Baby, baby – where do my eggs go?

“Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.”
~ William Dement

OK, so. St. Paul.

*sigh*

**eyeroll**

Up until this week, I heard from him every day in one form or another. Yahoo IM, email, text, whatever. My point is that communication had been constant and when a guy says things like “I can’t wait to see how blue your eyes really are in person,” a girl gets a little giddy about him.

Er, at least this girl does.

Early in the week we made tentative plans to meet this past Saturday afternoon. Coffee, a walk, maybe dinner and a movie if things went well (and I for one had no doubts it would be just fine). I didn’t hear from him Wednesday, but held my Inner Crazy Bitch off until Thursday night. I called him to check in and see what was happening and got his voice mail – so I left a message. No return call that night, which was probably good because I ended up having a couple cocktails and um … I was sort of in a pissy mood. Kelly+vodka+pissiness= not fun phone call.

Anyway – no phone call Thursday night, then nothing on Friday either, which is when the Inner Crazy Bitch got a little too strong for me to completely hold her off. I sent a text message, only slightly snotty, especially considering my mood at being blown off. Still no reply. I was a little pissed, yeah, and my feelings were hurt more than anything, but there was also that back-of-my-mind feeling that something was wrong. Then again with no communication how was I supposed to know that? Logically, I was getting blown off and my widdle feelers were burned.

Despite my focus on my determination not turning into desperation or neediness (hah), I felt it creeping in. And I hate that feeling, that anxious “I gotta do something” sensation … it always stirs up drama, it makes trouble if I act on it. So instead of being a freak and writing a really bitchy email, which was my first instinct, I started chatting with someone else to take my mind off St Paul.

Which, by the way, didn’t help.

I like this other guy too, although not as much as I like(d) St. Paul. There are two points I’m going to make here and they will really only be of significance to me and one other person:

1) The new guy’s name is Mark (of course), and

2) He is not only a true foodie, but he is a chef.

He’s tall, lean, does martial arts to keep in shape, is funny and educated. Sweet, smart, and he wants to meet me.

**sigh**

Twist my arm, guy. Just don’t bruise me.

So I check email tonight after I get home from the gym and lo-and-behold, there’s a message from the missing city boy.

And pardon me while I roll my eyes, but apparently his “grandmother was sick and in the hospital”. I didn’t realize that broke his fingers and stopped him from calling/texting/whatever. I mean, I want to believe him but how many fucking things are going to crop up in a normal person’s life to stop him from seeing “how blue my eyes are in person”?

Keep puppies away from me. I sort of want to kick one.

He’s supposed to text tomorrow, but you know … I’m not holding my breath, despite blue being a really good color on me. I’m going to keep chatting up The Chef and see what happens.

My eggs may be too old to consider getting one fertilized, but that doesn’t mean I have to keep the moldy old bitches all in one basket.