Sunday, December 7, 2008

I don't do that....

Rather than trying to create the stories in the order that they happened, I'm going to tell stories in the order that they come to me. Today, I am free. I don't know that I necessarily have any carefree stories that would fit my mood, or at least none that come to mind. So, I will attempt to just tell a story, period.

I had gone on two dates with Mr. "I don't do that". The first was really more our meeting, followed by some quality time alone. This evening, we had gone to a mexican restaurant. A horrible, cheeky, playing into all of the stereotypes type of mexican restaurant. We're talking pinatas as the main source of decorations. I immediately started drinking. Not in excess, but, to somehow prove to myself that following a dis-engagement and long term friend with benefits style encounter, I was ready to be dating. Somehow dinner with drinks equaled a heart that was put back together, in my mind. He didn't drink margaritas. Or beer with dinner. Or beers that didn't start with "Coors" "Budweiser" or "Miller". More for me.

Backing up a bit, I should have known that it wouldn't go well from the second he walked up to my door. Maybe someday Ill learn to stop a date before it starts when he shows up in a t-shirt and sneakers and i'm all dolled up in heels and my hair done. Maybe I'll learn to say "I just don't see this working out" before I step out of the door. But, where's the sense of adventure in that? So, nonetheless, I stepped out in my heels in the middle of the midwestern winter, conveniently needing to take his arm to avoid falling on my ass (a well laid plan, I know, so much forethought for so little return).

Over dinner, given that we were in a small midwestern town where heels were worn only for weddings and a bright red belt must have translated to something similar to "hooker", I was thankful for the small table in the corner. The conversation flowed, minus the parts when I kept thinking that I was in some sort of mafia movie because his midwestern accent somehow started to sound like he was from Brooklyn and about to go see the Godfather. I don't know if it was the margaritas or I actually thought I was interested, but, I invited him back to my place.

My well laid "I'm wearing heels" plan once again prevailed and allowed for some flirtatious "slips" between the car and my door. A few awkward minutes passed before we started kissing. It was like we both knew that the sooner we started kissing, the less time we would have to spend actually trying to come up with some sort of topic worth talking about. The kissing turned to clothes coming off, which led to my discovery of his insulin pump. There's a new one to work around, and he was no help in that endeavor.

I like to consider myself a giver. So, I gave first. I gave first and gave well. So well, in fact that there was no warning when he was going to fully receive my gift. No tap on the head. No "hey, head's up". No hair pull. Nothing. This lack of warning resulted in my gift being regifted back to me, out my nose. I suddenly became a victim of the walrus. Both nostrils full of the fruits of my labor and no offer of kleenex.

I rebounded quickly, not wanting to loose my appeal or chance at receiving a gift myself. When I told him I was ready for my present, he responded with "I don't do that". So matter of fact. I responded with an "I'm sorry?" Again: "I don't do that." I just gave you a gift, got a walrus and you don't do that? I didn't know what to say. My bluntness, often to a fault, resulted in my response: "Well, I don't date people who don't do that. Maybe you should leave." And he did.

Lesson learned: I don't do that makes for a short evening and sinus infection.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

The Middle of the Ride

After attempts at categorically allowing myself to go through the process of making sense of the stories that have somehow become my life, I decided that categorically processing anything having to do with life, change, fears, emotions, or accomplishments is a ridiculous oxymoron. My best friend suggested a blog. I laughed. Another friend suggested a blog. I laughed harder. Why would anyone care to read about the situations that have come together to create my history? "They're funny". "You're honest and people like to read honesty". "They're real".
Somehow, my life has begun to feel like it might be worth writing down. I recognize the pretentiousness of creating a blog, published on the internet, completely about myself. But I also recognize that you only live once. In attempt to move forward by somehow sending these stories out into the landfill that the internet inevitably becomes, I am hoping that I will create a sort of scrapbook out of what is at this point a crapbook in my mind.
Yep, there's lots of crap. But, hey, crap can be funny. If someone craps their pants, they may not laugh at the time, but I'm willing to bet that once they're out of that moment and in some fresh drawers, laundry done, they will laugh. That's what I'm doing now. Laughing at my crapbook. Hopefully you will too.