lesson #61: sometimes all you have to do in life is just show up

Scene: Beginning of the 6^th race at the Santa Anita Racetrack. Annnnnnnnnnnd they’re off!

Me: (pitch in voice increasing) “oh.my.god. My horse is winning!”

Him #1: (looking down at my racing form) “Who did you pick?”

Me: (straining to see my red jerseyed money-maker) “What? Oh, OneBadBoy…I mean, with a name like that how could you not pick him.”

Him #2: (laughing) “I’m starting to see your where your dating issues stem from.”

Me: (eyes rolling to the back of my head. this is the guy giving me a hard time) “What are you talking about?”

Him #1: (nodding in agreement) “You girls always go for the bad boy…even when he’s laying it out right there on the table for the world to see.”

Me: (jumping up and down) “He won! He won!”

Him #2: (looking at the score board) “He didn’t win.”

Me: (visible excitement accompanied by mildly annoying shrieking) “He totally won…he showed! I won!”

Him #2: (shaking his head) “And so, like in life he did just enough to get buy and keep you hanging on. It’s like you didn’t hear from him all week and then at 6pm on a Sunday he offered to take you to dinner that night and all you remember is that he called. All he had to do was showed up again”

Me: (sighing, nodding)  “And so the cycle continues. Now, can you hold my beer while I go collect my winnings. This girl is in the mood for some Taco Bell courtesy of OneBadBoy.”

lesson #60: there’s nothing better than “re-losing” your virginity

Los Angeles can be exhausting. If you’re not careful, it can spiral into all of the commonly associated stereotypes that made my Dad say, ”Los Angeles? Los Angeles? (deep sigh) Are you sure about this one troopie?” when I told him that I was relocating to the left coast. The traffic is terrible, the rent is worse, the people do not always pick up after their dogs, and then there are the actors…oh the actors…they and their beautiful skin seem to be everywhere. Yes, it can really get to a girl sometimes.

Last week I was the MC at a pity party for one and without a doubt I was in the throes of a Los Angeles beat down. The way that I was feeling it would have been easy to lay in bed all weekend and wallow. It was rainy, cold, dismal…a perfect storm for wallowing, but I couldn’t. I had guests. I had to be the hostess. I had to plan marathon-training routes. I had to make sure there were enough towels. I had to pull my shit together…and it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.

My friends are amazing. I forget how lucky I am that they put up with me, because after all, I am the definition of a handful. But the people who I’m fortunate enough to exchange Christmas cards with are the absolute best. Seeing LA through their virgin eyes put the spark back in my love affair with my city. We were like explorers, discovering and rediscovering all the hidden treasures that she has to offer.

Whether we were magic erasing a little “love tap” between the parking gate and my rental car, watching Marquette turn in the most embarrassing NCAA tournament performance that the modern age has ever seen, putting a face to a mysterious moniker over the best poured beer in town, listening to the next big thing in an intimate concert venue, or cartwheeling down a virtually empty beach. we.had.fun. I lost count of how many times I had to put my head down on the table and firmly give myself a time out because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. As my 15 year-old self would say, “we had a time.”

But more than the jackpot vintage boot I found in just my size or the countless culinary success stories we had all over this town, I got a little reminder of how pretty darn fantastic my life is, even with the occasional misstep that results in an unplanned prescription for penicillin.  I have an adorable roof over my head, super cute shoes on my feet, and awfully great people in my address book. And this morning when I woke up it was like Dorothy opening the door to the munchkin village. It feels as though my life is in color again.

lesson #59: green is no one’s best color

It’s never easy when we, as people, have to admit to being less than our finest selves. I’m sorry might be the hardest two words in this girl’s english language…I’m a stubborn kid, but I owe someone an apology. I used the phrase “fearfully superficial” to describe personal preferences last week…and that was wrong. It was a slam on honesty.

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself…it seems like it isn’t a week in my life unless I hear a little chastising from one of my friends on the topic. But the reason I don’t always cut myself as much slack as I allow others is because every morning I hope to wake up a little better than I went to sleep and that means learning and growing…slowly, and sometimes with a lesson on repeat.

There’s no way around it, hurt people, hurt people. And for the last week I’ve been the former and done the latter. Misdirected anger is never attractive and never productive.

If I turn the introspective spotlight on, the truth is that I’m a little jealous of him. Jealous that he seems to live with no fear and wonderful reckless abandon. Jealous of the way his life has a natural ease and fluid impulsivity. I’m starting to think more than I want him, I want to live with his sense of freedom…honestly I straight up covet it (note to self: say 10 hail marys and 3 our fathers). So here is my dear diary moment where I obsess one more time and fret over one more boy as I say: “I wish I hadn’t been mean. I wish I hadn’t been judgmental.” Oh how I wish…

“i think i need a new heart” – the magnetic fields

i always feel like the girl “putting down her keys”…and somehow always like the guy who just means to say “turn off the light”

lesson #58: sooner or later everyone “we”s

So the social experiment in whether or not I can be friends with a certain former object of my affection has come to a rapid and dramatic conclusion. The verdict is in and it is a resounding “what the fuck were you thinking?” Sorry mom.

I was talking with my favorite guy in the world yesterday, the only boy who has ever truly gotten how to deal with this (circular reference towards me) mess and I was recounting how despite my best efforts to be casual, my new “friend” hurt my feelings. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He had stayed true to form and yet I had somehow thought that I was important enough, as his friend, for him to go a little out of his way. He didn’t. I was disappointed. It was like October all over again. And in the end what I concluded was I didn’t want to be his friend. I never wanted to be his friend. I wanted to date him. I had wanted to be the one he wanted to lay on the couch and listen to music and laugh with, or be the one he couldn’t wait to tell the most unbelievable thing ever to, or be who he wanted to give that soothing hug to when it feels like the world is crashing in. And when I really dug down deep I still wanted all of that. Goodbye friends. My best guy agreed.

So I told him that. I told him that I thought he was amazing (because he is in so many ways).  I told him that I thought that I could get over wanting to kiss his face every time I saw him, but I couldn’t. I told him a lot of things. It was all very thoughtful and heartfelt…and then there was this:

note: these are excerpts from written correspondence so what follows is in all its verbatim glory

me: “I thought it would make my life richer if you were a part of it. But I now realize I can never go to your birthday party or after-bar party or yay, it’s Tuesday party because the idea that I would have to see you with the girl that is cool enough and patient enough and all the enoughs to become your “we” is not in my best interest.”

him: “There won’t be a we with anyone.  There’s a bunch of mini-we’s that will continue until I am too old and unattractive to we.”

So.Many.Thoughts just started ricocheting around inside my head like balls in the powerball lottery drawing machine. As I read and reread his singular sentence 50 times (unfortunately on the bus…nothing like tearing up as you learn you were decidedly unspecial on LA public transportation.) I kept thinking…A bunch? A bunch? What exactly constitutes a bunch? Is it more than a gaggle, but less than a harem?

First, I mentally noted to schedule a trip to the free clinic to see what gifts my fellow “bunchers” might have given me (since it turns out my “friend” is the less forthcoming 2^nd cousin of this guy), and then I asked myself why are these the guys that edge their way into my fragile and exhausted little heart?

As a survivor of the first wave of the great american divorce phenomenon, where phrases such as “step-parent”, “child support”, and “visitation privileges” were easily accessible parts of my lexicon, I am not sold on the idea of “putting a ring on it.” Some may call it prohibitively adverse (I’m a living in sin kind of gal). But even with my serious commitment reservations I don’t believe when you are spreading yourself like peanut butter on toast across a team of 25 year olds (just guessing…educatedly guessing, but guessing) you can possibly be getting anything fulfilling back. To me it sounds like what he has is a whole lot of fearful superficiality. Because it takes courage to “we”.

And as much as he is resistant to the idea, I predict he is going to continue to mini-we his way through the greater metro area (perhaps up and down the coast) until one day he finds himself laying next to someone who is all of the enoughs and he realizes he is better together with one than apart with many. I’ve seen it time and time again. It will happen long before he is too old and long before he is too unattractive. And when it does happens I’ll whisper a quiet I told you so because I firmly believe eventually, there is always a “we”.

lesson #57: hemingway was wrong, there is one true thing

I was in the grocery store tonight and following a couple up the frozen food aisle, and not following in a creepy “I’ve got my eye on you” kind of way. We just happened to both be in need of a previously assembled, ready to heat pizza…anyway focus…the girl was not a happy camper. Not.One.Bit. She was picking a fight about toppings, getting way too aggressive over heat and serve vegetables, and girlfriend was bitter about her poor choice in cart…oh yes, there was some profanity thrown out in Aisle 9 of the Pavillion’s tonight. But what struck me was her other half. He didn’t get annoyed, he didn’t take the bait, he just looked at her and took her in his arms momentarily resting his chin on the top her head and then gently kissing her forehead.

And it struck me…at the end of the day that is all people are looking for. Someone to know exactly when all you need is a hug, and to want more than anything in the world to be the person to give it to you. Yes, I would like to register for that please…way more practical and durable than 500 thread count sheets.

lesson #56: I am the music maker and I am the dreamer of the dreams

I just got out of the shower. I do all of my best work in the shower. Seriously. In school I thought through all my papers in there, I think through copy for work, I visualize art projects…it’s productive time. And tonight the fruit of my labor is the realization I just might be the human incarnation of a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket for other people to get exactly what their heart has always desired…a lucky charm if you will.

I’m sure a few of you are scratching your head and thinking good god where can she possibly be going with this one…is it going to take a while to get there…should I get some popcorn? To which I respond trust me this analogy is going to play out well, but you can never go wrong with snacks.

So where am I going with this? Well, as I was gently massaging shampoo into my scalp to help prevent hair follicle gunky build up (just as the bottle advises) I started to think back to how when I was in flight school I went through nine flight instructors in one semester. NINE. And it wasn’t because people were throwing up their hands and headsets into the air because “this girl can NOT be taught”. No. No. No. The source of the revolving door on this girl’s airplane was that for a brief period in the winter/spring of 1998 there was no faster way to be hired by an airline than to be overseeing my aviation education.

If I remember correctly as a general rule it was a few weeks before my magic resulted in the phone call every flight instructor dreams of, but there was one lucky individual where all it took was a single afternoon of VOR approaches and he was off and running to The Show. It is actually the only time I remember being the object of multiple boys’ desire.  Instructors were fighting over who was going to get a piece of this action. Yes, sir the best wooing of my life happened that semester.

As I rinsed the shampoo (thoroughly and completely) and began to work the conditioner through my color-treated stressed out tresses I started to wonder if this Midas touch had ever manifested itself in other venues of my life…and there it was. I am the last girl almost everyone I’ve ever dated bought dinner for before they met “the one”. Now if you didn’t follow that maze of words, basically I’m the last girl they decided not to call back. Yes, it’s true in all likelihood if we dated, I am your husband’s last ex-girlfriend. Awesome.

As I grabbed the Dove unscented bar of soap (sensitive skin takes all the fun out of getting clean) I started to do a little mental math. What I was left with (besides irresistibly soft skin) was 87%. Yes, America (and select parts of Europe who read this) 87% of the people I have dated started dating their final significant other right after me. Wow. Is that possible? Let’s dive a little deeper shall we…

There is this guy, who brings new meaning to “it’s the thought that counts”, he met his wife three weeks after telling me in a single breath that I wasn’t worth the effort but he really hoped we could stay friends (actual quote people…I know, it’s shocking I have issues). Then there was this guy, my favorite singer. I think his ladylove came into his life a month or so after our last romantic rendezvous and they’ve been like peanut butter and jelly ever since. I wonder what song he assigned to her?

And then there is the game clincher. Many moons ago, when I lived in the MSP I was out on a Saturday night when I met the older brother of a friend’s boyfriend. He had just broken up with his long-time girlfriend because he just didn’t think she was “the one” (gag). We talked, we laughed, he bought me very fancy cocktails followed by not so fancy beers and at the end of the night he asked for my phone number. He called, we talked, but nothing ever came of it. About a month later I was out again and ran into him and his fiancée…yes, you read that right FIANCEE…you know the girl who wasn’t the one. Damn. I guess the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.

As I reached for the faucet and prepared for the creativity and the lukewarm water to cease flowing I couldn’t help but wonder who would be next. Has the bartender found someone to run lines with for the next commercial that will stalk me wherever I go? Is the future mrs. good sushi, good music, good glasses already enjoying Sunday morning pancakes in pjs? (sigh)

Now that I’m dry and cozy in my goonies t-shirt, snug as a bug in a rug under the covers I’ve decided it might be best to keep my special skill to myself. Part of me feel like I could rent myself out with the promise “committed to you after 3 dates with me”, you know…make it into a public service. But then again, if word were to get out it would probably result in girls trailing me on Friday nights checking out who I’m letting buy me drinks because they know that in 3-4 week he will be ripe for the picking. I think that they should have to work a little harder for it. And let’s face it I don’t need that kind of pressure.

lesson #55: I get by with a little help from my friends

People always seem to want to be friends. When you’re breaking up with someone it’s the knock the wind out of you, cherry on the sundae comment that always seems to rear its ugly head right when you need it least. No, I’m sorry. I don’t think you are going to get THAT as your thanks for trying relationship parting gift.

But as I grow older and wiser I have started to realize that what was actually being requested most of the time is let’s be friendly. Let’s be cordial so that when I run into you with your new lucky lady we can smile, and ask all the right superficial questions that give the appearance that we care and are interested in maintaining relationships. Let’s be on good enough terms so that when my name comes up in casual conversation “that nut job” isn’t the first phrase to escape your lips.

You may ask: “Why do you make everything so hard? Why do you over analyze and over think everything? Why do you have these ridiculous expectations of people?” “Is it tiring being that uptight?” To which I respond: “All valid questions, and yes, it’s exhausting.” But hey, I give just as good as I get. I could laundry list out why I am a friend catch, as I break my arm patting myself on the back. Instead, I’ll just leave it at: “you want to have this girl in your back pocket.”

In case you haven’t caught my subtle drift I was recently asked to “be friends”.  (sigh). The truth is that in select instances I have been able made this friends thing work. I’ve been able to shut off the wanting more and my innate desire to cuddle because I know that my life will be richer for having that person be a part of it. Not everyone makes the cut; some will always be relegated to Facebook friends that are hidden the moment I click the friendship accept button (my desire to people please prevents me from denying anyone).

But the real reason that I have a fairly successful batting average in this area is because I’ve been lucky enough that the other half of the friendship necklace wants to make the effort. They check in to see hear about my latest adventure with the LA Mass Transit System. They suggest books and music and movies that I.Have.Just.Got.To.See. They offer advice after the most recent crash and burn dating disaster because they’ve been there, done that. They know that sometimes a girl just needs pie and they leave a pecan delicacy on my doorstep just to brighten my Saturday afternoon. They are thoughtful, and kind, and warm because they know that is what I really value in my peeps. And they never, ever forget my birthday (ever).  In other words they are active participants in this girl’s show. Because while friendliness can be achieved with little more than a smile and good manners; being friends takes work…they don’t just hand them out like lollipops in a doctor’s office.

Only time will tell if the most recent applicant will make the transition from awkward friendliness to genuine, call-in-a-pinch friend. I hope so, but at the end of the day I don’t hand out spots on this coveted Christmas card list willy-nilly.

lesson #54: “out of mind” only works when her partner in crime “out of sight” is right by her side

trouble with a capital

warning: this is long. this could require snacks. this could be the one that causes you to finally say “girlfriend you have GOT to get your shit together”. you have been warned.

Last week I read this article by the hilarious John DeVore that basically called out all the single ladies who sit back and lament their singleness as being unfair, undeserved, and basically a plague on their house called down upon them by whatever god they choose to believe in. As I read his wise, wise words I started to feel the remnants of another “lonely rider” Valentine’s Day fade away and be replaced with the “I’m every woman” empoweredness that comes from not just saying “hey, I’m okay with how things are because it’s just how they are supposed to be”, but really believing that I am right where I need to be in life. I mean, I’ve come to terms with good glasses, good music, good sushi boy “not being in the same place as I was” (cough, cough…bullshit boy excuse) and beyond come to terms with, have experience the epiphany that even if we had planted our individual claim staking flags on the very same square of free Oklahoma land we would never have been in the same place. He was one more person on my merry road of experience that I can look back on with the shake of a head and say “wowza, now there was a life lesson.”

Can you sense the moving on? I mean, I am over it, I am ready to run into him and be my most amazing self….or so I thought.

This past Monday night I was at a concert (yes, on a school night) and I was enjoying one of my new favorite bands when they played my of-the-moment favorite song (this changes on a weekly basis, but that night this was it) As I sang along with not so perfect pitch I took the opportunity to survey my fellow music revelers. As I scanned the room my eyes drifted to the center of concert goers and that is when my heart stopped beating. As I struggled to catch my breath I turned to my friend and whispered (as much as a person can whisper in a music venue) he’s here.

For the next 30 minutes I made the conscious choice not only to breathe in and out, but to under no circumstances look in his direction. Why do I even care that he is here? How is it possible that I liked someone I barely knew this much? How is it possible that someone I went out with a handful of times has this profound of an effect on me? As these and other questions raced through the Daytona 500 track that is my brain I almost didn’t feel the tap on my shoulder.

As I slowly turned with the certain knowledge that I was about to be face to face with the glasses that I had loved on first sight all I could think to myself was hold it together. Be the girl you know you can be with just the right amount of smart and witty tempered by an alluring hair toss from time to time. Yes, that was all I wanted in the world…I would have gladly traded my first-born child for the guarantee that I was going to be the best version of myself I could be. And then I looked into his face sporting brand new glasses (even better than the old ones) and he hugged me and I knew that it was all over. Smart and witty was replaced with salty and bitter (awesome combo); alluring hair toss couldn’t manifest as nervous hair tucking and ear pulling was taking up all the space in the room. There was nothing about me that said “that’s right, you are kicking yourself, because look at this one that got away.” It was a whole lot more like: “Whew, bullet dodged.”

As 15 of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life unfolded he learned that I had in fact moved to the neighborhood. As he gave me the sideways glance reserved for assessing a potential stalker (I have cast such a glance myself more than once) he laughed off that we now live 7 blocks apart and welcomed me to the east side…although, I think he was mentally writing a note to start checking the Craigslist rentals as soon as he got home.

Eventually the awkwardness was too just much to bear he excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. And I was left to replay a newly created cringe-worthy interlude in my head. The next day as I gave a play-by-play to a friend (because that’s what us gals do) I couldn’t help but admit when he hugged me I wanted it to last a little bit longer. I couldn’t help but admit that once again he had been gracious and kind in a difficult situation and I had been a tad bitchy. I couldn’t help but admit I still found him practically perfect in so many ways, but for the first time what I could grasp with both hands was that he wasn’t perfect for me no matter how great his taste in music or his new glasses looked.

Look at this kid growing…I blame it on all the Miller Lite I drink.

But where did all this real wisdom come from…a great friend of mine recently recounted her breakup with a guy (once again, what we gals do) and it was filled with some of the most insightful comments I have ever heard (someday I hope to be so on top of my game in that type of situation that I can utter more than a pitiful, “why don’t you love me?”), but the one thing that rang so true was when she told him: “I know that I’m smart, and funny, and talented, and beautiful, but I want to know that you think those things too…and I never do. And that isn’t right.” That was it, in a concise little sentence. In the limited amount of time that glasses, music, sushi and I spent together I never felt that he thought any of those things about me. Because of this lack of security I was constantly trying to prove to him how amazing I was…and as the play-by-play of the Monday night convo indicates I was still trying to prove. And as everybody knows that story never ends well…it ends four months later with his awkwardly backing away and my head in my hands sighing. Maybe if just once I’d felt he believed those things about me, it would have gone differently; I would have been the 97.5% girl I know that I can be (we haven’t talked about her in a while), things would have ended better, things maybe wouldn’t have ended at all (though I’m sure whomever he is currently dating is happy that mine is the act she gets to follow). But things happen just how they’re going to happen, right? After all, the “What If” game is more dangerous than Russian Roulette, people.

Now for the average person this disaster would have concluded right there, but this girl is not your average bear…no Ranger Smith, she is not. I once again checked my pride at the door and decided to “fix” things by apologizing for challenging Tina Fey’s best caricature of a mean girl. And where that ended up was with a conversation that without a doubt proves my life exists for some higher being’s personal entertainment:

me: yeah, I moved to xx street

him: really, I used to have a friend that lived on that street. He lived in this little place that had this crazy convoluted hallway that twisted around and this strange double-doored closet in the living room…what are the changes that it’s the same place?

me: (eyes widening, sit back from the keyboard, sigh) everyday I experience a little more holy cow realization as to what a small world this is.

Folks…it’s the same place.

If someone was to read the script that is my life they would sit back, shake their head, and say, “nope, sorry, totally unbelievable, rewrite it.”

lesson #53: it’s only a matter of time before every single girl will jump the shark

We’ve all seen what happens when a television show has stayed on the boob tube past its prime. It becomes a painful weekly exercise of writers trying to push out passable material so that their kids can have braces and their yards can have gardeners. There is even a commonly known term for the exact moment when those folks who you used to anxiously wait to show up in your living room became persona non gratis. Yes, ladies and gentlemen I am referring to the happy days inspired “jumping the shark”…and I am sorry to say that my dating life may now officially qualify.

I openly admit that since my crash and burn with good music, good sushi, good glasses guy things have been a little stunted on the dating front. And by a little I mean my new BFF netflicks-on-demand and I have been spending a lot of quality time together. A.Lot. I’ve been busy being both disturbed and inspired by the team at Hewes and Associates, falling in L-U-V with QB1 of the Dillion Panthers, and learning to sleep with the light on because of the elusive Dexter Morgan. But because of this recent “activity” in my life I have been slow to realize that I my friends may have officially given up on “find a soul mate” potential. Actually, they may have given up on my “find someone to go dutch on ice cream with” potential. Sad, but true facts to face here kids.

No longer do conversations include questions such as:

“so have you met any new boys lately?”

Because they inevitably are answered with a reaction such as:

(choke/snort into my beer…because I’m from Wisconsin…there’s usually a beer) “Ah, no. Those rivers done dried up.”

No longer do girly chats include statements such as:

“Oh.My.Word, I met the perfect guy for you. When are you free to go out with him?”

Instead they now go a little something like this:

“I think that it’s time for you to get a dog…you almost slip in the shower daily…you probably should have a lassie around to call for help.”

And then the nail in the coffin came last week. I received a wedding invitation that was address to me. And only me. No guest. Yes, it is officially expected that I will forever be eating my buffet chicken at the singles table in the back of the banquet room. Sigh. When did I officially become the poster child for amorous lost causes? I mean I know I’ve had a head shaking moment or two…or twenty that have caused many to want to turn away in horror, but seriously completely washed up at 31 and three-quarter years old? Really guys…you think? And then this happened…

I was out at a show with friends last week and after the band had finished I found myself talking to this really nice, good-looking, smart, and witty guy…for crying out loud he said “goodness gracious”. Be.Still.My.Beating.Heart. Seriously, this girl’s holy grail of male companion characteristic combination, right? And to find it in LA…forget about it.

So there I was chatting him up like I’ve done with hundreds of boys before, but what was spewing forth was not quick or engaging. It is not what would be considered look at me, love me, think I’m so funny repartee. What it can best be described as was my mouth writing a check to cover my one-way ticket to Spinsterville, population: all the single ladies.

While my recollection of the conversation is slightly clouded by the Dayquil/Maker’s Mark cocktail I was nursing, I remember there being talk of global warming and our world’s changing weather patterns, road trips across the American southwest that encompass “world’s largest”, “world’s smallest”, and “world wonder” type pit stops, and of course, the deal sealer, Nazi paraphernalia collections. Uh, yeah.  You heard me right. Nazis and Weather. I mean take me home tonight material right there. It was like I was on the verbal equivalent of going down the Wikipedia rabbit hole where one seemingly benign entry leads to an eye brow raising one, which leads to blush inducing topic, and before you know it you have found yourself reading about the most prevalent communicable diseases of 16^th century Venice; a topic that did not arise with my bespectacled new crush, but a new area of expertise I can bring to your next party (I’ll keep an eye out for my invitation…).

So after careful consideration, I find myself back on my couch and accepting my fate as the leader of the “cake for one” table at a wedding near you and facing the fact that it is only a matter of time before I’ve officially caught up on all five seasons of Brothers and Sisters. Sigh.

lesson #52: kids say the darndest things

Last week I was IM’ing with my 8-year old niece over Facebook. She resides in the land of early to love, early to marriage, way to early to the baby carriage…see the twisted comedy that unfolded:

her: Guess what, I have a boyfriend.

me: (sigh) Don’t you think that you are a little young for a boyfriend, you did just break your arm when you fell off a bed you were jumping on? I mean, I’m still too young for a boyfriend.

her: You’re not too young for a boyfriend. My mom has a boyfriend and she’s like 10 years younger than you.

me: (slightly indigant—or as indignant as you can be IM’ing…there was forceful typing) she may be 6 years younger, but she is loads more mature than I am.

her: Whatever. Don’t worry, I’ll find you a man while you are home for Christmas.

me: (loud exhale)(hang my head)…well they do say it takes a village, I just didn’t know my village included a grade school yenta.

lesson #50: if given the choice of a merry-go-round or a rollercoaster always opt for the rollercoaster

In an effort to keep the gerbil on the wheel, I’ve been keeping a low profile lately. And by low profile I mean avoiding interaction with heterosexual members of the opposite sex at all costs. Based on the subject matter of late that has comprised LFaB (oh yeah, there’s an acronym) I think that we can all agree that is probably for the best. As much fun as the regression to my 16-year-old self’s lack of emotional maturity was to live through (in a word: loads), I am once again happy to be in my 30s and slowly emerging from the recent humiliation to which I have subjected myself and the horrifyingly tragic, yet impossible to look away from train wreck that I have recounted for all of you. I think that we can all breathe a collective sigh of relief (phew).

As my sabbatical wraps up and I prepare to fully immerse myself in all the new adventures the universe has in store for me, I look to two recent events (we’ll categorize them as lessons lite) as possible indicators for the roller coaster of fun that life could have around the corner for me:

• lite lesson #1: love is a fickle, fickle beast

Last Friday night I was having a drink with an old friend (and a new friend, Maker’s Mark…have you met?) when a “gentleman” who was all together too intoxicated for 9:15pm got up from his seat walked up to our table, grabbed my head and proceeded to plant one on the side of my face. After a whole heap of shock and disbelief subsided I decided not to make a big deal of it, we’ve all been there, and just take it as a compliment (after all, I did shower that day…aka hot stuff in the house) and decided to continue on with my night. About 20 minutes later said “gentleman” was threatened with expulsion from the establishment for the inappropriate touching of another female bar patron. Not such hot stuff after all I guess.

• lite lesson #2: LA may actually be a smaller town than mayberry

The day before Thanksgiving I was in the line at the grocery store (genius move I know), just chilling, bobbing my head back and forth to the music playing overhead…there’s a good chance there was a little singing along action. After two soft rock classics and an elevator version of some song the original artist never intended to have turned into muzak (but his kids need braces too) had played the impatience monster that lives not so deep inside me started to awaken. As the fidgeting began to be accompanied by weight shifting and loud sighing I started to glance from side-to-side. As I looked over to my right a bright orange fleece caught my eye. He was tall. He was cute. He was very cute. He was…the bartender. Yes, THE bartender.

Don’t be jealous, this sideshow of a life is mine, all mine.

lesson #49: pencils have erasers for a reason

One of the greatest things about life is that it just keeps going. Regardless of the jackass thing you said, regardless of the damn fool behavior you displayed, regardless of how much you might just want to curl up under the safety of that fluffy down comforter, sooner or later life comes a knockin’ and you have to get up and answer the door.

I’ve been a little down on myself lately…as you may have gathered if you are even an occasional reader of this experiment in oversharing (and if you didn’t gather, I’m a little nervous about your powers of perception because this girl is not subtle). With the great dating debacle of fall 2010 (see lesson #47, #48, #48.5) at a safe month ago distance I’m starting feel a little bit more like myself.  It’s amazing to me how sometimes it’s the things that don’t work out in life (no matter how small in the grand scheme they are – hello, just a few dates), which prove to be the catalysts for the biggest and best changes.

I was emailing with a friend of mine the other day we were discussing the ways in which he had been a train wreck with his past relationship…because boys ponder these things too, just not with quite as much obsessive angst as the double-x chromosome carriers.  All of a sudden the best advice, the wisest person I’ve ever known gave to me popped into my head:

“the luckiest thing that has ever happened to me, is that most things in my life haven’t gone the way I wanted them to”

Man, truer words were never spoken.

If I had gotten everything I’d ever wanted in life I definitely would not be sitting in my amazing cottage in the city of Los Angeles, with a world of possibility in front me. I wouldn’t be rediscovering how much I love to draw and paint. I wouldn’t be learning that I can write songs, and can figure out how to hang that picture without the assistance of a seemingly necessary 3/16” drill bit.

I wouldn’t be reminding myself that if good music, good sushi, good glasses guy made me feel insecure (whether it’s his fault or mine) it means that he was never going to be the right guy for me…and beyond reminding myself, believing it and being comfortable with the reality of it….and on top of all that being thankful for the lesson I learned because of it (I should probably send him a thank you card).

Who knows if I would have become a person that always has an idea of how to break into her own house because she will inevitably lock herself out (day 3 in my new place…thank god I’m limber). It’s possible if I’d taken another path in life I wouldn’t be on top of my creative problem solving game and able to get that 9ft Christmas tree from the shelf to the cart to the car at Cost Co. I’m fairly certain that regardless of the multitude of routes my life could have taken I would always believe that sprinkles make cookies taste better…but then there are certain givens in life.

Just those little realizations are my ticket to reclaiming the spark I’ve been missing. So as much as I may think that I’m tired of things not going according to “plan” the truth is that the best thing about my life is that nothing has ever gone according to plan so why fight it…and to quote someone I once knew, “plans are for nerds and explorers.”

And with this ends my self-reflective period, please hold your applause.

lesson #48.5: when the going gets tough, the tough turn to milton bradley

I would like to begin by saying the outpouring of concern after lesson #48 was extremely sweet. Unnecessary, but so super nice. Every email of support, phone call pep talk, self-help book suggestion, first date proposition, and of course that marriage proposal (kidding – just seeing how closely my mother is reading) was appreciated. But there are two things that you should always keep in the back of your mind when reading what I write:

1. I have a tendency to trend towards the dramatic (and by trend I mean I have a permanent mailing address there). As those that have met me can attest when it comes to this here girl there are usually hands gesturing, eyes widening, while eyebrows are rising, and an immense amount of expressive sighing…and it only gets worse in prose…seriously I could have been a staff writer for Dynasty.
2. Appearances can be deceiving. My concept of time is relative at best. I might say it was yesterday, but if I’m writing about it, I’ve processed and I’m no longer crying in my soup.

With that bit of paperwork out of the way I want to say that I have the best friends in the world (as well I should…I’ve paid enough for them). They know how to give just the right amount of “you’re great kid” without crossing the line to uncomfortable gushing. So as an ode to friendship below are the five best quotes overheard last night during nature’s therapy session…aka game night:

• Player #1: “Pirate. Pirate is always the best answer. I’m not even going to read the rest”, Player #2: “but what if one of the cards is goat?”, Player #1: “Oh…that would be what we classify as a dilemma.”
• “Is that a magic bullet you’ve got over there? I’ve never seen one of those babies in action.”
• “Now were you drunk? Or were you Myrtle Beach Drunk?”
• “Why did I waste Bangkok on juicy it would have been perfect for rigorous, gotta keep my head in the game.”
• “A well maintained woman’s armpit can be a very attractive thing…those smuggling kittens need not apply.” (followed by an incredibly realistic meow)

lesson #48: when I assume I usually just make an ass out of me

the new hood

*Disclaimer: This may take a while to read. At times it could be awkward, uncomfortable, and cringe worthy. It may require a glass of wine…actually why don’t you just do that right now…go get a cocktail, I’ll wait. Okay, you all settled? Go ahead:

I used to be sassy…real sassy. I was known for it. But over time I feel like I’ve lost a little of my spark. It’s been a slow evolution…so gradual that on a day-to-day basis it’s been virtually undetectable, but I sit and reflect and I feel as though I’ve lost the pep in my step and I want it back.

I used to be this effervescent, ridiculously self-confident being. So many girls go around saying “I’m a catch” but, I was…I mean, I’m smart (more trivial pursuit dynamo than Fulbright Scholar, but the lights are on, and this girl is home), witty, interesting, and dare I say it because Catholic girls are taught vanity is the greatest of sins, I’m kind of a pretty girl, maybe even a looker on the days when I can work in a shower and run a comb through my hair (I’m not on billboards or anything, but I’m not scaring small children either)…and when I was on, I was on.

What I realize I’ve become is the antithesis of all that and her name be insecurity. (sigh). Even in this dear diary moment that is so hard to say out loud. So embarrassing. I’ve never been here before and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. I don’t know if there was an actual impetus I can pinpoint as the spot in time where yes that is where you took the turn, or if it was a the combination of certain events, environmental factors, and my deterioratingly poor diet of spaghettios and macaroni and cheese, but whatever the root cause we have got a situation on our hands. It started with a general feeling of unattractiveness that even a heaping coat of red lipstick couldn’t seem to remedy, it then evolved into a fear of making a stupid observational comment (did anyone else hear the record scratch when I spoke?), which eventually steamrolled into thinking no one was in the mood for my sarcasm/or anecdotes…etc, etc, etc.

My tipping point was a boy…it’s always a boy. This boy is one in the same as he who necessitated the day of eating and the night of drinking a few weeks back. Unfortunately our story didn’t end with lesson #47…I wasn’t quite strong enough or more accurately I didn’t have a tight enough grip on my dignity to just go gently into that good “let’s just be friends” night. Nope, I wasn’t; nope, I didn’t.

Instead of adopting the mantra of “you snooze, you lose” which is always the best route when romantic entanglements end not by one’s own choosing, I caved to my best over-thinking tendencies and played a rousing game of “what if”. As I mentally traversed the behavioral sideshow I had displayed I realized I had a headshaker on my hands. Seriously. The girl I was watching was unrecognizable, she looks a lot like me, and god knows that is my childlike voice, but I would never behave like that? Would I? Oh.My.Word. What is she doing now…did she just call him again? Girlfriend, if he wants to talk to you (which if he’s smart he will, because you’re awesome) he’ll call you. Put.Down.The.Phone you dum-dum. Oh it was painful. I mean, I make no secret that I am not good at beginnings…shitty is the adjective I most readily attach. I’m usually impatient and a little overanxious…but I keep the situation just this side of obnoxious, but this time…oh this time, it was a special kind of disaster.

For a good week I couldn’t figure out what on earth had come over me. I tried to “fix” things (never do this people…it only makes the train wreck worse) by “wittily” explaining how instead of a lesson learned for next time let’s make it a lesson learned for this time (actual quote people), but trying to “fix” anything in and of itself was screaming this shit show isn’t getting better any time soon…get out while you can.

Yes, it was 100%, 15-year-old girl insecurity. It wasn’t because of anything he did…it was completely because of who he was.  And not like “who” he was in terms of “US Weekly celebrities they’re just like us” who he was. No, No, No. It was that I could tell instantly this guy was exactly who this girl, who never likes anyone enough for a second date, had been holding out for. He was smart (so smart), witty, interesting, and completely comfortable with himself in a way that is the most attractive thing on earth (which is a slap in the face from the oxy moron police considering the insecurity that was rearing its ugly head)…he owned his flaws in a perfectly self-aware way that endears someone in my heart immediately…he was a long haul kind of guy…or at the very least someone you want to learn their middle name. But once he was in front of me I couldn’t do anything but assume it was only a matter of time before he realized what a mistake he had made. There are prettier, smarter, way cooler, more interesting gals in this here city of angels. Can you smell the self-fulfilling prophecy…yup, I became someone I wouldn’t have called back either.

He was patient, way more patient than this girl deserved…he tried to give me the benefit of the doubt, but in the end he took the “I’m just not available for anything so serious” route…punch you in the gut fantastic stuff right there. Because what he was actually saying was “what we’re dealing with is a cost/benefit analysis situation. I don’t think that the hassle (cost) you and your antics are forcing me to experience is worth the time we are spending together that I would categorize as enjoyable (benefit) …oh yeah, and there’s no way in hell I want to give up sleeping with other people.” Awesome.

This might seem like an unbearable pity party for one…and I’m guessing there were a couple of times you might have diverted your eyes because it was just too painful to read. But the good news is…and in my world there is always a good news…I’m working my way back to who I know I can be/have been/will be…that girl that turned heads when she walked in a room, who knows maybe an even better more grown up version of her. I’ve missed her and I think other people have too. Maybe this whole situation was just the kick in the pants I needed to start lining up my ducks. Oh and don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying this is entirely my fault. It’s not completely bananas to think that a girl might need a little reassurance from time to time that you still want to see my face across from you at dinner (especially in the beginning). What I do take on completely as my responsibility is I didn’t give good taste in music, good taste in sushi, good taste in glasses guy a chance to show me that he did think I was as smart and cool and interesting as I know I am.  At the end of the day this isn’t really about him…he was just a symptom of a larger issue…it’s about remembering how to live out loud. Part of me wishes he would somehow find this so he knows that our brief interlude ranks high on my 2010 list of “oh jeeze” moments and the girl he had the pleasure of experiencing was not the finest version of herself. But I more see the potential for an awkward Trader Joe’s encounter (because oh yeah did I forget I recently sussed out my new apartment location is a little close for comfort…always zoom out on the google map of the neighborhood before signing the lease people, always)…I’m hoping he’ll at least catch a glimpse of the great gal I am…and smack his forehead for not powering through the shitty beginning to the amazing middle that always follows (seriously, I have references)…but there is also the possibility he could abandon his cart mid-aisle and run the other way…it’s a crap shoot at this point.

lesson #47: men are from mars, women are from venus…or at the very least it is an east coast/west coast rivalry

I hate how the beginning is the best and the worst part of dating. Hate.It. Let me say it again for emphasis: hate.it. Mainly because I am not made for beginnings. Number 1: I’m impatient. Number 2: I cut to the chase, which usually involves me making reference to “please don’t waste my time.” Number 3: I need feedback…you know to help keep the gerbil on the wheel because this girl’s imagination is all kinds of overactive. Any of these little quirks individually isn’t too bad, but in combination, whew…it’s a recipe for disaster…you hear that dis.as.ter.

Let me set the scene for you: by some twist of fate I recently met someone new…and I was excited (for the first time in a long time)…some may use the phrase twitterpated (any by some I mean me). He was interesting and smart and cute, man he was cute in a nerdy/cool/completely self-confident type-of-way that has a 9.8 degree of difficulty in executing. He liked the same music, he liked the same movies, he liked the same sushi…seriously, and did I mention there were glasses? It’s like Mother Nature took a look at my Christmas wish list and put him right there in front of me. I mean he was someone I had no hesitations in telling my last name to. Cue the afore-mentioned best parts of getting to know someone. It’s like being an explorer. There is so much to learn…and anyone who knows me knows how much I love to google. The topics of discussion are endless because there is nothing but vast uncharted territory…remember in Short Circuit where Number 5 is constantly looking for input. That is totally the first 3-4 weeks of dating for me…I want to take it all in, and process, and figure out this person with the perfectly disheveled hair. And then there is the making out…don’t shake your head at me…you know what I’m talking about. All good stuff right there.

So where do the worst parts of dating enter the picture? Well they come into play because of this girl’s lack of patience. I don’t obsessively punch the walk button at stoplights or line hop in Target…but I have waiting issues. I like to just say hi and see if someone had a good day. I like to share the hilarious sight I saw when walking to the Trader Joe’s for lunch (and I live in West Hollywood, CA…there are A LOT of sights to share) and dammit I want to know that you want to see me again…even if it isn’t going to happen for a week…I like having something to look forward to if it’s going to happen. I’m a stereotypical girl in that way. The problem I encounter is that boys in general and the good music, good movie, good sushi boy in particular do not operate with this same mentality. They are all “woman get your foot off the gas pedal. Why are you rushing me?”  And the truth is I don’t know why I seem to be pushing because I’m totally cool seeing you once a week right now. I got shit to do too. I just want to know you want to see me too. I know. I’m lame. I’m aware.

So here I am another monther come and gone and having my “kicked to the curb” meal of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, to be followed by ice cream; today is my official eating day, Saturday is my official drinking day and then it will be time to move on. I’m telling myself that the man in the grocery store yesterday was right when he said it’s a lucky person who gets to see my smile everyday (I’m choosing to block out the part where he was trying to weasel his way in front of me in line…sometimes it’s important to cling to the sunshine and lollipop side of things.) But I do wonder if I’ll be smarter next time…or if my life will always be a modern-day retelling of the Biggie vs. Tupac tragedy. I just know that right now this one stings a lot more than I would have anticipated.

lesson #46: when you start pointing fingers there are three pointing right back at you

if only life came with an undo button

My goal in appointing myself as a dating disaster storyteller was to give myself a forum to voice my frustrations, commence the cathartic process towards healing, and let others out there know you are not alone in your war against the romantically absurd…so altruistic in nature, right?  I talk about other people’s ridiculous behavior (and sometimes my own), its impact on my life, and my superiority over it. I talk about the crazies, the awkwards, and the meanies. While I openly admit that once or twice (maybe three times) I have fallen into the afore-mentioned cuckoo category (just a short ride on the loco-motion) and we all know this girl knows awkward, but I have never considered myself one of the meanies…that was until today.

I take a lot of pride in being of the midwestern persuasion, where we go out of our way to choose our words and spare other people’s feelings. Most who know me would say that I go overboard smoothing things over and making sure that things are a-okay for all involved. Well I have failed miserably. I have always had a fairly friendly working relationship with the majority of the people who I have dated. There are definite exceptions to this statement…but for the most part some of my biggest supporters are people who used to call me up and ask me to dinner. Where things get fuzzy are those people who I went out with a couple of times. If it was necessary to actually “end things “ in an official capacity I’ve always tried to handle it with respect and consideration in the moment…and then write about it later…as a lesson for myself and  for all of you. I just found out one such lesson read about himself and he is none to happy with this girl.

Now, let me say this, I stand behind every statement that I have made on this here internet…I don’t make things up…I do sometimes exaggerate for comedic effect (I was never changing the locks on my front door from the letter writer…but I was seriously weirded out). I’m not positive how my former suitor found out about the location of my stories…I have a sneaking suspicion that in an effort to fill airtime during one dating attempts I may have mentioned it (I don’t remember doing it, but I also don’t remember what I had for breakfast today)…the point is he found it, and it hurt him. While I will say that this apology is not going out to the bartender (though he’s been the source of a little karmic revenge recently – and let’s face it no one comes off badly in that cautionary tale except me) I’m not going to identify whether it was laundromat guy, excess baggage guy, or gay pride festival guy. What I am going to say is that at the end of the day I wish that I had been more sensitive to how it would be for him to see his story in print.  I wasn’t thinking of it as his story at all…it was mine all mine…you don’t get to be 32 and single without being incredibly self-centered (and as I just reread that by 32 I mean 31…jeeze). I’m not perfect, as much as I would like to think that I am, and I make mistakes. I don’t know if he will read this…I kind of think that as a survival instinct he may have tried to block all memory of me. But on the off-chance he does occasionally check back for more evidence against me in his libel suit I’m going to say two of the hardest words in the English language for me: I’m sorry (technically that is 2.5 as contractions are a bit of a gray area when it comes to word count). It couldn’t have been fun to read my recollection of conversations and interactions…especially when you have no opportunity to defend yourself.

Going forward I make no promises not write about the people I encounter.  In my mind the minute we exchange pleasantries (name?, hometown?, how do you feel about the packers?) it’s all fair game. I will though, take a page out of my own book and try to make this a lesson learned and remember that there are living, breathing people with a full spectrum of feelings attached to these anecdotes. Perhaps the solution is to have some sort of disclaimer at the beginning of every date I go on: “warning interacting with the person across the table from you could be put to use for the entertainment of others, proceed at your own risk”.

lesson #45: secrets, secrets are no fun…

shhhhhhhhhhhh!

If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one around to hear it does it make a sound? Oh man…this raises philosophical questions about the definition of sound vs. hearing, the idea of unperceived existence, and that is a lot for this pop culture princess to ponder. What I do know is that it seems unless there is someone right next to you to sign their name, swear on a bible, and bear witness before God, country, and all warm bodies within ear shot most things in life might as well not have happened.

Exhibit A: last week I was chit-chatting with a friend of mine catching up, gossiping…you know all those pink, sparkly things girls do when she told me how she was about to be the maid of honor in a wedding and in the same one-week period had to write her eyewitness recollections in another friend’s annulment proceedings. Really? Talk about the “circle of life” giving you a nice big kick in the ass. Have we hit the stage in life where we have to be the ones making the call that not only did that damn tree made a sound, but it made a freaking, earth-shaking BOOM? I’m not even going to get into how the divorce phenomenon has now unleashed into my single girl world a sudden influx of ladies looking for love and boys looking for anything but…kinda like Christmas came early (insert sarcasm)…but I digress. Back on track…

It makes this kid contemplate how as people we are constantly looking to others to share in what is happening in our lives. Think about how many times you start a sentence “Can you keep a secret…”, it may be our darkest, most embarrassing, most dramatic departure from the person that we hope we are (i.e. the bartender), but until we actually say the words out loud it hasn’t really happened. And while the example above is a little more “a time to laugh, a time to weep” ala Turn, Turn, Turn by The Byrds, than share your business with the world comme Belle de Jour: Diary of a London Call Girl, it’s only by imprinting the information on another person or receiving validation that yes, that did happen, I was there…I got the t-shirt, does it become real. It’s almost as if we need spectators in life…after all how fun is playing the game if no one is watching?

lesson #44: sometimes you just have to dance it out

 

 

 

 

WX92GAYNDQHW

lesson #43: the quickest way to make sure something never happens is to say it out loud

waiting for Mr. Fluff and Fold

So often when I recount a recent turn of events in my life I hear from one person or another “that is going to make the best story ever”…yeah well, as much as I heart entertaining the public, just once I would trade the freakishly frustrating trip to Target or the seemingly kismetic introduction to my latest dating disaster for a nice, normal (i.e. completely un-noteworthy) scenario that ends with birds chirping, rainbows arching across the sky, and this girl walking into the sunset completely unfettered and unflustered by what transpired to get me there.

Yes, that would be nice, but back here in this place where I reside, part way between reality and a hard place it’s 105 degrees and the air conditioning in my car is broken. Awesome. Oh, and did I mention I had a date last week. Yup, I met him at the laundromat while laundering. For those of you who don’t frequent the laundromat let me start by telling you it isn’t as flashy as you might think…in fact, it’s down right b-oring…and honestly, that might be sugar-coating it a little bit.

So last Sunday as I stared at my socks and unmentionables going around and around on the permanent press cycle I noticed an un-serial killer like person had situated himself at the folding table adjacent to mine and he was wearing a Chicago Cubs cap…I needed to entertain myself…discussion ensued. After 45 minutes my clothes were dry, folded, and it was time for Mr. Fluff and Fold to fish or cut bait. So I lingered a tiny, little bit, said it had been nice to meet him (truth) and he stepped right up to the plate and asked: “would you like to go out sometime.?” Hmmm, you’re smart, witty, employed, AND you wear glasses…yes, you may have my phone number.

As I drove away I thought to myself, self that was a nice little surprise on laundry night; I really hope he calls…and shockingly enough he did. As I recounted the story for my bestie a little while later she sighed and said, “I love this…wouldn’t it be the greatest story if this is the way you met “him”.” And end scene. Bring down the curtain, cue the ominous classical music because this situation is now cursed. I should have called AT&T right then and there and changed my phone number because there was no way in H-E – double hockey sticks this serendipitous meeting was every going to amount to anything; it had been thrown out there into the universe with way too much hope and pressure way too early, sigh. I don’t even think my experience at being the cousin of the friend who cuts the hair of the girl who something just like this worked out for is going to save this story (see lesson #40: rules are made to be broken). Nope, the goddess of good fortune has taken a holiday.

The date went fine. We had some drinks, watched a jazz singing, tap dancer scat his way through some Sammy Davis hits (it was seriously impressive check it out at the Foundry on Melrose). He said he would call, it’s a week later, he hasn’t, I’ve erased his phone number. Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da. I just don’t understand why Mr. Clean Socks felt the need to say, “I’ll call you”.  I hope I didn’t give off a “please tell me we can go out again because if you don’t I’m going to go home and eat that whole pan of Ghirardelli brownies, while I cry and internet stalk you” vibe…because if it is I have got to work on my poker face. Maybe I’m a bad first date (there was an involuntary gasp when I heard he only had 7 pairs of shoes)? Maybe I make a bad first impression (this whole experiment in over-sharing was spurred by a less than stellar version of myself…right Mr. Bartender)? Maybe something heavy fell on him (sometimes pianos just get away from people, right)? So many maybes…and in all likelihood inquiring minds will never know…(and sigh again).