Saturday, May 26, 2012

Why dachshunds are a girl's best friend

Internet, I've been a bit preoccupied lately. You see, the last several nights I've been sharing my bed with someone. It's only temporary, but isn't that how these things always go?

Don't let that innocent, faux-tired demeanor fool you, though. If he catches you looking at him, it's all, "Wass going on? I not sleep, I wake! Where fun? Fun is here! We play? We play! Hey, hey! We play wit toy, here toy! Here, take toy, I give. Ha! No, toy mine, no, here, toy your. Haha, got you 'gain, toy mine! Here, take...nooooo, I joke, you never have!"

His name is Herbie, and he is full to the brim with enthusiasm. 
"Hey, where you goin'? I follow? Don' worry, I right behin' you!"
You may remember from Herbie from this blog post, wherein I meet my neighbors thanks to a passive-aggressive note I leave on one of their doors, after hours of (what I didn't know then was) Herbie-barkin'. I still hold that leaving that note was one of the best things I've done. After all, what better way to meet your neighbors? (Ok, baked goods might have been better.) And now, several dinner parties, picnics, birthdays, dinners out, shopping trips, and one gay club dance night later, I find myself with the honorable distinction of being designated Herbie-sitter.

Having a dog around really provides you with a new perspective on the world. For instance, I might never have known what my neighborhood looks like at 6 a.m. on a Saturday. (Similar to my neighborhood at noon, but with fewer people no one on the streets.) Also, I might never have become aware of the truly disturbing amounts of vomit lining the sidewalks around my apartment, if not for Herbie's keen interest in them. (So the world...) But seriously though, it is really nice to have someone who's so happy to see me each and every time I walk in the door. Also, he has the exact same taste in movies as me! Herbie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.   

"My name is Herbert 'n I approve dis message. I think. My reading skillz are only rudimentary."

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Why it's actually 35 in blog years

Five years ago today I hit publish on my very first blog post. Five years is a long time to still be doing any one thing, and in fact, this blog has probably been the one constant in my life over this half decade. So, I just wanted to thank you, dear readers, for sticking around, and for reading and leaving comments through two countries, four cities, six apartments, and four sets of roommates. Through two Master's programs and countless part-time jobs. Though better and worse, sickness and health, poorer and yes, even poorer. Through the highs of Doritos and the inevitable lows of rejectionNot to mention so many first dates that I had to stop counting a long time ago.

Seriously, I don't think I would be half as ok as I am today without this blog as a steam valve, a forum, and a sounding board. So, with that in mind, what can I do for you today, dear readers? Do you have burning questions you'd like to ask me, topics you'd like me to write about, loose ends fraying in the wind you'd love to see tied up? Do you double dog dare me to quit my job and start a school for French-speaking goats? Well don't tempt me, 'cause I just might. So will it be truth? Dare? I am, as they say, à vous.                

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Why I'm better on my own

Coming up on the fifth anniversary of this blog, and after five years of (mostly) singleness and an ongoing quest for "the one," a certain realization has been making itself increasingly clear to me. In an ironic twist, given the tenor of this blog, I have been battling with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I'm actually better on my own.

With this most recent go-around I found myself turning into a person I certainly recognized, but didn't particularly like. As soon as he said the words, "I'm 26," I immediately thought, Why would he be interested in me? And then, Why would I be interested in him? "It will never work out!" the part of me that likes to think it can learn from past experience screamed, and so my defenses kicked into overdrive and I turned into an extra sarcastic, extra mean version of myself. Attractive! I know. "Does...this...ever get any better?" he asked at one point partway into our first date. (First date!) Meaning, this weird, sarcastic, defensive thing you're doing? Does it go away? I was taken aback by the question to say the least. First because until he called me out on it I hadn't necessarily realized I was doing a thing. (What, I am just being me! Do you not find it charming?) I immediately realized, of course, that he was absolutely right, and so my second thought was, What a stupid question, of course it gets better. This is just my hard, crusty veneer that has to be broken down with enough time and patience to get at my soft, nougaty insides. But almost as quickly I thought to myself, Wait, DOES it get better? And suddenly, I wasn't so sure, anymore. I racked my brain for a definitive answer but came up with nothing. "I don't know," I finally said softly.

And so it really came as no surprise that he ended things. The second date did give me a spark of hope that perhaps I hadn't completely ruined everything, but alas. And so, for everyone who put their misplaced faith in me and left reassuring comments like "his loss," thanks, but actually, it was just the opposite. He was a nice guy, and I ruined it.

And hence, this realization. When I'm not dating someone, I won't say that I'm never defensive or sarcastic, but I'm certainly less so. More stable, even-keel. Less anguished, more content. Happier. More me. All of this running around trying to escape the inevitable conclusion that maybe I'm actually (gulp) better on my own. And if that's the case...what happens now?


Saturday, May 5, 2012

Why is there nothing in this first aid kit for my wounded pride?

Just when I had congratulated myself on finding a real grown-up guy with a real grown-up job (works for the State Department), it turns out that he's 26, and lives with his mother. 

Then I got unceremoniously dumped. After two dates. By a 26 year-old, who lives with his mother. Also, a terrible kisser.

I hate everything.

No, don't even look at me, I'm hideous. Just go away. No, seriously.