway.

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.

I like assholes.

The thought came clearly in my tequila fog. I was out at dinner with Married Work Guy (We're friends. No hanky panky, honest) and we were splitting a pitcher of margaritas after he had a particularity gnarly work day. Invariably, the conversation always turns to theLoveLife.

"Well, I'm not going to finish this margarita. With this tequila, you're inhibitions are going to be lowered and otherwise I won't be able to say no when you offer to blow me in the parking lot," he says. He smiles afterwards and I know he's not really serious. Okay, he is, but with the smile I can at least see his game.

That's just like MWG, to take his thing for me and turn it around to make it somehow my fault. I like that. Why can't I find someone like that?

And then,

Omigod, I like assholes.

I did, after all, spend five months in bed with a guy who called me a whore at first meeting. He played hot and cold with me and I loved every minute of it.

"MWG, I like assholes."

"I know you do. You like it best when you think you have control, but in reality you never do."

Yeah, pretty much. That's why I pushed the envelope with Kissing Bandit last week. I wanted to see how much control I had and I was disappointed when I found out I had it all.

"Was your dad an asshole?"

"No, he was absent. My mother was a huge one though. I refuse to have much of a relationship with her to this day because of that."

"Well there you go. We often look for partners that have the same qualities as our parents. You equate tearing you down with love. If it's not a battle, you don't think it's real because it's too easy.

"Nothing was ever good enough for my father," he continued, "So I married a woman where nothing I did was good enough for her. But we realized this pattern and we put a positive spin on it where she pushed me until I became a better and better person."

He paused and dipped a chip into the salsa and ate it. "Not bad for clown school?" he asked.

I once made fun of him in a meeting where he said he graduated with honors and I added, "from clown school." RHFDSC laughed.

"Nope," I agreed.

"Your mamma went to clown school."

And I laughed.

Eye of the Tiger

Hi, my name is Sarah and I'm a maneater.

Yikes, Sarah!

I've seen it in the animal kingdom: If a dog notices weakness in another dog, the stronger dog will attack. A cat will play with its prey before going in for the kill.

I'm pretty good at smelling weakness, or nervousness as the case may be. I don't know what happens inside me, but I will sit there and psychologically toy with the boy for hours while smiling sweetly from the other side of the table.

It's not good for me to be the alpha in relationships, because it's very clear that I will misuse any power.

Saturday night, I'm out with the Kissing Bandit. Whatever confidence he did have evaporated when N called him up ranting, "Now I have to work with her, so you better be on your very best behavior. If she comes in to work on Monday and tells me about some god awful thing you did, I will have your head!"

He's nervous. He flat out says he's not very good at first dates. Matter of fact, he has a list of things he's not allowed to talk about.

"Like what? What's on the list?"

"My family, ex-girlfriends, Bob Saget, porn and sex, my family again, my sister, religion..." he continues for quite awhile covering most topics.

"So, uh, anyway," he says, "I just want to preface this by saying I'm looking to settle down. I'm 30; it's time to get serious about dating. I do want to get married and have kids..."

I almost choke on my beer. He is the second person I've been out with this week who has brought up the m-word on the first date. I don't know what makes them think this is okay.

"So this isn't a date so much as it is an audition for marriage," I quip back.

"Well, er, no. That's not what I meant."

He's nervous. I can smell it.

We're both thespians, him more recent than me, so I switch the subject to acting.

"Being a drama major really helps with everyday life," he begins. "It's made me a really good liar. I can act my way out of almost any situation I don't like."

"So you brag that you're good at lying? What do you lie about?"

I feel the claws coming out. I meet his eyes and lean across the table, "Are you a liar?"

Yep, they're out.

"No I'm really honest! Ask me anything embarrassing and I'll tell you the truth."

Attack! Attack!

"When was the last time you masturbated?"

He puts his fork down and turns a couple of colors and begins to nervously laugh at my verve. He looks at his watch and pretends to count hours. I laugh so hard that I've lost the ability to breathe and just clutch my chest.

His left eye begins to twitch.

I have succeeded in getting him so worked up that I ignite his facial twitch.

"Omigod, you're twitching!"

Telling him he's twitching doesn't actually help with the twitching.

It's not something I do consciously, but I've always been one to poke at wounds. When I was a child I used to walk up to my mother and press her bruises, "Does that hurt? What about that one?"

Uh, calling Doctor Freud.

Maybe I do it because I was always the one bullied. Being the youngest of six, I've had to learn to hold my own. And with the fight or flight reflex, I've always been a fighter.

Ask Anne from the fifth grade-- bitch deserved her goddamned canoe tipped for making fun of me.

Fortune

A historical landmark had a Halloween mixer last week. At the mixer was a psychic giving free readings. I, of course, made a beeline for the free food, and after I was done eating, visited the psychic.

We had a rough start.

"Do you have a roommate?"

"No."

"No roommate?"

"No."

"Well I see you've been close to an older woman recently, a mother figure perhaps?"

"We're not close. I haven't spoken to an older woman in quite awhile."

"Oh." She pauses and flips a tarot card over. "Boyfriend?"

"Er, no." I started to feel bad for her.

"But I see a..." and goes on to describe Adam perfectly.

"We were dating, but not anymore as of yesterday."

She looks at me, horrified. Why, I don't know. "And you weren't close to an older woman over the breakup?"

"Nope."

She flips a card, on it is a picture of a woman. "Another woman?"

"Yup."

Her eyes panic again. She obviously feels terrible for me.

"It's not how you think. We're going to be friends instead," I try to assure her.

"Let's not talk about him anymore."

"Okay," I shrug.

She flips five cards over rapidly, all pictures of men. "You're going to do just fine. There will be a lot of men for you this year."

Is it possible for a psychic to make you feel slutty? Cause I'm pretty sure that just happened.

She flips another card. "One," she smiles broadly, "will be of marriage potential. You will get into a serious relationship with one of them. He will be a marriage prospect."

I try to smile, but frankly I don't see that as anything to smile about. I just want a date to the Christmas party, not a ball and chain. The idea of relationships still terrifies me.

She flips again and gasps. "This," she makes sure to make eye contact with me, "is the fertility card."

In short, I think she saw a young single girl and assumed that I wanted to get married and have babies. This, however, is not the case. Regular sex would be nice. Oh, and apparently I'm going to seriously look into buying a house within a year.

Back at home, I log onto my computer to see my speed date results. I just want one yes, even if I didn't like him, just for the sake of my self-esteem. The results pop up and I scream.

8 of the 13 men checked yes to me. That's over 60%. My self-esteem soared. I click back on my speed date profile and see I had a message. It's from #7. Seven wrote and said


Yeah, I bet a made an impression. A great one, however, I'm not so sure about. But he had written me within minutes of the results being published and wanted to take me to dinner the next week. If he didn't know that I was stinkin' drunk, then... good for me.

Flash forward to the costume party Saturday night. I lock N in the bathroom with me.

"N, I'm pretty sure that I have my pick of three of your friends."

"I know you do."

"Are you serious?"

"You know they are all best friends; two of them live together. Anyway when you left the room, one said, 'So you're interested in Sarah too?' and the others nodded. They all toasted and said, 'May the best man win.'"

My mouth drops. Stuff like that never happens to me. Well, except for the one bar fight years ago, but that was a misunderstanding.

Of the three men Saturday night, I kissed two and consequently have dates with them this week.

So maybe that fortune teller wasn't all BS. There seems to be a lot of men in my future.

Speed Dating, Schmeed Dathignrrrrrrrr

The speed date was at such an awkward time that I didn't have time for dinner beforehand. I also didn't have time to go home and go back out to the bar, so I brought everything I needed with me and stood in my work bathroom applying deodorant and using in the curling iron while enduring strange looks from other women passing in and out.

It didn't cross my mind that I was going to Midtown and that I would need cash for parking, so I ended up parking along a shady street (and by shady, I'm not talking about leaf coverage) and hiking a few blocks to my destination.

And I was the first person there. Sometimes I really hate my punctuality.

I soon met Claire and Claire-- two women in their thirties who do everything together, including hunting for men. This was not their first speed date. As they talked about the events they attend in town, I realized I was speaking to my and E's future selves in about 10 years. And we had gotten uglier and lost a bit of our fashion sense judging from one of the Claire's pink plastic poodle purse.

I ordered my first drink of the night, a traditional martini with three olives, and laughed watching the others file in. Girls to the right of me and boys to the left: we were as segregated as a middle school dance. The coordinator sighed and said that some of the men were running late, so we wouldn't be beginning on time. I leaned to the girl next to me and joked about how we already could tell punctuality is none of their strong suits. She laughed. We leaned into the bar to order another round of drinks.

We introduced ourselves and decided that we would hang out with each other, since neither one of us brought a friend. She was the straight-haired version of me. We worked within a mile from each other and laughed at how we both ogle the same waiter at our mutual favorite lunch taqueria. We exchanged business cards so we could keep in touch.

The coordinator blew her whistle (Oh my god, a whistle!?) and my new friend and I headed to a table to let the speed dating begin. I grabbed one more drink to take with me.

The bar was kind of dark-- it made me nervous that I wouldn't be able to notice things like third eyes and hairy moles and disfiguring facial scars.

The first three men were nice and the four minutes we got to talk seemed to fly by. I wrote down their ID numbers and drew smiley faces by them.

Man #4 comes.

"So how old are you, #4?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just asking a question here. Nothing behind it."
"Guess."
"I'm terrible at guessing!"
"Guess!"
"32."
...
"See, I told you I was bad at that sort of thing!"
"No, I'm 32."
"So what's the problem?"
"People usually tell me 26."

Whistle! Thank God. I stopped asking ages after that.

Man #5: I spill half my drink down the curtain behind me.

Man #6:

He asks, "So have you done speed dating before?"
"No, and I'm relieved that everyone looks so normal!"
"Well, what do you mean by that?"
"Like no one is missing an appendage or in a wheelchair."
"...Do you have a problem with people in wheelchairs?"
...

Whistle! Oh christ, I do believe I'm getting drunk. Normally three drinks do nothing for me, but I had to skip dinner.

Man #7:

"You're hot, so why are you doing speed dating?" I slur while touching his knee.
(I have no idea what he says because I'm realizing just how drunk I'm getting.)
"Why are you doing speed dating?" he asks in return.
"I need a date for my office Christmas party."

Yup, I am very drunk.

Man #7 gets up from the table and goes to sit with my new friend. I lean into her and say loudly enough for him to hear, "Don't talk to that guy. He's a total douchebag."

She laughs. He becomes very wide-eyed.

He looks at the girl and asks, "Do you two know each other?"
"We just met."

Man #8 is a dentist.

"So is it true you can brush your teeth too hard?"
"Yup."
"Have you gotten any other dental questions tonight?"
"Nope."

Man #9 and Man #10 and I have nothing in common, so we sit there in silence and stare at each other. Then with Man #10 I remembered a promise I made at work that day.

"Do you live with your parents?"

I have no idea what Man #11 said to me because I was too busy concentrating.

Oh my god, I am so so so drunk. I wonder if he can tell. You know how people's eyes do that weird thing when they're wasted? I wonder if he can see my eyes do that. Does he know I'm tanked? He has to know. I can't remember the last time I was this drunk. I am full-on shitfaced. I can usually hold my liquor, what happened? Oh god, I don't feel well. I think I'm going to puke. Please don't let me puke on this guy. Oh, I'm getting lightheaded like I do before I puke. Oh shit, I'm going to puke. Steady. Steady. I think I'll make it...

I had a four minute break and I ran into the bathroom and shoved my finger down my throat. I retched a few times, but it turns out it was all mental. A girl walks into the bathroom.

"Oh my god, we totally have to like go hit the bars after this and meet men."

"Ok." I had no intentions of ever seeing her again.

At my table I fish the olives out of the bottom of the glass and eat them, hoping they would count as dinner.

I have no memory of the last two guys.

I go and pay my tab. The coordinator comes up to me, "Are you okay? Should I call you a cab?"

So that answers my question if people could tell I was drunk.

"No I'll be fine. I just live three streets over. I can walk."

I walk back to my table and grab my things. I try to pick up my scorecard but it had glued itself to the table when I spilled my drink 8 men ago. I try and pry it off, but I only got the last page. The rest is still attached.

The coordinator had followed me. "Oh don't worry about that. The bartender can get that up."

What else can go wrong tonight?

I walk home and with a final punctuation of the night, I finally get sick. At 9:30 on a Wednesday. All over the call box in front of my building. With witnesses. I know buildings have cameras on the call boxes, so I'm pretty sure that moment is now on tape somewhere.

I buzz myself in. I have no idea if I let the dog out to pee or not. But I learned that I did make myself a pot of noodles when I woke up on my couch at 4:20 in the morning with all the lights on and the now cold noodles on the stove. I set the pot on the floor for the dog and realized I didn't remember the night at all.

The next morning at work (and after the aspirin was popped) I pull out my scorecard to enter in the website. I couldn't read my own handwriting. Not only that, but I couldn't read my own smiley faces. N had to sit with me to help me decipher.

"That's a happy face turned frowney face."
"Ok. We'll go ahead and assume that's a no."
"That's a straight line. I'm not sure what that means."
"Oh I did that for the ones I could take or leave. I think."
"That is a half smiley face/ half straight line. What the hell were you drinking?"
"Gin martinis. They're new to me, so my tolerance isn't all there."

I ended up checking off 5 yeses and 8 nos from what we could determine. But I was absolutely certain that I would be getting turned down by 13 men in one night and it could in fact be my most humbling moment. Ever.

Karma Cleanser

Married Work Guy flat out propositioned me today. I was eating my Healthy Choice frozen lunch at my desk and this little awkward moment popped on my screen:


I don't think being a dirty mistress will help with my dating karma.

I tried the married thing once. I was 23 and he was... I have no idea how old he was. He was older. We worked together and got along extremely well. It started out with us going out to lunch together; work affairs always start with lunch. Our relationship climaxed when we decided to go out after work to celebrate the end of the month. We sat at my favorite bar where I matched him drink for drink. A big man, he had a very high tolerance.

I remember making a quip about how he was married and then feeling embarrassed when he shoved his ringless finger in my face. He said he didn't take off the ring for just anybody. When the bar closed we went back to my place and then into my room. In the darkness we made out until his clothes were gone and I was gone and before coherent thought came, he did.

He immediately rolled out of bed and into my bathroom and began cleaning himself up. I remained under the sheets, trying to keep the bed from spinning underneath me. He complained about a stain on his boxers and how he had to hide it from his wife. He never returned to bed. He never returned the gesture and he never said goodbye.

It was then I learned that affairs with married men are not about you, they're all about him. It's not about how much he seems to like you, it's not about how beautiful he says you are, and it's certainly not about how unhappy in his marriage he claims he is.

Married Work Guy conceded that I do deserve a relationship with someone. He said until then, there was nothing wrong with something casual. When I said I couldn't, he told me that I seemed scarred. He's right-- I am scarred.

But I'm no dirty mistress.

Peaks and Valleys

I walked in my door Sunday night soaking wet. I just had to wear this inappropriately short white skirt for my date with Adam and because of the storms, everything was wet including my inappropriately short white skirt with a fresh chicken wing stain.

I emptied the contents of my purse and laid my leather wallet out to dry. I removed the soggy concert tickets I won and pressed them in a book. Then I walked into the bathroom.

And nearly screamed.

My blow-dried straight, perfectly styled hair did not react well to the humidity. Halos of cow licks highlighted my face and took on a general poofy nature with its own peaks and horns.

Adam didn't kiss me, he kissed frizz with a body attached to it.

My face was barely better. If we would have stayed out any longer, I would have been suffering from raccoon eyes. This was about as Bridget Jones as one gets.

"Oh God," I moaned.

I described the event to a coworker. "Well he's seen you on a good hair day and on a bad hair day!" she laughed.

"Seriously, N, why does he like me?"

"Now why do you say that?"

"Because I'm pretty, but I'm not sexy. I'm what boys call "cute." I'm funny and lively, but there are girls out there that are much more charming than me. He's just so hot and smart. I know my age works for me but..."

"Listen," she said, having none of my pity party. "What you don't understand is that you have this energy. When you smile, your whole body lights up. You're silly and it's completely contagious."

"That's how I won the concert tickets."

"Exactly."

"And what the Buckhead ladies don't have on you is your intelligence. He's in law school and he wants someone whom he can have a conversation with."

"I did have two debates with him last night."

"See?"

"I guess."

"God you have self-esteem issues."

"I just like to think of it as being humble."

Last night Adam e-mailed me while he was in class. That must mean he was thinking about me. Every e-mail I get from him, I always scan through it first, checking to see the line where he says he's canceling or can't see me anymore. It's a little paranoid, but when you're used to something for so long, it's hard to let it go.

Countdown to Breakdown

What's-his-face and I were sitting in a Japanese restaurant.

"Sushi makes me happy," I giggled. I couldn't stop smiling at the menu in front of me. "I was at a sushi bar in Peachtree City and this Japanese guy sits next me. He was actually Japanese-- his wife in kids still live in Japan and he works here and sends them money. He told me that hibachi is a purely American thing. They don't have hibachi in Japan. The idea of that really upset me, I love hibachi too!" I babbled.

The bill came. The waitress set it directly in front of what's-his-face and walked away. He pulled it to him and opened it up. Don't do it, I told myself, but I went for the fake reach again. Very slowly.

"Split it down the middle," he told the waitress. Dammit!

"Let's go to my friend's house," he said.

"Huh?"

"He has a pool table and more people might be coming over. Do you mind?"

"Uh, no. That's fine."

"Okay so I'll drive you back to your car and you can follow me there."

Sexy.

We were walking back through a gravel lot to his car. I was walking slowly, heels make gravel difficult to maneuver through. He actually sped up to get around some people walking in front of us. By the time I made it to his car, he was sitting behind the wheel waiting for me. I opened my own car door and got in.

This might be the difference between Yankees and Southerners. I am used to having car doors opened for me. I am used to not having to go dutch. I'm not used to following my date around in my own car. How am I supposed to feel romantically towards someone that's treating me like a friend?

As I'm following what's-his-face to his friend's house, I felt the urge to turn left and go home. I don't know anything about this guy. He doesn't call me, except to make plans. And the one chance I'm getting to find out who he is, is being spent at his friend's house.

I'm not a shy person by any standards, but the three of them were talking about things and people I have no idea about. I did pick up on the fact that what's-his-face, his friend, and his friend's wife are all unemployed and all they do is hang out with each other all day every day. And they all own homes.

This is beyond me. I work full-time and have an apartment I can barely afford and none of them work and own houses. How is that couple still married, sitting around the house together all the time? She was saying how she just ordered a semi-truck double stacked with furniture. What? I still buy second hand furniture!

"So where did you go for dinner?" the wife asks.

"Sushi. I thought of you while we were there," what's-his-face responds. "You know, they don't have hibachi in Japan. It's a purely American thing."

I eyed him incredulously, he didn't give me any credit for knowing that. All of a sudden I got dizzy and had to find a place to sit down. I couldn't see straight and it felt like there were a pile of bricks on my chest. That's what my ex used to do, take credit for my ideas and my knowledge to make himself look smarter. Screw how I looked, he just took and took and sucked me dry. My mind flashed through the whole ugly unfolding of my relationship with the ex and I couldn't breathe.

Why does what's-his-face need to look smarter? He's a lawyer. Why couldn't he just say, "Sarah told me that?" I felt plagiarized.

This is new. I never knew I had this issue. I thought I had grown so much, but I was sitting on a toilet with my head between my knees. "I'm damaged," I whispered into my hands. I haven't even been with my ex for five years and I'm on the verge of having a panic attack. "I'm damaged," I said again, louder, to acknowledge it. I blew my nose and wiped my sweaty palms on my knees.

I thought I was doing so well, but apparently I am not.

And so it ends

"You used me."
"I know, I'm sorry."

I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me on Andy's kitchen floor, not too far from the door. Andy sat in a chair facing me.

He asked me to go to a concert with him. At the last minute, he also invited another friend who kept hitting on me. When I told Andy, he didn't care. "Why, should I be jealous?" he said. It got so uncomfortable that his friend left and now we had to talk about what I put out there.

"You used to like me."
"I was intrigued."
"Bullshit. Don't lie to me. You used to like me."
"I was intrigued."
"Liar. You changed your mind and you fed off of me. You used me. You kept me around to feed your own ego."
"You're right, I did."
"I'm not a fool."

Andy puts his head in his hands and looked at the floor. I vowed never to like another bald man again.

"I wish I never met you," he muttered.

This was just too much. It was insulting. I got up and ran out of his apartment. The stairway was unlit and I put my hand on the banister and made my way into the night as quickly as I could. I got about halfway down the stairs before he stopped me. It was pitch black and my eyes hadn't adjusted yet. I just saw an outline of his face.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. Please come back up. I didn't mean it like that."

Slowly I made my way back up. Andy kept his hand on my back and guided me up the staircase. I think he just wanted to keep me from bolting again. I sat back down on the kitchen floor, purse in hand. I would have given a body limb for another drink at that moment. I vocalized this thought. Running down the stairs wore off the last of my buzz.

"It's just that I don't want to date someone unless it could go somewhere and I don't want to marry you."

It's pretty bad when someone tells you he doesn't want to marry you when you're not even dating.

He continued: "I led you on and I'm sorry."

Truth is, I knew all along things would turn out this way. I knew it would never go anywhere, that he wasn't right for me, but I forced myself into liking him to distract myself from getting attached to Christopher, and I still ended up hurt.

My friends hated Andy. They saw first hand how he treated me and couldn't stand him. We'd be at a bar and he would get up and go watch whatever sports game that was on at the moment and leave me alone at the table. My friends and I ran into him the night before and were appalled at the way he spoke to me when I didn't pick up the concert tickets yet.

Andy was the worst kind of guy. He was a bad boy who played the nice guy act. He was selfish and rude and insulting, but played up how he wanted to settle down and was tired of getting hurt. He truly thought he was he was a good guy; he was not. Good guys wouldn't lead girls on for kicks.

Andy said he still wanted to be friends. I nodded, but knew that would never happen. Andy was never my friend. My friends don't treat each other that way. My friends would never use me.

"You'll find someone else."
I smiled. I still had a card left in my hand. It was time to lay it down.
"I've been seeing someone since January."

Andy's eyes widened. I don't look like the girl who can keep this information quiet. He was so sure he knew me and I dropped this bomb.

"What's his name?"
"Christopher."
"It'll never work."

I was so over this conversation, but it was playing out perfectly. Andy was stunned, his ego deflating.

"When was the last time you had sex?"
"Monday."

Andy's mouth dropped fully open. I laughed and then immediately tried to cover it up. He blinked a few times.

"With Christopher?"
I shrugged, "You got to have birthday sex."
"I had no idea."
"I know."

He may have turned me down, but it was I who had the last laugh.

Desperate Sarah 4 Eva

I'm Desperate Sarah. I'm not Single Sarah, Lonely Sarah, or Shitfaced Sarah (although sometimes it's looking that way.) Stories like the following explain why I'm Desperate Sarah.

Christopher: (answering door) You're popping in. I'm not a fan of the pop in.
Sarah: I didn't pop! I called you 2 days ago and again on my way over here! Here, let me reenact my message: 'Hey Christopher, it's Sarah. I hope your phone isn't broken...'
Christopher: It is.
Sarah: '...Anyways I just wanted to let you know I'm going to happy hour on Friday and I'm going to be having some drinks. I should be done a little after 8 and I thought I could come over. Give me a call if this is a problem for you.'
Christopher: Well I didn't check my messages.
Sarah: That's your fault. I didn't pop.

Then my phone rings. Off the effing hook. The 30 minutes I was there my phone rang no less than 6 times. He was trying to check his messages on my phone and it rang. I was looking incredibly popular, but I was also on the phone the entire time I was there. He told me when I first got there that he was going out with the guys, but I could hang until he had to leave. When I got off the last call, he began Turning off lamps and walking to the door. I thought it was time to leave and I had my things. At the door, he stops and said he was sorry we couldn't hang longer, but he was going out. I realized he wasn't walking out the door with me, he was just getting rid of me.

Sarah: Wait, you're not walking out with me?
Christopher: No, I'm leaving in like 20.
Sarah: I could wait with you.
Christopher: No, I'm going to walk.
Sarah: I could drive you.
Christopher: No, I'll call you tomorrow night when I'm done.
Sarah: (really obnoxiously) Really? You're gonna call?
Christopher: Yeah.
Sarah: (still being obnoxious) What's my number?
Christopher: It's in my phone.
Sarah: Your phone is broken, Genius, how are you going to call me when you don't have my number?
Christopher: Here, write it down, I'll call you from Maddy's phone when we're done.
Sarah: (Totally not believing him) Okay.

The whole night didn't go well. There was a whole other portion of me asking if I could spend the night Saturday night because I was going out in the area and didn't want to drive home because I was clearly going to be intoxicated. He said he was going out with the guys again and would probably be out late. When I said I was probably going to be out equally as late, he responded that he didn't know what his plans were on Sunday. He was being a dick, which explains why I reacted when I did when he ushered me out the door.

I walk down the stairs of his building and I'm pissed. I'm so pissed. That did not go how I thought it would. I get to the bottom of the stairs and I angrily chuck my beer can into the bushes. I walk a few steps further and see and woman walking her dog in the same area and I almost hit her chihuahua with my half-full beer can.

I apologize profusely. Not only did I litter, but I almost assaulted her dog. I tell her I'll get it and ask her where it went. She pointed to the bushes and I crawl in them.

Woman: What was it?
Sarah: (Standing up in bushes) Anger. I don't know where it went. Is your dog okay?

Then she took a step back and realized that I was having boy problems. It was Friday night, I was dressed up, and I was tipping over from my happy hour buzz. I was looking pretty pathetic drunk and standing in some bushes. I knew it. I think she knew it too.

Woman: You know what? Forget about it. I've been there too.
Sarah: Are you sure?
Woman: Yeah. I know what it's like.
Sarah: I didn't mean to scare your dog. (The dog has been shaking and standing behind his mommy since I almost nailed it with my beer.)
Woman: It's okay. Hope your night gets better.

The next time I get all dreamy over Christopher, will someone please remind me of this moment and then immediately punch me in the left breast? Thanks in advance.

Why I have been absent: mentally, physically, and emotionally

I've sort of strayed from here because the only thing I had to post about last week I didn't really want to address. But in my effort to be completely honest, here it goes.

I have been putting myself under a lot of stress lately. Although I haven't moved yet, I've been working in the big city and am trying to adjust to it. For me, it's new everything: new job, new friends, new life. I originally came here for Mark and the thought of facing this city alone scares the living hell out of me. He led me on and had me move here to be with him, and he dumped me 2 weeks into it. Since then, I retreated to my mother's house, and when that became too close, I moved even further away to my father's house.

But my job and Christopher have me spending 90% of my time here. It's tough. It's a different crowd than what I'm used to. Here it's all about where you live, what you do, and who you wear. Everything is a rat race and I drive myself insane (literally at times, I'm afraid) trying to fit in. 90% of my time, energy, and money is invested into myself so I'll fit in. I'm on this insane diet that makes me nauseated every time I try and put food in my mouth. I'm in traffic 3 hours a day on my commute, watching people cut me off and cheat their way to the front and I almost cry because I see this as one big metaphor for my life. I cry myself to sleep about 3 nights a week because I don't feel thin enough/ beautiful enough/ good enough.

Where I'm from, the standards are a lot lower. You've got it made if you have a full-time job. Everyone gets really drunk and does really stupid things every weekend. People from all walks of life accept each other and the goths will party with the professionals on a Friday night. That's not how it is here. I got drunk one night and Rebecca will never speak to me again (bitch never called me back even after I left her a message apologizing.)

I tried mentioning my struggle to my father at dinner one night last week. He noticed that I began retreating again and kept going back to my college town instead of the big city on the weekends. I told him about the superficiality of the city and it's tough to create an identity for yourself there. He said I needed to exercise more. I told him he missed my point and he asked me to explain. I tried again and he just said that that is the way the real world is and I better get used to it. He's not very supportive, but he isn't judgmental like my mother, so I can stand living there.

Everything sort of came to a head last week. I joined a gym and a yoga class with some girls from work. Then I find out that having a gym isn't enough, you also need a personal trainer. And after that: a nutritionist. I'll never catch up. I opened a bottle of wine for dinner and never stopped drinking. I got completely tanked off of one bottle of wine and began calling people. I called for Conor but he was asleep and his roommate tried talking to me but he couldn't understand me through my sobs, so he passed the phone on to Bryan. Yeah, so didn't need to be talking to him.

He was really nice about the whole thing and told me about when he moved from Virginia to Georgia. He said it takes a year before you completely fit in and find yourself and your friends. I cried harder. He asked how long I been in the city and laughed when I told him a month. "I have 11 more months of this?" I wailed. He said I'm smart and beautiful and shouldn't worry about such things, that I'm too hard on myself.

He's partly right. To be honest, I don't really know that much about the city. I still haven't been to the popular places and still haven't met a wide variety of people yet. What I know about the city is Christopher, who's so incredibly built and good looking, I still can't believe it when the phone rings. I know my cousin and his wife-- poster children for the Aryan race with A+ personalities to match. They are the type of people who can make everyone in a room feel special. I got an e-mail from the prettiest and most popular girl from my high school saying she's also in the city. This is my competition. I can't keep up.

I woke up the next day with an honest-to-God red wine stain on my face. I have now reached desperation of Bridget Jones' proportions.

The Player's Ungame, Part 1

I wasn't going to do it.

I wasn't going to start calling my best friend from college every weekend so I would get a chance to hang out with his hot roommate some more. It's too obvious. Both he and Bryan would see right though to me.

But I did it anyways.

Conor was asleep when I called for him. I heard Bryan talking in the background, so I asked to speak with him instead. I have no game in this situation. I absolutely should not be calling.

Bryan sounds excited to hear from me. He said something about me leaving while he was still asleep last weekend. He said he thought I was going to go to the bathroom and go back to bed. That made me feel good. Wanted.

I suggested something about the group doing something that night. He said everyone was going out to play some pool and invited me too. To be honest, the only reason I'd drive up there to go to a pool hall would be to see Bryan. I told him I'd think about it and he may or may not see me there.

I weighed my plans and caved at 11 pm and went to see him. When I showed up, Bryan smiled and gave me a hug. "I didn't think you'd come," he said. I watched them play pool and Bryan always sat by me when it wasn't his turn, although he wasn't flirty.

Afterwards, we all drove back to his house and Conor's girlfriend rode with me. I asked her if Bryan said anything about New Year's Eve to them and apparently he told them everything. Everything. Slightly embarrassing. Now I'm sure everyone knows why I showed up there this week. She went on to say that Bryan would be a good person to "hook-up" with. It's a bit concerning that she said "hook-up" and not "date-" this leads me to believe that Bryan told them he had no interest in me that way.

At the house we began a game of Trivial Pursuit and Bryan and I teamed together. It was 3 couples, it was so cute. I forgot how much I love to be a part of a couple. He and I kicked ass at the game: he got all the filler questions right and I got all the pie questions right. I was just happy I was able to keep up with him. We won.

After the game everyone went to bed. Another roommate asked if I was going to sleep on the couch and brought out a pillow and blanket for me. I never really answered the question and Bryan lingered behind until the guy went to bed. Bryan moved over to the couch and sat with my head in his lap. I knew something was up because we weren't in his room yet. He told me that there was a girl at work he was interested in and that things between them escalated this week. He said things could go either way, but he was torn between her and me.

Once again I stayed silent with him. He looked at me and I laughed, "I'm not going to tell you what to do!" By the way he spoke, I knew I was the second choice. I flashed back 6 years to Luke when I said, "I'm no one's second choice," and refused to date him again after he told me there was another girl. Really, it was just an excuse because I wasn't attracted to him, but for years he always brought that moment up and what a mistake he made.

I knew if I wanted to play the game, I should have gotten up, told Bryan I'm no one's second choice, and went home. I should have. The game is hard, but it always works. Instead I sat there silently and waited to see if I was worthy of being fooled around with. Same situation with Nick all over again.

I asked Bryan if he was dreading this moment all night (because he'd have to tell me about the other girl and make a decision.) He said it was the exact opposite- he was actually looking forward to this moment all night. Bryan began to stroke my hair and told me I was incredible. He said I was intelligent, funny, and interesting. He said multiple times he had a lot of fun on New Year's Eve and that things between us didn't happen because he was drunk. He had been wanting to do that for awhile. I took this as my opportunity to tell Bryan how I felt. I didn't want the same thing to happen with Bryan that did with Nick. I didn't want things to progress sexually without first vocalizing my emotions.

I told him I've had an affinity towards him for awhile. I talked about the first time we met and about the time we talked at one bar and he kept looking into the mirror next to our table every 5 seconds and how it made me think he was conceited. He laughed and said it was more of he wanted to make sure he didn't look like an idiot and, if I wanted, he'd apologize through a mirror to me. We began to laugh and he led me into his room. We snuggled and talked for another hour before falling asleep.

Good Night and Good-bye

Called him last night. I pretty much knew the outcome of the phone call before I even made it, Maybe I just needed to hear it again for closure. Maybe I just wanted someone to cry to. I don't know. I shouldn't even try to understand myself right now.

Spent the hour we were on alternating between blubbering, wailing, trying to catch my breath, and hiccuping. He wasn't rude, but he was very firm and curt. He mainly was silent and listened to me cry.

I'm used to easier break-ups than this. Bob and Ryan both weaned me off them. They would sit with me when I got too drunk, hold me while I sobbed, and took a general concern for my well-being.

I told Mark about the panic attacks, how when I find something of his I can't breathe, and my body just generally shutting down. Half a dozen times I whimpered, "I'm not doing that well." I wanted a kind word from him, something to soothe me. I had to ask him questions. He wouldn't respond to "When did you stop loving me?" but I did get him to admit he missed me sometimes and that he still cared about me.

He made up his mind. I have no delusions about us ever getting back together. He completely shut off whatever we had, which makes me feel incredibly stupid because I don't work that way. He didn't want to sit with me on the phone; I don't even know why he did it. When he said things like, "It won't always hurt like this," he sounded almost angry. No "I'm sorry," or "I wish things could have been different." No tenderness. He's done. He made a decision and he's going to stick with it.

What I do know is that he's not like this. I've never heard him be unkind to anyone since the day I met him. I want to know how he stopped caring so abruptly so that I can stop too.

I asked gently if we were ever going to talk again and he said he didn't know. I asked him how we should end the phone call. He didn't know, but he needed to go to bed because he hasn't slept much the last couple of nights. I asked why too excitedly: I wanted to hear that he was struggling too, that would mean what we had was real. He said he didn't know why. "Good night," he said.

Good night.