Loose Ends

Alright, if we’re doing this, if this is me blogging as my life unfolds, and I don’t get to make crap up and work in a quicker conclusion that ends with me getting sexed up by some guy so much bigger than me that it makes my head spin, then I guess I should tie up one of the loose ends I’ve got dangling out there. (Oh, and get your mind out of the gutter if you are just coming to my blog. Bigger has nothing to do with penis size. The previous blog entry: Live BIG, will explain what bigger means.)

Anyway, I found out what the hold up with Mr. Fix Up has been and there’s really not much more to report except, at least for now, we’re done with that. If that one crops back up again, that’s not up to me. That’s up to the universe, and up to all that divine planning and/or all those coincidences I’ve not been given an advanced copy of.

I’m not going to give you the specific details on what the hold up/dead stop was/is, because it doesn’t feel right for me to share something about someone I never met. Yeah, yeah. That’s boring. I know. But there’s that whole he-gets-his privacy thing, especially since I don’t know him, and even if you don’t know his name, my reference of him, in any fashion, is enough to send energy his way (Remember? We’re all connected.) so I am trying to be respectful.

That said, what’s the short answer? So you have a little something to chew on? Well, let’s just put it in the neighborhood of what I call the wrong-time bag. It’s the wrong time for him.

This wrong time bag? It’s got a lot of things thrown into it. I’m no stranger to this bag. Sometimes it’s been my wrong time. Other times, it’s been the guy’s wrong time. There was this one guy where it was the right time when we started (oh was it, he chased me down) but when his dad became sick with cancer it became the wrong time for him. There was another guy, a different guy, where we met, we went out, just the once, and it was awesome, then his dad died. Wrong, wrong time.

(And don’t ask me what’s up with my luck and guys with sick dads, because I have not one clue.)

So, Mr. Fix Up, this is not the right time for him. It has nothing to do with me and no one died, but when it is the wrong time for a guy it’s as simple as that. It’s the wrong time.

I thought I’d tie up one more loose end and clarify something if it wasn’t already clear. If it seems like I am always very cloak and dagger about people’s identities, and to that end it seems like I am always calling people by some en-dashed-adjective-descriptive-type-name, it’s because I am. Once again, for those in the back, this is ‘my’ blog. This is my truth (which I am still getting my feet wet on, this whole telling the truth in my writing thing, especially when I am traditionally a story weaver), and I have no desire to unveil the identities of others who would no sooner want someone knowing about them than I would want to expose anything about them.

But, if we’re talking about fake names here, and adjectives as names, I wanted to throw it out that Chad and Heather (Jen calls them Cheather), my GOOD neighbors, that’s their real names. They told me not to use fake names for them. They said, “Write what ever the hell you want. We trust you. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

Since they live next to me, are two of my best friends, and have become like family, they’ll show up a lot in my posts, especially because Chad’s funny as hell and there are going to be times I have to share what he says because, well, it’s just good, man.

This brings me to my hormones. (This is going somewhere. I promise.) As I blogged about before, my hormones have been raging. Ever since I gave up birth control to try to deal with my hereditary high blood pressure issue I think my hormones have been causing some off-the-deep-end crying bouts. True, I am dealing with the stress of a shitty job and bad neighbors (not Cheather), but I’ve been unusually emotional. (BTW, the cardio stress test is this Monday. Wish me luck I can go for a run again!!! I need some way to get this pent up… ‘nuf said.)

To that end I was explaining to Chad and Heather that I’m over the whole crying rollercoaster thing that going off the pill has seemed to cause. I told them, “Yeah. I think I need to just go back on the pill.”

Chad’s response? “I think you need to just go back on penis.”

When I told Jen what Chad said, she said, “Tell Chad that penis doesn’t come in a convenient Monday-Sunday mood-leveling package of blue and yellow pills.” Then she thought about it for a second and added, “Wouldn’t that be great, though, if you could go to your doctor and ask for a prescription of the good penis, the kind that won’t mess with your emotions? Why can’t they just have a prescription for that?”

“They don’t need a prescription, Jen. It’s called a vibrator,” I said. Then I told her that Chad was right, I needed to get back on the do-it team. Get out of retirement and just get some exercise.

Sigh. If only man mana could fall from the sky. Or, maybe Shy-Guy could grow a pair over night and ask me out next week. I’m sorry. Was that the sound of an alarm I heard?
Time to wake up.

Ah, well, all things in time. I’d just like a new job and quieter neighbors for now.

One more loose end. That chick who emailed me and asked me if I was sleeping with her boyfriend, well I got an email from her a couple of weeks ago. She said she was still single and not getting back together with him. Good, I thought. Then a couple of days ago I saw that she had no choice. He’d announced his engagement on Facebook, to another girl. Yikes.

There's probably a bit more to it, and more that I could write and ponder, but my pinky hurts. Can't type anymore. So, that’s all for now.

Keep being fabulous.