This is sort of like a Rorschach inkblot.

I provide the picture:

You provide the caption. (you have to comment for this)

Most video tapes were damaged in 2047 during the second coming of Jesus.

When it comes to reading other people I think most people take for granted on where people's hands are placed.
Hands are two of the most important things when reading what other people are feeling.
When you think about it, a hand can hurt, it can heal, it can feed you, and it can starve you.
By simply holding up your hand you can tell someone you don't want to be talked too. If you hold your hand up and take away four fingers someone knows you are pissed at them.
Its an instant reaction to the rest of your body if your hands get near something hot, or cold. They warn you whats coming when you are in complete darkness. They get out smudges on shirts, dirt on window ledges, and crust on your eye, because you know, you can always wash them later and they'll be as good as new. They are universal tools.

I went out to the bars on Saturday night.
I was in a wine mood but I went to a bar with Amanda who doesn't usually like to "sit and watch" people but be flirtatious and wild with everyone. She had 7 or 8 people who "I had to become friends with immediately" and I found myself being forced into social butterfly-ness.
It was fine, I ended up talking to a regular from the Black Sparrow for the most part. At least, until Amanda came up to me and said, "Aw, you two make the cutest couple!"
This was done for two reasons:
One, I'm pretty sure that Amanda does have a crush on him.
Two, Amanda is one of the biggest advocate of "QSW should break up once and for all with Mr. Lust."
Tie the two together, it's only natural that she would say something that would end our conversation and make me move to a different table. The situation ended up with me at one table and Amanda at a different table.
Instead of sipping wine and watching people.
I was sipping Bud Light and watching Amanda.
The way Amanda holds herself says everything about the way she likes or dislikes you.
Her hands are the key.
Every single guy walking out of Hunter's Pub Saturday night probably thought Amanda had a crush on them. In reality, probably two of them were right.
She would whisper in their ears, put her arms around them, hug them, kiss them on the cheek, but she only liked two.
When Amanda was talking with Bachelor #1 she had his complete attention. She was faced forward to him, her body twisted towards him which made her boobs look huge and her waist small, her legs crossed and half way under the table making them appear longer than what they were, but her hand... it was placed as far away as possible from her. It was a trap, waiting for a possible victim, so she could get away from the man she obviously didn't want to talk too.
Well, obvious to me anyway.
There was a shuffling of tables soon after and someone on the bench that Amanda was sitting on, scooted towards her. I watched, and sure enough he sat on her hand.
Immediate apologies happened on both sides, and wham, Amanda had turn towards Bachelor #2 and had her arm hooked inside his in a matter of moments. Her hand on his shoulder, her other hand on his leg. Annnnnd ...Bachelor #1 had noticed his drink for the first time in a half hour.
I watched her as she got all of #2's undivided attention and then suddenly #2 was buying her a shot. After the shot was bought and drank, there was visibly a gap between the two of them, her hand placed away from herself again and you could see #2 trying to fill it by leaning in closer.
No use, she excused herself to the bathroom.
I got a phone call and didn't see what she did for a bit.
When I turned back to the table, she was sitting by the regular I had been talking to earlier. I had my suspicions that she liked him and she proved me right. She had placed one hand on the table, and one behind his neck and she was leaning in close to him. When she leaned in her boobs were on display and she didn't even need a waist or legs at that point. When I glanced back later, she had managed to throw one of her legs over his lap as almost an anchor to hold him there, and she had just bought him a drink.
#3 was totally winning for the affection of Amanda.
I got tied up in a conversation with a guy I had no desire to talk too, so I tried Amanda's method. One hand, far away.
Not only did I have a shot bought for me, but right afterwards, someone sat on my hand.
Problem was I didn't want to talk to that person either.
On Quietly Sipping Wine nights, a rowdy bar isn't the place for it. Especially when you are sitting at a table(s) with mostly men.
At least this one was cuter.
Amanda showed up out of nowhere.
"Are you talking to my George?" she asked.
She had one hand placed on his chest and the other one wrapped around the back of his head and on his cheek. I looked and #3 was gone, either home or bathroom.
I smiled and said, "I had no idea he was a taken man, my apologies."
She smiled back, genuine, and said, "For you, I guess I can share."
A smart man would have leaned back and said "Isn't that sweet?" or "Can't I make a decision myself?" George was very naive though.
George, which isn't his real name, placed an arm around Amanda and the back of my chair and said, "At the same time?"
Yuck.
Amanda's smile was unfaltering but the quick glance at me said it all, "What a creep."
That's when she decided to make him pay.
In shots.
"Oh George, QSW and I don't do threesomes, it's against our religion!" she said, with another quick glance at me that said, "Play along."
I tried her method again.
I hooked one arm around his and placed my hand on his shoulder, the other I placed on his leg, "Yes, it has to be one at a time, we don't want to give you a heart attack," I said almost in his ear but loud enough for Amanda to hear.
She laughed, but made it into a laugh that seemed to be directed at him, as if he made the joke.
He was obviously eating up every word, because in the next moment he had his arm around my waist. I allowed it to be there, for the moment.
"Now ladies, I'm a man who can handle both of you!" he said, literally puffing his chest out.
She and I giggled, and glanced at each other, we almost had him.
"QSW, where is your drink?" Amanda asked wide-eyed.
"Over there," I said, "I can't drink it now."
"Why not?" George said, confused.
"Because, someone could have put something in it without me knowing it, " I said, putting my hand on his chest, "There are so many creeps out there."
I glanced at Amanda, she smiled because the glance meant "Just like the one we are talking too!"
"Aw... who would do that two a couple of pretty girls like you?" George said pulling both of us towards him.
I bit back saying "People like you," and said, "I think I'm going to go get another drink."
"Why don't I just buy the both of you a shot?" he said, puffing out his chest again.
Both Amanda and I laid our hands on his chest and Amanda said, "Really?! What of?!"
George was done for.
We took the shot, talked to him a little more, and then moved on.
Exhausting work for just a shot and I kind of felt like I was a vampire out of an Anne Rice novel.

Amanda rarely pays for more than 3 beers when she goes out on the town.
I normally pay for all of mine plus shots I buy for friends.
I realize that I could get away with what Amanda gets away with, but at the same time I'd rather enjoy my time out instead of searching for the next victim to get me a shot.

But, fun to watch, and still, fun to do once in awhile.
;-)

So I was sitting here watching Blade Runner...

... when I realized that my hair stylist was trying to get my hair to look like Daryl Hannah's hair in the movie. Too bad I didn't have the right eye shadow to go with it.
Who has a name like Daryl?
A crazy-hair, one-eye loving, mermaid... that's who.

Harrison Ford is so hot, even hanging from a steel beam.
Anyway.

Monday night was interesting. I went to the Black Sparrow, sat down, had a drink bought for me by the lovely HG and settled in for a long evening.
That just wasn't the case when NotIndian walked in.
NotIndian and D-Bag.
Regulars at the Black Sparrow.
Friends of the owner.
D-Bag really is known as the "Douchebag" and NotIndian is known as "The guy that no one knows why he hangs around with D-Bag, because he seems nice."

NI and D-Bag ask me to sit with them. Sure, they've always tipped me well, why not? D-Bag starts in on how he wants my friend Amanda. Sure, who doesn't? NI starts telling me how hot I am.
Ok, what?
What was flattering at first turns out to be a drunk NotIndian deciding that he's got the hots for me. "Ok, no big deal, it happens to everyone, I've had the hots for someone who hasn't returned it to me," I thought "I'll let him down nicely."
He told me he loved me a couple more times and that I was the sexiest thing and that he wanted me and right about the time I was going to start saying "Ease off buddy," D-bag comes back to the table and he distracts NI.
I walk away from the table and laughingly tell LeggyBlonde what just happened.
Amanda calls me and asks me what I'm doing. I tell her and she asks me to meet up with her at Knickerbocker. I go back to the table collect my stuff and I leave. And 5 minutes later (as I'm walking there) NotIndian catches up with me.
"Can I hold your hand?"
"No, why?"
"I just want to touch you. You are so beautiful."

I walk inside the Knickerbocker and sit down. He sits across from me.
Oh boy.
I sit for a few minutes chatting with him trying to explain to him that I have a boyfriend and he has a girlfriend when Amanda walks towards the door. She slows, sees something off to her left, turns, and walks away again.
Moments later D-bag walks in.
Great, Amanda is gone for the night. You'd have to know her as well as I do, to understand that so well, that you don't even bother calling her.
D-bag walks up to the table, and I invite him to sit.
NotIndian asks him to leave.
I invite him to sit.
NotIndian gets up and leaves momentarily.
D-bag looks at me with a "Whats going on?" look.
I shrug and look exasperated.
D-bag goes to the bar (the only time I've regretted him leaving) and NotIndian comes back with drinks.
Shit.
"You know, I tend to make better choices the more drunk I get. In fact, when I feel drunk, I will just turn and run."
"I don't care, you are beautiful."
"How is your girlfriend?"
"Good, I'm on the marriage track with her, but I read somewhere that people can only give you 80% of what you need."
"I don't even want to know where you are getting the other 20%"
"You don't understand human sexuality."
"I don't?"
"No, but you are incredibly sexy," he says almost entirely to my breasts.
(I don't say anything after that, what do I say to that?)
"Tell me something."
"Tell you something?"
"About me."
"You have a girlfriend named Christine and her number is in my phone."
"No, something that you want to do to me."
(I just sat and looked at him, a complete loss of words considering there was nothing I wanted to do to him)
"I just want to put my semen inside of you."
"Excuse me?"
"Are you ovulating?"
"I, really, couldn't tell you." (pure sarcastic reaction, but he took it seriously)
"Are you menstrating?"
"Wow, dude, I hope you understand that I'm not going to sleep with you, ever."
"Don't say that, What if I break up with my girlfriend, even if it's only for a few days? Will you have a threesome with us?"

I drained the rest of my drink, because for some reason, I work in the opposite manner everyone else does. When I'm sober, I make really bad decisions and when I'm drunk I usually make the right decision.
Example: I had already entertained him for 45 minutes sober and apparently he was getting off just by me sitting there (which was the wrong decision), and drunk, I stood up in mid-sentence from him, turned, and walked out the door(which is the right one).
I stood up and on my way out, I asked my roommate (who was there on a date) to come with me. I apologized to his date, who didn't seem to mind leaving, and we left together.
We went back to the Black Sparrow, where I knew people, and who I knew would enjoy the story.
My roommate and date went and sat down at a table and I sat next to Magic and LeggyBlonde. I started to tell them what happened, when Magic got a look on his face and suddenly looked down at his magazine.
"He's here isn't he."
Magic just nodded.
I turned around and sure enough NotIndian was standing there grinning.
G. Damn.
This time he started in on comments which I didn't hear. I was in panic mode.
I knew there was a back door into the alleyway which I saw as my only option. I didn't really want to be followed into the alleyway though, that seemed dangerous.
While NotIndian was momentarily distracted by HG, I leaned over to Magic and asked him to have LeggyBlonde take my purse into the kitchen.
I went back to "talking" to NotIndian.
I excused myself to go to the bathroom and I noticed my purse wasn't on the back of my chair.
I went into the bathroom and stood there for a few moments before turning off the light and peeking outside. NI had his head turned away from me.
I ran for the kitchen.
I felt very "secret agent man" but I also felt there wasn't another option. I didn't know how the owner would react to me ripping off one of NI's balls in the middle of the bar. Especially since NI was a friend of his.
Moments later LB entered with my purse in her hand.
She asked me if I was ok and if I was ok to get out to my car and I told her I was.
Then I left, I walked slowly to the end of the alleyway and then ran to my car.

Tonight (Wednesday) Amanda called me because she wants to go out for drinks.
No thanks. I'm going to sit here and be schooled on understanding Blade Runner with Mr. Lust.

Mr. Lust: Watch this, seriously, QSW.
QSW: Tears in the rain?
Mr. Lust: Babe, you missed the whole thing. (re-winds)
QSW: I still don't understand why he just died.
Mr. Lust: It was the end of his 4 years! This is movie-making magic!
QSW: I would hate for my last words to be "Tears in the rain."
Mr. Lust: Ugghghhhhhhh! Its suppose to be poetic!
QSW: A movie about a guy chasing androds and killing them is suppose to have a poetic ending in it?
Mr. Lust: Yes! This is it! He says he's seen more but it's all gone like tears in the rain!
QSW: And then he dies.
Mr. Lust: Yes.
QSW: Do you want me to cry or something?
Mr. Lust: No! Just feel more emotion for it!
QSW: Can we talk about when you watched Notting Hill with me?
Mr. Lust: You win.



Mr. Lust's.

Mine.

Kicked him in the p**** (so google won't find it)

I laughed like no one should laugh at this.

Try a half of bottle of wine and then watching this, I promise the effects will be different.

I need to write a good blog post here, my co-workers have asked me too, but I haven't gotten a chance yet... it'll come soon, I promise ALEX!
;)

Why comment? Just Google it!

So Leggy Blonde's stalker from Weston, Michigan has now searched my site for:
confusing interest/concern/fair-use for stalking
I think this mysterious person is trying to send me a message, via searching my site... to show he's concerned for LB.... or interested?

Does anyone find this creepy other than me?

If you are concerned for LB, don't be. She's doing quite alright, and every time I see her she has a huge grin on her face. In fact, I somewhat miss her cynical side that we use to share, she seems to be all happiness and her cynicism has melted away. How does that happen? I'm happy and still very, very cynical. Maybe I should be a New Yorker.
***************************

I have more to say here, but I have to drive to Indy to pick up some dancers at the airport, I'll add more here later.

Matter of Mind over Meter.

I watched the meter move in a circular motion around until it disappeared.
Moments later it reappeared and then disappeared again.
I wondered how many times it had been rotating since I had arrived that morning.
I opened the book of matches in my hand and lit one.
After lighting my cigarette I threw the match into the bucket and it made a small hiss as it hit the water inside.
The meter had gone around three more times since I had lit the match.
I noticed the book of matches for the first time as I inhaled.
Poetry was written on the inside of it.
Julie.
Julie was a bar regular and when she had no one to talk too, she would write things inside of matchbooks at the bar.
It reminded me of a song I had once heard that went something like, "and there's a matchbook in her purse, where she writes down her poetry."
That was Julie, or Jules, as I called her when I couldn't read her handwriting the first time I had noticed her poetry.
I think it adds character to the bar.
Just like the doorman who made chalk drawings while he checked IDs.
10 more times the meter went around.
I wasn't even half way through my cigarette.
I wondered what time it was.
It didn't matter, I'd be there until close anyway, I should be worried about when everyone would leave.
Still, since I had arrived at 10 that morning, I wondered if I had hit the 15 hour mark.
I counted in my head in time with the meter.
It would have to be 1 am if I had been here 15 hours.
Yea, I had hit that mark.
Cigarette was half way done, my break wouldn't be too much longer.
I dreaded going inside.
A gust of wind blew a hair across my cheek. It was as if God was trying to pat my cheek to tell me I could do it.
It would only be another 3 hours at most. The night air felt good on my face and hands. They seemed to be on fire with the exertion of lifting boxes and the Red Bull and Jägermeister running through my veins.
I had taken 3 shots so far.
In my head I figured out the units of alcohol against my body mass.
I must be drunk.
I felt slap happy.
I need to go away, even for a day, and tell no one.
My own secret.
I realized that my leg had fallen asleep and I was still staring directly at the meter. I moved and it seemed as if I moved back into reality with the shift of my weight.
The music inside pounded like the heartbeat of a runner.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Someone opened the kitchen door and the music grew louder before softening again with the shut of the door.
How many people would make bad decisions tonight because of Red Bull and Jägermeister?
"Not me," said the little red hen.
What a lie. The red hen should have a scarlet "A" tattooed on her chest.
My cigarette was about to go out.
I straightened my back. It popped twice.
I stretched my legs and my ankle popped. It hurt, and I could continuously pop it if I wanted too.
An old skiing accident that I never fixed and my right ankle would always pop on demand because of it.
I threw my cigarette into the bucket.
Hiss.
I craned my neck around to the door.
Pop.
I opened the door.
Boom. Boom.
My break was 49 silent turns of the meter.

If you find yourself short of breath, stressed out, tried, achey and physically exhausted, I suggest leave town.
Drive for awhile.
Drive to the nearest city.
Rent a hotel room.
Preferably one with a spa.
Eat a nice meal with a bottle of wine.
Relax in the hot tub.
Go to bed.

Tomorrow everything will seem so easy and amazing.

Now....

Now... you are just fucking with me.

Who searches "making out feel penis blogspot?"


People from Texas, that's who.


BOOOYAAA!

Searching for Leggy Blonde

So, ever since the below post, my blog has been searched and rifled through repeatedly.
People from all over are suddenly going extensively through my archived posts plus searching for things like "Leggy Blonde" in every single archive.
Mr./Mrs. Whoever from Michigan, Westland, United States, has apparently decided to stalk "Leggy Blonde" on my blog.
She has stalkers in real life and blog life now. Creepy.

Mr./Mrs. Whoever from Texas, Mcallen, United States has read up on all my archives by searching for "quietly sipping wine" in Google.

Mr./Mrs. Whoever from Minnesota, St. Paul, United States and Ford Motor Company in Michigan, Dearborn, United States searched "quietly sipping wine" in Google.

Someone in the Netherlands e-mailed my "Paolo Nutini" post to a friend who clicked on the link from his/her e-mail.

Someone from the US searched "Stupid Penis" and found my blog, which comes up as number one in Google. Special.

Someone from Ohio, Columbus, United States searched "Perfect Penis" using Netscape.

Someone from Europe searched "Action Movie Penis" and found my blog.


Does my blog scream Penis?
Maybe I should name my blog Quietly Sipping Penis.

WTF Mate?

AHHHHH MOTHERLAND!

If you haven't seen that, it's priceless.



Anyway, some interesting things have been happening on my StatCounter.
One: A lot more people are searching for my blog.
Two: A lot more people are coming to my blog from West Lafayette or Lafayette IN.
Three: A lot more people are coming to my blog. Period.

One, makes me nervous just because when someone searches that means they don't have it bookmarked, when they don't have it bookmarked that means there is a reason. Maybe the reason is simple and honest, like," I have too many bookmarks already." I'm not concerned with those, its the sinister reason I'm concerned with, like, "hey, if I save this my new girlfriend will find out about my old girlfriend and I don't want that," or "I gotta find out of QSW is still talking about me or if she's gotten over the fact that I cheated on her with her brother's ex girlfriend."
That sounded Jerry Springer-ish.

Two, I was expecting to happen. In fact most of the hits from this region I can identify. For instance, I have a hit from Armory Apartments and Wlaf Public Library and Purdue University That last one makes me a little nervous because it was a searcher as well (see One). So I'm not surprised when someone from my work comes in and says "Interesting post!" I can even tell them when they looked at that post.

Three, is frustrating. Part of me wants to shut down this blog because it's so compromised now and part of me likes the ego trip I get when I realized how many people diligently come to my blog every day to read my musings and daily life.
My life isn't that interesting. I don't know how you people get through it, you must drink a lot of coffee before you come here.

New Shoes on Tonight and everything is alright.

So, that ^ above line I've had stuck in my head for a good 3 days now.
I had no idea who sang it.
I offered people free drinks just to tell me who it was.
No one knew.
Finally, Google helped me out.
Paolo Nutini sings it.


Not only do I think Paolo is a talented artist but he's 'effin hot.

Plus, he was born and raised in Scotland and he's wearing a Sweden t-shirt.
I'm Scotch-Irish and Swedish.
Plus I was born and raised in Paoli, which looks an awful lot like Paolo.
And, if I had to choose one thing in this world to write a song about, it would be shoes, without a doubt, and he wrote a song about shoes, but not just any shoes... new shoes... which are my favorite kind.

This obviously means that we were destined for each other.
If that wasn't enough, as I was obsessing over YouTube and watching him sing about shoes, I found this:

Amy Winehouse is awesome sung by a hottie.

"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, God said, 'Let there be lips and there were and they were good!"

I am a child of the 90's. (Much to my mother's dismay, I spent a good deal of time screaming Alanis Morrisette lyrics in my room).
My music for a long time was very 90's based.
Yes, I liked Dave Matthews.
Yes, I liked Nirvana.
Yes, I liked mainstream alternative, which is what every black-t-shirt-open-plaid-shirt, stringy-long-hair individual would listen too.
I had a few exceptions, like in the late 90's, I got hooked on Shivaree after a trip to Italy where Italian MTV worshiped them.
They had such awesome lyrics as:
It's the same old rules
no eyes
no groin
I'm gonna spank you without pants
And fire aimlessly if you don't come out
You daring lousy guy

It wasn't a hard transition from Alanis.

What is my purpose of this post? Oh yea.

I am surrounded by talented musicians and singers at my new job. One of the women I work with we shall call her LeggyBlonde (even though she doesn't think she is) came into the pub and told me she had wrote a song.
Just like that.
Wrote a song.
To me, thats almost like someone having original thought.
When René Descartes sat down and came up with "I think, therefore, I am."
I digress.
We have two different bands that have members in our staff at the pub. All their music is fantastic. Granted, after reading the first half of this post you obviously feel that I cannot appreciate good music when I hear it. I understand, but I promise I've grown up since my teenage days.
Nowadays, I listen to a wide range of music, my play list consists of The Noisettes, Madeleine Peyroux, Hanne Hukkelberg, The Lilac Time, The Roots and Shivaree (old habits die hard and with a vengeance).
The newest addition to that list is Why I like robins. Two of the members work right along side me at the pub and are not only talented at making a gin and juice but also at composing and playing music. I am impressed with my co-workers to say the least.
Also,

HAPPY ST. PATRICKS DAY.

Eye candy. Yum.

You know...

... if you type into Google "what does it mean in real life see a white man penis in a dream and then the penis disappears when he see you" my blog is first on the list.

Thank you to whomever searched for that and found my blog.

Your Mom.

Countless amount of people end a lot of jokes with either "That's what he/she said" or "Your mom."
Example:

Planned parenthood speaker: Who wants some condoms?
Class, in unison: Your mom.

Welcome to America's humor. (I did laugh at the above joke)

The only other time I've laughed at a "Your mom" joke is when my brother spouted off the infamous line... at me. I laughed with half of my fraternity and a month later we got t-shirts that said, "Your Mom Softball" and then wore them to all of the softball games we played in.

You know, I could go on with some psychobabble bullshit about how America humor sucks, and how witty other countries humor is and then I could tie that into how this weekend it's St. Patty's day and we should all be Irish...
... but I'm lazy.

********************************
The other day I had a man at the bar hitting on me.
I think it had to do with the fact that I have tits and I was the only one at the bar/tables/restaurant that had them. Therefore I was the lucky target. He really didn't take no for an answer. I tried to avoid him at all costs, but still, when I came to the bar to get a drink, he'd relentlessly try to get me in conversation.
List of his lines:
"Hey mama."
"Hey baby."
"Hey doll."
"Whatcha doing?"
"Why don't you just stop and talk to me?"
"Where you running off too?"
"Man, look at you coming over here shaking it."
"What are you doing later?"
"Where do you party at?"

The list can go on. Finally, he gets me into somewhat of a conversation.
"Hey do you have a boyfriend?"

I decided to answer (even if by lying) this in hopes that he'd really get the hint.
"Yes I do in fact."
"How long you been seeing him?" (yes, he said it this way)
"6 months"
"6 months? Aww. that's nothin' Man. Guys are like carrs, you havfta trade them in!" (it's hard to get the phonetic spelling the way he pronounced things.)

I backed away at this point realizing he wasn't going to get the hint.
"Where are you going? Why are you giving me that look?"
"I have to wait on people and I am giving you the look because I really don't want to trade in my car."
He left shortly after.
Men don't get the hint sometimes.

Man: Hey, what are you girls doing?
Woman #1, uninterested: Cigarette break.
Man: So, what are you girls up to?
Woman #2: Cigarette break.
Man: So, you girls interested in a threesome?

Yes I get by with a little help from my friends

What would do think if I sang out of tune, Would you stand up and walk out on me.
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song, And I'll try not to sing out of key.
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
He gets high with a little help from his friends,
Oh I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends.

Last night I worked at the bar and my co-workers came in to celebrate Monday.
(Monday always needs celebrating)
7 people work at the bar, 6 were drinking last night at the bar.
That's some love going on.

What do I do when my love is away. (Does it worry you to be alone)
How do I feel by the end of the day (Are you sad because you're on your own)
No, I get by with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I get high with a little help from my friends,
Mmm I'm gonna to try with a little help from my friends

Thank God for cameras.

Everybody was Kung Fu Pouring

She's so pretty :)

Creepy calzone, not to mention the guy in the back.

I have an attitude.

I can't decide, Creepy or not?

I call this one, "Theatre Faces"

Awwww!

I get the feeling he's a lot like a puppy who licks your face.

BLOG THIS!

Soon I will have to get a new blog. New theme. New everything
I gave my blog address to a co-worker, which was fine, then another co-worker, which was also fine, then to another one... which was also fine... but then the first co-worker gave it to my roommate, and he's promised to look it up.

I'm just not cool with him reading my blog. He already gets information about me from sources that I don't even talk to. He dated my ex-roommate who told him things I didn't want her to know.
My thoughts and feelings don't need to be added to "what he knows" list.

I should also write here that I still love my co-workers and I am not mad at them that it slipped out to him, I knew at some point that it was going to happen.

In other news, I got asked out, and I'm not really sure if I'm going to accept or not. He was nice enough to add "I know you are just on a break, so you might not want to date yet."
Its a nice out if I just really didn't want to date him. And I told him that I wasn't sure what I want to do at all. I've never quite lived like this. I am very seriously taking one day at a time and not deciding how I feel about the day until after I've begun it.
Usually I know what I want, when I want it, what I feel about it and for how long I'll keep it.
I've never lacked opinions.

In still other news, ID went home with a bar regular last night and I had to wait for her to leave my bathroom this morning so I could take a shower and go to work. It's much worse than when RHM would spend the night in my apartment, because I like her and didn't mind her there. This girl annoys the crap out of me and says I have an "experimental" laugh.
Who says that?!
It's the same feeling I would get if ID decided to become friends with every fucktard who hit on me at the bar, then invited them all back to my apartment for beer.

My sanctuary has been breached.

In the wee hours of the morning...

I could feel my car give out and slow to a stop.
"Shit," I thought, "I'm in the middle of nowhere, I know no one nearby." I waited in the dark, playing with my cell phone, trying to figure out who to call. 5 or 10 minutes passed and I suddenly saw red and blue lights in my mirrors. I turned around, and sure enough, there was a cop car. I got out of my car about the same time he did and I faced one of the whitest men I've ever seen. My albino cop rescuer. The phrase "knight in shiny armor on his white horse" popped in my head and I laughed when I realized I had gotten a white man and his shiny badge.
He seemed to be a much nicer cop than what I had met in my lifetime, he even peered under the hood of my car to see if he could see the problem. When nothing was resolved he offered me a ride to where I needed to go and I gladly accepted it.
I hopped into the shotgun seat, which I didn't think was weird until we were already moving, and I admired all the equipment set up around me. His radio broke through and a lady asked him to respond to a nearby call. "This will only take a second," he said to me and moments later we were slowing down to a house that looked deserted. "Lots of homeless people break into this house and I think one of the neighbors called in another break-in," he explained while getting out of the car.
A few minutes later I was still alone.
I had been waiting almost 20 minutes before hearing something going on at the house.
I climbed out of the car.
As I stood there looking at the house trying to figure out if I should use the radio or not, I suddenly became aware that I was not alone. Before I could open the door and hop back inside the car, I figured out the source, a man who was standing about 15 feet away with his back to me, facing the house that I had just been looking at.
"Do you know what is going on?" I asked him.
He turned around and said "I think it might be a drug bust."
I shivered.
We stood there watching a few minutes more before we saw the albino cop dragging someone back with him.
The drug dealer was thrown onto the hood of the car and barked at to "stay put" before the albino cop walked back towards the house.
Then the man who had been standing with me did a peculiar thing, he pulled out a razor and started sawing at the man's handcuffs.
Needless to say, I was scared for my safety.
Before I could decided what to do the man in handcuffs said something to the razor man.
The man stopped sawing with his razor and became very still.
"You know too then," he said to the handcuffed man.
He tossed the razor aside and within moments had out a butterfly knife.
One, two, three, he started stabbing the cuffed man in the back.
Blood was everywhere.
The cuffed man was screaming at first but slowly he stopped, the man kept on stabbing.
Where was the cop? What would this guy do to me after he was done stabbing the guy?
I should run.
That's when I woke up at 3:30am in a cold sweat.
I sat there clutching my chest trying to figure out if I had just gotten done running.
The dream was vivid.
I laid back down and tried to go back to sleep.
At 4:30am I gave up.
I went into the living room and watched a movie.
At 6am when the sun came out I could finally sleep.

Stupid Penis

A perfect night to me is having a plate of General Tso's Chicken, playing an Audrey Hepburn movie, and playing euchre when I'm done eating while sipping on a nice glass of red wine.

This seems to floor some people, mostly men (dumb men obviously, but we will get to that). I think for the most part it floors men because there is no mention of the penis I obviously want to have.
I like penis, don't get me wrong, but I don't need it, and I definitely don't need it to make the perfect night.

I think this is called "maturing."

FN and I always get mad at dumb men and some of their idiosyncrasies. He and I will tell each other a story of some "guy" and how horrible he was. At the end of those stories one of us will invariably say "Stupid Penis."
To throw all people into a category based on their genitalia seems a bit harsh and I often find myself wondering if I'm just one step away from buying a cat and living alone the rest of my life.
I even do things to myself that make my self-esteem disappear, bringing me closer to “cat woman.”
Side Note: If you have a crush on someone, and they become drunk and start hitting on you, this does not mean it's a good idea to make-out with them. Especially, if you are sober. Your ego will be bruised the next day and you’ll feel like shit. About the only way your ego is going to become "unbruised" in that situation is if you can duplicate the same scenario, and run like hell from the man in question. A crush is a crush, and should be left at that, especially if you know that they aren't crushing in return.

How did this tradition of “stupid penis” get started, QSW?
I'll tell you!
I don't know.
But it is tradition…
…and because of our traditions...
Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do.
And God expects me to call dumb men, “Stupid Penis.”

Yes, I made a “men” conversation turn into Fiddler on the Roof.

I’ll leave you with a “Stupid Penis” example so that you may understand its meaning:
Mr. Lust and I are on the rocks. (That is, a strong pour over ice)
RHM loves to talk. (that is, gossip)
Because of these two factors I found myself answering a text message from the long-lost GH: “What do you mean ‘WHATS UP?’”
GH: I heard you and Mr. Lust were no longer.
Me: How on earth did you hear that? Where are you now? St. Louis?
GH: I still have friends there, even if I’m in St. Louis.
Me: So, Nothing is up, What is up with you?
GH: Nothing, I am coming through that area on Tuesday and I was wondering if we could hang out.
Me: No.
GH: I don’t want anything, I just want to talk.
Me: (Right, I’ve heard that one before) Talk about what?
GH: I want to apologize about Medusa and what happened in the past.
Me: (reading, but not responding)
GH: I also want to talk about James.
Me: (fuck, just pull out all stops)
GH: (after not hearing from me for 15 minutes) Well, plan B will be in action. I’m spending the night there, and I’ll just show up at the bar you work at until you are there.
Me: Stupid Penis.

James @ Slowmo - Trainwreck

"She who struggles. I dunno if she thinks she's struggling, but it's obvious that she is. And that's the appeal, at least for me. She strives and fights and struggles and fails and then gets right up again. She's obviously smart as a whip (if, however, she sometimes makes a grammatically-challenged drunken post), but I don't think that very many people in her life (read: men) can see beyond her appearance."

Ever read something about yourself and find that its something you've known all along, yet never really admitted it to yourself until someone wrote it out for you?

That's how I felt after reading this from Mars or James. James is one of those few people who has read my blog from way-back-when, up to now, and probably beyond. I forget that once people have read my posts for so long they probably know me better than I think, even without seeing me or hearing me or talking to me.

Although... I don't know how smart a whip is, unless its in the hands of Indiana Jones. ;)

James thank you for writing about me. I wish I had the words to express how your thoughts have made my day.

Hottie boys who know old movies...

So in case you are new to this blog, or don't know me in "real" life, I love older movies.
My favorites are Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant/Robert Redford movies (although, I realize Robert Redford one's aren't really "old" movies).

Today I was in my office when a man with startling blue eyes walked into it.
"Is Kathy here?" he asked me.
"I believe so, I can call her office so you don't have to walk all the way down there to check," I told him.
"Wonderful, can you tell her Rhett is here to see her?"
"I'd be happy too, but my dear, frankly, she won't give a damn."
"Ah, well, that is Kathy for you," he says, (after glancing at my name on my desk) "Well, I'm out of ideas. Shall we dance?"
"Let's dance after I call Kathy," I said, feeling flushed and liking the flirting way to much (calls Kathy) "She's in her office."
"Shall we say goodnight but really mean goodbye?"
"Rhett, don't. I shall faint."

Some of the most creative flirting I've ever seen. If he had been at my other work place I would have definitely tried to talk to him more. Its sad how brilliant moments could never be created again.

If you are up on your pop-culture, then you know my first name.