#1: Weird guy who wanted to be my friend and thinks that the dark circles around my eyes might mean my boyfriend is beating me seems to have gotten the hint about my not responding to his messages. Haven’t heard from him in a few weeks. I feel relieved.

#2: I don’t know if 32DD is my bra size but it is definitely better than 36C. I can’t believe I’ve spent the last fifteen years pulling my straps back up every ten minutes thinking that it was just the way it was. I feel relieved.

It is SNOWING. Please make it stop.

This calls for some optimistic spring cleaning in a desperate attempt to save my sanity.

Except, I’m realizing how ridiculous my ex was – well even more ridiculous. He had a thing for buying in bulk and sales. It’s been over five years since we broke up. And even with dividing pantry supplies, and that I cook and bake a lot, I still have a ridiculous amount of cinnamon, soy sauce, ginger, tarragon, curry powder, nutmeg, cardamon, poppy seeds, yeast. . .

Photo by raniel diaz on flickr

It’s kind of nice when Spring purging also purges ghosts of the Ex.

We’ve all heard that most women are walking around in the wrong size bra. Lately, I have come to suspect that I may be one of them. My straps are always falling off my shoulder and despite having a pretty decently sized rack, the girls seem to disappear under clothes.

It should have registered earlier. A couple years ago when I had my handful of flings, I think all the guys told me they were “pleasantly surprised” when they saw what I had hiding in there.

I’ve always been (read: always worn) a 36C.

Photo by Lingerie Addict on flickr

So I just went through a bunch of online bra size measuring guides. I’m not too sure how helpful an exercise this has been other than the fact that none came up with 36C. According to the various calculators, I am a size:

  • 30DDD
  • 32D
  • 32FF
  • 32G
  • 34B
  • 34E
  • 34F
  • 36A

I think I’ve discovered why it is so many women are wearing the “wrong” size. But next time I am bra shopping I will be grabbing more than my standard 36C to take into the dressing room.

I’ve been living alone now for five years. No family. No roommate. No live-in boyfriend. And it can be pretty awesome.

But every once in a while, that popularly mongered fear of the highly unlikely event that a man will break in and attack me in the middle of the night takes hold of me.

There was that one night where I heard a group of men outside on my fire-escape arguing about how best to break in. When I finally built up the courage to yell out the window from another room, I realized it was my neighbour and a bunch of drunk friends trying to break into his apartment, not mine.

The other night, I was having trouble sleeping. Daylight savings always messes with my sleep. So I loaded up an episode of Shameless on my laptop. I rested it on my bedside table and curled up under the duvet hoping I would drift off. It was very very late.

Jump… I thought I heard a sound behind me, just outside my bedroom.

Nah… I shift my attention back to the show.

Jump… Again. I’m sure it must just be my neighbours.

But I’ve never heard that much noise or that unmuffled a noise come through the walls.

I might be starting to freak myself out at this point. But bedtime logic dictates that if I stay under the covers, I’ll be safe.

The show finishes. I really need to go pee. I really don’t want to get out from under the covers.

Pee wins over fear. I get up out of bed. Throw on my robe and decide I’m not going to be able to pee in peace if I don’t investigate and make sure the boogey man isn’t hiding somewhere in the apartment. It’s not bravery. I know he’s not there. But I better check. Just in case.

I start at the front door. Holy shit. I forgot to lock the door. I never forget to lock the door. I regain my resolve and courage and continue the rounds of the apartment. I convince myself that if someone is here, I’d rather be on my two feet with options for escape than helplessly trapped in my room. I check all the dark corners. Clear. Off to the bathroom and then back to bed.

I pull the duvet up close under my chin. My heart still pounding. Obviously unwilling to accept the rational conclusion that I have verified and there is most definitely no one else in the house. My heart continues to pound as I take a deep breath and tell myself to relax. This is silly.

Suddenly, leaping out of the dark and landing square on top of me….
HOLY FUCKING SHIT… I KNEW IT… I KNEW IT…

 

 

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.

 

 

.

 

 

Stupid evil cat.

I met this guy through a friend of a friend. We had an interesting chat and he reached out later to ask if I’d like to hangout. It’s hard to find cool and interesting people, he noted. I knew I had mentioned RD a few times in our initial chat but thought it best to restate the fact that I’m in a relationship before agreeing to hanging out.

It’s strange because over the past few years I’ve certainly had moments of realizing I need to refill my friend roster and making efforts to connect with people I think are neat. I’ve also been on the receiving end and had several people reach out to me looking to try me on as a friend. It’s just that time of life where a lot of things can break up your circle of friends – graduate and school friends move away, breakup and lose friends in the fallout, friends getting married and have less time for you, etc.

But the truth is none of the attempts to consciously make someone a friend has worked, in either direction. It usually leads to a couple of coffees or lunches and then a handful of txts trying to coordinate the next get together that just never seems to get solidified and then the txts stop. It seriously feels like dating. Which makes a certain amount of sense.

But here’s my question: What’s the equivalent I’m-just-not-that-into-you blow off to “maybe we can just be friends” when the point is you don’t want to be friends?

We’ve hung out three times so far. He seems to think I’m the cat’s pajamas. It feels like he’s been interviewing me for a friendship placement and I’ve passed but I don’t see it working for me. I think I need to break it off. He just exhausts me. I feel him sucking the life out of me. He seems pumped up by the time we part and I’m completely drained.

Admittedly, I am not a master of social interactions. I’m often quite awkward and uncomfortable but there are sometimes when someone says something in a social setting that just makes you scratch your head and wonder if they can possibly be that clueless.

Yesterday, he says to me:

You say you get lots of sleep. Last time we got together, I noticed really dark circles around your eyes and didn’t know how to ask. So I asked a friend “How do you ask a girl about dark circles around her eyes?”

Apparently his friend gave him bad advice. The correct answer is… DON’T.

It’s just that they were really dark. I thought you might have a black eye. Like I was wondering if your boyfriend hits you.

OK, now you’re telling me you think the bags under my eyes were bad enough to be mistaken for black eyes AND that without knowing me very well or my boyfriend at all, you’re jumping to the conclusion that my boyfriend hits me.

You might want to shut up now. Please shut up.

To answer your concern: That was three weeks ago, I don’t remember what my eyes looked like or if I had slept properly the night before. Yes, I, like most people, often have bags under my eyes. There are several possibilities why they were SO dark. (A) I am fair-skinned which means the darkness is more likely to show through and the contrast is especially noticeable (B) Maybe I didn’t sleep well. I have a sleeping disorder afterall. (C) I often don’t wear makeup so it’s possible I wasn’t covering it up like most women do so you’re just not used to seeing what naturally most women have or maybe I was wearing makeup and rubbed my eyes and smudged it.

And as for suspicions that I was being abused, yes, I would want to know someone would speak up but you don’t go throwing suspicions like that around with nothing more behind them than “your eyes looked dark and puffy”.

So you may or may not have missed the first part Last night: Hanging out with the kid. You may or may not want to go back and read it first. Totally up to you.

I was a pretty popular babysitter back in high school. It may have had something to do with my tendency to leave homes or at least the play rooms cleaner than when I got there. I have a bit of an obsession about tidy rooms that I manage to keep under control when other people are around, but leave me in a messy room all alone and I can’t be held responsible.

A little secret: RD and I don’t exactly have the same housekeeping ethic.

RDjr was in bed. I was exhausted. It was only 2.5 hours with her but to be fair I had gone for a 5k run just before going over. RD would be back in about half an hour. Time to relax a bit. But that thing I mentioned above, it’s kind of something that keeps me from relaxing. In order to avoid intruding on his space I went for the innocuous emptying and filling of the dishwasher to pass the time and satiate my cleaning bug.

Pulled out my book to fill the rest of the time. About a paragraph in, RD comes in. We grabbed a couple beers, he put on a record, and we settled in on the couch for some quality hang out.

I love our beer/music/couch hang outs. We catch up on each other’s past few days. We debate something in the news. He helps me brainstorm ideas for projects. When we first started dating, this was pretty much all we did. Almost two years later, we still talk for hours like this a couple times per week.

9pm: It’s been a pretty crazy couple days. Car broke down. Some pretty serious band-related drama. I should probably get to be early. Maybe one beer each and share a third.

9:30: Can I get you another beer?

10pm: Another beer?

11pm: I should probably make RDjr lunch while we get our next beer.

12am: Maybe we should share this last beer.

1am: I know we agreed the last beer would be the last beer, but maybe we should share just one more.

2am: Hmm… I have a thought. RDjr is pretty slow getting up in the morning. I think maybe you should spend the night. I’m sure you can get up and out before she comes out. Want to stay?

Oh good. Because I really should have gone home after the last beer. I’m half asleep already.

There’s something wonderful about collapsing into bed together utterly exhausted by a great night together. Even without sex.

I mentioned recently that on his dad weeks our hang outs seemed to be getting cut shorter and shorter. But the last two rounds of daddy weeks we’ve squeezed in at least one late night and now one sleepover (still with bum’s rush in the morning but…).

Shortly after writing those few posts, we were out for a dog walk and I brought up how it kind of sucks walking over, especially in this unending bloody cold winter, and only getting to hang out for an hour or so. He didn’t really respond at the time but his actions the last few weeks seem to imply he heard me.

This did happen once before over a year ago but that time was an exception. I think last night might be his way of approaching/suggesting a new pattern. Quite a few of the steps in our relationship have required large amounts of beer.

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