A Fresh Start

2011 greeted me on the tail end of five bottles of bubbly and found me wearing a sparkly crown, tooting a noise maker and embracing two of the best friends I'll ever have. No cliched kisses for me but only the briefest of pangs for my recently severed relationship.

While it would, be typically Scarlett to bitch about the fact that I did not have someone of my very own to kiss at midnight; rant about my endless frustration with the opposite sex; or bemoan the parade of failed relationships steadily lengthening from year to year; its a new year and thus should strive to be a new outlook.

In that newness of spirit, I will simply say that endings, while often sad, are not all together negative. Rather, I suppose they could be seen as opportunities for growth. For the first time in a long while I can truthfully say that looking back at this relationship, I have no regrets. No self flagellating "what was I thinking" monologues play ad nauseum in a tortured psyche through a red wine haze. Quite the opposite.

He helped open my mind and my heart to the unknown, he challenged me intellectually, he awakened me emotionally. I am a better person for it. And there's nothing sad about that. I am not broken. Any wounds will, in fact, heal. And while I will miss his smile and his amazingly kind eyes, it is useless to wage a war on what is simply ill-fated timing. It does no good to curse that which you are unable to change.* 

And so I will put one foot, however reluctantly, in front of the other, wading into the still serene waters of 2011.

I will continue to make (and most likely break) my resolutions which include making more time for the things that make me happy, have better posture, pay off credit cards, splurge more on nice lingerie, loose weight, be a better friend, make my bed, learn to like dark chocolate, make time for Yoga and, of course, marry Russell Crowe.

Frankly,

*This new and less indignant approach to life feels a bit unnatural....but good. Kind of like walking in a new pair of Gucci platform wedges.

My Greatest Fans

Recently I had a bad day. A fight with the new guy, shall call him The Chef, left my eyes swollen and sore with the salty remnants of tears and face so blotchty and so red that they seemed to blend seamlessly with my hair.

After calming both the physical and mental effects of the argument with a frozen ice pack for my face, and a bottle of Zin for my soul, I went to bed. Two days later I was on the phone with my father when he detected something in my voice. Whether a hint of sadness or a slight tone of frustration managed to seep through my masque of perhaps overly compensatory cheerfulness, I'm not sure. But my father, never one to be fooled by any false sentiment I may utter or deterred with a deflecting "I don't want to talk about it", finally wore me down. I gave him a brief outline of my recent romantic turmoil, bemoaned general frustration with dating, men, and relationships. Expressed frustration and in a state of emotional exhaustion, I think I even touted the virtues of an arranged marriage system.

The next morning I woke to the following email which I thought both caring, thoughtful and poignant. Frankly, I believe its underlying thesis to be an emotionally stinging truth but one that bears consideration

Hi Sweets.  Just want to say how sorry I am that you feeling low.  Life is tough in more ways than one, but that's not going to assuage you much I'm afraid.  I don't know what the answer is, Scarlett.  Your Mom and I tried to raise you to be successful and independent--and we succeeded spectacularly. 

If we made a mistake by not just marrying you off at eighteen, then I apologize.  But the older I get, the more I am convinced that happiness in life is about maximizing one's choices, and you have more choices than most women have. The flip-side of that, of course, is that you have to make some tough ones. 

It seems to me as if you are waiting for lightning to strike in an ecstatically transformative way--as with Cinderella or Snow White.  Since you are an incurable romantic (and you may not know this, but  you get that from me), you are sort of caught in a vise, waiting for that optimal situation to transpire.  But the truth is, honey, that it may or may not.  And you need to be prepared for either contingency.  And if, in the end, a very good alternative presents itself, rather the one of your dreams, it will be left to you to choose.  

My advise is simply to not  allow the perfect to be the enemy of the good.

I'm nearing old age, and long distanced from the dating scene.  Yet I can't believe there are no good men out there with whom you could be happy.  Then again, remaining unattached and unencumbered has its own advantages.  Just know that your specifications as to what you deem acceptable may change with time, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.  It isn't 'selling out' so much as it is an adaptation.  Just know that however you choose to configure your priorities, it is your life and your decision.  All I can offer is the father's hope--that if you do find someone, that discovery is impelled by much more than the mirage of transient attraction--such as the revelation of deep character, mutual respect and long-term goals.  That's my take, for what it's worth.

I know that I often sound churlish in trying to discipline you financially.  But don't ever forget that Mom and I can only be as happy as you are.  We are your greatest fans.

Love,

Papa

Landscape Architecture

I’ve never been one for jigsaw puzzles. My mother can’t get enough of them and will stare at microscopic pieces for hours, days, in fact, until she manages inexplicably to find the order amidst chaos. 

I’m not a visual person. I don’t work well within the confines of compartmentalized thought. Edge pieces, blue pieces, round, square, etc. I'd much prefer to admire a finished work of art and drill down into its individual, interesting elements of texture, style, medium rather than working from the ground up.

My very right brained style of thinking is rather limiting in that sense - needing to be sure of the forest before taking notice of the role of the individual trees, leaves and branches. I like the big picture. 

So it is with life. I like to make the pieces fit neatly together to form a seamless mosaic of complementary tiles, structured form and interesting texture. 
 

However, I'm finding it to be increasingly true that there are moments painted within the overarching canvas of life which don't quite fit in with the whole creating a jarring effect akin perhaps to embroidering Van Gogh's "Starry Night" upon the narrative of the Bayeux Tapestry* in place of Haley's Comet. Such an insertion would, if not alter the overall narrative, certainly change the setting so abrupt would be the effect.
 

So it is with the impact one might experience upon and unexpected and intentioned meeting. An unexpected connection felt for someone with whom you might never pictured yourself and were completely prepared to dismiss as nothing more than a passing flirtation. And even thought you don't quite yet know what to make of this ill fitting piece of the puzzle, you find it makes you feel alive intellectually and physically in a ways you'd forgotten. 
 

And when that happens, suddenly none of the pieces fit because you find the landscape to be fundamentally altered.

*For those of you who snoozed your way through medieval history class, the Bayeux Tapestry is an embroidered cloth (dating roughly around 1077) depicting the events prior to and concurrent with the Norman conquest of England.

Scream, Shout, Let it Out

I was having drinks, sitting in someone’s quiet living room, in a circle of laid back, care free conversation with friends. The room was light and airy close to the ocean, but I wasn't quite sure. A safer place could not be imagined nor could a more comfortable way to spend, what seemed like a lovely afternoon.

Eventually the tone shifted and a nagging, pressing feeling emerged and refused to be shook off. The mood of everyone present was unnervingly altered from casual and light to secretive and knowing. Worried glances exchanged from face to face communicating something I wasn’t meant to see or information no one wanted to share.

Gradual, vague recognition crept up and a realization set in. He was here. A seeming impossibility but it made sense - he knew these people. His family was here. After all this time, silence and separation the possibility propelled my stomach into my throat and then plunged it back into place leaving a painful lump of anticipation temporarily disabling speech. The comprehension that he could, at any minute, enter the room and become a part of my line of vision set my eyes darting about, searching for some kind of warning sign or herald that would somehow assuage an unanticipated appearance.

Panic then set in. Utter terror at the thought that in this safest of places, he could suddenly be thrust into my reality unannounced and uninvited. Disjointed thoughts about everything I had left unsaid and the rage I had yet to unleash face-to-face whirled around the growing confusion of my mind.

Alarms worthy of of a DCFD station clamored in my ears as the room spun before my eyes. The previously airy space seemed to be loosing oxygen with every passing second. I couldn't understand why someone, anyone wouldn't smash one of these wall sized windows before we all lost consciousness. I had to sit down.
I fixated on the beach below, staring intently on the point at which the surf rhythmically and calmly met the shore. Taking all the effort I had to stay grounded and present before the panic overtook me completely. It was too late. I could sense him walking into the room behind me. Even though I could barely see through the distortion of the moving room, there was no mistaking him even beyond the chaos pounding behind my eyes and blurring my vision.

It wasn’t rational. I didn’t think. Fight or flight they call it? I had been fleeing this moment and these feelings and this fear for so long that the fight, the savage, overwhelming fight was the only response my swirling brain could conjure. Even so, my body seemed at once too small to contain it. The tidal wave of grief, passion and rage crashed upon me a thousand times more fiercely than I could have imagined washing away all cohesion or sense. Nothing but an echo of screams, incomprehensible noise, filled the space.

Unaware of words, unaware of thoughts, unaware of anything but the explosion of exhausting emotion and a newly discovered capacity for rage erupting from within. Hurling every remnant of sanity, feeling and self control at him one decibel at a time. Yet, he stood there placid. He seemed infuriatingly unphased at to the emotional explosion of atomic proportions to which he was seemingly immune and I longed to return to the flight strategy of before.

As I sobbed myself awake and realized that I had been screaming to the darkness of my apartment only and that this encounter had not, in fact, been real. The rage, exhaustion, and grief, however, truly did exist in an organic, almost tangible way.

It wasn't the first such dream I had had that had managed to break through the numbing effects of the tranquilizers, the Ambien and the Merlot all meant to keep my subconscious at bay. It was, however, the last such nightmare.

Nine months ago, I realized that you can only dam up a river so long before that dam collapses and the river swallows you whole. Since then I’ve let the water out, released the pressure, taken more than several deep breaths, put on my big girl panties, dug deeper, realized more and faced my fears. All but one.

Frankly, it is for that reason I feel I’m strong enough after two and a half years for Friday night. Because Friday night, I know I will not be dreaming when I see HIM standing in the room.

Objects in the Rear View Mirror

I thought I loved him. I was excited. To meet his parents, to go shopping with his mom, to be immersed in the family activities. More acutely enjoyed, I expect, since my own family was so far away. It was nice, it felt real.

But there were problems, just like any relationship. There was the criticism for one. The constant comments about my diet, the nagging to eat better, the reminders to not order that second glass of wine, the disapproving looks if I were to partake in any form of carbohydrate. After all, HE was the professional athlete. He knew best.

Then came the fights. The temper. They were my fault, of course. Everything was always my fault. It was exhausting, living on the edge, not knowing what would set him off, doing my best not to make him mad. But these problems were, in my mind, no different from any other relationship. He told me he loved me, so he must. And when it ended after nine months, I was sad. And I was hurt when he told me the reason: because I wasn’t “motivated”. Because I wasn’t 12% body fat. Because I wasn't working hard enough to get there. Because I spent too much time with my friends.

I cried. I cried for not being enough. I cried for not trying harder. I cried for loneliness, for yet another failed relationship. For being 25 and still single! But alas, after the tears had stopped falling I did what so many women who have found themselves tossed and tumbled on the side of the relationship highway have done and will continue to do. I dusted myself off, touched up my makeup and moved on with life.

He wasn’t one of those ex’s with whom we stay in contact. A casual text, a brief phone call, a drunken hook up. No – this relationship was deader than a morgue resident with a toe tag accessory. Never to be heard from again. Fast forward 5 years to last month when eHarmony and their 27 degrees of crazy…er, compatibility – posted none other than Footballer up on my “New Matches” list! What’s more, he “requested communication”. I was confuse. Slightly amused. Contemplating only two possible scenarios for this sudden outreach from a man I now considered to be of little more significance than a well learned lesson in controlling relationship behavior.

Douchebag Scenario #1: He had no idea who I was. Didn’t remember us dating. Just saw the red hair (a weakness) and put no more thought into the communications request. This would just make him an idiot.

Douchebag Scenario #2: He knew exactly who I was. In which case he was playing a game. Instead of just sending me an email to say, “Hi, Scarlett, it’s been a long time, how are you? Etc. etc.” he’s playing a warped, immature game of “getting to know you”.

It turned out we had encountered Douchebag Scenario #2. I don’t know why I decided to meet him for lunch. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He looked the same. Still cute. Still built. But he was flattering. He was amorous. Complimentary even. It was absolution, pure and simple.

If any bit of my psyche still remained scarred, if any shred of my self-esteem was still bruised, if there was any hint of uncertainty left over from the misfortune of dating a man who dumped me because of my weight…it was now vindicated and then some. Because, unlike the woman who dusted herself off, moved on and continued to excel at life, this man had definitely stalled along life’s highway and was forever staring into the rear view mirror.

Forced into the ranks of the NFL-injured, he had early retirement thrust upon him and had little to no desire to move forward. And after the waitress screwed up his lunch order, I realized, he was still the poster boy for anger management, entitlement issues. Still annoyingly particular about everything. Still the ever suffering hypochondriac. Still the “my way or the highway”, “take me or leave me”, “its obviously your problem and not mine”, “my mother thinks I’m perfect so everyone else should fall in line”, “by the way, let me tell you how to live YOUR life” touting prima donna has been that he was circa 2005!

The only thing different at that lunch table was me. Not a change in weight that tipped the scales, but a massive shift in both self confidence, self worth and self awareness that I found so dramatic.

Frankly, it was so incredibly satisfying.

Dupont Dating Tour of 2010

Round and round the dating pond I went last week and ended up splashing about in my own bit of the city - Dupont. Literally splashing as I got caught in the rain at least once. 

 

The following is a brief recap of last weeks romantic (or not-so-much) episodes. 

 

Tuesday: BossMan

   

BossMan was as funny, fabulous and utterly frustrating as ever. A little table at Dupont’s own Pizzeria Paridiso was casually perfect as always. I impressed him with my knowledge of foreign beer, we caught up, laughed, exchanged work information, he paid me a compliment. We were talking about the girl he broke up with in March or April and he said something to the effect of “most beautiful girl I ever dated. But now I understand why she’s not married. Not to say that beautiful girls have to be married - yourself being a prime example of that.” Upon reflection - not sure whether or not it was a compliment or just an avoidance of insult. Most likely the later I suppose.

 

With this guy I’ll take what I can get!

 

By all standards of what makes a date, in fact, a date (i.e., sexual tension, guy picks up the check, rebutting of sexual advances in an attempt to play hard to get and look like a lady) this one fell incredibly short of the typical criteria. But if it WERE, in fact a date - Pizzeria Paridiso is, of course, a great venue. The only problem being that they do not take reservations, leaving the possibility of waiting for quite some time at the over crowded bar. Additionally, if  your entire party is not present and accounted for at the host’s stand - good luck charming your way to a table all by yourself. But other than that, I recommend the Fraoch Heather Ale, my favorite beer. Pizzeria Paridiso is one of the three bars in town, to my knowledge, that serve it. Brickskeller and RFDs being the other two.  

 

He promised that we’d hang out again soon and emailed me the next day with some funny links, etc. relevant to our topics of conversation the night before. I really have to get over this as it is leading to nothing but sexual frustration. 

 

Wednesday: Brew Master (BM)

   

BM and I have been dating off and on since April - with a brief hiatus in June - owing to the fact that I was basically out of pocket for the 6 week during and post Memorial Day weekend. But we had a lovely reunion over Miller Lites and 8-Balls at Buffalo Billiards. 

 

Physically speaking, he is pretty much spot on as my type - 6’4, all smiles, redhead, large-ish teddy bear type. Yummy. He manages a local Brewery and is a nice guy. I am attracted/interested…but not uber excited about this one - maybe if I see him with more frequency than every other month. 

 

I’m afraid I may have taken a bit of my residual frustration from the night before out of BM - I don’t think he minded though.

 

Thursday: Navy

  

What are our thoughts on a date getting HAMMERED and barely able to remember his own name let alone yours? I, for one, am NOT a fan. At some point during our post dinner jaunt over to James Hobans, he decided that he needed to prove the existence of his Irish roots by downing no less than 6 Guinesses in perhaps a little over an hour. Excessive? Indeed. Unattractive? You betcha. OH! And let us not forget the little fit of jealous rage I had the pleasure of experiencing when I happen to give one of my favorite bar tenders a hug and a kiss on the cheek upon arrival at said bar. 

  

Thankfully the one redeeming feature of this bizarre little encounter was his choice of meeting place. The Iron Gate. A Dupont venue located @ 17th & N St., NW to which I had never gone (gasp!) but will continue to frequent for years to come. 

 

It is a truly, aesthetically unique, reminiscent of a tiny bistro one might find tucked away in a long forgotten Parisian alleyway. I highly recommend the citrus hummus and the goat cheese torte - but be sure this is your first stop of the evening as it closes at 10 p.m.! I found this to be a very dark, romantic and overall amazing date venue. 

  

Frankly, I just hope that next time, I‘ll be there with someone less…objectionable.

 

 

Playing Office

He was beautiful. 

 

My second week of my new job he took over the publicity department. I didn’t fall immediately. It was slow. Gradual. At first glance he was a snappy dresser wearing wide, colorful ties and sporting a huge smile.  After a week, he was an organized, no nonsense PR guy who had been in the trenches and whom I admired professionally.

 

After two weeks he was the charming Italian, New Yorker with a slight Queens accent who accompanied me to the coffee shop every morning. After three weeks, he was my reason for looking pressed and perfect in full makeup and heels in every morning staff meeting.

  

After a month, he was making nightly appearances in rated-X, multi-orgasmic sex dreams rendering me incapable of meeting his gaze without blushing a shade of red that put my own hair to shame.

Eventually it was taking every ounce of will power I possessed not to walk into his office, shut the door and crawl across his desk as if channeling some big haired, cat-like, temptress dancing on a mustang in a hair band music video. 

   

It was agonizing. He wasn’t the sort of beautiful-and-knows-it, arrogant political asshole that frequents the political dives of Capital Hill and the networking dens of downtown. In fact, he wasn’t the sort of good looking man that makes you look up from your Cosmo or take notice from across the bar. He’s the kind that sneaks up on you. He’s the kind of man that may not truly knock a girl off her bar stool until you talk to him. And then BAM! Five minutes of snarkey, intelligent banter while he flashes those dimples, waxes philosophical on the Yakees, all things New York, Opera and politics and you’re done for.

   

I have to admit. I was obvious. I smiled too much. Asked too many questions - lingered a bit too long in his office perhaps. During the Christmas party, I even put myself in charge of desserts, baking 8 dozen cookies of various shapes, sizes, colors, textures, themes and flavors in my itty bitty kitchen. I then bought myself a new suit of beautiful black and red, had my hair blown out and visited the MAC counter at Macy’s for a 40s Marilyn, cat eye/red pout look that was truly, irresistible. 

   

I then skillfully strutted into his office, both red pout and Christmas cookies perfectly presented and beautifully arranged as if to say “not only will I bake cookies for our children, but I will look AMAZING doing it. 

  

While he did do a double take…it wasn’t quite the “throw the cookies in the air and take me now” response I had imagined.

  

Never have I ever put so much time, effort, MAC, Calvin Klein, Victoria Secret shaping or Jimmy Choo discomfort into unsuccessfully seducing a man! 9 months I spent on this man - and to no avail. Sigh. 

  

Utterly disheartening. My one hope was that after the change of Administration, he would no longer be my boss. He would no longer have a position of authority over me (professionally speaking anyway) and he would be free to express his desire with wile abandon befitting a Fabio bedecked romance novel. 

  

No such luck - this Republican politico is as utterly unseduceable as a Pope after Mardi Gras. I’ve learned to live with disappointment. Win some loose some.

  

And tonight, we’re having dinner. We’re just two old friends having dinner. He still makes me nervous, but I will do my own hair and make up and hopefully keep my rather vivid imagination in check.

 

Frankly,

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,

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,

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,

Pulling the Plug

I’ve been dumped.

After a certain age…say…14...I’m guessing we all have.

Via email, phone call, Post-It or just the failure to respond to communication. These methods are easy, distant, avoidant and thus preferred. Let’s face it, the last time you probably broke up with someone in person was in the 2^nd grade cafeteria because they wouldn’t trade their Little Debbie snack cake for your carrots.

But in the end, its all the same thing - Rejection.

The statement either declared or implied is “I just doesn’t want to be with you.“ For whatever reason, in whatever context - it is always a bit of an ego blow. Because, let’s face it: more often than not, it is, in fact, you and ultimately, you’re not what they want.

And it’s fine - or at least it will be 3 glasses in.

After all, it’s the boring ones, the safe ones who never put themselves out there that never get hurt or know how to deal with the rejection, which is, admittedly, a useful life skill.

It’s a life skill and an art form that I, perhaps not so proudly, have mastered. I am the queen of the ’move on’. Being possession of such a cultivated talent you’d think I’d be able apply it more readily. Utilize my experience in a constructive manner. You would be wrong.

Sadly, and with much frustration, I seem unable to initiate a drama free break up. Then again, does such a thing even exist?

Case and point, my break up with Army in July - disaster. In fact, so disastrous that he recently de-friended me on Facebook along with an email containing the explanation that I’m a commitment phobic, heartless bitch and he never wants to hear from me again. Lovely.

On the receiving end, I was seeing LAX, off and on for a little bit…at least he had the decency to write me an email explaining why he hadn’t been in touch. That he’d met someone else and it had “progressed quickly” - my translation, she slept with him on the second date, whereas I had not so much as permitted him to steal second base after date 6ish??

So why am I so bad at the break up? Men seem to have it down to a science. I have no hesitations about not returning a phone call or even escaping out the back door if a blind date makes me wish I were back in that 2^nd grade cafeteria purely for the sophisticated conversation.

Rejection after the first or even second date leaves no scars, only minor bruises. But it’s the not calling or not picking up the phone after the third date…or the fifth. When you’ve gotten to know someone just enough to care whether or not you hurt them, even if you can’t see a future with them in it.

Because at that point, the rejection isn’t ‘we have no chemistry’ or ‘I don’t like the wine you ordered’ or whatever other petty reasons we find to dismiss someone within the first 5 minutes. By this point, its more personal, it goes deeper.

So how do you do it? What is the most humane? The adult approach - be straightforward? Leave no doubt? Or are you a fan of the disappearing act? Stop picking up the phone, change your phone number, possibly your address? Hide in your apartment and pretend no one’s home until the big, bad, scary relationship seeking man goes away?

Personally I’m a fan of the fizzle, which lets the relationship die a kind, slow death. The fizzle takes the dying relationship off life support and basically lets it go peacefully, quietly without any drama, fuss or ceremony.

The problem is that this approach doesn’t work so well on the persistent types of men. And frankly sometimes, even when the relationship is diagnosed as terminal, I’m not always ready to pull the plug.

The Cut Off

I’m a lousy blogger, I know I know.

But you’re not going to get much out of me today either. Allergies are making  my life miserable right now. 

I had a date on Friday with a boy (and I’m purposely using the term ‘boy’- 26) who showed up looking like he just rolled out of bed: hair messy (and not in a sexy, controlled mess way – just plain messy), clothes completely rumpled …. Didn’t offer to buy my drinks! 

Is anyone in favor of reserving the right to say five minutes into a date “I’m very sorry, I don’t think this is going to work out” and just leave? That was the course of action suggested to me post mortem by Sue Ellen. If he hadn’t been the little brother of a friend of mine…I would have. This is why I draw the age limit at 28 and even that may be pushed up at some point. Maybe I should just swear off boys in their 20s. What do you think? 

Seriously – all I want to do today is lay in bed and moan. 

Frankly, 

Superstar

Tuesday was tres fabulous, fyi. 

There’s nothing like being a redheaded irish girl on St. Patty’s Day – by the end of the day, I felt like a damn celebrity. Of course it could have been the euphoric effects of the green jell-o shooters, whiskey shots and tons of beer….but I like to think it was because I was receiving an incredible amount of male attention and beaucoup des free drinks. It was a healthy dose of some much needed ego boosting.

Crazy Bitch also got a hearty helping of adoration – go girl!

Canadian is coming to town tomorrow – did I mention that?  For a work conference. For nine days. So it looks as though my rather arid physical streak could be at an end. 

In other news I exchanged drunken txt messages with Tex – which was promising. My potential FWB (aka Rugby) guy is getting dangerously close to being kicked to the curb and I have a date with a NEW GUY on Friday. Also managed to score the oh so elusive second date with the PRIEST. Ok – he’s not a priest – he’s a preacher – a cleric – a man of god (but priest sounds better). 

Get this ok, we all remember Army? Yes? No? Anyways, ok so for the sake of illustration lets just say that Army’s name is “Joe”. He’s a major in the army. He’s in Afghanistan. The Priest’s name is also “Joe”. He’s a major in the army. He’s going to Afghanistan in 2 months. OY! 

Well, with any luck he can bring me…closer to God before he leaves. 

Hell. Straight to. In a Prada purse. Ya – that’s where I’m headed.

Frankly,

Frankly, I'm Loosing My Mind!

(disclosure: this post was written after  consuming a bottle of ‘Royal Bitch’ Merlot)

6 months. 

6 months. 

6 MONTHS – people. Since I’ve had sex. I thought I’d just throw that out there as the frustration has reached new heights. I haven’t gone six months without sex since 1998 – and at that time….I was a virgin!!!!

Sure it was all fun and games after 3 months and I was all caught up in holiday craziness. Thinking about the Virgin Mary and the birth of the baby Jesus were the only things keeping my mind off the lack of sex. Then the whirlwind of January, my London via Texas three week excursion also definitely a diversion. 

Then February – definitely diversions in Feburary – nothing too distracting though leaving more time to think about what I wasn’t getting. 

Now March. I have begun my dating fiesta. I’m currently ‘dating’ (as in gone past a first date) several adorable men. Tex – unfortunately, apparently the fact that I wore down his battery didn’t sit too well. However, we have Rugby, the Pastor (whole new story), LAX and Boss Man (we had drinks. He was all eager to do it again – who knows if he’s feeling the ‘Scarlett Spark’ yet, but I’m hopeful. This one is a marathon, people – not a sprint). 

At any rate, I’ve had a fair number of ‘first kisses’, good first kisses (because, well, the others just get kicked to the curb), and so reminding me what I’m missing. Reminding me how intoxicating a good kiss can be. Making me long for more drawn out kissing sessions…which lead to other sessions. Making me remember how much I’ve missed being physically close to someone. 

I’m not talking about one night stands – the flame burning within me right now is far hotter than even the best anonymous encounter could put out. 

So to recap – I’m frustrated. Oh – and on Top on that – I’ve totally given up sugar for lent. Which means…no chocolate!!! My last hope for any semblance of solace.

Oh well – on a lighter note – Happy St. Patty’s day!! For those of you Non, Micks - please see one of my all time favorite posts for a guide on surviving the day.

 

This redheaded Irish Girl will be giving homage at the Dubliner starting at noon. See you there!!

Frankly, 

Fat, Fat Tuesday

“I’m fat,” said Big Man on Campus (ex college boyfriend, still very good friend). “I’m loosing my girlish figure.”

“So am I,” I replied. “I’ve been working out like a fiend, cardio, weights, yoga but it does nothing to curb my daily cupcake/cookie craving at 3:00 p.m.”

“I’m lazy. I haven’t been working out, I haven’t been eating well, I’ve been drinking a lot. It’s the tri-fecta of lazy and fat.”

“Wow. Yep – that’d do it. Well, if it helps, I still love you!”

“I feel unattractive with my shirt off. Could you please pass the tater tots?”

"I'm not quite to that point yet. I still feel attractive with my shirt off. Mostly because my boobs are fabulous and I wear sexy lingerie."

(Waitress walks by) “Ya’ll doing ok?”

“I’ll take another Miller Lite draft and he’ll have another rum & coke”

“And an order of the Spinach Dip”

(Waitress walks away)

“I hate men”

“What's the reason this week?”

“Well – I had an AMAZING date with Irish Guy on Friday. At first, I thought ‘oh no! I’m being too much myself – being a little too honest, sarcastic, etc.’ but then he gave me the most amazing kiss ever!! Truth be told, we made out for a good 30 minutes – unbelievable! So I took that as a good sign.”

“Making out with someone for 30 minutes is never a BAD sign”

“I mean, you wouldn’t make out for 30 minutes with someone you weren’t attracted to, right?”

“Depends on how drunk I was”

(Scarlett starts counting the number of drinks ordered in her head…)

“I’m just kidding! I’m sure he was attracted to you. So what’s the problem?”

“Well, I didn’t hear from him all weekend and then I get a little email on Monday saying ‘how was the rest of your weekend? I went to an Oscar party last night but left early because I didn’t want to be a vegetable today’ so I replied, ‘A vegetable? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?’ (ha. ha. cute, no?) and then I gave him a few sentences about my weekend, commented on the cold weather – asked him what he was up to this week and…NOTHING. No reply email. No “I had a great time and would love to see you again.” NOTHING. WTF?"

“Well, give him one more day to respond and if nothing, fuck him”

“It’s still frustrating.”

“I’m interested in a girl.”

“Really? Do tell.”

“She’s married”

That spawned a whole different conversation. As we walked out BMOC, grabs a few Mardi Gras beads that decorated the bar Tuesday evening and placed them over my head.

"You have to show me your boobs now."

"You've alerady seen my boobs."

"True. Well then consider those beads payment for services rendered."

"So noted."

Frankly,