I’m moving…

Just as it’s time for an upgrade with the men in my life, I felt a spicy new self-hosted blog would be the best way for me to reinvent both myself and my love life.  So, head on over to my new blog.  I won’t be posting on this blog anymore, so update your feeds and what-not.  Out with the old, in with the…awesome!

Seventy-Five Percent Sure

I’m finally out of my alcohol-induced coma.  That shit was awful.  Luckily, I may have found a real hangover cure besides ten Tylenol gel-caps and a few bottles of Glacier Blue Gatorade.  But that can wait.  Today I have a more important affair to discuss, such as my date tomorrow evening.

First, let’s rewind back to my Saturday night trip to Wastedville, which is best summarized with a single picture:

Cute guy genuinely seems interested based on his facial expression, or what you can see of it.  Obviously, I’m telling him how fucking awesome I am and he is intrigued by my confidence and bluntness.  The reality is, that little glass of danger I’m stroking is really doing the talking, especially since I recollect about 5% of any conversation I had on the dance floor.

On a random side note, the dude to my left was the sweatiest, semi-most fun drunk dancer ever.  Props to him for not lathering me up in a perspirated sandwich-grind.

Now that you’re caught up, let’s fast-forward to this impending date.  It takes place tomorrow, during the happiest of all hours, 5-7p.m.  Cute guy and I were engaging in a texting dual to confirm a time for our sober meet-up.  Originally, we were to meet around five-ish, but he stated that he may be there closer to six, depending on when he gets out of work.  I think he’s a nurse or something, but I’ll confirm that tomorrow…

Anyways, I tell him that it’s “No big deal” if he’s late, as long as he lets me know.  I like perusing the happy hour selections anyways. 

That was a joke, but clearly, I’m the funny one because I received no witty response.  Errrr…no comeback?!  Oh fuck.  Perhaps all that pinot grigio and vodka clouded my judgement.  But then, he responded…three times.  With the following:

“I can usually get out by 5 but I’ll give you a heads up.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’m 75% sure I’ll get there around 5.”

Whoa…simmer down now.  Is he certain he’s not 82% sure he’ll be there on time?  I’d feel a lot better if he at least gave himself a grade of a high “C.”

Perhaps he’s just paranoid that I’ll leave if he’s not on time, which is quite possible given the fact that I’ve spent too much of my dating life waiting around on douschebags.  In a way, it’s kind of cute that he’s solidifying such concrete plans.  On the other hand, maybe he’s O.C.D.?

I’ll let you know…right now I’m only 65% sure.

Weekend Update

I am finally emerging from a day-long hangover and a weekend where much damage was done to my liver.  Because I just ate half of a cheese pizza and some jalapeno poppers, combined with the slight buzz I’ve had going on all day, I’ll make this brief.

Friday:

• Enjoyed happy hour margaritas and $2.99 beef tacos.  Was confused as to why a baby in a stroller was perched next to me at the bar.
• Went to another bar, had a beer.  Text my old fuck buddy.
• Met up with some friends at bar number three for the night.  Had a vodka tonic. Was wasted.
• Home in bed at 10:30.  Fuck buddy text me his whereabouts.  I pass out.

Saturday:

• Slightly hungover, but went for a short run and felt better.
• Spent an enormous amount of money at the mall.
• Ate Chik-fil-A and almost had an orgasm.
• Made some pasta that called for wine; drank most of the wine.
• Continued drinking at a bar with a friend.
• Shook my booty at another bar.  Drank some more.
• Met a cute guy. 
• Grinded on cute guy for approximately three hours. 
• Still drinking…
• Stagger to cute guy’s apartment.  Use his bathroom (it was clean).
• Sit on cute guy’s couch.  Talk about things I can’t remember now.
• End up straddling and kissing cute guy.
• Hungry for a meatball sandwich.
• Cute guy drives me home.  We get lost. I’m still hungry.
• Text back and forth with cute guy until I pass out.

Sunday:

• Hungover as shit.
• Watch Nights in Rodanthe.  Cry.
• Sleep.
• Eat pizza and jalapeno poppers.
• Shop in my friend’s closet.
• Text with cute guy, who inquired about a date this week.

All of this drinking has been somewhat productive.  I have some great new ideas for this little blog, and I will put them into action once I sober up.  Let’s hope that’s soon.

Just me and my flask

I’ve been single so long, even my family has given up on the fact that I’ll marry.  However, instead of telling it to my face, yesterday their thoughts were heard loud and clear in the form of a wedding invitation.

My 22-year-old cousin is getting married this summer – to her high school boyfriend.  It’s hard to control that vomit from exiting your mouth, isn’t it?!

While everyone is entitled to his/her own life choices, I’m also allowed to have my opinions.  After receiving the fancy invite in the mail (When it’s my turn, I’m totally doing a wedding e-vite), I noticed it did not have the essential “and guest” written after my name.  I tore into the envelope, thinking that these things often have like 5 envelopes until you get to the real invitation.  Surely my awesome aunt would let her eldest niece bring a date to her baby’s wedding!

To my demise, there was only one envelope – and one name.  Mine.  Where was my “and guest, damn it?!”  Perhaps this was a mistake…

I text my sister, who has had a boyfriend for 8 months, and in my family, that’s almost like being married (or so my mom would like to think).  She got the “and guest.”  Fuuuuuuuckkkk.

At this point, I did a few things:

1.) Poured a huge glass of wine.

2.) Hoped that they at least got a hot bartender for the cash bar, where I will be all night on July 10, and probably most of the morning on July 11.

3.) Wondered if this means it’s okay for me to make out with random frat boys from my cousin’s fraternity?

4.) Drank more wine and realized that being the oldest cousin means nothing if you’re not the first in the family to get hitched.

Because I am a huge fan of family members I barely know crinkling their faces when I tell them I “haven’t found the one yet,” I think I will bring a date to this shin-dig: my flask.  Filled with vodka and then re-filled when I bat my drunky eyes at the bartender. 

Yes, I’m a tad bitter.  I’ve been to many weddings alone and even lost a few friendships over this stupid “plus-one” etiquette rule.  It’s the principle of the matter that pisses me off the most.  Having the option to bring a date to a wedding is nice, especially if you’re purchasing airline tickets to go to the middle of nowhere. 

Good thing my flask looks good with all of my outfits!

Not just another excuse to drink

While I need no reason to throw back a cold one, I may have just had an epiphany that could assist in getting all of your single asses out of your musty apartment and (gasp) meeting new people!

As many of us singles often think about where we’re going to meet the next guy we’ll date/fuck/marry, we usually never come up with any new and improved ideas.  Instead, we reactivate our online dating profile and continue wasting time and money on a host of men, most of whom we will never meet in real life.

Perhaps I scoff at online dating because I’ve been doing it since 2003, off and on, of course.  Honestly, why should I spend my time writing e-mails and getting all excited over some words a guy wrote and a few photos that are probably from his college years?

Yes, I’m impatient.  And a tad fed up with trying to find a man when the truth is, he should be finding me.  But, that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying; I’ll just change the way I go about it.

Oftentimes, I meet men when I’m casually waiting at the bar for a friend to arrive.  Promptness has always been a specialty of mine.  These men see that I am alone, approach me, and generally, offer to buy me a drink.  Later, my friend arrives, and if the guy is smart, he retrives my number.  If not, at least I got a free drink.  Sucker.

After discussing this idea with a friend, we decided that it would work even better if it was planned.  Like say, we plan to meet at 7, but I show up to the bar at 6:30.  I peruse the crowd.  If the contents look good (and if a hot man approaches me), I text her and she arrives “late.”  She profusely apologizes and hot guy is none the wiser. 

But what if I’m at the bar and no one approaches me?  What if the scene is horrible?  Should I bust out my library book? 

Hell to the no.  If you and your friend are smart, you’ll both be at different bars “waiting” on each other.  One of the watering holes is bound to have a crowd of hotties.  If not?  Down your drink, pay your tab, and agree to actually meet at another bar. Because just like birth control, sometimes a Plan B is in order.

I want your sweat

A runner of 15+ years, I feel like I’ve seen it all.  However, despite the insanely hot temperatures and painstakingly atrocious humidity, today my I saw runners through a different lens.  Let’s call it, “He’s a hot mess.”

As a weaved in and out of the crowds at the nation’s largest ten-miler this morning, instead of being annoyed at all of the people who obviously lied about their finish time so they could be in a faster starting corral, I squinted through my sweaty eyes and saw a plethora of sexy, sweaty men.  Jackpot!

Striking up a conversation with one of these glistening hotties was going to be easy.  I could “accidentally” spill water on his arm at the water stop – he’d think my meak “Sorry” apology was cute and then we’d run the rest of the race together.  Maybe he’d even grab my hand as we crossed the finish line. 

No.  That’s too dramatic.  Plus, water/sweat/spit was flying everywhere.  I doubt any delish dude would notice.

I could start the convo with a funny anecdote about how I almost passed out in the port-o-potty at mile five, at which I’m not sure if that’s pee or sweat on my leg, but does it really matter with all this heat? 

Hmm…that might be a bit intimidating first impression.

As I finished the race, I began to feel hungry and instead of men, I thought of cheese steaks and beer.  But perhaps I’ll have to sign up for races more frequently and put my pick up lines to work.  Who knows?  It could turn out to be the match.com for runners.  Plus, all the men would be in shape.  No 3-day trial necessary; just as few as three miles.  What a bargain!

Reinvent yourself

Yesterday a good friend of mine turned 30.  As I wallowed around in Papyrus looking for the perfect inappropriately funny card to go with that 6-pack of beer I got her, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps 30 isn’t that bad.

If you would’ve asked me eight years ago what I would be doing when I turned the big 3-0, I probably would’ve said something like, “I’ll be married to a wonderful man, live in a gorgeous house and maybe have a baby or two.”

The reality: I don’t have any of those things.  And you know what? I’m happy.

Life never goes according to some silly plan we have when we’re 10, 18, or even 25.  And while a good number of my friends are married and some are even thinking about popping out some kids, why should I let that get me down?  The truth is, thirty is a great age to reinvent yourself.

As an almost-30 gal, I tend to put up with less bullshit than I did years ago.  I don’t have time to waste on mediocre guys when I know there are amazing men out there.  (Locating them is another story though)  I have career goals that I am able to achieve because I’m single and I can do whatever the hell I want.  I have the freedom to jet off to NYC on a whim without first consulting the “hubby.”  I can drop $500 at the M.A.C. store if I want and not have to explain my purchases to a significant other who wanted to use that money for a lawnmower. 

However, while all of this independence is amazing, I have to figure out what I want with the next decade of my life.  An apartment bigger than a shoebox?  Yes, please.  Financial stability?  Hell yes.  A husband?  Yikes! I’ll get back to you on that one…

My point is, too many women spend their 20’s trying to find love, and in the midst of all the drama, they lose sight of what they want for themselves.  No, I wasn’t that woman most of the time, but there were slivers of times when I probably did more “living” for my boyfriend than I did for myself.

So, what do I want to accomplish in these next few months before I hit the next milestone in my life?  Stay tuned – I’m compiling a list.  But I do need your suggestions.  Citygal’s “Thirty/Thirty” list – thirty things I want to accomplish while I’m thirty.  Wow, I just said “thirty” a lot of times.  Kinda scary, but kinda exciting too!

Why Budget Car Rental is like a man

This past weekend, I took a long overdue trip to see a fabulous friend.  Having survived a hellacious break-up and many snowed-in days spent mulled up in my apartment, I was overdue for a weekend of boozing and schmoozing with hot men.

But Budget car rental put a damper on my weekendation.  Perhaps the people at Budget are getting back at all those customers who broke up with them and took their business to Enterprise, but instead of slashing their ex’s tires, they just charge new, unsuspecting customers a five hundred-dollar hold on their debit card if they so choose to date…ahem, rent a car.

Now if I was rich, this probably wouldn’t be a problem.  But I’m not and thanks to those Budget bastards, I was really “in the hole” when it came to cash.  I guess the red flag should’ve been the company’s name: Budget.  It’s like a guy who says, “I’m not an ass hole,” – a fucking lie.

Thankfully, I drove the shit out of the car, landed in Charleston in one piece, and drank my face off, thanks to my amazing friend and her credit card.  But not to worry – I was still coherent enough to turn away the two undergraduate “boys” who hit on me.  Plus one creepy old guy. 

Like every d-bag I encounter, Budget will not be given a second chance.  Life is too short to waste time and money I don’t have, just to end up getting screwed.  And I’ll be back to Charleston – in the summer, when all the frat boys are hibernating somewhere expensive with their popped collars and plaid shorts.

Television: The New Four-play

There’s nothing I love more than cuddling on the couch with my man after a long day of work.  In fact, this is something I often looked forward to and I would eagerly send my boyfriend text messages reminding him that, “New episode of Real Housewives on tonight!!” To which he’d respond, “Bethany is a raging bitch…I can’t wait!”

You know you’re in love when you’ve found a man who isn’t ashamed to admit his love for idiotic reality shows.  But although it’s nice, being able to view Duff’s latest cake creation on Ace of Cakes while your dude makes snarky comments about how “that shit is not edible,” at what point does T.V. replace those butterflies in your stomach?  Is T.V. the new four-play?  Or is it just something couples do after the newness wears off?

Admittingly, I’m not a big T.V. watcher – but my ex was, and thus, my shows became our shows and vice-versa.  He even joined Netflix so we could watch all seven seasons of Entourage quicker, each receiving the next disc in the series.  Clever, huh?! 

However, nowadays, as I sit alone on my sofa eating a fudgesicle, the closest thing to a dick I’ve seen in months, I flip through the T.V. channels in disgust.  Ugh…Hoarders…we used to make fun of all those crazy pack-rats.  Curb your Enthusiasm…Larry David is one funny bastard…remember that episode with Wendy Wheelchair?  Oh shit, I’m talking to my pillow because I’m alone.  Nevermind.

Although I watch far less television now, I realize that essentially, T.V. did take away quite a bit of bonding time my ex and I could have had.  Yes, laughing at ridiculous millionaires on Millionaire Matchmaker was fun, but other than a talking point at dinner, what did it accomplish in moving the relationship forward? 

Nothing. 

In future relationships, while I am still looking for a man who will tolerate an episode of Glee every once in awhile, I refuse to let the T.V. replace any type of four-play.  Until then, I’ll continue avoiding certain shows, and instead, entertain myself with trash that I thoroughly enjoy: Fly Girls, anyone?!

You get what you don’t pay for

Most of us singles have tried online dating.  We’ve stalked thousands of Match.com profiles and paid the $40 a month fee to do so.  Or, we’ve created something like ten different profiles with different e-mail addresses just so we could get the FREE three-day trial.  Perhaps we’ve met a few awesome people along the way, but mostly, our “winks” don’t go beyond that awkward e-mailing stage, in which we either decide that we’ll let that hottie buy us a drink, or that those profile pictures look waaaaay too free of flaws to not be airbrushed.

If you’re like me, the thought of shelling out any more hard-earned cash to a dating site that promises they’ll find your life partner (or you’re money back), is beyond frustrating.  Aside from loving any extra money I have to spend on luxeries booze, I also value my time.  And I’d rather not waste a perfectly good Saturday night filtering through profiles of men, some of whom have been on the site for years with the same profile picture.

So, I was a tad bit excited when a buddy of mine told me about a FREE dating site.  You may have heard of it – OkCupid.  Since I was quite nosy and especially lonely one Saturday afternoon, I decided to put my shit out there.  Of course, I also wanted to see what kind of guys were on the site…poor guys? Ugly guys?  Sketchy guys?  Hmmmm, couldn’t be any worse than a Match.com dude, right?!

Honestly, the selection wasn’t half bad.  One strapping young man even sent me a rather witty correspondance.  We spent the entire afternoon e-mailing and then he vanished.  Guess the ass hollish men aren’t just limited to the paying sites.

Eventually, I realized I didn’t have the patience or the right mindset to be on a dating site.  Moreover, I feared that all my sifting through profiles would eventually lead me to something the gals at my daily read, Shmitten Kitten, discuss – my ex’s profile, complete with a cropped photo of him at Thanksgiving dinner, that phantom hand around his waist, mine.

Perhaps I shouldn’t expect much from a free dating site.  But  at least it gives me something other than Facebook to stalk.