The best laid plans to get laid

The NFL Combine was in town this weekend.

For die-hard football fans, the Combine is a chance to get the scoop on new talent, see which teams are looking for what, and probably a bunch of other shit I don't really care about.

For myself and hundreds, nay, thousands of thirsty women, it means the streets of downtown are crawling with men with big fat expense accounts.

Frankly, I consider it nothing more than Hoosier Hospitality to extend a warm welcome to visitors to our city. Especially tall, athletic male visitors who may or may not have access to Colts tickets when their team plays here.

Thursday night, it was a guy from Minneapolis who got my number and said he'd call Friday. He didn't. No matter. Friday night the bars downtown were absolutely packed with eye candy the likes of which I've never seen.

CK and I hit a trendy nightspot, the kind I generally avoid because I end up drinking vodka, which is not my friend. The last time I went to this place I woke up the next morning naked on the floor of the Westin. I took the Walk of Shame through downtown, which was packed with clean-scrubbed families in town for the state high school basketball championships, all looking at me like I was a living, breathing cautionary tale for their youngsters.

But I digress. Not long after the Nike guy brought a bottle of Grey Goose to the table, I went looking for Gunther, a hulking linebacker of a guy who works for some sports-related company in Chicago. Things were going well for a while, and then not long before closing time, the conversation deteriorated. And I realized, "Wait a minute. These guys, expense accounts or not, are still dumb jocks. So much so, that I can't even make it to the next morning without realizing what idiots they are, even after 6 vodka tonics."

To hell with the Combine, anyway. That's just tragic.

The best laid plans to NOT get laid

So, I had a date with the Chocolate Polisher last night.

I'd been dreading it for days. It was time to let him know in no uncertain terms that his chances of ever polishing my chocolate, so to speak, were slim and getting slimmer.

He's a really nice guy, so I didn't want to be brutal. I'd discussed strategies with C. She suggested I tell him he reminds me too much of my brother and therefore, I could never do him. I filed that away as Plan C.

Maybe, I said, I'd try to scare him away. I've done that plenty of times unintentionally, it should be easy enough to do it on purpose. I could bring up my views on marriage as an outdated patriarchal institution that everyone should nonetheless try once. I mean, that didn't work on Bob Sanders, but he's a freak. It should work on a normal man.

C mentioned the Chocolate Polisher gets really riled up about politics. Ding ding ding! If there's any subject about which I have more opinions, I don't know what it would be, except maybe how other people should live their lives. My hope brightened.

At 7 p.m. sharp, the fucker showed up at my door with flowers and a bag of goodies. Not goodies from the chocolate polishing factory, goodies. Maps, for god's sake. If there's one thing I like as much as flowers, it's maps. Eventually I hope to know how to get anywhere from everywhere, sort of like a human GPS system.

He'd picked up a bunch of shit about Alabama--maps, travel guides, etc.--from the Boat, Sport & Travel show last week, because I'd told him that I'm driving to Alabama for a wedding in May. He also brought me a copy of a CD of the bluegrass band we went to see a few weeks ago. And a pair of gloves, free from the travel show, because "a spare pair of gloves is always handy."

What the fuck? Does he have some kind of sixth sense about getting dumped, or was he just thinking that he might get lucky if he showed up bearing gifts? And what the hell is wrong with me? A guy like this shows up and I'm just going to kick him to the fucking curb? My conscience (I think that's what it was, anyway) rose from its slumber and starting gnawing at the inside of my skull.

Nevertheless, he still had to go. The fact is, I have no desire to see the man naked, and eventually he was going to try to disrobe in front of me and I'd just end up yelling "Ew!" and running out of the room. Best to end it before that happened. I mean, shit, I do have a (bad) reputation to protect, after all.

I can't remember who brought up politics first, but I jumped on the opportunity. Turns out, we fucking agree on everything. Gay marriage? Yep. The presidential race? Check. Indiana State Rep. Pat Bauer's toupee? You betcha.

I was completely unprepared. The trouble with politics is that I have such strong opinions that I can't lie about them. How fucking likely is it that someone agrees with me?? Jesus!

Sigh. I soldiered on. After dinner and drinks I invited him into my house for a beer. We sat on the couch and talked.

"Chocolate Polisher," I said, "I just have to say that while I like hanging out with you, I can't promise that we'll ever be more than friends. I don't want to hurt somebody who doesn't deserve it, blah blah blah, don't want to lead you on, yada yada yada, don't really know each other, etc. etc."

"Yeah," he said. "That makes sense."

And then I fell asleep on the sofa with my head on his shoulder while he stroked my hair. Fuck. Where did this all go so horribly wrong? Why couldn't something familiar and easy to deal with happen, like, I dunno, a cute 28-year-old boy who works in politics being all into me? Instead I get a 46-year-old guy who's been polishing chocolate for 27 years bringing me flowers and maps.

The Chocolate Polisher left me a message earlier today to just say hi and see how I was doing. C suggested I start using racial slurs. If I thought I could, I might just try it. If I squint a little, he could resemble my brother...

goddammit, would you just DIE already??

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.

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.

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.

what the hell happened?

Mark Knopler said it best: "Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug."

This is me today:

As I type, I'm "working from home," while a plumber replaces my entire kitchen drain and garbage disposal. I knew the fuckwads who used to own this house didn't install it right, which is why periodically my sink turns into a foul-smelling, brackish, grease-film-covered cesspool. Like it was this morning when I went to make coffee. I hope he puts a big-ass red bow on it when he's finished, because it's my six hundred and forty fucking dollar Christmas present to myself. Ho fucking ho!

And then there was the meeting last night of one of the groups I volunteer with, at which the discussion suddenly and horribly turned to Deputy Joe .... and his girlfriend. That's right, girlfriend. With no small measure of effort, I stifled the urge to yell, "Girlfriend??!! He doesn't have a girlfriend!!!"

Oh, but he does. I tried to maintain composure while one of the members of the group recounted her conversation with the two of them at a Function a couple of weeks ago, in which Deputy Joe told of his plans to return to some impoverished third world country with her for a few weeks after the first of the year. Another member of the group, a contractor, piped up to add that the girlfriend called him about getting a quote on some work at his house.

His house?? The one that may or may not still have a pair of my underwear lost in it? The one with the floor from which I collected my clothes at dawn a matter of weeks ago???

That mother fucking goddamn slimeball piece of shit.

Of course, while this was all going down, I was sitting directly across the table from Bob Sanders, and therefore stifled the urge to begin violently stabbing my notes with my pen.

Since I'm "working from home" today, I had the chance to do some research on this...person. She's a member of a Family of Note, is an incurable do-gooder who loves children in third-world countries (which, I'm sure, she helps with the Family Money, because her teacher's salary isn't going to finance all those trips), and--get this--wears pigtails. Low on either side of her head, braided. Maybe Piggy only did that once, but even once past the age of 13 is completely unacceptable, particularly when there's a camera in the vicinity.

It's noon now. I think it's beer o'clock.

i had a ball!

If you've stopped by Chez Pez lately, you know that Friday night was Tonic Ball.

The night went great. I poured wine at Tonic Gallery before the show and raked in $74 in tips to donate, which made me feel better since I couldn't afford to bid on the art. The music, as Jerry said, rawked. (It was great to meet you, Jerry!) I could do a post just on the music, but I suspect Nora will do a better job of covering that.

What I will cover is the men. Good god, they were everywhere. Deputy Joe, Bob Sanders, Dead-to-Me, plus a multitude of minor characters and some really great guys that I am lucky to call my friends.

One guy I'd never seen before walked up to me and started dancing with me (it wasn't even Drinky Bear), and--get this--could actually dance! Before I knew it I was being whirled, spun, and dipped all over the place. Then he bought me a Jagerbomb. With surprising clarity, I guessed where that whole scene was headed (nowhere good), and fled. After I drank the Jagerbomb, of course.

Deputy Joe looked super-hot with freshly grown stubble, but was in full self-absorption mode. Dead-to-Me was wearing a sling from having shoulder surgery. Nora accidentally hit him on his bad arm. Thanks, Nora!

And Bob Sanders fell down at my feet. Literally.

I first saw him outside Radio Radio waiting in line. He explained he was limping because he'd had an accident. Pressing further, I determined that "accident" was actually a euphemism for "bar fight."

The next time I saw him he was fubar. His friends, no doubt with a wisdom born of experience, had abandoned him. He said something, the exact memory of which was erased by what happened next, and I gave him a playful shove.

Possibly due to the injury from his "accident," but more likely due to mass quantities of alcohol, he fell on the floor in the bar. Nora moved in to see if it was time to kick him out. I helped him up and apologized. "My bad leg!" he shouted. "You owe me a blow job for that!"

Oh-kayyy...

Now, I stopped falling for the "you owe me a blow job" line sometime around 1988. That also might be the last time I heard it. Bob Sanders gets this month's "these people can't be serious" gold medal for shocking me to the point of speechlessness.

This morning I ignored a 9 a.m. (4 hours after I got home) text from him offering to make some "killer pancakes."

Let's take a moment to review what I now know about Bob Sanders: he desperately wants to marry and breed, he is "accident" prone, and he loudly demands blow jobs when he's really drunk. It's clear that any smart woman would stay far, far away from him. But me, well, I'd say odds are better than even that sooner or later I will sample those killer pancakes.

But back to last night. After the music wrapped up, I closed down a saloon in the bad part of town with some of Dead-to-Me's friends. Then I gave Dead-to-Me's neighbor (who also happens to be his best friend) a ride home, and a cop caught us making out in the alley in back of his house.

Making out with the neighbor/friend of a guy I dated for 5 months may seem like an odd thing to do, but a) he's hot, and b) it furthers my mission to prove that Dead-to-Me is an idiot. You see, his friends already like me a lot, and must suspect that Dead-to-Me was stupid to dump me, but now...well, now at least one of them has some idea of the full scope of reasons why Dead-to-Me will never do better than me.

un-fucking-believable

Mother of god.

To recap the past 24 hours:

The Greek and I did indeed get to share a glass of wine before he left, along with friends who were in a Halloweenie festive mood. The "and....um....uh" turned out to be some really great conversation after the friends moved on for the night, about art and life and our personal demons--all the good shit that makes me want to move somewhere like, oh, I dunno, Seattle and spend my days at a cafe drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and writing great literature.

Not that he didn't try to talk me into fucking him in the parking lot behind the friendly neighborhood tavern, but hey, I live here, he doesn't. I'm in that place waaayyy too much to have that kind of story floating around.

Wow, I DO have inhibitions! Who knew?

Anyhoo, what with the Greek hangover and all, I decided to blow off responsibility for at least another day and skip tonight's meeting of the group I volunteer in with Bob Sanders. I wasn't really in the mood to deal with that.

Of course, the group called me to see if I was going to be there. Dammit.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered that I was supposed to be bringing minutes from the last meeting to discuss, the ones with, oh, the group's mission statement and goals and objectives, you know, mildly important things like that.

I went in and sat down. Someone asked about the goals from the last meeting, then everyone looked at me.

I searched my mind frantically for a plausible and rock-solid excuse. Something like, "I've been called in by the head of the C.I.A. to work on a top-secret project. I'd love to tell you more, but I'd have to kill you. I'm fresh from a meeting with several heads of state, and that's why I don't have the minutes."

Nope. "I.....uhh.....I've had...um...... *sigh*.... I've had my head up my ass."

I'm pretty sure when they form the board, they will create a "Court Jester" position just for me.

As I was suffering through the rest of the meeting, I got a text message. From V.P. That's right, Pregnant Girlfriend Guy.

At least he texted. If he'd called, my phone (which I of course forgot to turn off) would have blared "Let's Get It On" at top volume, and I would have had to resign from the group immediately.

"Hey...I sent out a press release today...it should be big tomorrow...need some feedback...this is V. The one you had the most ridiculous sex with."

WTF? Seriously?? Does he have some kind of fucking radar? He entered my life last spring within days of when the Greek did. One week I was being wholly indecent in the front seat of PGG's SUV in a bar parking lot, the next week I was spending the most mind-blowing 24 hours of my life at the farm with the Greek. Is my life on some kind of fucked-up, twisted loop of foreign men with sexy bodies and the minds of 14-year-olds?

So I responded, "Why yes, I remember you...Looking forward to seeing the big news."

And then, "Is it good memories?"

Well, let's see. Good memories of what? The admittedly ridiculously good sex, or of the screaming matches in the parking lot of his apartment? The smooth, brown, sculpted chest, or the jealousy and possessiveness? The Sunday afternoons playing tennis and eating sushi, or the buckets of tears?

I opted for honesty. "Of the ridiculously good sex, yes."

Mistake. Subtlety is obviously not his strong suit.

PGG: "Where are you? Want some fun?"

No fucking way. I don't need this shit.

B.I.G.: "Fun for me tonight is jammies and puppies. I'm sure you'll find something to do."

PGG: "Like you?"

Mother fucker, he's persistent! Like a goddamn yapping chihuahua!

B.I.G. "Probably not a good idea."

Finally, silence. Sweet Jesus, it's been 14 months since I dumped him! Since then I've run into him exactly 3 times, once with a perky brunette on his arm. Isn't there some sort of statute of limitations on a booty call??

In addition to inhibitions, I apparently also have some brains. It's just been a regular fucking day of mother fucking self-discovery.

I'll just be taking leave of my senses now

And with the phone call, the Greek hangover begins:

B.I.G.: Hi. How are you?

The G: Running around like crazy.

B.I.G.: Trying to get everything done you should have been doing the past week before you leave tomorrow?

The G: (hearty Greek laughter...I swear it's possible to laugh with an accent) Yes. It's the Greek way.

B.I.G.: I'm a big fan of the Greek way. Are you going to be around the friendly neighborhood tavern tonight so I can send you off with a glass of wine and...um...uh....

The G: I would really like to be sent off with a glass of wine and...um...uh.... I'm going to try to, but I'm taking off early tomorrow....

B.I.G.: I know. It's a shame you're not going to be around Saturday. You know how last Saturday when you were driving me back to my car, and it was drizzly and dreary, and you said it would be a good day to lie in bed and watch bad porno, get up and make some soup, go back to bed and fuck, then watch more bad porno? This Saturday's my birthday. That would be a great way to spend my birthday.

The G: Oh no! I'm sorry I'm going to miss your birthday. Next time I'm in town we will do that. We don't need a reason to celebrate.

B.I.G.: No, we don't. We'll have another "one more time" the next time you're in town, then.

The G: Yes. I'll call you if I'm going to be out tonight.

B.I.G.: I hope you do stop by. If I don't see you, have a good trip.

I wanted to add, "Go back home, to your woman who loves you, and try not to break her heart."

But I couldn't bring myself to.

now THAT's frightening!

Apparently hosting a party takes at least a week and a day out of my life, as I notice it's been that long since I posted. I was working on a post about neighborhood crazies showing up at meetings and disrupting speeches, but I suspect there's more interest in what happened at the Halloween party than in one nutty old lady's whacked-out opinions on creating walkable streets and more pedestrian-friendly communities.

So, on to the show.

First off, I went a little crazy at Costco. I've put off buying a membership there because I'm only one person, how many rolls of paper towels do I really need to buy at once, plus, it's clear up in suburbia hell, where I never really want to go, and furthermore, there's just a lot of crap there I don't need.

Like a 1/2 gallon container of minced garlic. Which I now have.

Or 4 cases of beer, 2 big bottles and 5 regular bottles of wine, some Captain Morgan's and some vodka. And a case of chicken broth. For the chili, you know.

It took 10 trips with the wheelbarrow to get all the groceries/beer/ice from the car to the house. Discover's fraud prevention unit called to make sure some raving drunken lunatic hadn't taken my card.

Nope, I said, this lunatic has her card right here!

Btw, I have a LOT of beer and chili left. Stop by for dinner sometime this week. Please.

All in all, the turnout was good for having given people a week's notice and having it on an evening when everybody and their undertaker is having a party. Zorro and the flamenco dancer were the first to arrive, followed by a vampire and the Crazy Cat Lady, who proceeded to creep the fuck out of everybody by doing things like standing in a corner alone, playing her recorder:

In short, hilarity ensued wherever she went.

Then the youngsters showed up, on their way out to the bars in Broad Ripple:

Hope made an appearance, the youngsters and Crazy Cat Lady/vampire left, and then Hope, too, was gone.

I was patting myself on the back for being a responsible party host, and having a party that ended at the respectable hour of 1:30 a.m., and not with me sprawled out on the kitchen floor.

That's when Colts safety Bob Sanders (or a reasonable facsimile) showed up, wearing his dreads and carrying the Vince Lombardi trophy:

Now, I know Bob from a neighborhood group I volunteer with. He's cute. And single. And he thinks my jokes are funny. Which is more than I can say for at least 90 percent of the men I come into contact with. So I opened one of the big bottles of wine and Bob and I sat down to get to know each other better.

I mentioned it was 1:30 a.m., right? Did I also mention I'd spent the previous 6-1/2 hours doing my part to reduce the overpopulation of beer in my fridge?

The bad news is that, unfortunately, Bob is not looking for a woman to date. He is looking for a wife to bear his children. Clearly, SuperBowl ring or not, Bob is going to have to look elsewhere. The good news is that by the time we got 3/4 of the way through the big bottle of wine, I seem to recall being quite honest about my voluminous emotional baggage, commitment issues, views on marriage being an outdated patriarchal institution, etc. I quite distinctly remember giving him my disclaimer, "I am probably way too independent to ever successfully be married."

So, I shouldn't have to worry about the bad news!

Sigh. It seems like just Friday night that the Greek was telling me that I'm hard to handle. I have no idea what he meant.

I just got an e-mail from Bob. He left the Vince Lombardi trophy at my house, and apparently I sent him home with a bowl of chili, because he wants to drop off the bowl and pick up the trophy. Yikes.

Opa!

Yeah, I'm totally catching up on posts today. I'm sure that's impolite blog etiquette or something, but it's an excuse to lie in bed with the dogs on a Sunday afternoon, so I'm taking advantage of it.

Speaking of lying in bed with dogs, it's been an interesting weekend.

Friday night I had some weird-ass dreams. In one of them, my dog caught a mouse straight from the innermost depths of hell and there was a lot of thick, gloopy blood like oozes from walls in horror movies.

But even weirder was the dream in which I walked into a flower garden full of blooming butterfly bushes, gorgeous white and yellow butterflies flitting gracefully about as they sampled the glorious nectar, sun shining, sweet smell of flowers in the air.

Then, the butterflies attacked. It must have been a swarm of souped-up South American Killer Butterflies, because each of the suckers weighed like 10 pounds a piece, and they kept flying into me on purpose, hitting me about the head and face. It was awful! I woke up screaming and flailing.

The dream stuck with me all day Saturday. What was my subconscious trying to tell me, throwing out images about the blurry line between that which is good and pure and that which is dark and sinister?

By 7:30 that night, I had my answer, thanks to an informant. The Greek. Spotted the night before at a friendly neighborhood tavern near me.

By 10:30, my ass was on a barstool having naughty things about it whispered into my ear. I was working the phone trying to find some rather exotic cigarettes. If I'd had some notice, I would have been prepared, but that's not how this recurring fling works. We don't talk in between his visits. He doesn't call when he gets into town.

"If it is meant to be, it will be," he says. "Fate."

He does not know that Fate sends text messages.

He was talking big before I got there. "I've been living with this girl, and I've been faithful to her," was his story.

Then, to me: "I'm living with this girl, and I've been behaving myself since the last time I was here in town. ... Who am I kidding? I can't do it. What's new with you?"

"I've been forced to conclude that boys are scared of me."

"Scared? Of you? Why??"

"I think they think I'm trouble."

Hearty Greek laughter. Then head lowered, impenetrable dark eyes peering over the black frame of his glasses, eyebrow raised. "And are they right?"

"Maybe. But I don't see what that has to do with it."

More laughter. "Forget about dating. Just [edited for graphic content]."

We couldn't get the pay-per-view at the Super 8 to work, but I was not in a different part of the state when the sun came up this morning, as has happened before. Of course, that might only be because I had guests staying at the farmhouse. And the roommate was home this weekend. How is it, exactly, that I own two houses and yet had nowhere to take a boy last night?

There were other things, like weirdness with Dead-to-Me's friends Friday night, and the "accidentally hit the call button on the phone" call from the ex Saturday evening, which resulted in a 3-minute long message of his conversation on an apparent date with a woman who has a couple of kids. But enough of this lying in bed with dogs, I have things to do.

hitting the wall

It's been another crazy busy week, so today I took what some people might call a mental health day. I called it a "fuck you, I'm exhausted and I have too much to do to put up with your bullshit" day.

After 14 hours of sleep, I felt better. The weather suddenly turned from rivers-of-sweat hot to winter's-coming cold this week, and today's the first day my body caught up and quit shivering. I got out of bed at the crack of noon, had some coffee, took a nice hot shower, and then went to the paint store and charged $100 worth of paint and supplies to my ex-husband's account.

"Hi, you know KD? I'm the mother of his dogs, and I'll need to put all this on his account."

That made me feel much better. I figure in the grand scheme of things, he's still about $14,584 down, not counting the ongoing maintenance for the dogs, but I'll take the small victories.

Then Lizzie called and we decided to go to this new cupcake store. I know cupcake stores are all the rage in way-hipper places than Indianapolis, but frankly, I'm skeptical. Yes, the red velvet cupcake was tasty, and the gelato looked heavenly, but seriously? The decor looked like a 14-year-old girl decorated it. Pink and flowers and shabby-chic everywhere. And 5 bucks for two regular-sized cupcakes? I'd get more enjoyment from a bottle of 3-buck-chuck.

The constant stream of private-school kids getting their afternoon sugar fix courtesy of the nanny almost made me lose my cream-cheese frosting. Lizzie and I reminisced about how in our day, an after-school snack consisted of making yourself a bowl of cereal at home, not $2.50 cupcakes.

So now I've watered my grass seed, and almost dialed 911 when a thug picked up a bottle on the sidewalk and broke it and started walking toward a group of people, yelling. Apparently his intended stab-ee took off, so he calmed down. Police action averted. Dammit.

Now all I have left to do is write a column that was due Wednesday, so I can head to southern Indiana and paint the trim on the farmhouse. And I don't have a topic. Lizzie and I brainstormed.

"What have you done this week?" she asked.

I considered the possibilities. I whored around in Broad Ripple. Can't write about that. I listened to someone pour his heart out over an affair he's having. Nix that. I could write about the shooting behind my house, but I want new people to move INTO my 'hood, not OUT of it, so I don't really want to go there.

I had an interesting conversation with Deputy Joe Wednesday night about all sorts of pertinent matters, but if he reads a published recounting of our conversation, he'll probably never invite me over for, um, a nitecap ever again, and I sure as hell don't want to alienate the only reliable member of my stable.

"Have you done anything artsy-fartsy?"

I haven't.

"Wow, you're screwed."

Yep.

these boots ain't made for walkin'

Bad Influence Girl hit the town Friday night.




When you're wearing these with fishnet hose, a little black dress and fuck-me-red lipstick, you don't have to look too hard for trouble, as it turns out.

I woke up at 1:30 p.m. (!) Saturday, with the taste of Red Bull in my mouth and a large blood blister on the bottom of my foot. Oh, and a numb spot on my tongue. I think I sprained it.

When I arrived at work for my bartending shift at 5 p.m., I was still dizzy. The hangover really kicked in around 8 p.m.

I wore the hooker boots to an early Halloween party. But the party fizzled out around 12:30. Do those look like boots that are ready to go home at 12:30?


In the end, the hooker boots had to be carried home in the pre-dawn hours. They promised big but didn't deliver, kind of like, well, a cheap hooker. Boot. They were still on my feet at 3 a.m. for last call in Broad Ripple, but my feet revolted soon after, as nearly as I can remember. The fishnets did not make it home at all. I'm afraid they may be in a pickup truck.

Someone asked me last night who is my bad influence, since I am known for being a bad influence on others. My answer was, I don't need one, clearly I do a fine job all by myself.

what day is it??

Yeah, about that experiment.

Tuesday I went to a neighborhood thing at someone's house. They had so much wine, it seemed inhospitable to not have a glass. But, it was a tiny plastic cup. And then my friend wanted a cheeseburger, and well, it seemed inhospitable to not keep her company while she ate, and while they DO have Diet Pepsi at the Red Key, a beer really sounded good...

But, I did drink in moderation. So that's something of a victory.

And then there was Wednesday night. Geek Boy and I were supposed to be playing tennis, but he had a meeting that got rescheduled, and couldn't meet till 9. I didn't know of any public courts with lights, plus, it had been raining all day, and I hate playing with soggy balls, so Geek Boy suggested meeting for a beer.

I have known Geek Boy for a couple of months. We went out a couple of times. We get along incredibly well and have interesting, geeky conversations about subjects that would bore many people to tears. He's smart, he thinks I'm intelligent and attractive. As a bonus, we agree that we have an off-the-hook physical chemistry, as in, omg, did we really just spend an hour making out in the parking lot outside the bar, in semi-public??

Given all that, naturally (wtf?) Geek Boy decided he just wants to be friends. But "really friends, like, do stuff together."

Sex is doing stuff together.

Geek Boy didn't think that would be a good idea, for reasons that still mystify me. Something about just getting out of a serious relationship, blah blah blah.

Whatever. We do have a good time, so Wednesday we did stuff together that did not, unfortunately, involve sex. It did, however, involve darts and a hell of a lot of Bells Oberon. God, that's a good beer. And it was on sale--$2.75 a pint!! You can't beat that with a stick!

Not for the first time, it occurred to me that I should not try to keep up with Geek Boy in the drinking department. Because I can, but he's about 6' 3" and 220. I'm not, and should not drink like I am.

So I completely fell off the wagon. But, it was the full moon! Nora, I would claim that as your excuse, too.

All in all, however, I clearly didn't overindulge, because I am completely unrelaxed. Again, a small, empty, hollow, bitter victory.

This weekend, it's off to a Redneck Adventure Weekend with my sister and her friends. This installment of RAW is camping in southern Indiana (if you saw my sister's camper, you'd know there's not much adventurous about that. It has a stereo system, for god's sake) and going to the World's Largest Sorghum Festival in Hawesville, Kentucky. I'm not even going to pretend I won't drink my body weight in Miller Lite.