As much as I'm sure you came here hoping for more tales from the continuing saga of Mr. Barely Legal -- and really it is almost criminal for me to keep it from you, because there is only one more installment and it promises to be a DOOZIE -- I cannot deliver. In less than 24 hours I'll be on a plane bound for London, and with that on the brain I'm barely good for anything and could hardly be expected to spin that tale for you now.
But I will promise you that it's coming, and tell you that I'll be doing my best to blog from London as WiFi will allow. I'll be blogging about my adventures regardless, I'm just hoping to be able to do it live rather than after the fact. We shall see what the internet gods deem appropriate.
Whether you hear from me sooner or later, you can rest assured that as soon as I land I will be hugging English people left and right, gleefully riding the tube, chowing on Branston pickle, dairy milk and Ribena and minding that MF-ing gap all over town. Hallelujah, I love England.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.29.2009
12.28.2009
episode two
I really wanted to make the title of this post a super-long extended Star Wars metaphor, something about how in this episode two you will also be sad to learn that Jar Jar Binks is still around and that he's probably going to ruin at least part of your experience completely and hey, he's sitting right across from you because HE'S YOUR DATE. Welcome to the Galactic Senate, bitches. Or something like that.
But that would've been pretty awkward, all of that written out in that big-ass heading font, so I decided to go with the more understated "Episode Two." And then, like the good joke teller that I am, explain the shit out of it for the next five minutes. You're welcome.
Mr. Barely Legal and I had lunch on Saturday and (thank ALLAH) he paid, although he did seem to have just a teeny bit of trouble figuring out where to put his card when the bill came. This stuff? I can't make it up. I chose to keep talking and stare straight ahead so that maybe, just maybe, the very awkwardness of the situation would just not be real. Sort of like how if you keep your eyes closed there won't really be monsters under your bed. Solid logic, I say.
But that lunch by itself is not, in fact, the whole of episode two. Because Saturday night was my tacky sweater Christmas party. The very party I told you about where I was half in the can by the time the guests got there and dressed in a snowman cardigan to boot. And really, it is probably best that I was a little on the sauced side because when my friends -- who are all adults with jobs and cars and apartments and perhaps unlike me, standards (uncanny!) -- met Mr. Barely Legal and put two and two together the judging eyes and snarky comments began. And when we rolled into a rousing game of Never Have I Ever, oh boy did they only get worse. And they did not cease until poor little Mr. Barely Legal and his two barely legal friends that he'd brought along (who were, incidentally, lovely) headed for the hills because, as he told me, "There are too many egos in that room."
I knew he was referring mostly to Lindsey and Kristen who were giving him hot, hot hell from the second the shindig got started (and bless his little heart, but it was pretty funny), but I'm sure I wasn't really helping anything since I'd been HORRIFICALLY embarrassed when he started in about the goddamn special effects in the Wizard of Oz in front of everyone and I was desperately and unsuccessfully trying to shut him up because in that moment I realized that I was in front of my peers -- smart, funny, good-looking, successful women -- claiming this kid.
And then I got drunk and fielded drunk dials from exes. Life in the fast lane, people. Don Henley tried to tell us -- it'll surely make you lose your mind.
cheers,
elizabeth
But that would've been pretty awkward, all of that written out in that big-ass heading font, so I decided to go with the more understated "Episode Two." And then, like the good joke teller that I am, explain the shit out of it for the next five minutes. You're welcome.
Mr. Barely Legal and I had lunch on Saturday and (thank ALLAH) he paid, although he did seem to have just a teeny bit of trouble figuring out where to put his card when the bill came. This stuff? I can't make it up. I chose to keep talking and stare straight ahead so that maybe, just maybe, the very awkwardness of the situation would just not be real. Sort of like how if you keep your eyes closed there won't really be monsters under your bed. Solid logic, I say.
But that lunch by itself is not, in fact, the whole of episode two. Because Saturday night was my tacky sweater Christmas party. The very party I told you about where I was half in the can by the time the guests got there and dressed in a snowman cardigan to boot. And really, it is probably best that I was a little on the sauced side because when my friends -- who are all adults with jobs and cars and apartments and perhaps unlike me, standards (uncanny!) -- met Mr. Barely Legal and put two and two together the judging eyes and snarky comments began. And when we rolled into a rousing game of Never Have I Ever, oh boy did they only get worse. And they did not cease until poor little Mr. Barely Legal and his two barely legal friends that he'd brought along (who were, incidentally, lovely) headed for the hills because, as he told me, "There are too many egos in that room."
I knew he was referring mostly to Lindsey and Kristen who were giving him hot, hot hell from the second the shindig got started (and bless his little heart, but it was pretty funny), but I'm sure I wasn't really helping anything since I'd been HORRIFICALLY embarrassed when he started in about the goddamn special effects in the Wizard of Oz in front of everyone and I was desperately and unsuccessfully trying to shut him up because in that moment I realized that I was in front of my peers -- smart, funny, good-looking, successful women -- claiming this kid.
And then I got drunk and fielded drunk dials from exes. Life in the fast lane, people. Don Henley tried to tell us -- it'll surely make you lose your mind.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.22.2009
trust me, you're laughing WITH me
Welcome to Mr. Barely Legal goes to the Wizard of Oz, a play in three acts.
Act I: In Which Red Flags Go Flying and Sailing Like Ribbons Through the Air
With fabulous tickets to see the Wizard of Oz and no one to go with me, I decided to request the company of Mr. Barely Legal after having known him for all of a hot, hot second. I was introduced to him by a mutual friend (who, oddly, happens to also be the mutual friend between me and Mr. November and Mr. Whoops, though I knew both of them through other means -- sensing a pattern?) on Tuesday, and since Mr. Whoops had apparently sailed off the side of the earth in a ship with Christopher Columbus and my dignity, I extended the invite to Mr. Barely Legal. He accepted.
On Friday I texted him about coming to get me at 7. He texted back that his car was dead, and wanted to know if it would be too much trouble for me to come and pick him up. (First of all, why do people ask if it will be "too much trouble" to do something? Of course it's too much trouble, but I sure as hell can't say no, god dammit. Second, and perhaps more importantly: Why, y'all? Why didn't I know AT THIS VERY MOMENT?)
I scramble to be ready by 6:40 so I can leave midtown, get to Bartlett and get back downtown in time for the show. In case you were wondering, no, gas does not grow on trees. I thought you might be curious, after learning of the clicks I put on the old odometer just picking this kid up in the first damn place.
So I pick him up. We drive downtown. And I realize the moment we get close that I have no cash and had completely forgotten about needing money to park. I mention this. Out loud. To him. He says he has no cash, either, and I say we need to remember to stop at an ATM before we head back to the lot. And by we, I clearly mean him.
Act II: In Which I Realized Mr. Barely Legal May Have Never Been to a Cultural Event, Ever (In History)
I probably should've known from his laughter. Laughter at stuff that really just, well, was not funny. Actually, excuse me. It would've been funny for a kindergartner. Or a developmentally challenged first grader. Or, alternately, someone who had never before experienced the joy of a live stage performance. And I say that last bit sincerely, live stage performances ARE in fact, joyous, but I'm going to need for you to be a little bit more familiar with the ins and outs of them by the time you're 21.
(Are you still making fun of me for being Mrs. Robinson? Are you? Just give yourself a minute, gather your composure and keep reading. It gets better.)
Turns out Mr. Barely Legal is not entirely up on the whole idea of the Wizard of Oz. At intermission I explain to him that the people from the beginning are also the people in Oz, and that it's all just a dream. And I felt like I told him that Old Yeller gets shot in the end, and that he didn't already know. Because HOW? How do you not already know? Old Yeller gets shot, Dorothy's dreaming, the tortoise wins because the hare TAKES A NAP.
At the end of the show, he can't stop talking about the special effects. No, there was no CGI. Were there screens? With projections? Yes. And sets on wheels that moved? Check and check. Special effects. I can't make this up.
Act III: In Which the Parking Lot Attendant Gives Me Enough Ones to Shut Down Christie's Cabaret
When we first got to the Orpheum, I had to use the little girls' room. As I was standing in the horrendously long line, I noticed that right next to the bathrooms was an ATM. And Mr. Barely Legal, who was waiting for me outside, would've seen this, too. But had he slipped to get some cash while I was in the loo? No, no he had not. Instead, I got to pay a $3 ATM fee at Bank of America to get $20, a bill which would ultimately aggravate the parking lot attendant and leave me with 16 one dollar bills. Silver lining? At least they weren't quarters.
At some point in the evening, after we went back to my place for a drink, I just started giggling. Sort of uncontrollably. Church giggles. And he asked me why I was laughing and I babbled something about him not being the type I usually go for, but let's be real here. I was laughing the same exact laugh that I laughed the night that my Colombian lover regaled me for 20 entire minutes on the ins and outs of BULL FIGHTING. I laughed both times at myself, at the very absurdity of it all. It's like I'm looking in a mirror, cackling hysterically, saying, Hey! THIS IS YOUR LIFE! You are 24, you have a full-time job and two degrees and an apartment and a vehicle to get you places and you are schlepping to the burbs to pick up a kid who doesn't have a job or a car and still lives with his parents.
And all you can really do, at that point, is laugh.
But -- are you ready for this? you'll be shocked, no doubt -- he was fun to be around. So I saw him again the next day. And the next. If you're wondering what's wrong with me, you're not alone. SO AM I.
Stay tuned as the Mr. Barely Legal saga continues.
cheers,
elizabeth
Act I: In Which Red Flags Go Flying and Sailing Like Ribbons Through the Air
With fabulous tickets to see the Wizard of Oz and no one to go with me, I decided to request the company of Mr. Barely Legal after having known him for all of a hot, hot second. I was introduced to him by a mutual friend (who, oddly, happens to also be the mutual friend between me and Mr. November and Mr. Whoops, though I knew both of them through other means -- sensing a pattern?) on Tuesday, and since Mr. Whoops had apparently sailed off the side of the earth in a ship with Christopher Columbus and my dignity, I extended the invite to Mr. Barely Legal. He accepted.
On Friday I texted him about coming to get me at 7. He texted back that his car was dead, and wanted to know if it would be too much trouble for me to come and pick him up. (First of all, why do people ask if it will be "too much trouble" to do something? Of course it's too much trouble, but I sure as hell can't say no, god dammit. Second, and perhaps more importantly: Why, y'all? Why didn't I know AT THIS VERY MOMENT?)
I scramble to be ready by 6:40 so I can leave midtown, get to Bartlett and get back downtown in time for the show. In case you were wondering, no, gas does not grow on trees. I thought you might be curious, after learning of the clicks I put on the old odometer just picking this kid up in the first damn place.
So I pick him up. We drive downtown. And I realize the moment we get close that I have no cash and had completely forgotten about needing money to park. I mention this. Out loud. To him. He says he has no cash, either, and I say we need to remember to stop at an ATM before we head back to the lot. And by we, I clearly mean him.
Act II: In Which I Realized Mr. Barely Legal May Have Never Been to a Cultural Event, Ever (In History)
I probably should've known from his laughter. Laughter at stuff that really just, well, was not funny. Actually, excuse me. It would've been funny for a kindergartner. Or a developmentally challenged first grader. Or, alternately, someone who had never before experienced the joy of a live stage performance. And I say that last bit sincerely, live stage performances ARE in fact, joyous, but I'm going to need for you to be a little bit more familiar with the ins and outs of them by the time you're 21.
(Are you still making fun of me for being Mrs. Robinson? Are you? Just give yourself a minute, gather your composure and keep reading. It gets better.)
Turns out Mr. Barely Legal is not entirely up on the whole idea of the Wizard of Oz. At intermission I explain to him that the people from the beginning are also the people in Oz, and that it's all just a dream. And I felt like I told him that Old Yeller gets shot in the end, and that he didn't already know. Because HOW? How do you not already know? Old Yeller gets shot, Dorothy's dreaming, the tortoise wins because the hare TAKES A NAP.
At the end of the show, he can't stop talking about the special effects. No, there was no CGI. Were there screens? With projections? Yes. And sets on wheels that moved? Check and check. Special effects. I can't make this up.
Act III: In Which the Parking Lot Attendant Gives Me Enough Ones to Shut Down Christie's Cabaret
When we first got to the Orpheum, I had to use the little girls' room. As I was standing in the horrendously long line, I noticed that right next to the bathrooms was an ATM. And Mr. Barely Legal, who was waiting for me outside, would've seen this, too. But had he slipped to get some cash while I was in the loo? No, no he had not. Instead, I got to pay a $3 ATM fee at Bank of America to get $20, a bill which would ultimately aggravate the parking lot attendant and leave me with 16 one dollar bills. Silver lining? At least they weren't quarters.
At some point in the evening, after we went back to my place for a drink, I just started giggling. Sort of uncontrollably. Church giggles. And he asked me why I was laughing and I babbled something about him not being the type I usually go for, but let's be real here. I was laughing the same exact laugh that I laughed the night that my Colombian lover regaled me for 20 entire minutes on the ins and outs of BULL FIGHTING. I laughed both times at myself, at the very absurdity of it all. It's like I'm looking in a mirror, cackling hysterically, saying, Hey! THIS IS YOUR LIFE! You are 24, you have a full-time job and two degrees and an apartment and a vehicle to get you places and you are schlepping to the burbs to pick up a kid who doesn't have a job or a car and still lives with his parents.
And all you can really do, at that point, is laugh.
But -- are you ready for this? you'll be shocked, no doubt -- he was fun to be around. So I saw him again the next day. And the next. If you're wondering what's wrong with me, you're not alone. SO AM I.
Stay tuned as the Mr. Barely Legal saga continues.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.20.2009
mister, mister and one drunk santa
Round about 8 p.m. on Saturday, when my tacky sweater Christmas party was set to begin, I was sitting in my apartment alone in a snowman cardigan drinking a beer and fielding text messages and phone calls left and right from everyone in the western hemisphere to let me know they couldn't make it to the party. Everyone. In the whole hemisphere. Even people who weren't invited. And people I didn't know. And probably people in other hemispheres, too.
Eventually I took off the snowman sweater because, frankly, it felt like a step down the path to alcoholism to drink alone in your house on a Saturday night in a holiday themed outfit. While watching "Invasion of the Christmas Lights" on TLC. And eating rotel straight from the crockpot.
You'll be relieved to know that around 9:30 people did show up, the sweater went back on and the party got started. Only four people actually wore Christmas-themed outfits, but frankly by the time they showed up I was half in the can anyway. As it got later and the festivities were dissipating a bit, a few of us decided to head down to Cooper Young and hit up a bar. This was under the auspices of "picking up guys," but we could not have known at the time that the male population in the Young Avenue Deli that night was 70 percent toothless rednecks, 29 percent guys happily goo-gahing at their girlfriends enough to make you want to gag yourself on a long-neck bottle, and 1 percent Drunk Santa Claus.
Yes, Drunk Santa. He almost got into a fight with one of the toothless rednecks.
Anywho, we go to the Deli, we're drinking our beer and snacking from a bag of Doritos that had been stealthily rolled down and shoved into an open purse (we had Kristen to think for that, Kristen who also shot video of Drunk Santa following his near-brawl with Cleetus the Slack Jawed Yokel). Next thing I know, my phone buzzes. It's a text message.
From Mr. November.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I had texted him earlier in the evening. But only because he'd texted me the night before. Do I sound like a five-year-old yet? MOMMY, HE'S LOOKING AT ME.
So I'd texted him earlier, because, and here I go again with the full disclosure, I thought he might have some information on the recent dissappearance of Mr. Whoops. If you haven't put the pieces together on THAT situation yet, well, I think you might be beyond help. Anywho, in that series of texts he tells me that, SURPRISE!, Mr. Whoops is there with him. Instantly, I'm fairly embarrassed because a.) I don't know how much of this texting he's shared with Mr. Whoops; b.) I'm now acutely aware of the fact that I am texting Mr. November ABOUT Mr. Whoops and just the very unbelievable ridiculousness of the whole thing; c.) if Mr. Whoops is aware of the texting then I may have just landed myself securely in the THIS BITCH IS CRAZY category. I speak from experience, no matter how sane you are, it's quite difficult to wriggle your way out of that one.
So instantly, when he tells me this, I cut my losses. I figure, well, that's about all I've heard from him. I text back for them to have fun. I leave it alone.
So imagine my surprise when a few hours later, that phone is a-buzzing. And it's Mr. November. And what he wants to tell me at almost 2 in the morning is really not too shocking -- use your imagination. As I'm reading the text, literally seconds after I open my phone to look at it, I'm interrupted by an incoming call. It's him. And since I'm really not all that drunk at this point, I decide it's safe to answer.
Hindsight: 20/20. ERROR.
I go outside. We talk. First about the topic of his text message. Then about what happened. The big disastrous thing that happened between us. Some 15 minutes later my phone is dying, and I tell him I'm going to have to go or it's going to die on me. We keep talking for a minute more, and I tell him again, my phone is dying. We have to finish this conversation another time. He hangs up.
Naturally, when I got off the phone I felt a fairly volatile mix of emotions. Do I miss Mr. November? Yes. Absolutely. Did I think he would ever speak to me again? No, I didn't. Did I pursue something with Mr. Whoops because I felt like there was a connection between us? Was that the wrong thing to do? Do I regret it? Yes, yes and yeah, now I do. Now, because it seems like I was wrong. And maybe my perception of the situation was entirely wrong. And maybe I messed up something pretty good for something fleeting.
Fuuuuuuck.
Meanwhile? There's Mr. Barely Legal. New character? What? CAN YOU STAND THE EXCITEMENT!? Well, hold on to your pants. Who knows how long this one will last. Because when I say Barely Legal, I mean 21. And so young. Just so, so young. Stefanie told me last week she wouldn't be surprised if she caught me cruising the high school parking lot to pick up guys. But hey, if drinking beer alone in a snowman sweater doesn't make you an alcoholic, then I figure hanging out with 21-year-old guys doesn't make me Mrs. Robinson. Yet.
Mr. Barely Legal is extremely new to the picture, and already I'm worried that we might be a little upside down on this mortgage. I think he might have a little more invested than I do. I'll keep an eye on the market and update you regularly.
cheers,
elizabeth
Eventually I took off the snowman sweater because, frankly, it felt like a step down the path to alcoholism to drink alone in your house on a Saturday night in a holiday themed outfit. While watching "Invasion of the Christmas Lights" on TLC. And eating rotel straight from the crockpot.
You'll be relieved to know that around 9:30 people did show up, the sweater went back on and the party got started. Only four people actually wore Christmas-themed outfits, but frankly by the time they showed up I was half in the can anyway. As it got later and the festivities were dissipating a bit, a few of us decided to head down to Cooper Young and hit up a bar. This was under the auspices of "picking up guys," but we could not have known at the time that the male population in the Young Avenue Deli that night was 70 percent toothless rednecks, 29 percent guys happily goo-gahing at their girlfriends enough to make you want to gag yourself on a long-neck bottle, and 1 percent Drunk Santa Claus.
Yes, Drunk Santa. He almost got into a fight with one of the toothless rednecks.
Anywho, we go to the Deli, we're drinking our beer and snacking from a bag of Doritos that had been stealthily rolled down and shoved into an open purse (we had Kristen to think for that, Kristen who also shot video of Drunk Santa following his near-brawl with Cleetus the Slack Jawed Yokel). Next thing I know, my phone buzzes. It's a text message.
From Mr. November.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I had texted him earlier in the evening. But only because he'd texted me the night before. Do I sound like a five-year-old yet? MOMMY, HE'S LOOKING AT ME.
So I'd texted him earlier, because, and here I go again with the full disclosure, I thought he might have some information on the recent dissappearance of Mr. Whoops. If you haven't put the pieces together on THAT situation yet, well, I think you might be beyond help. Anywho, in that series of texts he tells me that, SURPRISE!, Mr. Whoops is there with him. Instantly, I'm fairly embarrassed because a.) I don't know how much of this texting he's shared with Mr. Whoops; b.) I'm now acutely aware of the fact that I am texting Mr. November ABOUT Mr. Whoops and just the very unbelievable ridiculousness of the whole thing; c.) if Mr. Whoops is aware of the texting then I may have just landed myself securely in the THIS BITCH IS CRAZY category. I speak from experience, no matter how sane you are, it's quite difficult to wriggle your way out of that one.
So instantly, when he tells me this, I cut my losses. I figure, well, that's about all I've heard from him. I text back for them to have fun. I leave it alone.
So imagine my surprise when a few hours later, that phone is a-buzzing. And it's Mr. November. And what he wants to tell me at almost 2 in the morning is really not too shocking -- use your imagination. As I'm reading the text, literally seconds after I open my phone to look at it, I'm interrupted by an incoming call. It's him. And since I'm really not all that drunk at this point, I decide it's safe to answer.
Hindsight: 20/20. ERROR.
I go outside. We talk. First about the topic of his text message. Then about what happened. The big disastrous thing that happened between us. Some 15 minutes later my phone is dying, and I tell him I'm going to have to go or it's going to die on me. We keep talking for a minute more, and I tell him again, my phone is dying. We have to finish this conversation another time. He hangs up.
Naturally, when I got off the phone I felt a fairly volatile mix of emotions. Do I miss Mr. November? Yes. Absolutely. Did I think he would ever speak to me again? No, I didn't. Did I pursue something with Mr. Whoops because I felt like there was a connection between us? Was that the wrong thing to do? Do I regret it? Yes, yes and yeah, now I do. Now, because it seems like I was wrong. And maybe my perception of the situation was entirely wrong. And maybe I messed up something pretty good for something fleeting.
Fuuuuuuck.
Meanwhile? There's Mr. Barely Legal. New character? What? CAN YOU STAND THE EXCITEMENT!? Well, hold on to your pants. Who knows how long this one will last. Because when I say Barely Legal, I mean 21. And so young. Just so, so young. Stefanie told me last week she wouldn't be surprised if she caught me cruising the high school parking lot to pick up guys. But hey, if drinking beer alone in a snowman sweater doesn't make you an alcoholic, then I figure hanging out with 21-year-old guys doesn't make me Mrs. Robinson. Yet.
Mr. Barely Legal is extremely new to the picture, and already I'm worried that we might be a little upside down on this mortgage. I think he might have a little more invested than I do. I'll keep an eye on the market and update you regularly.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.17.2009
the surprising entry and speedy exit of mr. whoops
A few days ago I was all set to introduce a new character: Mr. Whoops.
Mr. Whoops happened in my life quite unexpectedly (I'm tempted to use the word accidentally, but I suppose unexpected is a bit more fair) a couple of weekends ago, and I saw him on Friday night. I texted him on Saturday, and then again on Sunday. And then a phone call on Monday. And then another text a few days later. It all seems for naught, since I have heard not a single solitary peep from him since Friday. Tomorrow makes a solid week of complete silence.
Of course, with every text I sent I heard a voice in my head reminding me that this should be proof that he's just not that into me. If a guy is interested, he'll call. If he wants to see you, he will. It's that simple. Right?
I wish I was able to see things in that simple, black-and-white, linear, logical type way. But my brain is not equipped. It's equipped to overthink, overanalyze, worry, dissect and interpret every little thing that happens or doesn't happen. I wish I could tell you this was a gift of mine, but I think there are many like me. We're called women.
So instead of taking this as a sign that he's just not that into me, I find myself picking apart everything he said or did when I saw him last. And all those signs indicated to me that he was nothing but interested. Yet now? Nada. So what gives? He hasn't updated his Facebook status in a week (do I sound like a stalker yet?) so I'm left wondering if it is just me he's on communication hiatus with or perhaps the entire world. It'd be comforting if it were the latter, but even my crazy woman brain doubts that. Should I just let it go? Of course. We'd seen each other all of two times. But I had a little bit more invested mentally, I think, because of the circumstances under which we met. It's making it a little harder to just drop it and move on.
And in unrelated news, on Tuesday night I decided that I am invincible and stayed up until 4 in the morning. More on that soon. As soon as I take about six more naps.
cheers,
elizabeth
Mr. Whoops happened in my life quite unexpectedly (I'm tempted to use the word accidentally, but I suppose unexpected is a bit more fair) a couple of weekends ago, and I saw him on Friday night. I texted him on Saturday, and then again on Sunday. And then a phone call on Monday. And then another text a few days later. It all seems for naught, since I have heard not a single solitary peep from him since Friday. Tomorrow makes a solid week of complete silence.
Of course, with every text I sent I heard a voice in my head reminding me that this should be proof that he's just not that into me. If a guy is interested, he'll call. If he wants to see you, he will. It's that simple. Right?
I wish I was able to see things in that simple, black-and-white, linear, logical type way. But my brain is not equipped. It's equipped to overthink, overanalyze, worry, dissect and interpret every little thing that happens or doesn't happen. I wish I could tell you this was a gift of mine, but I think there are many like me. We're called women.
So instead of taking this as a sign that he's just not that into me, I find myself picking apart everything he said or did when I saw him last. And all those signs indicated to me that he was nothing but interested. Yet now? Nada. So what gives? He hasn't updated his Facebook status in a week (do I sound like a stalker yet?) so I'm left wondering if it is just me he's on communication hiatus with or perhaps the entire world. It'd be comforting if it were the latter, but even my crazy woman brain doubts that. Should I just let it go? Of course. We'd seen each other all of two times. But I had a little bit more invested mentally, I think, because of the circumstances under which we met. It's making it a little harder to just drop it and move on.
And in unrelated news, on Tuesday night I decided that I am invincible and stayed up until 4 in the morning. More on that soon. As soon as I take about six more naps.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.15.2009
making breakfast in the dark, the lesser known springsteen hit
On Monday morning, I woke up, walked in the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot and my overhead lightbulb flipped me the metaphorical bird.
With the hall lights on it wasn't too dark, and I managed to pour my cereal and fix my lunch without major incident. Last night when I got home, I rifled around under the sink, found my last remaining light bulb and dragged a chair in from the dining room to get up there and take care of business.
All this, only to find that even on the chair, even on my tippy TIP toes on the chair, I still lack about four inches of being able to even touch the globe, much less unscrew it, reach the lightbulb and put it back on. Other than the fact that I may now legally classify as a little person, this situation causes me to think one other thing. One other very anti-feminist thing. I mean, it's not anti-feminist like, "I'd rather bake you a pie than have an independent thought" anti-feminist. It's more like, "not worthy of mentioning in a Beyonce song" anti-feminist.
It just seems like lately there's this running list in my head of reasons I need a man around. I know, I know. But really, there are a few very pertinent ones: to kill cockroaches, to investigate weird sounds and, of course, to replace lightbulbs. And naturally, the No. 1 reason? So I can get rid of the overwhelming urge to buy a new outfit every time I go on a date. Because dear sweet GOD, I would kill every creepy crawly anything and climb 10 ladders to change a single lightbulb if it just meant I could wear sweatpants and granny panties and fuzzy socks and not feel concerned about the way my ass looks in any of it.
cheers,
elizabeth
With the hall lights on it wasn't too dark, and I managed to pour my cereal and fix my lunch without major incident. Last night when I got home, I rifled around under the sink, found my last remaining light bulb and dragged a chair in from the dining room to get up there and take care of business.
All this, only to find that even on the chair, even on my tippy TIP toes on the chair, I still lack about four inches of being able to even touch the globe, much less unscrew it, reach the lightbulb and put it back on. Other than the fact that I may now legally classify as a little person, this situation causes me to think one other thing. One other very anti-feminist thing. I mean, it's not anti-feminist like, "I'd rather bake you a pie than have an independent thought" anti-feminist. It's more like, "not worthy of mentioning in a Beyonce song" anti-feminist.
It just seems like lately there's this running list in my head of reasons I need a man around. I know, I know. But really, there are a few very pertinent ones: to kill cockroaches, to investigate weird sounds and, of course, to replace lightbulbs. And naturally, the No. 1 reason? So I can get rid of the overwhelming urge to buy a new outfit every time I go on a date. Because dear sweet GOD, I would kill every creepy crawly anything and climb 10 ladders to change a single lightbulb if it just meant I could wear sweatpants and granny panties and fuzzy socks and not feel concerned about the way my ass looks in any of it.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.13.2009
festive drunk
Let's get one thing straight. I know that 24 is not old. I'm 24. I'm not old. But y'all, the old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.
There was a time when I could drink on Friday night, get up on Saturday and be in tip-top shape and then get right back at it again on Saturday night and still resemble a human being on Sunday morning. That time is not now. Last night I hit up one of my favorite neighborhood bars with a friend from New York (well, a friend I met in New York, who's actually from Memphis), his boyfriend and some friends from high school. And managed to drink several pints of Ghost River Golden and text just about every last person whose name appears in my phone with some type of genius observation. Example? I texted one of my HOBY friends, "Listening to Hanson and naturally I thought of you." Let's keep in mind that there is no reason I would've connected this person with blond-haired pre-pubescent teeny bopper boys. None at all. The booze made me do it.
I'd love to tell you that I'm a responsible adult who's capable of making willpower-related decisions, like "I'm not going to drink so much this weekend." I wish that were true, but in fact? My highly anticipated tacky sweater Christmas party is on Saturday. But that's festive, holiday-related drinking. And therefore totally different from up until 4 a.m. because I'm under the impression I'm 21 type of drinking.
Festive drinking makes you festive drunk, which is probably a lot like business drunk. Very grown up. Totally acceptable. Right?
cheers,
elizabeth
There was a time when I could drink on Friday night, get up on Saturday and be in tip-top shape and then get right back at it again on Saturday night and still resemble a human being on Sunday morning. That time is not now. Last night I hit up one of my favorite neighborhood bars with a friend from New York (well, a friend I met in New York, who's actually from Memphis), his boyfriend and some friends from high school. And managed to drink several pints of Ghost River Golden and text just about every last person whose name appears in my phone with some type of genius observation. Example? I texted one of my HOBY friends, "Listening to Hanson and naturally I thought of you." Let's keep in mind that there is no reason I would've connected this person with blond-haired pre-pubescent teeny bopper boys. None at all. The booze made me do it.
I'd love to tell you that I'm a responsible adult who's capable of making willpower-related decisions, like "I'm not going to drink so much this weekend." I wish that were true, but in fact? My highly anticipated tacky sweater Christmas party is on Saturday. But that's festive, holiday-related drinking. And therefore totally different from up until 4 a.m. because I'm under the impression I'm 21 type of drinking.
Festive drinking makes you festive drunk, which is probably a lot like business drunk. Very grown up. Totally acceptable. Right?
cheers,
elizabeth
12.10.2009
like a carly simon song
Last night, I'm making dinner, microwaving a sweet potato, minding my own business, when it happened. Mr. November called.
He'd read my post, about my box-of-wine level anxiety, and I guess felt like enough time had passed. And so he called. And I was totally, completely unprepared. I think I spent the first five minutes of the conversation stuttering, although I was also handling a piping-hot potato at the time, so my focus was a bit scattered.
Anywho. I don't know what I expected him to say, honestly. I don't think you ever do in those kinds of situations, but I just knew I needed to talk to him. And so when he called not only did I have no idea what needed to come out of MY mouth, I hadn't the slightest clue what was about to come out of his. Of course that lack of expectation did not keep me from being pretty surprised by just about all of it.
A lot of our conversation felt like a lecture, one oddly devoid of emotion. A lot of it made me feel pretty insignificant -- and maybe I deserved to feel that way, I accept that. At some point in the call I arrived at the realization that my biggest concern, my principal reason for wanting to talk to him, had been my worry that I had lost him from my life completely, even outside of the romantic. And I do still feel that way, but by the time we got off the phone last night I knew that there would need to be some time between now and friendship.
What actually scared me about the conversation was that after it was done, the way I felt and some of the things he'd said resonated with me in a way that was eerily reminiscent of He Who Shall Not Be Named (Boyfriend No. 4 from the exit interviews). And I realized that there had been flashes of that before now, before Saturday. When I felt small and unimportant. And I'm not placing that blame on Mr. November, nor could I identify anything he did or said to make me feel that way. It's an intangible. And I'm sure a lot of it has to do with my own self concept and the insides of my own brain. But it worries me to think that that is what I'm attracted to. That the very thing that has hurt me so much in the past is magnetic to me.
Well, that's just about enough of that, y'all. Maybe if I tell you that I'm going to stop thinking about this, I actually will! Wishful thinking, but a girl can dream. I do have plans Friday night and a friend coming in from New York on Saturday, so there will be lots of opportunities to get in more trouble and I promise to bring you all the gory details.
As soon as I come to.
cheers!
elizabeth
He'd read my post, about my box-of-wine level anxiety, and I guess felt like enough time had passed. And so he called. And I was totally, completely unprepared. I think I spent the first five minutes of the conversation stuttering, although I was also handling a piping-hot potato at the time, so my focus was a bit scattered.
Anywho. I don't know what I expected him to say, honestly. I don't think you ever do in those kinds of situations, but I just knew I needed to talk to him. And so when he called not only did I have no idea what needed to come out of MY mouth, I hadn't the slightest clue what was about to come out of his. Of course that lack of expectation did not keep me from being pretty surprised by just about all of it.
A lot of our conversation felt like a lecture, one oddly devoid of emotion. A lot of it made me feel pretty insignificant -- and maybe I deserved to feel that way, I accept that. At some point in the call I arrived at the realization that my biggest concern, my principal reason for wanting to talk to him, had been my worry that I had lost him from my life completely, even outside of the romantic. And I do still feel that way, but by the time we got off the phone last night I knew that there would need to be some time between now and friendship.
What actually scared me about the conversation was that after it was done, the way I felt and some of the things he'd said resonated with me in a way that was eerily reminiscent of He Who Shall Not Be Named (Boyfriend No. 4 from the exit interviews). And I realized that there had been flashes of that before now, before Saturday. When I felt small and unimportant. And I'm not placing that blame on Mr. November, nor could I identify anything he did or said to make me feel that way. It's an intangible. And I'm sure a lot of it has to do with my own self concept and the insides of my own brain. But it worries me to think that that is what I'm attracted to. That the very thing that has hurt me so much in the past is magnetic to me.
Well, that's just about enough of that, y'all. Maybe if I tell you that I'm going to stop thinking about this, I actually will! Wishful thinking, but a girl can dream. I do have plans Friday night and a friend coming in from New York on Saturday, so there will be lots of opportunities to get in more trouble and I promise to bring you all the gory details.
As soon as I come to.
cheers!
elizabeth
12.09.2009
in need of a valium
Last night, I got into the box of wine.
I'd actually had a really good, productive day at work and had kicked ass on my run and I was feeling the best I've felt since Saturday, for sure, before it happened. Before I got so completely and totally turned around and lost driving through Germantown looking for the alumnae association Christmas party that I thought I was going to cry. I can't count how many times I had to turn around. I was just about ready to give up when I finally got my bearings and found the place, but the damage was done. My chest was tight, I was super tense, it was ridiculous. I ate some cheese dip, played Dirty Santa and made a beeline for the door. Got myself home, got into the wine.
I spent the better part of those three glasses of blush on the phone with my friend Harry, who I hadn't talked to, we finally figured out, since OCTOBER. Ridiculous. I told him the most unacceptable part of this, other than missing him terribly of course, is that it actually makes me miss living in New Jersey. Those words don't even make sense, I know. But it happened.
The wine definitely helped, and I slept like a baby. Although I did have really insane dreams and also passed out before I could turn the setting on my heating blanket down, so I woke up in the middle of the night all disoriented and sweating like I was menopausal.
What bothers me is that I can only remember one other time when I felt anxiety the way I felt last night. It was when we spent Christmas away from home back in 2006, and we took Biscuit to stay with a co-worker of my mom's. We went over to her house with Biscuit first to sniff around and get familiar with the place, and when we went into her backyard Biscuit fell into her swimming pool. Her middle-of-the-winter, greened-out, half-full swimming pool. Biscuit, who's never been in water in her life. I freaked. Mom and I both were ready to dive in after her, but luckily instinct kicked in and she paddled for the side. I had so much anxiety after that, I couldn't feel my legs. When we got home I cracked open a beer at 2:30 in the afternoon. (We'll save my tendency to solve anxiety with alcohol for another day. Or never.)
And it occurs to me that I shouldn't have that level of anxiety over getting lost. Yeah, it was rainy and dark, so there were some external factors at work. But three-glasses-of-wine anxiety needs to be saved for near-miss car accidents or other assorted life-and-death situations. Not for driving too far down Farmington.
And really, I know where it's coming from. I still haven't talked to Mr. November, and I predict that this anxiety, though it may wane, is going to continue until I do. Regardless of what happens when we talk -- and I feel like what I did falls pretty securely into the unforgiveable category -- I know I won't be able to shake this feeling until we do.
Blerg.
cheers,
elizabeth
I'd actually had a really good, productive day at work and had kicked ass on my run and I was feeling the best I've felt since Saturday, for sure, before it happened. Before I got so completely and totally turned around and lost driving through Germantown looking for the alumnae association Christmas party that I thought I was going to cry. I can't count how many times I had to turn around. I was just about ready to give up when I finally got my bearings and found the place, but the damage was done. My chest was tight, I was super tense, it was ridiculous. I ate some cheese dip, played Dirty Santa and made a beeline for the door. Got myself home, got into the wine.
I spent the better part of those three glasses of blush on the phone with my friend Harry, who I hadn't talked to, we finally figured out, since OCTOBER. Ridiculous. I told him the most unacceptable part of this, other than missing him terribly of course, is that it actually makes me miss living in New Jersey. Those words don't even make sense, I know. But it happened.
The wine definitely helped, and I slept like a baby. Although I did have really insane dreams and also passed out before I could turn the setting on my heating blanket down, so I woke up in the middle of the night all disoriented and sweating like I was menopausal.
What bothers me is that I can only remember one other time when I felt anxiety the way I felt last night. It was when we spent Christmas away from home back in 2006, and we took Biscuit to stay with a co-worker of my mom's. We went over to her house with Biscuit first to sniff around and get familiar with the place, and when we went into her backyard Biscuit fell into her swimming pool. Her middle-of-the-winter, greened-out, half-full swimming pool. Biscuit, who's never been in water in her life. I freaked. Mom and I both were ready to dive in after her, but luckily instinct kicked in and she paddled for the side. I had so much anxiety after that, I couldn't feel my legs. When we got home I cracked open a beer at 2:30 in the afternoon. (We'll save my tendency to solve anxiety with alcohol for another day. Or never.)
And it occurs to me that I shouldn't have that level of anxiety over getting lost. Yeah, it was rainy and dark, so there were some external factors at work. But three-glasses-of-wine anxiety needs to be saved for near-miss car accidents or other assorted life-and-death situations. Not for driving too far down Farmington.
And really, I know where it's coming from. I still haven't talked to Mr. November, and I predict that this anxiety, though it may wane, is going to continue until I do. Regardless of what happens when we talk -- and I feel like what I did falls pretty securely into the unforgiveable category -- I know I won't be able to shake this feeling until we do.
Blerg.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.07.2009
picking up the pieces, not in an average white band sort of way
Oh, y'all.
I have never been so excited for Monday to arrive and the work week to begin as I was this morning. Because I knew that in the office, at my desk, it would be near about impossible for me to get into any trouble.
And frankly, after the weekend I had, that is JUST the kind of security I was looking for.
I spent most of Sunday feeling like, well, how can I put this? Look at the bottom of your shoe. Anything stuck there? Good. Now imagine a life form about 75 levels LOWER than the scum you squished in your sneakers and you'll almost have it.
I'm going to spare you the details, and PLEASE trust me on this one y'all, you would thank me for that if you only knew. But the moral of the story probably won't shock you at all: I royally, completely and monumentally fucked things up with Mr. November. Fucked, fucked, fuuuuuucked right on up. Probably irreparably. I wouldn't be surprised if the only reason he speaks to me again is to retrieve the rest of his growler of Ghost River beer that we got when we went on the brewery tour Saturday. Which, incidentally, was awesome and prior to my personal Chernobyl and its subsequent fallout.
All exaggerations aside, I screwed up pretty bad and I suspect this weekend might be the last I'll hear from Mr. November. Despite all our differences, I really enjoyed spending time with him. And whether as a date or a friend, I'll be surprised if he's willing to spend any time with me any time soon. Or ever.
We'd spent almost the whole day together on Saturday and gone out with some of his friends and it had been such a good night. And then the awkward train rolled into the station, and I was wearing stripey overalls and a conductor's hat. Choo effing choo. And you know the worst part, really? I've been on the receiving end of this particular brand of human error more than a few times. And it SUCKS. And I liked to think that I wasn't a person who did things like this to other people. But apparently I'm human. And I make mistakes, and have the capacity to hurt. And that realization has been perhaps the hardest pill to swallow.
cheers,
elizabeth
I have never been so excited for Monday to arrive and the work week to begin as I was this morning. Because I knew that in the office, at my desk, it would be near about impossible for me to get into any trouble.
And frankly, after the weekend I had, that is JUST the kind of security I was looking for.
I spent most of Sunday feeling like, well, how can I put this? Look at the bottom of your shoe. Anything stuck there? Good. Now imagine a life form about 75 levels LOWER than the scum you squished in your sneakers and you'll almost have it.
I'm going to spare you the details, and PLEASE trust me on this one y'all, you would thank me for that if you only knew. But the moral of the story probably won't shock you at all: I royally, completely and monumentally fucked things up with Mr. November. Fucked, fucked, fuuuuuucked right on up. Probably irreparably. I wouldn't be surprised if the only reason he speaks to me again is to retrieve the rest of his growler of Ghost River beer that we got when we went on the brewery tour Saturday. Which, incidentally, was awesome and prior to my personal Chernobyl and its subsequent fallout.
All exaggerations aside, I screwed up pretty bad and I suspect this weekend might be the last I'll hear from Mr. November. Despite all our differences, I really enjoyed spending time with him. And whether as a date or a friend, I'll be surprised if he's willing to spend any time with me any time soon. Or ever.
We'd spent almost the whole day together on Saturday and gone out with some of his friends and it had been such a good night. And then the awkward train rolled into the station, and I was wearing stripey overalls and a conductor's hat. Choo effing choo. And you know the worst part, really? I've been on the receiving end of this particular brand of human error more than a few times. And it SUCKS. And I liked to think that I wasn't a person who did things like this to other people. But apparently I'm human. And I make mistakes, and have the capacity to hurt. And that realization has been perhaps the hardest pill to swallow.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.04.2009
not holding my breath
Allegedly, I will arrive home today to a new refrigerator.
Allegedly.
My landlord came by yesterday while I was at work and left me a note that said the new fridge would be delivered today, and I mostly believe it, but mostly? I'll believe it when I see it. Let's just put it this way -- I'm not going grocery shopping on my way home from work, because me and the universe are just having that kind of relationship lately. I'd come home with bags full of perishable foods and be greeted by the same dead Frigidaire, which, although inanimate, would somehow be mocking me.
I'll keep you posted.
cheers,
elizabeth
Allegedly.
My landlord came by yesterday while I was at work and left me a note that said the new fridge would be delivered today, and I mostly believe it, but mostly? I'll believe it when I see it. Let's just put it this way -- I'm not going grocery shopping on my way home from work, because me and the universe are just having that kind of relationship lately. I'd come home with bags full of perishable foods and be greeted by the same dead Frigidaire, which, although inanimate, would somehow be mocking me.
I'll keep you posted.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.02.2009
things that can't be fixed by being awesome
My fridge threw craps yesterday.
Unfortunately these types of things come with living on your own, and even more unfortunately are absolutely not fixable by sheer awesomeness. The kind of awesomeness that will, say, give you the power to pull a humongous couch through an otherwise impassable door or alternately, realize that turning up your water heater could yield a hotter showering experience.
These were triumphs of singledom. The death of my fridge doesn't really lend itself to one of those experiences, mostly because there's very little that can be done about it -- other than call my landlord, take frozen food stuffs to my aunt's house nearby and listen to its last chugs of life off and on all night, wishing, hoping, PRAYING that one of those little chugs would get the thing going again. Not soon enough to save my Klondike bars, R.I.P., but it'd be nice.
The landlord was supposed to have someone come by today to check it out, and if it has to be replaced who knows how long I'll be without one.
It's harrowing tales like this that make me think back to childhood, when you'd tell crazy stories about things that had happened to you -- you fell off a bike, down some stairs, face planted into pavement, etc. -- and the first question (well, after the very obvious "Did it hurt?") was "Did you cry?"
I think the grown-up equivalent of scraping your knee or falling off the playground equipment is definitely moments like this. I expect to tell someone, "My fridge died last night." And have their very natural first question be, "Did you cry?"
And yes, internet. I wailed. God damn you, Frigidaire.
cheers,
elizabeth
Unfortunately these types of things come with living on your own, and even more unfortunately are absolutely not fixable by sheer awesomeness. The kind of awesomeness that will, say, give you the power to pull a humongous couch through an otherwise impassable door or alternately, realize that turning up your water heater could yield a hotter showering experience.
These were triumphs of singledom. The death of my fridge doesn't really lend itself to one of those experiences, mostly because there's very little that can be done about it -- other than call my landlord, take frozen food stuffs to my aunt's house nearby and listen to its last chugs of life off and on all night, wishing, hoping, PRAYING that one of those little chugs would get the thing going again. Not soon enough to save my Klondike bars, R.I.P., but it'd be nice.
The landlord was supposed to have someone come by today to check it out, and if it has to be replaced who knows how long I'll be without one.
It's harrowing tales like this that make me think back to childhood, when you'd tell crazy stories about things that had happened to you -- you fell off a bike, down some stairs, face planted into pavement, etc. -- and the first question (well, after the very obvious "Did it hurt?") was "Did you cry?"
I think the grown-up equivalent of scraping your knee or falling off the playground equipment is definitely moments like this. I expect to tell someone, "My fridge died last night." And have their very natural first question be, "Did you cry?"
And yes, internet. I wailed. God damn you, Frigidaire.
cheers,
elizabeth
12.01.2009
that's a deal breaker ladies
It's December 1.
Other than being the magical day that my insurance coverage begins (my appendix thanks you, kind sirs), this day also marks the beginning of the month of December. Duh. But stay with me.
If it's December, that means it's no longer November, which means that guy that I've been seeing? Mr. November? He's outgrown his nickname. He has, in fact, lasted into a new calendar month. This shows clear growth in the "try not to totally repel the opposite sex" category.
Mr. November and I have been out quite a few times that I have failed to chronicle for you here, but rather than go back and give you a play by play of every second we've spent together (many of which involve me saying horrifyingly embarrassing things while drunk and if ANY of you don't know what THAT sounds like by now, what blog exactly HAVE you been reading?) I wanted to discuss a topic that's been on my mind since Mr. November arrived on the scene.
Deal breakers.
What exactly IS a deal breaker? By definition alone it's some thing, some quality or trait or personal belief, that is an absolute NO in a significant other. For example, my best friend Stefanie says that smoking crack is a deal breaker. Clearly. But it's more than just drugs and crime and general craziness. Deal breakers trickle down to even the very teeniest of behaviors. For each person these deal breakers are vastly different; one woman's white trash is another woman's second husband. Different strokes.
So, remember when I first introduced you to Mr. November? And I told you about how we used to debate politics? And how we pretty much disagreed on everything? Turns out, most of that is still, well, um, true. Whoops. We don't agree on politics. At all. And y'all, if ever there was a deal breaker in this girl's book, it's politics.
I wouldn't say that we argue. Because really, we don't. Because really, he's not the arguing type, as far as I can tell. Which is kind of a nice foil for me, as hard as it is for me to admit that. Mostly, he says things because he knows they'll get me riled up. And it pretty much always works. I'm extremely predictable.
Besides politics, I'd say there are a handful of other things on which we don't see eye to eye, and in the past a handful would've been more than enough to make me put the nix on just about any guy, even if he was a British male model who played the piano, sang soul ballads and had a swimming pool full of money. But for some reason this time around I'm feeling a bit more relaxed. A bit less black and white. I don't really know why, but every time we disagree I want him more than I did the second before. It's weirdly invigorating.
Regardless of whether these deal breakers eventually come back to bite me in the ass, figuring out how to chill a little bit never hurt any body. And it does have me asking -- is there truly any such thing as a deal breaker? Or are we willing to overlook just about anything for the right person? What do you think?
cheers,
elizabeth
Other than being the magical day that my insurance coverage begins (my appendix thanks you, kind sirs), this day also marks the beginning of the month of December. Duh. But stay with me.
If it's December, that means it's no longer November, which means that guy that I've been seeing? Mr. November? He's outgrown his nickname. He has, in fact, lasted into a new calendar month. This shows clear growth in the "try not to totally repel the opposite sex" category.
Mr. November and I have been out quite a few times that I have failed to chronicle for you here, but rather than go back and give you a play by play of every second we've spent together (many of which involve me saying horrifyingly embarrassing things while drunk and if ANY of you don't know what THAT sounds like by now, what blog exactly HAVE you been reading?) I wanted to discuss a topic that's been on my mind since Mr. November arrived on the scene.
Deal breakers.
What exactly IS a deal breaker? By definition alone it's some thing, some quality or trait or personal belief, that is an absolute NO in a significant other. For example, my best friend Stefanie says that smoking crack is a deal breaker. Clearly. But it's more than just drugs and crime and general craziness. Deal breakers trickle down to even the very teeniest of behaviors. For each person these deal breakers are vastly different; one woman's white trash is another woman's second husband. Different strokes.
So, remember when I first introduced you to Mr. November? And I told you about how we used to debate politics? And how we pretty much disagreed on everything? Turns out, most of that is still, well, um, true. Whoops. We don't agree on politics. At all. And y'all, if ever there was a deal breaker in this girl's book, it's politics.
I wouldn't say that we argue. Because really, we don't. Because really, he's not the arguing type, as far as I can tell. Which is kind of a nice foil for me, as hard as it is for me to admit that. Mostly, he says things because he knows they'll get me riled up. And it pretty much always works. I'm extremely predictable.
Besides politics, I'd say there are a handful of other things on which we don't see eye to eye, and in the past a handful would've been more than enough to make me put the nix on just about any guy, even if he was a British male model who played the piano, sang soul ballads and had a swimming pool full of money. But for some reason this time around I'm feeling a bit more relaxed. A bit less black and white. I don't really know why, but every time we disagree I want him more than I did the second before. It's weirdly invigorating.
Regardless of whether these deal breakers eventually come back to bite me in the ass, figuring out how to chill a little bit never hurt any body. And it does have me asking -- is there truly any such thing as a deal breaker? Or are we willing to overlook just about anything for the right person? What do you think?
cheers,
elizabeth
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