Life Changes. But I feel the same.

Ok. It has been a while. Just an update... I got engaged. However, I refuse to become a "bridal blogger." While I appreciate some of their ideas they post, I cannot stand they way that they use acronyms for words that really don't require acronyms. Some of my favorites:

1. STD... No, not those sneaky genital infections that create misery and horror, Save The Dates. That's right, let's use the same acronym for those pesky infections of the southern hemisphere, as the cards we send out letting people know that those pesky infections didn't stop us from loving each other and wanting to spend our lives together... really?

2. FI... as in, FI-ance. I'm assuming this one is because for most of the women who would choose to actually use this acronym, fiance is a far too difficult word for them to spell.

3. MOB... Yes, that stands for Mother Of the Bride. Ironic? Yes. Necessary? Probably not.

In attempt to continue to use this as a cathartic means of expressing what I'm actually feeling, while hopefully injecting a little bit of humor into the process, let me be honest. PLANNING A WEDDING IS OVER-RATED.

That's right. I said it. Out loud. Sort of, if typing somewhat anonymously onto a blog which only my best friend is a follower of counts as "out loud." Nonetheless, the sentiment is the same. I'm almost a month in to being engaged and have not set one single stinking plan into stone. My favorite attempted wedding planning moment thus far was when Randy got frustrated that we hadn't picked a site yet and then stated in the same breath that he doesn't like to look at them online. Only to be followed by "Its about the marriage, not the wedding for me. I don't know if its the same for you... look at all the time and effort you're putting into planning the wedding." I laughed. Out loud, again.

It was in that moment that I knew that I must love him because there is no way that I could have restrained myself from using the bridal books and magazines that were strewn about our living room to beat him until he didn't know which way was up if I didn't. I then explained to him (calmly, of course, thanks to the beer I had earlier) that I was putting in all of that effort as a means of wanting everyone to know how much we love each other. Publicly. Again, with the out loud stuff, I know.

Regardless, we are going on round two of wedding site searching this weekend. We'll see how this turns out. I feel hopeful that it will be a better outcome. That almost made me sound like one of those "bridal bloggers" so I think I better stop typing now. Out loud.

And Auntie Makes Three...

So, I think the focus of my blog is going to take a little turn, for my sanity. I had originally intended for this to be a funny, running history of my stupid dating stories. But at this moment, I feel that I truly need to blog for its cathartic, therapeutic, getting it all out there (without the subjects you're speaking of necessarily knowing) type of benefits.

In the midst of closing up shop at one job and getting ready to start another, I'm moving in with my boyfriend (who is pretty great, by the way). Several months ago, it was decided that his Aunt Kathy would need a place to live, and well, our place ended up being the big winner. Lucky us.

Let me tell you a bit about Aunt Kathy. Mid 50's, single, no kids (which may ultimately be reason for my demise because she spoils Randy like a grandma spoils a two year old), used to live in a camper in the middle of nowhere for approximately eight years. She loves horses and has a crazy, overly hyper german pointer named Zinda. Aunt Kathy has all the answers about anything related to the home, cooking, gardening, the weather, neurobiology, astrophysics, the animals, ah yes, and whether or not I will be warm enough.

It took me several months of positive mantras and therapy to get to the point where I could say one of the following out loud when someone asks me about the move:

a) "It will be fine. It will really help us with rent."
b) "Its not forever, it just means I have to readjust my view of how Randy and I would start our life together" Or,
c) (my personal favorite) "Its great to be with a man who loves his family so much. It makes me feel very hopeful about our future." blech. I know.

On Monday when my dear, sweet, boyfriend went to her house to help her move "a few things" to get the ball rolling for her June 1st arrival date, "a few things" resulted in the following text message being sent to me:
"well i guess aunt kathy is staying at our place starting tonight... i got here and her bed was loaded... sorry... i didn't know she was starting early. I'm sorry hun... really."

Seriously.

At the present time, she has not acknowledged the fact that she moved in two full weeks early. Furthermore, she sees no problem with us having two coffee makers on the counter, and her boxes everywhere, while she sits in the recliner and crochets. Good, I'm glad she has time to invest in her hobbies instead of picking up her crap.

Its ok, though, I've taken to a new little stress reliever. Everytime she says something that makes my skin crawl such as "I think you should put on a jacket, you'll be too cold" or "Junior (what she calls Randy), do you want a sip of my coffee" or "What's the score for the Mariners?" (when the score is right there, on the screen, for the entire game), I have taken to hissing, under my breath, just loud enough that I can hear it. And feel the make believe venom shooting out of me.

I think I may market the hissing thing as a stress management technique. I think you all should try it. The next time someone says something that makes you want to scream, vomit, etc., try hissing. Childish? Maybe. Effective? Definitely.

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 feeling....care 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.

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.