After a looooooooooooong week and a half of visitors, I'm finally alone. I took a bubble bath last night. I read a little, sewed a little and slept a lot. I sprawled in my bed and took up the entire fucking thing. It was O-mazing. And today, I'm antsy. Well, I was antsy yesterday, but today's the second verse, same as the first. It's absolutely inexplicable. It's the feeling that something big is on it's way. Not necessarily with nature, since it's a bea-U-tiful day outside and there are so many pretty people out on the Market today. I don't even think it's something I need to do or have left undone. I've settled up my jobs, I'm financially unstable for the next three weeks and I'm praying that tuna fish prices don't rise. What more could I ask for? It's something bigger than me. I don't know what it is, but it gives me butterflies in the stomach and I'm equally eager and anxious to know what it is. (pet peeve of mine from grammar school...know the difference between "eager" and "anxious" and use them appropriately)
In other news, my visitations went well. BJ wasn't nearly as awkward as I thought he'd be...although he did have the personality of a wet mop. This was, naturally, only true when we were alone. When we were around BD and Catisha, he was witty and funny and amusing...then, he'd clam up again. Unless we were in bed...then...well, there's, thankfully, no need to be a sparkling conversationalist there...hoo boy. God bless 'im. God must bless 'im...I called out His name enough, so He owes me one.
And, of course, it was wonderful to see Deebs and BD for a week. We hit up all the spots in and out of Boystown that were necessary for a pleasant visit...and I got to spoon a lot with my best boy, which was fantastic. :) He makes me happy.
I can't really put together a coherent post at the moment, because I'm still fretting about the looming Nothing. So, I'll close and come back at a later date when I'm either done making worry lines or when I have something more exciting to post.
10.8.08
15.7.08
Money, Money, Money...
Sucks. I got a call today from my bank saying that an old account I had closed had an overdraft protection that was over $300...that I can't really spare right now. Which makes sense as to why I was denied a credit card last month. I hate money. I hate the fact that I'm poor. AND, I hate the fact that I have no viable income at this time. The worst part of it all is that I tend to indulge in retail therapy. Bad day at work? Buy a hat. Someone said I looked like ass? Get a new pair of shoes. Mom called? Buy an entirely new outfit. I CAN'T spend any more money at this point...and I'm really worried about August. This worry tends to manifest itself in mini-panic attacks that culminate in a shoot-up-in-bed-in-terror that happens around 3 a.m. for a week after the worry begins. Tonight won't be fun. Unless I drink. Which costs money. Or unless I get a DVD to distract me. Which costs money. Or unless I make out with someone...which is FREE. *fingers crossed for me, folks. I think I found the one bi-guy who is still into cooch up in Wisconsin...here's hoping*
12.7.08
To the window, to the wall...
I am about to leave town for two weeks. This will not necessarily affect this blog, as I fail to write more than two days in a row, and my absence is usually at least a week long, in between posts. It does, however, affect my sleep, in that I am a) trying to go to bed earlier and b) still not managing to go to bed because I can't seem to finish packing. I thought I would make it easy on myself by showering and getting all of my toiletries packed this evening, saving one extra step in the morning. I did so, put on my nightgown and finished cramming everything I could into the available mismatched baggage I have. I got most of it into three small bags, with a few odds and ends left out. I thought it might be a good idea to put some of it in my trunk, so when I roll out of bed tomorrow, all I have to do is throw on my clothes and stumble to the car at the asscrack of dawn. Keep in mind, this seemed like a good idea at the time. I grabbed a bag and a stack of books (nothing saves from the wilds of Wisconsin and the ensuing ennui thereof like a trove of library books) and headed out to my car. I briefly considered a robe, since my nightgown is a little more than a slinky slip and skims all my favorite parts, leaving little to the imagination. As I finished throwing my books in the trunk, I heard voices from behind me. I quickly and quietly prayed that they were drunkards from the local bar, stumbling down the alley, looking for an unsuspecting female to rape. No such luck. My upstairs neighbors were exiting the building. I was at that moment partially hidden by a tree, and could hear one of the neighbors mutter, "Ooooh, shit." I had two options at this point. I could either ignore them and pretend to put more things in the car, which would effectively hike up my nightgown so that even the most unimaginative fellow on earth could know EXACTLY what I looked like, OR walk past them into the house. Sighing heavily, cheeks aflame, I threw my shoulders back, hulked up to all of my 5 feet 9 inches and stalked past them. As I was almost to the porch, the more attractive of the two gave me the elevator eyes and murmured, "Damn. That is balls OUT." I think I stammered a thanks to him AND to the one that made sure he didn't lock the door that would keep me outside in this state. Balls. Out. I had no response. I couldn't be witty or say anything flirtatious. I was soooooo embarrassed to be caught like that that all I really wanted to do was crawl under my car (which may be an option, next time). But, apparently, my inability to fade into the background sometimes makes me very...balls OUT.
2.7.08
Eat It.
I really should be sleeping. I'm just not tired...for reasons I won't get into. But, I think my body has finally started to forgive me for the egregious sins of Sunday. It was Pride Week in Chi-town and the gays came out full force for it. I love Pride. It messes with my driving plans a bit, but I feel so proud to be in the city with THE largest parade in America...and on top of that, I know that somewhere, in some *fabulous* part of Boys Town, all the wonderful men and women I know are celebrating themselves and that thrills me. I also get a little glee out of seeing everyone as drunk as I usually am on a Tuesday night.
So, Sunday, I called the fellas in our carpool to Wisconsin to make sure that they'd be at my house. On time. Ready to leave. In the two hours between church and getting on the road, I discovered that one was at a ComiCon (and could I come pick him up on the blue line?), one was spending 'quality time' with the gf (and could I come pick him up on the red line?) and one was too busy getting drunk at the bar below his house to come over right away (could we push back the ETD by a half-hour?). LORD. So, I wrangled the unwieldy intoxicated gay into the front seat of my car and set of on my scavenger hunt of passengers. As we drove along and gradually filled up the car, DD (the tipsy tenor) told me how he'd downed somewhere between 6-7 beers, 2 vodka tonics and..."something else" in under an hour...and that this was all done for rehearsal...so "[he wouldn't] care that it's sucking [his] will to live." PLUS, he reminded me, "Rehearsal's a good...2 hours away? I'll be fiiiine. *accompanying hand gesture*" About 30 minutes into the drive, he asked if we had a place to stop soon so he could relieve himself of the massive amounts of liquid in his body. We stopped at an "Oasis" (a phenomenon around Chicago, built over the highway...a veritable strip mall of food, sunglasses huts and gas stations) and everyone decided a pit stop would be good. DD promptly exited the bathroom and headed straight for Taco Hell and began to devour nachos, because that's what you do when you're drunk. Catisha and I decided that we were PMS-y and, fuck it, we got grease, too. As did one of the straights. We got BACK in the car, and blissfully continued to WI, until I realized I was running low on gas. We stopped at a BP where the two straights in the back screamed, "WENDY'S!!!!!!!" "OHMYGOD. I'm so getting a frosty." "REALLY?! Me, too." "I'll race you." "GO!" and they catapulted out of my car for (surprise, surprise), no frosty...but actual meals of greasy food. Again.
Rehearsal was...rehearsal. We'll leave it out of this post. On our way back out of WI, the ever hungry boys in the back lamented that we'd stopped earlier and they *really* wished we could stop again...when one of them shouted, "Is that a Culver's!?!" For those of you unfamiliar with this instituation, it's primary focus is ice cream and a clogged artery on a bun called the (no joke) "Butter Burger." It's delicious. So, of course we stopped. Catisha and I debated the merits of actual food this late and looked at the examples of what years of Culver's food will do to the human body (Catisha looked, stared, and whispered, "A cautionary tale..."). We got food.
As we piled back into the car, each with his or her own meal from the grease machine, DD said we should give this trip a name. We'd survived the "Death Storm 2008" (in which we drove through a tornado system...because we were stupid...and wanted to get home), I'd survived the "Death Lizard" (also known as "death *blizzard*" in which I drove my car into a snow bank), and the previous week had seen us survive the floods that had closed many a back road in Wisconsin. Thus, DD dubbed the trip "Tour de Fast Food." It was clever. We laughed about it. We made more jokes about it. Until about 30 minutes from the city. When everyone quickly realized that "Tour de Fast Food" was about to be "Revolt de Fast Food." There was no where to stop, so everyone had to pray to his/her own version of God that (S)He wouldn't let the food escape their body...from any orifice. This was made soooooo much worse when Catisha said she thought she might throw up. She's a tough cookie, ladies and gents...so, when she said it, I KNEW it might actually happen. So, DD and I made a makeshift trash bag and prepared for the worst. I know how I am when people throw up. If I hear it or smell it, I do the same. And I knew everyone in the car would join me and Catisha. For the next 15 minutes, until the danger passed, I had flashing visions of a round robin barf-a-thon. It was horrible. At one point, DD moaned, "I think I managed to offend every organ in my body today. Alcohol--liver, check. Burrito--esophagus/heartburn, check. Untrained people singing near me--ears bleeding, check. Being asked to sing a part I didn't prepare--heart attack, check. Food that makes me retch--stomach, check. My body will get together tonight and decide that while I'm asleep, it's going to quietly let all my organs check out so I stop abusing them." He said it, but we all felt it. "Tour de Fast Food" had quickly become "Tour de Surrender." Never AGAIN will I allow that in my car. Ever.
Unless we pass a Taco Cabana. Then, it's on.
So, Sunday, I called the fellas in our carpool to Wisconsin to make sure that they'd be at my house. On time. Ready to leave. In the two hours between church and getting on the road, I discovered that one was at a ComiCon (and could I come pick him up on the blue line?), one was spending 'quality time' with the gf (and could I come pick him up on the red line?) and one was too busy getting drunk at the bar below his house to come over right away (could we push back the ETD by a half-hour?). LORD. So, I wrangled the unwieldy intoxicated gay into the front seat of my car and set of on my scavenger hunt of passengers. As we drove along and gradually filled up the car, DD (the tipsy tenor) told me how he'd downed somewhere between 6-7 beers, 2 vodka tonics and..."something else" in under an hour...and that this was all done for rehearsal...so "[he wouldn't] care that it's sucking [his] will to live." PLUS, he reminded me, "Rehearsal's a good...2 hours away? I'll be fiiiine. *accompanying hand gesture*" About 30 minutes into the drive, he asked if we had a place to stop soon so he could relieve himself of the massive amounts of liquid in his body. We stopped at an "Oasis" (a phenomenon around Chicago, built over the highway...a veritable strip mall of food, sunglasses huts and gas stations) and everyone decided a pit stop would be good. DD promptly exited the bathroom and headed straight for Taco Hell and began to devour nachos, because that's what you do when you're drunk. Catisha and I decided that we were PMS-y and, fuck it, we got grease, too. As did one of the straights. We got BACK in the car, and blissfully continued to WI, until I realized I was running low on gas. We stopped at a BP where the two straights in the back screamed, "WENDY'S!!!!!!!" "OHMYGOD. I'm so getting a frosty." "REALLY?! Me, too." "I'll race you." "GO!" and they catapulted out of my car for (surprise, surprise), no frosty...but actual meals of greasy food. Again.
Rehearsal was...rehearsal. We'll leave it out of this post. On our way back out of WI, the ever hungry boys in the back lamented that we'd stopped earlier and they *really* wished we could stop again...when one of them shouted, "Is that a Culver's!?!" For those of you unfamiliar with this instituation, it's primary focus is ice cream and a clogged artery on a bun called the (no joke) "Butter Burger." It's delicious. So, of course we stopped. Catisha and I debated the merits of actual food this late and looked at the examples of what years of Culver's food will do to the human body (Catisha looked, stared, and whispered, "A cautionary tale..."). We got food.
As we piled back into the car, each with his or her own meal from the grease machine, DD said we should give this trip a name. We'd survived the "Death Storm 2008" (in which we drove through a tornado system...because we were stupid...and wanted to get home), I'd survived the "Death Lizard" (also known as "death *blizzard*" in which I drove my car into a snow bank), and the previous week had seen us survive the floods that had closed many a back road in Wisconsin. Thus, DD dubbed the trip "Tour de Fast Food." It was clever. We laughed about it. We made more jokes about it. Until about 30 minutes from the city. When everyone quickly realized that "Tour de Fast Food" was about to be "Revolt de Fast Food." There was no where to stop, so everyone had to pray to his/her own version of God that (S)He wouldn't let the food escape their body...from any orifice. This was made soooooo much worse when Catisha said she thought she might throw up. She's a tough cookie, ladies and gents...so, when she said it, I KNEW it might actually happen. So, DD and I made a makeshift trash bag and prepared for the worst. I know how I am when people throw up. If I hear it or smell it, I do the same. And I knew everyone in the car would join me and Catisha. For the next 15 minutes, until the danger passed, I had flashing visions of a round robin barf-a-thon. It was horrible. At one point, DD moaned, "I think I managed to offend every organ in my body today. Alcohol--liver, check. Burrito--esophagus/heartburn, check. Untrained people singing near me--ears bleeding, check. Being asked to sing a part I didn't prepare--heart attack, check. Food that makes me retch--stomach, check. My body will get together tonight and decide that while I'm asleep, it's going to quietly let all my organs check out so I stop abusing them." He said it, but we all felt it. "Tour de Fast Food" had quickly become "Tour de Surrender." Never AGAIN will I allow that in my car. Ever.
Unless we pass a Taco Cabana. Then, it's on.
26.6.08
Trogdor
I remember when Angel would walk around the house singing that. He'd watch Pokémon and laugh at the Strong Bad emails. Then he got older and started listening to angry rock (as teens are wont to do), but he could still sing every blessed song from "Forever Plaid" and was active in church, praise band, karate, theater, choir, accompanying, piano lessons and anything else he could get his hands on. He dealt with my mother's insanity with such grace and poise that you thought you were dealing with a *much* older kid. I've looked out for him since he was a baby and we never had a feuding stage like the Duke and I did. We've been buddies and have shared a mutual love for bad sci-fi, Little Caesar's, Ben and Jerry's, Thelonius Monk, and Harry Potter. We've talked about *everything*. I talked him through his first few highs school rejections with the female crowd. I listened as he told me all about the new girl he met (last summer) and how *wonderful* she is. Today, it feels like everything went to shit.
It started with me asking how he enjoyed his time at the beach with his girlfriend, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend. To me, this spells disaster or teen pregnancy, but he went and had fun. Then he told me she got a tattoo. I asked what and where. He said a "tribal" with a heart inside it. He said it's "so her." and something she won't regret later. Right. I'm not going to lie. Sometimes, tattoos look trashy. Sometimes, they look interesting. It depends on the person, what they get and where they get them. I wanted to get one, myself. On the the back of my neck. OR on my ankle. There are many innocuous places where one can get a tattoo that renders the tattoo more hippie oriented than trashy. Then he said she got it on her lower back. "lol. i know. tramp stamp."
"hey, you said it. I didn't."
"yeah, but you were thinking it. :-p"
"i was. i wish i wasn't, but you know how i feel about [her]."
The shit really hit the fan, then. I don't like her. I think she's not as smart as him. She wants to go to a community college (ostensibly to save money, but from what I know, her grades aren't stellar) to get a degree in Communication. 'Nuff said. Because of this girl, he's stopped thinking about Eastman or Roosevelt or even UNT. He's considering just going to Texas State. I know several people who went to TS read this blog...so, I'm not demeaning your school in any way. What I AM saying is that for undergrads, it's a party school and it doesn't *begin* to compare with UNT for jazz, Chicago for opportunities or Eastman for prestige. That's what I'm saying. Is that he can do more than what he thinks he can. In the midst of trying to explain why I think he can not only do better than her, but also why he's so fantastic, he said that if I really got to know her, I'd really like her. Which I doubt. He said, "You only met her for 5 minutes." True. And in five minutes I saw that she was flighty, giggly, and a little bit of an airhead. What I've heard of (but not seen) is her demanding nature in getting him to ferry her across the city, encroaching on almost every night with Dad, getting him to pay for everything and essentially owning his soul. That's all I need to know. I also told him that unless he plans to marry her, I have no desire to get to know her better. To which he replied, "that's funny. cause i do."
*long pause* What the fuck do you mean? Are you kidding? You're 17. You've never seen the world. You've never been to college. You've never lived on your own. Hell, you've never lived outside of your parent's house for more than a week. And you're contemplating goddamn marriage??
"Yes. i am. i have to go to work now. love you. bye."
And that was that. What the FUCK is he thinking? Call me absolutely insane and heartless, but I think it's a REALLY bad idea to marry your first boyfriend/girlfriend. Maybe eventually it can work out, but after some personal growth. I think if you don't take time, you'll end up always wondering what's out there. I really can't express strongly enough my disdain for this airhead with a tramp stamp and I can't believe my brother thinks he's in love with her. I'm in absolute shock and even though I planned for this blog not to expose my nasty side as much, here it is. Gross and disgusting. I HATE my brother's girlfriend and I HATE his church...both of them I feel have contributed to his current state of mind.
Speaking of states of mind...since we're being REALLY honest here, my mother is at it again. THIS time, she's going to call the IRS on my grandmother for "illegal activities." After calling CPS on my father for "emotionally abusing" Angel. I'm guessing the FBI will be next. Hopefully, somewhere along the line, the federal government will stop listening to my mother and will tell her to shove off. I drafted a letter basically telling her that I want to be left alone, I'll call on holidays and here are the reasons why I can't stand you right now. Fix them and we'll be okay. Or don't, and you can go fuck yourself.
So, I'm in a good mood right now. Any words of wisdom from anyone who reads this?
*p.s., please don't tell me to try to get to know the g/f. She's dumb as dirt and if you knew her, you'd think so, too.
It started with me asking how he enjoyed his time at the beach with his girlfriend, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend. To me, this spells disaster or teen pregnancy, but he went and had fun. Then he told me she got a tattoo. I asked what and where. He said a "tribal" with a heart inside it. He said it's "so her." and something she won't regret later. Right. I'm not going to lie. Sometimes, tattoos look trashy. Sometimes, they look interesting. It depends on the person, what they get and where they get them. I wanted to get one, myself. On the the back of my neck. OR on my ankle. There are many innocuous places where one can get a tattoo that renders the tattoo more hippie oriented than trashy. Then he said she got it on her lower back. "lol. i know. tramp stamp."
"hey, you said it. I didn't."
"yeah, but you were thinking it. :-p"
"i was. i wish i wasn't, but you know how i feel about [her]."
The shit really hit the fan, then. I don't like her. I think she's not as smart as him. She wants to go to a community college (ostensibly to save money, but from what I know, her grades aren't stellar) to get a degree in Communication. 'Nuff said. Because of this girl, he's stopped thinking about Eastman or Roosevelt or even UNT. He's considering just going to Texas State. I know several people who went to TS read this blog...so, I'm not demeaning your school in any way. What I AM saying is that for undergrads, it's a party school and it doesn't *begin* to compare with UNT for jazz, Chicago for opportunities or Eastman for prestige. That's what I'm saying. Is that he can do more than what he thinks he can. In the midst of trying to explain why I think he can not only do better than her, but also why he's so fantastic, he said that if I really got to know her, I'd really like her. Which I doubt. He said, "You only met her for 5 minutes." True. And in five minutes I saw that she was flighty, giggly, and a little bit of an airhead. What I've heard of (but not seen) is her demanding nature in getting him to ferry her across the city, encroaching on almost every night with Dad, getting him to pay for everything and essentially owning his soul. That's all I need to know. I also told him that unless he plans to marry her, I have no desire to get to know her better. To which he replied, "that's funny. cause i do."
*long pause* What the fuck do you mean? Are you kidding? You're 17. You've never seen the world. You've never been to college. You've never lived on your own. Hell, you've never lived outside of your parent's house for more than a week. And you're contemplating goddamn marriage??
"Yes. i am. i have to go to work now. love you. bye."
And that was that. What the FUCK is he thinking? Call me absolutely insane and heartless, but I think it's a REALLY bad idea to marry your first boyfriend/girlfriend. Maybe eventually it can work out, but after some personal growth. I think if you don't take time, you'll end up always wondering what's out there. I really can't express strongly enough my disdain for this airhead with a tramp stamp and I can't believe my brother thinks he's in love with her. I'm in absolute shock and even though I planned for this blog not to expose my nasty side as much, here it is. Gross and disgusting. I HATE my brother's girlfriend and I HATE his church...both of them I feel have contributed to his current state of mind.
Speaking of states of mind...since we're being REALLY honest here, my mother is at it again. THIS time, she's going to call the IRS on my grandmother for "illegal activities." After calling CPS on my father for "emotionally abusing" Angel. I'm guessing the FBI will be next. Hopefully, somewhere along the line, the federal government will stop listening to my mother and will tell her to shove off. I drafted a letter basically telling her that I want to be left alone, I'll call on holidays and here are the reasons why I can't stand you right now. Fix them and we'll be okay. Or don't, and you can go fuck yourself.
So, I'm in a good mood right now. Any words of wisdom from anyone who reads this?
*p.s., please don't tell me to try to get to know the g/f. She's dumb as dirt and if you knew her, you'd think so, too.
21.6.08
I don't date Mormons..
...because they don't date me. At the behest of Der Komponist, I shall now share why I hate dating. This will amuse maybe two people and be relevant to absolutely no one...unless you know of a single, relatively attractive STRAIGHT man who is interested in a socially awkward musician. Then, you can have my number.
I do well with dates that aren't dates. Actually, I do *really* well with those. My first non-date date was when I was 17. With Luke. We were singing a duet for our final piano recital as seniors and he offered to "share" some of his voice lessons with me in a town an hour away. I was only allowed to ride with him because he was a PK, homeschooled, and a "good boy." We'd known each other since 6th grade and there had always been that...interest. I agonized for about 15 minutes about what to wear, and opted for a hot Christian boob shirt and jeans (a Christian boob shirt is one that sort of shows cleave, but not completely and still has sleeves and goes beyond the waistband of your pants. I was the only homeschooler I knew that owned one). The first five minutes were awkward, then we discovered a mutual love for a geek-revered show, MST3K . After that, it was gravy...we did the lesson, we explored Las Cruces, and he took me to dinner...at Sonic. It was benign and unplanned and delightful. :) I loved it. Soon after, we dated, much to the anger and repulsion of every girl at his church and in our HS support group. All of our dates and "hang outs" were unofficial until he wrote my father an official letter of intent (this folks, is my background) and asked to take me on a "real" date before I left for college. I tore my closet apart looking for *anything* to wear. After three days, I had THE outfit. He borrowed his grandfather's boat of a car, and took me to the most expensive restaurant in the county. I couldn't eat. I couldn't talk. I couldn't even LOOK at him. All I could think of was that I was absolutely unworthy to be on this date and what did he see in me and how did I end up so stupid and dear GOD which fork should I use and why did this have to be official and what if he wants to get married and do I like him enough to "officially" date him...and so forth. For the entire date. On the drive home, he suggested a movie. I used the age-old cop out "Ummmm...I have a headache. Maybe next time." and was unbelievably relieved to be home, once again. WHY was it so difficult to go on a "real" date with him? I don't know...I think it had something to do with me being in my head too much. Let's look at the other dates that have ended poorly...
Bachelor No. 1 -- We met through a mutual friend...without actually meeting. Through email, phone and AIM. Eventually, we decided to double with said mutual friend and his current girlfriend. I was awkward. I hated the movie we went to. I spilled chinese food on my pristine white blouse with cute cut out sleeves. I could only talk to the mutual friend and his girlfriend. I had nothing to say to the man I had spoken to until 5 in the morning each night for the previous week. I listened to everything he said and I thought about how I could respond...it was like I was on crack. I over analyzed every possible response through a bizarre conversational probability converter. It ultimately failed, because no response seemed worthy and I stayed silent. He didn't call again. When asked "Why?" by the lovely couple, he said, "She didn't talk to me. There was no chemistry in person." Lesson learned: Stop analyzing and talk.
Bachelor No. 2 -- A set up through my boss. Her brother-in-law. He was a manager at Blockbuster. I was a budding opera singer. In an effort to not seem dull and lifeless, I talked about my future potential and my soon-to-happen career. I talked about where I was moving and my plans for the next 10 years. I watched his every move and analyzed how I was coming across and how he was reacting to my smooth conversation skills. I was also coming down with the flu that evening, so I looked flushed and jittery in an effort to keep from vomiting on the table. He never called. When asked "Why?" by his sister-in-law, he said, "She's going places. She's moving. I can't be with someone who's that ambitious." Lesson learned: Stop thinking so much and don't be ambitious.
Bachelor No. 3 -- From a few singing groups I was in, I met this tall, cute man that even my *roommate* thought was attractive. He fell hook, line and sinker...and asked me out shortly after Valentine's Day. I knew exactly what to do. Be honest, but not ambitious; talk, but don't gab; be interested, but not psycho-stalker. Check. We went to a late lunch AND a movie (I didn't cop out AND I went a spy-blow-things-up movie). We talked about family and our pasts and through the afternoon, I began to analyze everything he said, and I realized that he was too...too much of everything I can barely handle in myself. All the things I need to work on with ME, he needed work on, too...motivation, passive-aggressive behavior, mother issues, father issues, self-esteem issues, body image issues. All that to say, I began to see what our dating life would be like, and I saw myself spiraling the drain *with* him. And at that point, I saw myself literally shut-off the attraction switch and I began to see him as an asexual being. No goodbye kiss, no hand holding, no cuddling, no invite up to my apartment. Just a hug. He never asked why *I* cut it off, but if he had, I would say "I'm too analytical and I stopped us before we became a mess together." Lesson learned: Stop thinking so goddamn much.
THIS is why I don't date. Because I am awkward and analytical. A horrible combination...like mixing Percocet and a couple of glasses of wine. Great in theory and funny years down the line, but the effects are immediate -- shame, remorse, not remembering a lot about what's going on, maybe a little vomiting and passing out.
I do well with dates that aren't dates. Actually, I do *really* well with those. My first non-date date was when I was 17. With Luke. We were singing a duet for our final piano recital as seniors and he offered to "share" some of his voice lessons with me in a town an hour away. I was only allowed to ride with him because he was a PK, homeschooled, and a "good boy." We'd known each other since 6th grade and there had always been that...interest. I agonized for about 15 minutes about what to wear, and opted for a hot Christian boob shirt and jeans (a Christian boob shirt is one that sort of shows cleave, but not completely and still has sleeves and goes beyond the waistband of your pants. I was the only homeschooler I knew that owned one). The first five minutes were awkward, then we discovered a mutual love for a geek-revered show, MST3K . After that, it was gravy...we did the lesson, we explored Las Cruces, and he took me to dinner...at Sonic. It was benign and unplanned and delightful. :) I loved it. Soon after, we dated, much to the anger and repulsion of every girl at his church and in our HS support group. All of our dates and "hang outs" were unofficial until he wrote my father an official letter of intent (this folks, is my background) and asked to take me on a "real" date before I left for college. I tore my closet apart looking for *anything* to wear. After three days, I had THE outfit. He borrowed his grandfather's boat of a car, and took me to the most expensive restaurant in the county. I couldn't eat. I couldn't talk. I couldn't even LOOK at him. All I could think of was that I was absolutely unworthy to be on this date and what did he see in me and how did I end up so stupid and dear GOD which fork should I use and why did this have to be official and what if he wants to get married and do I like him enough to "officially" date him...and so forth. For the entire date. On the drive home, he suggested a movie. I used the age-old cop out "Ummmm...I have a headache. Maybe next time." and was unbelievably relieved to be home, once again. WHY was it so difficult to go on a "real" date with him? I don't know...I think it had something to do with me being in my head too much. Let's look at the other dates that have ended poorly...
Bachelor No. 1 -- We met through a mutual friend...without actually meeting. Through email, phone and AIM. Eventually, we decided to double with said mutual friend and his current girlfriend. I was awkward. I hated the movie we went to. I spilled chinese food on my pristine white blouse with cute cut out sleeves. I could only talk to the mutual friend and his girlfriend. I had nothing to say to the man I had spoken to until 5 in the morning each night for the previous week. I listened to everything he said and I thought about how I could respond...it was like I was on crack. I over analyzed every possible response through a bizarre conversational probability converter. It ultimately failed, because no response seemed worthy and I stayed silent. He didn't call again. When asked "Why?" by the lovely couple, he said, "She didn't talk to me. There was no chemistry in person." Lesson learned: Stop analyzing and talk.
Bachelor No. 2 -- A set up through my boss. Her brother-in-law. He was a manager at Blockbuster. I was a budding opera singer. In an effort to not seem dull and lifeless, I talked about my future potential and my soon-to-happen career. I talked about where I was moving and my plans for the next 10 years. I watched his every move and analyzed how I was coming across and how he was reacting to my smooth conversation skills. I was also coming down with the flu that evening, so I looked flushed and jittery in an effort to keep from vomiting on the table. He never called. When asked "Why?" by his sister-in-law, he said, "She's going places. She's moving. I can't be with someone who's that ambitious." Lesson learned: Stop thinking so much and don't be ambitious.
Bachelor No. 3 -- From a few singing groups I was in, I met this tall, cute man that even my *roommate* thought was attractive. He fell hook, line and sinker...and asked me out shortly after Valentine's Day. I knew exactly what to do. Be honest, but not ambitious; talk, but don't gab; be interested, but not psycho-stalker. Check. We went to a late lunch AND a movie (I didn't cop out AND I went a spy-blow-things-up movie). We talked about family and our pasts and through the afternoon, I began to analyze everything he said, and I realized that he was too...too much of everything I can barely handle in myself. All the things I need to work on with ME, he needed work on, too...motivation, passive-aggressive behavior, mother issues, father issues, self-esteem issues, body image issues. All that to say, I began to see what our dating life would be like, and I saw myself spiraling the drain *with* him. And at that point, I saw myself literally shut-off the attraction switch and I began to see him as an asexual being. No goodbye kiss, no hand holding, no cuddling, no invite up to my apartment. Just a hug. He never asked why *I* cut it off, but if he had, I would say "I'm too analytical and I stopped us before we became a mess together." Lesson learned: Stop thinking so goddamn much.
THIS is why I don't date. Because I am awkward and analytical. A horrible combination...like mixing Percocet and a couple of glasses of wine. Great in theory and funny years down the line, but the effects are immediate -- shame, remorse, not remembering a lot about what's going on, maybe a little vomiting and passing out.
20.6.08
And as I looked at your reflection...
I saw my face in the mirror. It's my favorite way to see me. In the rearview mirror, looking at someone in the backseat or catching my co-pilot's eye on some fantastic road trip. Pre-the-why-I-hate-dating post, I think it's time for some of my fond memories of ridiculous road trips to become immortalized by Blogger. Sometimes, I do stupid things when I drive. I take scenic routes that get flooded, I drive through small towns where men in BIG trucks look at me funny, and sometimes, I just need friends to tell me what to do in such a situation.
Last summer, BD and I took a fabulous road trip across the midwest to wind up in the southwest at the mecca for artisans, gays, Rentheads, and all things Native American--Santa Fe. On our way there, we drove through parts of Missouri that I never knew existed. Lebanon. Burbon. St. Cloud. Rolla. But, the kicker to all of these was Eureka, Missouri. As we began to pull through the town, BD saw a sign for a midwest-only treat, White Castle. We were neither high, nor particularly hungry, but he had never had one and absolutely HAD TO, in NO uncertain terms, have a slider before he left the midwest. At the appropriate exit, I pulled off and drove into the parking lot of a very innocuous looking White Castle. We, the fruit and his fly, sauntered into the building, still singing along to Big River (which is our traditional road trip-starting album). Once inside, though, the singing stopped immediately, as we realized that everyone from Bumblefuck, Missouri had come to THIS particular White Castle for Friday night dinner. We were watched from the door to the counter, and I swear that no fewer than five bubbas in John Deere hats (because they drove the dadgum things, not because they shopped at AE) stared my dear boy down because he "ain't from 'round here." We skittered to the counter, and placed our orders with the asexual counter boy. Girl. Boy? The poor baby was *stunning* with great cheekbones, long lashes, wavy hair that was in the unfortunate mullet-style popular with boys at 16 and girls who have no mothers in Southern States. (S)He had a very transgender name...like AJ. Or Stef. Or Sam. Or something that could be *either* gender. The most confusing part was that we felt like we should be polite and use a "sir" or a "ma'am"...but, we *couldn't*. We ordered from the lovely creature, got our burgers and silently walked to the car. Once inside, I locked the doors, and BD looked straight ahead and forcefully said, "DRIVE."
Sometimes, that's all that needs sayin'.
A few years prior to this, Sally and I were going to an artisan's house for New Year's Eve in the middle of farm country, Texas. It was one of those horrendous houses that was off of a dirt road, off of an unmarked paved road, off of a farm road, off the main highway. Needless to say, we got lost. I believe we drove a full ten minutes longer than we should have before we realized we were really lost. I joked about us ending up Deliverance-style at the bottom of some Texas crick somewhere and Sally just smiled and nodded. She hates water. At that point, my headlights caught up with a large oak tree with a noose hanging from a very reachable branch. Sally put her hands on the dashboard and quietly said, "I am black. Turn around. Now." Which I did. I am her human shield while crossing the street ("Please. Just walk. They won't hit you, you're white. Human shield."), but I realized how useless I would be against backwoods bubbas in Nowhere, Texas. We reached our destination, eventually, after a brief stop at the wrong house (where several large men came *outside* from inside an imposing, darkened house, where I can only assume massive amounts of torture and fornication were taking place)...I might have kept going down the wrong road that night, were it not for the sage advice from a friend.
I should always have someone riding with me. It's just safer that way.
Last summer, BD and I took a fabulous road trip across the midwest to wind up in the southwest at the mecca for artisans, gays, Rentheads, and all things Native American--Santa Fe. On our way there, we drove through parts of Missouri that I never knew existed. Lebanon. Burbon. St. Cloud. Rolla. But, the kicker to all of these was Eureka, Missouri. As we began to pull through the town, BD saw a sign for a midwest-only treat, White Castle. We were neither high, nor particularly hungry, but he had never had one and absolutely HAD TO, in NO uncertain terms, have a slider before he left the midwest. At the appropriate exit, I pulled off and drove into the parking lot of a very innocuous looking White Castle. We, the fruit and his fly, sauntered into the building, still singing along to Big River (which is our traditional road trip-starting album). Once inside, though, the singing stopped immediately, as we realized that everyone from Bumblefuck, Missouri had come to THIS particular White Castle for Friday night dinner. We were watched from the door to the counter, and I swear that no fewer than five bubbas in John Deere hats (because they drove the dadgum things, not because they shopped at AE) stared my dear boy down because he "ain't from 'round here." We skittered to the counter, and placed our orders with the asexual counter boy. Girl. Boy? The poor baby was *stunning* with great cheekbones, long lashes, wavy hair that was in the unfortunate mullet-style popular with boys at 16 and girls who have no mothers in Southern States. (S)He had a very transgender name...like AJ. Or Stef. Or Sam. Or something that could be *either* gender. The most confusing part was that we felt like we should be polite and use a "sir" or a "ma'am"...but, we *couldn't*. We ordered from the lovely creature, got our burgers and silently walked to the car. Once inside, I locked the doors, and BD looked straight ahead and forcefully said, "DRIVE."
Sometimes, that's all that needs sayin'.
A few years prior to this, Sally and I were going to an artisan's house for New Year's Eve in the middle of farm country, Texas. It was one of those horrendous houses that was off of a dirt road, off of an unmarked paved road, off of a farm road, off the main highway. Needless to say, we got lost. I believe we drove a full ten minutes longer than we should have before we realized we were really lost. I joked about us ending up Deliverance-style at the bottom of some Texas crick somewhere and Sally just smiled and nodded. She hates water. At that point, my headlights caught up with a large oak tree with a noose hanging from a very reachable branch. Sally put her hands on the dashboard and quietly said, "I am black. Turn around. Now." Which I did. I am her human shield while crossing the street ("Please. Just walk. They won't hit you, you're white. Human shield."), but I realized how useless I would be against backwoods bubbas in Nowhere, Texas. We reached our destination, eventually, after a brief stop at the wrong house (where several large men came *outside* from inside an imposing, darkened house, where I can only assume massive amounts of torture and fornication were taking place)...I might have kept going down the wrong road that night, were it not for the sage advice from a friend.
I should always have someone riding with me. It's just safer that way.
I'm so tired...
But, I did it on purpose. I needed to reset my internal clock. So, somewhere between 3:30-5:15 a.m., I caught some wee catnaps...and beyond that, I've been awake and trying to remain so. I think it's almost time to shower and escape the house and start moving. All day long. Not stopping until bedtime tonight.
I don't know why I'm so reticent to write after I've been away. It's been my downfall with Artist's Way (12-week course in awakening your inner artist) and in the many blogs I've had over the years. It's a weird aversion thing...if I feel self-chided for an absence, I'll just stay away from it. Hence, not calling my teacher yet for a lesson this summer. I've been away so long that I feel awkward starting up again. Sometimes, I just need to make myself do things. I was so good at that in high school...but, maybe after 12 years of being a self-motivated student who helped plan her school day/year/curriculum, I just got tired of it. But, fuck it. It's my *life* now, so it should be a little more important than making sure I read "Johnny Tremain" before any of my Anne books. Shouldn't it? It is. I know it is. I'm just tired of it. *THIS* is why people shouldn't home school their children...in addition to the numerous years in therapy for any religious affiliations to the schooling (did I mention, I ran with that very popular group of home schoolers who believed in arranged marriages?). In any event, I need to grow up, be a big girl and start taking a little more responsibility for m'self.
And by that, I mean...a little less responsibility for my family. I didn't talk to Mom last night about her cell phone "not working" because I *knew* exactly what had happened...it involved Dad and some plan switching and what happened was her own damn fault...and I was not about to get dragged in the middle of another divorce fight. Which was good. Right? Right. I talked to the Duke yesterday. His internship is going well, he got good grades for the semester, and he *hates* Angel's girlfriend as much as I do. Thank GOD. I thought I was the only one who thought she was as dumb as dirt...a bachelor's in communication...with an emphasis in special ed. So she can teach speech in special ed classes. No teaching classes, no master's plans. Just communication. At a community college. Dumb. As. Dirt. Back to the fam...so, I'm trying to take less responsibility for them. It feels like I'm being a bad daughter, but I feel SO much happier when I'm not dragged into family feuds and called for "conference calls" so that "someone knows what's going on" (ummm...you mean, that you're crazy, Mom?). It's a good feeling to not talk to your family, sometimes.
And, as a part of reclaiming my inner artist, I'm finding a particular zen in baking. I don't know why...but, every few days or so, I feel the need to bake something that I've never made before. And they're all turning out relatively well. It makes me feel really good to cook amazing food, but I *really* wish there wasn't some part of me that wished I had a boyfriend who would appreciate it. It's kind of sick. But, I'm sure that's part of the process...being okay with what I do...for ME. Right? Right. Or maybe I really do need to get out there and start dating. I hate dating. Maybe another post this afternoon will describe it as I, in my sleep-deprived delirium begin to get *really* honest.
Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. yay.
I don't know why I'm so reticent to write after I've been away. It's been my downfall with Artist's Way (12-week course in awakening your inner artist) and in the many blogs I've had over the years. It's a weird aversion thing...if I feel self-chided for an absence, I'll just stay away from it. Hence, not calling my teacher yet for a lesson this summer. I've been away so long that I feel awkward starting up again. Sometimes, I just need to make myself do things. I was so good at that in high school...but, maybe after 12 years of being a self-motivated student who helped plan her school day/year/curriculum, I just got tired of it. But, fuck it. It's my *life* now, so it should be a little more important than making sure I read "Johnny Tremain" before any of my Anne books. Shouldn't it? It is. I know it is. I'm just tired of it. *THIS* is why people shouldn't home school their children...in addition to the numerous years in therapy for any religious affiliations to the schooling (did I mention, I ran with that very popular group of home schoolers who believed in arranged marriages?). In any event, I need to grow up, be a big girl and start taking a little more responsibility for m'self.
And by that, I mean...a little less responsibility for my family. I didn't talk to Mom last night about her cell phone "not working" because I *knew* exactly what had happened...it involved Dad and some plan switching and what happened was her own damn fault...and I was not about to get dragged in the middle of another divorce fight. Which was good. Right? Right. I talked to the Duke yesterday. His internship is going well, he got good grades for the semester, and he *hates* Angel's girlfriend as much as I do. Thank GOD. I thought I was the only one who thought she was as dumb as dirt...a bachelor's in communication...with an emphasis in special ed. So she can teach speech in special ed classes. No teaching classes, no master's plans. Just communication. At a community college. Dumb. As. Dirt. Back to the fam...so, I'm trying to take less responsibility for them. It feels like I'm being a bad daughter, but I feel SO much happier when I'm not dragged into family feuds and called for "conference calls" so that "someone knows what's going on" (ummm...you mean, that you're crazy, Mom?). It's a good feeling to not talk to your family, sometimes.
And, as a part of reclaiming my inner artist, I'm finding a particular zen in baking. I don't know why...but, every few days or so, I feel the need to bake something that I've never made before. And they're all turning out relatively well. It makes me feel really good to cook amazing food, but I *really* wish there wasn't some part of me that wished I had a boyfriend who would appreciate it. It's kind of sick. But, I'm sure that's part of the process...being okay with what I do...for ME. Right? Right. Or maybe I really do need to get out there and start dating. I hate dating. Maybe another post this afternoon will describe it as I, in my sleep-deprived delirium begin to get *really* honest.
Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. yay.
16.5.08
Back in the saddle again...
Post one, Ubiquitous Hobbit. :) I'm back. A prolonged absence because I didn't particularly want this blog to become maudlin or depressed, as that's what my last blog was. Every few months, it was a bitch and a moan and a whine and a groan about my love life or my school or some such nonsense. Since, I'm obviously so much more enlightened and in tune with myself (thank you 12 weeks of free therapy courtesy of my expensive school), I shouldn't need to whine or cry about things that upset me. To which my dear Hobbit replied, "But, that's the real you, if that's what you feel." *sigh* Which is true. As rotten as it is, if that's how I feel, I should try to expunge it or deal with it and if I have to do so in writing, so be it. SO...if I get sad, I get sad. And I'll keep updating and just deal with it.
Now the question is...what deliciously trashy story should I tell today? I think I shall share my drunken IM with Buffy upon our return from Chi-town-tap for our post-grad party. Please keep in mind that we are sitting NEXT to each other, on the couch, trying to both sober up AND not disturb Catisha show is watching "The Golden Compass."
N (1:45:06 AM): i think i'm turning into a lightweight.
B (1:45:06 AM): i had $27 of drink, too
N (1:45:07 AM): wtf?
N (1:45:11 AM): SHIT.
B (1:45:12 AM): seriously
N (1:45:16 AM): what did yo DRINK?
B (1:45:24 AM): lemonade vodka
B (1:45:26 AM): all night
N (1:45:31 AM): jeebus
B (1:45:32 AM): i'm immune to vodka
N (1:45:36 AM): apparently, so.
B (1:45:39 AM): yes
N (1:45:44 AM): if it was wine, i'd be good.
B (1:45:47 AM): but, this was BEER.
N (1:45:51 AM): holy shit, beer.
B (1:45:54 AM): no beer for me, please
N (1:45:58 AM): 5 of them
B (1:46:01 AM): beer is apparently good for [nora]
N (1:46:02 AM): = no bueno
B (1:46:03 AM): niiice
B (1:46:08 AM): = yes bueno
N (1:46:15 AM): haha...good meaning "TIPSY"!!!!???
N (1:46:20 AM): or drunki
B (1:46:20 AM): sure
N (1:46:23 AM): *drunk
B (1:46:24 AM): drunk, i hope
N (1:46:26 AM): whatevs
B (1:46:30 AM): which is what i wish i was
B (1:46:34 AM): it was my plan
N (1:46:37 AM): i wish you were, too!!!
B (1:46:37 AM): but it didn't work
N (1:46:40 AM): me too
N (1:46:43 AM): don't drink vodka next time.
N (1:46:45 AM): dumbass
*interjection...this comment makes me laugh at my own hilarity and causes Catisha to turn up the volume at least three bars on the TV; and the following 'conversation' gets more intense on IM and more high pitched and snort-ily giggly in real life until...*
B (1:46:47 AM): apparently
B (1:47:01 AM): don't snort it makes catish mad
N (1:47:09 AM): DOES it???
N (1:47:17 AM): or just you? you mock-er
B (1:47:17 AM): YES
N (1:47:22 AM): Seriously?
B (1:47:24 AM): no, her - but only when watching movies
N (1:47:29 AM): i totally didn't know.
N (1:47:30 AM): HAHA
B (1:47:31 AM): and when it's LOUD snort
B (1:47:32 AM): hahahaha
N (1:47:32 AM): ok.
N (1:47:34 AM): ok
N (1:47:35 AM): whatevs
B (1:47:39 AM): whatevs?
N (1:47:56 AM): i'm totally going to snort every 4 minutes until she throws the remot at your head
N (1:48:00 AM): i don't know!
N (1:48:02 AM): *remote
B (1:48:02 AM): MY head?
N (1:48:05 AM): YES
B (1:48:06 AM): wtf, mate?
N (1:48:10 AM): because i'll DUCK.
B (1:48:18 AM): shit head
N (1:48:32 AM): YES.
*Snorting, and Catish goes up another FIVE bars on the TV, with a glare at us*
B (1:48:42 AM): omg, she hates us
N (1:48:48 AM): SEE?!?!
B (1:48:52 AM): ahhhh!! hahahahahaha
B (1:48:54 AM): bwahahahahaha
N (1:48:55 AM): you're pissing her off.
B (1:48:56 AM): bwa ha ha ha haa'
*we hear a fumbling in the lock...*
B (1:49:01 AM): and here comes fifi
*more fumbling*
B (1:49:06 AM): FIFI
*I giggle*
B (1:49:11 AM): FIFIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!
Fifi: 'Allooooo!
*collapse of Buffy and Nora into fits of laughter to Catisha's "What the HELL are you bitches doing???"
And thus live we the single life in Chi-town. More later. Hope this was diversion enough for tonight.
Now the question is...what deliciously trashy story should I tell today? I think I shall share my drunken IM with Buffy upon our return from Chi-town-tap for our post-grad party. Please keep in mind that we are sitting NEXT to each other, on the couch, trying to both sober up AND not disturb Catisha show is watching "The Golden Compass."
N (1:45:06 AM): i think i'm turning into a lightweight.
B (1:45:06 AM): i had $27 of drink, too
N (1:45:07 AM): wtf?
N (1:45:11 AM): SHIT.
B (1:45:12 AM): seriously
N (1:45:16 AM): what did yo DRINK?
B (1:45:24 AM): lemonade vodka
B (1:45:26 AM): all night
N (1:45:31 AM): jeebus
B (1:45:32 AM): i'm immune to vodka
N (1:45:36 AM): apparently, so.
B (1:45:39 AM): yes
N (1:45:44 AM): if it was wine, i'd be good.
B (1:45:47 AM): but, this was BEER.
N (1:45:51 AM): holy shit, beer.
B (1:45:54 AM): no beer for me, please
N (1:45:58 AM): 5 of them
B (1:46:01 AM): beer is apparently good for [nora]
N (1:46:02 AM): = no bueno
B (1:46:03 AM): niiice
B (1:46:08 AM): = yes bueno
N (1:46:15 AM): haha...good meaning "TIPSY"!!!!???
N (1:46:20 AM): or drunki
B (1:46:20 AM): sure
N (1:46:23 AM): *drunk
B (1:46:24 AM): drunk, i hope
N (1:46:26 AM): whatevs
B (1:46:30 AM): which is what i wish i was
B (1:46:34 AM): it was my plan
N (1:46:37 AM): i wish you were, too!!!
B (1:46:37 AM): but it didn't work
N (1:46:40 AM): me too
N (1:46:43 AM): don't drink vodka next time.
N (1:46:45 AM): dumbass
*interjection...this comment makes me laugh at my own hilarity and causes Catisha to turn up the volume at least three bars on the TV; and the following 'conversation' gets more intense on IM and more high pitched and snort-ily giggly in real life until...*
B (1:46:47 AM): apparently
B (1:47:01 AM): don't snort it makes catish mad
N (1:47:09 AM): DOES it???
N (1:47:17 AM): or just you? you mock-er
B (1:47:17 AM): YES
N (1:47:22 AM): Seriously?
B (1:47:24 AM): no, her - but only when watching movies
N (1:47:29 AM): i totally didn't know.
N (1:47:30 AM): HAHA
B (1:47:31 AM): and when it's LOUD snort
B (1:47:32 AM): hahahaha
N (1:47:32 AM): ok.
N (1:47:34 AM): ok
N (1:47:35 AM): whatevs
B (1:47:39 AM): whatevs?
N (1:47:56 AM): i'm totally going to snort every 4 minutes until she throws the remot at your head
N (1:48:00 AM): i don't know!
N (1:48:02 AM): *remote
B (1:48:02 AM): MY head?
N (1:48:05 AM): YES
B (1:48:06 AM): wtf, mate?
N (1:48:10 AM): because i'll DUCK.
B (1:48:18 AM): shit head
N (1:48:32 AM): YES.
*Snorting, and Catish goes up another FIVE bars on the TV, with a glare at us*
B (1:48:42 AM): omg, she hates us
N (1:48:48 AM): SEE?!?!
B (1:48:52 AM): ahhhh!! hahahahahaha
B (1:48:54 AM): bwahahahahaha
N (1:48:55 AM): you're pissing her off.
B (1:48:56 AM): bwa ha ha ha haa'
*we hear a fumbling in the lock...*
B (1:49:01 AM): and here comes fifi
*more fumbling*
B (1:49:06 AM): FIFI
*I giggle*
B (1:49:11 AM): FIFIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!
Fifi: 'Allooooo!
*collapse of Buffy and Nora into fits of laughter to Catisha's "What the HELL are you bitches doing???"
And thus live we the single life in Chi-town. More later. Hope this was diversion enough for tonight.
17.2.08
Run and Tell That
Because, apparently, Catisha feels the need to tattle on me...as to the reasons that I am a gay man. We have always speculated, but during the course of the evening (as I progressively became more and more drunk), she compiled a list as to why I am officially a gay man. Not a gay, perse.... but a gay MAN... Catisha said so
Two more things I would like to add...I just made this html link work and it thrilled me to NO END, *and* as Catisha refused to say, I am NOT a gay man because I cannot penetrate anything without the use of superficial aids. Her catholic soul would not allow that. My gay soul would.
OK...with that posted, I now respond to Seriously Flippant's tag. :)
The Rules:
1.) List three reasons why I blog
2.) List the rules (I'm so fast at this!!)
3.) Tag three other bloggers
!) I blog because it's fun. I like sharing my stories. I like the idea of pseudo anonymity. These two reasons MAKE blogging fun. I feel like only those that I really really want to read my blog will. And anyone else that I don't care about won't. This provides a certain amount of gleefulness at poking fun at those who will never read my blog and a GREAT amount of joy in sharing my ridiculous life with those who know me best.
2) I blog because I need to. Not because it's a necessity like my dear Hobbit friend. I blog because I need to get things out of me, sometimes. I have a tendency to bottle things up and I don't say things (so often) until it is too late. Blogging affords me the luxury of being open and relatively honest with myself with little danger of judgment from myself or anyone else.
3) I blog because I get a certain amount of wicked joy from it. I like bitching about people in the kindest, funniest way possible. I love everyone I hang around with...if I didn't like you, I wouldn't hang around with you. However, YOU do stupid things. I do, too...but, I'd rather blog about how YOU were stupid, than how *I* was stupid. Comprende? :)
I tag again: Catisha.
Were she to be reading my blog, I would tag AZ, because I'd be fascinated by her comments...as it is, I'm a stalker right now and will make my commenting move at some point. :) bwahaha.
God, I need to sober up.
Two more things I would like to add...I just made this html link work and it thrilled me to NO END, *and* as Catisha refused to say, I am NOT a gay man because I cannot penetrate anything without the use of superficial aids. Her catholic soul would not allow that. My gay soul would.
OK...with that posted, I now respond to Seriously Flippant's tag. :)
The Rules:
1.) List three reasons why I blog
2.) List the rules (I'm so fast at this!!)
3.) Tag three other bloggers
!) I blog because it's fun. I like sharing my stories. I like the idea of pseudo anonymity. These two reasons MAKE blogging fun. I feel like only those that I really really want to read my blog will. And anyone else that I don't care about won't. This provides a certain amount of gleefulness at poking fun at those who will never read my blog and a GREAT amount of joy in sharing my ridiculous life with those who know me best.
2) I blog because I need to. Not because it's a necessity like my dear Hobbit friend. I blog because I need to get things out of me, sometimes. I have a tendency to bottle things up and I don't say things (so often) until it is too late. Blogging affords me the luxury of being open and relatively honest with myself with little danger of judgment from myself or anyone else.
3) I blog because I get a certain amount of wicked joy from it. I like bitching about people in the kindest, funniest way possible. I love everyone I hang around with...if I didn't like you, I wouldn't hang around with you. However, YOU do stupid things. I do, too...but, I'd rather blog about how YOU were stupid, than how *I* was stupid. Comprende? :)
I tag again: Catisha.
Were she to be reading my blog, I would tag AZ, because I'd be fascinated by her comments...as it is, I'm a stalker right now and will make my commenting move at some point. :) bwahaha.
God, I need to sober up.
10.2.08
My stupid mouth
John Mayer...whatever. It's all about me right now. I had jaw surgery back in the day, when I was 16. For reasons I won't go into, it was needed. It was entirely necessary and covered by insurance and completely non-cosmetic. When I went in for my first consultation, the oral maxillofacial surgeon (really, I like throwing that in there because it makes me feel smart. And it's fun to say.) went over all the things that could possibly (but probably wouldn't) go wrong. Things like paralysis, nerve damage and death. For a teenage girl, the worst of all of these options was muscle paralysis. There was nothing I could think of that could be remotely worse than having half of my mouth hang low and refuse to function. Slightly above paralysis was death. This was an option I could handle, as long as my face looked normal. I really didn't have a problem with the idea of my nerves being damaged, especially because the doctor explained that it would probably resolve itself within 6 months and if any part of my face remained numb, it would be a very small portion. Deal, I thought. No problem.
I went through the surgery and neither died nor had muscle paralysis. My entire lower jaw was numb for the first two weeks. Gradually, feeling began to seep back in. First from the left side and then from the right. The nerve endings sprang back to life, moving toward the center, when all of a sudden...my right side stopped going forth and prospering, while my left side raced to the center goal. What ended up becoming readily apparent was that my lower jaw was going to be missing about a quarter of all of its feeling. Well, not all feeling. (Un?)Fortunately, the nerve was never severed completely (or never grew back completely...never figured out which), so my chin (from center to the right edge of my lower lip) remains all tingly...like the foot that has fallen asleep and is trying to wake up. It still tingles to this day. I don't notice it much, anymore, after nearly a decade, but it's there. I have also regained (about 3 years after the incident) feeling of a narrow strip above my chin, but below my lip and the very top portion of my lip.
What does this have to do with anything at present, you ask? For some reason, when I a) get drunk, b) get tired, or c) get cold, ALL feeling ceases and this somehow affects the motor skills of my mouth. ONLY THE RIGHT SIDE. So, in addition to being unable to feel when water, coffee, ice cream, soup or the like is dribbling down my face on a *normal* day, when any of the three above occur, I am unable to feel my own saliva, as well. Tonight, it is cold in our house. I am exhausted and endeavoring to keep myself awake so that I don't wake up at 5 a.m. I reached up about 20 minutes ago to brush back the hair from my face and noticed a damp spot on my shirt. I was drooling. Like a toddler or a pubescent boy who has just discovered what it is that makes daddy so excited about a movie with Angelina Jolie. I am annoyed because this *should* be a function of my face that I *should* be able to control. What if I am in the throes of passion and I leak mouth fluid on my lover...not in a good way...? I'm just annoyed at my stupid mouth and I vow to either control or take vengeance on it, one day. My mouth *will* be my bitch. Pwnd.
I went through the surgery and neither died nor had muscle paralysis. My entire lower jaw was numb for the first two weeks. Gradually, feeling began to seep back in. First from the left side and then from the right. The nerve endings sprang back to life, moving toward the center, when all of a sudden...my right side stopped going forth and prospering, while my left side raced to the center goal. What ended up becoming readily apparent was that my lower jaw was going to be missing about a quarter of all of its feeling. Well, not all feeling. (Un?)Fortunately, the nerve was never severed completely (or never grew back completely...never figured out which), so my chin (from center to the right edge of my lower lip) remains all tingly...like the foot that has fallen asleep and is trying to wake up. It still tingles to this day. I don't notice it much, anymore, after nearly a decade, but it's there. I have also regained (about 3 years after the incident) feeling of a narrow strip above my chin, but below my lip and the very top portion of my lip.
What does this have to do with anything at present, you ask? For some reason, when I a) get drunk, b) get tired, or c) get cold, ALL feeling ceases and this somehow affects the motor skills of my mouth. ONLY THE RIGHT SIDE. So, in addition to being unable to feel when water, coffee, ice cream, soup or the like is dribbling down my face on a *normal* day, when any of the three above occur, I am unable to feel my own saliva, as well. Tonight, it is cold in our house. I am exhausted and endeavoring to keep myself awake so that I don't wake up at 5 a.m. I reached up about 20 minutes ago to brush back the hair from my face and noticed a damp spot on my shirt. I was drooling. Like a toddler or a pubescent boy who has just discovered what it is that makes daddy so excited about a movie with Angelina Jolie. I am annoyed because this *should* be a function of my face that I *should* be able to control. What if I am in the throes of passion and I leak mouth fluid on my lover...not in a good way...? I'm just annoyed at my stupid mouth and I vow to either control or take vengeance on it, one day. My mouth *will* be my bitch. Pwnd.
9.2.08
Call me.
Actually...don't. Remember the trumpet player from the blues joint? He actually called. Last night...or the night before...I don't know. I just checked my voice mail and he'd called to see how my audition went (the one I had on Sunday, wherein I looked like the worst version of Rocky Balboa). I haven't called back. I have to go.
Do you want to know a secret?
You'd better promise not to tell. Because, I'm a little tipsy and I'm treating this blog like Vegas. What happens here stays here. Except, I realize that's not true. I'm posting on the internet, for crying out loud. What happens here can be immediately linked to thousands of millions of people. NEVERTHELESS, I am going to use this blog to spill my guts. SO, I think we'll start with my trashy side. You already know I'm a drunkard (as evidenced by the last post...and the fact that tonight, I've polished off a bottle of wine by myself), but did you know I'm a little trashy. In the vein of Frodo (my ubiquitous hobbit--dubbed by his own dear selfs), I'll share a bit of the one recent, slightly trashy, sexual exploit I some how managed to have over break.
Over break, I drove to Tejas to do the obligatory family thing and catch up with friends who are still around. I have been saying for months that I'm in desperate need of some action (ANY action), and Impatience took me up on this. She heard my cry and answered in the form of one of her friends and a delightful post-New Year's party. Her exact words were, "You remember L? He's coming. He's always horny and up for anything." Although I always doubt the veracity of a man's interest, I thought I'd give it a shot. After all, we had a history. * So, during my first smoke break of the evening (I only smoke twice a year...during breaks. It's allowed), the fact that, as a singer, I shouldn't be interested in smoking, came up. I mumbled something about an oral fixation (shocker, I know. I have one. Who woulda thunk?) and he grinned and said we should do something about it. I smiled and said that I agreed. He said, "Great. So, we're making out later?" I said, "We sure are." There was a brief pause where he exhaled and laughed. "Awesome.", he said. "No. Really.", I countered. "We really are." "Really?" "REALLY." Fast forward through some blasé flirting to us spooning on Impatience's bed, with Impatience on the end of the spooning chain. I started playing with his hair and his hand started roaming out of Impatience's sight line. She excused herself to use the restroom and he rolled over slightly and huskily stammered, "Dear GOD, that thing you're doing with my hair is incredible. We're fooling around. As soon as she comes back for her PJ's and goes back to the bathroom, IT. IS. ON." And it was. A little making out, some heavy petting and a polite knock on the bedroom door from Impatience, herself, left me severely dissatisfied and annoyed with Impatience's cock blocking skills. Fortunately for me, after she furiously muttered, "Don't you DARE do it on my bed.", L decided it was time to check out the walk-in closet. Keep in mind please, that this is Texas. A walk in closet can be the size of some small bedrooms in Illinois. And this one was. It was roomy and dark and just off the bathroom (the only place in Impatience's home where people were not gathered for long periods of time). He made some lame excuse about "checking out whether or not [the air mattress he brought with him] 'll fit in there." However, this excuse (while thinly veiled), did what it needed to do. It got us in a "private room", in the dark, with something other than the floor or a hard bathroom floor to fool around on. I'll spare you, dear reader, the intimate details, but suffice to say we went to town. On an air mattress. With no sheets. In a closet. Trashy.
Fast forward about one relatively unsatisfying (on my part) hour later....I left to take out my contacts. He said, "But, you'll be back, right?" I assured him I would, but upon my return nearly 15 minutes later, he was asleep. I didn't want to a) wake him or b) spend the night in the closet. SO, I did exactly what any woman in her right mind would do and I left him alone to go sleep in Impatience's bed. The next morning, I had to remove "personal affects" from the closet, which I almost did without waking him. As soon as he awoke, though, he started trying to be chatty and keep up a conversation. At which point, I said, "No. REALLY, L. I have to go. I should have been on the road nearly 20 minutes ago. Had fun. Thanks and I'll see you...when I see you?" I finally had to just leave, but not before paying Impatience. I owed her $15 for the party, but gave $20, because I had a good time. :) So, in reviewing the "Nora does it like a man" theory... 1) She says what she wants and goes for it. And sometimes, succeeds. 2) She doesn't really care where she does it as long as she can rock out with reckless abandon. 3) She is willing to pay for a good time. 4) She doesn't want to cuddle, talk, or spend the night. And if she does spend the night, she doesn't want to talk in the morning, either.
Relationships are different (I think?...haven't been in a "real" one in about 6 years. Wow. That's much more pathetic writing it out than it is just saying it). But, this was good times...no phone calls, no talks about feelings or when we'll see each other again.
Edit: ...and I just woke up. I wrote this at about 2 a.m. last night, when I thought it was a really good idea to share the intimate details of my personal life with the internet. In the interest of Karma, I'll keep it up and actually post it. But, I think this post is a lot less brilliant in the face of sobriety.
*More embarassing story for later days.
Over break, I drove to Tejas to do the obligatory family thing and catch up with friends who are still around. I have been saying for months that I'm in desperate need of some action (ANY action), and Impatience took me up on this. She heard my cry and answered in the form of one of her friends and a delightful post-New Year's party. Her exact words were, "You remember L? He's coming. He's always horny and up for anything." Although I always doubt the veracity of a man's interest, I thought I'd give it a shot. After all, we had a history. * So, during my first smoke break of the evening (I only smoke twice a year...during breaks. It's allowed), the fact that, as a singer, I shouldn't be interested in smoking, came up. I mumbled something about an oral fixation (shocker, I know. I have one. Who woulda thunk?) and he grinned and said we should do something about it. I smiled and said that I agreed. He said, "Great. So, we're making out later?" I said, "We sure are." There was a brief pause where he exhaled and laughed. "Awesome.", he said. "No. Really.", I countered. "We really are." "Really?" "REALLY." Fast forward through some blasé flirting to us spooning on Impatience's bed, with Impatience on the end of the spooning chain. I started playing with his hair and his hand started roaming out of Impatience's sight line. She excused herself to use the restroom and he rolled over slightly and huskily stammered, "Dear GOD, that thing you're doing with my hair is incredible. We're fooling around. As soon as she comes back for her PJ's and goes back to the bathroom, IT. IS. ON." And it was. A little making out, some heavy petting and a polite knock on the bedroom door from Impatience, herself, left me severely dissatisfied and annoyed with Impatience's cock blocking skills. Fortunately for me, after she furiously muttered, "Don't you DARE do it on my bed.", L decided it was time to check out the walk-in closet. Keep in mind please, that this is Texas. A walk in closet can be the size of some small bedrooms in Illinois. And this one was. It was roomy and dark and just off the bathroom (the only place in Impatience's home where people were not gathered for long periods of time). He made some lame excuse about "checking out whether or not [the air mattress he brought with him] 'll fit in there." However, this excuse (while thinly veiled), did what it needed to do. It got us in a "private room", in the dark, with something other than the floor or a hard bathroom floor to fool around on. I'll spare you, dear reader, the intimate details, but suffice to say we went to town. On an air mattress. With no sheets. In a closet. Trashy.
Fast forward about one relatively unsatisfying (on my part) hour later....I left to take out my contacts. He said, "But, you'll be back, right?" I assured him I would, but upon my return nearly 15 minutes later, he was asleep. I didn't want to a) wake him or b) spend the night in the closet. SO, I did exactly what any woman in her right mind would do and I left him alone to go sleep in Impatience's bed. The next morning, I had to remove "personal affects" from the closet, which I almost did without waking him. As soon as he awoke, though, he started trying to be chatty and keep up a conversation. At which point, I said, "No. REALLY, L. I have to go. I should have been on the road nearly 20 minutes ago. Had fun. Thanks and I'll see you...when I see you?" I finally had to just leave, but not before paying Impatience. I owed her $15 for the party, but gave $20, because I had a good time. :) So, in reviewing the "Nora does it like a man" theory... 1) She says what she wants and goes for it. And sometimes, succeeds. 2) She doesn't really care where she does it as long as she can rock out with reckless abandon. 3) She is willing to pay for a good time. 4) She doesn't want to cuddle, talk, or spend the night. And if she does spend the night, she doesn't want to talk in the morning, either.
Relationships are different (I think?...haven't been in a "real" one in about 6 years. Wow. That's much more pathetic writing it out than it is just saying it). But, this was good times...no phone calls, no talks about feelings or when we'll see each other again.
Edit: ...and I just woke up. I wrote this at about 2 a.m. last night, when I thought it was a really good idea to share the intimate details of my personal life with the internet. In the interest of Karma, I'll keep it up and actually post it. But, I think this post is a lot less brilliant in the face of sobriety.
*More embarassing story for later days.
7.2.08
Look at me, and tell me who I am...
During our latest bout of "roommate fun", we decided that it would be a good idea to impersonate one another and show how we think the other half lives. This grand event was sponsored by Fat Tire and St. James Winery.
Fifi did a marvelous rendition of Katisha's cacophony...I mean...symphony of cupboard doors slamming each morning. Always done before 8 a.m...sometimes earlier, if we're lucky. Fifi stomped around and made loud "Slam! Slam! Slam! SLAM!!!" sounds and pretended to throw dishes around. All true. All funny.
I turned up my iPod and ran around the corner (out of sight) to imitate Buffy's Protestant orgasms, as we call them. She saves these for visits from the boyfriend and tells us we don't need our iPods that night to cover any un-Christian noises from her room. This is a bald faced lie. She will drink and start to forget that Jesus is her boyfriend. She then gets horny and gets it on with a real man (at this juncture in her life, the real man is her boyfriend). This leads to a loud, almost painful, possibly pleasurable (but not sure if it's entirely permissible!) orgasm. This was what I mimicked. Quite well, I might add.
Fifi asked "What do I do?", which was the only impetus needed for Buffy to race out of the room, and for Katisha and I to start up a false conversation. Our bemused overseas guest watched as Buffy stomped down the hall (making the sound of our weighs-98-pounds-but-sounds-like-she-weighs-350-pounds roommate coming to visit in the living room!), burst into the room, ignoring the current conversation, and cried, " 'Allo!! I'm Frrrrench!!!" Buffy then stomped back out, completing one of the most accurate descriptions of the night. We love our Fifi, but as she is partially deaf and very French, she has little use for whatever the "f*cking Americans" are doing at the time and she manages to impart her words of wisdom (wanted or no) into the conversation (usually dealing with something "disGUSting" that she dealt with that day) before running (read: stomping) off to her room.
As I was the only roommate not poked fun at yet, Buffy began to lie on the floor and snore. Katisha obliged by making alarm clock sounds as Buffy slapped her hand at the table and rolled over. Fifi was confused by this and asked what they were doing. Katisha grabbed the empty wine bottle and said, "Wait! Wait! I know. I need a bottle." Fifi deadpanned, "Oh. It's Nora." Thanks guys. Thanks.
Fifi did a marvelous rendition of Katisha's cacophony...I mean...symphony of cupboard doors slamming each morning. Always done before 8 a.m...sometimes earlier, if we're lucky. Fifi stomped around and made loud "Slam! Slam! Slam! SLAM!!!" sounds and pretended to throw dishes around. All true. All funny.
I turned up my iPod and ran around the corner (out of sight) to imitate Buffy's Protestant orgasms, as we call them. She saves these for visits from the boyfriend and tells us we don't need our iPods that night to cover any un-Christian noises from her room. This is a bald faced lie. She will drink and start to forget that Jesus is her boyfriend. She then gets horny and gets it on with a real man (at this juncture in her life, the real man is her boyfriend). This leads to a loud, almost painful, possibly pleasurable (but not sure if it's entirely permissible!) orgasm. This was what I mimicked. Quite well, I might add.
Fifi asked "What do I do?", which was the only impetus needed for Buffy to race out of the room, and for Katisha and I to start up a false conversation. Our bemused overseas guest watched as Buffy stomped down the hall (making the sound of our weighs-98-pounds-but-sounds-like-she-weighs-350-pounds roommate coming to visit in the living room!), burst into the room, ignoring the current conversation, and cried, " 'Allo!! I'm Frrrrench!!!" Buffy then stomped back out, completing one of the most accurate descriptions of the night. We love our Fifi, but as she is partially deaf and very French, she has little use for whatever the "f*cking Americans" are doing at the time and she manages to impart her words of wisdom (wanted or no) into the conversation (usually dealing with something "disGUSting" that she dealt with that day) before running (read: stomping) off to her room.
As I was the only roommate not poked fun at yet, Buffy began to lie on the floor and snore. Katisha obliged by making alarm clock sounds as Buffy slapped her hand at the table and rolled over. Fifi was confused by this and asked what they were doing. Katisha grabbed the empty wine bottle and said, "Wait! Wait! I know. I need a bottle." Fifi deadpanned, "Oh. It's Nora." Thanks guys. Thanks.
6.2.08
I am the girl of 100 lists.
Or maybe just one. Since this blog should be used to help me grow as a person, I think I'll start a list of life lessons that should be remembered for posterity...or in case I forget number one...which. should. never. happen. again.
1. Never drink half a bottle of tequila, two shots of champagne, and a cup of cranberry juice and vodka in under an hour on an empty stomach. But, mostly no tequila.*
2. Never wax your own eyebrows.
3. Always check your hotel reservations in a small town in Italy. Because, otherwise, you may throw yourself on the mercy of bartenders and kids from Amsterdam.*
4. Always lock the closet door.*
5. Never get emotionally involved.
6. If you think you're becoming emotionally involved, refer back to number 1 and adhere to that rule. Staunchly.
7. Never give your kids the facts of life from "Grey's Anatomy." The book, not the show. Too many diagrams and Latin terms...they'll end up watching porn anyway to get the gist of how things go.*
8. Always listen to the rain.
9. Never fry bacon in anything less than a long sleeved shirt.
10. Never pass up an opportunity to flirt. With anyone.
Ten is a good number to start with. I think I'll leave it be for now and add as I go along. :)
*denotes wonderful story telling opportunity that will probably crop up at a later time.
1. Never drink half a bottle of tequila, two shots of champagne, and a cup of cranberry juice and vodka in under an hour on an empty stomach. But, mostly no tequila.*
2. Never wax your own eyebrows.
3. Always check your hotel reservations in a small town in Italy. Because, otherwise, you may throw yourself on the mercy of bartenders and kids from Amsterdam.*
4. Always lock the closet door.*
5. Never get emotionally involved.
6. If you think you're becoming emotionally involved, refer back to number 1 and adhere to that rule. Staunchly.
7. Never give your kids the facts of life from "Grey's Anatomy." The book, not the show. Too many diagrams and Latin terms...they'll end up watching porn anyway to get the gist of how things go.*
8. Always listen to the rain.
9. Never fry bacon in anything less than a long sleeved shirt.
10. Never pass up an opportunity to flirt. With anyone.
Ten is a good number to start with. I think I'll leave it be for now and add as I go along. :)
*denotes wonderful story telling opportunity that will probably crop up at a later time.
I can see clearly now.
Not necessarily because the rain is gone, but because my eye is no longer puffed out like I was on the losing side of a bar fight.
Lessons learned from this weekend:
1. I believe I am allergic to the wax in Sally Hanson's home wax package.
2. When waxing one's eyebrows, pull the skin VERY taut before pulling off the wax.
3. If one neglects to pull the skin taut *and* is allergic to said wax, one's eye may swell to the point of opening to a mere slit and raising the eyebrow so high, it looks as if one is permanently questioning the universe
4. One can, with a decent headshot, confidently audition for an opera company with puffed out eyes, since one can say, "Sorry. *That's* what I really look like."
Today is the first day I've left the house without shame. Although, I did wear a hat to cover my devil's horns (Know how they tell you to never remove hair from above the brow, but we do anyway? They're not joking about waxing. I look like the missing link between human and faun). These are all life lessons I (apparently) needed to know. So, I humbly thank the universe and resume plucking.
Before all this happened, though, T and M came to town and I toured them around the muddy slush that is Lakeview. I took them to a local blues joint and proceeded to get hit on by a wiry trumpet player that was old enough to be my father. Hitting on, I can handle...but, this man took it too far and I don't think I can ever go back.
"Don": You should come up on stage later.
Nora: I don't think so. Not really dressed for it.
D: C'mon. You look great!
N: *snorts* Riiiiight. With my Lesbo-rific boots? I don't think so. Now, if I had heels...
D: Mmmm...you have really high heels?
N: *enjoying it* The highest.
D: You know...*leans over to whisper*...I've always wanted a beautiful woman to walk on my back wearing high heels.
*leans back, looks significantly, and waits*
N:...
N:...
I mean, honestly...other than making a catty comment about puncture wounds, how else could I respond? We exchanged numbers, because it only seemed polite. He'd spent the entirety of his break trying to get my number...he needed a little something for his efforts, since I was neither going to let him buy me a drink, nor was I going to give him spiked heel acupuncture. All that to say...I don't think I can go back...I fear he'll look for me and I fear that if I wear heels, I'll break that little man. So, I think I'll start looking for new blues joints. And not wax my eyebrows. Ever. Again.
Lessons learned from this weekend:
1. I believe I am allergic to the wax in Sally Hanson's home wax package.
2. When waxing one's eyebrows, pull the skin VERY taut before pulling off the wax.
3. If one neglects to pull the skin taut *and* is allergic to said wax, one's eye may swell to the point of opening to a mere slit and raising the eyebrow so high, it looks as if one is permanently questioning the universe
4. One can, with a decent headshot, confidently audition for an opera company with puffed out eyes, since one can say, "Sorry. *That's* what I really look like."
Today is the first day I've left the house without shame. Although, I did wear a hat to cover my devil's horns (Know how they tell you to never remove hair from above the brow, but we do anyway? They're not joking about waxing. I look like the missing link between human and faun). These are all life lessons I (apparently) needed to know. So, I humbly thank the universe and resume plucking.
Before all this happened, though, T and M came to town and I toured them around the muddy slush that is Lakeview. I took them to a local blues joint and proceeded to get hit on by a wiry trumpet player that was old enough to be my father. Hitting on, I can handle...but, this man took it too far and I don't think I can ever go back.
"Don": You should come up on stage later.
Nora: I don't think so. Not really dressed for it.
D: C'mon. You look great!
N: *snorts* Riiiiight. With my Lesbo-rific boots? I don't think so. Now, if I had heels...
D: Mmmm...you have really high heels?
N: *enjoying it* The highest.
D: You know...*leans over to whisper*...I've always wanted a beautiful woman to walk on my back wearing high heels.
*leans back, looks significantly, and waits*
N:...
N:...
I mean, honestly...other than making a catty comment about puncture wounds, how else could I respond? We exchanged numbers, because it only seemed polite. He'd spent the entirety of his break trying to get my number...he needed a little something for his efforts, since I was neither going to let him buy me a drink, nor was I going to give him spiked heel acupuncture. All that to say...I don't think I can go back...I fear he'll look for me and I fear that if I wear heels, I'll break that little man. So, I think I'll start looking for new blues joints. And not wax my eyebrows. Ever. Again.
2.2.08
If you think that a kiss is all in the lips...
I did have it all wrong, I think. It's all about the heart of the matter. My last blog was so whiny and so bitchy, I had to leave it behind. It's about time I start getting to the heart of the matter (jn every situation), even if I don't particularly care to. This doesn't mean that I won't be particularly bitchy, but I'm going to try to move beyond the whining and get at what's really bugging me before I start sounding like a weepy emo kid who blogs about how even Edgar Allen Poe had it better. So, I christen thee, new blog. May you be more pleasant than your predecessor and may you provide me (and all who visit) with a more permanent sense of serendipity and destiny. Peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
