And So It's Come To This

So things with Across the Street Boy don't appear to be in the cards, so I'm moving on. It's not that I'm not interested, if I'm being honest with myself, it's just that he doesn't seem to be that interested; and if he is, well, he's doing a lousy job of communicating it.

True story - left a six pack of beer on his front step last night with a note saying give me a call if you want to hang out (I had consumed a few at his place Saturday night). He calls me a few hours later, saying he was busy, blah, blah, blah and oh, "I really should take the garbage out. Talk to you later."

Um....ok.

So, I sulked for a bit, and then took some action. Yes, I get myself in trouble when I decide to take action, but let's face it, the Cute Single Guy Patrol has yet to hit my neighborhood and they sure as hell aren't roaming the halls of my employer.

So yes ladies and gentlemen (are there any gentlemen readers?) I've signed up on Match.com. I forgot I had signed up a few years ago, so I reactivated my profile and spent the night modifying what I had written. I do think I am going to need to convene my buds for a review, so consider yourself warned.

Within the past 24 hours my profile's been reviewed a few times and I've had two "winks" - the pussy way of contacting someone without emailing and getting a rejection. Neither one seems like a great fit - one a 41 year old professional student for whom money isn't important and the other a 36 year old from New York who describes himself as "a White American" - not Caucasian...a White American.

As for me, I've winked at one guy - that's all I've worked the nerve up to do at the moment. I'm essentially lurking for the time being. Hey, I've six months to get rejected a whole bunch of times.

So there it is...as my friend J said, at least I may get a few meals out of it.

Stay tuned.

And hey...if you live near me and you're happily coupled up, if you know of a single guy who might be interested in a high-maintenance girl, help a sister out will ya?

Update

I'm getting the sense that He's Just Not That Into Me.

Don't even want to talk about it.

Boys

I met a boy.

Well, to be accurate, I met him four years ago. Since then, off and on, I've been waiting for him to make a move, and figured he wasn't buying what I was selling. Until Saturday night when I got the 411 from a mutual friend that he was extremely shy and most likely wasn't going to make the first move.

Our friend excused himself, and fueled by a mixture of tequila and Bud Light I pounced. At least that's how I like to think of it.

Oh, did I mention he lives across the street from me? Yeah...it's a little complicated.

So now I'm waiting. And thinking. And the thinking is the dangerous part.

Did I come on too strong?

Does he really like me or did he not know what else to do?

What the f*** do I do now?

Of course the good old insecurities have come into play. What am I without them. Do I repulse him, after all, I do look like Princess Fiona but with a slightly better complexion. Was he humoring me when he kissed me back? Do I need to figure out a way to lose 1,000 pounds between now and the next time I see him (which will hopefully be tomorrow)?

Sigh.

I'm pretty sure this why I'm still single. I get hung up by my body, I jump in too quickly, I over think it. Let's face it, I've been crushing on this guy for a while now, so it's a little difficult to not come on too strong, but I also don't want to scare the hell out of him.

I also don't want to get hurt. That's the scary part.

I haven't opened myself or my heart up to love, or even a date for that matter, in a long time. Getting hurt sucks, and I don't want to go through it again.

You know what? Screw it - he's a big boy. If he's not into me, then let him tell me. Until then, I'm going to go for it.

Wish me luck.

I really need it :)

Words

Words can hurt. Shocker, right? Yet I think we all make the mistake of saying that one wrong thing that unintentionally hurts someone.

I personally suffer from chronic foot in mouth disease. You would think I wouldn’t considering my thin skin (the only thin part of me), yet I seem to have a knack for saying the wrong thing, particularly when I try not to. I always feel like shit when I realize it, but you can’t put the genie back in the bottle sometimes.

We all have our trigger points. Perhaps it’s religion or sexuality. Maybe it’s marital status, children or lack thereof, but I have to believe that everybody has that one thing that is a sore spot. Mine, of course, is weight. If you’re surprised, I invite you to go back and read earlier entries of this scintillating blog.

I want to lose weight. Yes, I’m aware of the size of my ass, that my arteries are probably in a very sorry state and that sitting on a hammock would probably not be wise. I’m also apparently very good at talking about losing weight and writing about it, but it’s the actual follow through where I fail.

I see the looks and I know I’m judged, or perhaps I perceive I’m being judged when I’m not. I spent roughly two and a half years in therapy ostensibly because of my screwed up body issues, yet here I am.

I’m a big joker about my weight. Maybe it’s because I was the butt of other people’s jokes in my younger years, but my MO is to get in front of the joke, call out the elephant in the room. The elephant of course being me.

I also have this urge to tell people that I used to be thin. It’s like I’m saying “I’m not really lazy, I’m just going through a rough patch. I wasn’t always like this”. Mind you, most people don’t say anything about my weight to my face (and Lord help them if they did), but I can feel the judgment, real or perceived.

One person in my life does feel the need every so often to make the rogue comment. He once told me I was porky, and tonight made a pointed remark about dieting. What he doesn’t realize is that remarks like that don’t have the intended result. Five minutes after he said it, I made myself a sesame seed bagel with four pieces of bacon. At 10:30 at night. As I was eating it, I knew what I was doing. The eternal 16 year old inside me was flipping the finger. Another part of me wanted to cry.

On a mature level, I do need to do something, I really do. But as I’ve said before, I need to do it my terms, looks and words be damned.

But getting back to my original point, words. To quote George Carlin, “So be careful with words. I like to think that the same words that can hurt can heal, it’s a matter of how you pick them”.

Secrets

I have a secret I want to share with you. I'm sure some of you may have already figured it out by now, but I wanted to make it official.

This is really hard for me, so I hope you will all love me and continue to accept me.

Deep breath.

Ok...here goes.

My name is Beth, and I like Coors Light.

Whew...that's a relief. For years I've been hiding my love of relatively weak beer behind pricey imports like Stella Artois and Smithwicks, and local brews like Yuengling.

I've laughed along when people I'm drinking with mocked the light beers. I scorned my beloved Silver Bullet.

Like many things in my life, I of course blame my father. When I was little, my dad was a Miller Light man. For some random reason, I can recall playing in the empty boxes.

Incidentally, we also used to play with the empty cigar boxes supplied by my father's colleague. Yep, my sister and I played with alcohol and tobacco vessels. We also had cap guns, water guns and munched on candy cigarettes. It's a wonder we didn't become felons wanted by the ATF.

Anyhow, back to beer. At some point, dad switched to the silver cans of Coors Light. I don't quite remember when, but I have to believe it was somewhere around the time I became aware of the demon rum, er...beer. So, my first sips of booze were light beer and the Chablis that came out of the green jugs my mother purchased.

Light beer and cheap wine. Have that with chicken nuggets and pizza, and you can imagine why I ruled out culinary school. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm pretty sure that there are 4 year olds with more sophisticated palates than me.

When I came of age (not that I ever sipped alcohol before then! Stop Laughing) I was mocked the first time I ordered a Coors Light. I was mocked. So I started cheating. I tried micro brews, imports - but nothing tasted like Coors Light.

On Friday I went to the beer distributor. They didn't have Stella or Smithwicks, and I couldn't get bottles of Yuengling. What kind of beer distributor was this?!?!? Anyhow, needing beer, I grabbed a case of Coors Light. Spent about $10 to $15 less than I planned, and the Silver Bullet and I got back together.

Now on to my second confession...my name is Beth, and I like cheap wine!

GTL + Crestor

I don’t get Jersey Shore. No, not the majestic beaches of the Garden State, the TV show.

I admit it – I may be the only person in the world who has yet to watch an episode of the iconic MTV reality show. I’m pretty sure my grandparents are hooked on it, and my grandfather is 89 and my grandmother has Alzheimers.

I’ve seen the cast on TV talk shows and on Ellen. I can tell you that there is some guy called The Situation who has a rock hard oiled six pack and hair-do one might call original at best. Snookie looks like an oompa loompa escaped from Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory with a pouf that accounts for half of her height. Oh, and there’s somebody called J-Woww who is “just like me” according to US Weekly - although I don’t have a superfluous consonant at the end of my name. And there’s some guy called Pauley D, who has the most normal name out of the bunch. They apparently spend their days doing GTL (or Gym, Tan, Laundry (or as I like to call it, Torture, Melanoma and More Torture)). I’m not sure what else they do for a living. They honesty don’t seem all that bright.

I’m pretty sure I know way too much about Jersey Shore than is good for me.

I was young and in my twenties once, and while I don’t choose to partake in the hijinks these guys engage in, I understand where they are coming from. They have a show on MTV after all, not PBS, so some drunken antics are to be expected.

What I really don’t understand is the latest entry in the reality TV genre, Sunset Daze, a Jersey Shore for the over 70 set. Full disclosure, I haven’t actually seen an episode, but I’ve read some reviews and I’m scared. I thought age brought wisdom.

According to some of the latest statistics, the senior set make up for one of the fastest growing groups of people contracting and spreading STDs. And thanks to Sunset Daze, apparently we get to watch it too.

Thanks Viagra.

My grandparents idea of a good time is a road trip to Shady Maple, or perhaps a rousing game of bingo at the church pot luck dinner. Not doing body shots off of one another. And if they are, I so do not want to watch it. I’m frankly still trying to recover from walking into my grandmother’s hospital room to find her naked from the waist down (nature was calling) but still, it’s an image I really want to forget. I certainly don’t want to see her participating in a wet t-shirt contest or jumping out of a plane in tandem with my grandfather.

I’d like to propose to the Reality TV show producers of America that they leave Reality TV to the young. I’m flexible with the age, let’s say under the age of 40. After that point, the odds are good the participants may have children (or grandchildren) who are old enough to watch it during the first run.

Until I get them to agree to my terms, I’m putting parental controls on the computer lest my parents get any ideas of Reality TV stardom.

Jobs I've Had

Despite my myriad insecurities, I guess one area they haven’t hit is my “retail” area. No, I don’t mean that I buy size 4 jeans when I’m obviously not, although my body dysmorphia is another blog altogether.

What I mean is the fact that I have a habit of taking on retail sales positions in areas I know nothing about.

Maybe it’s this bad economy or the fact that I’m only getting paid once a month, but in the past year I’ve taken on two part time jobs in retail areas that one might consider my blind spots.

Job Number One – Video Game Salesperson. To be honest, I didn’t seek this job out. When I first realized that my expenses were greater than my income, I reached out to my friends. If I’m honest, I was hoping someone would come back with a clerical position on the weekends. I’m REALLY good at sitting on my ass and acting like I’m busy. Sadly, such a role didn’t materialize. My old friend R texted me that the video game store she worked at just outside of the Philadelphia city limits had an opening. The money was good so I took it. This was a bad decision on so many levels.

Bad decision number 1 – working for a friend. To be fair, my friend wasn’t in a management position when I took the job. A few days before I started, that all changed. My friend who I’ve known since we were 5 or 6 became the store manager. I thought I had it made. Not so much. I love my friend R to death, but as my drinking buddy, not my boss.

Bad decision number 2 - taking a job in a field where the customers are passionate and can smell bullshit a mile away. Bullshit was all I was selling.

Bad decision number 3 – taking a job just outside of Philadelphia. No, not just outside of Philadelphia, the store was literally on the other side of the street from the city limits of Philadelphia. Look, I’m suburban – despite the fact that both of my parents were born and raised in Philly, I have no street sense. Most of my friends are Caucasian, not by design, but these folks are the ones who I grew up with or work with. I love Jay-Z and lip-synch a pretty kick-ass 99 Problems, but that’s as urban as I get. My customers, not to stereotype (although I guess I am) came off of the streets of Philly. Some days I felt like I needed a translator. My friend and manager was practically throwing gang signs while I stood off to the side like a female Lawrence Welk.

So, combining all three bad decisions together, I resigned and went on to Job Number Two – Cashier at a Big Box Home Improvement Store. I’m going to level with you – my motivation was the male to female ratio, which I thought was going to rock in my favor. I had visions of young hot dudes who could fix my plumbing (insert inappropriate joke here) and make a few bucks at the same time. Instead I was planted at self checkout wearing a horrid polyester orange apron being asked about home improvement items that I had never even heard of, let alone knew where in the store they were located.

So now I find myself at another part time gig, one that I’m more naturally inclined to work at. I mean seriously, we sell handbags – how much more simpatico can you get? Yet, I find myself dissatisfied, both with the pay and the level of effort I have to expend to keep the store tidy.

So, as always, I’m keeping my eyes open.

Across the parking lot is a guitar store. I’ve never played the guitar. I know nothing about guitars other than I like Slash and Eddie Van Halen.

I wonder if they’re hiring?

The Great Swear Experiment

I think it's safe to say this week's adventure in not swearing was in equal parts a successful and failed experiment.

That very sentence alone may qualify me as a candidate for Senate.

Let me explain. While the swear jar capped out at $20 (did I mention I get paid once a month - limited cash flow impacted the swear jar funding), I was more aware of my potty mouth.

As I said to more than one person, this was a bad week to try to stop cursing, but then again, I'm not sure there is a ever going to be a good one unless I can get myself put into a medically induced coma.

In other news this week, I finally ventured into the area of Philadelphia (or Killadelphia as it is also known due to the high murder rate) my father grew up in. I have a manager at the part-time gig, who while I like her personally, drives me insane as a manager. I've specifically asked to not be scheduled when she is set to close Monday through Thursday because when she closes it turns into a farce.

This had worked well for me until Wednesday when she was asked to close in place of the store manager. We didn't get out until later than expected, and one of the girls had a bus to catch at 9:55. The manager let us out at 9:54. I threw my co-worker in my car and we sped down Chemical Road. I realized about half-way to the bus stop I didn't turn on my headlights (oops). I did fortunately see the police car up ahead and slowed down. Unfortunately, we missed the bus, so we continued on down Germantown Pike to try to catch up. It became obvious to me we were on a wild goose chase, and since my colleague didn't know when the next bus was, I told her I was driving her home, end of story.

I kind of knew I was in trouble when my GPS told me to go to Osage Ave. Those of you from Philadelphia and old enough to remember MOVE will know the name. As a sign of how young my passenger was, she hadn't heard of the incident. Have I mentioned how old I feel sometimes?

About an hour after I had planned, I ended up back at home, a cold one in my hand, Top Chef Masters on the TV - I had earned it gosh-darn it! -and was thankful that I was working from home the next day.

The following day I told my dad I had been in his old 'hood the night before. He told me my adventure wasn't the best idea. Keep in mind the man was in the Marine Corps, is about 6'3" and carries a gun daily. Yeah, I guess Philly isn't what it used to be.

Looking forward to working from home almost all next week. I love it when my boss travels - I can work from home and stay in my jammy-jams until noon!

Congratulations to my friends Ashia & Alex, Sharon & Aric and Sara & her hubby Mike on the birth of their children! Colleen & Forrest and Sherri & Greg, I guess you guys are up next! BTW, I am an experienced Godmother (and cheap too) if anybody is looking.