I’m drunk, not stupid
Friday, July 29, 2005
So I went out tonight with the same crowd from last night. I have several points to make…
First of all, I made a rookie mistake. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t drunk, so I keept drinking. I got in the cab and there was my drunkenness. Oh, god, if I lay down there will be vomit throughout the land. Or all over the bathroom, wahatever.
Second of all, I am totally falling for a guy who is otherwise engaged with anoher girl. Seriously, the effort to not cll him these past tow noights is rediculous, but I don’t want to mess up his good thing.
Oky I know this is bad. Real bad. Indescribably bad. I know. I am working on it. By working on it I mean: I am not drunk dialing but totally liking him more every day.
Don’t judge me, he likes me back. But he’s otherwise occupado.
So right now there are a buncj of drunk people ordering late night chienese food. And calling eachother bitch.
I totallyh got left at the club. I waited and waited for my sister and her shusnabd but I suddenly realized that they took the fuck off. So I wandered into the street and found me a cab. I directed him to where I wanted to fgo and then he went the wrong way. I didn’t say anything at first and finally I perked up and said where the hell are we. Of course I was alone and the cab driver was all shady. So he kind of laughs sat me and I say: “I’m drunk, not stupid.”
And people that is the way it’s going to be drunk, not stupid.
So I am going to bed alone tonoight, but thinking of nort going to bed alone.
Like a Jerry Springer episode waiting to happen
Today is a double post; I didn’t want to combine the two so read on after you finish this one.
I don’t often talk about my family, at least not the specifics of our relationship, but after last night I feel compelled to directly address my sister and her husband.
First and foremost, when they read this, they are going to do a little dance. They love the idea that they are the center of my world (they’re not) and love the idea that I can’t get enough of them (I can). The fact remains that I love them for all they are worth and I understand them probably better than most. Other than my sister’s husband, I am the only one who has shared a room over a prolonged period with my sister. I understand the workings of her mind better than I would like, but we are sisters and we share the burden of our upbringing. There is no one else in the world who knows what it was like and we sustain each other in a way that no one else can. Similarly, when my sister gets to that place where her husband just shakes his head and sighs, he and I can share in the knowledge that she is absolutely fucking crazy (in the nicest of ways of course). This funny bond that the three of us share has received a fair share of comments from outsiders, but for those on the inside, this all makes sense.
So it is with a heavy heart I say this: Big sister, fuck you bitch. I have to been totally funny this week. I mean Pig juice. How could you forget about pig fucking juice? And then saying I gave it up for lent. We’re Jewish, that shit is funny. I/m taking my ball and going home, oh, wait, I’m going to your home after work. Oh, yeah. Whatever.
Last night, when my sister tottered over in her stilettos and pickled in her four glasses of wine and three martinis she bellows some incoherent statement about her fucking husband. I just look and shrug. What can you say about a man who gets Salmonella poisoning from stabbing himself with a chicken bone. Then swears that his big toe is broken even though he’s walking just fine. He then follows this up by falling off a curb and tearing his tendons and ligaments. He has nothing to say about it because my sister and I, rightly so, pointed out that it’s not like he’s wearing heels and hauling across town like we do. He’s also not a terribly clumsy person. He’s just really unfortunate.
So he just called me, about 8:30 this morning and moaned. He wanted to know why I wasn’t hung over. I told him that I have been at work since 7:25 and I wasn’t mixing drugs and alcohol last night. See, I make it all look so easy. It’s not. You really need to know what you’re doing if you’re going to mix vodka with painkillers. I have already spoken to him about getting a re-fill on his prescription because, like they say, a friend in need of Percocet is a friend indeed. I also explained to him that the 1.5 years between us make him that much older and that much less able to drink like I do. I am not saying it’s fair, but it’s so true. Why last year I could drink from Tuesday through Sunday and not have a problem getting up. These days I have to wait till Wednesday to start. Oh so sad growing up.
Anyways, I think that I should have been drunker (should have been drunker, such questionable grammar) because I went to the gym and did…wait for it…an hour of cardio. People, by the end I was pretty sure my knee was going to pop, but it didn’t and the shin splits were behaving themselves. Usually I have to stop at 43 minutes but I am a little too OCD for that so I stop at 40 because I don’t think I can make 45. But then I ate that doughnut and figured on 10 extra cardio minutes. Well once I got to 50 there was no way I was going to stop till I finished the hour. I totally understand those people who over exercise because once I got to the hour mark I could have kept going. If I hadn’t already made plans to go out drinking I would have stayed and worked out longer.
The trick to a happy life is the following: sweat out all the water in your body; take a very hot shower; replace all the lost liquids with vodka. This process will help you lose weight, get you drunk and make you forget about the bulimic girls at the gym. Seriously, the gym is not the place to purge. If you are going to do that, use the bathrooms at work, or better yet, just starve yourself because the last thing I want to see and hear is some underweight girl purposely making herself sick.
I will never be one of those impossibly thin girls, I love digesting food too much and as much as I enjoyed the work out yesterday, the amount of workout time it would take for me to lose my ass and tits would preclude me from doing anything else, ever. And I like doing other things. Like eating. Did I mention I like to eat? Just in case I forget, people I LIKE TO EAT.
Moving on to the other side to that whole I will never be able to stop eating enough to give the Lohans, Simpsons, Aguileras, Richies, Hiltons of this world what for argument. I just won’t be able to suppress my genes. I know that no matter how much I work out I will never look like that. I also know that my genetic make up precludes me from ever maintaining that shape. Seriously, Jennifer Lopez will forever be haunted of pictures of her ass in black and white striped spandex from her In Living Color days. Nothing that girl does, short of having her ass surgically removed will remove her ass. So, I am happy to be a little less soft by working out regularly and I happily accept that I will never be a hard body. As long as I get to eat all the complex carbohydrates, which I’ll have you know, includes vodka, that I desire, life will be good.
Unlikeliest of friends
Every now and then I read something that puts me somewhere else. For some reason I could see this scene in my head. I smiled as I read the blog and then I remembered a night last spring.
There were times when we, we merry men and one girl before she became some girl, would bounce from one club to the next. One of the boys always drove, as cab rides were so ridiculously and insanely expensive in London. For some reason there was a night where the last two standing were Formerly Married Gay Man and Some Girl. I don’t know why, but that night kind of cemented our friendship. I think that was the first time we were out without the rest of the posse. In any case, the point of this story is to say that for the entire time it took to drive from point A to point B, about 30 minutes, I talked. I talked, and talked, and talked, and talked some more. May have had something to do with the drugs. I try not to question these things too much.
I remember looking at him and thinking he would like me to shut the hell up. I remember asking him if he would like to shut the hell up. I remember him looking at me and smiling. I remember the look in his eye.
Later I mentioned that night and he laughed. He knew exactly the night. He said yeah he was about ready to throw me out of the car but that he knew where it was all coming from and it was kind of cute. And he had that same look in his eye.
It’s that look you give your best friend when they make you smile, or feel better, or remind you of that time when you did that thing. It’s the look you get when you bring someone red wine instead of chicken soup, or organize a bonfire to dispose of all evidence of a past relationship, or when you hide a porn and toy collection before parents come to visit.
One day, many months after this talking jag, FMGM turned to me and said: “If I had just met you out I wouldn’t have liked you. I mean, I tend to hate chatty Americans. You all are so loud and obnoxious. When the boys told me about you I thought I would hate you.”
I just looked at FMGM and said: “I know. I am always surprised whenever you call me.”
FMGM had a habit of dropping out of society. He would have enough of the clubs, the drugs, the boys, the random sex, and the pretensions of the whole scene. Before we met and became friends, there would be months where FMGM would refuse to return calls and that was just the way it was. When he wanted to talk, he would get in touch.
The mutual friends who introduced us would complain that I always knew more about FMGM than they did. We were like an old married couple. We would pick and tease and insult and mock each other endlessly.
Sundays were our night. I would close up the pub at which I worked and we would go out to celebrate the end of the weekend.
I miss him so much.
I’m in the market for a bridge
Thursday, July 28, 2005
I ate a doughnut for breakfast today. Normally, I have a bowl of raisin bran and a cup of milk with a glass of cranberry juice. I was bored of the usual. I got to the counter, looked at the cereal. Grabbed the doughnut. I was going to get a coffee. Then I felt guilty. So I got grapefruit juice. Why? Because there was a banner on the side that said Fat Free. What type of juice has fat in it? Pig juice. Oh, I’m sorry, I gave up drinking pig juice for lent.
Praise Jesus for providing us with this bountiful supply of grain based alcohol
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
I was bored while eating my lunch and decided to check out my stats and traffic.
I seem to attract a certain population, let’s call them: People who write the praises of Jesus.
For less than a second I thought that I should stop with the words about the drugs and the sex and the drinking. Then I thought what the hell is wrong with me? Why would I even think that?
I just didn’t want the Groesbeck Church Youth Group 2005 Mission Trip to the Czech Republic to think that I was going to burn in hell forever for my sins. I don’t want the writer over at Biblical Therapy Blog to have to pray for my soul. I was tormented about this, all for less than a second.
Then I remembered I am not Christian.
Whatsamatta U
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
One of my favorite episodes of Sex and the City is Escape from New York. The girls go to LA with Carrie while she works on a movie option for her book. I love the episode for all the right reasons: the full Brazilian waxing; Miranda on a mechanical bull; and Matthew McConaughey. When I first saw the episode I shared the outrage of Carrie when Matthew accused her of being the problem. He looked at her and said: “This Big guy seems great, so what’s wrong with you?” She did a Carrie-esque gasp of horror and tried to defend herself. At the time I thought she was right, but these days I am inclined to think he’s right.
Over the past three months I have been steadily dating. Sure I have had some fun and great dates but I never seem to hear back from the nice guys. Of course I’ve also been on a significant number of absolutely crap dates with the dregs of society. Funny enough, I don’t usually hear back from these guys either. I don’t really mind not hearing back from them, but if the dregs of society don’t want to date me, I have to start thinking: “What’s wrong with me?”
Last night I had plans to meet the Pessimist. He introduced himself to me by saying that he was moving to the West Coast because he hates Boston and believes that everyone in Boston are cold, mean, self-serving jerks. I kind of paused and reminded him that I was from Boston. He never really said a polite “excluding present company of course” half-assed apology; he just kind of grunted. Since the beginning of this dating thing, I have turned down only a single person and that was based on extreme rudeness. When the Pessimist invited me to a movie that was playing last night I accepted.
When I spoke to him yesterday afternoon he spun into a tirade about his ex-roommate and ex-landlord who apparently were both trying to con him into paying bills and rent for which he was not responsible. Basically everyone was trying to scam and deceive him. I listened to his complaints and said very little. As the time for meet him approached, I started dreading the date. If the date went well, who cared? He is moving away. If the date went poorly I would just be depressed about yet another crap date. Either way, I was in no mood to spend several hours with someone who thus far had spent the entire time he spoke to me whining about how the world done him wrong.
So I called and said that I had to work late. Not exactly a lie, I did end up working late, but I could have done the work another time. I ended up going to my friends’ house for dinner. I was really glad I went to dinner at this couple. I hadn’t seen them since the early summer and they reminded me what conversing with smart, funny, interesting and dynamic people was like. Basically, they reminded me that the type of person for whom I am looking does exist.
Now I can’t help but think about fate. Do we get what we deserve? If the whole world is doing you wrong, then maybe you’ve behaved in such a manner that you deserve the cosmic shit coming you way. If you keep going on crap dates with people who are completely unsuited to your personality then maybe the cosmos is trying to tell you something. Maybe it is me.
I’ve hit a wall
Monday, July 25, 2005
I can’t post extensively right now, have to meet friends for cheap wine and good, plentiful food in 28 minutes, but I think that I may need to stop dating.
What do: do we get what we deserve, a sex and the city episode, and getting stood up all have in common? Find out in tomorrow’s post.
Recapitulation: Long weekend at fam. reunion.
V. Severely burned on shoulders and chest, impeding typing ability. Currently eschewed bra for tankini worn while creating burn/tan lines that brought mocking from all who know me. Yeah, that’s right I am wearing a bathing suit top under my work shirt. What of it?
Excessive margarita drinking in the sun needed to maintain the alcohol level to make everything alright. For the most part things went well. The “are you seeing anyone/when are you going to settle down” questions were v. limited. Well meaning individual would normally wander off as I lit another cigarette in my attempt to chain smoke for 8 hours.
No massive fights, no loss of limbs, no news to report.
In other news, why would someone go through the effort of writing and calling if they are moving to the west coast in less than a month? I mean sure I’ll go out on a date with him, but if it’s a good date and then he up and moves cross country, I will have even more reason to hate dating.
I put my make-up on using a fun house mirror
Friday, July 22, 2005
Yesterday was a fat day. When I left the house in the morning, I thought my outfit looked good, but on the way home I caught my reflection in the window of the train and thought to myself: “how could I let myself out looking like this?”
Granted I was drunk and the windows are slightly concaved and perhaps not the best surface by which I should judge my outfit and body, but I looked so gross.
Today I have already had two people comment on how thin I look in my outfit. I am not actually thin; they were saying that I look thin for me. The first comment was followed by: “are you still hitting the gym?”
I’m going to start saving for my full body lipo. Just think about what I can do with the money I save on gym membership. I can adopt 3 of Sally Struthers’s children. I could fly to London first class. I can buy myself a 3-carat engagement ring and when people ask about my fiance I’ll show them a picture of Josh Duhamel.
The adventures of Some Girl and Pussy Willow
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Have you ever thought about what it takes to meet your best friends? For people who are stationary you might meet someone the first day of kindergarten, spend nights together camping in the backyard, share a graduation party, fete them at their wedding, coo at their children, celebrate and grieve with them through all of life’s milestones. Not everyone lives like that though, so while I will be the Maid of Honor in the wedding of one of my best friends from my hometown in September, I will also not see some of my other best friends for six months at a time.
I have always been a choosey girl. I mull over the smallest details and debate the finer points of how tab a will fit into slot b. I just want things to make sense. My friends all make sense.
The you would never guess they’re gay British men, the trendy and stylish Arab from Mississippi, the healthy-living hiker/survivalist from not quite upstate New York, the well educated Swedish woman who has made her home in Rome, the sorority sister from Western Mass who wants to be a wife and a mother and the small town girl who is about to get married to a Sea Captain. I know they are all so different but we chose each other. We manage to make friendship work.
As for Pussy Willow, one of those British men who adopted me all those years ago, here’s how it all went down:
While I was attending school in London one of the other students invited me to his birthday party. At the party I was introduced to my classmate’s boyfriend and the boyfriend’s brother. I had a grand old time and I believe that I stumbled my way up the stairs without too much thought about who was there and to whom I had spoken. I go upon my life as I always did and began to really get out with Reliable and Religious. The boys showed me a side of London that no straight girl had found on her own. I remember the time when I realized that we had stayed out long enough that the tube had resumed service. I realized this because we were at a club built under ground in South London next to a tube station. At first, in my altered state, I thought it was an earthquake. Don’t laugh at me; I never claimed to be smart, I just couldn’t figure out why the walls were shaking. But I digress. Point being, I got on with my life.
A few months later I received an invitation to attend a Thanksgiving celebration with my classmate, his boyfriend and several of their friends. I think that I was invited because I got along with the people I had met at the party, (although I am fucking charming so I get along with most people so that was a given,) but I also balanced out the male to female ratio. It turned out that my classmate and I were the only two Americans in the room, but if you can’t enjoy a Thanksgiving meal with a bunch of British people, then when can you? I must say it was one of the prettiest Thanksgiving meals I had the pleasure to attend. Those gay boys really pay attention to detail. The ice cubes with cranberries frozen in them and the tastefully decorated table made it more of an event than my previous Thanksgivings.
As we sat down, I found my self seated next to my classmate’s boyfriend’s brother (are you keeping up?) and we re-introduce ourselves. This is the bit where the gun in the first act is used to kill someone in the third act. About thirty seconds into the conversation I find out that the brother is also gay. You can imagine my line of questioning (two brother, no other children, both gay, how did the family take it) and he took my inquisitiveness really well. He answered my questions and laughed at my jokes. Somehow, as it always does, the conversation turned to partying. While I made no claims to be the great-grand Pubah of parties, I did accept the statement that I had been to a club or two to be true. Eventually the brother and I decided that we must celebrate the end of Sunday with a midnight trip to LA3.
To say that we had been drinking would be something of a mild understatement, we were downing vodka before the dinner, then the better part of a bottle of wine each, and several glasses of champagne after the meal, but I believe that to this day we will both swear on a Bible, we were not that drunk. Just to set the record straight, of course. So we meander back to his place to party prep. I believe the party prep included two packs of cigarettes and several bumps of K. I was fine, he was fine, we both were all kinds of fine. Nothing was happening, we thought that we should get across town before the night ended. Up we stood and made our way to the top of the stairs. I then looked at him and said: “I am afraid, help me, the stairs are moving.”
The sensation can only be described as weightless. I think that if I had the opportunity to walk on the moon, this would be the same exact physical feeling. I thought the ground was moving up to me and my feet were not really landing each step. I held onto the railing and wall for dear life and prayed that I didn’t die. He was right behind me, giggling up a storm but as fucked as I was, he was too. He was doing the same exact thing as I. Finding a cab was no problem, telling the cab driver where we wanted to go was a problem. We thought we were shouting, turns out we were whispering. I remember the exact thoughts that were running through my head as we sat in that cab. I suspected the cab driver of listening to our conversation and I swear he was looking at us in the rearview mirror and that HE KNEW. Well, if two clearly fucked people got in my car and started whispering furiously I would probably check them out too. I can see this now; then I was sure he was going to turn us in to the police.
The night was fine and all that stuff with lots of dancing and happiness that ensued. I don’t really remember too many more specifics, well I do, but no one wants to know about the grossest 245 pound short guy who kept putting his hand down the back of his pants and then smelling his fingers. And the guy getting fucked in the bathroom in front of me. And the boy in such a bad way he pulled off all his clothes and started pouring beer on himself to cool off.
Anyways, my partner in crime and I stayed in touch and saw each other every now and then, in fact more than I saw my classmate. These days my classmate and I live in the same country and I see less of him than his boyfriend’s brother. Back to the story at hand.
Last November I went back to London for Thanksgiving. We of course met up and celebrated our one-year anniversary. I believe we did so by drinking heavily. He had cut back on the drug usage, he felt the drugs impeded his ability to make wise decisions and affected his ability to find cute boys. I still don’t know what he meant. Whatever. While sitting on his couch, he suggests that we watch a movie. Movies he has, he does a lot of international travel and picks up bootleg DVDs all over the place. He pops in the movie Serial Mom and we settle in for a laugh. I can’t say I laughed so hard at a movie before or since then. We reveled in the Patty Hearst cameo, we basked in the glory that was the Kathleen Turner role, we adored the methods of murder, but most of all we loved the use of the word pussy willow.
And so, he, the brother of the boyfriend of a classmate, is Pussy Willow. I see Pussy Willow every few months when he is here on business and whenever I go there I have a place to stay, but we have grown older and matured. Never again will we get sweaty and dance to house music while a fat man smells his own ass.
Those were the days.
I hate not being the funniest girl in the room
I can’t even think of something witty to say. Over the past two days they have proven the supremacy of their snark and wit and by proxy, they have driven the snark out of my life. I need that snark, it makes me who I am. The well crafted turns of phrases and insightful comments are allowed to ebb and flow around all the priceless and entertaining snark. Without the snark I am just ebb, no flow.
I shall have to content myself with the knowledge that in person I am way funnier. Did you boys hear me? I said IN PERSON I AM WAY FUNNIER.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it while wearing a Batman costume.
Something about a splinter from a chicken bone and Salmonella
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Stand back folks, this here is a live one.
I think I just got a call from a married man. Here is the line from the email that made my spidey senses tingle:
“I have a few things going on relationship-wise; which we can discuss another time.”
And here is my response:
“When you say relationship-wise you have a few things going on, I know you said that we would discuss later, but it’s one of the things I need to know sooner. I have had some… we’ll call them “experiences” with married and otherwise occupied men. I am not going to lie to you and tell you that I am not going out on dates, but I am not dating anyone specifically. I do go out on dates with other men I have met out and about, but there is no one that I am currently dating or with whom I am sleeping. I guess that’s the other piece. I have been politely invited several times for “discreet play” and I have always turned down such lovely offers. While I think it’s fine, I am not interested in participating and while I respect others who do participate, I would not be comfortable if that occurred regularly within the bounds of a relationship.
Any other relationships are fine (i.e. you live with your parents or children) I respect that everyone is at different places in their lives and has different priorities.”
Well, he called this evening while I was running out the door to a 5:30 pedicure appointment. I said that he caught me at a bad time and could I call him back, then I looked at my phone and mentioned that his number didn’t show up. He said that he was calling from work and then made some comment about protecting the cell phone number. What is the point of a cell if not to give the number out to strangers, unless of course you are concerned about your wife answering the call or scrolling through the recent call list? He went on to say that he would be running all over the place tonight and wanted to set a time to call. I told him I would be going out tomorrow night with my friends and then Friday I was heading out to the beach for the weekend, so he could call Monday if he so wished.
Note to men: we know when you’re being shady, so stop.
Because I promised, I am showing mine
Sunday, July 03, 2005
This is not well written and I know that I should edit and craft this to be evocative and funny, but I just can’t. It’s hard to be “on” all the time, and there are something about which I don’t want to be “on”.
I have spent some time talking about my dating situation but there is really a need to share some of the backfill.
In high school I went on dates, but was never really serious with anyone for too long. In college I was the girl who rounded out the four, always up for a set-up or as a distraction for some guy’s friend/brother/roommate. In my junior year I moved to England on an International exchange and two days in I met “The Film Major”. He and I flirted shamelessly for a protracted length of time and finally fell into bed with each other. As terrible as it is to write that, it’s as close to the truth as I could possibly describe in writing.
Knowing that I was moving back to America, we were adamant about keeping our relationship light, easy, and in the moment. When the time came for me to return home, it was sad and we agreed to write and stay in touch, but we both acknowledged the reality of our situation. Fast-forward one year, he has pursued me, sending emails and arranging to come out to visit. I graduated from college and two weeks later he was in Boston.
We spent a great week together, exploring the city and the cape. He met my family and everyone had a grand ole’ time. I had been applying to graduate programs in London, and at this time, because he had been pursuing me, I told him that I would be in London in September. I made it clear that I was not looking to move in with him and have this serious relation forced upon us, but that I was looking to spend more time with him and see where we, as a couple, went. He was very responsive to all this.
Ten days before I was leaving to move to London I get an email from him saying that in the last two weeks he had fallen in love with someone else. I was angry and bitter and pissed off. All he ever heard from me was that as long as he was happy and in love I was happy for him. And he believed me. Of course, deep down inside I was fantasizing about a terrible car accident that maimed and disfigured both of them causing them to breakup and never find happiness with anyone because they were so terribly ugly. I have now recovered from this desire, but it took a long time.
Four months after arriving in London, I was going out in a hard way to forget all of the badness I was feeling. One night, a week before Christmas, I met “The Sergeant”. He was a one-night stand that never went home. I refused to see him as anything other than a rebound. Somewhere past the one-year mark he rolled over in his sleep and said: “I love you.” I freaked the fuck out and told him to go back to sleep. I refused to introduce him as my boyfriend and often excluded him from things that I should not have. I refused to share my feelings and emotions because I refused to believe the relationship was significant. At the two and a half year mark, I told him I loved him; I then suggested that we break up. I was about to get on a plane and move back to America. I had previous experience that I could not forget and I knew that there was going to be trouble. He promised me that we could make it. I really wish that I had not mistrusted him so much because I think we missed out on so much happiness.
I now have been home for a year and somewhere along the way, in my mind I saw myself as single. I think that around month six, I had already grieved for the end of the relationship even though we were still together. The emails and calls were not as regular, his work was taking him away from places I could call, and we were being irritable with each other when we did speak. Eventually we started having the same argument: I wanted to get married in four years and he wanted to get married in seven years. It seems silly and trivial to argue and break up over that, but it was really indicative of something larger.
As long as I fit nicely into his life, I was welcomed to join, but it was always going to be about how he wanted his life to go. He pictured finishing his career in the military before he married, he was going to take certain positions in the military to go do what he wanted to do, he was going to buy a house where he wanted to live, and as long as I was quietly following, he had no problems taking care of me and loving me. No matter how much I tried to explain that I could not live like that he just could not understand why.
In the end, this past April, he said to me that we should just break up as friends now rather than break up in six months when we hated each other. I agreed. There was nothing left inside for me to mourn. I think that I spent one day moping and feeling out of sorts, but by the weekend I was going out on a date.
I still email “The Film Major” who is now a “Film Executive”. We have a lot of great memories and we have worked through the bad feelings; one day I just sat him down and drilled him with all of my questions, and I think that he realized that when I said that I just wanted him to be happy I may have been artfully masking my desire to have him die a painful, horrible death. “The Sergeant” healed me from the bad break up. He made me whole again and even though I saw him as a rebound, he showed me how great a good relationship can be. He gave me hope. I know that one day he and I will be able to talk as friends, but I also know that my next boyfriend will have no baggage of mine with which to deal because we ended in the best possible way.
So I guess that officially, I have been single for three months. It has been an interesting three months and I definitely have a better picture of what I want and for whom I am looking. I also know that I am ready and willing to take a chance.
HBO: Serving up the high quality entertainment
Last night while waiting for the pain meds to kick in I watched some wonderfully bad movies. The first, Gimme an F was a cheerleading movie. I have already mentioned my love for all movies with a football scene; I also adore movies with the cheerleaders. One of the first times I was babysitting some neighbor’s children I saw some cheerleader/massacre movie that really left an impression on my psyche. Needless to say, I never became a cheerleader.
Then, still unable to sleep I watched Torque. People when will Ice Cube get the recognition that he deserves as one of today’s finest actors? WHEN?
I need to get out of the apartment real soon.
Mine All Mine
I was watching SportsCenter this morning and realized that my all time favorite sports figure has to be Ty Law. After almost a decade with New England, the Patriots have released Ty. As a free agent Ty could probably get 12 million a year, but he was injured in his last season with the Pats. Three Super Bowl rings should buy a little loyalty, but alas, not in Ty’s case. The thing about it is Ty Law is one of the smartest sports stars around. He’s intelligent and clear spoken; I never feel like I lost a brain cell after he gives a post-game interview. Add to that he’s charming, funny, witty and the consummate team player. He has repeatedly said that the Patriots did what they needed to do and he feels no ill will toward them. It has always been about what’s best for the team, an attitude that is severely lacking in most sports these days.
So Ty went to see some other teams while he was recuperating from a fractured ankle and torn ligament in his foot. He tried out when he was less than 100 percent. He met with teams that were nowhere near the level and status of the Patriots. Either they rejected him because he was not were he should be physically or the proposed deal was a complete joke. I get that the teams are hiring players based on skill and condition, but there should be some great team out there with a little faith. This man is nowhere close to the end and some one needs to recognize his skill and potential. And I think you all know how I feel about potential.
It’s July and the pre-season is around the corner, there are eight teams that have shown interest in Ty including the Jets. Whatever the outcome, Ty will always be able to say one thing that Pat’s owner Bob Kraft can never say, Ty can say that at least he has all three of his Super Bowl rings.
Sure Kraft is playing it down now, but please people, I think we all need to take this moment to acknowledge that Putin has a problem. I believe it’s called Jane’s Addiction. I just hope that Bush and Blair have their wallets in their back pockets and make sure they have no cash on them because if Putin gets the chance he’s gonna roll their asses.