Performancing Metrics


{conversations with the boyfriend} it’s too loud; you’re too old.


Watching Inception (a terrible movie) on Blu-Ray…

Me: (yelling in my practically-deaf voice) That’s loud. Inappropriately loud.

AB: (matter-of-factly) That’s perfect for an explosion!


{conversations with the boyfriend} what-a-burger?

{conversations with the boyfriend} what-a-burger?

Boyfriend: Would you be offended if I put your cheeseburger on an English muffin?
Me: Um… those are cinnamon-raisin English muffins.

Dammit. A Michael Symon Lola burger sounds SO GOOD, no?

I can’t think of a single burger that would use a cinnamon-raisin muffin as its bun though. DO YOU GOT ONE, INTERNET?


Not it. Well, I’m not it either!

Not it. Well, I’m not it either!


The boyfriend says he does not use these towels. Yet, they end up this way Every. Single. Day. This is no fault of this household’s felines. That, I assure you.


{shit list} how many times do I hold back the swearing in this post?

{shit list} how many times do I hold back the swearing in this post?

This is my mad face. Kinda. Add more demonic fire.

I’m mature enough to know my own faults — my character flaws (there are many) — and accept myself warts, anxiety-fueled, enlarged pores and all. One of aforementioned… ahem, “blemishes” is getting irrationally angry without too much provocation. The boyfriend, he doesn’t understand these angered outbursts because, well, he’s an emotionless freak of nature. So, thankfully, it doesn’t happen often. While some of his rational thinking has rubbed off (heh) on me in terms of subsiding my uber-sensitive side, the flare-ups of being really, really mad burns deep sometimes… so much so, that I have something resembling a minor panic attack, combined with the sudden ability to not be able to speak. True story.

So, when I presented a vocal list of “things missing” from the move, and the boyfriend’s reaction to one of its items — something completely, wholly irreplaceable and quite “security blanket” in nature — was a smirk of stifled laughter, countered by a deadpan “I think I threw it away”…

*breathe* Well, I freaked the fuck out on him, naturally.

And that reaction is one part being really, really sad that I might no longer have said item. And another part is really, really pissed that he would unjustly toss something OF MINE in the trash of physical, emotional and sentimental value without so much as an inquiry to its presence.

I’m pretty sure that I’m going to bed angry.


The epitome of Battle of the Sexes.

The epitome of Battle of the Sexes.


This is dumb.

I brought to this relationship an almost-new hand can opener that has the most awesome of rubber grips and non-rusted, can cutter-mechanisms. Seen on left.

His: old, rusted, barely turns, hardly cuts and is completely awkward to use. Seen on right.

We upgraded most of his hand-me-down utensils and such when I first moved in; my “stuff” was noticeably nicer — and lesser used. Yet he REFUSES to get rid of this stupid, old contraption. He “likes it.” Amongst a lot of other double shit around the kitchen, which I’ve finally started to pack up this week.

And I KNOW he’ll notice if it’s missing.

So, we continue to live on in a household with two freaking can openers.

Please tell me someone else has this problem.


Ex-ploration or Ex-ploitation?


There was a time when I used to write about my funny or OMG-that-didn’t-really-happen stories related to ex-boyfriends. When AB & I got together, I stopped. It was a combination of being too happy to dwell in my past misery and a part of letting the past be the past. But I think I might start to share some of those soap operas again, as I feel those memories have a part in shaping how I feel — and who I am both individually and attached — while in a long-term relationship. Plus, some shit is just plain hilarious and needs to be told.

Also, it’s not because I’m suddenly UNhappy, but it was prompted by a stupid irrational argument last night between AB & I, which no doubt caused my “I need an extra hour” deep sleep dream I had this morning about my high school boyfriend, HSS (high school sweetheart). In real life, HSS & I fought with the fury of 100 feral cats, which resulted in five-plus-years of on-and-off-again instability (but oh, first love!). When we were dating, I was ALWAYS mad — it didn’t help that he did a lot of dirty, shitty things that consistently pissed me off. So I yelled. A lot. I threw things and broke things. And I also hit him (once even giving him a well-deserved bloody nose in a club). I even got so mad one afternoon that I flushed an emerald ring he bought me down the toilet. Yes, I was nothing but a Drama Queen and a Total Bitch in one very small, 95-pound package (but whatever, I could box you and punch your lights out — or so my internal bad-assedness told me).

I knew I had anger issues, but they really didn’t subside until he was gone. Or at least until I was ready and able to move on from him emotionally (which took a LONG time, even overlapping several other relationships, mind you).

In my dream though, we both changed — how telling.

And then some scary Russian mobsters were in our Las Vegas suite, asking me for a million dollars to repay them for… something I don’t remember. Even though I was staying on the sixth floor. Or was it the ninth?! Therein lied the rest of my dream, attempting to escape from these two thugs — running up-and-down staircases, not being able to find my room number as I ran down the halls.

What a freaking metaphor.

Back to last night’s… ahem, “discussion.” I sincerely hate when anyone feels they need to “talk down to me” as though I’m unintelligent. I might not be the most logical of thinkers — and because I think differently than you, does not mean I need the conversation “simplified.” Point being, I really DON’T like to be angry. But I also will not let it go if someone is essentially calling me stupid. Which in my mind, was exactly what he was doing. So when AB made a generality after that argument last night that I am “always angry,” my shit hit the roof even worse. And I could just feel my blood boiling. I made him take it back, of course, but I couldn’t shake that emotion for anything. I like to think sometimes that I’ve come a long way since HSS. I’m in, by all accounts, a life partnership with someone for whom I care deeply. But holy hell, watch out for my wrath when I get angry enough that I start losing my voice.

Oh, and of COURSE it was a sex dream.



A rant from a hormonal lady who needs to get laid.


Every once in a while, this blog gets moody. Blame PMS (but not this week!) or the general nature of following an aging, hormonal 30-something with a bitchy streak. But today, this post has a little of the sad. And a whole lot of intoxicating influences.

Also, I have to give credit to Kitten Kaboom for encouraging me to post this after her recent emotional post. I agree, that you rarely read about the lesser-than-awesome parts of a blogger’s life. But we’re human, right? And some of us need the outlet…

Our weekend together started off nice enough. We made some wonderful connections, courtesy of a happy hour meet-up on Friday. We had some good eats (courtesy of the amazing Elements restaurant downtown). And made some nice new friends.

And then, as the crowd dispersed, and we went our separate ways (to a bar to watch boring basketball and losers Ohio State), AB & I started on some financial talk… um, the gist: I’ve been a bit bad on my budgeting and had a whole bunch of account transfers this past month.

I’ve had some lingering self-esteem issues, to which I attribute mostly from my starting to work for myself last year. I mean, for the most part I’ve been wholly independent and self-sufficient (financially) since I worked my first job at age 14. But the last five years were especially good — I bought my own condo, traveled whenever, bought WHATEVER I WANTED (regardless of my partnership), etc. etc. that “financially-comfortable professionals” feel necessary to brag about. I guess you could say I’m still adjusting to my current situation, with not having NEAR as much “personal” money to play, regardless of my personal and professional successes. And cohabiting further makes me feel MORE guilty for spending money on myself, when I should maybe (just maybe) be putting more towards our joint living expenses. Especially when your significant other places an account activity print-out on the table, with all of the “unknown” transfers highlighted in yellow.


But there are also other sources: for one, my birthday is approximately six weeks away (again), and while I didn’t mind much turning 30, I’m having some trouble comprehending that I’m already encroaching 34. It’s, like, the age that I am finally realizing its transformations (and the untimely exodus from another age bracket). I’m starting to look older in pictures. My make-up or cleansing regimen isn’t “working” anymore. I have hormones. A LOT OF THEM. And my insurance covers, well, close to nothing related to my female parts.

My body is morphing into something I don’t recognize — mostly because of roller derby in an awesome, totally fit, “thank you for the nice ass” sort of way — but changes, nonetheless. I hate nearly everything in my closet because I feel it too resembles my past, rather than my “growth” or current personal style. I hate how my face looks — in any kind of lighting. I hate when I am lethargic and crave breakfast cereal and nachos, knowing FULL WELL this is not healthy eating. I hate that my boyfriend and I are experiencing what could only be described as a “two-year slump.” That, am I’m still lingering over some anger of him talking to someone he just met about something very, very private to US. I was — and am — not pleased in the slightest. And that situation has me somewhat upside-down — like, a broken trust. So I end up internalizing everything, further perpetuating this idea that I am worthless, unsexy… and old. It’s a horribly depressing, defeating feeling. And not having an outlet DOESN’T HELP. And GUESS WHAT — I’m officially at the age that this shit doesn’t go away. So… yay me!

Yep, I had one of “those” breakdowns, which I suppose any female needs (or cannot prevent) from time-to-time. But, it resulted in me crying in the bar when talking about “permissions” for purchases. And then, me uncontrollably sobbing, locked in our apartment bathroom, until I nearly fell asleep in the bathtub.

Basically, these imbalanced hormones need to fucking go. I want my tubes tied and my egg hatchers removed, since I obviously cannot manage their effects any longer. And on days like today, I request a penis instead. But… extra-body-parts-that-would-only-lend-to-more-sexual-confusion aside, it would be nice once in a while to hear MY awesomely-fit derby ass complimented rather than some skanky random walking past in a bar on her way to… I don’t know, “ho it up.”

Male gender, take note: if your partner seems more nagging or bitchy or distant than usual, think about the last time you had sex with her (but after you got that image of her having a penis out of your head). Likely, she might just wants to feel wanted.


The rhythm is gonna get you all right.


We’ve been living together for nearly two years. After recently obtaining joint accounts for our mutual bills, the natural progression (by my continuous nagging, of course) was to combine our iTunes music collections. We have, like, 8 computers in the house — each storing a different folder of music. I have an old PowerMac G4 with all my classic rock stuff on it, that I had no access to (given that the computer hasn’t even been turned on in a year; anyone interested in a purchase?) and all my downloaded files were in a different folder on my laptop than all my dance music on… heaven-knows-where (does not compute!). Everything else was on some server somewhere in the house. And with iTunes, you cannot select more than one folder preference.

Besides that he doesn’t properly label any of his music files to my specifications, I really only wanted some of his good Rock Boat artist music, but it was too difficult (and would take forever, given the 20k+ songs we collectively have in our libraries). Everything else, I’ve decided, I HATE. I despise listening to live music (unless it’s classic rock), especially when a booming dance song is followed by some crappy recorded low-music quality song from 2006 that I cannot determine title nor artist. Only the scrolling date of a show in the viewfinder tells me a little about what I need to know. Like “jf-08-2001…” or some alpha-numeric crap is supposed to tell me something about what I’m listening to?

Also? I cannot stand Dave Matthews. Or his band. Words really cannot describe the eye-roll that commences upon hearing his voice or that AB wants to listen to his music. Don’t get me wrong, he’s one talented sunnamabitch, and I already suffered through one of his concerts last summer– there’s even a song or two that I actually enjoy. But because of the boyfriend’s collection of 800 live show CDs and 20-million years of other releases, I have DMB coming up every other song. Or worse: two in a row.

I shit you not, upon writing this post, three different DMB songs have come up on Genius Mixes on my iTunes. Grrr… No more “adult alternative.”

And every road trip we take, Dave and his CD friends all have to come along. Have I mentioned how I need a variety of music playing to drive long distances or to distract me from all the conference calls that AB seemingly plans for while we’re on the road? I can’t listen to only one artist for long periods of time… unless it’s Kate Nash or Basement Jaxx.

The worst part of this? I asked for it.

I wanted more of a variety of music when syncing my iPhone. I wanted a combination of my dance music, classic rock and indie — but also liked some of his good singer/songwriter stuff. And aforementioned, TRB stuff. Well… I got all that and more. More SHIT.

That boyfriend has wonderful taste in women. *wink* But dammit, his music preferences suck.


Fully Functioning as a Joint Couple


Now that we’ve finally got around to doing “it” (and by it, I mean surrendering ourselves completely to one another), we’re proud parents of a joint checking account. I mean, it’s wholly overdue, being that we’ve practically lived together since Date One (that fatefully-drunk St. Patrick’s Day) — now at our second cohabited place of residence. And have now moved somewhere where I no longer have in-person branch or ATM access (RIP, Chase Bank, but Pittsburgh doesn’t love you).

The responsibility that a joint account brings is something very scary to me. I’ve rightly fucked up my own money and financial situation just the way I like it (and gloriously revel in paying down balances to an “almost paid off” status). But now, everything from skating gear to make-up to the need for another pair of boots is scrutinized by more than just MY bank balance. HE has a say (and being the bread winner in said situation, I suppose at a 90% relevance to total household income).

But on that long-term relationship note, I had another conversation about “why I don’t want to get married” with one of my open skate partners-in-crime. I found it hilarious because every excuse I could give for being wed (having kids, combined tax benefits, commitment to “God”), her response was “that’s not a reason to get married… and THAT’S not a reason to get married.”

See? I have no reason. And merely being in love just doesn’t cut it because you need not be husband-and-wife to prove that to yourselves or anyone else, for that matter. Yet, people exchange vows every day and the wedding industry is making a ka-BILLION dollars in profits.

So, question: why did YOU get married (or why do you)?I mean, it’s only fair since everyone always asks me the opposite. And it’s OK, if it was for free shit, you can vent that openly here. At least that’s a more tangible excuse.


I don’t have a life insurance policy!


Since this flu/cold/immune system compromise thing has kicked my ass for yet another day, I missed our apartment building holiday party last night. Naturally, I sent AB down for food because they typically put out a serious spread (including beer and wine, which if I was well, would have been all kinds of awesome) — just a few nibbles, being that I don’t have much of an appetite. And he’s awesome like that… even though I know it’s uncomfortable flying solo at one of these get-togethers.

This is the second day this week, he has brought me home stuffed mushrooms (the other from his office holiday happy hour), which I refuse to eat because of a shrimp-stuffed incident some seven or eight years ago at a potluck picnic party. Yet, there the little guys were, “But they are stuffed with bacon and potato!” Interesting, right? No dice. I’m not eating them.

So, I make my way around the plate — veggies, hummus dip, cheese (one made with olives… puke), and he convinces me that these mini quiches are delicious. Ignoring my internal warnings about these hor d’oeuvres because of — yet again — another party/shellfish foul, I eat one. Mmmmm. It’s like a mini quiche Lorraine. I bite into the second…


Needless to say, I went running to the kitchen to rinse out my mouth and spit into the sink.

Hilariously, when AB passed out later on that night, I nudged him because of his annoying snoring. He belted out a “NOTHING!” then rolled over. His sleep-talking keeps me quite entertained during my bouts of insomnia. When I questioned him about that response, he said, “I’m not lying!”

Perhaps a little guilt about feeding me (literally) to the fishes?!


We eat in public, so I cover my mouth.


With my inability to cook (aside from my awesome lasagna last night — you’re WELCOME), you think I wouldn’t complain so much when someone else is doing it for me. But I have problems — some would call phobias — about certain foods in public.

But then, last weekend I had a CRAB ROLL IN MY MOUTH by accident. I cannot fault myself, as I am a newfound sushi lover, having eaten regular fish for the first time this past year after over a decade abstaining. Just as I was chewing away at its delightful texture and rawness, AB told me to spit it out.

“You have my crab sushi.”

Thank you, sushi restaurant for combining orders on multiple incorrect plates. When AB told the waiter, he switched out the proper combination of food orders (back in the kitchen).

But he never did bring me a new napkin (or take away my old one… ew).

Thankfully, no bathroom stalls or walls or floors were harmed by projectile vomit or a nervous breakdown as a result with this incident. I’m sure it helped that I was already drunk.

I can’t so much as label this a food PHOBIA, being that it’s an actual ALLERGY (thankfully, not deadly… but doubly thankful that my friend had an EPI-pen on her), but there are certain food items I will stay away from.


And mostly as my past experiences dictate.

For instance, meat in Mexican restaurants. Caused likely from too many episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, I do not order chicken, beef, fish (and of course, seafood) at any eatery that serves a glob of refried beans and rice on my plate. I opt for yummy, incredibly delicious cheese (and sometimes onions, if not mixed with green peppers) enchiladas. And extra sour cream because I’m dangerous.

To save face, err stomach, if it’s ANYTHING at Yo Rita, I’m eating it. I would seriously even consider the potential shellfish allergy effects. DAMMIT those are some good tacos.

So, when I joined Downtown Pittsburgh Lunch Club this past week, what did I get? Enchiladas with chicken. *puke* Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long for a correct replacement (as I was already starving from the rationing of chips that day).

Speaking of chickens (and their deliciousness outside of a wrapped corn tortilla), I completely lose my appetite if I have to saw/cut/dismember any piece of one with bones. If the chicken is in a scrumptious wing or drumstick shape, breaded and slathered with the best BBQ or buffalo sauce, then I am fine. But I cannot see it in its natural form. Excavating an entire chicken nearly caused me to turn vegetarian.

I also fear buffets. And potlucks. Especially from homes with multiple cats and coworkers with body odor and messy desks.

And I cannot stand the smell of popcorn in public spaces. It smells like vomit. And then you’re stuck in the small theater in the middle row and EVERYONE around you decides that the LARGEST POPCORN for sale is awesome and then you can’t move because then you can’t see the screen because you forget your glasses. Again. NOMNOMNOM — MORE BUTTER!

Excuse me… I have to throw up.

What are your food phobias?


“Stop Being White Trash!”


That’s what the female counterpart yelled at her male companion while he walked at least ten steps ahead of her on Penn Ave. Likewise in anger, there was another old man all sincerely pissed off that he couldn’t find an unlocked entry door at Heinz Hall. Then there was a guy across the street from us arguing with someone passionately. Without knowing the back story, these people were MAD, dammit!

And we certainly had a chuckle at their expense.

It doesn’t happen to me often, but out of impatience, stress, frustration or hunger, I can be a total bitch. And yes, I take this out on AB. But I definitely do not prefer to be this way in public. Other than trying-not-to-cry crying (oddly enough, nearly every time I am drunk), I can usually save our “fights” (if you can even call it that) for home base. But I have experience Being Angry in Public in past relationships. Perhaps, too much.

Before moving to Pittsburgh, I was extremely difficult to be around. For weeks. Thankfully for the boyfriend, he was still traveling each week, thereby encountering my wrath via FaceTime (OMG I hate how that application makes my face look contorted and freckled). EVERYTHING, no matter big or small, stressed me out. I took everything out of context. I took everything personally. And I cried WAY too much for a someone inherently resilient and so set in her ways and… happy. That’s not to say that I have softened upon our arrival here because I am still having minor meltdowns.

We’ve been here for almost one month and are slowly settling into a new relationship structure — one that existed before he took this job in Pitt nearly six months ago. So, since we have technically been “long distance” during this time, learning to be around one another CONSTANTLY can be… well, a challenge. I admit, that I am not the most pleasant person to be around especially when I am bored. Even more so when I expect certain things, but don’t ask for them. “Saving my battles,” if you will, I do not nag (I write everything on a white board on the fridge or memorize it for my kitchen sink). But I DO explode — in tears, typically because these things bottle up, as I’m sure you all know.

I also cannot adjust to his sleep schedule (one that includes him passing out on the couch at 9pm whereas I am usually up until past midnight), therefore, I’m experiencing a bad cycle of insomnia. I probably shouldn’t retire to bed at the same time as him, but you know, I missed that every night. And while I’m sure he didn’t miss my night sweats or my foot reaching all the way across a king-size bed, at least he is sleeping next to me. And somehow that makes me crazy happy.

AB is really good in dealing with my unexpected onslaught of emotions (as I have only seen him angry MAYBE once… and even feeling stressed is new to him). I give him a lot of credit, as he can sense when something is up. If I am stressed, he knows how to talk me down. If I am angry, we can talk through it. If I am generally upset, and don’t really need words or your freaking advice right now, he just hugs. If I’m wrong, well, then he has NO qualms in telling me. And when I’m hungry, he cooks. Even if he tries to kill me with oysters being a listed ingredient in that jar of Asian sauce.

And he knows the location of the nearest cheese shop.


“You’re not wearing that shit in our home.”


Deciding which items come and go while packing for the move has been… fun. I’m just happy we have an actual storage cage IN the building for some of our excess shit like bikes and camping equipment and tailgating clothing. And the new kayaks. *wink*

Seriously, Cleveland apartment managers, extra storage space for residents somewhere within an apartment building is something to consider during construction. Along with roof top decks, bike garages, in-house exercise facilities and new soundproof windows. Kthxbai.

We laughed over his “ex” box and the items contained within. No, he does not have to get rid of it, but I’m convinced that his keepsake two beaded bracelets left behind are mine, which means I crashed at his apartment in a drunken haze or one of my friends is a slut. But I do find it interesting the items a guy keeps from old “relationships” as opposed to what females retain.

Some of these things we will not discuss.

BTW, compromise is what makes good relationships better.

Beer bottles on display? Gone.

My awesome vintage green side chair? Staying.

His black leather bachelor sofa. Coming. Thank the loft-apartment-heavens for the space for a second sitting area.

The wine rack and dining room table I coveted for the PERFECT sanctuary of non-use in the corner of my condo? Selling. *sad face*

I should have space in our giant closet for my vintage desk-turned-vanity that I still haven’t refinished. But it will be in a closet and not out in the bedroom, so it’s fine. So long as there is light. Otherwise… make-up by tap lights.

Anything black and gold? Negative.


Easter givings, food and offerings of cheese.


How was your Easter? I am seriously on carb overload. But YAY for Spring dresses this year and mojitos. And… that gorgeous bruise on my hand.

Speaking of cheese, the Cheese Club at West Point Market in Akron is amazing. As such, their selection is equally as awesome. We came home with a honey nut gouda, aged habernero cheddar, and an never-before-heard and deliciously-buttery Bruges.

Friday, I spent with the NEO roller derby gals in a skate class. I now know the inner workings of trucks, wheels and bearings.

Afterward, AB & I loaded up on beers at Riverside in Kent, and enjoyed the outdoor patio for a bit.

Saturday, aforementioned cheeses and lunch at A&W. Two Yums for root beer floats for lunch (and a coney dog and mozzarella sticks). What? It’s a holiday. And I start running on Monday.

For dinner, we had kitchen-bar seats at Russo’s. I was a bit nervous at the menu offerings, where with a seafood allergy — IT’S CAJUN, CREOLE, NEW ORLEANS-infused, which means um, tread carefully. The grilled chicken livers were delicious. Seriously, each restaurant has its own spin on offal, and I can’t get enough. For entree, I ordered the jambalaya which contained sausage, chicken and ham, but couldn’t have the creole sauce since it’s made with a crab base. DAMN. Thankfully, it still contained a bit of spicy bite. (And thankfully I asked for their “replacement” sauce of marinara on the side. Kinda ew, right?). Highly disappointed in the house salad served with the entrees. I mean, can a girl get a shredded carrot or grape tomato or something? IT WAS ONLY LETTUCE. And it was weird to me. I LOVED my Sazarac drink, even if the waitress second-guessed my penchant for rye whiskey.

End note: Bread pudding with a bourbon cream sauce. Om nom nom nom. I was more full than I would be on Easter.

I need a massage. Badly. I don’t know if it’s either my sleeping patterns (or bed un-selection) or combined with the fact I work from slumpy couches and dining room tables. We should be able to dispel the latter with our purchase on an actual DESK (from the Wayside folks). Being delivered next week. It’s time to rearrange the apartment and create an actual “office” within our living space. Next up: a new computer chair.

Be that as it may… a big hooray as well for repeat holidays. I broke the spell of AB’s attention span or something apparently, since he’s never had a girl long enough to repeat holidays. Now, I wish he wasn’t such a traveling businessman. I want him here. Needy, I know.


My boyfriend’s world


There is an even bigger generation gap beyond the years that separate us: When talking about popular lead singer, Susanna Hoffs… he had NO CLUE of whom I was speaking. You know, “Walk Like An Egyptian”? Geesh… Tragic, these kids born IN the 80s.

Vending machines dispense awesomeness… at a price: I don’t use vending machines. We never had them at any of my offices. Perhaps an M&M or a Snickers bar was purchased in the break room of the west-side satellite campus of CSU, but, yeah, not familiar with the offerings and price points. He enjoys a Dr. Pepper every now and again (I think he should just start drinking coffee with me), and was gushing over text message that the “throwback” version  was added to the workplace vending. I replied, “Hope you brought your three quarters!” You know, ‘cuz pop is 75 cents, right? RIGHT? Uh, no. Apparently it is 2010, and vending soda is now $1.50. No WONDER that can never dispensed! A full decade of wasted quarters.

He is trying to kill me: we made these awesomely-delicious sandwiches (Thank you, Tom Colicchio) that contained a balsamic onion marmalade, that also contained a METAL TWIST TIE! And only on my sandwich. Ouch, ouch… METAL FILLINGS! I’m watching you, boyfriend. News flash: I do not have a life insurance policy.

I had to borrow a pair of his khaki socks last week for an interview. He thinks he needs new socks; I think I need new socks. He wears like a size 14 — how the fuck do his socks even fit me. How big does that make MY feet, by the way? I have two pairs of gold toe argyle knee-high socks (my FAVORITE) that I have owned since high school (ahem, 15 years ago) that are JUST NOW starting to thin in the heels – that’s how great these socks are, but I cannot seem to find replacements. That’s how badly I need socks, especially dress socks. Or maybe I should just wear all the pairs of tights in my sock drawer. Whatever. NEW SOCKS. end tangent.

The waitress thinks he is cheating: During opening week at Dante, our waitress “recognized” AB from opening night. But she feared acknowledging him openly (yet, she thought it out loud anyway) because HE WAS WITH ANOTHER GIRL and his parents, mind you, but that’s neither here nor there. Perhaps she thought they were MY parents. Imagine the greater shock for a moment… Lucky for his penis, he has a solid alibi: a) I was with him on the night the waitress “saw” him b) we were in Tampa. Funniest part of all, this was the first night he wore his Sexy Glasses out. Mind you, the first day he OWNED said Sexy Glasses. So, yeah, there’s that too.You know, ta-may-to, ta-mah-to. People, the waitresses are watching you!

OMG, I wish you could see him in these Sexy Glasses. Like, uncontrollable hotness, geekiness and smartness all rolled together. *drool*

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