Talking for Hours

For those of you who think I've been too busy to write because of my crazy online-dating schedule, you are sort-of right. But mostly wrong.

I received an abundance of response to my post about online dating. Not many on here, but friends that read it sent me emails, texts, and a choice few actually picked up the phone to say “DO IT! DO IT NOW!”. I mean, it's the computer. What is the worst that can happen? I didn't have to actually follow through with anything. And it could provide plenty for future blogs at the very least, right? Right. So I did it.

I got plenty of response once I actually put up my list. As it was on this blog.

So, for the weak at heart, maybe scroll down. Past the next part. It is a short summary of some of the responses I got. It's gonna get raunchy up in here. The part in parentheses are my own comments to their comments. (I did not directly comment to any of these freakazoids. So the parentheses are my thoughts. No one's feelings or egos were smashed due to my sarcasm. For once.)

Please feel free to add your own comments to this absurdity below...

But...if can handle the heat, feel free to stay in the kitchen. (Not that I cook. I just have always wanted to use that phrase...)

“Hey. Like your face.” (Um, wow, did you read any of what I wrote?”)

"You look very f*ckable." (Wow, how do I look that way?  If I do, it's an accident.) (p.s. he didn't put an asterik in there...)

“Hello.” (“...and I say good-bye.”)

“Hit me up. I kan make you sqirt.” (First, you can't spell. Second, not up to you.”)

"You look interesting."  (That is not a compliment.)

“Like what you have to say. I have custody of my kids, is that a problem?” (UM...YES, it is a problem.)

“Wanna hook up?” (No.  Not with you.)

"Where's a good place for you?" (Good place for...?  Sleep? In my room.  Food? Anywhere that has good mashed potatoes.  Reading? Starbucks.  For you to meet me? In hell.)

“How bout we meet up. I think I could love you.” (If you meant about, as in you can't spell or, when using slang, cannot use apostrophes correctly, then no. If you meant bout as in a bout of illness, then, well, still no.)

"Sex?" (Female.)

“Hey. Your profile is great. How about you get in your car and meet me up here?” (YOU ARE OVER 2 HOURS AWAY IN ALABAMA!)

“I could make you scream!” (Are you an axe murderer?)

“Do you like to travel?” (Not with strangers.)

"I'd like to go hiking in the woods with you."  (Ok, because that isn't just creepy and asking me to walk to my death in my hiking shoes...)

“Cum over.” (Either this is a play on words or you really can't spell. Either way, not interested.)

OK, that's enough for now. I mean, I need to have some more blogs in the future, right?

There's some good news, though. An interesting tid-bit of information. The completely unexpected happened. I met someone! I actually got out from behind the computer screen and went to Starbucks to meet someone. And it has not only been one of the bravest moves of my entire life, but also the best decision yet.

His particular listing was a list. Everything on his list matched what was on my list. After about four days of constant emailing back and forth, we ventured into the world to see each other in person.

Let me stop here to tell you, I really had no intentions of meeting anyone. I had no hopes or dreams or fantasies about this actually happening. I honestly did this to prove to myself and everyone else that the world is full of scuzzes and I will, undoubtedly, end up alone or settling. (read: alone) So, imagine my surprise, I found a list that matched mine.

Starbucks. On my turf. Safe. A Starbucks I frequent, so they know my face. And it isn't unusual for me to randomly run into a friend from time to time there. I knew that meant I couldn't be alone. And I know there are three ways out of that parking lot, so if it went really bad, I could jump out of there and he wouldn't be able to find me.

Turns out, I didn't need a safe turf. I didn't need a friend to rescue me. I didn't need an exit plan (or three). We sat there and talked for FOUR HOURS. I'm not exaggerating. FOUR HOURS. And it felt like fifteen minutes. We have loads in common. We make each other laugh. We could finish each others' sentences almost immediately.

We had coffee on the Wednesday before Memorial Day, and made plans for a short day hike at Vickery Creek for that Monday. It didn't end up being short - we had a ten-hour date. I don't think I have ever had a date that lasted so long. It was an amazing day.

So, yes, we are dating. Yes, the list worked. Yes. Yes. Yes. To everything. As time passes, he learns more about my list and how he fits into it. And I learn more about his and how I fit into it. What a nice fit for both of us. Now both our profiles are down from the dating site, we are committed to each other.

Here's the weird thing. He lives and works less than twenty minutes from me. We have probably seen each other tons of times. I have a whole different perspective on fate now. Meeting people is timing, not circumstance. We are ready for each other - in ways we might not have been a year or two ago. Being super picky has led me to him, and him to me. By putting my OCD, my musical-spirituality, and teeth-obsessed self out into the open, I have found a man that can relate to me and understand everything without a word. A man with whom I can have a conversation with for ten hours or more. A man who enables me feel comfortable being me.

For the record, he flosses as much, if not more, than I do. Amazing how you get exactly what you ask for, when you're not too shy to put it out there.

Epic Prolouge

I wanted to post this.  Though it is kind of cheating.  It isn't what is going on right now, but something I wrote a few years ago.  It was an essay for an assignment.  But it is about my pen.  My Papermate Flexigrip Medium Blue pen. 

The assignment was write about something you lost.  While my classmates were writing about people dying and other traumatic events, I wrote about the discontinuation of my pen.  Because I'm sappy like that.  Or maybe because I'm sarcastic like that. 

Whatever.  The title of this sad story is Do I Need To Go To Rehab?

I love this pen. My Papermate Flexi-grip blue medium – I cannot live without it. I love the way it writes – like butta. In my hand, it is like inspiration between my fingers.

The only pen I will use. My life is complete with it in my hand, there is nothing else I need. This pen is my OCD. My hand's OCD.

One pen left in the box. It's time to get some more. Drive to the office supply store. Get more, maybe two boxes this time. There are none on the shelf. Ask a sales associate when the next shipment comes in. Wait, what did you say? They don't make them anymore? Wait, what did you say? They have been discontinued????????

Back in the car, driving home, I do not know what to do. My head is spinning. My hand hurts. Withdrawl. Is that what I'm experiencing? Cold sweats and vomit are coming soon, I can feel it.

Get online. Get on the Papermate website. No Flexi-grip blue mediums available. Oh my god. I will never write again.

Go back to the office supply store. Need pen. Need to find a pen. Need some methadone to get me through. I need some food. I need to write. Hold every pen in the store. Feel it. Write something. They all suck. I hate them all. I'm still starving. I still need a pen.

BIC Atlantis blue medium. Clicky pen. You will do. You're no flexi-grip, but you're not a Rollerball, and that's good. You're smooth. Not butta, but maybe apple-butter. You're not perfect, but I'll get the hang of you. You feel like you could inspire. You will have to do.

Until Papermate comes to their senses.

 
OK, here is the good news, Papermate did come to their senses.  They make my pen again!  No more BIC clicky shit pens for me!  And, of course, I have bought them in bulk amounts in case the famine comes again.

My Bobbin’ Brain and How I Got This Hole in My Cheek

When I was eleven, my cousin got married. I was the rice girl - back before they knew rice made birds explode - and there was some drama concerning my dress. Other than that, the only other thing I remember about that wedding is a song that played at the reception. I was minding my own business, socializing and being cute (I mean, being myself), and this sound came out of the speakers and everyone around me starting tapping their feet, or getting up to dance.

“Just take those ol’ records off the shelf, I sit an’ listen to them by myself, today’s music ain’t got the same soul, I like that ol’ time rock n’ roll…”

I was transfixed! This is an awesome song! How come I had never heard this song before? Where can I get mine???

Unfortunately, this was the age before downloads and itunes. (This was even before the age of (affordable) CDs!) There was no way to just google something and have the information in front of my eyes in seconds. I could not find out who was singing this magical song! But I stored the melody in my memory, stored the sound of that voice, and continued with the party.

Fast forward, twenty-two years. Saturday, February 27, 2010. I know now that Bob Seger sings that song. I have known for a long time now. I have several of his albums in my collection, and his greatest hits album is on my ipod. Starting yesterday, Bob has dominated my brain. My head is filled with “you’ll accomp’ny me…, workin’ on the night moves…, turn the page…, and, of course, ol’ time rock n’ roll…”. During my two hours in the car so far today, I have listened exclusively to the Bob Seger Greatest Hits from 1994. And it isn’t enough! I can’t wait until my journey home tonight, when I get to listen to more Bob! Why the sudden obsession with Sir Seger? No idea. Not one freakin’ idea. I mean, I like him, I’ve always liked him. And I listen to the album from time to time, but rarely do I have a compulsion to listen over and over and over again. Just another urge in music. Take it or leave it. But my recommendation is to get out your Bob Seger and rock out. Now.
Now on to the hole in my cheek. I am, of course, exaggerating (I’ve been known to do that). I don’t have a hole in my cheek. But it certainly feels like it. And it is totally my fault. I went to get my eyebrows waxed today. First of all, I would like to say that yesterday, they didn’t need waxing. It always seems like they pop out in the middle of the night, full length -and suddenly, from nowhere - UNI-BROW!!! If anyone has any insight into how exactly this happens, I would appreciate it.
Back to the story. I drove up to Calhoun today to go to the outlet mall and meet Kelly after she got off work. On the way, I realized my eyebrows had, once again, grown overnight. Not knowing anything about Calhoun, I stopped at the first nail salon I saw – the one right across from the outlet mall. As this was an unexpected pit stop, I wasn’t quite prepared, and didn’t go through my normal stages of routine gear-up for eyebrow waxing. (Yes, just one more routine in my OCD life. For more information, read yesterday’s blog.) The routines for waxing are few yet extremely necessary. They consist of a series of deep breathing exercises (about five minutes), and gum. Gum is essential. I bite down just before the waxer rips the strip of paper off my brow in anticipation of the hurt that never actually comes.

Usually, having done my deep breathing, the bite is slight and with the gum strategically placed in two spots between my back upper and lower teeth, there is little tactile notice of my biting.

Unusually, (read: today) I did not breathe. I did not put any gum in my mouth. And when the waxer put that strip of paper on my eyebrow, I chomped. HARD. I tasted blood. Distracted by the pain and that creepy salty taste, as well as trying my best to not cry in front of everyone in the salon, I barely noticed him do the other eyebrow and then tweeze the crap out of the few stubborn hairs that are never removed by wax.

Resigned by my lack of routine, insulted by my own negligence, I walked out of the salon and spit blood like Ivan Drago (that 20-foot tall Russian guy) when Rocky finally got him.  (And couldn't help but think, "If he dies, he dies...) 

So now I have this pain in my mouth, this knot in my gut, and a resolution to never break routine again. No matter how last minute or taken off guard I am. Hopefully, I can keep the resolution. Pain, as they say, is a great motivator.

Meditation and OCD

I have been reading today about blogging, trying to learn to how to make this blog all it can be. And the result? I don’t know much more than I did yesterday.
“Write what you know.”

“Write about what you love.”

“Keep the blogs rolling out on a regular basis.”

Okay, so write what I know, what I love, and on a regular basis. Got it. But I think I knew that when I started this endeavor.
But I know so many things. Not to sound conceited or egotistical, but I know a lot about a lot of things. But this isn’t the “how-to” type of blog. This is just my thoughts and my observations on the world around me. And while it may seem like it at times, this isn’t even a blog about music. In fact, today, I’m going to write very little about music. 

I heard something yesterday that made so much sense it hurt. It made sense on so many levels…

“Meditation is anything that allows you to lose track of time.”

Punch me in the gut. Seriously. That makes so much sense.

I now have a new observation and possibly a greater understanding concerning my obsession with music, as well as many other areas of my personality that run amuck.

I am OCD. No, I don’t spend five hours washing my hands (even though I get that, I’m just not that tolerant of time). I am randomly OCD.

I count. It keeps me centered, and keeps me moving forward in what I need to do. In the morning, I count backwards as I complete tasks to know how much more I have to do. I have four to six steps in the shower, and anywhere from seven to twelve steps of after-shower duties, depending on the amount of shirts, if I’m doing my hair or just running my fingers through it, etc. Plus two steps for socks and shoes. And one for the coat (if necessary) and one more for putting chapstick and cell phone in my pocket. So, in the morning, I count my tasks backwards anywhere from fifteen to twenty-two down to one and I’m ready to walk out the door.

I also count when I am nervous or bored. It keeps my mind moving and settles my restless stomach. I have done this as long as I can remember. Once, I sat in the backseat of my mom’s station wagon on a trip to the store and started counting. I remember feeling at complete ease until I couldn’t figure out what came after 750. So I started back at one.

One other thing about counting. I like things to be even. If I chew five times on the left side of my mouth, I must chew five times on the right. If I touch something with my left ring finger, I must touch it with my right ring finger. I crack my knuckles, and it is necessary to pop as many on the right side of my body as pops on the left.  But here's the really weird thing.  As much as things need to be even, I like odd numbers.  The radio (or television) volume has to be on an odd number.  And there is no reason why.

I don’t like germs. I really, really don’t like germs. I am obsessed with hand sanitizer. I don’t know that it really works, but it feels comforting. I always wash my hands after going to the bathroom. Always. And sometimes before. I do not touch door handles. That’s just gross. Oh, and I have to shower before I leave the house, even if I’m going to the gym.

While we’re on this, I might as well tell you I’m weird about eating. I like all my food to be separated. I don’t like any of it to touch. I don’t eat things together that don’t seem to go together. And we have already covered my chewing thing.

So, all these behaviors (and many more) soothe me. And most help me pass the time in a way that feels sane. Meditation is not always “om" with legs Indian style and palms up. My mind races and my thoughts are out of control. So I count, or listen to music or wash my hands.

This feels nice. This sentence has made me feel somewhat normal in between my ears. The trance set forth in chaos by a few simple behaviors is truly listening to the god of my understanding and ease my nervous anxiety.