A single past (part 3 of 4).


The first slow-dance that Phil and I shared was the final song of the Valentine’s Day Dance our freshman year of high school.  I don’t remember what the song was but it was 2005, so, use your imagination.  The dance was, inappropriately enough, held in a local bar that closed down for the event and we swayed and smiled. In that same spot, eight years later, I would be dancing with less-than pure intentions with a guy I never thought about during third period math class.

Our first kiss was behind the Museum in town.  We were seated under a tree and were joking about something (I don’t remember what) when he looked at me and simply told me to kiss him.  I did.  It was nice.  We did it again and his tongue came into my mouth and, in shock, I bit it.

The relationship wasn’t solid.  I still maintained my short-term dating style with Phil but over a course of four years.  I loved Phil, yet I was afraid of love, so even though he told me he loved me on a few occasions, I never admitted it back to him. Eventually he stopped saying it to me.  A small part of me is hoping he reads my blog so that he can just know that there was a time that I was in love with him.

We hugged a lot when we were together.  I was afraid to kiss him after the first incident.  I’d get over that by senior year when we weren’t together but tended to find each other in the dark room during photo class.

In preparation for this segment I went through my email to read our old correspondences.  There weren’t a lot but there were some that proved we were close once.  One conversation involved me just checking in with him to see that he was okay when he didn’t show up for school one day.  Another were a series of fractals that he sent to me on Valentine’s Day.

valentine's day


This boy is the smartest person I knew at the time (he’s still pretty high up on the list).  He was teaching himself physics our sophomore year and I tried to get Chuckie to teach me something about it just so I could impress Phil (sadly, I think I just embarrassed myself with both of those boys).  He also is extremely talented with a camera in his hand.

He made me an earring once.  He never finished the pair so I would wear it on one ear and just part my hair in such a way that you couldn’t see that my other ear was naked.  I keep the earring in a keepsakes box on my desk.

At the Junior Prom after-party, a drunken me got separated from her friends and confusedly wandered around the bonfire.  Phil found me and held me until we fell asleep in front of the dwindling fire.  When it got too cold, he took off his peacoat and laid it over us like a blanket.  Looking back, that was probably the first time I realized I felt safe when I was with him; in a way he was home.

I don’t know who ended it for the last time.  We never had dramatic break ups for the whole school to witness.  We weren’t those people.  Our breakups tended to be simple, to the point, and with educated reasoning.

A friend of Phil’s died at the end of the summer after our graduation.  All I wanted to do was comfort him the way he had comforted me at that prom party.  I didn’t because this grief was too big for any of us to handle and I didn’t know then that comfort is the same in all arenas of life. I regret not going to him to this day.

Phil never tried to change me.  He never needed me for anything but who I was and didn’t complain when who I was compromised our relationship.  He was the first consistently inconsistent boy in my life.  He was also the first person to tell me to pursue my creative writing career (I have it in writing).

A small part of me wishes I could go back and love Phil as fully as he loved me.  I think my life would be different and I would be less afraid of love.   I don’t think we would have made it past high school either way but I think I could have learned a lot about love and relationships from Phil if I had just given him the chance.

A single end game.


It shall hereby be known that I am, officially, the worst.

The worst at what? You may ask.

Well, dear readers,  I am officially the worst at the end game.  I can cast a lure, I can get the guy interested, but I can never seem to figure out an end game.  This always leaves the boy confused, me frustrated, and both of us disappointed.

The fact is that most of the time I know my end game is ultimately going to be different from his.

Let’s take Jesse, for example.  Jesse was dancing at the Box when I rolled up last Wednesday looking to dance and drink.  So my friends and I joined Jesse in a few moments of awkward 80’s style dancing (which is the best any of this group could accomplish).  At one point, I walked up and just started to flirt with him, luring him in to the situation.  We danced. We flirted.  We laughed.  We generally had a good time.

Then the Box lights came up and it was time to go home and Jesse looked at me expectantly.

“Want to come check out my room?” He asked.

“I can’t.  I have to be up early.”

“Me too but I can go all night if you’re up for it.” He moved in closer for the kill.

And that’s when it usually hits me.  It’s like a giant, red-flashing sign in my head that reads ABORT telling me to run and run fast.  I mean, I flirted and initiated the entire situation but, when it came down to it, I was afraid to reach that end game.

So instead of jumping in a cab and following Jesse home I simply said, “Maybe next time,” and then left so quickly that there is probably a trail of regret and poor life choices burned into the floor of the Box. I know how unfair that is to poor Jesse.  He put all his chips in, hoping for the best, and I unceremoniously just swiped them off the table and walked away.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Readers, I’m just worried that if I keep this up that this blog will become a barren wasteland of frustration and angst.  I’ve got to get out of this defunct end game.

Any suggestions for me, Kids?

A single past (part 2 of 4).


I can’t listen to Norah Jones’ “Come Away With Me” album without thinking of Tommy.  He was short-lived but also at the height of my hormonal stints.   Most of what I remember about Tommy came from before we even dated.

Tommy, for me, was the anticipation of dating.  It was the flirting, the day dreaming, and the excessive contemplation of everything he said over uncooked cookie dough with my friends.  When I started crushing on Tommy, I had recently moved my bed near the window of my room, I’d stare outside and listen to “Don’t Know Why” and “Come Away with Me” over and over again on my disc-man.  I’d wish I had some instant way to send him a message right at that moment (text messaging wasn’t big yet) that didn’t require me to log on to the family computer.

The worst thing about this relationship is that I don’t remember how it started.  I can’t figure out who asked who out, where we went for our first date, or how I felt afterwards.  I’m guessing this is the beginning of my aging process and my memory is, apparently, going first.  I’m going to assume that I was asked out over AIM.  That was the norm at the time and I’m sure I wasn’t any different.

The few moments that Tommy and I did date are still precious to me.  They’re also straight out of a 7th Heaven episode (but with less making out on the couch).  Tommy would take me to the movie theatre, we’d share some popcorn, and I’d put my hand on the armrest, hoping that he’d get the hint and take my hand, because holding hands was the most important thing for us.

But, like I said, it was short-lived.  It was a “Summer Lovin’” scenario and it “happened so fast.”

Still, I can’t look back at these relationships and not stop on Tommy.  He represents the innocence of relationships – a time where holding hands was enough – and it’s sometimes a trait that I miss when I’m dating now.

I broke up with Tommy on the phone.

For no justified reason, I just broke up with him.  He was the beginning of the boys I would break up with just because I didn’t feel like playing anymore – I used to have a three-month relationship tolerance…actually I still do.

A single Lame-o.


Listen, sometimes, and this may come as a shock to you, seeing as most of my posts suggest otherwise, I don’t drink.

And sometimes, just hold on to your hats folks, I work on my writing.

I stay at home, sit on the couch in the most unattractive sweat-suit I can muster up, and I write for hours – my only interruption coming from a cat needing attention or that episode of Once Upon A Time that I just can’t miss.

I honestly don’t go out as much as you might think.  I mean, I am trying to save for NYC and I’m a natural home-body.  I like to pay homage to my introverted self.

However, Trevor (of A Single Alpaca fame) got the wrong impression the other night.  He caught me on a night where I decided to go out. I got a drink and then five and BOOM I was giving him my number and hanging out making out with him.  Which I still regret to this day. So now, every time he goes out, he texts me and expects to be able to meet up with me because he assumes I’m at another bar.

For a while I played along.  So when he texted me asking me where I was I’d say, “Getting ready to go out,” or “My friends bailed tonight :(“ because I didn’t want him to know the truth.  But, around the fourth night he texted me in a row, I was done.

I was done for two reasons:

  1. It was annoying.
  2. Every time I saw him and he was sober, he wouldn’t give me the time of day (and I was simply asking him “how his day was” or “what slice he wanted from the case” because I only saw him when I was working at the Pizza Place.

So the other night he texted me and asked:

“Sup?”  Seriously, the man is a genius with words.

“Writing.” I replied.

“Sounds lame.”

“Are you at the Box?” I asked.


“Sounds lame.” I responded.

I’m not asking Trevor to date me.  Hell, I’m never going to ask that of him.  I’m not even asking him to be my friend. I’m not even the one that initiates these texts! I’m just asking that this guy, who deign to text me when he is drunk and make out with me after three shots too many, will show me the slightest amount of respect when it comes to my life.  And my life is writing.  Which he would know if he paid attention to me when we spoke the firs time we sat next to each other at the Box.

I’m a writer.  That comes first.  I don’t point out that his constant drinking is lame.  He shouldn’t point out that my writing is lame.

Get over your lame self.

A single past (Part 1 of 4).


Chuckie wasn’t necessarily the coolest guy.  He would grow up to play the bass clarinet and he’d teach himself the mandolin; he’d become a miller; he’d work with computers; he’d remain a smart dude.

And, like I said, he wasn’t considered the coolest guy, but I think I liked him because his quirkiness matched mine.  How does that song go? “That the freckles in our eyes are mirror images…” Yeah, it was something like that.  But, I was “cool” by association and tried to keep up appearances (this was middle school, you guys), and I strung Chuckie along.

He’d give me a necklace and I’d break up with him by letter.  He’d ask me to slow dance   at one of our middle school dances and I’d hide in the bathroom.  He’d become my secret admirer and I wouldn’t give him the time of day.

I was a bitch.

Or I seemed like one because I was afraid to be as openly quirky as Chuckie.  He was comfortable with the fact that he wasn’t like everyone else.  He didn’t need to fit in.  I did.  All my friends fit in (and they never required me to be like them but I was afraid to not be like them) and I wanted to fit in even though that was tiring for me to do.

Chuckie and I broke up three times that 7th grade year.  We got back together one last time at the of end of our freshman year.  Not much had changed.  Friends were the same; I was the same, scared, hormonal me; and Chuckie was more himself than ever. But we gave it a go.

It lasted about a month.

He was the first boy I kissed.  He was the first boy I got drunk with and then drunkenly kissed.  He was the first boy I let get to first base (that’s the one with the boobs, right?).

But the thing is, I never fully appreciated Chuckie for who he was – I do now.  Although I couldn’t see it then, I learned to embrace my personality from him first.  It would take me until my sophomore year of college to begin seeing that being weird was normal.  Everyone was weird.  I think that if I had to do it over the only thing I would have done differently is be myself.

I don’t think we would have worked out either way.  I never felt myself love him.  But I think he’s the one that taught me the most about myself, even if this was realized through drunken reminiscing, years after our final break up.

Our last conversation, about a year and a half ago, Chuckie told me that I had been a bitch (not in those exact words) when we tried to date.  It made me realize that I was more horrible than I initially thought (I tried to apologize but he said it wasn’t necessary to apologize to someone who loves you).

A single clown.


The costume I wore to my first Halloween party was carefully considered.  I spent close to an hour trying to decide.  The way I saw it, this was one night a year, and in the four hours that I could possibly be seen, I had to make a good impression.  Especially if Skyler or Max or Josh, or any of the boys of the week who caught my hormonal eyes were going to be there.  I knew that this would be the costume that would make me stand out.  It was just flashy enough without creating a scene. All the other girls were going to be jealous when all the boys were looking at me.

I was a clown for Halloween that year.

 A sexy clown? You might ask.  Well, no.  Not a sexy clown – unless the blue pom-poms on the front of the costume had an innuendo attached to them that I wasn’t aware of – No, I wasn’t a sexy clown.  I was just a run-of-the-mill clown with full make-up and wig (a wig that I made sure matched the blues in my costume, so that I wouldn’t clash).

Sadly, this was the same year that most other girls caught on to the sexy costume trend.  Or, at least, the earliest version of that. This means, mainly, that one or two girls wore fishnets, and another few had something leather on their person – we were far from the costumes that strippers consider appropriate workwear.

Still, my clown outfit hardly got me noticed by the boys. If it got me noticed, it was hardly for the reasons I wanted to be noticed for – such as tripping some boy with my giant, blue-rubber shoes.  And as the night wore on, I felt worse about myself.  I wanted to grab a pair of scissors and make this suit into a mini-skirt at the very least.  But, the thing is, even if I had the crafting abilities to fulfill those mini-skirt urges, I  would never have followed through.  A part of me knew that I didn’t want to be that sort of girl, even if it was pretend.

A small part of me, even if I didn’t know it then, didn’t want to be noticed by boys because of a lack of clothing.  It’s like a self-preservation instinct helped me from ever allowing myself to venture down that skanky, Halloween road.

I cried that night in the bathroom.  I watched as my makeup mixed with my tears in the sink of the bathroom before disappearing down the drain taking whatever hopes I had with it.  But, looking back, I’m proud of myself for not giving in to those societal pressures to moonlight once a year as a sexy nurse – not even in the next few years, when so many of my classmates were, in fact, sexy nurses.

And though my actions might have kept me single, I can still proudly state, that I have never once been confused as a prostitute on Halloween night.

Oh, and don’t forget to have a
H A P P Y  H A L L O W E E N!

A single mistake.


I was in the back of Josh’s cab when I realized I was making a mistake.

I smelled like sweat, pizza, and Josh’s cologne.  I had just come from work at the Pizza Place and  my hair had something in it, pizza sauce I thought, and I was dying to just chill out with Josh at the end of the double I’d worked.  So why was one of his hands up my shirt while the other tried to pull my hand over to his crotch?

And why, might I repeat, was I doing this in the back of his taxi cab?

So I stopped it.  I just sat back, readjusted my bra, shirt, hair, and pants before I requested to be brought home.  And I know he was mad, blue-balled to the extreme, and felt led on.  But, in my time, I’ve come to realize that you don’t keep doing something when you’ve had an epiphany as clear as the one I had on that vomit-stained backseat.  I just needed to go home and have that be the end.

I’m still not sure why Josh and I even started doing what we were doing.

Maybe I did it for the free rides.  I mean, he’s a taxi driver and I didn’t have a car and I like to partake in drinking festivities that happen across the street from the Pizza Place.  That was a pretty sweet deal, not having to worry about finding a taxi when bars closed.

But, I thought it was more for a little while.  Or convinced myself it was more and that I needed it to be so.

And with a half-hearted wave to Josh as I closed the car door, I was single again.

I’m not sure what I was expecting.  I’m pretty sure it wasn’t roses.  Definitely not chocolates.  Perhaps it was just some sign from someone, Romantic Jesus, I guess, telling me that this guy was the one that wouldn’t screw me over.  This is the guy that wouldn’t let me down.  This is the guy that would wake up and not be ashamed that he woke up in the same bed as me.  But there was no sign.

A single return to blogging.


I’m back!

That’s right, just like the walk of shame, I’m returning with my purse between my legs; ashamed of my absence or my perpetual stint in singledom, I’m not sure which but, either way, I’m back.

So get ready, folks, because I have some blogging to make up.

But until I get really rarin’ to go here’s the last year in review presented, in true Single Blog fashion, as a Top 10 List.

The Top 10 Things You Missed While I Was Away
10. I stopped flinging myself after guys that didn’t really like me.

9. Then I started doing it again.

8.  But then I really stopped that, for real.

7. I made friends with guys and then stayed friends with them.

6.  I realized that OkCupid was skeezier than I originally anticipated.

5. Re-watched the entire Game of Thrones series and became extra obsessed with Tyrion Lannister.

4. I drank and started using OkCupid again (but only secretly).

3. I had a run in with my ex-boyfriend from high school.

2. Started appreciating myself as a single lady and deleted all the boys’ phone numbers that were toxic.

1. Left a bar with a man named Maddog.

See? there’s a lot for review.  But I foresee an entire lifetime of single-living so we have plenty of time to catch-up! Let me know what you want to hear about the most and I’ll start with that!

A single response.


I went out with my sister and her husband tonight and had a blissful evening filled with watching the Queen of England “jump” out of a helicopter (i.e. walked out at the appropriate time as if said historical figure had launched her 86-year-old self out of a briskly moving aero-plane) and trying to figure out exactly why all those sick children (or were they orphans?) were jumping on beds at that time of night.

Yay! Olympics!

When I got home I stumbled across to a new message on Facebook.

And by “stumbled across” I mean, “walked into the house, with a good buzz, found pizza in the fridge, heated it up and listened to ‘Ignition’ by R. Kelly twice while  devouring said Italian greatness.”

Any who, I came upon a new message from the guy I’ve been talking about in my last two posts. It read as follows:


I’m assuming that by “life saver” is referring to the fact that I drove him home that night and not that I am a predecessor to the Coast Guard…

Is this a vague response? Yes.

Am I surprised by it? Nah.

Honestly I never dreamed of having a chance with this man.  He’s accomplished and cute and way out of my league.

I let myself get swept up in the opinions of others. The well-meaning outbursts of my co-workers and friends who made me believe I ever had a chance with him.  And I know this appears self-deprecating but I know myself well enough to know that, as much as I may have fantasized about it, this guy was not someone who I could ever be with.  He’s just playing for the majors while I’m still playing bench in the minors.

This is okay, I think, because I know a few new things about myself:

  1. I’m resilient.  I bounce back.  I’m not crushed by the defeat in this message.
  2. I’m confident.  Which isn’t something I could say about myself when I started this blog, I’m not as afraid to say something on my behalf to a guy any longer, which I believe has a lot to do with the support of my friends and my family.
  3. I’m looking forward.  I know that, although this didn’t work out, I have options in the future still.

Am I writing this guy off? Oh hell no.  Who knows? He could break up with his current girlfriend next week and think of me for all I know.

But, until then, I’m staying positive.  I’m not pining, I’m not obsessive.  I’m aware; A little hopeful.

Hell, I’m not sure if this was even a rejection.

What do you all think? Any thoughts? Was I tossed to the curb?



And now a little Wilson Philips, just cause I can:

A single, epic fail.


Ever hear of an epic fail?

It’s not just a failure, it’s a failure of epic proportions. It’s the pyramid of failures, the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall.

Get the picture?

Now add me to the picture. If you don’t know what I look like just picture a leprechaun for now (that’s pretty close). See me? Standing there pretending to hold up my leaning Tower of Failure while wearing a fanny pack (that makes the failure more epic, don’t you think)?

Well, my failure came the other night, when after an awful day of torture (waitressing), I was at the bar enjoying shots a beer when I noticed a guy that I knew through my older sister. I smiled, re-introduced myself, made the normal pleasantries and went back to drinking with one of my co-workers.

I didn’t think much about it. Well, I did think: “Damn, he’s cute.” But that was about it.

That was, until he moved over to start talking to me.

One thing led to another and I ended up driving him home because he couldn’t drive safely.

“Want to come inside?” he asked.

“Um, sure.” I had seen enough episodes of Sex and the City to know that usually meant something was going to happen. But I was conflicted as to whether I wanted to do anything. He was drunk. For all I knew this was just because he had no other options for the evening and I have a strict “no one night stand” clause these days.

I didn’t want him to regret a decision he had made while drinking.

So I went in and stood at least two awkward feet away from him at all times and let him show me his house. Then he walked me to my car.

The moment the door closed I regretted it. This guy was a catch and I knew that I had let him go like a child who didn’t want to keep the fish she had just reeled in. I was tempted to get out of the car, kiss this boy and give up all my fears.

But my fears run deep and I stayed with my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel and drove myself home.

Epic fail?

You bet your ass.

And if he comes back and is interested a second time you better believe that I won’t hold back again.