More on Chicago later, complete with photos, but first, this interlude.
On the ride back with my friend C, she asked me the last name of Dead-to-Me. Knowing that she and he have mutual friends, I reluctantly told her.
As many of you know, Dead-to-Me became, in theory at least, dead to me after prolonged periods of ignoring me during our 5-month relationship. Finally he sent me an “It’s not you, it’s me,” e-mail one Tuesday morning in June saying he was sorry it wasn’t working out, he runs like hell when he gets close to someone, I’m a smart and intelligent woman who deserves better, hope we can be friends, blah blah blah.
I responded and said that as someone with more than a few commitment issues of her own, I thought his were a little extreme. I suggested that he perhaps hand out a card on the 3rd date, saying something to the effect of “don’t get used to the flowers and quirky gifts and massages, because I’ll only start ignoring you soon enough.” I also said I’d like to be friends, because his friends seemed like great people and I could only assume he treats them well.
When next I saw him, in addition to me looking absolutely fucking stunning, I told him he’s an idiot. Seriously. Who in his right mind gets rid of an (his words not mine) attractive and intelligent woman who’s “not too demanding and seems to enjoy a good rogering”?
Since then, DTM has taken on a Zombie From Hell-like tenacity in refusing to remain dead. There is an entire section of the city that I can’t seem to go to without running into him, and there’s one otherwise fabulous music venue where I know he’ll always be at the end of the bar, just hanging around being emotionally unavailable. When I do see him, I am unable to resist talking to him, and it usually ends up being the funniest, best conversation I have all night.
He’s even on the growing list of people (men, more accurately) whose houses C and I plan to egg one night when the weather warms up.
So then. Last night I told C his last name. She went on to tell me that several months ago, some of DTM's friends told her about how he’d been driving his friends crazy by moping around after breaking up with this woman he’d been seeing, and how he’d finally found a really cool woman who was good in a not-his-usual-stupid-skank way, and he fucked it up. And she said, “Was that you??”
And I said, “Yep, and he did completely fuck it up, and he’s an idiot.”
I mentioned how I love DTM's cool old house. C said she can’t wait to see how it looks with egg on it.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
mojo risin'
Maybe it's the cold weather, maybe it's the funk I've been in, maybe it's the 20 extra pounds I'm toting on and around my ass, but I just haven't been inclined to be very bad lately. My attitude about boys lately might best be summed up as "eh, whatever."
Friday night, I went with some friends to a great concert. I got all gussied up--for me, anyway--and pulled from my closet a skirt/blouse combo that miraculously managed to accentuate the curves and de-centuate the lumps. I'll be wearing that at least once a week now.
After the show, we were having a great time at the friendly neighborhood tavern when God* spoke to me. He said, "B.I.G., you've been good lately, maybe too good. Here's a little gift," and He gave me a gentle nudge.
I turned, and God* had placed a young, hot, foreign man on the barstool to my left. This man is not just hot, he's smoking hot. Should-be-dating-a-Brazilian-model hot. "I'm beginning to sweat, I can't see straight, and the left side of my body is twitching" hot.
Even though I'd already had 3 or 4 Guinness, it still took me a while to work up the nerve to talk to him. But I said to myself, "Self, God* has smiled upon you, you'd be an ingrate and a heathen to not take advantage of this opportunity."
The poor foreign boy was jet-lagged from his trip back from visiting a friend in Italy, which probably worked to my advantage because I think I looked a little blurry to him. He claimed he was so tired his "eyes are burning, and I feel like .... is it fainted or fainting? I know that's not very romantic, but there it is."
Is "romantic" really the word he meant to use there? Who cares? Saturday night my informant texted me that he was at the friendly neighborhood tavern again. The place was packed when I got there and I only talked to him for a few minutes, but that's OK. I'll be back.
In the meantime, I feel like myself again. I should make a commercial.
"I was feeling listless, bored, and tired," I'll say with a concerned look on my face. "And then I asked my bartender about Flirting. Now, I feel like I have my life back," as the camera cuts to a shot of me playing with a dog while a voiceover warns of side effects.
"Flirting may not be for everyone. Excessive Flirting is not recommended, especially with multiple partners simultaneously or if you are in a serious relationship. Studies show that Flirting while consuming alcoholic beverages increases the risks of waking up in a strange place, losing articles of clothing, and SRIs (Sex-Related Injuries). Consult your bartender or other qualified professional before attempting Flirting."
*I could be mistaken about which supernatural/spiritual force and/or Higher/Lower Power was actually at work there.
Friday night, I went with some friends to a great concert. I got all gussied up--for me, anyway--and pulled from my closet a skirt/blouse combo that miraculously managed to accentuate the curves and de-centuate the lumps. I'll be wearing that at least once a week now.
After the show, we were having a great time at the friendly neighborhood tavern when God* spoke to me. He said, "B.I.G., you've been good lately, maybe too good. Here's a little gift," and He gave me a gentle nudge.
I turned, and God* had placed a young, hot, foreign man on the barstool to my left. This man is not just hot, he's smoking hot. Should-be-dating-a-Brazilian-model hot. "I'm beginning to sweat, I can't see straight, and the left side of my body is twitching" hot.
Even though I'd already had 3 or 4 Guinness, it still took me a while to work up the nerve to talk to him. But I said to myself, "Self, God* has smiled upon you, you'd be an ingrate and a heathen to not take advantage of this opportunity."
The poor foreign boy was jet-lagged from his trip back from visiting a friend in Italy, which probably worked to my advantage because I think I looked a little blurry to him. He claimed he was so tired his "eyes are burning, and I feel like .... is it fainted or fainting? I know that's not very romantic, but there it is."
Is "romantic" really the word he meant to use there? Who cares? Saturday night my informant texted me that he was at the friendly neighborhood tavern again. The place was packed when I got there and I only talked to him for a few minutes, but that's OK. I'll be back.
In the meantime, I feel like myself again. I should make a commercial.
"I was feeling listless, bored, and tired," I'll say with a concerned look on my face. "And then I asked my bartender about Flirting. Now, I feel like I have my life back," as the camera cuts to a shot of me playing with a dog while a voiceover warns of side effects.
"Flirting may not be for everyone. Excessive Flirting is not recommended, especially with multiple partners simultaneously or if you are in a serious relationship. Studies show that Flirting while consuming alcoholic beverages increases the risks of waking up in a strange place, losing articles of clothing, and SRIs (Sex-Related Injuries). Consult your bartender or other qualified professional before attempting Flirting."
*I could be mistaken about which supernatural/spiritual force and/or Higher/Lower Power was actually at work there.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
I'm un-pickling!
I've worked out four times in the past 10 days.
The dogs have been walked regularly.
My diet has been loaded with fruits and vegetables, and whole grains.
Last Friday aside, I've drank with moderation and not smoked.
And already I'm starting to see results. As near as I can tell, my tonsils have been replaced with two baseballs, which are lodged in my throat and threatening to close off my voice box and airway. Any minute now, they're going to explode, which frankly would save me from what I'm pretty sure is pneumonia settling into my lungs.
Yeah, I'm really fucking glad I'm trying to be all healthy and shit.
I hear you skeptics out there, pointing out all the places I could have picked up germs. But consider this: The pain from the baseballs in my throat was enough to wake me up and send me to rummage through the medicine cabinet at 3 a.m. Every box of cold medicine I had expired at least a year ago. Why? Because on the Coffee, Beer, and Cigarette diet, I never got sick!
So really, screw all y'all and your germ-covered, antibody-killing "healthy life." Gimme a six-pack of Leinie's and some Kraft mac n' cheese, I got some teevee to watch.
The dogs have been walked regularly.
My diet has been loaded with fruits and vegetables, and whole grains.
Last Friday aside, I've drank with moderation and not smoked.
And already I'm starting to see results. As near as I can tell, my tonsils have been replaced with two baseballs, which are lodged in my throat and threatening to close off my voice box and airway. Any minute now, they're going to explode, which frankly would save me from what I'm pretty sure is pneumonia settling into my lungs.
Yeah, I'm really fucking glad I'm trying to be all healthy and shit.
I hear you skeptics out there, pointing out all the places I could have picked up germs. But consider this: The pain from the baseballs in my throat was enough to wake me up and send me to rummage through the medicine cabinet at 3 a.m. Every box of cold medicine I had expired at least a year ago. Why? Because on the Coffee, Beer, and Cigarette diet, I never got sick!
So really, screw all y'all and your germ-covered, antibody-killing "healthy life." Gimme a six-pack of Leinie's and some Kraft mac n' cheese, I got some teevee to watch.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
A note about proper training
OK, I've spent the entire weekend recovering from a serious case of Barstool Back.
You know! It's like Tennis Elbow, only different. As so many people do at the beginning of the year, I did not seek the advice of my doctor before jumping into a strict regimen, and I overdid it.
Tuesday, the red metal-framed chairs of the Red Key. Wednesday, hard wooden barstools at Alley Cat and OPT. Thursday, there was a twinge in my lower back every time I rose from a seated position, and my hamstrings were sore. But does Peyton Manning leave the game every time he's a little sore? Hell no! I kept going. I'm a trooper!
Thursday evening, another hard wooden barstool, this time at Locals Only. Then Friday, the playoffs--Daddy Jack's, the Vogue, and the Pawn Shop.
Much like the Colts, I got my ass kicked. On the bright side, it's been a good weekend to stay home and do nothing.
You know! It's like Tennis Elbow, only different. As so many people do at the beginning of the year, I did not seek the advice of my doctor before jumping into a strict regimen, and I overdid it.
Tuesday, the red metal-framed chairs of the Red Key. Wednesday, hard wooden barstools at Alley Cat and OPT. Thursday, there was a twinge in my lower back every time I rose from a seated position, and my hamstrings were sore. But does Peyton Manning leave the game every time he's a little sore? Hell no! I kept going. I'm a trooper!
Thursday evening, another hard wooden barstool, this time at Locals Only. Then Friday, the playoffs--Daddy Jack's, the Vogue, and the Pawn Shop.
Much like the Colts, I got my ass kicked. On the bright side, it's been a good weekend to stay home and do nothing.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Thank you, may I have another!?
By 9 a.m. today, here's how my day had gone:
1) I weighed myself for the first time in months. It was alarming and dangerously close to a number where I begin thinking of myself in terms of "old fat woman" instead of "young hot sexy thang."
2) Upon attempting to exit my bathroom, the doorknob broke off in my hand. Thinking perhaps I'd somehow landed in a Three Stooges skit, I quickly turned around to see if a 2 X 4 was coming at my head. Then I pulled a MacGyver, using a plastic comb and a pair of scissors to escape from my own bathroom.
3) On my way to work, all the gauges on my Jeep quit working. I spent the rest of the drive wondering if it was worthwhile to try to get that fixed. I decided that if the "low gas" tone and light still worked, I could probably get by without the speedometer, tachometer, and battery, oil pressure and temperature gauges.
Inexplicably, I am in the best mood I've been in for weeks. I think it's because at least my day hasn't been boring.
1) I weighed myself for the first time in months. It was alarming and dangerously close to a number where I begin thinking of myself in terms of "old fat woman" instead of "young hot sexy thang."
2) Upon attempting to exit my bathroom, the doorknob broke off in my hand. Thinking perhaps I'd somehow landed in a Three Stooges skit, I quickly turned around to see if a 2 X 4 was coming at my head. Then I pulled a MacGyver, using a plastic comb and a pair of scissors to escape from my own bathroom.
3) On my way to work, all the gauges on my Jeep quit working. I spent the rest of the drive wondering if it was worthwhile to try to get that fixed. I decided that if the "low gas" tone and light still worked, I could probably get by without the speedometer, tachometer, and battery, oil pressure and temperature gauges.
Inexplicably, I am in the best mood I've been in for weeks. I think it's because at least my day hasn't been boring.
Monday, January 7, 2008
The dog’s got my bat…er, back
Wow, how ‘bout this weather?! It sure is unseasonably warm!
Warm enough to turn off the furnace last night.
Warm enough to sleep nekkid.
Warm enough to wake up a hibernating flying mammal, in fact!
How can I be so sure? Because one of the fuckers was flying crazy-ass loops, as bats are wont to do, around my bedroom at midnight.
It was one of those rare instances that I had an eensy, teensy amount of regret for kicking out the Man of the House.
As I lay in my bed, under the covers, screaming like a little girl, my new hero sprang into action:
Warm enough to turn off the furnace last night.
Warm enough to sleep nekkid.
Warm enough to wake up a hibernating flying mammal, in fact!
How can I be so sure? Because one of the fuckers was flying crazy-ass loops, as bats are wont to do, around my bedroom at midnight.
It was one of those rare instances that I had an eensy, teensy amount of regret for kicking out the Man of the House.
As I lay in my bed, under the covers, screaming like a little girl, my new hero sprang into action:
Yes, that is a look of proud victory on the Monster's face. In this picture, he has just made use of his hunting-dog genes to help me tag team the bat. While I was locked in the bathroom shrieking and getting dressed (because the only thing less dignified than running from a bat screaming is running from a bat screaming and nekkid), he was keeping an eye on the bat.
When I emerged, fishing net in hand, he helpfully led me to the intruder, which was being all freaky and shit hanging upside down from the top of the window. When I knocked it out of the air, again and again, he pounced on it, and kept nipping at it till it rose no more.
Me, I can't kill anything bigger than a mosquito. But it's OK if the dog does. That's just nature taking its course. Like the freaking Discovery Channel, right there in my hallway. Hey, that's why I keep their rabies vaccinations current, right?
Oh--and where was Big Head Dog, the vee-cious 10-headed beast, while his master and cohort were bravely doing battle with the 5-ounce dragon? Cowering in the corner. Then he went to hang out in the bathtub for a while. I'm sure, though, if it were, you know, a person attacking me, he would be all over it. He just doesn't do bats, I guess.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Exhibits A and B
Evidence that I really need to get out more: The only two things I've been excited enough about to post pictures of in almost a month are comfortable shoes and a cordless drill.
Well, duh!
For a month or more, I have done absolutely nothing very exciting or out of the ordinary (Bob Sanders was a little more than a month ago, and believe me, THAT was out of the ordinary). (Oh, and I drank myself to the point one Thursday night that when Deputy Joe called, I forgot why I hate him, so he stopped by the house to say hello for a couple of hours at 2 a.m.)
OK, for the past 3 weeks, I have done absolutely nothing very exciting or out of the ordinary. As someone who hadn't seen me for a few weeks told me in the friendly neighborhood tavern, "You've been like a nun! You're either a nun or a whore!" I think that's a little extreme, but the point is well-taken.
To recap, Christmas -- nice. I wasn't much in the mood to do shots of Wild Turkey with my nephews, I didn't take many pictures, just kind of sat around.
The week between Christmas and New Year's: I tested the theory that the company I work for wouldn't even notice if I was there or not. They didn't. I just flat out didn't show up for 2-1/2 days, and no one called, no one e-mailed. I slept. A lot.
New Year's Eve: Couldn't even muster up the energy in a bar full of people, with a kickass party band onstage, to go find a guy to kiss at midnight. Or 12:30. Or 1 a.m. Sure, I was wearing a feather boa, but I wasn't really feeling it...I wasn't being the boa. I went to Steak n Shake with Nora and told her sob stories she's probably already heard some other night when I was drunk.
Brand-new 2008: Bleh. In the depths of a full-blown funk. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, things suck, but no more than usual. And yeah, the stable is empty, doors clanging in the cold bitter wind, tumbleweeds blowing through and piling up in the corner, but really, it's fine, because boys have been getting on my damn nerves anyway lately.
Finally, last night over coffee (that's right. Coffee. Because I'm not drinking, so that I won't be tempted to smoke, both of which I really, really, really love to do) with a friend, it came to me: I am, quite literally, bored to tears. Being good is boring! And makes me cranky and depressed! Fuck this!
So, in a couple of weeks, I am going to Chicago. I have not taken a road trip anywhere besides southern Indiana (Kentucky doesn't count) in more than a year. No fucking wonder I'm bored! Have you been to this state?
Just like that, presto! Funk begone! Today I boughts me some new shoes to trek all over Chi-town in:
Ooooh, yeah, they kick ass!
Crazy Cat Lady and Elizabeth asked me today where we were going on the road trip, and if they were invited. I said, "Sure, if you think you can keep up with me." I don't know for sure what I'm doing, but it will involve art, and the Giant Bean, and lots of walking and public transportation, and CB2, and Goose Island, and great pubs with boys with cute accents.
OK, for the past 3 weeks, I have done absolutely nothing very exciting or out of the ordinary. As someone who hadn't seen me for a few weeks told me in the friendly neighborhood tavern, "You've been like a nun! You're either a nun or a whore!" I think that's a little extreme, but the point is well-taken.
To recap, Christmas -- nice. I wasn't much in the mood to do shots of Wild Turkey with my nephews, I didn't take many pictures, just kind of sat around.
The week between Christmas and New Year's: I tested the theory that the company I work for wouldn't even notice if I was there or not. They didn't. I just flat out didn't show up for 2-1/2 days, and no one called, no one e-mailed. I slept. A lot.
New Year's Eve: Couldn't even muster up the energy in a bar full of people, with a kickass party band onstage, to go find a guy to kiss at midnight. Or 12:30. Or 1 a.m. Sure, I was wearing a feather boa, but I wasn't really feeling it...I wasn't being the boa. I went to Steak n Shake with Nora and told her sob stories she's probably already heard some other night when I was drunk.
Brand-new 2008: Bleh. In the depths of a full-blown funk. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, things suck, but no more than usual. And yeah, the stable is empty, doors clanging in the cold bitter wind, tumbleweeds blowing through and piling up in the corner, but really, it's fine, because boys have been getting on my damn nerves anyway lately.
Finally, last night over coffee (that's right. Coffee. Because I'm not drinking, so that I won't be tempted to smoke, both of which I really, really, really love to do) with a friend, it came to me: I am, quite literally, bored to tears. Being good is boring! And makes me cranky and depressed! Fuck this!
So, in a couple of weeks, I am going to Chicago. I have not taken a road trip anywhere besides southern Indiana (Kentucky doesn't count) in more than a year. No fucking wonder I'm bored! Have you been to this state?
Just like that, presto! Funk begone! Today I boughts me some new shoes to trek all over Chi-town in:
Ooooh, yeah, they kick ass!
Crazy Cat Lady and Elizabeth asked me today where we were going on the road trip, and if they were invited. I said, "Sure, if you think you can keep up with me." I don't know for sure what I'm doing, but it will involve art, and the Giant Bean, and lots of walking and public transportation, and CB2, and Goose Island, and great pubs with boys with cute accents.
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