It’s Back

Life is busy, did you know? Like, really busy.

Promise I can take care of this place. Just… give me a second.

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Jump Ship

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me what the biggest age gap between myself and any of my “lovers” was. I thought about it, and the answer was somewhere around two to three years.

Ah, well, that’s all taken care of because this weekend, I hooked up with someone who is at least twenty years older. He looked somewhat arbitrary in age, and I even asked, “You’re not, like, actually twenty-one or something are you?” The answer was so not “yes,” and I am so happy about that.

I’d have to say, he was a good after-relationship palette cleanser, even if I had to wait several weeks between the break-up and the rebound action.

Time to put on make-up and look like a pretty girl again.

Oh, By The Way

I maintain this theory that when I die, I’ll have access to a really big book of personalized statistics. Things like, “Hours spent watching Doctor Who,” or “Hours spent sleeping,” and the like will be in there.

Then there will be the more obscure facts, like…

“Average length of time before Gabby gets bored with significant other.”

“Number of times significant others have accidentally said, ‘I love you.'”

“Average time for ex-boyfriends to acquire new significant other after ending relationships with Gabby.”

It would be a fantastical read, I imagine.

Travel Bug

Traveling is fun. It’s one of my favorite things about young adulthood. I traveled minimally throughout college, nearly always opting for road trips, with an occasional plane ride for a required event or two. Now, as a young professional (if you can call whatever I do “professional”), I find myself planning weekend getaways facilitated by air travel.

The worst part of travel, though, is that I seem to inevitably get sick every time. It’s part of the reason I picked the health insurance I have; I am out of town often, and I am often sick when doing so.

There is nothing less sexy than a sick girl out in Los Angeles. I was the burden at a friend’s birthday, and as the oncoming cold crept up on me, I felt less and less like socializing. Maybe it was for my own good; maybe I would have caught something much worse than a cold if I’d felt better. If you catch my drift.

Regardless, thought I would let everyone know that I am alive, although it feels like barely. Changing air pressure does negative wonders on a body when sick.

All the Single Musings

It’s been about a week since the hot guy at my gym talked to me. Why hasn’t he asked me to marry him yet? Doesn’t he know I get tired of waiting?

Shortchanged

I always hate it when I’ve been texting with a guy and then about two days later, photos surface on Facebook of him obviously in more-than-friends embraces with other women. One, that makes me chopped liver and cheap amusement, and two, that means I’ve been wasting my time on a flakey-flake. It also means I did it to myself again.

I can’t really blame them because I usually stick to text-based communication and believe that men I’m interested in are already invested in someone else. Creature of habit, I guess.

Back to the drawing board. I need new tactics and strategy. This is getting old. And so am I.

To Find Something (That Was Perfect)

I have a friend, not a close friend but a friend nonetheless, who is on the verge of stardom. It’s impressive. I know him through a close friend, and she in turn is close with him. Even without being super close, I’d say we’ve had plenty of adventures.

In 2006, on the eve of the new year, I remember sitting in my room while he showed me his entry for a Cursive remix contest. He told me it was just for fun and explained how the deconstructed elements were available for download. He wasn’t one of the finalists and I still don’t understand why. One of the finalists couldn’t even get the timing of the vocals right. I still have his original remix MP3 on my iPod.

We paired up for NYE like young people sometimes do, with nothing serious in mind. At midnight, everyone around us kissed as we stood off to the side of the room. In the spirit of the moment, we never really kissed, although there is photographic evidence that we touched tongues. It was not romantic and it’s a bit nauseating, but it was funny and I still laugh at that photo.

I remember he slept in a nest of couches downstairs at my house, and I had to work the next morning. There was something wistful in his eyes when I accidentally woke him up and said, “I probably won’t see you later because I’ll be at the mall all day.” Maybe I should have kissed him right then, if only to say I had.

I visited California with my friends later on, and we stopped in a small college town to connect with our musician friend. He made an off-hand comment about, “Aren’t you married now or something?” in regards to my status with my long-term boyfriend. (The answer was no then, and it was always to remain no.) We sat real close in the back seat; we may have jokingly held hands, I don’t remember.

Years later, he performed at a small bar in my new city. Several of us went to watch his one-man show. As I was standing on the floor, a handsome guy with an Israeli accent came up to talk to me. He said something about, “Isn’t this guy good?” and then asked me if I was the “lucky lady.”

I laughed and said, “Oh no. No, no.” I looked back at the stage where my friend was immersed in his music, sweaty, oblivious to the world around him in that moment.

We were worlds apart, even more so now, but maybe we could have been perfect, in another lifetime.

Couchsurf’d

There is one thing you must know about Portland, Oregon.

Couch Street is not pronounced like the piece of furniture. No, the real pronunciation is “Cooch.”

Ergo, to a Portlander (Portlandite?) “Couchsurfing” could become “Coochsurfing.”

Let me tell you about the time that I was young, single, and feeling a bit rowdy. There was a period during the summer where I hosted several folks through a couch-sharing/travel site, and the travelers were from all over the place. One weekend, I had a pair of French travelers request a spot, and I obliged.

When the two arrived, it was like there was a halo around them. Angels with cigarettes, I’m quite sure. My jaw hit the floor when I saw those two boys.

I took them to a party that night. My friend who was also there–she’s got no filter–leaned in and said, “If you don’t hook up with at least one of them, I’m going to disown you.” The night comprised of Cards Against Humanity (hilarious with foreigners, trust me), lots of wine, and us American girls “cooking” for our French guests. Lobster raviolis, anyone?

One way or another, my group all made it home. Unfortunately for my guest, my roommate invited her friends over and put them on the couch before my guests could claim it. That left an air mattress on my floor and sharesies on my bed.

I brushed my teeth and heard my guests conversing in French. They knew I didn’t speak a lick of French, but I know boys. And I know what they were discussing.

We relocated one guest into my other roommate’s bed, as she was out and about. It’s okay; I left her a message letting her know a handsome stranger was in her bed. She later told me it was her favorite voice message ever.

And that left me with a strawberry blonde foreigner snuggled next to me.

I’ve never heard the words, “Do you have a condom?” sound so beautiful before. The rest of the night was great, to say the least. I got high fives from the couple that stayed on the couch the next morning; in their words, “I would have, too.”

I told the guy in a conversation later that, “I don’t think couch surfing will always be like this.” I know it won’t be for me; it may for him.

If you’re going to have a one-night stand, though, it better be something worth talking about. After all, aren’t they designed solely for the purpose of orgasms and gossip?

That's a pink couch.

This was the article I referred to yesterday. Yes, it’s a flirtationship, stemming from years of inside jokes and a brief period of time where we hooked up.

I’m trying to get over that apparently by going on dates with men five years younger than me.
Oh God.
I’ve reached puma status.

Unabashed Reality

Sometimes, my life feels like the sky just opened up and decided it was a good day to poop on me.

It was 10:55PM on a Friday in early February, and one of my relatively-attractive male friends had called in sick to our hang-out session. This normally wouldn’t be a big deal, except I was inexplicably “in love as fuck” (to quote an article I read earlier that day) with this dude who carried a gun as part of his job description and had once told me, “I really don’t have anything else to look forward to until I have kids, I guess.” He also let me know that he wanted to be a teacher, but, “Oh well, in another life.”

Fantastic! Perfect suitor. He’s stable, can use a firearm legally, is good in bed (or at least was two years earlier), and sometimes talks to me.

This was not an isolated case in my own poor judgement.

One month earlier, the relationship finally fell apart between myself and yet another complacent Settler of the P.D.X. (Portland, Oregon, for anyone unfamiliar). The man in question here was nearly thirty, pretty much in love with his mother, and had been slowly working up the underpaid rungs of his corporate ladder. This guy was not as stable, not good with a firearm, not good in… some other regards, and wanted to talk about his feelings all the time.

The guy before that was an adoptee who couldn’t reconcile his identity, and the guy before that one was essentially emotionally abusive.

This was all typical.

If one were to keep back-pedaling through my love life, one would notice a pattern of complacent, nice guys with way too many female friends. They usually had parental issues of one sort or the other, with a good deal falling into the category of, “Well, my father was a cheating bastard, didn’t talk to us for several years, and now we’re forging a relationship.”

Back to that moment in February, though. It was the moment that I decided I needed to really do something with my life. Up until then, it was just school, work, and one failed romance after another.

I dreamed of sunshine and C-list fame. I wanted to write. I wanted to do stand-up comedy. Hell, I wanted to compete in a CrossFit competition of some sort. I wanted to learn another language. I wanted desperately to travel more.

I wanted to fall in love with someone who meant something deeper than all the others, though.

What’s a girl to do when she’s nearly thirty-years-old, nine months in with a brand-new, fresh-out-of-grad-school job, single as fuck, and living in a city where the men were as passive as Canadians (sorry, Canada–I needed something to work with here).

Oh, duh.

Start an inappropriate blog recounting all her dating mishaps and stories.

On that note. Welcome. Pack your bags because I’m ready to fly.