Hell if I know

Mr. Scientist / Fader-Awayer / Hot Sex is still around but we are very conspicuously not dating.  Or maybe we are.  All I get is a hug when he leaves now, and it's damn confusing.  What does a hug mean?  I'm glad we are friends (maybe) and that he still want to spend time (but no physical affection) together, but why bother?  I'm an easy friend, and he keeps making dates rather than friend-dates.  Such is life and instant karma - it's the friend-dates I put Too-Nice through that are coming back to haunt me. 

I get it, Universe. 

Next time full disclosure to men I'm not interested in, honesty, kindness, blah blah blah.  But why did I have to learn this lesson with a man who smells soooooo good?  I just want to roll around in him and possibly steal all of his clothes.   Oh lord, and to 'friend' me just when he gets a badass motorcycle that makes me all gooey on the inside.  Sexy bastard and the cruel comeuppance I deserve, I suppose. 

The Great Fade Awaaaaaay.....

Well things with the scientist were going great for a few weeks.  He was attentive, smart, quirky, and liked dive bars.  He even asked me to spend the weekend (2.5 days worth, people!) with him and I had a glorious time.  It was a rare rainy weekend in AZ, and we napped for hours, listened to Rufus Wainwright (he likes Rufus even more than I do!), and talked childhoods and metaphysics.  Not to mention the hot sex. I even woke up to him gently tracing one of my tattoos with his finger.  I've seen him a few times since then but two weeks ago I began to feel the growing horror of the Fade Away. 

Fade Away - I fucking hate you, you mother fucker. 

First he neglected to let me know whether our plans were on for the weekend.  Annoying, but no biggie I thought.  A few text conversations later, he texted at 9:00pm to cancel the drinks we were supposed to have... at 9:00pm.  As a woman well familiar with the subtle and insidious tactics of the Fade Away, I spent the weekend pouting and pissed, whining to my girlfriends that I'd die miserable alone, and that my vagina would again dry up and implode in a cloud of ladyflower dust.  I was in full-swing post-Fade rage and working my way through it when he did the most evil and despicable thing a man who employs the Fade Away can do:

He contacted me.  Just to say hi and talk philosophy.  Now my Fade ritual is aborted and I'm left in some sort of manic mood swing.  One moment I'm filled with hope that maybe he really is just bad at communicating and we still have a chance, the next flagellating myself for having hope that will only be crushed this weekend when I 'mysteriously' don't get a call from him. 

Doesn't he know the rules?  If a man is douchebag-enough to employ the Fade, he is expected to Fade as fast as possible.  Let me go or ask me to stay, but make a fucking decision. 

Geek Date Report

Had a great first date with a scientist who was whip smart, cute, well-dressed and had very nice teeth.  I imagine he flosses regularly and is very aware of the massive amounts of bacteria in any given mouth.  He seemed to dig that I am a smart chick and we had one of the more colorful and non-first datey conversations.  We covered the Pre-Socratics, gender roles, cultural relativism, bacterial fingerprints (note: a footprint is not the same as a fingerprint as there are important nucleotides... er, something), genital mutilation, beer, and music preferences (Rise Against - Me, Billy Joel - Him).  His musical preferences not withstanding, I like this one.

Dear non-existant readers, I was on my best behavior and didn't make a drunken slag of myself.  I made a slightly tipsy friendly slag of myself and am very pleased with this improvement.  Yay for keeping it in my pants! 

He's sent me two random texts since them - here's hoping he calls for a second date!

To Lucy, From Your Vagina

Dear Lucy,

It's me, your vagina.  Long time no see.  No seriously, I still exist down here.  There's a whole nether world of your body that you've been neglecting lately, me and my friends the lady bits.  And your current lack of sex, while depressing, is no excuse for a little helping hand.  Or vibrator.  Or tight pair of jeans on a dryer.  Sweet Jesus, anything!  We're dying down here! 

Love, V

P.S.  Get laid soon or else we're taking hostages!  Now go read some tasty smut: Black Dagger Brotherhood

Kiss Dodging and other Related Tortures

Mr. Too-Nice has turned into a borderline stalker. Nothing overtly creepy, but enough to solidify my liquidy-Jello mixed feelings for him into a Pudding Pop of "Hell No."

After our friends-date he brought me a box of my favorite chocolates (See's Milk Chocolate Butterscotch). The next day I agreed to dinner after work since I was bored - big mistake. At dinner we had a great conversation (I thought) about why our past relationships didn't work; the more we talked the more it highlighted how our future goals and even relationship desires were completely different.

Too-Nice: What a beautiful warm January day - I love the desert. I don't know, I just want to find that special girl to settle down with. I hate dating, I just want to be in a relationship.

Me: Nah, I can't wait till I get back to civilized life where you're soaking wet and moldy all of the time because of the rain. Besides, dating around is fun - relationships are for suckers (yes I said this, and no I don't believe that, but I just couldn't take any more of his earnest and stupid hopeful expression).

Too-Nice: But don't you want that special someone to come home to? (Insert please-don't-stomp-on-my-heart-Lucy expression and way too much intense eye contact).

Me: Nope. (Awkwardly drink my beer) I enjoy freedom.

Did I mention he doesn't drink? Ever. Refuses to taste the stuff out of some ridiculous anti-peer pressure reason from his teen years. He's 35 years old and still afraid of peer-pressure? Here smoke this, you'll feel better.

So, feeling that we'd clearly defined our position as friends I let him walk me to my car. He grabs my hand, I snatch it back. Grabs it again, and I snatch it back again. (Yes, he is aware of my handholding issues. In summary: I hate it.) Then pulls both my hands toward him and leans in for the kiss. My future looming in his soft brown eyes like I was in a vortex and could see it all so clearly, hours holding hands on the couch, listening to his shitty country music, doing 'couples' activities with his friends, hiding my tattoos when around his mother who wouldn't approve of me anyway, thinking of Mr. Tie-Me-Up the rare times I give in and let him fuck me. In terror and feeling terrible for the immanent soul crushing, I pulled away and backed up about 2 feet.

His face dropped but, nice guy that he is, he let it go. Feeling like the biggest bitch in the world, I called my man-whore cousin Joe on the drive home, who confirmed that I was a indeed a dirty slut and would have emotionally destroyed Too-Nice, which was just what I needed to hear.

The next day Too-Nice brought me flowers at work. To apologize for pushing me.

He just doesn't get it. Somewhere there is a Y chromosome with his name on it, but damned if he's found it yet.

Fuck you, Lentils!

Damn I hate cooking.

Just spent an hour and a half banging around the kitchen throwing possibly edible combinations of stuff together. I don't believe in recipes (really, they don't exist as long as I don't look at them!) so it's always an adventure to eat what I make. A sad, sort of pathetic adventure filled with heartburn and gas.

Yeah, I hate cooking and I'm pretty bad at it. But even more than that, I hate angry cooking. Because nothing feels better than throwing an onion against the wall, stabbing some carrots, or mashing some innocent lentils as hard and fast as you can. This afternoon, I may or may not have crushed an over-ripe Roma tomato between my palms in a fit of rage.

Cooking is my grown-up tantrum.

I do tend to feel better after an hour of smashing, stabbing, and chopping, but I wonder if food absorbs the emotion you have while you are cooking. It'd be fitting if what I affectionately (passive-aggressively ?) refer to as my 'angry lentils' really are as pissed off as I am.

Happy Fucking New Year, bitches!

Drinking a second mini-bottle of champagne, wondering why I used to like the stuff, and pondering New Year's Eve. I had an invitation with a very nice gentleman (Mr. Too-sweet) to 'hang out,' meaning watch movies, cuddle on the couch, and mentally count the minutes it took him to screw up the courage to make a move. Usually the shoulder massage, then on to calculated absent-minded hair playing, then maybe a kiss if I'm lucky, something chaste and appropriate.

Yet I'm home at 10:36pm, writing my virginal blog, and musing on a resolution list. Instead my reverse list. Behold:

Things I wanted to Happen in 2009

1) Mr. Tie-me-up would have said "I love you"

2) All my PET scans would have come back clean and I wouldn't have spent 6.5 months worried my cancer had returned FOR NOTHING (still thank zombie Jeebus it was a false alarm. Please don't curse me with your voodoo magic.)

3) My hair would have grown back thick and lustrous, a curly mop of casual perfection instead of stick straight and a muddy brown

4) I would not have gotten very drunk and slept with Mr. Lucy-as-a-man after the Tie-me-up breakup. Add to that Mr. Brilliant-with-my-hands drunken sex.

5) I would tell Mr. Tie-me-up that I needed him. That I loved him.

6) Mr. Tie-me-up care enough to ask me to come back.

7) I would have gotten a new job that was fulfilling and well-paying.

In review of my anti-resolutions, I propose the following for 2010: stop worrying about everyone else and enjoy your life. Instead of getting a ritualistic kiss, I realize I actually am happy at home, drinking cheap champagne and wearing my fuzzy socks. Tomorrow is for living, not musing on the past.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Happy New Year's world. I love you and I'm happy to finally be a part of you!

xoxo Miss Lucy