But not a spoonful of sugar.

In light of a frustrating trip to CVS last week, I cleaned out my purse today. Not my wallet...my whole purse. Every little pocket. (And I love little pockets.) There was the usual: wallet, pen, keys, mints. However, in addition to the things you're generally supposed to have in a purse as large as mine, here's a partial list of what I found. 

• a bird finger puppet
• coins from Brazil, Norway, Bulgaria*, Canada, and a German euro**
• a seashell
• a Tinkerbell charm which I believe fell off a keychain some years ago
• notes I wrote after seeing a psychic
• three coffee sleeves (Starbucks, Tim Horton's, Biggby)
• two separate bets made with friends..."Amanda, you keep this because you won't lose it" YOU ARE CORRECT
• a stray ribbon
• a playing card from when I lived in Ireland
• a diamond ring party favor
• an allen wrench
• a temporary tattoo from the Peter Pan bus line
• a fortune telling fish
• a venn diagram that Twin drew for me at the bar one night ***(see below for reproduction)
• a coupon for a free pretzel from the mall (!!)
• a shocking number of hair pins and safety pins and paperclips and band-aids and one of those coffee cup stoppers
• five (FIVE) different lip products
• ZERO CVS CARDS

I'll let you decide what all THAT says about me as human being/future hoarder/Mary Poppins-Little Mermaid hybrid. Look at this stuff, isn't it neat? 

I removed the ribbon, which will likely end up being the only damn item on the list I'll wish I had. 

Except that CVS card. I'll definitely keep wanting that. Sigh. 

*Yeah, Bulgaria is working on adopting the euro...so I won't even be able to use it. 
**Also, I haven't even been to most of those countries.

***figure A

Ye Olde Blogge Poste

Last week I went to the Renaissance Festival. That might sound really dorky if you don't happen to live in Michigan or have one near you. Actually...it sounds really dorky even if you're familiar with the Ren Fest. But let me clarify: I attended the Ren Fest. I patronized it. I did not participate in the whole costume-accent-Medieval vernacular sense. Some friends and I hung out for the day.

I have a soft spot for the Renaissance Festival. I think it's fun and quirky and ohhh my the people watching. It's top notch people watching. You see things that you cannot unsee. I think one of the biggest reasons I sort of enjoy going is that in retrospect, I can trace my questionable decision making back to that grove of trees. Sometime during my high school years, I found myself wandering around there with a couple of my best friends. That day, in the hot August sun, I flirted with a strange boy for the first time ever. He was wearing a kilt, had a great smile, I didn't know his name, and I wrote my phone number on a dollar bill he pulled out of his...satchel. Pouch. Whatever you call the bags they wear on a kilt.** My friends shook their heads as we walked away. They sighed the couple times we crossed paths that day and he winked at me. (Seriously. A teenager in a kilt winked at me.) He didn't call, of course. He was never going to call, and I probably knew that. I don't know what I would have done if he DID call. But that very sketchy decision was fun and he was really cute. (A sentence I find myself saying pretty regularly, let's be honest.)

Interesting choices and douchebags aside, I think it's a great place. It's an outlet for people to be as weird as they want. (Weird being relative, I realize, but I'm talking mainstream society here.) I love the idea that there were so many people who loved making their own chainmail and carrying swords that they were like, "You know what? Let's go find some dusty wooded area to hang out in and eat some turkey legs. Ale, anybody?" It's fascinating. A secret little world where I was the weirdo, in jeans. There's a whole other set of social norms, and it's awesome. For heaven's sake, a guy in a cape tipped his hat at me and called me "m'lady." (I ignored him because even though it's kind of a boost to be blatantly checked out, I've been there and done that--no phone numbers on dollar bills this year, my friends.) 

However...no judging or anything, ladies and gentlemen, but...just because you can wear a chainmail bikini top or a corset that squishes your boobs up to your neck...doesn't mean you necessarily should. Fun fact. 


**EDIT: A friend informs me that the kilt bag is called a sporran. She credits her Scottish heritage for that innate knowledge. 

Interruption.

Hey you. If you've seen a TV, read a newspaper, or looked at the internet recently, you know there is an election coming up. It's kind of a big deal. And it's in less than two months. 

I'm not here to tell you about my vote or why I'll be casting it a certain way. I'm here to tell you that you should be voting. I don't care who you vote for--but go vote. Decisions are made by the people who show up...so be a responsible adult for once and go help make the decision. It will certainly be better than posting another status update about your boyfriend or ignoring the text messages from that girl you met. 

Not sure where to get started? Make sure you're registered--try here--and if you're not, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? 

Adventures in Online Dating

You've heard me mention my twin, right? In case you're new to the party and are sitting there like, "Whoa, Bitter has a twin?? There are two of her? This gives me mixed emotions."...let me fill you in. First of all, you're probably smart to be concerned that there are two of me, but have no fear because Twin is a good foil for me in a lot of ways. Believe it or not, a lot of my bad ideas are the ones that made it past her filter. There are a lot of ideas that she stops at the gate. (You don't even want to know.) She's also the single most awesome person I know. 

You're caught up. 

Twin took herself out of the dating game for a long time, which we are all happy to blame on the Disgusting Troll Ex-Boyfriend of a few years ago. She decided to be brave recently, and also to get all of us off her back about it, and started online dating. She has quickly learned that many of the guys there are duds. Boring messages, overly philosophical messages, creepy messages. But one guy seemed cool! Nice! Friendly! Interesting! They chatted, they texted, they set up a date! We were proud of her! Good for you, getting back in the game! 

But I'm her twin. HER TWIN. I'm not about to let her end up on the evening news. "Local Artist Found in Area Man's Basement." Nope. Not happening. He may sound nice, but he's still a guy you met on the internet. Let's not go crazy. A friend and I went undercover and had dinner near the coffee shop where they met. We also tried to locate them from the roof of the parking garage. Everything checked out.

When Twin called me an hour into their date and was escaping, I was a little confused. An hour? That seemed a bit short. We met for ice cream and a debrief. As Twin and This Guy walked around, they passed a bondage store and he asked if she was into that. She said no, thinking that was a rather personal question for date one. "Ok," he said. "I am." 

Well alright then. This Guy is into bondage. That's a lot of information to get about someone you just met. Half an hour ago. Then he somehow works into the conversation that he used to date a stripper. (Attention guys: We don't really want to hear about your exes on the first date. ESPECIALLY THE STRIPPERS YOU DATED.) As if that wasn't enough information about his past, This Guy mentions that she also made porn. Oh, and HE WAS IN A PORN WITH HER ONCE. (It was at this point in her story that I choked on my ice cream. Did not see that coming.) The guy making these asked him because he's "big." 

Just to recap, in case your head is spinning from Overshare Syndrome, Twin met this guy for coffee, then before the cups were empty learned that he was into bondage, dated a stripper, and made a porn with her because he has a huge penis. 

WELL OK THEN. Twin was, let's say, a little surprised that he'd shared so much. When he invited her back to his place after an hour, she decided to make an exit. Guys, you have to leave ladies wanting more. Keep a little mystery in the relationship. Talking about sex on the first date is risky. This time, it didn't pay off for Porn Star. It's not quite like telling your date you're into chicken fajitas. 

My sister dated a porn star. It's actually a really fun sentence to say. 

You may not have my phone number and here is the reason why.

I was gone for a long time. I know. I'm sorry. I can explain. (Despite what it sounds like, I did not cheat on you.) 

There are two big reasons. The first is the cool one, which is that I was in Finland for nearly a month. It's beautiful there and they have good beer AND good chocolate. Instead of the face-meltingly hot summer you all had here, it was basically in the mid-70s all the time in Finland. Except at 3am when it dropped to, I don't know, 12 degrees? That's fine, though, because the temperature doesn't matter so much on a 3am adventure. The moral here is that despite the fact that I cannot understand Finnish at all it was a fabulous trip. (That started with 24 hours of travel and a missing suitcase and ended with 24 hours of travel.) More on all that later. 

Let's talk about the second reason. The reason I've been laying low for a while. I have a story that I've been dying to tell you basically since the minute it happened. Unfortunately, I couldn't risk the subject of my story catching wind of my existence. I was playing dead, so to speak. But now...it's been a while and also I no longer care if he finds out. It might do him good, actually. 

The Friday before my Finland adventure, I was at a pub crawl with a bunch of friends. We had an awesome time and I was determined not to make any bad choices. (Not...that I've done that...in the past...) So when this cute guy made normal conversation with me, I figured it was acceptable. Let's call him Boy Band. He sought me out at the next two bars, which I also thought was a good sign. He was tall and cute, with a job and the ability to hold a conversation, and didn't spill his drink on me. These are pretty basic standards. I allowed myself to be a bit charmed by him, even though he asked me six times if I liked sushi--I never said the ability to retain information was on my list of standards! When, at the fourth bar, he asked if he could take me out sometime, I figured at the very least I'd have a good story for you guys. So I said yes. I immediately had to follow it with an explanation.
"This is bad timing and will sound like a blow off, but I am leaving the country in four days and will be gone until August. I'll be in Finland. That is not a line and is actually happening." Boy Band seemed to buy it (Probably because of my flawless delivery. Right?) and asked for my number. 

Time. Out. It's important that you know something about me, before I continue to outline my poor choices and the trainwreck that followed. I never give out my phone number. I. Never. Give. Out. My. Phone. Number. It's been approximately 3 years since I gave a man* my number, because they always misuse it! I tell guys they can find me on facebook--yes I am that girl and no, I do not care. Right, back to Boy Band and the Quest for Amanda's Phone Number. (I would probably read that book.)

Boy Band asked for my number, totally unaware of the minefield he was jumping into. I changed the subject a couple times, still debating the merits of this guy. Should I allow him the ability to call? Did I want this to continue? One more gin and tonic later, I decided that I was overdue for a story for my blog. This guy was 34 and I figured he was old enough to use the phone responsibly.** The third time he asked, I agreed. 

MISTAKE. 

A short while after he and his friend left the bar, he called me asking if I got home alright. A nice gesture, even though I was still at the bar with my friends. He asked me if I could let him know when I did get home. I obliged, even though a nice flirty conversation ended with him asking me twice if I would come over. Hi, not so much. He also asked if he could see me that weekend. Sure. Fine. Whatever. 

Considering I hung up with him around 3am, you can imagine my surprise when he texted at NOON. I opened my bleary, eyeliner-smudged eyes to find out he wanted to get together. "Now??" I asked the universe. Not going to happen. I then told him my day was pretty busy--remember, readers, that I was leaving for a month in four days. I kind of had a lot to do, including seeing friends and other people who know my last name.--but that I would text him later when I finished some errands. 

He beat me to it! "Are you back yet?" Oh no. Boy Band, don't do this. Don't be that guy. When I did get back, I ran off to see some friends. I texted him back and instead of doing any kind of acceptable flirting, he spent the next couple hours trying to convince me to leave my friends and come see him. When I didn't reply right away because I was with my friends being social he texted me saying, "You're not interested. I get it." OH MY GOD really? I was feeling suffocated. When I replied, he answered, "I might cry if I don't get to see you. :(" 

Nope. Can't do it. Can't deal with a clingy 34 year old man using the sad face this casually. Can't. Deal. I stopped replying. But I guess Boy Band really was sad because he called me. At 2:30. In the morning. Which I ignored because who calls at 2:30am with good intentions? Nobody. But that's ok, because he called back at 2:34am! WHICH I ALSO IGNORED. 

Normal human beings would stop contacting me. But not this tenacious fellow! He texted me at noon on Sunday--a normal, appropriate hello text which would have been appreciated if he'd not contacted me at all on Saturday. It went ignored. But just in case I missed it, he texted again on Sunday evening to ask when I was leaving. 

THAT. That is why I never give out my phone number. (That is also, I'm certain, why Boy Band is still single.) 



*"A man" in this case means a man I was not already friends with or related to or some other non-romantic circumstance. Those guys are allowed--even though they often misuse the knowledge as well. 

**FORESHADOWING. 

Sex Ed...Sort Of.

There's this new story going around the internet--I'm sure you've seen it. Some 7th grade teacher was encouraging her students to ask honest questions about sex and allowed them to do so anonymously. She put them on a blog and that's where we are now. Everyone's writing about how hilarious they are, these ignorant and ridiculous questions about sex. It's everywhere. 

And I wish it would stop. Sure, from our perspective these questions are funny. Because we're adults. And we've already learned it. We think it's funny to ask what are different kinds of sex because we know the answer. But take a minute and think back to 7th grade. When you didn't know about sex. (Even if you were having it already.) 

In a country where so many schools don't teach about sex (in my school, we learned what the reproductive systems looked like and watched a terrifying video of a woman giving birth...which, in retrospect, was excellent birth control) or teach students to wait to have sex (which of course always works...) and parents are often nervous to have the sex conversation and as a society we're pretty nervous about sex at all...it's no wonder our kids have questions. And if the schools aren't answering them, and the parents aren't answering them, kids either rely on the internet for answers or they ask their friends, who by the way also have no clue. And we all know how reliable the internet is...it's either the self-edited Wikipedia which may or may not have been edited by an equally clueless 7th grader, or WebMD, which is the place to go if you want to be convinced you have some kind of rare cancer or tumor or disease that no one has had in hundreds of years. 

So this teacher found a solution, which had kids asking honest questions. She framed it in a way that made them feel comfortable and she gave them a way to safely ask about stuff. Which is fantastic. Ignorance may be bliss, but it can also be teenage pregnancy or sexually transmitted infections, among other unpleasantries. I applaud her efforts. I wish more young adults had someone they trusted and could turn to when they wanted to know about sex. Or drinking, or anything else that comes up. (I personally had an older brother and sister who were more than willing to not only answer questions but volunteer information. I was lucky. And in the minority.) 

And what do we do? We laugh. We post their queries all over the internet and mock them for their stupidity. Just great. Perfect. What better way to gain their trust, am I right? 

Worthwhile.

Fun fact: contrary to popular belief, I do believe love exists. 


I know, I know. Who says that? But whatever, shut up. I do. 


My neighbors down the street, M and H, are absolutely the nicest couple in the world. Both retired, they have breakfast at a little family restaurant every day. They wander around garage sales and museums and quilt shows and whatever interests one of them. M lent me a book about making t-shirt quilts when I wondered if I could manage that. (It remains to be seen but ONE DAY.) H brought me his old, worn Ford Model A belt buckle when he learned that I was looking for a vintage buckle several years ago. They are the model neighbors and you'd want a whole neighborhood full of them. 


A few weeks ago, M suffered from a major heart attack and passed away. It was the kind of shocking news that leaves your head spinning because it just can't be true. H came over to tell us, early in the morning, and my heart broke. He was telling my parents what the doctors had said, but all I could focus on was his left hand. On his little finger, next to his wedding band, was her wedding ring. I left the room because the sight of that small gold band was overwhelming. It should be on her finger, as she sits next to him. 


They married young, in the 1950s. This week would have been their 54th wedding anniversary. The pictures from their wedding are fabulous, full of white tuxedo jackets and Buddy Holly glasses and full skirted dresses. 


Fifty four years. That's love. That's the love I believe in. As men throw out terrible lines and grab me in bars and think texting to say, "wanna hang out" is enough...I can only shake my head because that's not how you find yourself married for 54 years. I can't imagine any relationship founded on drunk dials is going to be as worthwhile as M and H's...so no, random guy, you can't have my number. I do not want to come home with you. I like being single. My life is actually pretty fantastic and not really missing anything if I do say so myself. If I'm going to make myself (and another person) miserable in a relationship, I might as well hold out for something better.