Jake from State Farm [take 2]

If you knew me at all, you’d probably know I don’t usually “just let things go.”  The whole Jake from State Farm not talking to me ever again was bugging me.  Not because I was yearning to see him again, just because I didn’t really understand WHY he wasn’t trying to see me again.  I talked about him at least 3 times a day.  Every day since meeting him.  Each time included a “wtf.”  No one could really give me any clues as to why he might be ignoring me.

On one of our daily post-work road trips to shop for cars, my sister and I were talking.

“I want to ask Jake from State Farm really bluntly… like w…t…f?  But I want an actual answer.  Like a real response.  So I’m not sure how to word this.”

Carissa’s like, “Hmmmm… I don’t really know.”

I’m mulling it over, trying to think of different ways to word it….. Carissa says, “Why don’t you just say wtf?”

“Yeah, I mean, my actual question is, ‘Jake from State Farm…. WHAT THE F***?…. So I might as well just say that.”

I grab my cell, pull up “Jake from State Farm” and text him “wtf”

That’s it.  “wtf”

2 minutes later, a text box pops up.  I’m driving.  Carissa’s using my phone to navigate.

“Jake from State Farm.  He responded.”

“Read it.”

“Hola.”

“WWWWTTTTTFFFFFFF????  Hola???  After 2 weeks…. hola???”

“You kind of deserved that response.”

The conversation was kicked off and JFSF gave me some lame excuse about being out-of-town and then having his dad visit.  I just commended him on his slick “fade out” move and told him I was just taking the moment to call him out.

I still didn’t have closure because he didn’t give me an actual explanation.

Jake from State Farm continued to text yesterday, and asked what I was doing this weekend.  I told him I had no real plans and I was going out in PB if he’d like to join.  He didn’t respond until we were already out, and his response included an invite to hang out at his house, which is on the beach in Mission Beach.  I told him I was already out, and wouldn’t be coming over, but he was welcome to join us in PB.

He said PB “wasn’t in the cards.”

Douche.  My sister and V hate him at this point.  Then he CALLS me.  At the bar.  To tell me he will pay for my cab to come meet him at his beach house.  Ummmm NO.  If you want to see me, you will COME HERE.  He says no.

I’m standing there bitching about him to Carissa and V, when I turn around, and the creeper is standing in the doorway between the bar and the outdoor patio just staring at me.  Ummmm…. Jake?  From State Farm??

He looks like shit.  Excuse my language.  But he looks like absolute shit.  To be more precise, he looks like a lesbian on drugs.

I go over and hug him.  His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days, and I’m not sure if his eyes are open or closed.  I guess they were somewhere in between, but more on the side of closed.

He tried to pull me in for some dance moves, which I initially agreed to.

Then my little sister comes over, pulls JFSF aside and says to him forcefully:  “Jake from State Farm, I don’t like you.  I don’t like you at all.”

Ohhhh geez, she’s been hanging out with me wayyyyyy too much lately.  I’m just standing there smirking and enjoying it, because this is not in my sister’s character.  I felt like the roles were reversed.  It’s usually me giving guys the: “I will murder you if you do anything to my sister” lecture.  But Carissa has taken this on in full force.  And I don’t mind.  Because Jake from State Farm needs to take a long walk off a short pier.

We hung out for a little longer.  V says “I don’t like him… at all.”  Brie’s boyfriend Colin says, “Don’t like him.”

We left.  I don’t know what Jake from State Farm did.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if he just passed out where he was standing.  He was so out-there, it was kinda crazy.  He sent several texts, a few last night, and one this morning, to which I did not respond.

Jake from State Farm, you were fun while you lasted, but I’m officially over you.  Peace out, cub scout.

xoxo Gossip Girl

 

Pitstop in Nashville

Night two of our road-trip we spent in Nashville.  It was a “must-stop” location, so we planned it so we would arrive in the evening with enough time to go out and see the town.  As we were driving early in the day, Carissa says:  “I can’t wait to get to Tennessee tonight and have a glass of whiskey!”

“Oh, I guess I’ll have one too.”

“You can put ginger ale in yours.  I wont call you a [wussy].”

Oh, gee, thanks.

It was a Monday night.  That apparently matters… even in a touristy town like Nashville.  There was NO ONE out.  And when I say there was no one out, I mean it was EMPTY… to the extent that in every bar we walked into, the live band greeted us personally.

At the first place, we took a seat at the bar next to a strange couple.  A younger woman who yelled, “TICKLE ME!” at the band, and an older man in a cowboy hat, with a hook for a hand.  Scratch that, TWO hooks… one for EACH hand.  That didn’t stop him from chugging beer, as he had a special beer-holding attachment on one of the hooks.

The band began talking to us on their mics, being those two were obviously locals and we were the only other ones in the bar.  They asked if we wanted to come up to the stage.

I asked, “Can I play your piano?”

“Sure!”

The woman behind the bar goes, “Honey, that’s not a piano.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, can I play your KEYBOARD?”

“That’s not a keyboard either.  It’s a steel guitar.  If you go up there thinking it’s a keyboard, they’re gonna make fun of you.”

Oh… whoops.  Who knew about steel guitars?  Thanks, bartender.

That scene got boring pretty quickly, so we moved to the next bar… at which we were greeted immediately by the band:  “Hey ladies!  Can you please take a seat up front so we can look at your legs?”

Errr ew?  Carissa whispers, “Get those two seats in the back,” and continues to the ladies room.

I’m sitting there, spinning in my stool, admiring the huge deer head on the wall, which makes me think about my newfound knowledge of taxidermy.  I recently spent a week training a new rep from Tennessee, so I got an earful about hunting, fishing, hiking and stuffing animals to hang on your wall.

Carissa comes and joins me, and I ask her, “Do you know how they do taxidermy?”

She stares at me with a blank look on her face.

I ask, “Do you know what taxidermy is??”

She finally snaps to it and responds, “Ohhhh yeah…. sorry, at first I thought you were talking about what Chase does.”  (our brother is an accountant…..)

“No, I’m talking about preserving dead animals and hanging them on the wall.  Do you know how they do that?”

She looks at me with a completely straight face and says, “Yeah.  Glue.”

“GLUE?????”   Now I’m laughing…. “You think they take GLUE and rub it all over the animal???”

“Yeah.”

“No, you idiot.”

I continue to teach her about taxidermy and then say, “Do you know about the eyes?”

“Yeah they’re glass.”

“Oh wow, good job… I didn’t know that part.”

“What’d you think they were REAL eyes??”

“Yeah, I guess….”

“And I’M the idiot?!”

Time for the city girls to move on from this town before someone overhears a conversation and throws us out…..

Until next time… xoxo Gossip Girl

Kamping (Video)

My sister and I just took a one-way road trip from New York to California.   If you knew either of us, you’d probably assume we embarked on this road trip completely un-prepared.  Un-prepared, that is, except for the awesome 2-man tent we picked up at Walmart a few weeks ago.  Details, details… who needs sleeping bags, pillows, bug repellent or anything else camping-related?  Also, who needs planning?

Here we are, 8:50pm on a Wednesday night in Oklahoma driving down Rt 40 W looking for a campsite.  By “looking for a campsite” I mean getting off every exit with a camping symbol on it, and finding out that just meant that you could park your RV in a parking lot.  On cement.  No thank you.

“Carissa, we need wine first, then we’ll find a campsite…. let me run in that gas station and ask.”

We’re in the MIDDLE.OF.NO.WHERE.OKLAHOMA.  I walk in to the gas station mart.  It was kinda nice.  They had beer.  We didn’t want beer.  There was a drunk guy standing at the counter trying to buy something as I waited impatiently to ask about wine.  The drunk guy turns around, looks at me, and asks:  “Are you a Cherokee?”

WTF.

“No.  Do you know where I can find wine?”

“Yes, down the road a half a mile, make a left past the Big Cowboy.  The liquor store is open for another 10 minutes.”

I RUN out of there, signaling Carissa in the driver’s seat to start driving before I fully get into the car.

“GO.GO.GO!  We have 10 minutes and it’s past the Big Cowboy!!!”

We peel outta there, and drive down the dark road back and forth for exactly 8 minutes before I make her pull over at the nearest humans to ASK where this “Big Cowboy” is.  The old people with no teeth directed us a few feet down the pitch black road, where we again, run out of the car and catch the liquor store by about 30 seconds before closing.  By “liquor store” I mean a place about the size of my bedroom with a few dusty bottles, and tequila inside of a shotgun shaped glass.  After a few minutes, we decide on a fine BOX of wine, since that’s more portable than a bottle.   And wine is necessary to watch The Bachelorette, which was already loaded online on my laptop.

I hand the elderly woman my ID.  She looks at it, looks at me, shakes her head and says “1982?”

“Yes, I’m 30.”

She says, “You don’t look 30.”

I say “thank you,” but for the first time.  I’m not flattered.  I’m thinking she’s actually not going to let me buy this wine.  She really doesn’t believe me.  At least my 21-year-old sister has an ID on her.  That’s my only comfort as I give her a pleading look to just let me buy the wine.

She lets me buy the wine.

We get out of there and start driving.  My friend Doon texts me and asks if I need help searching for a campsite.  She asks where I am.  I send her a screenshot of my map.  She still doesn’t understand where I am.  Neither do I.  We drive a bit more, while internet searching.  We find a place called KOA.  For some reason we assumed this stood for Kamping of America.  I still kinda think it does, but I’m not positive.

There was no one there at the front desk, but there was a wooden counter with a sign above it.  Carissa pulled up and let me run out to check it out.  It said “Late Arrivals Welcome.”  Yes…….  I read the instructions and grabbed an envelope.  The envelope had a tent spot assignment written on it, and instructions for how to register and pay.  I wrote down my information on the envelope, shoved the required amount of cash inside and put it in the lock box.  Errrrrrr…..

It was hot.  It was humid.  There were a LOT of bugs.  It was dark.  Very dark.  We put the car lights facing our little patch of assigned grass and pulled the little tent out from the trunk.  We didn’t know how to pitch a tent, but it looked easy enough.  I’m sure it was easy.  It just took longer than it probably should have.  I blame the dark.  We couldn’t see a thing unless we were positioned correctly in front of the car lights.  I somehow found a flashlight halfway through the tent pitching attempt which aided us with the small pieces we were dropping into the grass.

Finally, the tent was up and the box of wine was open.  We put the laptop on top of the box of wine, calling it the “wine table,” thinking it was the most clever play on “coffee table.”  It was pretty clever.  We watched The Bachelorette as we swatted bugs off the screen and strained our necks to hear every word as the 18-wheelers whizzed down the highway behind us.

We watched TV until the computer died, and then sang to songs off of our iPhones.  When it was bedtime, we fell right asleep and accidentally slept in until 10:30am.  Who over-sleeps in a tent?  These two.  Whoops.

Here’s a little video log of our tent pitching.  Don’t worry, I sped it up… (a little)

More road trip stories to follow…

Apartment Hunting with T-Diddy

The only thing more entertaining than hanging out with T-Diddy is traveling with T-Diddy. For the Fourth of July weekend Carissa, T-Diddy and I took a trip out to San Diego in order to tie up some loose ends before our move out there (tie up loose ends= find Carissa a place to live). Since there were only about three weeks until we arrived there for good, the pressure was on to find an apartment and roommates in a very short period of time.

Although we wanted T-Diddy there for her wisdom and guidance, I think Carissa and I would both agree that we more wanted her there for the entertainment. Somehow, some of my funniest moments have been the three of us in a car apartment hunting. Our last epic hunt was in Philly, years ago, and we still crack up talking about some of the events of that weekend.

T-Diddy did not disappoint.

We arrived in California with high hopes and about zero apartment leads. Carissa had emailed several people in advance, with very few responses, and based on the fact that I have used Craigslist to find roommates and apartments way more than is humanly imaginable (and the fact that I’m a control freak), I decided to take over the online search. Between two iPhones, an iPad, a MacBook and two portable MiFi’s, we were able to navigate and apartment search non-stop. Our first stop out of the airport was the rental car place, where they had run out of the kind of economy cars that we had ordered, so they directed us to a metallic blue two-door Mustang. I think Carissa and I high-fived and jumped up and down a little… because it was sooooo cute…. but after about 30 seconds and 16 bruises trying to shove all of our luggage and our asses in the car all at the same time, we were over it VERY quickly. “THIS is when you need a man around!” and “Ugh this car is DISGUSTING.” and “This backseat depresses me.” and “We should have gotten a minivan.”

We went from apartment to apartment… meeting weirdo after weirdo. When I realized it pushed Carissa’s buttons every time I burst out into Taylor Swift’s, “We are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” I made it our theme song, and applied it to every appropriate situation, such as running out of a strange apartment and away from said weirdos.

We met Liz, a girl who was sprawled on her couch mid-day with a blanket wrapped around her legs and no interest in introducing herself to potential new roommates, Tammy, a redhead who shared a room with her 36-year-old boyfriend, detailed us on her financial aid problems for 10 minutes and exclaimed “A CLEAN HOME IS A HAPPY HOME!”, an Indian couple who had a shrine in the corner and did not believe in having TV in the living room because they didn’t like the energy to be focused towards a wall… and then there’s Michael.

Michael is worth mentioning for oh so many reasons. First of all he was about 55. Carissa spoke to him on the phone on our way over to see his place. “He’s middle-aged.”

“How do you know??”

“Believe me.”

We went anyway. He was middle-aged. He was a millionaire in the construction industry who lived in a modest-sized home, but with an extremely eclectic design, and attention to every detail. When we first entered his home my initial thought was “what a weirdo… what grown man with money is looking for a roommate??” I obviously assumed he was a sex-offender of some sort.

But as we got the grand tour of his home, the fountains outside, his over the top miniature models of multi-million dollar projects in the works, his cigarette boat in the backyard with a $20k paint job of skulls and naked women, and his beloved Porsche in the garage, I realized he wasn’t a weirdo sex-0ffender. He was just a harmless lonely gay man looking for someone to “keep the dogs off the front lawn” when he traveled.

T-Diddy had a soft spot for Michael. She found him interesting. She found his plants and trees even more interesting. After he gave us a 5 minute report on exactly how he measured out his front garden, T-Diddy had fallen head over heels in love with one of his trees which he informed her was called a “Bird of Paradise.” She was determined to have one. She was going to find one and bring it home with her.

“Mom, you can’t bring a tree on a plane.”

“Yes I can. I’ll get a small one.”

“You’re going to bring a TREE through security?!!!”

“Yes.”

Well then that settled it. We left Michael’s with no intentions on Carissa living there, but on a mission to find a Bird of Paradise. The next morning we woke up in our hotel to a note from T-Diddy, saying she had gone out shopping for a Bird of Paradise. Sure enough, after two Home Depots, she found what she wanted, and in she walked with her beloved tree… which she immediately named “Aunt Bertha.”

Aunt Bertha spent her morning on the balcony getting pampered by T-Diddy. She then joined us in the mustang, on the floor in the back behind the passenger’s seat.

“Can you move your seat up?? You’re squishing Aunt Bertha!”

“Mom, you want me to crunch my legs into the dashboard so that your TREE has more room in the backseat?!”

“Yes.”

Aunt Bertha came everywhere with us. She ate with us, drank with us and slept next to us. I’m not sure why T-Diddy didn’t want to wait until our last day to find this tree… but in any case, she became part of our family.

Time was ticking, it was almost time to head back home and Carissa still hadn’t found an apartment. We had a couple more on the agenda, so we were REALLY hoping to like one of them. We pulled up in front of the house where we had an appointment for 11am. It was cute. We were optimistic. We rang the bell, no answer. Rang again, no answer. Emailed the guy “we’re here.” No answer.

We obviously thought the bell must have just been broken… and since the bars on the door didn’t allow for knocking, Carissa decided to climb through the bushes and knock on the front windows. We weren’t opposed. She was getting desperate at this point. Still… no answer.

I’m not sure why, but we figured if we walked around the side of the house and yelled “hello” into THOSE open windows, maybe someone would hear us. No response. So we headed into the backyard… maybe they were back there.

Nope, no people, but there was a cornhole set with bean bags, so Carissa and I decided to play while we waited to see if someone would come out to yell at us (because then they’d obviously want to live with her). Nothing. T-Diddy comes around back during our game and spots a tree. “OHHHH A LEMON TREE!!!!”

She gets right in there and plucks a lemon from the branches, talking to herself, “This is such a nice souvenir!”

“Mom that’s not a souvenir! That’s somebody’s lemon tree!”

She doesn’t care. She’s busy sniffing her lemon. We were busy peeing in our pants. We decided that now that something had been stolen, it was time to go.

“Well that’s what he gets for not answering the door.”

FAIL. But at least we walked out of there with a fresh lemon.

The trip was filled with lots of laughs, a few bruises and some blood (that disgusting car), and finally an apartment and a roommate for Carissa. We even purchased quality mattresses from a random man in a warehouse after T-Diddy called a number she saw on a handwritten sign on the side of the road reading “MATTRESSES $150.” Who ever responds to those signs, you ask??? My mother does. We paid, and they haven’t been delivered yet, so the verdict on that man is still up in the air. Fingers crossed; it’s all we can do. Because obviously buying a mattress from an actual store would be logical, and therefore out of the question.

Onward ho…. road trip west begins in 12 days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The 4 Month Husband

Although I’ve tried to branch out from blogging about primarily dating stuff, it seems it’s hard to get away from it.  When you’re 30 and single, dating sort of becomes a necessary hobby.  Well, necessary if you ever want to find a significant other before you’re old and wrinkled with 17 cats.

There was one guy I met last October that I never blogged about.  I suppose it was because I thought there might be some potential, and I didn’t want to jinx it.  It was a football Sunday.  I went out to a boozy brunch with my brother, sister-in-law, and friend Meg at our favorite spot, CK 14.  Afterwards, Chase had to leave to catch a flight out of town for work, so the girls continued on, wandering the streets of NYC in our football jerseys (such big sports fans, I know), until we stumbled upon a big, rowdy sports bar.  We made our way through the crowd, found a spot in the back near a TV, got a couple of pitchers, and made some friends.  At one point, Brittany announced:  “I’m going to find you a husband today.”

“No, Britt, please no.  There’s no one here I’m interested in.”

It was true.  I obviously did a scan of the bar on our way in, and everyone appeared to be douchey frat boys.  I wasn’t in the mood to look for a husband.  I just wanted to drink beer and watch football (maybe I should find a wife).  But when Brittany’s on a mission, Brittany’s on a mission.  And wingman she is.

At one point, she disappeared to “go to the bathroom” and never came back.  About 20 minutes passed when one of the guys we were sitting with said “maybe you should go look for her?”

It was cold out; we all had our coats and bags on the chairs.  Meg was fading and wanted to leave.  After she left I collected all of our things and went looking for Brittany.  Where I found her was in another room at the front of the bar, surrounded by three guys.  She sees me coming and says,

“Oh here she is!  Court, I wanted to introduce you to your future brother-in-law, and your future husband!”

Oh great.  I should have seen this coming.  She had been gone for so long that all three of the guys knew my entire life story, my career path and my dating history.   Brittany briefed me on my new husband’s background, and detailed me on why she specially chose him out of ALL of the guys in the bar (there were A LOT of guys in the bar).

I had a short conversation with my husband before he looked at his watch and walked out to make a phone call.  He had a flight to San Francisco that evening for work, and he tried (unsuccessfully) to get on a later one.  He quickly said his goodbyes and left.  Without my number.

Brittany was DEVASTATED.  Like actually devastated.  She just didn’t understand.  “Britt, this happens.  This is life.  It’s not a big deal.”

“But WHY didn’t he get your number????”

“I guess he just didn’t like me that much!”

Britt tried to give HER number to his friend in case he ASKED for MY number.  She wasn’t ready to give up yet.  He said that made no sense.  She suggested I give him my number.  ladjfa;ldksfja;dlkfj;fjda;lfjads;l f  Fine.  I gave his friend my number.  He texted me several times.  I don’t know why.

A few days later I got a text.  “Hey, it’s [husband].  I was in such a rush I forgot to get your number.  I’m really glad Pat got it for me.”

Mmmmm… okay.  Anyway, the guy travels like crazy.  It seemed he was only in NY for like a day every two months.  It was 4 months until we had our first date.  I liked him.  He was the perfect mix of tall athlete, a hint of hipster, and a touch of cowboy.  If a shoe collection could tell a story, his closet (I now know) is lined with Chuck Taylors, Sperrys and cowboy boots.

The date went well… we had a couple of drinks mid-week back at CK 14, which seems to be our middle-ground between the upper east side and Hoboken.  He was funny.  And charming.  And from the midwest, but had skulls on his belt.  I was digging it.  We said goodbye near the subway, and that we hoped it would be sooner than 4 months before we saw each other again.  Then… nothing.

I got a random text from him a while later, saying he was flying back into town and would be around for the night.  It happened to be the night I dressed like a clown and made balloon hats in the subways with my sister.  I told him “Maybe we can meet you later, but we’re dressed like clowns.”

He said “Okay, let me know when you’re on your way.”

“Carissa, he didn’t even ask why we were dressed like clowns.”

“That’s weird.”

So we met him and his brother and his friends.  Dressed like clowns.  At a bar that was not clown themed.  We had a blast, Carissa gave me the stamp of approval, “I actually don’t hate him,” and that was that.  “Bye!  Hopefully we’ll do this again, in sooner than 4 months.”  After that night…. nothing.  WTF.

He texts me out of the blue on Thursday… 4 months later.  “Happy hour tonight?”

“I can’t, I have a thing from 7-9.”

“Oh… a thing!”

“A Yelp event… I didn’t want to sound nerdy so I tried to get away with ‘a thing.'”

“Nice try.  Super nerdy.”

Turns out he was around all weekend, so Meg and I went to meet up with him after the Yankee game last night (or should I say DURING the Yankee game… we opted to blow that popsicle stand during the rain delay).  He invited us to his place since his friends weren’t going out til later on.  We grabbed some beer and headed over.

We were greeted by a fancy doorman, who actually opened the door for us, and went up to his 11th floor apartment.  Holy freakin’ crap.  It was decorated impeccably in somewhat of a vintage/nautical/California theme and had a gigantic balcony completely furnished.   I’ve noticed lately I tend to fall more in love with people’s apartments than the people who live in them.  But honestly, I’m in love.  With the apartment.  And his shoe collection.

Somehow it came up he is moving to Atlanta for work on the 30th.

“WHAT?!  You can’t move to Georgia!!!”

“You’re moving to California the day before me!  You have no say.”

“Ugh, this is horrible.”

We went out and had an amazing time.  When it was time to say goodbye, I said…. “Well… maybe I’ll see you in 4 months?”

“Actually, most likely we’ll never see each other again.”

“OMG that is a horrible thing to say.”

“I’m just being honest…”

And that’s that.  Farewell, husband… until we meet again (or not).

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