Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Year of the Weddings: The Reunion

In 2010 I moved into a house with 3 girls I'd never met. I was in need of a new place to live in a hurry (and on the cheap). I answered an ad for a sublease, looked at the room, and moved in a week later. The room was tiny, with slanted walls that I was too tall to stand up straight in, no closet, and the ugliest green walls that I've ever seen in my life.

And it was the best place I ever lived.

Nikki, Amanda, and AJ quickly became three of my closest friends, likely because we probably all have the same mental disorder that causes absolute ridiculousness anytime we're around each other.






When I found out that Amanda was engaged I was of course thrilled for her, but I was equally excited for a Roomie Reunion of epic proportions. I was also excited to have an excuse to try to get back into more of a visually pleasing shape. I was absolutely, no excuses, definitely going to start eating better and exercising so I could look hot for this wedding. 

Until I discovered how inexpensive super giant candy bars are. 

I'd gotten really good at preparing meals ahead of time and not just buying pizza rolls and mini tacos anytime I was hungry...until about a few weeks before the wedding. Guys, I fell off the wagon, and I fell hard. We're talking frozen pizzas, various off brand cheese flavored snacks, ice cream, so. much. wine, and enough chocolate to feed a thousand menstruating women at a Cathy convention (ACK!).

It all came to a head when I looked in the mirror a few days before the wedding.


Wearing black is the same as losing weight, right?

Better luck next wedding. It was too late to do anything about it, so I ate a bag of Cheetos and moved onto my next crisis. I'd received a text message the week of the wedding from the bride advising me that there wouldn't be a bar at the wedding, and they'd only be serving keg beer. 


My first reaction was, of course, panic. After I got over the initial shock though, my second reaction was concern. Not so much concern over the lack of booze (I'll strap flasks wherever needed to have vodka at a wedding), but concern over the fact that apparently I've now become the type of person that needs a warning from the bride herself the week of her wedding to alert me to the alcohol situation.

This isn't who I thought I'd be when I grew up.

The day of the wedding arrived, and I had a lot to do, so I woke up early...ish...okay, it was a bit later than I planned...I slept til 11:30. I ran around town frantically doing laundry, shopping for clothes to wear when the original outfit I'd planned on fell through, stopped for a doughnut when trying on clothes went rather less well than hoped, and bought liquor to fill my flask with. By 1:30, I was an hour and a half late, stuck behind a horse trailer going 40 mpg, and I'd forgotten to buy a gift.

Hope you liked your giftcard, guys!

I rolled into New Ulm with just enough time to change, and head to the church. It was a gorgeous ceremony. I was super impressed with how adorable the bridesmaids dresses were, the bride was stunning in her dress, she was rocking some seriously fabulous lime green faux alligator pumps (that I'm kicking myself for not getting a picture of), the groom looked as dapper as I'd ever seen him, and best of all, they kept it short and sweet.

After a stop at the bar for a few drinks, we headed to the reception. I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived and I noticed that I'd made a contribution at the head table. 


Regular readers may remember these as the gift I gave Amanda at her Bachelorette Party. I'm basically a wedding planner y'all.

Seriously...let's talk rates (I hope you like glitter).

Halfway through the night, I decided it was time to test out a suggestion I'd been given by a friend. She suggested adding Crystal Light to beer to make it taste better. She knew of people who did this at weddings (and didn't die of being disgusted). I'd brought some Strawberry Lemonade flavoring and was about to try it when I realized that if I added some vodka I basically had a Strip and Go Naked (recipe here). 


It was horrible, and you shouldn't do it ever...but it did the trick. 

10 O'clock Chris
11 O'clock Chris
I had a ton of fun during the entire reception, but especially that last hour. It was largely because that was then that I realized what power I had as the friend of the bride. I need only whisper the song I wanted to hear in her ear, and she'd get it done. I wish I had that kind of power at every bar I go to.

The end of the night came quickly. One second we're playing on the swingset, and then the next I'm being ushered into a strange car and taken away. I was fielding calls from friends trying to figure out where I was, whose car I'd gotten in to, and where we were going. I knew none of the answers, so I just crossed my fingers and hoped that I hadn't been abducted for real. Luckily we ended up at the bar.

Sober Chris is a bit more cautious when in small town bars, but Drunk Chris doesn't give a f#%! if an entire table of straight men are staring kind of aggressively at him while he shakes his ass to Miley Cyrus.


I wasn't too concerned. One of the groomsmen had developed an entirely platonic man crush on me and had wanted desperately to be my wing-man. I'm not 100% sure of the straight wing-manning rules, but I think that means he'd have to jump in and help if I got into a brawl. The gay rules of wing-manning are a bit different. I won't throw a punch for anyone, but I will not hesitate to start a bitchy text messaging campaign. 

The night ended with the bride and groom stopping in our hotel room before they headed back to theirs. It was nice after a night filled with dancing, drinking, and tons of other people, to sit down and chat with my old roomies. It was probably the highlight of the night for me.

And not even just because I wasn't wearing pants anymore.







I've recently started judging my nights out by what my bedhead looks like the next morning.

Crushed it.


Wednesday, October 23, 2013

D-Days!


Hey, everyone!

I'm so excited and flattered that Chris asked me to write guest post this week! I'm his #1 fan, and I think his blog is the best!

Chris and I have been friends since we were babies, and we've been together for all of life's milestones, even when we went to different colleges.

I spent five amazing years at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion, and Chris came to visit me quite often.

One annual tradition that has remained since college is the annual homecoming celebration, Dakota Days.

Dakota Days, or D-Days as it is more widely known, comes once a year, typically the first week in October. There are events all week for the students, but when the weekend comes around, that's when the celebration goes to a whole new level.

D-Days is a time honored tradition that brings in USD alumni from all over to spend time together, drink champagne straight out of the bottle, dance, and shout USD cheers as loud as humanly possible. If you've never been in a packed Carey's Bar while someone starts up the “U-S-D” cheer, you're really missing out.

We love USD, we love each other (mostly), and we most definitely love slices of R-Pizza and cheeseballs at 2 a.m. that you have to wait an hour in line for.

We want everyone to know how much we love everything, so we shout. A lot. There's also a lot of random dancing, shrieking and hugging. It's a very intense holiday.

In short: If you have a voice, any money in your pocket and no new friends that you made at 1:30 a.m. While drunkenly talking about life, you, my friend, did not do it right.  

Chris spent at least one D-Days with me when I was a student. I believe we spent the evening riding around listening to music (with a desginated driver), yelling, “Happy D-Days!” at people walking down the street and asking people what their favorite color is. It was a blast.

Side note: Yelling “Happy D-Days!” as loud as you can during D-Days weekend is acceptable at any time of day. People expect it, it's like saying hello.

D-Days comes only once a year, and for us alums, we only get one weekend, so we've got to make it count. No one gets much sleep this weekend. Diet Coke flows like water.

There are several components that make D-Days fantastic:

Ridiculousness

It truly wouldn't be D-Days without ridiculousness that you would question if you were anywhere other than Vermillion on homecoming weekend.


One year, I kid you not, I saw a man jump up on the bar, sing AND dance to "Brandy." Other guys jumped up on the bar, and started doing the same thing. Women threw their scarves and jackets  at them, there was hooting and clapping, it was fantastic. The bartender totally just let it happen, too.

Magical.

There's also the regulars everyone looks forward to seeing, that you never see any other time of year. They're like mystical creatures that only emerge once a year to bring us D-Days blessings. I don't question it.

Every year on D-Days, we run into this girl.


Even though the dates of D-Days change slightly from year-to-year, it's always somehow this chick's birthday. Every year, she blows through the door of the Main Street Pub wearing a tiara, a sash, and a t-shirt that she wants everyone to sign. She's usually screaming for someone to buy her shots, someone usually obliges.

I don't even know this girl's name, even though I'm sure she's drunkenly told me what it is at least 27 times. I always end up waiting in line in the bathroom when she shows up, and she wants me to sign her t-shirt 15 times. One time, I think I even helped her up off the floor when she fell. In the bathroom. We're practically best friends.
I think the first year she made her appearance, she tried to get on the bar and dance, but the bartenders weren't not into that. Maybe if "Brandy" had been playing she would have had better luck.



Nobody loves D-Days more or parties harder than this girl. Props to you, girlfriend.
Also, a big shout-out to the dude who introduced himself to me as “A Nice Guy,” and then told me he could get me a job.

I asked him what kind of job, he replied, “ANY JOB.” I typed that in all caps, because he really did yell that at me. And all my friends. Apparently he can get them all ANY JOB too.

Dude's making it rain.Though, I tend to suspect “ANY JOB” might be a code word for sexual favors. I'm gonna pass, “Nice Guy.”

Spirit

D-Days is a source of pride for a USD students. It's been a tradition since 1914:
“South Dakota Day is a unique feature in the history of the University. It is not too much to say then that the day has come to stay as one of the annual features of the School, and that each year will see it bettered and enlarged, until it will become a traditional day to University students and Alumni."  –The Coyote, 1916

There's really nothing like it.

You've got a killer parade:




A football game with one of God's greatest foods, the dome dog:



And cheek cheer.



God bless cheek cheer.

This is the weekend you want to bust out anything bedazzled, sequined or shiny. This year, I busted out my new sequin moto jacket. Holla!



My boyfriend Dan, also a USD alum, made a shotski last year, which automatically made him the most popular guy at D-Days.

If you've never worked a shotski before, it's basically a ski with four shot glasses on it. You all have to take a shot at once, or someone gets jagermeister dumped on their head (that actually happened once, it was funny). It really should be an olympic sport.


See that guy staring at us? He was so drunk he thought my friend Becca's name was Katie, who I assume is his girlfriend. He kept yelling at her and then grabbed her arm to drag her out of the bar. That's when I had to step in and shut that shit down, because D-Days is not about being a dick. He was promptly escorted out of the bar.

Who you spend it with

This is probably the most important.

For the last several years, I've had the fortune to be able to spend D-Days with my dear friends, Jen, Becca and Ellyn.

Jen usually stays at a hotel with her husband and Dan (in a separate room, of course), but they couldn't make it this year (and were sorely missed. I camp out for a few days with Ellyn and Becca at Ellyn's place. It's a great time to hang out, catch up on life, and in general, laugh about what's going on in our lives.

Also, Ellyn sometimes like to show off her 4-H skills by sewing up a dress three minutes before we go out.



She gets a blue ribbon.

We don't all get to see each other nearly enough. I love them to the moon and back.




Next year is the 100th anniversary of D-Days, and I can't wait to see all my favorites again.

Remember, D-Days comes only once a year, but it lives on in our hearts all year long.



'Till next year, we out!



- Beth

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

In the Kitchen With Chris: Spinach Lasagna Roll Ups

A few weeks ago I told you all about my goal to start trying to expand my culinary horizons. I felt like I was leaning too heavily on chicken and pasta, and I wasn't really learning anything new. So I decided to make it my goal to start cooking meals that didn't feature either of these. The problem is, according to Pinterest, chicken and pasta are the only foods that exist.

Correction, there are three foods on Pinterest. Spaghetti Squash is apparently a thing, but it's an abomination and I refuse to acknowledge it.

 I've been looking for easy, tasty recipes for a month, and I found a bunch: Ranch Breaded Chicken, Chicken and Broccoli Stuffed Shells, Cajun Chicken Alfredo, Crockpot Orange Chicken.

Fail.

I briefly considered a recipe for a crockpot Broccoli Cheese Soup, but it's main ingredient was Cheese Whiz, and it could feed 20, so I felt like that was a step in the wrong direction. I settled on Spinach Lasagna Roll Ups. Yes, it's a pasta, but Rome wasn't built in a day, people. Lasagna is actually one of the dishes that I do really well (it's what I usually prepare on that third or fourth date when you're trying to impress boys with your cooking skills). And, bonus, it's got spinach in it which is a super food (apparently)!

Someone please explain to me exactly what the f#%! a super food is.



I'm getting the hang of grocery shopping. I made a list of all the things I'd need before I went, and I left with only what was on my list. Well...and some Diet Coke, but to be fair, Diet Coke doesn't need to be added to any list because figuring out when I'm going to get my next fix is kind of always just gnawing at the back of my mind.

The ingredients:

1lb Lasagna Noodles
15 oz Ricotta
1 cup Shredded Mozzarella
1/4 cup Grated Parmesan
1 Large Egg 
10 oz Frozen Spinach
2.5 Cups Marinara Sauce
Salt & Pepper to taste

I had exactly none of this, so I needed to buy it all, but once I figured out what the hell ricotta was, it was a completely painless shopping trip! My grocery bill still ended up being right around $20 (and most of that was obscene amounts of aspartame filled happiness). Not bad considering I was planning on spreading this out into multiple meals!


My kitchen was actually clean enough to cook in (growing. the f#%!. up.), but not quite clean enough to be taking pictures of the progress in (plus the colander probably had some baby drool on it from last week). So I did the dishes first.

I'm not blessed enough to have a dishwasher, so I've got to do them all by hand. It takes fooooooorever, so it's always the one chore that I put off until I absolutely have to do it. Usually it's at about the point that I'm using salad tongs to eat Mac and Cheese directly from the pot (not being hyperbolic, actually happened). I just recently realized that the reason it takes so long is my complete unwillingness to stop halfway through and clear the drying rack. Towards the end the entire task becomes a nerve-wracking game of dishes Jenga.

All that Tetris really payed off
The actual cooking of the meal started out rather less well than I'd hoped. I didn't really think through how to cook a pound of lasagna noodles (I usually just use the oven ready ones). So when I put them in the pot and they didn't all fit, I had a bit of a panic attack. I suppose I could have cooked them in two batches, filling the first while the second was cooking, but that's entirely too logical. Instead I jammed them all in and frantically tried to bend them all in the boiling water so I didn't have half crunchy noodles.



Once I got the noodles submerged (and my heart rate slowed), I popped the spinach in the microwave to thaw. I was instructed to squeeze any excess water from the bag before adding it to the cheese mixture. So I grabbed it and gave it a good squeeze before realizing that it was approximately three hundred trillion degrees, burning the shit out of my hands.

Doesn't look all that super to me
I mixed in the ricotta, mozzarella, parmesean, and the egg to form the filling. I then layed out the lasagna noodles and added a thin layer of the filling to each one before rolling them up and putting them in a 9" x 12" glass casserole dish coated with non-stick spray. Next I coated the top with marinara (whatever pasta sauce was on sale) sauce, covered in foil, and baked at 400 degrees for 30 minutes.



Not Pictured: The other three pieces of garlic bread I ate
You can find the original recipe that I used here (and you can follow me on Pinterest here).

If I'm being completely honest, they turned out kind of just okay. I remembered after about the third bite that I've made almost this exact recipe before, but with manicotti (while trying to impress a boy), and I didn't really love it then either (I suppose the same could be said for the boy). They taste fine, they're just a little bland and taste like they're missing something...

Chicken, maybe?


Who knows, maybe I'll change my tune as I eat my way through a week and a half's worth of leftovers.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Adventures in Babysitting



About a month ago I got a text from my friend Julie asking, "Do you work October 5th? We're looking for a babysitter that afternoon."

My first thought was that she must have meant to send it to someone else. I mean, I'm known for a lot of things (loving Diet Coke, hating pants, a penchant for day long marathons of crappy reality TV shows), but I feel like being responsible enough to care for someone's child isn't one of them.


It's not that I don't like kids. I do. I'm just really not sure what to do with kids. Kids don't like to talk about me nearly as much as I do. I can't just get them drunk when they're bored like I can with my adult friends. Their limited vocabulary makes trying to have a conversation excruciating. They scream about everything, and not just about things that warrant an elated outburst (like when a Britney Spears song comes on the radio).

Also, they're sticky. How do they get so sticky?!


Babies are even more of a mystery. I never know at what age I'm supposed to start talking to them like they're grown ups (and I'm super self conscious about how ridiculous my baby talk voice is). For the most part, they're pretty boring too. Sure, they're cute enough, but if we're not friends, odds are I don't really care about your kid until they're old enough to start saying hilariously inappropriate things in public.

A few years ago I ran into someone I was acquainted with in college. Calling her a friend would be a stretch. We shared a class together, and we ended up sitting together after looking around at the rest of the group and realizing that there wasn't going to be a better option for either of us. I was honestly surprised that she even remembered me.

She had just had twins, and she was definitely in the "showing off" phase of new motherhood (Ooooh, look what I made with my vagina!). She spotted me while I was at work and brought up one of the babies. I was forced to ooh and aah over it's squishy, squinty, purple infant face while she filled me in on far too personal details of the birthing process. It was ten minutes of "Oh my," "So cute," and "You must be exhausted" before she was done with me, and I saw an opening to extract myself from the situation.

Just as I was getting into the "We should definitely get coffee sometime" part of the goodbye she interrupted me and said, "Oh, wait, my mom has (whatever the name of the other one was), let me go grab him!"


They're twin infants, do you really need me to look at both of them?

I thought through Julie's request though. James is unreasonably cute. He's also at an age where he's developed a personality (much more interesting than when they just poop and scream). I couldn't resist an opportunity to bond with him, and it's not like I had any real fears of taking care of a child either. I started babysitting in middle school, and I had a regular gig through most of high school. I can't imagine much has changed in ten years (excuse me while I have a panic attack after typing ten years).

That, and she offered to pay me in wine, so...duh.

After agreeing, I didn't really think much of it until the day before I was going to be having a baby in my apartment. At that time I looked around and realized I was living in just about the least baby proof environment in the world (ranked just below the set for that scene in Saw II with the pit of hypodermic needles).

I started cleaning (and I hate cleaning), and I payed special attention to those areas that I can't see, but are at perfect level for little baby hands. Under the couch, behind TV stand, and between the chair and the wall. I found .83 cents (mostly in nickels), a couple super stale Cheetos, a tube of super glue, 4 beer bottle caps, and earring from Pretty Pretty Princess, and a big 'ole butcher knife (from that time I was pretty sure there was a killer out in my hallway, but I didn't want to stop watching Gilmore Girls and hide, so I put a knife under the couch just in case).

I got through two rooms before I remembered that babies can't work doorknobs and just shut the doors to the rest of my apartment. Good enough.

The first few minutes after James was dropped off were a bit tense. We halfheartedly played with some toys while eyeing each other suspiciously, both just waiting to see how this whole thing was going to play out. It dawned on him about ten minutes in that Mom and Dad had indeed left, and he was expected to spend the afternoon with me. That's when the screaming started.

The kid's got lungs, but I wasn't about to let it ruin the fun that I knew we were going to have. I was prepared for this. I'd heard that he was an especially big fan of the song Hey Jude so I put in my Across the Universe soundtrack and sang and danced around the room with him. This earned me a curious, but vaguely annoyed look...which is better than crying.

I realized that I was just going to need to keep him entertained.



Colander drums seemed to work...

...for a little while.
He was super into Kylie Minogue...

...and also Little Shop of Horrors.
He fought me a bit, but I got the hang of it.
Crushed it.
After a bit of trial and error initially, we ended up getting along famously. He was a big fan of the euro-pop-dance music that I love (or he was a big fan of bouncing around while we listened to it), and apart from one especially traumatic (for both of us) diaper change, we survived the rest of the day with minimal tears. I gained an appreciation for those noisy toys I previously thought to be super annoying when I realized they had the power to transfix a child no matter how annoyed he was. I also gained a pretty intense admiration for parents who do this every day, all day. Four hours was fun...but it was plenty.

No matter how much fun we had, I think we were both pretty happy when Mom and Dad came back... 

...and I was super happy to pop open my payment.


Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Online Dating: The Good, the Bad, and the Obscene

Remember how exciting it was the day that marriage equality was legalized here in Minnesota? I was in tears most of the day following the minute by minute updates on Twitter, giving me a reputation at work as the guy that cries at his desk. The feeling of validation that came with finally being recognized as equal by the law was nearly overwhelming. Unfortunately, there was another (only slightly less) overwhelming feeling that came shortly afterwards...

F#%!, I'm going to have to get married.

It's not that I wasn't planning on finding a long term partner to share my life with, but marriage itself was always such an abstract concept in my mind. The realization that I could now legally be married made it real. I was no longer exempt from the stresses that my straight friends had been dealing with for years. I started actually thinking about my timeline and figured out that if I wanted to still be young and hot at my wedding, I needed to get on the stick!

That means dating, and dating is the worst. Not only that, but meeting people is hard, especially trying to meet gay guys in a relatively small town. It's not even like my standards are all that high. Are you 25-35, out of the closet, and not a grad student? If so, odds are I'll agree to meet up for coffee. What have I got to lose? If not...I'll probably still say yes, I've broken these rules twice in the last month alone (with predictable results).

So I've started online dating.

I've swam these murky waters before, but I was never all that serious about it. Years ago, I put up a profile on two gay "dating" sites. It doesn't appear that a lot of dating actually goes on on these sites. It's more or less just fielding lots of pictures of genitalia with messages like, "u intrstd?"


Now, not everyone is bad on these sites. Many people use it as a tool to meet other gay guys in an area where, outside of the college campus, there's not really a gathering place for us. I've gone out with a few really nice guys (one of whom became one of my best friends). I'm a firm believer that you get out of it what you put into it.

Every now and again I'm proven wrong though. Like with this guy, for instance, whose screen name and profile picture both prominently featured balls.



I stared at this one for awhile trying to figure out just exactly what was happening. I mean, first of all, grammar is obviously not this gentleman's strong suit. Secondly, is he trying to ask me if I'm a daddy's boy? Is he trying to tell me that I'm a daddy's boy (quite a bold assumption to make about someone you've never met)? And lastly, incest? Not sexy.

Then there was this guy...



I hope I'm not putting out some sort of vibe that this is the kind of thing I'm looking for. I mean, Dan Savage taught me well. I know that in a relationship we should all be "GGG" (Good, Giving, and Game) and willing to do things that make our partner happy even if they don't necessarily turn our cranks, but I'm not sure that really applies here. At least say "Hello" and compliment my smile before getting to the weird shit.

His use of the right form of "your" (unlike most of my suitors) was almost enough for me to give him a chance.

Obviously the passive, putting a profile out there and waiting for my husband to come to me, approach wasn't working, so I signed up for OK Cupid. The members are classier (most of them even have faces), and they even have the personality matching program that tells you how likely it is that you'll be a match...as well as how likely it is that you'll be enemies.

The unintended effect of this is that I've become obsessed with people that OK Cupid is telling me that I'll hate. In fact, it's helped me find my nemesis. I hate him, but I really don't know a ton about him (like his name for instance). What I do know is that OK Cupid says that there's a 12% chance that we'll be a match and a 72% chance that we'll be enemies.

That's reason enough for Drunk Chris to shoot him withering glares every time I see him at the bar.


Even with the added distraction of finding new people to hate (as if I've ever needed help with that), I've managed to do a fair amount of dating recently. I've had coffee, I've had drinks, I've had dinners, and I've had more chit chat than I ever thought I'd be able to stomach. So much so that I've begun to fancy myself a bit of an expert on dates.

On first dates. The subsequent ones have eluded me. 

A few of my rules for a first date:

1. Don't clean your apartment.

Cleaning your apartment before a date means one thing, and this is a first date. You're classier than that. He's not coming over, so why invite trouble?

2. Look cute, but not too cute.

This is the first time you're meeting this person. You're setting the bar for future meetings. Don't set it too high.

3. Meet there.

Meeting there means you can leave whenever the hell you feel like it. You find out he's a Nickelback fan? Nice to meet you. Deuces. 

4. Ensure that you're the first to arrive.

I always like to place myself in a power position (even if it's an entirely imagined position of power), and nothing makes me feel more in control than choosing where we'll be sitting. Not only that, but when they arrive and have to apologize for being late it basically gives you permission to be late for every other time you go out (which I will be). 

5. Hide your crazy.

This one's a tough one since all of my best stories are about me doing something stupid or incredibly irresponsible. I've started to avoid adding people to Facebook before a first date, lest they find their way to this very blog to find stories of me not opening my bills for nearly a year, almost dying of smoke inhalation while making cheese filled biscuits, or getting drunk and singing Hopelessly Devoted to You alone in my apartment. 

Plus if they don't know about my blog, I get to write about them without feeling bad. 

Like the last date I went on. He was educated, successful, sweet, a few years older than me, and he used punctuation while texting. On paper he was perfect. I agreed to meet him for drinks, and I actually had high hopes. 

He showed up 10 minutes late (so things started out according to plan). He seemed pretty nervous, and I'm usually willing to forgive some awkwardness, but to say conversation was strained would be an understatement. It was as if he didn't know how getting to know each other works. I would ask him how many siblings he had, he would tell me, and then we'd sit there in awkward silence. I would ask him where he grew up, he would tell me, and then we'd sit there in awkward silence. I would ask him what he did for a living, he would tell me, and then we'd sit in awkward silence.

Bitch, it's your turn.


As the night went on he got more comfortable, and the conversation got significantly worse. He was apparently not at all interested in talking about me (and talking about me is my favorite), but he did seem to be interested in purchasing me. 

He talked about always having a case of Grey Goose on hand, drinking bottles of wine that cost more than people's mortgage payments, renting limos for weekends out on the town, and at one point he even tried to nonchalantly show me his American Express Diamond card...and somehow I was still paying for my own drinks (a lot of them at this point). 

I called it quits after about an hour when he started listing the people in my social circle that he'd slept with. 

So, I've yet to find the one, but I'm definitely starting to figure out what it is that I'm not looking for. I'm leaving myself open to opportunities. I'm not shutting down anything without at least giving it a chance, but I'm also not trying to force something that's not going to work. Dating may suck, but it's a necessary evil.

And in the meantime...