Boring

I haven't posted in so long because I'm so boring. I ain't got nuthin' to say. Remarkable, no? Also, it won't stop raining. I feel about as soggy as the ground. Taraji and I barely have the energy to peel ourselves off of the couch. Incidently, I'm pretty sure my couch needs to be steam cleaned.

Anarchy

Family vacation was in Washington, DC this year. I was pretty stoked, and I have to say, that overall, it was a pretty fab vacation. I got to see lots of crap that I had previously only seen in movies, and best of all, I got to see Skinny Jenny, who just happens to be one of my bestest friends in the whole wide world! And I'm not just saying that because she's privy to just about all the sinful things I did in college. NO! Even if she didn't know enough about me to blackmail me, she would still totally be one of my besties. I swear.

Anywhoodle, I must admit here, dear readers, that a trip to our nation's capitol has left me feeling a little less patriotic than when I left. I realize that this is probably the opposite reaction of most people, but let me explain:

So, my mother manages to get us a White House tour, which, by most accounts are pretty effing hard to get. I am soooo excited. I mean, say what you want about America and our President, but what girl wouldn't get excited about getting to see decadently decorated rooms with fabulous furniture and fantasize about Jackie O holding proper-but-still-somehow-edgy tea parties?????

In order to be "cleared" for your White House tour, you have to give the White House people everything short of your first-born child: your social security number, driver's license number, birth certificate something or another, and heaven knows what else. Such disclosure of information led me to believe that this was going to be a kick-ass tour. I mean, why would a tour be so hard to get if it wasn't kick-ass, right??

Now, you are not allowed to bring ANYTHING into the White House. You can't even leave a backpack with the security desk. That means that I had to leave my water bottle, moisturizer, ibuprofen, AND lipgloss at the hotel. Again, I think, "Man, this tour is going to be the TOUR OF ALL TOURS!! I can't wait."

Turns out, I could wait.

We get there at our designated time, show them our IDs, go through security, and proceed on to the White House. Being the stupid tourists that we are, we wait at what we think is the lobby, waiting for someone to show us around, but no one comes. Tentatively, we proceed down a hallway, and up a staircase, still thinking that there will eventually be a tour guide. We mill about and view two ornately decorated rooms that we can't actually go in to, because they're roped off. The people in front of us keep walking forward, so we follow.

In a minute we figure out, that like Godot, our tour guide is never coming. We follow the roped-off pathway through a "Green Room," a "Red Room," and something else that is cleverly named for the color of the walls. Then, we land outside. At this point, we look at each other for a few seconds, all bewildered. "Is this it?" We all ask. We notice some people leaving.

Again, bewildered, we furrow our brows, look around, and look at each other.

"That was some bullsh!t," I eloquently state.

Well, we were all thinking it!

I swear upon my entire shoe collection that the entire "White House Tour" took us all of 10 minutes... and we took our time!!!!

Can you believe it???!!! I HAD TO GIVE UP MY BACKPACK!!!! And for what, I ask. For what?! To see a bunch of fancy rooms?!!! Well, no thanks, America!! I'll take my lipgloss over a craptastic 10 minute tour any day!!!!

That's right, Mr. President. You heard me! Your house sucks. And my lips haven't fully recovered from the moisture deprivation!!!

Now, I'm not saying that I'll be the cause of a huge uprising or anything like that...but what about the uprising in my heart, Mr. President?? Huh? What about that?

If America ever asks me to give up my lipgloss again, I'm moving to Canada. Or even worse: France.

I'm Not Dead

I've just been on family vacation. It's been pretty exhausting.

A Note From the Couch of Queen, III

Well summer's begun and the couch has proven to be my favorite place...or at least the place where I spend most of my time. So if you need anything, you know where to find me. Taraji's here, too, but he's usually sleeping. But, as long as you don't ask me to do anything during The People's Court, we should be okay. Please don't worry about me getting as fat as I did last summer because I'm still doing hottttt yoga. Oh! And if I'm not here on the couch, then I'm probably asleep by the pool.
Okay, tootles!!!

Yours Truly,
Queen, III

Good News, Everybody! I Have a Boyfriend!

I got a phone call from Doc's Bail Bonds today. Doc told me that my boyfriend had given them his girlfriend's phone number because she has a job. And apparently, I was the girlfriend, because Doc was calling me. Now, I was not aware that I had a boyfriend. However, the good news is that he's in jail, so he can't cheat on me!!! At least not with another girl. Isn't it fabulous, guys?! Aren't you so, so proud? I think I'll tattoo his name on my neck.

Inner Monologue

I love yoga. I really do. Nothing's better. I don't care what anybody says. Even people who say that it's all just a load of crap. They're probably just jealous....although I'm not sure of what. My eye won't stop twitching. Just like when I took the LSAT. I can't wait until school is out. I think I'll camp out by the pool for a full week. Nobody would miss me. Taraji could hunt for squirrels and worms. I'm sure my apartment management won't mind. I would kill for some french fries right now. I wish BFF wasn't in Alaska right now. I really need to talk to her about how cranky I am and how I wish I could sleep late. Maybe I should start dating a professional football player...I wonder where they hang out. I would kill to be on a Spanish novella. Too bad I can't speak fluent Spanish. I can cuss in Spanish and say "I love you." That should really about cover it from what I've seen. I wonder where I audition. I would also kill to be a pop star. But, I'm too fat. Just thinking about it kind of makes me want to go eat some pasta. Speaking of...I have some on the stove. Crap. I have to go.

High Society is Lame

Okay, guys. Maybe I've been too busy too notice, or maybe, because I'm a silly little small-town girl I was a little starstruck, but the truth is all this socialite, high-society crap is kind of lame-oid. The "theme" of the gala this year is, "Dance With the Stars." And, unfortunately, it was my idea to hire local professional ballroom dancers.

I just don't know what I was thinking! If there's anything more disgusting than having to hang around a bunch of unhappy, drunk, plastic, rich people, it's watching aforementioned attempt to dance...ballroom style...with what will probably be some well-meaning and slightly out-of-shape "professional" dancers. And it's all my fault. Thankfully, there's lots of free booze at this thing. Let's just all hope I can drink enough before the dancing starts.

It's That time of Year Again

Remember this fiasco last year?? Remember how I had to paint the mural for that gala and then my ex-boyfriend was a loser and left me high and dry and a-dub and her hubby had to bail me out and I was totally stressed and over-committed, etc., etc.?

Well, to rememdy that situation - the over-commiting, putting-myself-in-stressful-situations situation - I decided to commit to something else. (Makes sense doesn't it?) But, nothing ridiculous, or anything. I just decided that it might be a good idea to also direct a play with 15 3rd-5th graders who can't act. And this year, I'm not painting a mural for the gala, I'm just building some scenery in my apartment and donating three paintings for the silent auction. No biggie. I'm not even stressed out right now. It's probably all the hot yoga. Also, I'm not dealing with a f#ck-wit ex-boyfriend. That helps.

Anyway, for your entertainment I'm posting pictures of the ridiculousness:

Yes, that is the mural from last year in the background.

The scenery is taking up so much space, I have a 2.5 foot space on my couch on which I can watch my TV. Also, the boxes are too big to fit through my door. I'll have to take them apart to get them out. It's great. And before you say anything...I totally don't have a disorder. Really.

Tragedy of the Life of a Spinster

Let me open this post by apologizing for the numerous typos, misspellings, and run-on sentences in my last post. I was ashamed, but too lazy to do anything about it. And for those of you who do worry about such things, I do usually notice my grammatical errors after I post. I'm just far too lazy to take action. So, I'm not stupid or grammatically challenged, just LAZY.

Now on to the title entry:

The Spinster Life has its perks. Doing what you want when you want is one of them. Sitting around in your underwear all day watching chick flicks is another. Only having to deal with your family is yet another. But, then there are things that are not so great: listening to that ol' biological clock tick, nightmares about dying old and alone with all your toy poodles eating your face off, having to deal with nearly everybody thinking there's GOT to be something wrong with you because you're not permanently attached. And then, every once in a while, you come across a guy that you think is perfect for you. "Great!" you think. "Companionship is fun!!" "Maybe this could last longer than 5 months and maybe it won't end in disaster!"

*sigh* These thoughts are inevitably followed by disaster, however, and you find yourself listening to Fiona Apple and watching Bridget Jones Diary over and over and over and thinking, "Maybe there is something wrong with me!" But, there's never anything wrong with you. It's men.

I'm serious. I've lived in Everycity for 5 years now, and I have yet to find a decent man who isn't married, gay, or really, really old. And trust me. I've shopped around.

So, what to do now? Become a lesbian? Enter a convent? Submit to tragic spinsterhood, buy some more toy poodles to ensure that at the time of your demise there will be enough to do a real number on your face? (And by number, I mean eating it off, not "Number 2.")

I choose the latter. Why?? Because it makes the best story. If I have to die old and alone, I plan on getting A LOT of attention for it! I might even write my autobiography before the dogs eat my face off, so upon my demise it can be immediately published, and I can look down from heaven and be satisfied with how sorry everyone feels for me.

And now I have to go throw a pity party for myself. No, you're not invited.

Is anything more vulgar?

Really. The Pussycat Dolls make me a little sick to my stomach, but I found myself glued to the tele last night whilst the finale of that ridiculous show they have in which they select another skankified skinny-mini to their already large group. I'm not really sure why they feel like they needed another one, because no one really knows who any of them are, and I think I can say with confidence, we're all pretty annoyed at this point.

And while the bad singing and the fighting and the slutty outfits were simultaneously entertaining and irritating, the most compelling thing of all was Lil' Kim. Have you seen her lately???? She looks awful! She's had so much plastic surgery she's morphed into something grotesque and inhuman...or should I say unhuman...

I suggest you all do a quick google search of Lil' Kim to see how something that was already pretty vulgar and disgusting can transform into something vulgar, disgusting, and plastic...or and chunky. She's gotten chunky. What fun!!

Take a look!! You won't be sorry. (Although, she still probably has less cellulite than me. I hate celebrities.)

Explanation

So a few people have been wondering what the heck I was doing hacking down a bunch of bamboo in a rain storm. And, really, it's a valid question. But first, I wanted to share a-dub's comment from the last post, because it's genius:

"Queen, I love the image of you hacking down bamboo in a violent rain storm in hott galoshes. If this were a perfect world, you would have developed a fever and swooned, and a gallant and ruggedly handsome young man (a complete blackguard, of course) would have thundered up on a stallion to sweep you to safety. Sigh. You would have eventually come to a bad end, though (worse than death, stillborn bastard child, living out the rest of your days in a remote Italian convent, yadda, yadda, yadda). So it's probably just as well."

First, let me say, a-dub, you're perfect. Next, you're right, a-dub, it's probably just as well. There was, however, a very dedicated runner who came by and said, "Are you building a booby trap?" He was kind of handsome, but certainly not a blackguard.

Anywho, enough with the silliness! Why was I out in a typhoon cutting down bamboo?? Well, for an art project, of course. There's this place off the running trail close to my apartment, that has some bamboo growing. It's probably about a mile and a half from my house. Since it had been drizzling all day, I figured that there wouldn't be many people on the running trail, and it would be easier to carry my hacksaw around without arousing too much suspicion. I should mention here that I live right beside the professional basketball/hockey arena and there was a game Tuesday night. That meant there was also a lot of law enforcement. So, while many of you would probably like to imagine that I carried a hacksaw around whilst wearing an anorak and hott rain boots, I actually put the hacksaw in a big bag so as to not look like a crazy serial killer. The walk back caused a few stares, though. I mean, if you saw a girl with a giant bag on her shoulder and a bunch of bamboo in her hands in the middle of the Typhoon of '07, what would you think?? I wouldn't think she was doing anything legal, that's for sure.

So, there it is, that's why I couldn't elaborate on all the other crap that's been going on in my life.

And really, there's not a lot of crap, because I've gotten rid of all it, namely SOAPM. He is such an idiot. For reals. I don't even think that he knows that we're not dating anymore. Every once and a while I'll get a text message or a phone call from him that leads a girl to believe he has no idea he's been dumped. How could he not know?!! The last time I actually saw him was in March, and I wasn't very nice to him! Oh well, he's not really bugging me that much, so maybe I shouldn't complain. He did buy me a really nice dinner the last time I saw him, though, although it hardly made up for the white socks with dress shoes. Hardly!!

I haven't actually been out on a date in almost a month. My mom's gonna start thinking I'm a lesbian. I've thought of getting a butch "roommate" just to make everyone extra suspicious, but it hardly seems worth the trouble. However, if the "roommate" bought me lots of nice presents, it might be worth it....hmmm....maybe I'll look into that. In the meantime, if any of you know of a man that likes to give a girl lots of (expensive) presents while simultaneously being verbally abused, please give me his number. A guy like that is hard to find, but fit for a Queen, specifically the Queen: Queen, III.

Don't forget it.

Paving the Road to Hell

I had every intention of writing a long treatise este noche about how I hate men, what they do to piss me off, how I'm better than practically everybody (except for all of you who read this blog, of course), and how generally cranky I am about not being able to control the universe, etc., etc.

However, I had a very remarkable and drawn out incident involving a pair of painfully cute rubber boots, a hack saw, a deserted running trail, a torrent of rain, and bamboo.

Suffice it to say that I don't have enough time at this point to tell you in detail the very latest drama (real or imagined) in my life.

I do have time to quickly tell you a short, but painful story: I let SOAPM go to church with me a couple of weeks ago and....

*sigh*

this is so hard....

he wore...I don't even know how to say this...

he wore....

WHITE SOCKS WITH DRESS SHOES! *clunk* (sound of my head hitting the keyboard in exasperation)

It's all enough to make a girl want to run and throw her beautiful, voluptuous form into the nearest body of water.

Instead, I chose to donne my cute rubber boots and carry a hacksaw through a rainstorm. Probably a healthier choice, however bizarre.

So, please don't stop giving me attention just because I've been neglectful. Please! I need your attention more than the very breath of life!

No, I'm serious.

Hot Yoga Just Got a Little Hotter

Guys, I suck. But listen, this time I have a good reason: I've started Hot Yoga. You know, the yoga you do in a room that's 100 degress Farenheit and 60% humidity that lasts for an hour and a half? Well, I'm doing it.

Here's the thing though...after I finish the Hot Yoga, I am sleepier than a drunken baby, so blogging is damn near impossible.

But, mark my words: tomorrow I will update with a whole new slew of complaints about SOAPM, and crappy men in general.

Your loving, perpetually cranky spinster,
Queen, III

Out of the Wilderness

So, to try and make my unholy, sinful, delightfully wicked self a little more spiritually inclined, I decided that this year, I would give up something for lent that really, truly mattered to me more than almost anything else in the whole wide world. The one thing, that, if I had to spend a day without, I would feel lost and lonely, thus forcing me to face the "spiritual mirror," so to speak. And that one, singular thing was TV.

Yes! For 40 days and 40 nights, I did not watch TV (unless it was in a public place). It was a long, cold, dark road...one which was trying. I'm not sure I can ever go through it again. I'm not even sure how I made it, but I did.

Now, I'm trying to catch up on all that's happened in the past month and a half. So, for reals, what's going on with Horatio and the hot Latin girls?? They can't really think that he's hot, can he? Why are they always calling him for help?? Why?? Why don't they call that other really hot guy?? That's who I would call if I had an emergency!

But, I have a few additional queries. I have NO idea what's happening on any of my usual shows. If you can fill me in as I ease back into my TV watching routine, I'd appreciate it! Here are my usual shows:
Boston Legal
Ugly Betty
Desperate Housewives
The Office
30 Rock

Thanks, guys. And remember, you're not just helping Queen, III, you're helping the new, improved, slightly holier Queen, III.

Sinful

I just ate an entire medium pizza.

BUT - It was thin crust...from Dominos. Sooo...it can't be that bad can it?

Oh jebus, I can feel my @ss getting larger by the second.

School Teachers: Modern-day Saints or Classic Fools??

There are great perks to my job: I get the summers off; I don't have to work weekends; I don't have to take work home; I get 2 weeks off for Christmas, a Fall break, a Spring break, Easter break, and various other days as well; during the school year, I get 10 days paid leave, 5 of which carry over (next year I'll have 15); I get pretty good benefits; and I really only work about 8.5 - 9 months out of the year. Pretty sweet deal, you might say. And generally, it is...but there are days....

Last year, I made the horrible mistake of letting all my students - all 650 of them - paint the same week. It was one of the biggest missteps of my entire life. And while I haven't made a mistake that huge this year, every once in a while, I'll have a moment where it all seems to just go to hell.

Last week was that moment. Now the whole week was bad, but the day that really, really set me off was Wednesday. I have my two "challenging" classes that day: 5D and KD. 5D started out unusually well, which should have made me raise an eyebrow, but I thought, "Maybe these kids have really reached a turning point."

Oh, Queen. You really are a fool.

Within the last 10 minutes of class these kids started acting like they were all retarded. Now, normally, it wouldn't be so bad. Okay, so you have a class of 5th graders who have a bad day and think for some reason that it's permissible to hang over your seat like you have no muscle control or jump out of your seat and start yelling at the girl across the class who blinked at you wrong or stick your own pencil up your nose or roll your eyes at the teacher. No big deal, right? It happens. They're children.

But these aren't just your ordinary children, oh no! They're gifted children who attend our Vanguard school on the 3rd floor.

About 5 minutes into their remarkable behavior, I really, really lose it. My mouth starts to move and it is like a freight train! Fortunately, I can't remember all the things I said/yelled, but I do remember using words like pathetic, sad excuse for, disappointed, will no longer be having fun in art, disgusting, rude awakening, and the like. They kept their mouths shut on the way out, probably because they were scared I was gonna pull out a shiv.

Then, 4th grade rolls around. Ay Carumba! Little Jeremy is scheduled to return to school today from the alternative school he had been attending for a couple of months. The kid's crazy and so's his daddy. Jeremy comes into my classroom and sits down well enough, but suddenly leaves class without permission. I go find him in the hallway and he refuses to come in. Finally, I convince him to come back inside, but on his way back in, he tries to knock a bunch of art off the art rack. I say, "Salvador, escort Jeremy to the office."

"I'm not goin'," Jeremy replies.

"You'll go know, or I'll send for the Assistant Principal to come and get you and that won't be pretty." He then complies. 2 seconds later, Salvador comes running back in:

"Miss Queen, Jeremy won't stop running around in circles outside!! I tried to catch him, but I couldn't!"

I step outside. "Jeremy, come in right now. Salvador will go get the Principal to come get you." With this, Jeremy decides to slowly walk to the office.

After class, I go to the office to write the referral and Jeremy is, of course, acting crazy, talkin' back to the secretary, so I say, "Jeremy this is no way to start your first day back. I know you know better!"

Jeremy mumbles with a scowl on his face, "Shut up with your big bushy head!"

(Now, my hair is pretty big, but Jeremy shouldn't have gone there.) I said, "Say that again to my face, Jeremy."

"I ain't scared of you!!!"

Well, this got me all kinds of bent out of shape, so before I knocked that little brat upside the head, I thought that I would instead go eat my lunch and write the referral away from the devil-child who was pushing all my buttons. I turn to leave and Jeremy gets up and blocks the doorway. About this time, the Assistant Principal walks up and nearly loses it when she sees Jeremy, freshly out of alternative school, acting as though his two months in kiddie lock-down taught him nothing. He got suspended for 3 days.

Then, after lunch there was KD - the Kindergarten class from hell. Hsunta had a breakdown and tried to beat up Ruby who wouldn't stop crossing her eyes at Hsunta. Jeremiah also had a breakdown and refused to come out of the corner. Arthur was crying and so was Annienell, both apparently for no reason. Reynoldo decided that it would be funny if he just yelled out, "No!" every time I asked him to do something. And Ernest was, as always, incredibly earnest. There was one point in this class where I thought they would actually take me over, and honestly, defeat was nearer than I would like to admit, but somehow I triumphed and we were able to paint some post-modernist masterpieces.

After school, at rehearsal for our end-of-the-year play, I left the auditorium to run to the office. When I came back, a fellow teacher told me that the kids were acting all kinds of crazy. So, I yelled at them and told them how disappointed I was, etc. And two 5th graders started crying. One almost hyperventilated.

Now, if all that won't drive you to drinking, I don't know what will. So, this summer, when I write about how I'm lying around in my underwear, watching TV and you all are like, "Queen, I hate you with all your time off (and your big bushy head)!!!" Remember this post. Remember. My time off is not for me, it is for the children. Because if I had to spend 12 months of the year with those kids, they'd probably all have to be hospitalized...for severe bruising upside the head.

Dear BFF: What about me??!

My BFF is the best BFF in the whole wide world. She understands everything that comes out of my mouth before I say it - and I know everyone says that about their BFF, but if you heard some of the things that come out of my mouth, you would understand how extrodinary it really is. And she listens to me complain...sometimes for hours on end. (Literally.) And she's the reason I finally broke it off with Latest Ex-boyfriend. And she sticks up for me, even to my formidible mother. (Not an easy thing to do.) And she's so funny, sometimes I can't even stand it!

And she's pregnant.

Now, whilst she may not appreciate me broadcasting this to the whole wide world, I'm pretty sure she's figured I'd broadcast it here eventually. So why not sooner than later, eh?

But to the point: today, for whatever reason, it really hit me. "Oh my greek goddess. BFF is pregnant." It was then I realized that soon, very soon, our ridiculously long phone conversations probably won't be as frequent, and our hours of communal TV watching will probably have to be put on hold, and while she's worried about boiling nipples (not hers) and getting a full night's sleep, I'll be worrying about whether or not my shoes from last year could pass for this season's and how many times I should go out with some guy before I dump him (or say I'm gonna dump him and then wimp out). HOLY CRAP! SHE'S HAVING A BABY!!

I'm totally having oldest child syndrome all over again!!! I'm having flashbacks to 1984. How can BFF take care of me when she's having another human who actually has a good excuse to be a helpless heap of bone and flesh???!!

Now, I realize that these fears are probably completely irrational, but the last time I can remember having any sort of rational thought was in 1983. Right before that little creep who stole my spotlight was born, known affectionately to my parents as "Son."

Dearst BFF, once you have your tiny bundle of joy, (that I plan on totally corrupting once he/she reaches 1.5 years of age) please promise me that you won't forget my co-dependency on you. Please? Please?!! As long as I have that reassurance, I think I'll be able to handle not being your only child anymore.
All my neurotic, needy love,
Queen, III

FOILED!

I wanted nothing more than to come back to this great state of Texas and tell you all that my plans for SOAPM went off without a hitch, that SOAPM was defeated by my mischief and made to throw in the towel, so to speak...I honestly wanted nothing more....

You see, it all started off splendidly. SOAPM committed a series of bone-headed blunders that were sure to give him a front-row seat to "The Heel of My Hott Boots Show." (It's actually a pretty great show, as long as you're not on the receiving end of my heel.)

Firstly, he didn't discover that his debit card didn't work until we were at the airport, about to leave. Additionally, he didn't have any cash - nor any other credit cards on which he could fall back. He had to call his daddy to wire him some bread. I was so freakin' irritated, I almost fainted. Deep down, however, I was simply delighted because I knew that as long as he kept the bonehead act up, treating him like dirt for the entire trip wouldn't be that hard.

Secondly, he kept saying the most excruciatingly idiotic things, typically followed with an, "I know." For example, on the day we made the long trip to creepy, crappy Coney Island (which really isn't an island), we had an unfortunate mishap involving a lack of bathrooms and a grocery store run by the Russian mafia. After said mishap, SOAPM make this excruciatingly idiotic statement:
"This place has A LOT of money. Yeah. Those Russians always have money."

I'm serious.

Well, I just couldn't take it anymore and I flipped out and was like, "SOAPM, shut up!!! You have no idea!! Look around at this shit-hole!!!! There's no money here! You're crazy!!!"

"No," he said. "I have a lot of friends who are Russian. I know."

"WHAT?!!! YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY FRIENDS!!! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!!!! WE ENCOUNTER, LIKE, 2 RUSSIANS, AND SUDDENLY YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT THE FISCAL HEALTH OF CONEY ISLAND!!!!!!!! WE'VE BEEN HERE EXACTLY FIVE SECONDS!!!! THERE'S NO WAY YOU COULD POSSIBLY KNOW ANYTHING!!!"

Well, that sparked a pretty big argument, in which I hurled many insults until he finally admitted he was as dumb as a stump....No! Only kidding. He'd never admit to that. He did, however, admit that he had very little knowledge of the exact fiscal status of Coney Island, although I couldn't get him to admit that he doesn't know any Russians.

And this was just one of the many, many, many ridiculous statements SOAPM made. Most of them, I ignored because I didn't have the energy to argue. Because, as you can see from the above argument, they really drained me.

Now, keep in mind that during the first part of the week, there were many, many things that SOAPM did that were irritating, frustrating, and downright stupid (like talking to his ex-girlfriend on the phone), but I'm just giving you the highlights, because if I told you everything, you'd all want to impale yourselves.

Thirdly, and OH! this is the big one, SOAPM made a HUGE....and I mean HUGE ...scene in the subway one night. It all started over a little squabble over directions. He was acting like a jack-ass, so I was really letting him have it. Well, I guess he had enough, because, man did he explode! He started yelling at me, and loudly, too. He was so loud, in fact, that I was beginning to be embarrassed. ME!! Embarrassed!!! It takes quite a lot to embarrass me. Just ask my BFF. So, I started to say very quietly, "SOAPM, stop, please, you're embarrassing me." But, he wouldn't stop!! He just kept getting louder and louder and meaner. We walk down into the subway and he still is kind of yelling, and then bam! he loses it. He yells so loudly, that everyone in the New York subway turned their heads suddenly to look at the stupid skank who was about to get beaten by her pimp. I'm blindsided. I say, "I'm not going to let you talk to me like this, I'll just go ride another subway." And I turned on my heels and walked out of the subway as ALL the New Yorkers stared at me. It was so quiet, you could hear my every step on the way out. Usually, I love it when everyone's eyes are on me. But, not that night. Oh, no. It was just like a scene out of a Lifetime movie. I felt like such a victim.

But, SOAPM didn't stop there. He followed me out on to the street, and proceeded to argue even more with me!! I don't even really remember what the argument was about. I just remember thinking that I wanted to get away. Finally, after he had exhausted his wind pipes, I suggested that we just meet back up at the hotel. I'd take a different subway and meet him there, to give us both time to cool off.

So, there I am, in New York City, walking by myself at 1am to the subway. I felt very sorry for myself. Fortunately, I looked really cute that night, so it was a sort of self-righteous melancholy, which is the best kind.

Now, this HAD to be the end for SOAPM! There was no way in the world he could recover from this tragic mishap!! I was so very content.

The next day, SOAPM got the silent treatment. His career as one of the many men who get to take me out was OVER! Job well done, me.

...but then...

*heavy sigh*

he bought me some liquor.

He started talking...and I started talking....and he started pleading....and I was weak from all the walking and the alcohol....and he started saying that he would do things differently and please, please, please and he's so sorry and he started to feel distance between us before the trip and he just didn't know what to do....

I let loose and told him everything that he had ever done to irritate me and how it just couldn't work unless such and such changed and how I thought he was totally not ready to date, blah, blah, blah....I pulled out all the tricks to try and convince him he didn't want to date me, I swear! I was unreasonable, a prima donna, insulting, and bitchy! I thought he had conceded. And I was about to be as free as a bird!

...but then...

*heavy sigh*

He started to take my suggestions. No more phone calls from his ex-girlfriend. No more excruciatingly idiotic statements, no more fights over directions...and he started to focus on me quite a bit. And I started to get a little confused. But, no, Queen!! Stay focused! SOAPM is curb material! Don't be deterred! Focus!

And then one day toward the end of the week, cold, frigid air started to blow in and I developed a consumptive cough, and SOAPM took care of me! Without complaining. Okay...but no biggie....so what, right?...this is just an act....ignore it, Queen, because it isn't real!

But, maybe he's been such a jerk because I've been such a jerk! (Clearly, he slipped something into my cough syrup.)

So, I didn’t make the lesbians touch him. And I wasn’t mean to him 100% of the time. I even went to go see Phantom of the Opera because he wanted to.

I wish I could say I was stronger. I wish I could report that for the entirety of my time with him, I was an absolute Queen Bitch, but alas! I would be a fibber if I did so.

The good news is that during the layover on the way back, he took a call from his ex-girlfriend. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble putting on my hott boots and kicking him to the proverbial curb. Amen.

What about now??

What about now??