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.