Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Irony, thy name is the Internet

Remember a few months ago when I said that I was dropping the online matchmaking thing because there was no way I was going to meet someone online worth a damn? And that I was just wasting time and money and who cares anyway, nobody loves me, blah, blah, blah…

Am I right, then to find it pretty danged ironic that I’m currently flirting with some dude online?

Now before any of you who might be prone to getting excited about something get excited about this I will tell you that it’s nothing big, I know practically nothing about this guy, he lives on a whole other continent and I’m sure it’s not going to lead anywhere except more entertaining emails and chatting. So chill.


(You there – you’re not chilling. I can see you’re already doodling “Femtastic + Online Dude = Love 4Ever!” on your awesome 80’s peachy folder. Drop the glitter pen and step away from the peachy.)

However, it has been a lot of fun (and a boost to my ego and my morale) to have interesting interactions with someone of the not-girl persuasion. Mostly we’ve been debating (but with a healthy dose of other assorted chit-chat) about stories we’re reading on a random website. I know only the following: he’s extremely intelligent, well-read, funny and lives in England. (Yes, England the country. As in “Mind The Gap”, Doctor Who, home of the Beatles and Fish and Chips w/ the head still on it. Shudder…) Oh, and he stays up even later than I do – recently we were chatting online and I suddenly realized it was almost 3am his time! (I would have made the realization earlier, but you know me and math, and how we super-duper hate each other.)

Now, you know me. And you know how I’m always thinking. Especially when the last thing I should be doing is thinking. So I’ve determined all of the ways I could totally ruin this:
  • Make it more than it is.
  • Think too much about the things I don’t know (age, job, looks)
  • Over-think it
  • Invest too much time or energy into it
That last one is probably my biggest concern. Due to the time difference between here and a completely different danged continent (8 hours, people! Like right now, as I post this, he's probably somewhere getting a warm beer in a pub or buying boxer shorts with the union jack on them!) we’ve chatted during work a time or two and frankly that’s just stupidity on my part. I eventually told him that we need to cut that out and he was cool with my drawing such a line. But I’ll admit that it’s been quite a distraction! Basically it’s much more entertaining “talking” to him than doing my job, so how is my poor little job to compete? (answer: by paying me the money that allows me the internet connection at home so I can chat NOT at my work! And add to that the bonus answer: Big Dummy!) As of right now I’m being both smart and good, which is very not me. I normally dive right into the “stupid and bad” end of the pool. Doing the smart/good way feels weird – kind of like wearing your shoes on the wrong feet. Or on my hands. Can you wear shoes on your face? Because it’s weird like shoes on my face.

It’s because I don't want to over-think this that I’m only just now even sharing it with you guys, my anonymous fan club. This isn’t love about to bud or anything, but it IS fun and flattering and that’s more than enough for me. (It’s a LOT of fun, by the way – smart guys are awesome.) It also provides the important "flirting practice time" which I need as well. Soon I will be the best flirterer ever!

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Battle of the Bulge - Get on my Bike and Ride!

Just in case anyone is unsure, I’m not yet a size 2. I know. I KNOW! I don’t get it either, but there you have it. Not a 2. (not even a 4! Unbelievable!!!) So it seems like I need to continue to wage the battle of the danged bulge.

Then again, a lucky thing seems to have happened. All the rain and damp and general lack of sun and warmth and loveliness seems to have gone away. Plus also YAY! Apparently there’s this thing every year, lasts a few months, generally brings sun and nice-type weather and they call it “Some Ur” I’m intrigued. But with all this extra sun each day I’ve got the time to add something to my days.

So I added 15 extra miles of biking.

There’s this bike path that starts pretty dang close to my house and runs out west of town. No, further than that. Further. Past there and keep going… and going… (no, don’t stop at the Target. I know, I love Target too. LOVE Target. But you don’t stop there.) When you reach the end of the path you’re overlooking some lovely wetlands with all sorts of birds and other wildlife. Also you’re 7+ miles away from my house, and generally about 30 minutes too.

And even though it’s a lovely ride ending in a lovely view of great and abundant loveliness you still gotta ride 7+ miles BACK into town to get back. Into town. (But still a lovely ride. But like the lovely ride in reverse.) And both ways there are tons of excellent things of which to take a picture. In fact, the hard part is to set picture-taking standards. If I stop and take snaps of every single thing that seems picturesque these trips will take 2-3 hours each day. Which is too many hours. So I only take the awesome pictures. The "holy crap!" pictures. Of which I've taken... well, none. But I'm ready for it!

At this point, with the biking, I’m doing pretty well. Last week I made my 15-mile trek 4 times. 60 miles total, roughly. As fast as I could without ruining the lovely view at the lovely overlook with my lovely lunch sprayed technicolorly thither and yon.

So far, with the 60 miles and the 4 hours and the sweating, sweating, SO MUCH SWEATING, I’ve lost a total of I haven’t lost anything. Sigh. But supposedly these things take time. Which I’m opposed to, but the loop hole around this rule is eluding me. While I keep looking for this loop hole I’m also gonna keep riding. This week won’t work so well because there’s stuff, stuff and even more stuff to be doing for the end of the school year. But come the weekend I’m RIGHT BACK in the saddle, baby!

Next: I must to upwardly sit, and also upwardly push. Even though I hate the ups, both sitting and pushing. Wish me luck-ups.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Basket Full of Uber-Cuddly Kittens Would Do It Too...

OK, so I’ve got a piece of information that will probably cause some “Awwwww”s. If you’re someone who does that, and you know who you are. (Then again, maybe you don’t? Maybe you just don’t pay that much attention to your reaction to things cute? OK, quick check: picture a puppy licking a bunny. THERE! RIGHT THERE! That noise that you made? That was an “Awwwwww.” You’re definitely one of those people. And you’re welcome…) ANYway, get ready because here comes the info. The 411. Those guys that used to hang with Huey Lewis. Here it comes:

I think the boy in my tap class has a wee crush on me.

AND there it is… Yup, yup – get it over with… Yup… Get it out of your system… Puppy licking a bunny… Oh, the giggle was a nice addition… Ok, but no baby talk. We don’t do that stuff here. Stop it. Use your R’s. Seriously, stop it. It’s “little”, not “widdle”.

You finished?

Yeah, I finally decided that the boy in my tap class was crushing on me last night. And sure, it’s nice to have someone crush on me. I’m not someone upon whom people get crushes, mostly because one rarely crushes on someone generally scary. But important detail here folks: he’s the BOY in my tap class.

(No, the “BOY” part isn’t significant because I don’t like boys. I like boys guys just fine.) I’m talking honest to goodness boy, with such attributes as “can’t drive yet” and “his voice may still get deeper” and “probably not much hair in THOSE places”. So obviously this is only noteworthy because “oh gosh and golly, someone finds me crush-worthy.”

Either that, or he might be gay. (It’s actually tough to tell those two things apart. I’ve run into this before.)

6/10/09, roughly 3:20pm

Edited to add:

...go ahead and TRY not to Awwwww...

Friday, June 05, 2009

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

The heart wants things that go boom please

It’s a funny thing about life – no matter how long you’re doing it you just keep learning things. For instance, I am definitely not a teenage girl. I’m not actually sure I ever was one.

I was the last person on the entire planet to read the Harry Potter books. No particular reason, and once I finally read them I liked them, but it just took me forever. Similarly I’m the only person on the planet with a Y chromosome who has not yet read the Twilight books. But I’m on it! Thanks to my lady mentors, The Queen and Risky, I’ve got the first book and I’m making my way through it. But honestly I’m finding it a lot of work.

The reading’s not difficult – it’s simple and quick, as most books for this age group tend to be. It’s just that I have to stop every few pages and groan, or clutch my head in my hand, or look to the sky in dismay. These things take time. Slow the reading WAY down. Also it makes me tired so I have to read in short bursts. Short, aggravated bursts.

I’m sorry, but I just have no threshold at all for the agonized pining for the beautiful boy. The “Oh, will ne notice me? Will he? WILL HE?” or the “He’s ever so dreamy, I hope he looks this way or I might DIEEEEEEEE!” And I wish I could say I only feel this way since becoming an old, jaded spinster lady. But honestly this crap made me want to chew glass even when I was, myself, a foolish high school girl. (It’s also possible that I was an old, jaded spinster lady by the age of 16. Frankly my high school social life would actually make way more sense if that were true…)

I just can’t stomach the “my heart stopped as I looked into his eyes, I felt him look straight through me, our hearts beat as one” CRAAAAAAAAAAP. Love is great and all, but it’s not a good enough excuse to be a moron. And still this book seems to be scattered throughout with these moments where our hero does dumb stuff because the boy hero is pretty, pretty, oh so pretty. (or maybe because he sees into her soul. Same thing really.)

So I’m gonna keep trying to work my way through this very popular, very saccarine, very frustrating book. But when I’m done I’m probably going to have to read something with a lot of shooting. Shooting and maybe some explosions. Big, macho explosions.

Monday, June 01, 2009

Hope Springs Eternal

Those of you who are still reading (and bless you and your lack of standards! Or a life! Keep up that not having a life! Lives are totally overrated!) may remember that a little over a month ago I wrangled a super-awesome deal on a car. A new car. (well, ok, a USED car, but not even a little bit as used as my car, and also shiny! So shiny!) I totally negotiated like a pro and got it for a steal! Remember how pleased I was with myself? Remember how annoying that was? Remember? Right.

The only teeny, tiny, itty-bitty, hardly-worth-mentioning hang-up on my awesome car deal was that the dealer didn’t have a title for it. And I’m sure some of you just pricked up your “Danger, Will Robinson!” ears and are asking me “WHY didn’t he have a title?” And then I mention that he also didn’t have keys for the car, and also that it was a car abandoned on the side of the road. Oh, and also that the tires and wheels had been stolen. And your ears stop pricking, and instead you just start waving your arms and shouting “Run! Run away from the stolen car! Stolen, oh so stolen! Fleeeee!”

I did the same thing when I first met my car. I checked the VIN and investigated everything I could, coming up clean every time, but I was still convinced this car had been stolen from someplace else and abandoned here in Hippyville. Finally I told my very good friend Ali about my suspicions, to which he responded (and please remember to hear his voice in a thick, almost comedic Persian accent) “Oh no, no, no. We just recently got the story about the car and its previous owner.” And then he told me this story:

The car had been purchased in Iowa (which is true – that much I already knew) by a photojournalist who was working the Obama Presidential campaign. He drove this little blue wonder hither and yon, over hill and dale, clickity-clicking pictures of the future president of the united states everywhere he went. (this part is corroborated by the super-high miles on the car. 130,000 miles in less than 4 years? Either he was following Obama everywhere or he was a member of the Grateful Dead!) The last state where he worked the campaign was here, where Hippyville resides. When he finished the gig he apparently just left the car here. On the side of the road. For me.

Is that not a great story? A GREAT STORY?? I love that story. I loved the car already, but this story about my car being a helpful part of one of the biggest events in US politics? And owned by a photojournalist, no less? LOVE IT! This story just made me even more sure that I was meant to have this car. And yes, I totally know that this story could be complete crap. But it SOUNDS good, right? Plus the facts that I do have totally support the story. And such an awesome story!!!

I told my clever, clever sister the story, and quick like bunny she said “you should name the car Hope.” And Hope she did become. My new car Hope.

Except that my bank, also known as “the wonderful people who agreed to give me a pile of money so that I could even start to negotiate for my shiny, shiny car”, have this one rule: no title = no money.

So I was like “hey, no sweat. I just have to wait a little bit until the title shows up. No problem. I’ll be back at the end of the week for Hope, my super-awesome new car. I can wait a week!”

And then at the end of the week Ali, my car-selling friend, told me that the DMV had told him “next Wednesday for sure!” So Wednesday. Still good. Still well worth the wait. I’ll see you Wednesday, my Persian auto-selling captain of industry!

Except that Wednesday was a lie, and Friday was an additional lie. So then I waited longer than that. I waited, and waited, and waited.

My Dad used to tell me that everything in the world will either cost you MONEY or TIME. If you save money you’ll probably have to spend more time, either to fix it up or go get it or something. So I’d saved money, and if it was gonna cost a little more time so be it. Time I could afford a bit more of. And so I waited.

I waited for three weeks. Three weeks! Three weeks telling people “oh yes, I did buy a car! No, you can’t see it. Because I don’t actually own it yet…” Three weeks of wondering if it was the DMV or Ali who was hand-delivering a fresh batch of BS every few days to keep me on the hook. Three weeks of watching other people’s Mazdas drive by looking all zoomy. Three. Weeks.

The day I finally got the call that the title had arrived I was giddy! Yahoo! It took me four hours of driving from place to place to get the title, get the check, get the old broken Ford, try to drive the ford to the dealership, have the Ford die no place close to the dealership, get a ride w/ someone else to the dealership, but now I get to spend my days zooming around in my super-sporty, belled and whistled blue beauty. My new baby. My shiny baby. My Hope.