The Waiting Game

I've been out with the Dark Horse a handful of times now. We hung out spontaneously last Friday. We had a brunch date on Sunday that lasted until dinner time. Each time has gone splendidly well, and I don't think it was possible to have been any better. I've read the book and all indications are that he is in fact in to me. Each evening has ended with a really good kiss, and he said "good" when I told him I wasn't seeing anybody, both very, very good signs.

So why am I an anxious wreck, waiting for him to call? I last saw him Sunday. It is now Wednesday night. There has been contact, via text message, but no phone call. I'm pretty sure he's unavailable this weekend, but it would still make my week if he called to say how much he would like to see me this weekend if he could. I know, I'm living in a dream world. But wouldn't it be awesome if men actually did that?

The Rage

Another one from Fenella!


I found writing my first WWBD? blog entry quite therapeutic, so I thought that I would have another go. However, as well as the free therapy I'm also using this entry to ask for a little advice. Advice being, how long until THE RAGE dissipates?

Obviously in order to understand where THE RAGE is coming from, you need some background information. (Many apologies have to go to Violet who has heard this story many, many times!)

Last year, whilst living in Peru I met a guy from Scotland, we shall call him Fergus (‘The Highlander’ would've been a better option, but that name is already taken). Now on paper Fergus pretty much checked all the right boxes:
* He was older than me
* He was interested in world events / current affairs
* He seemed to have a good sense of humor
* He seemed like a non-psycho
He was slightly shorter than I would've liked, but he was a teensy bit taller than me, so I decided to let that one slide. Things started off amazingly well. In hindsight, maybe a little too well. I came back to Cusco after my traveling and moved in with him, and after four months we headed back to the UK together.

Living in Cusco, he seemed like such a confident guy with quite an important job. He spoke fluent Spanish (I didn't), he'd lived in Cusco for six years (I hadn't), so knew everything there was to know about it, and he simply seemed so much better than my ex-boyfriend who just didn't really care about my opinions or anything apart from going out with his friends and drinking. I honestly and truly and naively thought that this was the guy for me.

However, back in the UK my feeling quickly began to change. There are many, many reasons and events for this swift and dramatic change in my feelings, but rather than bore you with them, I will simply say that Fergus is an extremely arrogant person who thinks that his opinion is the only right one and that he is better than most other people. He is also very critical and once again, in hindsight, I realised that I became pretty subservient to him, something which I will never, ever again repeat.

To cut this long story short, we got back from six weeks in India (oh Violet, how I understand the awkwardness of being away with someone knowing that it’s over!) and I ended it. (Twenty minutes later we had to eat dinner with his parents, I keep telling myself that one day I’ll laugh about it…) In the immediate aftermath I was pretty upset about the whole thing, but then as the dust settled, the upset turned to a lava boiling, face reddening, steam coming out of my ears, rage.

THE RAGE can hit me at any point. I can be feeling pretty calm and serene about life and then I’ll hear on the news how the Rangers (his favorite soccer team, bar none) have won a game, and then THE RAGE takes over. In the aftermath of the break-up, I tried the whole still staying friends thing, big mistake! Every time I saw his name in my inbox THE RAGE took over. Reading his emails near resulted in me stabbing the monitor with a pair of scissors. In order to try and curb this aspect of THE RAGE I emailed him saying I needed space,(a cliché, but an oh so necessary cliché), so at least the emails have stopped. But sadly, THE RAGE hasn’t. And I really don’t think it’s healthy. I now detest most things Scottish; Bruce Springsteen and looking at my travel photos conjures up THE RAGE rather than happy memories. I’ve tried different tactics to lessen the power of THE RAGE. I now support Celtic, the aforementioned Rangers’ arch-rivals, so that when I hear Celtic have won a game, I am filled with a strange type of happiness. I revel in watching reality shows because he hated them, and reading chick-lit is even more enjoyable now knowing that he thinks it’s all trash.

But, unfortunately, THE RAGE is still there, bubbling away under the surface until something makes it explode again. It’s been about three months now, and I was really hoping that it would’ve gone away by now. It’s really not healthy and the bright red face I get when THE RAGE takes over really doesn’t suit me. I do think that having THE RAGE after a break-up is better than getting all teary-eyed over your ex, texting him drunkenly, and Facebook stalking him, but it’s still not pleasant.

I’m really not a crazy person. I’m just angry, mostly at myself, that I was so taken in by him when in reality, he’s got a horrible temper, he’s extremely possessive and as I have previously mentioned, he thinks he’s brilliant at everything. He’s not.

So the advice I’m asking for is this: How long until THE RAGE goes away? Does it ever go away completely or is it something I’ll always have to live with? Will I be 40 and THE RAGE takes over when I hear that Rangers have won the cup final? Or, most scarily, is THE RAGE simply not normal and I should go and register for anger management classes right now?
I await your advice, meanwhile, I’ve just seen that he’s updated his Facebook status with tales of his mountain climbing, so I’m away to hide the scissors…

Oh, Crap.

Well this isn't good. Somehow, in the craziness of the new semester, the ridiculous amount of work I've been doing, and the loss of my surrogate dog (My roommate moved out!) I have somehow managed to acquire the worse possible thing: an imaginary boyfriend.

For those of you lucky souls that have never had to endure an imaginary boyfriend, you may not think they sound so bad. You'd be wrong. They're the worst.

The hard part is, you don't even know when/what your getting yourself into. I finally had the realization this morning when I woke up next to Conrad. After I came over to watch cable last night, we fell asleep. While cuddling. And then we got ready and came into work together. If that's not boyfriendy then I don't know what is. Unless of course you consider the night before, when we went to dinner with friends, ran errands, came back to my place and watched a movie before falling asleep--while cuddling, boyfriendy. Oh, who am I kidding the examples could keep coming. And why the hell didn't I see it coming sooner.

Let's be clear here, Conrad and I are not going to date. Nor am I going to stop seeing him. I, too, appear to be screwed.

The Dark Horse

I'm screwed.

Following my awesome Friday night, where the Dark Horse asked me for my number nearly 4 months after he should have asked for my number, I was very pleased and excited when he actually called on Saturday just like he said he would. I had dinner plans for the evening, but we decided to meet up for a drink afterward. You know those dates when everything just kind of...clicks? That's what this was. Best of all, when I made one of my many sports references, he actually got it. He walked me home and gave me a goodnight kiss that kind of kept going, and was kind of awesome, and that I kind of really want to do again sometime.

The next morning, I had that giddy, morning-after, shit-eating grin on my face for most of it. The only thing that could spoil my mood was the terrifying thought that he may not call, but he did call, and we have plans for this weekend. And when he randomly texted me a cheesy pick-up line this afternoon (we were trading them back and forth last weekend), I'm sure the people around me thought I was a crazy person, because I was grinning at nothing.

See what I mean? I'm screwed.

The Nerd Limit

It's been two weeks since I broke things off with the Highlander. It's taken me these two weeks to be able to talk about something that happened that final, fateful weekend with High. See, I have a thing for nerds. But this Incident pushed me way, waaaaay past my nerd limit. We'll call it The Walkie-Talkie Incident.

Before leaving for the beach, High showed me some walkie-talkies that he had picked up along the way and had never used. He may have suggested we each keep one, since we only lived 1.3 miles apart, and the walkie-talkies were supposed to work up to 3 miles, so we could talk to each other while we were in our own homes. I reminded him of the invention of the telephone and chose to ignore the statement.

The walkie-talkies were out of sight and mind until we were driving down to the beach. My iPod/radio transmitter needed new batteries, and he announced that he had them. I was rather shocked to learn that he carries batteries on him, until he whipped out the walkie-talkies to borrow their batteries. It seemed harmless enough, bringing walkie-talkies to the beach, but then things got out of control. When we stopped to get gas and go to the bathroom, he tried to insist that I take the walkie-talkie into the bathroom with me. You know, in case anything were to happen. It was 4:00 in the afternoon, and we were at a busy highway gas station. I thought surely he was joking, but he wasn't. He was dead serious. Needless to say, I refused to take the walkie-talkie into the bathroom with me. I got him off my back by telling him that I would turn it on so he could hear me peeing. Or that I would throw it in the toilet.

When we got to the beach and he immediately took off, as he had no interest in actually being at the beach, he of course took a walkie-talkie with him and left one with me. Then he proceeded to annoy me from within a 3-mile radius with constant, mundane updates while I was trying to read my beachy chick-lit. My enjoyment of the latest Meg Cabot was interupted by such uninspired musings as "I'm sitting on a bench under some trees. It's really nice over here," or "Hey, I'm standing here watching some tiny crabs. They're all over the place!" (We were at the beach!) Then he tried to engage me in some conversation and couldn't figure out why I didn't have much to say. Are you kidding me? A casual chat via the walkie-talkie? Maybe if someone would have actually been sitting next to me on the beach blanket instead of trying to talk to me from a bench in the woods, I would have been a bit more chatty. I was never sure what my nerd limit was, but now I know, and this is definitely it.

Upon my return home, I casually left the walkie-talkie part out of my story, mainly because I think I was trying to block it out. Now, however, I realize its comic value. I mean, really. Walkie-talkies in the bathroom?

Question of the Week: The Walk of Shame?

Last weekend, after having a few beers over a game of Scrabble, Conrad (yes, that Conrad) spent the night at our house. (Oh, action, how I've missed you). My roommate, Lisa and I had to get up early so when we had left the house he was groggily getting out of bed. We said good morning to the neighbors as we drove away. Apparently about 5 minutes later, Conrad walks out the front door. Our neighbors had multiplied since we left, standing around drinking coffee. One shouts from across the street, "Good Morning Conrad! Have a great day!" as he gets into his car. It's important to point out that not only are these my neighbors, half of them are my family. Can you say awkward?

So maybe walk of shames don't usually involve the other person's aunt and uncle, but they're usually awkward just the same. There's nothing like walking home in the same clothes as the night before, hair looking as though something could be living in it, even if there's nothing to be ashamed of. Conrad's experience inspired me to search for walk of shame stories because A) it was awkward B) it was funny and C) we've all been there. So lets hear it ladies, what was your "best" Walk of Shame?

Destiny calling?

Last night, the softball league I play for sponsered a league-wide Happy Hour. I RSVP'd quickly, figuring this was a good chance for people I play with (re: guys) to see me out of sneakers, sweaty t-shirts, and a ponytail, and in something a bit cuter. So I threw on something with a bit of cleavage (hard to do that in a sports bra, you know) and went out on the prowl, looking for a chance to get out of my regular nerd pool.

I was talking to some of my teammates when I spotted a very familiar guy. I couldn't figure out where I had seen him before, but I knew we had met at some point before. I even told a teammate, "I know that guy from somewhere..." Eventually the familiar guy started talking to us, and after a while said, "Violet, I'm sure I know you from somewhere..." Then I flashed back to the beginning of the summer. Scarlet was visiting, and we went out with the sole intention of getting someone to buy us a drink. We were at a bar when this same guy approached us, introduced himself, and started chatting with us. He chatted us up for quite some time. He was funny. (He told us he made waffle fries at Chick-fil-A. He doesn't.) He was interesting. He was interested. Then he excused himself without asking for a number or buying us a drink. And here he was again.

We figured out that this was indeed where we knew each other from; quite a coincidence considering neither of us have been to that bar since, nor do either of us hang out there on a regular basis. We ended up chatting for quite some time, and with the aid of alcohol, I pointed out that he never asked for my number the last time we met. He told me that Scarlet and I were the ones who disappeared so quickly. (We left the bar after he excused himself, wondering how it was that he didn't ask for a number or come through with a drink.) Apparently he was entertaining a friend going through a bad breakup, so he went to entertain him, and then we were gone. I chose to believe him, since everything else was going so well at that point.

Then he told me about his daughter. Normally, this news would send me running for the hills, since I don't think I'm ready to accept that kind of baggage, but I considered three things:
1. There are about 5 million people in my metropolitan area. We very randomly met each other twice. First at a bar that neither of us goes to with any kind of regularity at all. We fail (or he fails) to secure contact information. A summer goes by, I meet and break up with the Highlander. Not even two weeks later, we end up at the same happy hour together, an event for which he didn't even receive a direct invitation, as he is not currently playing on a team. Instead, someone on his summer team told him to come along, which he did. Surely, this means something?
2. My ovaries are drying up. I turned another year older the day before, and on that day I met, and offered to adopt, a 6-year old and 1-year old at a baseball game. My roommate and I even discussed which one of us would stay home to take care of them. I can't hide my baby fever any longer.
3. He prefaced the news about the daughter by letting me know that he felt the need to tell me something, since we had been chatting for awhile and seemed to "have a connection." I was bracing myself for news that he had a girlfriend or wife, so a daughter was kind of a relief.

This time, he didn't drop the ball. He got my number, after we had just eaten a pizza on the steps in front of a Domino's. Upon getting the number he said, "Hell, what are you doing tomorrow?" Unfortunately, I've been waiting to hear back from friends about going to dinner tonight, but am still unsure about this. He said* he would give me a call to find out what was going on. I really hope he does. I mean, this could be more than a coincidence. Right?


*Men don't always call when they say they're going to call.

Happy Birthday, Violet!

Sschluuuuurp!

Listen, it's the sounds of your ovaries drying up! It's the tick tock of your biological clock!

All joking aside, Vi, I hope you have a fantastic day. You may be regretting that you decided to end perfectly convenient relationship right before your special day. Stop it. Think not of how you don't have a man to spend this day with, but of how you don't have to fake a pleasant surprise when you open that awful gift. Think not of how you won't go on a romantic dinner date to celebrate your birth, but instead think of how unromantic/fun tailgating with a bunch of friends will be tonight. (Romance, blah!). Think not of how he won't sing to you during a bubble bath, but think of how the parents will sing "Happy Birthday" to you via skype (Bubblebath optional).

You maybe be older, but your wiser, more experienced (*wink) and still hot! Go have fun tonight! (Action, action, we love action!)

The Platonic Booty Call

Yes, that may sound like an oxymoron, but it's a life-saver, I've discovered. The Highlander and I dated for three months. Eventually, we were seeing each other 3-4 evenings a week. On top of that, I was working two nights a week, plus my weekly softball games. That didn't leave too many evenings of leisure time on my own. Cut to September. I'm no longer working two nights a week. Then I break up with the Highlander. Suddenly, I have an awful lot of evenings free.

Last night, I texted Scarlet and asked her to remind me of the perils of making a booty call. It wasn't necessarily that I needed the booty portion of the call, it was just the third straight night that I was home. I was really looking forward to playing softball tonight, and socializing with teammates (that includes Duke Logan, mind you), but the game was canceled due to torrential downpours. The moment I got word that there would be no softball, I immediately (and I do mean immediately) turned to McNerdy.

Over dinner, I was giving him the rundown on how I went from being only 10-20% to 100% single since the last time I saw him (which led to a conversation on "singleton statistics," more on that later), I mentioned the booty call. He asked if my calling him was a booty call, or more appropriately, a "company call." We decided that "company call" is more than a bit lame, and opted for "platonic booty call." Any platonic booty calls that cross the platonic line, are hereby known as "blown saves" on the stat sheet. Yes, we crack ourselves up. (And decided we needed to introduce this term to the rest of the world immediatly.) And no, this was not a blown save. When it comes to saves, McNerdy is 2008 Brad Lidge. He just doesn't blow them.

The Case of the Third Wheel

First of you should know that I do not mind hanging out with couples. I actually quite enjoy them, especially the missionary couple, my all time favorite couple! I am a secure singleton, and there is nothing wrong with tagging along. Until this past weekend.

My best friend and her new man were visiting for the weekend. I've known Greenley for a long time, and she's just finally figured out that my approval of a guy she's seeing might actually mean something (She learned this from her douchebag of an ex, who broke her heart and whom I never liked, go figure!). Because of this, she really wanted my opinion on the new guy, with whom she's quite smitten to say the least. I hung out with the two of them most of the weekend, and I have to say, I like him a lot. He's cool, he's fun, he brews is own beer, and most importantly he obviously adores her. We went to the beach, we played softball, we went out, and I quite enjoyed being in their company. Even if they were making out on the pitchers mound while I searched the woods for foul balls.

That came to a screeching halt when on the last day of their visit, we road tripped to a nearby city. Now I'm all for walking leisurely around town holding hands. There's some sort of casual intimacy about hand holding that I love and yearn for, however that is where my PDA usually stops. Not so much for Greenley and friend. She wasn't just holding hands, she was hanging on him. All day. I'm talking prepubescent-I-can't-support-my-own-self-arm-in-arm-attachment-of-the-hip hanging. Which led me to walk with my eyes straight ahead wondering to myself, WTF? If I and a guy are with a friend I tune it down, not turn it up! The sudden PDA made me feel like quite the third wheel, something I usually have no problem with. Luckily I'm secure in my singletonhood that I did not freak out and search that hippie town for a new man. I did however, want to get the hell away from them. Let's leave ridiculous levels of PDA to teenagers, shall we?

Underage Hotties

I have always been a proud member of Team Edward. But my, oh my, a live-action Jacob is doing a mighty fine job of trying to convince me to switch camps. Reminding myself he's barely legal...

Post-Breakup syndrome

Upon returning to reality yesterday after my weekend away with the Highlander, I knew we had come to the end of our road. The cons were just adding up far too quickly. I thought things were settled on Sunday when I said "Maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore," but apparently he thought I was saying that out of anger, because when he came over on Tuesday to pick up his cat (who I was very sorry to see go), he told me he was "confused" about us. "What do you think?," he asked. "I don't think we should see each other anymore." That ended his confusion.

And after he left, I was rather quite jolly. Here I had managed to end a relationship that in all aspects was extremely convenient, and would have been easy to stay in, but for all the wrong reasons. We both managed to act like mature adults, going out with a hug and a goodbye kiss (0r two), and the promise that we would hang out again, and wouldn't let our differences stand in the way of the budding friendship between our cats.

But it wasn't long before the post-breakup syndrome set in. You know, that sudden realization that you have no idea where your next kiss or cuddle is coming from. Or realizing that you are a mere 10 days away from your next birthday and are once again 100% single. (Why, oh why couldn't I have held out for the birthday?! No. That would have been immoral and wrong.) And finally, that sinking feeling that you really and truly haven't made any plans for the weekend yet. Because let's face it: when you're single, you have to work to fill up your evenings. If you don't put forth some serious effort, you will end up spending night after night watching Grey's Anatomy with your cat. (And that's only acceptable on Thursdays.)

My PBS was not helped by the fact that High sent me a sappy text or two about how sad he was. Call me crazy, but I see a break-up hookup in our future. But for now, I shook off the sappy texts and emailed my girls that I was now 100% single and needed some help in filling up my calendar. (This is why it helps not to ignore those girls while The Boy is still around. I pride myself in NEVER doing that.) They'll come through for me. They always do.

It's so over

The question: Were the Highlander and I ready to go away for a weekend together? The answer: No. At least, there won't be any weekends away in our future, nor will there be any "us" in the future.

Things got off to a pretty good start. We got to the beach in the evening, went for a little stroll, plopped ourselves down on a beach blanket, and sat there until it got dark. When I woke up the next morning, I was wearing little more than beard burn over most of my body.

Sunday was back and forth. For a guy from Southern California, who just the previous night had told me seeing the beach felt like home, he had zero interest in the beach. First of all, he forgot his swim trunks. (And I suspect he didn't so much as forget them as intentionally not pack them.) He thought it was too hot (which is kind of the point of going to the beach) and too sunny. Forgive me for being confused, but isn't hot and sunny the goal? Sunday had its good points, but by the end of the day, I was v. frustrated and confused, and felt a bit like I had dragged him on a weekend trip he didn't want to take.

Everything came to a head that evening, as I was trying to teach him a card game. (Grayer, you know the one.) He wasn't really listening to my directions, but then he laid his cards down, announcing he had three of a kind. In his hand, were a king, a five, and joker. (Joker's wild.) He thought that equaled three of a kind because they were all diamonds. Now, I'm not much of a card player (this particular game is really the only one I know), but even I know what a three of a kind is. That started one argument, which led to another, which led to me saying, "well, maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore."

In all honesty, I've known he wasn't The One for me for awhile. Maybe it was when he told me Dumb and Dumber was his all-time favorite movie. Maybe it was when I went over to his house late one night to find him wearing pajama pants and slippers. In the summer. Maybe it was when he told me he had just driven across the street to pick up his Chinese food because it was raining. (That's when I told him about this wonderful invention called the umbrella that protects you from the rain.) I'm not exactly sure which of these incidents popped my bubble, but it had to have been one of them.

And to continue my streak of honesty, if he hadn't stepped up to the plate during my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week, we probably wouldn't have gotten to this point. Let's face it, had I not needed a distraction from my John Boy snub, he probably wouldn't have gotten past the third date. He works with computers, which is boring. He's not incredibly funny. And as we know from the three of a kind incident (and many others) he's not all that intelligent. In fact, I worried that I may have been too smart for him, but kept telling myself that I was being an intellectual snob when I had no right to be one, as I'm not an Ivy League graduate, nor a card carrying member of Mensa.

Sunday night could not have been more different than Saturday night, as we slept on opposite sides of the king-sized bed, although he did reach over to give me a hug in the middle of the night, apparently in reaction to a dream he was having. I expected Monday to be awkward and horrible, but it wasn't. It was actually very relaxed and pleasant. Maybe because we were both relieved? Maybe we knew we couldn't get annoyed with each other since we were no longer auditioning each other as significant others? Either way, it was far from horrible, and he even asked me if I wanted to talk about anything when we got home. I told him we would talk tomorrow, when he comes to pick up his cat.

But I know that we're just too different to work out in the long run, which is a shame, especially as this break-up occurs on the doorstep of another birthday. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go call a certain someone whose name rhymes with Luke Mogan...

Are we ready for this?

The Highlander and I are taking a big step this weekend. We're going away together. Little holiday weekend mini-break to the beach. It all started when I said I really, really wanted to go to the beach since it's been so long since I've been, and wondered out loud if I would be able to convince a friend to come along and sleep on the beach or in my car since I don't actually have money to go to the beach. That's when the Highlander stepped in and now I don't have to sleep in my car.

This will be good. Because even if it's a disaster, then it's better to know now. And I still got an all-expense paid trip to the beach. And if it's good, then I got a trip to the beach and possibly more. See? It's a win-win.