It feels so damn good to be stateside and not only stateside but in my right time zone. To add insult to injury I returned home stuck in PST which didn’t help much considering all the frigging work that I still needed and need to do for the project. Work never stops!!!!!
Enough of the boring sh*t already let’s jump into some of the fun or almost fun or should have been fun but aren’t fun things that have happened to me since last we spoke. Side note downtown Vancouver absolutely fantabulous, if ever I went back that way I’d take a boo and stay at the Westin, not that tore down piece of dung the client had us in to save costs. Did I tell you how the first room had a bullet hole in the carpet? Considering the niceness of most Canadians it probably wasn’t a bullet hole, but there was large piece of carpet missing at the door of my room. While there I went to the Vancouver Art Gallery which inspired my inner artist…I plan to get back into sketching.
But I digress!
Returning to Philadelphia was a task that started out all types of well. I arrived early to the airport, without my ridonkulous manager, Texas, getting lost. For whatever reason he thinks he can read any map and know exactly where he’s going…most times he does not. I can’t count the amount of times we were “lost” right around the corner from where we were supposed to be. He insists he asks for directions when it’s necessary…yeah right don’t feed me those lies as I sat for hours circling a residential block just three blocks over from our hotel at 2 in the morning.
Anywho I get to the airport with about an hour and a half to spare. I dip into a couple stores to grab trinkets for my friends and familia that I’d forgotten during the trip and pop over to my gate. No worries, I board the plane and actually get about 4 good hours of work done without any interruption. It was a good flight, even had breakfast, a fruit and yogurt parfait…scrumptilicious!
Arrived at ORD aka Chicago O’Hare Airport a few minutes before schedule only to turn on my cell phone and find out my flight to Philly was cancelled due to inclement weather. WTF!!!!! This couldn’t be happening the day before the holiday, stuck in a foreign city with no turkey or stuffing or Wanders sweet potatoes! But of course it was happening.
Luckily somewhere over the rainbow…oh wait that’s the Wizard of Oz…anywho by some type of dumb luck or God taking pity on my poor soul, knowing I’d worked through all my clean pairs of panties on the trip, there appeared to be an opening on an earlier flight. Of course it was about two terminals away and I’d have to get my Flo Jo on to get there but desperate times call for desperate measures. As I rounded the corner I heard blaring over the intercom the last call for me to make the plane. Glory be to Jesus, I was on my way to Philly, booyah!!!!!
Even the thought of returning to the awkwardness of my situation with Mailroom Boy or the dying slowly “friendship” with The Spaniard wasn’t upsetting. I was just happy to be home home home. Under normal circumstances I don’t get homesick but for whatever reason I racked up a lot of Faith phone home minutes this trip. Maybe it was the extended weekend.
So let me catch you up about Mailroom Boy. I’ve been doing the slow fade. As slow fades go I thought I was doing a pretty decent job until I received a text from him on a late night tip a week or two before I left this last time asking if he could stop by to keep me company. Let me see are we planning on playing yatzee or something otherwise I don’t really see a point of you “stopping” by my place at 1 in the morning. Clearly the lines of “just friends” are blurred, to which I blame myself. I need to learn to keep my lips to myself. In my defense I haven’t kissed the man since the $14 incident and we’ve only been out once since then and it was a day time bust it up with ya homie type of deal, at least I thought so.
To add insult to injury the night before I left to go to Vancouver he sent me this cryptic message that said something like, Faith what’s really good with you? Sorry friend I don’t subscribe to all slang all the time and whatever he was trying to convey was definitely lost in translation. A part of me felt bad about this and to not look completely out of touch I just ignored the message. He followed up while I was in the airport. I told him that I didn’t answer because I was out and didn’t see the message until the wee hours of the morning. This was in part true. I was out late but I saw the message and was puzzled. In any event he texted that he meant to say more but he was drunk and can’t concentrate on two things at once….OK great!
Shortly before I boarded the plane he sent me another text message that said we need to get more fimiliar (note the incorrect spelling). And yes I know this makes me an ass but for whatever reason I couldn’t shake the spelling error. Don’t get me wrong I uck up some grammar and my spelling well it leaves something to the imagination but I try, when sending messages to folk, to spell simple things correctly or indicate my inability to spell the word by inserting (sp?). Now I could definitely be reading that fimiliar wrong but I took it to me something sexual….oh wait that’s NEVER gonna happen. Clearly he didn’t get the we’re just friends memo!
On to not much greener pastures, I’m at my wits end with The Spaniard! He’s pretty much worked every nerve I have left in my body. He totally doesn’t understand why sometimes I’m just really not in the mood to deal with his sh*t and why I’m not willing to be in a “relationship” with him. How many times can you have the same conversation?
Did I forget to mention that I’ve heard no hide nor hair of the impending divorce since his 2 month declaration approximately 2 months ago…but who’s counting.
Anywho he did take me to the airport for the final trip. We had a semi argument…I actually was being quite the female dog in heat but in my defense Mother Nature had my uterus doing somersaults. And honestly I don’t even feel bad about telling him he’s a liar and I will never trust a word that comes out of his mouth. I followed that gem with it didn’t make any sense why he even wanted to be back in a relationship we me because outside of extracurricular exercise we had absolutely NOTHING in common. He looked sad but such as life.
He made it a point to text me every morning and send little messages during the day which was nice…but I’m not impressed and didn’t respond to half of them. I guess he got my message or actually took that trip to visit his brother who happened to get in a narsty car accident because I haven’t talked to him in about a week.
I decided to delete The Spaniard’s number from my phone. The Best Friend said I should do him one last time before I sever the ties but my gut tells me that will blur the lines of this “friendship” even more.
On a related but different note, randomly Mr. Handcuffs, a cop I was sort of dating a while back got in touch with me over the holiday. I don’t anticipate anything jumping off with him but I am sort of curious why he still has my number considering it’s been at least 9 months since I last spoke to him. He told me that he moved closer to my apartment…interesting!
And side note remind me never to go shopping on Black Friday because I almost caught a case, that’s slang it means arrested. Somehow a 32in television for $250 isn’t worth getting a criminal record. Also Wal-Mart is an absolute piece of sh*t store and I will never spend another dime there. Don’t worry I’ll give more detail during my weekly rant, consider this a precursor.
Today's first posting is a question (I fell asleep last night and just couldn't put the words together for the post a day): Can you have just one soul mate? Is there one person cosmically linked to you in such a way that when you meet kazam the stars align, birds chirp and all things cease to matter outside of the feeling you get with that person? Is it a once in a lifetime occurrence that can't be duplicated and once we lose it we're settling for mere compatibility a la eharmony. It seems dare I say so fatalistic and at the same time completely random.
With the world population reaching the 6.7 billion mark (impressive and scary as hell at the same time) how is it that there is but one person to complete me (did you like how I went all Jerry Maguire) or you for that matter? It would stand to reason that that special someone who without effort gets all my snarky comments and even finds them just as amusing as I could be living on some snow capped mountain in the middle of east bumble hell. Whose to say that when I finally find east bumble hell that he hasn't jet setted off to the sunny shores of Fiji? Do you like how I've made my soul mate some uber rich guy who has the ability to allude me via personal jet (okay so maybe it's a fantasy, hey I like challenges).
But in all seriousness if soul mates truly exist, there would be no challenge right. Our gravitational dodads should work in such a way that our lives are set to merge or collide and create some soulmatey vortex. And if that's truly the case doesn't it take the search out of the mix. Aren't we all in some way consciously or unconsciously trying to find that one man/woman to just get you. No increased effort that person just feels like home.
And that in an of itself freaks me out. I admit it. That feeling of homey-ness feels to much like content and I don't do content very well. I battle with myself because I want to just do more, get more and be better. If I feel content I must be missing something. Because of that as I work my way through this quarter life crisis in stride I wonder if I overlooked a soul mate in my vain attempts to be better and see more, get more etc etc etc. If you read the
vigilante bride post I've diagnosed myself as a GGOS (grass greener on the other sider), this same theory applies to men. With that complex you never quite know what you have until it's gone. So maybe way back when I was so head strong (not much has changed in that department) and thought I knew everything there was to know about life (I laugh that I even thought this way, still wanted to be a lawyer-ha) and was dating the GOPG (good on paper guy) I drove him away not realizing that what he possibly represented until maybe years later was "The Guy."
Psycho-analyzing myself eliminates some stress. Oh side note I stole the GOPG from the
DC Diva, you should check out her blog. Please remember Diva emulation is the biggest form of flattery. But I digress. De-stressification is good for me, my hope is that my theory is wrong, that there's more than one unique individual for every other person out there. If not I guess I gonna have to break up a marriage and I'm no home wrecker.
P.S
check out the poem I wrote which will be the very next post about soul mates
While finishing up my laundry (this is the bane of my existence, I hope one day to be a ba-zillionaire so I can hire someone to do this for me) I ran across an over sized t-shirt that belonged to one of my exes. It's funny how when you return someones crap in a plastic bag in the middle of his work shift how one tiny over sized maroon Old Navy t-shirt with 81 printed on the front magically doesn't end up in the bag. In my defense he wasn't even born in 81. Shortly there after he called asking about the missing shirt. No I'm not one of those girls who leaves items or forgets items so I can stay in contact with the ex, in all actuality I just failed to check the clothes hamper. Glad I missed it in the laundry because the shirt has a funny story tied to it and I remember it every time I slip it on.
The story goes a little something like this...he (we'll just call him Mr. Bengali) locked himself out of his apartment (this was about a month or so into our relationship) and needed a place to crash. In true I like this boy, kind of think he's lying but company sounds nice fashion I let him dock his ship. Of course that also meant having to pick him up because he didn't have a car. So at 1AM in the morning I fumbled around my room getting dressed to drive downtown.
By the time I got downtown he was in a pissier mood than when he called to tell me he locked himself out of his house. Always the glass is half full kind of girl I told him that things could be worse. He could have to sleep at the train station or call his mother for the spare key and listen to a lecture about responsibility. Instead he was reaping the benefits of dating someone like me who partially felt bad and decided to let him buy me breakfast the next morning. I would think he would be grateful. In part I guess he was but all I heard for the entire half hour drive back to my house was that he didn't have a change of clothes and he couldn't possibly wear this maroon Old Navy t-shirt again to work, not to mention that he didn't have a change of underwear. I told him him he was more than welcome to rummage through my brother's stuff (I share an apt with my younger bro) but I didn't think anything would fit him considering the significant size difference.
He was none to happy and so he forced me to stop at the 24hr Rite Aid not to far from my place. Mr. Bengali was a boxer briefs kind of guy and unfortunately Rite Aid ain't your every day dept store so he settled for regular bleach white tightie whities. I broke out in fits of uncontrollable laughter when he walked out of my bathroom wearing the undies. The only thing missing on them was Scooby Do to complete his 12yr old boy look. In true man fashion his ego was bruised and he refused to go to sleep until I found something he could use to cover up. His embarrassment was a complete turn off and now that I think about it this should have been the sign that we weren't going to work out.
Anyway I managed to scrounge up a 6x t-shirt for him. And now that I think about it, that shirt probably belonged to this iron worker I used to date before Mr. Bengali but I digress. As if the tightie whitie escapade wasn't funny enough imagine this scene: long nightgownish white t-shirt swallowing up grown man whose wearing tightie whities and gym socks. It was the funniest thing since Dave Chappelle lost his mind and stopped doing sketch. When I say fits of laughter....I mean crying fits of laughter so much so I could hardly talk.
Now every time I see this maroon t-shirt it brings that picture to mind and I can't help but laugh. Bottom line I can't part with the shirt, he not getting it back and should stop calling about it.
Packing my clothes yet again for a business trip up to podunk northern jersey I stumbled upon last yr's favorite summer dress. Given the deep v-neck it was a little too risque for work. Of course I did have a quasi date with Gas Station Boy (meaning I met him while pumping gas) later on and it, the dress that is, was more than appropriate.
Then it hit me why this dress was buried in the closet behind all the rest of summer's clothes. It was the break-up dress. Yes this was the infamous break-up dress worn when I dropped the bomb on Immigrant Boy. And in my defense I didn't know he was an immigrant until after I already sort of, kind of, liked him too much to report him to the authorities. What would you have me do....report him and watch as the "man" shipped him on a boat back to Bangladesh! I know, I heard the George Bush that lives in my head yelling at me but he was overruled by the Nancy Pelosi I adopted to balance the scales.
If you haven't guessed it by now I am a little neurotically superstitious. Everything has a meaning. It would be bad luck to wear the break up dress from Immigrant Boy to the quasi date with Gas Station Boy....right? While I finished packing the suitcase I debated this in my mind. Because of this ridonkulous (yes I made it up) train of thought I had half a closet full of perfectly functional clothes that I couldn't wear.
In the closet with last summer's favorite dress/ break up dress was my first time jeans, Jazz Boy first kiss' shirt, finally out of my parent's house' sweatpants and a host of other firsts, lasts and regrettable moment clothing. This was a pattern that needed breaking or I do really need to consider the shrink.
On my own I'd half broken my germ-a-phobic tendencies (this is a blog for a later date) so I decided to take back the closet and wear Immigrant Boy's break up dress. And instead of calling it the break up dress I would just say it was my favorite dress from last summer. I know you fashionista's out there are losing your mind because I am wearing a dress from last yr but grow up....it's comfortable.
Before letting any additional adverse thoughts creep into my head about the ominous break up dress, I leapt into action and put in on. That's right I just did it, dammit. It felt good too, just as I'd remembered, light and airy. One of those dresses an aunt of mine would call easy access clothing because it's wrinkle resistant and easily lifted.
As I checked myself out in the mirror I began to feel some of the superstitious sentiments from earlier seep into my mind. No, no, no I was wearing this very nice summer dress to the football field to a see a perfectly fine gentleman run around in tights what could possibly be wrong with that. Eventually I made it out of the apt with the dress on and believe you me it was a battle. I would like you to think I am a sane person so I won't tell you that I changed clothes 2 times before putting the dress back on and leaving my apt. OK, I just spilled the beans, but you get the point. Old habits die hard. Give me a little credit I did make it out the house in the dress.
And like most of my unfounded slightly neurotic behaviors, this routine was worth breaking. Nothing ill happened during the quasi date with Gas Station boy. He was perfectly happy to see me and I watched him practice with genuine interest. We shared a parting hug (he was sweaty and I have an issue with clammy and/or hairy skin touching me) when he was done and I drove off thinking that he's in a lot better shape then I thought but shorter than I remember. There's always a down side!
It feels so damn good to be stateside and not only stateside but in my right time zone. To add insult to injury I returned home stuck in PST which didn’t help much considering all the frigging work that I still needed and need to do for the project. Work never stops!!!!!
