Well woopity do!

For quite a while now over the course of my professional career, I've heard the word 'intern' thrown around quite a bit. Never before had I had the opportunity to have any, though -- until now. I was crazy nervous, and held off as long as I could, but my exec. director continued to encourage it and essentially made it 'must do' rather than a 'like to do.'

I've always been in the position of working entirely too hard for entirely too little money. The problem, however, has always been that I've never quite known just how much I'm worth. Once I did realize that, I switched jobs, moving from energy to non-profits.

Cue talk about loving  your job, blah, blah, blah.

Where I currently work, everyone does a lot of everything, which is what I'm used to -- and really, it's how I thrive. But Director wants me to move into big picture thinking -- she says I'm all sorts of fantastic and sees me being able to lead a whole group of fresh-faced kiddos.

What's it say that I almost immediately thought of a legion of stone-faced zombies when she first said that? But I digress.

The long and short of it is this: I went through the process and secured some interns. One broad who was all up in my shit to get her started ended up no-showing me... and after I'd dragged in at 8a no less. Not ok. And *then* she went on vacation for 10 days. For serious.

But the two others have started and are fantabulous. And I'm moving into... well, I'm not sure just yet. I'm not used to having a job whose results are intangible; I don't know how easy an adjustment that will be. I'm a writer -- I write something and at the end of the day, have something to hand over. As the interns get comfortable, I'll give them more responsibility, and soon enough I'll be focused on strategery and 3-5 year plans and blah, blah, blah.

Is that what they call management? I have 'manager' in my title, so I suppose it makes sense.

I guess I'm all growed up. Or at least getting there. Weird.

Holy Starbucks, Batman.

Little Wayne has pled guilty to possessing an illegal gun -- I'm not especially surprised. What does throw me off, however, is how he looked walking out of court. A cashmere scarf and black rimmed glasses really can make anyone look smartly dressed. Who knew?

Please prove to me you aren't a tool

Craig's List + snark = a match made in heaven. The more I think about it, the more I realize that Craig's List was custom made for a person like me, and a blog like this. Granted, it occasionally offers up someone that is not a giant douchebag -- see Contest #542 about the Kiwi -- but on the whole, CL is overrun with men who are more likely used to find their women via the grapevine known as the bar bathroom wall and women who are on an elusive search for a green card.

That group, however, isn't where the snark lies; as far as I'm concerned, the humor is in the men who look to CL as something more than just a toss of the dice, who actually attempt to lay out their perfect mate within the confines of a free web site whose look is reminiscent of a mid-sized city's newspaper classified section. Those are the guys you want to grab, shake and ask, "really, guy? Did you think you'd find perfection here?" And if that's not bad enough, the guy offering up this laundry list is always an unquestioning tool.

Like, always.

Take, for example, Mr. PLEASE PROVE TO ME SHE ACTUALLY EXISTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Given the headline, you know damned well I only clicked on this for comic value. I could scarcely bring myself to do it, given the exclamation assault. I mean, really -- is it that necessary? Are you that excited about asking this question? This has been an ongoing debate within my circle, and I will forever and always be adamantly opposed to excessive punctuation. Couple that with the screaming all caps and really, what you've got is a tool of absolute epic proportions, one whom has undoubtedly spent more than his fair share of time in AOL chat rooms without ever stumbling across anyone who would share with him the understood rules of chatting.

But enough of that -- let's meet Mr. Eager, shall we?
Well, there we go. He's actually not a bad looking kid, provided he shuts his proverbial piehole and stops screaming at me over the Interwebs. If he'd just included this one photo, I might have actually reconsidered my decision to label him a tool, but, again, in what can only be described as a blackout of bad decision making, he decided to include photos of random bullshit no one cares about -- his vehicles and his friends. What, I ask you, can be gleaned from a photo of a guy's car? Answer: not a thing that any actual woman wants to know. The broad who's attracted to a guy because of what he drives isn't actually a woman you want to be with.  It's such an perversely twisted way of thinking, in that this guy is probably first in line to complain about all women being materialistic. If that's the case, broham, perhaps you ought not upload shit like this:

These photos do not make you look cool, guy. They make you look like a giant douche with a very small penis and massive issues related to your gender and level of self-esteem.

For the record, I know some pretty awesome chicks, and I'm pretty positive not a one of them would be into a guy who (a) had a blue sports car, and (b) posted images of it. And what're you doing over there on the left, guy, wanking your tool jewel on the seat of the motorcycle there? If this is actually an attempt to show women that you're into bikes or fix bikes or race bikes or what the fuck ever, then maybe you should consider actually including a photo that shows you doing something other than standing next to it. You look like you're at some wack ass car show and have been restricted to the kiddie section. And worse yet, is that a sport bike? You're not even man enough to be into something classic?

Not sexy, broham. Not sexy in the least.

After you work through the hot Abercrombie mess that are the photos, it's time to pick your way through the minefield that is the post itself. This is how he begins:


Is there such a girl out there that is:

attractive
spontaneous
well educated
non smoker
non married/divorced
no kids 

First off, WTF is up with dudes and bulleted lists? Are we in a marketing meeting watching a fucking powerpoint? If you can't form a paragraph, I don't want to know you. And if you actually believe you can make a connection with anyone based on a random assortment of adjectives, then again sir, you're a tool. Formatting aside, however, the beginning of the list is actually fairly standard. Single guy wants single girl to be a cute, single, non-smoker with no baby daddy drama and a modicum of a thought process she calls her own.

And let's not forget spontaneous... not unlike writing this blog, come to think about it.  Hmm, maybe he is the man for me.  

Moving along:
smart enough to find better things to do in life besides drink at bars every chance they get 

I'm obviously not drinking every chance I get, or I wouldn't be stumbling across this bullshit ad you've posted, broham. I'm always intrigued when guys jump on their moral highorse and begin to espouse how uncool it is to be a woman who drinks at bars. Ignoring the big picture for a moment, would it be better if I was drinking at home alone? Or would you prefer I not drink at all, but spend four hours a day on my ass with an XBOX? Oooo, wait. Maybe I need to be trolloping around taking photos of my super awesome sports car. That's it.

no dirtied up with tattoos 
We won't even open this Pandora's Box of nonsense, because I could blog about this jugdment-laden phrase for a month. I'm pretty positive tattoos could be overlooked, but something like the herp is forever. That's not on your list, though, so can I suppose that you'll be quite content the first time it burns when you pee?

great since of humor 
But a great sense of spelling is obviously optional.

not easily offended  
I'm sure she'd be cool with your implication that she was a dirty, tattooed whore.

As usual with these types of things, Tool saved the best for last.  

looks great in pigtails
Errrr, excuse me? What the fuck did you just say? Of all the things a woman could be, you need her to look great in pigtails? Could this glaring inability to properly prioritize be the reason you're single, broham? Maybe your match is a non-existent orphan with an affinity for cleaning and singing.

Maybe, good sir -- juuuust maybe.

It should be noted that the bullet just before that one was 'Christian.' Nice. Nothing says 'live as Christ did' like hitting a hottie with tight ponies.

Ooooooooo yeah.

Contestant #542

With all the snarky blogging I do -- and plan to do in the future -- I thought it would at least be nice to throw some positive things into the mix, so as not to portray my existence as a house of cards anchored only by acerbic humor, crazy parents and industrial strength toilets. So, at the risk of future regret, I've settled in to talk about the Kiwi, the newest object of smit.

Smit, smitten, smote. Or something like that.

The same night I found Thin Creepy Guy, I also found a post titled "bag of sand."  With a headline like that, which -- for those not in the know -- alludes to a fantastic scene in the 40 Year Old Virgin, I thought the guy was either extremely funny or extremely preoccupied with breasts. Or worse yet, with sand. But I clicked through and found myself in a spot I don't often inhabit: I was surprised, pleasantly so. I can't quite pinpoint why; it's not as if his post is particularly long or informative. But maybe that's what it was -- it wasn't a laundry list of subjective adjectives as a means to describe himself or who he was looking for. He just seemed... genuine. Unpretentious. The opposite of douchey, which is something I'd feared no longer existed.

So, I dashed off a few lines about me and clicked 'send.'

Bing bang boom, we're 48 hours past that and Kiwi and I have undeniably clicked. From the start, he's been dropping phrases like, 'I'm bewildered -- you seem really amazing,' and 'I'm incredibly lucky you stumbled over my post.' You know, all that really great shit that men never say to women. Normally, that would set off my alarm bells that he was an extra special sort of douche, but call me crazy... the guy actually seems genuine about it.

And as we all know, I am pretty f'ing amazing. It's just a shocker someone with a penis has actually realized and vocalized this fact.

I am, for the first time in a minute or two, un-guardedly giddy. I'm not inundated with tons of 'what ifs' or terribly concerned that something I say might scare him away. I am fully aware that he could have a host of douchey qualities lurking just under the surface, and they could very well explode all over me at an unexpected time, thus forcing me to cut him lose as I have so many others. But in this moment, I'm content  to enjoy getting to know the guy. The giddiness is nice -- I'd forgotten what it felt like, quite honestly. Quite unexpectedly, I've run up against that elusive combination of chemistry (where I'm eagerly anticipating every new email and text message) and attraction. That's right, people, he is not only presentable, he's flipping handsome!

For reasons I've never been able to figure, the fly-by-night sorts who have rotated through my life have always been pretty damned good looking, but the men I've given my heart to have always been, at best, average. Based on the photos he's sent -- which, of course, could have been taken prior to some hideous industrial accident that he's not yet informed me of -- the man is a hottie. And even better? He has no idea he's a hottie.

I know, I know, I can scarcely believe it myself. But I have proof!

 This is Napier, the Kiwi's hometown. How could someone douchey come from a place so gorgeous?

 Common sense says yes, but the John Hughes-esque mindset that I currently wish to maintain tells me no, it's just not possible.

Here is the Kiwi in his natural habitat. I'm a fan of seeing sports live for a very good reason...

I actually first thought this photo was of him playing rugby, but I realized it was soccer. Then, I actually realized that it really doesn't f'ing matter. Why, you ask?

Because quite honestly, I can think of about three dozen different things that are infinitely worse than watching this man run around a field in shorts -- what he's doing really takes a back seat to the mere fact that it's happening.

Am I being shallow in objectively this seemingly sweet, unbelievably genuine divorced father of one? I probably am.

And it's about f'ing time. I'm going to enjoy this as long as I can.

Oh, silly girl

I woke up this morning to a story about 'compensated dating' on CNN. I'd venture to say the agreed upon term for this sort of thing is prostitution, but ok, whatever; maybe the columnist decided to split hairs for the sake of the subject's very compact sense of dignity. Then again, it seems whores were quite dignified in the 1800s with their fancy hats and petticoats, so maybe instead of an intervention, maybe these broads need a time machine.

Just sayin'.

So, the jist of the article is that young female teens in Hong Kong want money to buy an assorted number of non-essentials -- clothes, make-up, new shiny cell phones that make neat noises. Their parents impose limits and either can't or won't purchase such things for them (imagine such a horrendous life!), so these little tarts turn to the Big Bad Interweb, and chat rooms, to find men to 'date.' They find a man, arrange a price, time and place, and there you have it -- and mysteriously, the dinner and conversation portion of the evening nearly always is replaced by naked sex. But as I said, whatever.

Let's skip over the discussion of moral implications and societal consequences to get to the meat of the topic -- the horror story. According to CNN, none of these girls even bat an eyelash at their hooker ways, despite the story of a 16-year old who was murdered by a 24-year old 'date,' who likely wouldn't have passed her parents' radar had she been looking to actually date him, rather than support a ravenous desire for Cover Girl True Blend.

My initial thought: she dissed Happy Valley in favor of TSW Pegasus and that sent him into an uncontrollable rage.

Whatever the case might have been, here's what -- no pun intended -- kills me.  The man, Ting Kai-Tai, killed the teenager, dismembered her body and flushed the remains down the toilet. 

He flushed her down the toilet?! Are you fucking kidding me? I've got to flush twice -- if not three times -- after I have Mexican for lunch, but this guy can flush a friggin' body and it's all gravy? What in hell sort of installations do they have in Hong Kong? I've heard of Asians being far more industrious than the United States, but this is ridiculous.

Really guy... really?

I've been doing it all wrong, I realize. When I chat with men online and/or throw my money at yet another online service, I do so whilst working under the guise of finding someone immensely dateable... and well, real. But I am apparently one of only a small handful,  which is made abundantly clear by this guy. ---------------------->

In a casual perusal of Craig's List (it's late, I'm bored and I needed a couple of late night guffaws), I stumbled across Mr. 26 Year Old Grad Student. Now, anyone who knows my tastes knows full well that had I been looking seriously, I would've stopped after his third listed attribute, "Long dark brown hair and a thin black beard and mustache." Maybe it's just me, but I'd actually prefer to not date someone who describes himself as a weasily version of central figure from V for Vendetta.

That being said, I couldn't pass up his post without comment. It seems this guy isn't looking for a date, or even a girlfriend -- he's apparently likened the internet for a build-a-bear store, a storefront depot wherein it's advisable to list every attribute you would ever want in your partner until the end of fucking time. He can't possibly be looking for a real human female -- at least, not anyone who exists outside of his undoubtedly vast collection of manga and anime. You know the worst thing about this post, though? Before he goes all warp speed into Crazyville, he actually sounds fairly normal. Fairly.

Let's review.

What I’m looking for in a woman:
Requirements:
* Be female. 

This is so important as to require an asterisk, rather than a simple numeral... and you know, with the internets the wild west that it is nowadays, I support the man for being upfront in his request for a fully formed, non-surgical vagina. He's not one to settle for Thai ladyboy substitute. You can't argue with a man who knows what he wants -- or can you? 

1. No children
2. Not taken
3. Non smoker
4. No 420
5. No drugs
6. No STDs
7. Limited or no alcohol 

Ok, ok... his first eight (counting the gender stipulation) are fairly standard, though being the uncloseted lush that I am, I'd certainly put up a fierce fight over number seven. That being said, that's one of those things that separates the wheat from the shaft, as they say; if I hadn't already been repelled by the long thin hair and pre-pubescent facial scrub, his desire to find a woman who is hops deficient would certainly turn me off.  Still, I was thinking things were fairly normal until...
10. Will call or contact on own initiative 2-4x per week on own initiative
11. Will plan dates at least 2-3x per month, on own initiative
12. Will drop by (calling in advance) at least 2x per month on own initiative 

Errr, ok. I suppose what he's trying to say here is that, as the man, he doesn't want to always be the one calling, planning and visiting. He wants a woman with some initiative. Initiative is fantastic, but stipulating visiting hours like you're a stand-in for Kramer vs. Kramer seems a bit, well, strident, does it not? Is he keeping track on his big ships of the Navy calendar? Will I receive a friendly card or voicemail at the end of the month if I've forgotten to call in advance of a visit?

'Hello, Bronwen, this is an automated message from THIN CREEPY GUY. To hear your reprimand for failing to plan a date between the dates of OCTOBER THE 5TH and OCTOBER THE 12th, press one. To choose a date in November on which to make up the missed date, press two. To leave an apologetic message, press three. To hear these options again, press five. Para espanol, prima seis.'

After he relays the monthly requirements, it just begins to get frenetic and weird:

15. Has a sex drive but does not feel the need to explore that immediately. 
Sooo, what, she should be able to turn it off and on like a faucet? I wonder if he realizes that a woman who wants to 'explore that immediately' is pretty much the only one you want to have. Here's a secret, creepy thin guy -- if a woman does not want to sleep with you, then you are not her boyfriend and you never will be. But maybe if he knew that he wouldn't be leaking this bullshit on the internet like a weasel on a diuretic diet.

16. Not a vegetarian, vegan, or on any other strange life choice diet. Gluten, seafood, lactose, and other food allergies are fine as would be Diabetes type I. 
Well now, Doctor What the Fuck, so glad to know my food allergies are acceptable, but a freaky, off the wall like being vegetarian is taboo. He later mentions he doesn't want someone who is zealously religious -- but it seems zealously ignorant is quite okay. I'm wondering how often he's met women who are strangely and inexplicably allergic to his penis.

17. Leads a healthy lifestyle  
So long as that lifestyle doesn't include, you know, vegetables.

He goes on to request an individual who is either White, Asian, Pacific Islander, Indian, Middle East, or Native American who is at or under 5’7, intelligent, wise and not an atheist, who will sometimes come on to me... you know, once she checks her calendar and realizes it's time to explore her raging sex drive. The best part, however, is when he tries to be tender. His fembot will stand up to me when needed, but also for me, and be the type who ultimately inspires me to be a better person.

Awwww, and here I thought it would be years before robots would be able to display human characteristics; in his utopia, however, it all seems so possible. His is a world in which I want to live!


Just when you think you've exhausted his list, he gets into a shorter list of 'preferences.' Did you get that distinction? Calling him up to four times a week is a requirement, as is not exploring your sex drive. Spoken like a man who will never have a woman grab him by the shirt collar and drag him up the stairs... like that's at all surprising.


Preferences:

1. Thin
2. B-C cup
3. Shaves legs
4. Enjoys being manhandled. 

Ignoring his obvious request for a fembot who might well resemble a waif-ish, pre-pubescent monkey, I'm intrigued by the fourth entry. Manhandled... surely he doesn't mean sexually, because, well, yeah. Any man who lists as a requirement someone who will 'somtimes' come on to him has proven himself to be a man who wouldn't know how to handle it -- much less manhandle it -- if he was given an instruction booklet. Could he mean physically? Judging by the photo, I'm not sure how that's feasible, unless he's going to trip the poor girl then tie her to a chair and read this post to her. Hmmm.... maybe he means emotionally, as in "let me call you two to four times a week and read this post to you, as required by our aforementioned relationship."

5. Wouldn’t mind moving away from Austin if that becomes a topic for discussion.  

Under normal circumstances, I don't think too many women would mind discussing relocation for a truly wonderful person; it feels highly likely, however, that in this case, creepy thin guy would want to move away from Austin and burrow deep into the forest to home school the half dozen children he fully intends to 'require' fembot to have, so they can learn the fine art of crocheting potholders and proper gun cleaning. On the plus side, they would get to live off the land and learn about the cycle of life as they kill what they eat.

On the down side, though, they really wouldn't be too useful in building that asbestos-tinged fallout shelter and spreading word of an impending race war until they were ohhh, about eight or nine. But in the meantime, I guess those tiny hands would be good for digging wells, harvesting crops and sewing knockoff Gucci wallets to sell on the black market.

Rave: I'm a star!

So, my friend Melody, along with her boyfriend Keith, have recently begun producing Threeway Podcast.  If you can believe it, I actually consider myself a fairly shy person at times, but I seem to have an uncanny ability to jump into stream of consciousness mode and be fairly observant and humorous.

How do I know? Because I've got a fucking podcast to prove it! Check me out!

Now that you've done that, you need to do three other things, immediately:

1. Check me out again!
2. Vote for Mel and K at Podcast Alley!
3. Write in to the show!

Wait, there's a fourth one: if anyone can tell me how I can nab my own old tyme radio talky show, how a sister up. Two people have told me today that I need my own radio show, so I should follow this sage advice and get that movin'.

Rant of the moment: hot gay boys & American Airlines, seat 30F

So, first and foremost: I am not a fattie... but gauging by American Airlines seat 30F, I absolutely am. After several days of having hot boys reject me (so gay), it was an even greater blow to the ego. The only point of redemption is knowing wholeheartedly that American Airlines apparently makes its planes in Taiwan.

Seat 30F on my flight from San Francisco to Dallas/Fort Worth was equipped with a seat belt I could not buckle... not due to any malfunction of that dull pewter buckle, but because it would not fit low and tight around my hips. It would not, in fact, fit at all.

I was mortified. Considering I was on four different airplanes - three American, one Alaskan (since when are they partners?) - and I was not only able to buckle my seat belt low but tighten the slack, I'm pretty certain it's not me. In my four days in San Francisco, I'm certain I didn't gorge myself to the point of being unable to fit into a standard airplane seat. But if I had, why were things just peachy on the second leg of my trip, from DFW to Austin?

No, I'm quite sure now that American Airlines makes those final few seatbelts -way back in the back of the plane, but the rear galley and the oh-so-tiny shoebox they call a lavatory - out of dental floss and the shoestrings of young Thai boys. There is no other excuse. I now know never never to purchase a ticket higher than 24A. Bastards.

And speaking of bastards, that's pretty much what San Francisco is full of. I mean that, of course, in the best possible way. A plethora of hot, hot men reside in that city by the bay, but I'm quite certain after spending some time there that I would, at some point or another, call them all bastards... not because I want to, of course, but because I've no choice. None of them want me -- not a one. I'm used to a measure of personal rejection in my life, and that's all well and good; it's silly to think I would be every man's cup of sweat chai tea. But the latest census puts the number of gay men in San Francisco at somewhere around 80 bajillion... that's a scientific number.

Eighty bajillion dudes who would rather make seat belts for American Airlines than see me naked. Eighty bajillion guys who I can summarily dismiss from the dating pool. Without them, there are about 16 straight dudes left -- 10 of them are married, two are deployed to Iraq and four have internet girlfriends they are making plans to meet.

I took this poll myself, so I know the numbers are good.

Anyway, that leaves me with two options: procuring a socially awkward sack of skin from one of San Jose's many technology companies and convincing myself for the rest of my life that physical attaction isn't so important (and that I really do love Neil Gaiman and Star Wars); going les or whiling away the years in the abandoned woodworking shop at Alcatraz.

Rant of the day: It's no fun

I'm lonely. Not all the time, of course, but it's there, and it's palpable. I keep telling myself that everything relationship fails until one doesn't. I keep telling myself that I needed this break... this 18-month break. I keep telling myself to just be my awesome self and if it's supposed to happen, it'll happen.

It all sounds hollow, however, when I go to bed each night. That's when it descends. I hate it, but what can I do? I begrudge no one else their happiness, certainly. And yes, relationships are hard, it's not always pretty, blah, blah. Spare me. That sort of bullshit is manufactured by people in relationships to alleviate the guilt they feel when someone comes out with something so plain.

I'm lonely.

Don't feel guilty, and don't ply me with bullshit. Just let me have this, because pretending it doesn't exist only exacerbates it and makes me look the fool... more foolish than the revelation that, two years later, I still think about him. More than I should. My heart doesn't ache like it did. I no longer care about his reasons. I'll never speak to him again.

He broke me, I think. Sometimes I'm scared he did. Most of the time, I'm positive he did. I'm saddened that I am no longer in awe, fearful I will never feel that again, and angry I was deceived into thinking he felt the same way. That's a lot of feeling for someone I was convinced I'd lost all feeling for. I can close my eyes and feel my heart bursting when I was near him, and seizing when it all fell apart.

Like yesterday.

I've only seen the future once... and I was wrong. Two years on, I'm not quite sure how to handle that.

Rave of the day: Speed dating boys

So, everyone know I went speed dating with a girl friend last week -- we'll call her JC. Much to readers' chagrin, there actually isn't a lot of story-worthy things to say; I'd been before so I fully knew what to expect. With the exception of three guys who no one was going to pick, ever -- Jacked Teeth, Amish and Comic Book Guy -- the rest of the crop was pretty decent.

The situation is pretty simple; there are an equal number of guys and girls, and everyone has a name, scorecard and assignment schedule. You have a total of eight, 8-minute 'dates,' all of which have been randomly chosen. Your schedule tells you which numbered table to go to at each interval, and you use your scorecard to record each person you've met and if you'd like to see them again. The best thing, I think, is that you can choose how you'd like to see them again: a second date, friendship or business/networking. Once you're done, you return home and enter all your matches online (and you're allowed to put a single person in more than one category). If the individual has entered your name, too, then you each receive the other's contact information, and the deal is done. You contact them from there.

The key, however, is in how you match; for the sake of (good-hearted) argument, say I enter Comic Book Guy's name as a second date match -- he can dream, can't he? I will only receive his information (and he mine) if he also enters my name as a second date match. If, for some asinine,he only thinks we'd be good as friends or networking connections, and enters my name as such, then that's not actually a match and no information is exchanged.

Now, JC and I aren't generally ones to fight over the same guy; our tastes tend to run a little differently. But there was one guy there - Dell - who we both thought was fun and decently cute, so we both chose him. He and I matched as friends, while JC and Dell matched on a second date level. Of course, JC no longer has time for the whole friend thing, so she only entered second date matches to begin with, even if she wasn't 100% sure she wanted to date them. We discovered last night, however, that Dell is the perfect date for us.

Not her, mind you. But us.

She and I were out doing a little people watching and pub crawling (National Talk Like a Pirate Day coupled with the UT-Tech game made for an interesting foray into downtown), and she decided to invite Dell. Why not? I'm not sure he realized I would be there -- more likely, he thought he'd stroll in, throw some cash around, get JC a little tipsy and make his move. Not saying he's a bad guy, but that's how the midn generally tends to make sense of a woman inviting a guy to 6th St. just a couple of days after meeting. Whatever he may have thought, however, he kept up his end of a bargain I hadn't even realized we'd made.

Upon reflection, I realize I was the 'best friend' in this situation... and any guy with any sense (or a Netflix queue that once upon a time featured the movie Hitch) knows that the best way to a woman's heart is to get the approval of her best friend. Dell was always on hand to buy beers and dole them out; with the first one, I thought he was simply being polite because I was standing right there, but ultimately, he proved the sort to actually seek me out  and ask if I needed a refresher.

Score!

I think JC and I might have to work this speed dating thing again; $40 up front is totally worth building a stable of men who, unsure of just how they need to proceed with her, are willing to ply the both of us with freebies to cover their bases. I am fully willing to take a back seat on this.

Hmm, maybe I *will* match Comic Book Guy. If Dell is willing to buy drinks, I can only imagine how far Comic Book Guy would go.

Rant of the Day: banks, pt. II

Ok, fine, not so much banks, but credit union. Whaaaaaaat, you say? How can someone dislike credit unions? They are by the people, for the people, of the people! Well, let's be clear -- I don't hate all credit unions, just one. I have successfully dealt with credit unions since I was in my early 20s, starting out with San Antonio Credit Union, back when I was just a wee lass in undergraduate school (also known as college to those without a stick up their ass). After graduation, I moved on to Capitol Credit in Austin, around 2000 or so. They had such great service that my mom jumped on board after I withdrew my money and moved north to Appalachia. Once I landed in Athens, I jumped on board at Ohio University Credit Union (which I'm sure had a catchier name than that), and when I moved to Houston, I secured a major loan via Smart Financial Credit Union.

I say all this to make a very obvious point: when given the option, I will look to a credit union every time. But in my dealings with University Federal Credit Union (yes, you incompetent sons of bitches, I have changed my mind. I'd been planning to blog about you and offer up a respectful cloak of anonymity, but with this new bucket of bullshit, I will happily call you out at every opportunity), I have been bent over and sodomized, with all the class and tact of a drunk frat boy during rush week.

After receiving a phone call and voice mail yesterday from someone, I emailed J, the only loan officer I've actually met face to face. I gave him a quick rundown and asked precisely why there were descrepencies in my loan papers -- upon further inspection this morning, I found three different balances. To be clear, I went in to borrow $7,998. Not a penny more nor less.

*The loan papers I left with Friday - I now realize - say I borrowed $7,952.
*A deposit slip from Saturday (you'll recall when I had to visit the weird ass wall of pseudo-tellers to deposit the money for tax, title and license) listed my 'previous balance' - what was in my account prior to my deposit - as $7300, give or take.
*The receipt I was given after the bank cut the check to the seller stated my previous balance as $8,006.

And now, more salt in the wound -- I received a letter, postmarked yesterday -- showing the terms of my loan had been altered. Altered, mind you, without my knowledge, consent or signature. Nothing like this was ever discussed on Saturday or subsequently. The amount I've supposedly borrowed has suddenly risen to $8,532, which pushes my monthly payments up about $25. Can I pay that? Of course I can.

But that's not the motherfucking point.

I really hate go to angry black bitch in the middle of the week -- and just before I go speed dating, too! -- but I'm being forced to.

Today's rating: Fail. Yesterday I was at least willing to give one star for locally run and one star for a low APR. With this new and highly illegal development, however, I have no choice. Even if things are resolved tomorrow, I will likely be looking for a new credit union to pay off UFCU so I can get the hell out of this proverbial dodge.

Rant of the Day: banks and old men

At the advice of my friend Jen, I am going to do my best to blog more regularly, get some traffic on this site and maybe earn a little cake on the side. That's right, I said it -- cake. I'm cool, and don't you forget it.

So, today the rant is two-fold -- I'm a multi-tasking fool. First up: my new credit union. For all its promises of good APR and down-home local flavor, my experience with Locally Owned Credit Union was less than stellar. I am attempting to remain positive, if only because I have to deal with them for the next three to five years; however, if this initial contact with them is indicative of things to come, I'll whore myself out to recently released convicts before I go the next five years taking their grief.

After dealing pretty much exclusively with the same individual all week, I realized at the end of said week -- when I went in to a branch to complete my loan papers -- that I didn't have all the information I needed. I'd been told I needed gap insurance, which was $279 and a thousand dollar deposit. She neglected to mention the more than $500 for tax, title and license. Seems a rather large thing to forget, you'd think, especially during all the talk about how much my monthly payments would be.

So, about 48 hours after I've asked my parents to loan me $1000 and 24 hours before I've going to buy this car, I find out I need an extra $570 or so. Not cool. But, I rebound quickly, figure it out and proceed to pay the gap insurance, open an account (with a $6 min.), sign my loan papers and prance off on my merry way. I am tenatively thinking Saturday will be better; I'll return with the seller and he'll have the title. I'll have the money, we'll do the do and call it a day.

Only when we arrive on Saturday, we have the misfortune to deal with a loan officer who's been working there less than a week; quite literally, the notes in her computer told her to tell bank clients that it was her first week, and they "would understand." Yeah, I did understand for the first 20 minutes or so -- but 90 minutes into what should have been a 15 minutes process, I was a little hot. I had to pay $6 because my account was 'short,' according ot her -- even though it's very obvious I had to have put $6 in there, or I be unable to open the account in the first place! About 30 minutesa fter that, I'm told I owe $95... "we're trying to figure out why."

WTF does that even mean? You know I owe money but don't know why? Un-f'ing-believable. At the very, very least, wouldn't it have made sense for Newbs (who had the long hair and meek look of an escaped FDLS sister wife) to put down her $6 Starbucks iced coffee, get up off her ass and actually ask for help? Instead, she glared at the screen, clicked aimlessly, and every 10 minutes reached for the phone to call The Wizard, some mysteriously hidden, higher-level bank employee who walked her through whatever step she'd missed. Newbs thanked her profusely and called her 'da bomb' more times than I'd like to recall.

In the end, a check was cut, of course -- rather abruptly, I might add. I know I was on the phone with my dad and exploded my frustrations all over him. Perhaps Newbs overheard, peed herself and decided to do what was best? I honestly don't know, but at the end of the day, to call the experience 'frustrating' would be an understatement. At the end of the day, it's like Locally Owned Credit Union is the guy you meet who is fantastic on paper... on the surface he has his shiz together and you really want to date him. But then you go out, his car breaks down, he lives with his mom, he reeks of BO and onions and he reveals some high level baby mama drama. Yet and still, you agree to a second date, then proceed to cross your fingers and hope for the best.

And speaking of lousy guys (wasn't that a fantastic segue?) -- I now bring you to what I'll call the Trials of OKC. The acronym refers to OK Cupid for those not in the know; while I've never been to Oklahoma City, from what I've heard it's probably not the best place to be as single lady. That being said, OK Cupid, at times, isn't much better.

As is the case with most online dating sites, I receive my share of shady, sketchy and notably unnotable messages. OKC is part dating, part social networking, so it's generally not quite as bad, and when I do get such messages, they are as comical (sometimes) as they are offensive. Given that the man who sent it very obviously has no self respect or discernible level of shame, I don't feel the least bit ashamed in posting their messages to me.

On deck today is 'affectionate444,' a 50 year old from Florida. OKC tells guys that one way they might be successful in getting a woman to reply to their opening message is to read their profile carefully and comment on specifics. That lets us know that he's really emailing us, and not just sending out a general blast to half a dozen different users. Mr. Affectionate444 did read my profile, that much is clear; what he chooses to comment on, however, and *how* he chooses to do it is what I take issue with.

if you love a soft pillow, silence ans swirling fan, you must truly be a romantic, in-depth person. But please, please, please............dont do any partia;l sleeve tattoos. What do you do in 5 years if you realize you made a mistake and as a MAN i CAN TELL you I have never seen a woman with a husband(for long0 who has that. Men unconsciously, and society consciously judge people with tatoos very harshly. There is a reason Oprah, obama and the williams sisters are all the best at their game and most loved. Im not trying to lecture you but as an observer of life and people I can tell you tats only hold you back. Period. Discreet ones are another story. Anyway if youd like to chat, Im here. I hope you enjoy my profile. I am too old for you by your standards, but we can be friends if you desire.

marc

Now, let's review:
(a) there is a line in my profile that states: "For all my extrovertedness, however, I sometimes just relish being alone in a quiet room with a soft pillow, warm blanket and swirling fan overhead." I've not included that as some sort of innuendo, I included it because I like to take naps, and if you date me, you should know that. Since when does a soft pillow and ceiling fan=romantic, in-depth person? I'm not even denying that I'm not those things... just wondering how A leads to B. And speaking of B,

(b) Why in hell would you decide it's ok to preach to a complete stranger? I women who, ostensibly, you are interested in romantically? The only reason it seems he brings up the 'friend' option is because he fall out of my desired age range... but you can see there's a little loophole there, in case I change my mind and want to date a man nearly twice my age with a mindset from 1954.

"Hi there, Marc! I'd love to meet you! With all your preachiness and judgment, I think we'd have a wonderful life together!"

The word 'douche' doesn't even begin to describe this guy... but don't think I won't use it.

You, Marc, are a douche. I hope it doesn't hold you back.

Surrounded by idiots

My parents, I've just realized, are completely incapable of offering anything other than frustrating, ridiculous, conflicting opinions thinly veiled as 'advice.' At this point, I'm pretty ready to cut them lose and make my own mistakes, for better or worse.

I need to buy a car -- my air conditioner is shot and it'll cost around $1300 to get it fixed. My car is scarcely worth that much, and I think it's about time I call it a good run before turning her over to the car gods. I've never bought a car before, and thought, "ok, this is where I'll need to ask for advice from my parents."

What they have offered thus far, however, is frustratingly pathetic. Literally, contradictory. One day my mother tells me I shouldn't necessarily look at this purchase like I'll keep the car for another 10 years; today, after being lured by deals I can't really afford (especially without a down payment), I started looking on Craig's List and found some decent prospects. So, I email.

Her: "this one says must sell quickly; that's a red flag."
me: "why? That doesn't necessarily mean it'll blow up; she could be moving out of the country, starting school, taking care of a sick relative, trying to get out of debt, just lost a job... anything."
her: "Well if you want to spend that much money for old cars, then just fix your car now and save for a better down payment."

WHAT THE FUCK?

Let's review: I don't have the means currently to pay $12k for a 2007 car from a dealer. I found as an alternative a $7k 2002 car from an owner (low miles, only two owners total). I am looking to replace a '96 Honda with a busted a/c compressor, broken passenger window, unidentified rattling noise and inoperable inside console lights.

In her world, buying the '07 I can't afford is fucking fantastic, but getting the '02 I can afford is throwing money away on an old car. Again, I ask, WHAT THE FUCK?

I can't even see straight I'm so fucking annoyed. And they wonder why I never ask for crap. GUH.

First date apologies

I'm stunned, I tell you... stunned. I received an instant message from Irish, the very interesting author who I had an e-crush on several months back. Our first conversation lasted about five hours or so, and our texts was flirtatious and left me giddy.

And then we met and I was less than impressed. His photos were cuter, but that's something I can generally ignore if the personality is on. And his,most definitely, was NOT on... he was crazy late, then mild-to-moderately argumentative the entire time. We met at Chuy's for dinner and drinks... he then proceeded to order water and a small appetizer, so I felt the fool actually getting a real meal and a drink. The height of stupidity came when we argued about Anthony Bourdain vs. Andrew Zimmern; I was making the point that there seemed a proliferation of such shows, and I thought the latter was a cheap knock-off. He seriously argued to the death that I didn't know what I was talking about... that they did TOTALLY different things.

Oh, wait. And he also felt compelled to disagree with my stance on Oprah. And you knows thems fightin' words.

Anyway, we met about two and a half months ago (according to him), after a couple of weeks of talking and being flirty and all the what not. And then I was totally confused by his being a bit douchey, so I didn't call him back and that was that. Until tonight. Below is a transcript of our IM (inked_alice being my online moniker for dating endeavors). I'm a bit... perplexed. He seems genuine, but since the implosion of 2007, I absolutely do not trust my instincts.

Plus, I'm still on the fence about him having jowels.


[9:56:55 pm]thecolin1000: hey- it's Colin who met you a while back at Chuy's and never did apologise for being a bit of an ass at dinner

[9:56:55 pm]thecolin1000: so just saw that you were on and wanted you to know that I am sorry for not being better company that time- and that it was lovely to meet you

[9:56:56 pm]Inked_Alice: I remember you, Colin. Hi there.

[9:57:04 pm]thecolin1000:hi

[9:57:18 pm]thecolin1000: I felt bad about that, as I really did like talking with you-

[9:57:42 pm]Inked_Alice: I appreciate that, even if it's surprising.

[9:57:44 pm]thecolin1000: I was just in a bleh mood and didn't really listen to anything you said, AFTER making you wait as well

[9:58:21 pm]thecolin1000:well, you deserved better than a guy to just argue with you and not really listen or enjoy your company

[9:59:16 pm]Inked_Alice:I thank you for that.

[9:59:26 pm]thecolin1000:Fully welcome

blah, blah, blah, we make small talk about what we've been up to. Then,

[10:03:50 pm]thecolin1000: I miss talking with you- felt like I had a chance getting to know you and then for some unknown reason, just acted like a jackass when we met

[10:04:03 pm]thecolin1000: and you were every bit as good looking as your pics, btw

[10:05:17 pm]Inked_Alice: heh, thank you. this is all a little out of the blue. I'm not quite sure how to respond, in all honesty.

[10:05:29 pm]thecolin1000: I can understand that-

[10:05:38 pm]thecolin1000: just wanted to let you know when I saw you on

[10:06:11 pm]thecolin1000: I hope all is going well for you except for the possible need to buy a new vehicle which is always fun

[10:06:30 pm]Inked_Alice: may I ask what will likely seem a weird question?

[10:06:36 pm]thecolin1000: certainly

[10:07:59 pm]Inked_Alice:was this an after-the-fact revelation... or did you know at the time that you weren't being... hmm,particularly easy to talk to?

[10:08:22 pm]thecolin1000:No

[10:08:58 pm]thecolin1000: I was tired, annoyed, had other things on my mind at the time and just shouldn't have gone out to meet anyone let alone someone who I actually like and wanted to get to know better

[10:09:22 pm]thecolin1000: I felt bad about it afterwards but was almost too embarrassed to contact you and say so

[10:09:45 pm]thecolin1000: I just felt, well, if I were her I wouldn't want to hear from me again after that

[10:09:59 pm]thecolin1000: and an explanation might just come across as a pathetic cover-up

[10:10:46 pm]thecolin1000:so yes I knew, and was just in one of those ugh moods where I was not going to play nice with anyone else- a bit of a little kid moment- not my usual self, I should point out

We're still talking now... though I don't, obviously, feel those butterflies like I did. And I don't know that I will again. Nevertheless, I do appreciate and recognize his realization and feel some credit is due, as men don't tend to acknowledge when they've been jackasses... especially in situations like this. Our paths haven't crossed, and wouldn't have; he could've gone the rest of his life without apologizing and it would have been fine.

So here I sit, surprised and a bit perplexed.

At a crossroads

So, TJ and I are at a crossroads, it seems; or rather, the ball is in my court. And I'm discovering some truths that I think I'd rather not.

So, first and foremost: the man is in an emotional turmoil of epic proportions. In his own words, he comes with "a pretty big disclaimer." The break-up he went through dealt a really bad blow, and he's wounded. Deeply. Him posting online and subsequently meeting me is his first tip-toe back into the dating pool. Woo-wee, can I pick 'em or what?

He's essentially enshrined himself in armor akin to the great wall of China; he's not fully trusting and not particularly hopeful. And what's more, he has absolutely no plans as far as relationships go... or his life, for that matter. He's literally just living every day, which, according to him, is a new concept. He hadn't really thought that he'd meet anyone, but suddenly here I am, and here we are.

We're not fuck buddies or friends with benefits. But he absolutely cannot be anybody's boyfriend at this point. I think I knew that, but he articulated it just in case. If I want to get off this ride, he said, he wouldn't blame me. He can't tell me where this is going or how long it'll last.

Red flags are blazing and there's a good chunk of my common sense telling me to cut him loose. Why, then, did we talk for nearly 90 minutes? I'm compelled, I think, by his honesty, and his ability to be forthright in such a circumstance. Do I think I can change him? Hmm... I don't think so, no.

I'm on the fence, however, as to whether or not I secretly hope that he wakes up one day and is madly in love with me. Believing that would be foolish, but what then makes me hang around?

Here's the tough truth part: I like him company. I like talking to him. He makes me laugh and I want to kiss him. Those, right now, are my basic truths, and they are things I haven't felt for someone else in a while. They aren't attributes I can't find in other people, but things I haven't found in other people. At least, not recently, and not without a lot of pain. Maybe his inability to allow anyone close in is letting me heal my own wounds. Maybe it teaches me to live in the moment, however uncomfortable, however lush. I don't know the loops ahead, but this feels like incredibly calm waters, if only because I'm not thinking about the end result.

Maybe I just want someone there. Is that wrong? Is that settling? Hip-hop girl power affirmations are running through my head -- 'I can do bad by myself, I can do bad by myself, I can do bad by myself.'

And then there's that one movie, with that one poignant exchange:

#1: "You know that saying, 'I'd rather be with someone for the wrong reasons, than alone for the right?'
#2: "Yes."
#1: "I'd rather be right."

I've always chosen right... always. And where am I? What has it given me? How much comfort have I derived from it? He asked me once, very early on, if I would prefer to be delicious or true; I thought it an odd question, and answered why couldn't I be both?

He's always been true, he told me. He'd love to be delicious, just once, like his one friend who boasts of deflowering a gaggle of sisters (biological) and one sister (religious), while in Calgary for a spell.

I've always been true, too. Never delicious, always true.

Maybe now I'm attempting to tow the line and be both. He finds me delicious and I find his truth the same. It occurs to me that I don't want to fix him -- maybe just make his road out of that emotional hell a little easier, while finding a little clarity about myself.

I'm conflicted on how I should feel about that; one of the few things I learned from last year's carnage, however, was this -- it just is what it is. That's the tack I'm taking; it's not good or bad, it just is what it is.

Morning ephiphany time: I'm on my way, in some respect, to being someone I don't like, and I need to stop it now before I look up in 15 years and wonder where it all went wrong.

At least, in terms of relationships.

I pride myself on being self-aware; anyone who knows me knows my history as it relates ot men: I was a late bloomer, despite always having been boy crazy. I only dated one guy (for three weeks) in high school, and didn't date anyone in college. This was never an issue for me, though... that's the odd thing. I was never anything but happy, social and engaged in my life and the lives of my friends. My first major anything with a guy happened in Jamaica when I was 21, and I remember being equal parts overwhelmed, excited and anxiety-ridden. Then shortly after my 22nd birthday, it was like an alarm went off, and the hormones that had been largely dormat tore lose from their invisible tether and ripped through my body like a Cat 5 coming ashore. I'm glad it didn't kill me.

I cashed in my V-card soon after, and commenced to dating like a bandit. Or rather, doing what I thought was dating -- it seems, though I didn't realize it at the time, that I was sorely unprepared for what dating actually meant. I've been playing catch-up ever since, learning how men don't always say what they mean, but a lot of other women don't, either.... figuring out that men like it when a women is straightforward and direct.

But not *that* much.

And while untangling the jumble that is sex, feelings, relationships and love is something that can absolutely be done, it's not a task to be performed lightly or in the absence of finding what one really wants. Sex isn't a substitute, stand-in or might as well, but in certain contexts, it carries far more weight than we might like it to.

In the last nine years, I've had to force my head to catch up with my hormones, and I'm in a good place, which I'm excited about. By the same token, a string of failed relationships - made infinitely worse in retrospect by a handful of extremely hurtful endings - has left me, I realized today, hyper-vigilant. And that's not working for me.

I know what my insecurities are, and do my best to tamp them down when I meet a new man. I've developed the tools to keep them largely in check, and have forced myself to become so self-aware that I'm like some sort of supercomputer, costantly checking and rechecking and rechecking. Am I feeling alright? Why did I say that? How that make me feel? How should I best deal with this? I think I've purposely detached on some level, so I can step away from any given emotion, look at it logically, turn it over in my head, and respond appropriately - appropriately, of course, meaning that I don't look like a raging lunatic at the end, and scare him away.

That's what it's all about - not scaring the potential away. I've scared so many away, by being too much of something: too loud, too opinionated, too smart, too different. I thought I was doing the right thing because I didn't, in the end, change myself... I just changed my approach. I put on kid gloves, I think. And in the end, what did it matter? They all left anyway.

Without meaning to, Tattoo Johnny has shone a light on this - I am an overthinker, yes, but I never quite realized how prevalent it is, how invasive it can be. I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore, and it's only when I bring something up to him that I am able to see it in the full light of day. While it's oftentimes not irrational it is, just about always, completely irrelevant to us.

I think about problems, or how there might be a problem, or how to avoid running into a problem... then tell him, "Hey, this is what occurred to me." Nevermind that it has no bearing in anything he's said or done, and nevermind that thus far in what I dare say is the beginning of a relationship, my Magic Eight-Ball has been able to take a much deserved break. All signs point to yes, and I don't need Hasbro to tell me so. I talk to the man every single day. It feels I've known him far longer than a month, but at the same time, I am always learning something new. He makes me laugh and makes me think. We go from discussing religion to Tastee Freeze in the blink of an eye, and in the last week or two, his openness has been palpable. He has thus far never promised more than he cared to deliver, and has made it clear to me that, if he wants something, he'll say so. If there's a problem, he's confront it. If he wants to say something, he'll tell me.

Yet and still, because things have no progressed as 'normal,' I get paranoid. Things 'occur' to me out of the blue. I find myself turning over things in my head and wondering if I need to pay more attention to them. I think it would be more tiring if it wasn't so automatic. But I need to learn to let it go and quiet those doubts. My hyper-vigilance offers no real redeeming value. Like a lot of women, I think I fault myself for being unable to see problems in my past relationships, and I have this notion that, if I'm 'tricked' again, it'll be my own fault.

But that just isn't the case. People are going to do what people are going to do, and while being naive is certainly not the answer, my knee-jerk overanalysis serves only to exhaust me and perturb him. Undoubtedly.

And since when do I do normal? In most other aspects in my life, I loathe that word, but perhaps it's something I cling to in relationships because I've never really known what it was. Hmmm... food for thought.

I'm going to do my best to breathe a little longer and let those thoughts go. I'm smitten. I believe he is, too. Whatever happens or doesn't happen on the peripheral is of little value. If I want something, I'll tell him. If I need something, I'll ask him.

Do unto others.

Some TV is good TV

Setting: Liz and Jenna in a bar, hooched up and trying to score.

Random Guy to Liz: Is this seat taken?
Liz: Umm, so what, you're really going to make me move my coat? There are like four empty seats dude, be cool.
Random Guy: Ummm... (walks away)
Jenna: Liz, that guy totally wanted to buy you a drink!
Liz: He did? I already have a drink -- do you think he'd buy me mozzarella sticks?


And that is why I love 30 Rock.

You can't go home again...

...But you can visit a super awesome place that encompasses you, builds your spirit up and leaves you feeling refreshed. And you can see a great friend and pay homage to his nuptials - and your position as his number one - by getting a somewhat hasty-decided, yet no less bad ass back piece. And you can upload it to your blog.

This is The Groom:



And this is me:





I'm so incredibly happy that he's found such am amazing girl, and I was overwhelmingly proud that he chose me to be there. This was the first tattoo I've gotten since summer 2006, and, as they all do, it hurt. Not nearly as badly as his and the interior arm, but trust -- it hurt. There are some hideous photos of me squirming and contorting my face. It's amazing to me how addictive getting ink can be.

But today, en route to hang with Trail Mix (that boy is a little like crack), it sort of occurred to me that, while a lot of people might be tattooed in the most basic sense, a much smaller segment of the population is on the moderate to heavy side of the scale. I'd say those phrases are wholly subjective - this would be my sixth piece. Is that 'moderate' or still mild? I don't know; still, it's not butterfly on the shoulder or rose vine on my ankle. And this in no way derails my plans for the quarter sleeve. So... perhaps, at the risk of sounding ridiculous, this is my thing.

It's intrinsic to who I am, and the way in which I can push the proverbial envelope. For a long time now, I'm secretly lamented that I wasn't more athletic and/or adventurous. I had the chance to join Houston Roller Derby back when it was first forming, but I declined before I feared getting hurt (and I don't possess the mental capacity to bounce back). Some friends in Ohio went ziplining in order to cap off a fantastic wedding weekend, and while my schedule ultimately didn't permit it, my initial response was to balk (and check the weight limit of those damned harnesses). The idea of pushing myself physically is highly appealing, and I am always - but not necessarily outwardly - jealous of people who do that. But I always shy away in the end.

Up to this point I've thought of my ink as simply something I find beautiful and personally meaningful. But maybe it's more than that...? Maybe this is my way of pushing the envelope, and seeing how far I can take my body? Maybe there's someone out there looking at me and thinking, "Wow... I would love to do that, but I don't think I ever could."

Maybe.

This is ridiculous

My flight to Ohio for the Raw Shiddle Wedding Extravaganza leaves in 5 five hours; that means I have to be at the airport in four hours... so I should be awake in three. Holy lord.

So I'm waking at 3a and leaving at 4a. And Tattoo Johnny -- who I guess I'm tentatively dating now? -- is taking me. He just offered it up after dinner tonight, and I thought it was super sweet. It could just be that yeah, he rarely sleeps and will be up undoubtedly... still, even if I was the sort to be up at that hour, I for damn sure would want to be in my house, not carting people around.

So, I'm taking it as a good sign. His house mate knows my name, too -- also a good sign. And he calls our outings 'dates.' Bonus, seeing as how 90% of men want to call it 'hanging out.'

I'm rambling a bit... time for bed.

Do you hear yourself?

So, as everyone, their dog, their auntie and their barber know, I do online dating. Scratch that: I do online dating to death. It's not even funny how many ads I've saved, posted, replied to and passed around to a gaggle of friends for review. I'm like the fat girl who says, "But I've tried every diet out there and I'm still fat!"

I've done the respectable ones:
Match - check.
Yahoo! - check.
eHarmony - check.

I've done the niche ones:
Datingcurves - check.
Black & White Singles - check.
Houston Connect - check.

At this point, I'm down to the free shiz because I refuse to pay for rejection; that isn't meant to sound bitter, it's just good fiscal policy. Between the free sites, social networking, friends, family, work colleagues and my own desire to spend as little time as possible watching my mother's new puppy cop a squat on her $300 rug, I get out. You can't tell me I don't, so the idea of paying for the potential to meet...what? Five more guys, perhaps?... it just isn't worth it.

But I'm ranting. Point is, I replied the other week to a cat on Craig's List, who stated a clear preference for curvy girls. I don't know what it is, really, about this last year, but I've become far more cognizant of my weight, for better or worse. After breaking up with Andy (jorts and a ponytail -- sigh, why, Lord, why?) and struggling to find a new job, I packed on probably 10-15 lbs., and I wasn't happy. And I could take the route so many others choose to and blame it on myriad things, but the plain and simple truth is this: I got sad, then self-destructive, apathetic and then lazy.

One of those isn't good, and all of them together is toxic.

Since then, however, I've been more attuned to -- ugh, and kill me for using this phrase -- men who slug their ads with 'BBW.' Would I ever use that phrase? Of course not; it's ridiculous, and whoever created it needs a swift kick in his or her BBW. It's ascinine, mildly offensive (though I can't quite put my finger on how) and serves only to further distance one person from the other. Like we as a country need more labels? It's fucking stupid.

Again, however, I'm digressing. While I hate it, I fully get that some dudes don't like heavier women, and that's quite alright with me. Everyone isn't attracted to everyone - why is that offensive? Women act like men would be doing us a favor to look on the inside and ignore physical attraction; I don't know about anyone else, but I'd prefer to be with a dude who actually wants to spend his time getting it on, not discussing poetry at the coffee shop. Anyone crying foul because someone isn't attracted to them needs a dose of self-esteem. Is this culture biased against bigger people? Probably so -- we're also biased against shorter people, taller people, lighter people, darker people, foreign-born and the uneducated. It's called life, jerk. Man up.

But back to the story -- I replied to this guy on CL who said he was down with the curve. So yay, right? He replies saying I'm funny (of course I am), blah, blah, blah. As the correspondence continues, I'm growing annoyed with each email from him, mostly because they are one-liners. He throws in something about a dead grandmother and I've pretty much had it. Two days go by and he asks if I have photos -- I'm in a rut and do shiz for the story value (as many people well know), so I said sure. I send one and ask if he's got one to share. And nothing.

I assume what is most plausible in situations like these -- he was astonished and disappointed that I'm black. Funny thing, being black. A whole bunch of people say they're cool with dating whomever, but when it gets down to brass tacks, it's not so much the case. And again, I'm fine with that -- go right ahead and deprieve yourself of an entire group of people based on what Disney has told you is the only way to proceed. I have always held the attention of white men over black men (blog on that later) so dating interracially has never even been a conscious decision. It just was.

Growing up in north Austin kind of does that. It's not a thing, it just is. I'm far more concerned about whether or not you're a fool than if you're white or black.

White guys, however, seem oftentimes scared by the prospect of actually engaging what is normally considered a neat little thing to do while spring break. You hook up with black girls... but date them? That's just wacky and weird, man! What if she wants to cook for you? What if, you know, she has her period? What's that like with a black girl? what if she takes her earrings off? Ohhh nooooooessss, we're too different!

Morons.

So I send him my photo, and I don't hear back from him until today... about 10 days later. And ignoring the fact that he sends yet another tired one-liner, his question was completely ascinine: "Do you like white guys?"

This amuses me for a variety of different reasons, not least of which is this: do you think I have a choice? White guys are *everywhere*, man. Even if I had a bias, do you actually think I could live a life in this state - in this city! - without daily contact? There are a lot of types you might have wiggle room with, in terms of friendly dealings, but guess what, hoss -- white men are not them. (and yes, I just called him hoss.) I need them to buy a car and rent an apartment from, just like they need me to safely gain suburban street cred. In case you didn't know, I'm one of those safe kinds of black girls; I can look the part but won't actually get you shot, and I'm as much perplexed by the concept of a ride-or-die chick as you are.

Ride or die, for reals? So let me get this straight: I ride with you, hold you stash, get shot up and go to jail? For YOU? Umm, yeah. I'll be on the bus, brah. For real.

Anyway, I replied and schooled him a bit, which undoubtedly left him butthurt and clueless. Perhaps one day he'll figure it out, but I think I'm really past the point of wanting to teach him... or anyone, for that matter. If you don't get it, I'm not the broad to ask. Not anymore. If you can't see me for me then why in hell should I bother updating your prescription?

Is laziness catching?

It occurs to me that if my good friend Rob - who is out in the middle of nowhere currently, hiking the 2100-mile Appalachian Trail - can keep a nearly daily journal and find internet access to chronicle it all, then I should be able to maintain a blog. Again. Let's not forget, I've done this once before.

I'm just lazy. Again.

But you know, when I blogged on Myspace, it started out sort of hesitantly, like this -- and in the end, I had more than 400, which still astonishes me. It got to the point where blogging was cathartic. I've been wrestling with some less-than-desirable feelings as of late, so perhaps I need to hop back on this train. I'd wondered if I should be more mainstream with this one -- find a niche like food or drink or movies or stupid people -- and blog exclusively. But that's just not me.

Natasha just commented that people pop on to my FB page to see what's going to happen next; I guess I'm at my best when sharing the ins and outs of my life. Perhaps I allow people to see that hey, it could always be worse.

I hopefully convey that humor - no matter how dark - can get you through anything, even if it's highly inappropriate. The trick, it seems, is to disguise it cleverly as common sense.

The dawn of a new age

I'm really going to start doing more with this -- really. Ideally, I want to figure out how to incorporate my Myspace blogs, which number over 400. But alas... that might not be able to happen.

But perhaps I should keep it, and then keep this one as a less personal one? Hmm. I've posted the link on my Facebook, so it's just a matter of time before the flood of people begin to roll in.

Ha!