Effing Rant

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! If I had paper--newspaper, preferably--just lying all around me I would tear it. I would rip it just into shreads. I am so angry and frustratedandconfusedandsadandrejectedandstupid.

I am just BUSTING. I could just BUST. I want to shriek and make a scene and throw things and sob. And instead, I sit at my desk, passive-aggressively excising my demons to almost no one. Very therapuetic, clearly.

Last night was one of the most fun, energizing, positive nights I have had in a long time...for the most part. EditorFriend--name going unsaid for privacy reasons, but those in the know, know--was invited to the Grand Opening of the new Brazilian steakhouse downtown and let. me. tell. you. Holy crap. If the service and the artichoke hearts and the lamb chops and key lime pie and house Malbec are always that good, they should just fill in the "Cause of Death" right now: gut bust.

Nene was two tables away (He is SO big. SO big. And since I was strictly verbotten--rightly so--from playing the starstruck fan-girl card, I decided that earning a silent appraisal was the best I was gonna get. Maybe. So I sashayed my super-star strut right up to the salad bar past him and his equally unusually tall-sized lady and might, just MIGHT have gotten a once over. Yay me. NBA eye candy. Life-goal: Check.) Mayor Hickenlooper did a loop.

Not to mention the superior quality of our own company. A certain co-magaziner or two, both of whom I entertain on-and-off crushes on, attended and we laughed so hard, and the general atmosphere was one of such bouyant delight that my face actually hurt from smiling and I think my nipples were hard for a decent part of the evening--Pardon the crassness, please.

I mean really, it was not a single moment of delight. There was not one thing that was amazing. I was in an unwavering, overwhelming state of titillated. I mean, I WAS delight.

And one of said onandoff likes may have asked me out. He was a little lit. But hey, I will take it, Tyler, bring it on. But, I suppose that brings me to the rage-y, annoyed, frustrated and confused part of this little ditty.

The nasty, negative, newly-bitter part of me (I used to have so much less of this quality) wants to just say, "Why even think about it, E? You KNOW he won't call. And then I want to slap myself, tell myself to shut up and quit borrowing trouble. I sorta listen to this part of me, but there is a nagging little whisper underneath that talk that knows that I am almost always right about this. That, despite the fact that an evening is all but perfect, I will still be jilted. It has happened all too many times now. Apparently, I have this effect on people.

Take Dream-Boat. Well, let us adjust this to: Emotionally-Unavailable Wants-What-He-Can't-Have Giant-Child Fuck-Up Boat. Ironically, one in the same with Dream Boat. Every interaction together is perfection. If a night with a romantic interest could be a natural sweetner, this would be ambrosia. And I.Never.Get.A.Call.Back. Dickhead, quit screwing with my feelings, right?

Next example (mind you, this is totally disregarding my ability to repulse even those I am ACTUALLY in a relationship with, like I send out irresistably strong go-to-some-other-chick pulses that ACTUALLY propel them away): Had a date three (?) weeks ago. He leaked from his eyes and nose for the entire two hours we were together. He called me a luddite bc I said it was sad, the way people were dismissing the printed word (did he KNOW who he was going out with? And, P.S., KELLS--stupid name--I heart technology, there is lots of it I want people to buy me), and looked a TINY bit like that guy from A Clockwork Orange. That's right, that creepy ginger lead man. Even HE didn't call me. I wasn't sad about that, it just shows a pattern.

Last, but not least: Over the last two workdays, I have exchanged approximately 80 emails, 2 dozen text messages, and a moderate amount of Facebook chat with yet another fellow. An internet date. L-dog (again, privacy people) and I re-vested in a free, crappy internet site mostly just for distraction. It is fun. Most people, if you ever meet anyone, are not quite up to par, not to be a jerk. Just not. But clearly, judging from the absurd! amount of communication here, this was not the case. I laughed out loud. I should interject that this cube has not seen a lot of out-loud laughter of late, my normal source having, for the most part, dried up. (Or just disappeared, it is alive and kicking elsewhere, notta regular part of my life, eh.) So this was welcome change. We kept sorta making plans to meet in several days, and kept trying to push it up, eager, it seemed.

SO to get to it, I was excited about this tiny guy. Yes, tiny. He said 5'9 but I was in flats, and I have my doubt face on. Small.

Nonetheless, very excited. So much so that I did the most ridiculous, spontaneous, borderline unsafe thing and just went and met him after dinner last night. That's right, no one knew where I was, and it was at his personal dwelling (which he owns...grin), rather late at night. No Me! Don't do it! Right? But all was well, we had a Corona and scrolled through his AppleTV (amazing stuff, I dig it a lot...KELLS. Grrr.) He told me I was "very pretty," that he liked the way I dress (?), and that I was "so fucking sexy." (That, of course, was halfway through the Corona, to be fair.) Seems like a good start, right?

We laughed a little, it was late, I left, all parts in tact, not taken hostage by internet nutcase whose home I entered willingly.

Then today he cancels our other date.

WTF, batman? I mean, for cereal. WTF?

Hence paper-ripping, foot-stomping, tantrum-throwing pissed-off mood! What is WITH this endless stream of guys who say I am cute and and attractive, and they want to touch me, and we get along like dogies on an open plain and STILL this sort of runaround. I quit.

Linda Wortheimer (sp?) on NPR, I SWEAR, says nBr and I want to call in and ask that if they are going to keep employing full time RADIO NEWSANCHORS that they have some godforsaken ENUNCIATION.

A very ugly woman in the car in front of me today had 4 small children, IMPROPERLY STRAPPED IN to the back of her Saturn today. As she was driving badly, I might add. As I pass said terrible driver, I see that contributing to her terribleness (which was aplenty already) was the fact that she was TEXTING (come on, horseface, it is SEVEN THIRTY) AND smoking a cigarette. In her Saturn. With four 5-year olds. I quit LIFE!

AHHHHHHHHH! Where is something I can destroy?!

On the upside, I am def. going to start boxing lessons. ;)

There, my anger for the day.

Week.

Month.

Season.

Puddle O' Muddle

So, I find myself two months older than I was the last time I posted. It is ridiculous, I know, you can save your lecturing, I have done enough berating of myself.

I know it is a sorry excuse, but really, truly, I HAVE been nutty busy, between holidays, a record amount of work for the magazine (five? six items in the Feb issue and a feature due out NOW for March?), travel, and trying to maintain some semblance of a happy, normal personal life, I have just been wearing myself thin. I am just waiting for some sort of diagnosis, I am sure I have a deficiency of some sort or a pissed off thyroid or the beginning stages of diabetes. But, more than anything I guess that the real reason for my absence (and total neglect of my creeping, blog-hack, relation by marriage) was a strange new life form that I hadn't seen in a while: happiness?

I guess I have been more happy lately, more looking to real people in my life for support/fulfillment/constant yammering rather than the cybernetic nobody that reads this blog. Weird. Totes weird.

As much as it pleases me, I think it is sad that I will have so much less man-alysis to do on this thing now, and, that which there is to be done may actually be too--gasp!--private to do here. I wouldn't want to alienate anyone, nor am I totally free to bitch about you the way I want to if YOU ARE READING THIS.

Now, for the news:

Since our last non-versation I have acquired a number of things (including a taste for terrible, made-up-word puns as a writing style, please see the above paragraph as well):

• A new appreciation for the rampant smug self-satisfaction that is basically the foundation of all current music. Not that I am hatin', sometimes I would have JUST as hard a time giving my self-stroke a break if I were these guys, however, I do not count aging Brit-pop Oasis as one of these artists. But I still really liked the completely detached, mental-masturbation style of Liam Gallagher's stage performance. It was fascinating, like watching a gorilla pick at himself in front of the packed zoo window. Thanks for taking me, Dave.
• A new pair of perilously hipster heavy black specs, that, in truth, I do not have the hairstyle to support.
• A pair of purple corduroy skinny jeans that fall into the same category as my spectacles.
• A new car that decidedly moves me back to normal gal status, as it is NOT a particularly hipster thing to have a small-model SUV. Geez, maybe I should trade it in for a Schwinn before the hipster train that all my friends are on pulls out forever....wink, wink, loving nudge.
• A much more rich film vocabulary, hats off to you, Fu. I have, in the last six months of my existence, seen as many movies as I think I have in the whole rest of my life, and I am somewhat wary of saying, this is pleasing me, more and more, you infectious film geek. For all I know, by the time you are done with me, my insides will be all popcorn and celluloid.
• And, not to ignore the requisite dose of melancholy that usually attends these blog posts, a weird condition of late that lends me to vacillate wildly between conditions of intense anxiety and insecurity--most of which tend to eventually work themselves out through pouches just below my eyes that allow for some very cathartic things called tears--and bouts of giddy elation, often accompanied by intense, far more intense that is the norm for me, sexual desires. I am all but consumed at these times by my weird, hormonal horn-doggy self, it is highly stressful, let me tell you. SO, there you go, I am still adrift in strange waves of sadness, totally discontent with a number of aspect of my life, so please do not feel like the world has been flipped on its head, but at least this time, I balanced it out with some good, old-fashioned pervishness. Isn't that wonderful and lovely?

Good day to you, good people, until we meet again.

And for you, rogue label maker and profile defiler, YOU WATCH YOUR BACK. And please see the handy use of your labels, below. F'in Punk.

Oh, no!

I walk in from lunch, feeling appropriately pukey after having gorged myself on a grilled vegetable burrito from Q-Doba (no, they DON'T sponsor this blog OR my ever burgeoning curves, people as outrageously cool and almost famous as myself really DO eat there) to find that my inbox contains the following message:

"The phones are back up in Boise. Thank you for your patients and understanding."

Shock! Awe! Pick yer jaw up offa that floor! Really, and sometimes I start to doubt that the people I know are smarter than the average bear. But the average bear does NOT assume that a bunch of goofy-ass engineers HAVE any patients. Nor do we assume that spell-check fixes everything.

Additionally, I was extra sensitive to this horror of errors (it warranted an out-loud--Oh! No! at my desk) due to my lunchtime partner, we will, for the sake of this privacy, call him D-Train, an affectionate nickname. I would consider using D-Bag (his name DOES start with a D, after all) but THAT might sound MEAN! HA!!

I only mention him because he took me to B&N to buy me a book. Nice, indeed, almost odd, really, he wants me to read his fave novel and therefore purchased it for me. However, it took an unnecessary amount of time to locate said book. I say, Yo, D-Train, what up? Why you so hung up in the Fiction and Lit? He says, I can't find it, it SAYS these books are alphabetized by AUTHOR but they don't SEEM to be.

Pause. Look. Yes they are. They are. Absolutely.

No, here is a "John."

By last name! LAST NAME YOU FOOL! How to people get through life without understanding this universal truth about alphabetizing! AH!

Then I felt like an asshole. I am clearly an elitist. Of what I don't know. Which category of snob I am in is still open for debate (feel free to weigh in) but I was truly appalled. Then at Q-Doba, I commented, Could anything BE more tasty than grilled vegetables marinated in garlic sauce? He replied: Vegetables marinated in Italian dressing, maybe.

Those of you that know me, already know my deep aversion to Italian-dressing-marinating-men and what a severe blow it is to my image of them. It is ONLY acceptable when terribly poor and lazy and then only on chicken (asparagus?) Either way, VERY LITTLE. Certainly NOT an acceptable alternative to a more refined and delicate garlic.

Deep sigh. Having issue with such trivial things can be SO exhausting.