G-mail:: saved my blog/nearly killed my relationship.

So a funny/awful thing happened.  And in the end, it means [SPOILER ALERT] I can freely blog again.  Read below for the deets, if you can manage to muddle through my story.

Remember that guy I met in the poker room last Thanksgiving?* That one who was 23 [24 now, thank you very much!]?  The one with whom a relationship was impractical, stupid, crazy, etc.?  Yeah, well.  We are still dating.  He moved here to Los Angeles for the summer [last summer] for work…and so we could spend some time together.   And I kinda, maybe, totally have fallen in love with him.

Boyfriend has since moved back to a certain shit box state that rhymes with Trichigan, finishing his last semester of grad school.  And upon graduation, God/Buddha/L. Ron willing, he will be moving back to Los Angeles.  To be with me [fingers crossed].

Boyfriend doesn’t know about this here blog.  Because why?  Because I didn’t tell him initially -  it seemed unfair that he should know so much about me so easily.  And then I hadn’t told him for so long, it seemed bizarre to just spring it on him.  And then when I could have told him, I didn’t [I fear judgment] - and the opportunity passed.  Plus, my blog is super secret, duh.  My own friends don’t know about it.  [Ok, fine.  A few do.  But most don't.] Sooooo, I figured [convinced myself] that as long as I don’t keep writing, it was cool, because there was no betrayal [i.e.,  I was not keeping an ongoing secret].

And THEN…there was betrayal.  BUT NOT BY ME!!!  Oh, no!  By Boyfriend.

The betrayal story::

I spent Halloween with my friends at a certain hotel in Hollywood [I was an awesome homemade cupcake, in case you were wondering].  My cellie didn’t fit in my costume, so I left it in the room.  And then I drank.  And then I drank a lot more.  And then I came back and sent some totally incoherent text messages to Boyfriend…at 5 am.  Boyfriend, apparently, was concerned that I was cheating on him? [I don't know why he thought this.  It doesn't make much sense because I am totes not, and because I am constantly professing my love for him like every five seconds.  How could I have time to cheat between every five seconds love professions?] When I called Boyfriend the next afternoon to catch up and tell him about my awesome night, he was acting completely strange.  After our conversation, I confusedly sat back on my couch trying to figure out what was going on with Boyfriend.  And then it occurred to me that a few days prior, I had asked Boyfriend to check my Pilates Plus** schedule online [I was without access to the Internets, blah blah].  My Pilates Plus password is [WAS] the same as my gmail password.  Could it be that Boyfriend had checked my gmail?  No fucking way, right?  But maybe.

I logged on to gmail, looked at my account activity, and wham, bam, boom.   Someone [aka Boyfriend] had logged in while I slept.  This someone had an IP address located in Same Town as Boyfriend, Trichigan.***

Why am I telling you this whole long drawn out-story?  Because I have rationalized that since Boyfriend checked my gmail account while I was sleeping, I am permitted to write about him and everything else on my super secret blog.  Eye for an eye, or whatever.  Except in this case, confessed betrayal for possible betrayal [depending how you look at it] that will hopefully be forever undiscovered.
What I am saying is – I am back. [And rusty, I know]

* I kind of love that I spent last Thanksgiving in a poker room.  I don’t know why I love it, as all it really says about me is that I am a total degenerate.

** Holy shit, Pilates Plus is awesome.  I am now, as a result of these classes, with muscle.

*** Boyfriend later voluntarily confessed to his stupid, stupid shenanigans – and we moved on.  I was surprisingly understanding.  Sure, I was shocked and mad – but I kinda also understood the urge.

Random question.

If you enter into the witness protection program, what happens to all of your outstanding debt?  Do your student loans, mortgages, credit card bills, etc. follow you to your new identity?  They can’t, right?  Otherwise, some crafty mobster would surely pay off some administrator in Sallie Mae or Capital One, and BAM – the protected witness is donezo.  Just sayin.

He’s just not that into you, except when he is.

Back in 2005, I was four years into a relationship with my boyfriend from the New York Era. He and I both moved to Los Angeles after law school, and while he was a great guy [he really was] our relationship was more or less dead sauce.  As in, we needed to break up – BAD.  And we had tried, believe me.  But after that many years, it is really quite difficult to let go of a relationship, even if you know it is not a good one.

Then one day in September of that year, I attended a surprise birthday party for a family friend. At that party, I met a guy ["Ratatouille" [previously discussed here]] with whom I engaged in a brief conversation.  I left that night not being able to stop thinking about Ratatouille.  He had not made any attempt to ask me out or get my info and I didn’t think I would see him again, but the fact that I thought about him as much and as intensely as I did really served as the catalyst for my break up with Law School Boyfriend [two days later...on my birthday. Brutal]

About a month after my birthday, I received my first of many surprises from Ratatouille.  He had gotten my number from our family friend and called to ask me out. I, very excitedly, accepted. I was pretty sure that it was destiny. That the connection I felt with him – and the fact that meeting him had inspired me to dump my boyfriend – could not have been a fluke.

Several dates later, I was devastated when Ratatouille just stopped calling me. I had thought everything was going wonderfully. He had even brought me flowers on our last date. Surely, this was a sign he was interested. Right?

Not so much, as it turned out. I didn’t hear from Ratatouille… until a few months ago. After consulting with the masses [you], I decided to give Ratatouille a call after our last chance encounter [at his behest, mind you].  Surprisingly, Ratatouille never got back to me.

UNTIL….last week, when Ratatouille surprised me once again with a facebook message proclaiming his excitement over finding me, and expressing his desire to out again.

I pondered for days how to respond. I bombarded my friends with emails pondering the same. Finally, I decided to look back on old emails from the brief Ratatouille Era and came upon this following except from an email, sent to a friend of mine::

“So A**** did not call. I think I need to have a good cry and face the fact that he is just not interested. Fucking brutal. I cried today at work like a jackass. I so hate myself right now.”

My pathetic email made me remember how totally sad and confused I felt when Ratatouille blew me off the last time around. And it made me angry that I am debating, in 2009, whether to go out with a guy who hurt me way the fuck back in 2005!!! This is not forward progress. So anyhow, I am dunzo with Ratatouille – on my own terms this time.

[In the interest of full disclosure, I am kinda maybe sort of head over heels for 23*, which also would preclude my accepting Ratatouille's invitation]

* which shall be further discussed in a separate blog post.

P.S – I am back, whohoo!

Strange memories.

Sometime around 9pm last night, I got a strong urge to go to the grocery store. I’d eaten the “Mexplosion” salad from Greenleaf for four days in a row. Don’t get me wrong, each of them were delicious, but they are also $14 dollars a pop [with a diet coke and tax] - and why the fuck should I pay $14!!!!! for a salad [which doesn't even have any meat component]?   So anyhow, I am on my way to the grocery store and all of a sudden, soon as I pulled into the store parking lot, I am overcome with flashbacks to my second summer home from law school.

It was a Saturday [I was supposed to go to a pool party with a guy I was in lurve with back then] in the weee early morning when my friend S. called to tell me that her dad died. Which fact was totally fucking trippy because 1) she left the msg on my voice mail, which necessitated a very awkward call back from me, and 2) I had seen her dad like two days before, and he was totally fine. Seriously, TOTALLY FINE.

I picked up S. from her parents and we went to the parking lot above the grocery store and smoked a pack of cigarettes each. Then we went to CPK. I remember S. ordering a glass of wine, and how strange lunch was because sometimes we’d forget that her dad had just died and we’d start having fun, and it would just be a regular day out [except my lungs hurt like a mother effer from all the smoking] until all of a sudden S. would say something like “my dad is fucking dead” and I’d say something like “yeah” and then she’d say “what I am I supposed to do” and then I’d respond, “I’m sorry, I have no idea.” I may have also suggested more wine.

S.’s dad was the first dead body I had ever seen. And at his funeral, my mom told me that she wants all the flowers at her funeral to be peach and pink – which I promised her I would make happen. Even though in my mind it seemed unrealistic, since it is not like I can direct the funeral mourners to only send peach and pink flowers. Plus, I hate the color peach.

I hope S. is doing well these days. We still talk [she doesn't live in Los Angeles] on occasion, and she says she is happy, but I never can tell.

Sometimes a man must choose.

Last night, Shaggy Haired Boy sent me a text message asking me what I was doing on Thursday [good sign].  I said I had no plans and asked what he had in mind.  He replied that he had nothing in mind quite yet, but he wanted to figure out a night that we could hang out [good sign], to which I replied that Thursday would work for me, barring having to work late.

This morning Shaggy Haired Boy sends me a message that says that he can’t do Thursday because he has to do his laundry.  [Really bad fucking sign!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!]

It reminds me of that Herbal Essences commercial where the lady breaks a date so she can wash her hair.  Except worse, because this is doing laundry, which the whole universe can agree is worse than hair washing.

Damn.

 

Two parts happy. One part insane.

The Happy::

I am almost afraid to admit it aloud [ablog?], lest my typing out the words will jinx it, but the last few months have been awesome. [am I using lest right?]

I have been receiving numerous compliments from my colleagues about what a splendid job I am doing [which admittedly is causing me to be lazy -  I learned at a young age not to set the bar to high].  I have been spending increasingly more time with my friends, who I didn’t even realize I was missing until now.   My dog is slowly starting to love me as much as she does my father.  I am feeling healthy, which feeling is confirmed by a recent physical in which my doctor declared my blood test to be “perfect.”   I’ve got back to back four day weekends coming up!

So of course, not one to rest of my happy laurels too long, I have decided to infuse some crazy into my life…

The Crazy::

You may recall a few blog posts back, when I shared with you an email from a certain poker room suitor (herein dubbed “23“).

Well, since such email, 23 and I have been carrying on a raging text message/phone/email affair.

Mind you, 23 is 23 and I am sooo not 23. 23 lives in Michigan [still a student, no less] and I in Los Angeles.  The chance of anything ever happening with 23 [including my ever seeing him again] is completely implausible…maybe even impossible.  Yet, I talk to him on the phone for two hours at a time.  And I fucking hate talking on the phone.  We send HUNDREDS of stupid emails and texts a day.  I am growing addicted.

What am I doing?

Being crazy.  That’s what.

And one other thing::

I kind of maybe definitely made out with Shaggy Hair Guy last weekend.  Somewhere between one too many vodka sodas [story of my life] and sucking REALLY badly at Rock Band, I may have attacked his face with my tongue.  Although I don’t think he minded too much cause he called me last night.  I feel pretty whatever about him [though I would admittedly be insulted had he not asked me out], but dating a real life human being beats falling into fake love with a series of text messages, emails and random photos.  Right?  RIGHT?  [I don't even know]