Dating Daze

So there I am, minding my own business at the supermarket on a Friday night.  Not necessarily a typical TGIF for me, but not an atypical one either unfortunately.   And this guy started to pick me up AS  I savored the peanut butter pretzel  ‘freebie’ I thought I had snagged from the bin in a very incognito fashion.

I loved his line though: “I see you eating that peanut butter pretzel, just chomping away over there. What’s next, planning to go squeeze yourself some fresh orange juice?”

I never knew my pilfering skills would come in handy like that one day.  You see?  Everybody has unique gifts and talents they should exploit in order to reach their highest potential.  Use it or lose it people.

Then, when he asked for my business card, I had none on my person (or anywhere if you want to get technical),  so I had to give him a ghetto-ass ‘bi’ness card’ which in actuality was a receipt with my name & number on it.  I have got to do better.  Especially since we all know the supermarket is the new bar.  (Heard that from this really, really clever girl over two years ago!  I bet she’s really pretty too.  And nice.  And not crazy at all.)

I am way too close to Liz Lemon for my comfort level.

he was mine for a time, and i loved him.

i’m sure i could say it more eloquently, but why.  that’s exactly what happened.

     On my first trip to Europe, I had a great time and all, but one nagging question plagued me throughout the trip.  The thought was so silly that I kept it to myself, since there was no way it could possibly be true.  There was just no way… right?   Or was there?  Because time and time again, despite the odds and my logical, rational mind telling me otherwise, all the signs continued to point in that direction.  Was it actually true?  Could it possibly be?  Were all European men gay? 

     Of course not, I would repeatedly tell myself, but then they would ‘come out’, wearing those tight pants (leather on occasion), working those scarves and purring, “Hi, love” or “Got a fag?” and I would be right back where I started.  Because everything just screamed ‘refined’. ‘Cultured’.  ‘Gay’.

     As it turns out, my ‘gay’ turned out to just be their ‘hip’ and ‘stylish’.  A fashion consciousness more so than an indication of sexual preference.  After my best friend Janaya and I met some French guys at a pub one night, they set us straight.   We bonded instantly with them, even going skiing with them a week later.  And they were straight as arrows. 

     We were really annoyed with how well they dressed though. Each and every one of them looked ten times better than we did, effortlessly gliding down the slopes in their one-piece pantsuits and matching goggles while we slipped and slid down in our abominable snowman pants and helmets. Why did they get to wear slenderizing one-piece ensembles while we got stuck with bibs?   Pardon my French, but that’s kind of fucked up.

     I forgave them on account of their accents though.   Because once I realized they weren’t gay, I started appreciating how sexy their accents were and how everything they said sounded so darn good: “But Chewie, mon chewie amour, are you sure you want to do zat?”   And even if it was something I had my heart set on doing, all of a sudden I was no longer sure in the least.

     Sometimes I wouldn’t even pay attention to the words coming out their mouths.  I would just nod and savor the accent while picturing little kids speaking exactly like them.  And by little kids I mean ours of course.  Theirs and mine.  I’m a girl, remember?

     Kind of irrational really, how much accents affect us ladies.   No doubt many a European man has gotten foreign play based on his accent alone.   Pretty powerful stuff.  Someone should invent an earpiece for American women traveling in Europe to wear that instantly replays whatever the European man is saying in a Midwestern accent.  Perhaps it might help us stay more grounded. 

     American women also seem to find it equally wonderful when European men make mistakes with their English.   After Janaya and I moved on to Italy, we came back to our hotel one day to find a handwritten note from the Roman god who worked there:  “Here are some complimentary Italian snacks for your enjoyment.   Sincerely, your Receptionist.”  

     Of course, we talked about his faux pas for the rest of the trip:  “When our Receptionist did such-and-such… oh my God, how precious!  He called himself our Receptionist!”  We never strayed from using the word ‘Receptionist’ though, since that was what he used.  And when in Rome…  

     So, yes, European men have amazing accents.  And no, not all European men are gay.  Good news to those of you currently in the market for Euros.  A smart move, too, since I hear they’re currently valued at twice that of Americans these days.

     Oh, and when you find your European man, I would suggest holding on to him tight, even if other women don’t seem to realize his worth or he’s recently been dumped.  One woman’s (Euro) trash can very well be another’s treasure.

It is a risk to love.
What if it doesn’t work out?
Ah, but what if it does.

Who cares about my ex-boyfriend.  I am SO totally and completely over him.  That’s why I never bring him up.

Why can’t I either be six inches shorter or a certain someone be six inches taller?

Good one, God.  Laugh it up.

That is IT.  I’m cracking down on the spam blowing up my email.  My personal email, that is.  Because to mention a work email would be to imply that I actually HAVE a job.  And I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.

And when I say ’spam’, I mean that rubbish from the ex-boyfriends.   Stop the madness crazies.  I know your sixth sense has somehow alerted you to the fact that I just got dumped and am at my most vulnerable, but control yourselves.

The chance of you getting some punnany or us getting back together or whatever it is you were looking for when you sent your emails is about as high as me finally taking advantage of that six million dollar award that the nice Nigerian man informed me I won and/or taking the necessary steps to enlarge my penis.  I happen to be quite satisfied with my penis exactly as is, thank you very much.

crying, remembering, grieving, insight, pain, growth, loss, change…

gotta love a breakup.

one more to add to the list:  rage.   like when you want nothing more in life than to look that person right in his eyes, kick him in his swimsuit area and then run away yelling:  “Janelle GET THE CAR!!!”

I hate being single sometimes.  The silence can be deafening.

So Miranda’s ‘he’s just not that into you’ realization was made into a horrible horrible movie (and saying it twice seems necessary on account of how horrible that movie really is),  but still, there is something to be said for defining moments like those in a girl’s life.  When someone makes an offhand comment about this whole dating/men/ relationship thing and suddenly everything becomes crystal clear.

Like those glorious words uttered at that party the other night:

 You can’t fix crazy.

WOW.  Wow.  Because you might can try, might even get a lil’ carried away and think you’re making progress, but the fact remains.

I am a changed woman.