“If You Can’t Be with the One You Love…”

If you were going to say “love the one you’re with” – you are wrong. That is a terrible idea. Especially when you are in your thirties, as I recently found out thanks to a certain Doctor-In-Training.

I can literally count on my fingers (maybe even one hand!) how many times I went out with Doctor-In-Training. I was trying to keep it casual (something I’ve never been able to do) and give the whole “dating” thing a whirl but he seemed to be thinking “lets move this out of the sack” and “let’s spend weekends this summer on tandem bikes together” or riding in (insert two person manual boat here) on the bayou.

I actually was kind of down with it. Crazy, right? I liked a boy. (Okay now you can sing the full chorus of the titular song.)  It didn’t hurt that he was (and I guess probably is) a really good kisser. And the right level of smart nerd to appeal to Yours Truly.

Anyway, those cute texts about duo activities aside, we only saw each other on the weekends. For like one month (max). And then I had finals and he was starting a new rotation. Sure, I could have texted, but I was wondering how many hours of reading it would take before my eyes literally bled and decided it was on him to check on me.

I had a library buddy, my favorite one, so I was already set on company. (I was also feeling pretty bloated from downgrading my meals to pasta with butter and cheese and sour patch kids.)

So I didn’t call and he didn’t contact me either. Not until Friday, anyway. Six days after he haaaadddd to take me out for my birthday despite my objections that I needed to study. (Dinner, by the way, was great.)

But back to Friday. My phone rings. (You know how I feel about calling over texting…SWOON)

Until I found out the purpose of the call. It went like this:

Doctor-In-Training: “We need to talk…”

Me: “…Okay???” (is that how you start a conversation about what movie we are going to watch!?) < clearly not >

Doctor-In-Training: “I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you (emphasis on really) but I’m growing attached and I don’t see this going anywhere.” You know, “No FUTURE.”

Me: (silence because I am more angry than sad because I’ve been at the library and that definitely could have waited until TOMORROW.) Finally, “Wow that is shitty timing.”

Doctor-In-Training: “There is no good time”

True. There is no good time to break up with someone. But, categorically, there are better times and worse times. Worse being my cat just died, better being I just went for a run and I thought you were calling to make pool plans.

Also not good: after a really hard week of finals when (BTW) you didn’t bother to call me either. So. Glad you stewed for five days and made a decision. I HOPE YOU FEEL BETTER.

Nothing really more to say.

But wait, whoops: There was me, sending random and mildly arbitrarily-timed but angry (and occasionally drunk) text messages.

Great news though, a full two (three?) weeks later I got a message that included “I’m obviously missing you. And I’m not sure I should have left you.”

LEFT ME!? Okay that implies that there is a mortgage and a child, and I don’t know… a relationship. But thanks dude, you are not confusing at all.

Anyway back to “If you can’t be with the one you love” … because there is an answer and it is great:

Respond to the super cute boy who’s been messaging you (who cares if he is 7 years younger than you!) because you know what won’t happen after three HOT weeks of that? A phone call from him that says “I don’t think this is going anywhere.” Because he’s 24. And that, my friends, is pretty hot. He’s old enough to have had a serious girlfriend so the training wheels are off. Fun times. I highly recommend it.

 

 

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I Don’t Give a Pho

This morning, I drove out to Kenner to get a much-need bikini wax. In light of my recent boy situation, I postponed my regularly scheduled appointment in favor of rocking that 1960-70’s pinup look should the highly unlikely opportunity to drop my pants (or put on a bathing suit) arise between Mardi Gras and the end of midterms.

I felt a little bit bad about moving my appointment as my gal is expecting, and I’m sure she and her husband are saving as much as possible in anticipation of their bundle of joy. That aside, I figured she’d understand my graduate student poverty mixed with the dark pit of sadness thanks to the end of an era of Sometimes Boyfriend, and we’d chat amicably as she tried her hardest to distract me from the fairly painful hair removal. She would probably be incredibly optimistic, remembering how many times in the past I’d rearrange my wax appointments for every whim (or cancellation) of Sometimes Boyfriend, about how there are definitely others out there.

She really is the best – we can cover a lot about our respective lives in the 20 minutes that we see each other a month because it is imperative to talk the ENTIRE time, with the exceptions of a few pain-filled yelps on my part that are reciprocated by her very endearing “I know…”, about what-the-fuck-ever in order to distract from the discomfort. (She’s going to make an excellent mother.) Beauty is (pain?). Also, I got hooked because razors suck and the nice ones have gotten insanely expensive. I’ve also found that guys don’t really care. They wan to sleep with you. Of course who doesn’t like a sexy treat, but the light fuzz between waxes is really no thing at all unless you are 19 and insecure or unfamiliar with the art of sex.

Side note: Sign me up for that laser stuff (I’m overcoming my fear of a a laser being that close to such an important body part as it’s been on the scene for quite some time) as soon as I’ve got the budget. For real.

Anyway, downstairs in the shopping center there is an excellent Vietnamese place. The legit kind that would be worth the drive in its own right. They have the most excellent rare flank steak pho that I look forward to. And – in case you didn’t know, pho is a traditional Vietnamese breakfast – they open at 10 AM so I can make myself feel better with a steaming bowl of pho post-wax.

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Sadly, today, I didn’t plan for soup and made myself a hearty breakfast after my usual 6 AM workout. I also napped. Nothing like deadlines, insomnia, and a foggy morning to make a nap appealing. So, when I arrived to find out that Elena (the lovely gal to whom I am a loyal client) wasn’t feeling well (that baby!) and wasn’t coming in today, I couldn’t even make the drive worthwhile with some soup. Boo.

“No, I don’t want to see someone else,” I said to the apologetic receptionist who didn’t get around to calling me before I left my house.

And, in true single-gal + I don’t give a fuck mentality I went ahead and moved it back a whole week. Because lets be honest, it is going to rain the next three days and I’m also lined up to hang out with my favorite kitty cat this weekend and he definitely doesn’t care. I can’t even hang out in anything satin or lace because he loves to massage on my stomach making little pricks with his tiny, yet sharp, claws.

So, since pho was out of the question unless I wanted to feel like a balloon expanded in my stomach, I promptly drove back to Mid City to get to work. Writing is fun! And then indulged in a warm, house-made chocolate chip cookie at my favorite neighborhood coffee spot. Because I’m bad like that.

Next Wednesday, I’ll make sure to be prepared to eat, just in case.

Repent/Purgatory (And 20 Min. Dinner)

Well, the last ten days have been hellish. I believe the phrase that was sent my way was “Odd how vengeance does not make one feel better. Just vengeful.” Pine over that for a few minutes. I certainly did.

On the bright side, this dude that got my number without permission from my roommate’s phone one night while they were having drinks after work has finally decided to stop texting me. I guess I could have blocked him, but there was a little bit of astonishment that these messages kept coming, even though I never, ever wrote back.

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There were more… Saturday at 12:14am: “What you doing”

Saturday at 5:33 am : “????????” then “Can i come over”

FINALLY on Sunday at 1:25 am: “Damn I’m done” and then “I’ll delete your number”

Good call, buddy. Seeing as I never gave it to you. Never responded to your texts. And SURE one night we flirted and danced at a late-night spot back in December but then when I bumped into you on Christmas at the bar, you were like “UMMM I have a girlfriend” – Hence why I never had any desire to hang out with you again or dance with you again and certainly give zero fucks whether you guys broke up and now feel compelled to send me unsolicited text messages.

I certainly earned the many, MANY apologies my roommate gave me for allowing his phone to be commandeered.

In other news, I had a midterm last week and am currently sorting out the writing of an epic term paper for a graduate course on “The Novel.” So, as I am trying to manage my 6am workouts and my internship and every now and again check to make sure I’m still a whole person, maybe neurotically check my email for a message from a certain someone, I decided to make my favorite breakfast dish into an early dinner today.

Eggs in Purgatory – Pasta Style! (warning: for high-stress times only)

Oh my god so fucking good. Although, as I said, not something I will make regularly because this constitutes a gluttonous binge-like meal where far too many calories were consumed. But here is the gist of my semi-homemade tasty treat:

Step 1: Boil water and salt liberally.

Step 2: In the meantime, slice about a half of a green bell pepper and two large cloves of garlic. (I skipped the onion today. I might have added mushrooms if I had them, but honestly, sometimes simple is best.)

Step 3: Once the pasta is in (I used penne this afternoon), sautee the pepper and garlic in a little bit of olive oil in a small skillet. *Use a bigger one if you are making for two.

Step 4: Cover with a really (I mean really) simple tomato sauce. I used the Walgreen’s Nice! traditional pasta sauce because it is as simple as they come in a jar. Once the sauce comes to a boil and there is about 3 minutes left on your pastas, crack an egg on top and season with salt and pepper. Place a lid on top.

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Once your egg looks like that, drain the pasta. Pour into a bowl and top with grated Parmesan. Gently top pasta with sauce and egg and then, because this is SAD PEOPLE FOOD, add Mozzerella cheese too.

And then get in bed and flip on your Netflix. Who cares if it is 4:30 pm on a beautiful Friday. I sure as fuck don’t.

See you bitches in hell.

Here, Take a Bite

Friyayyyy! After the noon hour no less. What joy! What happiness! (Just kidding I’m really fucking sad and nothing will fix it at the moment.)

Yesterday, I engaged in some much needed therapy because I had a lot on my mind. The therapy: MEAT. So, so much meat. And friends! Friends are good too. (hey, girl!) My pants are still pretty loose today so I think I’m okay; I forgot to wear a belt. Caloriefest2016!

Recently, we started compiling a list of fun happy hours to try around town. The winner for this week was Primitivo, a new(ish) restaurant concept that offers up mostly meat dishes with everything smokey and delicious from their “wood, coal, fire, salt” cooking modality.

Three of us got together and housed 32 gigantic meaty ribs that go for $1.50 each during happy hour. The first plate of twelve was just one giant rack. When we went for twenty, they plated it like this:

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Actually, that is not true. The top four ribs were sadly exiled to their own plate. Why!? We didn’t know so we moved it for my photo.

And we feasted. Hard. Because in addition to the ribs, we started out with some smokey tripe with tomato sauce and jalapeños. Then, in case that was not enough, we also ordered the ceviche. Yummy, yummy.

Yes, I ate all of my feelings. Yes, it felt great. Later, we went next door to the Jazz Market to have a cocktail and listen to some music. Did I mention that I was working through some shit? And had some seriously solid friendbuddies to roll with. Thanks, guys!

What a great idea to go see music because nothing helps the confidence like the lead musician literally singing to you directly. On the microphone. And then playing the trumpet oh so masterfully with those soft, soft lips.

Hello there, sir. Oh my gosh you are making me blush.

Who doesn’t like a public display of “Wow you are so gorgeous!” from someone that is pretty famous. Gahhhh! (PS – we made out!) Very PG but kissing nonetheless. Kissing! Me…kissing a man. An attractive, talented one! One that I assume is single based on the public display but I decided not to lead with that question.

It is as if everything about today – including the gloriously warm, sunny weather and flirting with a guy last night is an affront to my general feeling that today is hard and sad and I’ve got writer’s block for this work project and woe is I.

Hard and sad, I tell ya!

But it is almost over and at 11am I got a lovely text that opened with “Good morning beautiful…” from the sexy musician. I melt! He wants to know what I’m doing tonight but I think “Binge eating and reading my book alone” is not a very good response. I still didn’t write back.  Ugh I am not ready to date. I hate dating! And I’m a crappy person for not writing back already!

Also seeing as my horrible insomnia had me up since the early dawn, I really am hoping to just curl into my bed and sleep as soon as the sun drops from the sky. Maybe a run first. That always makes me feel better.

Apparently I’m a Cunt

When Sometimes Boyfriend’s new ogre of a girlfriend decided to scream in front of the whole street like a drunken fool, “Why are you such a cunt!?” and smash a drink over my costume it reminded me of a bully one time on the school bus. Happy Mardi Gras! (My outfit is wet, shall I explain to the world why you used a female vagina as an insult?!)

Back to bulling. Man, that time on the bus was rough. It was the day I learned that a) I’m not symmetrical and b) what a queef is. This was a rough day (that day and today) Boys are the worst.

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My wig never recovered…

Back to bullying – on the school bus! In the 90s when that was a thing.. So, after the whole bullying escapade we all get called to the principal’s office and I had to (Miriam Webster) explain what a QUEEF was. SO, said. “It is a fart from the vagina”, ma’am. (that last bit is debatable…)

I love words. Today I learned how to be classy. Thanks for making me proud to be a cunt.

Also, I have not been in (lost, I promise) a fight since I was twenty, so… I will not be provoked even though in my mind I played out all the winning hair pulling massacre that one dreams of when girls are being mean.

Dear 2015…

Dear 2015,

I wish I could say that it’s been great and I will miss you, but that would be total and complete bullshit. The fact that 2014 ended with me toasting bubbly with my coworkers after another long holiday season in the service industry ($$$) and then welcoming 2015 by getting super sloshed at work while we cleaned up leading to a near miss of my flight home on Jan 1 suggests how pathetic you would end up. But hindsight is 20/20, right?

To be fair, the ratio of good to bad in the year that marked the 30th anniversary of my birth wasn’t so so bad, and since I don’t have a television, I’ve been spared a lot of the past 6 month’s political discourse that social media tells me consists heavily of people saying stupid things that are unproductive and sometimes outright offensive. This resulted in some pretty funny memes though, so thank you?

I had a few new romances and handful of awful dates to laugh about and a lovely and passionate repeat of my favorite flame. (Watch out for those, they might burn you alive.)  I partied in some excellent outfits and danced the night away with some magical friends. I fell down pretty hard a few times (literally and metaphorically) but magically a I still get out of bed most days because everyone knows how much I love breakfast.

Surely it was disappointing, but the getting of and then quitting of a proper job was somewhat rewarding and suggested that one day I might find my niche in the adult world. I’ll let you know when I figure out where that is and what it looks like in case you want to join me. (On Pluto?)

You marked then 10-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and thus my ten-year anniversary in the city of New Orleans. What a long, strange trip it’s been.

I have a huge pile of books on my bedside table because I’m taking a course in the art of the novel (yaaay) so my sleepless nights will have no shortage of entertainment. <- in addition to Netflix, my usual array of books, an occasional late-night text session, and of course, my blog.

I’m not one for “resolutions” but I do have some goals for the coming year. First and foremost I plan to get my sister to pull through like the awesome chick that she is and help me make my AMAZING blog a better, funnier place to procrastinate at work. (For all 50 people that read it, you’re welcome.)

I suspect dating is the same in 2016 so I might opt out completely but there are a handful of restaurants popping up around town so once I’m done with a month of no dairy and no booze I’ll resume the regular consumption of food and drink. Om nom nom.

Also, because we managed to find the most horrific human to move into our apartment who managed to upset the entire home in a mere 2 weeks (Mind = Blown) I’m sure that the situation will eventually become funny and end up here because if you don’t laugh about it all that there is left to do is cry. And I don’t want to give myself any unnecessary wrinkles. I do, however, want to throw a frozen burrito at his head. I’ll explain that later.

So, 2015, I guess all that’s left is Happy New Year, bitch.

Yours faithfully,

Andrea’s Bananas

 

 

Three’s a Crowd

Okay, sometimes three’s a party (wink, wink) but certainly not in this case. Sometimes Boyfriend opted for Aspiring Senators Wife/Ex Sorority Girl instead of me again (yawn) right when I happened to have a weekend full of fun plans. Great news! This left me in the perfect spot to… drum roll… find the most physically and emotionally unavailable asshole in Mid City and then a few days later, go on a date: Hot Chef 2.0 AKA Mr. Wrong.

Ahh yes, you might remember Hot Chef so Mr. Wrong was a pretty bad idea considering the record I have with dating chefs. Married to his job? Of course. But I knew that before we ever met for drinks. Emotionally unavailable because of divorce? Yup. That’s where we deviate from the original. But the real problem with Mr. Wrong is the third wheel.

Who might this other be? Not his ex wife. Not his mother. Want to keep guessing or shall I spill the beans?

Apparently he is BFFs with his all-star bartender, a lady with whom I’ve spent several afternoons with over her stellar Hot Toddies, shared giggles over our mutual infatuation with a certain Jamie MacKenzie Fraser and generally enjoying each others company (and my generous tips on a slow afternoon). Turns out she is not my friend, and is actually a conniving manipulator. All great qualities. You go, girl!

A few days after our date, I came in after a big old party thinking that his restaurant was a good idea because a) Pho is great for hangovers b) Chicken and Waffles is on the menu c) Tons of things can get eggs on them. AND d) Not a hot spot during traditional brunch time. (Okay maybe a littttle interest in “bumping into” Mr. Wrong.  I also really wanted to bring the crew to my neighborhood so I could crawl into my bed without having to call a cab after grubbing.)

We sat down and ordered and I sent a casual text saying “Hey, we are outside having some brunch. No pressure but if you aren’t too busy and want to say hi…” or something like that. That day they also happened to be smoking a big whole animal: lamb? pig? I don’t know. It happens weekly so maybe one day I’ll figure out what the mammal is and perhaps eat some of it.

After some time, we were literally smoked out and decided to finish up at the bar. Great, I loved (past tense) the bartender. We close out with our server and decide that is a great idea to do shots and order dessert. It was, after all, a celebration! A little while later, I get the most awkward wave from as FAR AWAY AS POSSIBLE from Mr. Wrong. He walks away and I burst out with a giant “THAT WAS AWKWARD!” (Annnd I’m a little drunk.) Then, thinking that the bartender was a friend, I say “Gahhh that was sooo weird, we totally hooked up the other day!” (Okay, that was an overshare and I wish I hadn’t said that…) but then she said WITH A TWINKLE IN HER EYE,

“Really!? Oh my god how was it? I’ve been dying to know…”

And all I said was “He’s a really great kisser (*blush*)”

Later I get a very long, long text telling me that he would not like to ever meet for drinks again because “somehow staff got wind of our encounter and he keeps his work and private life separate yadda yadda yadda, but please continue to enjoy (his restaurant).”

It turns out, he is BFFs with home girl and not only did she tell him that I was being gossipy (which I fully admit was amateur) but she also told him to stay away from me and all kinds of not nice things. WOAH Bitch, you barely know me except that I tip really well and come in for lunch and have a drink and do some work. Thanks for your excellent Hot Toddies. They were my jam. But really, dear, I know you have a crush on him but why don’t you grow the fuck up and be the better person next time because three’s a crowd and I you are clearly stuck in the friend zone anyway.