My job involves dealing with the investing public, which very often involves no small test of my patience and understanding. Yesterday, I spent a good part of my day dealing with a monumetally difficult client and after I hung up the phone, the words that escaped my lips were:
"I'd love to just pop that little cocksucker right in the face."
My co-workers were amused to hear me use the phrase cocksucker, as I'm easily the most left-leaning guy in the office, except for the guy in the mailroom, and the only one to support gay marriage rights. I felt kinda bad about using the term, and if there is a closeted or not gay or lesbian in the office then I have contributed to a hostile work environment.
However, I was so mad that I said it again.
"Cocksucker!"
Last week, I was sharing a drink with Drinking Buddy and we were discussing the Ozzie Guillen/Jay Mariotti feud. Ozzie Guillen is the hot-headed manager of the White Sox and Jay Mariotti is the most obnoxious sports columnist in the city, which is saying a lot. Ozzie Guillen referred to Jay Mariotti as a "little faggot," prompting a public outcry from the gay and lesbian community.
"Well," said Drinking Buddy, "he's right. Jay Mariotti is a little faggot."
We laughed. Drinking Buddy is also liberal and pro gay rights, but I understood how he was using the term. As boys, the way we insulted someone was to call his sexual orientation into question. Faggot, cocksucker, queer, I called and was called all of these names according to the adolescent pecking order. But it's strange---I would never think to insult someone based on his religion or ethnicity. Yet in a moment of anger, an offending client is a cocksucker.
Maybe I'm not as progressive as I give myself credit for being.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Why a Marathon?
Both of my bosses think it's absurd---why would anyone go through the agony of all that training, all that conditioning, all that running? What's the point? It's crazy....crazy.
My bosses are not sedentary guys---one played college football and his wife is running her third marathon, herself. The other is a former Army Ranger and when I pointed out that his Ranger training was certainly more gruelling that a simple marathon, his response was that his training was in the service of his country. What can I say to make them understand?
Since Pheidippides ran 26 miles from Marathon to Athens to announce the victory of the Athenian navy over the Persian forces, the marathon has been the standard of endurance for people who want to challenge themselves physically. It's a powerful act of self-affirmation that's very difficult for non-runners to comprehend.
For four months prior to the race, you are fine-tuning your body into a highly conditioned, elite machine. You are increasing your distances every weekend, running longer and farther than you ever thought possible. You see the difference when you look in the mirror. It's in your gait, it's in your carriage, it's in your face---you are transforming yourself into a top-tier runner.
And the day of the race, you are responding to everything that has gone wrong during the year---every heartbreak, every thwarted plan, every humiliation, every defeat---and you are saying, You will not defeat Me.
The thrill of crossing the finish line is directly proportional to the effort that has gone into it and the effort and the thrill are legion and as you look into the eyes of your friends and family you know that you have it to exceed your self-imposed limitations and no one will ever be able to take away your accomplishment because it is yours for the rest of your life.
That's why I'm running a marathon.
My bosses are not sedentary guys---one played college football and his wife is running her third marathon, herself. The other is a former Army Ranger and when I pointed out that his Ranger training was certainly more gruelling that a simple marathon, his response was that his training was in the service of his country. What can I say to make them understand?
Since Pheidippides ran 26 miles from Marathon to Athens to announce the victory of the Athenian navy over the Persian forces, the marathon has been the standard of endurance for people who want to challenge themselves physically. It's a powerful act of self-affirmation that's very difficult for non-runners to comprehend.
For four months prior to the race, you are fine-tuning your body into a highly conditioned, elite machine. You are increasing your distances every weekend, running longer and farther than you ever thought possible. You see the difference when you look in the mirror. It's in your gait, it's in your carriage, it's in your face---you are transforming yourself into a top-tier runner.
And the day of the race, you are responding to everything that has gone wrong during the year---every heartbreak, every thwarted plan, every humiliation, every defeat---and you are saying, You will not defeat Me.
The thrill of crossing the finish line is directly proportional to the effort that has gone into it and the effort and the thrill are legion and as you look into the eyes of your friends and family you know that you have it to exceed your self-imposed limitations and no one will ever be able to take away your accomplishment because it is yours for the rest of your life.
That's why I'm running a marathon.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Adventures with Drinking Buddy
On Saturday, Drinking Buddy knocked on the door and suggested lunch/drinks at a nearby bar where we could watch some college football. I was without plans for the afternoon, so it seemed like a good idea.
We actually chose one of the few bars in Chicago that show English League Soccer on a regular basis, which was what was on the TV, but the selection of beer was first-rate and the food was tasty so we stayed. The girl at the bar to my right had ordered a bloody mary and I remarked to Drinking Buddy that that looked like a good drink for us to order. This served as an introduction and we fell into conversation.
Lydia is 24, dirty blonde hair, has a corporate gig but is sufficiently bohemian for Wicker Park. She has worked as a bartender and enjoys sports and we talked and flirted and drank for the next three hours. Before she left, she told me that she goes to that particular bar every Saturday at the same time.
After she had gone, Drinking Buddy asked me if I had gotten her digits. I told him I hadn't asked for them. He responded,
"That makes me think better of you. It's painful for me to watch you hit on girls who are beneath you."
Huh?
Lydia was cute, funny, and seemed like a pretty smart girl. I don't know that she's the type I'm looking for right now as I still have items on my plate and need to straighten out my dating sitch but she was nice and it was fun to flirt with her. In no way did I ever think that she was beneath me.
The reality is, I like to flirt. It's fun. It doesn't necessarily have to go anywhere, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I'm the type of person who will strike up a conversation with strangers in a bar.
Drinking Buddy has very definite ideas about the type of girl he would date---I applaud him for that. Sometimes I end up going for someone who doesn't seem like my type at all. But there's a concommitant to his chosen stance, and it's this: I don't think he's really comfortable in feminine company.
My theory is that women can tell when a guy doesn't really "like" women. Drinking Buddy is a very proud man and I think he dismisses a lot of women because he doesn't want to expose himself to possible rejection, but I don't see him in the company of women very much.
Or maybe he just felt abandoned at the bar....
We actually chose one of the few bars in Chicago that show English League Soccer on a regular basis, which was what was on the TV, but the selection of beer was first-rate and the food was tasty so we stayed. The girl at the bar to my right had ordered a bloody mary and I remarked to Drinking Buddy that that looked like a good drink for us to order. This served as an introduction and we fell into conversation.
Lydia is 24, dirty blonde hair, has a corporate gig but is sufficiently bohemian for Wicker Park. She has worked as a bartender and enjoys sports and we talked and flirted and drank for the next three hours. Before she left, she told me that she goes to that particular bar every Saturday at the same time.
After she had gone, Drinking Buddy asked me if I had gotten her digits. I told him I hadn't asked for them. He responded,
"That makes me think better of you. It's painful for me to watch you hit on girls who are beneath you."
Huh?
Lydia was cute, funny, and seemed like a pretty smart girl. I don't know that she's the type I'm looking for right now as I still have items on my plate and need to straighten out my dating sitch but she was nice and it was fun to flirt with her. In no way did I ever think that she was beneath me.
The reality is, I like to flirt. It's fun. It doesn't necessarily have to go anywhere, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I'm the type of person who will strike up a conversation with strangers in a bar.
Drinking Buddy has very definite ideas about the type of girl he would date---I applaud him for that. Sometimes I end up going for someone who doesn't seem like my type at all. But there's a concommitant to his chosen stance, and it's this: I don't think he's really comfortable in feminine company.
My theory is that women can tell when a guy doesn't really "like" women. Drinking Buddy is a very proud man and I think he dismisses a lot of women because he doesn't want to expose himself to possible rejection, but I don't see him in the company of women very much.
Or maybe he just felt abandoned at the bar....
Saturday, September 22, 2007
This is Worth Seeing.....
http://todayspictures.slate.com/singunmar/
But o, photography! as no art is,
Faithful and disappointing! that records
Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,
And will not censor blemishes
Like washing-lines, and Halls’-Distemper boards.....
Philip Larkin
But o, photography! as no art is,
Faithful and disappointing! that records
Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,
And will not censor blemishes
Like washing-lines, and Halls’-Distemper boards.....
Philip Larkin
Friday, September 21, 2007
Chicago How Do I Love Thee....
I was raised in a small town in Iowa whose inhabitants would fill approximately one-sixth of Wrigley Field and I was one of those lost souls who wanted something more than his environment could provide him with. Just, something, that elusive something, that void that church potlucks, Friday night football games, 4-H shows and county fairs are powerless to fill.
Fast forward a few years: I had recently been kicked out of college, had broken up with my academically high-achieving girlfriend after being confronted with evidence that she was planning to cheat on me and was working for a collection agency, the duties of which included repossessing cars. My roommate Ted was planning a move to Chicago to work for a famous film director and asked if I wanted to join him.
It took me just a couple hours to say yes.
I have doubted my relationships, doubted my career and doubted my abilities but I have never doubted that I landed in the right city. My first year in Chicago was overwhelming and I tended to feel guilty if I wasn't doing something every minute to improve myself: I spent Saturdays memorizing the location of every painting in the Art Institute, I attended symphony concerts whenever my paycheck would let me and then some, flocked to art films and plays and museums and galleries until my head spun. Socially, I was just as manic: a Friday or Saturday night at home was a wasted opportunity---Division Street beckoned and it did take me awhile to learn that just because the bars stayed open until 5:00 am didn't mean that I had to stay in them until 5:00 am.
Eventually I came down to earth and when I did, Chicago unfolded herself in all her glory: there were Sunday afternoons in Soldier Field with 66,000 like minded inebriated fans, Music Box matinées at 11:30 every Saturday and Sunday where they would show old, foreign and obscure films, The Green Mill jazz bar, a former speakeasy and Capone hangout that still offered some of the best jazz in the city, and storefront theatres in colorful neighborhoods where young actors could ply their trade away from the heavily commercialized loop theatre scene.
There was The Berghoff, the 100-year-old German restaurant at which my great-grandfather had worked as a waiter prior to opening his own tavern. There was the lakefront, which offered festivals, swimming and, if you hooked up with the right people, an afternoon on a sailboat. There were the neighborhoods like Chinatown, Hyde Park, Rogers Park, Wicker Park, each with its own individual feel. And parties with interesting, funny, unpretentious and well-read people.
If you lived in a neighborhood with an independent coffee shop, a used bookstore, a bakery, a hot dog stand, a laid-back bar where the staff knew your name and a place to go for brunch, then you lived in a good neighborhood. And a car was unnecessary---the trains and buses went everywhere and the easy availability of taxis eliminated the danger of getting arrested for DWI, or worse.
There are cities where the weather is always warm and humidity is lower, but I'm a Midwestern boy and I love my seasons. And there is nothing like the thrill of a cold winter night when you meet your friends gather in a toasty bar where a really good blues band is playing and then you go to an after-hours spot buried in an obscure neighborhood and the lights are low and there is a fireplace and a few regulars and you are drinking glog and you and your girlfriend decide to go home and hail a taxi and the next morning the Tribune is on your doorstep and you get dressed and duck around the corner for brunch walking carefully so as not to fall on the ice and clinging tightly to eachother and the bloody mary and omelette and coffee warm you and you get home and as you are removing your coats your eyes lock and in an instant you are naked and you are making love and there is the hissss of the radiator and the roar of the el train and you are making love and you don't want the moment to end, ever.
Fast forward a few years: I had recently been kicked out of college, had broken up with my academically high-achieving girlfriend after being confronted with evidence that she was planning to cheat on me and was working for a collection agency, the duties of which included repossessing cars. My roommate Ted was planning a move to Chicago to work for a famous film director and asked if I wanted to join him.
It took me just a couple hours to say yes.
I have doubted my relationships, doubted my career and doubted my abilities but I have never doubted that I landed in the right city. My first year in Chicago was overwhelming and I tended to feel guilty if I wasn't doing something every minute to improve myself: I spent Saturdays memorizing the location of every painting in the Art Institute, I attended symphony concerts whenever my paycheck would let me and then some, flocked to art films and plays and museums and galleries until my head spun. Socially, I was just as manic: a Friday or Saturday night at home was a wasted opportunity---Division Street beckoned and it did take me awhile to learn that just because the bars stayed open until 5:00 am didn't mean that I had to stay in them until 5:00 am.
Eventually I came down to earth and when I did, Chicago unfolded herself in all her glory: there were Sunday afternoons in Soldier Field with 66,000 like minded inebriated fans, Music Box matinées at 11:30 every Saturday and Sunday where they would show old, foreign and obscure films, The Green Mill jazz bar, a former speakeasy and Capone hangout that still offered some of the best jazz in the city, and storefront theatres in colorful neighborhoods where young actors could ply their trade away from the heavily commercialized loop theatre scene.
There was The Berghoff, the 100-year-old German restaurant at which my great-grandfather had worked as a waiter prior to opening his own tavern. There was the lakefront, which offered festivals, swimming and, if you hooked up with the right people, an afternoon on a sailboat. There were the neighborhoods like Chinatown, Hyde Park, Rogers Park, Wicker Park, each with its own individual feel. And parties with interesting, funny, unpretentious and well-read people.
If you lived in a neighborhood with an independent coffee shop, a used bookstore, a bakery, a hot dog stand, a laid-back bar where the staff knew your name and a place to go for brunch, then you lived in a good neighborhood. And a car was unnecessary---the trains and buses went everywhere and the easy availability of taxis eliminated the danger of getting arrested for DWI, or worse.
There are cities where the weather is always warm and humidity is lower, but I'm a Midwestern boy and I love my seasons. And there is nothing like the thrill of a cold winter night when you meet your friends gather in a toasty bar where a really good blues band is playing and then you go to an after-hours spot buried in an obscure neighborhood and the lights are low and there is a fireplace and a few regulars and you are drinking glog and you and your girlfriend decide to go home and hail a taxi and the next morning the Tribune is on your doorstep and you get dressed and duck around the corner for brunch walking carefully so as not to fall on the ice and clinging tightly to eachother and the bloody mary and omelette and coffee warm you and you get home and as you are removing your coats your eyes lock and in an instant you are naked and you are making love and there is the hissss of the radiator and the roar of the el train and you are making love and you don't want the moment to end, ever.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
A Clean Slate
I told this story to Drinking Buddy last night at Nick's, and I will now tell it to you.
Marla is in Greece. I am in the office. It has been a hectic week, watching from reserved box seats as the country stumbles toward a recession. She has been sightseeing and spending time on the Aegean. In short, I am jealous.
I received an email from her asking how my week was going. I replied, hectic. She responded by mentioning how beautiful the day was and how much wine she had been drinking.
I typed in: fuck you.
She sent a text to my phone:
"Is something wrong?? Got a mean message from you! If I said or did something can u at least explain. I don't want any bad feelings between us & was looking forward 2 seeing u and telling u about my trip when I got home!"
Marla is nice. Probably too nice. Most everybody I know would consider the context of the email in question and realize that I was teasing. Besides, I usually express my contempt for someone by silence, as when E. walked into the Jazz Showcase with another guy: I turned back to the stage and said, "I wish this wouldn't have happened." I didn't swear at her---she was simply dead to me.
I'm giving serious consideration to disbanding the remainder of my harem prior to the marathon---a symbolic gesture, perhaps, but those who know me know that I'm big on symbolism. Christy is gone, I haven't slept with Mar or Suburban Melissa in a few months and Submissive Liz is only an occasional hookup but having gratification close at hand may be making me----lazy.
Truth is, I haven't met anyone I really want to have a relationship with. But I'd love to. I want to date someone who challenges me intellectually as well as emotionally. Someone who takes an interest in things. Someone who can keep up. Someone who enjoys....Shakespeare. I'm not finding that right now. With the marathon around the corner, it's an excellent time to examine my life and make changes. It may be time to start over with a clean slate.
Marla is in Greece. I am in the office. It has been a hectic week, watching from reserved box seats as the country stumbles toward a recession. She has been sightseeing and spending time on the Aegean. In short, I am jealous.
I received an email from her asking how my week was going. I replied, hectic. She responded by mentioning how beautiful the day was and how much wine she had been drinking.
I typed in: fuck you.
She sent a text to my phone:
"Is something wrong?? Got a mean message from you! If I said or did something can u at least explain. I don't want any bad feelings between us & was looking forward 2 seeing u and telling u about my trip when I got home!"
Marla is nice. Probably too nice. Most everybody I know would consider the context of the email in question and realize that I was teasing. Besides, I usually express my contempt for someone by silence, as when E. walked into the Jazz Showcase with another guy: I turned back to the stage and said, "I wish this wouldn't have happened." I didn't swear at her---she was simply dead to me.
I'm giving serious consideration to disbanding the remainder of my harem prior to the marathon---a symbolic gesture, perhaps, but those who know me know that I'm big on symbolism. Christy is gone, I haven't slept with Mar or Suburban Melissa in a few months and Submissive Liz is only an occasional hookup but having gratification close at hand may be making me----lazy.
Truth is, I haven't met anyone I really want to have a relationship with. But I'd love to. I want to date someone who challenges me intellectually as well as emotionally. Someone who takes an interest in things. Someone who can keep up. Someone who enjoys....Shakespeare. I'm not finding that right now. With the marathon around the corner, it's an excellent time to examine my life and make changes. It may be time to start over with a clean slate.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Picky, Picky...
Things are over with Christy and Marla is out of the country, but I did respond to a booty call from Submissive Liz on Saturday. She told me that last year she went home one night with Drinking Buddy, whose door is opposite mine. She said that he treated her like a nice girl, adding,
"....but you know me better."
Drinking Buddy had already told me about his one-nighter with Submissive Liz. He remarked that she's a multi-orgasmic girl but said that he couldn't finish---when she took off her clothes, he found her....flabbier than he initially expected. As the sex progressed, he started losing interest.
I thought this was curious---Drinking Buddy is rather overweight himself. He played college football as a center and runs regularly, but the guy is large and not in a muscular sense. I didn't say anything about it. Still....
There's something about guys. We can let ourselves go to pot, sit around in sports bars watching football all day and eating deep fried bar nash until our bellies prodtrude over our belt. We can wear the same old college sweatshirt with mustard stains and ratty jeans with tennis shoes. We can get sloppy about our grooming, using those ubiquitous baseball caps to cover our greasy unwashed hair. But we still want our girls to be waif-thin, hot, big chested babes. And it seems that the fattest guys in the bar are the first to crack wise about a girl's waistline.
Is it a defense mechanism? Sour grapes? Or are we just that blind to our imperfections?
"....but you know me better."
Drinking Buddy had already told me about his one-nighter with Submissive Liz. He remarked that she's a multi-orgasmic girl but said that he couldn't finish---when she took off her clothes, he found her....flabbier than he initially expected. As the sex progressed, he started losing interest.
I thought this was curious---Drinking Buddy is rather overweight himself. He played college football as a center and runs regularly, but the guy is large and not in a muscular sense. I didn't say anything about it. Still....
There's something about guys. We can let ourselves go to pot, sit around in sports bars watching football all day and eating deep fried bar nash until our bellies prodtrude over our belt. We can wear the same old college sweatshirt with mustard stains and ratty jeans with tennis shoes. We can get sloppy about our grooming, using those ubiquitous baseball caps to cover our greasy unwashed hair. But we still want our girls to be waif-thin, hot, big chested babes. And it seems that the fattest guys in the bar are the first to crack wise about a girl's waistline.
Is it a defense mechanism? Sour grapes? Or are we just that blind to our imperfections?
Friday, September 14, 2007
Fly, Fly Away....
The day after my weekend with Christy, I received an email to my gmail account and one to my myspace with the same message:
"Please call me as soon as you can. I'm confused about something. Christy."
This would mean, of course, an end to my peaceful morning. When a woman you've been seeing is confused about something, a long conversation is usually required to straighten out the confustion. I called her.
"David, what am I to you? I was online with Len and I told him that I felt disrespected by your friends. I asked him what he thought of them."
OK. Len knows Urban Melissa and Guatemala. Len likes Urban Melissa and Guatemala. Be very careful here. When in doubt, consult Dale Carnegie.
"I told Len that I'm not your wife, but I'm not your buddy either and they shouldn't have talked to you like I was your buddy. He said, no, you're not his wife and you're not his buddy. What are you, Christy? What are you? He made it sound like I was your whore!"
Shit.
"Christy, have I treated you like a whore? Ever?"
"No, but that's what he was insinuating!"
Shit.
I had to leave for the office, but told her I'd call her that night to talk.
I got home from work and planted myself on the sofa when a text message came through from Len: Christy is psycho.
Shit.
I called Len and he told me that she was wigging out over IM. Asking him who else I was fucking, if I took other girls I fucked into Nick's and out with my friends, questions along those lines. He said he could hardly type a word in edgewise. I decided to get the phone call over with.
"David, I'm a respectable woman. I'm not a whore and I don't need to be disrespected. Your friends didn't treat me with respect and Len is making me feel like a whore. I'm not a whore! Maybe....maybe.....you know, I'm not stalking you. I can date plenty of men around here. Maybe....we should....just...stop...seeing each other..."
"Christy, it seems that you want more than I can provide. I've never treated you like a whore, and I think I've always shown you respect when we were together. I understand and I'm sorry you feel disrespected. Take care."
She was looking for more reassurance, of course. However, I was exasperated with her neediness during the weekend and her complaining to my buddy about our mutual friends. She gave me an out, and I took it.
I did receive an email at work from her to the effect that she was in a bad mood and that she hoped we could still be friends and put this behind us. I gave a vague answer.
Last night I was at a jazz bar with Urban Melissa, her boyfriend and a few musicians. I told Urban Melissa about the developments.
"David, I felt a little bad for her----she didn't look like she was having a good time, but how could I interact? She spent the whole time hanging all over you. Besides, that's how we roll. She should accept that."
Urban Melissa was right.
Then, Urban Melissa shared her own recent relationship story: her boyfriend, who was onstage playing the saxophone, had gotten to know the girl at the door. He had complained about his back, and the girl at the door informed him that she was in massage therapy school and needed people to practice on. So....would it be OK with Urban Melissa if he got a massage from the girl?
He told Urban Melissa that the girl was unattractive and heavy, but she was neither---a fact that Urban Melissa discovered when she visited the club that night.
I told her that if the roles were reversed, I wouldn't be happy with my girlfriend getting a massage from a bouncer or bartender at a club where she performed. But---how to make that clear without looking needy or insecure? That's the problem. We hatched it over, but were unable to come up with an anwer. Maybe you, Gentle Reader, have an idea?.....
"Please call me as soon as you can. I'm confused about something. Christy."
This would mean, of course, an end to my peaceful morning. When a woman you've been seeing is confused about something, a long conversation is usually required to straighten out the confustion. I called her.
"David, what am I to you? I was online with Len and I told him that I felt disrespected by your friends. I asked him what he thought of them."
OK. Len knows Urban Melissa and Guatemala. Len likes Urban Melissa and Guatemala. Be very careful here. When in doubt, consult Dale Carnegie.
"I told Len that I'm not your wife, but I'm not your buddy either and they shouldn't have talked to you like I was your buddy. He said, no, you're not his wife and you're not his buddy. What are you, Christy? What are you? He made it sound like I was your whore!"
Shit.
"Christy, have I treated you like a whore? Ever?"
"No, but that's what he was insinuating!"
Shit.
I had to leave for the office, but told her I'd call her that night to talk.
I got home from work and planted myself on the sofa when a text message came through from Len: Christy is psycho.
Shit.
I called Len and he told me that she was wigging out over IM. Asking him who else I was fucking, if I took other girls I fucked into Nick's and out with my friends, questions along those lines. He said he could hardly type a word in edgewise. I decided to get the phone call over with.
"David, I'm a respectable woman. I'm not a whore and I don't need to be disrespected. Your friends didn't treat me with respect and Len is making me feel like a whore. I'm not a whore! Maybe....maybe.....you know, I'm not stalking you. I can date plenty of men around here. Maybe....we should....just...stop...seeing each other..."
"Christy, it seems that you want more than I can provide. I've never treated you like a whore, and I think I've always shown you respect when we were together. I understand and I'm sorry you feel disrespected. Take care."
She was looking for more reassurance, of course. However, I was exasperated with her neediness during the weekend and her complaining to my buddy about our mutual friends. She gave me an out, and I took it.
I did receive an email at work from her to the effect that she was in a bad mood and that she hoped we could still be friends and put this behind us. I gave a vague answer.
Last night I was at a jazz bar with Urban Melissa, her boyfriend and a few musicians. I told Urban Melissa about the developments.
"David, I felt a little bad for her----she didn't look like she was having a good time, but how could I interact? She spent the whole time hanging all over you. Besides, that's how we roll. She should accept that."
Urban Melissa was right.
Then, Urban Melissa shared her own recent relationship story: her boyfriend, who was onstage playing the saxophone, had gotten to know the girl at the door. He had complained about his back, and the girl at the door informed him that she was in massage therapy school and needed people to practice on. So....would it be OK with Urban Melissa if he got a massage from the girl?
He told Urban Melissa that the girl was unattractive and heavy, but she was neither---a fact that Urban Melissa discovered when she visited the club that night.
I told her that if the roles were reversed, I wouldn't be happy with my girlfriend getting a massage from a bouncer or bartender at a club where she performed. But---how to make that clear without looking needy or insecure? That's the problem. We hatched it over, but were unable to come up with an anwer. Maybe you, Gentle Reader, have an idea?.....
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Four Who Broke My Heart
I met Alisha at tennis camp---I was 15, she was 13. She was just as much of a geek as I was (almost---I was the bull-goose geek when I was a kid). I had made the switch to contacts the month before and was sporting a brand-new Duran Duran style haircut. She had beautiful blue eyes and pouty lips. She was the second girl I ever kissed. Unfortunately, she lived in another state. Next year at tennis camp she hooked up with one of my roommates. To cover up the fact that I was heartbroken, I acted like a complete smart-ass jerk. This only made her hate me.
I met Tara through an ex-girlfriend in the interim between high school graduation and freshman year at Iowa. She was entering her senior year of high school. She had that "Iowa City" look. Sandy brown hair, earth tones, bosomy---not plump but some meat on her bones---and just the right amount of freckles. She was leaving for Italy and we had one date before she left---Chinese food and an afternoon in the park. It was a sweltering day and I kissed her and her kiss was wonderfully salty and sweaty and unforgotten. When she came back, I pursued her a little too ardently. She stood me up for eight (8) dates before I finally took the hint. When I was young and foolish, I was young and foolish.
Courtney was Ted's girlfriend. I met her in college---she was sitting in the student union with some acquaintances of mine. She was gorgeous---thin, with short reddish hair and stunningly blue eyes. I moved over to their table and started flirting with her. Half an hour later, Ted made his appearance, massaging the back of her neck. I got to know Ted over the next couple weeks. I also got to know Courtney---we would meet in the computer center in the evenings to work on our papers. We took cigarette breaks together and I showed her my poetry---she told me I should be published in an anthology. Unfortunately, I have always been a sucker for flattery. Our flirting grew more intense and eventually we confessed our feelings for each other. She broke up with Ted and we started dating. Then her ex-boyfriend came back into town. Then she started dating an ex-roommate of mine. Then another guy. Then she had a couple of nervous breakdowns. Ted, however, is my friend to this day.
Heather was a student at Northwestern and the sister of my good friend Jim. She was a bit of a tomboy---she wore overalls, old jeans, wrinkled shirts, t-shirts and I don't recall ever seeing her in makeup. She had sandy brown hair and blueish hazel eyes and a smile that just melted my heart. She was also very, very smart. I have dated a variety in my lifetime, but the ones who broke my heart have all been very intelligent. We met a few times in group situations and the attraction was always evident. Finally, we hooked up---it was over the holiday season when school was out of session and we spent three days in bed, wearing long underwear to stay warm, making out to U2 and talking about our deepest, most fragile selves. We couldn't have sex because I was getting over....the campus "virus", which I had caught shortly before. However, I went down on her again and again and she was delicious and I absolutely loved it. We spent New Year's together and discussed having a long distance Iowa City-Evanston romance. However, just as classes were starting we were at the wedding of a mutual friend and she pulled me outside to the car to have a talk. As my feet crunched through the snow, I had a big sense of foreboding. I was right---she told me that she just wanted to be friends. I was dying to know why, but I knew at that age that it was a question I didn't have the right to ask. A mutual female friend of ours told me that Heather had told her that she was afraid I would dump her, that she didn't feel she was as pretty as the other girls I had dated, but I knew then that that was not the true reason. It couldn't have been. There was something else. I made a desperate February car journey to Evanston to try to save it, but the trip ended unsuccessfully and I discovered that she was already seeing someone. I still feel the pangs of longing and regret thinking back on her.
I met Tara through an ex-girlfriend in the interim between high school graduation and freshman year at Iowa. She was entering her senior year of high school. She had that "Iowa City" look. Sandy brown hair, earth tones, bosomy---not plump but some meat on her bones---and just the right amount of freckles. She was leaving for Italy and we had one date before she left---Chinese food and an afternoon in the park. It was a sweltering day and I kissed her and her kiss was wonderfully salty and sweaty and unforgotten. When she came back, I pursued her a little too ardently. She stood me up for eight (8) dates before I finally took the hint. When I was young and foolish, I was young and foolish.
Courtney was Ted's girlfriend. I met her in college---she was sitting in the student union with some acquaintances of mine. She was gorgeous---thin, with short reddish hair and stunningly blue eyes. I moved over to their table and started flirting with her. Half an hour later, Ted made his appearance, massaging the back of her neck. I got to know Ted over the next couple weeks. I also got to know Courtney---we would meet in the computer center in the evenings to work on our papers. We took cigarette breaks together and I showed her my poetry---she told me I should be published in an anthology. Unfortunately, I have always been a sucker for flattery. Our flirting grew more intense and eventually we confessed our feelings for each other. She broke up with Ted and we started dating. Then her ex-boyfriend came back into town. Then she started dating an ex-roommate of mine. Then another guy. Then she had a couple of nervous breakdowns. Ted, however, is my friend to this day.
Heather was a student at Northwestern and the sister of my good friend Jim. She was a bit of a tomboy---she wore overalls, old jeans, wrinkled shirts, t-shirts and I don't recall ever seeing her in makeup. She had sandy brown hair and blueish hazel eyes and a smile that just melted my heart. She was also very, very smart. I have dated a variety in my lifetime, but the ones who broke my heart have all been very intelligent. We met a few times in group situations and the attraction was always evident. Finally, we hooked up---it was over the holiday season when school was out of session and we spent three days in bed, wearing long underwear to stay warm, making out to U2 and talking about our deepest, most fragile selves. We couldn't have sex because I was getting over....the campus "virus", which I had caught shortly before. However, I went down on her again and again and she was delicious and I absolutely loved it. We spent New Year's together and discussed having a long distance Iowa City-Evanston romance. However, just as classes were starting we were at the wedding of a mutual friend and she pulled me outside to the car to have a talk. As my feet crunched through the snow, I had a big sense of foreboding. I was right---she told me that she just wanted to be friends. I was dying to know why, but I knew at that age that it was a question I didn't have the right to ask. A mutual female friend of ours told me that Heather had told her that she was afraid I would dump her, that she didn't feel she was as pretty as the other girls I had dated, but I knew then that that was not the true reason. It couldn't have been. There was something else. I made a desperate February car journey to Evanston to try to save it, but the trip ended unsuccessfully and I discovered that she was already seeing someone. I still feel the pangs of longing and regret thinking back on her.
Monday, September 10, 2007
How is She with Your Friends?
I was in line at Walgreen's on Saturday, getting some last-minute supplies shortly before Christy was due to arrive, when my cell phone rang. It was Len. I answered.
"David, I forget...which one of us fucked a girl we met at seven minute dating last night..."
Without turning around, I could feel the eyes of the women in line behind me shooting daggers into the back of my head.
"This girl was a slut. She had already been drinking before she got there. I fucked her....how many times."
"Len, I gotta call you back."
The funniest things I've overheard in cell phone conversations have been said by the person on the other end of the line.
So, Christy arrived for the weekend. When I told her about my plans for our evening, a get together at Millennium Park with some friends for a free concert performed by the Lyric Opera, she didn't sound overjoyed.
"We can get together with your friends, but....we have so little time together. Can we cut out early?"
I understand the need for alone time, but I always love meeting the friends of women I'm dating. It helps me understand them a little bit better, to see them in their "environment". I silently hoped the evening would go well.
We had drinks at the park cafe and went to the lawn where Urban Melissa, Guatemala, a musician friend of Urban Melissa's boyfriend and a girl he was trying to hit on had already staked out a place with a blanket. The lawn was packed---Chicago does love its opera.
Introductions were made and Urban Melissa inquired about my morning run. Eight miles. She asked if I had been hung over from the previous night with Zibi and Ania. I admitted that I had been, yes.
"David is the town drunk," she said to Christy. Christy visibly stiffened.
Just then, my phone rang. It was ZB.
"David, Gil's coming back in town. We gotta get together. He was telling me, you're a total gigolo. Is your girl there yet?"
"Yes," shouted Christy, who was sitting next to me.
"We'll get together. I'll call you later."
I wondered if Christy had heard the gigolo comment.
"Isn't Chicago beautiful?" offered Guatemala, "best goddamn city in the country." At this point, Christy visibly withdrew from the social intercourse.
The concert was fantastic---sort of an all-star selection of opera music. After the concert, we ambled over to the Crown Fountains and I made a comment about the faces that are electronically displayed on each of the fountains: would it be possible to hack the system and maybe display genitalia, then faces, and people could match up the faces with the genitals?
"It would be too easy with you," said Guatemala, "too many women in Chicago have seen your penis, David. Yours could be matched up pretty quickly."
Ouch.
"Yup. Most recognized penis in Chicago."
After we got home, Christy was in tears. She was upset at the lack of respect she was shown. She thought Urban Melissa's joke about my being the town drunk was out of place---her soon-to-be-ex-husband has struggled with alohol abuse. She was unhappy that no one had asked her the usual how-are-you questions: where are you from, etc.
"And, David, why do your friends have to swear so much? I'm not a prude, but I hate to hear goddamn and Jesus Christ used as swear words."
Alas, my Chicago friends are not really Christy's type of people. Urban Melissa is an irreverent, cheeky bi-girl with bohemian sensibilities. Christy is a stay at home republican mom whose divorce is still pending but who hasn't worked in years. Christy shut herself down pretty early in the evening and I thought the only valid reason she had to complain was over Guatemala's joke. I wondered: did Guatemala get pissed off at Christy's unsociable nature, perceiving it as snobbery? Or, did Guatemala just forget that Christy was there with me? I'll have to ask her about it the next time I see her.
At any rate, Christy left on Sunday morning. Sunday night, I got together with Marla for pub grub, drinks and an overnighter. She's leaving for Greece in two days. I couldn't help thinking how Marla would get along with Urban Melissa and Guatema---she'd fit right in. And if Guatemala had made a joke about my promiscuity, Marla would have laughed and come up with a snappy rejoinder.
"David, I forget...which one of us fucked a girl we met at seven minute dating last night..."
Without turning around, I could feel the eyes of the women in line behind me shooting daggers into the back of my head.
"This girl was a slut. She had already been drinking before she got there. I fucked her....how many times."
"Len, I gotta call you back."
The funniest things I've overheard in cell phone conversations have been said by the person on the other end of the line.
So, Christy arrived for the weekend. When I told her about my plans for our evening, a get together at Millennium Park with some friends for a free concert performed by the Lyric Opera, she didn't sound overjoyed.
"We can get together with your friends, but....we have so little time together. Can we cut out early?"
I understand the need for alone time, but I always love meeting the friends of women I'm dating. It helps me understand them a little bit better, to see them in their "environment". I silently hoped the evening would go well.
We had drinks at the park cafe and went to the lawn where Urban Melissa, Guatemala, a musician friend of Urban Melissa's boyfriend and a girl he was trying to hit on had already staked out a place with a blanket. The lawn was packed---Chicago does love its opera.
Introductions were made and Urban Melissa inquired about my morning run. Eight miles. She asked if I had been hung over from the previous night with Zibi and Ania. I admitted that I had been, yes.
"David is the town drunk," she said to Christy. Christy visibly stiffened.
Just then, my phone rang. It was ZB.
"David, Gil's coming back in town. We gotta get together. He was telling me, you're a total gigolo. Is your girl there yet?"
"Yes," shouted Christy, who was sitting next to me.
"We'll get together. I'll call you later."
I wondered if Christy had heard the gigolo comment.
"Isn't Chicago beautiful?" offered Guatemala, "best goddamn city in the country." At this point, Christy visibly withdrew from the social intercourse.
The concert was fantastic---sort of an all-star selection of opera music. After the concert, we ambled over to the Crown Fountains and I made a comment about the faces that are electronically displayed on each of the fountains: would it be possible to hack the system and maybe display genitalia, then faces, and people could match up the faces with the genitals?
"It would be too easy with you," said Guatemala, "too many women in Chicago have seen your penis, David. Yours could be matched up pretty quickly."
Ouch.
"Yup. Most recognized penis in Chicago."
After we got home, Christy was in tears. She was upset at the lack of respect she was shown. She thought Urban Melissa's joke about my being the town drunk was out of place---her soon-to-be-ex-husband has struggled with alohol abuse. She was unhappy that no one had asked her the usual how-are-you questions: where are you from, etc.
"And, David, why do your friends have to swear so much? I'm not a prude, but I hate to hear goddamn and Jesus Christ used as swear words."
Alas, my Chicago friends are not really Christy's type of people. Urban Melissa is an irreverent, cheeky bi-girl with bohemian sensibilities. Christy is a stay at home republican mom whose divorce is still pending but who hasn't worked in years. Christy shut herself down pretty early in the evening and I thought the only valid reason she had to complain was over Guatemala's joke. I wondered: did Guatemala get pissed off at Christy's unsociable nature, perceiving it as snobbery? Or, did Guatemala just forget that Christy was there with me? I'll have to ask her about it the next time I see her.
At any rate, Christy left on Sunday morning. Sunday night, I got together with Marla for pub grub, drinks and an overnighter. She's leaving for Greece in two days. I couldn't help thinking how Marla would get along with Urban Melissa and Guatema---she'd fit right in. And if Guatemala had made a joke about my promiscuity, Marla would have laughed and come up with a snappy rejoinder.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Just Friends
Sitting here with a bad cold is giving me a little time to reflect and, as we all know, a little time to reflect can be a dangerous thing. Drink deep or taste not the Pierian Spring, whatever that is...
Apologies for mangling Pope.
Anyway, I was reflecting, as I sometimes do, on my life up to this point. Admittedly, it's been a mixed bag and, sometimes, I feel that:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker/And I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker......
Is it perfume from a dress that makes me so digress?
OK, no more poetry. I'm a little light-headed today.
Anyway, behind me are two (2) expulsions from college. One divorce. And, my climb up the corporate ladder has been....leisurely, to put it kindly. My college friends are enjoying glamorous careers with the State Department, as partners in major law firms, as highly placed political operatives and there's even a movie producer in the mix, now. I'm ashamed to admit how much of my day is spent explaining concepts like sell-stop and sell-limit to first-time investors.
However, one area of my life in which I have been blessed beyond my desserts is in my friends.
October 1 will be the second anniversary of my move from a five-bedroom house in the suburbs to a one-bedroom apartment in a hip, eclectic and gritty Chicago neighborhood. Ted and Barry arrived in time to spend my first weekend with me, bringing a "bachelor survival package" consisting of cigars, gift cards and an iPod nano. We had a great weekend together. Len showed up a couple weeks later, and we spent time checking out the bars and restaurants and women in the neighborhood. And going to Soldier Field for the Bears games.
I got to know my upstairs neighbor Bethany during a blackout, when I asked to borrow a candle. She helped me with a shoulder and a sympathetic ear when E treated me....problematically ("You've got to end it, David") and did her best to keep Mar away from my apartment when I didn't want to see her. She also used to bake the best brownies and cookies and always brought me a batch. As her bedroom was above mine, we used to tease eachother about the sexual activities we heard in eachother's apartments. She moved out but is still often in the area.
I got to know my next door neighbor Drinking Buddy and we bonded over a love of the Bears, books and....our favorite bar, Nick's. He is always generous with his bar tab and someone I can always count on for his honesty.
I met ZB ten years ago, when we were both dating the same woman. He and my wife didn't really like one another but when I moved out, he was back in my life again as if nothing had happened. He is always up for bars, festivals, bands and parties and as upbeat and positive a guy as you will find.
Waffle and Grandpa, the Romanian duo, I met through a film class. They are much much worldlier than I am and I am enriched by their perspectives. I met Urban Melissa through a film class as well, and we bonded over our nightclub stories. She's a lot of fun to hang with, a good listener and wiser than her 27 years.
When I moved into my apartment, I made a rule for myself: anytime someone invited me to do something, I had to accept. Even if, especially if, I didn't think I'd have a good time. The idea of urban isolation has become something of a cliche'---lonelines in a sea of people, no one getting to know his neighbors, etc. My urban experience has been more pleasant. The one area in which I have been an unqualified success has been in my ability and luck in making and keeping good friends.
I haven't been doing too badly with the ladies, lately, either ;->
Apologies for mangling Pope.
Anyway, I was reflecting, as I sometimes do, on my life up to this point. Admittedly, it's been a mixed bag and, sometimes, I feel that:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker/And I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker......
Is it perfume from a dress that makes me so digress?
OK, no more poetry. I'm a little light-headed today.
Anyway, behind me are two (2) expulsions from college. One divorce. And, my climb up the corporate ladder has been....leisurely, to put it kindly. My college friends are enjoying glamorous careers with the State Department, as partners in major law firms, as highly placed political operatives and there's even a movie producer in the mix, now. I'm ashamed to admit how much of my day is spent explaining concepts like sell-stop and sell-limit to first-time investors.
However, one area of my life in which I have been blessed beyond my desserts is in my friends.
October 1 will be the second anniversary of my move from a five-bedroom house in the suburbs to a one-bedroom apartment in a hip, eclectic and gritty Chicago neighborhood. Ted and Barry arrived in time to spend my first weekend with me, bringing a "bachelor survival package" consisting of cigars, gift cards and an iPod nano. We had a great weekend together. Len showed up a couple weeks later, and we spent time checking out the bars and restaurants and women in the neighborhood. And going to Soldier Field for the Bears games.
I got to know my upstairs neighbor Bethany during a blackout, when I asked to borrow a candle. She helped me with a shoulder and a sympathetic ear when E treated me....problematically ("You've got to end it, David") and did her best to keep Mar away from my apartment when I didn't want to see her. She also used to bake the best brownies and cookies and always brought me a batch. As her bedroom was above mine, we used to tease eachother about the sexual activities we heard in eachother's apartments. She moved out but is still often in the area.
I got to know my next door neighbor Drinking Buddy and we bonded over a love of the Bears, books and....our favorite bar, Nick's. He is always generous with his bar tab and someone I can always count on for his honesty.
I met ZB ten years ago, when we were both dating the same woman. He and my wife didn't really like one another but when I moved out, he was back in my life again as if nothing had happened. He is always up for bars, festivals, bands and parties and as upbeat and positive a guy as you will find.
Waffle and Grandpa, the Romanian duo, I met through a film class. They are much much worldlier than I am and I am enriched by their perspectives. I met Urban Melissa through a film class as well, and we bonded over our nightclub stories. She's a lot of fun to hang with, a good listener and wiser than her 27 years.
When I moved into my apartment, I made a rule for myself: anytime someone invited me to do something, I had to accept. Even if, especially if, I didn't think I'd have a good time. The idea of urban isolation has become something of a cliche'---lonelines in a sea of people, no one getting to know his neighbors, etc. My urban experience has been more pleasant. The one area in which I have been an unqualified success has been in my ability and luck in making and keeping good friends.
I haven't been doing too badly with the ladies, lately, either ;->
Monday, September 3, 2007
Recovery
There are two great advantages to being a guy:
1. We can take our shirts off in public, and
2. We can urinate standing up.
I came to appreciate the first of these during my 20 mile run, and the second using the port-a-potties at the jazz festival. And I'm pleased to report that there were no....misunderstandings at any of the public restrooms I used over the weekend.
Really, how do misunderstandings arise in the first place? I've cruised through (well, not "cruised") the Minneapolis Airport maybe a dozen times and on the rare occasions that I've needed to use a stall I've always managed to keep my feet on my side of the partition.
Anyway, Friday night I had a date with Marla at a Gold Coast tapas establishment---the food was decidedly mediocre and left me thinking that maybe the mini-boom in tapas restaurants will leave us with as many so-so Spanish places as there are Italian and Chinese. We finished our dinner and I came back from the restroom to find that Marla had already paid the bill!
I'm a dating traditionalist---when I go out with a girl, I expect to pick up the tab. And I do. But it's really nice to be surprised once in awhile...
After dinner we went to a piano bar in my neighborhood where a German film crew was setting up. I ordered scotch, she ordered white wine and we looked around the joint.
"David, is it my imagination or..."
"No, it's not your imagination...."
I was probably one of only two heterosexual men in the place. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.
The show was deliciously campy cabaret style, and when it ended we moved down the street to Nick's. Two drinks later, we were back in my apartment for the night.
We made impromptu plans to catch the jazz festival the next day, and I have to say that's it's a pleasure to go out with someone who has an appreciation for jazz. I will catch heat over this, but why does it seem that serious jazz aficionados are almost always male? Sorry, Kenny G doesn't qualify as jazz. Diana Krall is a first step. A baby step. The iconography of jazz is cool---everybody I date is excited about going to the Green Mill and sipping martinis in that famously infamous former Capone speakeasy but, as often as not, she talks over the music the entire time. A big no-no.
After the jazz fest, we joined the enormous throng of college football tourists at Bennigan's where I ordered a medium burger twice---and where, twice, it arrived burnt to a crisp. The manager apologized and said that they no longer cook the meat more rare than medium. The burgers, of course, were nowhere near medium. I could have played frisbee with the patties. I gave the server the customary 15%, however---it's not the servers fault if the cook is incompetent. I should know better than to eat in a restaurant where they're passing out jello shots to drunk football fans.
At any rate, we ended the night with a drink at Nick's and stayed at my place again.
In the morning, I took off for a 20-mile run, the longest of my marathon training.
Except for coming down with a bad cold yesterday, it was a fun weekend. If I were an accountant tallying, I would say this for Marla:
In her favor: she is fun, relaxed, good socially, appears to be emotionally stable and comfortable in her skin.
Against her: her body is....disproportionate. Above the waist, she has one body. Below the waist, she is carrying a bit of extra weight. It's not noticable when she's sitting down or wearing a dress. However, when she wears jeans it becomes readily apparent.
Don't get me wrong---I'm not into the concentration camp survivor look. I like a girl with a little meat on her bones and zaftig is fine with me. However, I find myself wishing she were.....a little lighter in the ass.
I also feel kinda bad that it bothers me, but.....gotta be honest.
Gonna stay in this week and try to get over my cold. Christy is coming into town on Saturday.
1. We can take our shirts off in public, and
2. We can urinate standing up.
I came to appreciate the first of these during my 20 mile run, and the second using the port-a-potties at the jazz festival. And I'm pleased to report that there were no....misunderstandings at any of the public restrooms I used over the weekend.
Really, how do misunderstandings arise in the first place? I've cruised through (well, not "cruised") the Minneapolis Airport maybe a dozen times and on the rare occasions that I've needed to use a stall I've always managed to keep my feet on my side of the partition.
Anyway, Friday night I had a date with Marla at a Gold Coast tapas establishment---the food was decidedly mediocre and left me thinking that maybe the mini-boom in tapas restaurants will leave us with as many so-so Spanish places as there are Italian and Chinese. We finished our dinner and I came back from the restroom to find that Marla had already paid the bill!
I'm a dating traditionalist---when I go out with a girl, I expect to pick up the tab. And I do. But it's really nice to be surprised once in awhile...
After dinner we went to a piano bar in my neighborhood where a German film crew was setting up. I ordered scotch, she ordered white wine and we looked around the joint.
"David, is it my imagination or..."
"No, it's not your imagination...."
I was probably one of only two heterosexual men in the place. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.
The show was deliciously campy cabaret style, and when it ended we moved down the street to Nick's. Two drinks later, we were back in my apartment for the night.
We made impromptu plans to catch the jazz festival the next day, and I have to say that's it's a pleasure to go out with someone who has an appreciation for jazz. I will catch heat over this, but why does it seem that serious jazz aficionados are almost always male? Sorry, Kenny G doesn't qualify as jazz. Diana Krall is a first step. A baby step. The iconography of jazz is cool---everybody I date is excited about going to the Green Mill and sipping martinis in that famously infamous former Capone speakeasy but, as often as not, she talks over the music the entire time. A big no-no.
After the jazz fest, we joined the enormous throng of college football tourists at Bennigan's where I ordered a medium burger twice---and where, twice, it arrived burnt to a crisp. The manager apologized and said that they no longer cook the meat more rare than medium. The burgers, of course, were nowhere near medium. I could have played frisbee with the patties. I gave the server the customary 15%, however---it's not the servers fault if the cook is incompetent. I should know better than to eat in a restaurant where they're passing out jello shots to drunk football fans.
At any rate, we ended the night with a drink at Nick's and stayed at my place again.
In the morning, I took off for a 20-mile run, the longest of my marathon training.
Except for coming down with a bad cold yesterday, it was a fun weekend. If I were an accountant tallying, I would say this for Marla:
In her favor: she is fun, relaxed, good socially, appears to be emotionally stable and comfortable in her skin.
Against her: her body is....disproportionate. Above the waist, she has one body. Below the waist, she is carrying a bit of extra weight. It's not noticable when she's sitting down or wearing a dress. However, when she wears jeans it becomes readily apparent.
Don't get me wrong---I'm not into the concentration camp survivor look. I like a girl with a little meat on her bones and zaftig is fine with me. However, I find myself wishing she were.....a little lighter in the ass.
I also feel kinda bad that it bothers me, but.....gotta be honest.
Gonna stay in this week and try to get over my cold. Christy is coming into town on Saturday.
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