The only good thing about winter

There is one thing I look forward to in winter.  One.  That’s not very many.  I’m pretty sure it’s the same thing everyone looks forward to the most.  So, you can probably guess what it is.

Starbucks Eggnog Latte

This is the evil beverage that sucked me into the darkness.  I was the anti-coffee until the age of 27, at which time, my baby sister pried open my jaw with her tiny, manicured hands and forced an eggnog latte down my throat, despite my violent objection.  Needless to say, I’ve been a Starbucks addict ever since.  Thanks, sis.

I hate winter.  I hate cold.  I get grouchy and unpleasant when the temperature drops below 50 degrees.  Unless I have a Starbucks Eggnog Latte in my freezing hands.

Keep your eyes open.  Starbucks usually starts serving this most delicious beverage in early November. 

If you have not had a Starbucks Eggnog Latte and you refuse to try it, I am respectfully requesting that you back away from this blog and never return again.  I also suggest you not tell me that you refuse to try it because I might just pry open your jaw and force it down your throat. 

Eharmony

I had a lot of coffee today.  I met two friends for coffee, but not at the same time.  So, I’ve basically been on a steady stream of caffeine for the past 18 hours.  *shakes violently*

One of the things I love most in the grand scheme of life is knowing someone that I can spend 4.5 hours talking to without getting bored or wishing I were somewhere else.  It truly is rare for me to meet someone that I can tolerate in such large doses, much less who entertains me for such a length of time.  Once again, my face hurts from laughter.  That is some good shit, y’all.

So, this guy, who, much to my dismay, is freaking married (the good ones always are), suggested I take the eharmony profile questionnaire thingy to see what it spits back out at me. 

First of all, DUDE, the eharmony questionnaire is 10,000 years long.  I almost fell asleep taking it, and that’s after drinking 83 gallons of coffee today.  Then, the reports it spits out are even longer!  I thought my eyes were going to fall out my head before I got done reading them all. 

But!  It’s MAGIC.  It’s creepy.  Like there’s a little psychic troll hanging out inside the big illuminated box that sits on top of my desk.  I answered all of the silly questions and it spit back a detailed description of who I am.  Wow. 

My favorite part goes like this:

What an interesting combination of qualities in you’re organized, but casual; solid, but compliant; and dependable, but informal. At home and at work, people know they can rely on you. You take great satisfaction in knowing that people think of you as disciplined and responsible, but you also know that you have something of a free spirit in you, and when this spirit moves you, off you go, following the impulse of the moment. You are rightly proud of your work ethic, but you also enjoy your willingness to lay the tools down, crank up the music and play like a child.

I’m sure there’s someone in the eharmony marketing department who is responsible for this.  They’ve got some clever folks working there who are saying, “You want people to sign up and pay for this service?  What you need to do is make them feel all warm and fuzzy about themselves!”

Alas, what they failed to figure out about me from the 732,000 questions I answered is that I’m a lot harder to rope in than that.  I mean, yeah, it’s nice to know that the computer, or the troll in my monitor, or the internet, or some random guy at eharmony think those things about me. . . but it’s not enough to A. convince me to give them any money, or B. decide I’m desperate enough to use an online dating service.

*shrugs*  Good try, eharmony.

I love good blog names.

Since I don’t use real names unless real name use is approved by the party being blogged about, I often struggle to come up with good blog names for the people who become blog worthy.

Se~nor Bailey = the guy who took me swing dancing and made me forget that someone kicked me in the crotch until I fell over and died = the guy who bailed on me when he arranged the happy hour with clients  = the guy who got my hair all tied up in his arms while salsa dancing. 

Since you’re all caught up now, it’s pertinent that I inform you of the name change.  Se~nor Bailey now = Jerkface. 

Because, and only because, he bailed again last night without warning.  Despite my very strict no-name-calling rule, he is, in fact, a jerkface.  Since he’s signing his emails “Jerkface”, I think he’s embracing the nickname.  I did tell him he’d get a nickname if he hung around me enough.  *shrugs*

Spin me, dip me, break my neck!

Last night, I was supposed to be at kickball playoffs cheering The Jerks on.  I was fully equipped with face paint, pom poms, a cowbell, and a megaphone.  I was prepared to be THE best cheerleader kickball has ever seen!  And, then they cancelled the games because the fields were too soggy.

Naturally, we made new plans because I wasn’t about to just sit at home and twiddle my thumbs. 

What started out being a bummer night became buckets of fun for me!  For a good portion of the night, I was the only lady in a group of salsa kings, as a salsa band played.  I love to salsa (even though I clearly don’t know how), so that was a pretty snazzy spot to find myself in.  I didn’t get a break, since the guys were in line, waiting their turn to spin me around the dance floor.  Because boys are boys, it quickly turned into a competition of who can dance more flamboyantly!  And, I was mostly just a prop for their silly game.  That was fine with me because I was spinning and dipping and spinning some more!  Wheeeeeeee!

Baldy kept telling me my neck was going to feel bad in the morning (all of the dramatic dips and snaps back up) and I just giggled and blew it off.  Who knew he’d actually be right?!

In my defense, though, I don’t think it’s as much from all the dips as it is from the time my hair got tangled up in Se~nor Bailey’s arms as he spun me around. . . and then I damn near died when he went to dip me and my hair was tied around his arms.  Yeah.  I think that is what it’s from.

Whew, but how fun!  Not only was I in high demand, I got to dance my head off (almost literally!).  Yay for rained out kickball!

Dear Random Myspace Men,

I will never date someone I met on myspace.  If you want to date me, you’re going to have to stalk me until you find a clever way to randomly run into me somewhere, strike up a conversation, and make it seem like it was a total coincidence so I never know you were stalking me.

Why?

It’s simple, really.  I am not going to tell a lame “we met on myspace” story.  It’s just not going to happen.  That’s the most pathetic thing I can fathom, and I’m simply not going to do it.  I need a way better story. 

I know I have a lot of rules.  The key is being amazing enough that I forget about my rules.  Oh, and if you are that amazing, it’s kind of important that you recognize and appreciate it because not many men have the power to convince me to forget about my rules.

Please don’t expect actual content.

I’m not sure what happened, but I’ve been slammed with work.  So, when I try to maintain my social life, get in 6 hours of cardio and 4 hours of weights every week, and stay on top of the extra work, I get tired.  I’m exhausted.  Because I like to pile on as much crap as humanly possible in an attempt to make my head literally explode (because haven’t we all wondered what that would actually be like?), I went ahead and signed up for NaBloPoMo.  It’s almost as ambitious as the novel that Bob is planning to write next month, except not even close.

Don’t freak out, I’m not on the “official” list yet.  I will be, you’ll see.  Oh, and also, you’re welcome for the link to lots of new blogs to become addicted to!  I’m pretty sure you’re all like me, and desperately need 400 more blogs to check daily. 

Oh, I will be writing every day in November.  You can count on that.  But, please, don’t expect any actual content.  And, don’t bitch at me when I post entries like this one:

This here entry, it’s just to meet quota for today.  Suck it.  You don’t have to blog every day, so I don’t want to hear it. 

In unrelated news, here are some things I’ve learned recently:

* If you’re single, always carry a toothbrush.  You might not need it, but you might need it. 

* When it becomes common knowledge that you haven’t had sex in a good 10 months, men start to be really interested in you.  *rolls eyes*  For clarification, it’s not because I can’t find someone to have sex with, guys.  You are not doing me any favors by offering to break that streak for me.  Oh, also, get in line.  Do you know how many jackasses have made the same offer?  Thanks, but no thanks.  I’m frustrated, not desperate. 

* Myspace makes grown ass people revert to teenage behavior.  If you’re not in my Top 8 and you bitch to me about it, a few things happen.  1.  I lose all respect for you.  2.  You get deleted from my friends list altogether for being such a loser.  3.  I’ll punch you when you bitch about being deleted.  Let’s save me some trouble and just pretend like my Top 8 isn’t important to you, OK?  Because if your self worth is determined by your location in my friends list, we just can’t be friends at all, and I know you don’t want that to happen.

* The right birth control makes all the difference in the world! 

Stupid!

Among the long list of stupid things I’ve done:

Give this blog address to men I’ve dated, especially when I blog about subsequent dates/men.  Ay yay yay.  More especially when those men are exceptionally VAIN and think this blog is about them (sing with me now!).

Clarity

You know how sometimes you don’t see what’s actually happening because what you want to happen is so different, and you want it so bad that you trick yourself into ignoring that that’s not what’s happening at all?

Then, invariably, your feelings are hurt, or your world comes crashing down around you, or something else happens to make you wake up and realize how distorted your perception has been? 

Yeah, that happens to me more often than I’d like to admit, thanks.  I am remarkably able to twist reality into whatever I want it to be for a pretty extended period of time.  What do we call that?  Denial? 

The problem is that my version is so much nicer than reality.  So, when I finally recognize what’s really happening, I have to choose whether to accept it or keep believing in my sugar coated version.  Clearly, the sugar coated version is easier to deal with.  And, sometimes, it doesn’t hurt to just keep believing that’s what’s happening.  Other times, it just makes it too hard to navigate.

I’m stuck in this stupid position right now.  I get to decide which way I want to remember someone, and in my little world, that someone was sincere, genuine, sweet, and so fucking adorable I could barely stand it.  In reality, my perception was pretty damn skewed and that someone really wasn’t that great at all. . . that person was, in fact, relatively self centered, pretty unreliable, and mostly oblivious to my feelings. 

Clearly, it’s much nicer to blindly stick with the wonderful memory of what I wanted that person to be. 

At what point does believing in your own little fantasy world make a person certifiably insane? 

Proud of myself, nonetheless

So, today, as I receive the emails, I’m realizing that I called more people than I thought from the concert.  *sheepish grin*  When you drink a bottle of wine, you start to think that stupid things are good ideas. 

I CANNOT BELIEVE I called Tabasco Birthday Singing Guy and left him Rolling Stones voicemail.  That may have been a little out of the range of acceptable behavior.

I am proud, however, that I did NOT call him and leave a Rolling Stones voicemail despite Bob’s repeated suggestion that I do so.  I almost did, but thought better of it, even in my impaired state.  So, for that, I’m proud of me.  Because, that would have been wildly uncomfortable to explain and apologize for later.  Whew!

So, see, Emma?  I’m getting my drunk dialing/texting a little bit under control.  At least Tabasco Birthday Singing Guy thinks it’s funny (he sings Happy Birthday to Tabasco Sauce, for God’s sake, I don’t think he’ll be passing any judgment on my Rolling Stones voicemails), so there’s no harm done there. 

Question: What is 42,000?

Answers:

- The number of people at The Rolling Stones concert last night.

- The collective age of The Rolling Stones.

- The number of times I thought to myself, “HOLY SHIT, it’s The Rolling Stones!!!”.

- The amount of money I spent on The Rolling Stones concert.

- How many glasses of wine Bob made me drink at The Rolling Stones concert.

- How many blurry photos Bob took of The Rolling Stones.

- How many times I would do it all over again if I had the chance.

PEOPLE.  There aren’t words to describe to you how awesome that concert was.  They didn’t play Wild Horses, and I really, really, really, really, really wanted them to, but the display for Sympathy for the Devil was so spectacular, it made up for it.

I can’t even begin to do it justice by trying to explain to you how awesome it was.  Friends, it was even better than Aerosmith.  I know, you think I’m still high from the second hand smoke because how could anyone be better than Aerosmith?  But, they were.  In fact, I might even skip the Aerosmith concert now because I know it won’t compare (even though I am madly in love with Steven Tyler). 

The highlights, for me included:

Sympathy for the Devil – Mick was dressed in a red, crushed velvet jacket and pimp hat and, dare I say, looked smokin’ hot, which is not something you’d regularly catch me saying about a man his age.  For just this song, he was on a walkway high above the stage with the Godzilla screen behind him.  FIRE shot into the sky.  We did quite an extensive amount of “Woo-woos”. 

You Can’t Always Get What You Want – I am a total girl.  I cried.  Because, Hello, Internet, this is basically my theme song right now.  For the concert, for life.  And, the horns at the beginning just make my heart swell.

When the stage MOVED OUT INTO THE CROWD.  Again, I’ve seen Aerosmith walk through the crowd to a stage that was set up in the lawn. . . but this stage MOVED OUT INTO THE CROWD.  It was the most insanely magical thing I’ve ever seen. 

Tons of fireworks and Mick Jagger saying, “No expense spared!”. 

I’ll have photos to share at some point.  And, if you track down my dad or my sister or any number of my friends, you can listen to their voicemail, which will include a message from me, screaming with The Rolling Stones in the background.  Yeah, I was drunk, what of it?

Mostly, it was the best time ever.  I know I say that all of the time, but it really was.  And, if things had worked out the way I wanted them to, I’m pretty sure I would have been far less carefree, I would not have been so close to the stage, and I would probably not have had such a damn good time. 

You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.  

Miscellaneous

A.  Emma brought me flowers to the game Thursday to thank me for captaining our kickball team.  I almost cried.  Thanks, Emma.  That made my day. 

B.  Mr. Bob, who typically has to be force fed straight shots of vodka for hours before he’ll dance, totally busted out some killer Saturday Night Fever dance moves, in a COMPLETELY sober state Thursday night.  I can’t believe I forgot to blog about it.  It was magnificent.  And, everyone missed it but me.  I’m going to tuck that memory away for future reference, he was that good.  I’m pretty sure, now, that he fakes the inability to dance.

C.  At the end of the night, 2am, as the bar was trying to give us all the hint it was time to go home, they bust out some Journey.  In my circle of friends, I am the only one who appreciates Journey.  In fact, most of these youngsters cringe at the sound of a Journey song.  Thank GOD someone in that bar understood the importance of singing at the top of your lungs to a Journey power ballad.  Thank GOD I found that someone – a man in his 40s, bald, and completely inebriated, but singing at the top of his lungs as his friends looked on in disdain.  I ran over, threw my arm around him (a complete stranger, mind you) and belted out the entire length of “Don’t Stop Believin’” with him, essentially screaming in each other’s faces while our friends all looked on in horror.  That was awesome.

D.  The best part of Thursday, except for the flowers, and the Travolta moves, and the singing with strangers, was when the guy from There’s No “I” in BEER who was supposed to get kicked off his team for helping Bob when her foot got run over, didn’t get kicked off the team but refused to play on the principle of the whole thing.  His team desperately needed him (as evidenced by the 17-0 loss), but he said, “No thanks, you guys are assholes”.  That just about kicks the most ass ever.  He totally rules.

E.  The Bobs and I are aging quickly.  We went out Thursday night, and then stayed in Friday and Saturday.  In fact, I’m about to retire to watch a movie and get to bed early, that’s how cool I am.  I’m pretty sure the going to a Rolling Stones concert tomorrow way makes up for staying in all weekend.  

F.  I owe you ACL photos.

I didn’t get the memo.

I’m relatively certain one went out. . . and I’m pretty sure it looked something like this:

To:  All Men
Subject:  This Week’s Assignment

Memo:
This week has officially been designated “Be Really Mean To Snippy Week”.  Accordingly, please do your best to hurt the feelings of Snippy.  Call her wicked mean names, drunk dial her to tell her what a wretched hag you think she is, or simply ignore her altogether.  Most importantly, do not stop until you are certain you have offended, hurt, or effectively otherwise harmed one Snippy.
Free beer to the winner.

I’m only sure about the free beer part because I know men can’t follow direction unless someone offers them free beer.

Good job, guys!  You’re right on task! 

Please note, this assignment ends at midnight tonight.