Posts Tagged ‘Single Life’

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

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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

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

gravel under your wheels.

May 18, 2010

Number one way to ruin a good buzz:  Running into your ex boyfriend while he is out with his new girlfriend (particularly when you are looking far from your best… sigh).

After the fact, I can think of about 1289612 things that I wish I had done or said to him.

I wish I played his least favorite song on the jukebox and sang along.

I wish that I walked right up to him and introduced myself to his new girlfriend.

I wish that I flirted shamelessly with the bartender and was showing a little more leg.

I wish that I failed to even acknowledge his existence.

Instead, I did the only thing I could think to do:  I raised a toast (loudly) to “douche bags everywhere” and promptly left the bar, thankful that he’s no longer my responsibility.

Putting the “ass” in “class”,

Q