Straight Up

I'm used to friends (or more frequently, guys I go on dates with) asking me when they'll have a blog post.

Trust me, when you do something worth writing about, you'll be written about. I mean, that's the New York Times motto, right? Just kidding, they'll write about anything.

So will I.

"Why am I not in your blog?" Hey man, this is probably a situation where no news is good news for you. Of course, there are those moments where I have a serious lapse of judgement and think, "You're right, I should write about you," and then I end up cradling a giant plate of chicken nuggets that are still cold in the center because I just couldn't wait for the empty comfort of breaded white meat and BBQ sauce.

WHY IS THIS BBQ SAUCE SO SPICY?! Damn you, KRAFT.

So I decided to get drinks with a boy I used to date, and then I decided to buy him drinks because his CitiBike wouldn't work and he lost $60 and he lives in Brooklyn and what a sad existence.

It's true what they say. Martinis are like boobs. But I hate boobs, so martinis are like testicles.

One is like "OK. No big. We can do this", two is like "No surprise there", and three is like, "Please let me stop crying into this bowl of popcorn and M&Ms".

Seriously, they will give you free popcorn and M&Ms at Stonewall, and it was so good, I think we know what started the riots.

Pretty sure it's safe to say that this gentleman will remain a "guy I used to date". Whose fault that is, we're still not sure. I'm going to blame Max the bartender for given me that third martini and extra M&Ms.

Should've known better, Max. Should've known better.

I mixed the BBQ sauce with mustard and it's not so bad anymore,

TJB: Making It



NOTE: To be fair, the subject of this post told me that reading my blog is like seeing a crying clown. I really liked the analogy.

Ex-istential Crisis

There I was, sitting next to the new boyfriend who had no idea I was the old boyfriend. All he knew was that I was the "friend" his current boyfriend had been catching up with, and let me just say:

nobody wants their boyfriend catching up with friends that look like me.

Had I been a littler quicker, I would have thought to ask the box office attendant to switch me to a seat in the back, not next to 185 pounds of baggage. But I was stuck, a towering 6'1", shaking hands with New Boyfriend and welcoming him to Chicago. I was flippin' cherry cordial.

Until three people who knew very well that I was Old Boyfriend came up to hug New Boyfriend without so much as a warning glare in my direction. Let's just say, I practically memorized that program by the time the lights dimmed.

I admit, I had never felt younger, prettier, or smarter than I did sitting there, listening to the-other-friend-who-belonged-there talk to New Boyfriend. But as I read the list of money donors for a third time to avoid having to participate in the conversation, I couldn't  shake that bitter taste from my mouth.

Because I had been drinking A LOT that morning.

I sat and said nothing between dance numbers as I choked back tears from the combination of beautiful choreography and my sad, sad situation. I waited outside during intermission, and when the show ended, booked it to a hidden corner of the hallway to wait for my goodbye.

I walked home singing "On My Own" as if Cameron Mackintosh were on the street casting. My life felt the fast approaching of "A Little Fall of Rain", and knowing they cut that song in HALF for the movie, I needed a pick-me-up before I dove into Adele.

So, I took a shower and washed that man right out of my hair. Full voice. Sorry neighbor.

I believe that one day, there will be somebody awesome to sit next to my old boyfriend at my shows. Until then, I'll try to figure out why anybody would want so may tattoos.

I ate lunch twice today,

TJB: Making It