When The Smoke Clears

Is anyone out there really good at writing resumes? If you are, please contact me. Or if you're just good at spinning webs of bull, let me know. I'm trying to update my resume so that I can send it out and hopefully find a new job, but I find the thought of crashing my forehead through my computer monitor much more satisfying than putting my daily work activities into words that make me sound good to future employers. (Maybe if I had any daily work activities that didn't involve this blog or Yahoo games, my computer monitor would remain intact.) Argh! Where's Shakespeare when you need him?!

I used to have a list of qualities my perfect guy would have. When I was 18, they were deal breakers. He had to be a nice, funny, smart Christian who was as musical as I was and who could sit on the back porch and carry on a conversation with my father without missing a beat. If he could pull all of those things off, he had his foot in the door. Then there were the bonuses. If he drove a pick-up truck or a Jeep Wrangler, played the guitar, and knew how to lead a girl while dancing the way my grandfather does, he made it to the dinner table. Finally, if he liked to watch old musicals as much as I did without feeling like he was losing his masculinity, he was golden!

Then I opened my eyes to the real world. I realized that I didn't want to fall in love, but that I wanted to fall in love in a movie. Things just don't work like that. I wonder now if I ever really wanted them to. But that's a debate for another time. This one is about standards versus ideals. When I was 18, I thought all of those things I looked for in a guy were standards, when in fact, most of them were ideals.

So what am I looking for now? I still have a few deal breakers. He still has to be a nice, smart Christian who can carry on an intelligent conversation with my father. But now, he doesn't have to be funny so much as have a sense of humor. And while it would be great if I find someone as musical as I am, as long as he appreciates the existance of music in the world, I'm fine. The truth is, you can't set rules on who you fall in love with, because it's not up to you or me. It's up to God. So beware when you start defining your "type" - whether it be musicians, runners, or blondes.... God's the only one who knows your true type. And you just might be surprised.

After 5:00pm. A restaurant across the street from my office has the right to take control of the curb in front of their doors, kicking out the meter parkers for valet purposes. That's all fine and dandy, except that I have yet to see anyone come up and use the valet services of this restaurant. I'm parked in one of those spots. It's 5 minutes to 5:00. Do you think that if I'm not there, pulling out of my spot right as the second hand hits twelve, there will be a two truck waiting for me? Or do the valet guys have some kind of "citizen's arrest" type privilege to write me a ticket? Part of me wants to tempt fate, just to see. But the other part of me.... the part of me on a budget.... just says to go get in my car and leave well enough alone.

Is it there? Do you see it and I don't? I mean, I spent about 20 minutes in front of the mirror this morning between my make-up and my hair, but I didn't see it. It must be there, though. Don't see it? Me either. So what on this beautiful earth possessed my friend to pull such a stunt? I ask you.... What went through his head when he sent me the string of emails? I'm getting ahead of myself.... Let me go back and fill you in. (*To protect the not-so-innocent, we'll call my friend Bob.)

Bob is a sound tech in the music industry. I met him quite a few months back at a small concert my roommate and I attended. The concert was fun.... We ended up taking the band and a lot of the road crew (Bob included) back to one of our favorite bars afterwards for some drinks and some laughs. At the end of the night, after a few too many beers, Bob tried to hit on me, but he's married, so I reminded him of that and told him we were just going to be friends. So as not to hurt his feelings, I left out the part that I didn't find him attractive in the least bit, anyway. Why throw that in when it wasn't necessary? All I needed to say was that I didn't get involved with married men. He just gave me a hug and said alright, that was fine by him.

Now, about a month and a half ago, I saw Bob at another concert and gave him my email address to get in touch with me before he and the band came into the DC area, which they were supposed to do a few weeks later. I did get an email from him, but the day before the concert (they were opening for a really famous band, so security was tight). I saw Bob briefly before the concert and told him I'd call him after the show to see about meeting up for a beer. He didn't call me back afterwards like he said he would, but no biggie.... I was kind of tired, anyway, and had to go to work the next day.

So this weekend, I'm going down to Norfolk for a friend's housewarming party, and that same band is going to be in the area for another concert. I emailed Bob to tell him that I'd be in town for something else, but that I'd try to make it out to the concert. I told him that if I did, I'd look for him, and if I saw him, he owed me a beer for ditching me last time. He wrote back and informed me that he is no longer with that band, but with another and in Boston this weekend for some shows there. He said I should stop by. I wrote back in my usual sarcastic, smart-ass fashion and said that while I'd love to jump in my leer jet and cruise up to Boston for the weekend, I let a friend borrow it, so I'd have to see him next time he came around here.

Now, here's where the flashing neon sign comes in. Still don't see it? If you do, does it say "Mistress"?

I checked my email this morning when I got to work, and there were two from Bob. The first one asked how much [money] I need to get to Boston this weekend, and the second telling me to go up there, that he has a [hotel] room Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. WHAT?! Where did we transition into this? Where did he get the idea that I would want to fly up to Boston for a weekend fling with him? We've barely hung out a few times, exchanged a few "hey, if I see you lets have a beer" emails, and he's offering to be my sugar daddy! I always thought that my sarcasm was pretty blatant, but apparently he read way too much into it this time.... As in he read that I was asking him to offer to fly me up to Boston for the weekend! He doesn't know me well enough to be in love with me, so he's not offering to blow that money on my personality. Can he be that hard up? The man is married! I was in the Navy, so I know that men are not always gentlemen, and I know that some married men who spend a good bit of their time away from home don't spend very much of it faithful to their wives. But come on.... Flying someone to you? What is he thinking?!

Verbal diarrhea.... Never heard of it? That's when you start talking, and then babbling, and then before you know it, the babbling has taken on a life of it's own and has turned into an unintelligible form of communication referred to as verbal diarrhea. Today, I discovered finger diarrhea. Essentially, it's the same thing, only expressed through typing instead of talking (duh). True, when typing you could go back and delete the babbling-turned-secret-language so that you once again appear to be an intelligent human being, full of complete thoughts and ideas, but come on.... Where's the fun in that?! Especially when you're emailing friends who are just as bored at work as you are.... You must provide as much entertainment to them in reading what you wrote as you got from writing it. It's the decent thing to do. If you don't believe me, think of what you just read.... The entire paragraph.... Was there anything meaningful in it? How many four-period-thingies did I put in there? Yet you're still reading. :) Entertaining, isn't it.

So why am I bestowing this upon you now? Well, it's 4:40pm on a Wednesday afternoon, and although this still technically falls into the work day, I really should be on the Metro right now, en route to Happy Hour. However, my company's CEO and two other gentlemen are in town from San Diego and are in the conference room having a quasi-meeting. So I'm stuck out here, manning the phones or whatever, until they come up for air and I can say "Peace Out!". I ran out of things to do (productive or not) ages ago, thus the finger diarrhea you are now reading. It is now approaching 4:45pm. I am going to start gathering my things together, which will kill all of about 1.5 minutes (I pack light for work), do the pre-Metro-ride pit stop for another 2.5 minutes (I wash my hands), straighten my desk, adding 30 seconds.... That gets me to about 4:50. I'll linger a bit, make eye contact with someone.... Oh, wait, they're stacking up papers. Stop talking! Stop talking! Stop talking! It's dollar draft night! God, keep me strong!

My car is finally home! My car.... that would be Spec.... aptly named because she's so small she's a spec of a car. But I love her. We've been through a lot together. I was going to sell her to a friend of mine, but the further we got into the "deal", the more chaotic it got. I hadn't gotten any money yet, and then I just found out a few weeks ago that I wasn't going to be able to turn the title over to him until October, vice August, which was the original "deal" - he failed to mention this until I asked. So I decided that I wanted Spec back, so I went down to Norfolk this weekend to retrieve her and drive her back up to Alexandria to her new home. When I got to the guy's house with my two girlfriends, it was pouring rain.... he didn't invite us inside, so my girlfriends had to run back to the car, sufficiently soaked. The gas tank was practically on 'E', and there was trash in the back seat that I said I'd throw away at the gas station because of the rain at that moment. He knew I was going to be in town to get the car.... in fact, I was supposed to have gotten the car the previous day, only he didn't call me when he was supposed to.... yet, he didn't have the car ready at all for me to get. He left a CD.... I wish it were a band I knew. The gas thing annoyed me the most. I am definately glad that I got her back now. I don't care anymore about inconveniencing him. Spec is home where she belongs. I think she'll like it here.