What the heck is in the water today (well, this vibe actually started yesterday and has seemed to carry through to today)?! I swear, it feels like I'm getting talked over left and right.
It's. Driving. Me. Mad.
Maybe we need to go over a few brief pointers from the It's Not All About You Guide to Conversing With Others (you know, that little invisible handbook your mama passes down to you in the form of manners):
Step one: Take a breath. Breathe. Allow others to interject thoughts. Kindly remember the world does not revolve around you, nor does the sun shine out of your...well, you get the picture.
Step two: Listen to what others have to say. Allow them to share the air. Everyone is entitled to the same amount of oxygen.
Step three: Nod or otherwise acknowledge that you are listening. Staring into oblivion...or at my chest...or at my lips while licking your own...are not suitable ways of letting someone know you are listening--it only shows what you are thinking.
Get these first three steps down, and we're on the road to a much better--less aggravating--conversation.
Ugh. I just had to vent a little. Sorry about that. Feel better now, though. That's what blogs are for, right?
Time to hum some sunshine-y tune...or, my luck, some hormone-y song.
Sigh. It's a Monday.
On a significantly brighter note, Colin Firth won the Academy for Best Actor, my Mavs won this weekend, AND Dale Earnhardt Jr. overcame quite a bit of on-track adversity to grab a top ten finish at Phoenix. Whoop! *Did I just -whoop-?*
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday Fun: Best Actor Goes To...
....um, I don't know, but I'm sure hoping it's Colin Firth. Ever since he captured my heart as Mr. Darcy, I have wanted to see him acknowledged by the Academy. Even in romantic comedies, he's fantastic. I just love the depth he brings to his roles.
His most recent Academy Award nominated role in the King's Speech is no exception. In one word: brilliant.
His most recent Academy Award nominated role in the King's Speech is no exception. In one word: brilliant.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
When People Say Mean Things
Sometimes people say mean things. For whatever reason, they can't help themselves.
Maybe they knock your lifestyle, your choices, your family, your significant other, your job, or even your looks.
Maybe they're just joking around...maybe they're serious...maybe they want to bring you down...and maybe you shouldn't care.
Don't let someone's words get you down.
When someone feels the need to verbally lash out at another for no apparent reason, don't get mad (though you may want to)...don't get sad (because they'd love that and it's a useless emotion)...and don't get even (despite your knee-jerk reaction to spew venom right back--yes, this would be more fun, but would you feel good afterward? Wait. Don't answer that).
Instead, feel sorry for them...because anyone who feels the need to be a jackass clearly has more issues than you could ever imagine having. And that alone is a damn good reason to feel grateful in the face of bullies (of all ages).
Remember: it's your life, not his, hers, or theirs. Yours. Chin up, square shoulders, and move on. And if you want to flip 'em the finger on the sly...aw, hell, go for it.
Maybe they knock your lifestyle, your choices, your family, your significant other, your job, or even your looks.
Maybe they're just joking around...maybe they're serious...maybe they want to bring you down...and maybe you shouldn't care.
Don't let someone's words get you down.
When someone feels the need to verbally lash out at another for no apparent reason, don't get mad (though you may want to)...don't get sad (because they'd love that and it's a useless emotion)...and don't get even (despite your knee-jerk reaction to spew venom right back--yes, this would be more fun, but would you feel good afterward? Wait. Don't answer that).
Instead, feel sorry for them...because anyone who feels the need to be a jackass clearly has more issues than you could ever imagine having. And that alone is a damn good reason to feel grateful in the face of bullies (of all ages).
Remember: it's your life, not his, hers, or theirs. Yours. Chin up, square shoulders, and move on. And if you want to flip 'em the finger on the sly...aw, hell, go for it.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
What If Wednesday: What If He Has A Bet On You?
Although along the same lines as the "what if he uses you" theory, one of the most frequent questions I hear has to do with the "bet" scenario: What if a guy has a bet with his buddies that he can get you into bed?
Well, this goes back to that trust issue. I don't trust in people easily. Some people find that strange, which always perplexes me. Trust, like respect, is earned. Do you trust someone you literally just met? Odds are, you don't.
Whether you realize it or not, there is some part of you that will remain guarded until you get to know the person better. Trust is as much a gift as it is a process.
When people tell me they trust me completely, I'm honored, and would never do anything to break that trust. Heck, I still have people's secrets going back to 8th grade! Guess what? I've never told anyone anything...and I never will. Why? Because they asked me not to tell a soul. I don't care that it was forever ago or that they probably don't remember the secrets themselves. I gave my word.
I guess what I'm saying is this: I'm going to get to know him before I trust him. Doesn't trust come before love, anyway? All I can do is have faith that I won't come across some cold-hearted son-of-a-gun that sees me as nothing more than a bet.
My instincts have never let me down before, and I imagine they won't when the time comes.
Bottom Line: I've fine-tuned my b.s. radar...I can usually smell it a mile away. And you can bet I'll go to y'all and my mama for second opinions. ;)
And, ya know, if for some reason a slick s.o.b. squeaks past my b.s. detector, I'll just call up the vengeance demon to right things for me...(I'm joking...it's a Buffy reference, for those who watched the show--very funny character, when she lost her powers anyway...bit scary before then, though.). ;)
Well, this goes back to that trust issue. I don't trust in people easily. Some people find that strange, which always perplexes me. Trust, like respect, is earned. Do you trust someone you literally just met? Odds are, you don't.
Whether you realize it or not, there is some part of you that will remain guarded until you get to know the person better. Trust is as much a gift as it is a process.
When people tell me they trust me completely, I'm honored, and would never do anything to break that trust. Heck, I still have people's secrets going back to 8th grade! Guess what? I've never told anyone anything...and I never will. Why? Because they asked me not to tell a soul. I don't care that it was forever ago or that they probably don't remember the secrets themselves. I gave my word.
I guess what I'm saying is this: I'm going to get to know him before I trust him. Doesn't trust come before love, anyway? All I can do is have faith that I won't come across some cold-hearted son-of-a-gun that sees me as nothing more than a bet.
My instincts have never let me down before, and I imagine they won't when the time comes.
Bottom Line: I've fine-tuned my b.s. radar...I can usually smell it a mile away. And you can bet I'll go to y'all and my mama for second opinions. ;)
And, ya know, if for some reason a slick s.o.b. squeaks past my b.s. detector, I'll just call up the vengeance demon to right things for me...(I'm joking...it's a Buffy reference, for those who watched the show--very funny character, when she lost her powers anyway...bit scary before then, though.). ;)
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
All I Ask
So, since I have my funky love post over on Cinderita's blog, I figure I'll continue on the love trend. I think most of us agree that love has been made uber complicated these days. So stupid, really. Love should be the simplest, most wonderful part of life, and yet people find a way make it anything but. Shame.
I still believe in the simplistic, uncomplicated version. That's me. Love--pure and simple, love. Trusting the other person is a bit problematic. Whether I'm destined to find it in this world or not, I do not know. I have my doubts. And if I end up alone, it's okay. I'd rather be alone on my own than alone in a relationship.
To me, love isn't about money, prestige, or any of those shallow things. Love should be about two hearts, two souls. Period.
Now, enough with the heavy stuff.
If you listen to the lyrics of a timeless classic, I think they will say it better than I ever could: All I Ask Of You, from The Phantom of the Opera.
I still believe in the simplistic, uncomplicated version. That's me. Love--pure and simple, love. Trusting the other person is a bit problematic. Whether I'm destined to find it in this world or not, I do not know. I have my doubts. And if I end up alone, it's okay. I'd rather be alone on my own than alone in a relationship.
To me, love isn't about money, prestige, or any of those shallow things. Love should be about two hearts, two souls. Period.
Now, enough with the heavy stuff.
If you listen to the lyrics of a timeless classic, I think they will say it better than I ever could: All I Ask Of You, from The Phantom of the Opera.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Love Is In The Air...
...on Cinderita's blog. I wrote a guest blog on love for her and she's featuring it tomorrow. Please keep in mind, I was in my Valentine's state of mind when I wrote it, which, as most of you know, wasn't terribly sunny.
Love. That word has been really bothering me lately. It's thrown around so loosely these days, I sometimes wonder if it still exists in its true form. I think it does, but the bigger concern is whether the person saying it actually believes in the meaning...or are they just saying it because it's the "thing" to do. Maybe they feel they've been with someone long enough and better just say it.
Last November, when I asked Wasn't point blank if he loved his girlfriend of nearly one year, there was this amazing hesitation, followed by serious waffling, and then, "Uuuuuh, you know, yeah." Not sure about you, but that's not what I would want to hear. I don't want to be with someone who isn't really sure about me. Granted, he's probably not the best example to go by, but I remember thinking, I wonder if he really knows what it means to love someone. I think that about a lot of people, actually.
I tend to think simple things have become ridiculously complicated these days...things like love and trust. They are so wonderfully basic, but, wow, the way some people act today makes it really difficult to keep them simple.
Okay, I'm totally mind dumping here.
And if I get shocked one more time when I turn on a light switch, I'm going to start getting radio signals...or turn into, like, Electro Girl--tag line: Touch, and you'll get electrocuted. Wow, how popular would I be with guys? So not ideal.
Love. That word has been really bothering me lately. It's thrown around so loosely these days, I sometimes wonder if it still exists in its true form. I think it does, but the bigger concern is whether the person saying it actually believes in the meaning...or are they just saying it because it's the "thing" to do. Maybe they feel they've been with someone long enough and better just say it.
Last November, when I asked Wasn't point blank if he loved his girlfriend of nearly one year, there was this amazing hesitation, followed by serious waffling, and then, "Uuuuuh, you know, yeah." Not sure about you, but that's not what I would want to hear. I don't want to be with someone who isn't really sure about me. Granted, he's probably not the best example to go by, but I remember thinking, I wonder if he really knows what it means to love someone. I think that about a lot of people, actually.
I tend to think simple things have become ridiculously complicated these days...things like love and trust. They are so wonderfully basic, but, wow, the way some people act today makes it really difficult to keep them simple.
Okay, I'm totally mind dumping here.
And if I get shocked one more time when I turn on a light switch, I'm going to start getting radio signals...or turn into, like, Electro Girl--tag line: Touch, and you'll get electrocuted. Wow, how popular would I be with guys? So not ideal.
Lady Luck
Lady Luck and I have never been close. Maybe it has to do with me not really relying on her help or calling her a choice name when she sticks her nose in where it doesn't belong. I'm convinced she gets sheer pleasure out of toying with the virgin...like I'm the yarn ball to her cat.
I guess it's safe to say we are at odds most of the time.
Still, I wish I had her direct line because Luck and I need to have a talk.
Yesterday, twenty-year-old NASCAR driver Trevor Bayne, became the youngest winner of the historic Daytona 500. Oh, and this was his FIRST EVER Daytona 500. To put this win into perspective, Tony Stewart, a two time series champion, has never won the Daytona 500.
I think just about every NASCAR fan and non-NASCAR fan was happy for this hard working, faith-driven young man.
However, what happened to Dale Earnhardt Jr. is just absurd.
Take a look at the following and tell me Lady Luck doesn't have some explaining to do:
1. Dale wins the pole for the Daytona 500 (meaning he starts the race 1st)
2. During practice, three cars jump in front of Jimmie and Dale, causing Dale to get hit from behind.
3. Pole car...gone; must move to the back-up car.
4. Because he has to move to the back-up car, Dale has to start the race in the back of the pack.
5. Dale masterfully moved up through the pack early on.
6. He lead nine laps over the course of the race.
7. By the end of the race, Dale was in position for the win.
8. With about FIVE laps remaining, he gets a flat tire.
9. Forced to pit, he has to restart 15th/16th.
10. Then, on the restart, he becomes collateral damage in another driver's wreck. Day over, car trashed.
11. From a possible win or top 5...to a 24th place finish.
BFF thought it was terrible what happened--just horrible, horrible luck.
If I could, I'd ask Luck why she feels it's necessary to continue battering the man. Don't you think he had enough of that last year?
Believe me when I say, there are other people in this world perhaps a bit more deserving of your game play. Then again, maybe no one deserves any of the rot you dish out.
Lady Luck, there's a reason your name rhymes with a less than flattering word.
I guess it's safe to say we are at odds most of the time.
Still, I wish I had her direct line because Luck and I need to have a talk.
Yesterday, twenty-year-old NASCAR driver Trevor Bayne, became the youngest winner of the historic Daytona 500. Oh, and this was his FIRST EVER Daytona 500. To put this win into perspective, Tony Stewart, a two time series champion, has never won the Daytona 500.
I think just about every NASCAR fan and non-NASCAR fan was happy for this hard working, faith-driven young man.
However, what happened to Dale Earnhardt Jr. is just absurd.
Take a look at the following and tell me Lady Luck doesn't have some explaining to do:
1. Dale wins the pole for the Daytona 500 (meaning he starts the race 1st)
2. During practice, three cars jump in front of Jimmie and Dale, causing Dale to get hit from behind.
3. Pole car...gone; must move to the back-up car.
4. Because he has to move to the back-up car, Dale has to start the race in the back of the pack.
5. Dale masterfully moved up through the pack early on.
6. He lead nine laps over the course of the race.
7. By the end of the race, Dale was in position for the win.
8. With about FIVE laps remaining, he gets a flat tire.
9. Forced to pit, he has to restart 15th/16th.
10. Then, on the restart, he becomes collateral damage in another driver's wreck. Day over, car trashed.
11. From a possible win or top 5...to a 24th place finish.
BFF thought it was terrible what happened--just horrible, horrible luck.
If I could, I'd ask Luck why she feels it's necessary to continue battering the man. Don't you think he had enough of that last year?
Believe me when I say, there are other people in this world perhaps a bit more deserving of your game play. Then again, maybe no one deserves any of the rot you dish out.
Lady Luck, there's a reason your name rhymes with a less than flattering word.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Trying To Clean Up The Blog...And The Survivor Game (Again)
Do y'all ever rework your blog? I was doing that earlier, but deleted the wrong post while watching the NASCAR truck series race and getting all teary eyed over it being the 10 year anniversary of Dale Earnhardt Sr.'s passing. I guess I wasn't paying attention.
Then, I posted a re-post, but realized I wanted to ask y'all what you do when you remodel your blog...so I deleted that one. Sigh. I apologize again.
Blog remodeling questions:
-Do you relabel posts?
-Do you narrow your labels down? That's something I've been working on after noticing some labels that were too similar.
-Do you delete posts? If so, why? Sometimes I'll delete them if they're obsolete (things that no longer matter or even things from when I first started blogging and asked questions about how to blog...stuff like that).
-Have you ever tried different layouts? I have, but it never looks right to me, so I ultimately stay with the same thing. I'm probably doing something wrong, though...I'm not so good at this stuff.
I'll try to keep the blog blonde from having another flake-out anytime soon.
I want to make sure I re-post Kelly's Survivor game links. :)
For a super fun change of pace, Kelly (who has an awesomely wonderful blog) over at My Joy Project just started a blogging game based on the show Survivor! If you are a Survivor fan, like playing blogging games, like winning, or just like getting prizes, check it out!! Survivor Blogging Game
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Relevance and Dale Earnhardt Jr.
Question: If someone said to you, "You are not relevant," would that be offensive? How about if someone said, "You [he or she] need to try to become relevant?"
I once had a couple of classmates--groupie girls--tell me that they would never invite me to a post-game party because the Mr. So-and-so's would never be interested in me. According to them, I "...would not be relevant to guys like that." i.e. I wasn't a groupie and wouldn't do groupie things. Of course, relevant was a newly discovered word for them, so maybe they just wanted to work it into a sentence that day. *eye roll*
I remember thinking, what happened to people liking each other for who they really are, not what they do...or don't do? When did being genuine become an irrelevant thing?
Relevant is like the new buzz word used to talk people down.
If you googled Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s name in the weeks leading up to the Daytona 500, all you read were headlines questioning just how relevant he still is in racing. The headlines included things like: Dale Tries To Become Relevant; Last Chance For Dale Jr. To Remain Relevant, Dale Jr: Racing For Relevance.
Really?
Then you see headlines like, Why Doesn't Dale Jr. Smile Anymore? Wow, I wonder. How much would you want to smile if someone kept badgering you about relevancy, talent, passion, blah, blah, blah???
Everyone is relevant in this world. In such a big 'ol place, it's nice to know you are relevant to your mama, your daddy, your friends, and your loved ones.
As for Dale, he will always be relevant in NASCAR. It's funny to me, really, that these people who question his relevancy fail to see the irony in what they write: if he wasn't relevant, then why are you writing about him? See? Relevant. More than that, though, he's relevant to the people that matter most in his life--his loved ones...and you can toss in a slew of fans for the heck of it. Not so shabby.
What's my point? Well, I guess it's just to think about what you say before you say it. We're all in the same boat, no matter our name or station in life...in the end, we're all after the same general things.
***NASCAR NOTE: Yesterday, while running in a two-car tandem with teammate Jimmie Johnson, Robbie Gordon, David Gilliland, and Michael Waltrip veered in front of the 48, causing him to check up and get a little loose. When he did, Dale had to slow up and was hit from behind by Martin Truex Jr. So, even though he won the pole, Dale will have to start in the back of the pack. No biggie. You can move from the back to the front pretty quickly at Daytona...especially if you're the 88.
I once had a couple of classmates--groupie girls--tell me that they would never invite me to a post-game party because the Mr. So-and-so's would never be interested in me. According to them, I "...would not be relevant to guys like that." i.e. I wasn't a groupie and wouldn't do groupie things. Of course, relevant was a newly discovered word for them, so maybe they just wanted to work it into a sentence that day. *eye roll*
I remember thinking, what happened to people liking each other for who they really are, not what they do...or don't do? When did being genuine become an irrelevant thing?
Relevant is like the new buzz word used to talk people down.
If you googled Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s name in the weeks leading up to the Daytona 500, all you read were headlines questioning just how relevant he still is in racing. The headlines included things like: Dale Tries To Become Relevant; Last Chance For Dale Jr. To Remain Relevant, Dale Jr: Racing For Relevance.
Really?
Then you see headlines like, Why Doesn't Dale Jr. Smile Anymore? Wow, I wonder. How much would you want to smile if someone kept badgering you about relevancy, talent, passion, blah, blah, blah???
Everyone is relevant in this world. In such a big 'ol place, it's nice to know you are relevant to your mama, your daddy, your friends, and your loved ones.
As for Dale, he will always be relevant in NASCAR. It's funny to me, really, that these people who question his relevancy fail to see the irony in what they write: if he wasn't relevant, then why are you writing about him? See? Relevant. More than that, though, he's relevant to the people that matter most in his life--his loved ones...and you can toss in a slew of fans for the heck of it. Not so shabby.
What's my point? Well, I guess it's just to think about what you say before you say it. We're all in the same boat, no matter our name or station in life...in the end, we're all after the same general things.
***NASCAR NOTE: Yesterday, while running in a two-car tandem with teammate Jimmie Johnson, Robbie Gordon, David Gilliland, and Michael Waltrip veered in front of the 48, causing him to check up and get a little loose. When he did, Dale had to slow up and was hit from behind by Martin Truex Jr. So, even though he won the pole, Dale will have to start in the back of the pack. No biggie. You can move from the back to the front pretty quickly at Daytona...especially if you're the 88.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Takin' The Fish Off The Hook
I've never particularly cared for being a fish. What girl does? But, there are some men who sneakily slip a hook in the mouth without you consciously realizing as much. *um, that is not meant to sound dirty in any way, shape, or form, btw*
Even after you remove the hook, some men just don't get it. You can remove that damn hook over and over again, but he'll continue trying to keep you hanging there, just in case he's ready to yank you into his little boat one day.
This sticky-fisherman wants to keep the fresh little fishy close, while enjoying his fried catfish on the side.
Though you may swim away as fast as your little fins will carry you--trying to avoid that pesky hook--sometimes it is necessary to pull a Jaws and just face the son of a gun.
If you have the fortitude, going Jaws is really very effective in possibly, officially removing and retiring his beloved hook.
So, if you have a sticky-fisherman in your life, consider going Jaws...make him have to get a bigger boat.
Even after you remove the hook, some men just don't get it. You can remove that damn hook over and over again, but he'll continue trying to keep you hanging there, just in case he's ready to yank you into his little boat one day.
This sticky-fisherman wants to keep the fresh little fishy close, while enjoying his fried catfish on the side.
Though you may swim away as fast as your little fins will carry you--trying to avoid that pesky hook--sometimes it is necessary to pull a Jaws and just face the son of a gun.
If you have the fortitude, going Jaws is really very effective in possibly, officially removing and retiring his beloved hook.
So, if you have a sticky-fisherman in your life, consider going Jaws...make him have to get a bigger boat.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Hickory, The Scottish Deerhound Wins Best In Show!!
Hickory, the Scottish deerhound, has won Best in Show at the 135th Westminster Dog Show, marking the very first win for the breed.
For her final show before retiring, Hickory was absolutely stunning.
All of the dogs were beautiful, putting on quite a show for the crowd.
My other favorite was the little Pekingese--seriously, so cute.
Congrats to Hickory!
Did y'all watch? What did you think?
For her final show before retiring, Hickory was absolutely stunning.
All of the dogs were beautiful, putting on quite a show for the crowd.
My other favorite was the little Pekingese--seriously, so cute.
Congrats to Hickory!
Did y'all watch? What did you think?
Post Valentine's Day Rescue Mission
While you are out buying all kinds of yummy Valentine's candy on sale, do me a little favor? Take a look at all those little cute cuddly faces staring out from the sale bins, and, maybe, rescue one.
This is something my papaw started a very long time ago; it's a tradition my mom, dad, and I have kept going. My papaw was like Santa Claus, minus the beard and belly like a bowl full of jelly. His blue eyes twinkled with pure goodness, and his heart was beautifully big.
When I was little, he always said that the little leftover Valentine's, Christmas, Easter, and/or Halloween animals were those most in need of a home. First thing the day after a holiday, he went over to the local drugstore and picked up a little fella. He felt they would hold an extra special place in the heart of the person receiving them.
So, while you're rescuing the chocolate from going into a garbage bin, think about one of those little faces staring at you--you never know when it might be just what you need. After all, we're never too old for a hug and smiling face.
We've carried on my papaw's tradition. Maybe you will too. :)
And, um, I know I sound like a total dork, but...I'm okay with dork.
This is something my papaw started a very long time ago; it's a tradition my mom, dad, and I have kept going. My papaw was like Santa Claus, minus the beard and belly like a bowl full of jelly. His blue eyes twinkled with pure goodness, and his heart was beautifully big.
When I was little, he always said that the little leftover Valentine's, Christmas, Easter, and/or Halloween animals were those most in need of a home. First thing the day after a holiday, he went over to the local drugstore and picked up a little fella. He felt they would hold an extra special place in the heart of the person receiving them.
So, while you're rescuing the chocolate from going into a garbage bin, think about one of those little faces staring at you--you never know when it might be just what you need. After all, we're never too old for a hug and smiling face.
We've carried on my papaw's tradition. Maybe you will too. :)
And, um, I know I sound like a total dork, but...I'm okay with dork.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Vomit Day #3: Driveway Roadkill, Part Two
Aside from the occasional raspberry when I would forget to lift before moving, dinner went quite smoothly. No food drops, food flings, or gags...that is until Mr. Leaver made me try to eat something, knowing I thought they looked like little bits of mushy cow's brain.
Mr. Leaver: "Just try one for me."
Me: "Oh, all right, but I won't like it."
Mr. Leaver: "You'll like this one."
So, I tried it. Didn't like it. Mr. Leaver started grinning at me while I tried to choke the thing down. I made a very tiny ewy-ick face at him, just to make him laugh.
It's quite unfortunate that at that precise moment, the chef came out and wanted to know how everyone enjoyed their meals.
To make matters worse, my date's family was pretty well-known in the community, so the chef, proud of his work, looked to us first.
Yeah.
Poor thing--he seemed so anxious to know if we found his cooking satisfactory. Beaming, he looked to me first. Can you guess what he saw?
You guessed it: The leather-pants-wearing-faux-flatulence-problem girl, wearing the ewy-ick expression on her face.
His face went pale; I really thought he might vomit, which would have been very bad, since the little mushy brain-like thing in my mouth pushed me to the ragged edge of vomitville.
I swallowed the last bit as quickly as I could, coughed a little, made a small gagging sound, nervously (sadly) moved in my chair, and tried to assure him that his meal was delicious.
Not thinking he bought it. Not sure if it was the expression, cough, gag, or faux fart that didn't convince him.
Sigh. I do hope he understood after everything.
After dinner: Once in the car, I could tell something was off about Mr. Leaver. Was it the pants? The ewy-ick face? Ugh, the faux-flatulence?
I should point out that Mr. Leaver did NOT bring me any flowers or candy or a cuddly for Valentine's Day. His reason? Because he wanted to take it slow (fine by me!) and he didn't want to "scare" me off. **He knew about Wasn't**
NOTE: He had not even tried to KISS me yet, much to my surprise.
As the radio played one of my favorite songs, Mr. Leaver fumbled about for a CD. He cut off the radio, put in the CD, and immediately started playing a specific song, saying, "I want you to hear this one."
Uh-oh.
He picked a song that had a very clear message...and it didn't include sleep. Now, the song wasn't Bump N' Grind or Freak Me (those were really good songs, weren't they? Sorry, momentary mind melt), but I got the message.
I can't remember the song specifically--probably because my leather pants and I were busy visiting sweatville all over again--but I do recall some of it was very, very sweet and complementary...still, I got the jist of what it was saying.
He wants to take it slow. He hasn't held my hand. He hasn't kissed me. Yet, he wants to go have sex??
Seriously?
I didn't say anything, apart from commenting on what a pretty song it was; he didn't say anything. It was THE most awkward drive home. He never followed up with anything.
I kind-of think he wanted me to initiate something...suggest we go back to his place, perhaps. I didn't know what to do...usually the guy actually makes a move or suggests going back to his place...SOMETHING. This was new to me.
So, play a song, and I'm expected to recommend the sex??? Total confusion.
Next thing I know, Mr. Leaver says: "I'm just going to take you back home tonight. I have an early day tomorrow. Hope you don't mind." His tone was a bit cold, at least to me.
It was pretty early for a date to end. My initial translation on his words: "You didn't pick up on my song and suggest going back to my place, so I'm gonna pout now." I could have been wrong, but that's how it came off.
After the longest drive ever--where I tried to make conversation and he just seemed distant--we finally pulled into my very icy driveway.
We paused for a moment. I felt bad. I didn't want the date to end all awkward and full of misunderstanding. So, I tried to imply that we could take things to the next level (i.e. kissing...since I was a little confused as to why that hadn't happened yet).
Whatever. It didn't take.
Hmm. Why isn't he moving from that nice warm seat to walk me to my door? Maybe say goodnight with a Valentine's kiss?? Ah, I get it, he's not gonna do either.
He literally dropped me in the middle of my driveway and drove off without making sure I made it safely to my door.
Nope. I was left in the dark, in the middle of my icy driveway, in leather pants, and brand new heels.
Maybe I misread everything, but I still think, no matter what, you see your date makes it to her door safely... especially a Valentine's date. I'm a southern girl, remember.
I scraped and slid my way to the door, looking like something between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a turtle. During my long hobbit-like walk to the door, several thoughts ticked across my mind:
What happened to "taking it slow?"
Ya haven't kissed me, but you want to have sex? Huh?
Play a song = girl suggesting sex? Really?
Am I totally wrong, here?
Once I made it safely inside--shocked I didn't fall on my arse--I closed the door on Valentine's Day forever...and wearing leather pants on a formal date.
After about three days of nothing, he called and started calling me "honey" and "dear" and I think even "darling." It was strange and, yet, totally par for the course.
So, there you have it, my top three worst Vomit Days. I think the only reason I don't have more is because of my tendency to hide this time of year. If history is any indication, it's a dang good thing I do.
To all of you who love V-Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you. {{{HUGS}}}
To all of you who don't: Happy February 15th...a.k.a. The Chocolate Sale Day! {{{HUGS}}}
Mr. Leaver: "Just try one for me."
Me: "Oh, all right, but I won't like it."
Mr. Leaver: "You'll like this one."
So, I tried it. Didn't like it. Mr. Leaver started grinning at me while I tried to choke the thing down. I made a very tiny ewy-ick face at him, just to make him laugh.
It's quite unfortunate that at that precise moment, the chef came out and wanted to know how everyone enjoyed their meals.
To make matters worse, my date's family was pretty well-known in the community, so the chef, proud of his work, looked to us first.
Yeah.
Poor thing--he seemed so anxious to know if we found his cooking satisfactory. Beaming, he looked to me first. Can you guess what he saw?
You guessed it: The leather-pants-wearing-faux-flatulence-problem girl, wearing the ewy-ick expression on her face.
His face went pale; I really thought he might vomit, which would have been very bad, since the little mushy brain-like thing in my mouth pushed me to the ragged edge of vomitville.
I swallowed the last bit as quickly as I could, coughed a little, made a small gagging sound, nervously (sadly) moved in my chair
Not thinking he bought it. Not sure if it was the expression, cough, gag, or faux fart that didn't convince him.
Sigh. I do hope he understood after everything.
After dinner: Once in the car, I could tell something was off about Mr. Leaver. Was it the pants? The ewy-ick face? Ugh, the faux-flatulence?
I should point out that Mr. Leaver did NOT bring me any flowers or candy or a cuddly for Valentine's Day. His reason? Because he wanted to take it slow (fine by me!) and he didn't want to "scare" me off. **He knew about Wasn't**
NOTE: He had not even tried to KISS me yet, much to my surprise.
As the radio played one of my favorite songs, Mr. Leaver fumbled about for a CD. He cut off the radio, put in the CD, and immediately started playing a specific song, saying, "I want you to hear this one."
Uh-oh.
He picked a song that had a very clear message...and it didn't include sleep. Now, the song wasn't Bump N' Grind or Freak Me (those were really good songs, weren't they? Sorry, momentary mind melt), but I got the message.
I can't remember the song specifically--probably because my leather pants and I were busy visiting sweatville all over again--but I do recall some of it was very, very sweet and complementary...still, I got the jist of what it was saying.
He wants to take it slow. He hasn't held my hand. He hasn't kissed me. Yet, he wants to go have sex??
Seriously?
I didn't say anything, apart from commenting on what a pretty song it was; he didn't say anything. It was THE most awkward drive home. He never followed up with anything.
I kind-of think he wanted me to initiate something...suggest we go back to his place, perhaps. I didn't know what to do...usually the guy actually makes a move or suggests going back to his place...SOMETHING. This was new to me.
So, play a song, and I'm expected to recommend the sex??? Total confusion.
Next thing I know, Mr. Leaver says: "I'm just going to take you back home tonight. I have an early day tomorrow. Hope you don't mind." His tone was a bit cold, at least to me.
It was pretty early for a date to end. My initial translation on his words: "You didn't pick up on my song and suggest going back to my place, so I'm gonna pout now." I could have been wrong, but that's how it came off.
After the longest drive ever--where I tried to make conversation and he just seemed distant--we finally pulled into my very icy driveway.
We paused for a moment. I felt bad. I didn't want the date to end all awkward and full of misunderstanding. So, I tried to imply that we could take things to the next level (i.e. kissing...since I was a little confused as to why that hadn't happened yet).
Whatever. It didn't take.
Hmm. Why isn't he moving from that nice warm seat to walk me to my door? Maybe say goodnight with a Valentine's kiss?? Ah, I get it, he's not gonna do either.
He literally dropped me in the middle of my driveway and drove off without making sure I made it safely to my door.
Nope. I was left in the dark, in the middle of my icy driveway, in leather pants, and brand new heels.
Maybe I misread everything, but I still think, no matter what, you see your date makes it to her door safely... especially a Valentine's date. I'm a southern girl, remember.
I scraped and slid my way to the door, looking like something between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a turtle. During my long hobbit-like walk to the door, several thoughts ticked across my mind:
What happened to "taking it slow?"
Ya haven't kissed me, but you want to have sex? Huh?
Play a song = girl suggesting sex? Really?
Am I totally wrong, here?
Once I made it safely inside--shocked I didn't fall on my arse--I closed the door on Valentine's Day forever...and wearing leather pants on a formal date.
After about three days of nothing, he called and started calling me "honey" and "dear" and I think even "darling." It was strange and, yet, totally par for the course.
So, there you have it, my top three worst Vomit Days. I think the only reason I don't have more is because of my tendency to hide this time of year. If history is any indication, it's a dang good thing I do.
To all of you who love V-Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you. {{{HUGS}}}
To all of you who don't: Happy February 15th...a.k.a. The Chocolate Sale Day! {{{HUGS}}}
Vomit Day #3: Driveway Roadkill, Part One
Who: We'll call him Mr. Leaver.
Date: 3rd. a.k.a. the expected sex date...on my very first official V-Day date. Fabulous timing.
Mood: Excited, hopeful, happy.
Outfit: Oooh, a good one--leather pants, brand new pink top, brand new, tastefully sexy boots with a decent size heel on them.
Restaurant: Quaint, converted house. Picture a mid-size bar adjacent a surprisingly small dining area--very intimate. The overwhelmingly quiet atmosphere around the bar and dining area made me nervous.
Me + new heels + small area + insane quiet = possible catastrophe.
Mr. Leaver: "Let's sit at the bar while they're getting our table ready."
The bar stools were unusually tall...dangerously so, actually. With my nice new heels, I lifted and balanced myself gracefully onto the stool. Phew.
Mr. Leaver and I talked for a few moments before he left to go talk to someone (I think he wanted to greet someone his family knew...that whole bit is a blur).
While my date did whatever, the front of house informed me that our table was ready.
*Keep in mind, the following happened very quickly, but it felt like slow motion*
As I tried to slide off the stool, I discovered something the mean science teachers failed to tell us in school:
leather pants + wooden seat = inability to slide, slight stuck feeling, and manufactured farting sounds when attempting to move.
Now, I don't know if there were some unknown variables, like whatever they used to clean the wood, the type of wood, or the type of leather pants I had on, but my rear end was essentially STUCK.
Oh. Holy. God.
The height of the stools were such that I couldn't put my foot down and hop off without the possibility of my leathery bottom bringing the stool crashing to the ground. And, as we have already learned, I cannot simply slide off without sounding like I had a flatulence problem.
Growing very hot, I began to sweat--not a good mix with leather.
I had to get off this stupid stool. I slowly lifted my rear, one bum cheek at a time, and tried to ease myself forward until my feet could touch the floor. In doing so, these very strange *FLAWP* *FLAWP* peeling sounds rang out from my derriere.
The people at the tables closest to the bar kept a measuring eye on me; I couldn't tell if they were amused or if they were waiting to see if I would fall off the stool.
By this time, my feet were halfway to the floor, my body was slightly tilted on the stool, and I was in deep danger of the whole stool tipping over should I move one more inch.
I dared to try one more little slide. The only thing I accomplished was the sound of gas.
Grab Guy (sitting behind me at the bar): "You okay, there?"
Me: "I can't get off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Why?"
Me: "My leather pants--they're sticking to the wood. I need you to lift me off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Um, how?"
Me, sighing: "I need you to stick your hands under my bottom and just...peel me up."
Grab Guy, laughing: "I would, but I have a girlfriend."
Me: "I'm not asking you to grope me...just kindly help me off this thing, otherwise my pants will continue to make obscene sounds and eventually succeed in knocking over the stool. Please, I need your help...I can't reach the floor. Now, stick your hands under there and peel!"
Grab Guy, quite literally laughing his rear end off, aided in my dilemma, and I was able to hop off the stool with his, um, forklift-type-help. I did stumble a bit and, in doing so, my heels made an appallingly loud clip-clopping sound as people turned to look at the crazed leather-pants-wearing girl.
I thanked Grab Guy, and rejoined Mr. Leaver--the clip-clopping prompted him to leave his acquaintances and attend to his frazzled date. After assuring Mr. Leaver that all was well, we followed the waiter to our table...
...which had wooden seats.
It was only the beginning.
Date: 3rd. a.k.a. the expected sex date...on my very first official V-Day date. Fabulous timing.
Mood: Excited, hopeful, happy.
Outfit: Oooh, a good one--leather pants, brand new pink top, brand new, tastefully sexy boots with a decent size heel on them.
Restaurant: Quaint, converted house. Picture a mid-size bar adjacent a surprisingly small dining area--very intimate. The overwhelmingly quiet atmosphere around the bar and dining area made me nervous.
Me + new heels + small area + insane quiet = possible catastrophe.
Mr. Leaver: "Let's sit at the bar while they're getting our table ready."
The bar stools were unusually tall...dangerously so, actually. With my nice new heels, I lifted and balanced myself gracefully onto the stool. Phew.
Mr. Leaver and I talked for a few moments before he left to go talk to someone (I think he wanted to greet someone his family knew...that whole bit is a blur).
While my date did whatever, the front of house informed me that our table was ready.
*Keep in mind, the following happened very quickly, but it felt like slow motion*
As I tried to slide off the stool, I discovered something the mean science teachers failed to tell us in school:
leather pants + wooden seat = inability to slide, slight stuck feeling, and manufactured farting sounds when attempting to move.
Now, I don't know if there were some unknown variables, like whatever they used to clean the wood, the type of wood, or the type of leather pants I had on, but my rear end was essentially STUCK.
Oh. Holy. God.
The height of the stools were such that I couldn't put my foot down and hop off without the possibility of my leathery bottom bringing the stool crashing to the ground. And, as we have already learned, I cannot simply slide off without sounding like I had a flatulence problem.
Growing very hot, I began to sweat--not a good mix with leather.
I had to get off this stupid stool. I slowly lifted my rear, one bum cheek at a time, and tried to ease myself forward until my feet could touch the floor. In doing so, these very strange *FLAWP* *FLAWP* peeling sounds rang out from my derriere.
The people at the tables closest to the bar kept a measuring eye on me; I couldn't tell if they were amused or if they were waiting to see if I would fall off the stool.
By this time, my feet were halfway to the floor, my body was slightly tilted on the stool, and I was in deep danger of the whole stool tipping over should I move one more inch.
I dared to try one more little slide. The only thing I accomplished was the sound of gas.
Grab Guy (sitting behind me at the bar): "You okay, there?"
Me: "I can't get off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Why?"
Me: "My leather pants--they're sticking to the wood. I need you to lift me off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Um, how?"
Me, sighing: "I need you to stick your hands under my bottom and just...peel me up."
Grab Guy, laughing: "I would, but I have a girlfriend."
Me: "I'm not asking you to grope me...just kindly help me off this thing, otherwise my pants will continue to make obscene sounds and eventually succeed in knocking over the stool. Please, I need your help...I can't reach the floor. Now, stick your hands under there and peel!"
Grab Guy, quite literally laughing his rear end off, aided in my dilemma, and I was able to hop off the stool with his, um, forklift-type-help. I did stumble a bit and, in doing so, my heels made an appallingly loud clip-clopping sound as people turned to look at the crazed leather-pants-wearing girl.
I thanked Grab Guy, and rejoined Mr. Leaver--the clip-clopping prompted him to leave his acquaintances and attend to his frazzled date. After assuring Mr. Leaver that all was well, we followed the waiter to our table...
...which had wooden seats.
It was only the beginning.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Valentine's Eve...A Weekend Roundup.
'Twas the night before V--...
Yeah, I can't carry that one through.
So, yesterday was the Budweiser Shootout, a.k.a. the official return of NASCAR. Hurray! Dale Earnhardt Jr. drew the pole for Saturday night's race, and was having a great night until...Smith got into Carl Edwards, who then clipped Dale. Night over. Boo!
***On the very bright side--Dale won the pole for the upcoming Daytona 500!!!! Hurray!***
Food Drama: Yesterday, I ordered Chinese food. My favorite part of the meal? Fortune cookie time!!
Well, I had 3 fortune cookies. 2 of them were the exact same: "You and your wife will be happy in your life together."
Fantastic.
Two totally inapplicable fortunes for several reasons: 1. Wrong sex; 2. I'm not someone's wife or anything of the like, so I can't stretch it in any possible way to make it fit; and 3. I don't recall ever seeing a marriage fortune, much less two of the same thing--highly inappropriate fortunes right before the-day-that-must-not-be-named.
Result: My dad's getting them, since he and my mom fit said fortunes perfectly.
The 3rd fortune did offer a tiny bit of hope: "All your hard work will soon pay off." Here's hoping. Think I'll keep this one.
Next up was a boatload of fun: After watching Gone With The Wind, another kind of wind began battering my stomach something awful. The painfully unwelcome visitor then kept me in post-food hell until 8 a.m. this morning. I'm trying hard NOT to take this as a sign, but rather an unfortunate, ill-timed occurrence...one that just so happened to fall on V-Day eve. Ironic and appropriate in so many ways.
Happy V-Day Eve! *just doesn't have the same ring to it*
Bah! Humbug! *now, that works*
Yeah, I can't carry that one through.
So, yesterday was the Budweiser Shootout, a.k.a. the official return of NASCAR. Hurray! Dale Earnhardt Jr. drew the pole for Saturday night's race, and was having a great night until...Smith got into Carl Edwards, who then clipped Dale. Night over. Boo!
***On the very bright side--Dale won the pole for the upcoming Daytona 500!!!! Hurray!***
Food Drama: Yesterday, I ordered Chinese food. My favorite part of the meal? Fortune cookie time!!
Well, I had 3 fortune cookies. 2 of them were the exact same: "You and your wife will be happy in your life together."
Fantastic.
Two totally inapplicable fortunes for several reasons: 1. Wrong sex; 2. I'm not someone's wife or anything of the like, so I can't stretch it in any possible way to make it fit; and 3. I don't recall ever seeing a marriage fortune, much less two of the same thing--highly inappropriate fortunes right before the-day-that-must-not-be-named.
Result: My dad's getting them, since he and my mom fit said fortunes perfectly.
The 3rd fortune did offer a tiny bit of hope: "All your hard work will soon pay off." Here's hoping. Think I'll keep this one.
Next up was a boatload of fun: After watching Gone With The Wind, another kind of wind began battering my stomach something awful. The painfully unwelcome visitor then kept me in post-food hell until 8 a.m. this morning. I'm trying hard NOT to take this as a sign, but rather an unfortunate, ill-timed occurrence...one that just so happened to fall on V-Day eve. Ironic and appropriate in so many ways.
Happy V-Day Eve! *just doesn't have the same ring to it*
Bah! Humbug! *now, that works*
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