Women everywhere are going to nod their heads along with this blog and know exactly what I am talking about. Men who think they are the exception are going to protest and try and say they are the exception. They are wrong. All the other men will be offended, but don't worry...We aren't laughing at you....we are laughing with you....really.
One of the universal truths is that there is 'man-clean' and 'woman-clean'. This is most evident in single men households because married or cohabiting men likely have a woman going behind and making all the corners 'woman-clean' and the man just doesn't notice. However, if you were to go into a single man's home and venture that it needed a good clean he would likely be confused, thinking it is already clean. But really now...every man's house is simply waiting, begging really, for a woman to come take care of it.
Chet's apartment? No different. The walls whisper to me when I walk in, even lean a little my way like a kitten leans into your body when you pet it - that is how happy they are that a woman has walked in. They want to cuddle and purr on me. As I walk down the hall they offer suggestions; paint us a pretty color, please dust that crazy glass shelving unit, bring in wooden spoons and kitchen gadgets for the lonely kitchen....
Chet is actually, for a man, pretty clean. He understands that when he runs out of clean dishes he needs to wash them. He owns cleaning products and scrub brushes. He half heartedly makes the bed at least half of the time. For a while, he even met my anti-clutter standards. For a little while. So I was hopeful that if I brought home tools for him - he would use them. I set off for Meijers in high spirits on a sunny Saturday afternoon when Chet was at work. I smiled a little as I selected the full size cart because I could just see it full of home organization and heart warming cleaning paraphernalia. I may have even been humming the Mr. Clean jingle as I skipped along the home decor/kitchen aisles. The result of this shopping trip? A towel hamper and laundry basket for the bathroom in the hopes that dirty stuff would be sorted and contained. A dish scrubby brush and drying rack so that we can do dishes as we use them. Pretty, environmental friendly cleaning products - including disinfectant wipes that I go through like candy. (Aren't they seriously the best home cleaning toy invented this decade? Tell me I'm not wrong!)
So I happily loaded up my Jeep with my fun new purchases, headed back to Chet's apartment, and spent my Saturday afternoon cleaning and organizing - anticipating how excited Chet would be to see how smart I was, setting up this easy system for keeping things in the right place. This was the response I got once Chet got home and walked around the apartment for a few minutes: "ummmm....did you buy me a hamper?" Those were the words that were said but here is what they really meant: "ummm....did you really just buy this shiny, new rubbermaid thing and stick it in the corner where I like to pile my towels? It is hurting my eyes to look at it and I don't know if I can pee in the room with it watching me."
I did get a thank you for cleaning the apartment and then he went back off to work, probably grateful to get out before I exposed him to more new-tupperware fumes. Still, I held out hope that he would play nice and make friends with the new toys. Housewives everywhere are laughing at me right now, but I am an optimist. Laugh if you must. And it did half work. When I came over the next day the dirty clothes and towels were sorted into piles......two inches OUTSIDE their respective hampers.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Sex Addiction
Ok- this is a complete spur of the moment blog where I just read something online and wanted to share my opinion. Are you ready???? Here is what I read:
In Wednesday’s 14th season premiere of South Park, “Sexual Healing” (10 p.m. ET, Comedy Central), co-creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone address Tiger Woods and the phenomenon of sex addiction. According to the press release: “The nation’s top scientists come together to put a stop to the recent phenomenon of rich, successful men who suddenly want to have sex with many, many women. After extensive testing, some of the fourth grade boys in South Park Elementary are diagnosed as sex addicts.”
I am not a South Park follower, although it makes me laugh when people get all worked up over it. (It is a tv show people - turn it off if you don't like it! That is why God invented remotes!) However, it amuses me that they are going to mock Tiger's attempt to make entitlement become a medical condition by labeling it 'sex addiction'. It amuses me more because in my past there is a boy who used this exact same excuse for his cheating ways. Although he was not rich, nor successful.
Here is my opinion. Men who claim they are addicted to sex? They might as well just take a permanent marker and write 'weak', 'selfish', and 'stupid' all over their body. That is what is really the problem. It isn't a medical condition - it is a character flaw. The rest of us all learned in kindergarten that you don't get to do whatever you want, whenever you want - maybe they really have a learning disorder instead that kept them from understanding this? Men that claim to be addicted to sex just basically are living for the moment with zero self control, doing what feels good at the time - with no regard to the future or to anyone else. They are trying to justify their behavior with this stupid sex addiction label. Do they realize this makes them sound like bigger idiots? "Oh yeah...I am a cheater...but I can't help it, I'm addicted to sex." Seriously? So now you are a cheater AND an addict. Sweet. Let's just call it like it is guys. You are too weak to stand up to yourself and develop some moral character. You are too selfish to consider anything other than your pleasure for the moment. And you are too stupid to create a better excuse than sex addiction.
In Wednesday’s 14th season premiere of South Park, “Sexual Healing” (10 p.m. ET, Comedy Central), co-creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone address Tiger Woods and the phenomenon of sex addiction. According to the press release: “The nation’s top scientists come together to put a stop to the recent phenomenon of rich, successful men who suddenly want to have sex with many, many women. After extensive testing, some of the fourth grade boys in South Park Elementary are diagnosed as sex addicts.”
I am not a South Park follower, although it makes me laugh when people get all worked up over it. (It is a tv show people - turn it off if you don't like it! That is why God invented remotes!) However, it amuses me that they are going to mock Tiger's attempt to make entitlement become a medical condition by labeling it 'sex addiction'. It amuses me more because in my past there is a boy who used this exact same excuse for his cheating ways. Although he was not rich, nor successful.
Here is my opinion. Men who claim they are addicted to sex? They might as well just take a permanent marker and write 'weak', 'selfish', and 'stupid' all over their body. That is what is really the problem. It isn't a medical condition - it is a character flaw. The rest of us all learned in kindergarten that you don't get to do whatever you want, whenever you want - maybe they really have a learning disorder instead that kept them from understanding this? Men that claim to be addicted to sex just basically are living for the moment with zero self control, doing what feels good at the time - with no regard to the future or to anyone else. They are trying to justify their behavior with this stupid sex addiction label. Do they realize this makes them sound like bigger idiots? "Oh yeah...I am a cheater...but I can't help it, I'm addicted to sex." Seriously? So now you are a cheater AND an addict. Sweet. Let's just call it like it is guys. You are too weak to stand up to yourself and develop some moral character. You are too selfish to consider anything other than your pleasure for the moment. And you are too stupid to create a better excuse than sex addiction.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Vegas, baby!
Background Information:
1. Chet is away for the weekend with the guys. Apparently they do it every year - so this big group of guys is all up north to spend the weekend gambling, drinking, and telling lies about their sex lives. Testosterone fest - 2010.
2. When Chet drinks, he texts. No drunk dialing for my baby - but I get very chatty, usually sappy, texts from him when he is out drinking without me. He asked me today if they bug me and if he should leave his phone at the hotel - but I love them! They are almost always sweet, amusing, and/or complimentary to me. What is not to like?
With that said, last night I start getting texts around eleven o'clock. Because I am old and weary, I am already tucked into bed on this Friday night so I turn my phone volume way up so as to not miss any of the fun. They start out fairly tame with 'i miss u' and 'can't wait for Detroit' (we are going to Motor City next week) and they get a little sillier and sappier until they end with...."so I say we go to vegas and get married." Even for Drunk Chet, this one is a little out of left field.
Not that marrying Chet is out of left field, or even marrying him in the near future is out of left field. Eloping to Vegas is even just barely in the ballpark. But we haven't even talked about marriage - at all- to this point in our relationship. At least not to each other. My entire network of family and friends talk to me about it all the time, of course, because everyone loves Chet and I together. It is like there is this underground movement working to ensure we end up married. But as a couple, Chet and I just haven't had this conversation. So it is highly amusing, and completely sweet, that it pops up in the middle of a drunk text conversation. I love that he is sitting there in the middle of guy weekend, drinking and gambling with the boys....and thinking about marrying me.
1. Chet is away for the weekend with the guys. Apparently they do it every year - so this big group of guys is all up north to spend the weekend gambling, drinking, and telling lies about their sex lives. Testosterone fest - 2010.
2. When Chet drinks, he texts. No drunk dialing for my baby - but I get very chatty, usually sappy, texts from him when he is out drinking without me. He asked me today if they bug me and if he should leave his phone at the hotel - but I love them! They are almost always sweet, amusing, and/or complimentary to me. What is not to like?
With that said, last night I start getting texts around eleven o'clock. Because I am old and weary, I am already tucked into bed on this Friday night so I turn my phone volume way up so as to not miss any of the fun. They start out fairly tame with 'i miss u' and 'can't wait for Detroit' (we are going to Motor City next week) and they get a little sillier and sappier until they end with...."so I say we go to vegas and get married." Even for Drunk Chet, this one is a little out of left field.
Not that marrying Chet is out of left field, or even marrying him in the near future is out of left field. Eloping to Vegas is even just barely in the ballpark. But we haven't even talked about marriage - at all- to this point in our relationship. At least not to each other. My entire network of family and friends talk to me about it all the time, of course, because everyone loves Chet and I together. It is like there is this underground movement working to ensure we end up married. But as a couple, Chet and I just haven't had this conversation. So it is highly amusing, and completely sweet, that it pops up in the middle of a drunk text conversation. I love that he is sitting there in the middle of guy weekend, drinking and gambling with the boys....and thinking about marrying me.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Long Term Flaws
So if you have been faithful to my blog then you know that Chet and I are doing really well. We have met (and liked) each other's families, we have a somewhat regular weekly routinely worked out so we see each other around our crazy schedules, there is chick food and bubble bath in Chet's apartment, and we (dare I say it?) are pretty much happy and in love.
Now, while I am not ready to call an end to the fun, romantic first stage of our relationship yet - events partially out of our control did make us look for a moment somewhat seriously at the future the other night. Not that I haven't thought about the possibility of a future with Chet before now, but it has always been the kind of thought that is blurry around the edges and unshaped. There were no concrete details or plans or schedule. It was an optimistic thought - rather than a realistic, actionable thought. Someday. The other night just brought things into sharper focus for a little bit and made me, and I'm sure Chet, think for a moment about how that may look and what circumstances will shape it.
My gut reaction? I immediately feel a burning need to tell Chet all of my flaws, all of the reasons why he shouldn't want to be with me long term. The reasons why I am not a good bet for future happiness. I know this sounds like I am sabotaging myself, but there is a story behind it. Actually a book behind it. I finished that book called 'Committed' - the one that was about one woman's research and soul search about marriage. One of the things that I remember most was this story where she wrote down a list of all her most serious flaws, the kinds of flaws that she felt made her unworthy to be some one's partner. And then she gave it to her boyfriend. Her reasoning was that she loved him so much that she wanted to protect him from anything she could - even herself. Before they went through with their marriage, she wanted him to be 100% sure he understood how broken she was, so that there were no surprises and that he could protect himself from her if he so chose.
I feel like I need to do that, like I need to make sure Chet knows exactly what he is getting into if he looks towards the future. I don't want to continue the road that we are on and a year from now have him realize that I really wasn't lying when I said that I am awful at managing my money or that I have control issues. I have also been broken and not only do I want to make sure he knows that, but I don't ever want to put him in a position where he regrets taking a chance with me - so I want him to have all the facts straight up. With that said, if you were considering spending your future with me, here are the things you should know.
1. I really AM awful at managing my money, usually because I don't say no well. Need $20? Sure, here ya go. Having a rough night and need to go out for dinner and a bottle of wine? I'm in. It's your birthday/anniversary/wedding/new baby/monday blues day? I have the best, most amazing present for you. I promise. Now to give myself some credit, I am much better now than I was five years ago and I do for the most part have a budget plan that I loosely follow. I just can be talked out of it if you try moderately hard. When Brad and I were together he would get pissed at me constantly over things like this and instead of just handling our finances (which I was more than willing to let him do - I know that I need a handler) he was obsessed with trying to make me do it on my own and then being mad at me for my reasoning on why I did things the way I did. I am never going to be the responsible choice for running finances in a serious relationship. I have made my peace with it.
2. On the other hand, I like to run the house. I like to rearrange furniture on a whim. I like to organize cupboards, create homes for everything (many times with pretty labels so you don't get confused), pick out paint colors and redecorate as many times as needed until I am satisfied. Which may be never. I haven't reached that point in a home yet. I love to grocery shop, buy season appropriate candles for all major surfaces, and play hostess. I have a slight Queen of my Castle complex. It can be annoying to live with, but it is inevitable. Love me, love my neurosis.
3. My first reaction to any major life event or stressor is always, always going to be all emotional. This is something that is beyond my control. If you want to talk something out from start to finish in one sitting, then expect to have to help me work through all my feelings before I can think about it logically. This isn't to say I can't be rational, but my gut reaction is going to some kind of emotional outpouring that may or may not be based in fact or reason. I can be reasonable and handle life - but I just need my vent time first, without judgement. Typically this is something that men don't handle well.
4. I can be paranoid. This is an acquired flaw since my divorce. I really work hard at being trusting, but if you engage in behavior that is sneaky, or evasive, or strange...my gut reaction is always going to be that you are up to something. It is unbelievably important to me that my future partner understand my reasoning behind this and be willing to pretty much be an open book. I hate secrets, half truths, and pretenses.
5. It is important to pet me. I think that physical contact is really important in a relationship. If you are with me, then I believe that gives me the right to touch you pretty much whenever I want - and I am a frequent petter. I need to be connected. If you don't show me physical attention, I tend to get insecure and do crazy things to get your attention...like chop off all my hair or buy inappropriate clothing.
6. I need moments of peace and quiet. I can only handle so many days of chaos or activity before I become slightly crazy. I do not operate well when overbooked. I think of it like turning the 'off' switch on life for an evening every once in a while. Sometimes I just need to check out - from work, school, family, and even my partner. Let me do this.
Now, this is obviously not an all encompassing list of my flaws - but I think it is a pretty honest snapshot of the things that could impact a relationship, or things that make me slightly difficult from time to time. I also procrastinate, love to empty the hot water tank with super long showers, can't stand the smell or feel of raw tomatoes, and typically don't make the bed. So if you are an on-time, neat freak that hates to pay higher than normal water bills and loves raw tomatoes.....run.
Now, while I am not ready to call an end to the fun, romantic first stage of our relationship yet - events partially out of our control did make us look for a moment somewhat seriously at the future the other night. Not that I haven't thought about the possibility of a future with Chet before now, but it has always been the kind of thought that is blurry around the edges and unshaped. There were no concrete details or plans or schedule. It was an optimistic thought - rather than a realistic, actionable thought. Someday. The other night just brought things into sharper focus for a little bit and made me, and I'm sure Chet, think for a moment about how that may look and what circumstances will shape it.
My gut reaction? I immediately feel a burning need to tell Chet all of my flaws, all of the reasons why he shouldn't want to be with me long term. The reasons why I am not a good bet for future happiness. I know this sounds like I am sabotaging myself, but there is a story behind it. Actually a book behind it. I finished that book called 'Committed' - the one that was about one woman's research and soul search about marriage. One of the things that I remember most was this story where she wrote down a list of all her most serious flaws, the kinds of flaws that she felt made her unworthy to be some one's partner. And then she gave it to her boyfriend. Her reasoning was that she loved him so much that she wanted to protect him from anything she could - even herself. Before they went through with their marriage, she wanted him to be 100% sure he understood how broken she was, so that there were no surprises and that he could protect himself from her if he so chose.
I feel like I need to do that, like I need to make sure Chet knows exactly what he is getting into if he looks towards the future. I don't want to continue the road that we are on and a year from now have him realize that I really wasn't lying when I said that I am awful at managing my money or that I have control issues. I have also been broken and not only do I want to make sure he knows that, but I don't ever want to put him in a position where he regrets taking a chance with me - so I want him to have all the facts straight up. With that said, if you were considering spending your future with me, here are the things you should know.
1. I really AM awful at managing my money, usually because I don't say no well. Need $20? Sure, here ya go. Having a rough night and need to go out for dinner and a bottle of wine? I'm in. It's your birthday/anniversary/wedding/new baby/monday blues day? I have the best, most amazing present for you. I promise. Now to give myself some credit, I am much better now than I was five years ago and I do for the most part have a budget plan that I loosely follow. I just can be talked out of it if you try moderately hard. When Brad and I were together he would get pissed at me constantly over things like this and instead of just handling our finances (which I was more than willing to let him do - I know that I need a handler) he was obsessed with trying to make me do it on my own and then being mad at me for my reasoning on why I did things the way I did. I am never going to be the responsible choice for running finances in a serious relationship. I have made my peace with it.
2. On the other hand, I like to run the house. I like to rearrange furniture on a whim. I like to organize cupboards, create homes for everything (many times with pretty labels so you don't get confused), pick out paint colors and redecorate as many times as needed until I am satisfied. Which may be never. I haven't reached that point in a home yet. I love to grocery shop, buy season appropriate candles for all major surfaces, and play hostess. I have a slight Queen of my Castle complex. It can be annoying to live with, but it is inevitable. Love me, love my neurosis.
3. My first reaction to any major life event or stressor is always, always going to be all emotional. This is something that is beyond my control. If you want to talk something out from start to finish in one sitting, then expect to have to help me work through all my feelings before I can think about it logically. This isn't to say I can't be rational, but my gut reaction is going to some kind of emotional outpouring that may or may not be based in fact or reason. I can be reasonable and handle life - but I just need my vent time first, without judgement. Typically this is something that men don't handle well.
4. I can be paranoid. This is an acquired flaw since my divorce. I really work hard at being trusting, but if you engage in behavior that is sneaky, or evasive, or strange...my gut reaction is always going to be that you are up to something. It is unbelievably important to me that my future partner understand my reasoning behind this and be willing to pretty much be an open book. I hate secrets, half truths, and pretenses.
5. It is important to pet me. I think that physical contact is really important in a relationship. If you are with me, then I believe that gives me the right to touch you pretty much whenever I want - and I am a frequent petter. I need to be connected. If you don't show me physical attention, I tend to get insecure and do crazy things to get your attention...like chop off all my hair or buy inappropriate clothing.
6. I need moments of peace and quiet. I can only handle so many days of chaos or activity before I become slightly crazy. I do not operate well when overbooked. I think of it like turning the 'off' switch on life for an evening every once in a while. Sometimes I just need to check out - from work, school, family, and even my partner. Let me do this.
Now, this is obviously not an all encompassing list of my flaws - but I think it is a pretty honest snapshot of the things that could impact a relationship, or things that make me slightly difficult from time to time. I also procrastinate, love to empty the hot water tank with super long showers, can't stand the smell or feel of raw tomatoes, and typically don't make the bed. So if you are an on-time, neat freak that hates to pay higher than normal water bills and loves raw tomatoes.....run.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
There Is No Problem That Can't Be Solved With Office Supplies~
I am not a dependent, clingy woman. I do not need to hear my significant other's voice every single day. I do not need constant attention so that I can tell him everything I have done all day and everyone that I have talked to. I don't need regular updates with what he had for lunch, who called him last night, or that he ran out of toothpaste this morning and had to chew gum on the way to the supermarket. I am just not that girl. For several reasons. One, I really don't care about his toothpaste or his lunch, it is not groundbreaking news. (Unless it was unusually tasty and then I want the recipe - lunch, not the toothpaste) Two, I trust him to tell me if someone important is on the phone and I also trust him to make the right call if he is talking to someone that would make me uncomfortable. Three, I hate relationships where you are living in each other's pockets. I truly like my independence and no matter where Chet and I end up, I plan on keeping part of that and I wouldn't respect him if he didn't do likewise. However....
I can't handle not knowing what is going on. I don't care if the plan for tomorrow involves me or if he is going to go hang with his buddies or if he just wants a quiet night at home by himself - I just want to know what is happening. I am not offended with needing alone time or guy time. I need my own alone time and girl time, too. But this not knowing is making me feel like an idiot. Because here is what is happening. I don't think Chet has had to account for his time or his schedule to anyone for a while, if really ever. He just does what he wants, when he wants. Which is not the problem. The problem is that I keep asking what is going on because I never feel like I know and then I end up feeling like I am in the way. I don't feel like a valued girlfriend, I feel like Chet is eyeing my every move like I am trying to box him in. (For the record, this is not an accurate statement of how Chet feels - this is just how my neurotic post-divorce brain processes this kind of stuff. I am 100% aware this is my own problem) It makes me want to walk around his apartment and double check to make sure I am not leaving any trace of myself so that he doesn't think I am taking his space. It makes me feel insecure and idiotic and foolish - all things that I hate to feel. Especially since that isn't remotely the kind of girl that I am. Am I completely wrong for wanting to purchase a super sized dry erase calender and just leave it sitting on his table with a post it note on top that simply says....hmmm, I don't know what it would say. Something clever and witty that basically implies.... "let me know what the plan is. All I want is to know what is going on so I can stop being this ridiculous, paranoid version of myself and just live my life without constantly second guessing myself about where I am supposed to be and if you really want me around. I just need a plan."
Of course, I am not going to do this. (And even if I wanted to, that would all not fit on a post it note) But when I start thinking paranoid thoughts about all the things that could be wrong or all the things that could go wrong or all the things that are already wrong and I don't even know it....it comforts me to think about the dry erase calender and markers. Not because they necessarily represent a solution, but because I have a slightly unhealthy obsession with office supplies. And you don't get much more 'office' than an oversized, dry erase calender. Especially if I accessorize it with a full assortment of complimentary colored dry erase markers. Ahhh....I am starting to feel better already. An hour of walking around Staples debating the merit of ink widths (super fine or fine) and all will be right in my world.
I can't handle not knowing what is going on. I don't care if the plan for tomorrow involves me or if he is going to go hang with his buddies or if he just wants a quiet night at home by himself - I just want to know what is happening. I am not offended with needing alone time or guy time. I need my own alone time and girl time, too. But this not knowing is making me feel like an idiot. Because here is what is happening. I don't think Chet has had to account for his time or his schedule to anyone for a while, if really ever. He just does what he wants, when he wants. Which is not the problem. The problem is that I keep asking what is going on because I never feel like I know and then I end up feeling like I am in the way. I don't feel like a valued girlfriend, I feel like Chet is eyeing my every move like I am trying to box him in. (For the record, this is not an accurate statement of how Chet feels - this is just how my neurotic post-divorce brain processes this kind of stuff. I am 100% aware this is my own problem) It makes me want to walk around his apartment and double check to make sure I am not leaving any trace of myself so that he doesn't think I am taking his space. It makes me feel insecure and idiotic and foolish - all things that I hate to feel. Especially since that isn't remotely the kind of girl that I am. Am I completely wrong for wanting to purchase a super sized dry erase calender and just leave it sitting on his table with a post it note on top that simply says....hmmm, I don't know what it would say. Something clever and witty that basically implies.... "let me know what the plan is. All I want is to know what is going on so I can stop being this ridiculous, paranoid version of myself and just live my life without constantly second guessing myself about where I am supposed to be and if you really want me around. I just need a plan."
Of course, I am not going to do this. (And even if I wanted to, that would all not fit on a post it note) But when I start thinking paranoid thoughts about all the things that could be wrong or all the things that could go wrong or all the things that are already wrong and I don't even know it....it comforts me to think about the dry erase calender and markers. Not because they necessarily represent a solution, but because I have a slightly unhealthy obsession with office supplies. And you don't get much more 'office' than an oversized, dry erase calender. Especially if I accessorize it with a full assortment of complimentary colored dry erase markers. Ahhh....I am starting to feel better already. An hour of walking around Staples debating the merit of ink widths (super fine or fine) and all will be right in my world.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The Demise of Jack...or The Night I Kissed The Old Guy
This weekend I had dinner with a couple friends who happen to be blog fans and they requested some scandal. Apparently my current happy state is not even remotely as entertaining as the insanity of my past. Imagine that. I am unwilling to create drama with Chet merely to amuse my readers, but luckily for all of you I have plenty of old scandal left to share. Here is my story of how I decided that I should quit drinking Jack Daniels when I went out. Enjoy.
For the record, Jack has been good to me for the most part through my sinning years. I am not a beer drinker, never have been, and Jake and Coke pretty much came along on all my single lady adventures. I am also not really a huge drinker, but singlehood is a time in life where I found myself drinking more - not because alcoholism and singles go hand in hand - but because I simply socialized a ton more than when I was in a relationship. Staying in and watching movies all weekend with a significant other while shunning the world = adorable and fantastic. Staying in and watching movies all weekend with yourself while shunning the world = antisocial and depressing.
Until about six months ago, Jack was always easy going down and smart enough to be gone the next day when I opened my eyes with no unpleasant aftertaste or headache. Then he started to turn. Originally, I thought it was simply a strange, random event. I never get hungover when I drink Jack....maybe I was just already slightly sick and partying brought the rest of it all on? Maybe I was really tired and it made me sick? Because I was certain it wasn't Jack, so certain that the thought never even crossed my mind that I was hungover.
The next strange, random event on Jack left me with memory holes. (Maybe Jack was just being good to me still and erasing all the bad spots of the night?) Unfortunately, I remembered enough to know I let a semi-stranger drive me home and abandoned my two other friends in a (very) misguided attempt to hook them up. Not my most shining moment. (But Mom, I promise I didn't let him in....no worries.) This time it was harder to convince myself that Jack was still being true to me. I made a half hearted vow to lay off the whiskey for a while until I learned how to behave. That was not entirely successful.
The crowning glory of my Jack Daniels saga starts with my friend......Sasha. Sasha and I are wine buddies. We like to go out to a local restaurant and commandeer a table for a few hours while we talk and drink a few glasses. Usually we are pretty good about having a few and then laying off before heading on our merry way home. Usually. This night does not fit that criteria however. About eleven o'clock or so, Sasha and I drained the last of our wine and asked for our checks. We had every intention of stopping and being good. Then a pair of men showed up at our table - men that had gone to school with Sasha and wanted to catch up.
Now, just as background, Sasha is much more my mother's age than mine - although you would never know it if I hadn't just told you. It makes no difference in our friendship, but it is relevant in this story because the two men we are chatting with graduated with her - making them in the same age bracket as my parents as well. And these two men have a very obvious wing man scenario going on from the moment they sit down. While Bachelor #1 tries to pick up Sasha, Bachelor #2 and I chat and I discover that he actually knows my best friend's dad. (One more icky connection that still haunts me) Guys being guys, they insist that Sasha and I need more wine....and Sasha and I are just happy enough to go along with it. A few glasses later and we all have a burning desire to go dancing.
Dancing. As in..Midland St. Pub dancing. Me and Sasha and the two Bachelors. Both, let me remind you, who are old enough to have played with my dad as kids. Of course, I can't drink wine at the Pub so Bachelor #2 is happy enough to provide me with as many Jack and Coke's as I can hold - and as soon as my hand is empty, it is refilled. Obviously, Bachelor #2 is no gem. I survive without serious mishap until last call - where we all decide it is way too early to go home, so we head for a local dive bar where Sasha bullies our way into the room and convinces the bartender to keep us knee deep in drinks for a little while. We continued to dance all around this dive bar and sing along loudly and obnoxiously to the juke box well after everyone else had left. At this point, I had lost most of my dignity, but the worst was still to come.
As we leave the bar, Bachelor #2 offers to drive me home. Keep in mind that I have a perfectly good ride home with Sasha - who actually has my stuff already in her car. I even go so far as to get in her car - just to hop out and join the Bachelors in their truck. Sasha assumes I know what I am doing and heads home. I deeply, deeply regret that I did not drive away with her in that car. Deeply. Deeply. Regret.
When I wake up the next morning, my memories from that point forward are a slide show movie. I just have flashes of memories. A string of picture moments in chronological order. Singing along with the radio at the top of my lungs in the back of the Bachelor truck. Insisting that I needed to use Bachelor #1's bathroom before I'd let Bachelor #2 drive me home. Kissing Bachelor #2 in my driveway- even though he is twenty years older than me and married and slimy...because he was smart enough to recognize that I was drunk enough to just want to be told that I was beautiful and amazing. Finally sending slimy Bachelor on his way, letting myself in, and deciding that my clothes were all of a sudden too restrictive so I walked around the house in my underwear from that point on, reveling in my freedom. Drunk dialing a few people that I shouldn't even have had in my contact list anymore. Waking up cold (from passing out in my underwear on the couch) and feeling like I had been beaten and juggled. And then all those slide show memories hit me like a Mach truck and I ran to the bathroom and was sick.
Now, I am going to say half of my hangover was simply because I was so grossed out and disgusted with myself that I couldn't get my stomach to stop rolling. But the other half was very definitely Jack. He had turned on me. Not only had he turned on me, but he had guided me into the wrinkly old hands of a slimy lecher. It was too much too bear. I had to let him go. Jack and I had gone from being in a fairly monogamous relationship to a fiery, spectacular breakup in the span of eight crazy hours.
Since then, I have only visited Jack once - on my first night out with Chet actually. However, Chet is fully capable of handling me on Jack and I was much smarter about my drinking timeline. And I am happy to report that when I woke up the next morning, there was a much happier ending....so now Jack and I have settled our differences. We can never go back to the way things were, our serious relationship is definitely still over, but we are going to be ok to be 'just friends'. It was nice to go out on a high note.
For the record, Jack has been good to me for the most part through my sinning years. I am not a beer drinker, never have been, and Jake and Coke pretty much came along on all my single lady adventures. I am also not really a huge drinker, but singlehood is a time in life where I found myself drinking more - not because alcoholism and singles go hand in hand - but because I simply socialized a ton more than when I was in a relationship. Staying in and watching movies all weekend with a significant other while shunning the world = adorable and fantastic. Staying in and watching movies all weekend with yourself while shunning the world = antisocial and depressing.
Until about six months ago, Jack was always easy going down and smart enough to be gone the next day when I opened my eyes with no unpleasant aftertaste or headache. Then he started to turn. Originally, I thought it was simply a strange, random event. I never get hungover when I drink Jack....maybe I was just already slightly sick and partying brought the rest of it all on? Maybe I was really tired and it made me sick? Because I was certain it wasn't Jack, so certain that the thought never even crossed my mind that I was hungover.
The next strange, random event on Jack left me with memory holes. (Maybe Jack was just being good to me still and erasing all the bad spots of the night?) Unfortunately, I remembered enough to know I let a semi-stranger drive me home and abandoned my two other friends in a (very) misguided attempt to hook them up. Not my most shining moment. (But Mom, I promise I didn't let him in....no worries.) This time it was harder to convince myself that Jack was still being true to me. I made a half hearted vow to lay off the whiskey for a while until I learned how to behave. That was not entirely successful.
The crowning glory of my Jack Daniels saga starts with my friend......Sasha. Sasha and I are wine buddies. We like to go out to a local restaurant and commandeer a table for a few hours while we talk and drink a few glasses. Usually we are pretty good about having a few and then laying off before heading on our merry way home. Usually. This night does not fit that criteria however. About eleven o'clock or so, Sasha and I drained the last of our wine and asked for our checks. We had every intention of stopping and being good. Then a pair of men showed up at our table - men that had gone to school with Sasha and wanted to catch up.
Now, just as background, Sasha is much more my mother's age than mine - although you would never know it if I hadn't just told you. It makes no difference in our friendship, but it is relevant in this story because the two men we are chatting with graduated with her - making them in the same age bracket as my parents as well. And these two men have a very obvious wing man scenario going on from the moment they sit down. While Bachelor #1 tries to pick up Sasha, Bachelor #2 and I chat and I discover that he actually knows my best friend's dad. (One more icky connection that still haunts me) Guys being guys, they insist that Sasha and I need more wine....and Sasha and I are just happy enough to go along with it. A few glasses later and we all have a burning desire to go dancing.
Dancing. As in..Midland St. Pub dancing. Me and Sasha and the two Bachelors. Both, let me remind you, who are old enough to have played with my dad as kids. Of course, I can't drink wine at the Pub so Bachelor #2 is happy enough to provide me with as many Jack and Coke's as I can hold - and as soon as my hand is empty, it is refilled. Obviously, Bachelor #2 is no gem. I survive without serious mishap until last call - where we all decide it is way too early to go home, so we head for a local dive bar where Sasha bullies our way into the room and convinces the bartender to keep us knee deep in drinks for a little while. We continued to dance all around this dive bar and sing along loudly and obnoxiously to the juke box well after everyone else had left. At this point, I had lost most of my dignity, but the worst was still to come.
As we leave the bar, Bachelor #2 offers to drive me home. Keep in mind that I have a perfectly good ride home with Sasha - who actually has my stuff already in her car. I even go so far as to get in her car - just to hop out and join the Bachelors in their truck. Sasha assumes I know what I am doing and heads home. I deeply, deeply regret that I did not drive away with her in that car. Deeply. Deeply. Regret.
When I wake up the next morning, my memories from that point forward are a slide show movie. I just have flashes of memories. A string of picture moments in chronological order. Singing along with the radio at the top of my lungs in the back of the Bachelor truck. Insisting that I needed to use Bachelor #1's bathroom before I'd let Bachelor #2 drive me home. Kissing Bachelor #2 in my driveway- even though he is twenty years older than me and married and slimy...because he was smart enough to recognize that I was drunk enough to just want to be told that I was beautiful and amazing. Finally sending slimy Bachelor on his way, letting myself in, and deciding that my clothes were all of a sudden too restrictive so I walked around the house in my underwear from that point on, reveling in my freedom. Drunk dialing a few people that I shouldn't even have had in my contact list anymore. Waking up cold (from passing out in my underwear on the couch) and feeling like I had been beaten and juggled. And then all those slide show memories hit me like a Mach truck and I ran to the bathroom and was sick.
Now, I am going to say half of my hangover was simply because I was so grossed out and disgusted with myself that I couldn't get my stomach to stop rolling. But the other half was very definitely Jack. He had turned on me. Not only had he turned on me, but he had guided me into the wrinkly old hands of a slimy lecher. It was too much too bear. I had to let him go. Jack and I had gone from being in a fairly monogamous relationship to a fiery, spectacular breakup in the span of eight crazy hours.
Since then, I have only visited Jack once - on my first night out with Chet actually. However, Chet is fully capable of handling me on Jack and I was much smarter about my drinking timeline. And I am happy to report that when I woke up the next morning, there was a much happier ending....so now Jack and I have settled our differences. We can never go back to the way things were, our serious relationship is definitely still over, but we are going to be ok to be 'just friends'. It was nice to go out on a high note.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Gateway Candle
I moved a candle into Chet's apartment last week. I bought it strictly for that purpose and I even bought a lighter to live there, too. I smuggled it in one night when Chet was at work and I was there puppy sitting. At the end of the night I just put it up on the table out of the reach of the puppy and went home. I deliberately contaminated Chet's man space - although to be fair I did pick out a manly color scheme of brown and cream. (Vanilla and mocha...mmmmm) I think there is a rule that says you can't force floral candles on them until you have been dating for three months or something like that...
Now all the crazy, commitment-phobic men out there will think that this is some sort of plot to take over his apartment. I am sure that there is a significant population of men that think we have some secret cult where we plan out our invasions. That's right, boys...you didn't really think we went to that many 'cooking' parties did you? (ok Betty...its week eight...time to place the potpourri sachets in his dresser drawers) To shoot down other theories about the candle placement.....this is not my way of 'marking' my territory, I am not trying to get Chet more in touch with his sensitive side, and I do not have a secret product placement deal with Glade.
Quite simply, I am a nester. Big time. I like to create my world around me to my specifications. (Some people interpret this to mean that I am a control freak, I think it just makes me particular in a fun, quirky kind of way) Not that Chet's apartment is a crazy bachelor pad or anything - he has real furniture, things on the walls, dishes that are not made of plastic or paper....but it is definitely the home of a man. No fluff. And fluff is kind of like comfort food to me sometimes, so as you can see....I really had no choice. The candle was necessary. Now that I spend a significant amount of time in Chet's apartment, it is imperative that I surround myself with my comfort fluff. And really, how dangerous is a candle?
In itself, it isn't too bad. But let's use a drug metaphor here just for fun. The running argument against marijuana use isn't that it is so dangerous in of itself, but that it is a gateway drug - opening up a Pandora's Box of all types of other, scarier, harder drugs. Marijuana isn't the drug problem, but it has all kinds of implications. This candle? This candle is my gateway candle. Chet doesn't mind the candle (it barely caused a reaction other than a what-will-my-mother/sister-think-if-they-knew-a-candle-was-here comment....which I thought was just straight out funny - I fully intend to tell them so I can find out what they think) but I don't think he realized the kind of door that candle has opened. Angel figurines are just around the corner!
The holy grail of my nesting is actually a recliner. I have mentioned about a dozen times to Chet that he needs a recliner for me to put my stuff on. Oddly enough, this did not spur him into immediate action and get me a chair...(sigh)... Now, I don't only want the chair for use as a gathering place for my junk, but its main function would be to house all of my girly paraphernalia. A girl needs a good drop spot - and there just isn't a good one for me yet at the apartment. What there is however is a great empty space at the end of a room that holds......absolutely nothing. Every time I walk past this space I itch to do something to it - it is practically begging for a cozy recliner to sit in front of its windows, holding hands with a boxy end table piled with a stack of books and even, perhaps, a cozy knitted afghan. If I close my eyes I can see myself curled up in it, lost in a good book while Chet sleeps away the morning....ahhhh....
Thus the candle. The flood gates are open and poor Chet's man-palace won't even feel it coming. On the agenda this week...a cozy sweater, pajama pants, peanut M&M's on hand. Coming soon....Chick food in the cupboards. Pretty, flowery Kleenex boxes on the bathroom counter. Feel-good message magnets on the fridge. Bubble bath. Perhaps even decorative pillows and oversized pink bath towels. All are little stepping stones leading me to my coveted, comfy reading nook. Unless, of course, I get impatient and just skip right from candle to recliner. The phrase 'it is better to ask for forgiveness than for permission' has come out of Chet's mouth on occasion. I wonder if he believes in it if he is on the other end???
Now all the crazy, commitment-phobic men out there will think that this is some sort of plot to take over his apartment. I am sure that there is a significant population of men that think we have some secret cult where we plan out our invasions. That's right, boys...you didn't really think we went to that many 'cooking' parties did you? (ok Betty...its week eight...time to place the potpourri sachets in his dresser drawers) To shoot down other theories about the candle placement.....this is not my way of 'marking' my territory, I am not trying to get Chet more in touch with his sensitive side, and I do not have a secret product placement deal with Glade.
Quite simply, I am a nester. Big time. I like to create my world around me to my specifications. (Some people interpret this to mean that I am a control freak, I think it just makes me particular in a fun, quirky kind of way) Not that Chet's apartment is a crazy bachelor pad or anything - he has real furniture, things on the walls, dishes that are not made of plastic or paper....but it is definitely the home of a man. No fluff. And fluff is kind of like comfort food to me sometimes, so as you can see....I really had no choice. The candle was necessary. Now that I spend a significant amount of time in Chet's apartment, it is imperative that I surround myself with my comfort fluff. And really, how dangerous is a candle?
In itself, it isn't too bad. But let's use a drug metaphor here just for fun. The running argument against marijuana use isn't that it is so dangerous in of itself, but that it is a gateway drug - opening up a Pandora's Box of all types of other, scarier, harder drugs. Marijuana isn't the drug problem, but it has all kinds of implications. This candle? This candle is my gateway candle. Chet doesn't mind the candle (it barely caused a reaction other than a what-will-my-mother/sister-think-if-they-knew-a-candle-was-here comment....which I thought was just straight out funny - I fully intend to tell them so I can find out what they think) but I don't think he realized the kind of door that candle has opened. Angel figurines are just around the corner!
The holy grail of my nesting is actually a recliner. I have mentioned about a dozen times to Chet that he needs a recliner for me to put my stuff on. Oddly enough, this did not spur him into immediate action and get me a chair...(sigh)... Now, I don't only want the chair for use as a gathering place for my junk, but its main function would be to house all of my girly paraphernalia. A girl needs a good drop spot - and there just isn't a good one for me yet at the apartment. What there is however is a great empty space at the end of a room that holds......absolutely nothing. Every time I walk past this space I itch to do something to it - it is practically begging for a cozy recliner to sit in front of its windows, holding hands with a boxy end table piled with a stack of books and even, perhaps, a cozy knitted afghan. If I close my eyes I can see myself curled up in it, lost in a good book while Chet sleeps away the morning....ahhhh....
Thus the candle. The flood gates are open and poor Chet's man-palace won't even feel it coming. On the agenda this week...a cozy sweater, pajama pants, peanut M&M's on hand. Coming soon....Chick food in the cupboards. Pretty, flowery Kleenex boxes on the bathroom counter. Feel-good message magnets on the fridge. Bubble bath. Perhaps even decorative pillows and oversized pink bath towels. All are little stepping stones leading me to my coveted, comfy reading nook. Unless, of course, I get impatient and just skip right from candle to recliner. The phrase 'it is better to ask for forgiveness than for permission' has come out of Chet's mouth on occasion. I wonder if he believes in it if he is on the other end???
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