Confessions of a 31-Year-Old

As my sister and I slowed to a walk, and turned into a dark ally, trying to catch our breath, I huffed, “we can never tell anyone about this,” and she quickly agreed.

Then I decided to blog about it.

It was a Sunday night.  Carissa didn’t have to work, so we decided to get dinner together at a BYOB restaurant, which will remain unnamed.  It will remain unnamed because I’d like to avoid the possibility of someone going there and revealing our identities.  I’m still convinced they can knock on my door and take me to jail.

It was an uncharacteristically hot day and night in San Diego.   I had burnt my skin to a crisp the day before, so I holed up in my house all day with a book.  I use the word house lightly, as it more resembled an oven.  I spent the day switching between the couch, the cooler wooden floor, and my bedroom, which is strangely about 10 degrees cooler than anywhere else.  By the time Carissa showed up, the sun was on its way down, and I was ready to exit the sweat chamber.

We sat out on the front porch for a while, chatting, watching Oliver play with every other dog that passed by, and drinking wine.  V and T came home and joined us for a bit.  By the time we decided to make moves for dinner, we had finished the open bottle of wine we started with, so grabbed the new big double bottle Carissa had brought with her.

The restaurant was a quick walk away.   It’s the kind of place where you stand in line to order, and then they give you a number and bring the food to you.  It always takes forever.  And the food always sucks…  Which is an issue I’d normally take up on Yelp, being this was the third unpleasant food experience… but my photo is on Yelp.  So they’re getting off easy on this one.

I stood in line and asked Carissa to get someone to open the bottle of wine.  When I met her at the table, I asked where the cork was, knowing we weren’t going to finish this huge bottle.  She said the waiter didn’t give it back to her.  I walked up to the bar and asked for the cork.  The bartender wouldn’t give it to me.  He told me we weren’t allowed to re-cork it.  Ok…

We finished eating and had about three-quarters of the large bottle left.  Carissa grabbed it, uncorked (how annoying), and we left.  A few feet onto the sidewalk, someone from the restaurant comes out after us.

“You’re not allowed to take that wine with you.”

“Oh… why not?”

“We’re not allowed to let you leave with an open bottle of wine.  You’ll have to either finish it here, or leave it.”

At this point it was late.  We weren’t really interested in drinking more wine.  But we also weren’t interested in wasting wine.  So we went back in, took a seat around the fire, and began to plot.  This is what we do.  We plot.

“I’m not wasting this entire bottle,”  I say.

“We can just run.”

“We can’t just run.  There are people everywhere.  They see us.”

We sat there thinking and slowly sipping for a few more minutes.  We talked about how much the cheap bottle of wine cost, and did the math on how much was left, and decided we’d only be wasting about $8 of wine by leaving it.  But that wasn’t the point.  The point was that it was our wine, there was a lot of it, and we wanted it.

Carissa had a purse.  I had my American flag backpack.  I was clearly the one who was going to have to sneak the wine out.  With Carissa on the lookout I quickly slipped the open bottle into my backpack, and clenched the fabric around the neck of the bottle.  The restaurant had emptied out, and there was just one other couple sitting outside, with a waiter chatting with them.  We decided to make our move as soon as the waiter went back inside.  There were three exits and we decided on a different one than the way we left the first time.

Carissa instructed me, as soon as we exited the gate, we run.  I was giggling already.  Finally the waiter left the table and walked in the door to the restaurant when Riss whispers, “GO!”

We get up, quickly walk through the gate, and then break out in a sprint down the main street.  Carissa is ahead, and I’m clutching the backpack in my arm like it’s a football, as I didn’t want to spill the precious uncorked wine.  I’m in flip-flops and going as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast.  A few seconds later, we hear:

“HEY!  STOP!”

The waiter is CHASING us.  Literally, running after us, chasing us down the street.  It was in that moment that I had to make a decision.  Carissa was far ahead and showed no signs of slowing.  I could hear the waiter catching up.  It was in a split second where I considered stopping, laughing, handing the bottle over and apologizing for the ridiculous behavior, and then it was in the next second where the adrenaline kicked in and I decided to just keep running.

The waiter was still chasing, and yelled “THIS IS SO CHILDISH!”

I knew it was, but at this point I couldn’t stop.  I saw Carissa turn the next corner, and I yelled to her, “IS HE STILL COMING???”

She turned around and shook her head.  We slowed to a walk, and turned down a dark ally.  Safe from the waiter.  We caught our breath for a few seconds, and I say, “I can’t believe we just did that.   We can never go back there again.”

Carissa says, “Well at least for a year.”

“We can’t tell anyone about this.”

“No definitely not.”

“I’m gonna tell Ginge, and that’s it.”

“I’m gonna tell Shane.”

We nervously giggled for a few blocks.  I felt like a teenager running from the fake cops who caught me hanging out with my friends in the local cemetery.  But I wasn’t a teenager.  I was 31 years old.  And I was running from a waiter.

Guilt set in full force.  Should I go back and apologize?  No, it’s too late.  I’m embarrassed.  I can’t tell my roommates what I did.  It’s awful.  Am I going to get arrested?  Do they have cameras?  Will they find me?  Was that illegal, or just against their rules?   I slept on it for a few nights, and then decided to confess to Ginge.

“I did something bad.  I need to tell you.”

Worry covered his face.  After I was done with the story, he made a muffled sound in his throat and then started cracking up.  Laughing.  A lot of laughing.

“This is not funny.”

“It is very funny.”

“Well I’m glad I told you.  I haven’t told anyone.”

“Do you feel like a weight has been lifted off of your chest?”

“Yes.”

The weight has been lifted.  It’s interesting that it took me 31 years to experience running from authority, in a very literal way, at least.  I’m glad I got that out of my system.  What is the statute of limitations on running from a waiter with an uncorked bottle of wine?  Until then, I’m avoiding all BYOBs.

Please don’t judge me too hard.  I’ve judged myself enough already.

Until next time….

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

 

Goodbye Tinder… Hello Golf

I apologize for being MIA and crappy about the updates.  Where do I start?  Well, this happened:

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It was a couple of weeks back… a dark, dreary, depressing day in San Diego.  Eh, who am I kidding it was obviously warm and sunny.  Ginge hasn’t run away yet, so we both deleted the app.  This was way more traumatizing for me, as Tinder was a new thing for him and he just happened to hit the jackpot right away swiping right for this dreamy piece of sunshine.  I kinda whined and moaned as I hit the “delete” button, and he sympathetically said,

“This must be hard for you.”

“It is.”

My thumbs have so many less things to do during the work day now.  If I want to see a good tiger selfie, it has to come in the way of a screenshot from a friend.  It’s a whole different way of life, I tell ya.   I literally had to counsel myself before clicking delete, repeating in my head, “It will still be here waiting for you if you want to download it again.”  I think I have a problem.

Ginge asked me to do something with him that no other man has ever asked me to do:

“Do you want to come golfing with me tomorrow?”

“Are you for real?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how to golf.”

“You don’t have to golf.  You can just ride around in the cart and drink beers.”

Whoa.  Really?  BEST.DAY.EVER!  I love golfing.  Except for the golfing part.  At one point there was no one creeping up behind us, so Ginge told me to hit a ball.  Easy enough.  I’ve hit moving balls all my life, how hard could it be to hit one sitting still right in front of me?  Right?  WRONG.  I swung… I missed.  I was shocked.  He tells me to swing again.  I swung again.  I missed again.  Three times in a row, swoosh swoosh swoosh (the sound a golf club makes when you swing it really hard and it doesn’t make contact with anything), and then I ran right back into the cart with my tail in between my legs.  I was so embarrassed.  Ginge didn’t laugh too much.  He told me I was swinging it like a bat and we’ll need to work on it.  I just cracked open another beer and turned the iPhone speakers up.  I figured I’d leave golfing to the professionals.

I dwelled on the golf swinging for about a week.  I practiced with a broomstick, I whined to my friends about how badly I sucked.  I vowed to practice until I could hit the damn thing.  A few days ago I picked Carissa up.  We didn’t really have a plan- we just wanted to be outside.  We figured we’d just lay out by the bay.  As we’re pulling into the parking lot, a lightbulb went off.

“Oh!  We should go to the driving range!”

Carissa looks at me funny, “Like… golf?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

So we turn around and head to the nearest golf course.  As we’re getting out of the car, I remember we don’t have clubs…  hmmm… hopefully they will have them for us.  We felt like we were in unchartered waters.  We didn’t know where to go.  We didn’t know what to say.  As we’re wandering around, Carissa says, “Maybe we should have just stuck to the familiar and gone to the batting cages.”

We finally figure out how to purchase a bucket of balls, and the man directs us outside to find some clubs which were all mixed up in a huge trash can.  We weren’t sure where to start.  Carissa picks one up, but it’s not a driver.  I know this.

“No, that one’s wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.  Put it back.”

As we are staring into this big confusing bin of clubs, a guy who works there comes over to help.  He picks a couple out for us, and I tell him they look kinda crappy, and we’re gonna need ones that hit the ball far.  He tells us to start with those, and he’ll go inside and get us some good ones from the office.

We find the spot furthest away from the people… as we’re pretty sure we’re gonna hit someone with something.  Ball, club, shoe, who knows.  I get ready to go, determined to hit the ball, with all of my broomstick practice.  Swing…and a miss.  Strike one.  We both start hysterical laughing.  We are not golfing at the same time.  There was a conveniently located Adirondack chair right next to our little launching pad (I don’t know what the hell it’s called), so we took turns sitting in it and cheering the other person on.   After a few misses, I started hitting.  Not every single one… not even most… but it was an improvement.

Carissa got up and wiffed.  Hard.  About 3 times.  I don’t think the driving range has seen this much commotion in a while.  We were trying so hard not to pee our pants.  Carissa’s in cutoff shorts and Timbs, which she realized were not suitable for golfing, and became barefoot after several swings.  Then she got in her groove and started drilling the balls.  Swing, miss, drill one to left field.  It was a rollercoaster of emotions.  Laughing, screaming, high fiving.  I’m not sure this was driving range etiquette, but we didn’t really care.  We made an employee friend who lent us his finest drivers, and old man golfer friend who gave us some brand spanking new tees, and got a bit of a tan.

As we started heading back to the car, we discussed taking lessons.  We saw a group of teenage boys taking a group lesson and I say, “Oh, that lesson is putting.  Boring.”

Riss agrees, “Yeah, we’re not gonna take a lesson.  We don’t do putting.”

And we leave.

A couple of days later, as Carissa’s leaving my house, she says, “Oh, I figured out why we are really good at golfing.”

“Why?”

“It’s because we don’t have any boobs.”

I’m wondering if she’s serious.  “Ok, but you do know we’re actually not good at golfing, right?”

She looks at me like I have 8 heads.  “What??”  And then walks out of my house.

When Ginge saw a photo Carissa posted on fb of my awful swing, I’m sure he threw up a little in his mouth.  Several hours later I received this document attached in an email:

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I died.  And now I’m determined to make this look like a golf swing.  It’s on, baby.

‘Til later, my little nuggets.  Have a safe and happy St. Patrick’s Day weekend.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

#TBT: Metal Dump Trucks

I’ve decided to spice this thing up a bit with a little #tbt action… you know… get with the times.  I’m old.  And I only started blogging a few years ago.  There’s obviously been a lot of weird blog-worthy crap that’s happened in the tens of years before I started my original blog (which is now set to *private for annoying, career-related reasons).   So in an effort to throw the normal “chronological order” type of blog out the window, I’ve decided to do throw-back Thursdays (I’m super hip).

This week I’ll stay relatively current.   If you knew me at all, you’d know I pull my phone out and document quote-worthy situations in my iPhone’s notes, any time I feel like something happens that I don’t want to forget.  And I forget a lot…Because my brain is full of useless information and conversations… And I’m old… as I may or may not have mentioned.

As I was scrolling through my notes recently, I found a conversation that took place during my road trip from New York to California this summer.  If you’ve ever driven cross-country with anyone, you’d know that normal conversation eventually runs out.  My sister and I didn’t have normal conversation to begin with, because that ran dry years ago.  We started with a blank slate, and the weirdness followed.  It was past the cities we set out to stop in… past Nashville…past Santa Fe.  It was in the Middle.Of.Nowhere.U.S.A.   We kept seeing these huge trucks… they looked like dump trucks except with metallic bodies.

Carissa says, “What’s IN those?!?  I’ll bet it’s milk.”

I agree.  “Yeah, probably milk.”

We keep seeing them.  Over and over again.  It was really bugging us.  Carissa’s driving, and I’m falling in and out of sleep.  More OUT of sleep, because she is the worst driver in the history of the planet and every time I shut my eyes, I feel the car swerve and think I’m going to die.

I forced my eyes open and saw another metal truck.  This time I noticed a name on the cab.  I googled it.  There were a lot of things that came up with that name so I googled the name along with “metal truck.”  I finally found something that might be relevant.  Carissa told me to call.  I called…. on speaker phone.  A woman answered.

“Hello.  I was just wondering what’s in your big silver trucks.  Is it milk?”

Hesitation… She had obviously never fielded this type of phone call:  “No… it’s dried goods.”

Carissa, overhearing from the driver’s seat whispers to me… “Like wine?”

I’m not sure why I listened to her on that one, but I ask the woman on the phone, “Like wine?”

The woman answers, “No… things that are dry.”

I say, “Ok, bye.”

I promptly hang up, annoyed.  Carissa says, “Liar.”

I concur. “Liar.”

And the drive goes on.  And we continue to bitch about what a liar that woman was, and how we know it was actually milk in those trucks…because we have nothing else to bitch about.  And because we have a thousand miles left to go.  And because we know that as amazing as it will be to arrive at our final destination, every weird thing we do along that trip west will be forever engrained into our minds.  And there were a million more of those weird moments we will continue to laugh about… with ourselves… because most of them probably aren’t even the least bit funny when you’re not delirious and high on sugar-free Red Bull.

But until next time…

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

First Trip Back to NY

One thing I wasn’t prepared for when moving from New York to California was for people to be mad.  Sad, yeah, of course… I was sad to leave people I love, but mad?  No.  I’m not sure how that emotion came about.  It doesn’t really upset me that people are mad, just confuses me.  I feel like we are all living our lives with the goal to experience things and make ourselves happy.  And different things make different people happy.  I don’t think I’d be mad at anyone for a life decision unless it were specifically to hurt me.  I never really anticipated feeling the bit of guilt I feel, now living on the other side of the country.  Not because I feel like I’m doing something wrong, just because it’s clear that a couple of people I love are mad at me for pursuing what I wanted to do… my selfish dream.  I miss these people all… like crazy.  But didn’t plan on feeling guilty about it.

Carissa and I have been here for a little over 4 months and hadn’t had plans to go home for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year.  Flights are crazy expensive, we made a no-man-left-behind pact, and my parents decided to come out in early January to celebrate Christmas with us here.  Some minor guilt trips were laid out about not being around for the holidays, but that didn’t really affect me.  What did affect me was that I really started missing “home” and the people who were there.  Not because holiday season was approaching, but because I just genuinely missed them.  Sitting on my front porch one night with a glass of wine (the best ideas are sparked by a glass of wine), I asked Carissa if she’d be interested in coming home with me for a long weekend between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  She was.  We decided on going for our brother’s birthday weekend, booked the trip about 6 weeks in advance, and decided we would make it a surprise.  The only person we notified for coordination purposes was our “brother,” Courtney, who was planning birthday festivities.

We flew in separately last Thursday.  I took an early flight, and Carissa got one after her classes.  Since no one really knew we were coming, it was hard to coordinate sleeping arrangements for the first night.  I knew I had to go to Hoboken straight from JFK to pick up my snowboard from my condo’s basement to bring back with me, so I planned to stay with a friend there.  Carissa on the other hand, didn’t want her friends to know she was home until the following night, so her plan was to get home to Babylon around 2am, SNEAK INTO our parents’ house, and into her bed, and then meet me in the morning to surprise them at work.  FLAW FLAW … hole in the plan.

“Carissa, you CANNOT sneak into the house.  Dad’s going to shoot you when he hears someone creeping up the stairs in the middle of the night.”

“No… he only has a Louisville Slugger next to his bed… I’ll be fine.”

“He has a GUN.  He will shoot you.”

“Oh….really?…. hmmmm… okay I’ll figure something else out.”

She figured something else out.  I also had to figure something else out at the last-minute because my Hoboken sleeping arrangements fell through.  Planes trains and automobiles later, I arrived in Hoboken and met up with The Architect, who I had informed earlier that I’d be in town for the night.  The feeling being back there, but homeless, was eerie.  It felt so amazing to be back.  I’d missed the vibes of the town.  I had a fun random Thursday out, visited my favorite local watering hole, and saw a couple of friends.  The next morning as I walked to my old condo in the dark, cold, rain, I couldn’t help but feel happy anyway.  I was so excited to be back, and so excited to see my family over the next couple of days.  As I crossed the street near my building, dragging my luggage with a hood over my head, the crossing guard who looked like he was basically covered in plastic bags shouted, “Happy Friday!”  I beamed, and shouted back to him.  Even the nasty cold rain was making me happy.  I felt back at home.  Back home with all the miserable commuters I was used to.

If getting through public transportation on a Friday morning during rush hour isn’t complicated enough…. I challenge you to do it with a rolling suitcase, an oversized purse, a sweater, and a packed snowboard bag over your shoulder.  I can’t count how many times I said “I’m sorry,” and after the first leg of the trip, making it down to the PATH and then up into the city, I just couldn’t stop laughing.  As hard as I tried to control all of my things it was just impossible not to whack people either in front of me, behind me, or to either side.  As I fielded dirty looks, I felt it was necessary to explain what a nightmare it was to be pushing through turnstiles with the amount of odd-shaped things I had to carry.

I finally made it to Penn Station, got a real New York bagel, made my way down to the Long Island Railroad, got my snowboard up on the top shelf with a big sigh, and sat down.  The conductor collected my ticket and I asked him if he knew when the train would get to Babylon.  He told me, and then asked, “Do you know who I am?”

I did know who he was.  He was my mom’s friend’s husband, Frank.  Funny enough, he was one of the only OTHER people who knew I’d be in town, because his wife, Marie helped me get my mom half a day off of work that day in secret.  Frank asked where Carissa was, and if we were ready for the surprise, and chatted with me for the majority of the train ride.  Feeling at home already.

I get to Babylon and looked for Carissa who was supposed to be picking me up.  I called her.  She picked up and whispered, “Hey, I just found Dad’s keys in his jacket pocket.  I think he’s still home.  I’ll be there in 5.”

Okay, now she’s breaking into the house and stealing my dad’s car… while he’s home.  She pulls up a few minutes later with incessant horn honking, starts laughing at me struggling with my bags, and as I throw myself into the car says, “Ok, let’s go to mom’s school.”

“Carissa!  We need to get the car back to Dad before he notices and calls the cops!”

“Oh yeah.”

It’s so weird being back, homeless, and carless.  We hurried back home before our dad knew his car was missing, crept upstairs and freaked the crap out of him.  It took him a few minutes to understand what was going on.  We asked to borrow a car and then headed to my mom’s school… which was the highlight of the weekend.  To be honest I would have made the trip east JUST for these few minutes with T-Diddy, which thankfully we caught on video:

It took her a few minutes to process that this, in fact, was NOT a dream, and then we kidnapped her for the second half of the day for some quality girl time.

The rest of our time flew.  We got to see our brother and other brother for their birthdays, our sister Britt, and a bunch of other family and friends over the weekend.  There was obviously not enough time with each person, nor enough time to see as many people as I would have liked, but we did our best.  We spent the entire day on Saturday taking over Sixth Ward on the LES, rearranging their projector, Christmas decorations, TV channels and audio system to meet our sports watching and pool-playing needs.  We spent a solid 12 quality hours there, eating two meals and using the bathrooms a record-breaking amount of times.  At the end of the night, when Carissa and I gave our final hugs goodbye to Chase and Britt on the frigid street, and scurried into the closest cab, I turned to see her start to cry.  “I hate leaving my brother…” which of course started my waterworks as well.  Spending a whole day with people you love so much in the city you love so dearly was bittersweet.

The energy in NYC is un-matched by any other place.  Maybe it’s because it’s the one in which I feel most at home, but maybe it’s because it truly is the greatest city in the world.  When Monday night came around and it was time to go back home, the goodbyes were sad, but I had a peace about me, because I felt happy to be returning “home” to California.  It’s somewhere that you smile getting off the plane and feel welcomed by the palm trees and cheery people.  Will it be home forever?  Maybe not… but really…. who knows?  For now, my heart is split between coasts.  And that’s how I like it.

Peace out for now buttercups…

xoxo

Gossip Girl

The Italian Stallion

During a normal phone convo with T-Diddy last week, she asks what’s new.

“Well I think I’m going to go out with an Italian guy. Like one actually from Italy.”

T-Diddy responds, “No, don’t ever go out with an Italian guy! Didn’t I tell you about the one that I dated??”

Dad must overhear the conversation; I can hear him shout in the background: “Or a Greek guy! No Greek guys either!”

Well that eliminates a large part of Europe… You think they’d be less picky at this point.

I obviously didn’t listen to my parents’ advice, and decided to go out with the Italian. He was from Tinder. Was very aggressive in the messaging, Facebooking, etc. He just moved to San Diego from Italy for an engineering job a little over a month ago, although he spent 6 months at the same company last year, and a few months in NYC. So although he is literally straight from Italy, he has spent a pretty good amount of time here. At first, I think he paid a lot of attention to using proper English in text messages, and had me fooled, but when he started getting lazy was when it got funny.

Each time I shared a funny text, I felt it had to be in an Italian accent or it wouldn’t be as accurate.  It became routine for me to start giggling over a message, and one of my roommates to say, “Lorenzo?”

“V, get me into my Italian accent.”  (Italian doesn’t come naturally.  Asian accents, yes, Italian, no.)

V would say something like, “VinCENza!!!!” with her hands in the air, and I’d immediately be able to imitate Lorenzo’s message in perfect Italian form.

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Friday night started with an invitation to go out with Lorenzo, which I turned down because I was wicked tired.  Crap… get the Boston girls out of my house.  I told him I had a date with my couch, so we made plans to do something on Saturday night instead.  I put on my sweats, got my blanket and my real pillow from my bed (that’s when you know it’s serious), and curled up on the couch to watch TV.  I was definitely in for the night.  Turns out I wasn’t.  Breezy came home about a half hour later with Bud Light-aritas, looked at me and told me to get in the shower.  I said no.  Then V put on her sad puppy dog face.  So I got in the shower.

My date with the couch turned into a typical night out in PB, and wouldn’t ya know it, Renzie ended up coming back from his plans downtown early, and wanted to meet up with us.  Since all of the girls wanted to meet the mysterious Italian, I told him where we were and he came out.  I figured he’d just stop in for a bit, but he ended up staying with us the entire rest of the night and didn’t go home until like 3am.

Saturday night rolls around, and Renzie and I make plans to go bowling.  I’m last-minute getting ready (as usual), looking for something to wear, and yell out of my bedroom…

“V, is it cold out??”

“I don’t know, I’ll check.”

She walks to the front door and then all I hear is two loud screams.  I run out to see what happened… when she opened the door, Lorenzo was just standing there with his face two inches from the screen.  I guess he was getting ready to knock??  We invited him in.  I checked the temperature for myself.  V and Breezy were sitting on the couch painting their nails.  Renzie sits down and says,

“I paint.”

Breezy hands him the colors and says to pick.  He sifts through, “no. no. no.”  He finally finds one he is satisfied with, and looks at me and asks:

“I paint?  It is ok?”

“Ummm sure…”

He paints their nails.  I ask him a question about bowling and he responds with, “What you did?”

“Huh??  What you did?  What does that mean?”

“You.  What you did today?”

“It’s ‘what did you DO today?'”

“Yes, that what I mean.”

He’s making us laugh… a lot.  Breezy says, “I’m kind of jealous.  I feel like you’re going to have a really funny night.”

We did.  We went bowling and drank Long Islands… he insisted we drink Long Islands because “That where you come from.”

We had conversations that would have been funny WITHOUT the language barrier, so add in a strong Italian accent and some communication problems, and the night was a hoot.  On the way back from bowling, it was about 11pm.  I asked Renzie what he was doing for the rest of the night.

“I do what you do.”

“Okay, well my sister and roommates are at a party.  Do you want to go meet with them?”

“OUR sister.”

“Yes, our sister.”

“Yes, let’s meet.  And I need to meet boyfriend.  Sister’s boyfriend.  Will he be there?”

“I don’t know… ”

Lorenzo was quite the social butterfly.  He easily made friends.  V randomly asked him if he liked soccer.  He responded “No,” as another guy who overheard, informed her he loved soccer.  Lorenzo whispered, “soccer is for the gays.”  We laughed.  Because you just can’t not laugh at him.

He joined us for a stop at the Silver Fox, and pulled out his flawless swing dance moves, which he debuted at Duck Dive the night before.  He was quite the charmer.

The next afternoon, Carissa and I had a lunch date.  I texted Lorenzo to ask him the name of the Acai place he has been raving about.  He responds.  I say thank you.  I also say, “Thank you again for a lovely bowling date.”

Carissa and I look up Rum Jungle in PB and head over there.  We are sitting on the couch, eating our Acai bowls, and I get a response from Lorenzo:  “yes it was pretty boring.”

WHAT???  Carissa says, “I think he gets his words mixed up.”

I say, “No I think he actually meant it was boring, but he is trying to use sarcasm?”

We start dying laughing, quoting some of his bests from the night before.  I pull up old screen shots of texts that had made me laugh, and we are just having a doozy of a time cracking up at this guy.  Then Carissa looks up from the tears of laughter and says, “Oh, hi.”

It’s Lorenzo… walking OUT of Rum Jungle to take a call on his cell.  Which means he was IN Rum Jungle the entire time we were laughing.  There were only about three other people in the tiny little place.  I don’t know how we didn’t see him walk in… I died.  I said, “Should I run away??  Did he hear everything??”

Carissa says, “No, I don’t think so… even if he could hear us, we were talking too fast for him to understand.”

He comes back in and sits down with us.  We have a conversation about Acai and cauliflower ear.  Then we leave because Carissa has to head to work.

“Why would he go there??  I JUST asked what the name of that place was!”

“Maybe that’s WHY HE WENT THERE!”

So weird.  “Carissa, why does this happen to me all…of….the….time??”

“It really does.”

I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut unless I’m in the privacy of my own home.

In any case the Italian Stallion is at the very least, AMAZING entertainment.  And really nice to look at.  I’m thinking the whole dating thing may not work out due to the fact that we spend entirely too much time saying “What??” and “I don’t know what that means?”  And “I don’t know how to say in English.”  And the rest of the time just laughing.   Breezy asked several times yesterday, “Can Lorenzo come over?”  Hopefully.  Hopefully Lorenzo will remain in our lives for at least a little longer.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

Double Dates (Meaning TWO…)

So I got home from work yesterday and plopped my butt on the couch.  I didn’t really feel like going on this date, but also didn’t feel rude enough to cancel at the last-minute.  V walks in and sits down with me.  We’re both swiping away at Tinder, and I say,

“I wonder if we have any of the same matches?”

So we both pull up all of our matches and we’re trying to compare, when I decided this game would be way more fun with a bottle of wine.  So it turned into:

“Do you have a Chris?”

“Go Fish.  Drink.”

“Do you have an Evan?”

“Go Fish.  Drink.”

“Do you have a Tom?”

“Yes!”

“Does he have a glass of whiskey in his hand??”

“Yes!!”

“Let me see!”

“Nope, two different Toms with glasses of whiskey in their hands.  Go fish.”

Brie walks in shortly after and sees V with a glass of wine, and asks, “Are we still going for a walk?”

V says, “Well I don’t really WANT to…”

So the game continues until its time for me to leave.

I decide to walk because I still haven’t caught onto the fact that nobody in this town walks places or takes public transportation.  When I told my roommate T, I was taking the bus downtown the other night she goes, “What???”  followed by, “You’re so funny.”  It was $2.25!!!  And hassle free!  I loved it!  Anyway… off topic.

I called Emitch on my walk and she asks, “How far is the place?”

“Eh, like a mile and a half?”

“WHAT??!  Why are you walking there?  You’re going to be a disgusting sweaty mess by the time you get there.”

“No, it’s not hot here when the sun goes down.  I’m actually thinking about putting my jacket on.”

“Ok.”

Flash forward, I was LATE (obvi) so I broke into a speed walk towards the end and I WAS a sweaty mess by the time I arrived.  The dude was what I expected, looks-wise.  He was kinda little, but good-looking.  But, like too put-together, good-looking.  I don’t think my brother reads these posts, but if he did he’d come and slap me, because this guy was a “Lax-Bro” and my brother gave me a strict “no dating lacrosse players” rule.  It’s basically his only rule.  And this guy had a photo of himself PLAYING lacrosse as one of his OkCupid profile pics, so I felt a little guilty agreeing to go out with him.  Which, let’s address here.  He played lacrosse in COLLEGE… and he’s 33, so I’m not the best at math, but that was ummm…. a really long time ago.  And it came up in conversation at least three times.  Like we actually had a side conversation ABOUT lacrosse, which isn’t even a sport I’ve ever cared about.

But in any case, he was nice, he had a job, he had his shit together, and he was a gentleman.  I wasn’t feeling it though.  And I agreed to a second drink, but didn’t really want it.  And I was texting on the side in the bathroom (I know, bitchy move), but some other guy who knew I was on a date wanted to meet up afterwards, and my sister said she’d pick me up after school and take me somewhere else, so these bathroom breaks were needed for coordination purposes.  Well, and because I had to pee.  Obvi.

So we’re sitting, chatting, and I realized I didn’t even know his last name (I actually kinda forgot his first name too because I never saved it in my phone).  So I pulled a slick move and scrolled to his first text to see what his name was.  It was what I would have guessed, so I felt a LITTLE better about myself.  Then I asked for his last name.  He told me.  Then he says, “It’s Spanish… well Mexican.”

“HAHAHAHHA you’re Mexican?!  I have to tell my sister!”

Which gives me another excuse to text.  She had just asked me that day why all the guys she meets are Mexican, and I never meet any.  So I had to notify her immediately.

Lax-Bro then says, “Is this strictly for your phone, or are you going to google me when you get home?”

“I’m totally going to google you.”

“Well, I guess I should warn you about something then…”

Ohhh geez… here we go….

“A couple of years ago, another guy who came from Mexico has the same exact first and last name… He moved up to Oregon…. and I guess he shot a few people…. soooo… when you google my name there’s a lot of news articles about that…”

“OMG!  You’re a murderer?!?!”

“Not me… just a guy with the same name…”

That’s it.  I was convinced.  He’s a murderer.  It’s not a common name.  At all.  And it was a good way out of this date.  I don’t date murderers.

I told him my sister was going to pick me up on her way back from school, which in my opinion, took way too long.  And she wanted to see him.  So she parked the car and came in.  She met him for about 2 minutes, then I told him it was time for us to go. So we said our goodbyes and pretended to go home, but went to a bar down the street to meet the other guy.

Carissa said, “ew” and “absolutely not” about the Lax-Bro.  Second guy walks in, says hello and then goes to the bar to get a drink and she says, “much better than the last one.”

So he comes up to the table and asks, “So how was your first date of the night?”

“It was ok.  He was a nice guy.  Carissa didn’t like him.”

“What was wrong with him?”

Carissa makes a motion near her eyeballs and said, “He had really creepy eyes.”

[Murderer].

Second date shrugs, looks at Carissa and says, “So do you go on all of her dates?”

“Pretty much…”

The guy was a Jew.  I personally have nothing against dating Jews, but from past experience (not really my own experience), I know that their mothers never like them dating or marrying non-Jews, so I feel like it’s kinda a waste of time.  I obviously told him this.  He said his mother is like the one from “Mean Girls…” I wasn’t sure how to take that.  I think I’d be frightened of her.

The three of us are sitting at a table, and some guy I’ve never seen before comes up and says, “Are you Court?”

I’m like… “Ummm.. yeah?”

He says, “Were you at a Yelp event downtown on Tuesday night, wearing a name-tag and sitting at the bar with one of your girlfriends?”

“Ummmm yeahhh….”

“I was the server for the tables!  I went like THIS all night!”  (he puts his arm straight up in the air, imitating a server with a tray on his hand).

Omg…. how is he recognizing me right now?  And you should have seen the Jew’s face, he was so confused by this encounter.

Then the server says, “You wrote us up an awesome review!”

“You read my review????”

“Yeah, it was awesome.  And I’m so glad you called out that obnoxious woman who was giving the bartender a hard time!  She was the WORST!”

“You saw that happen too?????”

“Yeah, I was standing right next to you.”

I am so oblivious.

The Jew was very confused.  Even after I tried to explain.  But he let it go.  He asked if Lax-Bro had sent me a follow-up text, and I told him no.  He left shortly after because he had to let his dog out, and also because he was probably freaked out.  He sent me a text a few minutes after, saying the only reason he was texting was because he felt bad that the other guy didn’t text me.  Gee, thanks.

He then admitted we are probably the worst match ever, but followed it up by saying we should get together again, possibly Sunday to discuss it further.  Dudes are so confusing.

Carissa’s Mexican lover, Tonto came out and met us, WITHOUT any friends… always solo… Never any love for me.  Worst wingman ever.  We counted him as our third date for the night anyway, then he drove us home.

Just another Thursday night.

And since it’s finally Friday and I LOL’ed  (thanks Lisa)…. I will leave you with this:

20130823-092730.jpg

xoxo

Gossip Girl

First Date…. JR

Jake from State Farm took up entirely too much space in my posts.  He’s not completely terrible, but I definitely won’t be dating him.  I won’t rule out meeting up again, I’m sure running into each other is bound to happen at some point, and I’m fine with that.

Carissa asked if I’d be going back on match.com now that I moved here.  I said definitely not yet.  I wanna feel my way around on my own first.  I do still have an active okcupid account, which is free, and many people see as a joke.  Because it’s free.  I just take it with a grain of salt.  I’m not really actively on there, but am not opposed to responding to messages of people who seem fun and normal.  My take on it is, I’m new in town;  having a new friend wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, so I’m keeping an open mind.

A guy who we will call JR messaged me on OKC (that’s what the cool kids call it for short).  He seemed cute and adventurous, and although he admitted to drinking protein shakes as meals (gag), he definitely didn’t look or seem to be a meathead.  He has a traditional job, which as I mentioned in a past post, is uncommon ’round these parts.  When I say a traditional job, I mean he has one.  That he goes to.  5 days a week.  And gets a paycheck.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all about the paycheck, but guys with zero motivation in life just bother me.  A lot.  I was anxious to get away from all of the NYC materialistic “suits,” but what I failed to realize is that the polar opposite in a guy is equally as unattractive.

So anyway, here we have a seemingly laid back dude… with a job, a propensity towards travel, and a resident of Mission Beach (convenience).  We sent each other a couple of emails, in which I made it clear I’m not a fan of being “pen-pals” with someone I don’t know and have never met.  I feel like it just gets awkward when you talk to someone a bunch, then meet them, decide you don’t like them, and then just quit talking to them.

So…. JR responded with “I know this is really last-minute, but would you be able to go out tonight?  I’m leaving for Europe on Friday for several weeks for work, so we’d have to be pen-pals until after that… or not.”

Errrrrrr…..  that’s annoying.  Who has to go to Europe for several weeks??  Shut up, Court, be happy he HAS a job.  I was kinda busy that night attending a birthday party for a bar I’d never even been to with some friends from college.  Yes, it was important.  They had good drink specials.  So I told him I was going, but if he didn’t find it awkward, he was welcome to join.  He surprisingly accepted the invitation.

Soooo…. I’m sitting there at a table with a bunch of people.  JR hadn’t gotten there yet.  Carissa and everyone else obviously had seen his pictures so they knew who to look for.  All of the sudden Carissa stands up on her bar stool peg, waves her arms and goes

“There he is!”

I instinctively hopped off my chair without really looking at him, and walked right up.  The guy standing next to him looked at me and said “Oh she actually showed up.”  I said:

“Hi JR!”

He said, “I’m not JR.”

I ran away.

Ugh…. CARISSA!!!!!

So the correct person, did walk in shortly after, and the night went well.  He met my sister and her Mexican lover, Tonto.  Look at that, two shout-outs to Tonto in one week.   My PSU friends made fun of me, but there’s very little that offends me.   He was the type of guy that grows on you.  The more I talked to him, the more I liked him.  And Carissa and I didn’t scare him away…. soooooo……..

After a couple of hours I excused myself because I had an early morning.  He left as well.  And offered me a ride home.  In his Mercedes.  I was like oooolalalaaa I feel rich!  And I didn’t put that sentence in quotes, because I didn’t actually say that out loud, thank goodness.  A few of the things you probably shouldn’t say on a first date, I obviously did say.  Which include but are not limited to:

1.  Windshield wipers turn me on

2.  Rainex turns me on

3.  I wish it rained here so I could take advantage of my Rainex.

Despite these being the last things I said to him before a hug goodbye, he dug me.  He told me so.  And he told me to avoid all other men until he gets back.  I told him fat chance.  In a nicer way.  I only met him for less than 3 hours…. I’m not sold yet.   Butttttt I haven’t ruled him out either…..

Catch ya on the flip side.

xoxo Gossip Girl

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