HELLLPPP! Uber, I’m lost!

Well, internet. I’ve delayed well into 2017 to save myself (and you all) the trouble of a “Gosh 2016 was the pits!” and “Good riddance and fuck off!” and “I bet if I change absolutely nothing and keep repeating the same behaviors, 2017 will be ah-may-zing” post.

You are welcome. And 2017 is going to be Totally. Amazing. Although I’m a bit terrified of what is going to happen to the EPA funding, the color orange, and anything rococo. (Don’t bother looking that up – it is the word for “Late Baroque” a la the new First Family’s home, reportedly decorated in a “color scheme of warm neutrals, such as gold, beige, rose, and blush, throughout” according to HomeBeautfiul.com.

Anyway, there will be plenty about that when half of the country turns themselves a shade of cheese-in-a-canister. All the rage up on Capitol Hill.

But back to me. I started off with a B A N G! So, you’re welcome, 2017. (I kissed a girl and I liked it.) No cherry Chapstick, though.

AND I did really well being swanky and sexy with my lovely ladyfriends for New Years Eve but somehow have spiraled since not taking my furry coat and my sweet outfit out on the town for a post-party bar hop.

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Everyone join me in a solid mantra for 2017: “No crying over spilled blowcaine.”#real #adult #theotherwhitestuff (jk).

Unfortunately, my future seems a bit shaky as of now because the other day, after far (FAR) too many drinks, I was unable to get myself the few blocks to my best friend’s house. You might say I was lost.

No one, except maybe my Uber driver Kenneth, really knows what happened. However, I apparently managed to switch my regular Uber to “Uber Assist.” It is one tier below VIP. And, for 0.76 miles, 3:01 minutes, I did this:

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And after finding this email, nursed my hangover with a bottle of wine with a cutie who just sat like a trooper for *many* hours of tattooed artistry, and we looked up what, exactly, Uber Assist is.

“uberASSIST is an uberX option that is designed to provide additional assistance to seniors and people with disabilities. Driver-partners are specifically trained by a third party organization to assist riders into vehicles and can accommodate folding wheelchairs, walkers, and scooters.”

The two of us got a solid ab workout over this development. And, naturally, we hypothesized about “What the fuck is up with that circle?”

Option one: Kenneth said “Um, blackout drunk does not count for Uber Assistance. Get out of my car so I can help someone with a real need.”

Kenneth got tired of me.

Kenneth said “No way am I taking you to a wine bar!”

Or maybe, I tried to get to St. Patrick Street to go to my best friend’s house. A phone call says that her place was my intended direction and got us all sorts of turned around.

It is possible I tried to get him to take me home but then ended up having him take me back?

After a lot of that, we kind of ended on the idea that more than likely he was tired of my shit, realized I did not need Uber Assist and was like “Please go away” and decided it safe to drop me back near where he found me.

A mystery. Kenneth?! Anyone know you?!

So, if you need me, I’ll be in my bed.

 

 

Partners-N-Crime and PB&J

There are two main kinds of PB&J. The first, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jameson. The second, that delicious sandwich. Both types of PB&J can fall anywhere within the range of “YESSSS! This is ahhhmaazing!!!” to “Just fucking shoot me.” The latter part of 2016 was asphyxiated by PB&J.

And, while usually names are omitted from the lovely Bananas, it is a little hard to do with this one because I’m talking about Jameson (but not that whiskey shot that may or may not kill me one day) – I’m talking about a human.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that 2016 was a particularly low point in Andrea-land. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mother and I said something like, “Ugh… October was really really fucking hard.” And my mom said without malice (but a tinge of irony), “Just October?” BITCH. Okay, not a bitch. But really, though. I know that my life is full of ups and downs. Maybe it is because I’m so wildly passionate? I found a great image to depict my life:

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I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like the above image. Totally and completely unique.

Anyway, in August I reconnected with an old friend who used to run in the same party circle as me. We’ve known each other ten years and (after my first spout of shit talking) it was nice to hang out. He’s a bit of an enabler but also incredibly smart. Smart and likes to party. AKA Trouble.

Additionally, for a long time I was searching for (what I thought was) a Nelly song – “Hot Boys,” but that is a different thing. What I really wanted was this song:

So I have to thank him for solving that mystery. (Also, I guess thanks for the threesome. I dig it.)

But, back to the main point. My messed-up-as-fuck almost attorney “friend” who really and truly sucks.

I thought I could help him. Get his shit together. Finish law school. Sometimes I am better at giving a fuck about other people than myself. If you ask, I’m happy to help. But, despite the time spent together (he was homeless, I let him stay with me a few times), nothing ever moved forward. It was always someone’s fault – just definitely not his. It was some reason outside of his control that he didn’t have a job. (Not that he was drunk, late and maybe stealing.) Not his fault that he couldn’t finish his thesis. Not his fault that he has (another) child that he can’t afford.

Finally (we are talking about not that long of a time), I was over it. I didn’t want free drugs and I didn’t want (probably) stolen booze without mixers. I had no interest in staying up past 9 or 10 p.m. and I can’t stand falling asleep to TV. *

*For the record: This is deal breaker territory. I suffered through it with Hot Chef but not again and certainly not when you are rolling in drunk and staying for free in my bed and you are going to drive me crazy by drinking and smoking (helllo, I asked you to go outside a gazillion times with that cigarette!) and watching shit on my laptop. Woof.

I really didn’t think he should give up his dream. In every success, there are casualties along the way. I was willing, if he put out any effort, to potentially be one. But, we’d slept together. >>I’m human!!!<< And it made things messy because he is the definition of Bad News Bears and he totally fell for me. But, he wanted to keep it a “secret” because “what would people think?”

I didn’t keep it a secret, but I didn’t talk about it. It only happened a few times and I consistently and firmly told him that I was not interested in dating him and had no romantic feelings whatsoever. It just happened that he was party to a situation that I couldn’t immediately surgically remove from my life so it seemed easier to just let it ride.

Jameson is in the music industry (unemployed) and thought that because I like this song, I was obviously trying to send him a message through the lyrics. He clearly doesn’t read my blog. Let me summarize: a) I like the song and b) I actually don’t always listen to the lyrics of pop songs that much and c) 5 years of Sometimes Boyfriend might connect him to that song now that I am implored to pay more attention to the lyrics but *certainly* not crazy dude.

So, a few messy phone calls later… (him to my voicemail) many, many mean texts. (As my bestie, she got some fucked up shit typed on little phone keys too…) Horrific actually. Followed by me blocking his number… (I thought messages from a blocked number just go to LaLa Land, but I have 5 messages from his 985 # and I refuse to listen.)  and a bit of violence later, I was cleaning up my trashed apartment (he dumped multiple bottles of water on my bed because since I didn’t want to spend the night with him, he was *sure* I was inviting someone else over and proceeded to make a mess of my bed as a precautionary measure.) including flipping over the coffee table and just making a giant mess.

I wasn’t there for that – I left (because he wouldn’t) and then – he finally quit it.

He also posted this on my Facebook later:

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^ Don’t know why I was Googling “Billy Crudup” and the search for “rehab” came from a looking at the multitude of bottles of Taaka bottles and the disaster that Jmo made when he broke into my apartment and threw a bunch of shit around.

** also, I would say that the very, very public Facebook page made all of this OFFICIALLY NOT A FUCKING SECRET. (And potentially a cause for concern…)

He tried to call me for awhile from other numbers but, since he never listened to anything I said, did not attempt between the hours when I am awake. Seriously. Get out of bed before 3 p.m. (or don’t!) but if you are crashing at my place because you can’t get your shit together and I go workout at 7am, at least when you *finally* leave my house around 4, take the trash down. It’s your mess anyway. Also, cool it on the nasty text messages to me. Definitely don’t nasty text my best friend. And mostly, stay the fuck away.

BTW, I’m moving. Let’s all say goodbye to my apartment for the past 5 years. It wreaks of the past anyway.

The Letter P

P is for Portland. And also for Pabst. And Poboy. And Playboy. (Oh, shit! And for Pinot Grigio, too!!)

It is also for pussy. And pizza since I’m being tangential. But most importantly (today, anyway), P is for Parkway!

This photo is when they surprised everyone with a turkey day in May:

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Every November, Parkway dishes out their signature Thanksgiving Poboy. It used to happen throughout the month leading up to Thanksgiving (and would sell out daily) and then one sad year they only did it at the Oak Street Poboy Festival (YES I made it out that year. With a hot date, thank you.) They have since changed.

Today they are back to a more consistent schedule: They serve it on Wednesdays during the month of November.

So, thanks to a tip from social media (love you, Instagram!) I was made aware of the opportunity to indulge while at the peak of my hunger on the first Wednesday in November. Move over, world. I have a sandwich to inhale.

To be honest, November crept up on me. I was busy!

School? Definitely.

Boys? They are the worst! (But oh so tempting.)

Apartment? I can’t even.

Then, after working all day, I ended up at Felipe’s (again) in line (again) scrolling through Instagram (okay, again).  But instead of ordering (again) magic happened. I found out that 1) tomorrow is national sandwich day — hashtagnationalsandwichday and 2) Parkway is celebrating it a day early because it is also Thanksgiving Poboy Wednesday. Yassss. So, I immediately left the line for the greater good – turkey. (hashtagblessed. hashtagthewritelife.)

It was an almost-full crayon box of a bar when I walked in. There were just a few of the reject (favorite!) slots open. But, I know better than to queue up at the sandwich line outside. That is for novices. Solo diners, especially, should eat at the bar. It is super fast. And great!

Mike was behind the bar (he always is) and I squeezed myself into my favorite seat (no one likes it; it is in the sun and the bartender can’t see you. < Or that is what other people say. I’ve never had a problem ordering) with my newly delivered Playboy.

Hello, favorite corner seat.

I ordered quickly because I was a lady with a plan. I also threw in some regular fries and a PBR (self explanatory) and started reading an article about fried chicken. Yum and thank you.

Not two minutes in, there is a comment: “I’m sure you are just reading that for the articles.” Laugh, joke. The guy is from Portland…I’d encountered him briefly when I had to stick my head under the bar to find the hooks to hang my bag.

I offered that no, in fact, they don’t do nudes anymore (see below) but my dream as a writer is to be published in Playboy and I do, in fact, read the articles. They are great.

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(Not. Nudity.)

His hair was dark and hung in almost curls around his face. Pale, of course. Did I say Portland? He looks like a guy in a band that I can’t place.

Anyway, he was flirting. Heavy. You know, taking any opportunity to brush against my leg. Asking questions. The dark, artsy type. You can imagine how he was stoked when I revealed that I was a writer. (No matter that my genre isn’t literary. Although his diatribe when I said I wasn’t into poetry was something for the books…

My sandwich arrived and, full-on in a white t-shirt, I beasted the most delicious (messiest) sandwich without spilling on myself a single bit of cranberry. I washed my (admittedly half) order down with a bottle of PBR. < Drank it cold!! And all the while, Mr. Portland is talking to me. Flirting with me. I literally didn’t have a fork and was shoveling stuffing and turkey and bread dripping with gravy toward my open mouth with a dexterity I only have when dealing with my favorite sandwich. (Okay I’ve got similar skills with human body parts that I’m a fan of.)

Anyway, the level of flirting was off the charts considering the food consumption of the moment.

I then made a few really un-sexy (sexy?) stretch moves to make room for the second beer I was drinking. Mr. Portland kept hinting to wanting to hang out while he was in town. I would have loved to say I had a boyfriend, but I don’t (sigh) so I had to continue with the “I’m super busy…” Because I am! —  Busy unabashedly shoving a sandwich in my face.

I do also have several current/pressing/omfuckinggod work projects on my plate.

His friend finished work so he should have been “done” but ordered another round because he wanted to sit with me longer. He asked about the seasonal Abita. I warned him against the peach beer because I assumed that it probably tasted like baby food. He declined a taste and suffered through that whole pint. Whatever. I was right. Baby food.

Beer. Digestion.

Beer. Digestion.

I checked my phone a few times though generally enjoying the group conversation – me, Mr. Portland, Mike and the other guy next to me.

Finally, out of the mildest curiosity, I looked over after returning from the bathroom to see what book was propped open in front of my new friend. (Beer makes me have to pee.) Scratch that…Everything makes me have to pee.

Long story not-so-short, he flat out asked for my number. And said he’d love to see me while I in town. He quit with the subtle (not subtle) hints and just went for it. He was like, “How are you so tiny?” “Do you always eat like this?”  (Me: no and I work out all the time.) “You’re so pretty.” … it went on.

He was reading The Bell Jar. I thought of my best friend. I thought of me. I wondered how old he is, but since I had no intention of meeting him later, I didn’t bother to ask.

He told me he likes to say “YES” and aims to live fully his week in New Orleans. He wants to sleep under bridges (okay maybe my memory is wrong on that one – but that is the idea.) His friend, he says, just got his master’s in film and (omg) works at a pizza place.

Is that the fate for us all? He wants to know. He also wants to know how I got into writing. He wants to tell me how pretty I am some more. I bet he wants to do more than that. I decide he is most definitely under 25.

I wonder if I did hang out with him, how fast his enamor would last. I think I hold the record for guys falling hard and fast for me and then immediately thinking, “Better not.”

 

Hey, What Are You Reading?

So, I’m sitting at the pizza place across the street slowly sipping a giant glass of Pinot Grigio and reading my book when a bunch of sexy firefighters come in to pick up pizza. And by pizza I mean a stack of large pizzas. (There is a football game on, the place is getting crowed with pick-up orders.)

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Full Disclosure: That pizza/wine photo was from the pre-cleanse send off. But I love to rip the bubble off so I took this photo and would also like to say I’m sorry to everyone across the street for past and future impropriety.

BUT, back to my story. Saints Game! WHO DAT!

This very sexy guy in uniform interrupts my reading with a “Hey, what are you reading?!”

And I flash a copy of Technical Editing, Fifth Edition. And then he says “Wow that is so cool, I’m actually looking for someone to edit my dissertation and none of my friends will help me.”

(Insertion: I look super hot because before studying I went out to brunch with one of my favorite ladies and then got my nails done. I’m still rockin’ an all-black super cute skirt and tank combo and have on and this amazing purple shade of lip gloss.)

I have no idea what I would charge or what it would entail but it seemed pretty flirty. No man has ever asked me “What are you reading” when I am clearly not seeking attention unless they are actually trying to flirt. But I don’t know. He actually might need help? But who interrupts someone clearly not aware that there is a game on just trying to carb binge and who says “cool” to Technical Editing, Fifth Edition who isn’t flirting?

In any case, I wrote down my phone number and my email. (I mean, hottie fighting fires while he finished his PhD. SWOON.)

They walk out.

And then the woman next to me GUSHES about how he was just flirting with me and OMG yadda yadda yadda.

THEN, I get an email. Like within minutes!?

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Ummm what does that mean? That was so fast. Did he think he was going to forget?! So I waited like an hour… finished my wine and wrote back. Because I assumed he meant “editing” and maybe more… wink, wink.

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And then since I had his name I looked him up on Facebook. (UGHGHHG) And sent this:

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And then this happened:

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Ahhhh I am so awkward. ALSO: “Not too many New Orleanians interested in reading and writing” is a big fucking red flag. NOLA is where so many famous writers come to write and there are a slew of us competing for the same limited jobs.

I don’t even know. I was confused. Was he really looking for help? Who the fuck reads a Technical Editing book at a pizza place during a football match? (Me.) Or, as the rest of the crowd seemed to think, was he hitting on me? Or just wanting to fuck because he totally just got kicked out and no one was misreading the situation, I just have no filter and made it weird??

Who knows because at this point I’m drunk even though I ate a whole calzone the shape of a football because I was just finishing a cleanse. (Makes total sense, don’t judge me.) BUT JUDGE ME FOR THIS: and never, ever again wonder why I am single.

First I wrote, “Interesting.” SEND

Then I wrote, “I am confused” SEND

THEN I WROTE:

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Shockingly, he never wrote back. And that doesn’t even make sense? Anyway. Curtain call on that one. Sorry hot fire fighter, it wasn’t meant to be.

 

Or, Would You Need a Ride?

A few weekends ago I made plans to have a relaxing Saturday at the park with my gal pal Ophelia and her two babies. One is very new, and the older one is three years old. Super blonde, growing up super fast. We call him Little Man. He is funny.

The week before, I went to a networking dinner that, by the time Wednesday came, I really didn’t feel like going to. It was a great deal at only $30 for the multiple-course meal at a restaurant that I really like and the ticket was purchased in advance. So, although I hate networking and I don’t have business cards, I went. Great.

I walk in and almost immediately start talking to the only cute guy that was there. People were trickling in because the dinner didn’t start until 7, with cocktails from 6-7 (not included in the price of the dinner). It turns out, we had assigned seats next to each other and spent the evening together. When it came time to change seats for dessert, we scandalously decided to stick together and move tables as a pair.

He just moved back to town from SF and bumped into old college buddy at the dinner and the three of us went out for a drink after. There was some slight leg touching at the new bar but, in good form, I took an Uber home at 10:30 lest I turn into a pumpkin. We exchanged numbers and I told him to “call me” and we parted ways.

I didn’t feel drunk until I woke up at 1:30am dying of thirst. And definitely drunk. Whoops. Guess the wine and martini eventually matriculated into my blood stream. Thursday, therefore, was a little bit rough. UGH weeknight drinking. What a drag.

To my surprise, after dragging myself to go work out after class in the afternoon, I get a phone call. And it’s the guy! He CALLED. Didn’t text, called. Points. Double points! He asked what I was doing Saturday and I told him I had plans to go to the park and also had a big paper due. I didn’t want to commit to anything (did I mention the hangover?) and suggested I give him a call on Saturday.

Saturday comes and I am refreshed as fuck! I got up, worked out, went to the farmer’s market, VOTED, and squeezed in a jog before meeting my friend. I was picking up some snacks and gave the guy a call to see if he was still free. Phone conversation is awkward. He’s a nerdy-type but I let that slide. No formal plans are made. I suggest a few things and tell him to text me later since I won’t be attached to my phone.

We have so much fun at the park! Two girls, the babes, some wine. A lot of strawberries that our Little Man demolished. I was worried that when I went out that night I wouldn’t have anything to talk about except kids (and that might freak him out). It would also be a gross misrepresentation if he thought I was super into kids.

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Alas, text messages are exchanged and we finally make plans to go see the Chinese Lanterns at City Park and then go somewhere for drinks. Sounds good to me. Sold. But at this point, I’m starving and we’ve split a bottle of wine. Ophelia and I decide to take the kids to a favorite spot for some happy hour drinks and pizza. We’ve got to get out of the sun anyway. Must. Keep. Youthful. Skin. (We’ve decided it’s all about the summer scarves.)

We sit down at the restaurant and I see a text that says “Does 8 work for you? We could meet there? Or would you need a ride?”

Umm is this a date? Do I “need a ride”?! NO. I hear that Tinder hook ups often start liek that but we’d already had dinner together. And then went out for drinks. Jeesh. I don’t even want to go. I’ve been in the sun all day and now I have to dance around an “is this a date” situation. Woof.

(Let it be noted that many of my friends pointed out that Sometimes Boyfriend could basically say anything and I’d still meet up but this guy asks if I “need a ride” and I’m incensed.)

So I said “I actually kind of have a headache” and then “Maybe rain check” END SCENE.

He later invited me to the orchestra. With only 24 hours notice. Thanks, guy. I said yes but then accidentally stood him up. I kind of tried to date?! I swear, I am totally working on “moving on” I just am off to a slow start.

On the plus side, who needs boys when you’ve got girlfriends and it is berry season! Om nom nom.

 

 

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.

Table for One, Please

Ah yes, friends. The magic of dating. Mardi Gras, as you all probably can guess, is not my strong suit for the meeting or retaining of boys. And, if you happen to live in New Orleans, that also puts Valentine’s Day creeping around one corner or another. Yippeee.

I met Dr. Glitterbeard at the Space Ball. We met in line to get ourselves jazzed up with some Get Fly Bodypaint and were having a good time. We had mutual friends, and apparently, he was of the opinion that I was the hottest girl there. (High five, me!) My costume wasn’t fully baked because of the pressures of graduate school but the final product was some sexy red star pasties, a gorgeous handmade hood, and matching red bottoms. I was pretty on fire. Fun times.

He asked me to dance, and then if I wanted to get a drink. (Yes!) And of course, Sometimes Boyfriend happened to be nearby with The Ogre so the timing was pretty nice for me to get such flattering male attention. Two vodka sodas and an almost kind of kiss later, we were cutting it up under the black light. After a song or two, I took him to find some other friends that we realized we shared in common from his undergrad days. We realize we’ve lost his friends so he excuses himself to go find them. I figured I’d bump into him later and went on with my fun. Fast forward to me, bumping into his (our) friends first. Here is what I get: “You know he’s married, right?”

Ummm no, I did not. Got ZERO married vibes. Of course, it was all fairly platonic so not real lines were crossed (unless you count the no-tongue kiss thing) although I’m sure if the wife was there I would not have been the center of attention for so long. Anyway, awkward and moving on. I did bump into him later with a coarse “Hi, you are MARRIED!?” to which he responded “Wasn’t gonna happen, lady.” Or something to that effect with a fairly rude undertone.

Whatever, dude. Enjoy the ball.

Then, of course, Fat Tuesday happened. Yippee. And as I attempted to gather my life together and sweep up the glitter, Valentine’s Day came and went with another year of light acknowledgement of another day where society expects us to eat too much food in the name of LOVE. (Pro tip, have sex before dinner so that the after dinner sex can be kind of drunk and relaxed.)

Sigh.

Even though I had no special someone to drape myself in gorgeously scandalous lace for, I do have an awesome friend who got super crafty and made some great Valentines (see below). We did venture out on the sunny Sunday for some quick binge eating of Vietnamese food at the annual Tet Celebration. That was a good call. It was a beautiful day for a drive out to the East (when I wasn’t the driver) and it was nice to catch up.

And later, because I am a graduate student in English, I hung out with Henry James (really, dude…why so many words?) and enjoyed a long walk and two solo glasses of wine. Because you know what, I’d rather just date myself than someone that doesn’t light my fire.

12717504_10103695866555600_5276383802883651588_n(Photo and Art Cred: Camilio Estevez)