Friday, July 31, 2009

Calling all stylists

I want to chop my hair off. Soccer ends in three weeks. It is the perfect time to do it, really, because I won't have to deal with the pain that is short hair on the soccer field.

I decided this last night while watching Grey's Anatomy.

This is the length of my hair as of last Friday, at my Aunt Marie's surprise birthday party. I'm the curly way on the right.



Oh, wait. I guess you can't really see my hair all that well. But I guess I'll leave that picture up anyway, because it is sort of fun. (From left: Meg, Anna, Emma, me.)

You can see my hair better, here. This is how it is 80% of the time. Curly, down, doing whatever the fuck it pleases.



Occasionally, I'll wear it straight. But, at the length that is currently is, it takes me a long time to straighten. So it is not a regular thing.

Here's my hair, straight, at the infamous bar crawl last weekend.



So, like I was saying: shorter. I was thinking season 5, pre-cancer Izzy Stevens?





Reason for the length being:
a. I can still pull it back.
b. I'll be able to wear it straight without spending 19 hours on the straightening process.
c. Why not?
d. Would like to move my part away from the middle, too.

Nervous because:
a. My hair is curlier than Katherine Heigl's.
b. I'd really rather not have a curly helmet head.
c. No, really. I'm scared at how it could turn out on account of the curls.



Although, I suppose if the cut didn't work with my curls I could just have high maintenance hair for a while and straighten it consistently until it grows out. Which wouldn't be the end of the world.



We have three weeks to decide, kids. Help me.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Growth

If you’d like to know how I’m feeling about The Athlete’s departure, just go back and read what I wrote during the last week of July last year. I feel exactly the same – except that the feelings of loss and regret are a little stronger – than I felt a year ago.

So here I am, mourning a boy who I was never in a relationship with. Wooo! I am
completely psycho!

I tell myself that eight months is not as tragic as it seems. I look back on who I was when he left a year ago, and I think that I’m a better person. More confident. Less pulled down by the weight of the Colin debacle. I grew up a bit. I grew into myself a bit. I’m less of a mess.

So he goes away for eight months. And I grow up a little more. And I grow into myself a little more. And maybe when he comes back something will happen.

Or maybe it won’t.

But at least I’ll be eight months better than I am today.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Time out for pouting

I’m going to feel sorry for myself for just a second here, okay? Okay.

I’ve known, all along, that The Athlete is leaving for Europe tomorrow. And, still, I woke up this morning and wanted to cry. I still want to cry, to be honest.

It just isn’t fair.

He’s so...he’s so fucking awesome. And cute and fun. He is so many of the things that I’m looking for. Tight with his family. Loves kids. Tall. Funny. Motivated. Smart. Athletic (obviously). Independent.

I can’t believe that this is happening to me. Again. For the second straight summer, he is here and then he is gone.

This summer, there is more regret. Last summer, I didn’t get to know how spectacular he was until just before he was leaving. This year, I knew. I knew and I pretended like I didn’t. I knew when he got home in April. I assumed that there were girlfriends in Europe. And prettier girls for him to date here. I distracted myself with The Groomsman. I feigned disinterest. I don’t want to be that girl – who I sort of felt like I was last year – always texting, always calling, never getting the hint. So I never texted. I never called.

I didn’t put myself out there.

I hid in the shadows. I hoped that he noticed me. And he did. Eventually. Too late. Again.

So we had one fun night instead of countless.

And I cannot quite tell where my sadness ends and my regret begins.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

HAHAHA.


Guilty.

Monday, July 27, 2009

The Crawl

I was a big girl. I went over to The Frat House (where The Athlete lives with a few of his friends) all by myself. The house was considered stop #1 in the nine bar sequence. When I got there, The Athlete gave me a hug. “You look much better than me,” he said, gesturing to his golf shirt (which smelled like the Salvation Army he bought it at) and his pleated, plaid golf pants.

I was introduced to the other guests. He brought me beer. We did a shot. I was given a scorecard. And we walked to the first bar.

The walk to the bar was one of my favorite parts of the evening. We were a bit ahead of everyone else. Talking about...stuff. Work. His family. Weddings we’ve been in. He apologized for not meeting me out at the bar the night before (I went out with Anna and Meg and had sent him a quick text to invite him). I promised that it was no big deal.

The first bar was an outside deck. I had my drink. And a shot. Stood around, doing the talking thing. Started getting drunk.

The second bar was a sports bar. My partner bought me my drink. (And a shot? This is hazy.) The Athlete disappeared for a while – “I’m going to get some carbs.”

Meg, Meg’s friend and Anna showed up, bringing me my carbs – a granola bar – and also a pair of knee high argyle socks. Which, I was later told by one of The Athlete’s friends – were hot. I had Anna put the socks on me while I was sitting on a barstool chair. I was already drunk. (Classy.) So was most of the rest of our group. (Made me feel better.)

The Athlete came back. I introduced him to my girls. I was eating my granola bar. I may or may not have fed him a piece of it. (I did.)

Third bar. One that I’d gone to for crazy ex-friend April’s birthday a long time ago. Very little interaction with The Athlete, but I wasn’t overly concerned. I got to know a few of his friends a little better. Watched Meg act wild, like always. Took pictures. Laughed a lot.


Fourth bar. HUGE dive.
I didn’t see a lot of The Athlete here, either. Mostly because the bar was a glorified hallway and I was further inside than he was. Meg made out with one of the guys at the party at bar #4. (I turned away because there are some things a girl just doesn’t need to see.) And then she and he proceeded to climb onto bikes chained to a parking meter and take the most hilarious series of pictures the world has ever seen.

Side note: here is where I really failed. You got bonus points for making out with someone (if they weren’t your significant other) at a bar. I did not advertise my services. Stupid.

Fifth bar. Sports bar for the college kid. Anna hates the place. Meg was on the vessel end of two body shots – one taken by her friend, the other taken by the kind gentleman who she made out with earlier in the evening. Classy. Anna was pissy because Meg’s make out partner bit her hand. It kind of ruined the experience at that bar, honestly.

Sixth bar. A little less bar, a little more club. I’m fairly certain that this bar was where a photo of me licking The Athlete’s face was taken. So, yeah. That is all I have to say about this location.

Seventh bar. We were running late on time, so we cancelled this stop (mostly because it is sort of snobby and we knew we’d never be able to get in and make it to our final destination, too).

Between bar six and bar eight. Walked out with The Athlete. Anna and Meg were just ahead of us. All of a sudden, there is a cab. “Get in,” he said. I got in. And waved while Anna and Meg stared at me.

I never do anything unexpected.

So they were a little surprised.

“I just left my ride. How am I going to get home?” “Stay over,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Eighth bar. Tiny and smoky and with a karaoke machine. We milled about at the back, leaning up against the sole pool table. “Go over there and talk with him,” his friend Nick encouraged. “That girl is his cousin. His COUSIN. Seriously. Go over there.” (I already knew that she was his cousin.)

At some point, we come across a large brick of chalk. For the pool table. And for some reason I rub my hands on it. And press my hands against The Athlete’s ass. The handprints were perfect. I was paid back with a single handprint on my ass. There was a photo taken of our asses. I wish I had it on my camera.

We did a shot at some point. Someone sang karaoke. The lights went up. We walked towards home. The Athlete and I, again, were up a distance from everyone else. I, again, found it to be glorious. I found it equally glorious to grab his arm (which I did frequently) as I pretended to be afraid that he was going to walk into things. Or maybe I honestly was. Sort of hard to tell. I’d had plenty to drink.

Back at the house. Someone started a fire in the backyard. The Athlete pulled me out there with his cousin (who apparently he’s really tight with) and a few others. He was talking about loving country music and, when asked how he got into it, he winced. Said a girl’s name. He leaned to me and mentioned that he “had a mulligan a few years ago.” He was engaged. I already knew that.

We went back inside. He talked more with his cousin. I tried not to be entirely socially awkward. I helped his friend Nick tally up his scorecard. "Get over there!" Nick told me again. "He is here without a girl. You are here without a guy. Go. Over. There." I laughed at the kid singing karaoke. I sat on the arm of the couch when he called me over.

The rest of the night was more karaoke. Give his friends alcohol and a karaoke machine and they’ll be happy forever. Seriously. It was quite hilarious. I refused to sing. (When he asked why – I told him it was because my cousin Danielle soaked up all of the talent in that category.) There was more cousin speak. (Seriously. That girl monopolized a lot of his time. But I am not criticizing her. Just pointing it out.)

At one point I said that I was leaving. Walked out the front door. Came back in. “I think I want to wait another half-hour to drive.”

At some point, I was sitting on The Athlete’s friend’s lap. The friend who made out with my sister earlier in the night. It was a friendly lap sitting. But probably not the smartest thing to do. I doubt The Athlete remembers. And his cousin’s friend had her head on his shoulder, anyhow. We were just a floppy mess of drunkards.

I left just before 5. He’d just fallen asleep (Or passed out. Or whatever.) on the couch. He doesn’t snore. I gave his leg a squeeze as I walked towards the door.

On Sunday morning, he sent me the following text message:
“Thank you for coming out. ...it was fun hanging out with you!”

I had an amazing time.

He's still leaving on Thursday.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

I got home at 5 am

The bar crawl was faaaaaabulous. Even though I didn't end up making out with The Athlete. Despite it being strongly encouraged by one of his friends.

He did end up with my hand prints, in chalk from a pool table, on his ass.

So the evening was mostly a success.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Day of Awkward

The Athlete calls me. He’s coming over here to pick something up for me.

Him: “Hey – I hate to be That Guy, but can you run that stuff out to my car?”

Me: “Yep. No problem. Can you go around back?” (Meaning the back door. No. Literally. The back door. The door in the back of the building.)

Him: (Snickers.) “Oh, I’ll go around back. However you like it.”

Charming.

Hi. Awkward.

Kevin’s Replacement cornered me at his going away party yesterday. “So...” he tried to give me a sly look, but he’d been drinking. Was more an awkward side glance than anything. “...when is Darren moving in?”

“Darren? Huh?”

“Come on, we all know. You’re dating him.”

And he launched into the proof: we hang out together. Thus, we must also be sleeping together.

Everyone who works in his building, reportedly, thinks that. Basically – half of the company I work for has thought that, for the past year, I’ve been screwing around with Darren.

And while a year ago that might have amused me, this year it just made me shake my head.

Really? Is my personal life that interesting? (Seriously. It isn’t and ya’ll know it.)

If any of them knew that I was going out with The Athlete on Saturday night, their heads would explode.

And, yes, that would amuse me.

The great debate

It's 12:30 and I'm still awake. I'm never awake at 12:30. I am never awake at 12:30 because:
a. I'm uncool.
b. I love sleep.

But here I am. Awake. I got home a half-hour ago from a marathon day. An extra long day at work (fun!), followed by dinner with a couple of coworkers (they're both a little too close/connected/devoted to the Top to consider friends), a quick trip to the mall and a loooooooong drive to the east side of town for a going away party for Kevin's Replacement.

(Yes. Another one of my work friends got a new job. That makes five (5!) since May.)

You might notice that I didn't go out with Ashley. Or with The Athlete. Unfortunately, those plans fell through before I could invite him out. Is okay. I figured I'd go home and get some rest before my big weekend. Instead I stayed out until midnight anyway.

So about that big weekend. For the country club themed bar crawl, I'm supposed to dress like a golfer. So I have been obsessively searching for the perfect golf outfit for days. I think that...four golf shirts later, I might have fount The One.


From left:
a. Green Nike sleeveless. Was a super deal. I'll use it for real golfing. I just wasn't envisioning myself in a sleeveless shirt for this event.
b. Striped Nike. I kind of love this shirt. And I kind of think that it is a tad masculine. Also I feel like I should wear white shorts with it, and I don't want to wear white shorts.
c. Navy Puma. With the cutest white/navy striped collar. And red stitching. I think this might be the winner.
d. Black/pink/white striped Puma. This one is pretty adorable, too. I'm not sure that the horizontal striping is very becoming, however, and I'd want to wear it with black shorts. ...which I don't own.

So what do ya'll think about wearing the navy Puma shirt with a pair of red shorts? And if the red shorts have a red-on-red polka dot pattern? I can't decide if it is too cutesy, too many patterns, too deliberate looking.



Lesson of the day: going to an event when you're supposed to dress like a fool - but having no idea the level of fooldom that you should succumb to is really difficult.

I think that maybe, in the future, I'll just go to bar crawls with people I know.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

In 8 days, for 8 months

I have made a conscious decision to settle down about Meg’s condition. (Or lack thereof. From what I understand, they don’t know what her deal is.) I am not begging for information. I am not calling every five minutes to check on her. I’ll just find out whatever I find out when I find it out. I’m just going to have to take this apathetic approach, because otherwise I am going to make myself crazy, angry and unpleasant.

I have also made a conscious decision to flirt shamelessly with The Athlete every time I have the chance.

He leaves a week from tomorrow. Why the hell not, right?

He called me yesterday. Thinly veiled as a work-related call. More of a chat -- him telling me a hilarious story about this little kid who has decided that he is The Athlete’s Biggest Fan Ever, going so far as logging onto his team’s website to order his jersey from Europe. As a six-year-old. ...in addition to other random snippets that we traded.

The Athlete can keep up with me – intellectually and sarcastically – and I really like that about him. I can be a smartass and he picks up on that. I can subtly tease him and he’ll get it.

And, as far as I know, we’re on for Saturday night! He’s mentioned it to me this week, asking me if I selected my outfit yet. (At this point – it is still up in the air. Country club chic is hard to nail down. And I want it to be perfect.)

I think I’m bringing Anna – who is in town for the weekend – and Meg (assuming she’s feeling well enough) with me. Preferably, they’ll meet up with us sometime over the course of the evening. I wouldn’t mind looking, for an hour or so, like I’m independent enough to handle such a situation on my own.

At this point, my only concerns are:
1. drinking so much that I puke in someone’s shoe (again)
2. forgetting that this boy is leaving for eight months in eight days

Oh – and a group of us seem to be going out to a bar by his house tomorrow night. Invite him? Don’t? Ya’ll know that I haven’t bothered to learn the rules to The Game.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Taking it out in all the wrong places

I just lied to a coworker.

She came breezing by my desk and said “how are you today.”

I, on autopilot and not all that interested in getting into anything, replied with the standard. “Good! How are you?”

I’m not good. I’m definitely not good.

I’m not bad. I wouldn’t say that I’m bad. I’m pissy.

I called my dad this morning to bitch at him about not getting an update on Meg. “I didn’t call you because I didn’t know anything,” he told me. “Your mom didn’t get home until 5:00 this morning. 12 hours in the emergency room and they didn’t figure anything out.”

Oh.

My mom called about an hour later. I was in my car, on my way to work.

I was a bitch. I asked her why she wasn’t still sleeping. I listened as she gave me, oh, maybe two sentences on how Meg is. “She’s the same. All they know is that it isn’t a pulmonary embolism.”

The news annoyed me. The fact that she asked me about other things – my plans for Saturday night or whatever – annoyed me. The fact that she could tell that something was bothering me annoyed me. I cut the conversation pretty short.

Meg called me at work about a half-hour ago. It was to talk to my boss, actually. (She’s helping him out with something for his daughter’s hockey team.) “He isn’t here,” I told her. “Should I have him call you? Are you planning on staying awake?” I promised to pass along the message. I let a few awkward seconds draw out between us. “Anything else?”

She wasn’t offering.

I was too annoyed to ask.

Why the hell should I have to play 20 Questions to get any information?

Is this not relevant to me? Should I have no problem sleeping through the night?

I’m crabby. I want nothing to do with my family.

And, at the same time, I’d really like to be at home with all of them right now.

Monday, July 20, 2009

I feel like a jerk

I spent my evening attempting to craft the perfect outfit for The Athlete's country club pub crawl.

There was a LOT of time and energy and effort put into my shopping expedition. And, still, I didn't feel done.

Then I called Meg and got her voicemail. Then I called home and found out that she was at the emergency room.

And I felt like a fool.

Feel like a fool, as a matter of fact.

A scared fool.

A little of this, a little of that

I think Tweeting may be hindering my blogging. I can only think in short, random, scattered bursts of idiocy. Put together an entire blog post? On one subject? Really? Maybe after the summertime is over. Thinking is hard.

Ashley added The Athlete as a friend on Facebook, which sort of really bothered me. She knows him, yes. But not well. (Not that I’m implying that you have to be a good friend of someone to be their friend on Facebook.) It is the timing that bothers me. I don’t like how it looks. And I don’t like feeling like she’s checking up on me.

It looks like I’ve been drafted to take Emma to college in August. OMG. Like, so fun. I am so lucky to be her surrogate sister! Seriously, though. The drama will be unbearable. Her roommate better be a saint.

Will probably not have any news on Meggie for a few days but thanks, everyone, for your good wishes. I do appreciate it.

Did anyone see the episode of MTV’s 16 and Pregnant that was filmed in Michigan? Broke. My. Heart.

I finished reading Angela’s Ashes on Thursday night. Absolutely loved it. I’ve read a number of excellent books lately, but Angela’s Ashes is so far above the others that I couldn’t possibly write about why it is so good and why it is so much better than anything else I’ve read lately without writing pages upon pages of glowing praise. And I know that isn’t what ya’ll come here for. So I’ll just tell you to read Angela’s Ashes if you haven’t already, and leave it at that.

I never have a chance to eat lunch at work anymore. It sucks.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Meg's ticker

Meg has been tachycardic all weekend. And a few days before that. Basically meaning her heart rate is significantly higher than it should be.

To say that freaks me out is an understatement.

Taking care of her always came naturally. From when she was little and afraid. To sticking up for her to my mean soccer coach. To the day we moved her into her dorm. Every single day - my earliest memories. All I have ever wanted to do. Is take care of my little sister.

It kills me that this isn't something I can help her with.

It kills me that the tachycardia may be indicative of the same problem that my mom has struggled - really struggled - with for the last 14 months.

And the timing kills me. She starts graduate school in a month.

I'm worried. I'm just worried.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Details, details

The Athlete got a text message from me yesterday that read: After consulting my calendar, wardrobe and common sense, it appears that I can attend your bar crawl of glory. You may now feign excitement.

The Athlete texted back: I don’t know if I will be able to sleep...I am so excited!!

What I know-Will be held next Saturday, 7/25, start time: 7 pm.
-Is a country club themed bar crawl, so I must wear my finest prepster threads
-It sort of serves as a going away party for The Athlete and his jock friends who go over the pond to work/play
-With the exception of one girl who I know through my job, I won’t know anyone there

Wondering-Why I was invited in the first place
-If I should bring friends
-Or just have friends stop in at some point during the night
-Or if I should suck it up and go at this on my own just like a grownup
-If I should wear my hair straight or curly
-If The Athlete is inviting me to be his end-of-summer conquest
-9,822 other things - everything from what preppy clothes I'll wear to how I am going to get home that night...

...oh, don't act like you're surprised. What don't I analyze to death?

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Grand Return

If you’re new here, you missed last summer’s ordeal with The Athlete.

Cliff’s Notes version: he plays sports for a living. He asked me out. I couldn’t go. He drunk dialed me. He told me I was adorable. I was smitten. He left for Europe, for 9 months, a week later.

He has been back since April.

I’ve talked to him. Run into him a few times. Good to see him and all but...whatever.

I understand the circumstances. He plays a game for a living. And I’ve always been quite sure that there is no shortage of girls, even in Europe, who are fond of that.

He isn’t a real option. The fantasy is great – Shy Girl Meets Professional Athlete: They Fall in Love and He Whisks Her Away to Europe. But I do occasionally allow myself to dip my toes in the pool of reality. He left for 9 months last year. He’s leaving for 9 months again this year.

I get it. Seriously, you guys. I get it.

But when I got the Facebook invitation to his annual bar crawl? The bar crawl that he drunk dialed me from last year? And when he asked me about it on Monday morning, flashing his grin-smirk hybrid?

Reality was far from the thoughts dancing through my head.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Audience participation: Answers, Part IV

From Lauren, Queen of The Tough Ones:
What is your idea of the perfect date?

I had the hardest time with this question, Lauren! You stinker! I attribute the difficulty to a sad, pathetic truth: I haven’t been on many. Part of this is because I have a narrow, traditional definition of what I consider a date. Part of this is because I am a socially awkward misfit.

The perfect date would involve food. Not necessarily a meal. Definitely food. Ice cream. Cupcakes. Lunch. Scones. Appetizers. On the perfect date, you eat.

The perfect date also involves an activity other than ingesting and digesting the aforementioned food. It doesn’t mean that we have to go to the Super Bowl. But maybe we walk. Or play UNO. Or frost cookies. I don’t care. I just want to do something. Something that gives us time to talk – I’m not wild about movies – and the luxury of having a small distraction to keep my hands busy and head from over-analyzing.

The perfect date is with the perfect date. If the company is ideal, even if everything else can be less than – do you really care? Will you really remember?

I’m not picky.

I’d just like to go out with someone who likes me.

Give a rundown of the top 5 blogs you read on a regular basis, and why you're so drawn to them.
I don't have a top 5. I'm equally tickled when any of the blogs that I follow in my reading list are updated. And I have a lot of blogs in my reading list. If you're a commenter, I likely read (and enjoy!) your blog.

I like blogs that are regularly updated. To me, that is the most important. I like blogs with pretty pictures. I like blogs that are genuine - not blogs that feel like they are advocating a lifestyle or flaunting their superiority. I like blogs that I can identify with. I like blogs that make me think.

Generally, the blogs that I read fall into one of four categories.

The blogs I’ve been reading forever: If you’ve been reading someone’s blog for two or three or five years, it is safe to say that you like it. And, at that point, you’re pretty invested. And will likely find amusement and joy in just about anything they write.

This includes, but is not limited to: Girl from Florida, Blonde Beautiful Brilliant Bombshell, Outside Oklahoma, Together They Come, The Virginity Monologues.

The 20-Something Blogs: It is always reassuring to know that you’re not the only one. Especially when it is through exquisite or hilarious or genuine (or all three!) writing. Not that every blog of every 20-something is a reflection of my life. They aren't. I like that, too.

Including, but not limited to: Kristin, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Home, Am I Secretly on Reality TV? and This Fish.

Blogs with a capital B: There is a reason that everyone and their mother reads ‘em.

Such as: Matt Logelin, Suburban Bliss, Dooce, All and Sundry, Greek Tragedy.

Completely F'ing Random: I don't know that I could explain why I read these blogs or how I found them, so don't bother looking for a common thread.

A small slice: Grey Matter, The Science of Soccer, Smitten Kitchen, Oh Happy Day! and (this is the most random) Wedding Bee Pro.

I am always, always looking for something that I can read and love. Suggestions are so welcome. Please don't be shy!

Beebop breaks out another one:
Do you prefer nude tights or the black opaque ones when you skate?
Nude tights ALL THE WAY. Preferably the type that you pull over your boot, because:
a. then you don’t have to polish your skates before a test or a competition
b. it creates this lovely long line that makes your legs look like they go on forever.

Let me illustrate with a photo of Sasha Cohen:

See how much longer her legs look in the picture on the left? Is magic. Tights magic.

Am I missing anyone other than GFF? Last chance to bust my brain!

Monday, July 13, 2009

From another time

My soccer game last night was refereed by a man who used to do a lot of the indoor games that I played in when Colin and I were on the same team.

He knows Colin well – technically he works for him. And he knows me because of Colin. And was always nice and friendly and sweet to me.

And he wasn’t shy about telling Colin that he thought we were good together.

“You look so good!” Tom told me. “It has been so long since I’ve seen you. And you look so, so good!”

I thanked him, profusely. I told him it was nice to see him.

“Do you see Colin any more? Do you talk to him?”

My eyes dropped to the ground. “No, no. I don’t. Not even at soccer – I was finishing up graduate school this winter and I didn’t have a chance to play much.”

I changed the subject. Quickly. No need to rehash that debacle. No need to explain it.

He gave me a hug and wished me luck in the game and told me again, that I look good.

I hope he tells Colin.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Starting Now: Focusing on Reality

Here’s the official announcement.

I’m not writing about The Groomsman anymore. Because nothing has happened and nothing will happen. And I’m bummed. Really quite bummed. And the more I write about it, the more I think about it, the more I want to Facebook stalk him, the more apt I am to send him some random text message that he’ll return (because he’s nice) which will only make me want to write about him more, think about him more and Facebook stalk him more.

He’ll text me back. He’ll return my Facebook messages. He is decent, though, and that is what a decent person would do. But decent does not equal being into me. Because he’s not. He doesn’t initiate. He would’ve done something by now. He hasn’t. It is time to move on.

I am pulling the plug! Putting an end to my misery.

Maybe it just wasn’t supposed to happen now. I’ll see him again. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to happen at all. That would be okay, too. It isn’t the end of the world. It is just the end of this little fantasy. The end of the possibility that I saw and that he apparently did not.

I’ll be seeing a lot of The Athlete in the next three weeks. Will ease the pain. Give me someone else to be pathetically obsessive about. And then he’ll leave to go back to Europe and the world will probably stop turning.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Audience participation: Answers, Part III

Stace, who is awesome and has been reading forever, asks:
When are we going to meet?

When you get your ass up to the D, girl!

I’ve never met another blogger, actually. I would be such a gooey mess. I can guarantee that, when it happens, I will have food in my teeth or my shirt on inside out.

Anonymous rivals Lauren when it comes to the tough questions:
If you could be a tree what kind of tree would you be?
My first instinct was to say a weeping willow. Isn’t that dramatic? One of the houses on the lake I grew up on had this weeping willow right at the shoreline and its branches dipped into the lake. I always thought it was so beautiful and it seemed so magical. I wanted my parents to plant one down by our beach. We could tie a rope to one of the branches and swing into the water! They told me that weeping willows drop too many leaves and branches. Plus, it would be years until it was big enough to swing from.

I’m not a weeping willow. If I could be any tree, it would be a crabapple tree. We have a few things in common. Gorgeous, fragrant blooms for a few weeks every year, but you have to deal with the hassle of the fruit. Strong in the cold weather. On the smaller side. Beautiful, fruitful, complex, messy.

Preference for your guy - boxers or briefs?
Boxer briefs. Is that answer a cop out?

Who would you be if you turned down the freak out knob? Would you like her?
Ah, my tendency to freak out. Frequently. It is endearing, isn’t it? Isn’t that the reason you all read my blog? For the times when I completely lose my shit and put it in writing?

I’m not going to say that my freaking out is my best personality trait. Oh, far from it. (Obviously. Ya’ll have read enough to know that.)

I freak out because I’m passionate. When I’m passionate about something or someone, I care so damn much that I can’t help but fly off the handle. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t bother. I’d shrug it off.
I freak out because I’m a little naïve.
I freak out because I refuse to let go of my high expectations.
I freak out because I hold everything in. I bite my tongue a lot. I internalize. It has to go somewhere. Somewhere is on my blog. And, depending on the subject, into the ears of Lucy and Ashley.

If I could turn down the freak out knob, I’d still be me, I think – just a somewhat muted version. Less likely to get really excited, to throw herself into the idea of something. A little more cynical – less rainbows and butterflies and unicorns. More apt to settle for what may be reasonable yet not ideal. More assertive. I suspect I’d like her slightly more than I like my passionate, naïve, internalizing self.

If you could have lunch with anyone in history - dead or alive - who would you select?
Can this be a luncheon? With unlimited seating? Good. I would like to start with my entire extended family (they’re all so important to me), Lucy, Chet, Colleen and Ashley.
Deceased family: My great-grandma – My Grandma the Troll’s Mom – from my mom’s side of the family. My Uncle Rich and Grandma from my dad’s side of the family.
Boyfriends: Dave Matthews, David Beckham.
Political: Jimmy Carter, Nelson Mandela, Barack Obama.
Authors: Vladimir Nabokov, John Irving.

If I had to pick only one person, though, I think I’d choose my dad’s father. He died before I was born and, from what I have been told, he was a very imperfect person. I would like to see his flaws. Hear about my dad as a child. Understand who he was, what he did. And just meet him. He was my dad’s father, after all.

Thursday, July 09, 2009

Audience participation: Answers, Part II

From Kari, everyone’s favorite Canadian:
What all do you plan to do when you are in South Africa next year?
Watching a lot of soccer, soaking up the World Cup atmosphere, doing a bit of sightseeing and generally running ourselves ragged. Our trip will be 14 days, two of which will be spent travelling. We have tickets for seven matches, so those seven days will be focused around the game that we’re attending and we’ll fit in other activities as we can. For the other five days, we’ll hopefully have the time/resources to see a tiny fraction of the diversity of the country. Definitely some wildlife. And definitely a bit of shopping because, although going to the World Cup is sort of a manly thing to do, we’re still girls!

Where in the world would you like to travel?
Prior to the World Cup being awarded to South Africa, it was one place in the world that I was very interested in visiting. I’m sure you can imagine how thrilled I was when they announced that my favorite sporting event was colliding with a country that I’ve always wanted to see! Other than South Africa, I have always been intrigued by the Eastern European countries – Russia and the Czech Republic are at the top of my list.

Where would you never go?
I’d like to consider myself fairly open minded when it comes to potential travel; there is no country or region of the world that I have absolutely no desire to visit. But I think it would be advantageous of me to stay away from places in the world in the midst of military conflict.

Favourite ethnic food?
Indian. Thai is a very close second.

What do you like better hockey or figure skating?
Figure skating. I like the solitude of it – that I have nothing and no one to blame for my failures or share my successes. I rarely feel burdened by my skating. If I decide that I don’t want to skate one day, or if I decide that I never want to skate again, I’m not letting anyone down. Skating also challenges me more than hockey. It pushes me. I’m not the type of person to get on stage, to perform when people – judges! – are watching. Somehow, when it comes to my skating, I find it in myself to become that type of person. I like that challenge.

Summer or Winter Olympics?
Winter. Definitely Winter. As lovely as the gymnasts and the swimmers and the sprinters are, when I watch figure skating and hockey at the Winter Olympics I can feel it. While I obviously know and understand Olympic soccer, it isn't World Cup soccer. And I really can't wrap my mind around the marathoners and the weightlifters.

What type of librarian do you want to be?
One who is employed full time! I’m fairly flexible. I can see myself in a few settings: your run of the mill public library, a hospital library (would definitely be interested in taking some extra classes in the sciences) or a university or college library working with undergraduates.

Lauren brings the tough questions:
...so tough, as a matter of fact, that I think I'll save a few for later.

Describe yourself in 10 words or less.
Introspective. Jockette. Maternal. Writer. Loyal. Imperfect. Curly. Driven. Homebody. Selective.

The funniest thing that's ever happened to you.
I’m always doing such jackass things that it is really hard for me to narrow the idiocy to one funny moment. My favorite funny story to tell – when I’m really looking to embarrass myself and horrify those listening – is the debacle that was turning Mom and Dad’s house into The Great Vomitorium.

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Audience participation: Answers, Part I

The beautiful and hilarious Beebop wants: more scoop on this mysterious "work" place. Office? Check! Weekends? Not anymore! GM or Chrysler? No automotive business for me, thankyouverymuch. I work with a lot of ex-jocks in the sports industry, doing a bit of marketing, a bit of communications, and the occasional trip to the bank for my boss. I get: paid poorly, free tickets occasionally and more sports references in meetings than any sane person should ever have to suffer through.

Favorite skating outfit? I could never, ever pick a favorite. Every dress that Vera Wang designed for Michelle Kwan is breathtaking. And I adored Alyssa Czisney’s dress from her Sabrina program. Oh, and Angela Nikodinov’s teal dress from 2001. And the wedding dress inspired dress that Jennifer Robinson wore in '02. And so many more. Basically, I like a simple dress with pretty detailing that shows up well on the ice. Not too much in terms of beading, dangling, illusion fabric. I am not a fan of distracting.




Favorite Grey’s character? Alex. I have a thing for the angry, imperfect, broken man. Unfortunately. Also: Justin Chambers acts the hell out of the character.

Long-time reader thirtysomething asks:
What's the name of that darn turtle of yours? Cecilia! Her name is a derivative of Cecil the Turtle who outsmarted Bugs Bunny in a few episodes of the cartoon.

How about updating/redoing your 100 things? I’ve started a rewrite of my 100 Things a few times. Admitting that might be the kick in the butt that I need.

From the lovely and talented Susan:
Am I the only one who wants to ask the really inappropriate questions? Well, we can’t be sure. Nobody else asked a question that was inappropriate. But, then again, neither did you! Oh, wait. You weren’t being literal? That wasn’t your actual question? Well, hmmm. How about we put it this way: when I actually have something to tell, I promise I’ll tell it. Somehow. Vaguely.

And darn your glowing complexion. How do I get that?
Get a little sweaty in front of a talented wedding photographer! Quite honestly, I don’t know. I can’t recall having my complexion ever described as glowing before. My skin is undoubtedly the feature that I’m most self conscious about.

Audience participation

We’ve never done this before, children. And I need a little exercise to stretch my pretty pink brain away from its Groomsman/family/soccer/job rotation. And a few comments to boost my ever-so-fragile ego.

Hit me with your questions. Even the hard ones. Even the really random ones. Even the ones about my shoe size.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Currently making me happy

These shots of Lucy and me at her little brother's wedding.

If you have seen, oh, every picture taken of us in the past 14 years you'd understand.




Monday, July 06, 2009

Punishment for the bitter bridesmaid

I was a bridesmaid superstar in Bridezilla’s wedding one month ago.

In that month, I’ve come to a very important conclusion: I’m an asshole.

[Not only am I an asshole, I’m a procrastinating asshole. Because I’ve been meaning to write about this since the day after the wedding.]

Could I have been more difficult? – could I have been more of a bitch? Honestly, I was kind of a nasty whore. Completely lacking in the desire to have the slightest bit of understanding. Ready and willing to freak out about the dyeable shoes and the manicure requirements. I wanted to be pissed about the whole thing. And so I was.

I’m not saying that Bridezilla wasn’t just that. Her emails and her demands: oftentimes ridiculous.

My responses to her emails and her demands: oftentimes equally ridiculous.

I was a tool.

I was a tool who went into the wedding expecting the absolute worst. And somewhere between the bachelorette party and the shower and the gift buying and the bride-mandated hairstyle and the limo and the grooms cake and the champagne and the irritating wedding photographer and the endless stories about the wicked mother-in-law-to-be and a really decent wedding party, I realized that I hadn’t been locked into indentured servitude in the Blissful Wedding Dungeon of True Love and Torture. That maybe, after a year of anticipating the worst, I was enjoying myself.

Did I ever consider that I would have fun? That maybe I would make a few new friends? That I’d get a kick at looking at the wedding pictures? And laugh recapping the sheer insanity that is a busy wedding weekend? That the dress would be flattering? That getting pictures taken in some of my favorite locations in my beloved A2 would be enjoyable?

I didn’t. I didn’t consider even one.

That is why karma dangled The Groomsman in front of me. And then snatched him away.

Because that is what I deserved. Because I'm an asshole.

Sunday, July 05, 2009

Another week. Already.

I got pimped out of the long weekend. Is it just me, or was everyone on this planet who has a full-time job comped either Friday or Monday due to the holiday falling on Saturday? Yeah, that's what I thought. Oh, poor poor tortured me. Nothing is ever fair for me!

Oh, just kidding. As sorry as I like to feel for myself, I think I will make it through this adversity just fine. The standard two-day weekend did a fine job of wearing me out and leaving me with a hint of sunburn on my legs.

All in all, it was a standard Independence Day. As always, we had Meg's family party at Mom and Dad's. Sunshine and family and fireworks. Life on the lake is delightfully predictable. All the same people. All the same foods.

I spent the first half of today sitting on the deck. I'm in the middle of Angela's Ashes, so engrossed that I'd rather read than do just about anything else. Include put on sunscreen. Sorry, legs!

We went golfing as a big, happy family at Dad's country club in the afternoon.

Basically - the weekend (minus the trip to the bar on Friday night) was the same 4th of July weekend that I had as a freshman in high school. And a senior in high school. And a sophomore in college. And in my first year out of college.

I guess that's okay.

Doesn't give you much to write about, however.

Friday, July 03, 2009

Meet my new sister



Her name is Eleanor. Ellie for short.

She gets along with Blue just fine.

Her feet are huge.

And it appears that she has a wild streak.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Tell me this

What is it about fireworks that makes the person who is watching them alone so acutely aware of the fact that they're doing just that?

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Neither/Nor

Lucy was telling me about the wedding of a high school classmate that she attended last weekend.

“So I sat with SoAndSo and her husband. And you know what? It was really fun to see her. We grew up in the same neighborhood, so we spent a lot of time together. She is so cute with her husband. They seem really normal. I got her number, thought we could hang out. We don’t know any normal married couples.”

I laughed. She continued.

“Chet said, ‘if Aly was married, she’d be half of a normal married couple.’”

It’s a damn good thing that Chet and Lucy are making efforts to find normal, married couple friends.

Because if they’re waiting on me?

Oh, it isn’t even worth saying.

Sunday: Like the Bridal Shower All Over Again

Getting up for Sunday’s bridal brunch was grueling. Even knowing that The Groomsman and I were driving together.

I was strong-armed into wearing my glorious and bedazzled Bridesmaid t-shirt again. It hadn’t been washed. Thank goodness for ironing boards and Febreeze.

The bridal party sat together, rehashing the events of the night before. I am quite certain that the embarrassing garter belt incident was discussed. And I fondly recall telling on of my favorite stories: Meg’s glorious cable television debut.

Brunch was brunch. Eggs and French toast and fruit and the like. I downed quite a bit of coffee. And picked at my food.

“What? Are you on a diet or something?” The best man asked, looking at my plate. Hardly. I was just too tired to eat.

After a bit, I was planning my escape. I’d put in my time. I showed up. I sort of ate. And if I left right now I’d have time for a quick nap before Emma’s graduation party. I’m eying the situation. I’m mentally preparing.

And then, out of nowhere, comes a couch. And all of the wedding gifts. OF COURSE! We’re going to watch our bride and groom open them!

Gah. So I totally missed my opportunity.

And instead stayed – probably for another hour – and watched a parade of fine china and bathroom towels.

I did my duty as a bridesmaid: finding a garbage bag for the wrapping paper, assuring that an appropriate number of gifts were stacked at the feet of the newlyweds, putting presents back into boxes and acting bubbly and cheerful and OMG, THAT PLATTER IS SO BEAUTIFUL.

There was one awkward moment in which the bride opened a card that had been taped to a present, remarked that the gift givers had written them a check, too, and her mom (who was recording the gifts) said "how much is the check for?" Loudly.

The look of pure horror that The Groomsman gave me was precious.

So we watched the present opening and - finally! - we tasted freedom. Guests were scattering. The Groomsman and I took the opportunity to flee. I ended up driving him to his car, which was at the home of one of the other groomsman (one who wisely skipped out on brunch) maybe 20 minutes away in the direction I was heading.

The wedding weekend officially ended when I pulled my car beside The Groomsman's. There was a hug. A promise to get together soon.

And, as I drove towards my apartment, a sigh of relief.

I made it through alive. Having a bit of fun along the way.
 
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