Dry Spell

It’s been a dry spring for me.

And by dry, I mean no dates.

Not that I’ve given up, mind you – just that I haven’t been actively pursuing dates like I did in the past.

It felt like I had a date every day of the week.

I lived on Tinder and POF.

Now?

Not so much.

I’ve given up the ghost of internet dating.

All I seem to find are porn addicts, foot worshipers, and men who want to have anal sex with me.

The pickings are pretty slim, if you ask me.

I can’t remember the last time I met someone authentic through one of those sites.

But there is The Swede.

I got lucky with him.

And by lucky, I mean that he is an amazing man.

It’s too bad he lives 5,000 miles away.

I’ve been getting out a lot anyway.

My friends make sure I stay busy and have fun with or without a date.

Mostly what I miss?

The flirtation.

Oh, I’d die to make eyes with someone from across the room all night long.

Or spend the night making clever flirty conversation with a man.

And let me tell you, I MISS KISSING.

And other things. . .

But we’re not going there because talking about it JUST MAKES IT WORSE.

My last relationship ended over 4 years ago and I figure it’s about time to usher in a new chapter of my life where I find someone amazing and couple up with him.

It is seriously time for this dry spell to END!

Ms. Jones

It is rather ironic. I should identify with some wonderfully successful, bright, clever young woman like Amal Clooney, but instead I identify with the character Bridget Jones – the ever-so-slightly-plus-size, funny, awkward heroine in Helen Fielding’s novels.

Why?

 

I’ve given this quite some thought and I’ve begun to realize that Bridget Jones and I have many similarities:

  1. She likes to go around naked in her paddling pool. I like to go around naked in my pool.
  2. We both are enamored of Mr. Darcy. Granted, her Mark Darcy was a human rights barrister, and my Mark Darcy is a character in a Jane Austen novel, but you get the picture.
  3. We are both, ahem, plus-sized. Although unlike Bridget Jones, I embrace my curves.
  4. We both have intimate relationships with bottles of wine.
  5. We both are attracted to really shabby guys.
  6. I too hate going to parties where I’m the only single.
  7. Like Bridget, I begin each year with boundless optimism but trouble always seems to find me.
  8. I am always on a journey of self-improvement.
  9. She writes a diary. I write a blog. ‘Nuff said.
  10. My professional life is one long fumble-save, just like hers.
  11. I flirt all day. With people who read this blog. You know who you are.
  12. I never feel like I’m the intellectual equal of everyone in the room.
  13. We both need a career change.
  14. My big plans never quite make it to fruition.
  15. I too use 4-letter words liberally.
  16. I’m also waiting for someone who likes me, just the way I am.

So there you have it, the reasons why I am like Bridget Jones. Because   no matter how hard I try, I always seem to not quite achieve what I set out to achieve. And it takes a pretty evolved sense of humor to find the beauty (and the humor) in that.

Hence…. unblunder.

 

Put your money where your mouth is

Well, I did it.

I bought my Freddie Mercury costume.

Incidentally, in case you’re wondering what the hardest part about crafting this costumes is, it’s finding those freaking white track pants with the red side stripe.

Red track pants with white side stripe, no problem.

But white with red?

Not so easy.

Turns out, I had to buy baseball pants to get what I need.

I mean yes, that red stripe should be wider, but I can’t be too picky for this costume or it’ll never be completed.

I also got a lovely white t-shirt with a v-neck to go with it.

And, just to be as realistic as I can be considering I’m a blond woman with breasts and a pussy and not a Persian man from Zanzibar with chest hair and a mustache, I got some hairy accessories to go with:

Of course, this outfit would be COMPLETELY incomplete without this:

I swear, it gives me chills just thinking about slipping on this costume.  I can’t wait to pair it all with the LED light up white sneakers:

They’re not quite Freddie Mercury style but they are burner style and so I’m going to wear them to complete the outfit.

Can’t wait for my birthday now and the chance to wear my costume!

Bohemian Rhapsody

So I’ve got this BRILLIANT idea for my birthday party.

It’s on November 2nd, when the Freddie Mercury biopic movie called Bohemian Rhapsody comes out.

And I’m thinking that’s the PERFECT reason to have an 80s party – starting with the movie and ending at a dance club.

I mean, when I was asked what person I’d most want to spend a day with at Burning Man, my answer was Freddy Mercury.

And the person, living or dead, I’d most like to see in concert?

Freddie Mercury!

Again!

I just love Freddie Mercury.

Can you tell?

So, it goes without saying that I will DRESS UP LIKE FREDDIE MERCURY.

There are so many outfits out there to choose from but the one I like the most has a yellow jacket and striped white track pants.

Oh, be still my heart!

How much I can’t wait to cross dress as Freddie Mercury!

The only thing I’m sort of neglecting to mention is that my birthday isn’t for another 5 months.

So I’m A BIT ahead of schedule.

Even for me!

In the pale

I am a white girl.

And as far as white girls go, I’m on the lower end of the scale as far as melanin production goes.

I’m fair.

I am 75% Nordic/British Isles and 25% Portuguese.

I joke that this means that I burn easily, but can hold a tan.

It’s true though.

Every summer when I was growing up, I’d slather myself in baby oil and lay out at the pool for 30 minutes.

I’d get a wicked burn which would fade into a beautiful tan.

Those were the days (before skin cancer warnings).

Briefly, I went to the tanning salon and laid in their (cancer inducing) beds and got a lovely tan as well.

But no more.

I have to be good and take care of my skin.

So, I get spray tans.

Recently, I’ve decided I’m going to try to do it myself and I bought Cocoa Brown Tan Mousse and a pink velvet glove to apply it.

[Side note:  I’m sorely tempted to use the pink velvet gloves for bedroom activities and NOT self-tanner application.]

I want to be brown like the models we see in summer ads – all long legs and golden shoulders.

I know I can’t get their bodies, but it seems unfair to deny me their color as well.

I don’t want to be pale anymore.

I want to be TAN!

And with my trip to Burning Man coming up, it’d be nice to be more bronze goddess and less pale ice queen.

[Post script:  I’ll let you know how it goes.  I bought the darkest mousse on the market so I could turn out striped like a zebra!]

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila FLOOR!

While my sister was visiting, we had the brilliant idea of making margaritas at home. I decided if we were having margaritas, we also needed to do shots and so I insisted we pick up a bottle of Patron to do shots with.

Now the thing you need to know about my sister and I growing up, is that she was the naughty one but I always got in trouble. Somehow she always managed to skate free. I claim that this is because I used to cover for her. She claims she didn’t get in trouble because she was not naughty.

LIAR!

In any case, Lisa and I were about one deep in margaritas and two deep into shots when my sister asked me for another shot.

Sure thing. Coming right up.

As I’m pouring it, my mom comes into the kitchen, looks at me and the tequila, and says, “Really Michelle? Another one?” and walks out.

I’m left standing there feeling reprimanded and indignant.

I follow her.

“Just so you know, it’s for Lisa,” I tell her.

Yes, I was a tattletale.

But I felt a whole lot better and my inner child rejoiced for not being labeled the naughty one.

Just the enabler.

Ha ha!

[What I did after 2 shots of tequila and 2 margaritas is a different post]

Leatherman

I think it’s safe to say that POF is promoting my defunct dating profile.

How do I know?

Suddenly my inbox was inundated with POF likes and messages, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

It’s a shame that when you “retire” your online dating profile, it doesn’t get officially retired.

Such a waste of time and energy.

Ironically, I had to check out one.

His name was Leatherman.

I was curious, would he be the outdoorsy type or the BDSM type?

So I clicked.

And. . .

As it turns out, NEITHER.

Guess what Leatherman is into?

Goddess

New outfit alert!

I’m going to an event where the theme is Bacchanalia.

Well, I’m not only GOING to the event, I’m helping to PRODUCE it.

It’s not until July, so I have a little time to work on my Bacchanalia costume.

It’s a little known fact that not everyone likes my playa name, Bombshell.

I was given that name by Tejas and it just stuck so I accepted it.

But a close friend of mine SWEARS that my playa name should be Goddess and so that’s what she calls me.

So you can imagine, I expect she’ll get a thrill when I actually dress the part.

I picked out a standard white maxi dress to wear:

Then I selected a crown worthy of Bacchus himself.

I think the two will be lovely together.

Add accessories – sandals, necklace, belt, and bracelets.

And voila!

We have an outfit.

Just to be complete, I threw in a faux fur white cape.

Now, the trick is going to be not being so busy with the event that I miss out on wearing my new outfit!

And of course, not repeating what happened to me the last time I wore a white goddess dress (I sprayed myself from head to toe with grape soda!).

Rude Boys

A ton of stuff is going on, but none of it is blogworthy.

I mean, there was the guy who sent me a video clip of him in slow motion slapping some chick’s ass.

Yeah, so there’s that.

Then there’s the guy I had to block on Facebook for being downright mean to me.

He’s the second person I’ve blocked.

Ever.

The first guy I blocked what a friend of a friend who I’d never actually met but since we had a friend in common I approved the add.

He promptly sent me a message asking me when the last time I had sex.

BLOCK!

I mean seriously, what is it about me that INVITES that kind of conversation?

Nothing.

That’s just a rude boy!

The second guy I blocked was a mutual friend of the common friend.

I guess amnesia set in because I thought, what the hell, I’ll try again.

Instantly, I was peppered with questions about my feet.

When I told him that wasn’t my thing and did nothing for me, he sent me a nasty message.

Obviously my feet must look OLD if I’m not willing to share a picture of them over the internet (to a virtual stranger with a foot fetish, I might add).

BLOCK!

And now I know.

Do not approve anyone as a friend who you haven’t met in person, regardless of how many mutual friends you might have.

I say this a little tongue in cheek, because as you know Rude Boys make blogging gold.

I honestly couldn’t dream up some of the things that have been suggested to me.

But seriously, once, just once, I’d like to write a blog post about a man who was thougful and kind to me instead of the opposite.

One can only hope. . .

Ticklish

Somebody has offered to tickle me.

Yes, upon reading my “Sour Toes” post, it struck him that I might enjoy being tickled.

And honestly, since I started thinking about it, I’m kind of tempted to.

You see, I’m a ticklish little thing.

I always have been.

Mind you, I’m not as bad as my sister who would start giggling if you even MENTIONED that you wanted to tickle her.

I remember as kids, making her laugh by PRETENDING I was going to tickle her.

It’s cute, really.

So the question is, do I want to do it?

I am curious, what happens when you get tied down and someone tickles you way past the breaking point?

Do you gasp for air?

Curl up in the fetal position?

What exactly is the conclusion of TICKLING?

Maybe it’s an orgasm.

For sure, there must be a lot of lovely endorphins running through you body after tickling.

I would think all that squirming and all that laughing would definitely lead to a seriously awesome natural high.

And maybe that’s the appeal of it for a lot of people – sensation that brings on euphoria.

It could be interesting.

I might have to report back what I find out.

Does tickling make you gasp for air or does it give you an orgasm?

Only time will tell. . .