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. 

Maturity. Finally.

I am the victim of constant matchmaking. I'm friends with lots of married women, who look at a single woman as a project. I go with it, as I find the results endlessly entertaining. (Despite not being particularly useful.) I found myself in such a situation on Friday, quite unexpectedly. 
Before my would-be suitor appeared on my radar, though, he had a bit of stiff competition. 


One man stared at me from his table of shot-consuming buddies before approaching us. He said he was pretty sure he knew me, which was not true to the best of my knowledge. However, he had a nice smile so I told him he might be correct. For the record, I find this approach totally acceptable--however, it does help if one gives some sort of clue about how he might know you. 
Later, a gentleman far too old for me walked by and stopped in his tracks. I had my chin in my hand and he mimicked my gesture and called me The Thinker. "Whatcha thinking about?" he smirked at me, a misguided attempt to flirt, I suppose. 
"Gin," was my flat answer before returning to my conversation. He spent the rest of the evening flitting around the bar, flirting with many blondes who were much, much too young for him. (And far more attractive.)
Returning from the restroom, a middle aged man in dress pants, nice shoes, and a baseball jersey (yup.) stopped me and said, "I'm sorry, what was your name again?" When I told him I hadn't given it to him once, he offered his hand and introduced himself. When I went for the handshake, he switched it up and kissed my hand instead. Thanks. I excused myself mid-compliment. But it's ok, because he was clearly drunk and surely wasn't that offended. Also I didn't care.


Fortunately, I had spotted a tall attractive guy near our table. As if by magic, he appeared at my table later. In this instance, magic is actually my fabulous friend T. She is an energetic force to be reckoned with. T knows him and pulled him over, calling my name. We were introduced and he was bossy enough to tell me I should get out of my seat...but he said it with a great smile on his face so I let that slide. T very subtly said, "This is M. M, this is Amanda. I have to pee," before disappearing. We chatted for a few, nothing of consequence. He told me he had noticed me and thought I was lovely but he had a girlfriend. And you know what? That was totally awesome. I mean it. It should have been a bummer but it was fantastic. He was HONEST ABOUT IT and I have had a string of men withholding this particular bit of information. I HATE THAT.
 So even though it was kind of sad that a cute, cool guy thinks I'm beautiful but already has a lady in his life...actually...that's really sad. Right, I was making a point! Even though he's unavailable, we had an interaction that didn't leave me feeling all slimy and gross. 


PROGRESS, guys. PROGRESS. 

Reverse Stalking.

Get ready, readers, for an unpopular opinion. (Please hold your surprise that I might say something you aren't in love with.) 


Technology is messing a lot of things up.


I'm not even talking on the user level--that's a blog for another day. The pain in the ass I'm referring to is the impact technology has on the trash heap of our social lives. As we walk through life, there are people who stay--they're kept handy, within reaching distance. You don't even bother putting them away. There are people stored away on shelves, behind glass--preserved and shown off when the mood strikes. Some people we inherit from loved ones. We have a history with them and could never part with those people. There are people who come to us in the wrong form--great people, just not suited for you personally. We give them a try...and then recycle them, compost them. Send them off and hope they become something great--for someone else. 
And then. Then there are people who come into your life and just cannot stay. We throw them away and hope we never see them again. This is the toxic friend. The boyfriend you don't want any of your girls to date, and not out of weird jealousy. And then they are gone, hauled away. 


This is not the case anymore. Before I got a Facebook account, I never had to face my exes unless I sought them out. I could rest easy that anything I threw away stayed away. With the myriad social networks in our faces, you actually cannot stop running into people from your past. People you may know? Yeah, I might know that guy. I might have had Christmas dinner with his family. I might have had his tongue in my mouth before. Do I want to friend him? No, I do not. Thanks for asking. You can try telling Facebook you don't know him, but when you have 47 mutual friends even Facebook starts to think you're lying. TAKE A HINT, INTERNET. And now I can tell when these guys are going to a party with some of those 47 mutual friends or when one of them marries some poor unsuspecting girl and everyone tags a million pictures of them. I know way too much.


I'm not even ranting about privacy right now. (ANOTHER BLOG FOR ANOTHER DAY.) What I'm saying is I JUST WANT MY EXES TO STAY IN THE PAST, INTERNET. It's bad enough that I was half a second from hiding at work last week when I thought the sub next door was a guy I dated. Just because our email exchanges are somewhere in the recesses of my account, I do not want his address popping up when I import contacts to Skype. I don't want to follow him on Twitter, nor do I want him in my circles on Google+. WE BROKE UP, OK? My social media needs to catch up on that news. 

another goodbye.

On a sunny day in DC, I walked around the neighborhood catching up with E. Constantly distracted by buildings around me, I was looking up as usual. It was a lovely neighborhood, all painted houses closely knit amid trees and uneven brick sidewalks. We passed a church--a pretty old brick church tucked into the city. The grounds were bursting with flowers, their blooms filling all the available space in the gardens. I interrupted E (who fortunately puts up with this) to comment on it. She grew quiet before speaking. 

This lovely, quiet space, so out of place in a city of hundreds of thousands but perfect all the same, was the location of their final goodbye to Kirby. I learned that this tiny church was full well past capacity to accommodate everyone who loved her. 

The silent prayer in my head will never be enough to honor her memory, but it was all I had as I took in that tiny, beautiful space. 

Secrets.

You guys. 


YOU GUYS. You know I like to tell you about the men who pop in and out of my life. I pride myself on having interesting encounters--if the relationship isn't a success, might as well have a good story, yes? 


I have a good story. I have a really good story and I want to tell you all about it. BUT YOU GUYS. You also know I never come right out and say, "So I met this guy named Brad Pitt and he's an actor and here's what went down." I like to give these guys a tad more anonymity than that--whether or not they've earned it. So I keep some of it to myself and we're all good. 


But guys. The story I want to tell you is only really good because of those things. Without certain details, it's a rather generic story and you know what? I don't do generic. So you'll have to just trust me on this--I had a really, really good vacation. 




Someday, please remind me to tell you.