Goodbye Tinder… Hello Golf

I apologize for being MIA and crappy about the updates.  Where do I start?  Well, this happened:

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It was a couple of weeks back… a dark, dreary, depressing day in San Diego.  Eh, who am I kidding it was obviously warm and sunny.  Ginge hasn’t run away yet, so we both deleted the app.  This was way more traumatizing for me, as Tinder was a new thing for him and he just happened to hit the jackpot right away swiping right for this dreamy piece of sunshine.  I kinda whined and moaned as I hit the “delete” button, and he sympathetically said,

“This must be hard for you.”

“It is.”

My thumbs have so many less things to do during the work day now.  If I want to see a good tiger selfie, it has to come in the way of a screenshot from a friend.  It’s a whole different way of life, I tell ya.   I literally had to counsel myself before clicking delete, repeating in my head, “It will still be here waiting for you if you want to download it again.”  I think I have a problem.

Ginge asked me to do something with him that no other man has ever asked me to do:

“Do you want to come golfing with me tomorrow?”

“Are you for real?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how to golf.”

“You don’t have to golf.  You can just ride around in the cart and drink beers.”

Whoa.  Really?  BEST.DAY.EVER!  I love golfing.  Except for the golfing part.  At one point there was no one creeping up behind us, so Ginge told me to hit a ball.  Easy enough.  I’ve hit moving balls all my life, how hard could it be to hit one sitting still right in front of me?  Right?  WRONG.  I swung… I missed.  I was shocked.  He tells me to swing again.  I swung again.  I missed again.  Three times in a row, swoosh swoosh swoosh (the sound a golf club makes when you swing it really hard and it doesn’t make contact with anything), and then I ran right back into the cart with my tail in between my legs.  I was so embarrassed.  Ginge didn’t laugh too much.  He told me I was swinging it like a bat and we’ll need to work on it.  I just cracked open another beer and turned the iPhone speakers up.  I figured I’d leave golfing to the professionals.

I dwelled on the golf swinging for about a week.  I practiced with a broomstick, I whined to my friends about how badly I sucked.  I vowed to practice until I could hit the damn thing.  A few days ago I picked Carissa up.  We didn’t really have a plan- we just wanted to be outside.  We figured we’d just lay out by the bay.  As we’re pulling into the parking lot, a lightbulb went off.

“Oh!  We should go to the driving range!”

Carissa looks at me funny, “Like… golf?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

So we turn around and head to the nearest golf course.  As we’re getting out of the car, I remember we don’t have clubs…  hmmm… hopefully they will have them for us.  We felt like we were in unchartered waters.  We didn’t know where to go.  We didn’t know what to say.  As we’re wandering around, Carissa says, “Maybe we should have just stuck to the familiar and gone to the batting cages.”

We finally figure out how to purchase a bucket of balls, and the man directs us outside to find some clubs which were all mixed up in a huge trash can.  We weren’t sure where to start.  Carissa picks one up, but it’s not a driver.  I know this.

“No, that one’s wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.  Put it back.”

As we are staring into this big confusing bin of clubs, a guy who works there comes over to help.  He picks a couple out for us, and I tell him they look kinda crappy, and we’re gonna need ones that hit the ball far.  He tells us to start with those, and he’ll go inside and get us some good ones from the office.

We find the spot furthest away from the people… as we’re pretty sure we’re gonna hit someone with something.  Ball, club, shoe, who knows.  I get ready to go, determined to hit the ball, with all of my broomstick practice.  Swing…and a miss.  Strike one.  We both start hysterical laughing.  We are not golfing at the same time.  There was a conveniently located Adirondack chair right next to our little launching pad (I don’t know what the hell it’s called), so we took turns sitting in it and cheering the other person on.   After a few misses, I started hitting.  Not every single one… not even most… but it was an improvement.

Carissa got up and wiffed.  Hard.  About 3 times.  I don’t think the driving range has seen this much commotion in a while.  We were trying so hard not to pee our pants.  Carissa’s in cutoff shorts and Timbs, which she realized were not suitable for golfing, and became barefoot after several swings.  Then she got in her groove and started drilling the balls.  Swing, miss, drill one to left field.  It was a rollercoaster of emotions.  Laughing, screaming, high fiving.  I’m not sure this was driving range etiquette, but we didn’t really care.  We made an employee friend who lent us his finest drivers, and old man golfer friend who gave us some brand spanking new tees, and got a bit of a tan.

As we started heading back to the car, we discussed taking lessons.  We saw a group of teenage boys taking a group lesson and I say, “Oh, that lesson is putting.  Boring.”

Riss agrees, “Yeah, we’re not gonna take a lesson.  We don’t do putting.”

And we leave.

A couple of days later, as Carissa’s leaving my house, she says, “Oh, I figured out why we are really good at golfing.”

“Why?”

“It’s because we don’t have any boobs.”

I’m wondering if she’s serious.  “Ok, but you do know we’re actually not good at golfing, right?”

She looks at me like I have 8 heads.  “What??”  And then walks out of my house.

When Ginge saw a photo Carissa posted on fb of my awful swing, I’m sure he threw up a little in his mouth.  Several hours later I received this document attached in an email:

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I died.  And now I’m determined to make this look like a golf swing.  It’s on, baby.

‘Til later, my little nuggets.  Have a safe and happy St. Patrick’s Day weekend.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

Lovers

It was a Thursday afternoon. Yesterday, Thursday to be exact. As a medical sales rep, I bring lunch to offices on occasion. On this occasion, I was bringing Olive Garden.

With my $130 worth of Olive Garden in hand, I enter the doctor’s office only to find that they had double booked the lunch with the Vesicare rep, and everyone was already eating her food. So I hid mine in a corner, and we double teamed the meeting.

Driving back up from the Mexican border with 3 tins of Olive Garden food in my car, I was wondering what I was going to do with it all. I thought about who would appreciate it most.

1. My broke little sister
2. BRIE

Brie LOVES the Olive Garden more than any human should love a chain restaurant. We went on a girl date there a couple of months ago, and she couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks… there were Facebook statuses, follow-up texts, the works. I knew the amount of OG food I had in my back seat was enough to make her jump with glee. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to make my delivery.

I made my first stop at Carissa’s apartment and spread the trays of food out on her table. I told her I wanted to secretly leave some of it at Brie’s house with a note. She thought it was a fabulous idea, and pulled out a large tin with a plastic lid from one of her cabinets… leftover from Thanksgiving. Perfect. We loaded the tin with the three entrees and threw in a bag of breadsticks. Then, came the note:

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We were giggling like children and really excited to make the delivery. When we got to Brie’s place, I pulled over illegally and asked Carissa to go drop it next to her front door. 2 minutes later, she calls me.

I ask, “Where did you go? I didn’t see you go up her steps.”

“Her front door is WIDE open. Someone’s in there.”

It was about 4pm, so I knew Brie wasn’t home yet. I assumed it was her roommate who works nights.

“Oh it’s probably K-wags. Hold on, I’ll be right there.”

I turned off the car and ran over. Sure enough, the door was wide open, and the apartment was up a long flight of stairs. I took the bag from Carissa and said, “I’m going…”

We’re whispering and trying not to laugh, and as I start climbing the stairs, she tells me to run. But I didn’t want the bag to make noise, so I slowly proceeded. At the top, I reached over, quietly dropped the bag, and sprinted down the stairs. The two of us ran like banshees across the grass and back into my car, and just started laughing hysterically.

“I really hope she tells us that she gets this…”

Sure enough, she hadn’t even made it home yet, when we got a group text from her saying that someone dropped off a bag of Olive Garden when K-wags was sitting right in front of the open door doing laundry.

For about two hours, V, T, and Brie went back and forth trying to figure out who did it, with guesses ranging from every single one of our guy friends to the creepy neighbor that lives downstairs. I didn’t respond much. I couldn’t. I was dying.

We had Bunco night at our house last night, and Brie coming over, so I knew I couldn’t bring the rest of the tins home. I left them in Carissa’s fridge. When I got home from the gym later that night and everyone was already over, the note was out, the Olive Garden bag was there, and all the girls were talking about who it could be. It was so hard to keep a straight face. But Brie was in her glory with the tin in her lap and fork and knife in hand. And that made me happy.

She won’t know the culprit until she reads this post… and she just pulled in my driveway. I think I might get murdered tonight. So I will leave you on this note:

Guys… it doesn’t take much to make a girl happy. Shucks, a tin of leftover Olive Garden and you’ll have her over the moon for days. Use this as a lesson. Pay attention, and throw a little surprise in there once in a while.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers!!! Out to paint the town…

xoxo
Gossip Girl

Ginger Comin’ in HOT

Our first date was a Friday night. Second was Monday, third was Wednesday, fourth was Thursday, fifth was Friday, sixth was Saturday, seventh was Monday, eighth was Wednesday. I’m not sure when you’re supposed to stop counting. But I’m very confused.

I’m confused as to how I have been being completely myself the entire time… at times, purposely pushing the envelope to see if I could creep him out, or he’d get squeamish, and he keeeeeppppsss coming backkkkk. I’ve burped, I’ve knocked over food, I’ve told him I had ghost pets, I’ve had him hang out with my sister and HER burps for an extended period of time, he’s witnessed my dance moves, I’ve made him sit through The Bachelor…TWICE… he’s stilllll calling.

I’m trying to find things wrong with him, but I really am having a hard time. He takes initiative on plans and always follows through, he’s been the epitome of a gentleman in every sense, he drunk dialed me, like an actual phone call… which yes, I consider very romantic, he’s a crap ton of fun to hang out with, my friends love him, he thinks we’re funny, and he has a cute bum (and a pool).

But there’s the one thing… The day after he came out in PB and met everyone, my sister was over, and was asking what I thought of Ginge. I explained that I thought I liked him, but there wasn’t anything that jumped out at me that was different. She responded:

“That’s because he’s a normal guy.”

“Yes! That’s what it is. He’s normal. I don’t usually see that as a positive.”

She gave me a long look. She didn’t even need to say anything, and I knew what she was thinking.

“Ohhhh…. maybe that’s what my problem is? I keep dating weirdos? Maybe that’s why it never works out?”

“Ummm… yeah…maybe, Court.”

Hmmmm… something to think about. Of course, now I thought I had found something wrong with him. He was too normal. But the more time I spend with him, the more his little quirks come out. He’s still normal, but there’s definitely a little spice in there.

Keeping true to form, there have obviously been the awkward moments. One night I was planning on going out in his ‘hood… Mission Valley… land of the strip malls (this is called sacrifice). I told him I’d leave in 15 minutes to pick him up at his place. About 15 minutes later, I’m getting ready to walk out the door, and Brie calls me.

“Ummm… I’m at Target in Mission Valley and I think I see the Ginger.”

“My Ginger??”

“Yeah.”

“No, it can’t be him, I just got off the phone with him and he was home. I don’t know why he’d need to go to Target right now.”

“Pretty sure it’s him. He’s wearing a blue shirt. Do you want me to go find him again?”

“Yeah… go ahead…”

I hear mumbling, and then Brie goes…”Yep…it’s him. Oh, we’re giving awkward hugs.”

She calls me back when he’s out of earshot.

I tell her, “I wish you didn’t let him see you. I could have been so creepy about this.”

“Court, don’t be creepy yet.”

“Was he buying anything weird?”

“No, just hair gel because he dropped his in the toilet or something. I wish I caught him buying condoms.”

“Ohhh yeah, that would have been so good.”

I picked him up a few minutes later, gave him a stalker look and told him I had eyes all over town. He just laughed, and our night continued as usual.

There’s something wrong here. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. But I think I’ll wait to figure it out until after we jump out of a plane together… which he just bought us a Groupon for. Maybe he’ll swap my parachute for a faulty one and I’ll end up dead. Maybe murder is his end game. I think I’m going to go with that.

Until we meet again, chickadees…

xoxo
Gossip Girl

The Ginger

He messaged me on Tinder a couple of weeks back. He had a witty opening line, and kept interesting conversation going.

A few days into our conversation, I had a couple of glasses of wine at happy hour, looked over his pics again, and messaged him:

“Are you a ginger?”

His response was a solid, “No,” but I didn’t really believe him.

We were both busy in upcoming days with weekend plans and work trips. We kept in contact throughout, with conversations ranging from ear cleaning with q-tips to our biggest life fears. He occupied me via text during a week-long of loneliness I spent traveling around Arizona. I appreciated his virtual presence, even though I hadn’t yet met him.

I could not wait to get home after that week… I felt like I had been in solitary confinement (I was very dramatic and cranky about it). The Ginger wanted to get together. I made plans to do dinner and happy hour with the girls on Friday night when I got back, but suggested that we could meet up after. For some reason I forgot that I hate talking to people for an extended period of time before meeting them. I really do hate that. But I had done it anyway. When I realized that’s what we had been doing for two weeks, I all of a sudden got a little bit nervous.

I felt comfortable enough with him at this point to suggest we make a plan to escape each other immediately after meeting, if we decided we didn’t like each other in person. His response?

“If you want, but I already know I’m going to like you.”

Oh, a sweet talker. We planned to meet at Dirty Birds in PB. I somehow timed a really long trip to the bathroom perfectly for right before he showed up (this is sarcasm. This was really not perfect at all). He walked in, and apparently really awkwardly looked around for me. The girls saw him looking and thought it might be him, so they picked up my phone from the table and checked his Tinder pics to confirm. I came out several minutes later, saw him already standing there with them, and thought “Crap…” [pun intended]. Thankfully, even after I’m sure an awkward introduction to the girls, (my sister was involved, it was obviously awkward), he was holding his own.

We hugged hello, I apologized for being missing for so long (I wonder if he knew I was pooping?) and then he went to the bar and bought a round of Fireball shots for everyone. Sold.

The night progressed, we made our way to our usual spots. The Ginger was tall, and had a hot bod. I learned he was a D-1 baseball player which made him juuustttt a little bit hotter (I’m shallow… what can I say?)

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…. I started writing this post almost two weeks ago. I got pretty distracted. I just pulled it up to continue, but realized it would turn into a novel at this point… so… until next time.

A Weekend at Big Bear… and a Flat Tire

My newfound love of Southern California is that you can go from summer to winter in a three-hour road trip.  And by winter, I’m referring to only the nighttime hours when the temps drop into the teens, and the mountains can make plenty of snow for you to snowboard on the next day.

This past weekend I took my first trip up to Big Bear to hit the slopes, and spend a couple of days in a rented house of 20 friends.  The boarding experience was surreal.  The conditions obviously weren’t the top-notch, but they were way better than I was expecting…  And the weather during the day couldn’t be beat.  By the end of the first run, our jackets were tossed into the lodge, and shortly after, Under Armour was removed on the lift.  We spent the day getting tan instead of wind burnt.  Removing cold weather and constant snot coming from my nose from the equation was key… it was amazing how little I complained.

The antics that went on in the house were what you’d expect of a rowdy group of 20.  Or possibly not.  After seeing Clueless 150 times, and always wondering if the cool “Valley” kids actually played Suck ‘n Blow at their high school parties [see clip below], I never thought I’d be 31 and giving it a whirl for the first time.

Over a two-hour period of time around the dining room table, I gained a ton of respect for those actors, and the entire crew of the movie Clueless, for the amount of patience they must have had to get that 18 second shot.  Let me tell you… Suck ‘n Blow is NOT easy.  It started with three of us.  The first 20 tries were ruined with laughter.  The next 100 were trying to figure out the proper ratio of sucking to blowing.  The group slowly grew until there were about 10 of us and we refused to quit until we got successfully around the table.  About an hour in, it wasn’t funny anymore.  It became intense.  I never would have put my money on a 35-year-old man screaming profanities over a game of Suck ‘n Blow… and vowing to go home and practice in his living room.  But that happened.  And I loved every second of it.

Sunday morning rolled around, and it was time to go home.  As Carissa, V, Brie and I rolled out of the house in our mismatched pajamas, shoving all of our stuff back in the trunk and saying our goodbyes, we assumed the weekend was over, and it was a straight shoot home to plop on the couch for “Surf Sunday,” which included watching footage from the morning’s Maverick’s Invitational surf competition followed by the movie Chasing Mavericks.  We were wrong.

The drive was okay for about five minutes.  After five minutes V wanted to vomit.  It wasn’t hangover vomit, it was windy mountain road carsick vomit.  And unfortunately, the windy mountain road lasted for 25 miles, which equated to a full hour.  Brie was in the backseat chit chatting away, and one of the only times V opened her mouth to speak was to say, “If I vom, I’m aiming it at Brie because she won’t shut up.”

She didn’t vom.  We made it off the windy road without incident.  It wasn’t until we were on a real regular highway, about an hour and a half into the three-hour trip, that we heard a huge THUMP.

“What the hell was that??!”

I suggested, “It was probably a rock hitting us that came off that trailer.”

I moved over to the left lane to keep away from the trailer.  Brie asked V how she was feeling.

“I’d probably be feeling a little better if Court would stop swerving.”

I was swerving a little.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault.  Don’t you see these divots in the road?  They’re making me swerve.”

I kept driving.  And kept swerving.  The damn divots in the road… Then I saw flashing lights in my rear view.

“Crap!  What did I do wrong???”

“He probably thinks you’re swerving.  Because you are.”

I pulled over to the side of the highway, and that’s when my car started thumping a little…. the girls looked out the passenger side door and noticed the back rear tire was COMPLETELY flat.  The cop came to the window and told me I had a flat.  ;aldfjsa;ldsfjal;dsjfa;ldfjal;kjdakld

Thankfully, there was a huge fieldy area next to the shoulder, so there was plenty of room to pull over.  Before I was even out of the car, Brie and Carissa were walking through the prickly field to bring back a large piece of cardboard they found, and they promptly plopped their asses on it.  V said she knew how to fix a flat tire, but didn’t trust herself to do it and then actually drive on it.  The rest of us didn’t have a clue.

I called Emergency Roadside Assistance who said there was high call volume, and they would call back in an hour to let us know when someone would come out to help.  At that point, V went and got another piece of cardboard that was a few feet away.

Carissa advises, “Stomp on the cardboard to flatten the grass before you sit… otherwise the prickly things might come through and stick you in the butt.”  Solid advice.

Five minutes later, we were all sitting there on the cardboard, snacks out, and Loaded Questions set up.  We figured if we were going to be here for the next couple of hours, we’d better make ourselves comfortable.  The suggestion was made to get a few beers out of the car, but Brie piped in with “I think that might be illegal,” which it obviously is, so we decided against it.

Hobo Picnic

 

At this point, we were very content, and in no real rush.  Carissa found a cut-out finger bunny on the back of a box of crackers, got scissors from the car, and was kept busy practicing her fine motor skills.  We crushed a bag of Doritos in 10 minutes flat, started on the bags of candy, and were playing some tunes.  We alerted some friends who were still in Big Bear that we were on the side of the road, so of course they offered to come to our rescue on their way back if roadside assistance didn’t get to us by then.

About an hour later, a passing cop on a motorcycle spotted us and pulled over.  Carissa says, “This guy’s shaking his head.  I don’t think he’s impressed.”

He approached us and asked what we thought we were doing.

“We’re having a picnic, because we have a flat.”

“Did you call anyone?”

“Yes, we called roadside assistance.  They’re supposed to call back within an hour but we haven’t heard from them yet.”

“None of you knows how to fix a flat??”

Three of us shake our heads, while V explains that she knows how, she just doesn’t trust herself to do it on someone else’s car.”

The cop grumpily says, “My 16-year-old daughter knows how to change a flat.”

Like what does he want us to say to that?  Brie responds, “Oh she must be very smart!”

Officer stars yelling at us, “You cannot be sitting on the side of the highway.  Do you know how easy it would be for a car to veer off and hit you?!  Then I’d be dealing with four dead girls.”

Brie pipes in again, “Well that wouldn’t be good.”

Officer:  “Who’s car is this??”

Me:  “Mine”

Officer:  “WHOSE?”

Me:   “MINE.”

Officer:  “The rest of you get in the car and put your seatbelts on.  YOU.  You’re going to change this tire.”

Me:  “Sir, I already called roadside assistance.  They will be here.  Thank you, but I don’t know how, and I’d just rather wait.”

He ignores me. “Open your trunk.  We need to find the spare.”

Is he kidding??  I open my trunk which is packed to the max with all of our weekend gear.  The girls are in the car looking back.  The cop starts taking all of the stuff from the trunk and throwing it into the backseat, demanding Carissa and Brie help him.  He grabs my backpack and starts to toss it from the back of the car into the backseat.

I say, “Oh my laptops in there.  Please don’t throw it.”

He responds, “It’s fine; it’s not going to break.”  And continues to toss it over the seat.

He tells me to get the car manual to figure out how to release the tire from underneath and find the jack and the tools.  V quickly locates it and hands it to me.  I’m shaking a little because this guy is so mean, and I finally find the pages that contain information on changing a flat.  There are secret compartments and tools and levers and lots of confusing things.  The cop is giving me some direction, but mainly wants me to figure it out myself, and is standing a few feet away watching.

A few minutes later, a car-full of our guy friends pulls up behind us.  I’m thinking “THANK GOD.”  Now this man will leave.

No.  The four guys pull up, get out of the car, and start walking over.  The officer turns around and yells, “All of you get back in your vehicle.  ONE person can stay and help.”

They all stop in their tracks, turn around and start walking back to the car.  I say, “Wait, ONE of you can stay!!”

The officer points to Clarence and says, “YOU. Stay.”

I plead, “Well can whichever one of you knows how to change a tire the most stay?”

Clarence turns around and goes back to the car, and Jarred was the chosen one.  The officer immediately starts calling him “Raven,” for an unknown reason, and bossing him around as well.  I just wanted him to leave.  He didn’t leave.  He was directing us, making me get under the car several times to LOOK at things because he wouldn’t just TELL me what to do.  The guys behind us were texting the girls to get out of the car and go into theirs when we needed to jack it up.  When they tried to do so, the cop shot them down and told them to stay where they were, and just sit on the opposite side of the car as the flat.

Raven and I are both fully under the car, because the jack is so far back.  We have it about halfway up, when it slips out from under the axle and the car comes crashing down.  I scream.  Carissa yells to get out from under the car.  Joey, watching from the car behind gets pissed, and gets out of his car.  The cop turns around, points at him and tells him to get back in.  Now I’m mad because I feel like I almost died.  I’m also really frustrated because I’m hot, dirty, and have cactus pricklys all up and down the front of my body which are stabbing me, from lying on the ground.  I DON’T want to be learning a life lesson right now.  I don’t want to be changing this tire.  I plead,  “Can we just wait for roadside assistance?”

The cop says.  “No, go put the jack back under the axle.”

I kinda want to cry.  “Can the girls please get out and go in the other car this time?”

“No.  It won’t make a difference.”

Back under the car we go.  The jack looked like it was going to slip again, halfway up, so we had to release it and start over.  Finally it was up.  When it was time to remove the flat, the cop demands that we kick the tire and then pull it off.  It’s not coming off.  “KICK IT HARDER.”

He decides to take matters into his own hands and starts kicking the tire with all his might, as the car shakes with the girls inside.  He finally loosens it and makes Raven take it off.  At this point, I’m thinking, even if I KNEW how to change a tire, I wouldn’t have been physically able to do this by myself.  This guy’s a jerk and I want him to go away.

When the new tire was on, and the old one was back under the car, the cop asked me how old I was and then pulled me aside.

“Are you going to reprimand me for not knowing how to change a tire?”

“No, I’m going to reprimand you for something else.”

We walk to the side and he continues to yell at me like I’m 5 years old and he’s the meanest father on the face of the Earth.  He tells me I should never ever get out of my car again if I have a flat and that I should remain in it with my seatbelt on.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how sitting 30 feet AWAY from the shoulder, waiting for roadside assistance, which, by the way, is INCLUDED in my insurance because I PAID EXTRA for it, is more dangerous than being under the car and changing the flat MYSELF.

I thanked him for his assistance and life lesson instead of doing what I actually wanted to do, and kicking him several times in the nuts, and got back in the car.  He then felt it necessary to get on his bullhorn and give us instructions on picking up speed in the shoulder before merging back onto the highway.  Really dude?!

The girls complimented me on my patience, saying they would have probably freaked out.  I’m not sure how I didn’t.  I just wanted it to be over.  I was beyond thankful that Raven and the other guys stopped to assist.  Having to deal with the drill sergeant bossing me around on my own would have been an even more hellish experience.

We followed each other to Chili’s and then it was all better.  We only half cared that we were still in our pajamas, and I was covered head to toe in branches, dirt, and cactus needles.  V asked me if I felt accomplished after changing the tire.  I told her I would have felt just as accomplished if roadside assistance had changed the tire.

Moral of the story is this:  If you have roadside assistance, you do not need to learn how to change your own tire.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  Tire changing is for men.

Second moral of the story is:  If you’re with the right people, any situation can be turned into a positive experience.  But that’s something I learned a long time ago.

Cheers to a fantastic weekend with a bunch of terrific people.  And hoping that police officer got really bad diarrhea.  Or something else unpleasant and inconvenient.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

 

 

 

 

Date at the Drive-In

I woke up this morning at 5am, on the couch with an empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on the floor next to me, the TV still blaring, and all of the lights on.  It’s Tuesday.  It took me a couple of minutes to figure out where I was and what I did last night.

What did I do last night?  Ironically enough, I went on the most tame and sober first date I’ve ever been on.  Then I watched the Bachelor and fell asleep in the middle.

I just started talking to this guy yesterday morning.  All I knew was that his name was Toby, he surfed on really big waves, and he’ll be going to Darfur in August with an NGO to work with people with war trauma.

After a short conversation via text, he asked me to go for a “stroll on the boardwalk.”  I declined, due to the fact that Sunday night was NOT the most tame and sober night of my life, and I was looking forward to sweatpants and a nap after work.  Not “strolling” around the boardwalk.  He then came back at me with an invite to the drive-in movie theater instead, claiming he’d have blankets and pillows, and would be going with his friend and a date.  I’m not sure why, but I felt I couldn’t pass up an invite to a drive-in, because that seems like a pretty rad thing to do with someone you’ve never met before, and I’d never been to a drive-in.  I mean, how 60′s of us.  And I figured the friend would be a good buffer.  So I agreed.

I come home from work, and start getting ready.  My roommate T asks me what I’m doing.

“Going to a drive-in with some guy, his friend and another girl.”

“What drive-in are you going to?”

“I don’t know.”

“What movie are you seeing?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does the guy do?”

“No idea.”

“Did his friend meet his date on Tinder?”

“I don’t know.”

“Court, do you know anything??”

“No.  Well… his name is Toby…  I’m going to get murdered, aren’t I?”

“Drive-in” is definitely code for murder.  Crap.  I should have thought this over a little more.  Toby is prompt and rings the doorbell at 7pm to pick me up.  I told him beforehand I had a watch dog… Just in case he was thinking of doing anything creepy.  I made sure T and V got a good look at him before we headed out the door.

He was a gentleman and walked around the car to open the door for me.  Wowwwwyyyy.  I probably made an awkward comment.  Yeah, I definitely did.  Guys don’t usually do that.  The drive-in was really far away.  Like really far.  Like I’m pretty sure if we had driven another half a mile, we would have been in Mexico.  This gave us a lot of time to talk.  Although in the first few minutes of conversation I found out he had never drunk an alcoholic beverage before in his life.  Wait, what?  Most of my weekends (and, ok… some week days) are spent at the bars with friends, or at events that revolve around drinking alcoholic beverages.  Is it wrong that I was ready for him to turn the car around at that point and bring me home?

That wasn’t an option.  As I learned more about Toby, I came to realize he is pretty much the most interesting human being I’ve ever met.  First of all, his job is literally chasing swells around the world.  Literally.  If there’s a big swell somewhere, he has a guy who calls him, tells him what plane to get on, meets him in whatever country it is, and then drives him to the wave.  When I say “drives him to the wave,” I mean he drives him to the wave even if there are no roads that lead there.   He holds a world record in surfing the biggest recorded wave paddled out t0, and his time out of the water requires a novel all in its own.  He told stories about hunting down rapists in Africa, and his journalism in foreign war zones… stories that I may had questioned if I didn’t see photos and videos on his iPhone.  Like, basically… I want his life.

He was pretty good-looking but also totally dorky and awkward.  I enjoyed his company and conversation, but I most definitely didn’t want his hand on my back while we were lying in his Prius with the back seats folded down and the hatch up, watching the first movie.  But that’s where he put his hand.  I also didn’t want him to pull my head in to try to kiss me, out of no where.  Which he also did.

I’m not sure why you think that you can hang out with me for an hour, not give me any alcohol, and then I’ll want to kiss you?  No.  No no no no no no no no.  I pulled my head away so hard I think I got whiplash.  When he asked what was wrong, I exclaimed, “I’m not making out with you!”

I felt like I was in 8th grade.  Like what 36-year-old thinks this is a normal situation?  Being in the back of a car at a DRIVE-IN MOVIE with someone you’ve NEVER MET BEFORE… I sure as hell don’t want to make out with you right now!  I’m still trying to justify agreeing to this idea in the first place.

His friend finally showed up… with a date who I learned, he had only met once… but they parked a few cars down from us so basically it was only introductions.  I legitimately felt like I was in high school and the two guys were having a contest to see who could make-out first…  Although when I suggested that’s what was happening,  Toby acted like that was a preposterous idea.  If there was any sort of bet, he most certainly lost.

At one point he was trying to read my palm.  I figured he was going to say something really cheesy.  He kept looking at it.

I said, “I know you’re going to say something really dorky.”

“No.”

He looked at it, while tracing the lines with his finger… for so long that I legitimately started getting scared.  My brain went into overtime, and I convinced myself that he was going to tell me he sees a murder in my very near future, and then he was going to stab me with something he had hidden under the blankets and dump me in the back of this big field behind the dumpsters… or even better yet, just throw me over the border into Mexico and be done with me.

At that point, I pulled my hand away and he finally said, “It says you’re beautiful!”

OMGGGGGGGGG get me outta here.

I was sooo tired, which I was sure to mention multiple times.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like talking to him;  it was just a weird situation.  I wasn’t sure if I should be watching the movie or continuing conversation.  We were in the back of a Prius in a random field far from home, and there was no wine… or beer.  Just so many things wrong with this picture.  I didn’t even know his last name.   I wanted to go home.

On our loonnnggg ride home we talked a lot more.  Apparently his aggressive make-out advances work “90% of the time”  (I asked).  But the whole drive-in was a first for him as well.  He got to my house and turned the car off.  I wasn’t understanding why he was turning the car off, so I obviously was super awkward and said, “Oh, why are you getting out of the car?”

In reality, he was just getting out of the car to be a gentleman.  After I questioned his turning off the car, he offered a hug while he was still inside the car if I would prefer that, but I let him get out.   I still didn’t understand why he had to turn the car OFF to give me a hug.   Then he asked if I’d like to go out again… Like, what am I supposed to say?

“No?”  Or…. “You tried to stick your tongue down my throat at the drive-in?”  So I said yes.  Obviously.

Here’s the thing.  I want to hang out with him more because he’s super cool.  And I want him to invite me to Darfur.  But I don’t want him to stick his tongue in my mouth.  So I guess next time I talk to him, I’ll just tell him that.  That’s fine, right?

I think it’s Wednesday now… So Happy Hump Day.  With lots of love from me and my empty bag of Flamin’ Hots.  Which I have officially quit.  Cheetos, we are so done.

xoxo

Gossip Girl.

The Grass Is Always Greener…

… Always.

A friend posted an article on Facebook today called:  20 Ways Married Women Betray Our Single Girlfriends.  It was written by someone who was married, as sort of eye-opener, and an apology to her single girlfriends.  There are a few things I agree with, a few I don’t, a few that made me laugh, but as a whole, it made me think about how no matter what our relationship status, there are always things we envy of those on the other side of the fence.

Being in my early 30′s (ew, a;ldksfjadlfkja), the majority of my closest girlfriends are married… some have been for years.  Many have children.  I can honestly say that in my early 20′s, I thought I’d be one of the first.  I had been in the longest, most serious relationship of any of my friends, and I didn’t see any path other than the one that led us down the aisle into happily ever after.  I’d like to take my 23-year-old self and give her a swift kick in the ass.  I didn’t know what I was doing when I was 23.  I had no business living in a high-rise overlooking the Manhattan skyline with my college boyfriend, when our combined salaries barely paid the rent, and we basically pulled the couch cushions up about once a week to look for change for dinner.  No business.  But that’s what I chose to do.  And I thought it made me happy.  And I thought I was a grown-up and knew all there was to know.

That relationship ran its course.  The boyfriend moved to California for work, and my job wouldn’t allow me to go with him.  We tried to make it work for a while, but when push came to shove, I guess it just wasn’t right.  That one took me a long time to get over.  A lot of ups and downs, and “did we do the right thing?” and visits, and relapses, until one of us entered into a relationship with someone else, and things were finally really over.  It wasn’t until my next serious relationship that I realized how big of a dumbass I would have been to get married in my early 20′s.  I had no idea who I was. I had no idea what a real, grown-up relationship looked like.  I didn’t know that passion wasn’t enough to have a healthy relationship.   That following one taught me a lot.  It taught me I could truly trust a person.  It showed me that a higher level connection was possible, and it taught me that the person I want to be with is one I can sit on a front porch with until I’m 90 and not run out of things to talk about.  It also taught me that two people’s priorities and goals need to align in order for a relationship to work.  Which, in this case, they did not.

What has taught me the most, though, is the past two years.  The ones I spent alone.  I spent my entire 20′s in serious relationships, thinking every step of the way that marriage was the goal, and what was going to come next.  I failed to look around, and see that there’s more going on outside of my little box than creating the perfect relationship, and wondering what the stupid ring would look like on my stupid fat finger.  Like really?  Who CARES?!  Come to think of it, I’d like to give my entire 20′s-self a swift kick in the ass…  For not really getting to know who I was alone.  For caring about crap that really didn’t matter at all… And for not really opening my eyes and turning from side to side.

The past two years have been liberating.  Lonely at times?  Yeah, of course.  Missing having a significant other to love sometimes?  Yeah.  But very much-needed.  I don’t think as women, we always put enough stock in ourselves as individuals.  It’s all about the chase for the perfect relationship, settling down with a house and kids, but what about our relationships with ourselves?  Do we know ourselves without “another half?”  Maybe some do.  Maybe some were way farther along than I was in my early 20′s.  But I sure as hell had no clue what I was doing, and I probably still have a lot to learn.

The article above hammers the point home.  As much as some of us feel we should be looking for marriage and should be starting to have children, maybe we should look around and see what we do have.  Maybe we should realize that even if the husband and kids are the end goal, there ARE things about single life we will surely miss.  As dreadful and awkward as many first dates are, as much as we’d like someone to cuddle up and watch a movie with sometimes, just take a moment and really think… think about when we’re married with little kids running around… how much we’re going to remember those nights at the bar with our other single girlfriends bitching about whatever meathead there was to bitch about at the time.  And laughing about the awful dates and the weird things we accidentally said.  And as much as I know I want the family life eventually… at some point, I do realize, I may mutter the words, “I miss Tinder.”

Peace out, muffins.

xoxo

Gossip Girl

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