Well? I think our new little boy toy may have raised his freak flag 2 dates too early. It seems we have a bit of a sex obsessed freak on our hands. Ever since our date, all the dude can talk about is sex. Pushing the limits of what is acceptable to say, testing the waters on how far he can go, inquiring about my fantasies. One date, dude. 3 hours.
It’s fine. We will move on. As lovely as he was, I’m not exactly interested in giving you my full list of sexual conquests and preferences because you bought me 2 drinks. That type of access deserves at least 4 drinks and dinner.
And because you asked, I was wearing a low-cut black shirt, skinny jeans, knee-high black boots and 2 necklaces doubled up. Yeah. I looked perdy.
My date wasn’t bad at all. In fact, he was rather lovely. A quick meet up for drinks turned into a 3.5 hour eventing. He was an absolute gentleman. The 2 hours of terror and anxiety I had beforehand was kinda a waste – although…I hear anxiety burns a lot of calories so..
We did have really odd 1st date conversation about the playboy mansion, sex clubs and strippers but for some reason, it wasn’t weird at all. How is that possible you ask? Well we were both well aware that this was a rather odd choice for a 1st date but couldn’t help but keep talking. I mean, once the cat is out of the bag that you’ve been to the playboy mansion, people really aren’t going to let that one go. While the subject matter may have been off kilter, everything else was very conventional and nice. The fact that he’s hot and actually thought I looked nice isn’t so bad either.
After our date he texted me almost immediately. OK, so the text said that he was going to zig zag home so that I couldn’t follow him, but that’s beside the point. We have had a steady flow of convo ever since.
This could get interesting….
OK yes I’ve been away. And yes I’ve been in a cave. I hung out there a while. Ate some chocolate. Cried a lot. I smelled pretty bad. It was ugly. I’d go into details but I would only be incriminating myself and I don’t think I can take all that judgement at once.
But whatev. I got over it and now I feel a little bit more like myself.
So. I have a date tomorrow. I like this one. And it’s because I like him that I’m all weirded about about the date. I have a long ass way to go before I’m all confident in myself. I’m still a giant cow – and that hiatus in the cave certainly didn’t help much. But I’m going. And I’ll look as good as possible. I spent the entire night trying on every single article of clothing in this place in an effort to find 1 top, 1 bottom and 2 shoes that made me feel ok. I honestly didn’t even give a shit if they matched. Thank God I have a wardrobe that is limited to the colors: black, white, black, grey, charcoal, black, dark brown, and black. Why did this remind me of garanimals all of a sudden?
Ahhh dating. So much pain and suffering. So much wax and deodorant. Damn it that reminds me I need to shave my legs….
It was 4 years ago on Christmas that our dog Daisy was killed while we were in New York. It was the start of 4 years of heartbreak, disappointment, pain and sadness. This year, Christmas marks the end of what was an incredibly awful seriese of events I like to call 2009. I can’t help but notice that while I started out the year planning for my next IVF cycle to begin in Jan, I’m ending it alone.
I would have never in a million years saw this coming.
I’m being all dramatic and depressing. I understand this. But at the moment, it’s the best I can do. I don’t like it here in this solitary place. I’m not happy here. Being surrounded by holiday cheer and the giddiness of young children was increadibly difficult on me today. I didn’t want it to be. I wasn’t expecting it, but I guess I’m a bit more emo than I let on.
That death of my dog 4 years ago was heart crushing. I begged fate to never do that kind of damage to me again and yet here we are. Worse. Fucking whore my “gaurdian angel” is. This is somekind of joke. I’m sure she is some high school fat kid I made fun of back in the day who thinks it’s fucking hilarious to watch me fall disasterously hard. Publically. Metaphorically naked.
She’s planned weekly get togethers with the other angels to recap how much she’s fucked up my life while they gab over a glass of vino and some chocolate – bitches can’t even get fat.
Sorry world. Merry Christmas to you. Just not to me. Stand by for some lovely New Years sentiments….
Know what the worst part about being newly single is? When you get sick.
I’m all whiney and shit. It’s really quite pathetic. I slammed my hand against the refrigerator door earlier and you’d think it had made contact with razor blades. O the agony. O the pain. O the loneliness.
Being sick sucks big camel turd anyway, but when you’re used to whimpering like a little bitch and getting away with it, trying to figure out where to get yourself some soup is just ridiculous.
Where’s my part-time caretaker? Can we invent those? Not nurses. These are hired professionals with extensive experience in hugs, cuddling, soup making, back rubs and “I know. It’s OK. You can eat the last cookie because I love you and you’re sick”‘s.
Can someone get on this please? Don’t look at me. I’m too busy discovering how impossible it is to find Matzo Ball soup in the Northwest.
I don’t think I’m really ready to date yet. Well. That’s what I’m telling myself these days. It’s a really terrific way to disguise the fact that nobody actually wants to date me? Yeah. That’s it. It’s not them, it’s me.
While doing a bit of a personal inventory of myself, I have noticed that I’m a lot more broken than I lead on. I don’t mean I’m all melodramatic and depressing and need to stay up all night and write poetry while listening to sad love songs and painting my nails black – and not in the new fashion “black nails are cool” way. No. That’s not what I mean. I mean before I was married I was a different person (As silly as that may sound because of its captain obvious qualities). Before I got married I felt a lot more confident and satisfied with myself. I am not quite sure how or when, but somewhere along the lines, that bad ass confidence melted away. I now find myself feeling as though I am not quite good enough for anyone. Whether it be that I’m too fat, or too annoying, or spend far too much time cleaning, there is always a little voice in my brain laughing her ass off at me for even contemplating happiness with someone else.
It’s not at all that I don’t find anyone around me attractive. I do all the time. But there’s a sneeze guard cock blocking me from ever imagining even the simplest conversation. Everyone is gay or too good for me inside my brain and I think people can tell. There is no flirting or attraction or second looks. No smiles or eye contact. In fact, last weekend when out with Boss and Boss’ BF, I got flat out rejected by someone I wasn’t even interested in when Boss tried to wing man me. Ouch. Perhaps there really is a window into my head? Who knew?
This is a bit puzzling. Not exactly sure how to fix this one without kicking my own ass. Perhaps I need therapy. Or more liquor.
I haven’t been up to much lately. Went out drinkin one night last weekend and made a damn fool of myself dancing with old people. Pretty sure my boss and boss’ boyfriend are going to strongly reconsider any invitations to accompany them to happy hour in the near future.
Sat home depressed one day eating doughnuts in bed and watching really horrible chick movies all day. But just when I wasn’t pathetic enough, I decided to get off my fat doughnut ass and work out? As if that was going to somehow erase the billion calories in the fried sugar pockets? O sure. One 40 minute cardio session is clearly all it takes. I’m obviously stable and realistic.
The worst/funniest part was that as I was running on my elliptical I started crying? Then continued crying at the thought of how pathetic it is to weep whilst running in place. I mean, wow. That’s right folks. I’m available. Get. In. Line.
So there you have it. I’m not exactly exciting or full of awesome single girl stories or interesting. I’m not dating anyone. I’m not even on anyone’s radar. As of late, I eat doughnuts in bed, watch bad girl movies, pretend I’m actually working on losing weight by, cry for no reason at all, and dance with old people.
I had a rather disturbing dream last night. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
In my dream, all banking establishments were going through some rather “dramatic” changes due to the recent bank drama. There were cut backs, interest rate hikes, mergers…
And then there was this little itty bitty new policy. (Created to help the banks grow of course.)
You see, someone that works for a bank, Googled some question along the lines of “Are fat people poor?” and found some blog post somewhere (you know there has to be one right?) that proclaimed this to be factual. Yup. If you’re fat, you are stupid poor bad with money. So as incredibly brilliant forces of economic genius, banks all across America decided to ban together and formulate a policy. A policy to help stimulate their bottom line.
Anyone over a size 8 was no longer able to have a bank account. At all. Ever.
Scales were set up at bank branches all over the country.
In my dream, I went to the bank to deposit my paycheck and was asked how much I weighed at the counter. Having not been privy to the new little gem of a policy, I was completely offended. After my eyes were guided into the direction of the gigantic sign explaining out the future of eliminating all fat people banking, I was then escorted over to the scale.
Now I had no bank account. What the hell does one do without a bank account?
I don’t know man. I have some pretty fucked up dreams. I can’t figure out what this one means but clearly a glass of wine, some cheese, and a night of no workout is in order right? Right.
I am finally starting to feel settled. I have an address, all my stuff, clothes in the washer and dog toys all over the house. This feels a lot more like home.
Last week was busy. I frantically worked to get my place all Martha Stewart perfect before my holiday guests got here. While I know that at standards set by 97% of the world, I over achieved, but for me? Well, nothing was labeled and there were 2 pictures on the floor. And utter failure. (I’m pretty sure I made up for it with my Thanksgiving feast though. Even set a lovely formal table using wedding china and family silver.)
I need to get back out there and pretend I know what I’m doing with dating. Now that everyone is gone, it seems like the right thing to do but I don’t think its going to be the building manager. We kinda broke up. I ran into him last Friday in the lobby and he asked me how my Thanksgiving was. We shared a moment while we giggled over how much we ate and then I went on my way – let’s face it, I totally obsessed over every word, every gesture. The whole scenario was scrutinized to a ridiculous level.
Two days later I actually had to seek him out to explain that I recently discovered a small gas leak in my kitchen that I was pretty sure he wanted to take a look at. No really. There really was a gas leak. Put all your euphemisms back in your dirty corners of your brains and save them for later. Sadly, when I found him it was like listening to a broken record however. I was promptly asked again “Hey how was your Thanksgiving?”. Yeaaaah. I’m done with you now.
So, I’m done. All moved in. However I sure did catch the dumb when I moved up here. I don’t know if its all the lovely “stuff” I have going on these days or the fresh Washington air, but sister is the antithesis of blonde these days. It’s quite fantastic really. I mean I’ve missed planes, lost keys, forgotten meetings, and just been all around retarded. I’m even impressing myself with all my new levels of dumbness.
But by far, my biggest accomplishment in the stupid department has to be awarded to the impressive display of brain emptiness when meeting the ridiculously hot building manager in my new apartment. O yes. He is so freakin fantastic that he made me dumb. He’s hot. Like Clark Kent hot. Like take off all my clothes in the elevator and claim to have a problem with my plumbing that needs to be attended to immediately hot.
I first met McManager as he was bringing some window treatment people up to my apartment to fix the remote controls for the shades. (Yes that’s right. I have motorized shades.) He was wearing his awesome nerd glasses and a preppy sweater. He walked in – a bit surprised to see me there – and introduced himself. While I’m sure he vocalized his name, all I heard was the sound of Angels singing “ahhhhh” in perfect tune. And what is it that I said back you ask? How did I respond to this lovely introduction?
I said – and I quote: “I have a dog.”
Umm. Wha? If you want to queue up a little mental retardation mockery in my voice as you imagine the scene, please feel free to do so. As I look back on it now, that might have added a little embellishment to what was obviously not my finest moment. So if we are to tally up the score here: McManager: 1 / Kathy: -9 (1 for the really stupid dog comment and 8 for the drool that I’m sure was dripping down my face.)
Let’s all just hope that this is not the last we hear of McManager. Stay tuned….