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Second verse, same as the first July 20, 2008

Posted by charmingbutsingle in My family is sure I will never marry.
33 comments

I’ve been looking for a new place in a cuter neighborhood and my Mom offered to help me after she felt she’d reacted too severely to my description of one locale with a tone of voice that clearly implied, “If you move there, you will be harmed and then killed and then harmed.”

Her guilt was clearly an overreaction – after seeing the place at night I’d brushed it aside myself. But I was happy to have her tag along as I rode the blocks looking for available property, which is the only way to find a good place in this neighborhood. She drove and I took notes and made calls.

She’d mentioned the house across the street from my grandparents is available because the long-standing tenant was getting married and moving out. For years my Grandmother had pleaded with me to go across the street and introduce myself or go to his workplace and ask for assistance I clearly didn’t need. I was her granddaughter and my Grandmother reasoned that this alone was enough of an opening for the Across The Street Neighbor to marry me.

“I can just hear her now,” I told my Mom. Imitating my Grandmother: “If only you’d stopped by [His Workplace], he could be marrying you.”

We giggled as we drove past the perfect – perfect! – little duplex, which we suspected was occupied by the owner, who rented out the other half to help with the bills. The larger side was clearly better accessorized with nicer house numbers and a better mailbox and a Landrover parked outside.

As I scribbled down the contact information and busily e-mailed the landlord, her thoughts turned to other things. And before I could stop her – because, let’s be honest, I knew EXACTLY what she was thinking as she cooed about the duplex.

“Hey, that’s a really nice-looking place. Maybe the owner is a single man. This would be a good neighborhood to settle in …”

And she was off – we could marry at the Catholic Church four blocks up, our kids could walk to school every morning …

“How many single straight men do you know who pick artful numbers for the outside of their homes?” I asked, interrupting her fantasy.

But it was too late. She’d already concocted a scenario wherein I’d rent one half of the duplex and a tall, good looking, single man with a good job who used property as a side income would live in the other half and we’d meet and that would be that.

“And then we could just tear down the walls and turn the duplex into one big happy home!” I said, mockingly.

“Well, it would be a good story,” she replied demurely.

Ah yes – I am saving stories such as this for a book called “Possibilities Around Every Corner: One Family’s Journey to Marry off its Spinster.”

I see a trip to Sephora in my future July 13, 2008

Posted by charmingbutsingle in Listing is fun and easy.
25 comments

Things that make summer awesome:

  • Lounging around near the water with friends, fresh food and cold beers;
  • Awesome flowy sundresses;
  • Flip flops;
  • Sunshine until 8 p.m.

Things that make summer suck:

  • Forgetting to bring your make up bag inside from your car and returning to find your makeup and brushes coated with a light slimy layer of lipgloss because your MAC palette melted into a shiny soup of gunk.

The subtext of that text July 6, 2008

Posted by charmingbutsingle in General Clumsiness and Related Stupidity, Life, Men, Really. Bad. Habits..
45 comments

My irresponsible texting of The Most Wrong Man Ever started in a semi-drunken state several weeks back. There I was, telling my girlfriends about the horror that was my little crying fit when I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to tell him what a jerkoff I thought he was. So, common sense and reservations cast aside, I texted him and we had a most immature text message fight where he admitted to lying the first time we dated, but didn’t see any wrongdoing on his part during our most recent “with benefits” excursions.

Now, with all of my senses in tact, I know he is somewhat right and I blame myself for most of my heartache – he was a factor, but in this case there is much truth to the statement that no one can take advantage of you unless you let them. I didn’t protect my emotions after the first fiasco and I shouldn’t have expected much more from him the second time around. Not that I’d expect him to be proud of his actions, namely never really wanting much from me other than the extracurriculars (even the first time we dated). I’m certainly far from proud of my own actions.

But the text message floodgates were open and for the past few weeks we’ve texted and IMed occasionally. Idle chit-chat mostly, with a dash of me lashing out for good measure. We are two flawed people, me content to pick at the scab and feel scorned, him content to allow me to vent if it means leaving the door to more physical irresponsibility open.

So I was at a show one night and the band played “Goddamn Lonely Love” by the Drive By Truckers, which I must’ve listened to one thousand times in the past two months. Something about the low twang and lyrics of desperation make it the perfect song for wallowing. And that night, in that bar, I felt myself moving in time with the rhythm, unable to hear anything by the song and somewhat oblivious to the rest of the crowd. With my sundress skimming my knees I’d sway with the constant drum beat and then rock back hard on my heels with each third note.

After it finished, I sent him a text: “I think I am almost over the mortification …”

And thus, another round ensued. I assured him I wasn’t sex-texting, just letting him know. He proceeded to grill me about if I’d been dating this guy he knew and I hadn’t, but he insisted that I had been, so I said it must’ve been another one of his women and suggested he poll the rest of his harem. Things pretty much devolved from there.

Standing in that bar, surrounded by my friends but focused somewhere else, I vowed to put an end to it right then and there. Had I never communicated with him again the first time around, I could have saved myself an ocean of tears and self doubt.

I minded this rule for a few weeks more. And then, it happened.

He booty-IMed.

I was asleep and didn’t respond until the morning, at which time he confirmed that he’d wanted to see me after a few beers and that it was better that I hadn’t been awake because he just would have been flirting.

And then he invited me over for a quickie before I left for work.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am in bed, half naked.”

“I thought we decided this was a bad idea.”

He didn’t have an answer for that. I told him I wasn’t interested and headed to the office. But any progress I’d made in not wondering about him was completely shattered – all I could think about that morning was if he’d been serious or if he was just toying with my emotions now that I’d so proudly announced I was getting over it.

Curled in my bed that night I pulled my knees to my chest and shut my eyes to concentrate on how ridiculous this entire situation is and how careless I am for playing into his desires by never ceasing our communication. Before I knew it, I was involuntarily sobbing at the thought of letting him use me again and how, even if I don’t believe it 100 percent of the time, I deserve so much more than what he’s offering.

There have been no text messages since.