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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.
[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]
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.
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
- He says he needs soup and a good woman to take care of him. Aw.
- He says raw emotion is lame. Double aw.
- Sweet is good, he says.
- Sarcastic is good, he says.
- He shrugs his shoulders when called Pookie.
- He says we walk into his jokes like a blind man walking into an invisible tree, which makes us laugh but try not to analyze it too much because it gets confused.
- He’s not Hitler.
- He just needs to reflect a little.
- He’s willing to soul search. Awwwwwwww!
- He’s selling us in the most fun way, we adore his technique.
- He is diligently trying to decide whether to drive his truck or his car to meet us next week. He asked what our preference was.
- He’s in the motherfucking AIR FORCE!
he did what he did
but I still think of him fondly
when I opened the door
I took his breath away
something most unexpected
something so surprising
even to him
to the both of us
To: My Dearest
From: Medicated Lady
Re: Evaluation
There is compelling evidence that you do not feel you have made an error in judgment concerning me. This is disappointing as I had not terminated you; I had only put you on probation. I fully expected for you to come through a reassessment with no problems. However, it has come to my attention that you are refusing to return to your senses. Weeks gone by and now it seems you’ve redirected adoration toward another.
All possible scenarios have dwindled to a singular ray pointed at the Exit sign. It appears the fire alarm has been going off for some time now, everyone has left the building except me. It is strictly against company policy to leave me behind.
Since your resignation, I have considered your tenure with me. I contemplated what might be said if you were to realize your mistake.
– How dare you come back around after saying you were not ready for a relationship?
– How could you tell me you didn’t want to have sex with me anymore because you wanted to look around? How could you not see I was a good thing, right in front of you? There was nothing to look around for.
– I hate you.
– I love you.
– Let’s take things slow.
– Let’s fuck.
It is as this point that I have to express my disappointment with your finagling with wig shopkeepers. I would be remiss if I did not mention that your deception in this matter has not improved your performance evaluation.
As you know, company policy states that evaluations are given regardless of manner of discharge: resignation or termination. In this case, you resigned before I was able to terminate you. This gives me pause. Since I cannot give your evaluation to you, I give it to the world. It is not favorable. I would hope that, though you are not officially required to do so, you would not shirk your responsibilities and give me the opportunity to say I never want to see you again. Should you do this, your performance rating would dramatically increase.
I hope that you will be able to reconsider your position and come back to me in the future. If only so I can fire you.
This whole time, I was thinking I had only recently licked my wounds from the ex of 2008. Then I remembered that last November I was developing a solid relationship with a guy who would 3 months later leave to go to Japan for a couple of years (aka the guy who left the country without telling me; I technically knew he was leaving but fuck him, he’s my story to tell now). Remember that? What fun. I called this man an asshole and he was but I still like to talk to him sometimes. I mean, he has that funny Wisconsin accent. Then the guy with the facial tic. Then that guy who diagnosed my knee problem, which would have gotten him a second date (I’m a hypochondriac) except he used “golly gee” and “holy smokes” during the conversation and I couldn’t live with that. No one could. Then there was the one I liked but it didn’t work out. Rapid fire dating. Airforce John. Oh, and remember the one who shaved his arms and had the smoothest arm skin I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry, but he was too short. 5’8 is too short for me and I know this but then I tell myself, “well maybe…” and then I remember that the height specifications I’ve set are important as soon as I meet the guy…I swear I feel as though we’re eye to eye even though he’s 9 inches above me. Aside from Gary Stubble of yesteryear, I’ve never been attracted to a short guy.
They fade quickly into mythology, don’t they?
There might be another shot at an Air Force man (too soon to tell). Mainly, it’s slow-going because I am so over putting out effort at the moment (as such, I’m ruminating over all of my lost loves, most of whom I didn’t mind losing). Ebb and flow, friends.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: