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Archive for the ‘love & sex’ Category

GUYS! Sarah Von from the UNIMPEACHABLY DELIGHTFUL yes and yes was kind enough to run a little interview with me today! Check it out if you’re interested in my inner workings, such as they are. And apologize for length of today’s post but I’m going to go ahead and file it under: worth it.

NTKOG #96: The kind of bold, forward-moving networker who meets you, takes your contact information and actually calls you to meet up afterwards.

I am: terrified of accidentally imposing my company on unwilling interlocutors.

I am not: crazy enough, therefore, to follow through with any of the disposable friends whose numbers and business cards I accumulate by the dozen on the T.

The Scene: Last month, I met a dude on the T and went absolutely nuts for him — fireworks, fantasy montages, the whole deal — and was heartbroken when he canceled our date. A few days ago, after a month of no contact from him, I forcibly ejected every fiber of “he’s just not that into you” from my mind and texted him, proposing drinks on Thursday. To my utter friggin’ elation, he actually agreed, and suggested 8pm at Harvard Square.

Dressed for the evening in a tizzy; finally settled on: pencil skirt, casual V-neck with push-up bra, granny panties (to protect against first-date sexin’), and condoms in my purse (I’m only human). Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Dude was, as I remembered, a dreamboat, after all.

As I approached him, he waved and I wondered, huh, were his eyes this beady when I first met him? And was his forehead always so protrudey? But my taste in men is quirky anyway. As we walked to the bar, I launched into a funny story about Kiss-Ducker and I getting drunk in a combination Mexican restaurant slash tranny bar in San Jose.

“When we get together, we’re totally crazy,” I smiled.

“Wanna know a fun fact about me?” he asked. I nodded. “I’m totally crazy too.”

Just then, his cell phone went off; he answered immediately. “Hi Mom. I’m okay, how are you? Yeah, I’m just out right now. With some girl.” I threw up my arms in mock-protest. “No, she’s a real girl, Mom. I swear she’s real.” Um, your red flags getting a workout yet?

After he said goodbye, I joked: “Hey, this is great. I thought I would make this date really awkward, but, dude, you took a call from your mom! Totally surged into the lead! Nothing can be awkward now!”

“Oh, the fun fact about me,” he continued. “I’m crazy. Literally. I was hospitalized for a psychiatric breakdown in late November. I got diagnosed with bipolar and I’m on tons of lithium, so I can’t read people’s minds anymore. Okay, the bar’s around the corner.”

…holy shit. Holy shit. We walked into the bar and were told it had a twenty-minute wait. Was that okay with me, he asked? Uh, no. I needed gin and I needed it about five minutes ago.

We headed down the block to a cute underground bar and I flagged the hostess down and begged for a gin and ginger ale, and keep ’em coming. And for the gentleman?

“I’ll have a pina colada.”

…she broke it to him that they don’t make pina coladas at Irish pubs, so he sighed and ordered a pint of beer. When she brought our drinks, she lay a straw next to my glass. Former Dreamboat unwrapped the straw and stuck it in his beer. HE DRANK BEER WITH A STRAW.

In order to fill the fog of awkward, I babbled through my ice-breakers (what’s the most embarrassing song on your iPod? Miley Cyrus. do you have a rich uncle or a creepy uncle? Uncle Moneybags) while generously lubricating my discomfort with the blessed gin. Former Dreamboat, though, was in no hurry. He sipped his beer drop by drop while staring deep in my eyes. And dudes, I am here to say that he had a case of the Crazy Eye so bad that his irises were practically plaid. If you don’t know what I mean by this, you have never been penetrated by the Crazy Eye.

Every time I dropped my hand to the table, he jerked his arm toward me to try to cover my hand with his own. After a few iterations of hand and mouse, I buried my fists deep in my armpits, shivering with feigned cold in the eighty-degree bar.

The conversation moved to meeting people in the T, and I admitted that though I am naturally shy, I meet tons of people during my commute. “It’s hard to meet people on the T, though,” he mused. “If you try to talk to people, they think you’re crazy. My best opener is when I see people playing with their cell phones, I ask if they get reception in the station. You can kind of trick people into talking to you that way.”

I mentioned that I like to flash people live eyes, which sometimes draws them into conversation. He answered: “Oh, I stare at people too. I stare at people in the T all the time. They always look away really fast, though. It’s probably because I’m a guy.” It could be that, dude. It could. Or it could be the fact that you actively try to trick people into talking to you.

For the rest of his slooooow beer (and my two subsequent gin and ginger ales), he discussed the side effects of his lithium, the pall that it casts over his world until it loosens its grip before bedtime. “Did you know that 60% of bipolar patients stop taking their medicine within a year?” he asked me, a glint of hope in his voice. “I miss being manic. I was really great back then. I was a good conversationalist. You would have liked me. I thought I could read minds too, and even though I guess I couldn’t, it was kind of nice, feeling normal like that.”

Finally I paid for our drinks and walked him back to the T station, before catching my bus. There was a moment before we parted ways — that normal awkward first date moment, but captured in a funhouse mirror. He leaned in to kiss me, but I ducked out of it and gave him a hug. We should do this again, he told me. Yeah, I said, maybe. As I walked away, I could hear him taking out his cell phone to call his mother back.

The Verdict: Shit, guys, I thought that was a funny story, but it’s actually kind of sad, isn’t it? I don’t know. Part of me is happy that he apparently had a good time; the other part of me is shrieking I wore a push-up bra for this?! One thing is for certain: I’m not picking up any more guys in public until I somehow install a better pre-screening process for social dysfunction. Also, if a dude ever comes up to me on the T and asks if I get cell reception, I will turn up my music, smile politely, and say nothing.

Now I’m kind of feeling like a jerkface that I didn’t like this guy, but the thing is, you can’t like people just because the world would be a sweeter place if you did. I think all you can do is be nice and try to be an okay person. He ordered a pina colada in an Irish pub. It wasn’t going to work out anyway. It just wasn’t. I don’t know. I’m doing my best.

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NTKOG #90: The kind of vapid, beauty-obsessed reality TV contestant who – not content with just photoshopping every photo of her on Facebook – resorts to real-life editing, in the form of a full-body airbrushed spraytan.

I am: already extremely happy with my skin, which holds a hint of tan even in winter.

I am not: even vain enough to wear make-up on a daily basis – let alone the semi-permanent whole-body equivalent!

The Scene: Perfect Tan in Allston, where I have purchased a half-price coupon for a custom airbrush spray tan session, courtesy of the brilliant minds at Groupon. I bought the coupon more as a joke than anything: I simply couldn’t think of a less-me activity. Standing naked while a total stranger sprays your whole body with ice-cold liquid vanity? Ha. The whole T ride to the tanning salon, my heart froze with condescension, horror, and deep-seated girlish insecurities.

What I thought would happen: A taut, gleaming blonde named Kandi would glare judgmental at my paper thong and crack out – between snaps of her gum – “So, what, is your waxer like semi-recently deceased or something?” While I attempted to mumble an answer, she’d pop a cartridge of spray out of the airbrush gun. “Yeah, um, there wasn’t enough paint to cover you. On account of you being a beast and all.” As I re-dressed, I’d catch a glimpse of myself in my mirror, smeared with neon streaks of a color that can only be described as JERSEY SHORANGE.

What actually happened: A taut, gleaming brunette named Lori (thank you, universe, for sharing my sense of humor) asks if I’m getting sprayed for a particular event and, in a moment of weakness, I admit that I’m doing it for a blog and I’m kind of nervous. “Ohmigod, don’t be,” she says, her eyes round with enthusiasm. “You are going to look so good.” For eight minutes we chat about Boston and reality TV, and I forget that I am wearing nothing but three square inches of disposable fabric. The whole experience is, like, less awkward than a haircut. After she leaves, I dress jauntily before peering in a mirror and realizing – shit, I really do look … so good.

I mean, better than my previous winter pallor, anyway. The color is a natural bronze – the sort that my skin acquires after the first few nice days of spring. My limbs look thinner, my teeth look whiter, and I’ve acquired the deep, resonant glow of someone with a really good relationship with god. Or, at the very least, a time-share in St. Maarten. My fixation on the cosmetic benefits of spray-tanning hits an extreme when I catch myself staring at my own reflection in the dull metal siding of the Planned Parenthood across the street from the tanning salon.

Yeah I said tanLINE because guess what dudes DISPOSABLE THONG FOR THE WIN. (Also, the disposable thong is still in my purse because I was going to take pictures of it, but now I forgot and will probably just end up selling it to someone on Craigslist.)

Lame before and after cobbled together from iPhone pics, because I'm at work and even though my company is lax, I think they'd frown on my locking myself in the bathroom to take fifteen billion MySpace pictures of my tanline.

Later, The Ex compliments my tan as I sat gazing with liquid adoration at my clear, lustrous skin. “I know, it’s great, right? I only wish I’d gone a shade darker,” I fret, not for the first time.

“Whoa, babe,” he says. “You went from non-tanning to tanning, and now you’re obsessed with going darker and darker? You’re two steps away from running around town in blackface.” (Yes, this is the man who won my heart.)

The Verdict: Man, there is nothing I love more than being COMPLETELY WRONG about a NTKOG. It’s the kind of thing that reminds me exactly why I started this blog in the first place. I walked into the salon prepared to feel self-conscious and ridiculous, and to emerge looking like a refugee from Dr. Moreau’s island. I came out feeling recharged from the crappy winter weather, and psyched beyond belief for Sunday’s no-pants Metro ride.

I’m not sure I’d ever pony up the full $40 to get airbrushed again, but I did sign up for the parlor’s mailing list, and will definitely go again any time they offer a great coupon. Or if I have a big event coming up. Or if I just need a little pick-me-up. Goddamnit, I want to go back right now.

So, dude, where’s the TMI Thursday, you ask me? After I got my tan, Lori warned me I couldn’t get at all wet — no showers, no gym, not even crying — for eight hours; The Ex came to town a few hours later. If you couldn’t guess, we had a very, very friendly break-up. Aaaafter we said hello, as it were, I ran to the bathroom to check on my tan.

You know that phrase “bed head”? Yeah, I have a new one for you. Spraytan back. Yikes. Do not try at home, kids. Or at least put down your second-best sheets. (But worry not, my tan survived and still looks awesome.)

TMI Thursday! Go to Livit, Luvit for more TMI Thursday magic! By now I’m sure you know the dang routine!

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NTKOG #89: The kind of hopeless, anonymous romantic who meets a man at random and — after losing him in the crowd — throws a (metaphorical) message in a bottle to catch him again.

I am: in the habit of falling in love with half a dozen men a day.

I am not: so short of great lost loves that I need to dig them back up on the internet, it stands to reason.

The Scene:  The Brookline Booksmith (aka: Brookline’s literary Disneyland), shortly after moving here. I had a moment with the clerk after purchasing a book from the bargain table and — thuTHUD, is the sound of TKOG falling in love. For months, I would get all dolled up before browsing the bsmith, in hopes of meeting him, but alas, I never saw him again.

Enter Craigslist Missed Connections. Because surely a dude who reads George Saunders can read a measly little personals ad, right? Attached, verbatim, is the ad I posted last Thursday:

Bookline Booksmith former employee with taste for postmodern lit – w4m – 23 (Brookline)

You: hulked-out Korean (I think) former Brookline Booksmith employee with badass tattoos and a taste for postmodern literature.

I: came in sometime in September. Fast-talking brunette with black plastic-rimmed Weezer glasses.

We: bonded over a mutual love for George Saunders when I bought a copy of “In Persuasion Nation” off the bargain table.

You: asked if I had read any Barthelme.

I: am reading “60 Stories” as we speak.

You: were my imaginary boyfriend until you stopped working there at some point within the past few months.

I: miss having a reason to put on make-up on Saturday mornings.

You: got any more great book recommendations?

Looooove,
Your Former Imaginary Girlfriend (unbeknownst to you)

No word back yet; not even a book recommendation from a stranger. Oh well. That’s the thing about messages in bottles, I guess: sometimes they’re washed away forever, sometimes they’re found by someone else entirely. Almost never are they discovered by the person you intended.

The Verdict: I still totally support this one. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I was nervous about posting a Missed Connection in the first place — aside from the fact that when I see a guy I like, I tend to do something about it. But next time I miss my chance with someone, I would completely try this again, because what’s the worst that could happen?

Actually, the worst that could happen is that Booksmith Guy could email me back:  “You, TKOG, like so many other George Saunders-loving brunettes, have been driven to the brink of madness by my pomo literary tastes and badass tattoos. Based on your prose style, might I recommend The Da Vinci Code?”

Man. That would be horrible. Please don’t do that, Bookstore Guy! Otherwise, I’m down with Missed Connections.

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NTKOG #85:The kind of girl who, when she spots you in a room, acts on the mandate of destiny and, dude, honestly, kind of stalks you until you give her your number.

I am,: say it with me now, not dating.

I am not: like totally immune to the murmurs of fate.

The Scene: Brookline Booksmith, showing Kiss-Ducker around on the last night before she ends her visit and jets back to Barcelona. We head to the used books section downstairs and thumb through all the fiction novels; they’re light in Wodehouse, but Kiss-Ducker pauses to ask my opinion on an Evelyn Waugh novel. I’m telling her that Handful of Dust is a must-read (and now I’m telling you guys that too), when a man pushes between us, to hover in the W’s.

He is tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a motorcycle jacket with an asymmetrical collar and holding a Trader Joe’s wine bag; his hair and skin I can only describe as sun-kissed; he has just strode purposefully through the W’s. Wodehouse, Waugh, Wilde — who the fuck strides purposefully through the W’s? My goddamn soulmate, is who.

He seals the deal by saying a few words in praise of Handful of Dust, then lamenting that he has been prowling the city for a copy of “Scoop.” I may or may not stutter that I just got one, and we banter — we banter — back and forth about Evelyn friggin’ Waugh. Whose name the dude pronounces correctly, to boot!

To my credit, I refrain from proposing to him on the spot.

Sadly, he bounds upstairs before I can attempt to expand the conversation, and I give it up as a lost cause (dude with wine obviously is running somewhere), with Kiss-Ducker whispering for me to go for it. I tell her to grab her books and we race upstairs to stand behind him in line.

“This is a great bookstore,” I tell Kiss-Ducker, loudly enough for him to hear. “They bring all kinds of fantastic authors here. There was a two-block line for Lorrie Moore a few months ago.” HA! He turns around and looks curiously. Kiss-Ducker asks didn’t I tweet about that?, and I say, yeah, I was bummed not to get in, but I’d already heard her read that chapter back at PWCU.

Direct hit. On the second mention, Motorcycle Jacket of Destiny fully spins around, obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. Right about then he ends his transaction, and I bound to the door to intercept him:

TKOG: Look, I’m sorry, this is sort of out of the blue, but save me the trouble of posting a Craigslist missed connection later. You have completely awesome taste in books. Do you come here often?
Motorcycle Jacket of Destiny: Only when I’m walking by.
TKOG: I mean, yeah, that’s how people get places — you have to walk by. But I — look, I’m not coming on to you or anything, but I just moved here and I don’t know too many people. Do you want to grab a coffee sometime and talk Waugh?
MJOD: Uhhh, I have nothing to write my number with.
TKOG: No problem, she said, pulling out her iPhone a little too promptly.
MJOD: My hands are kind of full.
TKOG: I take dictation. [takes his number] Yeah, I’m not — don’t worry, I’m not actually doing to call you.
MJOD: Good luck. Happy New Year anyway.

The Verdict: Ouch, guys, was I covered with snow? ’cause, dude, he completely brushed me off. I’m going to assume it’s because he was taking the wine over to his girlfriend’s house, but man, usually people find me at least a little engaging in a hurricane-of-raw-intensity sort of way. Dude was just like not even having it.

Still, after sighing and cringing for a few minutes on the walk to Sister’s, I let Kiss-Ducker convince me that it was a good thing to try, and by now I whole-heartedly agree. Dude was wearing a fur-lined hat and buying Evelyn Waugh novels in bulk at my favorite bookstore — if I hadn’t said anything, chances are I’d end up on my death-bed, grandchildren on every limb, my rheumatic old eyes watering: ‘What if, what if, what if I had only spoken to that boy in the Brookline Booksmith and my life had been completely different?!

At least now I know for sure.

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This post is actually a little power-tagged because, regret to inform, I actually didn’t end up going out with the guy I met on the T after The Slutcracker. Bummer, right? I was really psyched!

We were supposed to go out on Wednesday, but the snag was that we couldn’t meet until 10pm (which, considering we met on public transportation, raised the sketch to perilous new levels), because I had class ’til 9:30, and Wednesday was the only night I didn’t have jam-packed.

We’d texted a bit on the night that we met — just, like, “nice to meet you!” stuff — and on Wednesday I waited with, I hate to admit, embarrassing earnestness for a follow-up text. Nothing. Finally, around 6pm, I texted him: “We still on?” and twenty minutes later he texted to say he had an early meeting the next day and going out starting at 10pm was just way too late, but “wanna go out tomorrow?” But my Thursday was already overloaded, so I texted him: “Totally booked tomorrow.”

No response.

My female friends did the right thing and tried to convince me that it was impossible he would have lost interest a few days after seeing me, and that he made an earnest attempt to reschedule, etc, etc, etc, but I mean, dudes, he’s just not that into me. It’s cool. Really, there’s nothing lost here: I picked him up in a T station, like a crazy person, and we didn’t even know anything about each other, so, y’know, no big deal.

Man, though, I had been really psyched! I’m usually cool-to-lukewarm on people when I first meet them, and can’t abide touching, so it was pretty thrilling to meet someone whom I immediately wanted to, like, rub my face on. Whatever, though. There will be other guys, not on other trains, whom I’m sure I can rub my face on in future.

Leaving for Vegas in a few hours, to spend Christmas with the fam! So, dude, if you’re a Vegas person I know irl and want to go out and have an adventure, let me know! Otherwise, see you cats on Monday with some uncharacteristic Vegas craziness.

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Not an NTKOG: The kind of girl who, um, rouses her holiday spirit by watching The Slutcracker: an XXXmas burlesque revue. (Not an NTKOG because, dude, near-naked people humping vibrating candy canes onstage? Yeah, I’m kind of all about that.)

The Scene: The Slutcracker, obviously, at the Somerville Theatre in Somerville. And hey, Bostonians? I’m just going to wait here for a minute while you go ahead and BUY YOUR TICKETS NOW! (Shows tonight through Sunday, 8pm, with a Sunday 2pm matinée. GO GO GO!) After our last hang, I suggested the show to Anglophile and Porn Star. And it just goes to show you how cool they are that they immediately said yes.

“Hey, really awesome eating cupcakes with you erstwhile strangers. Wanna go out in a few days and watch people in underwear do stuff to each other?” …not even I would have said yes to that.

From the second the curtain opened on a large woman, wearing frilly underwear and a mesh body stocking, I think we could all sense there was something magical unfolding before us. When she reached down and pulled her cue cards out of her panties, we were sure of it.

The story is basically a retelling of The Nutcracker, with a few adult twists. Instead of a magical nutcracker, for example, Clara is gifted by her dirty-minded grandma (played by a spectacular 70-year-old burlesque lifer) with a big floppy dildo. And instead of the Nutcracker Prince, she cavorts around with a giant pink vibrator — who, judging by his arm and head movements, is of the rabbit breed, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t worry, though: they didn’t change everything. The dance of the sugarplum fairy, true to the original, definitely involved some people popping out from under skirts…

At first, I will admit, I was a bit horrified by how good the choreography was. At least twenty minutes of the beginning of the show is a straight modern ballet: talented dancers, measured movements, some dang Tchaikovsky. But then. But then. Duct-tape pasties! Male pole dancers! Undergarments that are more confection than function! And, of course, SLUTS AND LIGHT-UP HULA HOOPS!

I just can’t say enough good things about this production! Brilliant choreography; vibrant cast (especially the adorable fiancé!); uproariously inventive take on a holiday standard. I was truly laughing from curtain up until the final bow. Plus, one of my favorite things about burlesque culture is how earnestly enthusiastic it is about sex and the human body, in whatever size or shape or texture it happens to come in. There’s something deeply affirming about being able to openly scrutinize the human body and appreciate its awkwardness and occasional ugliness and, despite or maybe because of these things, dude, mind-blowing sexiness. Plus, did I mention sluts and hula hoops?! By god, kids, this is Christmas.

The Verdict: Absolute must-see, rollicking holiday fun not for the whole family. For my money? Total Christmas tradition in the making.

Um, dudes, at one point, a giant penis-shaped candy cane EJACULATED SNOW. So. Is that TMI Thursday enough for you? Check out today’s TMI Thursday greatness over at Livit, Luvit!

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NTKOG #77: The kind of girl who catches your eye in public then, brazen as you please, gives you her number so you can meet again.

I am: skeptical of the whole concept of giving strangers your number. What’re you supposed to say when you call? “Hey, remember me? We met waiting in line for the restroom at the ice cream parlor?” Heck no.

I am not: even currently dating.

The Scene: The Davis Square T station, waiting for an inbound train with Anglophile and Porn Star after seeing The Slutcracker (a must-see for you Bostonians! details during a special sluts-and-hula-hoops edition of TMI Thursday!). As we walked by, I noticed a dreamy guy standing alone by the platform and shot him intense live eyes. I figured nothing would come of it, as he was too cute to even be looking at me. But. Not only did he not look away, but he wandered close to us and kept looking at me. Big-time electricity.

I pulled a standard TKOG move: started being extra charming and funny in the conversation to catch his attention. After I made a joke, he laughed, so I engaged with him. A few pleasantries, then I told him we’d just seen The Slutcracker and recommended he see it. He would, he said, but he just moved to town and doesn’t have friends yet.

TKOG: Me too! Tell you what. I can be your friend.
Davis Square Dreamboat: I’d like that.
TKOG: So what do you do? Student? Grad student?
DSD: I’m a software engineer.
TKOG: Love.

He laughed like I was joking. Um, like I’d ever joke about my love for engineers. Then — heart in my throat — I asked if he had an iPhone; he said no. “Too bad,” I told him, “or I could bump you my contact info. There’s an app for that.”

“You could just give me your number the old-fashioned way,” he said, whipping out his phone. I gave him my number, and afterwards he typed in my name without even asking me to repeat it, even though I’d only said it in passing before. My heart puddled and slid around the floor like a Capri Sun commercial. I got his number too, then the train came.

On the train, he sat across from me, then started chatting again, so I sat near him, but left a buffer seat because I hate touching. After a bit of normal exchange, he put his arm on my elbow:

DSD: So now that we’re friends, what are we going to do when I call you?
TKOG: Something exciting. We could get acupuncture together! Or indoor skydiving! [he grimaced at these] Or we could go get a drink at a bar with the periodic table on the wall?

Long story short (TOO LATE!), we’re going to Miracle of Science on Wednesday night after my writing class. You guys. You guys! I have friggin’ BUTTERFLIES! I can’t remember the last time I had butterflies. Oh em gee. One other stellar moment from the interaction on the train. We had to shout a bit to hear each other better, so I scooted a few inches closer to him on the buffer seat:

TKOG: Sorry, is this too close? Am I invading your personal space?
DSD: No! Why would you ask that?
TKOG: I just have personal space issues.
DSD: Are you usually the invader or the invadee?
TKOG: Oh, the invadee. I’m like the friggin’ Poland of personal space. I try to be respectful because I know I don’t like it when other people get in mine.
DSD: Wait, so you wouldn’t like it if I did this?

And then he put his hand on my shoulder, like kind of close to my neck and — it is a Christmas friggin’ miracle: not only did I NOT freak out, but … I liked it. It felt, I mean, electric.

Aaaaaack!

The Verdict: Oh my gosh. So remember when I said I wasn’t going to date just for the sake of dating, and was going to wait to meet someone with whom lightning struck my heart at first glance, no matter how many months or years it took to find? Yeah, okay, so it apparently didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Gosh. Ever since we parted, I’ve been an all-singing, all-dancing tornado of giddiness. I’m so going to savor this feeling, so even if on Wednesday it turns out he loves Dan Brown novels and has an anime tattoo, at least I’ll have these few days to look back on fondly.

Of course this couldn’t have happened at a less convenient time in my personal/romantic life (going back to Vegas for two weeks, then The Ex is coming out to Boston to visit me), but I’d be an idiot not to pursue it. Because it turns out I am totally that kind of girl.

Also, in re: number giving: a really sweet girl who witnessed my T station pick-up started chatting with me afterwards, and we ALSO hit it off! I ended up getting her card and vowing to call her to go see some opera. And while I would usually just throw the card away, y’all know I’m actually going to do it. ROUSING SUCCESS!

Also, loves, remember you only have ’til 11:59pm tomorrow to enter MY GIVEAWAY! Get those last-minute entries in, or you’ll always regret it!

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