Roommates 2.0

As I sit here typing this (instead of returning calls, which is what I should be doing), Ron's in the next room playing The Eagles' New Kid in Town on the ole six-string. So, obviously, some things never change. (See: Ron, Activities.)

However, unlike two years ago, when I posted about the various responsibilities, activities, and pet peeves of the members of our household, Ron is no longer performing as a solo artist. He's now accompanied by Philly, on the ukelele.

And this is what I have to endure in order to avoid paying rent.

Because I'm still living with the 'rents and because some things do change, I've decided to write an updated "Roommates" post, which will probably make more sense to you if you read the original one, the link for which is provided above.

Philly

In charge of:
-Interior design (It's not unusual for Ron and I to come home to rooms that bear little resemblance to the rooms we left that morning.);
-Exterior design (It's widely known...among members of our household...that we have the best-looking front door in the neighborhood, and we have Philly to thank for that.);
-Motivation (By frequently pointing out our "problem areas," Philly has motivated both Ron and me to begin running, and, not one to be left out, she has joined in on the effort. We'll be posting "after" pictures in our bikinis and Speedos in a few months, so make sure and check back.).

Activities:
-Strumming the ole four-string (And apparently she's not the only one: we were informed by employees of Guitar Center during the Christmas season that ukeleles were selling like hotcakes.);
-Law & Order: SVU marathons (Is it ever not on?);
-Touring America, one casino at a time.

Pissed off by:
-The stench of Ron's cigars;
-The stench of gently-used cat litter;
-Republican candidates.

Ron

In charge of:
-Financing Philly's extreme home makeovers;
-Keeping fridge stocked with beer;
-Lawn care (And let me just say, that ever since he discovered that he could smoke a cigar while he does yard work, our lawn is pristine.).

Activities:
-Golf and guitar (which would be an excellent idea for a new magazine, from the publishers of Garden and Gun);
-Eating Chef Boyardee (No one around here can figure out why this man consumes so much canned ravioli.);
-Words with Friends (And Ron has a LOT of friends with words.).

Pissed off by:
-Nothing (that we really care about).

Candy

In charge of:
-Scooping shit (Dolly's, not Philly's and Ron's);
-Making plans (whenever plans need to be made);
-Defending youngsters (on a more-or-less volunteer basis).

Activities:
-Hanging out with Buzz, 7/3 (That's seven hours a day, three days a week. And who's Buzz? He's...Luanne's boyfriend! [Sorry, quick Shag reference.] Actually, he's MY boyfriend! Which means I did really well with my big dating hiatus. But more on that later.)
-Daily polio naps (You can never be too vigilant in protecting against this potentially debilitating disease.)
-Live team trivia (I have really, really smart friends.).

Pissed off by:
-Cat that requires more attention than most toddlers;
-Laundry that, despite being told numerous times, refuses to do itself;
-Newsfeed (just, in general, these days).

Same Shit, Different Year

I couldn't very well END this blog with a post about how I cheated my way through 7th grade math, could I???

So, I'm back. Another year older yet none the wiser. Still practicing the kind of law that pays peanuts and still living with my parents. A real success story.

I spent some time thinking about what my readers (should any of them decide to check back in) would want to know about the last year, and I decided that, even though most of my readers were (and I guess still are) men, y'all ALWAYS loved hearing about the extensive array of losers I managed to seek out and date. Call me cynical, but I believe there may have been some schadenfreude going on.

Thus, I have compiled a list of all of the dudes I've gone out with during the last year, or at least all of the ones I can remember without exerting too much effort. I figure that if my miserable dating life ends up providing some sort of entertainment for a few folks, then at least it won't have been in vain.

#1: Larry Dave

I dated Larry Dave from June 2010 until...well, until recently. But we were never serious. If you're at all familiar with Larry David (Curb Your Enthusiasm), then you know why. Once, when I showed up at LD's apartment complex pool wearing, God forbid, a one-piece bathing suit, he announced to everyone there (and to my horror and dismay) that I must have thought it was the nineteen-fucking-fifties. Such a sweetheart, that Larry Dave.

Of course, I can't really say that our failure to launch into a full-on relationship was entirely LD's fault; there was that one time we were at SouthBound together and I made out with the cutest 22-year-old right in front of him, but that's neither here nor there. I can't be responsible for what happens after a couple of shots of Jager.

I'd also like to mention that LD was the last smoker that I've dated, as I quit smoking shortly after we started seeing each other and haven't smoked since. It's been a year and two months!!!

#2: The Pilot

This was more of a long-distance type thing, due to his profession and the fact that he only flew to Knoxville every few weeks. It was a fun little affair (and no, he was NOT married), albeit somewhat shallow. But, I did finally get my wings.

#3: The Russian

I've been known to peruse the Craigslist personal ads, mostly to look for myself as someone's Missed Connection (it hasn't happened yet, but I'm almost positive I'll see "Cute blonde in the black Mazda CX-7 picking her nose on Pellissippi Parkway" one of these days), but occasionally also to look at the Men Seeking Women ads. Don't judge.

Although this usually only serves to make me loathe the opposite gender, there have been exactly two times that I have found an ad worth replying to, and both times, said replies have resulted in dates. The first guy was nice but unbearably boring and didn't earn a spot on this list, mostly because I can't even remember his name. The second guy was The Russian.

The Russian was delightfully similar to me in personality, but also, unfortunately, in height. Call me shallow, but I really prefer a man who has a few inches on me. And yes, I realize how dirty that sentence sounds. I think what I liked most about The Russian was that he told me over and over how incredibly Jewish I seem, and given my near-obsession with the Chosen People, I took this as a total compliment.

#4: Joe Dirt

Philly has attempted to set me up with men two times this year, and Joe Dirt was the first. The initial red flag was that, upon meeting for our blind date, I recognized him as a friend of my friend LaToya's husband, which meant that we'd both been at LaToya's wedding and several other social gatherings. He, apparently, had found me to be extremely forgettable.

Also: Joe was an excavator. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But, when he consistently complained that I talked about work too much (which, I didn't), I had to stop myself from saying: "Well, I can't help it that what I do is slightly more interesting than moving DIRT." Moving right along....

#5: The Bodybuilder

Philly's second attempt at setting me up was another...interesting experience. The Bodybuilder was a car salesman she met while car shopping a few months ago, and while he was very nice to look at, he was, as most car salesmen tend to be, rather full of shit. Also, as much as I appreciate some nice muscles, anyone who goes to the gym seven days a week is either entirely too vain or sleeping with someone there, most likely another dude.

It only a took a few dates for us both to figure out that we weren't very interested in each other (I'm sure he wasn't impressed with my lack of gym-going); however, I was extremely impressed with myself on one of our dates, during which I picked up not one but two other men, one of whom I went out with the very next weekend. So, I have The Bodybuilder to thank for that.

#6: Brutus Buckeye

Flash forward to the very next weekend. Brutus was a recent transplant from...you guessed it, Ohio. And I'm probably gonna piss off some people by saying this, but I have NEVER been a fan of people from Ohio. My disdain for Ohioans dates back to college, where there was a certain contingency from Cincinnati whom I found to be particularly obnoxious. Later encounters have only solidified my belief that, in terms of residents, Ohio is truly the armpit of America.

So, when I met Brutus and we immediately hit it off (despite the fact that he rooted for Ohio State, ugh), I was shocked. After our first date, I even came home and told Philly that I was pretty sure he was going to be my next boyfriend. Brutus apparently didn't feel the same way, at least not for long. After our third date in two weeks, he never asked me out again. I can't say I wasn't disappointed, but Brutus definitely made me more right about Ohioans than I already was.

#7: Andy Tin Roof (a.k.a. The Straw that Broke the Camel's Back)

Andy Tin Roof (which is how he's listed in my phone) was the other guy I managed to pick up while on my date with The Bodybuilder. We texted back and forth a few times, but I quickly lost interest after he asked me send him a picture of myself. Sorry, dude. Not into that. It also kind of creeped me out (but, I'm not gonna lie, also intrigued me) that, when I told him to add me as a friend on Facebook, he said he wasn't on Facebook, "because he didn't want people to know his business." Hmmmm.

After a few weeks of not hearing from ATR, I received a text from him again last week. He wanted to know if I wanted to meet for drinks on Friday at 5. Sure, I can do that. I had already planned to take the afternoon off and go to the pool, but I could leave the pool by 3:30 or so, get ready, and be out by 5. I was dying to know what this dude's story was.

At 4:53, as I was just about to walk out the door (the place we were meeting is close to home), I got a text: "I got called out of town. Not going to make it. Sorry, sugar. We'll catch up soon."

Okay, first of all: Don't call me sugar. You don't even know me. Second of all: That story is bullshit. And third: Even if you did have to go out of town, I'm sure you could have told me more than seven minutes before our scheduled meeting time. I mean, for God's sake, I'd left the POOL for this crap.

And that was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. The next morning, I announced via Facebook status (which, obviously, means it's set in stone) that I'm taking a dating hiatus. For at least a few months. I just don't want to deal with any more disappointment for a while.

Naturally, the very night of my big announcement, I went out for drinks with a friend I've known for years and years, and he confessed that he wants to date me. I told him to call me in January.

A True Confession

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it’s been 27 years since my last confession.

Okay, so I’m not really Catholic (hence the lack of Reconciliation). However, I did go to Catholic school for six years and am therefore somewhat familiar with the sacraments.

And if I were Catholic, I would have made this confession long ago. But since I’m not, I’m going to make it right now. I’m comin’ clean.

When I was in first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Pucker (cutest name ever), noticed that I was able to do certain things that a lot of the other first graders (apparently) couldn’t do, like reading and telling time. So, it was decided that Little Candy would go to the second grade for a couple of hours each day for Reading and Math. (This was a small Catholic school, so they didn’t have an accelerated program. Also: I guess I was the only accelerated child, because I don’t remember anyone else coming with me.)

Naturally, the next year, when I was actually in second grade, I had to go to third grade for Reading and Math, and so on, until I reached sixth grade. (And let me just say that the kids in the grade above me were NEVER nice to me. I’m still pissed about it.) When I got to sixth grade, the sixth and seventh grade teachers decided that it was too much trouble to coordinate their schedules so that sixth and seventh grade Reading and Math were at the same time (because, without coordinated schedules, I would have run the risk of missing out on a real subject, like Gym). So…I guess I just repeated sixth grade Reading (because, really, by that point, I doubt I was ahead of the other students anymore), but the kicker was Math: I was asked to teach myself seventh grade Math.

Seriously. During Math, I would sit in a corner by myself and “do homework,” and then, when I was sufficiently satisfied that I had learned all of the material in a chapter, I would take the test. Which meant that I would carry the teacher’s manual down to the office and make a copy of the chapter test, and then I would bring it back to the classroom and take it. And then I would grade it.

And during that whole school year, there was not one test that I didn’t cheat on. Sure, I would honestly complete the test, but when it came time to grade it (which, by the way, who the hell gives an eleven-year-old this much freedom???), I would mark exactly two or three answers wrong every time (so it wouldn’t raise suspicion), and then I would proudly present my grade of 94 or 96 to my teacher and announce that I was ready to begin the next chapter.

I never told anyone what I was doing.

But, despite all that monkey business, I did actually learn some math that year. I know this because, when I transferred to public school in seventh grade (because we had moved across town, and my parents felt that I had gotten everything out of private school that I needed…in other words, they were sick of paying for it), I took a test (which I didn't also grade) and qualified for eighth grade (or, accelerated) Math. But I still felt pretty ashamed of all the cheating and lying I’d done.

So, sixteen years later, I’d just like to say: I’m sorry, Mrs. Jenkinson. If I were Catholic, I would certainly do penance for my sin.

There, I feel better now.

Hello Dolly

Meet the newest member of our household, Dolly Pawton:


Of course, her "street name" will just be Dolly. But I wanted to make it (painfully) clear who she's named after. And also that I'm extremely corny.

I picked Dolly up from the animal shelter after work yesterday (we'd adopted her on Friday, but they had to spay and vaccinate her), and from the time I picked her up until, oh, about 11:30 p.m., she was a perfect angel. She followed us around the house and sat with us on the couch, and at about 9:30, she fell into a deep, deep sleep on my lap.

When I was ready to go to bed, I took her to my bedroom with me, thinking (erroneously) that she would just fall asleep again.

And that's when Dolly turned into a Gremlin. A crazy-eyed, biting, DEMONIC little Gremlin.

Things she attempted to destroy with her vicious fangs: my clothes, my shoes, my bedspread, my hands, my arms.... Those baby teeth may be small, but they are SHARP. And determined.

I could not get the little bitch to calm (the fuck) down. At some point I gave up and went to sleep, praying she wouldn't do anything too destructive.

And despite the fact that I'm almost positive I fell asleep on my side, when I woke up a few hours later, I was lying on my back with a little ball of fur curled up on my chest. Angelic as could be.

Until about five this morning, when The Gremlin reappeared.

No more feedings after midnight.




Postscript:

I've already told Dolly I love her. Too soon?

Also: Why can't kittens stay kittens? They are the perfect size, and they have the sweetest little baby meows. Is this how parents feel about their children???

Finally: I just found THIS on Dolly's Facebook wall (which explains the poor behavior last night):

Looks like she's gonna fit in here purrrrfectly.

Just Another Average Wednesday Night*

Well, I can now officially say that I've been iced.

Kudos to Bud, who got me pretty good. He had come over to the house to eat dinner with Philly and me tonight (my charitable contribution for the week), and when he arrived, he casually picked up the latest issue of Esquire, which had just arrived in the mail and was sitting on the kitchen counter. As I turned to look in the freezer for some frozen veggies, he asked, "have you read this article yet?" And when I turned around...ICED. With a 24-ounce bottle, no less. That's pretty hardcore.

By the time we finished eating, I was still working on that damn Smirnoff Ice (I amended the kneeling rule, since it was dinner time and all), so when we finished the dishes and went outside to sit on the patio for a few mintues, I had to take the stupid drink (which, at this point, was starting to make me rather ill) outside with me.

Point of reference: Fred the Dog has been escaping the backyard a lot lately, ever since the guys who built the new patio somehow managed to cut the underground fence, rendering it inoperable. AND, Fred is so old and gnarled (seriously, that's the perfect word for it) that when he begins wandering down the street, people assume he's hurt (e.g., that he's been hit by a car), so they pick him up and take him to the vet. And THEN, we get calls from the Bluegrass Animal Hospital, asking us to PLEASE COME AND PICK UP FRED. This is pretty much a daily occurrence. Also, Fred is deaf. And mostly blind.

Okay, back to the story. So, we'd just walked outside to sit on the deck, and we realized that, surprise surprise, Fred was gone. Without thinking about the fact that I was still carrying an oversized bottle of malt beverage, I walked around the house and out into the street, where I spotted Fred, heading toward an open garage door a few houses down. When he turned around and spotted me (he's always looking over his little doggie shoulder to see if anyone's coming after him), I began doing the only thing I could do to get him to come home, which was my now-perfected "you get back in this house right NOW, dammit" hand gesture, accompanied by my long-ago-perfected Mean Face. (Remember, Fred's deaf. And this method actually works.)

So, there I was, standing in the middle of the road, with a gigantic Smirnoff Ice in one hand, while my other hand was emphatically pointing at the dog and then pointing toward the house.

I'm sure the neighbors just love us.

Shortly thereafter, Fred made his way back to the house and trotted into the garage, where he promptly ran smack dab into a recently emptied cardboard box that Philly had put out there for Ron to break down and throw away. As pitiful as it was, I couldn't help but laugh as I pictured Fred, in his little doggie head, thinking, who the FUCK put that there?



*This post title refers to one of my favorite posts Philly ever wrote, which you can find here. (It also involves Bud. And me living with my parents. Wow, what a difference three and a half years makes! [She says, sarcastically.])

Little Missies.

I hope y'all think THIS is as funny as I think it is.

I was literally in tears.

Some of you might remember that I, too, used to have a cat named Missy. A few minutes ago, while Chico and I were chatting on Facebook, I asked him whether I had ever told him about poor lil' Missy and her tragic end. The following ensued:

Chico: Is that the one your neighbor ran over, and your parents told you she had been catnapped?

Candy: No, that was Ruby.

Chico: Is it the one who tried to eat you?

Candy: No, that was Boudleaux. And that was a DOG.

Chico: Wait, now I remember Missy. When I helped you moved out of your apartment, you produced what looked like part of her ear from a box.

Candy: That wasn't an EAR, it was a tuft of hair that I'd saved as a memento.

Chico: [No response.]

Candy: Yeah, that does sound kind of weird. Probably should have just saved some pictures of her.

Romance Redefined.

Chico and I did some marathon drinkin' this weekend. Fo' real, yo.

Actually, I didn't intend to spend so much of my Saturday inebriated, but after suffering through nearly two hours of what appeared to be complete and utter chaos on the TV (also known as "the U.S.-England World Cup soccer match"), I was READY for a margarita or two. (Or five.)

And today's stifling humidity simply REQUIRED cold beers by the pool.

Anyhoo, what I wanted to share with y'all was something that Chico said yesterday, which might possibly be the coolest thing I've ever heard a dude say.

We were chatting about weddings and bachelor/bachelorette parties and engagement rings, and how the whole shebang is just a COMPLETE waste of hard-earned money, and Chico says: "You know what I think is a MUCH more romantic gesture than buying a girl a big diamond? Paying off her student loans."

You know what? I so, totally, 100% agree.