Archive for June, 2010

getting home.

June 30, 2010

The short commute home always seems like it is going to be a lot longer. It’s like this huge, insurmountable detour between you and your couch and your tail-wagging dog. In dreading it, you leave work early, take a shortcut to avoid the traffic at that horendous red light, or make a phone call that you know will last for the whole 15 minutes it takes you to get from ‘there’ to the proverbial ‘here’.

But in the end, it takes the same number of miles to get to where you’re going. No matter when you leave, who you take, or whose cell phone minutes you waste, you still have to travel the same distance to get home.

Maybe the same is true about everything else . . . maybe worrying about every single aspect of my life right now only passes time until they inevitably fall into place. I’ve always believed that.

I guess the hard part is just getting there,

Q

today.

June 22, 2010

Yesterday, I was inspired to write this. Yesterday, I had something beautiful to say. Yesterday, I waxed poetic.

I was a prophetic genious. 

So today i am trying to be who I was yesterday. I am holding on to some vague idea that I had for a minute or two, and trying express it in a phrase that I can understand again.

…except this point is from yesterday and I think that it is no longer applicable. So now I’m sitting here willing words to flow from my fingers and instead, I have nothing.

but I do still feel it, in case you were wondering,

Q

mr. miserable.

June 21, 2010

Over the last few weeks I had been trying here and there to hang out with a friend of a friend that I found slightly attractive.  Finally, on Saturday night I got a text: “Hey are you still at the bar?” and before I know it, there’s a tap on my back and there he is on the barstool next to me.

I asked him how his job was. “It’s work,” he said.  I asked him if he has seen our mutual friends recently. “Nope.” (followed by a sigh) I asked if he’s been watching much of the World Cup.  “Soccer is lame.”  I bopped my head a bit to the music the DJ was playing.  “This song is awful.”

(At this point, my roommate had wandered off, unable to watch this train wreck unfolding in front of her and ignoring my desperate pleading eyes.)

After looking around for a savior at the bar, and realizing that I was in this one alone, I began to fill him in on what I’ve been up to at work – my recent business trip and some big projects.  “Marketing is stupid.  I don’t get it.  It never sways me to buy anything.” I let this remark go (while taking a deep breath) and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Within the span of about 10 minutes, he had managed to insult my career, my hometown, and several of my passions in life.  Finally, fed up and getting angry, I asked: “Ok, well what makes YOU happy, what are YOU passionate about?”  His response: “Nothing really.” 

I got the check and gathered my things.

THAT, my friend, is why you are single.

Moral of the story?  It makes no difference how good looking you are, if you are a miserable asshole you are STILL an asshole.

How do I keep finding these people?

Q

there’s no place like home.

June 18, 2010

I just got back from a business trip in Washington DC.  All things considered, it might have been the worst trip I’ve been on in a long while, business or otherwise.

I was almost mugged in broad daylight in front of about 20 people.  A homeless man asked me for a dollar and I kept walking: “No man, I don’t have any cash. Sorry.” (I really didn’t).  The man lept up and lunged at me, grabbing my purse.  Instinctively, I immediately smacked (and ninja Karate chopped) his hand hard with my free hand and he let go. 

No one even batted an eye.

I then sat in the convention center at our booth for 9 hours a day for 3 days straight.  This, my friends, might be the quickest path to insanity.  You know you have it bad when the next thing you have to look forward to is the crappy boxed lunch at noon. And let me tell you, nothing turns middle aged men into creepers quite like being at an out of town conference does! Next time, I’m rollin in there with a shirt made that says “I can see your wedding ring.”

On a positive note, I made friends with (i.e. shamelessly hit on) a cute young guy working the booth near ours.  We exchanged business cards and I almost immediately emailed him from my phone and gave him my cell number so he could text me to meet up the next night. (“Us young people gotta stick together at these things.” he wrote back).  We smiled and waved at each other from a distance for the remainder of the conference.

As luck (MY luck) would have it, my cell phone was stolen from my purse as my coworker and I were breaking down our booth on the last night of the show.  Anyone that knows me in real life knows that my iphone is my lifeline.  My music, my pictures, my contacts… everything is gone. AND, as if that wasn’t bad enough, single conference guy (and friends) was supposed to text me that evening to meet up.

I raced back to my hotel and emailed single conference guy to tell him what happened… and went upstairs to my room to mope and call it a night.  I awoke to a blinking message on my hotel room phone.  SCG did some research and found me at the hotel… interesting. 

We’ve since enchanged a few long thoughtful emails and a few texts on my temporary cell phone from 1987. (Picture Zack Morris’s first cell phone on Saved By the Bell. No joke).

So while I lost my beloved cellphone (and not to mention several hours of my life that I will never get back while sitting in that damn convention center), I do appear to have gained a new friend, and I can’t really complain about that.

I’m just glad to be home,

Q

breakfast at tiffany’s.

June 11, 2010

I’m wearing the necklace he gave me again.

The pretty Tiffany’s one that he bought me only shortly after we had gotten together – the one that I took off four months ago and swore would never again leave my jewelry box.

Just like how the months have allowed the song that always reminded me of him to become just another song, those four untouched months of collecting dust have transformed what had at one point symbolized the beginning of a deep and budding romance to little more than just a pretty necklace.  When I hear that song on the radio now, I turn it up and wait for that feeling to come; but it doesn’t, and instead I sing along.

The memories that I once wore around my neck have vanished too. And now, it might even serve as a reminder that after the dust settles, everything really does turn out OK in the end.

I’m better than ever,

Q

sloppy seconds.

June 9, 2010

Well internet, I have an interesting update on the boy with the crooked smile.

Last night I was out having happy hour drinks with a friend when a semi-frantic text came in from my roommate:  “OMG. OMG. OMG My friend hooked up with [insert BWTCS’s real name here] too.” 

Oh crap.

Turns out, not only did  they hook up, they also had the EXACT same date that we had.  (I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried).  Same restaurant, made out in the car, and he never called her again.  And it gets better.

(drumroll please) …He has a girlfriend!

I’m tempted to post his real name, along with a photograph and a warning: “Ladies – Do not date this man!”  Because, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

So of course I immediately text him and oh so subtly call him out on this (wouldn’t you??):

Me:  “haha, I think you know one of my friends.  Does [friend’s full name] ring a bell?”

BWTCS: “What?”

Me:  “Yeah, the details (all of them) just came up randomly in conversation, actually… not even my conversation.”

BWTCS: “Yeah. hilarious.” 

(pause)

“So have you heard the new Arcade Fire album?”

Once again the cosmos have aligned to kick me in the shins…

…But on the brightside, I guess I got a free meal out of it.

Q

miss pennsylvania.

June 7, 2010

If I was in the Miss America pageant (which, at this time, hell would have also frozen over and pigs would be flying) and in the interview portion I was asked about my “wish for the world”, without hesitation, I would reply that I wish that everyone on Earth could have an amazingly satisfying, no strings attached, drama free booty call.  Forget about ending AIDS and world hunger for a minute, don’t you think the world would be a better and happier place?

Think about it.

There are no expectations.  No need to buy birthday gifts.  No family function obligations.  Just unadulterated unclothed sexual bliss and instant stress relief.  For this reason, I’m willing to bet that Hitler and Stalin weren’t getting laid on the regular.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m a classy girl.  I don’t bring strangers home from the bar (well, ok, maybe ONCE), but I’ve never had a one night stand.  Even that awkward night with the stranger turned into a couple of dates.  I used to have a backlog of potential booty calls : shoo-ins that I could call up for some “drinks”, both of us certain what the result at the end of the night would be.  Some are old boyfriends, some are pretty good guy friends that I like to see naked every now and then, and I’d love to keep it that way.

For some reason, I feel good about “recycling” men from previous segments of my life.  Hey, my “number” doesn’t go up and I feel like I’m doing something good for the environment.  (Go Green!)

The problem is, my booty call Rolodex is drying up.  A few have gotten girlfriends (or wives), a few have moved away, and one has inexplicably dropped off the face of the Earth.  Even in it’s most perfect form, this whole arrangement is kind of a slippery slope.  I do not tolerate 2am texts from boys looking to “hang out”.  It’s only fun when I am the one calling the shots and each rendezvous is on MY terms.  Selfish?  Maybe.  But, there’s something really sexy about being in control like this.

Currently taking applications,

Q

like a homeless dude to a crack pipe.

June 4, 2010

I have a confession to make… I’m an addict.

No, don’t worry.  It’s not drugs or alcohol, or even sex (well ok… maybe sex?).  There’s one little thing that can draw me in like a bee to honey – I’m addicted to buying pretty sundresses. (*GASP*)

There, I said it.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Q, you have a closet FULL of sundresses.  There’s really no need to buy more.”  and you would be right.  There is absolutely no need.  I own one (or several) in just about every color Roy G. Biv has to offer.

Now, I’ve never been much of a girly girl.  I don’t broadcast news of my periods or love Nicholas Sparks movies.  I like punk rock and PBR’s, but I just can’t help myself.  I’m a sucker for soft material, lovely colors, and a short hemline. When I wander into a store, I’m not even thinking about satisfying my “fix”, then my eyes wander over the selection and I see it.  Sticking out like a whore in church, it calls to me. (Cue the angelic choir music).

I’m sorry, but there’s just something awesome about it being all breezy and al fresco “down there” on a hot day.  And better yet, for us relatively style-deprived broads, it’s a FULL outfit in one piece of clothing.  What could be easier?

So, I’ll see you at the Gap in an hour?

Q

two times the awkwardness.

June 3, 2010

Palms sweaty, heart beating a little bit, you make your way to your pre-arranged meeting spot.  You check for spinach in your teeth, put your best face forward, and awkwardly suffer through the new few hours, tell yourself that you had a good time, and leave praying for a call back.

Sound familiar…?

Is this a date…? or a job interview? Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

As a single girl that’s ALSO looking for a new job, I feel like I’ve had enough stress and awkward situations to last the average person 12 lifetimes.

Having just left yet another job interview that will undoubtedly pan out to nothing (due to a lousy HR director that failed to screen for compatible salaries), the similarities to dating and job hunting nearly smacked me in the face.  It’s like this never-ending cycle.

Everyone’s faking it at first, wanting to be liked.  Then the one YOU actually like wont call you back and the one that is all about you doesn’t pay enough or has poor hygiene and those ungodly bright colored sneakers (you know, the ones that look like they were thrown up on by a box of crayola crayons).  What’s worse, one of you will likely wind up bored with the relationship or career in a year or two and the cycle begins again.

But the sad part is, there’s nothing you can really do about it.  It’s all part of the game, my friend.  As cheesy as it sounds, you gotta keep putting yourself out there, and keep sipping that proverbial porridge until you find the one that’s the perfect fit.

So for now, you can call me “Goldilocks”,

Q

like a fish needs a bicycle.

June 1, 2010

I never really intended for this to be a blog about my love life or a “Sex and the City-esque” retelling of my weekends.  But i suppose that is somehow what it is becoming.  I always said that I would simply write about what was on my mind, without holding anything back, so I guess this says something about my priorities right now.

It’s been four days since I’ve heard from the boy with the crooked smile.  I’m here practically sitting on my hands to prevent myself from texting him.

I won’t do it.

I refuse.

Instead, I’m making up excuses for the reasons why he was possibly too busy to do so all weekend long and willing my phone to light up any second now.

Maybe he was tragically killed while pushing a small child out of the path of a moving bus.  Or maybe he was stricken with horrible food poisoning and spent the last 3 days in the hospital.  Or maybe he is just so gosh darn into me (duh) that he is waiting even LONGER than the obligatory three days so that he doesn’t seem over-eager and blow it?

…or maybe I am certifiably insane and it is completely and utterly clear that he is “just not that into me”.

Sigh.

So now I guess I just pick myself up, dust myself off, and start reminding myself that I’m awesome and amazing and totally fine alone.  Hell, I even put my AC unit in without any help!

I don’t need no stinkin’ man,

Q