pickle jars and weakness

This morning I had a good cry because I have no strength in my hands. Of course, the cry was helped by a lack of sleep and a very stressful 24 hours.

You see, the tire on my car has been going flat. I re-filled it with air as the weekend unfolded, hoping to make it to Monday morning. It got worse as time passed...duh.

I really didn't want to call AAA. The local guy (the ONLY AAA guy in the area) is a creepy old man who ran his hand across my ass the first time he came to my house. I try to hold off on calling unless I am really desperate.

So I took my car at 1am in 25 degree weather to the sketchy gas station near my house. I refilled the air. When I got home, I could hear hissing out of the hole made by a nail. Thank you, construction crew near my work.

I tried to do a quick cover with a hot glue gun. It just blew bubbles in the glue. I tried to cover THAT with packing tape...no slowing of the air. Tried to find my fix-a-flat. No luck.

At 3 am, I realized that I have a new car! All of the parts are there to change the tire myself! Yay! I am saved!

But no. At 8 am, I enthusiastically went out to solve my own problem only to be reminded that I am a weak woman. I can't open the lid of a pickle jar.

My weak hands were unable to snap open the cover that held the jack to the car. I tried for 10 minutes. I cried. Tried again. Cried again.

While on hold with AAA, I kept trying to snap off that damned lid. Two hands, one hand, with a towel, with just thumbs. No luck.

So, because I am a weak woman with weak hands, I had to call Mr. Creepy to my house.

Wait 1 1/2 hours.

Try to avoid physical contact.

Watch helplessly as he changed my tire. (He didn't use my jack...no need to remove the stupid lid)

4 hours later, Wal-mart had my car all fixed up. Unfortunately, my soul and ego are still feeling victimized. Creepy old men in overalls can do that to you.

Ode to 32

I haven't posted much lately. It is sad. Why do I have little to say when I am not dating? In order to break this sadness, here is my ode to 32...

Why I like being 32:

I have a lot more fun being me. At some point in the last year, I became comfortable being silly, sad, happy, somber or however I want to be without feeling awkward. I enjoy kids a lot more because I'm not busy thinking about myself and my need to be cool while interacting with them.

Why I don't like being 32:

I am now painfully aware that if I want babies to come out of my stomach, I have to find the love of my life in the next 3-5 years. That is a lot of pressure. I'm not interested in dating right now. Even when I date like a whore, no relationship lasts longer than 3 weeks. Tick, tick, tick.

Why I like being 32:

I have a house full of stuff and it is all mine. I know where the nice china is, what groceries I need every week, where my messes are hidden (like behind every cabinet and door), and which sheets are best for winter. It is my home. And I own it...or at least 1/100th of it.

Why I don't like being 32:

I live alone, which means that there is no one else that I should clean for, cook for, or put my jeans back in the closet for. I am not old enough to be motivated to do these things on my own. I am old enough to be annoyed by it.

Why I like being 32:

I have recipes which are now "mine" and I can cook my own comfort food. All the spices are waiting in my cabinet and I can grab them without thinking. My freezer is full of frozen leftover soups and sauces for future dinners. People now ask me for recipes!

Why I don't like being 32:

I actually feel like crap when I eat crap. While it would be easy to eat pizza and fast food all the time, I pay the price if I do. If I eat too much sodium, fried food, grease, or starch I feel achy and tired. Damn.

Why I like being 32:

I know what looks good on me and what doesn't. Shopping is a much faster process because I can spot what won't work for my body type from yards away! This is also a golden age when you can get away with all kinds of style from funky to prudish. Half the world thinks you are ancient and the other half thinks you are a baby. Wear what the hell you want to wear!

Why I don't like being 32:

At this very minute, I have a lot of zits, gray hair, crazy hormones, newly found spider veins, and the beginning of wrinkles. That is wrong. We should have one or the other...not everything at once.

Why I like being 32:

I have excellent credit. This means that I've been a grown-up long enough to be a respectable member of society. I got a used car loan at 2.5%! Used! (this also means that I have a lot of debt, but we don't need to dwell on that)

I also have a great dog. I've had her for years now, so we live comfortably together. She isn't new and exciting like a college kid getting their first dog. She also isn't old and pitiful like our childhood dogs. We are equally wounded, still learning, and loveable. A good dog is a wonderful help while figuring out your 30's!

The end!

sigh

Dear God,

Please deliver me from dating. I've walked away for now. I only had one man left still emailing after abandoning all searches. Now he, my last hope, started writing in detail about his therapy sessions. Therapy sessions, God! I haven't even met this man and he is telling me about emotional turmoil that doesn't have to do with sports!

God, if you are a woman (which I think you are), please give me the strength to be happy alone. You know how wonderful men are. You also know how many bad, bad, bad, bad, badbadbad matches I've met this year. Okay, two years. Three years.

I wanted to go on a date with this last guy, God. The emails before this week were so funny and thoughtful! He is a professional poker player! What a great story that would make! "Yes, once I actually dated a professional poker player."

I now know that you are punishing me for objectifying someone based on their strange profession. I should know better after talking to so many men with dirty nun fantasies.

Yes, God. I hear your rebuke. It was clear to me when this man began detailing his tears and emotional state during therapy. He has been crying for 2 days now because someone lied to him. And he told me about it. I have to walk away from the crazy man. Goodbye, poker player. All doors to possible dates are now closed.

God, give me strength. Please let me be happy and healthy until you bring a liberal Christian man who is not too good looking but has a stable job to my door. May he also be funny and have a respectable penis.

Love, your lonely and tired child,
Jenny

my new lover

I've recently taken a new lover. His name is Sleep. This week, I've been fighting a cold and my new lover has hit the spot. I haven't slept a lot, but the separation from sleep just makes me want him more.

I look forward to going home and spending time in sleep. My body yearns for it. As soon as I'm done with it, I think about when and how I can do it again. I look at my bed with clean sheets and think how satisfying it will be to place myself in its embrace and just surrender to the ecstasy.

Today is Friday. This means that I have an entire night, morning, afternoon, and evening to do nothing but touch sleep, embrace sleep, enter sleep, and then do it all again.

I'm drooling just thinking about it.

I'm full, thank you.

I had a moment tonight while looking at my reflection in the mirror of the women's bathroom at On the Border. First, I realized that I am pretty. I am dateable pretty. People smile at me when I walk by because my face is pleasant and pretty.

Second, I realized that I have had my fill of dating for a while. You see, I was in the bathroom taking a break from my date with Will.

Will is a nice man with a great personality. He is cute in that teddy-bear kind of way and he fits my criteria for a date (educated Christian with a full-time job)!

As of 7:56pm tonight, I've had all that I can handle for now. It is time to let the shittiness of looking for love digest and just chill being alone.

What did Will do? Nothing. I was his FIRST date after the end of a 14 year marriage. Very first date. He is a very nice man in crisis. I'm pretty sure that Will recently dyed his hair blonde. He had it cut short and spikey. Trying to look younger? I don't know. I've already sent him a "not gonna be your rebound" email and offered to hang out as just friends.

He really was nice. In that recently-divorced-proving-that-he-can-move-on kind of way. No thank you, Will.

In the last month my dating included:

museum man who was uncomfortable in museums
the man who left me crushed and confused
the man whose IQ was that of a 10 year-old
caroler figurine man (I count him, even if I cancelled the date)
the man who just ended a marriage of 14 years

This was a rough re-entry month after my sabbatical. I can't take any more. I'm not going back to the sabbatical. I am just not going to look for love anymore. If Mr. Right wants to come into my life, he has to drive out to the Boone Docks and knock on my door. Probably twice because I am usually naked when people knock the first time.

I do not go...

I sent ole' Roger a date-cancelling email. I said it was me, not him. I just can't bring myself to spend another Friday night painfully pursuing a miserable dead end.

That, and any grown man who owns 35 old-lady figurines may have a few old ladies buried under his house.

Creeeeeepy.

Do I go?

On Friday at 6:00pm, I have a date with a very nice man named Roger. I've been talking to him for a week now.

He is nice and intelligent. He messaged me first because he went to seminary and has worked in ministry. I've enjoyed our conversations but there was a nagging feeling that he might be, well, gay.

Today is Tuesday. He just let me know via IMing that he

1) lives with his parents
2) does not have a job and hasn't had a job in 1 1/2 years
3) collects dozens of pretty little figurines.

You know those little carolers with the wide open mouths and old-timey clothes that old ladies put out at Christmas? Yeah. He has 35. Displayed in a glass case year round.



So now I am left with the question. Do I still go on the date? I'm thinking that it may produce too many good stories to pass on. Actually, I've never backed out of a date before it happened. The coward in me will win this week.

the single sits alone

Where is the pastor? Off to California with his wife to see his daughter, son-in-law, and all of the glamours of Hollywood. Meeting famous people (literally. the son-in-law works for a TV show) and exploring the west coast.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

Where is the music minister? Off to the beach with his beautiful family! They will stay in a beach-front cabin for free and enjoy the sounds of the ocean on a crisp, clear September night.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

Where is the children's minister? Off to the mountains! She will go to a huge college football game with her husband and 5 beautiful daughters. They will bundle up in the beautiful fall weather, take pictures in school colors, visit favorite spots, and catch up with old friends.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

Where are the college students? Off to vacations and to go home for a long weekend! They will leave all work behind them, relax while mom does their laundary, and take crazy road trips together.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

At least tomorrow is Saturday and I will sleep late. I will do housework, sell my used car, and think lovingly of my friend who is getting married on the other side of the country. I love you, Lizzie! My heart will be with you while I am working alone. In my house.

the upside

Here is the highlight of my rebound date:


I am sometimes a positive-thinking person. I went into the date thinking that there was a 70% chance he was a loser. There was a 30% chance that he could be a non-loser!

After an hour of listening to the loser talk about how young people are annoying and traffic is annoying and snowy roads are annoying, I thought that it might improve.

After another hour of listening to him, I realized that I'd get home in time for "Gray's Anatomy." Yay!

I also had time to call in a take-out order from my favorite Indian food restaurant...I was already in the city.

Soooooo, after watching a man order only water, after listening to him talk for 2 hours about shit that I don't care about, after paying the waiter and tipping him well for a nothing check...I finally got to leave.

The Indian food was excellent.

rebound date

Yes, I really am this weak. Or maybe I am determined.

I'm going on a rebound date tomorrow night with a guy named Tim. Does it really count as a rebound date if the previous non-relationship only lasted two weeks? No, not completely.

Tim gets the label of rebound because I recognize my own strong desires to fill a void and distract myself from the confused feeling of rejection still lingering after the short bald preacher.

There is a 70% chance that Tim is a loser. I'm meeting him for drinks because he seems like a genuinely nice, dependable guy. He is a Christian. He babysits for his friends on a regular basis. Takes care of his dad. My expectations are low for Tim because he is 4 classes short of a degree from the University of Pheonix. Snobby and judgemental much? His job also sounds like one of those bull-shit jobs people make up.

Expectations are low, but I'm going back out there. In public. Without handing out my phone number.

waste not, want not

The saddest thing about saying goodbye to the little bald man is that he sat through a sexual misconduct seminar all day today. I spent a week looking forward to today so that I could text him inappropriate things every hour or so. I've been very amused with myself. Here is what he missed out on:

"Yes, choir director. I will help you hit your high note."
"May I lay my hands on you?"
"Oh, we always anoint oil there. It is a holy part of your body."
"I like to pray in tongues. No, you just sit there with your mouth open."
"Boobs"
"I always treat the body of christ this well...very well."
"I wanna get down on my knees and start pleasing Jesus."
"You are so troubled. Let me heal you where it really hurts."
"That open slit on the side of my robe isn't for my hands alone, you know."
"You think my stole is long? I'll show you what is long."
"When we are done passing the peace, I have a special piece I'd like to pass to you after church."
"You are worried about going to hell? Why don't I show you a little piece of heaven right here in my robes."
"I like to help you enter a holy place. Nope, keep looking. Keep looking. There."
"I've got something for you to behold right here."

Ah. I crack myself up. The bald man had nothing to do with my awesome dirty jokes...he just missed out on being eternally damned by hearing them.

58 minutes left...

I am typing this post very, very slowly. There are 58 minutes left to this Monday.

Now 57.

I came into the office an hour late.
I took a long lunch.
Emailed a few people about actual work stuff.
Talked to the church secretary for about an hour.

The rest of today was spent being sleepy, hormonal, and stubbornly staying at work while not working.

Obessively checking my email? Of course. I sent the "goodbye" email last night and haven't gotten a reply from the short bald man of my past. No shock there. I put up a Craigslist ad to sell my old car. I spent hours today looking through OKCupid and emailing a few awesome looking guys.

And no emails. Damned fucking yahoo with its lack of blue numbers next to my "inbox." I think now I am just waiting for nothing because I've gotten used to waiting.

Damned hormones. I think I will get pizza for dinner. Again. I'll need to stuff myself early so that it is digested before swim. Yes, I see the contradiction between my self-loathing and self-care. A year ago, there was no self-care so I am at least improving in my 30's.


51 minutes left. I hate Mondays. I was ready for 5pm when I walked into the office at the crack of 10 this morning. Yesterday was draining and I don't really want to be a minister today.

Let me edit this post. Oh, now 48 minutes left.

Maybe I will find some wonderful tall man on OKCupid who ends up sweeping me off my feet. We could take lots of cute pictures together standing tall among the fall leaves and staring into each other's eyes. I could spend Thanksgiving with his family. In two years, we could have very tall babies in pumpkin costumes smiling at the camera. Oh, imaginary man, how I am excited about meeting you.

Okay, hormonal and needy daydreaming is done. Now I have 39 minutes left.

Damned Mondays. When I get home, I am not turning on my computer until AFTER swim class. Then I am sure that dozens of men will have emailed, a trustworthy person wants to pay cash for my car, and the bald man will have apologized for not recognizing the goddess that I am. Yup. All after swim.

35 minutes left. I should go and compared online coupons for dinner. I only have half an hour to find the best deal on a medium pizza...so tricky. What kind of pizza will I want to eat cold for breakfast and lunch tomorrow? Oh, decisions, decisions.

32 mintues left. Fucking hormonal Mondays.

my answer

A rosey-cheeked, healthy little bald man preached in church today, managed to post his sermon online, and made it to blessing of neighborhood animals. He is not hospitalized. Not weakened to the point of unable to use his dialing fingers.

He is simply not calling. No more guessing for me! I've composed the "goodbye" email that I will send later this week.

Meanwhile, it seems that I am unmatchable on eharmony. I did get a communication from a man who wants a woman who is very traditional in sexuality and gender roles, must wait until marriage to have sex, and who uses no profanity.

I can't scream, "Fuck yeah. Spank me harder!"???? I guess that is a pass.

I love my town

It may be the magic of the month of October and the appearance of pumpkins sold on every corner, but I fell a little more in love with my town this weekend.

I love that I live in a community that supports two auto parts stores, two dollar generals, four grocery stores but only one drive-through fast food place. I find comfort in the oil marks on parking lots and that every 4th car at night is missing a headlight.

My little town is a strange and magical mix of old, hard-working farming families and the newcomers. There is a huge latino population, the locals who've lived on this land for generations, and the occasional yuppie who bought a house cheap here and works in the city. Many of us fall somewhere in between.

On my way home, I pass the old plantation house that sits large and ornate between the funeral home and a new well-lit neighborhood.

Poverty is obvious in my town. Businesses focus on people who fix their own cars, buy cheap clothes, and need spanish-speaking store clerks. One block away from the main street, you can find drug dealers and hookers waiting for clients. Two blocks away, you find a sweet old lady selling pumpkins from her well-manicured yard.

I love the Spanish music that plays at night from my neighbors' houses. I love the old men who sit in McDonalds all morning talking and flirting with any woman who walks in the door. I am much more patient when I am stuck behind a tractor driving 5 mph than I was driving in traffic in the city.

This town sometimes breaks my heart with racism, backwards thinking, and occasional hopelessness. I often curse the fact that EVERYTHING closes early and that any single men are missing teeth or high school diplomas.

Today, though, I love my town. For now, I feel like I am home.

stupid f-ing eggs

The breathe is back in my lungs. The short bald preacher with cute glasses quit calling this week. He's been sick and his grandfather is dying, which MIGHT be the cause of silence. I've been thoughful (yet not pushy) by texting him. A mild cold and dying estranged grandfather aren't the cause of complete silence...of his reluctance to commit to a night at my house this weekend.

When a man goes from texting all day and talking on the phone for 1 1/2 hours every night to nothing, it is a sign of the end.

Fun is now over. My my mind is already re-adjusting to a man free life...working on the house, making my favorite soup, and swim.

I had hope for a while, which is very good.

He may call. We may see each other again in a week or two, but my phase of being starry-eyed and blissfully floating through my days has now passed. I'm not waiting for the phone to ring. Any hope that I have left is not placed in him.

Those stupid fucking eggs all in one basket. I hate it when I am right about impending pain and suffering.

yes ma'am

I have always been attracted to strong men. Black, white, latino, straight laced or possibly not straight...the common thread is that they were all strong willed men who took charge of a situation. I say one thing, they do another. Or nothing at all. The battle of wills is a bit of a turn-on.

I realized tonight that this new man does what I tell him to do.

"Get up and take another tylenol before your headache gets worse."

He hopped up and took the damned pill.

"You need chicken soup and gatorade if you are feeling sick."

From 25 miles away, he got the text, dragged his miserable butt off the couch, and bought himself gatorade. Ate chicken soup.

"You sound sleepy. You are still dressed? Get up, take off your pants, hang them up, and go to sleep."

I hear rustling as he is moving off the bed. He says, "Oh yes, please order me to do so."

That is when I caught on to this pattern and its implications in bed. I don't know if I think it is the hottest thing on earth or if it is annoying. Now I will simply focus on using this new found power for good.

the perfect day

A dark, rainy day and Jane Austen are perfect bedmates, especially for an anxious woman pondering the dangers of love. Thank you, Jane Austen. Men may come and go, but "Sense and Sensibility" will always be in my life.

check yes or no

I am in a strange situation. One that I haven't been in since college but, like everything in my 30's, it is more complicated.

There is a wonderful boy who is taking all of my time. He seems to need me already. We talk for at least an hour every night. Things are quickly slipping into a relationship status. When we are together he looks adoringly into my eyes and just stays there. And, of course, he is a good kisser.

A call every night.
Increasing physical affection.
The Mr. Darcy look.

After 5 dates, I am falling in love with a man who might be using me for my mind. I need to pass him a note saying "Do you think I'm pretty? Check yes, no, or maybe."

He has not once commented in my physical appearance. Yes, his tongue and his hard-on pressed against me comment. I happen to know that men place their dicks and tongues in all kinds of places, including women that they aren't attracted to.

There have been no confessions of his affections. He has not said that he likes me. Or that he has a crush on me. Or, really, anything that I've usually heard from a man a dozen times by the 5th date. Once I asked him how he liked dating a tall woman. He said, "well, it is different."

I am not a needy woman. I am no more vain or prideful than anyone else while dating. I do need to know that a man thinks I am amazing. He worships me. He closes his eyes and pictures my face. He thinks that I am the best fucking thing since sliced bread. (btw- whom he is not fucking)

Those thoughts all help with the dating process. We all want to be with someone who takes our breath away. I've taken enough breathe's away just by taking down my hair that I know I have that power over men. Especially at the beginning.

He takes my breathe away. Last night, I looked down at his giant bald head laying in my lap, at his short and ironically hairy body, and thought "I want to marry this man and have his short bald babies."

He took my breathe away, but I can sure the hell take it back if I don't hear him confess his worship of me as a woman in the next week or two. Yup. The breathe will re-enter my lungs and my sexy body, mind, and soul will have to walk away broken-hearted. I cannot settle for a wonderful man who loves my mind but not me as a whole woman.

Oh please, bald man, please tell me what you are thinking. And start thinking about me naked. Thank you! Jenny

what are the chances?

On our third date, the little bald man got us tickets to a sold out Duke/Alabama football game. The stadium was filled with 39,000 people, a new record. I knew six people at the game.

Our seats were right next to 4 of those six, all of whom were church members. Not in the same section. Not in the general area. I was row DD, seat 21. My friend from swim class and her husband were seats 22 and 23. Our head deacon was in the row in front of of us with her son, who is in the youth group.

Really? What the fuck?

no one can know

Last night I ran out of gas two miles from the exit to my house. I sat in my tiny two-door compact on the side of the highway for an hour waiting for AAA. I smelled like shit. I had a growing migraine. I didn't care.

I could have called a friend at 11pm for help and been home by 11:30. I waited for AAA instead. Why? I am too embarrassed to explain how I ran out of gas.

"Well, I noticed that I was out of gas in Raleigh. I meant to stop, but I've been starry eyed and daydreaming for the last 20 miles. I went on a really good date...didn't snap out of it even when the engine stopped at 70 mph."


Let's go back 36 hours...

Friday night was nice. We talked about serious stuff and laughed a lot. He hugged me twice at the end of the night. We stood in a dark parking lot for a long time, yet no kiss. That has never happened before.

Saturday was nice. We went to a Duke football game, left at half time (see the previous post), grabbed some food, went to a book store, and then back to his place.

When we got out of the car at his house, he did not invite me in. He just held the door. In his kitchen, he did not offer me a drink. We just stood there awkwardly talking and still not touching. Or even standing near each other. We then moved into the living room (still with no drinks) and sat on the couch not touching.

Both of us were covered in salt and nastiness from sweating at the Duke game. We stank. We were tired. I finally held his hand because he was not making a move. And then everything changed.

He is a good kisser. My doubts about his feelings for me were erased over the next hour. We kept our clothes on and will continue to do so until I figure out if he generally likes boobs on his couch or if he really likes me attached to my boobs anywhere. But the meek little theology nerd is a very, very good kisser.

And that is how I ran out of gas two miles from my exit at 11pm.

um, awkward...

Here is how things unfolded.

The man: Hey, I am trying to get tickets to the Duke/Alabama game next weekend. I will now make clear to you that I am very excited about that game. Would you be interested?

Me: Sure!

(radio silence about the game)

Him: So I was thinking this weekend, there is a concert at a local restaurant. Would you be interested?

Me: Sure! It is a date! This Friday! (I'm never really that enthusiastic, but I'm trying to keep it short)

(still radio silence about the game...meanwhile I learn that is a big game to go to and everyone is trying to get tickets. I have wealthy friends who have extra tickets they are trying to get rid of.)

Me via email: Hey, there are several folks talking about tickets to that game next weekend. Let me know if your contact falls through!

(still radio silence about the game. We are, however, talking for at least an hour every night of the week)

Me: So did you get my email about the game tickets? Totally no pressure, just wanted you to know I may have some connections (the tickets were going fast in my circles and this guy seemed to care a lot about the game. I couldn't care less)

Him: Oh, I am going to call my contact right now. I'll let you know tomorrow.

Him: Got tickets to the game!

Me: Yay! You are the man!

Later that day....

Him: So, I just wanted to throw out there that if you want to back out of tomorrow night. You know, two dates two days in a row. If that would be too much of me, I understand. We can just leave it at the game.

Me: Wait, the game is this weekend? As in two days? Oh. (processing, processing, oh crap)

Now I have unknowingly pushed a man into two dates two days in a row. I would wig the hell out if someone did that to me. I told him that I was up for it, but if he was politely trying to get out of it, I understand. Now I think we are both too polite to back out.

So, now I have two dates two days in a row. This could be magic. Or disaster.

well, okay

Well, um, so. Okay. He emailed. Nothing amazing. So I emailed back (after waiting a couple of cool hours) and asked if he was interested in getting together again. He replied quickly. Twice. Asked if he could call.

And so we talked. It was a good conversation. Warm, affectionate, and I was damned charming. We are going to a concert and dinner on Friday. In addition to those fairly satisfying events, he emailed twice after we hung up just to thank me for the wonderful conversation.

I am relieved. This isn't because of the silly weakness you expect- because a short bald man finally asked me out again. It is because I can now cancel the tentative date with the young, hot PhD student with mommy issues. That is a different kind of silly weakness!

Tonight I've decided to put all of my eggs into one basket and see how this plays out. Such decisions are almost guaranteed to lead to more disappointment and heartache. Playing out may end after this weekend and I will have to go back to that PhD student with a few broken eggs.

So, there they are. All in one basket. That doesn't mean that my entire heart is in there with the eggs. Just a lot of hope.

ha-HA!

Okay, so predictably he did not email by 2pm today. I've decided to step away from being the anxious, hopeful girl right now. Instead, I contacted a younger, hotter PhD student that I'd been talking to before going on any dates.

We will probably hang out this weekend. He is hot. And younger. Ha. (okay, so I'm not really excited about the hotter, younger PhD student because he is on the rebound and only 25 and wants to be with an older woman, which screams mommy issues)

Now I don't need to check my email. I have a date with a hot, young PhD student with mommy issues. He is 1) intelligent 2) a Christian and 3) working in a career. Maybe I will try to get a picture before the date goes south.

Now that little bald methodist man can take his time in emailing me. I do have a life, you know. (I think if I keep saying it, it will be true)

he emailed...

Finally. It took him almost 24 hours! (yes, I know that I am completely irrational. I've decided to embrace crazy in my 30's...just imagine this blog being read by the voice of Bridget Jones. See? I am charming, damn it.)

Now I am much calmer. I mean, his email wasn't anything special. He may not be good enough for me after all.

So I emailed him back. Short, pleasant, charming email.

Now I will give myself until 2:00pm tomorrow before I start to panick and feel that he has the power again. At that point, I will begin to beg God to make him love me. For now, it is just another silly man I went on a date with once.

the awakening

Damn it. I sent him an email 3 hours ago and he hasn't replied. Am I obsessing? Of course. I forgot about this part of dating.

The exchange of power. The anxious excitement toward the unknown. I shouldn't have sent the damned email. I wasn't in an emailing mood, but he sent me two in a row.

Since I replied, he has the power. Now I am the one who opens yahoo, signs in, and feels my heart stop until I see if there are any new messages. Yes? Two new messages? Please God, don't let it be a Facebook notice saying that my pot-addicted friend has posted two more comments on how much he loves everyone. I don't care, Rod. You will hate us in a week, Rod. You better the hell not be wasting my hope looking at those two beautiful blue numbers next to "inbox" on your Facebook comments, Rod.

And so, breathe held and heart stopped, I click on the magical blue 2 next to inbox.

Damn it. Both emails from Facebook. Fuck you, Rod! Get a life! (she judges from her obsessive online pursuits at home in pj's on a Saturday night) My heart drops. I've given a man power over me as I anxiously wait for the next email.

All will be better once I get his next email. I am then free to smugly wonder if he is good enough for me. I can take my precious time in replying. I will enjoy holding the power for a little while.

Petty? Yes. Reality all the same. A little bald man who I, with time, am coming to like more and more and am coming to think really is quite full of himself now holds the email power.

Damn it. I know he is just writing a sermon. I will go empower myself and watch TV. Who has time for emailing anyway? I have a life, you know.

hope?

Tonight was good. I went on a date with a short bald man who wears little rimless glasses, has a pointy egg-head, ears that stick out every-so-slightly, and who quotes Yoda. The Yoda makes the former description all the better, doesn't it?

Tonight was good! I like this little man who quotes Yoda. Keep in mind that I am six feet tall, so "little" means 5'8". Conversation was pleasant. He made me laugh in a good way. I couldn't read how he felt about the night, but he mentioned going to a football game.

In summary, I've stumbled upon a date experience that leaves me with hope. Even if it is a short-lived hope, it is waaaaaaaaay more hope than I've had in years. This may actually be the most positive I've felt after a first date with anyone!

I am not falling asleep with dreams of marriage or even of making out. I do lay in bed hopeful that a man likes me as much as I like him. For my cynical, weary self, that is a wonderful gift! Thank you, Yoda!

rabies infested aliens

This is what it is like to work with teenagers:

Me: Hi! Welcome!
Them: Blurp. Sarcasm. Hi. (a very loaded statement)

Me: This is what we are going to do tonight!
Them: Why are you trying to oppress me? Why do you exist? Did you say something...I was too busy thinking about myself.

Me: Okay, now listen. Here is very important and wonderful information.
Them: How does my hair look? I am going to talk to the person next to me so that my brain doesn't explode. Why aren't I doing what I want instead of this shit?

Me: No, really, listen now.
Them: I have a sudden and overwhelming need to punch, flirt with, or mock the person next to me. I am emotionally incapable of recognizing the thoughts or souls of anyone over the age of 18.

Me: Well, you lost the game. No one listened to the rules.
Them: You suck! Why do you hate me? I hope you die and that this church burns down. Injustice makes my entire world black for the rest of the night.

Me: I need a drink. (not aloud to them)
Them: I am going home to tell my parents and the entire county that you are a horrible minister. I am going to rally friends against you and try to get you fired. Since I didn't win that game, I no longer believe in Jesus. Fuck you.

Me: Fuck you back. I still need a drink.

Tonight was tiring. One rabies infested alien of a teenager made me lose all hope in humanity. I am now going home for a drink. Goodnight world.

date #2

On Thursday I am going to have drinks with a short, bald man. He is a Methodist minister in the city (yay!) who went to a good school (yay!) and who writes in complete sentences (yay!). I am not falling asleep dreaming of this little minister-man. So far, he falls into the pattern I was reminded of in date #1. We talk about him and his ministry. He thinks that I am wonderful and that we are hitting it off. I feel like I am at work.

Oh well. At least I will do my hair and must do laundry before Thursday. I am forcing self-care upon myself by dating again. It is screwed up, but at least it is something.

p.s. Today sucked ass. A crazy drug-addicted man showed back up in my office telling me about his month on the run with a 15 year-old girl he was trying to knock up. We always see him when he's been released from jail. He sang two songs and talked for an hour about who he has beat up since I saw him last, including the 15 year-old girl.

My car (old car) did not start and I need to sell it this week. While that affirms my need for the new car, it sucks ass.

I lost 5 hours worth of mind-numbing typing work on an external hard drive that apparently doesn't save changes.

Now I have heartburn sitting in bed. That Hostess cupcake at midnight probably didn't help. See? If I had a man in my bed, I wouldn't have eaten that Hostess cupcake.

is this art?

The date was...okay. It left me exhausted and no more excited about dating than I was five months ago.

The good: He was a nice man. He seemed nervous and, therefore, very interested in me. He did not make any creeper moves. Toward the end of the date the conversation improved a little bit.

The bad: I was not attracted to him. He wasn't ugly, but there was no spark. He also talked about himself a LOT, which reminded me of a harsh dating pattern in my life. The date goes well if I ask the man about himself and let him talk. He always thinks it is a great date. I leave feeling like I just played the role of minister.

The ugly: If you are going to take a woman to a museum for a date, act as if you are comfortable in museums. He was antsy and too distracted to look at the art. His unintelligence came through when he said he had a test for me. He took me to an abstract painting and said, "Is this really art? I mean, why is this in a museum?" That seemed to be his main comment the entire time. Good job, Mr. 38 year-old. You are making the jokes I made in the 10th grade. Other adults are uncomfortable for you because you are talking too loud and saying sad, sad things.

He was not the man of my dreams. He asked if I was an art major because I read the plaques on the wall and noticed the texture of the paintings. Let's be clear. I used no big words and I know next to nothing about art. I said things like, "that is a LOT of paint." He was intimidated. I didn't have the heart to tell him I went to Princeton.


The date was not a work of art. It was, however, a start. I left the date tired and disappointed, but at least I did my hair and wore a sexy shirt. Baby steps.

I am suing USA

Shawn Spencer, a character on the show "Psych" is trying to bring back the use of "not." There can only be one explanation to this. USA producers all read my blog, stole the idea from months ago, and are now putting it in their shows without giving me any credit.

Damn you, USA producers. I know you are reading this. I want my cut of the profits from this week's show.

because I am weak...

I am going on a date this Sunday. Yes, I am blowing off the last month of my sabbatical from men and going on a date. With a man.

Why? I am weak. I can't even claim that some amazing man walked into my life and I had no choice but to let him sweep me off my feet.

No such glory. I went online and re-joined all of the dating sites. Within a week, I found someone who I am only somewhat excited about meeting. We are going to the museum on Sunday.

I am okay with this. In the last five months, I've mourned men of my past, re-empowered myself as a single woman, thrown full-blown pity parties, and quit caring about my physical appearance all together. It is that last thing that sends me back into the world of dating.

My house is a wreck because no one has entered the front door in 4 months. I've gained 15 pounds because my life is nothing but work and sleep. Even with great friends, I am generally lonely. Work is so busy that there are few things I can point to as my personal life.

Back to dating! The sabbatical did change me. I am no longer considering men who I know are a waste of time (no full-time job, don't believe in God, watch Fox news, etc.).

And so, my first date in 5 1/2 months is on Sunday. We will call him Mr. Evolution.

That isn't a name symbolizing the evolution of my dating process. It is because he doesn't believe in evolution. I know.

That is why I'm not completely excited. He does work full-time in a professional job, goes to church, works with prison ministries, believes in women in ministry, and he can spell. Those things hit enough basics to get a 1 1/2 hour date on Sunday.

I'll let you know how it goes.

being a contradiction sucks...

That is my latest big revelation. Yes, I know. Duh. Nothing new. Tonight, however, the frustration of being a walking contradiction is building.

I know what you are thinking. What the hell is she talking about? Here it is:

Living a life that is full of contractions seems to cut 99.9% of the population out of the running for the future man of my dreams. Everything in my life makes sense to ME, but apparently it doesn't make sense to most people in the world. I was spoiled in school. In school, there were plenty of people who understood that God is holy, church is important, my call as a minister is complex and ever-changing, and that I must always try to seek growth as a child of God. Those same people also understood that God loves all people, Obama is not actually satan's bastard son, there is a bigger world out there than the U.S.A., ministers sometimes get drunk and cuss, sexuality is not from the devil, and that peace is pretty damned important.

No one bothered to tell us that we were mutant people of faith and that when we scattered to the ends of the earth, we were alone.



Try dating as a mutant Christian. How much easier it would be if I were a submissive woman or a racist Republican! I would have a man if I chose a personalized shotgun over supporting gay people! It would also be easier if I could just walk away from the church and live a Jesus-free life with some sexy intellectual who has a great mind and an empty heart.

Which of my strong beliefs should I throw away? How can I read an online profile without my heart sinking at the sight of key phrases like:

"our great nation"
"my gun collection"
"a godly wife to bear my children"
"if you are p.c., you won't like me"
"non-spiritual"
"looking for something physical"
"happy with the money I am making"
"agnostic"

Those things didn't bother me when I was dating just for fun. This 6 month break from men now has me inspired to actually try to find love with someone I respect. Damn it. Life is hard as a mutant.

Les Mis

In the last couple of days, I've started surrendering to this new reality of non-stop work. At this point, I am looking at a month and a half without a full day off...and the last day off was a required national holiday.

Now my thoughts are wistful memories of better times...times when my life was more than it is now. The soundtrack to Les Miserables swells in my heart...

"There was a time when my evenings were free. I went to the store and cooked my own dinner. I remember a time when my clothes were clean. I had space and will to care for my living... I dreamed a dream of friends and health. When life was more than work and sleeping. I dreamed a dream of being single and free. When hope grew strong and I didn't resent this damned-job-that-leaves-me-worn-and-feeling-like-I-still-didn't-accomplish-anything-and-I-can't-get-away-because-I-only-get-two-weeks-off-a-year-which-is-horrible-for-ministers."

Okay, so the poetic swell in my pity party fell apart there at the end. This is my busy season, but somehow the slow points of the summer never slowed this year. It is a full-throttle ride into the chaos of fall and then the pressures of Christmas. Oh, but to wait for the Spring. The blessed spring slows down...at least I think. Until then, I will always have the company of dead fictional french people.

"I dreamed a dream...."

homesick

This last month has been busy. I really only remember working and feeling homesick.

Homesickness is a strange and lonely thing as an adult. It hits me during big holidays and every few months. It creeps in and stays for a few weeks, always hanging in the back of my emotional make-up, ready to move forward and overwhelm me with a wave of grief. At its strongest, I can almost feel it radiate under my skin. It is a very different thing from depression, although they sometimes go hand in hand.

The strangeness is that I do not know what "home" I am sick for. I yearn for a permenant solution, but my world is too large and too divided for "home" to have a single place. I miss my family. When I feel "homesick," it is for Texas, my parents' arms, the smell and feel of the family land, and my brothers' laughter. I know that going there will lessen the ache, but moving there will not take me "home." It has been too long since I lived in Texas and, like many people who move away, I am more of a visitor than someone who belongs.

Home could be here, on the east coast and 1500 miles from my family. Here is where I have community, an actual house, and where I feel comfortable in my own skin.

All the same, these last weeks bring forth that familiar ache. I am thankfully busy with work...busy enough that I only have time for passing moments of homesickness. Of course, this week I will still be busy because I am the only single loser who does not have a family with whom to go on vacation.

From my quiet office in an emptied building, I watch all of the families of my church migrate to the beach. Their pictures appear online and summer brings this language of beach towns, streets, and restaurants that sounds like french in its strangeness to my North Texan mind. The blazing reminder that I am not from here and that there are things I simply don't understand. This is not yet "home."

Oh well. At least this week I will be free to have full-blown pity parties for myself...no one will be here to interrupt my misery. The pool should also be pretty empty. I can swim in peace.



A quote from the ABC Family movie Revenge of the Bridesmaids: "Great being home, isn't it? Surrounded by familiar faces that will never understand you."

pink fingernails

I painted my fingernails today for the first time in years. It was not out of creative impulse, but practicality. I spent the last week tie dying t-shirts for work and my fingernails are black. The pink nail polish was my weak attempt at trying to NOT look like I had zombie hands.

The results were disappointing and surprising. First, my fingers still look like zombie hands, only with pink mixed in with the black. Second, I re-discovered the mind altering affect of nail polish.

With pink nails, I am now constantly aware of the fact that I am feminine. I am not "me" typing on a laptop, I am a girl with pink nails typing. It wasn't "me" who deposited a check into the bank atm...it was my girly, non-gender-neutral hands. I feel like a ten year-old all over again! It is fun! At least, I think it is fun.

Only imports from now on...

I sent the bitchy email (okay, it wasn't bitchy, just not what he wanted to hear) and am now trying to maintain radio silence.

I now have two big pieces of emotional baggage in the same small town five miles from my house. From now on, I only want to date men from out of the county who have no ties to my immediate community (aka- they won't show up at my work after we break up).



Of course, there will be no imported or local men for another four months. The sabbatical is still really good for me. I've now started to grieve some shit that I previously put off by dating all of the losers of 2010.

On another note, I took a friend to the hospital to get her weekly iron infusion (she just finished 6 months of chemo. Yay!). I'd never been to a chemo/iron/other wierd drug dispensing clinic before. It was a lot of fun! Women in the South know that real healing comes from personal connections, gossip, jokes, and trying to hook a young minister up with every single man that they know. You would have thought it was a party if weren't for a dozen people lying in chairs being infused with heavy drugs. What a great service for otherwise sucky life situations! Good job, small town hospital!

I have to be a bitch

I talk a good talk about being a bitch. It is an empowerment thing. When it comes down to pre-meditated necessary bitchiness, I am a complete coward. That is probably a good thing because it means that I don't actually want to hurt people.

It is a bad thing today. The ex-boyfriend emailed me a few days ago. I hadn't talked to him in weeks, not since I refused to take him to the doctor at 4:30am. His email was a "where have you been?" kind of thing. Today he called. I didn't answer the phone, hoping that passive-aggressive would free me from the obligation of outright bitchiness.

No such luck. In his message, he said that he'd dropped by my work and I wasn't there. What??? He is dropping by my work? Why? Damn!

I understand that I did say aloud when we broke up that I still wanted to be friends. It was in agreement with his desire. I just thought that all full-grown people know that isn't possible. I am tired of this man and I am now going to have to outright tell him that I don't want to "hang," "chat," "do lunch," or "check in."

I hate Jaws

The movie "Jaws" ruined my afternoon. Damn you, Steven Spielberg.

Did I watch "Jaws" today? No. Like many people in my generation, I will spend my entire life dealing with the emotional scarring left by watching a horror movie about a giant shark during early formative years.

My earliest memories of pools were that I looked at the deep end regularly to check for Jaws swimming around. Even after I aged into logic and no longer looked for sharks in swimming pools, I did not like to be in water where large things could swim.

Today, some of my biggest fears are of the ocean or swimming anywhere where an underwater animal lives that is half my size or larger. This includes the overgrown catfish in Texas lakes. I even got very anxious the first time that I watched "Finding Nemo" because of the scene with the enormous whale.

Okay, so how did this ruin my afternoon? I've been unable to swim all week because of swimmer's ear. I spent all of my free time the last few days laying in bed and wallowing in the misery of menstruation. This afternoon, I got antsy and decided to go swim laps. Yay! What a good idea!

Bad idea. Apparently, there is a scuba diving class that meets all day long at my pool on Saturdays and Sundays. The only lane open at the pool was the one closest to the class. I thought "no problem" and started swimming. All was well until I reached the deep end and saw a giant black thing with giant black flippers and a tank and mask 3 feet away from me. Logic? Yes, it is some college kid who doesn't care about the fat lady swimming in the next lane. Emotional reaction? FREAK OUT! After two laps, I couldn't bring myself to go back down where a dozen people were at the bottom of the pool looking at me. Everyone knows that when you see a swimmer from below the water, someone is about to be eaten by a shark.

I got out of the pool and left after 3 laps. Damn you, Jaws. Damn you, scuba team. Damn you, deep psychological issues.

poor, poor men

Sometimes I feel bad for men. They don't get to experience the full satisfaction of being completely hormonal while eating fried food and chocolate.

Of course, they also don't experience mood swings, bouts of craziness, sensitive boobs, cramps, ruined underwear, bloating, or overall self-loathing.

Today, however, I choose to celebrate that overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and happiness that lasts for about an hour after eating a completely hormone-driven meal. The first bite is literally like a little orgasm in my mouth. During and after eating, I can feel happiness and satisfaction radiate from my belly to the rest of my body.

It. Is. Awesome.

(until an hour later when regret sinks in and I go back to self-loathing. oh well.)

Public Masturbation

"All four of my kids made all A's this year! I am so proud of them!"
"I am pumped that my sweet little girl made varsity cheerleading for next year!"
"School is finally out and my son tested in the 95% for the 3rd grade. I am proud of my little genius!"
"My kid just read her first book at the age of four! What a smart little thing!"

Okay, parents. I understand that you love your kids and that Facebook is a place to share that love. The rest of us may not want to read your daily posts telling the world what miraculous thing your child did today. The rest of humanity who did not have the priviledge of being squeezed out of your genetic pool just experiences this as a form of public masturbation.

My child passed their end of grade exams. oooooh, that feels good.
My child made the varsity team. Yes, yes...right there.
My kid got all of the class awards at the end of the year....oh, fuck, yeah.

Get over yourself. The next time that I have to read "I am so proud of you" on Facebook, your kid better have won the Nobel Peace prize or saved a baby from drowning. "Whose your daddy" has a whole new meaning for me now.

Let it be known that I actually like kids. I love posts where parents share cute pictures, tell funny stories, or vent about the life of a parent. The only PRIDE I like to read about is the kind that comes from a gay man. Sorry!

the internet is back!

My internet at home was down for about a week. It made me realize how much I depend on that connection to the wider world. Have you lost electricity for an extended amount of time? You adjust to the dark, grab a book, and still have moments of "oh yeah, that won't work without electricity." That is me and the internet.

I wonder what the recipe for that is? Hmmm. No internet. How much do I have left in my bank account? I have to wait until tomorrow at work to find out! Oh, I missed last week's episode of my favorite show. I don't want to watch the new one until I catch up online. Oh wait. Damn.

One short week without high speed information at my fingertips has made me feel nostalgic and old. So much has changed with this amazing invention! For nerdy people like me who love to look up random facts as questions come to mind, it is an extension of my cognitive life. Without Ask.com, wikipedia or about.com readily available (I resist Google simply because everyone uses it), I feel like my brain is left with unfinished threads hanging bare. I have fuzzy memories of my childhood when we'd pick up the out-of-date encyclopedias to learn something but it rarely answered our question.

Oh well. I am old and addicted.

Speaking of addicted, I still love swimming! There is no kind of tired that feels better than being worn out, in a swimsuit, and smelling like chlorine. I've never had a sport before, but I think I've stumbled upon one now. When I get home from swimming, I can't wait to go back. The other women in my class even say that I make it look easy. Woo-hoo! I hope it lasts!

Dear secretary...

Dear Secretary,

We all need to vent now and then about work, especially when it is busy and stressful. The problem is that this month you complain every day about basic things that are your job. No one likes work. That is why it is called work. You are not a victim. Actually, we pay you, praise you constantly, and let you go home at 5:00pm every day.

Get over it.

Love,
The Bitch Down the Hall

nothing

My life right now is a haze of nothingness brought on by the shiny new sinus infection. The GREAT thing about a sinus infection is that an entire day can go by without any real thinking or other imprinting on my life story. I can easily sit and watch the fishbowl screen saver for hours.

The BETTER thing about a sinus infection is that I've actually had time to sleep as much as my body wants, which is a lot. Dreams have been awesome. Sex dreams, relationship dreams with friends from the 3rd grade, tornado dreams, scenerios in which I get to tell off an ex-boyfriend, and all other vivid awesomeness that comes from drug-enhanced sick sleep.

In the last couple of months, I have probably had more sex dreams than I've had in the last five years combined. That is really sad when I am only talking about 4-5 dreams total.

I can easily go months without thinking about sex more or less dreaming about it. My sabbatical from men and paralyzing fear of another UTI means that my nether regions are completely neglected. Though it is not a concern in my waking hours, apparently my body is working it out in my sleep. I have no hot and steamy dream memories to report on...sorry. Simply remembering that I had a sex dream is a big, big deal. I wonder if the swimming and green shakes has something to do with it. Or just a nice sinus infection.

Who cares why?? I will enjoy my happy dreams (with or without sex) for as long as possible! Soon life will take a turn and my dreamland will either turn stressful or disappear altogether. Maybe tonight I can outrun a tornado WITH that cute kid from the 3rd grade....

It evened out

Yes, I am back to being a happily single independent woman who does not think about men until October. (mostly) This weekend, I participated in my third wedding. It made me cry, but for the right reasons. You know... the beauty of commitment, my love for the people getting married, and all of that shit. Tears of joy helped me reach a micro-breakthrough in the journey as a single woman.

When I am in the mood to date, I look for a man. This is "a" man as compared to "the" man. Dating is a wonderful way to meet new people, learn new things, go out to new places, and have good stories to tell at dinner parties. Most of the time, dating is a tool for me to being truly living my life.

The problem with dating as a tool is that you have a much higher chance of dating a tool himself. Lower standards and an adventurous attitude means that I have little emotional commitment and little hope of finding a truly great partner in life. Such adventure led me straight to burn-out. It is time to grow up and be a woman in her 30's...to date like someone who wants a husband and children.

At least, this is what I'm thinking for now. It is a lot easier to start thinking about things like life-long commitments when I have the security of another 4 months of guaranteed singlehood. I am safe now....no men coming into my life to see the balance on my credit card or making me keep my bathroom clean. We will see how I feel in October.

Another breakthrough in my life:

I allowed myself to be a neglectful bitch to the ex-boyfriend. We are doing that "still friends" thing but he is way more into it than me. Last Friday, he had an elective surgery on his nose. He mentioned needing a ride and I said, "Let me know what time- I might be able to get you home." Well, on Thursday he called to say that surgery was at 6am. We need to leave at 4:30am. I said "NO." He tried guilt. I still said "NO."

You see, a girlfriend gets up at 4:30am to take the man she loves to the hospital. She is in love and willing to make the sacrifice of sleep even though she will not sleep again for two days (lock-in at the church). I am not in love. The man has a father who lives with him. He simply didn't want his father to take him. He wanted me. I said "no" and left him in a perceived (dad was still there) pinch the night before his surgery. We haven't spoken since (yay!).

Sabbatical Day 44

I am 1 1/2 months into my 6 month break from men and feeling my first signs of wavering.

The good news is that I finally found a birth control that works! Thank you, Jesus, for the Nuva Ring! (p.s. please send an off-brand version to help my wallet) Three weeks of perfect spot-free days and then when it is time, I experience the reliable hormonal mess of a week that is promised in the packaging.

This is my hormonal week. I am going to attribute my loneliness and desire for a man to the nifty Nuva Ring and NOT to my own emotional needs.

Yes, it is the Nuva Ring that caused me to tear up and long for a man to dance with at a never-ending wedding reception this afternoon. The Nuva Ring also made me hug my dog a little longer simply because she was sitting on the couch.

I am wavering a bit. I've longed for romance, first dates, and someone to think about. Happily, there is no man behind my feelings. That gives me hope that when the Nuva Ring mojo evens out, I will go back to my happy single woman self who feels empowered by this season of solitude.

Say "no" to sun!

Dear 30-something friends,

Am I allowed to say something if you become one of those 40 year-olds who is too tanned, too blonde, and so fake that you are ugly?

Today I was looking through pictures of women on Facebook. There is something that happens between 37 and 40 that causes women to cling desperately to an image of their 18 year old selves.

The result? Group pictures of women that are hard to make out because the blazing white teeth stand out too harshly against the over-tanned skin and platinum blonde hair. Without dark roots, it is impossible to frame their faces at all!

I am not above that late 30's panick. I can easily see myself getting a new tattoo and going red-headed in about 8 years. Does our panick also make us blind to reality? Are these women feeding off of each other's obsessions? Do none of them have a close enough friend to tell them, "Hey, you look like an over-bleached beach whore. Try going a little more natural."???

Maybe I can answer this question in 8 years. If my panicking and aging friends end up killing me in my sleep, I'll know that intervention is simply not an option.

This is not beauty. I can almost picture them tearing off their faces to reveal the lizard living under the fake skin. (does everyone else love "V" as much as I do?) Instead of looking younger, they look like drag queens.

I am NOT a workaholic

Last week was one of those busy, busy weeks. There were no interesting experiences or life-defining moments. I simply worked. A lot.

The only memories that I have of 9 days are of going to work and sleeping. Other things happened, but they must not have been important. My big life projects continued- I drank a few green shakes, swam a few times, and still didn't date any men.

Still, it is Tuesday and I feel robbed. Almost ten days of my life slipped away.

I am not a workaholic. It is a strong American value that anyone worth a shit should work hard and want to work harder. I live in a community where people work 12 hour days, go to church twice a week, volunteer, and raise their children. Oh, and the women all wake up 2 hours early to work out before their days begin. With all of their time out in the world being productive, they must look as hot as is possible!

I do not mind working hard. This month of crazy schedules and no "weekends" is not a problem. That is because I know it will end. This is a season, but it only lasts for a couple of months.

I value a different life than the one of the sainted workaholic (please note that I count volunteering and church going as part of "work" for all people, not just for pastors). It is important to work hard enough to be happy with yourself--and not to get fired. It is equally important to have time to breathe. That space to "breathe" is what happens when you go home at 5:00pm.

"Breathing" means that you are not at work physically, on the computer, or on the phone. I need a regular schedule that allows time for doing laundry, cleaning, cooking, working in the yard, swimming, watching TV, and building relationships. I actually need HOURS every day to interact with life.

The function of work is to provide us the money we need in order to live. I am not willing to sacrifice the living part of my life so that people will respect my desire to work.

What comes with this sacrifice? I am not on a fast-track to anything. I do not spend my evenings doing research or trying to be published. I say "no" and live with the judgement from others.

Judge on, world! I choose a full life over your expectations! Now I've got to get some sleep, it is going to be a long week...

Pants on Fire

There is a funny little ironic song that Christians sing to the tune of Frere Jacques or Here is Thumbkin. (if you grew up in a place that was SO uneducated that you had neither French songs, Barney, nor Silly Sing Along...it is a miracle that you can read. Congratulations on that.)

Rev-el-ation, Rev-el-ation

Twenty-one eight, Twenty-one eight.

Liars burn in hell, Liars burn in hell.

Burn, Burn, Burn.

Burn, Burn, Burn.

If you look up Revelation 21:8, it turns out that most of us will burn in hell. We just come across Liars in a light-hearted situation worthy of the song more often than, say, those who practice magic arts.

Today I spent quality time with a pathological liar. Happily, this was an easier time with her because I went into the day knowing that she lies. The first time I worked with her was confusing and draining. Here is a very short list of things I'm sure are lies from her:

1) the $$ she was saving by moving to a new place

2) the amount of stuff in her storage shed

3) what we needed to move and where

4) when and how she had a miscarriage

5) the story of a car crash (off a bridge and exploding in flames???)

6) a psychological disorder she doesn't have

7) the story of how and why she got married (a deathbed wedding- she was dying)

8) why she had to change her major/all things related to school

9) a major heart attack last week along with heart surgery.
10) a dramatic story of overcoming the court system through a public protest in the courthouse

I KNOW that she lied about the cost of her rent, reasons for moving, who she had permission from to use what trailers/trucks, who she had confirmed to help move, and all things related to today. Pathological liars are not very successful in small towns where everyone compares stories.

Is there a point to this blog other than to gossip and complain about someone? Um, not really. Gossips aren't listed in Revelation 21:8. I will say that today went fairly well for me. I prepared for days to work with a liar and went ready for the bullshit.

Some people come from families where lying was the norm and simply a flaw, like dandruff. It isn't pretty, but it is part of life. I came from a family where truth-telling was almost compulsive to the point of hurtful. Lies mess me up. When a man lies to me (in a significant way, not about my ass looking big in my jeans), the relationship is pretty much over. I try, but recovery after a big lie seems to be impossible.

Today's somewhat disabled pathological liar was okay. We are not close, so her lies are not hurtful. At least she is very pleasant and her stories are entertaining.

margarita insights

Today was a long day. Long, long day. It involved planning for 8 big projects, calming down the anal retentive bitch mom, listening to a crazy man recently released from prison (for the 3rd day in a row), an email to other local ministers warning them that aforementioned man likes under-aged girls, a pre-wedding meeting with a couple that only somewhat speaks English, the ongoing woes of my co-worker, and university politics.

After one margarita on an empty stomach, here are the things I learned:

1) the green shake with tequila added is NOT a tasty health treat
2) my dog likes jalepeno peppers
3) my Presidents of the U.S. plate with JFK in the middle isn't worth large amounts of money.

Tomorrow I have to get up early to help a somewhat disabled pathological liar move for the second time in 4 months. Tonight is my last night off for the next 2 weeks. Sadly, being 31 means that I will quit drinking tequila at 8pm so that I can go to sleep at 11pm.

Enjoy your weekend! (That was a sarcastic wish for my imaginary fans who have normal people weekends with late brunches, time to work in the yard, and trips to the beach. Damn you, imaginary people)

confession day

The green shake challenge is going well! I've only missed two days of shakes (today being the second). So far, the biggest changes I notice are that I have a lot of energy after a shake, I don't get hungry for a while, and I poo. A lot.

Have I lost weight? No. The goodness created by fruits, vegetables, and swimming is cancelled out by my new obsession. Boneless buffalo wings. I hated those orange food products two months ago. Now I crave them every day. It started with Applebees' wings (the good stuff) and my habit has taken desperate turns. I like KFC wings, hate Wendy's wings, am surprisingly satisfied with McDonald's chicken tenders dipped into buffalo sauce, and finally bought frozen ones tonight that I spruced up with bottled sauce. These are ALL things I've tried in the last two weeks.

The grocery store wings may help me break this little addiction. Frozen chicken meat is not the highest quality. The bottled sauce, however, is great. I can add it to almost anything. I wonder how it would be on eggs?

Worry not! Like every food obsession, this will pass in a few more days. I hope that it will be replaced with one of my healthier obsessions- like watermelon or grilled chicken.

Second confession: I LOVE the show Let's Make a Deal. Jonathan Mangum is the co-host to Wayne Brady. I've been obsessed with Jonathan for years. He was a frequent commercial actor and I had a commercial crush on him. Once I started following him, it became very exciting to see him fight a cough on an airplane while advertising Nyquil.

The show itself is awesome. Should that teacher from South Dakota take the curtain or the cash? Oh, how I hope that it isn't a Zonk! I am so happy that the couple from New York won a trip to Rome! Everyone knows that after two Zonks in a row, you always take the curtain.

strange turn of events...

Flashback to 2008:

I am dating a 38 year-old soldier who lives in an apartment complex near my work. We are madly in love and, therefore, make love. Sometimes, quite loudly.

That was one of my largest regrets of dating the soldier. His bedroom shared a wall with an apartment full of conservative Christian college students. As the relationship unfolded, I got to know one of the kids next door. He'd walk into the open kitchen door where my boyfriend was standing in his underwear smoking a cigarette . The conservative kid would sit at the kitchen table and talk to us while my boyfriend offered him a beer. The kid knew that I was a minister at the church down the street.

He thought I was going to hell. I remember listening to neighbors have sex when I lived in an apartment. It isn't a sound you can confuse or forget. Now and then, I drive past that apartment complex and regretfully re-live the moments of our bed knocking against that wall of conservative judgement.

Today:

That same conservative kid is now a youth minister. He just invited me to speak at his church.

Whaaaat? Of course, I said yes. I am relieved! Overjoyed! A little worried!

It may be that he didn't put together the knocking noises with sex. Maybe he didn't care if he saw my car staying the night. Probably, he finally got laid and decided that people in love making love isn't that bad of a thing. I don't know. This is a strange turn of events. I'll let you know how the speaking engagement goes. We have until June.

green shakes and swim

The sabbatical from men continues! Grant it, I am only 20 days into my six month break from men, but I still love this season of underwear on the floor and lots of free nights alone. Yes, that sounds like the life of a loser to anyone else. For me, it is heaven.

While NOT dating men keeps me oh-so-busy, I managed to squeeze in another project. Today begins a month-long experiment with green shakes. I hope to drink a green shake every day until May 22nd. Like every big project that I undertake after thinking it through for 30 seconds, I am sure that this one will be a huge success. Not*

What is a green shake, you ask? It is a smoothie with spinach. This morning, I blended one orange, one banana, some strawberries, and three huge handfuls of baby spinach. It was awesome! You don't taste the spinach at all! It is like a really thick dessert! I read on someone else's blog (happyfoody.com) about this challenge. For the next month, I will have fresh fruits and vegetables every day for breakfast- the smoothie. I call it a shake because that sounds less healthy.

The official challenge tells you to cut out all white sugars. Um, let's be realistic with my impulsive commitment. If I cut out all white sugars, I'll start eating fried chicken by the bucket. In a week's time, I will find myself sitting in a closet weeping, hating myself, and eating an entire package of Little Debbies. We'll keep the white sugars for now. Green shakes are a good start.

Swim update: The journey to becoming a sexy swimmer faced a setback last week. I bought a more official athletic swimsuit with the criss-crossy back on it. While it does stay put when I am swimming, it also accentuates my backfat. Giant rolls of fat falling out of every elegant hole cut into the back of my swimsuit....not exactly sexy. Oh well. With my green shake challenge, I am sure that the backfat will be gone in a matter of days. Not.

*I still haven't given up on bringing back "Not."

The sexually repressed intern

Okay. I work in a church. If I have an intern, it is a young person who is filled with the zeal and emotional constipation that comes with divinity school life. My intern is the poster child for socially awkward, sexually repressed, and dellusional Christian leaders. That is not really a problem until today. We began our sexuality classes with teenagers. Here is how one conversation went:

13 year old girl: What is masturbation?

Me: That is when you explore your own body sexually.

Girl: Oh, so it is when you mess with yourself?

Me: Yes!

Girl: Is it wrong? Bad?

Me: No. Actually a lot of Christian leaders agree that it isn't a sin for someone to explore the body that God gave them. God made our bodies for pleasure, so discovering that on your own can't be a sin!

Intern: The problem that it can lead to addiction and impure thoughts.

Girl: So it is wrong?

Me: No. Some people can become addicted and it is a problem if you begin thinking dark thoughts while doing it, but there is nothing sinful about exploring yourself!

Intern: Actually, if people get TOO good at it, they can't enjoy sex with another person. (damn it! shut the fuck up!)

Me: Actually, that isn't true! Especially for women, doing it helps them to enjoy sex more.

Girl: Um, I gotta go. Bye!

What on earth am I going to do? How do you say to a 25 year-old woman that she needs to go through a sexuality class and get cool with Jesus? Someone should have bought her a vibrator when she was 17. It is going to be awkward when I hand out the checklist of what to know before you have sex...at least I don't hand out condoms.

On a whole other note, the dad from Family Ties is now doing movies for Syfy. It makes me sad and happy at the same time. If it weren't for Syfy movies, many untalented actors would go without work. I hope that Mr. Keaton makes it back from 100 Million B.C.

the short list

Here is a short list of do's and don't's if you want to date a minister:

1) Show up if they are preaching, unless they preach often.
2) Listen to their sermon/song/litany/lesson and find positive things to say.
3) Tell that person how great they did, how good they looked, and how proud you are of them.
4) If you visit the church, don't expect a lot of attention. Maybe expect none. Even if you don't feel it, all eyes are on your minister friend. Try to blend into the crowd and do not take it personally if you don't get special treatment.
5) Keep your beliefs to yourself, especially if they are that all Christianity is a joke.
6) Even if it is true, never respond to seeing your minister friend in action by saying, "I could do it better," or by giving them tips. Don't even say "I think I could do that." All that means is that they made it look easy.

Now here is a shorter list for ministers who want to date:

1) Do not let your ex visit your church and listen to you preach. It is awkward and he will act like a prick.
2) Do not invite a new boyfriend to your church until you've dated for 3 months and are on your way to serious. Before then, it isn't worth the risk.

Guess who preached today? Guess who's ex-boyfriend solidified his status as an "ex" by acting like a dick during and after church? I didn't invite him. He came anyway. (that's what she said)

tears and grilled cheese

I think that I love being a crazy woman. Yesterday, I was watching a video of a dog that got loose at a professional baseball game and ran around the field. The drama included a delightful scene of the dog squatting to take a shit and wagging his tail in joy. I laughed. I cried.

Cried? Yes, I cried. I have no clue why. This is a pretty common phenomenon in my life. Something meaningful, crappy, or simply exhausting will happen to me and I will feel almost nothing in the moment. Five days later, I find myself crying at a video of a dog taking a shit.

Being crazy is kind of fun once you embrace it.

In addition to touching dog-shitting videos, my life this week is defined by grilled cheese sandwiches. I ate half of one this weekend while out of town with four of my best friends. It was a simple sandwich on white bread. Since I've gotten home, all I want is grilled cheese sandwiches. Here is the recipe for my perfect lunch item:

Melt 1/2 tablespoon of margarine on a skillet. Add a teaspoon of garlic paste and 3 splashes of tabasco. Grill the sandwich on that awesome combination. I use lowfat swiss cheese and sourdough bread. It is just unhealthy enough to seem sinful but not bad enough to seem shameful.
I've had 5 of these sandwiches in the last 3 days. That is what I eat while crying and watching dog videos.

Sometimes I feel sorry for people who don't have the honor of living with a crazy mind like mine.