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I went out with this guy once who ended up blocking me from his phone. He was very tall and good looking and ended up saying he didn’t know how to block people from his phone so it was weird that I was blocked. I just said whatev and let it go because the distance was too far anyway but he was a nice guy basically (aside from blocking me). Anyway, we’ve remained the closest of FB friends. Or at least we’re Facebook friends. Which means we acknowledge each other to some degree. This is a guy who went through a nasty divorce and he said it would be hard for him to get married again. He moved to NW Arkansas in June and had a world wind romance and next thing I know, his Facebook status is Married. I’m happy for him and terribly jealous that I myself have not had a world wind romance that resulted in a manic-induced marriage to someone I barely knew. I mean, it sounds like something that would happen to me but hasn’t. Yet. I have hope, dear readers.
The Boy and I are officially just friends now. Platonic friends. Which I think means we will never see each other again. Truthfully, I’m okay with it.
I don’t know why I feel optimistic but dammit, I feel sure I’m going to find me a good man and be in a happy relationship soon.
I’m a writer or something like that.
I will regain my status as a tap dancer soon.
I had a boy, lost a boy, got another boy. Loss pending.
I adopted a dog, adopted another one, and adopted another one (the last of which was in part due to my fondness of odd numbers, 3s in particular.
I was born. Death pending.
I got a degree, got another one, and am working toward the end of the third one.
I have a momma and a dad and a granny and a grandma and a brother and a sister in law, 9 aunts and uncles, and approximately 17 first cousins.
I have a doggie gate that I don’t understand how to install. I have no knowledge of an Allen wrench.
I’m cursed/blessed with tragedy.
That blamed bicycle stole my virginity when I was but a girl. Ouch.
I encourage people to save the world.
I have a history of passing out. For this reason, I should not give blood but still have the urge to because I could save your life, dear reader, because I have O-neg blood. I would gladly pass out to save your life. I might vomit a little when Bryan comes to pick me up from saving your life but it’s okay, only a little will get in his air vents.
I have kneecaps and calves of steel, though I might have just cracked my kneecap just now.
I love to read. Some favorites are the Year of Magical Thinking (Joan Didion), Young Men and Fire (Norman MacLean), Into Thin Air (Jon Krakauer), I Know This Much Is True (Wally Lamb), October Light (John Gardner), As I Lay Dying (William Faulkner), Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt), Devil’s Knot (Mara Leveritt), East of Eden (John Steinbeck), and my current read, the Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down (Anne Fadiman).
[begin transcript]
me: How’s work tonight?
him: pretty slow
him: what u doing up
[it’s 2:02 am on a Sunday]
me: Good question. I keep waking up.
me: Are we gonna still see each other or…?
him: Yah I have to you about that but don’t want to do it over text
me: ok, not a conversation I’m looking forward to but I get what you’re saying.
him: sorry I’ve been so distant
me: I’m good at reading the writing on the wall. Let’s just leave it at that for now.
[end transcript]
[end relationship]
it was a small statement
words with a gentle punch
I’ll take the dogs out, he said
on a Sunday morning
leaving me to rest
he knew I needed to rest
on a Sunday morning
The significant dates. Dates as defined by calendar days but might be construed as dates as in dating, though some of the “dates” were really just mindless fucking. Whatever. You decide the definition(s).
In a month’s time, you have a choice. The averages don’t lie.
• March 5-April 5, 2008: you had 12 dates down with him with five more months to go. You only lasted 53 dates total so you were already one-fourth through your relationship. Over the course of this time, you had 8.8 dates a month or 2.2 dates a week. He divvied his time with almost the precision with which he peeled and cored your heart.
• July 11-August 11, 2009: you were 14 down with 3 to go. A mere 2.33 dates a week for the six weeks you were together in bliss. It was almost good as long as it lasted. Though more dates than the first within the first 30 days, not a statistically significant finding. In fact, he was an insignificant finding.
• April 11-May 11, 2010: you’re 16 dates in plus two on the way and no end in immediate sight. Maybe not sure fire but you have the devotion of a man on average of 4.25 times a week and those kinds of stats you just can’t argue with.
I’ve got my press-on nails
a new ring
new hair
slate blue eyes
and a boy who’s helpless in my arms
On Monday, happenstance occurred. Happenstance, I say, because I’m not sure I believe in fate or destiny, puzzle pieces fitting together just so. I see a yellow sticky note on my office floor. I leave it there for several hours. I have things to do. In the mid-afternoon, I pick up the note and take a look-see. I’m jolted to see it. His email, the asshole, who ruined the name Steve for me, although I never liked it anyway. The one with no affection for me. His email, who I’d finally forgotten. His email, written down a year and a half ago just in case we ever started communicating again, still waiting to be typed in my compose box.
He’s not much to me, not even painful to think about. He’s nothing. He’s an asshole. He is Steve.
He facebooked me a few months ago and I told him to never contact me again.
I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to throw the sticky note away.
A good date is always a bad date for a writer. I get a rush of delight when I realize things have gone horribly awry and I’m stuck in a situation that I will be forced to endure for another 53 minutes. It’s sweet, the taste of the meat of him, the reassuring thought that I own this story now. I can twist and spin and create a reality of terror and delight for myself and, hopefully, my readers.
I had a date yesterday. It was very awkward until we started making out. He had squinty eyes and was a bad kisser. He wore a pimp ring on his finger. I admit to liking it.
I met him at the Waffle House, which was even cooler than saying
I met him on the internet
He was cute
though for a moment as I was walking up
I wasn’t sure
He had stunning blue eyes
usually I go for brown
but he was all smiles and there was little awkwardness
I think I’d finally found my stride
not thinking twice about the fact I remembered nothing from his profile
He wore a sports jacket while I wore a slinky top
encouraging him to check out my rack—he did several times
I felt a rush of adrenaline
He kept smiling
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: