Conversations With EVG And My Undate

All my friends know that I have one rule that they should adhere to. Never EVER put me on speaker phone. Example from Friday:

Me: You are adorable.

EVG: It’s true. It’s why you like me.
Me: Yeah, I think I only like you because you’re so pretty. I’m superficial like that. Plus, I want to f*ck your brother.
EVG: Uhm… Uh… My mom is here.
Me: So?
EVG: You were just on speaker phone.
Me: EVG! You know the rules! You are never supposed to put me on speaker phone!
EVG: I know, I know. Our conversation was so normal. I can’t believe that in just 10 seconds, shit went horribly awry!
Me: She has no idea I was kidding! You better tell your mom I was kidding.
EVG: I will do no such thing.

Speaking of EVG, that girl can never give a normal answer to a question. Example from today:

Me: Were the first two seasons of American Horror Story any good?

EVG: It scared me. You know that movie where there was a puppet man and he played games and made people do stuff?
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
EVG: Saw. That was the name.
Me: That was your description of Saw?
EVG: Yes. It’s an accurate one, isn’t it? The Princess Bride guy was in it and people died.
Me: I guess. You should never be allowed to write reviews for movies, though.
EVG: I watched it with a guy I was dating and he kept yelling, “BOO!” at all the scary parts and I didn’t like it. So I f*cked him in self defense.
Me: That doesn't even make sense.
EVG: He stopped going boo and I didn't have to watch the movie anymore.
Me: What does this have to do with American Horror Story?
EVG: Oh, yeah. No. Just start with season three.

Example from yesterday:

Me: Have you ever met Mark?

EVG: Yes, he had his dick in my face once.
Me: What?!
EVG: I took him to Taco Bell and he said he wanted me to give him head. I thought he was kidding so I told him only if he could bring it to my face. He stood up through the sunroof and pulled his pants down and waved it around.
Me: Oh my god! Did you?!
(You have to ask EVG these questions because you never know.)
EVG: No. I never turned my head. But he was a great contortionist.
Me: You know, you could have just said, “Yes, I met Mark.”
EVG: Yes, I met Mark.

In life news, I have an undate tomorrow. We were supposed to meet for drinks but I asked if we can do movies at my place and just "hang out" instead. I guess this was my solution to getting out of a date. I also felt the need to tell him he would not be getting lucky. I think my exact words were, “Don’t worry, I won’t try to rape you. It’ll be just a hanging out thing.” His response? “Sounds good. But it’s weird you felt the need to tell me I won’t be getting raped.”

In other dating news, a guy on Match emailed me asking if I had had any luck. What a strange question. So I answered honestly. I told him it was hard to sort out the serious people from the serial daters but such is life. I figured I would ask him the same silly question. His response:

Haven't done much with it, but certainly willing to give it a shot. Haven't been on maybe two weeks and have gotten some interesting emails already. Just wish find quality was easier, which is why I am starting to take things into my own hands and write those who I think I have some things in common with. No luck yet!! Stay posted, lol...hope your having a great weekend thank you for writing.

See the misuse of the “your”? The ‘no luck yet’ comment? And this is one of the better emails. Today I got one that simply said, “nice cup hahaha… lol”. What the hell kind of email is that? Yeah, I know it’s nice. I bought it!! And once you write hahaha I assume you are lol-ing. I can’t even respond to crazy shit like that.

Which is why I am looking forward to my undate. He’s normal, intelligent, way too young for me, knows how to spell, is not an asshole, knows how to make coffee, has a job, and is willing to watch Supernatural with me. Boom! 

The James Spader Effect, the Ex Incident and My Inability to Sext Message

Last week, this conversation happened:

Sumo Baby (SB): I need to catch up on Blacklist.

Me: Oh my god, I love that show!

SB: It’s so weird but there is something about James Spader…

Me: He’s hot, right?
SB: No! I mean… I don’t know. Not at first but then he slowly becomes good looking.
Me: Yep. Like if you saw a picture of him you’d be like, ‘meh’. But when you see him talk and watch his mannerisms, he becomes sexy. I see this all the time in real life. Hell, half the men I have slept with fall into this category.
SB: It’s so weird.
Me: I think I am going to call this the ‘James Spader Effect’.  

Why is that relevant, you ask? Jesus, hold on! I’m getting to it. Earlier this week my boss and I met with one of our subcontractors up in Nashville. Our sub was older, maybe mid-fifties, with dark-circled eyes and an awkwardly tall build. But then this Tennessee drawl came sliding out of his mouth and he stood up and walked the room like he owned it and all of a sudden he was strikingly handsome. Plus he had this perpetual niceness about him so that even when he was telling the consultant sitting at the table to go fuck himself, it sounded like he was offering him sweet tea and biscuits. Total James Spader Effect.

Then again, almost all of Nashville was like this. As much I love intelligence in men (yes, I am a sapiosexual at heart), kindness can make anyone beautiful. The men in Nashville all have this down. They open doors, pull out chairs, call you ma'am, get you drinks, pick up your tab, offer you their coat, and so on. They definitely have a southern politeness and charm that I am unaccustomed to. This would be a dangerous place for me to live.

But Dallas is in the south, you argue! Yeah, I know, I know. But trust me, most people in Dallas have the anti-James Spader Effect. There are a lot of very rude humans out here. Don’t believe me? In 2012, these people were ranked #6 as the rudest people in the entire US. A generous ranking for sure.

2012 Rudest Cities

 

Why don’t you just move, you ask? Wow! You’re getting mouthy. I plan on moving. And soon. No idea where. Maybe up to Denton. Maybe somewhere near my job. Maybe completely out of this state. But definitely far away from Dallas. And the ex; I need to move far from him too. I mean, we live five doors down from each other. Not a good situation for either of us.

Speaking of the ex, one of his best friend’s died in a motorcycle accident this week so I made the decision to reach out to him. Just a text to say that I was sorry for his loss and that if he needed anything to let me know. He called and as you can imagine, it did not go well. Let’s just say that when it comes to logical decision making, like ‘do NOT text your ex even if it is to offer your condolences,’ I am obviously a bit of a dolt. Okay okay, I’m a fucking idiot. Geesh. You’re a tough crowd today.

(Deep sigh)

To add to my not-that-good-of-a-day, I am trying to think of a polite way to tell someone to fuck off. Not too long ago I had a few dates with a musician from New Orleans. He is definitely looking for a friends-with-benefits scenario and I am not. Besides my vagina being on lockdown, I kind of feel like most guys never truly get the ‘friends’ part of friends-with-benefits. And aren’t I better than that? Don’t I deserve more than that? I think so.

Anyways, at some point he thought it would be appropriate to sext me. I cannot convey to you how bad I am at that. I don’t even try. There is nothing, NOTHING, sexy about text messaging. This is how I deal with sext messages:

Musician Dude (MD): I’d really like to see you naked.
Me: I doubt that. I have this really weird mole on my left thigh and it is very distracting. It’s like, ‘oh she’s nak… what the shit is on her thigh?’.
MD: I would never think that.
Me: Well, you will now.
MD: Would you like me to send you a dirty picture of myself?
Me: Absolutely not. It's too dangerous.
MD: Dangerous?
Me: Yes. I would just share it with my friends and we'd laugh at you and you never know where it could end up.
MD: Are you joking?
Me: Yes. No. Possibly. My advice? Don’t chance it.

Plus he uses words like wiener and coochy. What the hell is wrong with you Musician Dude? You are in your mid-forties. TALK LIKE IT!!

My solution so far has been to ignore his texts but he is not getting the hint. Either I am going to have fun with this and start texting him back some crazy crap like ‘I’d love to peel all your skin off’ or I’m just going to be honest and tell him he is fucking creeping me out. Tea and biscuits, anyone?

Waking Up

How I wake up on the weekends is vastly different week to week. And I guess I found the contrast important enough to write about.

 

This Sunday:

Last night I had fallen asleep on the couch to  Firefly with a half-eaten jar of salsa next to me, sans chips. What a sad way to spend a Saturday, you say? Well, fuck you. I happen to like Firefly. And salsa. And think about it, I didn’t have to deal with annoying bar people or an awkward date. I didn’t have a hangover, didn’t lose my dignity, didn’t get arrested, didn’t cry, didn’t tell anyone to go fuck themselves. So I see last night as a win. Today I woke up on the couch to my Roku screen saver bouncing across my TV and my dog snoring at my feet. Not bad at all, me. Not bad at all.

 

Last Saturday:

The phone went off at 9am. For the normal people of the world this is a decent time to be up on a Saturday. For me, however, any time before noon is ridiculous early. You know how people say you will regret what you did last night in the morning. Well, I say not if you sleep until 12pm. Problem solved.  

 

Anyways, I peeled my eyes open far enough to read, ‘Are you up???’. It was from my friend down the street whom I will call Carrie (you’ll find out why later). I put my phone down and rolled back over, intent on sleeping a few more hours. But something about the three question marks bothered me. One was normal. Two meant ‘I have something exciting to say’. But three? Three is a dangerous number of question marks. It could mean anything from ‘I’m stranded on the side of the road’ to ‘I’m being attacked by a bear’. I decided I better call back. I know how to deal with bears.

 

Me: What’s up? Are you okay?

Carrie: (whispering) No.

Me: Why are you whispering?

Carrie: I am in my closet.

 

Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. When someone tells me they are in a closet, I immediately picture this:

 

You might not remember this scene from Carrie, but I sure as hell do. Everyone acts like the pig’s blood was the frightening part of that movie. Everyone is wrong. Oh yeah, you are completely willing to eat the ass of a pig and drool over its bacon-y goodness but you find the blood that helped that ass grow into your bacon frightening? Blood is not scary, you silly people. But having a deranged religious fanatic of a mother lock you in a closet, now that’s scary.

 

As I pictured that scene, I tried not to laugh. This was serious stuff, me. Maybe she was in there because an axe murderer had broken into her house and she was about to be killed. I could end up being that girl in the movie that comes in and confronts the monster and goes crazy and saves the day. This could be my moment.

 

Me: Why are you in your closet?

Carrie: There is a boy in my bed.

Me: Okay. Is that a bad thing?

Carrie: He won’t leave.

Me: Did you sleep with this boy?

Carrie: No! I slept on the couch. He came over with a bunch of other people and then went in my bedroom and passed out. They left when I went to go get cigarettes and left him here with me. Alone!

Me: Is he cute?

Carrie: (sniff) No! He has a very big belly and hair all over his body.

Me: Hair is sexy. I like hairy men.

Carrie: (sniff sniff) Not like this. He is too big to have this much hair. It scares me. It’s creepy!

Me: Creepy? Having a hairy body does not mean you stalk children. It means you’re Italian. Wait! Are you crying?

Carrie: Yeeees!

Me: Okay okay. Stay calm. I will come over and take care of this. But you know how I take care of things. I won’t be nice. Can you handle that?

Carrie: Yes.

Me: I’m bringing a bat and if he gives me any lip, I’ll show him who the real Italian is! How dare he think he can stay in your house! You ask him to leave and he still lays there!! Fuck that! I’m not even going to ask. I’m coming in swinging!

Carrie: Well…

Me: You did ask him to leave, right?

Carrie: Uhm. Not really. I went in the room and I was loud but he didn’t wake up.

Me: (stops looking for the bat I don’t own) Carrie! Go in that bedroom and wake him up and tell him to leave. You have to give the guy a chance to get out before you call your craziest friend to come kill him!

Carrie: (sniff) Okay

Me: Jesus. Just keep me on the phone just in case.

Carrie: (long pause) It’s okay, honey. You will be okay. Just come over. HEY! You! My friend is in trouble and is coming over. You need to leave.

Me: Are you pretending I need help so you have an excuse to get him to leave?

Carrie: Yes. It will be okay. Just come over and we will fix this… Sir, you have to leave.

Me: It will not be okay.

Carrie: What happened? Do you want me to just come get you?

Me: I flew to France last night and had sex with a few prostitutes. I’m think they gave me herpes. So I am pretty sure things will not be okay.

Carrie: (whispers) Quit making me laugh.

Me: Laugh? You find my herpes trip funny?

Carrie: Stop it! He left.

Me: Good. I am going back to sleep.

 

The Sunday Before Last:

I woke up in my bed naked except for my bra. My clothes were strewn from the front door to the bed. My shoes were behind the couch (no idea). There were no signs of anyone but myself and my dog. Last thing I remembered was being at the bar and having a polite conversation about gaming.

 

I picked up my phone and texted Carrie.

 

Me: I am missing half my night. Did I do anything absurd?

Carrie: Nope. You were perfectly normal until you stood up. I had no idea you were drunk until that moment.

Me: Wine on an empty stomach never ends well.

Carrie: You made me carry you to the bathroom and kept asking me why I am so nice to you.

Me: Jesus.

Carrie: Then I just took you home and you went in and I assume went to bed.

Me: Thank god. Was I mean to anyone?

Carrie: Yeah. The guy who was trying to talk to you. You just turned your back on him and ignored him. He was all bummed. He kept saying, ‘Your friend won’t talk to me anymore.’

Me: Sounds about right.

 

Come to think of it, holiday parties are coming up soon. Open bars, happy me, free limo rides. I’m sure my next few Sundays will be noteworthy. I earn a new nickname every time I am at a company party. Last year it was Roadhouse. Why? Here were the texts:

 

Company President (CP): I have decided your new nickname is Roadhouse.

Me: Like as in Patrick Swayze?

CP: Yes.

Me: Oh my god! Did I kick someone in the face?!?!

CP: No. When all the drama was going down you just stood there all cool and calm. Everyone was drunk and crazy and you were drunk and cool. So Roadhouse it is.

Me: I’ll take it.

 

I have also been ‘Onion’ and ‘Killer’ but those are long stories and I my attention span just ran out.

 

- Fin

My Vibrator Dilemna

I originally started this blog with “the Plan”. You remember... say yes to dates, be nice to men, put yourself out there, blah blah blah. The problem is that I don’t particularly like the sort of men I come across. I thought it must be the small area I live in. No, IT IS ALL OF TEXAS. Match.com has opened my eyes to this fun fact. I have already ranted so you know my issues with the people on there. ALL those men are insanely awful. Do emotionally stable, completely nerdy, socially awkward, passionate men exist? I think not.

 

Worse yet, maybe two of these 600+ dudes who viewed me actually read my profile and my profile is fucking funny. I am funny, damnit! And witty and educated. But 99% of the guys who have asked me out have asked me because I am blonde and “cute” (I am not cute, damnit!!) and available. They look at the pictures, think “I’d screw her” and then send some grammatically incorrect drivel about drinks or dinner. Real creative, assholes. And guess what? I don’t give a shit what you look like. Those topless photos of you in your bathroom are stupid and annoying. If you look like you spend more than 5 minutes on your hair I am already sick of you. And quit telling me to look at your photos or asking me if you are attractive. My answer will always be no. My point? I am over Match.

 

So I canceled my date for tonight. I have vegetable soup in the fridge, a novel that needs writing, fuzzy rabbit pj’s that need wearing and MST3K that needs watching. And I have a garden tub that is dying to be turned into a bubble bath. All of this is way better than pretending that the blabbering guy sitting across the dinner table is really just looking for good conversation.

 

Lately, I have been having some really great talks with EVG. This morning we both agreed that we are willing to wait ten years, if we must, to find that one person who will adore our weird ass personalities. Yep. I am putting my vagina on lock down. Which is sort of easy since it has already been on lock down. This also means that I need to invest in a vibrator collection. And if there is anything I love, it is ‘collections’. The following conversation happened last night:

 

EVG: You don’t have a vibrator?

Me: No. Well, not one I can use.

EVG: Hmm…

Me: I have a Hello Kitty one but I got it from Japan and my inner geek is convinced it will be a collector’s item one day so I haven’t taken it out of the box.

EVG: You can’t collect these things, you have to use them!

Me: (not listening) I wonder if they have fairytale vibrators or superhero vibrators? I can get a curio cabinet and display them like knickknacks!

EVG: I think you are missing the point of vibrators.

 

Maybe I was but guess what? THEY HAVE SUPERHERO VIBRATORS! AND FAIRYTALE ONES!! I have found my new hobby! Not only will I have the sexual patience to wait for my Mr. Right (he wears glasses, makes a mean cup of coffee and thinks I am the shit… if you see him, tell him I am stranded in Texas) but I can do it geek-girl style.

 

The dilemma of my evening is which vibrator collection to order first. The Star Wars? The Avengers? Or the Wonderland? Very difficult choice, indeed.

 

 

Your opinions would be greatly appreciated. I'm leaning towards the Avenger set first but my mind can easily be changed. In the meantime, I am clearing shelf space for their display. Yes, mom, nice to see you too. Yes, dad, those are indeed vibrators. Wine anyone?  



 

Ghostbusting and Sex with EVG's Brother

Last night, or shall I say this morning, I woke up briefly and saw that I had gotten an email from Exploding Vibrator Girl. It simply stated that her brother had read my blog and enjoyed it. Even though I was half asleep, I wrote her back and told her that I loved her brother because they share the same DNA (aren’t I adorable?) and then I rolled over and went back to sleep; it was 4am for fuck’s sake. This all sounds innocent enough, right? No. At least not in my subconscious and so the dream began…

EVG and I decided to move to the happiest state in America. We chose Hawaii. Our dream reasoning was that everyone in Hawaii has got to be happy, they’re in effing Hawaii! I think we might have swum there. We are amazing like that.

My job in Hawaii was as a ghostbuster. Yeah, I said it, a god damn ghostbuster. While you were sleeping and dreaming about poppy fields or falling off buildings, I was dreaming about hunting down ghosts in Hawaii while wearing a pimpin’ jump suit and a backpack full of kick ass. Does it get better than that? Oh, yes it does.

After a rather nasty fight with Shannon Doherty and Holly Marie Combs, they decided to kick me off the ghost team. (Okay, you caught me, I watched about 6 episodes of Charmed last night. Don’t judge! I also drank wine out of a sippy cup, knitted a headband and ate half a block of cheese. This is what my life has been reduced to, so of course I was watching Charmed.) I am not entirely sure of the reason for the fight but it had something to do with the fact that my toenail polish was peeling off and that I was a size five and not a size one like they were. Sounds like a legit enough reason to fire me. (shrug)

After the fight, EVG and I decided to eat at a Basque restaurant. It was her, her friend Jose and her brother. And me of course. Blah blah blah lots of boring nonsensical stuff happened. There was a funny moment where people were cheering for us as we drove by in the back of a truck like we were Hunger Games contestants. And so on…

And then the sex part happened. Me and EVG’s brother. Once in the jungle and once in the ocean. In real life these are dangerous and uncomfortable environments to be having sex in. I mean you seriously never want to be naked around sharks and wild monkeys. Just some practical advice I like to follow and it has kept me alive so far. Wait… are there wild monkeys in Hawaii? Anyways, in dreamy land it was very romantic and passionate. Very. So when I woke up in the middle of Texas, sexless and horny, staring into the face of a drooling dog with no ocean or jungle anywhere close to me, I about damn near cried. Damn you and your emails, EVG!!

Since I had nothing better to think about this morning I have been analyzing my own dream. Dear Freud, what the hell could all this mean? Or should I be asking Jung? Whatever. One of those fuckers would have had an answer. But I don’t speak German well and they are both dead so I will draw my own conclusions.

Dream Meaning Possibilities:

1.      I must quit my job, move to Hawaii, start a ghost hunting business and then find EVG’s brother and rape him.

2.      I need to stop watching so much TV and buy a decent vibrator.

I prefer #1.

In other news, I need some new clothes due to my continual weightloss (not complaining), some winter boots, a dress for the Christmas party (a date would be nice too but I don’t have any guy friends in Bakersfield), and a new carpet cleaner. However, these would be responsible purchases and the PS4 goes on sale today. Yeah, you heard me, the PS4. And if there is one thing that trumps shoes and dresses and carpet cleaners, it would be video games. Take that, adulthood!!

I have nothing more to say.

- Fin

 

The Truth: Why I am Single

I am terrible at dating. Why, you ask? You ask a lot of questions… but lucky for you I have a lot of answers. Honestly, there are so many reasons I suck at meeting men and dating but let’s just start with the basics.

1.      I have perpetual foot-in-mouth syndrome. Oftentimes my words jumble up in my brain and by the time they leave my mouth they are out of order or mispronounced or completely inappropriate. Mostly the latter. For example, I have learned never to convert dollars into shekels around a Jewish man who thinks that everything anyone says is anti-Semitic (a ridiculous assumption, especially since Jewish people are one of my favorite groups of people). And to never bring up your cousins old stripper-pole-in-the-basement days in front of his wife. And definitely don’t do it when the wounds of his ex-stripper girlfriend are still fresh in his wife’s mind. OH! And to never tell your best friend’s husband about the impromptu trip you two took to Vegas just because you ASSUME he had known where she was and would enjoy a good laugh. (Imagine what I could say to a date!)

2.      I have dorky interests. Where most people can put down “I enjoy bike rides and photography” as their hobbies, I cannot. Quantum physics, robots, knitting, D&D, blogging, neuroscience, comic books (yeah, I’m 38 and I still dig comic books… I prefer the term ‘graphic novels’, though), Freud, Greek philosophy and stone rubbing grave etchings. Those are mine, which means when people start talking I have to remember that not only does NO ONE my age share my interests, they certainly do not want to hear about them either. And so I usually end up sitting in a corner being silent or getting very drunk and talking about Plato, artificial intelligence and Carl Sagan. Neither scenario is a win for me.

3.      I am way too honest for my own good. I have this horrible tendency to just come out and ask a question or tell someone how I feel and this is not always socially acceptable. “Did you look at yourself before you left the house?” “Are you interested in me or is this just an out-as-friends thing?” “Do my armpits smell?” “Are you going to keep talking or are we going to have sex?”

4.      I have too many quirks. Guys will put up with three or four but they usually draw the line at 72. Here are a few of many: I hate the sound of chewing and whistling. I am terrified of belly buttons, including my own. I walk on furniture. I wear pajamas as often as possible (preferably fuzzy and with Hello Kitty somewhere on them). I am creeped out by toe rings. I MUST sleep on the side of the bed farthest from the door. I yell at the TV when I am scared. I won’t eat my food if it is touching other food, even if I like the other food. I throw out everything on the day it expires; not because I am clean and responsible but because I secretly believe all things turn to poison when they expire. I am fascinated by silly putty and can play with it for hours. And so on.

5.      I hate people. Okay, I don’t hate people. I just like not being around them, which seriously impedes on me dating them.

6.      I like Woody Allen. Enough said.

Anyways, last date I had was with a guy who complained about a coworker who played video games. “Who over 15 plays video games? What a loser!” He raged. I do, you stupid prick, I wanted to say. But I just stood there wide-eyed and silent. Be cool, me. Be cool.

As you can imagine, it didn’t work out. Plus he didn’t like my dog (or at least the idea of my dog in his kitchen) so I will not being seeing him again. Ever.

I have been asked on a date this weekend, however, with a guy who has never met me and has no idea what an incredible dork I am. I want to say yes, meet him for dinner, pretend I am normal, gradually let him in on the fact that I am indeed not at all normal and possibly get a second date. Something about free dinners makes paying $40 for a Match membership seem slightly worth it, wouldn’t you agree?

Here will be my first date rules:

1. Say as little about yourself as possible. Just ask him a lot of questions and nod at the end of his answers.

2. Do not say the words ‘comic’, ‘zombies’ or ‘ninjas’ around him. Unless he says them first, of course.

3. Find out immediately if he is a dog person. If not, quietly stab him in the face with a fork and leave.

4. Do NOT do any of your impressions. Not the Captain Kirk one, not the Christopher Walken one and definitely not the Sean Penn one.

5. No matter how smart he is, no matter if he is a Captain Hammer look-a-like, no matter if he owns a VW bug, 12 dogs and loves to recycle, no matter how drunk you get… DO NOT MAKE OUT WITH HIM. And don’t sleep with him. Keep your inner slut in check, me!

Wish me luck. Hasta la pasta mi amigos.

Stormtrooper and Why I am not Allowed Around Children

Anyone who knows me knows I am not a ‘kid’ person. Squeezing an entire human being out of my vagina so that it can keep me up all night, crap all over my house, cry like a drunk virgin on prom night ALL THE TIME, destroy what little I have left of my body, eat all my food, empty my bank account, and seriously impede on my wine drinking and overall irresponsible behavior is not something I envision enjoying. However, that does not mean that I necessarily dislike children. I just don’t want to own one nor  do I want to spend long periods of time around one.

A fun fact about younger kids is that they will believe almost anything you say without hesitation, no matter how ridiculous it is. As a parent, this is something you should be careful with. Sarcasm and dark humor could backfire on you. But as a childless adult, this is something you can use to entertain yourself when unsuspecting parents leave their kids with you.

For example, a coworker of mine decided to bring her daughter to work a few weeks ago. The daughter had strep throat that day (we will call her Stormtrooper as she is extremely serious, has a terrible trigger finger, likes to chase things and is white), and when small humans are carrying diseases like walking biological weapons, they are not allowed to attend daycare.

My coworker had set up a play area for Stormtrooper but the girl was having none of that. So Stormtrooper made her way into my office. A lot. The thing about this child was that she had this very mischievous look in her eyes. Like at any moment she would squiggle all over your walls with a purple sharpie, flush your money down the toilet and kick your dog into next Tuesday and it would all be part of some master plan to destroy you. I can appreciate that. You can’t ask a tiny evil genius to leave, can you? No. You can’t.

After reading her a book about irresponsible fish parents and a group of inept firefighters who leave complete control of a burning building to a bunch of inexperienced children and their cat (who writes this shit?), I had no choice but to engage Stormtrooper in conversation. The following are a few tidbits:

Scary Stories –

Stormtrooper (ST): You know what’s scary?

Me: What?
ST: Monsters.
Me: You know what’s scarier than monsters?
ST: What?
Me: The government!
ST: (wide-eyed) OOOOH!!

Kidnappers –

ST: I need to go potty!

Coworker: Wait for me to take you.
ST: I wanna go by myself!
Me: That is not a good idea.
ST: Why?
Me: Because there are people who hide in the bathroom and wait for little girls to come in alone so that they can kidnap them.
ST: Really?
Me: Yes. It’s a very serious problem. And they all have red hair. That is why we don’t like redheads.
ST: (nodding her head) Ok. I’ll wait.

Best Friends –

ST: I have three best friends.

Me: That is impossible. You can only have one. It’s why they are called “best”.
ST: My mom says I can have as many as I want.
Me: Your mom is a liar.
ST: (looking unconvinced) But I have three.
Me: Look. What you need to do is draw a circle, make them step into the circle and then fight it out. Whoever is left standing… that is your BEST friend. What are their names?
ST: Andrea, Holly and Sammy.
Me: Ok. One has to be a ninja. Who will that be?
ST: Andrea.
Me: I was thinking that too. Now who will be the Samurai?
ST: Holly.
Me: Great! Now what will Sammy be?
ST: Nothing.
Me: Yeah, Sammy ain’t much of a fighter, huh? We might as well just rule him out before he gets himself hurt.
ST: Yeah, Sammy can’t fight.

I have to say, I kind of liked this Stormtrooper kid. She was smart. Unfortunately, though, my coworker has not brought her back in. I am going to pretend that it is because ST has been busy at daycare but I hear there was an incident with ST telling Grandma that her friends had to fight it out to be with her and that Grandma wanted to know where she learned such things. (shrug)

My Equally Insane Friend

Everyone has that one friend who is just as insane as they are, right? I mean, every insane person does, don’t they? I don’t think I actually have any normal friends (thank god). But I do have one friend whose weirdness is just as twisted as mine is. For instance, here is an awesome email I received from her before heading off to bed last night:

I wish I could be there for you on the days when it seems like life is punching you in the tit.

If that isn’t the most sincere expression love one friend can give to another, then I don’t know what is. And I deeply love this girl. Once a week, minimally, she sends me the greatest text or email EVER. Here are some of my favorites:

Text about death (at 4am): My vibrator just exploded. I’m pretty sure it was trying to kill me.

Email about sperm: It was a very real concern of mine when they did a cheek swab test on me in order to go on the bone marrow donor’s list. I was like, “Sh*t! Whose DNA will they be getting?”

Text about splitting up the world among our group of friends: I texted Jose “Just so you know, I arranged for you to have South America. You’re welcome.” He didn’t even question it. He just said it’s because he is brown isn’t it. I told him it is because he can speak brown. I like to toss some folksie racism at him from time to time. It makes him feel at home. He knows I don’t mean it. I just do it for him.

Text just expressing love: nlnn <-- I just flipped you off with a text. You’re welcome. You did nothing to deserve this. I’m just proud of myself for inventing the flipping-off emoji. That is all. Have a good day.

And she is the epitome of ‘girl next door’, sweet and uber-girly (think batting-eyelashes and lollipops) with an innocent smile. But it is all an illusion. Trust me. While she is smiling at the idiot who can’t get her order right, she is also secretly plotting his murder and will tell me in detail how the murder will go down when he leaves.

One night I get a call from her and I asked her how her date with her relatively new semi-boyfriend went.

Exploding Vibrator Girl (EVG): I left him on the side of the road.

Me: What?!?
EVG: He cried after sex and got all mouthy in the car.
Me: You at least dropped him near his house, right?
EVG: Oh no. I dropped him like ten miles away. But it was on a freeway so I’m sure he got back alright.

I wish I could clone her and have one of her everywhere I go. At least have one of her in Texas. Tonight I will get my favorite Chardonnay and lift my glass to EVG. I miss her face immensely.

The Strange World of Match.com

Match.com is HILARIOUS!! The first few days went as expected. I got a couple views, maybe one email, and nobody winked. I don’t take online dating seriously (heck, I don’t even take real dating seriously), so the lack of interest didn’t upset me. I had written a very honest profile and put up realistic looking pictures of myself. But I knew I was up against the photo-shopped bathroom-bikini girls whose profiles read ‘looking for a good time’. Who can compete with that?

But then day three happened. All of a sudden my email blew up, winks were coming at me left and right and comedy ensued. Here are some fun tidbits from my weekend on Match:

- A guy emailed me this: “I noticed we have a lot of interests in common and would like to take this a step forward. Where would you like to go out?” My first thought was, what a presumptuous little man. Sharing interests does not automatically put you in the dating category. If Charles Manson liked dogs, wine-tasting, sci-fi movies, museums, film festivals and video games that wouldn’t mean I’d like to have dinner with the guy. (Actually, I would like to have dinner with Manson just so I could say, “Guess who the hell I just had dinner with?!”) But that wasn’t even the weird thing about his email. The weird thing was that we did not have one single interest in common. NOT ONE. Holy cut and paste email, greatcatch32. And no thank you.

- Everyone in my area has the word ‘Texas’ in their name. Texashotman, texlover1976, texasaggiesrule, texanhunk415, and on and on and on. Not only is it uncreative and annoying, it is infuriating. I know where you live! I live here too! And it isn’t that great. Certainly not great enough to make it part of your user name. No no and no. When I see ‘tex’anything, I automatically delete and move on.

- I decided to throw in a picture of me with my Hello Kitty coffee cup. It is not a pretty picture. I hadn’t actually had any coffee yet so my eyes are puffy and tired. In it I am wearing thick black-rimmed glasses and the camera is close enough to my face to show all my wonderful flaws. I figured this will keep the superficial creepers away from me. But no. Instead I got, “you look hot in glasses”, “hello kitty is sexy”, and “you look like a dirty librarian.” Really? My one blah picture and that’s which one the wierdos like? Jesus. And do these lines ever work for you ladies? I knew he was the one when he told me I looked like a dirty librarian.

- One emailed simply read: “You are cute!” Okay, are we twelve? How does one even respond to that? “I know.” Or “Yes but I read your profile and your grammar is atrocious which makes you the opposite of cute. You are the anti-cute.”

- Profiles… don’t even get me started on profiles. Does no one know how to capitalize “I”? No one? Is the shift key that evasive, that hard to reach? Look, if you want to date a girl that graduated from the 8^th grade, spend some time on your profile. And for god’s sake use spellcheck. Please.

- Football. Every man in Texas on Match has a maximum of three sentences about what he is looking for in a girl and five paragraphs on football. AM I THE ONLY HUMAN IN TEXAS THAT COULDN’T CARE LESS ABOUT FOOTBALL?! “Aggies fan need not respond.” Not a problem. “If you hate the Longhorns then move on.” I don’t even know what that is. “Blah blah blah destroy Oklahoma.” Are we at war with Oklahoma? Holy crap. Imagine if these men spent half the time they spend on football reading a book. Imagine.

- In my profile I said that everything in life relates to The Big Lebowski, The Walking Dead or Pulp Fiction. One of the emails I received references this little fact-o-mine. He starts with questions about the movie Pulp Fiction to see if I am a real fan. Boom! I answer all his silly inquiries. Except the last one because by email number three I had got bored with being grilled about the same damn movie. I decided he was off in the head and chose to simply ignore him. Then this morning I woke up to this gem of an email: “Miss me yet?” No. And obviously you are a baby murderer.

In other news, the ex came by to get the dog. It went peaceful enough. We were civil at least. I guess we will have this exchange every Sunday. Yay. I also have lots of fun-filled stories about this weekend and my adventures as the new fulltime designated driver. I shall save all that for tomorrow. Am I purposefully leaving you hanging, you ask? No, I am just lazy and I need to pee.

Hasta La Pasta Amigos.

Crazy Naked Dog Lady and Dinner with Sumo-Baby

You know the whole taking myself out to sushi and cupcakes plan yesterday? Well, I stood myself up. Instead, I made macaroni and cheese, put on my fuzzy pj’s, curled up on my couch and watched Once Upon a Time episodes.

I tried writing for NANOWRIMO before I resorted to deadening my brain with useless television shows. I pushed out a thousand words and gave up. I thought about calling friends, getting out of the apartment, doing SOMETHING with myself. But, alas, I had no motivation to be social or carry on a conversation or move more than 100 feet from my couch or my bed.

There is this thing that my brain does when I am sad or stressed. It decides to be sad or stressed about EVERYTHING. For example, here was one of the conversations that went through my head last night:

Stressed Me: The company is downsizing rapidly. They will be getting rid of us soon. We have nothing saved. Nothing! We will be homeless and we can’t even live in our car because it is about to die. We have nowhere to go!

Sad Me: You think that’s bad? When is the last time we had a healthy relationship? Ever notice that every single person we have ever dated has left us for something or someone else? One or two, I get that but every single one of them? I think there is something wrong with us.

Stressed Me: Shut up about relationships, Sad Me, that is the least of our problems. I’m trying to figure out how we can get a car to live in. How is it that we are living paycheck to paycheck? Why haven’t we gone out and gotten that second job? Oh, I know! Because that would require a car!

Sad Me: Oh my god, enough about the damn car! How about the holidays? We will be sitting here cooking for one and wrapping presents for a dog. We are going to need lots of wine. Lots and lots.

Me Me: ALL OF YOU SHUT UP!! I am trying to watch Once Upon a Time here! Can either of you explain this weird attraction I have to Peter Pan? I mean, look at his ears. They are amazing. Is it wrong that I think he is hot?

Sad Me: He is 18, remember? So I guess it is only ethically wrong.

I should note that I need to get curtains for my place as soon as possible. My blinds are terrible. They are bent and do not close all the way which means my neighbors get to witness my talking-to-myself couch life. First floor, even, so it’s all up close and personal. Why do you not sound more concerned about this, you ask? Because my neighbors have witnessed far worse than this. My first month here I came strolling out of the shower fully naked, grabbed a glass of water and bent over (butt facing window) to feed the dog. All with  open blinds and a courtyard full of neighbors. And I did this with a bulky white shower cap on my head. Not sexy at all. So worrying about curtains at this point is like someone throwing you a life raft after you’ve drowned. The sentiment is sweet but it is completely pointless. I still need to do it. And soon. Before I become known as the crazy naked dog lady… if that has not already happened.

On a positive note, sushi is back on with my sumo-baby friend tonight. She is weirder than I am, believe it or not, so tonight will be a blast. Saki bombs, anyone? Why, I don’t mind if I do. Plus we are staying in the circle (yeah, that’s what they call my neighborhood) which means I do not have to worry about my car breaking down. Life is looking up!

Staying in Bed

There are days when you should know not to get out of bed. When every part of your being is screaming, “It’s too dangerous!! Stay right where you are!” That was exactly how yesterday started. But I am not smart enough to listen to such warnings. My intuition and I are never on the same page and I am too stubborn to admit that it is usually right.

Instead, I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. My first clue should have been the dark circles that shadowed my eyes like swollen half-moons. I looked like a battered wife or an unsuccessful street fighter. Had yesterday’s crying done this to me? Surely a few hours of tears wouldn’t wreak this sort of havoc on my face. Would it?

Okay, not that big of a deal. Who did I have to impress anyway, right? At least I had gotten up early. I had a dog I needed to bring to work now that the ex was fully  out of the picture. Before the grand finale of our friendship, we split custody of Murphy. He would swing by every afternoon and take him until the evenings. Then I would swing over to his place after work and keep Murphy for the night. But we are both without each others' keys and not exactly on speaking terms which means Murphy has nowhere to go but with me.

Getting a dog ready for travel should be a simple ordeal. That is, of course, unless your dog is spoiled. I had to pack his cage, his toys, his stuffed dog, his treats, his food and his favorite blanket. Then I had to walk him, carry his stuff to the car and make sure he had a sweater in the event of an arctic freeze. It could happen.

The clock was ticking and my calculations for needed ‘ready’ time meant I was now down to one less hour of sleep a night and near being late.

The events of the day unfolded in the typical ‘should-have-stayed-in-bed’ manner. I spilt gas all over my shoes, spilt an entire venti coffee all over my car, lost a $20 bill somewhere during my journey, pulled a poisonous pistachio shell out of my dog’s mouth and almost smashed into a pulled over car.

The high point came when I finally got back home and it came in the form of a long overdue conversation with one of my best friends in California. (I will call her Flatbed in remembrance of a Fourth of July disco she and I had on a truck while screaming that England should have won to anyone who passed by.) I am Flatbed’s Maid of Honor, a title I am proud to hold, so we talked wedding plans and bachelor/bachelorette parties.

Weddings usually depress dumped and single women but somehow her wedding, and the whole idea of being a part of it, was an exhilarating topic for me. So we hashed out plans and gossiped. For two full hours the following subjects were discussed: The War of the Brides Maids (yes there is already delicious drama happening among the women… not involving me, thank god), the WE WILL NOT DO THIS SOBER wedding, vibrators, the Mexican affair and the destruction of Vietnam, the daughter I will corrupt, the Lunch of Peace I will be attending, the blind friend, and a mom who is so awesome that her solution to an unruly child is to go to Vegas to sort it out (love that woman). Vegas should always be the answer.

After my phone call I poured a glass of wine, turned on Walking Dead and shut my phone off. The night ended with me in bed dreaming of zombies and broken legs (don’t ask). Not so bad after all. I guess my intuition was right. Life is way better if you stay in bed. The world is much too dangerous.

In other news, my weekend has already been mapped out. A birthday is commencing this Friday and shots will be had by all. Except me. I am volunteering to be the designated driver. Saturday is a write-in for NANOWRIMO and I am not missing this one. Time to meet people outside of wine cafes and neighborhood pubs.

I almost forgot! My plans for tonight! I was supposed to have sushi with a bestie/coworker/friend of mine but she had an IUD shoved inside her this morning and now she is feeling like she is giving birth to a sumo wrestler. No sushi for her. So I am taking this opportunity to take myself on a date. Me and the beautiful me will be going to Kampi for California rolls and miso soup. I may even stop at the bakery and indulge in a decadent and way-too-high-calories red velvet cupcake. Look at me living on the edge.

The Failure of 'The Plan'

Confession: I write this while nursing a killer hangover.

Besides getting way too drunk on wine, nothing eventful happened. I took my own advice and was extremely nice to the Neil Patrick Harris look alike who was chatting me up. (Yeah, I just girlfriend 'chatting me up'. Deal with it.) But NPH was boring. And he was from Arkansas. So my attention span only lasted about an hour and a half.

The reality is, I can't talk to guys in bars with any seriousness. The whole time I am thinking he just wants to get laid or he is an alcoholic or he is obviously a serial killer. So when he asked about seeing me again, maybe doing something fun, I completely lost interest.

The rest of my night I poured chardonnay down my throat and talked nerd stuff to D. Video games, TV series, I think anime was thrown in there at some point. (D. is just a regular at the bar and not a person of interest.) The end of the night my girl friend filled in the blanks for me. She had left with NPH and his friend to take them home, came back, dragged me to the bathroom, gave me some water and then drove me to my apartment. I guess the birthday girl  we came with left with a guy friend for a night of debauchery, lucky bitch. But I recall none of that.

I am beginning to think there might be an AA meeting in my future if my nights continue to be like this.

In other news… I was depressed all morning. NO IDEA WHY!! Ok, I have an idea. I hate not having a family here to spend time with. I hate being surrounded by bars and creepy men and religious fanatics and cowboy paraphernalia and trust fund babies. And as much as I proclaim otherwise, as much as I shout it loud and to anyone who will listen, as much as I lie to myself, the fact is… I hate being in this damn circle all the time. (sigh)

So my new goal is to face my sadness and kick its ass. I will drown in it until I learn to swim. Either that or become a robot. I’m fine with either.

But as for saying yes to dinner and dates... that plan can suck it.

The Plan

What the hell was I thinking? I yelled as threw my cell phone across the room. It is strange how we do these things; throw cell phones, punch walls, kick furniture. It isn’t like the other person will say, “Oh look, she threw her shoe into the wall. Now I better start acting nice and being logical.” No, you just end up patching, or painting, or buying a new phone, or gluing your favorite Asian vase together with the hopes that no one will notice.

And it didn’t matter, he wasn’t even here to see it. Don’t be friends with you ex, they told me. He’s your ex for a reason. And they were right. The maddening part was that I didn’t want him back. If I wanted him back at least this would all make sense. There would be a reason for my horrible decision. But every time I saw him I always felt this sense of relief. Like all those drunken arguments, all the times I wasn’t good enough, didn’t love him enough, wasn’t pretty enough would flash before my eyes and I would think, it’s finally over. I finally have peace.

So why did I do it? Why did I let him remain in my life?

Because he was my friend at some point. Because I had a hard time letting go of friends. Because I had my own abandonment issues and I could not, would not, make someone else feel that way. Because I was a masochist. Because my self respect was obviously at an all-time low. So be friends with a man that hurts me and treats me like a convenience? Why not. Plus he had moved into an apartment just five doors down, why not make it civil, right?

All the rest is cliché. We hung out, we still fought, he drank and got angry then called me the next day sober and was nice. I might as well have been dating him again! 

And so today, it finally clicked in my head. We. Cannot. Be. Friends.

I did the whole crying thing (this time it only lasted ten minutes as opposed the self-pitying hours it used to take). Threw my cell phone (which thankfully hit the soft bed). And poured myself a large glass of wine.

Then I did something entirely new. I drew up a game plan.

Every guy who has asked me out, every man I have hung out with, I have pushed away. I have made absolutely NO emotional connections with anyone and why? Because I am afraid of getting hurt? News flash. Not all men are prick holes. I have guy friends that are amazing. Perfect even. They are all taken but at least I have seen the aliens enough times to believe they exist. The truth IS out there.

So here is my blog. My new life of saying “Yes!” to dates and dinner. Of crawling out of my apartment and letting someone treat me nice… and not it some creepy way (don’t even get me started on some of my recent terrible decisions). Am I looking for a relationship? Not really. But I am no longer opposed to it if it ends up happening. I will be open-minded. I will be picky.

And here is the biggest eye opener. I am f*cking amazing. Sure I make mistakes, sure I can be an annoying dork, sure I have A LOT of quirky habits. But beneath all that, I am loyal mother f*cker, a funny ass girl with an above average IQ and I am pretty easy on the eyes.

Tonight will be Day 1.

The Plan: Go to the bar, drink mojitos, laugh until it hurts and be kind to the men who are interested. (The last one is a tough because my bar game is horrible. When a guy comes over to talk I am not always the nicest girl in the room. I think, “What kind of guy talks to a girl in the bar!” and then I am all sh*tty and standoffish. I will not do this tonight.)

The Wardrobe: Skinny jeans, high heels, fabulous new lipstick.

The Coconspirators: Kick ass girl friends.

Stay tuned.