Posts Tagged ‘random’

distance makes the heart grow fonder?

August 11, 2010

I’m not sure how it happened, but I think I’m kinda, maybe, somewhat, perhaps, a little bit… on the verge of entering into a long distance relationship.  You guys remember how Nate came down to visit last month, right? 

Well, he’s been down THREE times since then.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but 300 miles each way is pretty far to drive three times for just a booty call.

I’ve been a little scared to write about it, out of a silly fear that I’d somehow jinx it… or he’d somehow find these posts, (both of which are highly unlikely) but every time he’s been here it has been nothing but great.  Now, it seems like we’re kind of at that stage where we aren’t together together, but we’re both not really trying to sleep with anyone else (at least, this is what I’ve inferred from our VERY indirect conversations).

So, the real question is: What the hell am I doing? 

Not only is he 300 miles away, but he’s also in the Air Force.  Which means, he spends a good amount of time over seas every month.  I’ve somehow managed to see him every couple of weeks so far (and I’ll see him again in 10 days), but I’m thinking there is some real potential for me to go for much longer stretches without him. 

The last week or so since I’ve seen him have been TORTURE.  Do I really have the capacity to handle something long distance? Do I have the self control?

And it’s not JUST the sex – all contact is pretty scarce while he is overseas.  All of a sudden I feel like a military wife, anxiously awaiting his email to come in from Spain so that I’ll know if he made it there safely.  I’m missing his abundant amount of texts to keep me company during the day.  I’m literally crossing off the days on my calendar until I get to see him again.

But I guess with all things there is a plus side.  He can’t get jealous when I want to hang out with my girlfriends on the weekend, he’s got his own life and will not be expecting to hang out with me every day.  And the freedom that comes with that, I have to admit, is really really nice.

So for now, I’m just seeing where things go and hoping for the best.  (He’s even mentioned taking me snowboarding in the winter.)

10 days and counting,

Q

bats in the belfry.

August 3, 2010

So I have been seriously slacking in updating over here… and for that, I apologize.  I wish I could say that it’s because I’ve been SO busy doing something SO important, but that would be a lie.  I’ve mostly just been providing my couch with some great company and the ass dent that its been missing, while snuggling up with a bunch of really good books.

Yesterday I had the day off (for no real reason in particular) and I was looking forward to another lazy day.  I slept in and the house was quiet as I made my way downstairs to let the dog out in the morning.  I opened the front door and something big and black made a screeching noise, like something out of the Alien movies, and flew at me.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

A BAT? In my fucking house.  I immediately broke into hysterical screams and ran around like a banshee as the thing was circling overhead.  The 70 pound dog was hiding behind me (thanks for the help, buddy) and the cats were equally as useless grooming themselves in the corner.

It finally landed on the couch (um, ew), and I grabbed a broom to give it a little knock to hopefully guide that fucker safely out the door.  He didn’t budge.  His little slimy membraneous body just sat there.  I swear he rolled his beady eyes at me as he made that awful hissing sound.

On to plan B.  I grabbed a box (an empty case of beer, obviously) and tossed it over the little bastard, then paced around wondering how to now get the BOX outside.  A few minutes later, I heard his bat noise coming from the OTHER side of the room.  What the hell?  He had somehow managed to shimmy his way out from under the box!  Apparently I was messing with the David fucking Copperfield of the bat world.

I knew I was going to need reinforcements.  (OF COURSE this happens while I am home alone).  I called my roommate, she couldn’t make it home.  So I then proceeded to call just about every man I know in a 30 mile radius.  Surely someone would come to my rescue.

Roughly 40 minutes later (while I was hiding out upstairs in my room), Kyle arrived.  He dropped phrases like “bat rabies” and “disease” and tried to calm me down.  Um, thanks?   We somehow managed to get the box back on top Mr. Copperfield and slid him out towards the door.  We got him out on the porch and remove the box.  He just sits there. 

FLY AWAY, BAT.

He doesn’t move. 

Great, is he hurt?  Now, not only do I get to have a bat in my house but a guilty conscience as well.  Kyle throws the box over him again and sneaks up on him with a shovel.  Part of me was hoping he’d just slam the shovel down hard on the box and put us all out of our misery.  (Sorry, PETA).  But instead, he slid the shovel under the box and picked it up.  He walked the box across the street, dropped it, and walked away.

Watching from the window, a few minutes later I saw a black blob get up and fly away.

See ya later, sucker.

…And all I wanted to do was sit on my couch.  But now there’s bat germs all over it.

Yuck.

Q

dear oscar meyer.

July 23, 2010

To those that know and love me in real life, it’s no secret that I lust after and adore food – all kinds of food –  probably more so than my favorite fat man himself, Homer Simpson.   No joke.  This 5’2″ and 105 pound frame of mine can tear into some serious grub.

Give me some buffalo wings (make ’em spicy, I’m no wuss), give me a pepperoni pizza (I’ll eat the whole thing), or take me to taco bell (I’ll devour more tacos than you do, guaranteed).

Although I may mix it up with some tasty delights on the side, it’s really only a quick fix, and I feel so guilty once the rush has worn off.  My heart truly belongs to one precious food item – the almighty chili dog.  My mouth is already watering just from typing those words. 

I’m not kidding, my passion for hot dogs far exceeds almost everything else in my life (yeah ok, except for friends, family, music, writing, yadda yadda yadda… fine).  And no, it’s not simply a love for all things phallic related, although I probably make far too many “I love weiners” jokes.  I just freakin’ love them, ok?

When a friend of mine sent me this link today, it reminded me of a once lost childhood dream: I WANT TO DRIVE THE OSCAR MEYER WEINER MOBILE.

If it comes down to it, I’m willing to bet that this is something the Make a Wish Foundation could probably take care of. 

…How hard could it possibly be to fake a terminal illness… right?

Just play along,

Q

no shame here.

July 16, 2010

Some women treat buying condoms like robbing a bank.  They scan the store to see who’s in there, make sure it’s no one they know, tuck the box beneath one of the other 14 items they’re purchasing (all of which are purely props), make the purchase, and get the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible – probably with a getaway car idling out in the parking lot.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less who sees me making this purchase (except for maybe my mother… that would be weird.  And, I’m pretty sure she still hasn’t recovered from finding my birth control in my suitcase that weekend I was visiting from college. )  In fact, I kind of see it as empowering and sexy.  No, I don’t wave them around in the store, or wear a big sandwich board with the words “IM HAVING SEX” written on it, but I’m not ashamed. 

It’s 2010.  I like sex.  I’m being safe about it.  What’s the big f-ing deal?

We all know you can’t rely on men to BYOC.  Let’s face it, men are pretty damn unreliable.  (Hell, I couldn’t even get my ex to remember to pick up pasta sauce on his way home from the office.)  I’m not about to stop in the middle of whatever’s goin down to run out to 7-11 to pick some up, either.  I’m a believer in always having them on hand and always within an arm’s length of my bed.

The last time a dude was tryin’ to get a piece of all this sans rubber outterwear, I told him “hey, I like sex… but AIDS is for hookers” and that was that.

So listen up, ladies.  Quit your cowering in the “family planning” aisle.  March right into your local Wegman’s and make that purchase with your chest out and your head held high, ’cause you’re taking your body and your life into your OWN hands, and that is something that we all ought to be pretty damn proud of.

So can I get a “hell yeah”?

Q

not just construction workers.

July 1, 2010

I think I could probably write a book of all the weird things men do or love that make absolutely zero sense to me – farting under the covers, the attraction to girl-on-girl action, and naming body parts (just to name a few).

But what has continued to blow my mind more than anything over the last several years is WHY men feel the need to hoot and holler things to women on the street.  I honestly don’t get it.

I’ll be all hot and sweaty, with my hair pulled up in a ratty ponytail, minding my own business while walking the dog down the street… then I’ll feel the presence of a car slowing down beside me.  “Hey Baby, where you headed?” or perhaps even more puzzling is the “Woot woot” cat call done while the car is speeding by.

Has this EVER worked for men?  Have there EVER been any successful relationships that have started from this sort of contact?  Is there a woman out there that would respond to this with a “Oh hello! I really appreciated the way you so sweetly called out to me from your car.  No, I wasn’t aware of how nice my ass looked today, so thanks for pointing it out! Would you like to get a drink?”  Are there any statistics on this?  If not, can we start keeping statistics on this?  I feel like this is something we need to track.

You know, I can almost understand or excuse this if it is done by a carload full of young men. Oh ha ha, it’s so funny… and they all laugh and exchange high-fives.  But for a middle-aged man to do this while driving alone (probably on his way to pick up his kids from soccer practice or something), is just downright weird.  What is the freakin POINT?

Still puzzled,

Q

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