Bad Idea Gnome

This is the Bad Idea Gnome.

He's supposed to pop up and say "bad idea" when things get out of control. He's not much of an inspiration as he's always got that keg with him.

But I digress.

Luckily, he was with me Friday night. He's been curiously absent from mine and RS' life over the past few months. We could have used him before the whole pass the mints game.

So had a great night out on Thursday. Dinner with a mommie friend. Out afterwards with RS and her friends at a new bar in N. Raleigh. And one last drink at Ollie's on the way home. Bad idea gnome didn't even have to chaperone RS and I whilst we were out on the town.

Friday was even better. Margaritas. Bumping in, unplanned, to an attentive ex boyfriend. (Always good. But fleeting. Like eating a sweet tart. Tastes great for about 5 seconds then its gone.) Bad idea gnome didn't need to get involved but he was lurking around the corner. Going to a crappy bar with one of my friends to see her friend Heather's band - dreading it a bit b/c I don't like the bar - but realizing when I got there that one of my guy friends was the guitarist in said band! Proceeded to dance the next 90 minutes away! Had a ball!

In between tried to cut the night short earlier that evening with a booty call to BF. I misinterpreted two calls he made to me late that night...thought perhaps he was missing me. (Silly rabbit. He wasn't. But I was certainly missing him.) Alas, he was having none of it. Did not want me to come over as he was too tired and needed alone time. I didn't sweat it. (At least not that night...I would be totally lying if I didn't admit that it is gnawing at me today. Sunday blues...)

Did have mostly a good day and night with BF yesterday - golf then fabulous dinner then drinks with friends at Federal. Suppose this is going to be a once a week sort of arrangement for awhile. Seems weird and I am definitely having trouble with it. Hard to feel like you are going backwards. But I've thought it through all day today and am coming to terms.

Good afternoon today. Bought my daughter golf clubs. Spent time at the driving range just letting her hit for awhile. She did great. I think mother and daughter lessons are a must at this point.

Still have yet to get my eyes checked! Put it off last week...

That's what she said

RS: Do you think JG got so drunk at his wedding that he pulled another Studio 54 - but this time on his bride? Was he at his own reception making out in a corner with a bridesmaid?

I would like to think not, but hearing the stories that he was SUPPOSEUBLY a drunk, dancing fool just makes me think of the MGM in January.

I'm gonna do my own version of Veiled Conceit if I find his announcement somewhere on the web.

(How was that? Every entry from now on will include one of those. Perhaps two or three. I mean, its just the english language, for intensive purposes...)

Therapy is a test where the answer to every question is: because of my mother

Couples therapy. It sounds so lame. But...

First meeting was a rousing success. The title says more than you can imagine!

In all seriousness, the therapy session was a huge huge win. A weight off my shoulders. I see why this works if you have the right elements in place. It's why games have referees and coaches: athletes might have a lot of talent, but even McNabb or Manning needs help with the rules and a playbook. Hell, Staubach didn't coach himself. The '72 Dolphins had Shula and refs there to help them. The 'skins had Norv Turner in the 90's. Uh. Wait. Nope. No...we can't use that. Strike that last one.

But I digress.

It went well. Got to unload a bit. Got some advice. Both got some reprimands for crazy, ultra competitive fighting and related behaviour. Looking forward to the next session on Friday. Putting off the eye exam in favor of another session with the BF and the Dr.

Also anticipating girls night out tomorrow. Just had a lunch debrief on the psychoanalysis with Rock Star and she was as optimistic as me. To celebrate, we're planning a school night outing for libations. I have a dinner first with one of my fellow suburban moms, but now have a post-dinner drinkfest with the girls to look forward to as well. Long overdue.

And in closing:

A psychiatrist is a man who goes to a strip club and watches the audience...

He's just not that into me

BF is history.

It's been a tough weekend. Minutes seem like hours. Totally depressed. The house is so quiet. Daunting to think about rebuilding parts of my life that were intertwined with him.

Made a quick vow to never date at work again. I now have to face seeing him/hearing about him at work. Ugh.

Friends coming to the rescue though - always good. Had me out and about last night. Trying to set me up with an eye surgeon who is single...keep me from falling back into this when it has been so awful for me. Hoping that when I get a little distance, I'll see what everyone else saw. The logical side of me knows this - I can even see it now on a Sunday morning - but my heart just hurts so much. And I miss him. I had no idea it would hurt this much. I didn't hurt this much when I broke off my engagement last year (very telling about that situation) nor with just about any other break-up.

I thought he was the one.

I haven't hurt this bad since when the first love of my life and I broke up - and that was 18 years ago. Whole other story I don't want to tell right now.

Have to make a list of things to remind myself why this is right:

1. I was really into him and he's just not that into me
2. He's not good stepfather material (too selfish, not giving enough and certainly not patient enough to let things flourish as they should over time...) This was his own self-fulfilling prophecy. He kept fearing that he wasn't going to be heard, that he wasn't good enough to be a parent. I spent months telling him otherwise. In the end, he was right. He's not. Perhaps if he were more into me he would have made more of an effort. But alas...
3. His insecurities were somehow excusable when mine weren't. Whatever. I was willing to overlook and work with what he was weak on. I know he had issues - and I was trying to help. He wasn't willing to return the favor
4. As such, he's just not that into me
5. He's just not that into me
6. He's just not that into me
7. He's just not that into me

Yup it is my new mantra: He's just not that into you! It's getting me through the really tough moments on a Sunday morning.

I'm off to the bookstore to buy reading material for the pool and for my daughter to buy thank you notes for her various birthday gifts. I have the uncomfortable task of making her write notes to his family for their gifts even though I am trying to erase him from my life. This is one of the last things I need to do where he is concerned.

I suppose with my new singleton status the blog is going to get a lot more interesting again. Let's hope so. I'm not going to have another long dry spell like last summer. And I need to know that he's not the only guy out there that's great in the sack.

Rock star and I are already working on plans for our birthday celebration in December. Something else to look forward to.

The week from hell

So last week sucked.

Hadn't written in awhile. BF and I came to terms on the Aruba thing. He was simply being frugal about calling from down there on Monday, and I did end up picking him up from the airport.

But last week - ugh - what a bad week.

I was hormonal. Me and the BF were fighting again, over some imaginary injustice I invented in my head due to the hormonal swings I was experiencing. (Side note - this seems to be getting worse and there are hot flashes now. So I suspect early menopause...not fun.) Telling this just to lay the groundwork.

I was, essentially, feeling very sorry for myself. I felt old, and could hear my biological clock TICK TICK TICKING so loud last week that it kept me awake at night. Well, the ticking and the hot flashes.

So I am at my daughter's school for open house. It's been a shitty sleepless night. I don't wear makeup. I'm wearing a tank top and a little sweater that ties under my rack. The tank doesn't do a good job covering up the new girls. I look like crap, basically, but don't care b/c this is just about getting my daughter comfortable with her new school.

Mistake mistake mistake.

I run into someone I haven't seen in over a year and half. PTA perfect stay at home mom. Runs every morning after walking her kids to school. She thinks I have gotten married. And she asks if I am pregnant.

WOW.

WOW.

Wow.

I guess I HAVE gained weight. Its only like 7 pounds but coupled with the new boobs I guess I look bad.

WOW.

I say no, I am not. And I proceed to say - no I never got married and no I am no longer engaged either.

I want to say I'm just a lame ass big breasted slightly chubby single mom here to meet the teacher. But I don't. I just smile and say something lame like, I'll call you.

Just writing about it now seems shocking. Someone thought I was pregnant. Wow.

I go home and smoke like 5 cigarettes and cry a lot.

And just when I thought it couldn't get worse...

My friend sends me a copy of the Forbes article on "Why you shouldn't marry a career woman". They define career woman as university educated and makes more than 30K per year. I guess I am an uber-career woman at this point.

Apparently I don't keep a clean house. I am more apt to cheat or find someone better than my mate. (This is true, but the same could be said about men!) My mate will be unhappy b/c I potentially could make more.

This is the nail in my coffin. I should just give up on the idea of marital bliss and commitment to my BF and accept singledom as it is inevitable.

I think of the line in the movie Singles. Be Happy- Stay Single!

By Friday I was thinking, ah fuck it all. Nothing I can do about this but exercise and diet and hope for the best on all fronts. If it works out with the BF, fine. If it doesn't, fine but I better get my ass back down to fighting weight and into my size 27 Paper Denim and Cloth that are just a bit too tight right now.

I began exercising in earnest after this past week. I need to lose like 15 pounds. Determined that the next time I run into this woman there is no way she will think I am pregnant. I'd rather her think I was silly and superficial enough to spend a good chunk of disposable income on new boobs than for her to think I am just fat.

Open letter to my bf

Dear BF-

I am very disappointed in you.

For someone who cares so so much about courtesy and manners, and usually is unbelievably thoughtful, you are sorely lacking in this case.

I realize that you like to be frugal, however, I find it ridiculous and utterly absurd that you can spend hundreds of dollars - perhaps thousands - going to Aruba for a long weekend and not be willing to invest just a few to call me today from your mobile with details of your flight back.

Perhaps even sending me an email with your flight details would have been nice. I realize how much effort that would have taken. A fingerprint swipe on the ThinkPad. A few keystrokes in that WIFI - enabled villa of yours. A lot of work.

But alas, you were busy. I understand. Really, I do.

If getting a random cryptic message with no details from you via a stranger's blackberry is what you feel is sufficient for me, then I will respond in kind.

As I was given no courtesy or any sort of effort on this one - and the time is significantly later tonite than the time you originally told me three days ago- I don't feel compelled to make an effort of my own to come pick you up.

I'm communicating this to you via my blog. It's about as personal and direct as you were today. I can't drive the two miles to the airport in your own car to pick you up. Really, I can't. I'm busy. Really.


Words don't just mean something...actions do as well. You've said quite a bit today.

I am still really concerned

about Britney.

Crocs,the whopper-ho-ho diet and yacht hair

So why have I not been updating?

Gleefully happy? On vacation? Bored with nothing to say? Turning into a more private person suddenly?

It's a little of all those but mostly that I am just lazy as shit.

So what have I done and seen in the past month? Here are some random thoughts:

1. What the fuck is up with these Croc shoes? They are ugly as shit. I cannot believe that people leave the house to go out in public wearing them. They look like something you should wear out while gardening, but I am seeing them everywhere. EVERYWHERE. My parents wear them. (Ugh just another sign that they too are turning into old people right before my eyes.) My daughter now has a pair and won't take them off except to occasionally bathe or sleep. My uber cool "I really only like to wear Theory or Diane von Furstenburg" sister is wearing them. Jack Nicholson, not that he's any style maven, is seen wearing them in US weekly. I saw them all over DC and Atlanta. Always on white people though. Silly white folks.
2. Washington DC is really full of geeks. I always knew this, growing up in suburban DC. But I looked around a certain bar two weekends ago in Adams Morgan and the thought lit up my brain like a bunsen burner in an 11th grade chem lab. DC in the summer is full of smart kids who come to intern who aren't particularly socially graceful or remotely attractive. (Especially the guys.) Nerds love DC! It is a town where the nerdy guy that you used to pick on in the locker room now has the upper hand, and he's eventually going to grow up and get well connected and over-educated and legislate you right into the middle class, tough guy. And although at 21 he looks terribly nerdy and most closely resembles a pre-pubescent 14 year old, he will, one day, be an attractive 35 year old lobbyist in a Brooks Brothers suit. With a hot skinny wife. And you, cool high school guy, will have a gut and be a balding Nascar fan with receding hair and a terribly under-funded 401k. And your wife is named Tammi (with an 'i') who may have been hot when she was 19 but right now her diet consists of whoppers and ho-hos.
3. Joan Didion's book, The Year of Magical Thinking, is a really really great book on CD to listen to on a long road trip. If you don't mind crying your eyes out every 10 miles or so.
4. When I met one of my BF's friends this past weekend in Atlanta, all I could think as I was making small talk with him was:

My god, he's got the best yacht hair I've ever seen...

(Yes, yes he does)

24 hour party people

Apologies for being absent. Been uber busy since the party, both at work and on weekends with traveling.

So the party. The Party. I must admit that the day or so leading up to The Party I was incredibly terribly I'm getting my period and have turned into a screaming banshee stressed. Mostly because few, and I mean like only 4 out of over 50, people invited had declined.

I made the infernal party mistake of inviting a number of people based upon the idea that at least 25% of them (or more) wouldn't be able to attend. Weekend in the summer, people on vacay, oh-its-going-to-rain and I don't leave my house people were factored in. Nobody commits these days. Damnit if everyone commited. By Friday morning I realized I was fucked, as my house cannot hold 50 people and it was indeed going to rain.

Lucky for me I had the most excellent party rental place in Raleigh. They rocked. And the accomodated some very last minute additions to my rental.

So The Day of The Party was itself a party. Rock star and gal pal arrived in the morning. The rental party people had set up everything before 11 (the tent, the bar/the tables/chairs/glasses) so we just needed to focus on the food and getting the house ready. This meant spending the day smoking cigarettes and gossipping, all the while accomplishing all our party tasks before 5.

That may have been as much fun as the party. Which reminds me of all the times in my life living with my sister or roommates or boyfriends when sometimes the getting ready/pre-party/drinking before you go uptown/downtown/to Buckhead/to the Highlands/to Five Points/to Shockhoe Slip/to Georgetown/insert your favorite part of town here is equally as good as the fun had on the town.

But I digress.

My awesome friends D/T/J showed up to prepare the bar, as they were the volunteer bartenders, around 6:00. And the party officially started.

Guests began arriving around 6:45 - even though the invite said 7 - as fashionably late wasn't going to work for a surprise party. I worried how Hottie's mom would react to the whole drink menu we had published:

Mombanger

But a quick convo with me owning up to the fact that the joke was on me being a mom and not her cleared it up. Phewwww! Awkward conversation #1 complete.

The guests arrived in droves between 7 and 7:15. The house was staggeringly full. The guest of honor arrived at 7:30 with friends and was pleasantly surprised. He knew something was up, but not something of the magnitude to which we planned. And there were several out of town guests that made considerable effort to attend which surprised the hell out him! His face, as he looked around the room at all of these people (from work, from high school, from college) was worth all of the effort.

People began drinking in earnest after his arrival. The Mombanger was a favorite, but the old fashioneds we had on the menu (Mrs. Robinsons) were a hit with the older crown who "hadn't had them served to them in years" apparently.

The tent and bar was the place to be - especially for smokers - who seemed to multiply as the night wore on.

No personal drama - except I was a little buzzed and forgot about the birthday cakes til about 9. Crisis averted thanks to Gal Pal who was drinking more than me but still somehow managed through her Mombanger haze, to get those cakes out.

There was not really any party drama to speak of. No lamp shades on the head. No dancing on the tables. No one hooking up who hadn't already schemed or planned all week to hook up. Perhaps not so curiously, Rock Star and Vegas disappeared into my spare room at 10 never to be seen again.

There was an admission by an attendee at the party that he had separated from his wife. There was another admission from an attendee that things were going well with her boyfriend. In both cases I was shocked. And here is awkward conversation #2 and #3: Two of my friends separately asked if my boobs had grown in the past few months. (Ha! How does one answer that?) I just replied with a quick smile and a, "Yeah, aren't they fabulous?!"

That's as juicy as it gets. Yawn.

Most people left by 11:30. A core group of about 10 stayed til after 2:00. Too many cigarettes. A lot of mess. Too many Mombangers. I don't want to leave the impression that it was boring or ho hum. It was a great party.

Hottie and I had super fabulous a after-party upstairs in the bedroom. I didn't sleep much.

Mom Bangers and Bisexuals

More planning last night on the surprise party this weekend.

The theme of the surprise party is The Graduate -the invite is a replication of the UK version of the movie poster with my BF's picture in the place of Dustin Hoffman and his name replacing Benjamin's in the tag line. My friends, who have graciously agreed to serve as bartenders, wanted to plan out theme drinks for the party, centered around vodka, campari and some sort of whiskey/bourbon. We're doing:

Mrs. Robinson - Old fashioneds
Benjamins or "Mom Bangers" (love that double entrendre) - Vanilla vodka, oj, Galliano, splash of soda
The Sounds of Silence - Campari Cocktails

I am only partially ready for the party and its two days away. Ugh! At least I know that the Rock Stars, Vegas and other cast members will be sloshed before 9pm.

So now a few words on MySpace.

I have a profile there - for staying in touch with my musician friends and two friends from HS. I like getting the bulletin board notices from local bands telling me where they are gonna play. I occasionaly get a run of friend requests even though I am marked as being in a relationship - 99% of them I turn down. I can go weeks and not hear anything and then BOOM there are three or four friend requests in one hour. I have gotten some funny ones in the last two days...one guy who clearly looked like a 35 year old virgin (gamer, computer nerd, obviously lonely) and one really young guy who had the balls to post, as his profile picture, a shot of him in a carriage (perhaps in Central Park) with a grayed out form next to him. If you use your imagination - you can tell it was once a girl who had her head on his shoulders. So he photoshopped his old girlfriend out of the pic and use the pic anyway in an effort to meet new girls cuz that's how he rolls...

But I digress...

I have had a run in the last 24 hours of girls asking to be my friend. Not girls I know. These girls, and some are hot, are bi. I wouldn't think it was too weird except that I've been on MySpace for months now and this is the first run of local bisexual girls sending me requests. I have neither accepted or rejected...yet. I just think its funny.

So busy with this surprise party

No time to blog as I am so busy setting up a surprise party for the BF.

But the rest of the week in SF was pretty interesting. I have to hand it to Gal Pal, who, as Rock Star sistah states, has now graduated to Rock Star status. She hooked up with her new BF all over San Fran and missed out on the following due to being a prisoner in her hotel room of love:

• The best damn won ton soup I have ever had - Far East Cafe in ChinaTown on Grant. (Okay so maybe it was sooo good b/c I was sooo hung over. Whatever. I stand by the reco. And try the Dim Sum appetizer. Who knows what those meatwads were but they tasted deeeelish. The little private eating rooms in this place are really cool.)
• Hanging out with totally hung over US

Due to some strange illness/prolonged hangover/three day headache I missed the best Thai food ever. According to my friends. I had to be feeling really shitty to stay in whilst in SF.

I did meet up with my friend who got married in Vegas (where I met the hottie from Leeds...hello gorgeous!) who updated me on that whole group. Apparently a couple of pregnancies occurred after that weekend (the couples were married or engaged already so no biggie) and there's an impending wedding next month that everyone is heading to in Ireland. Fun! My friend was happy to hear about Ivy League and wants to meet him, and there were no hard feelings about me not going to London for that week in November.

So back to my new Rock Star Sistah, Must have been fun. Lots of time spent in the hotel room. Maybe starting that blog is appropos now???

Dude that is my favorite Jamorquai album

Am on the road traveling - was out in Colorado for the weekend (with the bf) and now in SF with Rock Star and Gal Pal and Ivy will be joining us tomorrow. I have some observations:

• Stoner parties are no fun at all if you are not stoned
• Stoners LOVE Jamorquai...(shit am I even spelling that right?) and they love to listen to it while stoned
• Jamorquai apparently had more than one album beyond the one with the crazy video that everyone knows them for - who knew?
• People in Colorado all drive exactly the speed limit b/c most of them smoke pot regularly
• No matter how far you go away from home, your neighborhood bailbondsmen will find you - proof is Jesse the bondbailsman from Sanford who sat next to us at a bar last night. We're out here in SF and manage to make friends with someone from just one county over back home. This is a good thing. I think everyone should probably have a bailbondsman as a friend
• The more I drink, the better I think I speak french
• This is contagious. The more Rock Star drinks, the more she peppers her words with "mon dieu" and "zut alors."
• Beware of cute women bartenders who offer to do shots with you - chambord gives you a nasty headache
• Beware of bald jewish Harry Goldenblatt lookin guys with pot to offer and crack-style lighters
• My mouth tasted like ass this morning
• I sound like a cross between Bea Arthur, Brenda Vaccaro and Kathleen Turner after a night of drinking and smoking

I have a mansion in hell now

I think after that last post, I have a mansion in hell on one of the best cul de sacs.

Rock star is going today to an early showing of the code, but her Vegas man does not want to play the game as he's actually interested in the movie. Tsk tsk. I am disappointed. A late afternoon showing is perfect for the game. They will probably make out, but that will be hormones and not any sort of mood setting from the film because what sex and sexual energy there was in the book (and I have to admit there was some) is completely stripped out of what made it to the big screen.

My other rock star friend was made a manager today here at work - bravo to you! This is great news.

It has been a slow week. All work, little play.

The DaVinci Code Drinking Game

It's memorial day weekend, and we're looking for something to do on Friday night. Going downtown or bar hopping is out, as we've got a couple of huge parties to attend at Jordan Lake and Carolina Beach over the weekend. A lot of people have already left town by Friday afternoon...

So, what to do. What to do.

Do we pull a lemming and go see Da Vinci Code - knowing it might be god awful?

My excuse is that there wasn't anything else showing at the time we wanted to go...but in the interest of ensuring a good time, we created the Da Vinci Code drinking game. It's simple, and guaranteed to get you LIT. Plus, if you do this in the early weeks of filming, while the church crowd is piling into the cinemas from their buses and vans, you get the added excitement of feeling especially hedonistic among all the bible thumpers.

There are but few rules:

• The girlie rule: Any mention of the phrase "Sacred Feminine" - either out loud or in writing on the screen. This will be your first drink, very early in the film so not to worry as you'll catch an early buzz you can ride out for over two hours. 1 drink/sip
• French word rule number 1: Any mention of the "Senechaux" - it sounds so cool, even if you aren't quite sure what it stands for. Drink up! -1 drink/sip
• The "Aha" or "Aghast" rule - anytime the characters have that stupid look on their face, the one that seems to say, "Mon dieu, what is this?" or "Can this be true?" or "I am shocked, truly shocked at what this Albino is doing..." And folks, there are so many of these moments that this is the rule that will be get you as drunk as a schoolgirl with her first bottle of Southern Comfort- 1 drink/sip
• French word rule number 2: When you hear the word,"Incroyable" - the dumbest "Aha!" moment of all, near the end of the film. You gotta do a shot at this moment, just to get past the fact you threw up in your mouth out of the sheer ridiculousness of the moment - 1 shot

Follow these rules and your guaranteed a good Da Vinci code time. It's riskiest with a full house, but no risk/no reward. I did this in a packed theatre in North Raleigh. I recommend you bring at least 10 small (roadie) bottles of Captain Morgan's and add 'em to your coke as needed, saving a few for the shot rule. The sounds of the bottles opening and the smell of rum goes over REALLY well with the religious set. They'll be praying for you during AND after the movie.

Now I lay me down to...

I ran into someone this week that I hadn't seen in awhile, and it reminded me of one of the most surreal bedroom experiences I have ever experienced.

About six years ago I dated a really sweet guy after I got divorced. Smart, well educated, thoughtful, smitten with me, decent in bed but only so-so in the looks department. He made good coin and drove a nice car, and he really liked taking me out to dinner. I was fairly happy with him. He was different enough from my ex husband (i.e. he actually liked socializing with people) that I was having a great time.

Not that there weren't signs of trouble...

He once told me that I swore too much. My response? What the fuck? No fucking god damn way could that shit possibly be true. But I digress.

He took me to church. He wasn't Catholic-no biggie since I am not big on the catholic church anyway as I haven't found time to leave it yet and seem to be content living by my own rules and twisted interpretations. His church was in Durham and was a christian denomination that I can't remember - perhaps Presbyterian, perhaps Methodist. (Hee hee baptists who can read...) Damn I am digressing again. So we go. I am enjoying the morning, thinking of the great dinner and sex we had had the night before, analyzing what everyone is wearing (quite a mixture of what I call Durham granola lesbian chic and uptight almost Baptist Belk outfits with a smattering of almost preppy mid-nineties Dookie) and not at all paying attention to the songs, prayers or what my date was doing.

But I should have been paying attention.

Because when I did come out of my selfish critical fashion daydream, there was my guy singing with his arms raised up towards the ceilings - a la southern preacher praying over his congreation. Like Jimmy Swaggert on tv. Almost, but not quite, like jesus on the cross.

Ugh. What is this?

We don't do this in catholic church. We keep our adoration quiet and well behaved. We don't even sing that loud or well.

Only a few other people were doing it. He was REALLY into this church and god thing. Wow. I just ignored it and went back to imagining what everyone life was like in the rows around me.

A week or so passes, and I get another 'sign' that things are a bit different between us. He calls me from his car while he's driving over to pick me up. His radio is blaring. At first I was like, cool, my guy is totally rockin' out on his way to see me. But then I hear a snippet of the song.

"Our god is an awesome god...."

Huh? Holy evangelistic weirdness Batman!

Soooo. I ask him what he's listening to. He says:

"This is my 'pump me up' music."

I get the pump me up music. Nothin gets me in a good, sexy mood like hearing the opening 20 seconds to Van Halen's "Ain't talkin bout love" or the riff from Iron Maiden's "Wasted Years." It's why I have trouble running without my iPod - the music usually gets me going even if I have no energy.

Christian pump up music? Sandi Patti? Before a date? Let me rephrase that - before a date with me?

I file this away and just try to hang out and be blissfully ignorant.

Then, the final straw.

We go out a week or so later -typical Saturday night date of dinner, drinks, back to my house. We have sex. Its pretty good. (Again, good is relative. All sex is good. Its like pizza. Is there really bad pizza? Not really. Like the pizza you had in high school - all frozen and rectangular shaped. Was it gourmet? No. Did you eat it and enjoy it. Yes.) So the sex is just good, and we are finished. This would be where one would like up a post coital smoke if one were so inclined. I don't do this, neither does he. Instead he asks:

Can I pray?

(This is where it got surreal.)

I say sure! I'm thinking he wants to pray siliently. This is how I was raised. We catholics, outside of mass (and hell even during some parts of the mass) like to keep our prayers to ourselves, mostly so no one knows the stupid shit we pray about. (Please god, please please please let the Orioles win tonite against the Yanks. I can't stand to see the smirk on Johnson's face every time the Yankees win. Please let Murray just wail one out of the park. Oh and can I please get oral sex sometime this month?) So I figure, he's gonna get quiet for awhile.

Well.

He takes my hand, and begins to talk, out loud, God.

"God."

"God, thank you for (insert my name here). Thank you for all the good times we have..."

OUT LOUD. THIS WAS SAID OUT LOUD.

Cue to me, on the other side of the bed.



On the outside, I am all calm. But my eyes are wide in disbelief, and inside of me, the little voice is saying what the fuck? Is this happening? Is he actually thanking god for me? Is he actually thanking god for orgasms? IS HE DOING THIS OUT LOUD????No fucking way. No fucking way.

I gotta go to sleep, and then I gotta break up with this dude. Done and done.

So I broke up with him post haste. Told him he was a little too into God and I was nahsomuch so, and alas this would not work. He took it very well, and we are still friends.

It took me a long time before I told anyone that story though. But when I did, people laughed. Not point and giggle laugh but belly I cannot fucking believe you experienced that laughs. And my friends gave him a new name:

Mr. Pray After Sex

Friday Night

So I got a free get out of my house in the suburbs pass from Rock Star in that she was staying at my house and could take care of my dog for me overnight. This meant an unencumbered Friday night at Ivy League's house in CV. No worries. No rushing out of bed at 5 am to drive home to let the dog out...

Got myself all pretty on Friday night and picked him up around 7:45. He looked delicious but very tired. His job is wearing him out...

Great dinner at Mo's Diner downtown with a couple who are friends of ours. Lots of wine, fabulous food. Headed over to Raleigh Times for a drinks. The couple left after round two, but we stayed. Talked among the two of us for almost 2 hours - good mushy stuff. I won't digress here but it was a great heart to heart. We stumbled home around 2.

And like I said, since I rarely stay there, it feels different, special - i.e. Hotel Sex!

Rest of the weekend involved a college reunion in Chapel Thrill, dinner and a movie with the kids, and more fun at my house after they went to sleep.

Lunch (wink wink)

Yesterday I had the rare occurrence of having a meeting with Ivy League (and others...) at 9am and it was a perfectly delicious way of beginning the day. He looked so good that it was difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. The meeting got fairly contentious - and he ended up leaving it early - but afterwards I stopped by his office and asked if he wanted to have lunch. I happened to wink at him when I said this.

This was an I love you wink but he took it as lunch (wink wink) i'm gonna get a little afternoon delite...

Fine with me.

We met at my house o'fun (I am going to have to start scheduling between me and Rock Star) and began on a dining room chair and ended up in my room later...it was great. Nice break in the day. Cubicle land would be vastly more fun if my lunch was like this every day.

Tonite I loan my house out to Rock Star and get to spend a night at the bachelor pad. Sleeping at his house, because it happens so rarely (b/c of my dog!) is like going to a hotel. And we all love going to hotels - HOTEL SEX!

Mmmm stark carpet

http://nytimesweddings.blogspot.com/

I've been reading the Veiled Conceit blog for awhile now and the latest entry is just so fucking funny that I've linked to the blog permanently. That guy writes like I wish I could, and his caption on the photo of the two gents in his latest entry (Douchamptons) is nothing less than BRILLANT. Plus, the rant of "fuck you...fuck you no jobs" is sooooo perfectly snarky. Please take a look.

That entry - it got me thinking.

Thinking about Rock Star's engaged guy and what his real, true NYT Vows column should (but never would) read. So I have taken a stab at it. Forgive me, Rock Star, for this creative exercise. I've taken the liberty of naming the couple Eugene and Olga.

In Denial - Eugene and Olga

Eugene and Olga met in 1999, when the world was all agog with dot.coms and Y2K end of the world fears. Eugene was an insecure catholic boy and Olga was a very newly arrived eastern european, somewhat out of his league physically but her lack of green card and lack of mastery of the english language put them on par. Olga saw her potential citizenship opportunity and took it - Eugene was lonely, young and middle class and this seemed like a good idea at the time.

Fast forward 6 years later. They as a couple have evolved into a seemingly already married pair, what with the general lack of sex, lack of fun, couples nights with John and Suzy and their snotty nosed offspring and all. This sort of boredom ahem! stability leads them to feel that the "next step" is needed.


When Eugene finally decides to pull the trigger in August/September of 2005, he does so by wooing his babushka with candles and rose petals strewn all over their apartment and popping the question with a decent size diamond- the best his imagination could do and his corporate line job salary could afford. She is thrilled (my country tis of thee!) and so are here parents Boris and Natasha back in the old country.

But the couple, or at least Eugene (as Olga knew nothing of this or apparently became an ostrich in the fall and early spring) hit rough times not too many moons after that lovely engagement weekend. Eugene began to woo girls outside of his apartment too, mainly girls he worked with. He set his sites on one particular married hottie he had been friends with for several years, just based upon her raw North Carolina sexuality. Flirting and messaging ensued, and later the affair is consummated in, of places apropos, Las Vegas.

But Eugene can't keep his eye on the prize (ahh reader is the prize Olga or married hottie?) and during that same week, he decides to make a pass at another long time and also married and also hottie friend of both his and the first married hottie. A make out session occurs that ends only because of whiskey dick and pure alcoholic stupor. Drama drama drama at the MGM.

Apologies are offered, as well as a bogus "she was coming on to me" story and the initial affair with first hottie resumes. GAME ON. Lots of texting. Lots of IMing. The guys who monitor the corporate network look forward to their interchanges. It is intense and wonderful and all an affair should be.



Where is Olga, you ask?



She is still living with Eugene, gleefully planning her wedding and choosing her trousseau by what goes best with that green card she'll soon be getting. Olga, sensing her american meal ticket might just be slipping away, ingratiates herself deeper with Eugene's family



Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Eugene is falling in love with his lovah. Falling hard. He's doubting his life with Olga, and talking about it with anyone who will listen. He thinks his hottie lovah ( who is now separated) only has eyes for him, because how can women possibly think like men and be sexually involved with more than one person? (His quote to the author personally was - "Oh c'mon she is a GIRL after all. She's gonna fall hard for me...")

Yeeeaaaahhhh. I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday and redo those TPS reports and reset your philosophy, Eugene.

This what girls do in 2006? Wait around for someone to help them, marry them. Marriage is the be all end all. (It does seem to put an end to a once strong libido...but I digress.) Once we find a potential candidate all thoughts of getting with any other penis goes right out the window. We go blind. We don't notice the hot twenty something courier in the building with the doe eyes, sweet smile, perfectly fabulous ass and even more fabulous corn rows. We begin to put things in hope chests. We talk to our cats about you. We watch Lifetime movie network quite a bit at night when you are not around, saving ourselves for you. We set up accounts on TheKnot.com with hopeful anticipation of pushing send on a "Save the Date" email to every girl we've ever known and a few we don't and to ALL of your ex-girlfriends ("I lassoed him girls. I did THAT WHICH YOU COULD NOT DO.") We're not out doing tequila shots with an ex boyfriend or playing bar crawl truth or dare with a coworker or making out with a random guy in a storage closet at work. Nope, that would never happen. I'm not sayin...

But I now I am truly digressing, and this is supposed to be an obit whoops freudian slip Vows entry.

In this state, Eugene thinks of leaving Olga for a new, richer, more exciting life with hottie. After all, his mantra is that guys either want to fuck you or date you, there is no in between, and he's now on the side of dating his hottie.

Oh the naivete Eugene!

Eugene comes back to earth, and back to Olga, after he learns that hottie girl at work has more than one guy (what was he thinking?) and is devastated. Nevermind that he's bored with Olga. Nevermind that he's blind to her citizenship ploy. Nevermind that things with his hottie did not have to end if he had just been less mopey, more confident, and more able to handle the fact that since HE had two women in his life, his lovah was doing the same and had at least two men. Nevermind that he's in no state to get married to anyone at this point.

He's going through with this and that is THAT.

Olga, of course, is very very pleased. She's walking around all day with a smile on her face. That smile which says, "Only a few more blow jobs and then I'm done."

The happy couple will marry in a month and will live, in mind numbing, wedded "I've totally settled for less and will be eternally bored" bliss in suburban Connecticut. And Olga will become an American. To seal the deal, there's likely to be a pregnancy very soon after the vows. Indeed.

Eugene? Eugene will spend some lonely nights thinking of his mistakes while changing the diapers on little Ivan or Svetlana.

Shut Up and Deal

Rock Star had another lunchtime tryst at mi casa today. Too funny. The entire second floor of my house must reek of sex between all that was going on over the weekend and today.

I feel a little like Bud Baxter in the Apartment, just a little male/female role reversal and none of the "using it for company advancement" going on.



http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0053604/



I did not win the lottery, so I am still slaving away in corporate dreariness...glad to have a job but unfulfilled nonetheless.

Things I would do if I won the lottery

Quit my job - the resignation conversation would be soooo sweet and would occur literally within minutes of me picking up my winnings
Set up a college fund - boring but needed
Enroll my daughter in Montesorri - IBID
Give $$ to NARAL- Need to provide some balance to the pro lifers out there with deep pockets
Give $$ to the SPCA - too many dogs out there that need homes/food/etc
Give my sister $$$ so she could quit her job-she's so stressed out about her job this item would be as sweet as my own resignation
Take a 3 week cruise- I want to get on a boat and not leave it for three weeks. Don't care where it goes.
Buy a house at the beach - so that I can hear the ocean at night from my bed
Ride horses once a week-the world looks better from that vantage point

Have more sex

and as a result:

Have another baby and/or adopt some siblings - share my wealth

Get in really good shape and lose the love handles- no more working in a cubicle means I should work more on my abs
Get a little more botox to get rid of the frown lines- I am too expressive with my eyebrows (my doctor's words) and thus have deeper frown lines than a girl my age should. Laugh lines are a nice word for deep wrinkles you add to everyday...
Write that freakin book I have been talking about for the last 6 years
Fund a scholarship at my alma mater that I would write the credentials for: not based upon grades or activities but on ability to do keg stands or shots or how well you dance on a bar or how well you work a room of people or where you decide to take me on the interview