One Evening

Last night, at the Feist concert, there was an unsettling, fleeting moment, where I thought I saw Mr. Match.

The Mr. Match that I saw was standing next to a pretty blond who was preggers.  We’re talking maybe 6, 7? months preggers.  I had to take a double take there, just to make sure.

Of course, it wasn’t him, but there was that short span of time there where I thought it could be him, and before I noticed that he was standing next to another girl, another prego girl, I was actually pretty okay with it (the seeing him part, not being with a girl who he would have been sleeping with at the same time as me, based on the little soon-to-be-bambino in the oven).

I was with my mom and I had mentioned that this would probably the type of random concert that, just my luck, I’d run into him at.  I know dudes aren’t typically huge huge fans of Feist, but I don’t know, he liked Imogen Heap and some other seemingly eclectic type singers, so hey, it could happen. 

I gave some thought about how it would be to run into him.  Seeing an ex for the first time after the breakup is never an easy thing, usually something one would try to avoid, or, at the very least, make sure you’re rockin a booby shirt, sleek hair, and sassy shoes (all of which I was not doing last night in the bazillion degree heat that = cute sundress, humid wavy hair, and flip flops).  But I digress.

What I haven’t divulged here is that after writing that post, about sorta kinda wanting to contact him a few weeks ago?, I didn’t end up doing it.  I figured it was a silly idea, there was nothing worthwhile to really say, and for the time being, I’d put the thought on the back burner and let it lie there for a bit.

Which it did.  But I kept thinking about it.  About him and how he was doing.  About the closure that we never really had.  I had no clue what I’d intro with if I actually did contact him, but it was almost feeling like the wondering, the “what ifs” were harder to take than the worst case scenario (him ignoring me, or not responding in a positive manner).  So, I bit the bullet a couple weeks back, and we chatted online for like, 7 minutes.  He asked how I was doing, said he thought of me randomly recently for some silly reason, and we shot the shit for another couple minutes.  The convo ended on a good note (I hate gchat, by the way), both of us saying it was nice to catch up, yadda yadda, on our ways we went.

And that was basically that.  There were no big revelations, nothing huge came out of the whole thing, but after chatting with him, I just felt more at ease with the whole thing.  So when it came around to potentially running into him at last night’s show, I feel like I would be totally okay with that.  And that?  That felt good.

Just not him with a prego chick by his side.  Now that’s pushing it.

 

Unrelated PS- New HOH in the house.  Also, you may have noticed the new header?  I’m not convinced I’m in love with it, but it was getting way too tricky for me to keep messing around with it, and at least it’s still featuring some type of shoe (a must), and now the beach (my oasis).  Thoughts?

 

but I don’t mind getting dirty

Hope everyone has a happy and safe 4th!

Oh- in case you were wondering?  That’s a cupcake necklace up there, and I own it.   And love it.  And though I think the shoes are cute and all, I really just picked them because they’re red (if you know me you know how much I love a red shoe), and they’re flat.  No heels for me at any cookouts this weekend, thanks.  I wouldn’t pick these puppies out in real life I don’t think.  I little too… prissy?, in my opinion.

God.  I’m such a chick in this post.

Have a good one!

 

whatcha gonna do with all that junk?

what happened last monday that led me to the bag were a series of events. it started with bootcamp in that wicked hot hot humid heat, which makes for lots of sweat, and when you’re wearing one of those tank-top-built-in-bra deals that’s white, what happens is the sweat just completely soaks the whole damn thing (classy) and you can basically see everything. it’s fine if you’re just driving home in your little red corolla, which i had planned to do, but not so fine if you need to step into cvs which is what i ended up having to do instead.

so i pulled into the parking lot and thought that maybe, possibly i might find some gem of a tee shirt in my trunk. you know, something to just throw over the unfortunate look that i had going so that i could run into cvs, get my pill and call it a wrap. all i found was a big hooded sweatshirt, not sure whose, which just wasn’t going to cut it when the temps were still in the high 90’s. i scrounged around some more, then, underneath an umbrella and a bunch of old cds and my yoga mat, i found the bag.

(dundundun…)

the bag of him. for the longest time ever, the bag was actually a box with stuff of him. i transferred said stuff into a bag when i decided that the box was a- taking up too much space in my already too cluttered heart room, and b- was just too much of a reminder of him and what once was.  it was time. i didn’t (and still don’t) have it in me to chuck all the stuff, so i put it in the trunk of my car and that was that. out of sight out of mind kind of deal, or so i thought.

the thing about ex boyfriends who you break up with under reluctant terms is that you (or maybe it’s just me?) don’t ever totally feel ready to say see ya later to the stuff of him. in the bag is a random bunch of crap… a snowman ornament he gave me the first christmas we spent together. a silly ipod sock that was kind of a joke between us. a little notebook that we would leave each other notes in when he’d stay at my place and he’d have to leave for work earlier than i got out of bed. two letters from him. one from when we were still together, the other that he sent as his last ditch effort to win me back. and also three tee shirts and a bunch of movie stubs, and several pictures, including three random ones that i found of penguins (?).

now i wasn’t intending to look into the bag, not at all. no real good ever comes of such a thing; it brings up old memories of happy and sometimes rocky couplehood together, times that frankly id rather have kept in a secure place tucked under junk, locked in my trunk.

but there was really no other choice, pickin’s were damn slim, and there was no way i was turning around to go home only to get a different tee shirt and come right back when there were three tee shirts right in front of me. his tee shirts, but tee shirts none the less.

oof. i had to. i untied the target bag that was in front of me, and i’m sorry to the nice gentleman who pulled in after me (i hope he reads my blog), for what he saw must have made him quite nervous: a flustered single girl in a sweaty workout shirt, a yoga mat on the ground, a bright pink umbrella next to it, an old copy of the immaculate collection cd, and bunch of those damn penguin pictures sitting on my roof all strewn about. poor nice gent looks up to find me holding on to said tee shirt trying to decide if i should really go for it or not.

naturally, my last resort was to don the tee shirt of the ex.  i first held it up to see which one it was (some random nondescript one, good) and started to put it on, but not before sniffing it first. (shut up; don’t tell me you wouldn’t do it too.)
(it didn’t smell like him, thank sweet baby jesus or else i might have had to go in for a consoling hug with the nice innocent bystander man next to me, nervously observing this whole debacle.)

sigh.

in the end, everything worked out just fine. it was just a hell of a lot of hot hassle in order to simply make a cvs trip, and i guess, a good lesson to always pack an extra shirt… of my own.

 

an all time low, I’ve reached it

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that I’m actually watching Denise Richards, It’s Complicated right now, or the fact that one of the scenes just seriously made me cry.

If you stop reading this blog after reading this post?  I’d totally understand.

 

I think I need to just stick with the Celtics game.  Holy hell.

 

hey baby, there aint no easy way out

Oooooh boy.

Or, I guess I should really say, not so much on the boys.

I don’t post while I’m at work, and though I’m not silly enough to think that I got a whole lineup of readers eagerly awaiting my Speed Dating tales, I did want to bust out a quick update for the one or two that might swing by for the recap of the evening.  So here I am, 7am on a Friday morning with a towel on, drinking some OJ and ready to tell you about the night…

Which was basically a bust.

Not so much the evening itself.  Dinner was pretty good, flatbread pizza and Riesling is a weird combo but it works, it’s not easy walking crowded streets, many blocks in heels, EVOO (Extra Virgin Olive Oil- did you know that?  Rachel Ray?) stains, and arriving fashionably late to an event like this is actually very okay. 

We arrived to the bar where we were welcomed by a slew of GREEN! CELTICS! SHIRTS! everywhere.  Lots of green, lots of dudes, Mardis Gras beads at the door?, big flat screen tv’s, a well made tanqueray & tonic, a nice atmosphere.  Truth be told, we were more content just staying put here, where all this was happening.  On the stairs, a little mini sign reads, “Speed Dating, downstairs, 8pm.”  Well by now it’s 8:45 and we’re not sure we really want to do this.

But, we paid our $22 dollars so we at least wanted to check it out.  We head to the dungeon downstairs, where there is absolutely no music, no game on, pretty dead silence, 4 guys sitting at the bar, about 7 girls sitting around, and one man who wants to check us in, with a whistle around his neck.

Yikes.

We scope the room, we look at each other, and we decide…. no.

We just couldn’t do it.  We did ask some questions, like “is this it?” and, “are you serious?” and questions about the guy to girl ratio (7 to 12- what?), and some questions about getting our loot back.  Which was a dead end; there is no getting money back within 24 hours so we chalked this one up to who knows what, and headed our bad selves back upstairs.

All in all the night was a good one.  Good game, good company, met a guy with a good head of hair who lives right next door to my favorite icecream place in town (sweet), and exchanged numbers (bonus).  Though I didn’t meet Mr. Wonderful, the night was still a good one, and now at least I know that I’m done my stint with the hyper relationing Speed Dating.

Happy Friday and happy weekend!

Oh, I’m going to see Tom Petty tomorrow and I’m damn excited. 

Ciao.

 

next!

Tomorrow night I’m going speed dating. 

I mean, if that’s not blogworthy, then what the hell is?

If you’ve been reading for a while, you might remember how I did this about a year and a half ago too.

Well, I’m still checking the Single box, so there’s how that turned out.

There were a couple just alright for me guys there, but I found that most of them were more on the boring side, busy side, “I’m an anesthesiologist and I never get out slash have any time for dating” guys.  Yawn.

None of that really did it for me.  I had a good time, and frankly it was more about the experience, trying it out because why not?, doing something on a whim, giving it a go.  I was the one that found out about the whole thing, talked my girlfriend into it, and we were off.

She fared a little better than I did.  Got a couple dates out of it, and dated one guy pretty regularly for a good stint there.  I think I had two matches, but nothing ever really came of it.

This time around I was a little more hesitant about the whole thing.  Not because I am not comfy with meeting new people, holding my own on a quickie of a date.  That stuff amuses me and you know, I can always get down with that kind of thing.  This time around though, I wasn’t totally sure, what with the recent ending with Mr. Match….was I ready?, but again here I am, figuring why the hell not?  I mean, I’m not going on the Bachelor here or looking for a long term lovah.  I’m just going to test the waters and see what there is to see.

The way I look at it, I’ve got nothing to lose.  It’s supposed to be a pretty (finally cooler) day in Boston tomorrow (a good day for a cute outfit and maybe some new shoes?), so me and three girlfriends are going out to dinner (and wine), and heading off to have possibily “up to 20 dates!”, and meet our “Mr. Wonderful!!”*  (Ahem)

Fingers crossed we got some good Head’s of Hair in the house!

 

*What the website claims.

 

confettied

 

(Saturday, June 7, 2008. 12:30am)

 

if I laugh, I might cry

Yikes. We got a wicked scorcher out there.

And I hate to complain about it (too much). Because, Hey New England in the (almost) summertime, you look familiar, like we’ve known each other for 26 years. The heat, the downright oppressive humidity, it happens every single year and complaining about it isn’t going to change it. It’s just not something that you ever “get used to,” no matter how much you deal with it.

Anyway, I made it through week # 2 of bootcamp tonight. And not to keep going on about the heat, but bootcamp on a GOOD day, in mild temps is tough, so bootcamp on a Monday (never been a fan of a Monday) night after a busy, tiring (in a good way) weekend, combined with steamy sticky temps is kind of nasty.

But this week was better than last week.  The stairs seemed easier, the squats weren’t as hard, and I didn’t whip anyone with the jump rope.  Except, I bruised my ovary.  Or uterus.  Something happened when I busted into the plank position to get ready for a set of push-ups and I can only imagine this is similar to the contractions experienced whilst carrying a child the size of a full grown German Sheperd.

Holy. Hell.  Worst part?  There’s heaps of pollen all up in these parts and I keep sneezing up a storm and each time it feels like I’m being stabbed in my left side.  For serious. 

Laughing kills too.

Anyway.

My co-worker told me that his son plays on a volleyball team in Southie and he does it solely because at said games there’s a keg of beer for refreshment. He asked if that’s the case for the bootcamp (as though all “outdoor” things in Southie would have kegs of beer (they should) for those in attendance?); sadly, it is not.

But there are about 17 bars right down the street from the bootcamp “area” (as well as Mr. Match’s apartment, just shoot me) that we could, if we so choose, hit up at some point after our workout. That is, if it’s all of a sudden considered a new trend to show up in a soaked with sweat tee shirt and frizzed out hair with 136 mosquito bites. All.Over.Our.Bodies. Which I think is actually the exact opposite of any cool trend and in fact, quite freaky looking, if you ask me.

So after our workout, me and my girlfriend dumped ourselves into my car, opened the windows and cranked the AC and radio (does anyone else do a window slash AC combo?), and headed home.  It wasn’t until we were a second away from the toll booth that I realized that, oops, my wallet was in my trunk.  So I promptly pulled up to the “cash only” lane, put on my hazards and my friend snuck out and got my wallet and then we were finally off.  Those girls, we were them.

When I got home my roommate and I, like every other freaking year, waited until the last possible minute (ie, when it’s 100+ degrees out and humid as hell) to put in our AC’s in our bedroom.
Two single girls.  One who feels as though they just fell onto a dull blade.  The other who cracks jokes while both are holding an awkward AC up a flight of steep steep stairs.  One lazy cat who doesn’t know where to turn in this heat.  = a pretty scary situation.

Well we’ve finally maneuvered them in the window, and are crossing our fingers that they’ll stay put for the next four(ish) months or so.  God help us.

I finally just managed to sit down to have some dinner after all these events (I made soup which is absolutely nutso), and the glass of milk I poured is sweating profusely.  Warm milk, hot soup on a hot night.  Disgusting.

And I still don’t have that masseuse here that I craved last week.  I really think he that would make me all better.

 

going to get Carried away…

Life doesn’t always turn out to be your fantasy.  That’s why you need friendships that are real to get you through it all.~~Carrie
Bradshaw

 

It’s finally here! 

I felt like it was The Right Thing to do to at least post today, of all days.

I’m off and running with five of ma’ ladies to see the premiere tonight.  To a theater that has a bar, no less! 

Cosmos, shoes!, Mr. Big and my best friends- what other way would I choose to spend this Friday night?!

 

I won’t do it.

What is it they* say?  You have to get under someone to get over someone?

Something like that?

On my drive to work this morning I drafted out an email in my mind of what I would say to Mr. Match if I just wanted to drop him a line to check in.  You know, see how he’s doing without me and wish him a fun summer or something.

Lame-o, I know.

It’s different than I’m used to.  With my most recent ex, that ex, I was the one who ended things.  So I guess, ball was sort of in my court then; if we got in touch, it was usually me that did the initiating of it all, because I told him I needed some time and space.  Some distance.

I don’t know, is it different if it’s the other way around?  I mean, he very well could have contacted me and I would have replied.  I just don’t know if the rules are different if you’re the one who does the dumping, or you’re the dumpee.

The thing is, I don’t even know what I would say to Mr. Match.  That whole car-ride-email-drafting thing I did this morning didn’t get me too far.  Things I thought up to say seemed quite trite and pretty stupid, honestly. 

“Hi Match.  This coming weekend is the wedding of your best friend that I was invited to with you.  What time you picking me up?

“Hi Match.  Sex and the City comes out on Friday.  Remember when you sent me the link for the preview online?”

“Hi Match.  It’s been just over a month, should I be over you by now?”

“Oh hey Match.  I miss your hair.”

Yeah, not so much.

I won’t email him.  Or call.  It’s a good thing I’ve decided (as of yesterday) that I’m laying off the booze a spec during the week (strapless bridesmaid dress to wear in August).  Otherwise it might be tricky for me to steer clear of the Drunk Text.

What?

 

*Who are “they” anyway?