I’m about ready to go on a first date.
Drinks at a bar in downtown Chicago. This is a woman I’ve talked with once over the phone. We met on an online dating website. I have absolutely no idea how it’s going to pan out. She may be the woman of my dreams – or a dud. Or I may be a dud in her mind while I fall madly in love.
As I drove home from night two of BlogHer I started to cry.
I was lucky this year. BlogHer, the largest blogging conference in the country, was hosted in my hometown of Chicago. This meant easy travel from my condo to the conference. Actually, it was kind of a hassle. Sure I saved some dough by not having to spring for a hotel, but I was traveling back and forth at least once a day. Each time I parked it was $36. I had to go home to let the dog out.
Originally posted at AnitaDavisSullivan
Flying over a city is such a different perspective than what we see from the street. From a few thousand feet, it’s difficult to distinguish between types of buildings, with homes and offices looking the same. Vehicles look the same, with no recognizable difference between passenger cars and semi trucks.
Yesterday I wrote about not going out for New Year’s Eve because I chickened out in visiting a bar by myself. While I’m no longer judging myself as a loser for this I am committed to not let another major event pass without some form of a plan, even if it is just to stay home by myself.
I’m supposed to be at a Halloween party right now.
It’s being hosted by one of my favorite people, the lead singer of our band. There’s a few issues, however. One, he lives about sixty minutes away from where my place. Next, I don’t have a good costume. Third, I’m exhausted.
The problem is that my mind is always on “joke-creation” mode.
It doesn’t matter if I’m about to fall asleep, riding my bike to work, or having lunch with my favorite nun: Jokes come in whether I want them or not. This is not a “I just can’t help how hilarious I am” kind of thing. Many, if not most, of my jokes would bomb, should I share them. When something funny comes into my head I have to make a snap decision on whether to express it aloud, delete it, or save for later. My willpower is not strong, and I can rarely hold onto a joke for the future. Like a junkie I don’t save my stash for later.
You don’t look like Ken!
These were among the first words spoken to me by TheAnimatedWoman, J.C. Little. For months the AimingLow staff has been referring to me as Ken (of Barbie’s harem), probably because I took the only hunky photo of me and plastered it everywhere online. Just Google one of my stories and you’ll see it next to the search result. In person I’m quite normal looking. I have virtually no muscle definition and my skin is ghostly pale. I’m not a monster, but nobody’s plucking me out of obscurity to dance with Thunder From Down Under.
Yesterday I almost didn’t go to my support group meeting.
Now, this isn’t really a support group in the traditional sense. We’re not a bunch of divorcees (well, a few of us are) trying to get closure, or boozebags (well, some of us are) learning the steps to recovery. We don’t hold hands and there are no prayers. It’s actually called “The Experiment” and it is run by all of us to help process our shit that we carry. It’s very heavy, emotional and real.
I have to say that in some ways I’m not like you.
For example you most likely haven’t talked about conditioning your private hair with your father. Or confessed that during phone conversations with loved ones you do inappropriate personal activity. Also, you probably don’t ride a bike to work with a dog in a backpack. Your first, middle, and last names probably aren’t as unusual as mine (plus I’m a “third”) for a pale while boy with blonde hair.
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
