Jen and I hit up Calypso Cafe for some tasty, tasty nachos, and I spied a dude who looked like the illlegitimate spawn of Tim Burton and Tom Petty. That is to say, his face was kinda wrong in ways that came together to be very right. While I am generally much more obliged to secretly scope out dudes from a distance and never, ever talk to them, I was having a moment of insanity and gave him my number. Jen keeps asking if he’s called me yet. This is how I know that Jen lives on some other, much more optimistic planet than I do. On my planet, the victory is in having enough balls to give out the number in the first place…I have convinced myself of this after many years of feeling dissed because said dude never calls. Which may explain why I generally prefer to secretly scope out dudes from a distance. Note to self: fix that lisp, lose 10 pounds. Whatever.
After spending the work day getting all jacked up on coffee and Rockstar energy drinks, I lost my mind and decided to start the spackling/sanding process in the bedroom, which is currently painted the same color as every other room in the house…a color I refer to as “cat puke yellow.” It took about 5 hours (note to self: use palm sander next time), but 2 of the four walls are ready to go, with the exception of taping off the trim. It takes forever, but I went to the Bruce & Carol Mauk school of house painting, where prep takes 10 times longer than painting. This, friends, would also be why I haven’t asked any of you to help. There is no freaking way any of you could be anal/patient enough to do it like I want it done, and I would rather avoid the opportunity to secretly hate you every time I notice a drip on the wall.
A little tip for the would-be painters in the audience: wear a shower cap, breathing mask, and maybe even a hazmat suit if you’re planning on doing this. I stupidly did none of the above and ended up looking like I’d escaped from a really low-budget Fields of the Nephilim video. Will TOTALLY wear a mask next time, promise.
Got the oil/tires checked on the car, mostly so I could get the dudes at the oil change place to tell me what potentially expensive part of my car was scraping on the ground. Luckily, I was just missing a bolt. Another expensive bullet dodged. After that, I went up to the mall to holla at Jen and ended up getting to watch her get her brows waxed. SO much more entertaining when they’re not waxing YOUR brows.
Wrote a couple of reviews, wanked around, and headed out to goth night for more scoping of dudes that I will never talk to. But, hey. At least I’m back in “scoping” mode. “Talking” mode may take another year. The last year or so has been a bit rough, with thesis statements like “don’t trust anybody” and “on a long enough timeline, everyone will leave you.” Then there’s everyone’s favorite, “this job is like an abusive relationship.” Always fun. This doesn’t exactly put a gal in the mood to sift through piles of dudes, looking for the needle in the haystack that has a job, knows how to spell and won’t expect me to take the place of his mom or listen to jazz. There is a reason why marriage extends a man’s life and shorten’s a woman’s. Wow, that sounded bitter.
I’m feeling a little bitter about my friend situation of late, as I’m quickly coming to the realization that a large portion of my friends are seriously, deeply unreliable and I’m no longer OK with it. I’m tired of calling people, feeling like I’m forcing them to hang out with me even though they keep saying “we should hang out!” I’m tired of making plans with people who give me the old “hey, let’s do _______…I’ll call you to give you a time.” And then they don’t call. But they DO hang out with everybody BUT you. And then there’s the cherry on the sundae of having to sit at someone’s dinner party and pretend like you don’t want to stab those people a little. Pretend like you didn’t have a birthday that everybody forgot (it is kinda my fault, as I didn’t remind anybody). Pretend like it doesn’t bother you that one of them pissed all over Halloween plans, leaving you sitting at home waiting on a phone call. They don’t MEAN to do it. They just flake out. But it’s been years, it’s gotten worse, and I’m tired. Eventually, it’s just easier to stop calling. It’s the circle of life: you get older, and your friends slowly disappear to hang out with their boyfriends all the time. You can either get your own boyfriend, or get a cat and a Netflix subscription.