Break up Over a Break Up

I hate to sound trite, but real life really is like Sex and the City. Remember the episode where The Girls make Carrie go to therapy to try to stop obsessing about Mr. Big because they can't stand to hear her endless self-absorbed, sad-sack, self-deprecation for one moment longer? Well, harsh or not, selfish on my part or not, I'm involved in a similar situation with a dear friend of almost a decade and I want her to get over her ex and get on with her life. Her obsession, and it is truly an obsession has morphed into toxic negativity that perpetually permeates into every other aspect of her life and prevents her from being happy.

Its bringing me down too if you must know. It's not like I love my job. And I don't go home to a Unicorn (aka eligible man) at the end of every night. I'm torturously paying off massive student loans. But, no one promised me a Rose garden. That's life. I do my best, put on a happy face and settle for appreciating Irises and Tulips in lieu of roses whenever I'm lucky enough to get um.

She on the other hand. Hates her job. Hates her life. Doesn't want to live in DC. Thinks moving to San Francisco will solve all her problems but won't move to San Francisco. And she is painfully and needlessly obsessed with her ex. Ergo- she needs some tough love and I'm giving it to her. Correction- I've given it to her. And when all is said and done, she may end up breaking up with me, over her previous romantic breakup, if she hasn't sworn me off forever already.

But she sad. And she's depressed. And losing her friendship is worth her losing her lackluster life. I care about her that much.


In Sex and the City, the conversation went a little something like this:

Carrie: Isn't part of the whole break up process that you get free rein to whine to your friends?

Charlotte: Of course you do!

Miranda: But, maybe you should think about whining to a shrink.

Carrie: Why should I pay someone when we can talk for free and then go get drinks or whatever? I don't need professional help, I've got you guys.


Samantha: For another ten minutes.


Miranda: Then we're cutting you off, cold turkey.


Carrie: Hey, I don't need therapy. I need new friends.


Samantha: Look, we're as fucked up as you are. It's like the blind leading the blind.

For us, it went a little like this:
OVER ONE ENTIRE YEAR AGO, I listened to her go on and on about how she didn't want to be with her Significant Other anymore. Her overall dissatisfaction with her partner of two years. I was on HER SIDE when it came to her feelings of unhappiness and boredom in her relationship and wanting to possibly break up. I thought her S.O. was great, had an interesting job, were nice and polite, fit and attractive and clearly loved my friend. S.O. was a good person and worth of being with my friend. But the bottom line was and still remains, that my friend wasn't happy. She didn't want to be with this person. And after months and weeks of contemplation and consideration and conflict within, my friend broke up with her SO. I'll state it again. My friend. Broke up. with Them.

But Toddy you are asking by now...didn't you say that you're friend was obsessed with their ex? How can they be obsessed with their ex if they are the one that did the dumping? Exactly.

So here we are. ONE WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR LATER. And EVERY time I see this friend its I miss her this, I miss her that. She won't return my emails. She won't return my phone calls. I sent her an expensive birthday present and she didn't even call me or message me on my birthday. She's the one. She's the one.

And the truth is. I can't take it anymore. I can't. I can't do it. I'm only human. Maybe other friends could be patient and tried and true year after year after year after year. But I've listened to her sob and cry and bitch and moan and hate herself. I've listened to how she WILL NOT stop calling this person and messaging this person even though this person DOES NOT WANT TO HEAR FROM them. It's over. It's done.

And I am NOT A HEARTLESS PERSON. I feel for my friend soooo much. This situation SUCKS. It totally sucks. I'm so sad for her. I love her. I really do. I'll say it again. I. LOVE. HER. I. REALLY. DO. I want her to be happy. I want her to find someone new and great that makes her feel good about herself. I'm sad that she was unhappy when she was with this person. Sad when she realized she made a mistake. Sad that her ex won't take her back. But...her ex won't take her back. My friend has made her feelings known and her ex has moved on. My friend has cried. My friend has been with other people since then romantically and sexually. She's talked to me. She's talked to her friends. She's hated herself. She's hated her life. She's been sad sad sad. And now-It's time. It's time to move on. It's time to stop.

And I CANNOT HELP HER ANYMORE. Nothing I've said IN THE LAST YEAR OF MY LIFE has made her feel any better. Nothing she has analyzed or I've comforted has ENDED THE OBSESSION. I don't know what to do!! But I can't listen to her be sad or depressed ANYMORE. I can't listen to how much she misses this person who is NEVER COMING BACK anymore. There is a statute of limitations on how much you can burden your friends with your sadness. Then you owe it to yourself and everyone around you to get your shit together and try to be a person again. Try to return to the land of the living, prepare the broken heart and be happy. For yourself.

So I gently told my friend when she said she was really missing her ex for the 50 millionth time in the last year today that I felt really bad that she was so sad and that I was thinking it had been a year now and that if she was still feeling so bad, that maybe she should talk to someone, like a therapist. That I was even thinking of talking to someone myself. Like about my birth family maybe. She did not take it well. She did not take it well at all. Instead, she reminded me that SHE was the one who had been a psych major and that she didn't need advice from me. Hmm...

Unfortunately life isn't ENTIRELY like Sex and the City. Because in Sex and the City, Carrie listens to THE GIRLS (the three of them) who care about her and want her to be happy and for her to move on with her life and Carrie complies with their request and actually goes to therapy. In my case, I think my friend is going to break up with me too and continue to be miserable, sans one less person to listen to her gripe about her lonely misery.

In television, when Carrie finally goes to see her therapist her therapist asks her:
Dr. G: So, Carrie, tell me why are you here? and Carrie replies:
Carrie: Well, my friends can't handle me anymore. You're like very expensive foster care.

When all is said and done, I love my friend and I want this obsession to stop debilitating the rest of her life. Ultimately though, I can't handle her anymore. I'm not a therapist. I'm just a friend. And this friend knows when she's over her head and she needs a little help.

All my Best,
T.

Giving the Geeky Brit a Chance

Remember when I said I was "Over Men Again" and swore off dating for the upteenth-thousandth time just as I was asked out by a Geeky British guy on a Monday trivia night at Wonderland Ballroom? Well I do...

This was weeks ago and I wasn't all that inspired to share anything about the Geeky Brit. It was a very very ordinary case of agreeing to go out with someone, going out with them once and then determining you didn't want to see them anymore. Fail. Again.

But thinking back on it, there are some interesting questions to consider.

So...my mother (who drives me crazy) and is always on a mission to improve her apparently imperfect daughter (as mother's always seem to do) told me recently that I was SUPERFICIAL when it came to men. Why Mom? Because I have good taste in men. Because I'm attracted to attractive people. Because I am lucky enough to be attractive and therefore can attract attractive people?

"Looks fade" she always said. And she's right. She's always right (as mother's often infuriatingly are.) But on the other hand I can't help who I like and don't like. Occasionally a less attractive person will grow on me through their personality and our shared experiences together, but more often than not, I like a nice pair of baby blue eyes, a thick head of dark hair and white boy chunka butt. (If you don't know what a chunka butt is then come hang with me sometime during happy hour on Capitol Hill and we'll spend a pint or two checking out white boy booty in khakis. This will not disappoint). Just sayin...

Unfortunately, I do care what my mother thinks (as daughters can't seem to help) and I certainly DONT want to be a superficial person. But how do I date someone and give them a chance if I have no interest in sleeping with them? I mean, that is an important part of a relationship is it not?

However, in an attempt to repel a sense of superficiality, I've definitely tried to lower my standards recently. I came up with the following standards: As long as someone seemed NORMAL, NICE, AVAILABLE and NOT A CRAZY PERSON and had the good taste (if I do say so myself) to LIKE ME (my personality/looks/whatever) and made the effort to ask me out (which I know isn't always easy for the fellas) then I would go out with them. What could it hurt? Life's about meeting people and having fun right?

So...let's just say I've been on A LOT OF BAD DATES. No chemistry. No attraction. No second dates. But... at least I'm giving people a shot. Whose to say I'm such a catch? I'm not. I'm Type A, neurotic, superclean yet supercluttered, forgetful, ADD, aggressive, competitive, stubborn, overly talkative, obnoxious sports fan, bad dresser kind of a girl. A pair of dimples and big tits can't really erase all that can it?

Thus, one such victim of my personal reformation became the The Geeky Brit @Wonderland Ballroom one Monday night playing trivia with some friends. I wasn't there to meet guys. I wasn't interested in meeting guys. Like I said, I was over men again, and I was there to prove my complete single contentment. Thus, I ignored all smiles, all overt glances, and all introductory conversational remarks from strange men at the bar. Which must have driven them all crazy, because I was asked out by like 3 guys in one night. The Geeky Brit was sitting at the table next to us. I didn't notice him, except for the fact that the hosting team kept giving that guy and his table free drinks for giving the funniest answers. They sucked at trivia, but had a great sense of humor. Now that is sexy. But like I said, I was completely immune to sexiness. Plus, this guy wasn't sexy. Like at all. Geeky Brit spoke to both girls in my my group of friends. First T, then A. However, T was a Republican. GB was a progressive - hello Britain! And so when T said she liked Sarah Palin, he quickly moved on. A is a Democrat, so they had a lot to talk about. I focused on my fancy beer and sang along to the music playing throughout the bar.

At the end of the night, I was hanging out by the bar with A, talking to the girl that works at WB as the trivia Emcee, asking her how long she'd been doing it and the like. When Geeky Brit and his friends were leaving, he turned and looked at me and smiled. I smiled back and raised my beer. He left. Then came back. He walked straight up to me and said, "You are beautiful. And you seem nice. Can I get your number so we can get drinks some time?" Just. like. that.

I'm always in awe of the ability of men to completely unnerve me just by asking for my number.

He was honest. Straightforward. He wanted my number. According to the new "I'll date anyone" (unless they're bat shit crazy) rule, I had to give him my number. So I did.

He called. And we ended up going to Mighty Pint, the week of Thanksgiving, for their dress like Pilgrims and Indians, keg-kill event. It was fun. We had a lot to talk about. His British upbringing and when I lived in London. Politics. Childhood. Family. Drinking and Dining in the District. But then he dropped it on me...

He was 22 years old. He was doing an unpaid internship on the Hill. He was living with 6 other guys in a hostel. He was going back to London in four months. Okay, so not just NO...HELLS TO THE NO.

We finished our second round of drinks and then I took a deep breath and said the "I don't play games" right thing to say: "Look you seem really nice and I've enjoyed talking to you. But any sort of long-term connection or relationship with you isn't possible and I'm not interested in having anything casual with you either. I'm sorry. But that's just how I feel. I thought I should just be honest with you."

Apparently that blew his mind. He thanked me for not dicking him around. And then tried to convince me to give him a shot. To go out on second date with him. To consider something casual. It'd be fun he said. Why not have some fun? I mean, what else are you looking for?

What else am I looking for? That was a great question. The truth is, I don't know what I want. I know I don't want something casual or cheap. I'm also not trying to find the one, get hitched and become a baby factory. I think what I want is to find someone nice and normal, who thinks I'm nice and normal. Who respects me and treats me well and understands that I'm a lawyer and can't spend every waking moment with him and wouldn't want to either. Spend some time together (occasionally) and see what happens. Is that a relationship? Or is that just dating? Labels always make things so confusing.

"Come on," he said, "just have some fun with me. I really like you." Could I give the Geeky Brit a chance? Could I, a successful, financially stable, attorney in her upper 20's gallavant around D.C. dating a 22 year old, broke, unpaid intern on the hill? A skinny, immature, t-shirt wearing fun-having foreigner?

No. I couldn't. I'm was just too damn old for that and I just didn't want to. Because when it comes down to it, I'm in search of a man. A real man. For fun. And maybe more. But I can't date a boy. Or a man-boy. Any. More. Perhaps, after all, superficial or no, I do have some standards. I'm not sure whether they will apply to the "I'll date anyone once" (lest they're bat shit crazy) rule, but they do apply to the "I won't date anyone twice" rule. And I can only hope that those standards actually correspond to some real live, living, breathing men out there and not just to unicorns.

Cheers,
T.

Jersey Boy is Back

So there's this guy, (there's always this guy), and he's back. Again.

Jersey Boy is one of my oldest and dearest guy friend's best friend. We all spent so many nights playing beer pong and kings and just being ourselves in college together that even though Jersey Boy was never really my best boy, I've always cared about him and considered him a friend. He's also just an all around stand-up guy.

There was always serious sexual tension between us too. Yes, he's tall and skinny like I like. And dorky. And wears glasses. And is a total gentleman. And laid back and quiet. At the same time he always appreciated that I was NOT laid back or quiet. We've always just gotten eachother and clicked. We have chemistry. I like being around him and its easy to be together. For no reason at all. Its effortless. Even when things haven't made sense. Even when we've been sort of together or not together at all.

So what's the problem? Timing and geography. No small obstacles. I was single for only about 4 months of 4 years of college. I always felt that "thing" between us, but I was in love with someone else. When I'd hang out with the boys (not my bf) and got really drunk I'd worry I'd cheat and so would "check myself" from going too far. But I wondered what it'd be like. If I were with him. In the three weeks I was single in college before I began seeing my next serious college boyfriend who I would continue to see through law school, we almost hooked up. At a crazy all-night party off-campus Jersey Boy and I were partners at the beer pong table all night. We played till sunrise never losing a single game. We were also all over each other grabbing and laughing and teasing and high fiving. In short- It. Was. On. But when I went to climb into bed with him he was drunk as a skunk passed out. A fact that for about a year after, myself and all my friends ruthlessly made fun of him for. He was going to get his chance with me FINALLY and blew it. And before I could give him another chance I found myself dating the love of my life to date, who shattered me forever. Who I still cannot seem to replace. But this post isnt about that guy, this post is about Jersey.

He did eventually get his chance. When our best guy friend got married, about two and a half years ago I went up to New York City (where Jersey Boy lived and still does) for the wedding and finally there were no obstacles. He was single. I was single (and enough time had passed since THE GUY had broken up with me that I was ready to be with someone else again). And he look sooooooooooo good. Partially because he just looked good. Post-college. Working a decent job, living in the city, confident in himself, a little grown up. This new-found maturity and sense of self identity made him sexier than ever. But he was still sweet. And respectful. And a good person. I knew I wanted him and hoped that something would happen. And it did. Instead of staying with other friends, I stayed with Jersey. There were no bells and whistles. There was no dramatic "talk" or seduction or games. It was like we'd been dating for years and were just picking up where we'd left off. Yes, we slept together. Our first time together. And it happened a lot that weekend. We snuck into a closed off pool at the wedding hotel on Long Island and skinny dipped and made-out like we were teenagers in our parent's basement. And even broke the bed in his apartment one night. I laughed so hard I cried while he was furious that such a thing could happen and interrupt. To this day, me and my friends ruthlessly ALSO make fun of him for that as well.

Here's the thing about how things were never weird. It was never weird we liked each other but weren't together in college while I dated other people. And when we showed up at a wedding with all our nearest and dearest friends of years kissing and grabbing and going home at the end of the night together - No one - said ANYTHING. Not a joke. Not an inquisitive question or look or smile. It was like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And I was supposed to leave NYC on the Sunday of that weekend. But I stayed for four more days. I just kept not getting on the Chinatown bus back to DC. We were just having too much fun. We lazily walked around the city holding hands, napped in Central Park, watched tv. But then I had to go back to reality. I had to. He carried my suitcase for me and held my hand on the subway. And then kissed me goodbye outside the bus and asked me to text him when I got in. We talked on the phone. And texted. And emailed for weeks. Maybe it was even months. But I was in law school. And in North Carolina. And he worked for a law firm. And was in New York City. We never had a talk about trying to see each other. Or what that weekend had been about. Or what we meant to each other. There is no doubt in my mind that if I lived in NYC we would have dated. And see where it led. But as it was, it wouldn't work. We were too far apart. Geographically, physically, financially, mentally, emotionally. Better to remain friends. Better to not torture ourselves. We never spoke of this. We didn't need to.

Over the last two and half years I've been up to NYC to visit my many friends many times. When he or I is seeing someone we play the "friends" role like we were never lovers. When we are both single, we fall back into a few days of perfectness and then leave it at that at the bus stop. Until the next time.

Last January, I spent my birthday in the city. He had been with the same girlfriend for some time now and I had just started seeing a guy. This girl was so beautiful and nice and thin. And he seemed to love her and want to protect her the way guys do when they put their hand on your back and guide you through a room. I couldn't help but feel that tinge of jealousy. That feeling of only, if only we both were in the same place at the same time. Both available. We could give it a real shot. And this feeling like it might work.

This all might sound so unhealthy, but in fact, its the healthiest relationship I've ever been in. We give each other what the other one needs. Friendship, understanding, support, laughter, without unrealistic expectations, requirements, obligations, guilt, baggage or drama. It is what it is. And it always has been.

And Jersey Boy is Back. Again. He's a Giant's fan. I'm a die-hard Redskins fan (if you didn't know.) We don't talk very often. Lest I'm planning a trip to NYC or the Giants play the Redskins. Which they did today. He bet me that if the Giants won I'd have to come visit him in NYC. I could stay with him you see, because he'd broken up with his girlfriend. I was sorry I said. And I am. I really am. I just want him to be happy and she seemed nice/cool/pretty all things I may or may not be. And we ended up talking for hours. Flirting and planning when I could visit again. And I may try to get up there in the next few weeks but we've definitely planned a ski trip in upstate new york with our best guy friend and his wife for both our January birthdays next month. And I can't wait. If we are both single, clearly we'll share a room. And hot chocolate. And play on the same taboo team. And ski together. And be together. But if one of us isn't single a month from now, I'll just get to catch up with my friend. See how he's doing. Be myself with someone who knows me and likes me. With our other friends. And we'll still ski together and drink hot chocolate and play board games. We'll just have separate bedrooms. And the best part is that we won't have to talk about it or analyze it or worry about it. Because it is what it is. It always has been.

I know he's really just my fuck buddy and nothing more. But he's also my friend. And so much more than that. And I can't help but worry. Because every time we go another round the feelings I have get stronger and stronger. I think about him and wait for his next text like he's the new guy I'm crushing on that I met at a bar next week. That I have a date with on Saturday. But that's not the case. We are still the victims of bad timing. And geography. And nothing I can do is gonna change that. You don't move for someone you "enjoy being with." Who isn't your boyfriend. And I would NEVER do that. And I would NEVER let him do that. And we're too smart to do long distance. We've both been there before.

Which is why we don't talk about it. Which is why we don't try to make it more than it is. Which is why, each time it ends, I push him out of my mind. Hope to forget him for a little while. But also hope, that soon enough...Jersey Boy is Back.

Cheers,
T.

Thankful He Tries

consanguineous \kon-san(g)-GWIN-ee-us\, adjective:

Of the same blood; related by birth; descended from the same parent or ancestor.

Only one of my eight half brothers and sisters actually speaks to me. When I found out about all of them about a year and a half ago, I tried to develop a relationship with each of them, but most attempts failed for one reason or another. It's just really, really hard. Of course.

My younger brother Brandon and I were both born in the same calendar year. I was born in January. He was born in August. He says it makes us "Irish Twins" even though technically Irish Twins are children born in the same calendar year by the same mother; we share a father.

"Bring!" "Vibrate." "Text from Brandon." Click...
"Happy thanksgiving."
"Happy thanksgiving B!! What are ur food faves??"
"My food favs for t-day? Or in general?"
"Tday!"
"White meat and stuffing...Thats all I really need. What about you?"
"Mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. Yum."
"Haha not a pumpkin fan."
"I only like it on thanksgiving. And with lots of whipped cream."

So now I know on Thanksgiving he likes white meat and stuffing. And he knows I like mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. With lots of whipped cream.

And that's actually a lot more than I knew yesterday. And everything more than what I knew two years ago, when I didn't even know I had a younger brother Brandon who is my sort-of Irish Twin.

He's a Marine. He seems like a nice guy. Doesn't sleep around but falls for girls hard. Is that a weird thing to appreciate it a sort-of brother? He sent me shot glasses from Japan with fat sumo wrestlers on them when he was based there about a month after we wrote our first letters to each other. He's a runner like me. He's actually a legit runner. Small and lean and skinny and ran track in high school. I'm slow and tall and chubby. But we both love to run and we discuss our distances and times and workouts at times. Sometimes it feels like he's the exact same person as me, just a guy and just with a different mom. We are both sarcastic. And...

We seem to have figured out how to become friends. He came up once with a buddy from their base in North Carolina. The only time I've ever met him in person. I was already out drunk at BlackFinn with friends. I was sitting outside smoking a cigarette and all of a sudden he was there. And I knew. From his pictures and because I knew. We all did shots and talked of nothing of consequence. Me and him and our two friends went back to my parents house and the boys passed out in the basement. They were gone by the time I woke up. I called him and said: "I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to, you know, really talk." "Next time," he said. "This was good."

And he's right. One text at a time. One get-to-know you factoid at a time. No more and no less. No pressure and no expectations. A hello here. A "happy thanksgiving" there.

It's going to take a long time to make up for a lifetime without each other. But I'm thankful he tries. I'm thankful he's my brother.

Happy thanksgiving and cheers, T.

Over Men Again?

*Sorry it has been so long. But now I’m giving you a very long post. Try to read it all. Thank you to Phnx65, Christie, Sassy Marmalade and WashingtonTina for keeping me honest and pressing me to write. If you like what I have to say check out their blogs linked to their names above for some entertaining reads.*

Last time we left off with this single heroine, (as I like to think of myself), I was pondering whether or not to go on a Blind Date. And then I did indeed schedule my very first ever Blind Date. And because I fear the outcome might disappoint those anticipating the episode, I promise I will get to it, but first…

I’m sitting in my parent’s house bored stiff, waiting for the cable guy. Because nothing technological ever seems to work in my parent’s house and I, of course, because I’m younger and more tech savvy, (what a joke), have to handle it for them. I want to be a good daughter but still – ugh – kill me now. The cable guy should be here ANYTIME NOW, that is to say, between 11am and 2pm. Seriously? How in the eff do people in the service industry STILL get away with this? Can I just say that 3 hour appointment “windows” are Bull. $hit. But I digress…sort of.

I mean I am waiting on a man am I not? Yet again. A man to call. Or text or email or show up at my doorstep. Finally show up in my otherwise complete, fulfilling and happy life, for what? To fix something that’s wrong? Provide a service that I need/want/enjoy? Perhaps. But still- I have to wait for it. And PAY for it. And ask for it. And schedule it. And not know exactly when it’s gonna happen, if it will go smoothly, and even if it does work out whether or not things will work out in the long run. History would suggest that looks may fade, static could occur and total disconnection isn’t impossible and even probable. The question isn’t if the eventually glitches or problems and break downs in service will surface, it is only truly a matter of when. And then, I’ll need another man to appear and revamp the overhauled system. Or woman. (It could happen).

What I’m trying to say, as inarticulately as possible, is that I’m sick of men. Or at least sick of dating them. For awhile. I go through ebbs and flows of dating determination, deflation and defeat. Every few months or so. It’s not like I’m in a drought. On the contrary, I was hit on by several men just last night. I just don’t see the point. And I can’t seem to muster the optimism, gumption and fortitude that other serial single daters like my blog buddy DateMeDC tirelessly appears to do. Ad infinitum. I mean -6 guys in the mix! Sheesh girl! I think I did 5 guys once in the early months of year 2009. But that was almost 2 years ago. And I’m tired. Tired of texting, emailing, dating, drinking, flirting, kissing, facebooking, calling and being called by all the wrong men.

I don’t want you to think I’m being cynical. Or depressed. Or a quitter. The greatest thing I feel right now as I’m writing is this: I. Am. Happy. I mean, really and truly happy. I haven’t felt this great in so long. My family and I are in a really healthy, balanced, loving place. I feel like my mom, dad, big brother and grandmother are all really good friends. And though I haven’t been back in D.C. that long after my return move, I’ve started to develop solid relationships with some really cool, good people to spend free time with. Additionally, I’m in a stable place at work. Of course I’m still a peon attorney on the bottom rung of the ladder, but I sense I’m starting to get noticed and at least my intellectual curiosity is constantly being challenged and sated and the pay check is helping me FINALLY get a hold over my finances for the first time ever. And I love being back in my hometown. Moreover, my recent significant though short-lived health problems have reminded me to enjoy life and not take myself so seriously. Things are good. I am not cynical. I’m just, well…happy.

Every night, I stretch out over the whole of my $1000 (my most expensive possession except for my car and baby grand piano) Queen-sized, extra long, pillow-top mattress, immersed in blankets and plush pillows and I don’t have to share a single square with another. I sleep great. I’m not waiting for someone to call for our next date. I’m not wondering if he’s cheating on me. I’m not excited for when I’m supposed to see him next. I'm not trying to spice up our sex life or goading him to do the dishes or help me fix something or go to some bull shit event with me. I don't have to put up with his video game addiction or his friends who act like they're still pre-pubescent pissants. Instead, I do what I want when I want. I don’t have to check in with anybody. I don’t have to explain that the guy I had lunch with REALLY is JUST AN OLD FRIEND, the thought of whom sleeping with really would be awkward torture. Really. I’m just getting up and living my life and right now it’s enough. More than enough. And while sex is great, don’t get me wrong, and when I’m having it regularly it’s all I want and all I think about, I’ve found that being a long-distance runner, workaholic and alcoholic, that I can go long bouts of time without it and not feel all that deprived. There is also something to be said in the comfort of being a girl, and having the confident knowledge, that if I really really needed to get some, that no doubt I could find a man in less than a day who would help me itch that scratch. Just sayin'...

That said I don’t want to get any more Pollyanna on you. (I am often described as overly enthusiastic and cheerful.) And I’m trying to find a way to wrap up this blog post if I haven’t lost you all already from my nauseatingly passionate banishment of coupledom and ovation for singledom.

So let me tell you what you asked about…Blind Date Guy. Who I never even went out with. Sorry. Fail. I know. Here’s why…

We did make plans to watch NFL Football (a passion we both share) on Sunday afternoon but we didn’t hash out specifics until the morning of. I was actually feeling comfortable and encouraged about him because I hadn’t been feeling well on Saturday, our originally scheduled date time. He had wanted to take me to the Botanical Gardens downtown and then throw a Frisbee or football around on the mall. Sounds fun right? But when I wasn’t feeling well or up to it Saturday, we decided sitting and watching football might be more my speed for this sick stricken weekend. Sunday morning he called, right when he said he would. I asked where he wanted to watch the game and I suggested some of my favorite sports bars. “Fuck that!” he said. “Excuse me?” I said. “Fuck paying overprice for food and beer at a bar, we can go to your place or mine.” “I don’t really feel comfortable with that, since I don’t know you well,” I countered and then suggested several places with very good and cheap beer and food specials during the games. “Come on,” he said. “It’s not like I’m a serial killer. You’ll be fine. Come to my place.” “No,” I said. “In fact, I’m sorry to do this to you so last minute, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to see you at all. I hope you enjoy the games if you still watch them and thank you for your interest in me but I won’t be dating you. Take care.” He was understandably upset. And he may actually be a nice guy. But I don’t think he is. I got a bad, creepy vibe from him. And I trusted my instincts. Besides, I know this make me sounds like a materialistic bitch. But I can’t deal with anyone that cheap. On a date or otherwise. I’m an attorney and I make a comfortable salary. I like to go out and drink and eat. I don’t need to be wined and dined but I like to enjoy the city. How can I be with someone who isn’t able to do that or doesn’t want to? And I’ve found that guys who make considerably less money than me or less period, lose interest or get frustrated with that fact sooner rather than later. And I said to myself, why go hang out with someone that you no longer want to see? That you have doubts about when you’ve never even met him? That makes you feel creeped out and unsure and uncomfortable? I was told it’s a number game, but maybe I don’t want to play. Or maybe I have a good feeling this guy wasn’t my particular jackpot lotto combination. Regardless, I didn’t go out with him. And I never will. And I’m glad I didn’t. It would have been a waste of a perfectly fun Sunday afternoon which was alternatively spent drinking beer margaritas with new friends.

To add to my dating misery, last week I met another guy- a stand-up comic (who also has a day job) at a comedy club where some of my other friends were performing. He came up to me after the show and asked for my contact info. He facebooked me later that night (don’t get me started on facebook) and I began to message back and forth with him. But he never asked me out and stopped writing back. After a few short pleasantries. Typical, typical.

So after all this dating disappointment, I went out last night to Wonderland Ballroom in Columbia Heights to play trivia with my girl and guy friends and I had told myself I was Over Men! (yet again). And set out to enjoy my single self. Which I did-until…

It became very apparent that the entire bar was FILLED to the brim with MY TYPE of men. Extremely tall, thinly-muscular guys, with glasses and oh my god geekiness galore! The kind of smart, clever guys who are interesting and kind and have NO IDEA how incredibly good looking they really are. So when a British babe in spectacles asked for my number…how could I possibly resist? I couldn't. So, will he call? I don’t know. Will I wait by the phone? Certainly not.

But am I, in fact, over men again???

Cheers,

Toddy.

Since You Comment, I Will Blind Date...

Okay, okay, okay...I'm convinced. Convinced that it's a numbers game, convinced no date is a bad date, convinced you never know who or where or when...yadda yadda yadda.

So thank you for all your comments. Yes it was a desperate ploy to finally get some action on my blog. Shameless, I know, but hey- it worked. So there. The comments were and you all are truly appreciated. After all, I only began blogging to be a part of this community. Of women and singletons and smug-marrieds and girlfriends and ex-girlfriends and professionals and writers and thinkers and artists and yes I guess to hear what the men had to say too. I wanna hear what you think. I want to engage and be engaged. Even over silly non-life-changing things like first dates.

Therefore, since you commented, I will in fact blind date. This Saturday at noon my self-imposed blind date will commence. While I've been single for years now after 6 years of coupledom before that and been on at least 50+ first dates, if not a 100, I never have in fact been on a blind date. I know it must change the way you approach the date or how things might go but I'm not sure how. Fear of physical rejection I suppose. Not liking the way he looks. Him not being attracted to me. Lack of that je ne sais quoi chemistry that usually sparks an interest in dating by two people who meet organically beforehand.

I'd love to hear from you. Tales of blind dates. The good, the bad, THE UGLY and of course the eye opening and enlightening. Tips for handling the unexpected? How to deal w/ the fact that I don't remember meeting or talking w/ him in the slightest?

I could spend a lot of time being annoying and anxious and overanalyzing all of this. But fortunately I unfortunately had a freak metro accident which left me mildly concussed. (Is "concussed" a word?) At any rate, I'm far too busy lying in the dark with two bags of baby corn on my forehead to give it too much more thought than this:

He called. He asked me out. He may not have a sexy first name. But he has a sexy voice. Other than that, I'm too tired and drugged up to wonder or worry. I'm gonna get some rest and mainly just try to where something clean, not get drunk and try to remember him this time. And maybe, just maybe, Mr. SexyVoice will turn out to actually be Sexy. Here's hoping...

Blackout Drunk Blind Date Guy?

I'm not proud of this. And it's slightly mortifying and embarassing to admit this to you all, but I was three sheets to the wind, out of control, blackout drunk last night. Well I don't really remember being out of control. I remember being super duper excited to see friends I hadn't seen in weeks or even months. And playing beer pong. And almost going home with BeardGuy who has been trying to get with me since the rager house party I threw back in March. And I remember not having to pay for any of my drinks, CrazyGirl in a MillerLite girl get-up or referee costume, some sexy ninja turtles (who knew that was possible?), some heavymetal punks and walking several miles before getting in a cab b/c I was too hammered to use my Metro app to figure out where the closest station was. I can also clearly recall more than a few people telling me, "wow, T, you are really drunk!" It happens.

What I can't remember, even the tiniest spec or iota about, is Blackout Drunk Guy. Or shall we call him "Unknown Guy?" Or "MyAmnesiaGuy" or "Self-Imposed Blind Date" Guy? Or "How Bad Could He Be Guy?" I'm open to suggestions.

But recollection or not, at 2:33 this afternoon, the day after, I received a phone call and a voice message from a Virginia number (meaning local) that said the following: "Hey, it's X from the Halloween Party last night. Uh...just wanted to call and say hi and let you know I had a great time meeting you last night. Um...I was thinking hoping maybe we could meet up some time this week. So give me a call when you get a chance, alright? Okay, bye."

Nice right? A very nice message indeed.

I will say I'm not a huge fan of his name- "X". It's a perfectly normal name like Paul or Andrew but somehow not a name that conjurs up sexiness like Jake or Josh or Brett or Clay. There's something appealing to me about a Trip or Tre or Justin or Bobby and not so instantly pleasing to hear as Aaron or Martin or Lawrence. Parker is cute and Trevor and Travis. John and Matt and Mark and Brendan are all perfectly fine too. But I would rather not a Richard, (heaven forbid a "Dick"), a male "Leslie," Donald (or "Don"), Albert (and "Al") and don't get me started on Wyatt, Walter, George or Burt. Now I know this isn't scientific and totally shallow and that there are exceptions to every rule. Ahem, George Clooney. I just somehow think I'd be more inclined to call this guy back if his name was Will, Jack, Kyle or Ben instead of Daniel, Craig or Harry. I'm just saying. Is anyone with me on this? Do you have names you like or don't like? Are attracted to or not at first introduction? Let me know. I'd love to know I'm not the only one.

But I digress. What I really want to know is, plain and simple, should I go out w/ this guy? I asked this question earlier on twitter and had a couple of lovely ladies thoughtfully and immediately respond. Thanks for that tweeties! And if you're reading this and not following bourbon_toddy on twitter please feel free to do so. Anyways, responses: 1) candacearm replied: "give him a chance! if he actually called, could be a decent guy :)"; 2) DateMeDCBlog commented: "I say give it a shot -- how bad could it be? #dontanswerthat"; and 3) sassymarmalade was doubly helpful with her not one, but two, comments encoraging: "Definitely give him a chance! Tough to find a guy who actually follows through, ya know" and observing "1 - you'll prob be like, "ohhh, yeah, I remember" when you see him. 2 - couldn't be that bad or he'd be calling PM not AM! :)" All excellent points. He did like me, ask for my number and follow through calling to ask me out a day later. And I, even if irreconcilably out of it, did in fact choose to give him my number voluntarily. We hope.

On the other hand, why did he like me? Because I seemed like a wild, loose party girl who would give it up on a first date? Were my breasts falling out of my shirt? I have to wonder. I'm a loud, "vibrant" person sober, so I can only imagine how irresistable the amplied, liquored-up affect must be.

But a date is a date is a date is a date. It's nice to be liked and even nicer to be asked out. So what if he turns out to be too short, too fat, too young, too old, too weird, too crass or likes me for all the wrong reasons. An accidentally one-sided blind date couldn't be any worse than the schlubs I've gotten out with lately with all the knowledge of brains and beauty and bank accounts beforehand. Right?

I don't sound fully convinced do I? You're right. I could use an extra little push. So...I ask of favor of you dear readers. If, and only if, I get 10 comments on this blog entry, urging and insisting me onward, I am gonna pass. However, if I do get those 10 comments, I will immediately call Mr. "X" back and set up a date for later this week. And of course I will blog about it afterwards. Therefore, if you've been on bad blind dates and feel your misery loves company or have never been on one by chance or fear, let me be your guinea pig, let me brave the unknown. I think he might be worth it, if only for the blog fodder. Let me know what you decide.

Dear Mom and Dad, If I die today...

*Don't be alarmed dear readers, this hasn't happened yet. And probably won't. But if it did...*

Dear Mom and Dad,

If I die today, there are a few things I want you to know.

And I had this feeling. This terrifying feeling. Of what if this is it. What if I died today.

Now obviously I'm just being morbid. Paranoid and anxious and overdramatic. (Per usual). I know, I know. I know you know too. You know who I am. You always have.

But my head really does hurt. A lot. And I feel nautious. And light-headed. And sort of out of it. All I can think about is lovely Leam Neeson's lovely wife. Who had a simple spill on the bunny slope skiing and barely bumped her head. She complained of a slight headache and then she was gone. An aneurism or a blood clot or something in her brain they said. As a result of her fall they said. We should all take any sort of head injury or head trauma more seriously they said. One minute I was watching her raising money for AIDs on a Top Chef episode, and the next I was watching news she had died - leaving her lovely husband and her lovely children behind. I thought about seeing a doctor right now myself faced with such a fate. A preventative measure. Because you never know. But how much trouble would that cause - getting all worked up over nothing. How silly I will feel if it is nothing. Because it is nothing. And I'll awake tomorrow and feel fine. But you never know. If I did die today...

I've never been married. I never had children. But I want you to know that's okay. I never wanted to get married the way other young women seemed to do. I never fantasized about what my dress would look like or what flowers I would have or who would be my bridesmaids. If anything, I repelled the idea of both, like an ugly chartreuse sweater I'd never wear because it washed out my skin and made me look fatter, and let's face it mom, was likely picked out by you. And in regards to that last comment I don't know why I've always been such a brat; I didn't want to be. I tried not to be. I really did.

Therefore, sans husband and sans kids, you two were the companions of my life to date and my soulmates. You gave me the life that no one deserves but everyone hopes for. Dad was right to say I've had a charmed life. More comfort and happiness than most will feel in a lifetime of living.
Thank you for the pumpkin picking, the massive Christmas trees, the music box on my 15th birthday that you don't think I appreciate but I do, the piano lessons, the singing lessons, my education, the trips to Europe, especially to Rome, when you painted my kitchen that beautiful "River Rock" gray-blue and when you edited all those English papers. Thank you for being nice to all my Republican boyfriends. I'm sorry I couldn't bring a blue-dog home. I don't know what my problem is. Thank you for challenging me to be smarter. To listen to NPR and watch documentaries. To read quality books and see quality films and take in the theatre as often as luxury can afford it. Thank you Dad for teaching me about wine and helping me avoid all that is "pedestrian." For watching the Redskins with me, coming to see me play lacrosse and even wearing a basketball tie against your conservative dressing sensabilities on game day. For teaching me to strive for a job where I love what I do, for valuing hard work and contributing to the community. Thank you for requiring me to be better. A nicer daughter and neighbor and friend. Thank you for trying to teach me forgiveness and patience and serenity. I never got there, but I have less regrets than I would have otherwise.

Tell my brother he's the only sibling I ever had; the only one that ever mattered. That his friendship meant everything. That I'm sorry for all the "superpinches" and that I only bugged him because I wanted to be cool like him. Remind him of the sneak-attack fart in the basement, (he'll know what I mean) and the night we stayed up all night before he went off to college and when we spent all those hours during Christmas Break playing Super Mario Brother's galaxy on the Wii. Just being with him was what made it memorable. How he made me laugh till I cried and my stomach hurt. How he's the the most interesting, most talented, most amazing person I've ever met. That I want him to find a girl that truly deserves him. Someone "awesome" not just someone "smokin' hot." And more importantly, someone not completely bat-shit crazy like all the girls he's dated since forever. Also that I don't need to live past the age of 27 to know that he's going to be ridiculously successful, but I'm sorry not to be around to see it happened just the same. Mostly, just tell him that I loved him. And that any differences or bygones we ever had was long forgotten. Tell Grandma I thought about those days in Ohio learning to sew quilts and picking vegetables in the garden more than she knows. And that those Starbucks cards and "hand-shake 50's," while material things, made me think she was the raddest oldster around. And that if I had lived to be 85, I'd have wanted to be just like her. Steadfast and true and selfless beyond measure.

If you clean out my stuff and you find my old diaries, fight your curiosity and just throw them out. Please! There are just some things parents should never know about their child. Ever. And I'm sorry my financial and personal affairs are in such disarray. I was never one for organization was I? Luckily, a death certificate should shut up everyone up I should think. And what money and stock or personal belongings I have goes to you and Dad and D. Give it to D.

I hope you don't think I died unhappy. The last couple of years have been tough that's true. Maybe I would've liked to have achieved more professional success. And against all odds and current sentiments, maybe I would've liked to have gotten married and had children too. Who knows? But I've almost believed God truly exists so many days walking home from school or work when I admired the endless,rustling leaves on our tree-lined street. And the bubbles tickling my tongue from glasses of prosecco. And the care of gingerale and a palm on my forehead when I was sick. And I've danced in a thunderstorm on a steamy hot summer day. I know what a runner's high feels like and what those prawns in Portugal taste like. I've wind-walked the Sydney bridge, scuba dived on the Great Barrier Reef, learned to make Chicken Piccata and chocolate souffles and I won my first trial. I've loved and been loved by a good man unconditionally. The way that makes you feel beautiful and full of hope that anything is possible. I've been proud of myself. And I have felt happiness. Pure joy and happiness.

And I didn't die in pain or uncomfortable or miserably sad. Yes I have a headache and yes just writing this blog post is making me cry and yes I do in fact feel a little out of sorts. But on the bright side I'm about to watch trash tv and drink a bottle of Dad's wine without his permission. (Don't worry I took an inconsequential, inexpensive Chianti instead of the WSJ Malbec I really wanted because on the chance I do live I dont want to face Dad's wrath). Trust me, this isn't a bad way to spend your last few hours. Typical bliss if you ask me.

I could go on and on and on. So many memories. So many thank yous and apologies and forgiveness to convey. But all that matters is that I know you loved me. And that I love you. And that I'm sorry I couldn't stay a little longer. But that I cherished our family and my short time here on earth. That I hope you will stay healthy and take care of each other and try to move on without me.

Dearest mom and dad, if I die today...it was everything. And you gave me that.

All my love,
G.

A Little Crush

So I met someone.

I know, I know. The usual school girl mania takes over. But I'm trying not to think anything of it. Really I'm not.

So here's what I'm thinking about it...

He's TALL. Like REALLY really really T-A-L-L!!! And SKINNY. And dark-haired. And freckled. And a good map reader. Because everyone knows that the sign of a good man is his ability to navigate his woman through the concrete jungle vis-a-vis her smartphone. Just sayin...


The best part is--I wasn't trying to meet a guy. I had decided there was too much drama in my life lately. So I went out with some friends on a sunny afternoon. And I told myself, "Now, T-you are going to enjoy yourself, you aren't going to be "the planner" of anything, just go with the flow, easy-breezy and be your best version of yourself."

You think I'm kidding right? But unfortunately, I'm not. Hopefully this makes you feel better about your own inner monologue.

When I met up with my girls, I found they had brought along some guys, several of whom I'd never met, and suddenly I found myself shaking the hand of someone totally unexpected and simultaneously once again, like a broken record, warning myself - "uh-oh, here we go again."

I don't know how it happened that it was arranged and made perfect sense for him to come in my car in our carravan of vehicles, but regardless, minutes later I was cruising along in the convertible being bathed in warm sun beams and glancing over at a so-far seemingly nice man in a baseball cap. He kept smiling out from under it his brim, saying "take a right, now a left" and then: "you're gonna wanna slow down about now I think." He didn't know how truly right he really was.

Things don't always go our way. And sometimes we feel like we are in a slump or a rut or just tired of it all. But this day wasn't one of those days. This day was the day where being young is such a privilege. My whole life still ahead of me in all its deliciously frightful uncertainty. And the thought of a little crush turning into something more, just makes you think (even though you aren't allowed to think anything about it) that some thing tells you, you just might be into something good.

Cheers to "something good" for all of us this week.

T

I'm a Liar, Liar...Pants on Fire.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Well do you?

If I'm being honest here (and how can you trust me based on this entry's title alone) the jury's still out on the God part, but as for the rest of it, that IS the standard I hold others to as a lawyer and interrogator in a court of law. Perhaps to my detriment, it is not the standard I impose upon myself amidst the court of blogging.

Should I? And do you? In all honesty (there's that promise again) I'd really love to know what my fellow bloggers and readers think and advise and practice because in truth (possibly) I've blurred the lines of fiction and non-fiction and as a result I am feeling about as gloomy as the gray areas in which I've painted for my words to inhabitant.

There is no denying (a complete falsity if I ever heard one) that one of my favorite all-time novels is One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. This American gem (says me, but maybe not them) examines the varying dimensions of truth and lies or misinformation and exaggeration far better than I ever could. In my opinion (if it were valuable, which it's not) the very bestest of literature, film and art delves into the question of untrustworthy narrators, what is truth, what is real, do we all see blue as blue or is someone else's blue really red?

No matter, in OFOTCN, the main character, a patient in an insane asylum, our narrator and possible protaginist, reports on the physical, mental and emotional torture he undergoes as a non-crazy inmate in a sadistic crazy world. He is the victim. They are the enemy.

Here in lies the rub...Is he being truthful and truly being treated so poorly and yet no one believes him because they think he is completely bonkers and completely medicated and therefore he is imagining evils and wrongs that have never occurred? OR is he completely bonkers and completely medicated and therefore he is imagining evils and wrongs that never did in fact occur? The story really wants us to know, I think, (and who care's what I think, honestly), that PERCEPTION IS REALITY. And, ultimately, even if this guy is completely wrong and in fact completely safe and well-taken care of and looked after and loved, in his eyes, in his mind, in his reality he is unhappy, angry, mistreated, afraid and alone. But does that make what he feels and what he believes and how he hurts and how he envisions the world to be any less valid? He sees what he sees, he feels what he feels, he hurts as much as he hurts. He lives a reality and an existence. And if he feels hurt and betrayed and unloved then shouldn't his feelings be acknowledged, addressed and attempted to be assuaged?

What does this have to do with me you might ask? And the fact that I'm a no good, dirty rotten scoundrel AND a liar, don't forget (which is 100% true by the way) is that I did in fact (and I got a neutral fact-checker to confirm) hurt someone recently that I cared about. By telling my version of the truth about him, which wasn't even true at all. A guy I dated pissed me off recently and I was mad at him. And I envisioned him as a cold, callous and sadistic creature who used me only to feed on me like a parasite to make him stronger while having complete disregard for the sickness and weakness that would result in my own body.

The absolute truth, and nothing but the truth, is that I'm sorry I hurt him. I'm sorry that I said things about him, true or not, fueled by misinformation or anger or the green-eyed gaze of a jealous monster. I was mad, I was angry. And I wrote words that embodied how I FELT and not necessarily exactly how things WERE. Is there a difference? Of course there is, but how should we approach this variation when we sit down to write something personal and creative?

In the blog-world, a lot of people blog to rant and rave, to vent, to digest, to self-reflect or even to shock and awe to appeal to a hungry audience. It's an online diary. And everyone, even Bridget Jones knows that diaries are full of crap. But a blog isn't like any old diary. Because its public. Even if no one knows your name. Because our blogging community is small. Smaller than you'd think. And even if we haven't met in person we have personified our language into faces that can be looked upon, liked and admired, hated and resented, remember and judged, for beauty or for ugliness.

I'm not the only blogger whose come under fire. Recently, CityGirlBlogs had a similar dilemma when a male friend of hers didn't like being the topic du jour in her much more infamous prose than mine. While he insisted he was "a private person" and didn't appreciate the recognition, she calmly explained that he had known about her blogging from the beginning, that she didn't give details to expose his identity and that she thought he supported her work. They left the conversation at an impasse with her not knowing whether she'd ever see or speak to this man again. This sounds eerily all too familiar.

What's the point of a blog if I can't write what I want and think and feel? Can I blog then if and only if it's the truth, the absolute truth, and nothing but the truth, and therefore friends and foes alike can't cry wolf or libel? Is my first mistake letting anyone in my circle of friends or family or coworkers even know that this "journal" exists? With total anonymity there is no censorship, with some publicity there comes consequences -- say only nice things that people want to hear or perish.

Ultimately, I can't defend attacks from an enemy whose war I never wanted and whose peace and friendship I always sought. And I can't pretend to be someone I'm not or limit myself or how I really feel. I can't be with a person that only dates me because I "up their value" as a person themselves and who finds me acceptable only when I do the right thing, say the right thing and act perfectly composed and witty. CityGirl's man got past this, I'm afraid mine will not. But CityGirl only ever told intimate details about this gentleman as far as I can tell and didn't disapprove or denounce him or deem him unworthy in any respect.

I can honestly tell you, dear reader, that I take some "artistic license" in my blog posts. Most of who and what I write about did in fact happen and does in fact exist in the real world. But sometimes two bad dates morph into one, sometimes my hatred of my boss or my ex-boyfriend takes on fantastic fantasy of impossibilitude that no man, real or imagined, could ever really be that bad. Haven't you ever verbally beat your ex-boyfriend to a pulp to your girls as easily as if he were a dead horse? Would you prefer if I never said hate and only said dislike? Shall I say she's vertically challenged instead of midget height? Tell me, dear reader, what you would like to hear, and I shall respond in kind. Cater to your every whim, and try to become the person, dare I say, the image, that you require me to be. After all, my name is "BOURBON TODDY." Didn't you imagine me to be a bitchy bourbon drinking drunk? Who hates the world and everyone in it? Which is in fact a fact, by the way, real and imagined.

But whoever I may be in cyberspace, I promise to thine own self to be true outside URL walls. You can rely on one thing, perceived or imagined, blog or no blog, that I am in fact flawed. (No fact checker necessary). I have a temper. I'm a drunk. I'm a poor dresser and what's worse I don't know how to do my hair and I wear little makeup. I've been fired once and peed in public twice. I have brothers and sisters who love me and brothers and sisters who don't speak to me. I have parents that I worship and parents that I avoid. I've even pushed someone out of a cab after taking their last dime. And while I can't do math to save my life, I can get you out of a speeding ticket or write you an essay on any Kafka in a jiffy, even if it costs me my license or integrity. I did drive all day in a snowstorm, during college the day before my first law school exam, to pick up three cold, stranded friends who had broken down on the side of the road far from home. I do care about you more than you'll ever care about yourself. And I will never give up on you or anyone else or any problem no matter who much it hurts or how hard it gets. I will always be honest about how I'm feeling, whether I have any right to those feelings or not. And I will never LIE to you, to your face, where it really counts. Despite appearance that I'm a jackass and an asshole and an idiot, I am smart, I am energetic, I am cheerful, and I am very considerate of strangers and aquaintances alike. I am talented, I am funny. I am a good person, worth knowing and befriending. And I will try harder than you to be your friend, even if you stare back at me saying you don't want the same. And even if I fail to win you over, I'll still know in my heart that I am worthy still- I have worth. I know that I "up people's value." Some people's value anyways, whether or not I still up yours. I'm willing to take that chance. Despite, popular belief, unlike the sometimes cramped and censored confines of the blogging community, life is not small or suffocating and there's isn't one version of reality...there's a great big world out there, with a lot of black and white and grey and people in it. And after all, after all I've said, if I've said anything at all, the only truth that really matters is --I'm only human-- And you can depend on that at least.

Cheers to that,
Toddy.

PAIN OR PASSIVITY??

Pain or Passivity? That is the question. The choice between the pain of rejection or the futility and hopelessness of passivity. Hit on men or wait for them to hit on you?

I have a friend who says my standards in men are too low. She seems to think that I sit on my keester and wait for a man to come to me, any man for that matter. She's mostly right. And this may seem anti-feminist or antiquated and outdated and a little too "Rules girl" cirqua 1998, but the alternative, for me, is a little too unbearable.

I have this theory about men which starts with the idea that men and women often have "a type." Type of physique, look, style, personality they are attracted to. For example, my brother likes really really short girls. Like legally midget height girls. And ethnic. Dark eyes, dark hair. Indian, Iranian. Middle-Eastern. Eastern-European. Me -- I have a few "looks" I go for. But if you are a TALL, dark, Irish, dark-brown to almost black haired man with blue eyes, I'm a puddle of mess over your shit. If you are a poor dresser, too skinny, a total dork, then take me to bed and I'm yours forever. I can't help myself. I'm not proud to say that, but its true. Still with me?

I believe looking around a bar, a coffee shop, the office, you see what you see and you like what you like. The blonde on that stool, the redhead watching football, the guy in the blue crew neck sweater (damn, he's wearing a wedding ring, who let him in this bar anyways?). Similarly, some guys must find me attractive and some guys must not. Not all men are attracted to me. That's life. And all men at bars late at night, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or any night really is gonna scan the crowd and say...she's hot...she's cute...she's not...look at those tits and ultimately a pair of guys will say "Let's go talk to those girls." And the wingman will take the friend or the we gotta go girl and its on.

So what if he's not into you? and you approach him? And you are flat out rejected?

Here's the problem. I know guys take the same chance at rejection on us girls but if a girl isn't interested, she isn't interested, where sometimes a guy who is NOT interested may take advantage of the situation just the same. I say this because my two guy friends Bryan and Ryan once told me...if a guy can have sex with a girl, he probably will. If the girl offers it up, especially on a silver platter, a guy will take it. And lose all respect for you in the process of course. So you can go up to a guy and be rejected because you aren't his type but at the same time he could not reject you and "faux accept" you because he figures you are into him and try to sleep with you which involves a certain amount of feigning interest in you on his part and spending a portion of the evening with you and drinking and talking, etc. Then you either sleep with the wrong guy or date the wrong guy or date a guy that is not that into you but hey, you were there, and he doesn't have any better options or offers, at the moment. OR, ultimately you just wasted time talking to the wrong guy or simply being rejected by the wrong guy. Take your pick.

I wasn't always passive. To my calculation I've been on at least 100 first dates in my lifetime. I've been on 5 dates in 1 week once. I've dated a lot, I've had short term boyfriends and I've had long-term boyfriends. I'm not without experience or knowledge. And frankly, I've been looking actively, intelligently, recklessly, endlessly for Prince Charming and I've been looking since I was 12 years old. Where the fuck is he? I'm exhausted. I'm out there. I'm looking. I'm coming up empty.

So excuse me I've decided to live my life alone. My mother tells me..."Life happens when you make other plans." So I joined a running club and trained for a marathon, work hard and amibitiously shoot for professional success, spend time with the parents and enjoy drinks with the girls.

He's out there probably. At the bar or at work or at a friend's dinner party or at the farmer's market, but I am DONE TRYING and I am DONE ASKING.

My friend on the other hand takes a different approach than embarassed, meak, pathetic, little me. She'll buy a guy a beer in front of all his buddies. She'll make the first move and start the conversation and get the ball rolling. Sometimes I admire her. Her guts. Her confidence. Gumption. But most of the time, it makes me worried for her.

What if they don't like her? What if they aren't innately attracted to her. It breaks my heart before anything has even happened. I know it's all in my head. I know I'm crazy to fret. I know she's a catch and has a right to go after people worthy of her wonderfulness. But I don't have that kind of self-confidence. So I don't understand.

So call me a coward. Call me what you will. But I'll take passivity and loneliness and futility any day over the pain of rejection and embarassment and humiliation, even if its more imagined, then real.

Curbside Cookoff DC

In case you were wondering, a lobster roll can in fact change your life. I know because one such crustacean came into my life earlier this afternoon.

Apparently, and embarassingly, I've been living under a rock. B/c I had no idea that a food truck trend had driven into the District.

Unbenownst to unaware me, food trucks having become the plat de jour in our capital city's cuisine. And while a little late in the game to be in the know, I couldn't be more in favor. Perhaps because I couldn't more savor all the different and diverse flavors and on that note I think right now might be a good time to read the following disclaimer:

"Beware the following side affects: Butter plus mayo plus lobster plus sugary local-to-Maine BlackCherry
rootbeer soda plus red velvet Curbside Cupcake may result in temporary loss of grammar, working
vocabulary and general good sense. Proceed to open mouth and digest with caution. If symptoms continue, try eating the mediocre food you usual swallow in an attempt to snap out of it."

While some have called the mobile fare craze "a case of classicism", I call it a stroke of genius. And what I call Curbside Cookoff DC, (other than the #2033rd reason Why I love DC), is an epically cultural mecca of gastronomy.

So while today is almost tomorrow, lucky for you, tomorrow is another day. Head downtown to "City Center," at H and 11th, from 11am-8pm, near Metro Center & Gallery Place metro stops, for the second and final day of a food frenzie not to be missed. While you are there feel free to tickle your tongues with delectable delights from any of the following 21 gourmet DC food trucks:

• Red Hook Lobster Truck
• DC Slices
• District Taco
• Eat Wonky
• BBQ Bandidos
• Yellow Cart
• Pedro and Vinny’s Burrito Cart
• Curbside Cupcakes
• DC Empanadas
• Eat Sauca
• El Floridano
• Fojol Bros.
• Food Chain DC
• Fry Captain
• Yellow Truck
• Pleasant Pops
• Sweet Bites
• Sweetflow Mobile
• Takorea

While it's no secret that I am overwhelmingly partial to the north and the east and the overall complete Lobster Roll meat provided by the moving motor with the mostest as it boastedst spreading of the lobster luv around the coast its no matter what you partake of for whatever it is, it will not disappoint. Not the food. Not the "acro-yogies" (did you know they existed in all their glorious double-jointed hotness?) or the perfectly accompanying DJ'd chow down get down compositions or the mural being artistically mutated before your eyes. And did I hear tomorrow begets a beer garden? Let's be honest, up until now, the only possible thing missing was the liquor. And now that's even a moot point.

So while I'm still the tiniest bit suspect of TaKorean from a truck, (I am human after all), take my word for it, (what have you got to lose?), and slurp up, imbibe, sip, gulp, slurp, swig, knock back, glug, chew, taste, lap up, finger-lick, masticate, chew, gnaw, grind and crush on a taco, a red velvet cupcake or duck fatty french fries and thank your lucky stars that Thank God Its Friday and at the end of the day, whatever the day, you dwell and dine in D to the C postmark U.S. of A.

Bon Appetit from yours truly, Bourbon T.

Why I Love DC: Reason #26, #142, #1003, #6.

So I got pissed off at a fellow blogger this week. It was my first outrage at another member of this insatiable online writing community. Shame on me to attack a resident of not only my neighborhood which would be the lovely and historic and imposing District of Columbia but someone who is also a compadre of the shared blogosphere filled with worthy satirists and intellectuals and brilliant journalists and don't forget the deeply disturbed minds.

Up until now the comments shared by yours truly have been all puppies and you're so smart, no you're so smart, no you're the best writer, Noooo you are sooo the best writer... and so on. Then--I told someone who had the slightest complaint (and there really isn't anything more Washingtonian than complaining, let's be honest) to get the eff out of my fair city. I mean, what can I say? My bad? But, don't hate. Rule #1: No haters allowed in this club house.

To be fair, he did diss my hometown. Arguably the greatest place on earth. And if you disagree, then you too can get the eff out. JK. Lol. LMAO. Sort of.

So okay, not to be fair in fact, but to make excuses instead, I did happen to be at work. (A stone cold feels like your in a morgue on a grey steel slab of a law office, yes I'm a cliche awful self-important lawyer, a dime a dozen as they say and I have no delusions about this depressing state of affairs). It was 7:30a.m. on Monday morning and I was drearily attempting my newest confidential project which I'd tell you about but it'd make you fall asleep like opera or Garrison Keeler and oh yeah...I'd lose my law license. Bummer. Truthfully, I wanted to stab my eye out with a fork I was so uninspired at how trite my life had become.

But of course my mind kept wandering back to something. The Redskins season opener, at-home, division-game, miracle of a win, against the no-good, dirty, rotten, despicable, over-rated, have-been-dead-to-me-since-I-was-8, Dallas. Cowboys. UGH. Deangelo Hall's fumble recovery for a touchdown replayed over and over again in my head till I forgot about a sharp utensil piercing my hazel iris and started pondering a blog post about how being a Burgundy and Gold devotee was a bit like having voluntary Tourette syndrome. (stayed tuned, its on its way). And instead of feeling tired and downtrodden, I sat in my cubicle with a goofy grin on my woefully under-make-uped face. It occurred to me: I was dressed in black. I was a lawyer. I was in DC. I was working too hard. I was under appreciated. And the Redskins actually beat the Cowboys. All was right with the world.

The moment I started pussy footing around at work and started reading blogs and found an entry even slightly attacking President Obama's lair and the locale of the many free Smithsonian museums, rage filled inside of me and I had to defend this once upon a time swampland.

In a blog entitled: "Why I Hate DC: Reason #101" Giant Butters expressed distaste at the lack of concern and attention he received from passersby when he fell on his bike in a populated area of downtown. I told him, that this capital's residents may not be all everything nice, sugar and spice, yuppie jerks even, every man out for himself, yet we did have an awesome transportation system (albeit subject to technical difficulties, it does exist and far extending at that) and had milder weather than some (hey we aren't northern Iowa for Christ's sake). And we had lots of other advantages as well...

#26: I love my locals. I love the love, man. Dude. To have grown up in this city for 25 years, only leaving temporarily for school, it's the most amazing feeling to belong to a place. And to belove it. To feel like you know it. And it gets you. You don't get lost on the Beltway. You prefer not to party in Clarendon or Arlington or Alexandria. Why did you move to a city to slum it in the suburbs? You don't wind up in Anacostia by accident. You know that paper metro cards are for schmucks and oh so 2008. You know Dupont is for yuppies, but you also know that you are a yuppie so you keep going there anyways by default. You actually know what the appropriate tip is for a taxi driver and you don't let them boss you around. DC Restaurant Week is your last supper. Redskins football is your communion. And politics are your religion. And if anyone, and I mean ANYONE, has shit about shit to say about our district of Columbia, our blood will boil, we'll bring on the pain, and we'll set you straight. Through monotonous legalise and rhetoric.

#142: The people you are surrounded by. Which is everyone. Black, white, hispanic, male, female, poor, rich, Republican, Democrat, Catholic, Jewish, Buddhist, Islamic, Independent, hippies, hipsters, politicos, lawyers, chefs, teachers, lobbyists, bike messengers, the President of the United States, retards, geniuses, chubby, burnt tourists completely lost, Minnesotans, Turks, Japs and Aussies. And not to mention the bloggers of our word deliciously and temporarily anonymous. I was walking to the metro at the end of this long and empassioned D.C. Day and I saw a grew up sorority girls all dressed in bright pink and blue and yellow gowns on their way to something ridiculously lame no doubt-- happy and chatty, a gaggle of geese. And I saw my crowd- the black suits and blue and white button-downed shirts tied to their phones. And I saw a nurse getting on or off a shift in hospital scrubs that looked like those paper towel rolls that are white with the inane patterns on them. I saw a cab driver who'd been in an accident and a jaywalker honked by oncoming traffic. It was perfect.

#1003: This may be completely sterotypical, un-PC, profiling and douchey but the #1003 reason I love DC is that even our homeless people kick more ass than other cities' homeless people. Outside Metro Center Monday there was a homeless guy with few teeth, many raspy weathered blankets and a battered cane. Despite all evidence to the contrary and against all odds, he was sitting cross-legged reading the newspaper actually seeming to understand it. Holy mother of Abraham Lincoln. Yes. I thought. Yes.

#6: There comes a day in every September. Around the 13th. When you get out of work and walk down the arguably oober clean city streets, finding your way to the metro and eventually home, but first realize that out of nowhere, the kind of hot and humid wasteland that used to make you drip slow drops of sweat down your legs in an endless Sandlot montage FOR-EVER, FOR-EVER while standing on the train car and hoping that cute guy sitting across from you wouldn't notice has inexplicably transformed out of nowhere into the calm and cool light and tepid blue. You could soak in this weather like a bubble bath, lingering in it, with your eyes closed, your mind in a rare moment of quiet. It's the kind of day and the kind of atmosphere that makes you think...

D.C. is my home.
And there's no place quite like home...


(Disagree? Then click your red heels and get your hick ass back to Kansas. The sooner the better... And besides, you don't wanna live here under a Republican Congress come November anyhow. Word.)

DCBLOGS ROCK MY WORLD

THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

To DC BLOGS for their incredible shoutout this past Tuesday for my last entry - Missing DC: Part I. This completely rocked my world. I was so happy to be recognized, by bloggers and editors, whom I completely enjoy and admire for their witty way with words, that when I read my entry being called "wonderful writing" when I logged on to DCBlogs.com on my iphone at 12:45 am in bed, (not being able to sleep due to jetlag), I was completely over the moon and even more insomniatic to my complete detriment at work the following day.

Now I know this makes me a complete nerd embarassment that I was so tickled pink by what my superstar, seasoned-blogging friend Scarlett has had happen to her more times possibly than first dates she's been on (which is astronomically high) but I can't help myself. Pig in mud people. A little chubby curly-q-tailed piggy in mud. Of course, when I told Scarlett the news she was completely supportive -- meaning she smiled politely humoring me and flitted her hand in the air slowly as if it say..."Yes...hmm...that's niiiiice dahling. Another glass of champagne then?"

But a first shout out is a first shout out. And actually having people read what you write and not think its dog poopoo is definitely motivating and inspiring for a new blogger and long-time identity stricken but aspiring writer to keep trying to create something worth reading and talking about.

I mean, isn't that why we all do this? To find a voice. To let off some steam. To be part of a community and a dialogue. And...just often enough... to occasionally have someone else tell you: "I know exactly what you mean." "I feel that way too."

Cheers everyone!
-Bourbon Toddy

Missing DC: Part I

I pride myself on being totally independent. Of friends. Of family. Especially from men. I've never been the kind of girl that gets a boyfriend and loses herself and stops seeing her girls or working out or going to (insert hobby here) class. But since I've recently departed the DC area for what I fear will be an endless two and a half months of familial and work pursuits, it occurs to me I may have a dependency problem when it comes to my city. And The East Coast. And Yankee Bitches. Its kind of pathetic, but I don't know if I can truly be me and exist anywhere else. I'm too cranky. And angsty. And misomaniatic.

And I have complete writer's block here in NoCal. Maybe because there aren't any toxins in my water and the air is too fresh. The weather is too fine and the inhabitants too relaxed. It makes me nauseous.

It's not that I don't have a million gazillion and one things to write about...

Par example: = the going away party that twenty of my friends threw me this past Tuesday night which ended in me getting kicked out of strip club. Epic...win.

Perhaps I should rant and rave and bitch and moan without end about the fact that I've now been in California (temporarily I promise) for 4 days now and I already miss the angst and meanness and black clothes and cell phone reception of DC so much that I am only one more woven-skirt wearing, vegan hippie away from taking a baseball bat to a headshop or voluntarily allowing dairy cows to trample over my soon-to-be mangled dead body on a fog laden road rounding the hills abutting Dillon Beach.

But I digress.

All I know is...I miss home. I know I should be excited to be young and experience new things and new people and new food and new shops and new sites. And I know my wanderings and explorations have an expiration date not too far into the future. But I already long for the broken down Red Line that is sure to smell like rich boy piss after the long drunken Labor Day weekend and taxi drivers that cut you off within an inch of your worthless, recession-reject of a life, then give you the finger as if it were your mistake.

Ahhh...to be where where the know-it-all politicos preach, the H-street hipsters dawn designer plaid and the G-town fratties flaunt their douchery daily- all deliciously melted into one steamy, hot and humid, miserably pretentious, wonderful place I call home.

Naked Running

Clever video of a Nike shoe ad involving naked runners at a nudist running camp. Which begs the question...would anyone ever do this?

I couldn't run completely naked myself because I have to wear sports bras to keep my DDD boobs in place. But what if I didn't need to?

No...I still wouldn't. I'm not an ugly person standing still. But I am an UGLY FUGLY runner. I once saw a picture of myself taken at an 8k race in Virginia Beach during their Shamrock Fest runs on St. Patrick's Day. I looked like a wildebeast chasing its prey in slow-mo. I really couldn't believe I was that hideous. So yeah, I'm an ugly runner with clothes on. I can only imagine without clothes on.

On the other hand, it does get really hot with clothes on sometimes. Sports bras, hats, shirts. If I had an amazing body I would def be one of those girls that takes her shirt off mid-run through and folds it perfectly and sticks it in the back of my shorts. Personally, I don't think you should run in a skimpy outfit unless you have the bod to pull it off. I don't care if you are 20 pounds skinnier than me, if your stomach fat is still extensive enough to be girating down the street towards me -- its inappropriate --and you should refrain from such lack of attire. After all, we live within the conservative-esque confines of the District's civilization. Not a nudist camp.

Speaking of nudity, I went to see the Vibrator Play at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre last night. The theatre company's motto is "Defy Convention" and boy did they ever. They were doing one of their "Pay What You Can" shows where you wait in line for an hour or so and then you pay what you can for an otherwise $40-$80 ticket. I paid $5 which is pretty sweet so I really can't complain about anything I witnessed, nor am I offended by nudity besides. The play was about the origins of the vibrators back in the days when they were used as medical devices performing electric massage therapy to cure women patients with "hysteria" whatever that means. There were a lot of fake orgasms and a naked man at the end with I'm sorry to say the smallest penis I've ever seen. The show was specified as for only ages 16 and up but I'm surprised there wasn't an additional notification to the public that announced there would be full frontal male nudity. I know its "art" after all but some people are offended by nudity more than others. Makes me want to be European, particularly Dutch, and have Americans finally get over all this sexual prudishness and just be comfortable with it all.

I could talk about nudity all day couldn't you? But I'll finish by promising that I'm about to head out on my required Week 9-- 3 mile --Tuesday run mostly so I can look better naked. Look, we all need to find motivation somewhere.

SLOG IT OUT: the 13th mile marker of hope

And this one phrase appeared as I began to struggle. SLOG IT OUT. SLOG IT OUT. Just 9 more songs. Just 5 more songs. SLOG IT OUT. I wasn't even sure what "slog" meant. I searched my vocabularly for the meaning of the word and found nothing. But I still knew what it meant for me. Just push through. Struggle through. Make it through.

And that is what "slog" actually means. Which somewhere in my literary unconscious I'd heard or read before and kept for safe keeping. To use then. When I really needed inspiration from somewhere - to pull me through.

I looked the definition up later: (1) to hit hard: BEAT (2) to plod (one's way) perseveringly especially against difficulty (2) to plod heavily : TRAMP (as in slogged through the snow) (3) to work hard and steadily: PLUG. Another form of the word is slog-ger. Examples of SLOG could be: He slogged away at paperwork all day. She slogged through her work. We've been slogging for hours. They slogged their way through the snow.

It's the perfect word. It's the way I've been feeling about everything lately. My job. My life. My friendships. My family. PERSEVERE. PLOD. WORK. step. step. step. Though heavy, though difficult, though slow and steady. step. step. step. slog you slogger, slog it out.

So slogging my way around the shady curves of Rock Creek Parkway yesterday and down beside the water and around and around the imposing monuments, I actually ran 13 whole miles. And tried not to think about how sweaty and chubby and bent over I must look. And tried not to care how slow I was going. And tried to enjoy the scenery and sunshine if only for a moment. And very slowly, and with a little walking, I covered 13 miles in less than 3 hours.

And today I am EXHAUSTED. My legs don't want to work and I feel half asleep. There are blisters and chafing unattractive and unpleasant. And all I want to do is eat chocolate. Not that the latter sensation has anything to do with running since all I ever want to do is eat chocolate. But still I did it.

I don't feel happy per se. I would like to tell you I do. It feels silly not to be. But I still don't have any answers to anything that I've been trying to work through. I still don't have any truly good reason to explain to Scarlett or anybody else why I'm actually running all these miles. I still don't believe I'm going to be able to finish this stupid thing, slow and heavy and undertrained and totally clueless as I am. And then what? How to explain to all the people I've bugged with all this training and all my pride and all my hopes? How to believe I can do anything at all ever again in life if I can't do this when I've worked so hard for it.

It doesn't even feel like I've accomplished anything. Even though covering such a distance, as I've never done before in my life, surely a long haul for anybody whatever their fitness level, should feel like something special. Should bring me joy.

But I'm just jogging through runs like a slogger just like I'm walking through my life like a zombie. And I just want to reach a finish line for once. I just want things to work out. But I don't know how to get there. I only know I'm moving forward. step. step. step. Telling myself quietly and repeatedly and hopefully: SLOG IT OUT.