The Reason I Blog

. . . I'll warn you, this isn't a funny post, nor is it all that interesting. But I figured I'd at least need to explain my reason for blogging before I invade all your minds with ridiculous stories. I decided to blog because some things in my life are simply too good to not share with the rest of you. Plus, it saves me from having to relay the story 50 times ;) Aside from that, I've been told that things that happen to me usually only occur in the movies and not in real life (except for Gerrie's) . . .
I figure if I can provide a bit of comedic relief to your tedious work day, then I've contributed my bit of 'giving back to the community' so to speak. Also- I need an outlet to rant and rave about various pet peeves I have . . . things that my dear and loveable roommate has to hear me scream about on a day to day basis, this one's for you Mac :)
Furthermore, I aspire to be a fiction writer someday and if blogging helps me achieve that goal, then I look at this being a pretty sweet deal.

Thanks for reading! (and then texting me to tell me how much you love it, as most of you already have :) hahaha)

Thank You Sir, for Making Me Feel Like a Fatass

So let me preface this by saying yes, I have been frequenting Specialty's (if you don't know what that is, it is the most fantastic, amazing food establishment on the face of the Earth, and if you come to Seattle I will personally take you there and shove their cookies down your throat) in the mornings due to the fact that I have become really terrible at eating breakfast prior to leaving for work. This is mostly due to the fact that the weather here has become so terrible that upon looking outside, and seeing sheer blackness and sleeting rain, I simply lie in bed in misery before my boyfriend has to pull me out. Anyway, this place probably has the best fruit and yogurt parfaits I've ever tasted, plus they have pretty bomb chocolate and almond morning buns too. Naturally, I go in this morning following the regular Starbucks stop and upon paying the cashier (who I have seriously seen like TWICE . . . no joke) says, "What's your name again? You're in here like every day." Ummmmm . . . first of all, I never told you my name nor do I have any desire to now and secondly, thank you, pooface, for so publicly pointing out my addiction to your pasteries and that I might possibly be a fatass. So I respond with, "Elise . . . and that's embarrasing." Cashier boy then says, "Well, not like every day." Thank you, sir, for admitting that some days, in fact, I do not come into your establishment at all. Is it my fault that your store is conveniently located next to my work and makes amazing food? I think not. Plus, sometimes I cheat on your store with the establishment across the street that so lovingly provides me with bacon-scallion cream cheese on my bagel! Sue me!

Additions to the Douche Vault

Yes, I have decided to start a blog. And though the title of this entry is perfectly inappropriate for the introduction of a blog . . . don't be alarmed. That part comes later. I decided to run with the reason for why I began a blog in the first place. Upon reading my dear red-headed twin's blog, and not only becoming inspired, but also finding myself wanting to contribute my own hot mess of stories to the outrageousness on the web, Gerrie (her blog is 'The Be All End All' and I suggest you all follow it, as she is sheer genuis and might make you pee your pants a little) made me want to make some additions to her entry titled, 'Douche Vault' (look for the entry in her blog. You will die.) So here I am. Let's dive in, shall we? . . .

1. "And it's Really Sad He Pretended to be Gay Because Now We Can't be Friends":

I was a sophomore in college when I met this hunky senior ROTC boy. I have to say, I was surprised that he took interest in me, as at that time (and in the remainder of my college years, as it so happened) I tended to fall for the Man Boys who were not-at-the-top-of-the-attractive-yet-decent-enough-with-a-semi-good-personality list. But this Man Boy was very hunky . . . and appropriately waited to hit on me until after my boyfriend and I broke up. Also, he was more of a man- as he was a senior. And we all know what dating an upper-classman does to your ego. But I digress . . .
We dated for a few months, during which I skipped entirely too many 8 a.m. ballet practices attributed to the comforts of ROTC's bed and arms, and spent too much time in an outfit deemed the 'gray monster,' which consisted of his gray sweatpants and gray sweatshirt. I looked awesome, believe me. After a few months, ROTC and I began to fizzle . . . however we kept in touch. Shortly following his graduation, I had moved back to CA for the summer and he was in some disgusting desert training for war. I was slightly drunk from my brother's confirmation party (believe me, I know how bad that sounds . . . and we all know that by 'slightly,' I mean 'tanked.' My 18-year-old sister actually had to put me to bed in all my glory of phone clutched to chest, empty beer bottle in hand, and Gucci heels still on feet. I also might have been wearing a jean skirt. Or sweatpants.) Naturally, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to drunk dial ROTC, during which time he must have picked up on how inebriated I was beccause he began babbling to me in a very serious tone about how he needed to discuss something with me. He then proceeded to tell he that he was gay, had been the entire time we dated, and was just keeping up appearances by dating chicks because he hadn't come out yet. And I, the drunk girl with a heart of gold, took the sympathetic route. But not before exclaiming, "BUT YOU WERE SO GOOD IN BED!" He said he sometimes slept with girls, but that was only so no one knew he liked weenis. At this point, you are probably screaming at your computer screen, 'Elise, you are an idiot.' But at the time I completely believed him and got off the phone relaying my full support, etc.
The next morning, while nursing a hangover and eating bacon (duh), I was on aim when said ROTC boy messaged me with a 'ha, ha, ha.' Of course, I asked him what he was 'ha, ha, ha-ing' about. He then revealed to me that last night's conversation have been a whole joke, 'sweetie' . . . and that he was, in fact, not gay. What is more is that he and his equally not gay army friends were all sitting around while ROTC had me on speaker phone. Now, I'm fine with a practical joke, but keeping me on the phone with you for 2 hours, while tearing sympathy out of me for your fake gay angst just pisses me off. Furthermore, the time to admit it was a joke would have been at the end of the conversation . . . not 24 hours later. While relaying this story to my friend C I said, "and it's really sad he pretended to be gay, because now we can't be friends."

P.S. Six months later a housemate of mine would mention to me that she saw ROTC in a porn video . . . with both a woman and another man. Hmmmm . . . .

P.P.S. What straight man pretends to be gay?! Seriously.


2. 'The Convict Boxer':

There is no easy way to dive into this one so I'll just come out and say it. I dated my boxing instructor . . . which obviously had issues in and of itself. I think I dated him because I just wanted to date someone. Honestly. So I lowered my standards . . . much more than I had intended to. Boxer was a mocha baby, which was probably the only attractive part about him. His weenis was small and he had a somewhat chubby middle section. Which is totally fine, but let's be honest, you'd expect something a bit more from a boxing instructor, no? Anyway, truth be told, I kind of ended up falling for the guy and we dated for 3 months. Much of this relationship however was spent either a) in the gym or b) out at his house in the burbs where we had to wake up at 6 a.m. every day so he could get me back home to change, and he could get to work on time. Nevertheless, I appreciated his meals of chicken strips in bed and homemade nachos on Sundays while watching 5 hours of football (the 5 hours of football part I wasn't so into).
Anyway, one evening I had not heard from Boxer at all, which was weird because we spoke pretty much every hour (ah, the joys of texting). I woke up the next morning with an empty inbox and heavy heart. Upon walking into the gym that afternoon, he was not there, which got me worried that something had happened. I texted him, but still heard nothing. The next day he finally responded that something had in fact happened, but he wanted to tell me in person. I, of course, pushed him to tell me. The response I got left my jaw on my work desk for about the following 3 hours . . . "Last night I was arrested and they threw me in jail." Ummmm . . . ? The conversation went as follows:

- Me: Why did they arrest you?
- Boxer: My license was expired.
- Me: Why is your license expired?
- Boxer: It's a long story but basically I have had some issues with the law between the states of WA and CA for the past decade and it just caught up to me.
- Me: Ummmmm, ok. We'll talk about this tonight.

Needless to say, I broke up with the douche. He had a suspended license for 7 years (I still to this day do not know why, however it may have had something to do with Boxer selling vacuum cleaners in Southern CA when he was 19), during which time there was a warrant out for his arrest. And the bastard was driving around with me in his car the entire time, with no consideration for my well-being whatsoever. He never told me because he knew I'd break up with him. No shit!

P.S. Three months after our break-up, he started dating the skinny Asian girl from boxing class who had black hair down to her ass and nipple rings (I'll grace the pages of this blog with my issues concerning nudity in the gym locker room at a later date) . . . Three months after that she started showing a very visible baby bump. Hmmmm . . . .


3. 'Taps':

Following Boxer, I met yet another seemingly normal individual whom we will refer to as 'Taps' and I will tell you why. I met Taps at a legal conference downtown (good, solid place to meet people right?) after which, we went out for drinks with other people who had attended. Taps was attractive, nice, a little full of himself- but I was willing to overlook it due to the good looks thing, and he made me laugh. Shortly thereafter we started dating. And then I started feeling like I was in 'Little Women' or something. It felt like a courtship. You see, Taps liked to show up to my office, completely unannounced and have the receptionist call my desk to notify me that he was waiting in the lobby. I'm sorry, did my blackberry stop working? Is my computer dead? Do I not have actual responsibilities at work, and am therefore free to run out of my office to come meet you for an hour long coffee date? Things got old for me fast. The guy was into bodybuilding and I swear to you that in every conversation we had, his weight was mentioned at least 3 times . . . by him. Hello obsessive girl! Are you trying to date me or have I become the sounding board for obnoxious comments concerning your diet of leaves and water? Plus, not to be whatever, but the guy made me dinner one time . . . steak, actually and he put it in the oven! Yes, I had to call Mama Bigley for cooking instructions.
Anyway, I somewhat ceased communication with Taps for a while, however once day he showed up (the receptionist called me . . . again) and I felt obligated to say hi, as I hadn't seen him in a while. I told him I was very busy (not), but could spend a few minutes to grab coffee with him. As we were walking to the elevator Taps said, "it's so funny, our shoes are both making that clacking noise." My response: "uh-huh." What was going through my head: Have you turned into a 5-year-old and I am now responsible for congratulating you when you go pee pee? Taps said, "See, I get these taps put on all my work shoes." He then proceeded to shoe me the taps on his work soles. I asked, "Why?" And he said, "because it makes a statement and is intimidating." Yeah, a 5'9", 26-year-old man wearing a pink tie and taps on his shoes is real intimidating.

P.S. My sister's best friend from high school loved tap shoes when she was little. When she was five, she made her mother put taps on ALL her shoes. She is a chick . . . AND WAS FIVE!!!

They still live among us ladies . . . beware. You think they're normal. You're probably wrong.