A post in which 20-Something sums up Old Balls

Once upon a time – let’s say in my “early 20s” – I dated a 35-year-old man, which my friends now refer to as “Old Balls.”

Thirty-five now, perhaps now so old. But, 35 then was 11 years my senior, and probably a little shocking to some. Who knows, I was trying on dating older men for size.

For the most part, it was kinda fun. He was a Patrick-Demspeyesque with salt and pepper hair and a British accent. He called me up for dinner and drinks nearly every night, and he didn’t play the usual cat and mouse dating game.

But then I’d have my “20-Something, You’re totally bat-shit” moments. Like when he hadn’t ever heard of Sublime, (HELLO! Clearly not in my generation.) Or when he did this kinda dorky sway thing the elbow jives while dancing, (Oh, so 1980s). Or when he gave me the thumbs-up (Sorta like a history teacher or your creepy older uncle, or something worse). And then there was the absolute worst–one time he actually put classical music on right before coitus, and I was reminded of that episode in SATC when Samantha broke out in opera crescendo. Gak. I’m from the generation where we put on R. Kelly’s “Bump and Grind” or some good ole’ LL Cool J!

These are just some of the moments that made me say, “Oh this really just isn’t for me.” But, I was just too caught-up to recognize it quick enough and express it. Or too young. Who knows. But it wasn’t long before he did.

He explained to me one night how isn’t “wasn’t working out” and he’s at an age where he needs to “think about settling down” and find a “life partner,” which more or less wasn’t a 24-year-old girl who drank six nights a week and couldn’t even utter the word marriage without upchucking the beer she just swallowed.

So, eight months later he was engaged to a Russian chic that he met on Match.com, and now they have a little Piroshki in the oven.

Guess he wasn’t joking.

Currently Feeling: Like my boyfriend is the greatest.
Currently Anticipating: Last kickball game tonight and beers at Lenny’s!
Currently Loving: This scramble thing I just bought from a little place in my building.

Two short blogs today. I found this individual’s art on a Web site and a couple pertained to how I am feeling:

Our Big Beach Adventure

On Saturday I traveled to the Washington coast with my British lover. For me, nothing sounded more romantic and fun than taking a mini road trip to the beach with a man that I would love nothing more than to be cooped up in a car with for six hours…or anywhere else for that matter. For the Brit and I, this was going to be the longest amount of time we had spent together, and I relished in the fact that he was all mine for the entire amount of Saturday. No loud and noisy bar. No quick dinner before having to rush off to bed before work. No outside distractions besides me, him and the hum of the car.

He picked me up at 9 a.m. Saturday morning. I don’t remember the last time I woke up at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, but with the anticipation of our day trip ahead, I bounded out of bed and got ready with a smile on my face. (My mind was so happy that it even forgot to think about the hangover it should have had after Friday night). Of course, after a week of sunshine and 60-something+ weather, it was gray and drizzly outside. However, we packed sweatshirts, rain jackets and tennis shoes. The Brit was bound and determined to see the Pacific Ocean no matter what the weather. (Living in Denver, the Carolinas and Kansas has provided him with a significant amount of time since the last time he saw the coastline on the West side of the nation.) On the car ride down, we took turns listening to our iPods—hooked up to the radio of course—and sang along to the tunes. The car wound its way through the small little no-name towns along the coast. For me, it was nothing new since I’ve lived here all my life. The Brit on the other hand, made comments about every little town, how cute this house and the other was, how green the moss was, how dense the trees were. We had a fun game where I asked him to pronounce all the Indian-named cities such as Chehalis, Puyallup, Hoquiam, Sequim…and he pronounced every single one wrong, which made me laugh. It was interesting to see Washington through the eyes of someone who hasn’t lived here everyday of their life for the past 24 years…

We continued on down toward Long Beach, with me smiling every time the Brit said something such as “Wow. Look! Cows!” and we both were dorkily excited to see a cranberry bog along the side of the road. Finally, we reached the main strip of Long Beach and the Brit excitedly headed straight to the beach even though we were both starving for lunch. “Do you mind if we just go see the beach first?” he asked me. How could I turn down the childhood excitement this grown man had for the simple idea of seeing the beach? I bundled up with layers upon layers and tightened my jacket around my face as the wind whipped the sleeves of my jacket back and forth. It was cold! We walked along the beach, poking at half broken shells, and watching the seagulls try to fly against the wind and little birds scurrying quickly to get away from the edge of the tide as it came in and went out again.

After our big beach adventure, we ate lunch at a tiny local restaurant. Of course, no beach adventure lunch is complete without clam chowder. We then poked around the shops, admiring the intricate details of the kites in the numerous kite shops and finding refuge in a small used bookstore where we both picked up a couple books. Since it was raining and early in the beach tourist season, we left town and drove up to a state park where we walked through some trails, wandering down to a lighthouse and eventually back to the car. By this time, our clothing was soaked. The rain had penetrated through my jacket, the last four inches of my jeans were wet and muddy, and my fingers were numb. We decided that our five-hour beach trip in the rain was probably as good as it was going to get and both agreed that it was time to head back to beautiful Seattle. While it was nice to get out the city for a day, we both remained true to our love for city life and jumped back into the car to head back to what we considered home.

Our trip back provided one last stop in our beach adventure. The Brit is a connoisseur of ice cream, and the whole ride back we kept trying to find a place where we could stop to eat ice cream, drink coffee and hot chocolate and flip through our new books. (Yes, we’re a couple of nerds.) Most of the ice cream shops we came across were closed due to pre-season, so we finally had to settle on Dairy Queen Blizzards. We pulled into the parking lot and ordered our ice cream. Luckily, I had packed a bag with some sweats and a change of socks. I couldn’t wait to get out of the jeans that were uncomfortably soaked and stuck to my legs, and my jacket that kind of smelled like a wet dog after being damp for five hours. I changed in the bathroom, jumped into the Brit’s car and curled up on the seat in my fuzzy sweats and sweatshirt. The heat was blasting and the windows were fogging up as I licked the ice cream that was running down the side of my cookie-dough Blizzard because of the humidity in the car. We sat for a minute, warming up with ice cream (go figure), and as he reached over and squeezed my hand, I thought to myself…I could sit here with this man forever.

Currently Feeling: Sad that tonight is our last Lucky Strikes bowling night.
Currently Wondering: What the hec I’m going to do all week and weekend. Currently Anticipating: Sarah coming home because I don’t have a week-time buddy.
Currently Reading: A Prayer for Owen Meany…another John Irving recommendation from Luke.

Piece of Shit Car

Most of you have seen or ridden in my car. It is a disaster. Probably my favorite joke is how I drive a car that looks like a homeless person’s vehicle. In fact, it’s so bad that I don’t know if even a homeless person would want to drive it. The condition my car is in is beyond unfortunate. It’s moved on to pathetic. It is, of course, all my own doing.

My parents bought me the car during my senior year of high school and it was in perfect condition. I kept it nice until two years ago when a woman threw her door open in a parking lot and hit the side of my car. It looks like someone took an axe and had a good ole’ time to the right side of my car. Her insurance said it was my fault, so I couldn’t get it fixed by my insurance. And it’s all gone down hill from there. When I lived with Amanda, we had parking underneath our building, but the two poles I had to park between were so close that I hit them almost every time I tried to park. This resulted in a cracked mirror, and stripping the black piping off the side of my car. Then I tried to pull out of a spot one time on Fremont Ave. too quickly, and I hit the flowerpot to the left of my car. Then a rock cracked my windshield, my speaker cover fell off and was lost somewhere in Bellingham, and piping starting to come out of the driver’s seat from so much wear. The front of my bumper is cracked all to shit, I guess from all the parallel parking I’ve had to do between Western’s campus and Seattle. To add to the beauty, a couple months ago I was picking up something from Sarah’s house and the turn-around to her apartment building has one of the sneaky cement poles…you know, similar to the ones at gas stations. Well, I didn’t notice it when I pulled out and my car got stuck on it. Every time I pulled forward, it would scrape, and if I tried to reverse, it just dug itself deeper into the side of my car. I couldn’t tell you how I finally got unstuck. In conclusion, I have scrapes, dents and problems on every side of my car. I can’t even park it on its “good side.” Oh, and did I mention that I just figured out the passengers side window decided to kick the bucket when John was in my car and trying to smoke?

I don’t even think the worse part about my car is the damage to the body. I am probably the messiest, grossest person to ever drive a car. And I couldn’t explain why. It might have something to do with me not caring anymore, or just being lazy. I don’t know. I try to figure it out but just don’t have any answers. See, when I say that I drive a homeless person’s vehicle, it’s not just because it’s beat up. It’s because it literally looks like a homeless person lives out of it. Currently, I think I have ten or so rotten Tupperware containers that I can’t seem to manage to bring inside every time I use them for lunch and take them home from work. My backseat also has a couple stray hangers, my slippers, a box of Corona boxers that I got in a Christmas gift exchange, a Victoria Secret box with a bra and underwear that I’ve been meaning to exchange since Christmas, a couple juice bottles, six or seven empty cigarette boxes, my gym bag, three or four old US Weekly magazines, flip-flops, receipts, a baseball jersey and hat, my mitt, Uno cards and more. I know all of you are cringing right now. The only reason I remember all the shit that is (was) back there is because I had to throw it all in my trunk this morning in a big hurry. “Why,” you ask? Because I’m an effing dip-shit.

I walked out to my car this morning only to find my lights on and my battery dead. FUCK! I live by myself and literally don’t have anyone around that could help me. Usually I turn to my dad for car help. He loves me for it. Most of my friends were already at work, don’t drive cars, don’t get up that early etc. So, I decided to try and call some tow trucks, which all of them charge close to 60 bucks to come jump-start you! WTF?!? I’m sure you’re all probably wondering why I didn’t consider calling the Brit. The guy you’re dating is supposed to be good for these types of things, right? Oh trust me, I thought about it, but it was definitely my LAST RESORT. See, I’ve been dating him for almost two months now and he has yet to see my car. I just can’t bring myself to do it. All my friends know what it’s like, but they love me anyway and have known me too long for it to matter. Besides, it’s good for a laugh. But how do I drive around a guy who is older than me, drives a nice car and complains when he has three papers on the floor of his car that it needs to be cleaned? If he saw the state of my car, he’d probably think I was the nastiest girl alive. I’ve been avoiding him riding in my car like the plague. In fact, every time I spend the night at his house, he gives me a ride home. But every time he stays at mine, I say, “All right, have a good day.” And snuggle back into bed, hoping he won’t think I’m a selfish jerk for not offering him a ride home. One morning it was pouring rain and he was worried about ruining his leather jacket, so I gave him an umbrella! Oh man, I know what I’m doing is jerky, but I still don’t want to offer him a ride home.

So this morning I was out of options. I couldn’t afford to suddenly buy AAA or call a tow truck, I had no one else to call, and I certainly didn’t want to miss a day of work and pay for no reason when I was already up, showered and dressed. I took the plunge. I called him and he was more than happy to come help me and would be there in five minutes. FIVE MINUTES? OMG. My car is an effing dump. So I bolted out of my apartment building and started throwing shit in my trunk. People driving down 5th Avenue probably thought I was a crazy woman. After I piled my trunk full of the garbage that existed in my back and front seat, I swept the leaves on the floor, straightened out the mats to cover all the dirt, and prayed he wouldn’t look inside or notice the state of the body of my car. I popped the hood, and leaned against the front while I waited for him to arrive so he also hopefully wouldn’t notice how cracked and peeled the paint on the bumper is. If I could have, I would have acted like a human blanket and covered all the ugly parts of my car with my hands and legs. Maybe that would be my super-hero power I’d wish for.

Well, he jump-started my car and was nice enough to not mention the sorry condition it was in. I’m still not ready to let him ride in it, seeing the outside of my car is a whole nother story than seeing the inside. Maybe I’ll let him see the inside once he’s so in love with me that nothing will sway his opinion…right. In the meantime, at least I’m driving around a semi-clean looking car because now all the shit is in the trunk. Maybe some day I’ll get around to cleaning the trunk…

Currently Feeling: So excited for bowling tonight…I made t-shirts and snickerdoodles for the team!
Currently Anticipating: Seeing the Brit after bowling. I haven’t seen him since Wednesday because he’s been on a business trip!
Currently Reading: Night. (A new Oprah Book Club selection about the Holocaust.)

Crow: A Review

After hearing all the hype about Crow, a restaurant two blocks from my house on 5th Ave., I finally decided to venture there yesterday for the Brit’s birthday. It was well worth the wait. Crow is definitely on the top of my list of restaurants worthy of eating at—for special occasions. The dining area has a fabulous ambiance. The far wall is painted in a modern mish-mash of bright golds and oranges, the tables are a dark mahogany, and crow decorations are subtly used throughout—separating one side of the restaurant from the other was an ironwork fencing that had crows perched stiffly atop. It is a small restaurant, offering mid-range priced dinners from $10 appetizers to $14-20 entrees. With the sultry acoustic music and romantic lighting, it is definitely one of the more sophisticated restaurants I’ve eaten at.

As far as the food goes, the menu was limited, but the food was unbelievably fantastic. They start you off with bread, oil and vinegar. (My favorite) Except even the olive oil was exceptional, and tasted different than just plain old olive oil out of a jar. Following the Brit’s suggestion, we ordered the “House Antipasti” without asking what it was and were pleasantly surprised. It was a plate of assorted vegetables including onions, pickled beets, green beans and roasted red peppers, garlic and zucchini, with cheese in a sweet vinegar sauce. It was a perfect selection for an appetizer because since it was mostly vegetables, it was light and we were not too full for dinner.

For the main course, I ordered artichoke heart ragout with a polenta cake and feta sauce. It was amazing. It was a bowl of onions, squash, and artichoke hearts with a polenta cake on top (sort of like cornbread) and a thick pesto sauce (almost like cottage cheese) on top. It was a vegetarian plate, meaning no meat, which normally I wouldn’t have thought of ordering, but I loved it.

We finished the evening off with probably the best dessert I’ve ever had. I usually never order dessert, but since they politely brought the menu instead of asking us if we wanted to see it (a clever marketing trick because normally I just would have turned it down) the Brit and I couldn’t resist the temptation of the Almond Cake with Rhubarb compote and Strawberry frache. It was amazing. I’m a sucker for strawberry-rhubarb stuff, my mom’s pie is one of them, and this took the cake. Pun intended.

Currently Feeling: Like I already spent too much money. God dammit.
Currently Anticipating: Drinking green beer tonight with Sarah at the Irish Immigrant!

9 Black Alps and Silversun Pickups

Went to a show last night at Neumo’s. It was pretty rockin’. It’s been awhile since I’ve just gone to a show without knowing any of the bands. I received an email from 107.7 announcing the release of the 9 Black Alps album (if you don’t subscribe, it’s fabulous. You get to buy tickets before everyone else, and they send you coupons for 3.99 cds). I’m not too familiar with 9 Black Alps, however, they have been compared to Nirvana and the Pixies, so sign me up. It was apparent after their first song that they really did sound like Nirvana. Impressive if you ask me. The band hails from England, and they kicked-off their American tour in Seattle. It’s nice to live in a city of such musical importance. The lead singer kept telling the audience that they were giving out their “badges” for free. I had to turn to the Brit for a translation. Apparently, they were giving out their “pins” for free. Definitely a band to pay attention to…they’re even in the running for Spin magazine’s Band of the Year.

While 9 Black Alps were obviously good, I was actually more impressed with their opening act, Silversun Pickups. The singer had an amazing voice (sometimes melodic, sometimes raging) and they kicked ass. Plus, he was hot. There is definitely something to be said about a man pouring his heart and soul into the microphone while his hair hangs in his face and his back is wet with sweat. Damn. I really need to look into dating a musician. I take back what I said about mustache rides, he can give me one. Anyway, I couldn’t stand still while listening to them. The band also has a girl in it, which is sort of rare. At first, I thought the band had two girls. Me and the Brit had a hard time figuring out if the drummer was a man or a woman. (In their band pic, he’s obviously a man, but on stage, it was hard to tell.) We concluded woman, but upon further investigation on their web site, www.silversunpickups.com, the drummer’s name was Christopher. Male. Creepy. I like my men looking like men.

Currently Feeling: Tired, tired, always tired.
Currently Dreading: Two-hour Planned Parenthood Apt. Blech.
Current Weekend Plans: Howl at the Moon, Theatre Sports and catching up with Jill.

Facial Hair

When you first start dating someone, you inevitably go through that period of time where you’re spending a lot of time with them, going out to dinner and staying up way later than you normally would, trying to decide if you like them and if they are really worthy to introduce to your friends. By this Friday night, almost everyone whose opinion I really cared a lot about had met the Brit, either on purpose or by default. Everyone that is, except Vanessa, whose opinion I revere and was a little nervous about. When I decided that I really liked the Brit, I wanted everyone who was close to me to like him too. So, I teased Vanessa that she couldn’t meet him yet cause I was a little nervous about it. Rightfully so, I suppose, ‘cause when the Brit left to go to the bathroom I did what every girl does. I turned to Vanessa to take advantage of the five minutes girls use to quickly gossip while the guy is gone, and she said, “I didn’t expect him to have so much facial hair.” Hmm. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

I’m not embarrassed that the Brit has facial hair. I think it’s hot. I’ve always been into a little bit of scruff, however, I will agree that some guys take it a little too far. For example, Sarah, Kelly and I attended a friend’s party on Saturday. Good God, if you could have seen the facial hair that some of these guys had. Good thing I wasn’t necessarily on the prowl, otherwise I would have been extremely disappointed with the selection at this party. It wasn’t pretty. When I walked in, all I saw was one guy with a glaring, child molester mustache. It was so gross; Sarah and I couldn’t even stand to look at it. Seriously, what is up with guys all thinking it’s so funny to have “contests” where they compete to do really gross things with their appearance such as mullet-growing contests, mustache-growing contests or guys that don’t cut their hair until the end of some ridiculously unimportant sporting event? I’ve known a number of my guys friends lately who have grown a mustache for a laugh. I guess this is better than, [gasp], growing one cause you actually think it looks good. It doesn’t. Never. Mustaches are just not something that are hot, or ever will be. Unlike Kelly, I will never say, “Yes, please, I would love a mustache ride.”

On top of the ridiculous mustache that I really hope was a joke, another guy had long, stick-straight 70s style hair with sideburns that I could not even begin to describe. He looked like he stepped out of Dazed and Confused. It was bad. The sideburns were actually huge triangles that extended to the middle of his cheek, fading off into a slight point that was filled in with pube-like hairs. Gross. As a guy, if your facial hair grows in resembling pubes, or it is so long that it actually fits the term “chin pube,” it’s time to shave it off. Seriously. Just. Get. Rid. Of. It. I guarantee you’ll get more chicks.

In conclusion, while Vanessa’s comment wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, I will say that the age-old cliché “to each their own” rings true. Some girls like their men scruffy, some girls don’t. At least I can be grateful for the fact that the Brit doesn’t have just one dirty Mexican shit ‘stache, tacky 70s hair that hangs in his face or pubescent, triangle sideburns.

Currently Feeling: Full from Mom’s home-cooking
Currently Watching: The Oscars
Currently Dreading: Yet another Monday morning

British Exercise

Yesterday was my dreaded monthly training session at the gym where a trainer measures me and compares my progress to last month’s. Normally, I am pumped for this because then I can actually get a little retribution for the hard work and determination I’ve invested in this “losing weight” thing. (Hard work and determination that does not extend to giving up alcohol or other unhealthy vices.), Anyway, I was dreading yesterday’s because I have slacked off for two weeks or so prior and after my trip to San Diego. To my surprise, however, after yesterday’s session I learned that I reached the measurement goals that were set up for me when I first started at the gym, and I lost five pounds! How does that work?

After running a few options through my head…no, I haven’t starved myself…no, I haven’t been drinking less…etc. etc, I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m utterly convinced it’s sex. I’ve been diligently trying to lose weight for two months now, and the two weeks I take off from the gym, I have sex four or so times a week and suddenly I lose five pounds. I love it. On the other hand, my love for British men and accents might run a little too deep. The trainer who worked with me yesterday was British, and I swear they’re a nation of sweet-talkers. He convinced me somehow, and I’m still trying to figure out how, to sign a commitment form to pay for personal training sessions in a couple weeks, and he is going to be contacting me. Personal training is something that I am extremely interested in, however, it is incredibly expensive and I’ve been trying to pay off debts, bills and rent in a timely manner. (I’m finally learning how to be responsible and somewhat self-sufficient at age 24). So, now I’ve committed to paying him $230 for three training sessions. Whoops. Oh well, I suppose it’s better than $230 on another pair of jeans or shoes. At least this way I’m doing something better for my health. AND from this point forth I will be able to compare the benefits of sex with a British man and work-outs with a British man. Updates to come…