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.

Does he like you or does he LIKE you?

Ho, ho, ho.  Happy holidays, bloggers!

 Here's a thought for the year's end . . .

Attraction.

Chemistry.

After so long being single, you begin to wonder if it even matters anymore, and you begin to think it doesn't as you measure up your future to what it would be like living with your mother when you're old, in a sort of Grey Gardens kind of way.

That is until you find attraction again.  And not that settling shit I see so many people do.  But real, raw, attraction.

And maybe, just maybe, that glint in his eye is really for YOU.  You even look over your shoulder assuming that wink was for someone else, but there's no one behind you, so maybe he really does like you, or maybe he just had a hair in his eye.  Maybe it's all in your head, because you WANT that person to really be into you.

In that case, what if it was all in your head, and what if it's not reciprocal?  I have had one friend go spiraling off the universe for someone who was just not that into her; this has happened twice with two different friends.

Still life has these complications--where maybe it's possible.  No, Crackie hasn't been in town.  He bailed on coming to see me at the eleventh hour last week.  That dog don't hunt anyway.

But there IS someone I feel chemistry for, someone in the shadows, someone who's even been around a while.  But like the theme of this blog, how do you know if it's even reciprocal?

Only time will tell, but until then, it's key to stay UN-delusional and centered.  Stay tuned.  Keep your head about you.  Stay Calm and Carry On.  Forward, ho!

A New Date vs. Grammar Nazi?

I had a date two weeks ago last Saturday night.  Why am I waiting so long to post this?  Well, because it sucked.

OK, I'll back up.  I met him on POF, a free internet site (that sort of says it all, right?), and on the outside everything appeared to be all right: he liked to hike; he was breathing; he works out.   I have to admit, you gotta get the phone thing going quicker.  Via e-mail, he seemed pretty neat, but on the phone, not so much.  For some reason, I've always been able to detect chemistry on the phone, but this poor fella had no phone chemistry, and talked too slow and kinda hayseedy.  But I figured since he was breathing and still had a pulse, I should go out with him and keep an open mind.  After all, he has a steady job, works out, close relationship with his kids, lives within three hundred miles of me.  It sounded good.

Until I met him. 

He gave me a giant bear hug, which was kinda nice, except for my boobs hurt afterward.  And of course, he wore a baseball cap and his shirt tucked in.  Hello 1986.

About ten minutes in, I realized I was bored.  As in ZERO chemistry.  But this past year, I've noticed women assessing dates more like interviews with future financial portfolios (disgusting, I know, but I'm trying to be more practical about dating), so I tried this "Who cares what he looks like so long as he's nice" theory, and I'm here to tell ya, I don't know how women have done this for hundreds of years, this hooking up/marrying men when there's no chemistry.

I guess it could have gone better had he realized I am a writer and English teacher and at least tried to talk like someone with a third grade education.  He actually said to me, "I don't read books."  Wait, back up.  You don't read?  Then he said, "I never talk religion or politics."  What?  While I was reeling from this, he said, "SUPPOSABLY, I guess I should read now and then, but I don't see the point."

Whoa, "supposably"?  What the fuck is that?

And he said it at least four times the first hour along with this diddy, "I ain't got no . . ."  As in, "I ain't got no brains."

I flinched as if being struck with a bat.  You can drop F-bombs on me all you want.  In fact, I like foul language at the right place and time.  But talk like you grew up in a tar paper shack where literacy was considered optional like say, wearing shoes, I don't think so.

It gets worse.  I started yawning.  I mean really yawning, my eyes tearing, while we were at the fireplace of the Alex Johnson lobby.  At one point, I actually dozed off for a moment.  You know, like you did during boring college classes where your chin dips down, then you jerk wide awake, looking around, paranoid the professor saw you?

Then this poor creature, apparently clueless and with perhaps a mild case of ASPERGER’S, didn't seem to notice I wasn't that into him.  But after a zillion "I ain't got no's" and "suppoablies," I just couldn't stay awake.

Until he reached over and grabbed my hand. 

That jerked me awake!  Out of shock and politeness, I let him hold it approximately ten seconds then jerked it away.  Needless to say, I was now fully awake and plotting an escape.

"Wow, I'm super tired.  I think we should call it a night," I said, hopping up and thanking him for dinner and his time.  He absolutely insisted that he'd give me and my bike a ride home.  Stupidly, I caved.  Then the next thing I know, after he lifted my bike out of his truck, he tried to kiss me!  I gave him a quick switch-a-roo, cheek-block and shook his hand instead.

Crimeny.  Sigh.  Can't there be just a hair of chemistry these days?  Or are there no available men out there other than this?

Speaking of chemistry, Crackie e-mailed me last night and will be coming into town this month and wants to hang out.  I know, I know.  Even though he's emotionally unavailable therefore un-dateable, at least there's still a few crazy sparks between us--though nothing ever happens.

Stay tuned.

Camp Tales 2013, part X: Leaky Memories

 

What year was this camping trip?  Hell, I don't remember.  I don't even remember where this was at other than it was Colorado--New Castle maybe?  Here's Doooders admiring the roses while I sipped on a brewski--in the public park, of course.  Wouldn't be a camping trip without a little law-breaking.

One of my favorite birthday cards that I gave away once was a picture of an old lady with a bubble over her head, and she was saying,

"My memory is so bad."  Another bubble pops up and says,
"How bad is it?" and the old lady replies,
"How bad is what?"

LOL.

Well, the past two years, we've been trying to remember what we did shortly after this picture was taken.  I KNOW that within this time frame, we found a super cool little tavern, and we went in for a "on the road brewski."

The only thing is, we can't remember the name of it, where it was located or when we were there.

"I'm not sure we were even there," Doooders remarks thoughtfully.

"But I distinctly remember this charming old tavern," I retort.  "It was shortly after this picture was taken.  It was even a brick tavern, and I remember looking in through the window!"  Doooders shakes her head and looks doubtful.

Maybe we DIDN'T go in and actually have a beer.  Maybe we just drove by a cute place.  How could our memories be that leaky?  It was after this trip that I started writing down everywhere we go.  Apparently, no matter how much fun we have, if we don't write it down in the camp log, a year later, we forget all about it like it never even existed. 
Sigh.

Aging, beer-drinkin' and camping--
it's a dubious mix, that's for sure.