I Hate My Job. Could Someone Please Kill It?

Things with Boy Blue are still sailing along smoothly. I just looked back at my calendar and realized it's only been two months and change since the boy and I first laid eyes on one another. Considering it feels like ages since then, I'm having trouble believing in reality at the moment.

Anyhoo, contrary to what the general assumption might be (for anyone out there who might be interested in making such assumptions), he isn't the one who's been sucking up all my time and making me neglect my writer-ly duties.

Nope, no, not at all.

The blame for that lies squarely on the shoulders of my heinous job, my heinous upper-level superiors, and the heinous (and impossible) project that's had me in tears, on (prescription!) drugs, and generally on the verge of a nervous breakdown for the past several weeks.

More (exciting things, I hope!) to come after I draw a fat black X over October 3rd on my calendar.

Wish me luck...

Just Right

Boy Blue & Belle sittin' in a tree.... K-I-S-S-I-N-G...



After The Butler, there were a few more dates with some guys (a balding virgin, a 34-year-old with serious PDA issues, etc.), but none of them were really doing it for me.

I planned (and executed) a freakin' awesome* date for Boy Blue and myself, and by the end of it, we'd established ground rules, made a commitment.

After some initial freaking out on my part of the (almost) vomit-inducing variety (Why did I commit so soon? Why didn't I stick to The Plan? What would Cindy Lu say? Why did I let him win? Why can't I say the B-word without getting a tiny bit nauseous?), I've calmed down and really started enjoying this whole relationship thing. (Like, really, really enjoying it.)

Boy Blue took me to Chicago for Labor Day, and we had an absolutely, unbelievably amazing time together. I didn't get sick of him once, and he says the same is true for him. Four days of continuous interaction can make me dislike pretty much anyone on some level, so I took it as an excellent sign that we got along so smashingly.

And, so far, it looks like we have a real, grown-up relationship epitomized by open communication and honesty.

He actually wants to know what's going through my head at any given moment. Wants to hear about my experiences, my expectations, my desires. And to share his with me. Wants to discuss my doubts and fears. Wants to reassure me when I'm freaking out.

And he wants to do stuff with me. Make me part of his life and become part of mine. (The boy's already got pictures of us framed at his place, for crying out loud.)

When I step back and look at everything next to a damned calendar, it all seems to be moving a little fast.

But... fuck it. Who the hell gets to decide what's too fast? Looking at it all outside the construct of time, everything seems just right.


* Yeah, it was totally freakin' awesome. Just trust.

Dude, He's Way More Into You Than I Am

On the day of my second outing with The Butler, I was blessed/cursed with a yay-there'll-be-no-bastard-Belle-spawn-in-the-forseeable-future/ holy-shit-can't-I-just-rip-out-my-fucking-uterus reminder of my womanhood.

With the unusually rough day and my impending date, I felt I had two options:
1. Try to deal with the pain and risk doubling over and/or writhing on the floor every few minutes, or
2. Take a hefty dose of my self-prescribed herbal cramps remedy and hope I didn't laugh like a hyena at The Butler's jokes.

After an excruciating commute home, I chose the latter option. Now, I normally wouldn't partake in such activities before a date, but my monthly visitor was being exceedingly vicious this time 'round. So I proceeded with the partaking before dashing out to meet my date.

He chose the place and met me; I drove. We spent the better part of the evening throwing random movie quotes back and forth and laughing about nothing and everything. (My laughter might've come a little more freely with the whole herbal factor, but, hey, he seemed into it...)

When our waiter (let's call him Edward) came 'round to take our order, I noticed he paid a bit more attention to my date than he did to me. As the night progressed, good ol' Edward's trips to our table grew more frequent and longer, and his obvious disdain for my presence grew exponentially. (At one point, he even turned his back to me completely, effectively shutting me out of the conversation he was having with, ummmm... my date.)

Perhaps my cure-all had a bit to do with my attitude about the situation, but I actually found it amusing that Edward was joking with and chatting up my seemingly-oblivious date in obviously flirtatious ways.

As our meal drew to an end, I started hoping I could steal a moment for a little chat with Eddie-boy. The potential conversation running through my head went something like this:

Belle: Hey, it's Edward, right?
Edward: <raises scornful eyebrow> Yesssssssssssssssss...
Belle: Listen, Edward, there's no good way to ask this, so I'm just going to throw it out there... Do you think my date is gay? I mean, if you do, just tell me. My gaydar's been on the fritz, and I really don't want to go down that road...
Edward: <looks down in pity> Oh, honey.... that boy's queer as a three-dollar bill.
Belle: Thanks, Edward. That's all I needed to know. You know, even though you've been flirting with my date all night, I think you're good people.
Edward: No problem. So... Since you're not going to date him... do you think I could get his number???

Alas and alack, it wasn't meant to be. The Butler never made a trip to the little boys' room or otherwise excused himself from my presence. And when I went to powder my nose, Edwardo made a B-line for The Butler in all his momentary table-of-one glory.

When our attempted departure warranted Edward starting (and maintaining) a 15-minute conversation about essentially nothing, I concluded that he was waaaaaay more into my date than I was. (I mean, at that point, his tip was already on the table, and he was quite obviously grasping at straws just to keep The Butler in his presence.)

When I got home, I tried calling the restaurant to have that afore-mentioned freeing conversation with Edward. The guy who answered the phone informed me I'd just missed him, and I felt my chances for the heart-to-heart dashed.

Like Going Home, Only Not Really

23+ years in The ‘Sip, and I somehow never once found myself attending a concert of the country variety.*

That all changed recently, when Mamacita Baño dragged** invited me to attend a concert at Nissan Pavilion.

Rebel flags, cowboy boots, and 18-year-olds abounded. I haven’t seen such a concentration of Dixie Outfitters shirts in many, many moons. And… lassos? Really?

The day was good, though, despite the repeated visceral reminders of many of the reasons I vamped from the Southern Homestead.

* That’s not to say I didn’t listen to country music or go to festivals and other events featuring country artists. No, that’s not to say that at all.
** Love your face, Boo!