Federally f*cked

In my haste to recover from my recent ghosting by the new guy, I met a Federal Agent.

On Tinder, no less.

He was tall, handsome, with a BIG chest, a thick beard and a completely bald head – just the way I like.

He was also in town investigating the Garlic Festival shooting.

What are the chances?

I can’t seem to escape from my connection to the shooting, FYI.

Fortunately, we discussed other topics.

Like how much we like our jobs, what hobbies we have, and our families.

We also flirted.

Heavily.

That’s what happens when you’re really attracted to someone (who sadly turned out to represent all my issues).

I sent titillating photos (nothing nude though because he’s a federal agent and I’m sure it’s illegal to send nudes to a Federal Agent).

He may have reciprocated.

Given my love of sexting, we MAY have had a phone call to talk dirty to one another.

It ended well.

The next day we were chatting when I realize I forgot to ask if he’s married.

Hint:  He is.

Totally unavailable.

The very DEFINITION of unavailable.

Also, the definition of a waste of my time.

He asked if I still liked him.

No, sorry.

I’m not here to judge but I don’t believe in getting to know someone romantically who is already attached.

It never ends well.

Ghost

The new guy is gone.

For those of you who were happy to see me with someone, who sent kind messages of support, thank you.

It’s been a nice two months.

But it has come to an end.

I wish I could give an explanation as to why.

Maybe we were not suitable for each other.

Perhaps someone else entered the picture.

I could hazard a guess but the bottom line is the same.

The new guy is gone.

The last I heard from him, he was struggling with the fallout from the Garlic Festival.

He is a Gilroy native, a former festival organizer, and an attendee, so I can understand his suffering.

And given that his near miss was also my near miss, I can relate to some of the survivor guilt I know he is feeling.

The good news, if there’s any to be gleaned from this, is that this has nothing to do with me.

For once in my life, I can look at a situation and recognize that it’s all about him or the shooting, or another woman, or something else.

But it’s not about me.

I’m not gonna lie.

Being ghosted hurts.

I am trying to remind myself, especially during these last few weeks when I’ve been struggling to keep my head above water with all the waves of loss rolling over me, that ghosting says more about the ghoster than the ghostee.

And if he’s comfortable with a legacy of indifference then so am I.

Standing next to supermodels

It sounds like a nightmare, doesn’t it?

Having to stand next to a supermodel.

What could be worse that being side by side with a leggy blond or brunette with perfectly symmetrical features and cheekbones that could cut wood?

I personally try not to follow too many fashion models on Instagram because it’s bad for my mental health and self image.

I try to follow curve models.

They have curvy butts and thighs and sometimes even a soft belly.

It’s comforting to me to see women with body types like my own.

It makes me feel like less of an unlovable freak and more like a beautiful woman.

I’m not sure beauty magazines understand the impact they have on young women growing up when all they promote within their pages are size 0 models.

It’s a 445 BILLION dollar industry based on convincing women that they need this lipstick, dress, purse, face cream, etc, in order to be beautiful.

I am reminded of a line in “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” that goes something like this:

DO NOT READ BEAUTY MAGAZINES, THEY WILL ONLY MAKE YOU FEEL UGLY.

Beauty magazines are in the business of making beautiful women feel ugly.

When I was younger I loved beauty magazines.

I used to subscribe to several of them and I’d comb through the pages of the magazine picking out makeup, clothes, and accessories that I really wanted.

It gave me a little thrill.

Now, it makes me shudder.

And yet, I am a beauty consumer of the first water.

A VIB Sephora member.

A Platinum member of ULTA.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t also buy makeup from Milani, Beautylish, and elf.

If the amount of makeup we buy is proportional to how ugly we feel inside, then what do my spending habits say about me????

God, there’s a frightening thought.

The time she bought a PINK dress

Well, I finally pulled myself out of the fog I’ve been in since the Gilroy Garlic Festival shooting enough to actually start packing for Burning Man.

As typical of me, I’m starting with my outfits.

In previous years, I’ve brought as many as TWO DOZEN outfits to Burning Man.

This year, it’s a dozen.

For 9 days in the desert, that ain’t bad.

The good news is the outfits only take up TWO travel bins and are already pre-sorted and pre-organized into individual Ziploc bags so each bag equals one outfit, complete with jewelry and accessories.

The bad news is that it’s taking more time than I anticipated to find everything and organize it into bags.

I’ve got three weeks left to complete my packing though, so I’m in good shape.

I decided to get a pseudo quinceañera dress for my collection.

Something fluffy and transparent, but not too bulky:

And. . .

. . . it’s PINK!

In case you haven’t noticed, I NEVER wear pink.

So this signifies a big change for me and believe it or not, I’m looking forward to pairing the dress with some pink sneakers (I don’t do heels on the playa anymore) and a tiara set:

It’s definitely not the most festive of quincañera dresses, but it’s pretty floofy without having any glitter, beading, or sequins on it – and that’s EXACTLY what I’m looking for in a MOOP-free quinceañera dress.

The pickle pouch

5681db484a9d8b0c63101aa9877d1722I have a love-hate relationship with condoms.

On the one hand I love what they do – prevent unintended pregnancy and the transmission of nasty old STDs.

On the other hand I hate for they feel – like I’m trying to pick up a dime with rubber gloves on.  There’s not much sensation.

But recently, I read MyLifeOnMatchAndMore’s enthusiastic blog post on “For the Love of Lube” and I couldn’t help but follow her link to Lucky Bloke, who sells variety packs of condoms and lube.

(Incidentally lube (Gun Oil) is something I have ALWAYS loved)

It started me thinking.  Maybe the next generation of condoms are superior to the ones I’m used to.  Maybe, just maybe I can learn to love condoms again.

Lucky Bloke has several awesome variety packs available:

  1. Non latex – For the sensitive among us.
  2. Smaller fit – For those challenged in the cock department (just remember size doesn’t matter?).
  3. Standard – For the average man.
  4. Mixed sizes – When you don’t know what size you are.
  5. Japanese Ultra thin – The very best in ultra thin.
  6. Flavored – Really?  Why?  Nevermind.
  7. Ultra thin – Ultra thin.  ‘Nuff said.
  8. Pleasure shaped – Condoms aren’t just ribbed anymore.
  9. Textured – like wearing an argyle sweater on your cock.

Maybe I can learn to love condoms a little more and hate them a little less.

 

REPOST from Feb 2014: Christmas hams

I reached down and cupped his @ss. I even gave him a little squeeze. My insides got all happy.

jellyBelly 162

“Your butt is like two chicken cutlets,” I remarked.

“Chicken cutlets?? What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means you have a perfect man butt,” I smiled.

“I’ve got a girl butt. It’s like two Christmas hams. You have chicken cutlets and I have Christmas hams.” I joked.

I bent over and showed him I had split the seam in my workout pants.

“You should never wear pants designed for chicken cutlets when you’ve got Christmas hams,” I laughed.

“I like Christmas hams” he said, “Christmas hams are tasty!”

Sequins and pearls and beads, oh my!

There’s a quinceañera party for the village (it’s turning 15 years old) and I need to come up with a quinceañera outfit for a quinceañera happy hour party.

Ironically enough, I have a grape-colored quinceañera dress in my costume bins.

I wore it to a wedding at unSCruz that was inspired by the movie Labyrinth.

I paired it with delicate silver wings, hair jewels, and a delicate silver choker..

It seemed like the perfect dress at the time – big, floofy, and very very bejeweled.

Which brings me to the problem I’m running into:

Bejeweled dresses are at high risk for mooping.

So I can’t wear my current quinceañera dress on the playa.

I need something else.

Also?

Quinceañera dresses are notorious for taking up tons of space in storage, so I’m not thrilled that I’ll be packing a dress that takes up TONS OF SPACE in my travel bins.

And quite frankly, quinceañera dresses are not the most flattering type of dress for my body type.

Take a nice curvy body and throw a shit ton of fabric at it and you get a cupcake.

In that order, those are my quinceañera dress concerns:  MOOP, space, and flattering cut.

I do happen to have a white dress (for White Wednesday) that I might be able to repurpose into some sort of quinceañera-like dress, though it won’t be as fluffy or fancy.

To make up for it, I’m thinking I’ll wear a crown or a tiara – both common practices at quinceañera parties – and call it a costume.

I’m not thrilled that it’s white.

White seems awfully bridal and when you add a tiara, the results are very. . . ahem, nuptial.

Also?

I’m worried about the crown losing it’s jewels on the playa.

More MOOP!

This is what I struggle with – trying to make a non-MOOPY costume out of an inherently MOOPY activity.

 

The Silver Lining

There’s always a silver lining, or so they say.

It seems unspeakably wrong to have anything good come out of an active shooter situation.

The tragic loss of life and the incredible suffering of those affected by the horror of the shootings at the Garlic Festival far outweigh any positive outcome I could mention.

But I’ll mention it anyway.

People have come out of the woodwork to tell me how much they love me.

Just today, I got a video chat from my friend Michelle telling me how much she loves me and how glad she is that I’m safe.

My boys hugged me like they haven’t seen me in years.

I got calls from longtime friends asking how I’m doing and do I need to talk.

Nadine took me out to dinner Wednesday night.

It was the first time I’d seen her since the shooting.

I hugged her like time would never end.

Barbara called me up in tears, so worried that I came that close to an active shooter.

Everyone is so thankful that the new guy and I left early and weren’t there for the shooting.

It’s enough to make a grown woman cry.

And I did.

In the wake of the shooting (and The Swede’s engagement), I find myself comfortably cocooned in the love and affection of my friends and family, making a difficult week somewhat bearable.

Out of necessity, I think we all inhabit a place where life is less tentative and fragile than it is, until something happens to shock us out of our fog and make us aware that life is fleeting.

I’m living in that space right now.

Our capacity for causing pain is enormous.

All you need to do is read the headline news.

But it is surpassed by our ability to love, help, comfort and provide joy.

In the end, once I’ve moved through this painful place, that is what I’ll take away.

Enslaved

To say I’ve had a rough week is putting it mildly.

It’s been pure crap and I can’t wait for the week to be over with.

I’ve been struggling with survivor guilt, but also struggling with feeling like I’m not allowed to be upset because I wasn’t there for the shooting.

Needless to say, my mental health is not as robust as it usually is.

I keep circling back and thinking about the festival.

Can you imagine how I’d be doing if I’d heard the shots and had to run?

Or if I’d been at ground zero for the attack?

I’d be a WRECK!

I’ve been wondering how I’m going to make it through the week when something happened.

A life event update on Facebook.

The Swede is ENGAGED.

Not just dating someone, but actually engaged.

Hmmmmm.

Finally.

Something less upsetting to think about than the shooting.

I’m not gonna lie.

I was surprised.

I had to use Google Translate to figure out that The Swede was engaged.

FYI, the word for ‘engaged’ in Swedish translates to ‘ENSLAVED’ in English.

LOL