The Over-Educated Nympho

I’m going to dinner with The Marine tonight. I have no idea what to expect because we have hardly talked since I started dating Tex. Now that I’m single again, I’m getting my booty calls in order. Let’s just hope The Marine is still single too. Or has a super hot girlfriend who doesn’t mind threesomes. I haven’t talked to Jazz Man recently, but I will be soon.

Is dinner tonight with The Marine a date? I have no idea. It’s hard to get a vibe over text message. Just in case, I’m wearing my new jeans (they’re awesome–they make my ass look huge) and favorite cowboy boots. Wish me luck, and hopefully I’ll have something more interesting to report back than “he has a new favorite Mexican restaurant.”

I’m tired of thinking about Tex, my book, and how dirty my apartment is (damn Cleaning Fairy, where the fuck is that lazy bitch?). Let’s take a trip down memory lane, gamboling and flogging plucky critters and having general merriment. I think I may have gotten carried away with my New Year’s resolution to expand my vocabulary. Well, croquette. Okay, I know that a croquette is actually a delightfully crunchy food item, but doesn’t it sound like it’s in the same family as “bollocks” and “clusterfuck”? For example: What a clusterfuck of crappy croquettes! Yes, I like that. It’s the alliteration. Alas, I think they’re forming an alliance using the alias “croissant”, those crummy croquettes! We are prepared for an altercation, you crapcrusts! No coup de grace for you! I’ll beat you wheatless with confectioneries if I have to.

Um. Anyhoooooo. Here’s some sex:

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I had a weird dream about Tex last night. I remembered much more detail than usual, un/fortunately.

We were on my high school campus. Tex looked younger, happier. No facial hair. He came running up to me, full of excitement. I was confused–didn’t he break up with me a couple weeks ago? Words flooded from his mouth faster than I could take them in, but I heard enough to understand that he wanted me in his life again, forever. I was too confused to speak.

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Last week I spent two days up North visiting my cousin Dr. Science and helping take care of her three-month old son.

My friends Barbie and Dr. Smartypants were convinced that I was going to return from a couple days of babysitting [which I originally typed as “babyshitting”] and be in love with babies. They were probably kidding. They were kidding, right? Because I do not love babies. The best I can offer is that I do not feel incredibly uncomfortable around babies. I no longer take the projectile spit-up personally. I do, however, understand babies better. The giggles and drool-bubbles, their delight over every little thing, the soft glowing skin–I get it. Now I believe that the cuteness trumps the ickyness. But I am so not about to run out and get my baby hatch inseminated.

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I am an over-educated nympho and I’ll be spending New Year’s Eve alone. For the past several years I have always attended a party that my friend Barbie held, or attended a party thrown by one of her husband’s friends I had gotten to know over the years. Since she moved 1500 miles away, I had to come up with a new plan this year.

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Have patience my lovelies, proper posts are on their way. Here’s the short and sweet to keep you occupied until then:

Spending two days helping take care of my cousin’s newborn did nothing to make my biological clock magically appear out of my ass. His undeniable cuteness did not help the projectile spit-up situation. I stepped in it and nearly dropped the damn baby. It totally would have been his fault.

Christmas with the immediate family was nice. In the original plans Tex was coming with me for two days so he could meet my parents. Oops. Mom was happy that she didn’t have to finish cleaning the house for him.

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That’s right, I said baby. I am going to not only be in close proximity to a newborn, I will be taking care of him for two days while I visit my favorite cousin Dr. Science. Considering I am not a baby person, this will be as entertaining as a washing machine full of kittens.

For the last week or so my cousin has been bed-ridden because she’s in so much pain that she can barely move. I won’t go into details about her health, but it’s nothing terminal or scary. It has however dampened her spirits so badly that within ten minutes of instant messaging on Friday I told her I was coming to visit and help out. She lives 1200 miles away.

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Several years ago I went on a road trip with my mother and my aunt. We came up behind a truck that said “JUST DIVORCED!” across the back windshield, complete with ribbons and balloons flapping behind it. The three of us broke out into laughter. My aunt sped up so we could catch up with the truck. Inside were three middle-aged men. My aunt honked at them, then all of us waved and hooted our congratulations. They laughed and waved back.

I think it’s time that we started celebrating break-ups instead of mourning them. Of course a certain amount of sadness is necessary to move on, but why are break-ups only full of anger, sadness, and disappointment? Why are they typically seen as an ending and not a new beginning? Okay I know that break-ups suck big donkey balls, but they only have to suck for so long. Eventually it comes time again to get back up on that stallion and ride him cowgirl-style.

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Even though Tex broke up with me two days ago, I am fine. I cried for an hour or two that day, and then I was done. All I ate was half a bag of Oreos and some Lucky Charms cereal. For the last two days I’ve hardly gotten any work done because I have been emailing back and forth with my two closest friends, Sweetie Pie and Favorite Coworker. Yesterday I stole some office supplies, because that always makes me feel better.

When my friend Barbie called from Philadelphia last night, I didn’t answer. I don’t want to talk about it yet, I text-messaged her back. Last night I spent hours writing about what happened with Tex. I was happy that I was able to explain it with class, even though what I really feel like doing is kicking and screaming like a little girl.

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We didn’t even have a song yet. I only found out Tex’s middle name two weeks ago. We dated for three months. For the first several weeks everything was great, as if in a dream. I kept waiting for him to poof! because he seemed too good to be true. Random coworkers commented on how happy I looked. I couldn’t stop smiling.

Somewhere, something went wrong. Tex and I got along fine, as if we had been friends for ages. Friends. What happened to being boyfriend/girlfriend?

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Tex broke up with me. We poofed.

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I’ll elaborate later [continue reading here]. Until then, I just can’t.

If you want to leave a comment, please be tasteful. No name-calling, no theorizing, and no pointing fingers. If I can be graceful about the break-up, so can you.

Since I don’t want to start off the post by saying “Please don’t hate me,” instead I’ll lead with “Christmas is a time of good will toward your fellow man and not kicking my ass.” And now I’m holding out a package of seasonal Oreos to keep you from pummeling me with half-empty mugs of hot chocolate and giant Santa lawn ornaments.

Even though I’ve been busting my ass for weeks, I am still not done with my book. That means it won’t be printed in time for Christmas, and I know many of you were counting on these as presents.

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