Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Dipping My Toe Back In...

Damn. I need a Pedi.

I'll try to keep this short and sweet, since I'm low on topic, but fact of it is, I miss you, and I want to reach out and bad-touch you via Internet blogging. Shh... just let it happen.

Fortunately or unfortunately (seeming dependent on the day), my dating life has fallen to the wayside in favor of trying to get my shit together in other aspects of my existence. Like:

#1 Navigating being a good or at least tolerable employee, even though 75% of the time I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and 5% of the time I'm crying in the car while I contemplate just driving to Mexico and becoming a drug lord.

#2 Taking care of my babies and cleaning puke out of my hair. God, they puke a lot. Why? Why, on the bed while I'm sleeping? Why on my pillow?

#3 Getting my health in order by eating crazy good organic food. See #1.

#4 Renewing my pursuit of the elusive Literary Agent.

And this is all good. This is what grown ups do, or so I've been told. I even bought myself a coffee maker with a timer, so I can get out of bed at a "reasonable hour," sit on the front porch and glare at the neighborhood children over a nice cup of java with almond milk.

But it doesn't leave a lot of time for dating. How can I tell those damn kids to keep off my lawn when I'm on a date?

When free time rolls around, it seems a more comfortable and logical choice to spend it with friends-- people I already know and don't have to feign interest in, or do my hair for, who will not be offended when I suddenly blurt out that I want to go home NOW get the tab, they just know that sometimes I just suddenly hate everything without reason and that's just who I am.

No fuss. No drama. No push-up bra.

The smoking hottie, I may have mentioned, was onto my blog, but what I did not realize was that he was onto it from the start, and I played into it rather like a mice in a maze hornily running after some hot cheese. Alas.

He did bring up something that made me think (yuck). He admitted he was nervous that I was analyzing him the entire date.

It's a fair assumption that I'm going on these dates ready to eviscerate the hapless men whenever they misstep, but it's not quite true. I'm still on these dates as dates, and I'm still vaguely hoping that something will click. I break them apart the same way I break apart everything I experience-- I write, and by nature I can't avoid that internal narrator that turns everything into an experience. If I got your love and approval for a detailed narration of my excursion to purchase Tampax, things may be different here.

Of course, then I post it all online, which is admittedly pretty weird but it works for me because I'm admittedly pretty weird.

Regardless, it was all a little confusing.

I got the dating itch again the other day, when a cutie was chatting me up at the car wash. I felt all giggly and gleeful, like I was in high school again getting attention from the sexy guy in my Biology class. How often do cuties chat me up, after all? I laughed, I tossed my hair, and I felt like a kid again.

When he found out we had gone to the same school, it was even better. And then when he asked what year I graduated, I figured out why it was giving me such a throwback to high school. He was practically still in high school.

I sobered up from my little high, put on my bifocals, and cut that shit out.

I've got two dates (with legal, consenting adults) this weekend in an effort to strike that memory from my mind. I had three, but the third cancelled because he was not comfortable dating "multiethnic" girls at one time.

Luckily, that was an autocorrect from "multiple" because I thought he was pretty racist for a few minutes.

Both are nice guys. Not my usual type (unshaven hippie pirates), but polite, and kind and complimentary. I feel this ensures me at least some good conversation... and who knows what else?


  1. In your defense, kids these days are aging like dogs.

  2. Sad but true. While I, of course, remain eternally fresh and youthful. This is my curse.