Monday, December 30, 2013

Loving Situations

Part 2 of 2

Did you follow? That's okay, you don't have to. Point is: I now live in a group house with three dudes: 22, 23, 25. And living with people is hard sometimes: I could talk about how four of us share one bathroom and the issues that can cause, like toilet paper purchase stand-offs. Or debating peeing out of your window because someone has been in the shower for what feels like 6 bladder-filled hours. Or thermostat wars and cranking it down to 65.  Or the one who has piles of dishes laying out on his desk, attracting mice. Or the dog hair - oh, the dog hair. (Actually, I love living with a dog without the responsibility of one, so I'll let that one go.) Or having a house clean to my standards because living with three other people makes that impossible. But thanks to living situations of my past, I have learned to pick my battles and solve the wars: Buy communal toilet paper and split the bill; hold my bladder and time my showers; provide plastic utensils; get space heaters; accept that only my room is as clean as I want it. But recently there's a strange new element of difficulty I was unprepared for.

Of the three guys, two have girlfriends. The other week it was one that had a girlfriend; a few weeks before that two had girlfriends...because P is playing relationship yo-yo with a girl after two years of dating. P is the Tinder-mate: The non-single/newly-single/non-single. And now that they're back together, she's back in the house. And my issue is: How do I act like I totally don't think it's a horrible idea for this person to be back in a house when all I can think is: YOU ARE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE! AND IT'S GOING TO HURT! REMEMBER 3 WEEKS AGO HOW MUCH YOU TOLD ME THAT HURT?! THAT.

Obviously this is all opinion, but I'm older (and wiser?). I've done the keep the relationship going because it hurts less in the moment to stay together than to mourn that loss of what you had. Past tense. And I see people doing this all the time lately. In fact, just a few weeks ago the crotch-shotter messaged me to see if I had any single friends for him. This exchanged followed:
CS: its been somewhere around 4 weeks since we split. and please don't ask why.
ME: ah. sorry to hear that. wasn't planning on it.
CS: I wasn't happy and able to be myself.
ME: ah. been there.
CS: i'm adventurous and enjoy learning new things. she was content.
ME: so she wanted to get married and you didn't?
CS: i did too. but just not to her.
ME: ouch.
CS: its unfortunate. spent 2 years. oh well.  [...]
ME: i find a lot of pride in being able to say "you know what; this isn't for me. i'd be better off alone." cause alone is kind of scary when you've been with someone. i was in a relationship for 5 years and had no idea how to get out of it or if i could - i envied girls who found a way to say "i have to end this for me" for a long time. for some reason people treat relationships ending like a failure instead of an achievement in seeing that you want more and voicing it. it takes balls.
congrats on your balls! : ) haha
CS: bahahaha. thanks. i think that was the most constructive, encouraging, and intelligent advice i've heard yet. I really appreciate you telling me that. my balls are thankful as well.
My favorite part was where he told me not to ask why an immediately went into the way of it anyway. And then, after two weeks of asking me out and trying to "increase our chances of crossing paths", photos popped up on Facebook of him and his formerly ex-girlfriend. They were are back together. Is this the thing people are doing now: Break up, get back together, then post on Facebook just how totally in love you are? It's annoying. Almost as annoying as a Facebook feed filled about little Johnnies pooping on the potty all by himself. (AND HE WIPED!) I'm going to get a dog so that I can announce when it takes a shit outside. (AND HE KICKED DIRT OVER IT!) But I digress.

The Facebook feed PDA seems so contrived. And now it's live and in my living room. Watching it is almost as frustrating as waking up on time to get to work, only to have roommate K spend an hour in the bathroom; or having your bladder awake you only to have roommate M in the shower forever, while you contemplate peeing in your garbage can or out of the window. But I guess we all need our turn in the bathroom, so to speak. We all need our moments of weakness; to follow our hearts where our brains don't want us to go because, what if, just WHAT. IF.

Like the Ex and I convincing ourselves our love for one another would be enough to sustain us falling out of love; we never stopped loving one another but it took us a while to realize the sneaky differentiation between love with comfort and being in love. It took me a while to realize that trying to force being in love will wreck your soul - no matter how much you convince your Facebook feed. Because you can fall in and out and back in love as much as you can climb a waterfall. And now I live with it again. It's frustrating, my alcoholic bore. It's not even the good kind of fight where I can grab a glass of wine to wash down my popcorn as I watch the show. They're private; secretive: Only ever having shown the what's-best-and-I-love-you-babe on the outside, when all anyone can think now is: You boned some other dude; the jig is up.

Relationships don't break because someone cheated; people cheat because relationships are broken. That mug is still cracked. Admitting a relationship is over isn't failure. Staying in something broken, that's the greatest self-defeat. But sometimes, you just have to be sure.

Ultimately, what I think (and want, from a wine and popcorn standpoint) doesn't matter. So I'll suck it up and get over this latest roommate challenge. However, I will forever preach: if you're not happy, change your life and don't go back back to what made you cry. Change is hard, sometimes you just have to move on; it's not easy, but rarely the things in life worth doing ever are.

Except for dishes. Those are easy. Do your dishes, man.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The Embers of a Scar Reignited

I have so much to do, but I’m distracted because I need to get something out. I can’t complete anything with a sound, quiet mind lately. Even in my post-op return to yoga yesterday, I found myself turning my head and losing my balance, almost busting my lip like the kid I got to do yoga in an Atlantic City elevator lobby two weeks ago. (I’ll share that story next time.) But strangely, I don’t know exactly what it is I need to get out.

Could it be that the year is winding down, this year I have been told since 2011 that I would meet “the one”? I’m beginning to call poppycock on all these psychics people - my hope now in question. The year is winding down with 13 days left, some of which are truly provincial days: cooped up in a house with 11 other people, including a three week old, a six month old, two year old twins, a four year old, and, from that, a very unsettled 64 year old man who becomes anxious when his structure is rattled. I’m so excited to see my family and meet my new niece, but I am apprehensive about the energy all of this might bring into quite a modest little home. Last year, with just 9 others, it turned into a catastrophic train wreck - from which I learned to not stay more than five days – so I’ll be there for a short four day holiday tour and then back down to DC, to lead again my very single life. Wherein, I can go home, shut the door and only process my own needs. No parents. No husband. No kids. No responsibility. Which on the one hand is fantastic and on the other, a mildly annoying reminder that it's just me: No significant other: That’s right, psychics, you twits, I’m still just me. 


My past came back this past weekend…again. He proposed: “brunch this weekend?” at 3:16a on Friday night via email. (I still can't decide if I should be flattered or offended that these men think of me late at night, two sheets to the wind. Presumably, the latter.) After being mostly quiet for the past three months, I actually thought he meant brunch. Go figure. That is, until 1:24a on Saturday when he asked where we were going for brunch “tonight/tomorrow” and I was drunk and all well hell, why not clear up this dry spell and finish what we started three and a half months ago. So he came over after meeting me at my metro stop at 2am (and watching me give my number to a guy who was trying to follow me home. (But this is another story for next time.)). We spent Sunday in bed together and then, 17 hours later, I dropped him off at home after a 5pm “brunch”.

Again, this situation confuses me. While I realized yesterday that (for me) any situation that falls into a category of casual banging is likely doomed to be locked into that box (puns?), something about this bothersome. Like the Pink Elephant, I don’t think you can take that kind of plaything affair and turn it into something more because if you start – or restart – there, then where is there to go? (There is no courting. Yes, courting. And I want to be courted.) So logically, I'm pretty sure that the bother isn't that I want more from him. Although, arguably, neither case has been purely plaything, as I was drawn to both of these people beyond reasons that I can articulate, but a significant person should want you for you, not just it.

You know, it, sixth grade we-can't-say-"sex" it

Historically, it seems, these situations often arise because a man wishes he could love a girl; as in he does want her for her and not just it, but doesn’t have the balls to tell her or the emotional capacity/readiness to acknowledge it (until it’s too late) and, thus, comes across as a dick. Alternatively, the guy might just be a dick: He falls into power trips of silence, instead of being open and saying, "I just want it", he might go quiet for months to prove a point: You don’t matter. While I hate the latter, I’ve dealt with both before and they're not a particularly big deal: We all play the game in exchange for satiating our needs. However, in this situation I'm finding it difficult to balance the complicated rumblings of a lady in waiting with the simple need of having someone to warm my winter bed, and this time, by someone who once mattered.

HG is a memory of something that I once was so sure of. I’d never thought so much of anyone so quickly or been so blindsided by the fact that I knew I needed to let him go. I had never fled to the other side of the Earth to escape my own heartache. And now it’s lying beside me on a Sunday, making me laugh and keeping me warm. He remains something I never quite had; a reminder of what I wish for now; a reminder of  how, thus far, the psychics have been wrong - the hope their prophecies provided, nearly expired. 

(I know, self, read this. But...)

These things in front of me, these are the things I want. I’m drawn to him in that way that I just can’t articulate, but, while he reminds me of the things I want, he doesn't provide them. He is at once both a temporary fix and an infuriating reminder. I want him there and I want him gone, for the void he fills, he also digs. In the moments together it’s good – great, even – but in the days that follow, there’s a sense of turmoil that lingers like a burn; the embers of a scar reignited.

Even after all these words, I'm not really sure what it means. Our time together is wonderful, but the hangover, wretched. In the stark silence of fresh absence, I lose a little sense of self-composure; feel a little too insignificant; get a little lost and honestly, I'm not certain as to why, what feelings these are, and thus, how to process them. After moving past September, I thought that was it: I had detached completely and all the confusions were gone for good, but they're back again. Perhaps it is a memory that hurts a bit too much to relive or it's the unjust sting of an ailing hope - nay, patience. It isn't necessarily bad, nor good, or even inextricably linked to him, it's mostly just strange, new, and confusing. I guess that's what I needed to get out. Now what do I do with it? 'Cause if it doesn't stop, I'm probably going to make him date me or punch him in the head. (j/k.)

(Barely relevant, but I like it:)

Monday, December 9, 2013

Living Situations

Back in the early 2000's, Heather Hamilton was fired from her job because she wrote about her boss on her blog. Now, for someone to get "dooced", means to get fired because of their blog. is now her job. Lucky her. Her writing, however, much better than mine - this isn't a comparison, but rather a prediction, or assumption of some sort of self-sabotaging predication. But, alas, despite whatever hot water I might put myself in, I just can't help myself - I gotta get some things out sometimes. Writing is a comfort; a really cheap therapist; my best friend who just keeps the wine glass at her face, allowing me to go on talking unabridged forever, never bothering to put down the glass and interject with her own stories.

I love you, Writing, you alcoholic bore.

But anyway, Heather assumed, incorrectly, that no one at work would ever see her blog. She assumed no more than a few dozen people would read it. And then that backfired. I'm going to go into a short narrative about my current disposition regarding living in a house with three dudes. I assume that none of them read this, but watch me get fired from my own home. Is that a thing? I guess we'll see.

But first, a short foray into my living arrangements.

As a child I shared a room with my middle sister for a while, until at 8, we moved. I got my own digs: A 12 by 9 room that was all mine. In that room was a ladder to a loft I was never allowed up in, until I was about 12, my step-father who forbid me up there wasn't in charge any more, I promised my mother that I wouldn't fall out of it and while up there I would totally be reading. Pre-pubescent kids are such liars...but at least I always had a book to keep up the rouse.

We moved and I got a slightly larger room; no loft. Then off to college after another four years at home. I was paired with a girl who had no qualms about nudity and tanned more than anyone I ever knew. Meanwhile, I was becoming ever fat, chubby and unattractive. This prompted me to move out of Ohio and back to Pennsylvania.

Now, when you transfer schools, you have no say where you will live or who you will live with. I ended up in a nursing home turned dorm with a slightly crazy, cute blonde and a completely out of her mind, tiny, red-head, majoring in Japanese (because Anime wasn't a degree option). We once had a post-it fight when she stayed in the dorm over Thanksgiving break and subsequently took that time to spray hair glitter all over the bathroom. Since she wasn't home, I wrote a note to please clean up the glitter when I stopped by mid-break and found the communal toilet shimmering like a group of fairies suffered a bout of dysentery all over our loo.

Well, she didn't like that, especially considering a few weeks earlier I had walked in on her giving some uber-nerd a BJ on my futon. (Seriously, her bed was the bottom bunk and it was literally 3 feet away. Go there!) Walking into this disaster they both looked at me, un-phased and un-moving. I had shit to do, and while I was irritated and grossed out, I generously said, "I'll give you 10 minutes".

With a penis still five inches from her mouth; ass still in the air, the tiny ginger replied, "Make it 30".

Appalled that she had just turned this into a penis-out debate, I responded, quite sternly, "I'LL BE BACK IN TEN MINUTES" and shut the door.

Upon retrospect, it would have been far more amusing had I taken that moment to walk into the room, sit down at the end of the futon, click on the television and just request that they 'keep it down'. So when it came time for the post-it note clean up request, she was still quite salty (puns!) from our last unsavory exchange. Besides, I really quite disliked this girl - she fucking drove me nuts: Imagine the most annoying archetype character, then times it by ten and make it talk in a broken Japanese and put Anime shit everywhere. There, you're getting closer.

So I wrote this note; short and sweet: Please clean up the glitter in the bathroom. If anything from my college years, I wish I had kept, it would  have been the written exchange that ensued, because when I returned, a second post it was left that read: Why should I? No one cleans up the toothpaste in the sink, etc. etc.? And so, like any normal 20 old, I grabbed the girl from the other side of the loo (five in total shared the toilet, three in my room, two from the adjoining) and we penned a list of 15 reasons why she should clean up the glitter. We laughed the entire time we wrote it. (Man, I wish I had kept this gem.) When I got back from class the following day, there were retorts to most of the items on my list and all of crazy ginger's stuff was gone.

After this incident, the blonde I lived with got it in her head that "she was next" stemming from a joke the girl on the other side of the toilet had made after the little cray moved out. Months later, she was gone too. When all was said and done, at the end of the year, only two people shared that loo.

The following year, I moved out of the dorms and into and apartment with two girls I hardly knew. They were friends of a friend. The first year we got along swimmingly. The second year started to go downhill fast. It ended when I got in a very vocal confrontation with the smaller of the two and asked if she wanted to take it outside and, presumably, I would have mentioned something about kicking her ass. But when someone takes to getting their own fridge to hide the cheese and getting a lock on her bedroom door so that she can lock all of the communal dishes in there - while you are still asking about you mother's Pyrex baking dish she insists she doesn't have - shit is going to hit the fan.

HOW CAN I COOK MY RAMEN NOODLES WHEN YOU HIDE ALL THE DISHES UNDER YOUR BED AND LOCK THE DOOR?! Not cool, man. Hungry chicks are mean (and will threaten bodily harm).

Apparently, she didn't appreciate how lackadaisical the other roommate and I were about doing the dishes, not that she ever told us. And, I guess, thought we were going to eat her lunch meat and poison her cheese. After offering her an ass-kicking, she began to move out the following day. A few weeks later, my mother's Pyrex dish showed up again - go figure. The other girl and I got along just fine - and began to do our dishes - for the remainder of our lease.

After that, I moved to DC with The Ex. He was pretty lazy about cleaning, which caused enough of a riff. But aside from that, as time went on, the relationship sort of self-destructed. So after 2.5 years of living with him while together and six months of living together in the hell that is living with someone you just broke up with because both refuse to move, I ended up living with a guy I found by posting a Craig's List ad for a roommate who "won't judge me when I come home drunk". (You know, I've met two really great people from these ads I post. I'm going to post "Need New Friends" when I move with a similarly worded ad.) Aside from the fact that we lived in Maryland, just outside of DC, this was probably my favorite living situation/person to live with. He was really fun; lots of friend; newly single and in the same 26-and-wee! mindset at me. Plus, I was broke and he had some cash, so in exchange for the bigger/better room and my playing maid to the community elements of the apartment, he paid more rent. I was still used to cleaning a two-story row house, so cleaning an apartment wasn't a big deal and it was always as clean as I wanted it without the aggravation of my roommate not contributing to the upkeep. It was perfect...except that he ate all my Cheez-its when he got drunk.

After him I moved to where I am now: A duplex on the edge of DC, on block from the metro. But here's the thing: I have three roommates. When I first got there it was the guy in the basement, who was my age, an Indian girl (who quickly sublet it to an Indian guy) and (what turned out to be) an alcoholic chick around the age of 24. We didn't know she was an alcoholic, but about eight months in it became pretty obvious, especially after she drank two bottles of my vodka - replaced them...and then drank those too. She also stole my baby spoon I had schlepped around for 27 years to eat my ice cream with, which is probably why I didn't feel as bad for her as I should have when I learned they found 36 handles of Bacardi in her room when they cleaned it out after her parents saved her and took her to rehab. Who replaced her, is the guy that lives there now. We'll call him P.

Who replaced the Indian was a nanny from Texas, 10 years my senior. We'll call her D. Now, if you looked at D and I, you would never put us together as friends. In fact, we're both well aware that if we hadn't lived together we'd probably never even have spoken. But she moved out over a year ago and we still telephone and visit when she's in town. I'm glad we're friends. But when she moved out, K replaced her, and then the original guy in the basement, J, moved out earlier this year, so K moved to the basement and another guy moved into his old room. We'll call him M. He's 22. K is 23. P is 25. Which makes me, by their standards, effectively old. And by any standards, the only chick.

To be continued...

Friday, December 6, 2013

Embarrassing Things

And now for an installment of: Embarrassing things you do while you're young and the ways you might repeat them. Oh, goodness. I just realized that could be a really long entry with a circle of mistakes we make. And then remake. Like dating someone and realizing it's not quite working so agreeing to stay together and work on the issues only to have one of the people cheat on the other and then everyone is heartbroken and you talk about how much it hurts with friends and family and ignore the advice and decide you want to try it again anyway. (Whew, run-on.) Okay, well, our mistakes are our own to make. That's not a story about me, by the way, but my previously newly single Tindering roommate, now non-resingled. I've always had to rule that if it broke once, it will break again. I don't really believe in breaking up and getting back together. Gluing together pieces of broken ceramic still leaves you with broken ceramic, with holes and weak spots: That mug will never been the same as before you dropped it; never as good as before the handle popped off. But, to each their own - my coworker's been using the same glue-back-together Stanford mug for years.

This installment isn't about any of that; instead it is simply about a list. A list I made in 2003 after breaking up with my boyfriend of 2.5 years. Well, actually, he broke up with me - not well, might I add, and then became this guy...and then a total jerkface, so we don't speak anymore. But enough with the babbling, allow me to present to you my 2003 version of "My Guy Qualifications":

non tobacco user, brown hair, (blue eyes a plus), no drugs, social alcohol drinker (not over done), nice to his mother, in or graduated from college, older than me, has priorities straight, moderate to no video game playage, NICE car a plus, dislikes country music, likes good music, nice hands, clean nails, (nice smile a plus), taller than me, good hygine, smells nice (mmm), not anal retentive, makes me laugh [ammended in January, 2005 to include:] doesn't make me feel less with him, but on the contrary, better than i feel about myself alone.  makes sense

It's funny what having journals and blogs for two decades will provide you with. Amusement, mostly. But also the ability to realize you weren't always as happy as your memory serves. Or as sad. And also comparison: How much did I grow; what had I forgotten about; how much have a changed; how little have I changed; much better are my conjugations?!

Curious about change, in August this year (before I could be jaded by the introduction of someone - riiiiight), I jotted down a new list on my phone while at the gym. I recalled the first list while researching my book and wanted to update it for 29 year old me, you know, before he shows up and the list isn't just imagination. To see how reality balances out what in our heads, because he's on is way, I swear it! And he'll be something like (in no particular order):

1. Tall.
2. Brown hair.
3. Blue eyes.
4. College or passion.
5. Nice to his mother.
6. Older than me.
7. Prioritizes.
8. Active.
9. Drinks (some).
10. No drugs.
11. Funny.
12. Secure.
13. Wants kids.
14. Self-sufficient.
15. An equal.
16. Happy.
17. Beautiful spirit.
18. Non-smoker/chew. 
Bonus points for:
19. Smells nice.
20. Good smile.
21. Great laugh.
22. No chicken legs.
23. Deep voice.*
24. Non-nose whistler.*
(*An addendum, having recently realized I have a subconscious thing for men with really deep voices. And also the dreaded nose whistler. You know, like when people breath out of their nose and it whistles? I hate that. And snoring...and cracking knuckles, so bonus points for those guys too.)

But, we'll see. All very interesting stuff, I know. Stop the presses!  But curiosities are curious things and we all find strange and random things to do in waiting rooms. I can't tell you how many Highlight magazines I've perused at the dentist's office...Or how much longer I might wait. The last psychic I saw (in October) said 2013 too; two men in December. Sure, December. The chick I saw in February said August and we see how well that turned out - riiiiight.

Now excuse me, I need to choose my outfit for tomorrow night's Air Force gala. Men in dress blues? Don't mind if I do. Tall. Brown hair. Blue eyes., he can wait a bit longer. I've got officers to dance with!

Monday, December 2, 2013

Savannah, Surgery, Tinder and Turkey

Oh my goodness! She's been so quiet. Is she dead? 

Don't poke me with a stick. I'm not dead. I've just been busy.

November was a clustered little month: Complete with my 8th and final half marathon of the year in Savannah, surgery, Tinder and some turkey. I also wrote a book! Just kidding, I wrote 1,400 plus in-flight words and ran out of the time and non-vicodin'ed brain power to produce any more. I don't consider this a failure, however. I have started my book for what I call the final time - the structural importance of this (third) time around being unclear to me until I lost it last week when my computer caught a virus that changed my Windows log-in credentials and I couldn't log-in to my computer. That is, until three hours later - after I had roped a friend into OMG PLEASE HELP ME! I CAN'T AFFORD A NEW COMPUTER - on the 96th time of trying to enter my password while troubleshooting, I realized one of my keys was sticking.

Point 1,789 for blonde.

So that was embarrassing, but at least my computer still works because Australia and Savannah really burned my finances. Although Savannah was great - albeit with the start of an amusing taxi/hotel/car rental shit show - and I had a chance to talk through that whole mess with the girls involved, the money ran away from me a bit. However, I have no regrets and instead a goal to spend very little over the next six months. So we'll see how that goes. Maybe I can take that time to write a book. Finally. 

The surgery I had was just a revision on the septorhinoplasty I had some years ago. This time, however, was not nearly as bad as the last time. While it's never pleasant to be operated on, this had been on my mind for a while and was made even easier by my mom coming down to take care of me. Unfortunately, the week before my surgery there was this postsecret post:

So when I woke up puffy the morning of surgery, I immediately became convinced I was going to fart under anesthesia. I talked about it with my mom before we left the house at 6:30 in the morning. "I hope I don't fart while I'm under. Do you think I'm going to fart while I"m under?!" And then again as they began to work on my IVs, by which point she was becoming irritated with my very important concern. She clearly wasn't taking the topic as seriously as me. When I woke up in the recovery room, apparently I mentioned how my face hurt and followed that up with asking if I had farted during surgery. I guess we all have our priorities.

The surgery was on Friday, my mom took excellent care of me over the weekend (duh) and was gone by Monday night. The rest of the week I worked from home. But for someone that's always out and about and active and running or yoga or socializing, sitting at home with just my laptop and Maury Povich began to drive me bananas by Wednesday.

So after the 12th episode of Maury and 68 "you're not the father!"'s, when my newly single housemate came home talking about Tinder, I was intrigued. Tinder is a dating app that lets your rate people based purely on looks based on proximity of your phones' GPS locations. (You can set your age range and radius up to 100 miles.) How it works: A face pops up,  you click "like" or "nope" based on what the person looks like in 6 or fewer photos and 0 to 340 characters. If you "like" someone and they "like" you too, then you are matched and sent into a list where you are then eligible to chat. While I had only heard it was a hook-up app - which didn't interest me - that didn't seem to be his experience (and it hasn't been mine either).

"It sounds like hot or not dot com!" I replied. And then he went into a short sell about how I should download it too. So stir-crazy me downloaded Tinder with no intention of chatting with anyone; pure voyeurism. The next day my roommate came home and we switched phones to Tinder for one another - clearly we're taking it seriously. Mid-swipes, he became agitated with the number of matches he was getting for me while I couldn't get any matched for him. Although some of his picks were questionable, not that my criteria of: would I make out with them in a bar was much better.

 "I THINK MY TINDER IS BROKEN!", he exclaimed as I fell apart laughing, hurting my swollen face that still couldn't produce a proper smile.

It was oddly addicting. I spent hour clicking through guys, realizing that all of the attractive, tall men in the DC are on Tinder. GUYS - ERR GIRLS! GIRLS, I FOUND THEM! The ones we meet in person are usually 5'5", ugly, and dicks so any time we see tall, sexy ones on the sidewalk or in passing, we text one another like: THEY EXIST. I JUST SAW ONE. You know, just to keep the hope alive. Aside from providing a bit of hope, the odd addiction is likely, in part, due to the fact it's such an ego stroke. There's really no rejection because you only see who "liked" you, which I suppose is why so many Tinder guys have expressed interest/asked me out already. The results have been much more impressive than that time I did OkCupid experimentally. Giving credence to the theory I've been told for years: men don't ask me out because they're intimated; afraid of rejection; I'm "too attractive" ( I allowed to repeat that? Eh, whatever. They were probably  just being nice.). Because in the past two weeks I've been matched over 100 times, chatted over 20 and asked out at least five. Interesting.

So with my most of my entertainment relying on working from home, Maury and Tinder, by the time that recovery Friday rolled around, I was really going stir crazy. I hadn't been out of the house in a week, save for 30 minutes on Thursday to get my stitches out. My friend called and said to meet up for sushi: I was still swollen and scabbed but I agreed if we could go somewhere dark where I wouldn't be seen much. So I met up with them in Old Town Alexandria. Over dinner I was showing my friend's girlfriend the app and came across this one guy I was all "oh he's cute and a beard!". And the table began to talk about the app.

My issue with it being that when guys get matched with you and chat, most just say hi or how are you and that's not rally much of a way to start a conversation. Another person at the table asked, "Well what are they suppose to say?"

"I have six photos on there, all of which offer of a conversation starter. And a little bit of bio they could say something about," I responded.

"I guess," he conceded. And just then I got a new message from that guy I had just "liked" while showing the girlfriend the app. And his message mentioned something from three separate photos and my little bio.

So I held it up and said, "SEE! This guy did it right!" And then I told the guy he just helped me out and looked his bio a bit more, noting that he was 100 miles away (and I have my radius set to 30 miles. "How did that even happen?!", I exclaimed.) Figures, I thought: Another out-of-towner. And he wouldn't even have shown up if I hadn't been to Old Town because then I'd be 118 miles away (his radius set as 100). And then he just kept talking and we started texting. And then I was all OMG this is embarrassing I have a Tinder crush!

So Savannah, running, surgery, recovery, Maury, finances, tinder crush, turkey: This was my November. Please forgive the delay. I'm back now.