The OSC calls me kid even though I am technically older than him and even though we dated, what, about a decade ago. It seems like I have known The OSC for just about ever. He is the only man who has ever asked me to marry him–though he was drunk at the time and we had already long stopped dating. He is the first person to pour me a beer after heartbreak, the first shoulder I cry on when it gets hard to drag my ass out of bed, and–plug your ears, mom–the first lay when there has been a particularly long drought. Though his once lithe skate boarder’s body has now grown soft, his hair has considerably thinned, and we don’t even have to go into what years of smoking, dry walling and lack of health care has done to his capacity to breathe, looking at him is much akin to looking into a mirror, a painfully accurate mirror. Our dreams a bit more battered, our cross-word puzzling skills a bit improved, we look at each other and we read our own histories. I may not be balding and, at least I can climb up a set of stairs without coughing up half a lung, but he does know exactly what to say to make me feel better, precisely how to piss me off, and absolutely how to, um, push my buttons.

We moved in together to save money, not a good enough reason at any age, let alone when you are twenty-two. We lived in a one-bedroom, third floor walk-up where I was the apartment manager. Together we paid about two-hundred dollars a month in rent and sometimes we couldn’t even scrap that together. For most of the time we lived together, I remained indignant. He never picked up a finger to help with the maintenance of the building, though, he benefited with the cheap rent. He wasn’t particularly neat. And his idea of apartment decorating included hanging up his baseball cards willy nilly on the mantel so that they fell anytime the door slammed shut.

Still, we had fun. It was new, this living together thing, and we made the best of it. In our hearts we knew this was just a practice run for later, when we had the capacity to take these things more serious. We played house. And in the process, we learned one or two things. One Thanksgiving someone had given us a twenty pound bird, no doubt a freebie with the one they had purchased for themselves. We invited over a few friends and stuck it in the oven. Four hours later, it was no where near being cooked. It seemed our tiny oven couldn’t handle a turkey of that size, and so, minus any kind of meat thermometer, we started sawing off the drumsticks hoping we could at least eat those. And we did. And lived to tell about it.

The OSC once tried on one of my dresses. It was a slinky, low-cut number and it startled us both to see how good he looked in it. He pranced about the house, dancing back to the full-length mirror to wag his ass and giggling the entire time like a schoolgirl in her first bra. I can’t remember if it turned us on, or if the absurdity of his hairy chest and his high, round buttocks kept us in hysterics the rest of the night. He could make me laugh, that man, he could also make me forget, and for those alone, I will always keep his company. He might have been the boyfriend that behaved the worst–we were kids, after all, it could be argued that we hadn’t known any better–but he was the one whom I have actually known long enough to completely forgive.

We’ve been to hell and back, both as a couple and each on our own. We’ve seen each other act the worst and we haven’t always been there to witness the best. One marriage, one divorce and one abortion between us. We share a million stories. And one hopes there will be a million more. Lovers, jobs, apartments, they may change. But he is the well-worn map I turn to when lost. Separating at the seams, edges thinned from touching, the map may not always tell me where I am headed, but if I trace its contours, it can begin to tell me where I’ve been.

When I go for porno, it’s of the vintage variety. That’s not to say I don’t indulge in the occasional pay-per-view when away from home, say touring a plummy Motel 6 or knocking around a Mid-Western Holiday Inn. There are some things that are simply more fun when done in the unfamiliar place. I imagine you all know what I am talking about here. Nonetheless, back at the ranch, I have my own stash of tried and true. The fewer the fake tits and the lesser the landing strips, the better off we all are, in my humble opinion. Sure we might have to put up with some blemishes, some bad–and I don’t mean baaaddd –Shaft riffs. And yeah, the director might have fancied himself an auteur and thusly encumbered the porn with more plot than it could possibly accommodate. But I’ll take my stray hairs and eggy breasts over any modern-day revision of My Big Fat Greek Penis.

To get to the point, when I went out of town last week to visit that film festival of note in the ski-sloped resort just south of the desert, my sort-of boyfriend opted to stay behind and vacation at my little resort on the island. The night before I left, let’s just say, we indulged . Fast forward to me, bundled to the size of which would rival the Michelin Man and wattling through the snow to wait in line for the highly-acclaimed and very sold-out shows the festival of note had to offer. No doubt watching yet another independent film or queued up in front of the theatre in the six-degree weather, I missed the phone call from the sort-of boyfriend. But, oh, the message was well worth it’s recording:

Hey dude, just wanted you to know, that when I returned King Kong, I had taken the first DVD out of the freakin, uh, player and it happened to be Deep Throat and that’s what they saw when they opened it up to check it back. [change of voice] Excuse me sir, this isn’t the DVD for King Kong…

…agh!

Apparently, he mumbled it’s my girlfriend’s…but we’re not quite sure they heard that.

Of course, I played the message for my cohorts to hear, and, of course, we laughed until tears sprung and crystallized on our cheeks. In fact, I laughed all the way through the hour and a half line for a disappointing, soon-to-be released documentary. I laughed every time one of us said King Kong! And I laughed at the thought of this man, staying alone in my apartment for the first time, tentatively trying on the role of sweetheart, and trying to explain to a sixteen-year old, Blockbuster employee why the accidental substitution of Deep Throat in the place of King Kong was just an honest mistake.

I am sure you will all be happy to know, I have moved from the multiple-partner dating stage to the monogamous dating-one-person stage. Not yet boyfriend and girlfriend and no sign of the L word in sight, we are still having great sex, going out and doing fun things, and getting drunk together without either one of us picking any fights. All in all I have to say, things are going well. I don’t yet know how to push his buttons and I’m not looking too hard for anything to hate. It’s that perfect middle ground and as long as I don’t dwell too much on I hope he likes me as much as I like him, I can’t complain.

Except for one thing.

The toilet seat. I know, I know, it’s an age-old argument. And one left better to the dorm room. But friends, I am dating a man who leaves the toilet seat up. And I don’t quite know what to do about it.

There are many qualities this particular man has that I truly appreciate. He is a real MacGyver. He can make a boat out of twigs, a radio out of dead batteries, and, most importantly, he can fix a flat tire, as was proved just last week. The man is handy and I suppose there are other, more rustic characteristics that go along with this. His wardrobe is limited, he’s not much of a gusher, and let’s just say his idea of dessert is a well-placed cigarette. But need a shelf put up? Want to gerry rig your IPod in your car that has no stereo? Your vibrator suddenly die even though you just put in fresh batteries? He’s your man. I mean, my man.

But the toilet seat?! This is by no means a deal breaker. Not yet in any case. I just don’t know exactly how to broach the subject. And to be honest, it’s been a decade or so since I’ve even had to. I just don’t believe that at our age, he hasn’t yet learned the skill of putting the seat down. Perhaps he has his own post-collegiate ERA arguement about why he should be able to leave it up. Perhaps it is a warning sign about the perennial bachelor that he is. Perhaps, perhaps. But truth be told, I am afraid to ask. I am afraid of what his reasoning might be. And afraid it will reveal some unbearable truth about him that will, in fact, be the deal breaker of all deal breakers. Besides the fact that it provides its own host of problems. What if I have to pee in the middle of the night and I accidentally fall in? What if my mom comes over and she falls into the toilet. What if we have children and one of our children turns out to be a son and god forbid, he learns to leave the seat up? What then? I will have failed as a mother, as a wife and as the woman-who-will-take-no-shit girlspoker that I am.

So to you, dear readers, I beseech you. Is this the price I pay for a real man—perhaps my own Prince Charming—who can fix just about anything, grow his own vegetables, owns a small sailboat, happens to be an excellent chef and is good in bed? Or should I grow some cohones and just confront him?

Things to do when you are unemployed, looking for work, new to town, and supposed to be working from home:

1) I don’t think I have to actually mention this first, really popular way to procrastinate, but A) it can lead to further procrastination when B) you decide you should have more porno in your Netflix queue and C) this requires calling up your ex and requesting the name of that movie that we watched that one time, you know, the one that was made in the 70’s without all the fake tits and with a surprising amount of hair whilst D) browsing adult-only sites for reviews of adult-only films that you might actually find sexy.

2) OK this is similar to number 1, as it can, well, lead right back to number 1, but if you happen to be in a long distance relationship like I am, dirty text messaging is a lot of fun and sooooo easy to do from any locale, like A) jury duty where I) you can’t bring in any magazines or reading material so II) you have to make do with the powers of your mind or III) face the deadly alternative of actually paying attention to jury selection. In such circumstances the mind is capable of coming up with a vast array of scintillating possibilities which a) I will not bore you with here but b) suffice it to say they can make one want to leave in a hurry.

3) Shop for lingerie online. This could either A) make you all hot n’ bothered and lead again back to number 1, or B) make you so very depressed because I) you don’t have the money for the aforementioned lingerie nor II) does your boyfriend, in addition to the fact that, III) you haven’t shed those winter pounds that would allow you to venture forth and actually try on the aforementioned lingerie. But a) you have bookmarked the page and b) you have sent the link to the person with whom you are sleeping along with c) a reminder that while your birthday isn’t coming up anytime soon, d) one doesn’t need any special occasion to make a holiday.

4) Make a shake with all the fruit in your fridge threatening to turn black. Okay A) I know this isn’t what you were hoping for here but B) let’s get realistic that C) the kitchen always figures prominently in any kind of procrastination scenario and D) that doesn’t necessarily rule out number 1 when E) there are cucumbers, bananas and zucchini lying around. Not only can you I) be creative and create that never-before-blended-together-in-one-drink ambrosiac concoction with, say, papaya, blackberries, ginger and lemon juice but II) it’s not really cheating on your oh-shit-here-comes-summer-and-the-weather-is-getting-warmer diet and III) you are being environmentally conscious by not wasting food and IV) you would make your mother proud.

5) Post at girlspoke. This is almost like working because A) your fingers are moving across a keyboard in rapid succession and B) it does require some thought, with C) the added bonus that writing a post like this can lead directly back to number 1 and D) at the very least, you have wasted enough time so that E) 5 o’clock has finally rolled around and F) you can pack up and call it a day and G) no longer feel guilty about, ahem, jerking off all day.

It’s a vicious cycle folks, but somebody’s gotta do it.

It’s official. I no longer am where I was and am currently now where I is. It’s a new city, but not new to me. A city in which I grew up and of which I have many adolescent memories. I am looking forward to replacing these adolescent memories with those of the adult kind, the fun ones like, gee, remember how I was unemployed for 6 months when I first moved back here, or remember that record-breaking heat wave summer when my truck had no air conditioning and remember how funny it was when I had to move in with my parents when the place I thought I was moving in to crumbled during the earthquake of ‘06? I know, I know. As my teenage self would say, don’t jinx yourself!

Despite what people say, the folk here are of the friendly variety. Yesterday I took a walk–strictly verboten in this town–to my sister’s house. I passed by many cheerful people who, while not walking per se, were getting in to or out of their cars and occasionally checking their mailboxes. We had brief but meaningful exchanges like, nice car! and got mail? and you should really check that fuckin’ exhaust pipe, cabron! I was excited to be some place new and eagerly anticipated getting lost in it’s Rube Goldberg freeway system.

The welcoming committee has been particularly, well, welcoming. The minute I arrived at my parents, they were off to the emergency room wherein my father passed a kidney stone only a few hours later. He has been high on Vicodin ever since and we have had some really, really wonderful and unprecedented conversations. I only hope he remembers them next week and the promise he made to bequeath me his entire collection of beer steins. The room in my friend-from-high-school’s house, the room I have already paid for, was not ready when I and the moving-van-full-of-my-stuff showed up on Saturday. Me and the five charming ex-cons hired to move all my things (and I’m not kidding about charming) stuffed them into the garage where they still remain (and here I’m not talking about the cons) three days later. Who knows when my friend from high-school will actually kick out her boyfriend who is supposed to be painting my room so that I can move in and so that he can move on out. I decided to give them a week to sort it all out and a week to stare at all my crap in discomfort. Finally, I’d like to personally thank all the encouraging people driving on the roads of my new town who have salutarily honked at me and have ever so subtly suggested I get the hell out of their way. You above all have made me feel quite at ease in my new home and on it’s foreign streets.

Did I mention the 5 charming ex-cons who moved all my stuff? Oh, I did? Oh, yeah, well, they were really sweet and very tattooed and quite young and uh, really strong and um, very welcoming….

Dear Valentine,
Thank you for such a wonderful day. I really can’t thank you enough! My day got off to a really great start when I got a sweet little valentine in the morning from the meter maid. Not too long after that, I got a lovely phone call from my ex in which we got in an argument about the really important yet unlabelled videotapes he’s left at my house for the last 12 months. Following that phone call, I got another–this one from my always sympathetic and completely supportive mother–who suggested I watch the Olympics that evening, as I clearly had no plans. The important thing was that I felt really good as I was still spastically hacking every 30 seconds and my cheeks exhibited, if anything, a healthy glow . All the chocolates were gone by the time I got to work, nothing left save a few heavily palmed smarties. On the way to the lavatory, I overheard my secret crush talking about the romantic scavenger hunt he had planned for the woman he just started seeing that evening. At lunch I took a leisurely two-mile walk to the local drugstore to buy more some more of those tasty cough drops. There, I marveled at all the last-minute shoppers picking over the dregs of the teddy bears. For a brief moment I actually considered myself lucky . And then, that moment quickly passed .

On the way home I listened to some heartwarming tunes that only made me cry once! As I gazed longingly into my barren mailbox, I reminded myself that, at least, I hadn’t eaten the entire pint of ice cream last night. Settling down to a scintillating evening of hacking, doing my taxes and not being able to watch the Olympics because I forgot to pay last month’s cable bill, I contentedly poured myself a glass of Nyquil and called it a night. Thank you St. Valentine. It was a day to remember.

Your pal,
Casey

Images courtesy of google

…is starting to kick my ass.

This whole dating thing.

Today my trusty little computer emailed me the word of the day. And the good word was mantra, as in a sound, word, or phrase that is repeated in prayer and is believed to have mystical powers. Well, if I were to utter my mantra for today it would be something along the lines of honey, keep your damn legs closed or perhaps darlin’, figure out what the hell it is you are doing and then for chrissakes let us all know!

Honestly, people. I have been on the planet a fair amount of years and I still have no idea how it happens. Do I fall head first into the abyss or am I to be dragged, kicking and screaming? I’ve done both and in the long run, I’m not sure it made much of a difference…except that neither relationship lasted beyond the three-year mark.

But that’s just me. Allow me to update you.

After four dates, The Limey and I parted amicably. If you can call my hanging-on-to-his-pant-legs-as-he-tried-to-shake-me-off-and-walk-away amicable. I guess there were the warning signs, to which I was blindly stupid, but in hindsight should have given me profound insights as to where things were headed. Like the fact that after the first date when I offered to go dutch, he rather gleefully accepted or that he never complemented me on how great my cleavage looked in that new Stella McCartney blouse. And calling late Saturday night to see what I was up to, should have–I know, I know–been a red flag. Silly me. I thought it was just a cultural difference, the we-don’t-tip-back-home kind of misunderstanding. After a long night of watching Bette Midler movies, deleting him from my cell phone, email and AIM accounts and erasing all the messages I had been saving for the cute audio montage at our wedding, I am feeling much better.

The Nigerian got short shrift these last two weeks as I basically left him standing at the tennis courts holding his balls. He was quickly replaced by The Man from The Internets with whom I flirted up a storm albeit electronically. The courtship consisted of him sending me fetching photos of his chickens, his dillapidated Victorian, and a view of the bay from his sailboat. I was in love already; he sounded perfect, with a dashing photo to boot, and I, in turn, started picking out our wedding invitations. Hurriedly, I made a phone date. The gravelly voice on the end of the line should have alerted me that, in fact, it was too good to be true. We agreed to meet and when we did I realized The Man from The Internets was actually The Very Old Man from The Internets. Oxygen tank included. I don’t even think the photo was him when he was younger. The only thing that turned out to be true about my true love was the photos: the chickens, the sailboat, and the Victorian he’d been living in since the turn of the second-to-last century.

Then there is The Guy from Cali who called me last week wanting to borrow a hundred bucks so he could fix his computer and get back to online dating. I am starting to actually think it might be worth it for me to pay him to get him off my back. Maybe he could actually find someone else to borrow money from and call when he missed the last bus home from the taco stand he calls a job. Previously, I mentioned that The Guy from Cali was good in bed and that was the primary reason to put up with him. But what I am beginning to realize is that good in bed doesn’t happen after he’s drank the last drop of the obscure Spanish liquor that’s been hibernating in my cupboard for the last decade.

Well, as my mom would say that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. And speaking of my mom, I leave you with our latest phone exchange:

Me: Sigh. What am I gonna do for Valentine’s Day?
Mom: You have that one girl friend who’s single, what’s her name? Call her up.
Me: Yeah, and get wasted.
Mom: You’ve been watching too much Sex and The City.
Me: I never watch that show.
Mom: Yeah, and you’re not getting any sex in the city!

Now that we are out of the clear of the holidays, it’s open dating season here at the West Coast Girlspoke–I can’t speak for the East Coast contingency, and to be honest, they’re always a little behind the times–but over here, well, we have been busy. Remember that short story by Junot Diaz, “How to Date a Brown Girl, Black Girl, White Girl or Halfie?” No? Okay, maybe we aren’t the most literary of crowds. But the good news is that you don’t have to read it because here is my rendition. So without further adieu, I bring to you How to Date a Californian, a Limey and a Nigerian. Let me also preface this also by saying, ‘06 is the year I say yes. To dates, to jobs, to sketchy pyramid schemes. And if I am not saying yes, than I will be saying something along the lines of well, why the hell not?

The Boy from Cali
Did any of you see that movie Shopgirl? Remember the Jason Schwartzman character before he read all the self-help books on how to treat the ladies? Yeah, keep that in mind. In order to have the date with the boy from Cali one must pick him up. One must also buy his ticket to the movies. One must buy him pizza and beer after the movies and then drive him back home at the end of the night. Let me guess what you are thinking, um, maybe, what the fuck are you thinking, woman! Well, a coupla things you should know about the boy from Cali. He’s a starving artist. Yeah, more starving than me. So it kinda makes me a patron. Plus, he’s good in the sack. I’ve know him for a long time and so it’s all okay, I know what to expect (and mostly what not to). And, uh, did I mention he’s good in the sack?

The Limey
The Limey I have gone out with once. We went and saw art. It was one of those safe, first dates, the kind with a clear beginning and end where we both drive separately. I’d say for first dates, this one went off without a hitch. We discovered we had a lot to talk about when faced with modern 2oth and 21st century art. We were equally equipped in the joke department. He was all gentleman-ly, paying and opening doors, but not every single time, and not when it would have been awkward for him to do so. Then there was all kinds of goofy awkwardness at the end of the date where I had to use all my super powers not to lean in and kiss him (which is something I almost always end up doing at the end of a hitchless first date). The most curious thing is, The Limey asked me out again…but not until feb 23rd. So I guess he likes me in that kind of I’d-like-to-go-out-with-her-in-about -a-month-and-a-half way. Well, gee, I can’t freakin wait!

The Nigerian
The Nigerian is a long story. The Nigerian cleans houses. The Nigerian used to clean my house. (editor’s note: Casey had a home office and for that reason she thought she ought to have the house cleaned somewhat regularly, you know, for the client’s sake.) The Nigerian would come about once a month, I never quite knew when. And sometimes I wouldn’t see him for months. He never raised his prices and he never actually cleaned very well. At some point I began to suspect I was one of very few clients. But what I loved most about The Nigerian was that all this never stopped him from asking me out. And for inexplicable (to me) reasons, it was always to play tennis. The other thing to love about The Nigerian is that he is quite good looking. I mean he is actually crazy beautiful. Well, recently I had to tell The Nigerian that I was moving away and that I wouldn’t need his services any more. We agreed he would come over one last time, drop off the key, settle the score. Of course, he asks me out. Tells me all about his failed marriage, his lonely nights, how a woman like me needs a man like him, and, don’t I want kids? I escape but not without agreeing to a date on Tuesday morning, because really why the hell not?

So there you have it. And there it has me.
Sigh.
So many men, so little time.

• Rule #1: Don’t break up with someone on email. Unless you’ve never actually met in person, these kinds of delicate matters require at the bare minimum a five-minute telephone conversation.
• Rule #2: If you are dumped via email, don’t forward that email to all your girlfriends and post it on your blog so they can post it on their blogs for all to ridicule.
• Rule #3: If you are dumped via email and do decide to publicize the lame ass cowardly email for all the world to see, don’t include the aforementioned dumpers IP address.
• Rule #4: If you are dumped via email and do decide to post the email on the internets (yes, all of them), and must include the unlucky bastard’s IP address, don’t encourage others to send him taunting emails about his incredibly insensitive, juvenile and unmanly actions.
• Rule #5: If you are dumped via email and do decide to post the email on the internets and must include the dumper’s IP address and justhave to encourage others to send some well deserved hate mail, then don’t even think about lying about it when he calls curious if you might have accidentally, er, forwarded that email to his boss.
• Rule #6: Don’t be a vindictive bitch. Unless, of course, it makes you feel a helluva lot better.

So Meme asks me, can you post something and I think aaack! Absolutely nothing is going on in my life except the freakin mammagram ( don’t ask!) I have scheduled on Friday and the garage sale I had on Sunday. But, truth be told, one only has to surf the internet–preferably on someone else’s dime–to hit pay dirt.

Go on over to the Guinness World Records web site and amuse yourself with people like this and this. There really are some talented people out there. Then try to come up with a few yourself.

Oh, and sorry Meme, this guy’s got you beat.

In honor of Guinness-wherever he may now be–I bring to you Casey’s Blog of World Records.

Longest Period of Celibacy: First 14 years of my life
Fewest Dates in a Calendar Year: 2005
Greatest Orgasm Everâ„¢: Having sex all night and then climaxing (again) right as the alarm sounds and then laughing uncontrollably (PS fellas, I was on top)
Lamest Excuse I Ever Gave: I’ll only keep hurting your feelings
Lamest Excuse Ever Given to Me: You’ll find someone else much better than me
Worst Date with a Guy I Actually Really Liked: He picks me up, gets a parking ticket in front of my house, later gets pulled over by cops for expired tags, and then gets his car broken into in front of my house
Worst Date with a Guy I Really Did Not Like: He shows up late, takes me out to dinner at a strip mall for meatball sandwiches, and then he drives to the marina and parks the car where we sit and eat the sandwiches (I guess this could have been sweet had I actually felt something for the man)
Biggest Waste of Time: My second boyfriend. Why did we spend those four years when we were in our early twenties living together and hating each other? Those were the best years of our lives!
Most Romantic Gesture Ever Thrown My Way: Boyfriend-at-time carves our intitals into a pumpkin, takes a polaroid and mails it to me when I am living abroad. Keeps pumpkin lit in front of his door until I return home
Most Romantic Gesture I Have Ever Thrown Someone Else’s Way: Hand stiching a wee book of why-I-like-you notes while sitting in the passenger seat driving across country. Let’s just say, I had a lot of time on my hands and somebody was too paranoid to teach me how to drive stick
Most Unusual Spot (and I think you know what I am talking about here): Behind the library
Spot in Which I’d Like to the Most: Inside the library
Guiltiest Pleasure for Which I Am Not at All Embarrassed: I know all the words to Hair
Guiltiest Pleasure for Which I Am Somewhat Embarrassed: I also know all the words to Jesus Christ Superstar
Guiltiest Pleasure for Which I Will Never Admit: Getting a little teary-eyed listening to Howard Stern’s last broadcast
Saddest Song Played the Most Amount of Times on My Car Stereo This Past Year: Where Does The Good Go? by Tegan & Sara
Highest Number of States in Which I Have Been Inebriated: 18
Highest Number of States in Which I Have Been: 18
Biggest Shame: That I still cannot drive a stick shift car
Longest Unrequited Crush: 12 years, 6 months and 14 days
Greatest Moment of Sudden & Shocking Sobriety: My last birthday
Highest Number of Times to Which I Have Been Proposed: One
Highest Number of Times to Which I Have Been Proposed While Proposee Was Sober: Zero
Facial Feature Most Guaranteed to Make Me Weak in the Knees: The nose. Bonus points if it is/looks broken
Most Favored Word to Be Used by Casey for No Particular Reason in 2006: Hoss. Thank you Johnny & Merle