Phoenix is fantastic. I’ve added a shade of red to my skin lounging around the pool and hiking Mummy Mountain. I have also acquired some fun bruises from a) hitting myself in the face with the door at the airport restroom; b) completely wiping out in the tub at the resort; c) and horseback riding off in the sunset. Perhaps I need an endless supply of pain creme and sunscreen.

I have eaten way too much; I have drank way too much. And severely paid back with a two-day hangover.

Christmas was bittersweet — I wasn’t particularly over-eager about the holidays in general this year, and I was reminded once again why I never can feel completely content. I had a blast with HG and his huge family — embarrassing middle-of-the-room introductions and being really sucky at card games and the like. I also acquired some strange patch of hives on my arm that hasn’t been completely ruled out as a food allergy. My resolution to remain non-food-phobic, I hope, remains intact.

New Year’s Eve we had dinner at Bungalow then continued the party to the W Hotel in Scottsdale. W was a ton of fun — you can’t beat spending NYE outdoors – albeit filled with bunch of douchebags and wannabes… and really slutty broads. *shuddering from really gross men’s bathroom story courtesy of HG* I resolve not to ever be “that drunk” that I would EVER allow a bathroom attendant to perform oral sex on the counter of a public restroom… or ever wear a dress so short as to see my hanging tampon string. Seriously, this happened in classy Scottsdale. Really fucking gross. But I do resolve to make sure that I keep finding hot chicks and returning them to lesbianism.

In also keeping tradition, I felt fine New Year’s Day, but proceeded to drink too much that night. We joined another couple for drinks at a sweet retro lounge at Valley Ho, then dinner at Cowboy Ciao. I had some testicular-less rooster meal. It was meh. The ribeye and lamb loin (tasted from other dishes) were amazing. And then they gave me bacon brittle on exit from the restaurant. Awesome.

Afterward, some karoke in a private room at Geisha Go-Go, and some bull-riding at Saddle Ranch. Yup, I rode the bull because I was pissed off and drunk. Which obviously doesn’t make for a fun end to the evening. Especially when I want to fight and go to bed in tears. *sigh* I am sabotaging myself. I need to check my insecurities. Quickly. But I refuse to allow some meddling blond ho-bag to attempt to ruin either my night or my relationship with HG. Ever.

My sisters, brother from Cali and my niece and I have been able to hang out, which has been so fun. A home-cooked meal on our first night in town gave all the necessary warm-and-fuzzies. Last night we had Trivial Pursuit game night. And finally a break of sobriety.

We have another round of dinner and drinks with Cleveland friends who are also in Arizona right now. Then the Fiesta Bowl. The vacation is already dwindling down to its last days, and it’s making me feel sad and distant. The daily dose of HG has been really nice and comforting, and I know returning to the Daily Grind will be difficult and lonely.

How will the dust settle in the Real World?

With all that guilt from family, church and your waistline, well, drinking seems as good as any reason to enjoy the holidays.

I’m on a hiatus while I travel throughout Ohio and Michigan and Arizona. I will attempt to annoy HG for fourteen days straight.

Hopefully, I’m just as lovable when I return.

Merry Christmas! I’ll sing “Gloria” for you in church.

Good, good, gooooood, good vibrations!

Merry Christmas!

In the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to share some personal humiliation from my dating history while I was with The Fiancee.

TF and I dated for about four years (I lost track) the first time we dated (there was that second time we dated where the engagement actually occurred a year or so after the first dating sequence… got that?). One time my ex was extremely sick - so much, that I had to call for help. During that inquisitive phone conversation with his brother (a doctor), I fell deathly ill as well. I then called a friend who had to rush us both to the brother’s office at one of the Cleveland Clinic emergency campuses. We both contracted norovirus. For those that are (luckily) unfamiliar with norovirus, envision for a moment extreme amounts of things coming out both ends. Anyways, Brother Doctor needed to give me a suppository. Yup, in my butt. With his finger. (My ex was actually sick enough that he needed an IV). Gross memory deleted.

Now tell me how many of your future inlaws family dinner conversations started with “Brother had his finger in her butt.” Doesn’t it sound like a ridicule from grade school or something? I don’t feel embarrassed that often, but this was hilariously uncomfortable for the duration of our courtship. Not unlike the suppository.

Have any embarrassing “meet the parents” stories?

And that is what this post is about: anticipation. And normally how it fades and everything goes to shit. No –I promise I have worked through my jadedness.

What are you anticipating in your current relationship?

For a brief moment — even so early in our relationship — I wished 10SB was “someone else” in that passenger seat. I was deeply content, but not deeply satisfied and probably pretty fucking miserable of a bitch. Obviously, I hadn’t quite moved on from SSD while I was with 10SB. Unfair to both of us probably, but I was in a fabulous rut and getting laid was nice decent. I am a horrible ex-girlfriend. Whatever, I got my karmic milkshake when he dumped me.  After we broke up, I anticipated somehow rekindling (once again) with SSD. He was the first person I texted too. That’s fucked up — I know. As I brutally learned again, anticipating this bastard as a potential was a large, depressing sinkhole.

In dating HG, there is a continuous cycle of anticipation — being that he is long-distance — I am always giddy when I hear he is coming into town a little early or changing his schedule to my preference so that I don’t have to wait over a week to see him until after Christmas. I anticipate introducing him to my friends, so they can register him on the Bullshit Scale. I anticipate looking all hot for him on New Year’s Eve. And I giggle constantly because I am just… thrilled.

And with that, vacations and traveling together (with our without anticipation) is “one of those steps” in a budding relationship. (Thankfully, not a three-day road trip adventure with Psychotically Unpredictable). Currently, in the process of planning my first vacation with HG, I’m really frenzied and probably drooling anticipation. And there has not been one single moment when I wished it to be anyone else.

Now, THAT speaks volumes about good relationships. I mean, this is how it’s supposed to be, right?

Ironically, both are my type.

Never be too good,
Mel

Popping cherries: Exhibit A or Exhibit B?

Guide to Poppin

My new favorite read: dirtypop!

And for my drunks (emphasis on the rimming):

- courtesy of popartdiva.com

It seems the crappy holidays are upon us. Woo (emphatically woo, Scrooges).

Work has been kicking my ass because rates are low, and people want to refinance the shit out of their homes to buy needless Christmas gifts, and suck the living equity out of their homes. It happens every year… then I get another surge in January, when the first of credit card bills come in. Stupid, stupid fools. Are gifts truly important enough to make one of your important life assets completely worthless? Oh, it will be worthless… give it another four or five years for the market to upswing again. At least, I’ll gauge that premonition on the amount of walk-throughs on my condo since the For Sale sign went up six months ago — two. Two fucking people. My bad, one. One potential buyer, whom I cleaned from top-to-bottom, never showed. And my Realtor had the GALL to ask me to offer a BONUS to the selling agent to entice them to show my home. FUCK what? Isn’t that your fucking job — to sell my place? To show it, market it, split the shit out of six per cent commission?  My job is not to give you more money. Your job is to make your own money.

Aside from work, I have this so-called “relationship” thingie happening. He’s great in all the right places. I think I’m becoming a little less neurotic. I really enjoy being around him too. You do the hokie-pokey, and you turn yourself around. And that’s what it’s all about. We’re planning a vacation — that’s fun. Stressing about plans and flight numbers and a New Year’s Eve dress is not. But seriously, date nights: Velvet Tango Room, Nuevo Acapulco, Mel’s homemade lasagna, movie nights… all within the last week. I might have done more with LDR in one week than the up-close-and-living-with version. And then there’s that whole give-a-man-gift-without-trying-too-hard-or-showing-you-care-more-or-insinuating-this-is-anything-but-just-what-it-is. It brings about a Nervous Stomach. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been eating much. I’ve been working out too, so maybe that’s it. Whatever.

I. hate. gifts. I hate shopping. I hate when people don’t give me lists. I hate being creative and “just pick something!!” And I hate frivolously spending money for crap that someone doesn’t need. I also hate being lazy and giving gift cards, but I give up.  I think this all leads to me hating Christmas for at least one reason. I don’t feel comfortable with gift-giving. I mean, I like surprised TANGIBLE “gifts” throughout the year, not endless hours of mass wrapping flying through the air for HOURS (I am the oldest of seven kids, mind you — Christmas takes forever when everyone is home). I just want to see my family and not be all awkward because I don’t have money to throw around… again. And there’s always an obligation because you know everyone else is giving you something. And I hate that too - the OBLIGATION to have to give gifts. Why can’t I just enjoy my family with my hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and “The Night Before Christmas,” sing crappy holiday songs, then cry at “Silver Bells” and watch 18 hours of The Christmas Story? Or drink myself into a Jack Daniels and eggnog death. Maybe I just grew into not enjoying surprises that much.

I don’t have the kind of budget or credit limit to go spend hundreds of dollars on people. I’d rather use that and go visit my family that lives on the other side of the country. Discover some peace in the desert sunsets. But somehow that’s all very selfish…

Anyway, I still do not have lists from anyone in my family — and Christmas is a week away. I still do not even know for sure where I’m going and when. That in itself completely stresses me out, as I like to make and have plans. Not be all “I-don’t-know” until the day before Christmas Eve. COMPLETELY. STRESSES me out. And my family wonders why I just make other plans. And I’m somehow a very, very bad person if I would rather just go be alone in fucking Boston or Budapest or something. This then brings on a set of social anxiety and insomnia, then requisite hibernation… and a whole lot of Catholic guilt because, fuck — EVERYONE likes fucking Christmas. Ironically, my only sense of serenity is at Midnight Mass. And that’s only because I am on fire.

I still need to get my furnace fixed AND somehow find $1400 to repair some shit on my car. Creating an emergency fund is never enough anymore. It totally sucks ass that the second I save the money, there is always something else that is designated as “emergency.” Why does this seem to culminate right around this time of year? Probably because I notice that it’s very, very cold in my condo.

Thanks, Santa — Merry fucking Christmas. I’m very Grinchy, when I should be very happy. There never seems to be a balance. I actually feel truly, very happy — all warm butterflies and shoulder nooks, yet I feel there is something wrong with me because I am just not Christmas-connected.

A Penis in which to drink...

This year, I opened this (also from D):

A Penis in which to eat...

Now, a Penis in which to sleep would make my holiday exchange complete.

I. Hate. The. Gym.

But not only feeling the blahs and the lazies, I have a hot body to maintain since there is the slight chance it might be seen naked (I don’t know… my perverted neighbor told me this through his peep hole) — and as per usual, the ballet conditioning I have been doing since summer is becoming redundant. Just as bike riding did at the beginning of Fall. As did the professional dancing in my 20s. And cross-country in 7th grade. And when that Russo kid showed me his penis while we peed together when I was 8 (*yawn* bored, much?). And I really, really wanted to run and exert some negative energy before I ended up kicking one of my male coworkers in the nuts.

So, I joined the gym again anyway because I can (pretend to) be motivated by 4:45 a.m. buzzer alarms in the place where sweaty foreheads reign and people who do five minutes of elliptical-jiggling cardio think they’re in shape. I’m sorry, but five minutes will just not cut it, whether you’re Rambo or going Commando.

And shortly thereafter, I remembered what I inexplicably hate about said gym: Everything with sweaty balls and a penis extended from it thinks that the gym is the perfect place to pick up chicks.

Newsflash (even in the 0.0021% chance you got lucky in your Sophomore year of college): It’s not.

In the hierarchy of “meeting potential suckers suitors,” the gym is on the bottom of my WannaFuck List. I go there intentionally to sweat and smell bad and trip over my shoelaces and hit my head on unintentional objects of humor, without so much as the kindness of ugly strangers. I’m fine in my own world, thank you. I intend to continue running incessantly and blasting ABBA or Vanilla Ice on my iPod to ignore you. Even if you stand beside my treadmill for an extra hour after your workout ends. Especially if you play that little charade game where you pretend like you’re pulling something out of your ear, and I shrug my shoulders because it looks as though you’ve developed an ear tick or I forgot a Q-tip and I am good at Trivial Pursuit not Pictionary, you ass… Unless while I was running, a set of underwear slipped out of my (previously  worn) pair of my yoga pants, there is no need to get my attention. And even in that case, keep ‘em.

I don’t need you to share my water fountain. Or teach me how the leg-spreader machine works. I don’t desire you to work out directly in view of the women’s locker room (I arrive dressed, Asshat, so I am a walk-in-walk-out kinda gal). And no, I am not interested in how much you can bench, lift, squat, or suck. OK, maybe I already gauged how much you suck.

Because, seriously? Your gym-stalker actions only assist in achieving my personal goal of (maybe) actually running that half-marathon this Spring.

Maybe. And even then — sweaty balls or hairy — I am still not giving my number to a gym rat.