Monday, August 30, 2010

Sluttiness thy name is Fen

Vi once blogged about how she and I wish that we could be sluttier. Well, I can't speak for Vi (and she does now have an Actual Boyfriend) but I have just had a very slutty weekend.

Saturday night I went to a Spanish themed fancy dress party (little tip: stick a flower in your hair and you're Spanish). I got talking to a guy who seemed relatively nice and mature. Then the lethal punch I was drinking kicked in (red wine, white wine, gin, paint thinner, arsenic and some fruit juice) and I may have indulged in a little bit of PDA. My friend was driving me home and this guy somehow convinced me that it would be a really good idea if he came with me. I blame the punch. Thankfully, although I brought him home with me, a few of my morals kicked in so it wasn't a complete, total mistake. The next morning he left, without asking for my number. Which wasn't really a bad thing as his maturity level dropped quite considerably once we were back at mine. After he left, those darn morals kicked in again and I didn't feel great about myself. Still, it's nothing that an 8 mile run, shower and the thought that he had a heck of a journey home because the underground line closest to me wasn't working couldn't fix.

Then, Sunday evening I had plans to meet up with a guy from work who had recently moved to my area of London. We know each other more through the work softball team then actually working together - just to clarify. I had said a few weeks earlier when he mentioned that he was moving near me that I would take him for a few drinks in the non-dodgy pubs I frequent(I live in kind of a dodgy area). I didn't actually think that he would take me up on it, I was just really offering to be nice. However, lo and behold he emailed me and asked when we were having our non-dodgy pub tour. Fast forward to last night and me and the White Horse* met up and only made it to one pub...for 5 hours. I have never talked to a guy for that amount of time before, and I really like talking.

I had wondered if anything was going to happen between us, because when you first get to know a guy there's always seems to be the thought that something might happen until there is clarification either way. Towards the end of the evening I got the distinct impression that something was going to happen. To summarise: I left his at 2 this afternoon, my morals went out the window and I was reminded about how good pistachio ice cream can be. Oh, and I got to do the walk of shame. Good times.

Now, if you are all keeping up with my love life - and if you're not, why not? You are probably coming to the realisation that this is the second guy from work I have got involved with. Probably not the wisest decision I've ever made. I am totally going to behave myself from now on. Seriously.

And that was my slutty weekend.

So Grayer, look out. You may have competition for being the biggest slut of the blog. And if I don't manage to take that award, I am definitely the biggest slut of my office. We all have to be something in life.

* I need to clarify that he doesn't have the name the White Horse because he is my knight in shining armour but because we went to a pub called the White Horse, and he just so happens to have the same name as Vi's Dark Horse. Vi and I really are that in sync.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

I have a fever, and the only prescription is more HOT PILLS

Hot pills. No, I'm not taking them, but Fenella keeps accusing me of doing so. She also claimed in her last post that "When Vi plays softball she is the flame to the many male moths she plays with." This may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I have gotten an unusually high number of inquiries from men in my softball league, dating back to last year. More recently, I've piqued the interest of two of my teammates, Baldo and Simple Simon. Oh, and by the way: The Cute Neighbor plays on my team.

Baldo actually asked me out at the beginning of the summer. I responded by telling him that the cute neighbor and I had plans that evening, figuring he would get the hint. He didn't. Since then, he has hung out with me and the cute neighbor in group settings, where it's pretty apparent the cute neighbor and I are an item. Still, it wasn't until recently that Baldo finally asked me, "So. Are y'all dating?" It's widely known to everyone (including the cute neighbor) that he's waiting for the day the cute neighbor is no longer in the picture.

Simple Simon once thought Fen and I were a couple. After he found out we weren't, the cute neighbor predicted it would be two weeks before he asked me out. He never did, but he did recently ask my good pal D.B. what my "story" was. D.B. told him he just missed me, that I'm currently spoken for. Simple Simon responded with, "It's the cute neighbor, isn't it?" Real sharp, that Simon.

No, I'm not taking hot pills. I don't get this kind of attention anywhere else. The key isn't even softball. Hell, I've been playing softball forever and it certainly hasn't helped me pick up men before. I am generally a confident person, but I am never more confident than when I am on the softball field. (It is usually more likely to give people the impression I bat for the other team. Isn't it time we did away with this stereotype?) I know what I'm doing. I'm good at it. My dad taught me proper technique. And the key: It's fun. I have fun when I'm playing it, so not only am I confident, but I'm happy and cracking jokes. Confident, happy, funny= Hot Stuff.

I know what you're thinking: "But I'm terrible at softball! I'll never find a man!" Don't worry! You don't have to be good at softball. Or any sport for that matter. All you need to do is figure out where you are most at ease. Maybe it's an academic setting. Maybe it's the beach. Or a dance club. Whatever it is, spend time there. You're relaxed, you're happy, you know you belong there. Hey, you're Hot Stuff.

So there you have it, ladies. A prescription for Hot Pills from yours truly, Dr. Violet. (Doctor of Love! Ha!) Now go out there and knock 'em dead.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Fenella needs a plan

I need a plan.

Grayer's plan was excellent. Unfortunately, I cannot use Grayer's plan due to the fact that the national sport over here is soccer. Soccer fans are not baseball fans. Soccer fans are men that during the 9-5 in the office are quite mild mannered creatures but when they get to a soccer game they become cavemen type hooligans who drink and swear and chant. Yes, they chant. And it's not pleasant. I googled 'football chants' to prove my point:

To the tune of Yellow Submarine:

Michael Chopra loves to beat his wife,
loves to beat his wife,
loves to beat his wife.

This is the calibre of men we are talking about here. And then, if their team loses? Well what better way to cope with the humiliation and defeat by trashing whatever pub you happen to walk into first?

To conclude, I can't use Grayer's plan. I need a new plan.

I have tried to go to areas where there may perhaps be some eligible men lurking about. Well maybe not lurking, that wouldn't be terribly attractive.

* I joined my work's softball team. When Vi plays softball she is the flame to the many male moths she plays with. When I play softball I am but a smouldering wet match, if that. I have fun though - I didn't join softball to meet guys, it just would've been nice if it was an added bonus is all.

* I go out to a variety of drinking establishments in a variety of areas of London. Nada. Just your typical British men.

* Now that I know more people in London I have started to meet friends of friends which people say is one of the most common ways of meeting someone. Zilch.

I am aware that I am starting to sound quite bitter, maybe even slightly desperate. I'm really not. I'm just saying that it would be nice if just occasionally I went out one evening or met up with some friends and there was a relatively normal, relatively attractive, relatively funny guy there. I don't think that's asking too much.

What's most annoying is when people ask the question dreaded by all singletons:

"Fenella, why are you still single?"

BECAUSE THERE ARE NO BLOODY DECENT MEN AROUND. AND IF THERE ARE, I CAN'T FIND THEM.

I'm really not desperate. I swear.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

The motherload

I'm sure you couldn't sleep last night wondering how the most brilliant plan of all time was working out. That's ok I didn't sleep that much either. Wink.

For starters the game blew. We lost 16-2. 16-2! That's not a game, that's a beating. I was somewhat concerned this beating might effect the morale of the man fans I was about to meet. However, I think the opposite was true. They were trying to drown their sorrows in cheap beer and even cheaper ladies. My friend Flora canceled on me but I was determined. Instead of hitting the bars with her, I went with my roommate, her boyfriend and his two single male friends. Two single male friends that were vying for my attention. Seriously. I had my pick. I picked the high school math teacher.

So the plan didn't really go according to plan. I basically just got drunk and came home with a friend of a friend. But that doesn't mean it wasn't working. Listen up ladies: Hitting a sportsbar after/near a game is a fucking gold mine. There were single men everywhere. In packs. And they often seemed interested in me.

I was not wearing a Sox shirt. I was not wearing much makeup. I was not showing that much cleavage. I was getting hit on. I got hit on standing in the beer line at the stadium. I got hit on while going to the ladies room. I got hit on sitting at the bar. Yes this was a brilliant plan. I only wish I could have come up with earlier in the season.

Friday, August 20, 2010

The plan


Two days ago I came up with a plan. A plan so brilliant it borderlines evil.

I was at a Red Sox game, scoping out the goods in the outfield bleachers. Suddenly I realized--this is where every single man in Boston is! Why didn't I think of this before. I don't need to find them, I can just sit and let them come to me. Like moths to a flame.

Enter the plan: My friend Flora and I would watch the game at a bar neighboring Fenway, wearing our new Red Sox garb. (I'd be watching it for the baseball, she'd just be sitting there, she doesn't know/care about baseball.) As soon as the game was over they would all come flooding in. Well hello. How bout that game. Can you believe so and so struck out with 2 runners in scoring position?

I know what you're thinking right now. Wow, that's a brilliant plan. And yes it is. But wait, there's more. Two hours ago my roommate texts me. She got free tickets to the Sox game tonight through work. Do I want to come? Yes. Yes, I do. Clearly this plan is meant to be executed. Now I can even talk about where my seats were.

This will be an experiment. We'll see if men like girls that know their baseball (me) or girls that can remember one name to say when asked who their favorite player is (my friend Flora). Since I didn't get a chance to get a decent well-fitting Sox shirt, we're going to hope that a little cleavage will do the trick. And because I am coming from work, I just might stop in my local CVS to get a little makeup. What can I say, desperate times call for desperate measures. And if you haven't noticed, I'm in a bit of a dry spell.

It's go time.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Facebook fuckwittage


I got talking to Grayer today about certain facebook behaviors that annoy the hell out of us. We decided the only way to end facebook fuckwittage was to be proactive about it. We cannot sit idly by and let these facebook fouls continue. So without further ado, may I present Facebook Fuckwittage: Behavior that Must Stop Now! In no particular order, as they are all equally heinous.

1. Taking the time to tell the world just how busy you are.

Violet J. Bickerstaff has a busy, busy day! Heading to work, morning meeting, lunch with Grayer, afternoon meeting, GYM, zumba class, dinner with Fenella, then American Idol! Whew!

If you are so busy, why are you taking the time to tell everyone just how busy you are? Does being busy make you more important than me? Let's face it: you are not that busy. Your day is not that productive. Here's what your status should really say:

Violet J. Bickerstaff has a busy, busy day! Heading to work, checking my e-mail for the first hour, then checking to see what everyone else is up to on facebook, as well as checking on my fantasy baseball team, then maybe I'll get a bit of work done before having lunch with Grayer, then more of the same in the afternoon.

Cut the crap. You're not that busy.

2. Letting everyone know just how much you work out.

Violet J. Bickerstaff just had a GREAT workout! Can't wait to do it again tomorrow!

This is especially for the ladies. I do not care how much time a day you spend at the gym. I don't care that you go to yoga class or zumba or pilates or whatever flavor of the week class you're taking. I can see by looking at you that you are not in really great shape. Bottom line: If you're in good shape and feel great and secure about it, you don't need to tell the world how much you work out. (The exception is if you're training for a half-marathon like Fen, and are using Facebook to raise money for it. Keep up the good work, Fen!)

3. Using your sonogram picture as your profile photo.

We're very, very happy for you, but is this really how you want to tell your 362 facebook friends that you've got a bun in the oven? On second thought, why do you even need to tell your 362 facebook friends? You don't even know half those people! Worse yet, never EVER post a picture of your positive pregnancy test. That's just gross. And yes, I've seen it happen. Sadly, it turned out to be a false positive, which made it even worse.

4. Constantly referring to your significant other and calling them baby.

Violet J. Bickerstaff loves coming home to a home-cooked meal and fresh flowers! Thank you baby!

We already know that you are "In a Relationship". Congratulations. And we're sure he's a really, really great guy, but let us figure that out on our own.

And speaking of In a Relationship...

5. Changing your relationship status every 5 minutes.

Sure, it's great to let all your exes and the girls who thought you were a lesbian in high school know that you're capable of actually having sex, but you know what really sucks? Letting everyone know that you are no longer "In a Relationship." You've been dating the guy for 2 weeks. Until you move in with him, get engaged, or better yet get married, leave your romantic life off facebook. (In case you're wondering, the cute neighbor and I are not in a facebook relationship, nor do I mention him endlessly in my status updates. Or at all, really.)

6. Posting vague, sad messages, but never elaborating.

Violet J. Bickerstaff is really, really sad and disappointed.
Grayer X: Oh, no! What happened?
Fenella Middleton-Brown: Are you ok?
Violet J. Bickerstaff: I sent you an email. I'll be fine, I think.

If you don't want everyone to know about it, don't mention it. End of story.

7. Getting your anger at other people out passive-aggressively.

Violet J. Bickerstaff thinks that some people need to grow up. I guess I know who my true friends are.

We are not in high school anymore. There is no need for you to be a cyber drama queen. Facebook is not a place air out the drama. It is a place for you to quietly stalk your exes. (Kidding!)

8. All the kissing.

Fenella Middleton-Brown is tired and needs to go to sleep. xx
Violet J. Bickerstaff can't wait to see Toy Story 3! xx

Fenella is the one who brought this to my attention, and while I've not really noticed it and suggested it to be a UK issue, Fen reminded me that we are an international blog and therefore must discuss international issues. Excellent point. On the same note, please refrain from posting pictures of you and your S.O. kissing. Again, we know you are "In a Relationship." What you do alone should not be posted on facebook for all the world to see.

If you find yourself committing any of these facebook crimes, we have three words for you: Knock it off!

Sunday, August 15, 2010

All By Myself

Would the last person still in Atlanta this week please call me?

The cute neighbor: out of town. My roommate: out of town. Rebecca: out of town. (Ok, not too upset about that one, but she is someone I would have gone out for a drink with.) McNerdy: Soon to be out of town. Me: All alone. But at least I have the cat to keep me company.

With both the cute neighbor and my roommate gone for at least a week (the cute neighbor longer), it is awfully quiet around here. Too quiet. I've been dreading this week for at least a month, and have been working very hard to fill up my social calendar so as not to go crazy. If Fen were here, I would look at it as an opportunity for us to watch rom-coms and eat pistachio ice cream. But she's not.

It did occur to me yesterday that I have gone extended periods of time with neither a boyfriend or a roommate, so what's the big deal? The big deal is that during those periods, I had a full-time job. I'd get home at 6pm or so and go to the gym and make myself dinner, and by that time, it was time to watch Grey's Anatomy or Lost. This time, however, I'm not working a whole lot. Only 3-5 hours a day. That leaves 20 hours to fill. And that's a whole lotta Violet time. As it stands, by the time the cute neighbor gets home from work, I've had hours of alone time, while he is need of his own time to decompress. My desperate need for human interaction at that point isn't exactly helping things.

All by myself..... Don't wanna be, all by myself... any MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRE
(*kicks the air, swigs wine).

I've done a pretty decent job of filling up the social calendar for the week, and hopefully it will involve crashing a wedding next weekend. I'm hoping to begin volunteering soon (as soon as my background checks have cleared) and with any luck, I'll have a job interview or two to attend this week or next. But if any plans fall through, I have a book to back me up: Gone with the Wind. All 1,037 pages of it.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Need You Now - For Vi!



I hope this works...

When I was in Atlanta this song was on the radio all the time. Vi and I were fans. Amazingly enough Lady Antebellum decided to visit the UK and played one show here. Guess who went and had an awesome view? Me! Fen!

I took a video clip when they played Need You Now and figured this would be a good way to share it with Vi...and make the blog um, multi media?

But remember ladies, even if Lady A sing about it...don't drink and dial.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Anti-climax

Last week, I told you about the impending weekend with my parents, which was not only going to involve them meeting the cute neighbor for the first time, but a possible reaction to my sleeping over at his house, since I was being so generous as to give up my bedroom to them.

The first meeting took place on Friday night. We were all going to a baseball game. Good first meeting, as there is not too much pressure to keep a conversation up and running. The meeting went well; better than the baseball game, but that's another story. I don't really have too much to report from the first meeting. In fact, I'm afraid this entire story will just bore everyone, it was so drama-free.

We got back from the game pretty late, and the cute neighbor said good night to my parents and vice versa. I went inside to get everyone settled. While I was brushing my teeth, my dad asked if I was going to sack out on the couch. I said, "I'll probably just go across the street." He said, "Ok." Then my mom asked me the same question. I gave her the same answer. She too said, "Ok. So we'll just see you when we see you in the morning?" "Yup," I said. And that was that. Transition into adulthood: Complete.

I wasn't really expecting any drama. First of all, my parents don't criticize life decisions that Grayer or I make. Yes, my mom may suggest that I keep my bread in a different location in my kitchen, or ask why I'm taking a certain route home when I am the one who lives here, thank you very much, so I do indeed know my way around. But when it comes to things that actually matter, they stay quiet. When I told them I was quitting my job to go to South America for several months, they said, "Ok." Second, I am an adult. I live 1,000 miles away from them. They raised me to be an independent grown-up. They did their job. They can't say anything.

Saturday evening, we grilled burgers on my porch. The cute neighbor contributed to the meal with a side dish and beer (which my parents don't drink, and he knew). Afterward, the friend who introduced me to the cute neighbor (and who is from my hometown, which is very strange and has a sister who lives in Boston. We're like the same person.) stopped by to say hello and we all played cards. It was actually quite a fun evening. I got a little nervous when the cute neighbor made some slightly bawdy jokes, such as suggesting Tiger Woods should have stuck to whoring, which was apparently good for his golf game, but my parents just laughed. I mean, really laughed.

I knew they liked him when they kept asking me if he was joining us on our other endeavors throughout the weekend. When it was time for them to leave, they told me that it had been nice meeting him, with my mom adding her classic mom line: "He's nice." But then, she went above and beyond her usual mom line and actually added, "He's funny." Wow. That is some high praise right there. To actually form an opinion beyond "nice?" My dad even followed up with an email today, telling me, "Very nice to meet [the cute neighbor]- seems like a good guy."

Sorry I couldn't bring home the drama or even a really funny meet the parents story, but sadly the cute neighbor is just too cool to try to tell my dad that he can milk anything with nipples or break anybody's nose playing volleyball. He's got strong approval ratings from Fenella and now my parents. Next up: Grayer!

Sunday, August 8, 2010

I don't think we're in college anymore Toto...

Apologies for my blog absence recently. I am currently without Internet at my house and the blog is blocked on the Internet at work. I can't imagine why.

Last night I went out with some girls from work for dinner, drinks and dancing. The dinner and drinks all went to plan and then we went on the hunt for some dancing...

I graduated from college about 3 years ago. I also graduated from going to sleazy clubs 3 years ago. In fact, even in college, I rarely went to the type of club we found ourselves in. You know the type: loud music, cheap drinks, girls in short skirts, guys ogling, the smell of sweat mixed with the smell of people on heat. I wasn't a fan back in college of the type of guys that were in that place and I'm even less of a fan now. They really should've grown out of it.

My friend and I (everyone else had gone home at this point) surveyed the scene. It didn't look promising. I spotted a couple making-out quite, um, vigorously. I pointed them out to my friend Helen saying: "Aw look, they're getting an STD." I'm definitely not in college anymore.

We decided that as we had come for dancing then we might as well dance and the music was good. However, can I just ask, what right do men think they have to stare at girls and then grab their waists? Or come up to girls and start, what can only be described as gyrating, in front of them? It's disgusting. It was almost like they thought that because they paid £10 to get into the club, they had the right. Never do they have the right.

I know that in the past I have complained about British men and their lack of confidence when it comes to approaching women. Perhaps I should clarify: the British men that are sleazy, sweaty and downright repulsive, under no circumstances, do I want them to approach me. The nice, grown-up men who aren't drunk and think that it is highly inappropriate to grab a girl when they're dancing may by all means approach me. Unfortunately as we all know, we can't always get what we want in life.

By 2am Helen and I were fed up of the meat market and left with the scent of heat clinging to our clothes and our feet sore from our toe pinching shoes. We headed back to mine for tea and toast.

I'm so glad I'm not in college anymore.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Meet the Parents

My parents are coming for a visit this weekend. You know what that means. The cute neighbor is going to meet the parents.

I'm not really worried about what they're going to think of him. He already has very high approval ratings from The Important People he's met thus far, most notably Fenella, and this will be the first boy Grayer or I have introduced to our parents in a very, very long time. Years, actually. They want grandchildren. He is very highly educated and well-groomed. They will love him.

While my mom can be kind of a wild-card, I'm not too worried about what he will think of them, either. Mainly because my dad is probably one of the most likable people on the planet. They may be a bit nerdy, what with their ballroom dance habit and bike helmet rear view mirrors, but they're not dealbreakers for sure.

No, what will make this weekend interesting is where I choose to sleep. Being the top-notch hostess that I am, I will surrender my bedroom to my parents. Thus leaving me with two sleeping options:

1. I sleep on one of our two couches.
2. I do what I normally do, especially on the weekends, and sleep at the cute neighbor's house.

The last time I brought a boy home (in college, people) he was exiled to the guest bedroom. (In case you're wondering, yes, we found ways around this.) So you would think I should be sleeping on the couch, right?

Oh, no. I'm going rogue. I am a grown-up. I am 27 years old. Very nearly 28. If I want to have a sleep-over with my boyfriend, I very well will. And why should I have to spend a night tossing and turning on the couch while the cat pulls my hair when I can get a comfortable night's sleep in a comfortable bed? If he didn't live across the street, we may have a different story, but he lives across the street. I can see his front door from mine. If they think for a minute that that isn't happening on a regular basis, they need a reality check.

Aren't you worried about what they're going to say? you ask. That's the beauty of it. They won't say anything. That would mean having an uncomfortable conversation, and if there is one thing we are really, truly good at in this family, it is avoiding uncomfortable conversations. I mean yes, our mom sent Grayer a condom sticker, but she didn't actually say anything about it.

So check in next week when I give an update, and Grayer relays what the parents have to say about it.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Beware the Jellyfish

In recent years, I've realized that I spend about 90% of my social life hanging out with men. In the last few months, it's become apparent: girls suck.

Don't get me wrong. I am a feminist. Which is why it irritates the hell out of me that women are our own worst enemy. When I hang out with guys, there is no drama.

Rebecca is a friend of mine and the cute neighbor. She and the cute neighbor were friends long before I entered the picture. In fact, Rebecca took advantage of the cute neighbor's mad culinary skills as often as possible and sometimes ate dinner at his place every night of the week. However, Rebecca is a bit lazy, and never helped with dinner or the clean up and the cute neighbor decided it was time to cut her off. Lucky for him, by this time he had been introduced to me, so he texted me to see if I wanted to come over for some homemade pizza. Yes, please! And the rest is history.

Recently, however, Rebecca looks for any opportunity to put me down. For awhile, she was constantly pointing out that I am shorter than she is, or the shortest one present. (I am not a short person, mind you. In most crowds, I'm even tall.) But lately, she's been aiming below the belt. As in, my lack of funds and employment. More than once, she's pointed out that I make less money than she does. The more I think about it, the more I realize she's the Rebecca to my Bridget Jones. Her nasty comments are always back handed and quick, just like a jellyfish. You don't realize you've been stung until she's moved on. A few weeks ago, we were discussing the color of my toe nails (she approved) and I mentioned my collection of purple nail polishes. To which she said, "You do your own toes? Well, I guess I had to do my own toes when I wasn't making any money."

Ouch.

When I relayed this to the cute neighbor, he shook his head and said, "She's always saying shit like that." We chalked it up to her blatant insecurity and need to build herself up. But when I retold the story to Fenella and Grayer, they both had the same reaction, which basically boiled down to, "What a bitch!"

Then last week, Rebecca came over and told the cute neighbor and me about the date she had had over the weekend. The date went great, but of course she had a problem with his physical appearance, namely, his teeth needed to be whitened. Rebecca always has a problem with their physical appearance, and it usually has to do with teeth. She went on and on about how she could get him to whiten his teeth. I was frustrated with her comments to me (she had pointed out that finding a job right now is going to be really tough), I was menstrual AND had just donated blood that day, and I started to get pissed off. Apparently, I let it show. I told her she needed to let it go about the teeth (I'm sure there was nothing wrong with them. I've seen the teeth she's complained about before, and they're fine.) and what was she looking for, a Greek god? Of course, she said she was.

Later in the week, I invited Rebecca to a game night at my place. She didn't respond. But she did leave the cute neighbor (who was out of town) a message saying they should hang out and that they haven't had much "one-on-one" time lately. I don't think this was a coincidence.

How is it that Rebecca gets a free pass to say bitchy things because that's just how she is, but I get to be the bad guy for calling her out on something she needed to be called out on? Luckily, the cute neighbor is on my team. He agreed with me and understood why I was so snippy with her. But I can't help but wonder if the bitchy things she says are just the way she is or are directly related to me and the cute neighbor. I mean, I never noticed them before we started dating... smiles-and teeth- are very important to her... the cute neighbor has a disarmingly sexy smile.... hmmmm.

See? It's always a competition with women! Why can't we all just get along? In the meantime, I'll steer clear of Rebecca for awhile. Wouldn't want to have to rely on the cute neighbor to pee on me after I've been stung.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Abstinence only

That's right. Condoms don't protect the heart. Thanks, Mom. My mom sent this sticker to me in her last mailing. Apparently she found it while cleaning out our old coats before giving them to Goodwill. This prize was found in the pocket of my coat I wore in high school. Why she thought I needed a reminder of what condoms do or do not do, is beyond me. Doesn't she remember that I was in the Abstinence Club?

That's right, I was in the Abstinence Club all through high school. If you're wondering, the Abstinence Club was not something I made up as an excuse for not getting laid. No. The Abstinence Club was a bonafide state-funded program that required us to wear obnoxiously bright yellow tshirts while putting on skits for 5th graders. I don't mean to brag, but my BFF, Greenley, and I wrote the skit pretty much all by ourselves when we were in 9th grade. Yeah, you're right, we were pretty cool back then.

The Abstinence Club encouraged abstaining from drugs and alcohol, but sex was our real bread and butter. Greenley and I wrote a scintillating tale that included football players, high school dances, and a scandalous teen pregnancy (Obviously, we have to get a teen pregnancy in there. It's what happens when you have sex!). We even had this girl show up at the dance (after being shipped off to her Aunt's in a nearby town) with her newborn baby, telling her former flame, "Of course it's yours!" Oh, what drama. (It's as if I had grown up watching soaps with my mom...which I did).

The great part is, Greenley and I also got to act in the skits, and hell yes we played the same parts all 4 years. Greenley played a promiscuous girl who had to be rejected by her football playing beau. It's as if she had learned nothing from her baby mama friend, Jasmin. I, on the other hand, would not even consider going to my football playing boyfriend's house with his parents out of town. "Look," I would say with much gusto, "you know what happened to Jasmin. That is NOT going to happen to ME!" The fifth graders couldn't help but be moved by that performance. (And I'm positive that I convinced them that being alone in a house together will result in a baby.) If you're wondering how I can remember my lines after 7 years, it's because I played the same part and said my lines the exact same way over the course of 4 years and every 5th grade class in the district. We are talking dozens of performances, people. If that's not the sign of great acting skills, then I don't know what is.

When we were seniors we got a little over the top. We had a musical performance by a girl that could actually sing, along with a real life football player that could actually play the guitar. One time Greenley and I sang backup, complete with two-stepping and hand gestures in the background. It was no High School Musical production (obviously as it wasn't highly choreographed dancing with basketballs) but it was pretty awesome. Unfortunately, our adviser wouldn't let us do it again. She said it was distracting and taking away from the message of the song (Wait for me by Rebecca St. James). Sadly, my career as a back up singer was over before it ever really began. What can I say, I sang, I danced, I acted, I wrote skits...I had so much potential back then.

So yes, I was in an Abstinence Club. It was fun. We were actually fairly cool and some us were actually fairly, if not completely, abstinent. We got to get out of school, we got pizza and doughnuts, and we got those rad yellow tshirts too. I wish I still had mine, but at least I still have a sticker. A sticker which is currently on my bathroom mirror, right where it belongs. Thanks, Mom!

Hang in there Vi!

Dearest Vi,

I know that you have been having a hard time of it lately with trying to find employment. I personally believe employers in the Atlanta area have their heads buried in the sand to not realise just how AMAZING you are.

I just wanted to say - hang in there. Things will get better soon and your luck is going to change. I promise.

And if for even one second you doubt just how great you are, remember this. You have managed to find AN ACTUAL BOYFRIEND. Who has lovely teeth. And cooks. It won't be long til your employment success is up there with your relationship success. And then you will have it all.

Love,

Fen

xoxo

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Cool Runnings

I am not a terribly active person. Gyms scare me. Junk food appeals to me. I prefer watching sports to playing them (softball being the exception). When Vi went for a run while I was visiting her in Atlanta I stayed in the apartment watching '16 and Pregnant.' You get the picture.

I decided to try and change my somewhat lazy ways and signed up to run a half-marathon. I really should have started with something a little less demanding...

It's taken me awhile to get into the pattern of training but now that I have, I am actually quite enjoying it. And whilst I've been out pounding the pavement I have noticed that there are quite a few people of the male variety also running. And some haven't been all that bad looking. The thought did cross my mind that along with raising money for charity and getting fit I could stumble into the path of a tall, fit, handsome runner. And when I say stumble I literally mean stumble - I'm a klutz.

Today, whilst out running I spotted a guy who I wouldn't mind stumbling into (shallow yes as based purely on looks but I am only human). He gave me a bit of a look. "Ah ha!" I thought. This could work afterall! As I was coming to the end of my run I headed home, wondering if this guy ran every Sunday at the same time. Arriving home I glanced in the mirror.

Oh.

He'd given me a look all right. A look that I now realised went something along the lines of: "Why is this crazy girl with the bright, bright red face and very crazy hair looking at me"? We are talking BRIGHT red face here people. And my hair having a little party. It just didn't invite me.

I'll stick to the running. But I'll leave the cute runner fantasy at home.