Bastille Day 2010

Not long after Americans celebrate their Independence Day every July 4th, the French honor a similar holiday ten days later. This is known as Bastille Day. I could go into the history of why the Bastille is important, (even though the monument in Paris dedicated to this event is tiny and underwhelming just like a lot of things I've experienced lately), but that's not what this post is about at all. Two years ago on July 14th, while the French were setting off lots of fireworks, wearing scarves, and eating patriotic colored cheeses (I'm really not sure how they celebrate to be honest), I was having quite possibly one of the worst days of my life.

That's it?

Let's rewind the clock back to Summer 2010. (*Diddly do diddly do diddly do*) I had basically been unemployed since mid-November, even though I had recently attained an expensive but ultimately worthless college degree. I had briefly worked for the Census, (oh god, the horror!), and was reading scripts for a screenwriting competition at $10 a pop under the table (shhhh!), but still drowning financially. My unemployment checks didn't even cover half of my rent, and I was tearing through my savings just to afford little luxuries like the occasional ramen noodle packet and electricity.

Oh life sustaining yet nutrition less white carbs.
So delicious when you don't depend on them for survival.
 I may have this for lunch just because I can now afford real food.

Thankfully, my parents were able to take over my exorbitant student loan payments temporarily, which was a major financial hardship for them. I was also hugely overweight at the time. Not that this was unusual for me, but it certainly didn't help matters. I didn't really know that many people in Los Angeles, even though I'd lived there for a whole year. So basically I just sat alone in my apartment all day desperately combing Craigslist and other job listing sites for anything to keep the tiny South Central studio roof over my head.

It was a shitty, shitty period in my life. Weeks would go by when the only time I would step outside my door would be to move Stan from one side of the street to the other for street sweeping days. If it wasn't for this simple, yet very important task, I would have had no concept of what day of the week it was. Street sweeping was the only thing that gave me structure in my life. That's why I awoke with a jolt when I heard the obnoxious beeping of the street sweeper at 8am on Wednesday, July 14th, two hours before it was due. I had been planning on moving my car right before 10am, so I bolted out of my iron screen door wearing only a t-shirt and bright yellow happy face boxers. Sure enough, the entire side of the street was empty, and Stan was nowhere to be found. A helpful neighbor sitting on his stoop informed me that my car had been towed.

It's sad when this is the only thing giving your life structure.

This was a first for me. I had never had a car towed or even legitimately ticketed in my life! (Ok, there was that time six months earlier when I got a fix-it ticket for a busted headlight because Stan's cover fell off and lightbulbs always seem to burst). I was flabbergasted, flummoxed, and in all other ways bewildered. Luckily, said helpful neighbor knew where it had been taken and the impound was within walking distance. So I got dressed and walked the streets of South Central to rescue Stan. Remember how I said I was unemployed and broke at the time? I think I had maybe $40 in my checking account and that was it. My credit card practically screamed out loud when I had to fork over $300 to retrieve my beloved vehicle. It turns out that they were paving the street that day, without notifying the residents of Mont Clair St. They did post signs saying 'temporary tow away', but they did not have a date on them and I swear they had been up since the previous week. You know how they tend to leave those signs up for weeks after completion...

Sigh.

When I got to Stan, I noticed that not only was I towed, but there was a ticket on his windshield. SERIOUSLY? I didn't know you could be both towed and ticketed for the same offense. Yup. You can. The ticket was only for $60, which doesn't seem like that much. However, this paltry amount would have literally bankrupted me. I was so depressed that I didn't feel like going home after the impound. So I drove. I ended up all the way in Santa Monica, just wandering the beautiful, clean, smoke-free streets. Until I found the King's Head pub. And proceeded to drown my sorrows with cider and over-priced fish and chips. (Hey, I'd already spent $300 on my only credit card, what's another $30 at this point?). After the pub, I walked around the beach and pier, being all classy and day drunk, wallowing in misery. I had to stay there for several hours until my ill-advised mini-bender wore off and I could go home.

Ye Olde King's Head Pub. 

But I ended up fighting the ticket. I sent in a letter to the Parking Violations stating my case, and waited. And waited. To this day, I never received anything from them. Then my dad gets a letter from the DMV saying that I can't re-register my car until it's paid. Only now it's $154 with the late fee.

"We could certainly party with the Haiti-ans!"

WHAT THE HELL????!!! I had to call in three separate times and wait on hold for them to determine that they sent the letter with the decision that the ticket was valid (B.S.) to the wrong address. Luckily, I was able to sweet-talk them into waiving that late fee, "totally based on my powers of persuasion." Cher Horowitz would have been proud. And since I now have a job (though I still manage to be broke all the time), it's not quite as painful to shell out $60. But since the registration deadline is ticking, I had to make sure that the check got mailed today. Because naturally this is the one case where you can't pay over the phone or online. Argh. So I literally chased down the mail man, who happened to be driving by. He was very friendly and took my letter for me. He was also a champ and didn't laugh when the back full of donated clothes I happened to be carrying split all over the road. (I was going to make a pit-stop at the Salvation Army barrel thingy). It was quite the slapsticky sight to see.

Clearly Sadie has a "Stan" of her own!

Super long, depressing, and boring story short, this was one of the worst days of my life. The only thing that got me out of my funk was that my adorable, spunky niece Miss Sadie was born the next day. So even though my life was still super crappy, I realized that being an aunt makes it all worthwhile. (Cue the Awwwws here!)

Even More Fishy Deal Breakers

This is a follow up to my list of deal breakers when it comes to just looking at profiles. Here are a few more that pertain to actual interaction with potential fish:

• Messages that just say, "Hi," or something similarly brief and generic. Say something that shows you actually read my profile. Because it's a good one. 

This is NOT me. I just wanted to prove that there is a conspiracy out there about how shaving your legs is not really a huge pain in the ass. I do it because I'm socially obligated, but I don't have to like it! Harrumph!

• Flakiness. I seem to run into this a lot. These guys like to hold off on confirming plans, frequently cancel them at the last minute, and come up with lame excuses as to why. (Sorry guys I've actually dated, you were just as guilty!) Then they try to set up something else and act like they didn't just leave you hanging an hour before you were supposed to meet when you took the trouble of shaving your legs and putting on makeup. For someone as low-maintenance as me, this is NOT OK.
• Late night and/or over-texting. If I make the decision to give out my phone number, which I do not do lightly, some guys text you a million times a day, sometimes multiple texts in a row without letting you respond, (especially bad since I don't have unlimited texting) and the worst offense of all, texting after 10pm on a weeknight. I'm sorry boys, I have to get my beauty sleep. Because I'm a monster if I get less than 8 hours of sleep. And a boy who texts you at 2am, most likely does not have honorable intentions on his mind.

What I feel like most of the time...

• Hot and cold. One minute, he's giving you the full court press and you have all the power, the next, you feel like "Josie Grossie at the Prom" (Shout-Out to my buddy Allison for that little gem). Dating shouldn't be this much of a game. If you're interested, be interested. If you're not, then just let it go. Be straightforward from the start.
• Inappropriateness. Nothing makes you feel less like a lady than a guy talking dirty to you when you haven't even met yet and just barely started getting to know each other. I'm sorry, but you have to earn that right with me, Sir. I have some dignity, after all! Whatever happened to romance and being woo'd (tee hee, that's another word I love, woo)? Just sayin'.
• Relationship status. This is related to the previous item. If you're really just looking for a hook-up, or an "intimate encounter" as the creepier pervs refer to it as (shudder), just be honest. Surely there's someone out there for you who is into that. Don't lie and say you want a relationship when you don't. No hard feelings.
• Breaking up via text message. Yep. That happened. Granted, I appreciated that it was a lot less awkward than doing it in person. But come on, at least give a girl a phone call!

 It's been an exhilarating and obnoxious experience, so I just had to share my observations on the subject. Anyone else have any weird deal breakers?

PS! I just thought of another one! I had a guy message me me first that I was actually really interested in (6'3'', lives relatively close to me, Jewish), but then he never got back to me! Hey, you made the first move buddy. How did I manage to alienate a guy before we've even met? 

Unexpected Dealbreakers

I may have mentioned recently that I am back on Plentyoffish, the online dating site for the poor, lazy, and uninspired. If you haven't heard the details already, basically the gist is that the Gentleman Caller got a job in the wild North and we had to go our separate ways : ( But, onward and upward I always say, like the baller that I am. That means going shopping for new man candies. It's been a while since I've been on POF, but it seems even more pathetic than the first couple times around. I guess it couldn't have been that bad, since I landed three very decent men from that giant and mostly questionable ocean over the course of about eight months.

Awww.

But man-shopping online is not unlike clothes-shopping online. You have to sift through a lot of crap to find something that you like, it's impossible to know what it's really like until you try it on, and it may not end up being that great of a deal after shipping and processing...wait I think I lost track of the analogy. Anyway, my brain has created some shortcuts to eliminate the unsuitable while clicking through the "Do You Want to Meet This Person?" Gallery. I've already written about how my standards for men are not that high. But this process has made me realize that while some of the guys I find myself attracted to are not prize stallions by any means, I do have some rather strange and specific deal breakers. I will list them now:

This rarely happens. And when it does, it's just creepy.

• Proximity. I refuse to commute longer than 30 minutes for a date. Even then, 30 is pushing it.
• Age. I originally had my search parameters set for men ages 21-35. Realistically, it's more like 24-30. It seems so arbitrary, and yet I find myself instantly clicking next if a guy just happens to fall outside of that range. 
• 420-Friendly. I'm in favor of legalization, don't get me wrong. In fact, it's one of the few political issues I actually care about. But marijuana smells gross and the few times I tried it back in the day, I hated the way it made my head feel like a helium balloon escaping my body. It's just not my jam, fellas. 
• Gym rats. I know I've become a gym rat lately (in fact, I just got back from the gym myself). And I find myself loving the way it makes me feel and how it gives me something to do when I'm bored. But if someone lists "going to the gym" or "working out" or god forbid, "working on my fitness" (true story) as one of their hobbies, that's a NOPE! To me, it seems so vain and pointless to spend hours upon hours at the gym, either scamming on chicks or overcompensating for a small penis with large biceps. It also seems like the guy version of saying, "I'm desperate!" And yet it seems to be one of the most prevailing trends on POF.

Bums. Me. Out.

• Pictures with iPhones taken in the bathroom. This often goes hand in hand with the previous offense. It just bums me out. Especially if they're posing with their shirt off or lifted or showing off the aforementioned biceps.
• UFC Fans. They usually go hand in hand in hand with Gym rats and bathroom photo-takers. To me, that just screams DOUCHE ALERT!!!
• Pictures with other people, especially girls and/or children. Sure, every guy says the girl in the photo is just a sister or a friend. BS. At least have the decency to crop her out. And if it's a picture of you and your buddies, crop them out too so I know which one you are! And even if the kid is your niece or nephew, they have no business being on POF.
• Bad spelling or grammar. This is the biggest one behind proximity. I'm sorry, but it's an instant turn-off if you use 'u' instead of 'you' or write poorly spelled words in all caps and/or refuse to use the correct punctuation marks or any at all. I know this makes me sound like a grammar nazi school teacher, but this is important to me. It just shows that you're either lazy and/or an idiot. And I'm interested in neither.

Nope.

• Religion. I guess this isn't an instant deal breaker, but one of the first stats POF lists is a person's religion. And I just could never be with a Jesus Freak or the equivalent in another faith. It's a sensitive subject for me.  I'd hate to be with someone who couldn't share that passion with me at best, or at worst would always try to convert me. And that's not fair to either of us. 
• Height. To be honest, a guy has to be over 5'10'' to date me. And every inch over 6' gets major points. Super stupid and unfair, I know, just like the age thing. But I never claimed this list was especially rational.
• Country music. It is a well-documented fact that I HATE country music and could never understand someone who liked it. (Though to be honest, I did break this cardinal rule for the Gentleman Caller. He also had a white truck, which I swore to myself I would never the owner of a white truck. Fail, Hutch. Fail.)

There's actually a lot more, but I think I'll stop here. Eleven is a nice non-round number. I actually made a whole other list of pet peeves that occur whilst you're interacting with another fish. But that deserved its own blog.

Words You Should Use More

As a writer (sort of), I'm obviously a big fan of words. Which is why I firmly believe that we should all be expanding our vocabulary and using every conversation, status update, even tweet, as an excuse to employ a variety of awesome words. In that spirit, I've compiled a list of words that never fail to make me smile. Try and use them in a sentence today, just to humor me.

This picture is very literal. 

• Hooch
• Noun. Meaning booze. It invokes the idea of an old-timey speakeasy like the kind I recently discovered in Varnish in Downtown LA. And for some reason, when I'm having a bad day and really need a drink, calling it hooch makes it that much more satisfying.
• Shenanigans and/or Tomfoolery
• Noun. Meaning silly antics. It makes me think of good times with good friends doing stupid stuff.
• Fisticuffs
• Noun. Meaning a fight. I picture a couple of dandies slapping each other with designer gloves and that image is just priceless.

Fabulous.

• Dandy
• Adjective. Meaning great. Also, as a noun, "a man who affects extreme elegance in clothes and manners; a fop." I also like fop. Basically I think of Oscar Wilde and he totally would have been my gay best friend had we been contemporaries. We also have the same birthday which can't be a coincidence.
• Bitchin'
• Adjective. Meaning awesome. I know it's outdated, but slang words are cyclical. I think this one is ripe for a comeback. I also like that it's such a delightful, positive notion and yet it contains a swear word.
• Jaunty
• Adjective. Meaning...well I'm not sure what the exact definition is. I just know it when I see it. Basically I think of Clark Gable and other men who wear fedoras at a rakish angle. Ok, just googled it and it means "Having a buoyant or self-confident air, or crisp and dapper in appearance." Nice.
• Impervious
• Adjective. Meaning bulletproof. Well, not literally. But even saying the word makes me feel powerful. I'm a just a loon like that.

Such glorious disdain.

• Aces
• Exclamation. Meaning "that's good," but mostly sarcastically. I love this because John Hughes wrote it, and Molly Ringwald said it in Sixteen Candles. And when you're really pissed off, and someone is trying in vain to cheer you up, this is such a great comeback.
• Dig
• Verb, as in "I dig that." Meaning "I enjoy that."Also a slang term that has since faded into relative oblivion. But it's making a comeback, if I have anything to say about it.
• Loathe
• Verb. Meaning hate. If hate is such an ugly word, loathe is a lot more dignified and elegant. It also feels so much more sincere. You have to really hate something to use the word loathe.
• Grand
• Adjective. Also meaning great. Whenever someone asks me how I am, I refuse to say fine or great. I try to use a different response every time. I also like magnificent, tremendous, and phenomenal. It tends to catch people off guard and make you appear very winsome and adorable. Which I am.
• Indomitable
• Adjective. Meaning "impossible to subdue or defeat." This is another empowering word. Especially when combined in the phrase "indomitable will." It makes you feel like you are stronger than anything that comes your way.

His face is priceless here.

• Inconceivable
• Adjective. Meaning unbelievable. I love this almost exclusively because of the Princess Bride. "You keep on using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."
• Hootenanny and/or Shindig
• Noun. Meaning a gathering of sorts. You know you're going to have a good time if you're going not to a soiree, which sounds really boring, but a good ol' fashioned hootenanny!

At first I was having a hard time coming up with more than like eight, but then they just started pouring out of my brain. I'm cutting myself off in order to avoid sounding like a rip-off of Urban Dictionary. But I will open this up to anyone who wishes to submit their own spectacular verbiage. (Oooh, two more great words!)

Why I Loathe Country Music

I recently found out that one of the head honchos from my corporate office loves country music. This is the last guy you would ever think would rock Taylor Swift on Pandora in a crowded office and not feel one ounce of shame. One of my other bosses is also a closet redneck, to the point that his ringback tone is chock full of hee haw pride that I can never get out of my head whenever I call him ("I'm a lifetime sponsor of the FFA," Damn! Every time!). Even my girls in the Sally Tomatoes, who are educated, sophisticated, and classy broads all seem waaaaay too down with Carrie Underwood and the Dixie Chicks. Whenever we karaoke (which is often), one of them inevitably busts out the honky tonk, and they all sing along robustly whilst I sit sullenly by, nursing my vodka tonic.

This is not OK.

I need this shirt.

Country music is the scourge of the earth. I have very eclectic taste in music (other than hard core gangsta rap that doesn't even have a catchy hook you can sing along to and just kind of mumble and make up the words in between). But I cannot abide country music. Here are the reasons why:

1. I'm dead sick of it. When I worked at the grocery store in my sort-of hometown of Foresthill, CA (which is just about as hillbilly as you can get without the accent), I had to listen to nothing but contemporary country music over and over and over and over again. Seriously, my ears were bleeding after only a few months. The job itself wasn't terrible. But the music made it unbearable. To this day, I can't hear it without cringing.

Oh Wortons. Not-so-good times. And even worse music.

2. It's pandering to the sap in all of us. If I had a nickel for every time I started accidentally tearing up at some sickly sweet country song about some kid with a sick mother, or cheaply invoking 9-11, or a daddy singing lullabies to his daughter, or an couple growing old together and reminiscing about the good old days, I'd have MANY NICKELS! What's worse is that I know exactly how they're manipulating my emotions and yet it's working anyway. Damn them! The worst offenders: "Christmas Shoes," "Butterfly Kisses," "Oklahoma," and "Remember When." The only pandering song I secretly like, "Don't Take the Girl." But only because it reminds me of roller skating when I was eight years old. Not sure why.

Damn you Alan Jackson, making my parents tear up whenever they hear your song.

3. Steel guitars. There's something about the twang of a steel guitar that just drives me absolutely batty. I realized that it's racist against a guitar that can't help the way it sounds. But it just has a connotation of everything I loathe about country music that I throw up a little in my mouth whenever I hear one.

Poor, misunderstood instrument.

4. Redneck pride. There is nothing cool about being a redneck. Having gone to school grades 5th through 12th and being surrounded by a large population of them, I can say this from experience. Uber-tight pants, ugly cowboy boots, giant-ass belt buckles, and tucked-in t-shirts, do not spell sexy. So to musically boast about being one of these sad creatures is just unfathomable.

This man represents everything that is wrong with America.

5. Property damage. This namely applies to one particular song that always pops up on karaoke night. "Before He Cheats," by Carrie Underwood. Yes I understand that it's supposed to be the anthem of the wronged Southern woman. Designed to make girls who have been scorned feel some sort of cathartic, vicarious vindication. But all I can feel when I listen to the tale of this angry woman beating the shit out of a guy's expensive, souped up car, just pisses me off. Who is going to pay for that damage? And why are we encouraging women to inflict costly destruction when a man strays? This is not a healthy outlet and I do NOT support this song, no matter how catchy it is.

I sure hope she is willing to fork over for her night of vehicular massacre.

6. The lyrics. Who writes this shit? I know that not all lyrics are golden, but the worst ones seem to stem exclusively from country music.

That's just too many sequins for one little girl.

7. Taylor Swift. I know she's America's sweetheart, but I think she's the devil in a sparkly cocktail dress. She seems like a nice girl. But her music is terrible. And I saw her on Saturday Night Live before I had ever heard her music, and she was god awful live. (Though, to be fair, 97% of the performers on SNL are terrible live). Her stupid sparkly guitar and her middle-school lyrics and raccoon eyes. Ok, so I admit that she's secretly a guilty pleasure. But I refuse to ever download her music or openly admit that I've rocked out to "You Belong to Me" on Stan's speakers when no one can hear me. And I hate myself for it.

Oh Billy Ray. With a name like that, you never had a chance.

8. Mullets. Enough said.

I'm sure there are more, but I just had a large, fruity and delicious cocktail and my brain is feeling delightfully fuzzy. Let's just say, I effing HATE country music.

Scum and Villainy

Recently I have taken over the task of managing the Facebook page for my property. Which is kind of fun, since I'm getting paid to do something I've been doing for free for the past six years. It's also nice to take a break from parking catastrophes and leaky water heaters and think about something positive. After meeting with our Regional Marketing Manager (who also happens to be a good friend and fellow Sally Tomato), I had some great ideas for what to post. She mentioned highlighting strange holidays, like National Talk Like a Pirate Day or National Grilled Cheese Day, stuff meant to get peoples attention and have them discuss in depth on our page. Voila, free advertising! Social media marketing is the wave of the future after all.

Grilled Cheese is awesome.

Seeing as today is May 4th, it seemed only fitting that my inaugural status update be about Star Wars Day (if you aren't friends with any nerds, it references "May the Fourth be with you"). Here is what I said, "Happy Star Wars Day! May the Fourth be with you! What are some of your favorite Star Wars quotes?" I have to admit, I was slightly bummed that we weren't instantly bombarded with hundreds of George Lucas's best lines. So I decided to get the ball rolling with my own favorite quote:

"You will never find a more wretched 

hive of scum and villainy." 

Now, if you are complete dolt and have never seen Star Wars, this line describes the Mos Eisley Cantina, an intergalactic dive bar with some killer live music and local color. It may be somewhat obscure, but I just love how eloquently disdainful the quote is. Plus, Alec Guiness's delivery gives me goosebumps for some reason. (Sidebar, did you know that Alec Guiness hated Star Wars? Well La Di Da Mr. Shakespearian Thespian...)

The comment had been up for about a minute when I began to over think as I am wont to do, especially when sending out something that hundreds, potentially thousands of people are going to read. Think about that line again. In the context of an apartment complex Facebook page. Does it sound at all like I'm calling the property a "wretched hive of scum and villainy?" Because that's what it seemed like to me. Completely unintentional, or course. But I decided to delete it after only a few minutes. God knows how many people saw it, read it, and read that much into it. I seriously doubt they gave it any thought. I know that I tend to ignore or hide any postings from companies. But since I'm obsessive and this is Corporate America, you can't be too careful when it comes to anything permanent like that.

Yes, that is a cake. Happy Star Wars Day Indeed!

I'm publicly admitting to this blunder mostly because as soon as I took it down, I started laughing hysterically. Because on a really bad day, when people are really pissing me off, I would feel that it's not entirely inaccurate. But you just can't go around inadvertently trash talking your place of business, particularly through a medium designed to promote the darn place. Even if it is thinly veiled through a quote from an iconic seventies sci fi opera/western/epic. So far no one has provided any other quotes. But I'm determined to make this the most popular apartment company Facebook profile on the interweb, so help me Yoda!

Namaste

I just had my first real experience with yoga this evening. I actually went to a class on Monday, but it had a meditative focus that meant a lot of lying down quietly in the dark. I can do that at home for free. Tonight was a lot more intense, but not as hard as I thought it would be. Mostly because it was a million degrees in the studio. I know they're trying to get you to sweat out your toxins, but if you're wearing gray yoga pants for the first time, you sweat so much it looks like you peed your pants. (You're welcome for that image by the way).

I still love this movie.

It was hard for me to relax, since I raced over to Burbank from Studio City after work, cursing traffic and lack of convenient parking spaces. I just barely made it in time, so I didn't get a chance to go to the bathroom beforehand. I try to drink a lot of water these days, so I spent the whole hour with an uncomfortably full bladder being twisted into new and unusual shapes. (Sidebar, I had a similar experience with my first pap smear. Talk about uncomfortable! ... Too much information?)

The last thing you want when your bladder is about to burst 

is someone literally poking it. Yowza!

As for the session itself, I liked that it was set to Bob Marley rather than far out New Age-y music. But like the first time, the instructor kept using words like 'chakra' and 'energy' and 'third eye' in a deliberately soothing voice. I sympathized with a lady in back who couldn't stop giggling at the absurdity of it all. I kept my s--- together, but there were times I just balked at some of the terms. I almost lost it when we literally started by chanting 'oooooooohm' and ended with our hands in front of our hearts and bidding a farewell 'namaste.' I guess it's just been so parodied in pop culture that it was bizarre to think that people are genuine in their yoga spirituality. As a skeptic, I find it hard to buy into all that.

 Sidebar, the word 'namaste' always makes me think of this toolbag from "Lost."

Since we've already wandered into and gotten lost in too much information territory, I will tell you my other problem with yoga: my ass. It is just too big to do many floor exercises comfortably. There's a major height difference between my ass and lower back when I'm lying down and it's down right painful to try and roll back and forth like a rocking horse. Forget about The Plow position, I didn't even attempt it. My only other complaint was that halfway through my "dead man's pose" (that name I actually dug), the instructor started giving everyone mini-massages. I don't like to be touched. Especially by complete strangers. I dare say the massage had the opposite effect.

Is there a yoga school of thought that isn't all trippy hippy-ish?

Or does it just come with the territory?

It was a great workout though and I do feel really nice and relaxed. I just can't decide if it's worth the extra $15 a month. There aren't that many classes that work with my schedule, and clearly this one is just too hard to change, drive, park, and check in with only a half hour window (and that's IF I get off work on time. Note the big IF.) I should probably just get over myself though and suck it up. I mean, I already bought the yoga mat and everything. (It turns out they provide yoga mats for you. There goes that $12. I'm glad I have my own though. I'd hate to think about rolling around on a communal mat soaked with other peoples' sweat. Blech. You're welcome for that one too!)

Time and Space

I probably won't advertise this post on Facebook or Twitter, but I feel the need to write about something that only my devoted (haha) fans will care about. It took me a long time to finally give in and start online dating for real. I first started looking at plentyoffish back in October 2010, and was so dismayed at the horror that I gave up. I looked into it again a few months later (whilst tipsy), and again couldn't do it. But in August 2011, something changed. I decided to take control of my life and not just wait around for things to happen to me. That's when I started eating healthier, working out, and finished filling out my online profile. Not that I believed I had to be thin in order to date, but it was a matter of self-confidence.

I actually had fairly good luck with the site. I dated a few guys pretty casually until I met the Gentleman Caller in November. If you've been reading my blog, you may have picked up on the fact that I haven't referred to him as my 'boyfriend.' This is for a few reasons: 1. I hate that word. For some reason, it seems really smug. I used to want to slap girls who talked non-stop about their 'boyfriend' as if they were lording it over those of us who didn't have them. And 2. Being a total commitment-phobe, this label and inherent definition freaks me out. Ain't no ring on this finger, I do what I want! And yet, for all intents and purposes, that's what he was. He fought by my side when the cockroaches tried to take over my apartment. He basically carried my old dead fridge down the stairs and brought my new sparkling one back up all by himself. He even came to my rescue when Stan decided to die on my lunch break at Baja Fresh. He taught me how to golf, fish, and shoot clay pigeons with shotguns. He's good people, that one. We had good times too.

At least it gives me an excuse to eat chocolate again.

But he told me from (almost) the start, that his work might take him elsewhere. Like, other side of the country elsewhere. Basically we had an expiration date from the start, but we didn't know exactly if, when, or where. With that in mind, I really tried to maintain a certain level of distance (which is the third reason I avoided the 'b' word.) No reason to get attached when the axe could drop at any moment. He called me a few weeks ago to let me know that his boss needed him for a wildlife survey in Southern Oregon beginning April 24th and lasting until the end of August. Which is just about how long we've been dating. I don't believe in long distance, especially when the relationship (*shudder* another loathed word) is still new. To be honest though, I was sort of considering it. But he could just as easily get another job in St. Louis or South Carolina right afterwards and not return at all.

Since my work, well what I really want to do, doesn't really allow for me to be anywhere other than Los Angeles, I'm kind of stuck. Plus, as a modern kind of girl, it kills me when a woman uproots her whole life just to chase some guy. Or who sits around at home knitting, waiting for him to come home. It just kind of sucks though. This relationship (blech) didn't really get the chance to fizzle out and die of natural causes like the others. We didn't have time to get bored of each other or make some colossal deal breaker of a mistake, leading to a dramatic and bitter end. So now we're just kind of in this awkward pause. Not exactly broken up, but not really seeing each other either. We're free to date other people, but if he comes back and we're still free, I guess we pick up where we left off?

It seems weird to even think about that right now. I went back on plentyoffish to see what other fish were in the sea, but it just seems tiresome now. I refuse to put myself in cold storage, but every other guy just seems repulsive and lame. Not that the Gentleman Caller was by any means a perfect Adonis (see my list of Fictional Men Who Have Ruined Real Men For Life). But I kind of dug him and that was enough. According to several sitcoms, it takes half the length of a relationship to get over someone. If that's the case, I have a bit of a rocky road ahead of me. My heart isn't broken by any means, but I think I'm entitled to a tiny bit of angst.

We decided to "keep in touch," the long distance variation of "let's still be friends." But part of me thinks that may be harder than just quitting cold turkey. Like ripping open the stitches over and over. (That's a tad melodramatic. It's really not that bad.) So, quick poll for those of you who stumbled upon this semi-hidden post: long distance, yay or nay? And if you decide against long distance, do you stay in touch?