New Beginnings… And the Girl on the Other Side of the Fence

Last November, Ginge and I, who had been cohabitating (living in sin) in a house in Pacific Beach with two other roommates, decided it was time to move on, “grow up” a little, and get a place of our own. 

 Although I was very much at peace with the decision to leave the party-beach town I had called home for the past two-plus years, I knew very well there were things I was going to miss.  

Besides all of the roommates I had come to love over the years (ok that’s a total lie…those roommates were definitely hit-and-miss), our neighborhood developed a special place in my heart. Between the guys with no apparent day-jobs across the street who were constantly outside playing corn-hole or jumping rope, and the middle aged-man and his 30-year old “roommate,” Tyler, on the right side of us, things were rarely boring. The old man Howard, offered me new designer clothes that his friend had just “found” with all the tags on, which I graciously accepted, giving a $70 workout jacket to a petite old homeless lady promptly afterwards, and keeping the red sweater and workout pants that would come in handy at some point in my life, I’m sure… while his “roommate” Tyler, would stop by very frequently during nights we were sitting on the front porch chatting, while he was on his way to the gas station around the block, always coming back with nips of Fireball and dropping them off on his way home.

Malta, across the street, the German man who had invented fully recycled stuffed animals, and created a semi-successful start-up, was a frequent visitor whenever there was someone meandering on the front porch, or hanging out in camping chairs in the driveway, and Antwan, two doors down, an Athletic Director at one of the universities would always stop by to pet Oliver and have a chat while he was walking by. Irena and Chris became constants, as their daily walks of Bear (another huge Goldendoodle) took them passed our house, and the two doodles developed an immediate platonic love affair.  

The move out of the neighborhood was bittersweet. Our roommate Emily (a “hit” as in, the roommates being “hit-and-miss”), threw us a big going away party the night we moved out, in which Bear was an obvious VIP guest, and we got to say goodbye to all of our beloved neighbors who made a cameo at the Val party (please I’ll give you a dollar and a kiss if you catch this reference).

The new house is all we had hoped for… a big side yard which we furnished with new outdoor furniture, an extra refrigerator, my favorite twinkle lights, and a grill, enough space for a guest room and an office, and a place on one of the walls for our dartboard (totally classy, I know… but necessary).  

The location, although not in a beach town is pretty sweet… close enough to walk to the bumpin’ gay bars, a grocery store across the street, and the most delicious Thai place I have ever encountered just a few blocks away. Something was missing though… a neighborhood. Neighbors. People to converse with. Being on somewhat of a main road, we don’t sit out front anymore and talk to people walking by. We don’t let Ollie gallivant all over the front lawn and make friends with the mailman and all of the neighbors who become his friends whether they want him to or not. We are semi-secluded to our own backyard, giving us more couple’s bonding time to play lick-it-stick-it (don’t get weird ideas…think: “20-questions”), and have nightly dance parties, just the two of us.  

One night a couple of weeks ago, we were sitting in our yard with the lights on, and out of no where, a little blonde head pops up over the tall fence separating our yard from the condo complex next door. “Hello!”

“Holy crap!” I was scared shitless.  

“Hi! I’m Ashley! I’m your neighbor! Can I come over?”

“Yeah…sure!”

Ashley came over with the guy that had lifted her high enough to pop her head over the eight-foot fence. She told us she’s been wanting to meet us since she discovered she had new neighbors and saw the strings of lights lit up on a nightly basis. We sat outside for a little, had a beer with them, and Ashley and Ollie became fast friends. She offered to watch him whenever we needed, and “lend us a cup of sugar or booze WHENEVER!”

We didn’t get Ashley’s number that night… which we realized when we were in LA the following week and were trying to find someone to let Ollie out to pee. I figured we’d run into her again at some point. I just didn’t realize the some-point was going to be a few days later, when she had yet a different guy lift her up over the eight-foot fence to announce her presence, as I yelled “Holy crap,” yet again, startled by her head above the refrigerator.  

She came over, introducing her Tinder date, Nick, who was rugged and handsome, but apparently boring as a paper bag, as we learned shortly thereafter… the third time Ashley bounded up above the fence, held up by a third guy, who came over to go out to dinner with her.  

We spend our visits talking about our love lives, careers, and travels… not to mention the woman with the mullet who lives in the apartment above Ashley, and growls and slams her window every time she hears us outside. One night, Ashley’s roommate, Britt was walking by the other side of the fence, and we recruited her to sit and join us for a bit. We’re growing to appreciate a new neighborly feeling that’s developing, and learning that if we keep the lights on, we’re bound to have a cute blonde appear over the fence… (come to think of it, I’m going to have to make sure the lights are unplugged when I’m out of town… ahem)… and on the flip side, we’re learning to turn the lights off when we’re not so much into a random visitor on a Tuesday night.

It’s encouraging that a new friendship is starting to develop, and I’m learning that things take time to get used to and start feeling more like “home.” Oliver still barks at the mailman from the window, instead of getting to chase him down the street, and he misses Bear’s frequent visits, but now he has a side yard to lounge in, and special play-dates and babysitting weekends set up to spend more time with his buddy.  

As for the girl on the other side of the fence… I’m grateful to now have my own, personal “Wilson…” I mean how many people can say that? I’m sure more surprise visits are in store, and hopefully the next guy who lifts her up will be a keeper.  

  
xoxo

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

Ginger Comin’ in HOT

Our first date was a Friday night. Second was Monday, third was Wednesday, fourth was Thursday, fifth was Friday, sixth was Saturday, seventh was Monday, eighth was Wednesday. I’m not sure when you’re supposed to stop counting. But I’m very confused.

I’m confused as to how I have been being completely myself the entire time… at times, purposely pushing the envelope to see if I could creep him out, or he’d get squeamish, and he keeeeeppppsss coming backkkkk. I’ve burped, I’ve knocked over food, I’ve told him I had ghost pets, I’ve had him hang out with my sister and HER burps for an extended period of time, he’s witnessed my dance moves, I’ve made him sit through The Bachelor…TWICE… he’s stilllll calling.

I’m trying to find things wrong with him, but I really am having a hard time. He takes initiative on plans and always follows through, he’s been the epitome of a gentleman in every sense, he drunk dialed me, like an actual phone call… which yes, I consider very romantic, he’s a crap ton of fun to hang out with, my friends love him, he thinks we’re funny, and he has a cute bum (and a pool).

But there’s the one thing… The day after he came out in PB and met everyone, my sister was over, and was asking what I thought of Ginge. I explained that I thought I liked him, but there wasn’t anything that jumped out at me that was different. She responded:

“That’s because he’s a normal guy.”

“Yes! That’s what it is. He’s normal. I don’t usually see that as a positive.”

She gave me a long look. She didn’t even need to say anything, and I knew what she was thinking.

“Ohhhh…. maybe that’s what my problem is? I keep dating weirdos? Maybe that’s why it never works out?”

“Ummm… yeah…maybe, Court.”

Hmmmm… something to think about. Of course, now I thought I had found something wrong with him. He was too normal. But the more time I spend with him, the more his little quirks come out. He’s still normal, but there’s definitely a little spice in there.

Keeping true to form, there have obviously been the awkward moments. One night I was planning on going out in his ‘hood… Mission Valley… land of the strip malls (this is called sacrifice). I told him I’d leave in 15 minutes to pick him up at his place. About 15 minutes later, I’m getting ready to walk out the door, and Brie calls me.

“Ummm… I’m at Target in Mission Valley and I think I see the Ginger.”

“My Ginger??”

“Yeah.”

“No, it can’t be him, I just got off the phone with him and he was home. I don’t know why he’d need to go to Target right now.”

“Pretty sure it’s him. He’s wearing a blue shirt. Do you want me to go find him again?”

“Yeah… go ahead…”

I hear mumbling, and then Brie goes…”Yep…it’s him. Oh, we’re giving awkward hugs.”

She calls me back when he’s out of earshot.

I tell her, “I wish you didn’t let him see you. I could have been so creepy about this.”

“Court, don’t be creepy yet.”

“Was he buying anything weird?”

“No, just hair gel because he dropped his in the toilet or something. I wish I caught him buying condoms.”

“Ohhh yeah, that would have been so good.”

I picked him up a few minutes later, gave him a stalker look and told him I had eyes all over town. He just laughed, and our night continued as usual.

There’s something wrong here. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. But I think I’ll wait to figure it out until after we jump out of a plane together… which he just bought us a Groupon for. Maybe he’ll swap my parachute for a faulty one and I’ll end up dead. Maybe murder is his end game. I think I’m going to go with that.

Until we meet again, chickadees…

xoxo
Gossip Girl

The Ginger

He messaged me on Tinder a couple of weeks back. He had a witty opening line, and kept interesting conversation going.

A few days into our conversation, I had a couple of glasses of wine at happy hour, looked over his pics again, and messaged him:

“Are you a ginger?”

His response was a solid, “No,” but I didn’t really believe him.

We were both busy in upcoming days with weekend plans and work trips. We kept in contact throughout, with conversations ranging from ear cleaning with q-tips to our biggest life fears. He occupied me via text during a week-long of loneliness I spent traveling around Arizona. I appreciated his virtual presence, even though I hadn’t yet met him.

I could not wait to get home after that week… I felt like I had been in solitary confinement (I was very dramatic and cranky about it). The Ginger wanted to get together. I made plans to do dinner and happy hour with the girls on Friday night when I got back, but suggested that we could meet up after. For some reason I forgot that I hate talking to people for an extended period of time before meeting them. I really do hate that. But I had done it anyway. When I realized that’s what we had been doing for two weeks, I all of a sudden got a little bit nervous.

I felt comfortable enough with him at this point to suggest we make a plan to escape each other immediately after meeting, if we decided we didn’t like each other in person. His response?

“If you want, but I already know I’m going to like you.”

Oh, a sweet talker. We planned to meet at Dirty Birds in PB. I somehow timed a really long trip to the bathroom perfectly for right before he showed up (this is sarcasm. This was really not perfect at all). He walked in, and apparently really awkwardly looked around for me. The girls saw him looking and thought it might be him, so they picked up my phone from the table and checked his Tinder pics to confirm. I came out several minutes later, saw him already standing there with them, and thought “Crap…” [pun intended]. Thankfully, even after I’m sure an awkward introduction to the girls, (my sister was involved, it was obviously awkward), he was holding his own.

We hugged hello, I apologized for being missing for so long (I wonder if he knew I was pooping?) and then he went to the bar and bought a round of Fireball shots for everyone. Sold.

The night progressed, we made our way to our usual spots. The Ginger was tall, and had a hot bod. I learned he was a D-1 baseball player which made him juuustttt a little bit hotter (I’m shallow… what can I say?)

**************************************************************

…. I started writing this post almost two weeks ago. I got pretty distracted. I just pulled it up to continue, but realized it would turn into a novel at this point… so… until next time.

Date at the Drive-In

I woke up this morning at 5am, on the couch with an empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on the floor next to me, the TV still blaring, and all of the lights on.  It’s Tuesday.  It took me a couple of minutes to figure out where I was and what I did last night.

What did I do last night?  Ironically enough, I went on the most tame and sober first date I’ve ever been on.  Then I watched the Bachelor and fell asleep in the middle.

I just started talking to this guy yesterday morning.  All I knew was that his name was Toby, he surfed on really big waves, and he’ll be going to Darfur in August with an NGO to work with people with war trauma.

After a short conversation via text, he asked me to go for a “stroll on the boardwalk.”  I declined, due to the fact that Sunday night was NOT the most tame and sober night of my life, and I was looking forward to sweatpants and a nap after work.  Not “strolling” around the boardwalk.  He then came back at me with an invite to the drive-in movie theater instead, claiming he’d have blankets and pillows, and would be going with his friend and a date.  I’m not sure why, but I felt I couldn’t pass up an invite to a drive-in, because that seems like a pretty rad thing to do with someone you’ve never met before, and I’d never been to a drive-in.  I mean, how 60’s of us.  And I figured the friend would be a good buffer.  So I agreed.

I come home from work, and start getting ready.  My roommate T asks me what I’m doing.

“Going to a drive-in with some guy, his friend and another girl.”

“What drive-in are you going to?”

“I don’t know.”

“What movie are you seeing?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does the guy do?”

“No idea.”

“Did his friend meet his date on Tinder?”

“I don’t know.”

“Court, do you know anything??”

“No.  Well… his name is Toby…  I’m going to get murdered, aren’t I?”

“Drive-in” is definitely code for murder.  Crap.  I should have thought this over a little more.  Toby is prompt and rings the doorbell at 7pm to pick me up.  I told him beforehand I had a watch dog… Just in case he was thinking of doing anything creepy.  I made sure T and V got a good look at him before we headed out the door.

He was a gentleman and walked around the car to open the door for me.  Wowwwwyyyy.  I probably made an awkward comment.  Yeah, I definitely did.  Guys don’t usually do that.  The drive-in was really far away.  Like really far.  Like I’m pretty sure if we had driven another half a mile, we would have been in Mexico.  This gave us a lot of time to talk.  Although in the first few minutes of conversation I found out he had never drunk an alcoholic beverage before in his life.  Wait, what?  Most of my weekends (and, ok… some week days) are spent at the bars with friends, or at events that revolve around drinking alcoholic beverages.  Is it wrong that I was ready for him to turn the car around at that point and bring me home?

That wasn’t an option.  As I learned more about Toby, I came to realize he is pretty much the most interesting human being I’ve ever met.  First of all, his job is literally chasing swells around the world.  Literally.  If there’s a big swell somewhere, he has a guy who calls him, tells him what plane to get on, meets him in whatever country it is, and then drives him to the wave.  When I say “drives him to the wave,” I mean he drives him to the wave even if there are no roads that lead there.   He holds a world record in surfing the biggest recorded wave paddled out t0, and his time out of the water requires a novel all in its own.  He told stories about hunting down rapists in Africa, and his journalism in foreign war zones… stories that I may had questioned if I didn’t see photos and videos on his iPhone.  Like, basically… I want his life.

He was pretty good-looking but also totally dorky and awkward.  I enjoyed his company and conversation, but I most definitely didn’t want his hand on my back while we were lying in his Prius with the back seats folded down and the hatch up, watching the first movie.  But that’s where he put his hand.  I also didn’t want him to pull my head in to try to kiss me, out of no where.  Which he also did.

I’m not sure why you think that you can hang out with me for an hour, not give me any alcohol, and then I’ll want to kiss you?  No.  No no no no no no no no.  I pulled my head away so hard I think I got whiplash.  When he asked what was wrong, I exclaimed, “I’m not making out with you!”

I felt like I was in 8th grade.  Like what 36-year-old thinks this is a normal situation?  Being in the back of a car at a DRIVE-IN MOVIE with someone you’ve NEVER MET BEFORE… I sure as hell don’t want to make out with you right now!  I’m still trying to justify agreeing to this idea in the first place.

His friend finally showed up… with a date who I learned, he had only met once… but they parked a few cars down from us so basically it was only introductions.  I legitimately felt like I was in high school and the two guys were having a contest to see who could make-out first…  Although when I suggested that’s what was happening,  Toby acted like that was a preposterous idea.  If there was any sort of bet, he most certainly lost.

At one point he was trying to read my palm.  I figured he was going to say something really cheesy.  He kept looking at it.

I said, “I know you’re going to say something really dorky.”

“No.”

He looked at it, while tracing the lines with his finger… for so long that I legitimately started getting scared.  My brain went into overtime, and I convinced myself that he was going to tell me he sees a murder in my very near future, and then he was going to stab me with something he had hidden under the blankets and dump me in the back of this big field behind the dumpsters… or even better yet, just throw me over the border into Mexico and be done with me.

At that point, I pulled my hand away and he finally said, “It says you’re beautiful!”

OMGGGGGGGGG get me outta here.

I was sooo tired, which I was sure to mention multiple times.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like talking to him;  it was just a weird situation.  I wasn’t sure if I should be watching the movie or continuing conversation.  We were in the back of a Prius in a random field far from home, and there was no wine… or beer.  Just so many things wrong with this picture.  I didn’t even know his last name.   I wanted to go home.

On our loonnnggg ride home we talked a lot more.  Apparently his aggressive make-out advances work “90% of the time”  (I asked).  But the whole drive-in was a first for him as well.  He got to my house and turned the car off.  I wasn’t understanding why he was turning the car off, so I obviously was super awkward and said, “Oh, why are you getting out of the car?”

In reality, he was just getting out of the car to be a gentleman.  After I questioned his turning off the car, he offered a hug while he was still inside the car if I would prefer that, but I let him get out.   I still didn’t understand why he had to turn the car OFF to give me a hug.   Then he asked if I’d like to go out again… Like, what am I supposed to say?

“No?”  Or…. “You tried to stick your tongue down my throat at the drive-in?”  So I said yes.  Obviously.

Here’s the thing.  I want to hang out with him more because he’s super cool.  And I want him to invite me to Darfur.  But I don’t want him to stick his tongue in my mouth.  So I guess next time I talk to him, I’ll just tell him that.  That’s fine, right?

I think it’s Wednesday now… So Happy Hump Day.  With lots of love from me and my empty bag of Flamin’ Hots.  Which I have officially quit.  Cheetos, we are so done.

xoxo

Gossip Girl.

The Grass Is Always Greener…

… Always.

A friend posted an article on Facebook today called:  20 Ways Married Women Betray Our Single Girlfriends.  It was written by someone who was married, as sort of eye-opener, and an apology to her single girlfriends.  There are a few things I agree with, a few I don’t, a few that made me laugh, but as a whole, it made me think about how no matter what our relationship status, there are always things we envy of those on the other side of the fence.

Being in my early 30’s (ew, a;ldksfjadlfkja), the majority of my closest girlfriends are married… some have been for years.  Many have children.  I can honestly say that in my early 20’s, I thought I’d be one of the first.  I had been in the longest, most serious relationship of any of my friends, and I didn’t see any path other than the one that led us down the aisle into happily ever after.  I’d like to take my 23-year-old self and give her a swift kick in the ass.  I didn’t know what I was doing when I was 23.  I had no business living in a high-rise overlooking the Manhattan skyline with my college boyfriend, when our combined salaries barely paid the rent, and we basically pulled the couch cushions up about once a week to look for change for dinner.  No business.  But that’s what I chose to do.  And I thought it made me happy.  And I thought I was a grown-up and knew all there was to know.

That relationship ran its course.  The boyfriend moved to California for work, and my job wouldn’t allow me to go with him.  We tried to make it work for a while, but when push came to shove, I guess it just wasn’t right.  That one took me a long time to get over.  A lot of ups and downs, and “did we do the right thing?” and visits, and relapses, until one of us entered into a relationship with someone else, and things were finally really over.  It wasn’t until my next serious relationship that I realized how big of a dumbass I would have been to get married in my early 20’s.  I had no idea who I was. I had no idea what a real, grown-up relationship looked like.  I didn’t know that passion wasn’t enough to have a healthy relationship.   That following one taught me a lot.  It taught me I could truly trust a person.  It showed me that a higher level connection was possible, and it taught me that the person I want to be with is one I can sit on a front porch with until I’m 90 and not run out of things to talk about.  It also taught me that two people’s priorities and goals need to align in order for a relationship to work.  Which, in this case, they did not.

What has taught me the most, though, is the past two years.  The ones I spent alone.  I spent my entire 20’s in serious relationships, thinking every step of the way that marriage was the goal, and what was going to come next.  I failed to look around, and see that there’s more going on outside of my little box than creating the perfect relationship, and wondering what the stupid ring would look like on my stupid fat finger.  Like really?  Who CARES?!  Come to think of it, I’d like to give my entire 20’s-self a swift kick in the ass…  For not really getting to know who I was alone.  For caring about crap that really didn’t matter at all… And for not really opening my eyes and turning from side to side.

The past two years have been liberating.  Lonely at times?  Yeah, of course.  Missing having a significant other to love sometimes?  Yeah.  But very much-needed.  I don’t think as women, we always put enough stock in ourselves as individuals.  It’s all about the chase for the perfect relationship, settling down with a house and kids, but what about our relationships with ourselves?  Do we know ourselves without “another half?”  Maybe some do.  Maybe some were way farther along than I was in my early 20’s.  But I sure as hell had no clue what I was doing, and I probably still have a lot to learn.

The article above hammers the point home.  As much as some of us feel we should be looking for marriage and should be starting to have children, maybe we should look around and see what we do have.  Maybe we should realize that even if the husband and kids are the end goal, there ARE things about single life we will surely miss.  As dreadful and awkward as many first dates are, as much as we’d like someone to cuddle up and watch a movie with sometimes, just take a moment and really think… think about when we’re married with little kids running around… how much we’re going to remember those nights at the bar with our other single girlfriends bitching about whatever meathead there was to bitch about at the time.  And laughing about the awful dates and the weird things we accidentally said.  And as much as I know I want the family life eventually… at some point, I do realize, I may mutter the words, “I miss Tinder.”

Peace out, muffins.

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

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