The Only Brush in the Basket

I am blatantly honest, perhaps to a fault. Typically, I say what's on my mind, and even if I am quiet, I am probably thinking blunt, sarcastic thoughts. I remind myself an awful lot of any of the characters in "The Invention of Lying", because I can be that blunt from time to time. And the closer a person is to me, the likelier he or she is to become a victim of these observations of mine. That's why, when I date again, I need to find someone with a similarly dark sense of humor, because I can be a lot to tolerate if you don't get me. Just ask my ex-husband.

Recently, I mentioned to a friend that I hadn't heard from a mutual friend lately. She suggested it was because I gave the friend a lecture on the perils of extramarital affairs. The conversation went a little like this:

Me: I haven't heard from Other Friend lately. I wonder if she's mad at me?
Friend: Maybe she's mad at you from that time you lectured her about sleeping with married men.
Me: That was not a lecture. That was the truth. And I guess some people just can't handle the truth.

While I have no problem sharing "the truth" with friends, I tend to keep quiet around strangers, mostly because I don't like to be seen as socially unacceptable or as an oversharer.

However, today when I was at the nail salon, my tech had no problem with oversharing. Her partner is out of town, or rather visiting family in Vietnam. I guess that's why she decided to open up to me today.

When I am having any kind of salon service done, I typically prefer my technician to just be quiet, and this is especially true when I get my nails done, because it's in the middle of the work day, and sometimes just listening to that file grinding away at what is left of my nail bed can be soothing. Today, my tech was the opposite of quiet. By the end of the appointment, my inner lip was bloody, from me trying not to laugh at the following overshares:

* "Yeah, I got pregnant a month after I got separated from my husband. I don't know how that happened so fast...I guess it was because I was going out to the bars and drinking a lot."
* "My sister married my ex-boyfriend, and he used to try and make out with me. I mean, I never did the nasty with him, because I was still a virgin then."
* "Oh, my kids? Yeah, I don't have custody of any of them, but I can still see them whenever I want."
* "Was your ex-husband whhh...I mean, American?"
* "I lied to my husband about needing to work, and then I met this guy and we were drinking and kissing in the pool room. Then he told me to go out to his truck, and I did, and my ex-husband caught me with him."
* "All I did when I worked there was drink all night long, so I didn't want to do anything except lay on the couch all day. I didn't even want to take care of my kids!"
* "Yeah...that time that I got pregnant, I think I had a miscarriage...is that what you call it? I went to the doctor and they told me I was pregnant, and then I started bleeding a lot and I wasn't pregnant anymore."
* "When I was pregnant with my first kid, I caught the dad having sex with some KOREAN in the bathroom. I came into the hallway, and I heard was bang, bang, BANG!"

Sometimes, I wonder why people feel so inclined to overshare with me, because this is not the first time I've been in this type of situation. I can only assume that it's because I seem to be a good listener, which is not entirely untrue, because what I am actually doing is listening so I can make fun of the comments later.

When I got up to wash the acrylic dust off of my nails before getting polished, I couldn't help but notice that I was the first nail brush in the 'used' basket today. The first client of the day, and it was 1:00 in the afternoon. If she overshares with her other clients as much as she does me, I can see why other clients might experience trepidation in visiting.

In other news, I feel really frustrated when I don't get what I want. It is especially frustrating when this involves another person, because then there's really no way to alleviate my frustration over not getting what I want. And since this happens so rarely--this business of not getting what I want--I am completely unaccustomed to these feelings and have no outlet for dealing with them.

32 is NOT the New 22

Yesterday, I turned 32. My birthday typically goes unnoticed, with its close proximity to Christmas. I got cheated when I was born at this time of the year. If my birthday was in June, perhaps people would notice. Perhaps I'd get double the gifts, instead of the people who give you one gift and tell you that it counts as both your Christmas and your birthday gift. At the very least, I'd be able to get a Birthday Caboose on the tourist railway I work for, as obviously, this train does not run in December. However, since my mother's birthday falls on the day after mine, she has always been aware of the separation of my birthday and Christmas, unlike the general population.

Being single for the first time in 10 years made my birthday slightly less than enjoyable. I don't typically find any birthday downright enjoyable--it's just a birthday. Once you hit 21, there's no real reason to even keep counting and keep track, because you have the same rights at 71 as you do at 21. Sometimes when asked, I even have to briefly think about how old I am, because I don't consider it a daily consideration.

Alas, my loneliness got me thinking back to my 22nd birthday. On my 22nd birthday, I got flowers from three different boyfriend prospects. At 22, I still believed in the myth that Prince Charming would soon be coming to sweep me off my feet, preferably with a fighter jet rather than a white horse. Shortly after my birthday, I chose one of the three flower-sending boys for a relationship, and we were engaged within seven months. Eight months after that, I left that fiance for my now ex-husband, to whom I was engaged after six months. Next time around, I plan to be engaged within five months, to keep consistent with my gradual reduction in time it takes to acquire a diamond ring.

While turning 22 brought many prospects and hope, all of these were blown to hell in the proceeding years. While I did actually marry fiance number two--mainly because I had no other choice, since there was no way in hell I'd call off two weddings in under one year--I was miserable for roughly six-and-a-half years of our seven year marriage. It finally dawned on me that there is no such thing as Prince Charming--that notion is merely an urban legend, like believing that sea monsters live in storm drains or that if you step on a sidewalk crack, you will break your mother's back.


Turning 32 has found me a divorced single mother to that toddler who acts like a caffeinated ferret. I am far more exhausted. I am far more broke. I am far less attractive and fit, at least based on the photo comparisons I have made of myself on Facebook--see left. I am far less hopeful that I will ever find anyone to date me ever again, much less find the much-fabled "The One". Instead of receiving three bouquets of flowers at work, I received none.

The only redeeming quality of turning 32 is that I have a far better group of friends now than I did then, friends whom I adore. Sometimes I worry that my friends will one day wake up and realize that I am not nearly as cool as they are and they will de-friend me, but so far that has not happened. My 32-year-old spirits brightened considerably when last night, they took me out for dinner and showered me with yellow friendship roses and iTunes gift cards. What more could a girl ask for, except maybe an invitation for a date with a cute boy, so she no longer feels completely and hopelessly undateable?

However, as lovely as the evening was, it is always still sad when it ends, because when I go home, I know am going home alone. And that can be a lonely, lonely feeling, and one that when I turned 22, I would've never expected to be feeling when I turned 32.

Don't Ya Wish Yo Boyfriend Was Hot Like Mine?

Two years ago, I somehow stumbled upon the extreme good fortune of getting to meet George Clooney. Who would ever guess, that some girl who lives in extreme northern Minnesota and makes a living at a feeble non-profit train museum would get to meet George Clooney? It made every single frustration and every single small check I'd ever received from this place entirely worth it.

George visited our museum to kick off his press tour for his slightly-less-than-successful movie, 'Leatherheads', as the movie was based in the fictional town of Duluth--the name of my town. As far as life goes, that day ranks as one of my top five, far surpassing both times I've been proposed to, and possibly even the day my daughter was born.

Sadly, when I think back now, I can't even remember the wording of the face-to-face conversation. But clearly, he did remember me, because this was in my inbox today:



To me, it is obvious. He really is my boyfriend. And of all the women he's had--including a rumored love affair with one of Tiger Woods' love affairs--he sent ME this card. I have never felt more special in my life.

I'll Take a Bellini...With a Side of THAT Boy

I enjoy my job very much, and I should, because as I've approached the seven-year mark of my employment here, roughly 22 percent of my living years have been consumed by this job. It leaves me little to not enjoy. Sure, I do paperwork most of the time and it is rather tedious, but I like where I work, I like the people I work with and I like my paycheck and I like my free health insurance. I also like that apart from about four weeks a year, my job is pretty leisurely, so I get paid a decent sum of money to essentially pursue my real interests, like blogging and shopping on eBay.

Unfortunately, this is one of the four weeks of the year that I am expected to work, and I am working hard. Perhaps if I'd been a little less leisurely, I would not have to work as hard this week, but alas, I was not, so now I am paying the price.

Since I have so much work to catch up on--by tomorrow--I had no choice but to skip the annual building-wide holiday party. I figured I really would not be missing much, since I see these people five days a week for 52 weeks a year. Do I really need to devote even more time to them?

However, I did request a Bellini. Served at my desk. Because what could be better than a leisurely job that also allows to to drink? At your desk. No questions asked.

In all of the years that I have been at my job--nearly seven--I have encountered virtually zero attractive men. I work for a railroad museum/tourist railway, and the majority of the men I encounter are in the 65-plus age group. However, a few months back, our insurance rep visited, with his son. Imagine my shock that day when in walked the best-looking guy I'd seen in years. Imagine my horror that I was wearing a maternity shirt--even though I was not pregnant at the time--and no lip gloss. Had I known that I would be meeting an attractive man on this day, I would've freshened up by applying fresh lip gloss, wearing a real shirt that would flatter my DDs and losing 25 pounds.

Alas, the good-looking man is easily a mere 25 years old, a full seven years younger than I. One of my co-workers has explained that to put you in full-on cougar territory, the man you are pursuing needs to be at least ten years younger than you. I beg to differ.

Today, I made an off-the-cuff remark about inviting our insurance rep--and his son!--to the holiday party. As a "favor" to me, my boss did indeed invite them. My no-longer-favorite co-worker called and demanded that I get to the party to mingle, because guess who showed? It was the insurance rep's son. I politely declined, but again requested that she deliver my Bellini.

Imagine my surprise when my Bellini arrived--carried by the good-looking son of the insurance rep. I am not a good flirter. Not by any means. After seven years of marriage, it is a lost skill for me. And when the good-looking man stepped into my office, bearing a Bellini, I am sure that my face turned as red as Sebastian in 'The Little Mermaid'.

Again, had I known that I would be visited by whom I consider to possibly be the best looking guy in town, I would've freshened up by reapplying my lip gloss, showing more cleavage and losing 25 pounds. Nevertheless, I am sure that my bright red face nicely disguised my lack of lip gloss.

After I got through this awkward social situation, my co-workers demanded that I thank them: this was my birthday gift, as my birthday is tomorrow! Despite my embarrassment, it was still a far better offering than two weeks ago, when I walked into my office to find two of my co-workers sitting there, bearing champagne and a half-dozen roses. I asked if I was being proposed to, by not one--but TWO--people. How would I ever choose? They told me happy birthday. I told them they missed the mark by two weeks. Ever since then, I have wondered how they could've possibly gotten this so wrong: they presented my birthday gifts on December 4, which is a day that has neither a "1" nor a "7" in it, so I am not sure how December 4 could be confused with December 17.

Alas, I still can't turn down a Bellini on work hours, with a side order of eye candy.