STANDARDS

Ahem... (insert wildly inappropriate joke here)

SOOOOO, after yesterday's charming little glance into my delicate inner psyche I thought it might be wise, dear reader(s), to entrust you with my eternal happiness. (Oh, yes, I did.)

How do I intend to do this? By allowing you to find me eligible men to date? Oh, H-E-L-L-Z no. (Why? Who did you have someone in mind? Is he cute? And loaded?) No, I'm going to let you be involved, gentle reader(s) by telling you all the simple and straight-forward qualities I expect.. nay! deserve in a life mate. This way the next time I bring home a unsuspecting victim play thing love interest and tell you all about it in a well-written and thought-provoking post (because ALL of my posts are well-written and thought-provoking... especially that one about my boobs), you can wave a warning, figurative finger in my general direction, sweet reader(s), and tell me in a stern but caring voice:

"NO! Bad girl! We do NOT like losers on this website. Stop it. Stop obsessing. Hey! Lookie here! Something shiney. You likey the shiney, don't you?! Yes, you do. Now isn't that better than worrying about that dumb old boy? Wait. What? Shit. Hey! Where are you going?! STOP OBSESSING, GOD DAMNIT. Oh, dear God, you're helpless."

Heh. Not that it will be anything like that.

As I said before, these standards, these qualities, these ideals are quite simple and straight-forward. I'm not demanding. I'm not high maintenance. I'm not looking for the moon on a platter. But I am looking for a few things that will set this guy apart from his contemporaries. A few things that will make me sit up and take notice. Those few things are as follows:

I want someone tall and rugged. We're talking a good 200 lbs but not so much fat as solid, barrel-chested if you will. Someone with legs like tree stumps that go on for days but not too long, rippling yet delicate shoulders, and arms that could bend steel, except not really ripped looking because that's icky. Dark, luxurious hair, almost black yet subtly blond, but not quite is a must and green or blue or brown eyes with flecks of color that pour out emotion and compassion and understanding but not in a sissy little nancy boy sort of way. No, I want me a manly man but one who is in touch with his emotions and likes cuddle in the early morning hours and listen to me talk about my hair and my period and that bitch in accounting. He should be intelligent, well-traveled, quick-witted, charming, and funny, and he must also find me funny, not to mention smart, independent, generous, sweet, kind, and dangerously sexy. He has to read rapturously, type 70 wpm, and like to write me love notes. But not sissy love notes. Manly love notes. And not poetry. He must be able to grow a full beard at will but he must shave it every day except Sunday. He should cook, clean, and take care of my car without a hint of whining or complaint. When in public, he should stoically carry me about on a satin pillow while feeding me chocolate covered strawberries or rubbing my feet (but not at the same time). Also, he should be able to fly.

[Ed. Note] Alright. Let's be completely honest because this thing isn't nearly as funny as I was hoping for. You know what single quality genuinely matters? The bastard has to be FUNNY. I don't care who you are, if you can make me belly laugh, I'll develop a crush on you. I am not kidding.

And he has to own a motorcycle.

In the interim while I'm waiting for Mr.ItsAboutDamnTime, I'd like to take a moment to introduce you all to my new internet boyfriend. Why no, I've never met him and no, I don't intend to and no, he doesn't actually know he's my internet boyfriend. Shut up. Whatever. He is so too. Because oh my shit is he funny. (Yeah, that really might be all it takes.) (Shut. Up.) (Bastards.)

HERE'S WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME

During my freshman and half my sophomore years of college, I dated a very nice, upstanding accounting major. Long distance. He was tall, sweet, charming, cute, smart, and treated me exceptionally well.

We'll call him Marc. Because that's his name.

Marc and I met a week after I graduated high school at my best friend's graduation party (oh dear God, that sounds vaguely familiar). He was my second boyfriend ever in the history of my life and we had our heads so far up each other's asses that we used one another's lungs to breathe. Three months into dating we were talking about getting married when we graduated (keep in mind, three months into dating I has JUST. STARTED. CLASSES. There was even a brief while during Spring quarter my freshman year that I toyed with the idea of transferring to Kent Read, Kent Write, Kent State to be closer to him.

This did not happen.

But it got me thinking and eventually I began thinking that maybe I wasn't ready to be in such a serious relationship. Maybe I wanted to have the normal college experience that I wasn't having by driving 4 hours home and 4 hours back every other weekend. Maybe, at 19 years old, I just didn't want to have the rest of my life planned.

While all those are certainly part of the reason I decided to break it off with Marc right after Christmas 2002, the real reason I quit is quite selfish. The real reason I threw him one out of left field makes me a little bit ashamed. The real reason I told him I wanted to take a break is because I wanted to experience falling in love with someone else.

No. I know what you're thinking and it's the same thing that he thought. I didn't have anyone else specific in mind, rather I just wanted to prove to myself I could MAKE someone love me.

It didn't go well. And by that I mean I didn't date ANYONE again for three years.

Three years, I have found, is plenty of time to dwell on and feel guilty about my decisions because that is exactly what I did. I spent most of the next three years regretting tossing Marc away so callously and eventually began to fear that I'd ruined my only chance to ever find anyone. So when the Asshole came around in the summer of 2005 and showed some interest, I went for it. I wasn't that into him. I recognized right away that he was cocky and arrogent but after so long, a little bit of attention felt nice.

And then, as if by magic, he turned into a R-A-G-I-N-G, sardonic asshole who made me feel like a chore, who would make subtle yet chiding comments about my weight, and who, I'm pretty sure, might have cheated on me. Yet, did I end it? No. I held on bitterly believing I could make it work; being too stubborn and hard-headed to admit that I made a mistake; fearing, more subconsiously than anything else, that maybe this was my only chance (and, even worse, thinking maybe I deserved to get treated like shit for the way I hurt Marc).

Do not lecture me. I realize how dumb I was. Though that doesn't mean the fear has gone away.

I have recently realized that I have this pervasive fear that has effected two more relationships since the Asshole. I fear that this chance, this time has to work because I'm not going to get another. As a result I tend to put far too much stock into something that I KNOW isn't right, where I SEE the signs but I turn a blind eye because, technically, you can make it work with anyone (though, obviously I seem to be missing the point that just because I CAN doesn't mean I SHOULD).

And this trait, it bothers me, maybe even frightens me, to realize this propensity in myself.

The holiday's always suck for me. I am one of two three left in my age group who doesn't have someone significant in their life, and to be perfectly honest, it makes me lonely. While I know it isn't expected of me, I feel as though at (almost) 25, I should have this figured out by now. I feel should have some clue. I feel I should be tied down at a time in my life when I keep telling myself that is the LAST thing I want. Because I don't. I don't want to be tied down. Not yet. But what I DO want is the reassurance it will happen someday. I DON'T EVEN HAVE TO KNOW WHO. It's just the lack of a guarantee that has me flustered and apprehensive, that makes me cling longer than anyone should to a cause I have known all along wasn't what I wanted.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone. But I also don't want to settle because I'm worried that this is it.

The good news is, now I realize this, which means I can fix it.

The bad news is, if any new guy reads this, I've pretty much admitted I'm neurotic. It's okay Future Boyfriend! I fixed it! Besides, crazy is TOTALLY the new sexy.

ASTHMA IS SEXY

"Oh God, I can't breath. I have to go. I'm sorry for being such a tool."

"It's okay! You can't help it... Wait. I didn't mean it that way."

(Coughing fit) "I... (cough) am going to kill you (hack)(hack)(cough) if I don't die first."

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART 4 & 5

"What?! Since when have we been in charge of that? I've never been in charge of that! That isn't me."

"It's been yours since I started here. In JANUARY."

"Well, I didn't know that."

"... What exactly do you DO?"

"Nothing. I do nothing all day."

"Really? Would you like to trade jobs then?"

"Hell no, I don't want your job."

"Then quit bitching like you HAVE my job."

* * *

"What if I tazed her? Would they send you to jail for tazing someone? What if you had good motive?"

"Justifiable or not, sweetie, it's still considered assult."

POP!

Tonight I got the Distraction to take me to dinner. To my favorite restaurant. And he bought cake.

Tomorrow he's taking me to a movie.

Granted I'd much rather the reason he's being so nice NOT be stress at work that just might make my head explode so help me God woman if you change one more pointless, fricking thing I just might snap and and brain you with the leg I tore from your stringy, pointy body and then use the blood to paint my face before screaming and chanting as I dance about your entrails calling down the eternal wrath of god upon your house, name, and your annoying little offspring.*

Pant. Pant. Pant.

Thank everything that is good and just and right in this world that I'm getting overtime for this shit.



*Every part of this rant is entirely fictional. I'm not nearly strong enough to tear anyone's limb off. Nor do I have the ability to command the wrath of any god (that I know of)(wouldn't that be an awesome party trick if I could though?). Any exploding of my head would be completely coincidental but could be entirely blamed on her.

NOT SO MELLOW YELLOW

I feel as though I might vomit. Partially because my stomach has lodged itself firmly up in my throat.

And I'm not even sick.

No, no rather I'm an idiot. I mean, it's been a long ass night. I was late at the office earning myself a couple hours of overtime and all I really wanted was to be home for the night so when the light turned yellow I gave it a little gas and as I sailed through the intersection I noticed in the corner of my vision the ominous shadow of one of Cincinnati's finest.

I do believe I uttered, "Oh f**k me."

I then proceeded to do the "ohpleaseohpleaseohplease, God no" dance.

Because the light? IT. WAS. YELLOW. And I know that means clear the intersection and hey, you. Dumb ass coming up the off ramp. STOP.

But I didn't stop. No. I breezed on through that intersection like I enjoy lighting C notes on fire. And as that cop pulled up behind me I could feel my chest tighten and my cheeks flush and I begged for that cop not to turn the way I was going.

But he did.

I was in a panic because oh my God, I'm not showing NEARLY enough boob to sweet talk my way out of this. BUT IT WAS YELLOW! Not red. Not even ORANGE. Y-E-L-L-O-W. He MUST be screwing with me. Like a sick, perverted cat and mouse, he was just toying with me and strewning about my entrails before going in for the final kill. That dirty, rotten son of a bitch. I hope he's getting his rocks off from this because oh my GOD. Just pull me over already you asshat cop.

And then, as I pulled up to the next intersection and threw on my blinker and the cop continued on straight... I apologized to his mother for calling her a bitch.

And right now my mother is LOSING. HER. SHIT. I wasn't speeding mom!

Especially after that cop started following me.

ODE TO D.O.

Dear and gentle reader(s), there is much rejoicing to be had for I. have found. my iPod.

(Heavenly angels rejoice)

This means that NOT ONLY do I have my Africa pictures back, but, more importantly (for the sake of this post), I have my D.O. pictures back. Do you know what that means, dear reader(s)? Do you have ANY idea just how monumentous a discovery this truly is?

It means the D.O. video can actually be. I means that all of you will get to enjoy, nay, revel in the glory that is patented D.O. seduction technique.



Oh, you know yer hot for it.

But I need help. I need the perfect song to make this animation the most glorious of glorious it can be. Sans that though, I might just go with Creed.

Please don't make me go with Creed.


Also, the standing threat is if D.O. cuts Dan's majestic mane while he's down in Guatamala this week (meaning I am unable to do the job) I will end the animation thusly: "For a good time call 513-207-XXXX." Without the X's.

18 MONTHS AND COUNTING

I'm bored with my life as it is right now. I don't DO anything. I work all day, come home to an empty apartment, make dinner, maybe work out, then go to bed to do it all again tomorrow. No where in there is there much room for relaxation because just sitting on my ass and "unwinding" in front of the TV isn't cutting it. My job is stressful, moreso because I genuinely care than for any other tangible reason. Sure, there is constantly some project staring back at me with hollow eyes, something else that needs to be added to my evergrowing to do list but rarely have I felt overwhelmed to the point of panic (twice in a years time is F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C compared to the panic attack I had like clock work every quarter when I was still in school).

My point is, I'm not finding great ways to spend my time, to unwind. And I'm bored.

I also realize I can't blame anyone but myself.

But recently, I've been taking some proactive steps. Rather than just wait for the weekend to maybe, possibly think of something interesting to do, I'm making some plans. I'm researching and finding things I'm interested in and gathering up some interest in those around me.

On the short list so far:

• Meeting Dan D. at the airport (on a school night no less!)


• Attending the Found vs. PostSecret event with Jennith on November 18 (I just bought our tickets tonight)


• Renting a cabin out near Mammoth Cave the first weekend in December (Speaking of which, I'm looking for 2 to 6 more people who are willing to commit to going. Since it's the off season we can get a cabin for $15 per person if we get enough people.)


• Making ginger bread houses with Jennith and Courtney some weekend before the end of the year

On the long list:

• Skydiving


• Visit Guatamala


• Start grad school


• Get a dog


• Volunteer for Habitat for Humanity

Also:



Ireland. I plan to be in that EXACT SPOT in 18 months.

Sans that, I'll accept Nova Scotia.

FOUND VS SECRET

Who wants to go?

MATT:E

"Is that your purse?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't look like your style. That is more something I would imagine Jennitee having."

"..."

"Well, it's just that it's fashionable."

"..."

"I mean that as a negative."

"Good save."

PRIORITIES

Not that this will come as any sort of surprise to anyone in my bloodline but I found yet another reason I am My Father's Child.

It is currently 7:45 p.m. My friends should be arriving at my place in 15 minutes so we can head out for the evening.

I just spent the last 10 minutes cleaning my apartment like a mad woman to the detriment of putting on my makeup because I would rather my friends have to wait on me a few extra minutes while I put on some mascara than to see my apartment (THAT WE WON'T BE STAYING AT FIVE WHOLE MINUTES) in the state it was in.

Keep in mind, the "state" it was in took me ONLY TEN MINUTES TO CLEAN SO AS TO BE SPOTLESS. I even MADE. MY. BED. There is no good reason for ANYONE to go into my room.

And my makeup is done, too.

IF THEY HAD CONTROL

Contrary to popular belief, the Distraction and I are not actually dating. Yes, I realize I've been writing about him a lot but that can be explained thusly:

1. I see him nearly every day because we work together.



2. I have no life. (Call me.)

The reason I say this is contrary to popular belief is because there are a shit ton of people at work who think we are dating. And when informed that we are not, indeed, dating, they believe we should be. Let us explore some of the reasons why:

1. You guys get along so well!
   
   Alright, fine! This one is true and I have no witty (read: snarky) comment in response.



2. He just broke up with his girlfriend.
   
   And god knows you could use some play. Why are we still talking, girl? Hop on it!



3. You guys are around the same age, right?
   
   Which means it is your CIVIC DUTY to consumate RIGHT NOW. (I can also name three other guys I'm in the same age range of that I work with. Why not make me the town whore?)



4. He's cute.
   
   He is cute. I'm not sure why I'm arguing this point.



5. He's good with kids.
   
   KIDS?! Are you freaking kidding me? I... I... He... No.



6. You know, you're allowed to date people you work with. I know because J. and B. got married.
   
   KIDS?! The hell people?!!!

No, no really. Kids? Good lord the woman was selling him hardcore. Like a slab of man meat.

"He's tall and smart and funny and cute and you know what else? He's good with kids. I mean, that IS every girl's dream right? It must be because you're single and what else could you possibly think about? It must be shameful for you to still be without a good man and a couple of kids. How old are you again? 24? Yeah, you should have at least six by now. What's taking you so long? Ohhh! You know what?! You should totally get knocked up THIS WEEKEND! He's such an upstanding guy, he would DEFINATELY stand by you. Sigh. I can see it now! It'll be such a pretty shotgun weddin', because NOTHING is sexier than a barrel mark in the back of a rented tux."

BITTER GRAY HAG

I found something today. Something that almost made me cry. Something, that until now, I though was a myth. Okay, okay. Maybe not a myth but something that I hoped would never happen to me. Hoped, mind you, but I knew better. I knew it was just a matter of time.

BUT I THOUGHT I HAD TIME!!! I mean, I'm still young! I'm not yet 25. I just barely graduated college a year ago. I... I thought I had time.

Sadly, today ruined ALL of that. Today my innocence was ripped from me by cruel and callous hands. And by hands I mean follicles, because today, fair reader(s), I found my first official gray hair. I'll have you know that immediately after I tore that sucker out of my skull with nary a hint of remorse I called my mother and blamed her faulty genes for this tragedy that has befallen me.

You know what that heartless bitch said to me? (HI MOM!!! LOVE YOU!!! XOXOX) She said, and I quote, "I can buy you something to fix it." She then proceeded to snicker to herself before calling me old.

Wench. If I'm old you're ancient. What?! I'm just sayin'.

PRINESS PARKER POSIE

For Tiff with love:



You're welcome.

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART... UM... THREE. YEAH, THREE

"Remember how I told you I was going to get a killer bruise from running into the drawer yesterday? It's definately a welt."

"Oh, gross. Is it all splotchy purple and yellow?"

"Ya know, for as bad as it hurt, the bruise is not that impressive."

"It's still gross."

"Don't worry. My tights hide it."

"You're tights?"

"Yeah. I wore orange tights for Halloween today."

"Well, R. wore an orange shirt."

"So, what are you wearing?"

"..."

(At this point we both break down into immature giggles)

"For Halloween. What are you wearing for Halloween?"

"I'm so telling HR."

"Sigh. Go ahead. I already touched someone from HR's butt yesterday."

"You what?!"

"It was an accident! I have big, oafish arms! And... she had a big, oafish butt."

TOOLY O'TOOL

The Distraction saw a new side of my personality this weekend, the bloody effing slave driver side.

No. He didn't call me that. I'm merely translating Sissy Boy Whimper.

Now, why did the Distraction get to see that bright and shiney side of me? Because he asked me to help him move out of his house and into an undisclosed location. (Yeah, his parent's house.)(He's not dealing with it well.)

His landlord, who also happens to be his housemate, got to see a new side of me, too. The side of me that thinks he's a huge fricking tool (the landlord, not the Distraction who is merely just a sissy). Because he is. And not just ANY tool but the Tooliest Tool who ever Tooled. He's also a world-class asshole.

Sadly, I am remiss in figuring out WHY he must think that I think he's a royal friggin tool. I doubt it could have been the two times I gave him the finger (since his back was turned both times) or the time I called him a tool (because it was said under my breath).

It could have been the glares. Yeah. It was probably the glares. I didn't really hide those.

You're probably wondering why Mr. Tooly O'Tool gets such a special distinction. Let me give you an example:

A woman that could be called, semi-accurately, Mr. O'Tool's girlfriend was on her way over, which Mr. O'Tool rolled his eyes about because fair from being his girlfriend, Mr. O'Tool is playing this woman to get her to buy some of his real estate.

But she's a bitch and kind of deserves it.

No, what really got me was the bitching about the mud in the house while we were moving (there was no mud... a leaf mayhaps, but no mud), and the fact that he asked the Distraction if he could buy the kitchen table from him. The Distraction says he likes that table. O'Tool suggests the Distraction can go buy another one (buy it yourself asshat.) The Distraction explains he promised the table to DBF BECAUSE HE ASKED FIRST. O'Tool then whines like a pussy little girl that DBF never does anything around here and how unfair that he should go without a kitchen table because HE IS TOO LAZY AND CHEAP TO GO GET ONE HIMSELF.

He also makes DBF go smoke in the grass because he doesn't like the ashes on the deck.

TOOLTOOLTOOLTOOL. And not even a useful one unless it might benefit him in any way.

I'm sure you all know I'm a closed book. No one can read me. So you understand why I'm so surprised he suspects I might not be his biggest fan. Prick.

BEANIE TO THE WEINIE

Because it's my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I want to, I would like to take a moment to introduce you to my youngest sister, Bean. (That's not her REAL name. It's just a nickname. Her real name is Jaymison McSnottypants-Buttheadface.)

She's a brat.


That face isn't so much the exception. It would be much more of a rule.

Oh yeah, she's also married... and younger than me. All at the same time, but whatever. I'm not bitter. She's taller than me, thinner than me, better endowed in the chest area, and bitchy to the extreme (WHAT?! You are!) BUT! to the untrained eye, we totally look like twins.

See:

SLRd (me)	Bean (her)

Ohhh! Guess who's sluttier! GUESS! (If you said me you're a prick.)

I know what you're thinking. THAT IS THE EXACT SAME IMAGE! However! It isn't true. I'm sure if I hadn't labeled our pictures and told you she was the married one you wouldn't have known. You would have accused me of such wrong-doing as using... the.. exact same picture. This is because I know you, Internet, and you are a harsh and judgemental bitch. Petty even. But I promise you on all this bloggity holiness that those are two drastically different individuals in those pictures. And I purport that I am the better dresser. I'm just saying.

Also, a side note to her husband, this is NOT a face you can ever hope to see again:


See, because she's married she doesn't have to do that anymore. Tiff said so.

But I digress.

The reason I went through all the trouble of giving you an intimate look at the Beanie to the Weinie is because she has provided us with an unpresidented opportunity. An opportunity to go on an adventure, dear reader(s)! An adventure THROUGH TIME. Would you do that with me? Would you like to travel back a few years to the ONLY NIGHT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE that I may not entirely remember? The only night that when regaled by hilarious quotes and reminisced witty banter I routinely laugh heartily before asking, "who said that?"

The answer is always me.

Now, rather than spending the last 300+ words making fun of her, I could have just rewritten her blog entry over here, but she used such pretty (obnoxious) colors, I thought, "what the hell?" Not to mention this was so much more fulfilling.

SHE'S A LADY WHOA WHOA WHOA

When I got back from working out you know what I wanted? Huh? Can you guess? Water, you say? Um, well, yes, but after that. A massage? Oh. Oh, you are good. Well played my dear adversary, but you're still wrong.

I decided I wanted a good, ole, steaming cup of tea.

But not just any tea. No, because last time I went to the grocery store I splurged. Because it was free. And I bought myself some Lady Grey, because sometimes an Earl is just too much. No, sometimes you just need a delightfully robust Lady to really get the juices flowing.

Me. Ow.

IS IT THE WEEKEND YET?

The weekend was a bust kids. I sort of feel like it didn't even happen.

I didn't go into this weekend thinking it would suck great big donkey balls. No, I went into this weekend thinking I had plans Saturday. Plans that involved a bar and some shameless, drunk flirting and a designated driver in the form of the Distraction, because it was his best friend's birthday.

There was no bar.

(There wasn't really much flirting either. Bastard.)

No, instead we went to the Distraction's best friend's (here after known as DBF) coworker's house. Where they talked about work. THE WHOLE TIME. Which, um, yay beer? But HOLY FREAKING GOD PEOPLE. Nobody, absolutely nobody in the history of the world is that interested in what they do and what they "do" is work for Macy's in the credit department or some such shit.

Now, I would LIKE to be liked by the Distraction's friends because to be such increases the chances of hanging out, but I find DBF frustrating in that he's a very one-sided conversationalist. If we aren't talking about him or if he isn't the center and the glory of the conversation, he glowers.

This annoys me. Particularly since I know that to be a good conversationalist, it is recommended you ASK THE OTHER PERSON SOME QUESTIONS or, at the very least, appear somewhat interested when they do dare to open their mouths.

I'm just saying.

And I have tried to engage him. I really have. The first night I met him I was content to ask question after question and listen raptly as he told me of his bouncer hijinks but come Saturday, even the Distraction was bored as evidence by the text he sent me that said, quite simply, "boring."

A TALE OF TWO MATT'S

"Men can lactate."

"No."

"Yes. It's a sympathy reaction in some men."

"No way. No man is that sympathetic."

"Not a straight guy at least. I wonder if that is a sign you're gay?"

"No. I think liking men is a sign you're gay."