Friday, August 30, 2013

The Out-of-Towners

 “How do you keep finding out-of-towners?” GFC prodded, three Mondays ago after I told her about this guy that had friended me on facebook that morning. I was out with Ginger for a random Sunday Funday the day before. Even though I was still tired from the Saturday night before when I went to bed at sun-up; only Ginger knew why. The why: Ginger and I left together from GFN’s birthday party at a club Saturday night and when I stopped to switch out my shoes on the sidewalk, a very tall man commented on said (fabulous) shoes. Said man was 6’4” with brown hair, blue eyes and a beard. And the thickest North Carolina accent I’ve ever heard: He was from out of town, so of course I was interested.

Ginger, still pondering where her car was, interjected to tell him – in front of his friend and his friend’s girlfriend – that I’m rarely interested in anyone and that he should talk to me; go home with me. Ginger is an insistent little leprechaun at 2 in the morning. His friends also encouraged him. So off Ging went to get her car and I sat on the sidewalk waiting with – who Ginger would rename the following day to – Mountain Goat Herder. This name, of course, based solely on his very thick accent which somehow attributed an entire separate syllable to my name that shouldn’t be there. But he was kind; adorable. Tall.

Ginger pulled up in her Fiat 500 and we put the 6’4” Mountain Man in the back - the hilariousness of which we would only truly realize the next day during Sunday Funday while driving around after brunch. I looked in the back seat noting the small size of it and immediately burst into tearing laughter recounting the evening before when I looked back and saw a giant with his knees at his chin riding in a car with strangers to some random blonde’s bed.

But once in my bed we slept, and only slept – aside from making out – because I told him I was actually interested in him. The real reason, however, probably leaned more towards a rule I have: In an attempt to not end up on Maury Povich, I think it best to only sleep with one guy per cycle just in case you end up knocked up - and Pretty had already claimed that month. Not that I’ve ever really had to use this rule much before, but maybe I did really like him. Or just realized each time I take and out-of-towner to town, I just get frustrated I can’t have them again. Or maybe I'm sticking to my renewed celibacy. Who knows. And so, we snogged a bit until the sun came up and he asked me to take him back to his hotel in the morning to pack up and catch his flight.

But this wasn’t even the guy GFC referred to; the guy that found me on Facebook, I met that Sunday. Because after dropping off the Mountain Man, I texted Ginger and we were off to Sunday brunchies. We giggled about the night before and happy on mimosas, she wanted to continue the day. So after grabbing a coffee (to stave off my fatigue from missing out on sleep thanks to a goat herding giant in my bed), we headed off to her favorite part of Sunday: The part where she has a bartender crush, but when we got there, that bar was closed.

In loo of her bar, we went across the street. ER had texted me while I was in line for coffee and I told him to join us. Soon after we arrived, he found us at the bar while Ginger was checking out some males to hit on. They looked normal, tall and attractive – and sans affliction t-shirts. “Yes,” I remarked, “they look good. I approve. Go for it.” And off she went.

About 10 minutes into their conversation the bald guy of the group motioned to me – still sitting beside ER – to come over. They told me they needed help figuring out what Ginger did for a living  - as she had made it into a game - but it was fairly transparent from the way the guy looked at my ass, that he just wanted a reason to chat. I talked to the three of them: an attractive baldy, a tall pornstache, and a DC shorty, for a bit until Ginger got frustrated with the conversation and ER and I decided it was time to relocate. I gave my new friends a hug each and we were on our way.

The next morning I had a new friend request. It was Pornstache. I accepted the request, quite curious how he had found me on Facebook. Turns out, he put in my first name planning to just search for a while and hope to get lucky and mine was the second to pop up; a coincidence, perhaps that I had discussed the proper spelling with baldy the day before. After a few messages back and forth he asked if I’d have dinner with him next time he was in town.

“Sure,” I responded. And then later used this as proof in a discussion with ER of something I feel like I tell him on constant rotation; something that has made my dating life 100 times easier since I realized and accepted the fact: If someone likes you and wants to see you, they’re going to make it happen.

Pornstache was my living, breathing, Facebooking proof of this theory – even if we never go to dinner. I barely talked to him; he didn’t have my number or even know my last name. And yet he found a way to find me to ask me out. But, oh yea, he lives in Phoenix.

Tourist season has got to end.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013


"You're sweating your future right? It's a shame, because you could have a much more exciting present if you really wanted."

I watched this Netflix movie the other day: TiMER. More specifically, I watched it August 1st, which is fitting considering the psychics all said 2013 is when I'd meet by "mate" (and one, August 2013). I suppose this isn't fitting until you understand the plot:

So basically the movie was bout this chip people could have implanted on their wrists that counts down to when they meet their soul mate. And when you two lock eyes for the first time, a beep goes off to alert you. And at first I thought: Well gee, that's just splendid! The hopeless romantic no longer hopeless in this world of chipped love. But then the movie did this thing where it made it more complicated and difficult to know. Their lives became run by their TiMERs; killing the thrill of the unknown and eliminating any of life's crazy little detours.

The main character decided she was tired of her TiMER dictating her life and wanted to remove it. Just when she was about to take back control of her (love) life, something happened [look ma! no spoilers! go watch it.] and the ending was bittersweet - being backed by the complications of her TiMERs implications.

So, you see, I found this fitting in that I felt that the psychics were timing out my love life. Like my same evolving feelings about the flick, I thought at first I liked the idea of an end date; I don't like it now. It feels almost like a perplexing burden, albeit a bit silly.


I was talking to a girlfriend the other day: We were chatting the day after Pretty and she mentioned psychics and I confirmed one had said August was the month. She countered that it was bad timing, as I had just posted the list of single victories the week before. I do love that list, but on either side of the fence, you're always going to miss something. When it comes to single versus coupled, there are sacrifices and gains in both situations. It's always bittersweet.

Appreciate what you have while you have it: This is something I've been trying to remind myself of lately. And I'm kinda tired out thinking about all this love shit. I'd rather just dance. Or eat. Or go camping. Anything else. The idea of this countdown is terrible now. It's like the idea of the TiMER: I'm suppose to assume it's coming for me, and it sort of became a nuisance. Like someone fed a Mogwai after midnight, it went from cute to terrifying.


I have been talking to ER lately as he's been obsessed with pairing up...still. Ted Mosby style. On constant rotation, he meets a girl and becomes convinced she's his match. He changes his stories to suit the moment. He comes to me for advice. When she realizes it's over and he admit she's not his mate, he becomes melancholy; wants to know why and then slowly sets back to zero. It's a little exhausting.

For months I've tried to reason with him; to just wait and stop trying to force things. But sometimes it's akin to running into a brick wall and then riding a really short Ferris wheel without much a view. The poor chap just wants true love and I get that. "Be patient," I say, "she's on her way". He wants to know when, but there is no when. "Enjoy being single; being careless," I tell him in the same way that I remind myself - when I forget to appreciate what I have while I have it.

There is much excitement in the life of the unknowns if we just let it be unknown. Maybe it's August; maybe it's not. Maybe it's 2013; maybe it's not. It's bittersweet to have a countdown, but, in the end, it's really only time that will tell anyway. Until then, we should live life in the moment and not to worry about the future; not the countdown on a chip; not the prophecies of readers; not Ted Mosby on TV, but just enjoy the ride and all its funky little detours. I guess that's the point of the movie. I guess that's my point too.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Wiggling, Perfect Little Messes of Twenty-Nine

I found myself saying that life is not an waiting room for invitations, which, I still find to be true. But, as it happens, it is still sometimes just that. You want to do this? Well fuck. I suppose that's better than playing Find the Smell in the kitchen or reorganizing my socks. Sure.

This is precisely how I have come to play beach volleyball this summer near the banks of the Potomac at the edge of the National Mall. Earlier this year, having since given up kickball, - because clearly, I'm too old to play kickball and then go to a bar and play flip cup, but I'm not too old to play soccer (or volleyball) and then go to the bar and play flip cup - I agreed to play soccer. After GFC convinced me to play another season of kickball last year, after which we both determined that shit show was our absolute last, she got an itch to get out on week days once spring came around again.

Coincidentally enough, the guy that runs the kickball league (and once turned to me at a kickball event years before and said, "Go to the dance floor and get this party started," which sort of confused me as to why I was picked, until a half an hour later when I had noticed that my flailing arms and drunk laughter had quickly filled the dance floor of the boat) asked GFC to join his soccer team. GFC then asked me to play. I declined, he offered to pay our entry fees, and she pulled the Yes Year card.

So there I was, playing soccer on The Mall. 

I scored a goal once. True story.

Although the real highlight of this soccer season was that time during Police Week when a group of bag piping cops came into the bar GFC and a teammate (that had a crush on her) had gone to - in lieu of flip cupping that week - and played Amazing Grace, to my utter delight. I do love me some bagpipes. We had invited a couple of attractive French backpackers to sit at our table - because, who knows! that could be her husband. (Hint: He wasn't.) They both seemed to think I was slightly nuts in my zealous reaction for 'pipes, while I jumped up in sheer delight - like a hoarder in a flea market - to film it.

It was during a drunken night at soccer at our normal bar - which is far less drunk now that I've attempted to train my taste buds that beer is just fucked up apple juice (not that I care for apple juice either) - that we were playing a round of something when a guy noted that GFC and I "look athletic and would [we] like to play volleyball". This was mostly her conversation, as I had tuned out into my own world of dancing to bad music, drinking beer and crushing chicks and dudes alike at flipping cups.

Clearly, this is a huge turn-on to most men, because my dating life since soccer began has been out of this world.

I hope you sense the sarcasm. Although, the first night I attended soccer a fellow player I'd met that night followed me home. At the flip cup table I'd renamed him Tallahassee. I rename people in life for one of three reasons: 1. I don't care for their actual name, 2. I already know too many people with that name, or 3. I won't remember their real name and that's my cover. (Which makes it rather convenient to avoid names here on the Internets.) Tallahassee came home with me; not that he was invited, but he really did just follow me and apparently similar rules apply to following me home as do to giving out my number: It's easier to avoid than to say no, although even when I said "no thanks" to the cab share, he insisted anyway.  But I assure you nothing - and I mean nothing, aside from Trivial Pursuit - happened. I don't find Woody Harrelson attractive.

So drunk, yes-yearing me, still half-way tuned out, agreed to play volleyball - which I only found out about the next day thanks to my inbox. Oh, yes. Well, alright then. Volleyball it is. Now it's my favorite social sport yet. (And this list is long: kickball, softball, skee ball, soccer, volleyball.)

It seems most all of this happened/s because GFC and I have simply stopped giving a fuck. Which seems counter-intuitive to my original statement about waiting around for something to do, but this is more of a dancing around like no one is looking. Even though they are, but, if you do it long enough and laugh loud enough, a weird thing happens: They join in. At some point since my mid-twenties, I've stopped giving a fuck what other people think: I am dancing because I fucking like Britney Spears! Deal with it.

Then they do - and dance with you.

Between soccer and volleyball, it is quickly becoming more and more obvious every time that people just want to be around other people that are having fun. And yes, there are kids there - the ones we used to be - the ones in their early to mid-twenties prancing around calculated and making sure their hair is perfect. Lusting after that guy they should never be with; watching him with unrequited intent. Aw, honey, no.

And then there we are, six years past. Wiggling, perfect little messes of 29, covered in sand, flipping cups (and taking names). And suddenly everyone wants to be our friend.

Even when you're running down Pennsylvania Ave. half-drunk at 11:55 on Tuesday night feverishly staring at your Metro app as the last train counts down. You hear someone behind you who's on their phone start to run with you. "We can do this!" you yell back. To the phone, they announce they're about to miss their train as you both reach the escalators, "You got this girl," you call back to him again. "Let's go!" He hangs up to follow you, and as both reach the bottom you see the sign announcing that the train is arriving. We both make the doors just as they close behind us. We sit together and start to chat.

"I'm so glad we made it. I didn't think I would and I live [far away]. I was on the phone asking my friend if I could stay with her tonight, but I really didn't want to," he confesses. "I was just out trying to get my mind off my ex-boyfriend today. We just broke up." For 16 minutes and eight stops, we're friends. We learn about each other's lives and his newly broken 21 year old heart. He is who you used to be. You open up and enjoy the conversation. You don't give a fuck about anything but the moment - just to stop and listen; reassure.

"It'll be okay." And suddenly everyone wants to be your friend.

Or, ya know, they don't. And if they don't, well, fuck 'em. It's the kind of revelation where they say youth is wasted on the young, but I guess we have to worry first before we can live enough to realize nothing really matters: Just fucking have fun. Who cares? Because tomorrow we might be married with kids.

And it's probably really challenging to flip cups with an infant on your hip.

Monday, August 5, 2013


this needs to be a shirt and i need to have it.

via - the named being simply coinicidence, but like-minded none-the-less.