Protected: I’ve Got It Bad

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Can I Offer You a Cup?

We had been on some kind of streak.  It has literally been weeks since I was trapped under the bus being forced to listen in to one of Debbie Downer’s depressing and/or painfully boring stories.  That streak ended today.  How is it possible that the woman can’t take a hint??  Is she really that clueless, or does she just not care?  God and the little diaper clad baby Jesus sleeping in the manger only know.

She’s been dating this guy for a few months now, and it appears that things are going very well for them.  He’s a widower, has 3 kids, a decent job, and seems like a good guy (at least that’s what I hear when she’s boring someone else with the details).  This morning she stopped by to ask Lit’l Smokey a question, and he wasn’t at his desk.

• DD: Have you seen Lit’l Smokey today?
• CS: He’s here today but I’m guessing he’s at a meeting.
• DD: I need a manual for someone and he has the copy.
• CS: Okay, well, he should be back soon.
• DD: How was your weekend?
• CS: Pretty low key.  I nearly died on Friday from the plague, but I managed to recover. [Dreading this next part but feeling obligated to ask] Did you have a nice weekend? [I purposely asked a yes/no question hoping she would keep it short.]
• DD: I sure did!  It was really great!  I met the rest of Widower’s family, and he and the kids met my family.  We had an Easter egg hunt for the kids.  I got my hair done. I celebrated my birthday on Thursday too, that was really fun.  So busy, lots to do, boring, blah, blah, cat woke me up at 3:00 in the morning.  I’m so tired.
• CS: Oh.  That’s nice.
• DD: Yeah, my family really liked Widower and the kids.  It felt like such a great family gathering and we played checkers and ate food and did boring things and I am going to make you cry with boring details about the boring things that I did.
• CS: [Willing the phone to ring or for someone to come and save me] Really?
• DD: Yeah, and I took Widower’s daughter to get her hair done on Saturday and then I had to drive home and clean the house, and then we went to my aunt’s house and it was really great and boring and now I’ll talk about my cat until you hurl.
• CS: Great.
• DD: Yeah, things are going really well.  I’m tired though because the cat was playing with the blinds all night.  He spends most of the day hiding under the bed and only comes out at night when I’m asleep.  He’s hiding from the other cat who attacks him so I lock him out at night and that’s why the cat that hides under the bed only comes out at night.
• CS: I see.
• DD: The other night I just opened the blinds so that he could just see out the window.  That’s all he wants.
• CS: I see. [My take is that the cat is actually trying to strangle himself with the cord of the blinds, which is what I would do if I had to listen to her drone on and on about nothing.]
• DD: Plus I didn’t go to bed until late because Widower and I were on the phone until midnight.  We spent so much family time together but didn’t get any one on one time together.
• CS: I see.
• DD: So we were on the phone for 2 hours last night.
• CS: Mmm hmm.
• DD:  And then the cat woke me up at 3 to play with the blinds.

This went on for 20 freaking minutes.  I kept looking at the clock and making sure that I didn’t ask her any questions.  At one point I typed a long email and stared at my computer.  She just kept right on blathering away like a fool.   I’d give you the rest of the conversation but it was so painfully traumatic that it’s already been blocked out.  God I hope I don’t have post traumatic stress disorder.  That’s just what I need-to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat with vague memories of one of her boring stories.

My Dream Date with Pistols @ Dawn

He’s everyone’s hero: The guy that every girl needs to know and every damsel in distress’s worst nightmare. Other men want to be him and naive girls with poor judgement and low self esteem will fall prey to his prowess, and I get to meet up with him for dinner (please let me be one of those girls!).  I’m having dinner with Mr. Cool himself, Pistols @ Dawn.

Hmm. . .will I change my last name when we get married?

• Catherinette @ Dawn.
• Mrs. Catherinette @ Dawn.
• Mrs.  Pistols @ Dawn.
• Mrs. Catherinette Singleton-@ Dawn.
• Maybe I’ll just keep my last name.

5:45: Crap, I have to leave my house in 15 minutes if I’m going to get there on time. What should I wear? White long sleeve shirt, jeans, and boots.

5:49: No, I don’t like this outfit-not enough cleavage. How about this green shirt?

5:51: Too much cleavage. If I show up wearing this he’s going to start throwing dollar bills at me. Then again, I could use the extra cash.

5:52: Let’s go with this shirt, just the right amount of cleavage. Now for the shoes. Boots? No boots. How about heels? But what if it snows later. I got it! The heels with tread on the bottom.

6:00: Perfect. Except for the hair. What’s with the hair? Looks like a small bird has decided to nest there. Oh well, time’s up. I gotta go. He’ll just have to get over it.

6:02: Maybe I should have stuck with the green shirt to detract from the rat’s nest on top of my head.

6:15:  Gotta leave a message for Lola-just in case he’s a serial killer and I disappear.  “Hey, Lola!  It’s Catherinette.  I’m off to meet Pistols @ Dawn for dinner.  If I die, his name and number are on my cellphone and you can have my new red coat.  Tell my niece and nephew I always loved them.  I’ll call you when I’m on my way home-if he doesn’t kill me.”

6:20: What the hell is up with all this GD traffic?!  I’m getting angry.  I’m going to be late and I hate being late.

6:25: I have a superb idea!  I’ll text him while I’m stuck at one of these stupid red lights and let him know that I’m running late.

6:26: How is it possible that I’m hitting another red light?

6:27: And another?

6:28: And 6 more.  Freaking red lights.

6:30: I am officially late.  I hate myself.

6:32: Score!  There’s a parking spot right in front of the restaurant.  Now, if I can only manage to parallel park. . .

6:35:Okay, now where’s that George Clooney look-a-like?  That guy at the end of the bar is waving to someone behind me? [Turn to look around] No, wait, he’s waving to me.  Wait a second, he doesn’t look like George Clooney.

6:38: Wow, that was really smooth of him to knock down the entire container of salt.  Talk about “game”!  I think I might swoon.

6:39: Ha ha, a Mexican joke about lawn mowing.  I haven’t heard that one (100 times in the last week).

6:43: I think I’ll order a salad and eat like a bird so he thinks that I’m all healthy and physically fit.

6:44: Like eating a salad is going to hide the fact that I have concealed muffin top and back fat.

6:45:Screw it!  I’m going for meat wrapped in meat with fattening sauce on top.  Mmm. . .meaty bacony goodness.  A burger?  He’s having a burger when he could have bacon wrapped filet?  Maybe this marriage isn’t going to work.

7:00: The woman at the table next to us is eyeing Pistols up and down.  She’s flirting with him but he’s not noticing because he’s whispering to his glass of booze.  I can’t quite make out what he’s saying but it sounds like “you’re mine tonight.”

7:10:She just whispered something to her friend.  Wait now she’s getting up and she’s sticking her ass in his face!  What the hell is she?  A dog greeting a new friend.  The dirty, bitch!  “Usually I have to pay for that,” he says.  BWAHAHAHA!!  I manage to swallow my drink instead of releasing it through my nose.  Good one!  The dirty bitch chuckles too.  As she walks away, I see her do the “call me sign” by raising her forefinger and pinky up to her ear.  I don’t think he notices because her hand is not anywhere close to my cleavage-where his eyes are currently located.

7:15: Christ, what the hell is he doing with his glass?  He’s not supposed to be licking the inside of the glass.  That’s gross.  He’s whispering to it again.  Should I leave them alone for a second?

7:17:Oh look, another Mexican joke.  Yes, I have heard that Mexicans drive low riders so they can pick lettuce as they go.  Funny.  Hardee har har.

7:45: Hey there, sailor.  My eyes are up here.

7:53: Wonder if he’s planning on making eye contact any time soon?

8:03:I can only imagine what would have happened if I had worn the green shirt.  I have an image of him sailing across the table and motorboating me.

8:18: We’ve inhaled our food and I need another drink-or 12 if I’m going to catch up to him.  Let’s go to this nice out of the way bar.  It’s quiet there (plus they have stools that vibrate and I could use that right now).

8:32: God freaking damn it, someone is sitting on the stool I want.  Bastard!  Wait a second, he’s kind of hot.  I might have to go and make friends with him later.

8:48:The barstool thief is giving me the eye.  He wants me. . .to stop staring at him.  That’s hot.

9:15: Wait a second.  I think I’m drunk.  No, I know I’m drunk.  Christ, I have no tolerance.  I will now attempt to sit here and pretend to not be drunk.  This is going really well.  Why is the bar starting to spin?

9:19: People are so funny when I’m drunk!!

9:30:I’m going to fall off of this (non-vibrating) barstool in a second.  Why is he looking at the mirror?  Did he just wink at himself?  Yes, yes he did.  Now he’s caressing his cheek in the mirror!

9:45: He’s totally ignoring me AND my cleavage!  Damn it, I should have worn the green shirt.  Hello?  I’m over here!!

9:52:Enough about stuff he wants to talk about, like booze and broken women.  Let’s talk about Tila Tequila!  No, wait, that’s the same topic.  He’ll totally love this.

9:55:How has he never seen Tila Tequila?  What’s wrong with him?  Then let’s talk about more dysfunction.  This one has strippers in it: Rock of Love.

10:14: What does he mean he doesn’t watch television?  What the hell is wrong with him?  What on earth would we do together if we weren’t watching television?  This is really disappointing.  The marriage is off.  I can’t marry someone that doesn’t want to watch useless things on television with me.  That’s what a relationship is all about.  That and broken promises.

10:30: He’s looking over my shoulder and pretending to talk to someone that’s not there.  I stare blankly at him.  I think I’m starting to sober up.

10:34:After winking at himself in the mirror and making a joke to my right shoulder, he has fallen out of his barstool.  Not sure how to handle that right now.  I know, I’ll just stare blankly at him.

10:40: Is he getting up?  He’s asleep!  How could he fall asleep??  I wasn’t even talking about handbags or shoes!  Christ, I’m not that boring!

10:45:That’s it.  If he doesn’t wake up after 5 minutes of me kicking him in the kidney with my high heeled foot.  I’m out.  Oh, and would you look at that?  Barstool hotty is walking out too.  Sure, I’d love it if he walked me to my car.

11:15: What is it about a man with a Mustang?

11:34: How is it that I find myself making out in yet another car?  So much for my New Year’s Resolution.

12:30am: My phone is ringing.  Screw it.  I’m not answering it when Mr. New Mustang is so fiery hot and breathing on my neck.

12:35:  He said he’d call me!  This is it!  The beginning of something special.  I can feel it.

My “Magical” Night

1:30 AM: I have to pee. I really have to pee. I stumble out of bed and stagger down the hallway to the bathroom. I flip the light switch. The stupid bulb has burned out. Fine. I can pee without turning on the light. I fumble with the strings on my pajama bottoms and end up making a huge knot. Note to self: wear night shirts from here on out. I really have to pee. I can’t get my freaking pants off. Damn it. I’m going to pee myself if I don’t get the knot undone. I’m too tired to try to fight the knot much longer. But wait! What is this I see? A pair of scissors. Perfect! I cut the knot out. My pajama pants are ruined.

Relief. Damn it. I forgot to get the new roll of toilet paper out of the closet. I have 2 squares left. Damn it. Fuck it. It’s too late to worry about it and I’ve already ruined my pajama pants. Note to self: bring two rolls of toilet paper into the bathroom and put the spare in the cabinet. I wash my hands and walk back to my bathroom. I trip over my shoe that’s in the doorway. Note to self: pick up shoes and put them in the closet. I get back in bed and try to go back to sleep. It’s 1:42.

1:49 AM: Why the fuck is the toilet still running? I’ll just wait another minute to see if it stops. Note to self: call the plumber to get the toilet fixed.

1:52 AM: I get up and stomp down the hallway to the bathroom. I flip the switch to turn on the light. Oh, right, the bulb burned out. Note to self: change the light bulb in the bathroom. Stomp back down the hall and jump back into bed. The toilet finally stops running. It’s 1:53.

2:00 AM: I can’t go back to sleep. Turn over to face wall and make resolution to never ever drink liquids again so I can avoid this nonsense in the future.

2:03 AM: The dog is breathing on me. I pretend to ignore him and hope he goes away. It doesn’t work, he starts pawing at the bed. Throw back the covers, stomp down the stairs, and let the dog out. I sit at the kitchen table and curse him for making me get out of bed. He starts to bark. I open the door and start calling him to come in. He looks at me, then runs into the corner of the yard and starts barking again. God damn him. I get some dog biscuits to lure him back in. It doesn’t work, he won’t come in. I put on my shoes and go grab him by the collar to get him back inside the house. I close the door and he stares at me-he wants his dog biscuit. I climb up the stairs and get back into bed. It’s 2:37.

2:49 AM: I have to pee. Again.

More Conversations with Mom

Every once in awhile, my mom tries to “get with it”.  She likes to pretend that she’s cool from time to time.  Inevitably I end up having to explain things that she will never understand, and will immediately forget the second we’re through.  Witness the following exchange:

• Mom: Do you know who JC is?

• Me: Jesus Christ?  You’re not going to lecture me on religion, are you?

• Mom: No.  The rapper.

• Me.  Oh, you mean Jay-Z?

• Mom: Yes, I guess so.  I thought it was JC, though.

• Me: No, mom.  JC stands for Jesus Christ, and unless he just signed up with Def Jam records, I’m pretty sure that you’re talking about Jay-Z.

• Mom: Okay, Jay-Z then.  Doesn’t he date a famous singer?  Bianca, right?

• Me: How about Beyonce, mom.  Not Bianca.

• Mom:  Oh, well, it looks like it would be pronounced Bianca.  What kind of name is Beyonce?  Why don’t these people have regular names?

• Me: I don’t know mom.  I didn’t name them.

• Mom: So what songs does he sing?

• Me: I’m sure you wouldn’t know any of them if I told you.

• Mom: Just tell me what he sings!

• Me: Fine.  He sings Dirt Off Your Shoulders, 99 Problems, Hard Knock Life, and some others.

• Mom: I don’t think I know those.

• Me: No, you don’t know them.  I told you wouldn’t know them.

• Mom: How does 99 Problems go.

• Me: Are you serious?

• Mom:  Yes.  How does it go?

• Me: [Proceeds to do a terrible rendition of the chorus]

• Mom: I don’t like that very much.  Why does he have to use the word “bitch” so much?

• Me: [Irritated] I don’t know, mom.  I don’t consult with him when he’s writing his freaking lyrics.

• Mom: Well you don’t have to get angry with me.

• Me: [Even more irritated] I’m not angry, I just don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions about something that you really don’t care about and will never be interested in.

• Mom: Fine!  We’ll talk about something else.  How do I check my bank account online?

• Me: Jesus Christ. . .

A Kiss Is Still A Kiss

“then I did the simplest thing in the world.  I leaned down. . .and kissed him.  And the world cracked open.” -Agnes de Mille

What is it about him that turns my knees to jelly?  It is unnatural the way that I feel around him, like I’m about to melt into the ground, or burst into flames.  Seriously, he drives me crazy.  We have little to talk about, and there are awkward silences about him, but he makes me flush and want to jump into his lap the second I see him.

Notebook came home for Thanksgiving, and we made plans to meet out for some drinks on Saturday night.  I was tired.  I didn’t want to go, yet I dragged myself out.  I made minimal effort in putting myself together as I was sure that nothing would happen.  I packed the girls in a tank top and tightish sweater (I did notice him staring down my shirt when he thought I wasn’t looking), and threw my jeans on over unshaven legs.  He walked in looking hot, as usual.  He always looks hot.  Always.

He bought me a drink, we flirted with one another, some other friends showed up.  We sat there for hours and I did a super job of not drooling on his jacket or his sweater.  Finally, it was time to go.  He walked me to my car.  It was cold out so I offered to drive him back to his car.  He said yes.  I pulled up in front of his car that he had parked right outside the bar.  He smiled at me and I knew he was going to kiss me.  And then he did.  And we were both sober.  Stone cold sober.

I went back and forth between 3 distinct thoughts: the desire to jump over my center console and straddle him; wanting to melt right into him; and wondering what it would be like if he just swallowed me whole.  He was so warm, his lips so soft, his hands were in my hair. He whispered, “It’s nice to see you,” while he kissed me.  Lord only knows how I managed not to die right then and there.   [My heart is beating so fast just thinking about it all.]

Having had no expectations that there could be a booty call, I was unprepared-I left the house without shaving my legs.  That meant that I couldn’t invite him home to jump into my warm bed.  Damn my unshaved legs!!  Foiled again!

We said good-bye.  We will not call each other, we will not email each other.  And I’m okay with that.  I’ll see him at Christmas time.  I have zero expectations.

A very Happy Birthday to me. . .

Sometimes, I Hate Technology

My brother-in-law insisted on purchasing a huge home theatre surround sound system, and has a huge TV.  He also decided that he only needed one remote control, to rule them all.  Anytime I go over there, it takes me 15 minutes to figure out how to turn on the receiver, TV, and cable box.  It’s confusing, requires a manual, and a freaking flow chart.  You can imagine my horror when my mother called me this morning to ask me how it worked.

• Mom: I can’t get the stupid TV to turn on.
• CS: Which remote control are you using?
• Mom: What do you mean?
• CS: Out of the 4 that they have, which one are you using?
• Mom: The silver one.
• CS: You need to get the big black one with the big blue button.
• Mom: The one that says Sony on it?
• CS: I don’t know what it says, it’s just big and black with a blue button.
• Mom: Okay, I have it.  Now what?
• CS: Did you turn the cable box on?
• Mom: I don’t know, there’s no picture on the TV.
• CS: Walk me through what you did.
• Mom: I pointed the silver remote control at the TV and turned on something, and they I grabbed one of the other remotes and turned something else on too.
• CS: That doesn’t help me.
• Mom: Why is there no picture on the TV?  It’s just a blue screen.
• CS: I don’t know because I’m not sure what you did. I need you to walk over to the cable box and power it on.
• Mom: Which remote do I use?
• CS: No, you don’t need a remote, you need to walk to the box to turn it on.
• Mom: Oh.  Okay.  Where’s the button?

This lasted for 20 minutes.  It was really good times.

An American Tragedy

Something so horrible happened on Saturday. I’m still reeling from the events which I am about to write down. It was an accident, but one of the most devastating that I have ever witnessed in my life. My family and I were at Wegmans doing our grocery shopping and having some lunch. On our way out, I was carrying my niece, and my sister was responsible for carrying my things. She put my coke bottle into my Michael Kors handbag-without checking to see if the bottle cap had been screwed on all the way. Half the bottle of soda emptied into poor, defenseless Michael Kors before I realized what was happening.

I went to put some things into my bag and realized that the inside of the bag was wet. As I began cursing at my sister-in front of everyone at Wegmans-and cleaning out the bag with napkins, I realized that something horrible was happening: the soda was soaking through the leather. The tears started welling in my eyes as I turned and shouted, “It’s soaking through the fucking leather!” Everyone began grabbing napkins and dabbing at the mess. My heart sank when I looked at the napkins and realized that the beautiful color of the leather was bleeding onto the napkins. It was not a pretty sight to behold. I was so upset that I had to step outside and go for a little walk on my own.

I text messaged Muffy, and she called me right away. The pep talk made me feel much better. She reminded me that “Michael Kors is an American Icon, and is resilient,” and that he’d pull through. I pulled myself together, and went back inside.

Upon my return, we decided to take drastic measures: back to Nordstrom to see if they could help. Sadly, they did less than nothing. My mother-the doctor-had to intervene. When we got back to her house, she took matters into her hands. It was a late night for her as she treated Michael Kors hoping to minimize the scarring. The results were better than I expected, however, the soda marks are still visible. This week, he’ll be going through a 2nd round of treatments in hopes of minimizing the scars.

Please pray for the speedy recovery of my Michael Kors handbag. These are trying times for all of us.