Currently Chasing: Cory Allen (Who the hell are you?)

So, my friend Diary of Why posted a blog about deleting people from your phone. And just like - as you all know - I’m a friend Hoarder on facebook…I am an even worse Hoarder of contact information.

 I cannot seem to hit the delete on even one single person in my phone. It just feels so … permanent. I mean, even on facebook (unless you’re blocked) you can just go back in and try to refriend, or send a little message like “oops, this new facebook has me all jacked up and it actually deleted you from my friends list. THE NERVE. I’m sending you another friend request.” Or some other lie like that. Because we all know the new phone excuse and the I don’t know what happened excuse you try to give when you have intentionally cut someone out of your life is all a bunch of bullshit.

So after reading her blog I began looking through my phone. There are a couple names in there that I do not recognize at all.

Cory Allen, who are you?

Matt Jhonno? That is someone from Afghanistan that I know I will never speak to again. Partly because the number in my phone is an Afghanistan number. I could probably hit delete on that. Or not.

I have a random Jordon in here? A 980 number?

Hello Kyle. Who the hell are you?

Oh look, Heather R. – The chick I got cheated on with. I should def. delete that number. Or should I?

Thomas Turner – How ya doing stranger and oh yeah...who the fuck are you?

I have a number i titled Work Related. What the hell does that even mean?

Jacob York? Are you related to Charlotte?

I have a number for some girl I met in the airport. She is a personal trainer. I remember this because her number is saved under Faith Workout.

I have all kinds of crap written by your name so I can remember who you are.

Loser Mike. Self Explanatory.

Teresa G. Student. Obviously a former student.

Mary J. that dude who smokes the Weed.

JB. Meaning Jelly Bean. My nickname for a dude at work.

Tom House. The dude named Tom who sold me my house.

Hair. Kathy O. The great lady who does my … HAIR. Of course. What else would I label her as?

Doc Eyes. No name…just the place where I go to get my glasses.

JT Dan. Mostly because the dude looks like Justin Timberlake but his name is Dan.

Creepy Wilk. Because I thought I saw someone who looked like him on one of those pedophile shows.

Carries Boyfriend. I mean, do I really need to know his name if he already has a girlfriend?

Aad. I have no idea.

And there is that Cory Allen again? Damn you. In my phone twice*! (I think I can definitly - at the very least - delete one of these Cory Allen's out of my phone.

Maybe I’ll send a random text message to some of these mystery numbers….I’ll just drop a simple, How have you been on a few of them. If they write back asking why they haven’t heard from me in forever, I’ll assume it is someone who still has me programmed into their phone…so I will bullshit through a text conversation and try to find a clue as to who it is. Once I find out, I will put that hint in my phone so I remember in the future. If they write back asking me who I am…then I’ll know it is safe to let that one go.

Or first make sure the number is backed up somewhere….and then – for sure – let that one go.

*Hmmm, I wonder if that is the Coastie I hung out with a couple of times when I first moved to Maryland who freaked out and broke everything off when he saw the car seat in my PT Cruiser? Better keep both those numbers - just in case.

Currently Chasing: Coincidence

So way back in 2005 I met a guy. I mean, I’m always meeting guys, but this was an exceptionally crazy circumstance. More than a year ago I was reminded of the story and I blogged about it here. I’ll wait for you to get all caught up.

So Saturday my daughter has a birthday party. I tell her she can invite three girls. She picks two girls I know well and one girl that I’m not super familiar with. I call her mother and make sure that everything is ok with her coming to the party and then spending the night. Her mother says that it is fine. She mentions that it is her ex husbands weekend with the kids and asks if I can just drop her off at her father’s house the day after the party. No problem. So she sends me his name, address and phone number.

I stare at the name. It’s a fairly common name, not unlike Chris (although it’s not Chris) so I don’t think too much about it. But the address is in the same city as the “Chris” that I used to know way back then so just to be sure I write to a mutual friend.

Me: Hey, so I’m looking at this girl’s dad’s information and I have to ask. This isn’t the same guy from 2005 is it? You know…the air guitar guy? The guy who was growing weed in his house?

Mutual friend: Ha! OMG No. Not at all. I’ve met him, it’s not the same person.

Me: Ok. You are sure right?

Mutual friend: Yeah. I remember that dude, and trust me; it’s not the same person.

I felt some relief come over my body. Not like it would be absolutely horrible to see this guy again..it’s just that we left off on strange terms. Like, him telling me he was falling and love, and me wondering why he couldn’t be bothered to clean out his toilet.

So the day comes and I’m at the mutual friend’s house waiting for all the girls to arrive so I can load them up and take them to the mall. Then I hear someone shout “so and so’s dad is here.”

My friend assures me once again that it is not the same person. So outside I go to meet him and tell him I promise to return his daughter in one piece. As soon as I see him, I know.

It’s him.

I walk up to him and he looks at me like he is meeting me for the first time.

Him: Hey, hi, it’s nice to meet you.

Me: (staring) um, yes, it is very nice to meet you also. (I say this very, very slow while continuing to stare.)

Him: well, ok, it is very nice of you to have invited my daughter. She is very excited about it.

Me: (staring) no problem. I’m sure all the girls are going to have a great time. (Again, very slow. And I’m sure he thinks I’M HIGH)

Him: do you need me to text you my address so you can drop her off tomorrow?

Me: nope. I have your address. Your ex wife texted it to me. (and I may just remember the way in general seeing as though I’VE BEEN THERE BEFORE.)

Him: ok, well thanks again … (he pauses like he is reaching for my name…so I just give it to him again)

Then he gets in his car and leaves and I turn around with wide eyes while mouthing the words to my friend. (IT IS FUCKING HIM!)

She says something about it being a long time, and he’s cut his hair and gained a little weight since then…but holy shit, we are both kind of in disbelief about the whole thing.

And my name is not that common. I mean, my name may as well be television station. You wouldn’t forget someone named television station. Especially not someone you were supposedly falling for! Then again…he was simultaneously dating Mary Jane and we all know how that bitch fucks with your shit.

I should have just let it go, pretended we had never met before and called it a day…however, I hate being forgettable. So of course I texted him with a teeny tiny hint indicating that it is possible we had met some time in the past.

My text: “Hey, this is Terrina. We used to date.

He writes back about how I looked familiar and he was wondering why I was talking so slow and looking RIGHT THROUGH HIM. (yeah, he put it in all caps just like that.) He mentioned how embarrassed he felt about the whole situation but then added that he was pretty baked back then.

Three other blasts from the past made their way to my phone, email, facebook last week. It’s like the universe can smell relationship all over me and is sending old boyfriends to test my commitment. What the universe forgets is that even my current boyfriend is an old boyfriend so I’m already over quota on that sort of thing. I’ve got enough past in my present. Time to keep looking forward.

Currently Chasing: A cure for Hoarding

I watch the television show Hoarders. I watch it a lot. I am amazed that people can keep that much shit in their homes. In most cases there are dead animals or loaded weapons all over the house. One guy had shit piled up all over his kitchen but would leave his gas stove on for heat. Crazy. Death at every turn! Kids living in these places with clothes and shoes to last them for days, but couldn’t find a place to play to save their lives. Children literally beg their parents to make a change. Child services threaten to take away children, the state threatens to take away homes, or condemn them. Husbands threaten to leave. The house at times is coming apart at the seams due to the amount of bugs/animals/mold/waterdamage/structural damage whatever that is living/breading/infesting the inside. It’s shocking, it’s disgusting, it’s heart breaking, it makes me throw up in my mouth.

Each time there is a professional trying to help these people out. They will bring everything out of the house and then they will begin a conversation that usually goes like this.

Helper: Ok Maggie. We’ve got 17 lamps here. What can we get rid of?

Hoarder: Nothing.

Helper: Well come on now. Some of these lamps are broken and won’t ever work again.

Hoarder: I can fix them.

Helper: What are the odds that you will actually fix them?

Hoarder: I’m not throwing any of them away!

Helper: How about just one. Pick just one that we can throw away.

Hoarder: Damn it. I already told you. All of the lamps stay!

Then the Hoarder stomps out, pissed off and goes into their house to love on their junk and shit somewhere on the floor because there is no running water and meanwhile the helper talks to the camera.

Helper: This is frustrating. She refuses to even part with one lamp. This is going to be a very long day.

I have never considered myself a hoarder. It has always been very easy for me to just throw stuff out. Mostly because in the Navy you move so often that you don’t feel like taking a lot of stuff with you. I have a few things…like my daughters first outfit, her first Halloween costume, some artwork and some photobooks. But for the most part, I don’t hold on to things for very long. I get rid of things to make room for new things. It’s the way I’ve always done it.

But recently I realized I am indeed a Hoarder. But I don’t hoard stuff. Oh no. I hoard PEOPLE!

I’m mortified by this discovery but I acknowledge it. And that is the first step right? Admitting that you have a problem. I made this discovery the other day when me and my friend had this conversation.

Me: Did you see the picture I posted on facebook?

My friend: Yeah, I commented on it, but maybe you didn’t notice because you have a thousand facebook friends.

Me: Whatever, I do not have a thousand facebook friends.

My friend: Ok, nine hundred and something. Basically a thousand.

So I log on to facebook and take a look. And there it is. 948.

So I go to the news section and start reading most recent and she says, you know you can change that so it will only show you the top news. And I said, what does that mean? And she said, it will just give you stuff it thinks you will be interested in reading instead of showing you every single thing people type. And I said, I’m fine with seeing every single thing people type.

She just stared at me.

My friend: Why do you care?

Me: These are my friends.

My friend: All 948 of them?

Me: Well yeah, I wouldn’t have added them otherwise right?

My friend: You can’t tell me you know all 948 of those people.

Me: No, I guess not.

My friend: Let’s go through and delete the people you don’t know.

(This was the moment. She had put all my shit out on the lawn and had asked me to pick a lamp to throw away.)

Me: I don’t want to delete anyone.

My friend: What about this person? You have not spoken to this person in three years.

Me: That is my cousin.

My friend: Um, ok, what about this person? From your first duty station in 1994. There is no way you are still in contact.

Me: She came to visit me last month.

My friend: Well, what about this person? She is just a friend of a friend that you’ve never met.

Me: She and her daughter sent me an awesome care package while I was in Afghanistan.

My friend: What about this girl. Some random Soldier.

Me: I wrote her a letter of recommendation three weeks ago.

My friend: What about this girl? She doesn’t even live in this country?

Me: That is Carly! Are you kidding me? She is one of my blogger crushes. Along with about 10 other bloggers. I’m not deleting any of my blogger crushes!

And the list went on. She would suggest someone, and I would immediately get defensive. I may not have a tie that binds me to every single last person on that list of 948, but I added them for a reason. Even if that reason was just so I could stalk their lives or find out what their wives looked like.

And the list use to be longer. But over the years (and even as recent as last month) people have deleted me. They have just hovered over my name and then BAM. Hit the delete button. And it was a simple thing. And they probably aren’t harboring any deep regret or wondering if my feelings are hurt over it.

But I can assure you that even though they are no longer part of my online collection, by deleting me they have graduated immediately to my in-mind obsession. And trust me. Nothing gets thrown out of there either.

Currently Chasing: the good men

*This post was going to be about a woman who owns 500 pairs of panties and wears about five pairs a day. Sleeping panties, morning panties, after shower panties, work panties, lounge panties...and so on. But that pailed in comparison to this new phenom!

Ok, so the first time I heard about this I thought it was a fluke. Indeed there might be one guy out there who is a total and complete absolute freakazoid with a crazy obsession, but surely there isn’t a large quantity of them mingling with modern society and decent humans. Or is there?

A few years ago a friend of mine told me she was on a singles dating site. She said that she had been in communication with a very handsome man who had written to her and taken an interest because she was in the military.

His exact words were, “I like a woman who can take control.”

Now, I’m the first to admit that just being a woman in the military doesn’t automatically guarantee that you can take control of anything. In fact, some people are in the military simply because they can’t take control and they need someone else to dictate their entire days schedule to them minute by minute, which other people (also in said military) are happy to do.

But I assume there are those girls who join the military, hard core and ready…TO TAKE CONTROL. And he was hoping she was one of them.

She chatted with him back and forth for a few days and slowly he let her in on his intentions.

“I want you to treat me badly,” he said. “I want you to make me clean your house while you go on a date with someone else.”

This was a far cry from simply being a woman in control.  She wanted to end the conversation right there…but how can you?

“So you are just going to clean my house while I’m out with someone else?” she asked.

“Yep, he said. Like a good boy. And while you are out with another man I want you to have sex with him. And I want you to let him come inside of you.”

“Why?” she asked. (not that she was planning on doing this…or not for his benefit at least…but she had to ask…I mean, didn’t she?)

“Because if I mess up on the house work I want you to force me to (go downtown!)”

*He used different words…but I can’t even bring myself to say them without throwing up a bit in my mouth.*

It was about that time that she stopped responding to any and all email. As you do.

And that was the last I had heard about this type of freak. Until now!

Another friend of mine contacts me recently with the following email:

“I am on a dating website and this guy winks at me and I think he is cute so I shoot him an email and he responds back that he didn’t mean to wink at me because he is looking for a woman who wants a submissive man. So I need to know more, so I ask him if he means submissive as in dominatrix/submissive and he says no – just a woman to take charge. (do you see a pattern here?) So I said, well I can take charge. He said good because my woman would be my world. Whatever she wants would be her desire.  So a few more emails pass back and forth and then he tells me that he would clean for you too. (oh holy shit, here we go. Crazytown.) I would do the dishes, clean your toilets…whatever. So I said, ok cool. (I have to admit I would have said ok cool too. Does he cook? I mean, there are worse things than a guy who likes to cook and clean and wants to make you his world. Like the guy who wants to eat another man’s come out of your Vag…but that is another story. Or no, wait, that is actually this story. Whatever…onward!) So he asked me what I would do if he missed a spot while he was cleaning. Like would I punish him? So I laughed inside but had to know more so I said – well maybe. And he said that was making him hard and excited – so then he asked…what if I had a hard on while cleaning your toilets…and I said, no problem. (Who cares right? I mean, you can have the craziest situation in the world going on in your shorts…as long as you remember to scrub under the rim you are alright with me.) So then he asked what I would do if he came on the floor while he was cleaning, and I told him that I would make him clean it up. Then it just got weirder from there (um, seriously I can’t even imagine) and I had to stop talking to him. Like he wanted to clean in his undies, he wanted to call me ma’am. He wanted to be my property and if my friends were around he wanted me to let him know his place…so put him down in front of my friends. (Oh my god! I do this sometimes…but I usually don’t have permission and I’m definitely not encouraged to do it!)

Her only response to all of this … “dude.”

My sentiments exactly.  I mean, what else can you say? The guy sounds completely awesome right? This is almost as bad as the guy who used to do his 'O' business on my friends chest and then lick it off. Where have all the dudes who don't want to eat seaman good men gone?

 

Currently Chasing: Chicken

I’m a very picky eater. Ask anyone I know. If you ask me where I want to go to lunch, I will say Chipotle. If you ask me where I want to go to dinner, I will say Olive Garden…or Chipotle. If you ask me where I want to go on Fridays I will say Denny’s. If you ask me what I’m going to get at either of these places it will always be the exact same thing I got the time before.

Chipotle: Salad, chicken, tomatoes, guacamole.

Olive Garden: Fettuccine Alfredo w/ Wheat pasta.

Fridays at Dennys: Clam Chowder.

If they don’t have Clam Chowder, then I will just leave. It’s what I like. It’s what I want. It’s all I want.

If I venture out and go to subway, it will always be a turkey sub. If I go to taco bell, it will always be a bean burrito.

I do not like seafood. At all. I know you are wondering why then do I go to Denny’s for clam chowder. It’s Dennys!! Come on, you know they don’t actually add clams. It’s just potato soup! Once when I was younger I found a clam in there and I freaked. My father said, “Waitress! Why is there a clam in my child’s clam chowder.” Although he was being sarcastic, it seemed like a completely rational question to me. Like, “Yeah! What the fucking fuck is this chewy thing!” She just stared at us, half smiled and let us continue to marinate in our crazy.

If I go to jack in the box, which I love! I will only get tacos and curly fries. Nothing else. No jack burger or jack sourdough, or jack burrito, or jack shit. Just tacos and curly fries. Minus the cheese. I’m not a big cheese fan. I’ll eat nachos and pizza and even grilled cheese, but if you give me a cheeseburger, I won’t touch it. I will never eat a three cheese anything. If something has white cheese, you can forget about it. If it’s ‘the cheesiest’ anything…no way. If it’s double cheeseburger hamburger helper. No way! One cheese in my cheeseburger hamburger helper thank you. Not double.

So when people want to take me out to dinner and they suggest a new place, I’m always skeptical. As was the case recently when my friend offered to take me out to a place in DC called Againn. Turns out she had won a gift certificate to the restaurant and asked if I would like to go and help her spend her new found $100. It is one of Washington’s top 100 restaurants and I heard ‘grill’ in the description, so I thought…it will be fine as long as they serve chicken. I can pretty much go anywhere and just order chicken. This is what I do at Red Lobster, which is the worst place to go for a person who does not like seafood or cheese…because everything is extra cheese here, extra fish here, extra smelly here, extra cheesy there.

So I go to the website and check out the menu.

First let me say that I’m always weary of a place where they don’t let you choose your sides. You know those places where they group everything for you? Ugh…like they know what the fuck I want with my chicken.

Anyway, I go to the dinner menu and this is the first thing I see:

BRAISED SHOULDER OF SHENANDOAH LAMB 27.
french lentils, swiss chard, spiced yoghurt

Oh my God! Fucking yuck.

Um, you’ve got to be kidding me? Braised Shoulder? What the fuck is that? I don’t want to eat a shoulder!!

So I continue to look for the chicken and I see:

CONFIT OF MUSCOVY DUCK LEG 25.
basil risotto, roasted spring onion, smoked tomato

Goddammit! Really? Duck leg? There is a lot more being smoked here than tomato!

So I continue looking and:

CHICKEN LIVER MOUSSE 9

Ooops, someone took a shit on this and it didn't change the taste.

Ok, now they are just kidding.

And then:

BEETROOT SALAD 9.
naval orange, pickled fennel, ricotta salata, spiced walnuts, honey dressing.

Beetroot? Oh my god! Send me back to Afghanistan where I can go to TGI Fridays!!

But then I saw this:

House made Bangers and Mash.

This looks like a freshy casterated penis.

I thought that was just a song about a penis and balls sung by that dude from Get Him to the Greek.

Needless to say I never found the chicken. Or the will to live on the same planet with this top 100 restaurant. I can only assume that number one on the list sells cheesy fish testicals.  

Currently Chasing: Something to fall back on

What happens when you don't know what the fuck you're doing?
When your brain isn't working and you get really selfish and you start feeling entitled?

It's like that episode of sex and the city where Charlotte starts to freak out thinking something bad is going to happen to her because relationships all around her are failing:

Carrie Bradshaw: What makes you think something bad is gonna happen?
Charlotte York: Because! Nobody gets everything they want! Look at you, look at Miranda. You're good people and you two both got shafted. I'm so happy and... something bad is going to happen.
Carrie Bradshaw: Sweetie, you shit your pants this year. I think you're done.
And true enough, nothing bad happened. But I'm not Charlotte fucking York, and this isn't a movie. And I just feel like, something bad is going to happen.

I had a 'conversation' with my boyfriend the other day. He and I have been in an on again, off again relationship for the better part of five years. We've lived together, not lived together, lived near each other, lived far from each other, and have even tried living for each other. And no matter how we've lived ... our relationship seeemed to be a disposable yet recycleable entity.

We always left a door open so we could return to each other without the knowledge that there was some repressed rage. Like this girl has:

So the other day when we decided to 'have a talk' no one raised voices. No one said words that would hurt or sting, and no one was verbally pistol whipped.
The comment that started it wasn't even meant to start anything...but I can see how it did.

Me: I can't wait to swim this summer.
Mr. Big: Yeah, I don't have a pool where I live.
Me: I have three.
Mr. Big: We had a pool at our old place.
Me: Yep, but you never used it.
Mr. Big: You and your daughter did.
Me: Yeah, after you left us. (I need to drink less)
Mr. Big: ..........................

And that is how he stayed for the rest of the meal. Silent. He pushed some food around his plate but didn't eat anything.
I ate every bite because that is what I do. However, I was proud of myself for not asking for more breadsticks.

Then we went back to his house and did this thing we do where I talk, he listens, but doesn't respond or look at me. I tell him I'm going to leave. He acts like he doesn't care. I stand up and walk toward the door...get my shoes on and start gathering all my stuff in a dramatic way...Then I walk out the door and wait for him to send me a text that says he's not good with his words and that this is how he acts when we argue and he knows I need for him to communicate, but that is hard for him. Before he finishes that text, I'm already walking back through the door demanding he fight for me.

At that point there are some hugs and some apologies and then he warms up the food he didn't eat from earlier and plays some call of duty.

The point is, nothing was really wrong. It was just me creating drama. Pushing and pulling buttons and talking myself in and out of him. When I talk to my friends about it, they all see how much he's trying to change and they tell me that they see us together...forever.

Charlotte York: I always knew she'd marry Big.
Samantha Jones: You thought that after the second break up?
Charlotte York: Yep.
Miranda Hobbes: After the fifteenth?
And if you ask my friends...they'll still say yes. They see it. I'm just wondering if I see it the same way I used to see it. Or am I just so sure that something bad will happen that I'm just kind of pushing the universe to go ahead and ruin something for me. Or am I in fact daring it to?

I haven't shit myself this year, so I don't have that to fall back on.

Currently Chasing: A different channel

Ok. I have a question. How often do looks rule out over actual personality and connection? I’m watching the final episode of the Bachelor and thank God I have short hair, because if not I’d have to have someone hold it back while I throw the fuck up.

I’m sure not all of my readers are fans of this absurd and ridiculous show, so let me just sum it up. Guy meets really skinny beautiful girl and falls in love instantly. Then spends the rest of the season pretending to connect with other people for the sake of the show.  But here’s the thing. He never  even truly connected with the skinny beautiful girl. All of the other girls try desperately to prove their love. They swim with sharks, jump off cliffs, ride elephant, zip line through the jungle and do whatever crazy fucking thing he wants them to do. But this skinny beautiful girl, he spends the whole time proving his love to her. She doesn’t have to swim with sharks … instead she gets a helo ride to a mountain top, falls asleep during their dates and overall is just a total snore fest.

He wants her because he can’t really have her. She wanted to win the game, and she did. But they never really had a connection. And he is just that shallow. And like most men he craves what he can’t have. She is literally telling him on a daily basis that she doesn’t think she can do this. That she wants to leave. That it is all too much for her. And he is fighting tooth and nail to keep her. Every moment is a forced and awkward conversation.  And every single thing he says to her is a cheesy line out of a bad movie.

“You are my forever.”

“I love you so very much.”

“Please make me the happiest I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

All code for –

“I’m a shallow piece of shit and you better not gain weight.”

He picked pretty over personality and connection and he is suffering the consequences. Watching them on TV is hard. They are not right for each other.  He just keeps telling her how beautiful she is. Not how fun she is, or how smart she is, or how amazing she is, but just that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. I mean, is that really all it takes?

Get skinny….get some boobs, shiny white teeth and a tight dress. Walk out of a limo and tell the man you want that you don’t love him and don’t know if you ever could…and you are automatically THE ONE.  Make sure you don’t want him, you don’t connect with him, but are just too damn pretty to walk away from and there you go.

But the other girl. The one that he didn’t choose. The one he had a connection with. The one he had so much fun with. The one who made him laugh and smile. Well, she was a bit chubby…and in the end, she didn’t get the guy.

Now , am I saying that he chose the skinny beautiful girl just because she was skinny and beautiful? Of course I’m not saying that…she also made it clear that she was a locked door and that she wasn’t really into him like he was into her…and that sealed the deal. Maybe if the chubby girl held back…told him she wasn’t that into him…dyed her hair and lost 20 pounds, she would have been wearing a ring right now. Instead she was just a great girl, who loved a man the best she could, gave him everything he could want and made him feel like the only man in the world.

What a loser. But trust me. She’s definitely not the biggest loser in this story.

Maybe she can burn a couple calories running as far away from that douche bag as possible.

Currently Chasing: Friday

There is a TGI Fridays in Afghanistan. The sign out front says, In here, it’s always Friday. But in Afghanistan, every day feels like the same day. So who gives a fuck if it feels like Friday in that damn place. I’ll tell you what it feels like in there to me. A rip off. In the states you can get three items for 12.99. Here you’ll pay 35 bucks for tough meat and crappy service. And why wouldn’t it be crappy…not only are you serving tables…but you’re in fucking Afghanistan.

TGI Fridays is located on what is known as the ‘boardwalk.’ It’s called that because it’s made of wood and you walk on it. Trust me, there is no one falling in love under it. There is a KFC on the boardwalk. They don’t serve popcorn chicken and they don’t serve biscuits…so they can close down for all I care.

The other day I walked over to another part of the base where I had to show my ID. Here is how the conversation went down.

Me (handing him my ID)

Him: Wow, brilliant smile. Then noticing the camera asks me what I do.

Me: I take pictures and write articles.

Him: How can you justify earning a wage for that?

Me: Didn’t you just check my ID? That doesn’t seem like a huge tasker either fuckwad.

Then we went on a ‘date’ later that night. On the boardwalk. I only went because he was British. And because he’s obviously an asshole.

Let me tell you something else weird about this place. They have diet Pepsi, but it is in tiny cans. AND IT HAS A CALORIE IN IT. What the fuck? It says right on the can, 1 calorie. Like they are proud of it or something. In the states, the can is bigger and there are no calories. I’m not exactly saying that the one calorie Pepsi is keeping me fat…but it’s not helping.

I was at the chow hall the other day and this guy looks at my collar device and says…what’s that anchor mean? I said, it means I’m a chief baby. Then I ask him what he is. He points to the bar in the middle of his shirt. I say, um…it means I’m a chief Sir. This place is crawling with Officers. It’s also crawling with civilians who wear basically nothing. WE ARE IN A WAR ZONE SLUTTIE! Cover it up. You’re not doing anyone any favors by advertising you nuggets…specially when they aren’t even available at KFC.

I’m not really sure what day it is because the days all run together. I sometimes know it’s Sunday…but only if I manage to take my birth control pills every day. Right now we are in the middle of a dust storm, which isn’t much different than any other day except that they added storm to the end.

I need to do my laundry. There is a place on base that will do it for you…but I don’t like the way it smells when it comes back to me. And I don’t like the fact that someone else is touching my panties. And I swear a pair is missing. In Diego Garcia my roommate and I used to have our room cleaned each week. The guy who cleaned it would always steal her underwear. She didn’t mind because he always undercharged us. Someone asked if I was offended that he never took mine? No, I’ve had plenty of people ask for it at inopportune times and I’ve never been a fan of giving it up.

I’m going to head to the gym, even though big bulky steroid freaks always act like I don’t belong there. Are you using this bench? No asshole, I’ve got my knee on it, and I’m currently doing an exercise, but no, I’m not using it. Feel free to grunt and sweat all over it. And then not wipe it down. Perfect.

Maybe I’ll go to the Canadian gym…although lately there has been a sign saying only Canadians between certain hours…and those hours seem to be all day every day except Friday. And it’s only ever Friday in that fucking place on the boardwalk.

Currently Chasing: Friday

There is a TGI Fridays in Afghanistan. The sign out front says, In here, it’s always Friday. But in Afghanistan, every day feels like the same day. So who gives a fuck if it feels like Friday in that damn place. I’ll tell you what it feels like in there to me. A rip off. In the states you can get three items for 12.99. Here you’ll pay 35 bucks for tough meat and crappy service. And why wouldn’t it be crappy…not only are you serving tables…but you’re in fucking Afghanistan.

TGI Fridays is located on what is known as the ‘boardwalk.’ It’s called that because it’s made of wood and you walk on it. Trust me, there is no one falling in love under it. There is a KFC on the boardwalk. They don’t serve popcorn chicken and they don’t serve biscuits…so they can close down for all I care.

The other day I walked over to another part of the base where I had to show my ID. Here is how the conversation went down with the guy at the gate.

Me (handing him my ID)

Him: Wow, brilliant smile. Then noticing the camera asks me what I do.

Me: I take pictures and write articles.

Him: How can you justify earning a wage for that?

Me: Didn’t you just check my ID? That doesn’t seem like a huge tasker either fuckwad.

Then we went on a ‘date’ later that night. On the boardwalk. I only went because he was British. And because he’s obviously an asshole.

Let me tell you something else weird about this place. They have diet Pepsi, but it is in tiny cans. AND IT HAS A CALORIE IN IT. What the fuck? It says right on the can, 1 calorie. Like they are proud of it or something. In the states, the can is bigger and there are no calories. I’m not exactly saying that the one calorie Pepsi is keeping me fat…but it’s helping.

I was at the chow hall the other day and this guy looks at my collar device and says…what’s that anchor mean? I said, it means I’m a chief baby. Then I ask him what he is. He points to the bar in the middle of his shirt. I say, um…it means I’m a chief Sir. This place is crawling with Officers. It’s also crawling with civilians who wear basically nothing. WE ARE IN A WAR ZONE SLUTTIE! Cover it up. You’re not doing anyone any favors by advertising your nuggets…specially when they aren’t even available at KFC.

I’m not really sure what day it is because the days all run together. I sometimes know it’s Sunday…but only if I manage to take my birth control pills every day. Right now we are in the middle of a dust storm, which isn’t much different than any other day except that they added storm to the end of the dust.

I need to do my laundry. There is a place on base that will do it for you…but I don’t like the way it smells when it comes back to me. And I don’t like the fact that someone else is touching my panties. And I swear a pair is missing. In Diego Garcia my roommate and I used to have our room cleaned each week. The guy who cleaned it would always steal her underwear. She didn’t mind because he always undercharged us. Someone asked if I was offended that he never took mine? No, I’ve had plenty of people ask for it at inopportune times and I’ve never been a fan of giving it up.

I’m going to head to the gym, even though big bulky steroid freaks always act like I don’t belong there. Are you using this bench? No asshole, I’ve got my knee on it, and I’m currently doing an exercise, but no, I’m not using it. Feel free to grunt and sweat all over it. And then not wipe it down. Perfect.

Maybe I’ll go to the Canadian gym…although lately there has been a sign saying only Canadians between certain hours…and those hours seem to be all day every day except Friday. And it’s only ever Friday in that fucking place on the boardwalk.

Currently Chasing: Something A Little Less Strange

I got an email from my dead ex-boyfriend. He just wanted to write to me from the grave and say Hi just in case I was starting to forget about him and move on with my life. But I’ll probably write him back because I’m a masochist.

It’s funny he would write out of the blue because my mother (whom I recently saw on my visit to California) has been keeping up with my Facebook and the first thing out of her mouth was …

“What happened to that nice boy you were in love with?”

First of all, what nice boy are you talking about? Secondly, he died … virtually.

So my mom said. “Well that didn’t last very long.”

So I say … about two weeks.

And my dad says, “so this was one of the more serious relationships you’ve had?”

Yes father, that’s right, this was one of those long term things. Also here’s your knife. I can’t breathe with it stuck in my throat!

This is an example of parental facial rape. I didn’t even see it coming and yet I’m left vulnerable and I can’t find my shoe.

So the reason I’m even in California is because I’m attending a sexual assault response and prevention course. Hence the reason I could identify immediately the above face rape. Anyway, there is a guy in there that has been married three time, has a couple of kids from women other than those three wives, makes jokes in class that are centered around his ignorance and he dips. So why wouldn’t he ask me out?

But I said no. I didn’t think it had the two-week potential I require before falling in love. So why bother.

So anyway, a day later I get a frantic Facebook message from a male friend of mine whom I haven’t seen in years. He is wondering if I’ve already left on my journey overseas and is pretty pissed that I didn’t say goodbye. So I write him and let him know that I haven’t left quite yet, but soon.

So he confesses … I’m madly in love with you and I think we should get married.

I gotta hear this logic. Although I must say, the idea is intriguing. Especially since everyone in my life has been getting married, separated or divorced. Agreeing to marriage feels about as permanent as a spray on tan. But less orangy.

He said, “Look, we’ve been keeping in touch for years and we’ve never even slept together. It’s obvious that we care about each other mentally and emotionally. So just come visit me and if we click physically then … let’s get married.”

Wow, I’ve heard of the “just tell her you love her” line to get a woman into bed, but “just tell her you’ll marry her?” That’s a bit out there.

Here are the facts, he roughly my age (which is rare!), he’s got a good job, he saves money, he plans on being fully ready to retire at 45, he’s tall, he’s funny, he’s smart and he doesn’t believe in cheating (although threesomes aren’t cheating, according to him.) And oh yeah, he’s an alcoholic. Or ‘passionate’ as he likes to call it.

So we dive into this threesome thing a bit and I tell him my theory on threesomes. He tells me that my theory is way off and that men sometimes just need another woman and that I can pick someone uglier than me if I’d like. So I say, ok, what if instead of an ugly woman, I just pick a man?

He assures me it’s not the same thing. Well no shit.

So he explains: “Men sleep with other women for PURELY physical reasons. It has nothing to do with love. However, women ONLY sleep with other men when they are not being emotionally fulfilled. So if you are sleeping with another man then there is something I’m not doing right, and I’ll fix it.”

Then he said something pretty profound.

When sex in a relationship is bad then sex becomes 90 percent of the relationship. But when sex is a relationship is great then sex becomes only 10 percent of the relationship. In other words, the better your sex life is, the less likely your man is to run around on you.

But I don’t buy it. It seems like the whole world is posting a Craig’s list add, “Desperately Seeking Strange.”

I mean, I must have that ad posted on the back of my shirt, cause lord knows strange finds me.

So It’s possible I’m engaged right now to a man I’ve never slept with and will most likely never see again. And that's not strange at all. Just desperate.

Currently Chasing: Big black Jack

Over the years I’ve gotten a lot of autographs. I used to carry around a little autograph book. Inside I had Alan Thick’s signature, Billy Huffy from Fame, Greg from the Brady Bunch, a couple other random models and wannabees, and the coveted Knight Rider’s KIT Car tire print. But today I got an autograph that I’ll never forget, from a guy I’m sure I’ve seen, but could only recognize in a line-up of cock.

When this guy sends pictures of his dick. He means to.

He is related to a current student of mine. It’s his brother; Porn Star, Jack Napier. If you haven’t heard of him, then Google him. He has won consecutive awards for Best Interracial Series with his hit, “It’s Big. It’s Black. It’s Jack.”

He also did some of his best work in “Black Bottom Girls,” “Jack on Blondes” and “There’s Something About Jack.”

I somehow still doubted the validity of this guy, but he’s got his own page on IMDb. The dude is legit. And according to one website, he has the biggest dick in Porn. I didn’t actually get to meet him, or his cock, which I’m disappointed about, because who doesn’t want to walk around saying, “I met the biggest dick in porn!”

However, when I returned from lunch there was a gift for me. No, it wasn’t a dick in a box. But it was a picture. Of Jack Napier. With clothes on. Shame. However, it was signed.

It is now, and will remain the best autograph I’ve ever gotten. The biggest dick in porn wrote what follows:

“To the best lover I’ve ever known. Jenna’s got nothing on you!” Jack.

And there you go. From one pro to another.

Currently Chasing: Linda Chavez

Who is Linda Chavez? Wouldn’t you like to know? Chances are if you’ve heard of her, you’re in some deep shit. She is a social media butterfly. She spends a lot of time on her computer. She is a master at pulling information from people. She is also a fictional character made up by my friend J, and used to bust cheating lovers.

I thought I was good at coming up with master plans to get my guys to confess their lies. But Linda Chavez is just as good…maybe better.

J came up with this idea after she had an inkling that her man was cheating. He had deployed to Iraq and they were in constant contact. He was always complaining about how sad and lonely he was, so she set up this incredible date pending his return. But a funny thing happened when he did return. He all of a sudden DIDN’T return her calls. In fact, what J did get was an ear full from some broad asking why J was calling HER man.

When J finally got a hold of this douche bag she confronted him. He told her it was some chick named Sapphire and that she was … crazy. Only, he hadn’t even seen crazy yet.

J went into full on detective mode. She knew this chick was in the military and that her first name was sapphire. She started typing random things into Google. Somehow she found what she thought was this woman’s ex husband. So she developed an email account under the name Linda Chavez and she went to work.

She emailed the ex husband claiming to be a close friend. A few days later Sapphire sent her an email asking who she was and why she was trying to reach her. ‘Linda’ right away gave her the business.

“What’s going on with you and my boyfriend,” Linda wrote.

“Your boyfriend!?” Sapphire shot back. We’ve been together for a year!

Turns out they were dating each other during his deployment and even had plans to get married. Lucky girl right?

“I don’t believe you,” Linda wrote.

“Here’s a picture of us together. Do you believe me now? Besides, maybe I don’t believe you! Send me a picture,” Sapphire insisted.

So Linda sent her a picture of said dudes COCK. Yep. Sapphire had definitely seen that cock before. In fact, she had the same photo. And both girls finally believed they were getting played.

So when Sapphire confronted her man with this Linda Chavez character, he was completely honest when he said he didn’t know her, which only made him look like more of a douche.

“She sent me a fucking photo of your cock asshole!”

“I swear I don’t know how she got that. I don’t even know a Linda fucking Chavez,” he pleaded.
And for once, he wasn’t lying. But by then, it didn’t matter.

“It’s over,” Sapphire screamed.

After the breakup he rushed home to J. She was happy to have her man back, although I use the term man loosely.

Later, the same guy decides to get a MySpace account. J sees that he has one, but he continues to deny that it exists. She also sees that some random girl keeps posting to it about how much fun she had with him. So Linda Chavez jumps back into action.

Linda opens up a MySpace account and contacts this girl.

“How do you know my boyfriend?”

“What…you’re boyfriend? Oh no, he told me he was single. I’m a dumb bitch…bla, bla, bla.”

This idiot even tells “Linda” that they had sex and he came all over her back. I’m still waiting for the ‘why was that necessary’ fairy to jump out of the closet and beat this chick to death with a dick.

Eventually J does the right thing and breaks up with this guy. She was young and dumb, but had finally had enough. She begins dating another man. She hears through the grape vine that he may not be all he’s cracked up to be. Back on Google she goes. And out comes Linda Chavez.

The moral of this story is simple. Stop sending out random photos of your cock to be used as evidence against you.

Currently Chasing: Coincidence

Have you ever met a person in such extremely strange circumstances, that you just feel like no matter what happens, you are drawn to them? Yeah, me neither. But let me tell you this story anyway.

One night about three or four years ago I went out to what used to be called Bar Baltimore. It was a group of us girls. We were showing up early for a huge adult-toy party (adult barbies and adult speak and spells…that kind of thing. Or fake dicks.) I was there with a few of my besties. We had also invited my ex husbands ex wife and his (at the time) fiancé. What could go wrong?

So toward the middle of the night I’m feeling like crap. My ex husbands ex wife was already remarried and anxious to get back to her hubby. My ex husbands current fiancé was eager to get back to my ex husband as well. So there it is, in all its glory, alcohol and loneliness.

Just then a friend walks up and introduces me to her friend. I’m attracted to him right away. But let’s face it, I would have been attracted to just about anything in that moment. In fact, I had been chatting up a fake dick for an hour. So anyway, we end up dancing and talking the rest of the night and within a week, he’s my man.

Now in typical relationship fashion, we begin telling each other all about our ex’s. Turns out he has one douche bag of an ex girlfriend, who just happens to live one street over from me at the time. He said she was dating another guy, but started cheating on that guy with him. Then later in their relationship she started cheated on him with that same other guy. Classic case of ‘have cake, eat cake.’ We’ve all been there. I ask how he found out and he says that she left her email open and saw about 150 emails back and forth and called her on it. And that was the end of it.

So after four or five months he and I ended our love affair. Turns out he was getting kicked out of the Marine Corps and there was some shadiness surrounding why he was getting kicked out and my friends advised me to just cut ties and not get involved. So I did.

A few months later one of my best friends starts long-distance dating a guy on a ship in Virginia. She’s happy as hell with her new pen pal. I tell her to tell her ‘man’ to find me a pen pal on the ship. He says he knows just the person. A few days later I get an email and a photo. A nice looking, tall and SINGLE guy. Wow, I thought they were myths.

We start emailing back and forth and agree to meet up once he pulls back in port. So a week after he pulls in, I’m heading down to Virginia. On my way he calls to talk me through the road trip. And we start talking about, what else…Ex’s.

He tells me this story about this girl he was dating. She started cheating on him with some guy and then ended up cheating on that guy with him. She couldn’t make up her mind. Classic case of ‘have cake, eat cake.’ I tell him that my ex was a great guy, and that he had a similar story to that. I also mention that we broke up because of his shady release from the Marines. We keep talking…him about her, and me about him.

“What is your ex boyfriend’s name?” He asks.

“Why, he lives in Maryland, it’s not like you know him,” I respond.

“Just for shits and giggles,” he replies back.

So I tell him...and there is dead silence before I hear.

“OH MY GOD, That is the same FUCKING guy!”

“No way,” I say.

“I don’t know what’s worse, going before him, or going after him,” he snaps back.

“Should I just turn around?” I ask.

“No, but you have to admit it’s weird.”

Yeah…I’ll admit it. And it was weirder the first time he drove to my house and had to drive past hers to get there.

One day one of his friends said, isn’t it weird that this other girl keeps popping up in your life…maybe she’s your soul mate.

I beg to differ. It’s my life this bitch keeps popping up in. I feel like I should actually know this heart breaker. Cause I’ve been cleaning up her messes for years.

Currently Chasing: My Own Space

I flew to Buffalo this weekend. It’s cheap to fly there, it only takes an hour each way, and I’ve got family there. Win/Win/Win.

So I arrive to southwest to get my ticket and they ask if I want to upgrade to section A for $20 bucks. I decide to do it. This guarantees I’ll be one of the first on the plane, which means I’ll have room for my carry on (which I assure you holds no less than four outfits I won’t wear, workout gear I won’t need, three pairs of shoes I can’t walk in and enough accessories for Mr. T to take it up a notch.)

So they call section A and I line up near the front carrying my life in a bag. But when I look around I realize, there is only a section A. There are only 20 people on the whole flight. I paid $20 for nothing! Lose. I vow that I’ll make it up by claiming a seat right in the front. Not near the front, but literally the first seat. I get on the plane, store my shit, and sit down in the comfortable, leg roomy, first seat. And I’m content. Fuck that $20 bucks. Win.

And then it happens. A couple comes in, looks at all of the empty seats and decides to take a seat right next to me. To make matters worse they are having a ‘talk argument’ about how she emasculated him earlier by making him hold her purse.

“No I didn’t,” she said.

“Yes you did,” he said.

“I didn’t think I did,” she said.

“Well you did. But you didn’t know it, because that’s your personality,” he said.

It’s her personality not to know things? Then it got weirder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t look at it like that,” she said.

“Well if someone else looked at it that way would that validate me and invalidate you?”

“Invalidate me?” she asked.

And by then I was asking (to myself as well) what the fuck he was trying to say. I mean, I could tell she was a rock, but he was trying to portray an over-your-head conversation and was making absolutely no sense, and she had called him on it. So he changed the subject, quickly.

“I’m reading this book and it talks about how the primary reason for condom failure is small penis size,” he said.

“I believe that,” she responded. “Probably Asians,” she added.

“Ignorant, but probably not completely inaccurate,” he responded.

And with that racism, they both shut up. Then I begin to hear something more annoying than their voices. A clipping noise. I look over to find her clipping the dead skin from around her fingernails. Twenty five minutes later she is still clipping. Get some lotion bitch! How much dead skin can one person have around their fingernails? And where is that dead skin going…into the air, into my nose! I’m inhaling this broad one clip at a time. At one point she cuts her nail and a clipping shoots right into my cheek. That sharp piece-of-a-bitches hand stung a bit. She says, I’m sorry. I don’t respond.

Her and her man begin to talk fight again. This time they are arguing about how they are not arguing. We land. They are still arguing. But now they are whisper yelling so as not to make a scene.

I see them at baggage claim minutes later. She’s still clipping her nails. And he’s holding her purse. I’m holding my tongue. There’s no way his dick fits a Condom.

Currently Chasing: A Mop (and not the one on your head)

I was reminded recently of a story:

Awhile back I got a phone call from a friend. She said that while she was getting her hair cut, her hairdresser mentioned that she had a client who had a brother who had just recently gotten divorced. She said that her client had asked her if she had any single friends that he could set his brother up with.

This sent my friend into action. She said, “I have a friend I could set your client’s brother up with.” Her hairdresser said, “You do? That’s awesome.”

With that she called her client, got his brother’s number, gave it to my friend and then guess what? She called me.

“Ok, so my hairdresser gave me the number of this single guy that I think you should call.”

“Is he just some random guy or did she actually know him?” I ask.

“She knows him silly. Well, kind of. She knows his brother. But he has been married before and he has two kids, so he must be attractive.”

“What? Just because someone is married and has kids doesn’t mean they are attractive,” I quickly point out.

“Fine. All I’m saying is someone fucked him, twice. And decided he was worth marrying. That’s all I’m saying. I’ve seen your recent dates, I know you haven’t been picky lately. CALL HIM.”

So imagine the message I leave on his machine.

“Um, hi. I got your number from a friend of mine who got it from her hair dresser who got it from your brother who said you were recently divorced. Congratulations, call me back.”

And he does. At 9:30 that same evening I get a message on my voicemail.

“Hey, HI! I would love to meet you. The fact that you called a complete stranger just to get a date means you may be just the desperate kind of chick I’m looking for.”

Ok. He didn’t actually say that, but you get my point.

So we decide to meet at Duclaw. I ask him how I’ll know him. He says he will be the guy with long hair who looks like one of the Ramones and he’ll be wearing Vans with pineapples on them. I laughed, as if he was just being funny. He wasn’t. I recognized him immediately. His hair was jet black, long, hanging in his eyes. He was definitely holding on to an era. Pineapple Vans and all.

We hug and start talking and we actually hit it off very well. I decide to invite him to my roommate’s birthday party later that week. He shows up and right away my friends are confused.

“Seriously? That’s him?”

“Um, yeah, seriously,” I say.

“He’s a fucking Beatle.”

“Yeah I know right?” I respond.

He brings a gift for my roomie. It’s a CD from a band he’s a huge fan of. It’s a local band named Kidney Stone. He asks if he can play a track for her. She hesitantly says yes. It’s a song called Superman. The lyrics go something like…

“Who’s your superman now, you fucking gimp ass bitch.”

Yeah, very appropriate. A classic even. And he is banging his head and playing air guitar the whole time. And everyone is staring. And right then I realize, I’m going to date this guy. He’s too much drama not to.

So we go out on a couple of more dates and each one is better than the last. Only one problem. He’s a pot smoker. Shocker right? He doesn’t smoke around me but he smokes…and it bothers me.

So after a few weeks I end up at his house for a sleepover. It’s a great house, but it is dirty as hell. Not messy, just dirty. There aren’t dishes in the sink but it is filthy. There isn’t anything strewn about in the living room, but it’s a wreck. It just feels abandoned. We go upstairs and it only gets worse. I’m actually afraid to get in the bed.

I tell him I have to pee. He tells me I CAN’T use the bathroom in the bedroom. Instead I have to use the bathroom in the hall. When I enter it, I’m scared. It looks as if it has never seen a sponge. There is a thick black ring of death inside the toilet. The shower is a moldy, mildewy mess. If I wash my hands in here they will get dirtier, I just know it. I hover over the toilet, do my business and make my way back to the room.

There’s no way I can sleep here. I ask him why I can’t go into the other bathroom. He tells me it’s his weed room. Wow. He has a special room for his weed? It’s probably the cleanest room in the house. I tell him I have to go and quickly make my way out of his house, and subsequently, his life.

He sends me an email a few days later. It says that I shot an arrow and it landed a bullseye to his heart. He really fell for me, and he’s sorry that his first love, Mary Jane, is getting in the way of us being together. He cares about me, but she’s always been there for him. And he can’t give her up. Not now, and probably not ever. The letter was a page and half long. I wrote back one sentence.

Tell this Mary Jane girl that you care about so much to come over and clean your dirty ass house.