A single past (part 3 of 4).

0

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

Hearts

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.

2

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).

0

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.

4

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.

“Yeah.”

“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.

Single Throwback Sunday: 5 Reasons I’m Glad to Not Be Single in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

0

It’s summer time but, thankfully, my hard time in the real world hasn’t started yet.  I’ve worked occasionally but not in a way  that would give me more than $0.61 combined in my savings and checking accounts.

In fact, the only thing I’ve worked on since I’ve been home is watching the first and second seasons of Game of Thrones.

I’m obsessed.

Sigh…

Just walk into my bedroom closet and you will find my Tyrion Lannister shrine made of used tissues and held together with my tears.

The one thing I love the most about Game of Thrones is how grateful it makes me feel for not living in their world as the single lady I tend to be.  So I’ve compiled a list of five main reasons why I’m glad to not be living in Westeros despite how much I love watching the show.

5 Reasons I’m Glad to Not Be Single in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. 

5. I’d have to work for Little Finger.  If you aren’t married and you have a vagina then most likely you are going to end up as a prostitute.  And I don’t want to have to have sex with some fat, old, lord just because I’m being paid to – it doesn’t sound like something I would necessarily enjoy.

4. I’m worth about as much as a goat.  Being single basically means I can be traded without my consent.  Oh, what’s that, My Lord? You need an army? Sure, just give me to the first barbarian you meet in exchange for some men with sticks.

3.  Unless I’m married to a powerful man, no one takes me seriously. Oh wait, that’s not that different from our world…

2.  It’s got some medieval Mean Girls going on. It doesn’t really matter if you are single or in a relationship in Westeros, someone will stab you in the back, or cut off your hand, or kill your significant other.  They will do so with a smile and without the slightest flutter of an eyelid.  They will do so when you think they are your ally.

1. I would be eligible to be courted by the future king. This doesn’t sound that bad, right? But King Joffrey is a prick and all the other kings are old.  If the King of the North, Robb McHotPants, came to my door then we would be talking marriage but the chances that I would be stuck with Joffrey, fearing my life and beating other prostitutes for his amusement, are way too high.

A single past. (An introduction of sorts)

0

Rafiki told a young-adult Simba: “The past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it.”

Now, as all 90’s babies can attest, I learned all substantial knowledge from Disney movies, the Lion King in particular. So, I took that with a grain of salt.  And, though there were other scenes that said you should learn to leave your past behind or whatever, I’ve found that going through my past and learning from my past mistakes has made me stronger (as long as I don’t dwell back there too long).

And in the next few weeks I’ll investigate my past relationships  in a series of posts.  You’ve only been with me for three years, Internet, you have about 20 years of catching up to do.  I think this will be a mental and emotional cleanse.  And once it’s out of me, I think that I’ll be more at peace with myself and my relationship status (i.e single).   Maybe  I’ll also be more open when a new relationship shows itself.

So this post is simply an introduction to Tommy, Chuckie, Phi, and Spike (all names changed – mainly for me because then I get to use the Rugrats characters in a post- to protect the person’s privacy).  You all know about my latest exploits with Josh so I feel it’s only fair that I air all of my dirty lingerie for the world to see.

Enjoy, Kiddies, it’s about to be story time.

A single alpaca.

2

This is a story about a girl who didn’t shave her legs when she had the chance in the shower.  And how that stopped her from getting any.

Trevor was the not the end goal.  Hell, he wasn’t even the goal.  I didn’t have one.  I just (surprise, surprise) wanted a beer.  So I went over to the Box and BOOM! I was seated next to Trevor, watching the Red Sox game, and drunk because, well, sometimes just walking into the Box gets you drunk – The eight shots of FireBall definitely had something to do with my drunkeness levels but they never would have been ingested if I hadn’t walked into the Box (see how I just went full circle?).

So there I am, having a great time just hanging out, when Travis turns to me:

“I just got my car fixed.  Got it back for the first time in three weeks today.”

Not the most intriguing first line in the conversation but, hell, it had been a while since Josh and I figured that it could be fun to see where this goes.  At the very least, I would get an interlude from my very plain life.  And I decided to let Trevor slide, despite that opening line.

“Great Patriots game earlier.”

God, he was really making this hard.  I smirked.  He tried again:

“Want to go for a drive?”

Yes, there it was, the question I had been waiting for – my magical evening taking a drive away from the mundane.

I had him drive me to the beach.  And we got there and got out of the car – the headlights illuminating the white pilings up ahead.  Further out on the beach, a group of high schoolers smoked pot, occasionally checking their phones – a blue flickering light created a mini-lighthouse, alerting us of their presence ahead.  Trevor leaned against the front of the car.  He grabbed hold of his baseball hat and tugged it further on to his head.  Somehow I managed to saunter over to him.  He grabbed my waist and pulled me in for a kiss.

The most surprising thing about Trevor was that he actually could kiss.

He continued to kiss me until I thought I would break all of my codes and just have fun with him in the back of his car.  Then he stepped back:

 “Want to go somewhere else?”

I wanted to say yes.  I wanted to go back to his place. I wanted to have a good time.  I wanted to until I realized that I was in desperate need of shaving.

It seriously felt like I had two alpacas attached to my legs.  I just couldn’t allow him to know that I had that situation down there.  I don’t have a lot of pride but, for whatever reason, I have shaven-leg pride.

 So I politely asked him if he would mind taking me home.  He had no problem with it, especially after I lied about having to be up for work wicked early.  So, with a short little make out in the car in between point A and point B, I was home, and my exciting night was over and I was back to the mundane life of watching TV, knitting, and filling out my spinster application with a cat on my lap.

And that, Children, is how my unshaved legs managed to ruin my night.

Always shave.  Always.

Single Throwback Sunday: A single symposium.

0

This past weekend was one of those roller coasters – you know the emotional sort.

And whenever I feel a little out of sorts, because of confused feelings or uncertain longings, I always find myself drawn to one book and one book only: The Symposium by Plato.

I lost you at, Plato, didn’t I? I know how it sounds – a little pretentious with a side of god awful and boring.

It’s none of those things.  Not even close.

It’s all the great minds of Plato’s time coming together to discuss the origins of love.  How can you hate that? Hm?

I’ve always been drawn to one particular speech within the text: Aristophanes’.  In which, Aristophanes looks at the history of the human race and how we came to need a partner in life.

Since some of you might still not go out to Barnes and Noble and buy this book to read – I’ve decided to give you the low down – consider this A Single Blog’s version of Spark Notes.

Here we go:

Basically the entire human race started out looking a little bit different than what we are used to seeing today.  Back then everyone was round and they had two sets of everything – arms, legs, heads.  Each body was made up of two genders: man & man, woman & woman, and woman & man.

They were madly in love with the other head they shared their body with.  And, since they shared a body and had so many legs and arms to spare,  these odd looking people would cartwheel around.  They were super powerful and super fast and super conceited  and the Gods became angry.  They wanted to remind the humans that they were, indeed, human.

So the Gods decided to split up the humans, making them more vulnerable.  Now, when they did this, the beings were scattered around the world, away from their mate, and the halves longed for each other. They didn’t know what do do without their partners.

Many of the beings died – they wouldn’t eat, sleep or move without their loved ones – but some were more fortunate than others.  Some found their other half and when they did they wrapped their arms around that person and never let go.

According to Aristophanes it is in our nature to constantly search for our other half – that person is male or female based on the original gender you are from.  


There is nothing in this world that gives me more hope than Aristophanes speech because, according to him, I’m doing the right thing – I’m doing what comes natural to me.  I’m searching for my other half.

Single Throwback Sunday: Ten Things Nicholas Sparks Did Wrong

0

The “Lucky One” came out recently.  And in honor of this cinematic failure I thought I would pay homage to the man behind why 13 year old girls are destined to have poor excuses for relationships: Nicholas Sparks*.  The man that gets a lady-boner whenever he hears the words “rain,” “marine,” or “Miley Cyrus.”

The man behind the magic, Sparky McSpark-Spark

10. A storm does not a relationship make. The man loves rain.  He loves kissing in the rain, he loves fortifying relationships in the rain through traumatic events, and he loves starting relationships in the rain. He likes things wet.  Oh, Mr. Sparks, you naughty man. . .

9.  War! What isn’t it good for? People just don’t get killed when they go off to war in Sparks’ world.  In fact, he doesn’t even want to waste his time with the mediocre soldier that is only doing it because he is fulfilling some sort of obligation to his country.  No, he actually does kill off those soldiers because who wants the mediocre ones around?  His characters are the man’s man.  John (of the Dear, John, variety) is the only one that comes close to saying no to re-enlisting.  But, soldier’s are Sparks’ wet dream.  And boy, you can’t have a passionate relationship unless that boy was the best soldier out there first.

8. Southern hospitality.   We get it Spark Plug: you love the south.  Sweet tea and mint juleps for everyone! But since love only happens in the south, it’s hard for the rest of us Yankees (mainly me) to feel like we are ever going to get a chance at all of the good times.  We just don’t have as many crab shacks to go to up here on our first dates.

7. Loner lover boys. Ever notice that these leading men have barely any friends or family? That’s not normal.  These men are more focused on getting a girl than maintaining healthy relationships.  It’s not okay to become so fixated on another person that you completely ignore all other aspects of your life.  Which leads us to….

6. Sexy fixation.  I don’t care how hot the guy is – it is not okay to become obsessed with a girl.  GET A LIFE.  It’s creepy.  Stop walking across the country, dangling from a ferris wheel, and, please, stop jumping off piers.

Uh-oh, Mandy seems to have lost her sweater….

5.  If you give a girl a sweater. If you give a girl a sweater, it is not like if you give a mouse a cookie.  She will not ask for more.

4.  Girls turned off/on.  Why do girls have absolutely no power in these movies? I mean, really now, why must they all be slightly wounded and waiting for a man to save them.  The only time a woman takes initiative is when she makes these men have sex with her.  Listen leading ladies, sex doesn’t create an emotional band-aid to cover all your wounds, try seeing a shrink or take up kick-boxing.

3. Miley Cyrus.  Why, Nick, why?

2. Nights in Rodanthe.  See number 3.

1. El grande finale-e.  It’s funny.  I’ve never had a boy fix my boat’s engine, build me a telescope or rebuild an entire home for us to live in.  But, Nicky (do you mind if I call you Nicky?), what happened to flowers or just really good sex? I don’t think the average man knows how to rebuild an entire house for me and if I waited for one that could, well, this blog might be around for a long ass time.

*Yes, I know, Nicholas Sparks only wrote the books.  But I blame him for even coming up with these ideas.  And no, I haven’t read all of his books, Dear John, was all I could bear to read and even that was like swallowing a wasp’s nest.

A single Pizza Guy.

0

There aren’t too many moments when I have found myself swooning over a person that I’ve barely met.  That sudden rush, the flush of a cheek, the creaking and groaning of a heart getting back into the rhythm of an excited heartbeat – all of that has eluded me for sometime.  The first time that person smiles at you and you feel yourself inexplicably blush. It makes me feel giddy and like the sort of high school girl that I never acted like (I was the more sullen, introverted girl) It’s been forever since that feeling has hit me.

Then this guy walked into the Pizza Place and I started to swoon.

I’m going to begin this story by saying that I haven’t seen him since.  And I’ll probably never see him again but it was fun nonetheless.

He was homely, not someone who could walk into a Abercrombie shoot and be welcomed, but I tend to be attracted to someone I feel comfortable with and homely, in this scenario,

definitely coincides with comfortable. He reminded me of someone who would be portrayed in the movies as being an anime geek, trekky, or maybe A Big Bang Theory cast member.  That connection instantly had me thinking what dorky hobby he partook in and whether his walls had shelves lined with Totoro figurines.

He gave me his name, James or Jack or Jim or Jimmy, and I grabbed his pizza: A large buffalo chicken with bacon (and yes, I remember his order and not his name.  I have a weird way of remembering people by what they get at the Pizza Place).  I told him that I thought adding bacon to his order was genius.  He smiled.

I swooned.

Then he looked at my eyes and told me they were beautiful, touching my arm gently, before smiling again —

Swoon

— And walking out with the pizza. And I have no expectations from this slight flirtation in my day but it’s fun to think that it happened in the first place.  Do I wish that he’d come back, give me his number, take me out on a date, introduce me to his parents, propose, and marry me? I mean, sure, that’s an ideal situation right there.  But do I expect that to happen? No.  That would be crazy.  I might even be a little creeped out if it did happen at all.  That doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream.

Especially a girl with beautiful eyes.