I’ll Have a Sedan, Hold the Eyelashes

Today my sister and I were riding in the car, back from a very painful trip to Target (not painful because of the service, but because we both are very susceptible to ADD meltdowns in various establishments) and she says to me, “I need to blog again; what upsets me lately?”  At that exact moment, one of my bigger pet peeves drove by: a car with eyelashes over the headlights.  And so this post was born.


I may be jumping to conclusions with some of my statements, and I do apologize, but I just don’t feel I can trust a person who deems it important that their car has eyelashes.  What drives one to think “My car could really benefit from a healthy pair of eyelashes”?  They don’t enhance the beauty of the car, like they do a face.  And you don’t think it’s weird to come across a car sans eyelashes.  I guess my whole point is that it’s all beyond me.

But now I have to ask: what kind of person puts eyelashes on their car?  Is it someone with a high-paying job, wielding a lot of power?  Probably not; I can take very few people seriously, let alone the driver of a car with these things taped on.  Is this a special brand of crazy?

Now, I am a big Jenna Marbles fan, so I know she had these on her car at one point.  And yes, I did think when she did it, it was funny and cute and I enjoyed a good laugh.  But now, years later, I just think they look more ridiculous than a skinny Santa at the mall.

I should also mention that I would be a little more accepting of this trend if I only saw teenage girls with eyelashes on their Beetles.  Unfortunately, the woman I saw today was mid-fifties, rolling through town in a Fiat.  Not an acceptable age for this.


My advice to you, blog-reading world, is if you’re unsure if the crap you have stuck to your car is appropriate, it probably should come down.  Also, think about where you are in life: are you a 16 year old girl with a red Volkswagen?  Or are you a middle-aged man, with a good job and a Benz?  If the answer involves any part of the latter question, don’t tape that shit to your car.


It’s About Time You Came Clean

I am no stranger to abnormal and unhealthy relationships.  Case and point:

When I first went into high school, I met my soon-to-be best friend (we’ll call him the Graduate, for one, because he made me watch that movie; second, he actually enjoyed it; and third, he’s in law school).  The Graduate and I dated briefly in high school, and then tried again in college; that run lasted two and a half years.  In all honesty, he drove me crazy about half the time, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy him being around.

We broke up because I was a little bored, a lot selfish, and almost certainly not into guys (this last piece is a whole other story).  Despite the breakup, we remained best friends, with a very weird dynamic: we still texted all day every day; it was assumed that if he or I went out, the other followed; and I spent the majority of my free time (when not sitting on my balcony in a drunken stupor, probably as a coping mechanism for the dramatic world that is dating girls) at his place, watching Netflix while he studied for law school.  I also slept there probably four nights out of the week.  So you can see, this doesn’t sound like a normal, healthy friendship (which I can only now see after being without his friendship for a few months, which again is a story for another time).

Since I was a willing participant in this type of relationship, I probably should not throw stones at people in similar situations.  But that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

I recently met a girl (who conveniently lives down the street, which means I can watch the show whenever I want) who apparently is in a similar boat, with some minor differences.  She’s living with her young son and her ex-boyfriend (not the baby daddy) in a two bedroom house, however only one bedroom is in use right now.  They have both stated separately that they would never think of dating again; I’m assuming one of these reasons might have something to do with the fact that she claims to be gay.  Either way, they act like a couple: he buys her dinner, they share a bed, she naps on him, etc.

Again, I am aware I’m being hypocritical, and pardon my language, but what the everloving fuck??

Now this whole situation intrigues me, mainly because when I think I have it figured out, they throw me a curve ball.  It’s exhausting, really, to try and keep up.  It also gets to me because I can’t tell what her deal is (one flaw in my makeup is that when I can’t peg someone down in my brain, I go over the evidence until I’m blue in the face, and get so frustrated I eventually ask the socially unacceptable questions that plague me; we’re hoping it doesn’t come to that).  One minute I think I got it and progress is being made.  Next thing I know, she’s asleep in his lap again.

That’s about the time I bail with the excuse “I gotta go; it’s time for me to put the dog to bed.”

Sometimes people assume I mean the waitress.

Maybe eventually.

The Friend Zone

Why do we wait around for things that will never happen?  We’re too honest about some things, like how Whatshername’s dress is out of season or Whatshisface needs to hit some cardio in addition to the hours he spends on weights.  But if it’s something (or someone) we desperately want, we constantly lie to ourselves, saying “now isn’t the right time,” “she’ll come around,” and my personal favorite: “she just got out of a relationship, and isn’t looking to date anyone right now” (I’ll be honest, I’ve said these many times to myself about people I’ve been into; it didn’t work out).  We wait around and hope our patience pays off.

But here’s the thing: if it’s something that consumes our every waking thought, it probably is not going to be worth the wait, if it even happens at all.  Like that girl you think is so awesome, but she’s dating someone else or just doesn’t show an interest.  You think “I’ll wait around; she’ll notice eventually.”  False.  This also brings me to one of my least favorite things: the idea of “the friend zone.”

Let’s be honest: when we meet people, we play “Fuck, Marry, Kill” in those first few seconds.  You know it’s true, because that’s when you decided you want her.  It’s also when she decided she doesn’t want you.  There is no “she just didn’t think about it and threw me in the friend zone.”  She put you in the “I’m not interested beyond a friendship with this person” zone.  Which is different.  People assume the thought to date never crossed their crush’s mind (which is correct if you’re not the gender they’re attracted to, and that’s something you can’t change), but it did.  It always does.  You just didn’t make the cut.

Now, sometimes your crush will tell you those lovely lies, like “I’m not ready for a relationship right now.”  If she says that, just go ahead and find someone else.  It’s true, she’s not ready for a relationship, but she doesn’t mean a relationship in general; she means one with you.  Again, forget her and move on.

I guess people assume they sound less like an asshole if they generalize their statements and don’t just come out and say they’re not into you.  But then we end up in life’s biggest waiting room, with the shittiest of magazines, and a yearning for someone who can never reciprocate our feelings.

The Smallest of Worlds

This weekend I had the pleasure of hanging out with an old acquaintance/new friend. He also happens to be friends with none other than…

Wait for it…

Keep waiting…

Almost there…

The Waitress’s brother. I’ll be seeing a lot more of him, I’m sure. Whether I see her or not, I don’t know, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care.

What a small fucking world we live in, huh?

Song of the Siren, Part II

Last week I mentioned (and by “mentioned” I mean devoted a post to) a girl I call the Siren.  Are you ready for Part II?  I hope so.

Recap: I told you about how I helped the Sailor get this girl: the cute texting and date ideas.  I also said she seemed nice at first, then did a 180 and attacked things and people I hold close to my heart.

Now you’re ready for Part II.

After that encounter, I realized this was not a person I could like, nor did I want to.  I also decided it was best if the Sailor never knew what his new girl said (to this day, I have not told him).  I decided it was best if I just avoided situations with her entirely.  Luckily I had work, school, and a perfectly timed stomach virus that had me quarantined for days.

After the school year ended, we all said our goodbyes and went about our lives: some of us moved on to decent big kid jobs, some are still in school, and others are still working out the kinks in life (in case you wondering, I’m in the last group).  But the Siren and the Sailor stayed together.

Now, I’d like to point out: I did not share my opinions of the Siren unless I was sure the other person agreed with my opinion.  Once I found that small camp, the stories just started flowing.

In a nutshell, the Siren does not let the Sailor do anything involving other girls (I’m not sure if I’ve ever been included in this group, but like I said earlier: I’m not a threat), must know where he is at all times, and every weekend is spent together.  I don’t know about you, but that all seems a little too controlling for me.

I grew up with a parent who had horrible control issues.  If he was ever out of his element or denied anything, a fit was thrown until everyone else had given in and he was back on top.  I understand parents need to know where their kids are and what they’re up to, but he took it to a new level by tailing me, hacking every account I had, bugging my room, etc.  Yes, I have grown to be very paranoid of people who exhibit even the smallest controlling behavior, and no, I didn’t learn cope with my feelings of no control in life up through early adulthood in a good way.

So you see why the Siren gets under my skin in such a way.  She reminds me of so many things that I’ve tried to get away from, and the Sailor is about to crash on the rocky shore.

You truly can’t run from your past, huh?

Head-Splitting Good Times


My lovely little cut and bruise

Last night I busted my head at work.  I was walking to put something away (into a safe under some big, rusty, metal stairs outside in a poorly lit area), and I decided to go left instead of right.  I was low enough to clear most of the beams, but there was one I couldn’t see.

And with the sound of metal colliding with skin and bone, I was down (not literally, but you get the gist).  I didn’t black out, I didn’t see stars.  I felt something warm on trickling down my face, reached up, and realized it was blood.  I cleaned it, and I was fine.  At least until the original feeling (shock? pain? fear?) wore off.  Then it was foggy dream world all night.

I’m telling you this because I might be a tad concussed, and I’m not sure how much sense I make when I talk or type.  So this is my excuse and apology.  Please forgive me, and enjoy the whacked out ride.

Crazy Wears a Dress

It amazes me how the people we know can severely alter an acquaintance’s opinion of us.  I could understand this thinking if the friends in question were in gangs and vandalized everything in sight.  But guess what?  Mine aren’t; they’re just apparently insane.

I have one friend (who will forever be referred to as “the Dress” because of her choice of attire for a very casual visit; she is also the saboteur briefly mentioned in Texts From the Late Night) for whom I’m being judged.  I’ve always known that being friends with the Dress was occasionally a turnoff for some, but most of the time these people would see that I am not insane like my friend.  Today I encountered this problem again.

One friend informed me that someone I met in a different state didn’t want to have much to do with me because I am friends with the Dress.  In her mind, because the Dress is crazy, so am I.  So without an opportunity to defend myself, I am written off.

What’s an Allie to do?  I won’t kick the Dress to the curb; I consider myself a decent friend, and there’s nothing decent about that.  And just by it being known that we have been friends, I’m screwed in some circles.  I guess my best option is to keep floating through this life, hoping for those chances to prove my-not-crazy-self, huh?

P.S. I plan to tell you all how insane the Dress actually is.  At a later date.  It’s more fun to wait, right?

Texts From the Late Night

Last night I received a text from someone I did not expect to hear from ever again: the Waitress.

A little background on this waitress: I met her at her restaurant a few months back and, since I have some kind of douchey-but-enjoyable charm, I picked her up.  We hung out the next night (a Monday) after I got off work.  A quick aside about me: when I’m in uncomfortable or just new and awkward situations, I drink.  Maybe not the best idea because then I usually make up some alternate life, but it gets people thinking I’m fun and outgoing, and where’s the harm in that? (I did actually discover the harm in it several months ago, which I’ll discuss some other time, but that didn’t have large enough repercussions to make me stop).  So it’s safe to say I compensated for being at this hot girl’s house by downing beer.  She had another friend over who later needed a ride home, so the Waitress took her home and I left. Now, long story short, there was a textual exchange afterwards and I was a little stupid and didn’t quite grasp that she wanted to see me again.  Strong play on my part.

Since that night, we’ve had a few interactions: texting, a few accidental run-ins and some broken plans (there’s a lovely story about plans and a saboteur in a dress that’ll make its way here soon; it really is too good to not post).  In all honesty, I could not care less about this situation.  I think she and I are in the same boat on that one.  We have our own lives, and quite frankly, I don’t think either of us liked the other beyond appearance or charm.

For all of the aforementioned reasons, I told myself I would not talk to her again, a decision that should’ve been solidified after that first visit.  But, as you’ll learn as this whole blog thing goes on, I’m a weak person who can’t resist things or people that I should avoid.

Then I get the text.  IMG_0034

Needless to say, I was bewildered when I woke up at 4:30 and saw it.  I thought my brain was messing with me, or someone else in my phonebook has a name similar to “The Waitress” (which really is how she is titled in my phone).  Also I’m reading this wonderful book about reality not being real with an insane and whacked out narrator, so I think part of me also assumed this whole thing wasn’t real.  And if it isn’t real, this post is just the insane ramblings of a paranoid girl with ADHD and too much free time.  God, that sounds like hell.

But it is real, and I am rambling.

Through the insanity, I can’t help but ask “why bother talking to me?”  Then I smile and think “ha, I don’t blame her; I am fairly entertaining.”