More Douchebaggery and Falsfiying On My End

View of one of my all time favorite places, Mt. Humongous (or was it Mt. Massive?) a top Leadville, Colorado, right as Doooders and I drove off from the liquor store forgetting our 6-pack on the curb.  We didn't even remember about the 6-pack until we'd finished the other 6-pack a few hours later back at the campsite.  Yeah, that was stupid.

But not as stupid as the texts-war I had with the Deadwood dude the other night; I'll start calling him "Deadwood Dick."  OK, so he asks for my number off the dating site over a week ago, almost two weeks ago, after not really emailing much before-hand.  So I don't hear from him and write him off.  The Artist from Wyoming has been wooing me anyway (more on that sweetie later).

Then out of no where Wednesday night he texts me that he's in town running errands.  He says he's just going to stay the night here (why?, weird), rather than drive back up to Deadwood.  He asks me what I'm doing.  I say I'm working late and have a lot of work to do.  I tell him that he should enjoy our downtown night life and go out to eat at the new Indian place. 

Then it goes like this:

Deadwood Dick: why don't you meet me right now downtown for dinner?

Me: (getting annoyed because I already said I had to stay late, and, WTF, we didn't make plans) No, I can't.  I have a ton of work to do.

Deadwood Dick:  . . . . Your lame. ;-)  (yes, he spelled it that way)

Me: (getting even more annoyed) If you would have given me say a heads up.  Try planning ahead sometime, and maybe I will.

Deadwood Dick: Try living life, be spontaneous!

At this point, I ignore him because I'm getting fed up.  I stay late another hour then I go home and put on my P.J's because it's late.  About that time I get another text from him.

Deadwood Dick: I'm still here if you want to meet up with me.

At this point, I'm furious.  I SAID I had to work late.  I SAID if we'd made plans then that was different.  UNLIKE, the Artist-guy (more on him later), this guy hasn't had any conversations about himself with me, no emails, no phone calls.  I basically do not know him at all, and I'm supposed to drop what I'm doing and meet him?  I'm even more suspicious about him staying in town in a motel when he only lives in Deadwood.  Is he looking to "hook up."

Oh, I was spontaneous all right, because I texted him this:

Me: No.  I have patients to take care of. I am a doctor in E.R.,  and I have mountains of paperwork in my office.  That's why I said to plan ahead might be nice.  I have lives to save.

Yes, I actually said that (new readers, I'm an English teacher NOT a M.D.).  Then he said:

Deadwood Dick: I'm sorry.  Oh, I really look like an ass.  I'm so sorry.  I'm going home now."

WTF?  So once he saw that I was someone important, he backed off.  Soooo, did he just think I was some white trash cashier with a second grade education at Wal-Mart or something, looking to get lucky?  And what was up with suddenly driving home now.  I thought he was spending the night in town.  (was he hoping for a hook up?)

Then, he sends me this weird picture of his head laying on a pillow with his eyes closed.  It was so flipping weird.

I knew it was too good to be true to have THREE cool guys writing/wanting to date me now.

Stay tuned.

Douche-a-rooni--How's that for a Word?

Ohhh, last summer when I decided everyone could piss off and I would have Sons of Anarchy, Katie Segal hair, or at least my rendition of it.  I don't like to copy people's style, so I made up my own.

Sometimes a change up is necessary.  Especially if you've just spotted a Douche-a-rooni last week  in the coffee house whom you met on a disaster-date many years back, even more so, if you played a trick on him about a year ago.

Well, I met Douchebag #342 about eight years ago at the coffee house.  The minute he walked in the door, I knew he wasn't my type.  Redheads are hit-or-miss.  Sometimes they can be handsome like Bobby Flay, or they can be the Howdie Doodie sort, and that was this guy.

Anyway, we shook hands and made small tallk, and I started thinking of excuses to get out of there as fast as possible when he made an announcement.  Why don't we become "f*&k buddies," he asks.  No strings attached.  Hey, that sounds like fun, the way getting pulled over for going 20 over the speed limit is fun, or getting mugged on vacation, or a trip to the emergency room.

"Are you kidding me?  Are you seriously effin' kidding me?" I stammered. 
"Well, it'd be your loss if you didn't," he had the balls to say.
"You're an idiot," I said as I got up to leave.

Fast forward a few years.  In my "Black Period," I created a fake site on Plenty of Losers, just to experiment and see how men would respond to it, using some generic model's picture.

Well, this JOKER wrote my fake character, pleading for her number.  What did my fake character do?  Fake character told him that she had a NICE friend (me) who met him for coffee years back, but that he acted like a pig and solicited her for sex.  And she didn't want anything to do with pigs like him.

JOKER immediately apologized and admitted  he was a douchebag back then, but has grown up and isn't one anymore.  Fake Character shrugged him off.

Then JOKER wrote my real site and apologized for being a douchebag years ago, but that he desperately wanted to date my Fake Character (Just ruined it, pal.  You weren't sorry at all).  Then he wrote back to my Fake Character and said that I was weird, that he had apologized, but that I hadn't accepted his apology.  Fake Character simply told him, "Sorry, I don't associate with Douchebags.  Take care."

So imagine how amused I was to see JOKER-Douche-arooni, years later last week, at the same coffee house, looking, I might add, rather worse for wear, a tire around his middle, more hair gone, turning into "Balding-Fat-Howdy Doodie."

He looked at me curiously.  I could tell he was thinking "She looks familiar.  How do I know her?" but I left before he could remember.

The Universe and I had a good laugh together last week.  Oh, the ironies, oh the ironies!  Stay tuned folks.

Who You Are and Whom You Once Were

I read an interesting essay yesterday that discussed how we're supposed to think a certain way once we are "adults," and that who we once were as children sort of dies or disappears.  It's like society pushes you to hurry up and "grow up."  This is true.  And it's certainly BS.

The essay argued we can reverse this cultural stigma, and we CAN be our inner children if only we reach out to ourselves and TRUST, in that we trust ourselves, and that we have trust in the Universe.

Hence, that's me in the picture, and that's sort of me now, always riding my bike.  But do I have that childlike wonder, that trust or faith like a child does?

After a long parade of fools these past ten years, (men sending me pictures of themselves shirtless, sending me pictures of their pee-pees, asking me to run off to some time-share when they don't know me, married men looking for three-somes, "supposablies and I-don't-got-no's," Cactus Man, and other offensives to humanity), I sort of lost touch with my inner child and turned more into a warrior in combat, guns locked and loaded.

Imagine my surprise, my utter shock when this new guy, the Artist, sent me something that just touched my inner-child.  He sent me a recording of him singing a song and playing the guitar.  I'm not sure if he wrote it or not, but it was about a guy saying he's lucky to have met this girl, even if she doesn't want to be his friend, even if they part their own ways, he's just lucky he got to know her at all.  It was so sweet and kind of sad in a way, because his voice is lovely, and the melody gentle, country-like and innocent as a child.

Call 9-1-1!  He broke through Fort Knox! 

And a big, ol' tear rolled down my cheek. 

I immediately thanked him for being so sweet and recording that for me, for trusting me not to laugh at his gentle song, realizing I would have never, EVER sent anyone something like that, for fear of ridicule, looking stupid, being too vulnerable, you name it.  But he just sent it out to the universe, trusting I would allow it, and I did.

Miracles.  I am definitely looking forward to knowing this gentle creature, this obviously very talented gentleman, this seemingly old-fashioned cowboy.  Could he be one of those "cute but good guys"?

Either way, I'm getting to know this inner child that I lost for a while.  Stay tuned!

Basking in the Limelight

In

I captured this lovely piece of nature/art in my garden last summer.  Speaking of art, one of the new cuties who's at the top-of-my-list is an artist, very talented.  And he's only 3 years younger than me--SHOCKING.  I read online that Tina Fey made a joke about how George Clooney would rather float away in outer space than date someone his own age.  I hear ya on that one, George.  But at least in Hollywood Georgy-boy could date GOOD looking women his own age.

Not the case here in the land of rally shirts, monster trucks, Nascar and cammo caps, Carhart jackets and Cabella's.  But somehow this hip artist found me, and he's absolutely adorable, dresses sharp, nice hair, and besides being an artist, actually has a good job in Wyoming.  We're kind of crushin' on each other.

And there's this ripped, educated, oil-rig worker, who looks like a tall version of Tom Cruise in Wyoming, who practically pleaded for my phone number.  Really? 

Then there's yet another good looking guy, gasp, HERE in Deadwood who's sniffing around me.  Educated, Paul Newman heart-stopping eyes.  What gives? 

I'm bemused.

I'll enjoy the limelight.  Who knows how long it'll last before the Fuglies come back, scuttling around like cock-roaches when you flip a light switch. 

Stay tuned.

Robert Sprinkled Me with Pixie Dust

My Three Babies, hey that could be a TV show, no, that was My Three Sons.  Bennie, his friend, Maxie, and my ex, crashing out on my couch a spell watching football.

So what's new?  Not a lot.  Well, yes, since Robert-the-acclaimed-photo-journalist left town, he was like some sort of good-looking good luck charm.  He flicked a little Anti-Invisible Pixie Dust spray on me before he left, like a good warlock, and now men notice me again.  Thanks, darlin'.

In fact, JK turned me on to a new dating site that is the bomb.  It's so much hipper and cooler than stupid POF or old school Match.  But I didn't believe her at first.

"No, it's kewl.  You need to check it out," she IM'ed me on Facebook.
"I can't take any more fuglies, dude," I typed warily.  "That dude I went out with from December said SUPPOSABLY nine times on our date, and he wore a cammo hat," I added.
"Just check it out.  It's fun."

POF should be called POL.  PLENTY OF LOSERS.  Last time I scoped out the TWO hundred mile area, every man had a Magnum P.I. mustache, tucked his shirt in, and had either a 1. cammo cap or 2. Nascar cap, or BOTH perched on their jaunty little head. 

Sit down, take a breath and listen.  I joined, and she was right.  There are SEVERAL good looking, educated men on there who are writing me.   Of the SEVERAL, THREE are from THIS area.  The rest are only a few hours away.

Teeth, check, no cammo or Nascar, check.  Cool jeans?  Check.  Hair, check.  Can spell, check.

Can you stand it?

Stay tuned.

More on My Bro, Bri

Where there's fun, I'm there.  Bike-ski, kiddies.  Bike-ski after the gym, but if you don't want to hit the gym, I'm here to tell you that cross country skiing gives you a free pass to skip the gym.  BTW, some shit stole that Gary Fisher bag on my bike that I used to hold my skis, asshat.

So what's been shaking?  Well, the dude who brayed at Motorcycle Mike the drunken night at Indy Ale texted me randomly the other day.  I texted back, "Hey, I don't think this text was for me but what's going on?" and never heard anything.  Considering the total weirdness that transpired between us, later on I texted, "I guess we're not texting/talking anymore, eh?"  Then he called me today.  But I didn't pick up because I was with my ex and we were super busy running errands.  All I got was a text, "Is this Nat?"  WTF.

"Don't pick up that call.  After that weird night with you two are you serious?" my ex snapped.  True dat.

 Sigh.  What's a girl to do?  There's the crazy hot messes, who are so interesting like him and Crackie, and then there's the guys like Motorcycle Mike/Hipster who are so cool and hot but don't know I exist.  What's a girl to do?

Hence Bri.  Bri the boring one, but so sweet.

But he's so dated as in  "Where's the beef?"

There's the horrible knock-knock joke he told me at rally where his best friend and mom laughed as if he was Brian Gaffagan, and I stood there jaw agape.  Seriously?  Then there's the rat tail he's growing.  Oh, yes, 1982 called, and apparently though he's bald, his ten year old wants him to grow his hair out into a "rat tail."  Good, almighty Lord.  What in heavens name does any woman with sense of common decency say to that.  "Uh, hope that works for you.  Call me when you cut it off."

I'm lookin' out for us all, hun.

Sometimes Boring is Good, too

Bennie doing his best to look dignified, or as dignified as one can look wearing a flotation device.

A dog.  Nothing says love or safety more than a dog, unless it's my friend, Bri.

Bri, is my friend who waltzes into town every so often, takes me out and wines and dines me, then scuffles back to his well-paid federal engineering job three hours north of the Black Hills.

Why haven't I blogged about him?

The same reason I don't blog about how cool my clothes line is, or how fascinating my can-opener or dish-drainer are.

Is it true that some things that are good for you are not worth mentioning?  Or am I guilty of settling for complacency?

He's tall.  He's got a great smile.  He rides a sweet Harley.  He's good to his children and dotes faithfully on his mother.  I'm sure he uses anti-bacterial soap and flosses religiously.

But he's also an engineer, so he makes cornier than hell jokes, sometimes does alarmingly uncool things like tucks his shirt in and wears "rally" shirts.  But he's also got washboard abs and pretty lips.

And he's a work-a-holic.  Which is why I don't see him more often, but I know he likes me.

Maybe sometimes boring is good, too.  Stay tuned, more later if I don't fall asleep first.  Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.

A Little Attention Now and Then Sure Doesn't Hurt

My dream bike.  All that's missing is Hipster in front and me in back.  OR the other way around is fine, too.  Rumor has it that Hipster's name is allegedly "Motorcycle Mike," or so I've been told by one of the bartenders.

Well, Hipster wasn't at Indy Ale last night, but that's OK, because I'm still too chicken to apologize.  Nevertheless we had a ton of fun, 7-8 of us playing Cards Against Humanity.

And, unbeknownst to anyone I was with other than JJ, my new little crush was at the bar.  He's this ordinary guy at the gym who just has the best manners and prettiest blue eyes; plus he's so nice.  He's cute, too, in a Russel Crowe kind of way.  No, I'm not settling.  He's not fugly, but he's no Robert-the-San-Diego-photo-journalist, whom by the way, flew out yesterday.

Once while I was crossing the bar to use the toity, gym-cutie made a point to break his conversation with his date/friend (?) and say hello to me.  How cute is that?

It seems the Universe has decided to change me from invisible to visible these days, and I'm gonna enjoy it while it lasts.

Call it the 175 crunches I do at the gym every day and my snug workout outfit, but yesterday, there were a PILE of cuties at the gym, and I was the only chick and basking in the attention like a plant in a window.  So I walk over to a congested area where a bunch of cute dudes are talking and working out, when suddenly you could have heard a pin drop--attention allegedly focused on me.  I sniffed the air, and no one farted.  Still, it was suddenly, inexplicably SILENT.  I'm pretty sure there wasn't a "Kick Me" sign taped on my back or booger on the side of my nose, so I just thanked the Universe for the temporary attention and took it for what it was worth.

Some days, you just gotta love the little presents the Universe hands you, and this week, there's been many.

Happy sigh.  Treasure the little flash-in-the-pan moments, kiddies.

Crackie Cracking Me Up

My dating life . . . an abandoned homestead along the plains.

Speaking of plains, I heard back from Crackie.  He said he had put "in a complicated relationship" on his FB page, months ago, not because he's seeing anybody, but because he metaphorically-views all of his relationships in his life as "complicated," his relationships with his family, his friends, himself, then he went off on a philosophical sermon about all his complications, his depression, his salvage business and his life as an asexual hermit living in his cabin out along the plains.

Which, oddly, I believe because he really is that eccentric and odd.  But interesting in a creative yet charmingly amusing train-wreck way.

He's like an episode of Twin Peaks.  Or the X-Files. Weird like that guy in study hall who always wore all black in a Gothy-way, mirrored aviators and a trench-coat, despite it being 90 degrees outside, but would draw really cool pictures of unicorns and phoenix rising out of the flames.  That kind of weird-cool.

And despite what either of us do, the universe keeps spinning him into my life every couple of months.

Alas, woes, all the wasted, useless, explosive sexual-tension between us whenever we're together.

"Whatever you're doing these days at the gym (cough), uhm, keep on doing it," he said behind me as I was loading the dryer last time he was here.  Then there's all the awkward "Who's that Girl" moments whenever we accidentally brush up against each other.

"Whoops, sorry," he says as he accidentally bumps into my chest while we're shopping at Menard's.
"No, I'm sorry," I say all awkward, my face reddening.
"No, really I'M sorry," he says, now HIS face reddening, until we accidentally bump into each other again.  Repeat until Infinity.

But it's doomed to forever friendship-only, because he's terrified of getting his heart broken (the joys of mid-life dating).  And because I'm terrified of getting my heart broken, and terrified of any man whom I'm physically attracted to, because that might lead to getting my heart broken.

So, super cool arrangement/friendship, huh?  Cool in a diabetic-but-in-love-with-sugar, kind of way. 


Sigh.
P.S. my writers' group, High Plains Writers, meets tonight at Indy Ale.  Maybe Hipster will be there, the one whom my friend drunkenly brayed at a few weeks ago (go a few posts back).  Maybe I can apologize to him if I get my guts up.  Stay tuned.

I am a Douchebag, too!

Well, the plot thickens with the photo-journalist.  I'd written him off last night as a douche, but then I found out today that I might be wrong.  Too late now.

He was worried that I hadn't answered any of his texts so he must have found out a way to block his own phone number and called me.  I thought maybe it was my boss, and picked up.

"Hey, this is Robert, the photo journalist from California?  I'm looking for that cool redhead model who's supposed to be looking for a camera man . . ." and so on he went in this cute charade-voice until I burst out laughing.  Then a little while later, "I was wondering why I hadn't heard from you.  Are you OK?"

This wasn't the complete douche I was expecting.  In fact, I just expected he was only looking for booty call and wrote him off last night.  And then I did the most outrageous thing I've ever done.

I totally lied to him.

I said I'd tweaked my back and just got out of the hospital, but was OK recovering on the couch.

"Oh, my GOD.  Are you OK?" he asked with genuine concern in his voice.  Immediately, I knew I turned a corner.  There was no going back.  I had to lie full on to him now.

Why?

I'm terrified of meeting a man who might be right for me.  Only because I am terrified of getting hurt again.  I, sigh, am no different than Crackie.  This wasn't a guy looking for a quick hook up.

I carried the charade for a while then he started talking about his family.  He was sitting at "our bar" and asked teasingly if the bartender knew me.  She said, "I love Natalie.  Everyone LOVES Natalie."  It was cute.  Eventually, we said good bye.  Sadly, or not sadly, he said, "We'll talk soon, Natalie."

I think last night, he just totally pulled a typical "Man thing" and fucked up.  And then I did the same kind of man-thing and also fucked up.

Oh well.  We'll see if this thing carries over when he gets back to San Diego.

Thoughts to you?  Don't be so freaking paranoid that you go kicking every guy/gal's ass who likes you and immediately kick their ass to the curb like I did.

But DO be careful.  It's a tough world out there, kiddies.

Double Douchebag Night, Test-time and Boundaries

Right into the shitter.  That was my"date" last night, who as it turns out, was full of shit.

I never heard from him all day about our dinner-date until I decided to make other plans and was dining with a friend when he texted me that it'd been a long day, and that he only had gotten one hour sleep because his business partner kept him up all night in the hotel with his snoring, but that he hoped he'd get better sleep tonight since he booked his own room.  Bemusedly, I sent him a text-laugh then asked him if he still wanted to get together.  He said he most certainly did, but that he was still with his clients.  No biggie.  He's here for business.

Boundaries.

I told him I'd ONLY be downtown an hour, maybe two, because it was getting late (almost 8 p.m.).  He pleaded to see me, so we agreed we'd meet within the hour at a place downtown next to where his clients were.

He looked dashing, by the way, amazingly handsome.  We chatted about ten minutes, and I could tell he was tired.  Maybe we'd just chat and have a few drinks, I presumed since dinner was out of the question.  He told me he had left his clients back at the bar, and he had to drive one of them home, but that he just had to see me, which was sweet.  He told me he would drive this guy home and then text me.  So, 15 min. later I get this text:

"Well, I got my client back to his home, and I'm back at my hotel, room 715.  Nothing sexual of course.  Maybe watch some TV.  I'm just so tired.  Your call."

Seriously?  I mean, wtf really?  Who would suggest that other than a douchebag?  That's a good idea like children taking candy from strangers is a good idea, like going to a bar topless, or perhaps camping in bear country and keeping a nice bag of Snickers tucked under your pillow is a good idea.  Why not camp in Yellowstone with a couple packages of bacon in your tent?  Yeah, good idea, pal.

Test-time.

So we texted back and forth, me bringing up that it was late.  Then I wondered if he was just stupid and wasn't even thinking of sex, when I came up with a little test since allegedly, he wanted to see me every night he was here in town.  I told him it was late and I would just go home.  Then once I got home, I texted him that it was at least good to see him for a short while, but that I was very glad I got home OK since it was very slick outside and I almost bailed several times.  Not true, by the way. 

Now here's the test.  If a guy is really into you, he's all about you (which this guy appeared to be until the visiting him in his hotel room idea).  He cares about what you think, and he cares about your safety.  If he really DID like me, he'd comment about me getting home safely.  He really would.

Instead, he said that it was again my call, and that if I was bored, he was still in his hotel lobby and I could come back downtown and visit with him.

Epic.  Fail.

If he was really into me, he wouldn't want me riding my bike on the ice, now would he?  ME, go back out to see him? 

Sigh.  So many guys, so many douchebags.  Thanks, Universe for spinning this one out very quickly.

Dating these days involves constant tests, boundary-building, safety walls, pits with poison-stakes at the bottom.
But do not worry, kiddies, you always have me lookin' out for us.

Stay tuned.

Never Say Never, especially to a NEW Hipster

Party on, Girl.  Thanks, I will.  A girl with a bike, always gets the dudes.

Daniel, oh Astrological Guru of the Signs, wtf is going on in my zodiac?  What kind of crazy "dude-shit" has been playing with me since December?

So get this.  Tonight, after working on some office work, I decide to peddle over to Paddy's and work on a short story that I've been revising and have a beer.

Well, I'm not there more than twenty minutes when in walks this very ruggedly handsome, tall dark, bearded, educated-looking, well-dressed (I can sniff-out intelligence like a dog on a trail) man.  He wore a thin fashionable coat, which told me I knew he couldn't be local.  Why?  1. no lameass Carhart jacket and Lee jeans 2. no lameass baseball/Nascar hat 3. a very intelligent available, attractive man is rare in these parts unless he's a. married or b. gay.  He seemed to be neither.  This is a rare occasion, indeed.  It was all I could do to NOT gawk.  In fact, I felt like taking pictures to hallmark the rare occasion, like you would do, say filming a moose sighting or a yeti in the woods.

One thing led to another and we started talking about what beers were good, and he let me know he was here on business and didn't really know what were good places to eat or stay since he's from San Diego.  I teased him that he should have Yelped for these answers (like not all people in South Dakota are talking on two tin cans on strings, a common misconception when people observe this ridiculous state), then proceeded to tell him which places were good or lame.

Then next thing I knew, his cute friend showed up, and it turns out these two delightful creatures are photo-journalists, independent, and it seems well-respected.  The one I liked, Robert, showed me random pictures from jobs on his whatever-you-call-it, Ipod/Netbook/Kindle/Doodad, whatever it was.

I laughed.  I giggled.  I flirted.  I had such a good time that I wish I had it on film to document because no one would believe I had held court with such cuties in SOUTH DAKOTA.  I kinda sensed Robert was into me (his friend was married).  Before I knew it, he was showing me parlor tricks that were hilarious, like levitating, a floating knife.  I roared with laughter and busted him on each prank.  Then the next thing I knew, he was editing my short story.  After all, he has an English/photo journalism degree--from what I recall was a prestigious university (sorry, his dark eyes made me temporarily forget which school).

We all bantered, guffawed, then before I knew it, two hours flew by.  I modestly put on my jacket, and I'll be damned but if Robert not only asked me for my phone number, but my email too.

If that wasn't enough, he asked me what I was going to be up to for the next couple of days (he's only in town until Friday).

Wait a minute.  He paid attention to me and asked for my number.  Was this the prelude of a "date"?  Isn't that a sign of a man who's interested in you?  What is this? 

Well, go figure. 

I stayed an extra half an hour, simply because I loved talking to them, then they decided to move on to another bar before calling it a night.  (I know.  I should have played the hard to get card and left thirty minutes sooner, but I'm too old for games, and a sucker for attention from handsome men).  Later on Robert texted me from his friend's phone, then proceeded to give me his own number, followed by me doing the absent-minded-professor gig with a Abbot and Costello "Who's on base?" song and dance, and then this morning, I squared away my phone and figured out it was Robert texting me last night, not his friend.

We'll see if he calls me, but BLESSINGS to the UNIVERSE for throwing a bone my way.  Several times they said "Blah, blah, blah an attractive woman like you," and horribly under-guessed my age (by 13 years).  What a glorious, and much needed gift!

So, we'll see.  What with his filming schedule, he may be too busy to hang out, but it's the fucking attention that matters, the feeling that perhaps I AM NOT INVISIBLE that matters, so for that thank you Universe.  I love you. 

Apologies, pt. II--Here's to More Douche-baggery

A storm brewing on the Utah horizon that Dooders and I watched roll in while we were on Antelope Island.

Speaking of storms.

So I was on Facebook this morning just trolling around, and I saw Crackie's page.

I was wondering lately why he's been blowing me off.  1. he was supposed to come up to my party and spend the weekend at my house last month but blew me off at the last minute saying it "was too cold to drive" 30 miles up from Custer, whatever.  2. And I asked him via e-mail for advice on what to do with the guy I have been in "Like" with for years, up until everything went weird over a week ago and ended, but haven't heard squat from Crackie.

Well, there's an update as of October on his page.  It said, "In a complicated relationship."  WTF.  I mean, are you kidding me?

Three years ago when he broke my heart it was because he "couldn't do a relationship any more" due to his "depression."  Really?  So I got over it, because I believed him.  When the reality of it was he wasn't that into me.  OK.  Double rejection, re-surfacing like a turd bobbing up to the surface.

We talked about two weeks ago for about an hour and a half on the phone, and I do NOT recall him telling me he was in a "complicated relationship."  What's with all my dudes OMITTING crucial information?

Here's example of NON-crucial information you need not update your friends with: laundry, the fact that you made egg salad sandwiches, a shoelace torn in half, a particularly good, satisfying bowel movement.  We don't need to know.

But uh, the fact that you're married (remember Big pulled that one in '09), in a "complicated relationship," engaged or in a relationship that the OTHER person doesn't know about, well, that's the shit you need to fess up.

You can  betcha that I called him on it.  I sent him an email saying, "I'm 100% sure you didn't tell me this little nugget the other day.  Fess up."  And a "Let's see, if I remember, you said you 'couldn't do a relationship' anymore because of your 'issues'."

I'm gonna rip his head off when I hear from him.

I'm so fucking mad at these lies-of-omissions.

Can you really, truly be just friends with someone you used to or still do have a crush on?  I'm not so sure anymore.

Awkward Apologies pt. I

I'd rather be doing this then fashioning an apology to Hipster.  Hell, I'd rather be shelling out money that I don't even have for a new dryer, laysik surgery, a colonoscopy given to me by a doctor who looks suspiciously like George Clooney, than preparing for an apology to a guy I don't even know.

OK, so in the last blog, I announced that I must apologize to the guy I don't know even yet whom Donkey drunkenly brayed at, who I'll call, Hipster.  (see last blog post)

How do I pull off this apology?  Yeah, yeah.  The Bassett Anti-Anxiety tapes say to "Say what you mean, and mean what you say, then say what you mean and shut up."   Not easy, folks.

This is where I fail.  When exasperated, anxious, shy and embarrassed, I over-talk.  I say MORE than what needs to be said, or I nervously go off on a mini-tangent to try to calm myself down.  This makes me look like the biggest band-geek ever.

But let me clarify myself.  I'm not always this way.  If I'm having to announce something to anyone other than a man I'm crushing on or find attractive, I'm incredibly confident, smooth-talking and eloquent.  I speak like a motivational speaker on PBS, an author laughing it up with her TED Talks audience, as smooth as Ira Glass.

Oh, but no, put a good looking, intelligent-seeming man in front of me and I over-explain, stammer, perhaps even pee a little like a trembling puppy who hasn't figured out that pissing in the house is not cool but knows something is wrong while his owner smacks his ass with a rolled up newspaper.  Yup, that's me.

"Hi, I'm Natalie.  Nice beer-mug by the way (coughs) so anyway, I wanted to say I'm sorry for my friend doing a Hee Haw routine in front of you.  He's usually not that way.  Well, not that I exactly KNOW which way he really is as I've never been to a bar with him until we saw you, and he got so drunk that his girlfriend, well, he said it was his EX girlfriend texted me when I got home and  . . ."  STOP.  This is what I'm talking about.

I need someone to hook me up with a wire and deliver a nice twenty volt shock when I need to shut up.

"Hi, this is Natalie.  Cool glas--ouch!  So anyway, I wanted to say I'm sorry that my drunken friend was obnoxious to you.  And that your beer-mug is really cooo--OUCH!  Anyway, I'm sorry."

God help me when I DO see him.  Though for now, I'm hiding out from Independent Ale House until someone can get me a shock collar.

Say a prayer for me.  I'm lookin' out for us all.

Broken Boundaries and Big Girl Apologies

Bennie brushing up on his concepts of feminism by reading Gloria Steinem.

Speaking of feminism, according to my demographics of Analytics, mostly men read my blog.  And younger men from 25-39. Next followed by younger women 25-39, then women over 65.   Go figure.

OK, let's talk boundaries.  Boy, were there a thousand boundaries compromised the-night-everything-went-weird.  I have to pull up my big girl panties and make an apology to someone I don't know.  This is that dude I constantly keep running into and we nod and say hello, but nothing ever happens because I always got to be chilly too-cool-for-school (which is really just a cover for being shy).  Oh, and chicken.  I'm a chicken-shit.

This makes no sense, I realize, but this mystery-man who's book'ish, works out at my gym, reminds me of myself.  The hipster glasses, the bemused expressions, his sometimes odd fashion choices, the books he always bring to the bar, his mini netbook like mine, and his, well, his perception (more on this in a minute). 

When the Universe threw a curve ball in my court last week, I was associating with someone who got rather obnoxiously intoxicated at my favorite pub and acted silly to mystery-man; it threw me in a position where now I HAVE to talk to this hipster mystery-man.  As in I have NO CHOICE.

What I have to do is apologize for my friend getting smashed and being loud and braying at him.  No, you don't need the specifics.  Just that it was embarrassing, way over the level of your mom showing your first boyfriend that awkward family photo of you looking all zitty wearing a moo-moo, braces, and crooked glasses.

Now let's go back to perception.  I like really perceptive people, and this guy, I can tell is one of them.  When my friend was drunkenly doing his best impersonation of a dancing-braying donkey while I cringed and desperately looked for a way to hide under the bar stool, I saw a million perceptive thoughts flicker behind the hipster's glasses:

"Did you know this donkey braying bit isn't remotely funny?"
"Your friend cannot hold his liquor."
"That's really kind of douchey."
"You seemed cool all the times I've seen you since last summer, but maybe you're douchey by association.  If so, how disappointing.  Good bye," as he walked away. 

So you're thinking, why should I care?  Because even if we never become friends (due to the Universe calling the shots, of course), I would still like for him to think of me as "that cool chick always reading a good book with the cool netbook like mine."  NOT, "that chick I thought was cool, but then her friend put on a donkey hat and did a barnyard-fornicator jig around the bar, so she must be douchey, too."

So imagine my inner-cringing, my utter crippling-embarrassment, as I stumble toward him sometime in the near future, sweaty-palmed and say, "Hey, I'm sorry that the last time I saw you, my friend, blah, blah, blah.  I'm sorry," my face turning nine shades of red.

He may just feign a nod and say, "don't worry about it," then go back to his book, dismissing me like a foolish student trying to hand in a late paper.  Or he may say, "That's OK.  It's no big deal," and smile.

But I gotta ride it out a few weeks to even GO there, maybe even a month or two.  I have to get up my courage first . . .

 Sigh--this isn't my ideal way of first introducing myself.  Double sigh.  Wish me luck.

He's Just Not That Into You

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Yo, ho, ho, Happy New Year!

How'd your New Year's go?  We partied with the writers' group and played endless games of Cards Against Humanity.  I won out of ten people, with the most diabolical disgusting answers.  Cocktails flowed; peops partied; inappropriate remarks abounded.  Life is good.

So what's going on in my dating world?

The holidays are always a fruitful free-for-all for me (men feeling sad, or not liking their current relationships and really wanting to connect with me) so that I have the rest of the year to act as a drought in the sea of dating, hence the picture of an abandoned house here in the "hills."  Sort of a metaphor for my dating life.  Constant, but dauntingly haunted.

A holla out for the ladies: ever listen to your gut?  Your gut, you know, is the center of the universe talking to you. That weird niggling voice you get about a dude/significant other or a career change, one that seemingly makes no sense and makes perfect sense at the same time.  It's never based upon factual evidence either.  It's entirely intuitive, and sorry fellas, but women have it and most men DO NOT.  And I'm hear to tell ya that you must always listen to this "gut."   My whole ENTIRE dating life, I've pretty much ignored this listening, but in the past three years, I've decided to really hone in on this quiet, simple, incredibly hard to hear voice within myself.

Oh, the agonies it could have spared me.  The hunky yet dreadful disasters sniffing around my doorstep.  But back in the day, who knew what "dysfunctional" meant?

Lately, I've for the first time in my life, spotted an unhealthy situation and was able to allow, ALLOW, the universe to spin it out of my life with little harm.

There I lie in my bed, when the universe, who rarely makes a personal appearance in anyone's life, let alone mine, tip-toed in and threw some scenarios in my head.

Here were a few:
1. This person who is with another woman right now, was yet mingling with you=emotionally-not-available.
2. (I agreed to pay for a "few drinks" but the bill was $111 with food and tips).  Think you'd dig that on a regular basis? 
3. Should you bother rustling the feathers of a relationship that's already messy, and if so, why?  Do you want to be the next enabler? 
4. And the biggie.  If days and days go by and you hear squat, and if you text/email and hear monosyllabic one-word answers, he's just not that into you.  Got it?  There's your answer.  He's just not into you.  And that might be a damned good thing.

OK, now on the flipside for some disturbing PRO's instead of con's
1. what if you felt connected?
2. what if laughter abounded?
3. what if  you're both on the same path of life?
4. and this is the worst and most destructive of them all: what if your passion for him is wild?

Doesn't it sound wiser to just live with your niece when you're old and just be known as the family gardener/genealogist?

I'm out.  

OK, I need a cocktail.  This is all too fucked up for me to ponder, and the Universe has already taken care of the situation for me.  I'm looking out for all of us.  Stay tuned.