Ribbitt. Ribbitt. Ribbitt. 

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. 

Plop. 

These are the sounds one might hear standing by the water’s edge.
Alone, under the sleepy watch of fireflies and singing crickets - a soft melodic hum reminiscent of ‘can you feel the love tonight’ and ‘kiss the girl’ seem to dance on the warm breeze. Looking out over the small pond seeming to reflect an aura of possibilities and magic just as brightly as the slightly undulating reflection of the moon against the dark water. You close your eyes, melting away the cares of the world and open your heart up to belief and hope, as though love, never ending love were the only thing standing in front of you. Believing in everything but the possibility of disappointment and pain. And you take a step forward into what you believe to be the waiting arms of someone wonderful and then……

SPLASH. 

The unscuffed red soles of your designer peep-toes are now submerged in muck, your beautifully tousled hair gone damp and frizzed beyond recognition. What's more, you’re covered in eager, hopeful frogs who, like some other naïve singleton of recent memory, are crowding around in the hopes of being kissed. 

It seems to be the ones who aren’t hopping into the fray, those submerged and harder to catch which seem to be the most attractive. Even though there may be many an amphibian vying for the opportunity to show off his legendary croaking skills or perhaps to prove that his lily pad is the best in the swamp, I seem to end up face down in the mud trying to kiss some slippery, web-toed, wart infested croaker because I’m convinced the more elusive the frog…the handsomer the prince. A scenario which is seldom, if ever, the case. 

While the prospect of batting one's eyes and puckering up for frog after frog is, admittedly, a daunting one; (after all, you may only have frizzy hair a cold sore and a pair of worn down stilettos to show for your trouble) the possibility still remains that happiness could be waiting for you around the next lily pad. And hope springs eternal, after all. 

Welcome back to the pond, my friend. 

Ribbitt.

Frankly,

Blue Brown Eyes

Do you ever have those days or weeks where for no particular reason, you just feel….blah?? 

It started last week – no particular reason – just a general …haze of monotony settled over my head. All of a sudden DC feels too small and leaves me feeling as though I’ve dated every man in it leaving me much less than impressed. General dislike of my apartment, my job, my hair, my skin – the only thing I AM liking is my ass as I’ve been trying to cure the boredom with excessive exercise. 

I feel like my life is at a standstill – no direction – no momentum. The same food. The same bars. The same…everything. Not to mention that anyone within a 5 yard radius seems to have developed an amazing ability to annoy the crap out of me with alarmingly minimal effort. 

And so I tried to shake things up – for instance, I went to my first opera at the Kennedy Center last week, which was lovely despite the fact that I went by myself which is less than ideal. Its no one’s fault, mind you – I didn’t ask anyone – but then again I didn’t anticipate the lack of variety in attendees and thus making for ho hum people watching. Geriatrics and hooker-fied 22 year olds on the arms of barely legal boys. Trying to temper their lack of maturity with Italian arias and buxom sopranos.

I scored AMAZING DC United tickets for Saturday night – something I’ve never done before, which had pick-me-up potential. Until…wait for it…EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY FRIENDS was either out of town, or busy, had people in town or was otherwise engaged. I even went to THIRD TEIR friends! (note: if you actually KNOW me and you're reading this blog, you are NOT a third teir friend). The prospect of going to yet another event sans friends and surrounded by strangers was a little too much.

And with this extreme lack of joie de vivre, obviously I feel as if I have nothing spectacular with which to entertain you, dear readers. Which makes me sad as well and the prescription meds aren’t exactly filling in boredom and self-pity cavity I seem to have carved for myself. 

Ugh – what a truly depressing post. Hopefully I’ll pick myself back up and be back to my generally chipper self!

*Cheers* Here’s to hoping!

 Frankly,

Dating Sagas

Soooo date updates. I’ll give you the quick ones first then move on to more detailed craziness that only your dear Scarlett could produce.

Coffee Date. I haven’t written about Mr. Coffee yet. A friend set us up and we decided to meet on Friday afternoon. He’s very nice, really great smile. I don’t know if I’m all THAT attracted to him, but if he asks me out again, I wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea. 

Irish Guy. We all remember the fabulous date/marathon make-out session I had with this guy. He emailed me last Sunday and said:

Sorry I've been a little flaky.  Things have been rather crazy.  I unfortunately had to work today, just me and anal retentive boss which is just tons of fun.  Are you still up for doing something soon?  Things should hopefully calm down for me this weekend.  Do you have any plans?  Let me know what you think.  Hope you had a good weekend.

So after that I said I was free on Saturday and he suggested we touch base closer to the end of the week to decide what to do.

Friday I emailed a friendly, “hi” to see what the plan was for Saturday and heard…NOTHING back. I’m NOT a fan. We’re kicking this one to the curb.

And then we have Tex. 

So Friday evening, after sharing a drink with PQ, I met him in Gtown and had a lovely dinner at Pizzeria Paridiso. Tres Yummy! We had a great conversation, I had to stop myself from literally staring at length into his piercing blue eyes. He looked like someone…but I couldn’t quite place it. 

After dinner, we walked over to Clyde’s and proceeded to talk, drink and flirt until around 3 a.m. when the bar was closing. He offered to give me a ride home and a I certainly didn’t object. 

So we pull up in front of chez moi and he kisses me ‘goodnight’. Many, many kisses goodnight. 15 minutes of kisses goodnight – and the cars whizzing by on my busy Dupont street got a little distracting. So I very cleverly suggested, as I didn’t feel comfortable inviting him upstairs, that he pull into my building’s parking lot around back. 

Incidentally, my discomfort in inviting him up stemmed from the following three rationale:

#1. My apartment was/is STILL in disarray as the ceiling has not been repaired and all of the displaced furniture/wall decorations have not been replaced. Not exactly the way to make a stellar first impression.

#2. The way this make out session was going, it would be very hard to put the proverbial sex brakes on outside of the confines of the car. 

#3. If said sex brakes were to come off, along with my clothes…my undergarment ensemble didn’t exactly match. (I couldn’t find my mega fabulous black bra…and I didn’t feel comfortable getting naked-ish for the first time in anything else). 

So….we made out like a couple of teenagers in a car with nowhere to go. That is, of course, until we fell asleep around 4:30 a.m.! We woke up around 5 a.m. when I said, “OK, the sun will be coming up soon…you have GOT to go home and I have GOT to go to bed”. He agreed. 

So we resituated and he started the car. 

Correction – he TRIED to start the car. Einstein had left the battery on. Yep! Car – completely dead.

As ya’ll know, I don’t drive. So I didn’t have a anything to help him jump his car. The rest of my date went thusly:

5:00 a.m. – We decide its time to call it a night.

5:15 a.m.  - We realize the battery is dead.

5:30 a.m. – Tex calls a tow truck.

5:50 a.m.– Tow truck shows up.

6:00 a.m.– Sun starts coming up.

6:15 a.m.– The tow truck guy tries to jump the car. It’s not working.

6:30 a.m.– Tex asks him if he can tow him to the BMW dealership in Pentagon City. The driver informed us that he gets off at 7:00 a.m. and so he’ll have to call ANOTHER truck to tow him to VA.

7:00 a.m.– The second tow truck comes. He gives me a hug, a kiss and says "we'll talk" and he and his lifeless vehicle get hauled away.

7:15 a.m. - I fall into bed, exhausted. But have lovely dreams.

Oy! Either I’ll never see him again or it’ll be a great story about our first date!!

So THIS week:

Tomorrow…I’m having drinks with…..(drum roll please)….BOSS MAN! Yep – it’s finally happening and so little time to plan! Short skirt or low cut top? Hmmmm.

Wednesday is lunch with Rugby. A new guy, friend set up. We’ve been emailing/txting/talking on a daily basis.

I’ll keep you posted!

Frankly,

And the Walls Came Tumbling Down

The Sunday morning sunlight streamed through my up tilted blinds penetrating my eyelids and casting halos of light over the characters in my dreams. I rolled over, trying to ignore the hopeful “mews” of my cats eagerly awaiting their breakfast, my arm landed on the left side of the bed. 

Tragically this side is normally reserved for male-type company and thus has been empty and cold for quite some time. This morning however, the description was not merely metaphorical. Cold. It was cold! And WET! 

I sat up in shock to see that the moisture was much larger than the spot on which I had plopped my outstreatched arm. The entire upper-left corner of my beautiful, queen sized bed was SOAKING wet. I shot up and looked around furiously for the offending feline. I was ready to shish kabob the kitty who I automatically assumed had decided to ‘mark their territory’ next to my head when a heavy, wet drop landed ‘kaploosh’ in the middle of my forehead. 

I looked up and there it was – my ceiling. Sagging, drooping and dripping all over my bed!

Quickly jumping out of bed, I pulled off the sheets, pulled on a few items of clothing and proceeded to move my lovely, but heavy bed out of harms way. I then called building management to inform them of the minor rainstorm brewing in my apartment. 

A woman, who sounded less than thrilled to be working on a Sunday, answered the line and after I explained the situation promptly informed me that the absence of of functioning ceiling did not meet their ‘emergency’ criteria, a requirement for dispatching maintenance on a weekend. Apparently, as long as I still had running water and a toilet, I could wait until Monday. 

I then pointed out to her that there was a snowstorm heading towards DC and unless they wanted to mop up the damage created after 6 inches of snow accumulation, they might want to think about redefining their 'emergency' standards.

After being assured that help was, indeed, on its way, I spent the majority of the afternoon standing over my rather soggy mattress with an industrial strength hairdryer trying to stave off mold and general mattress funky-ness. 

Help did indeed come. Long story short, they determined the best course of action would be to patch the leak with a piece of cardboard, secure it with duct tape for the time being and hope for the best.

Well kids, I’m not exactly Ms. Holly-Home-Repair, but I DO know that duct tape isn’t waterproof. I was skeptical that this 'quick fix' would really 'fix' anything. My suspicions were confirmed, at about 10:30 p.m. when the patch came crashing down bringing with it, a hefty chunk of my ceiling. 

So lets review: my ceiling is leaking; a rather large chunk of it has fallen onto my floor; my mattress has been dried with a hair dryer; my large bed is in the middle of my apartment on the verge of landing in my kitchen; plastic tarps and drop catching buckets now adorn my once fabulous apartment and now maintenance is telling me that they can’t fix the roof until AFTER the snow melts!

This is the problem with Snow in the District – either outside or IN, we just don’t have the infrastructure to handle it!

Frankly,

Hardball

Dear Fuckhead:

So its come to this. It's sad really, but apparently necessary given the fact that you obviously can't respect my repeated requests to leave me the fuck alone! 

You're the one who chose to take yourself out of my life. For once in your underachieving, maturity stunted, drug laced life – own the decision you made and kindly leave me be.

I’ve asked you nicely, I've asked your forcefully to stay out of my life and off my blog. Sadly, you have chosen, in your characteristically narcissistic and selfish manner, to ignore my requests. This begs the question - why?

The only conclusion I can reach is that in your mind, your visits are some twisted sort of compassionate, altruistic attempt to insure that your absence hasn’t yet led to a ritualistic slitting of my wrists. Please do not confuse me with your mentally unstable ex-wife. I am beyond fine and also, unlike your ex-wife, I do not and never will want you back. (Damn it feels good to say that and TRULY mean it).

This is the last time I will ask you – stay out of my life - stay off my blog. My thoughts and my life should no longer be of any interest to you. If you choose to continue to ignore this request, simply put: there will be consequences. I know you're somewhat unfamiliar with that concept, so put down your bong and pay close attention:

If I see you trolling my site again, the next email I send will be to your girlfriend asking her to please tell her boyfriend to stop harassing me. I'm sure she'd love to know with what a regular interest you take in your ex-girlfriend’s life. I know I would. Let's get her opinion on this, shall we?

I will then post her name along with photos and proceed to conduct a worldwide poll of my readers as to whether or not she does, indeed look like a man.  I’m predicting a favorable outcome. 

So, Fuckhead please wave one last goodbye as I hope to never see you here again. And even though the knowledge that you more likely than not, will choose to continue to violate my privacy, I hope whatever feelings you have for the current "love of your life" (ya know, its truly amazing how generic you really are) will make you think twice. 

If you do not, in fact, know me well enough not to doubt my sincerity I have three little words for you: Just try me.

Goodbye,