July 14, 2015 § Leave a comment
Rerun from 11/14. Mister Red and I have recently been dabbling with switching our sides. I admit, I sleep better on my side. None-the-less, mattress to relationships, a great metaphor.
I used to not have a side of the bed. For a good portion of my life I just slept like an X in the middle, arms and legs akimbo, like I the finalist for a contest of how much space I could take up per body dimensions. I would have won, btw. When Mister Red and I began having adult sleepovers on a regular rotation neither of us stated claim to pillow top surface area. There were no real estate negotiations, we eased in to our respective sides naturally. Occasionally, we switch. Mostly to correct shoulder issues from poor sleeping patterns, but we always go back. It never feels right on the other side, and all my stuff lives on the nightstand to the right anyway. It’s too much work to commit to a change.
Growing up mostly an only child, not really touchy feely, or having sorority sisters, I hated sleeping next to people. Frankly, I needed my space. I remember my first visit to a college party. My dear friend let me pass out on the bed, while he slept on the floor. Sure he probably wanted to get in my pants that night, but took into account that I’d possibly punch him in my sleep. That and he knew how to play his gentleman card.
The only time I felt the sting of the cold side of the bed was when I parted ways with a long time boyfriend who wasn’t great at sharing anything. For the first week or so I couldn’t even sleep in the bed. I favored the couch and slept at a friend’s house. Eventually I went back to sleeping in the middle and loving it. Until, of course, Red came along.
We’ve been spooning for four years now, sometimes on the couch. It always seems like we’ve been together longer compared to my other relationships. It actually feels like forever. He knows too much about me and has become very adept at outsmarting me for my own good. The last four years have been so long. Father time must be slacking.
You know why it feels like we’ve been sharing a bed for forever? I actually like him. Those other fools I had slept next to with for two or three years at a time, I’ve blocked out whole months with them. Those relationships seem short because I don’t care to remember a lot about those relationships. Essentially, I’m burning those beds. If I can’t get anyone to buy the mattress on craigslist, I’m still moving on.
There is only so much room in my head. It’s like when your bedmate hogs the covers. My memory is like the covers, I’m choosing to cover only what is important, there isn’t enough blanket for the rest. I used to think it was a bad thing that my relationship with Red seemed unusually longer than it was. Now I realize it’s because I want a future with him. I’m snuggling up every detail of our time together in my blanket because it’s paramount in holding stock in our relationship. Not to mention, heat.
I’m not worried about our nuptials sentencing us as bedfellows for life. Of course he snores on his back, who doesn’t? Sure, he elbows me sometimes in his sleep but it’s never left a mark. I think we’ve been sharing a queen (a bed, not a dude from West Hollywood in stilettos), side by side for so long that the shock of marriage might be lost on me. I’ve already bought the mattress. I know I’m probably going to have to flip it every now and again, but it has a pretty solid warrantee.
I see a lot of women holding their wedding day up like it’s their last day to experience joy. Sure there is the whole child baring thing that factors into it, but if you play your cards right the wedding won’t be the last of your shenanigans before you’re preggo. There is no impending doom that comes after ‘I Do’ unless you haven’t been brutally honest with each other.
Whatever side you sleep on, know who you’re sleeping next too and love them even if they snore. Use your blanket to hold in the heat of your passion. Don’t try to cover lovers of the past, they can’t possibly fit in the blanket burrito of love.
Furthermore, relationships are full of cooperation, and yes even compromise. Do your share of bed making, and talk openly about bedtime habits. Apparently, 1 in 10 couples argue about about what side of the bed they sleep on. Really? This would be the worst excuse for a break up ever. Adapt.
February 11, 2015 § Leave a comment
Just in time for Valentine’s Day, or more importantly, Galentine’s Day (thanks Leslie Knope). Here are some random reasons to dump a dude who’s not worth it.
#1: He has an unconfirmed tick. You’ve seen it on the first couple dates, and are now on the look out. You end up paying more attention to a twitch sighting than what he’s saying. Translation: You aren’t that into him. If he was perfect for you, the supposed tick wouldn’t be an issue!
#2 He’s got a trick and he likes to show it off. So he can do a cartwheel. Bravo. The second time he does it in an unprompted,”look at me” fashion, eh dude, this is old news. The third time. He’s not well rounded enough for you. Sit, Stay.
#3 Sex is subpar. Subpar all the time from the beginning of time. It’s not going to get better. You can settle, or you can be honest. If he doesn’t take your notes, maybe it’s time to be friends.
#4 He’s lazy. Don’t date a couch potato unless you are a potato. Have some ambition.
#5 He doesn’t make you laugh. Amendment: He doesn’t make you laugh when you do something laughable (like trip or spill food). Amendment: If he doesn’t get slap stick comedy, it’s just not worth it.
Here are a few more my little Galentines.
June 10, 2014 § 2 Comments
In honor of my FOUR YEAR (gasp! that’s a lot in kid years!) Anniversary-ish/thing with Mister Red, I wanted to reprise a post from 2010 about the day we met. The day we now call Double Wink Day (aka Game 6 of the NBA Playoffs). What a fantastic muse he has been. I look forward to a lifetime of adorable antidotes about this goofy human. Okay, they aren’t all adorable, but they are all at least funny.
Sometimes you meet a man, and within the first 30 seconds your posture sinks, your head tilts, and you need a handkerchief to wipe up the drool. Most of the time it starts with his sly, corner-of-the-eye smile. It’s subtle, but you know it’s just for you.
Hold on, while I peel my chin off the floor, try to form actual sentences, and attempt to remember my name, and my age. Ahem, definitely my age. It was just a little ol’ smile. Total swoon. It’s the trifecta of the charming man, and no woman is safe from his spell.
These men glow with God-given charisma, a twinkle in the eye, a gentle nod, saying the punch line at the exact right moment even if it is about farts. Suddenly, all the women in the room are running into walls, tripping over their own shoelaces, and kissing babies who aren’t their own, spontaneously blinded by the stars in their eyes. All the single gals engage their claws.
He becomes a trophy synonymous with a bride’s bouquet. Never underestimate the ultimate power-move: the bouquet toss. We have all seen enough America’s Funniest Home Videos to be aware of the danger in this sport.
The trifecta is a perfectly balanced cocktail of boyish charm, old-fashioned sensibility, and sharp whit with hints of kindness and worldliness. He’s the man who will buy you a drink, subtly reveal a past heartbreak, crack jokes about current events, and at the same time weave in his admiration for his mother, love for animals, and desire to be a daddy one day. All while telling you that you are the most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on. You believe every word. Lap it up, kitty. Think 007, Jack Dawson (never let go), Danny Ocean, Batman, Will Hunting, or anything Jon Hamm has played recently. Okay, maybe just Jon Hamm, the person.
I experienced such an encounter with a striking ginger-haired bartender. You know I love a red beard. If I had a type it would be: Irish. With an Irishman I know what I’m getting: maybe a temper, most likely a drinking problem, but for certain, a fun loving guy with a sensitive side. Not to mention, Irishmen are the most loyal of them all.
I was meeting some Celtics fans to watch the battle in Game 6 of the NBA playoffs against the hometown heroes, the LA Lakers. Having lived in Boston only a short while before moving to Los Angeles, my allegiance didn’t lie what-so-ever with the shamrocks and as a Michigan girl, the Pistons weren’t doing much for me either. But a former flame was rumored to be in attendance, so… Go Celts!
Regardless, I love a game of ball with a beer and old friends. Boston fans are fiercely devoted (most of them Irish, case in point) therefore innately the Beantown Bar we were attempting to cram into was at max capacity. Plan B: throw a stone, hit an Irish Pub, order a pint, and you’ll be in the good company of loud Mass-holes.
I searched for my friends at the second pub. My scan of the playoff crowd was pleasantly interrupted by a tall Irish bartender. Pleasant is an understatement. It was magical; slow motion, soft focus with a wind machine. He was a blonde prince charming. Not a hair out of place. Perfectly coiffed, as though it had been taken out of one of Mattel’s fine Ken molds that morning. His shoulders broad and strong, piped with budding biceps. This boy ate his spinach. He was sure a tall drink of water too, really long legs. Hello, blue eyes! Oh that group of loud bumbling Boston fans harassing you? Yeah… unfortunately, I’m with them. I’ll just take my Guinness and be over here, mortified, if you need me.
One could assume I no longer was there to watch the game. The the former flame, the Tall Musician? Oh, at that time, I couldn’t have told you what instrument he played. Maybe the obo? Of course I tried to play it cool as I watched the ginger’s every move, gracefully dancing from one end of the bar to the other, sharing his winning smile with lucky patrons. Certainly, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his charm. Even the burly couch jockeys I came in with were making side comments and developing man-crushes. Good, so it’s not just me, he actually is making it hot in here. This man possessed the power to turn straight eyes gay.
Every once in a while we would make eye contact as he slung beers at my end of the bar. When I got up from my stool to graduate to the bathroom, he winked at me. Yup, he winked right at me.
Normally, winks from strangers are a kind of creepery I avoid, but the guy had the trifecta. I had a grandfather who would pass me pieces of candy before dinner with a wink. There’s a special place in my heart for a good winking, and I felt satisfied I had received special attention.
“I think I just got winked at,” I exclaimed with a pre-pubescent delight.
“You got what?” my friend, Ms. Pepper, was confused.
“I think the hot Irish bartender just winked at me. Do you think he winks at everyone?”
“He must be into you, because that outfit does not make you look like you have deep pockets,” she counseled and insulted. Sound advice, I had to wait for a second sign of reciprocated attraction before I made any aggressive plans to marry, and I put my jacket back on to aid my suffering ensemble.
At the end of the game we closed our tabs and collected outside the bar. The place was still packed inside. I resolved: one wink was all the attention Mister Handsome could give me.
As we waited for stragglers, my group started talking about him again. That’s the thing with a charming man, they leave a lasting impression. Just as my friends denigrated me for not striking up a conversation with Blue Eyes, speak of the devil, he walks outside to assess the area, and manages to look busy with the outdoor chalkboard displaying the specials. Our eyes locked. Another wink. Okay, now my knees were weak. I almost melted like the wicked witch. Oh what a world, what a world.
“He came out here just to wink at you,” Pepper encouraged.
“He didn’t do anything but move that sandwich board two inches. Literally picked it up and set it back down. Literally. He was looking for you. Go give him your number.”
Once under the spell of the Charming Trifecta a lady must make a bold move to prove she’s worthy. Fortunately for me, I was surrounded by enough clear thinking people, and had the consumed the right amount of liquid courage to make that bold move.
I, like any good soldier, am prepared for anything as long as I have my big purse. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and with careful tact, legibly scrawled my number (the real one). Without allowing too much time for second thoughts, I marched into the bar and right up to Mister Handsome.
“I know you probably get this a lot, but… here’s my number,” I blurted out trying to disguise my fear, certain I was venturing out of my league. I’m only a seven at the beginning of the night, sober. I was probably down to a five at that point after a full day of work, a few brews and a cheap outfit. I held out the wishful piece of paper. The handsome ginger smiled and took my number.
The bar erupted into a celebration as the game ended. I forget who won, I was memorized by blue eyes.
“ACTUALLY I DON’T GET THIS A LOT,” he shouted above the loud bar, “I’M GLAD YOU CAME UP TO ME, I THOUGHT I MISSED YOU.”
Never has not hearing a man made me so tongue-tied. My nerves were eased as the trifecta took hold of me. The intoxication of his small talk sent me over the edge and into a poppy field. Although, not much was actually communicated because we couldn’t hear each other.
“WHAT NIGHTS DO YOU WORK SO I CAN STALK YOU IF YOU DON’T CALL?” I must have been mad to admit I would be all private investigator if he came to his senses.
“OH I’M GOING TO CALL YOU… BUT IF YOU WANT TO STALK ME ANYWAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, AND SUNDAY.”
I just smiled, engraving his schedule in my brain; positive he wasn’t going to call.
“BUT I AM GOING TO CALL. I’LL CALL YOU FRIDAY.” With that he winked at me, a now signature move. I smiled broadly, turned on my heel and tried to play it cool.
It took all my power not to shout with delight as I skipped out the door in celebration, which was a total fail at coolness. I actually skipped, like a 3rd grader at recess after trading a chunky peach yogurt for a chocolate snack pack. I may have even thrown my hands up in triumph.
I didn’t care if he saw me frolicking. I just thought, “if nothing else, it was truly explosive to make the acquaintance of the striking ginger-haired Irishmen with the trifecta of a charming man.” Maybe unnecessary celebration. Whatever. It was a bold move for me.
And he’s still winking at me, four years later.
March 18, 2014 § Leave a comment
What the hell is this “date night” I’ve been hearing so much about lately? It’s like a weekly or bi-monthly rotation of mandatory dining experiences paired with a splash of splurging on high priced entertainment in the hopes you might get laid by your chosen partner (yes, the partner has already been chosen years ago, legally bound in some cases). Is this an attempt to recreate the stage of butterfly swoon and initial wooing. That is… if I understand this correctly. Or perhaps a chance to pretend you live a different kind of life with the person you chose to share your life with. Isn’t that just called: role playing?
I’m perplexed by this idea because I enjoy Mister Red on mundane in-bed-by-9pm-Wednesdays as well as nights we see movies after getting tipsy at happy hour. I’m not ‘dating’ him anymore, in fact, I’m happy to not be dating him. There is a lot of pressure in dating. I usually take too long to get ready and ultimately end up wearing the wrong thing.
I don’t aim to squander the precious selected evening parents have planned to be child-free and go out to share adult time. I just want to come up with another name for it. In this case it’s not Date Night, it’s Freedom Friday, or No Drooling Night Out. How about something like: Thank-god-someone-else-is-watching-my-offspring-terrors Tuesdays. Clearly you aren’t dating your spouse, you just want to remember why you let him knock you up in the first place. You do need an evening for that, alone.
Surely another term would be fitting, especially for DINKs. DINK couples (Dual Income No Kids) have less elements to get into place in order to plan a night out accompanied by the person they LIVE. Counter parts with offspring have to deal with things like soccer practice, 3 year old tutu night, as well as finding a 13-18 year old neighbor girl who is vaguely responsible. DINKS don’t deal with all that red tape. Basically going out to eat, drink, socialize, see art, get cultured, bang like rabbits doesn’t require an e-vite three weeks in advance. Can’t these people just say, “we went out to dinner” without having to qualify it was “date night”. Who cares?! I expect that if you are both working full time, co-habitating, without kids, you probably have enough spare dough to pony up for a couple of cocktails and a nice steak. That’s the beauty of being a DINK. You can go out to dinner when you want, whenever you want, and you don’t have to answer to anybody about it. Skip the date part and just say what you were doing.
People are fishing for small talk when they start a conversation about what happened or what’s going to happen on “date night.” Either that or its some sort of humble-brag about their lover who still takes them out and even though they fight constantly about sex and dishes, but the relationship is still a strong one because they still make it a priority to spend money together. Hashtag that shit on instagram (#datenight), pictures of forced smile selfies, food half eaten, marquees and tickets, mirror shots of outfits, and lovey-dovey collages of him, her, dessert, and drinks. We are all guilty of it on occasion. But speaking to it’s excess, I think people might be trying too hard to impress the Internet. From my own experience, sometimes we get into a heated argument on nights out. It’s like the moment we have allotted to spend some much needed time with each other is the moment we got to hash out the issue with the dishes. Someone gets defensive, there is eye rolling, and if I would have held that night up to a mandatory good time, I’d be pissed. However, part of being in a relationship is airing grievances about shit that pisses you off, and if that happens to land during Date Night, well, tough cookies.
I get that sometimes we are all looking for some pre-packaged experience to carry us away from every day strife, I used to make money off of creating escapism. If you are doing something simple, the term “date night” puts shackels on an otherwise low pressure evening.
“It’s Date Night so we got to make it count.”
“GASP! Don’t bring that up right now, not on Date Night.”
“This is turning into the worst Date Night.”
“You took me to a food truck on Date Night? Gross.”
“It’s Date Night, don’t leave me on the side of the road to walk home.”
It feels a tad high maintenance.
Per usual, I like to hit my point home with a little urban dictionary. Look further for the truth.
M: ‘Do we get to do it in the limo?’
F: ‘Throw in the best champagne on the menu and you’ve got a deal.
February 12, 2014 § 1 Comment
I’m officially canceling Valentine’s Day. No need to half-ass the agonizing details of a romantic evening for two, save that Pintrest board for the nearest birthday and/or anniversary. You are off the hook this year. Don’t worry about trying to concur the hostess at that pricey restaurant, she wasn’t going to do you that favor anyway. In fact the only reservation you were lucky enough to get was a table by the bathrooms at 10pm. And said bitchy hostess made sure to let you know, you were lucky to get even that. You should be more grateful, you stupid procrastinator.
Stop trying to go to places fancier than you to prove devotion to the person you’ve already pledged your devotion to. Don’t buy an unwarranted gift for someone who did nothing special lately. Stop spending money to show emotion. This holiday is ridiculous. Every year it makes my head spin. Why to we do this?! Why?! Valentines are litter bugs!
I love my man more today than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow. I don’t need a day in February to flaunt it. Every year we look at each other and shrug, “what are we doing for Valentine’s day? Why would we be doing anything we wouldn’t normally do?” Neither one of us knows the protocol. It’s kind of awesome because no one will get unreasonably upset when outrageously romantic gestures come out subpar. Flat out, I don’t care.
It’s not because of my lack of enthusiasm, the timing is off. This weekend is not a convenient time in our lives or bank accounts to have an impromptu love trip to Costa Rica. Actually, who has the bank account or time for impromptu central american love voyages anyway? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Our first thought was to avoid the crowds. Valentine’s day on a friday? Do yourself a favor. Don’t leave your house all weekend. It’s going to be a hormonal outrage out there. Loving, fighting, pouting, dead-eyed couples going through the motions, and a lot of single drunkenness followed by bad decisions. Unless you’re into that. In that case, enjoy. Mister Red suggested we curl up at home by the fire to watch the entire second season of House of Cards on Netflix (comes out on Friday, obviously we weren’t the only ones who were going to stay in, Netflix is my kind of media guru). Then work was offered. Offered to both of us. At opposite times. Pretty much the next night we had off together was February 18th.
I am not going to celebrate a holiday that society is shoving down my throat four days late. Some people said they were going to celebrate early, like on Tuesday. What? It’s not a birthday. It’s not Christmas. It’s a Hallmark holiday. Send an ecard and call it a wash. Either it works out or it doesn’t, but don’t be trying to fit a round peg in a heart shaped hole. If you can’t make it happen on the day let that ship sail. Or send an ecard. Possibly flowers if you are an overachiever.
Maybe what we should really consider doing instead of throwing money away on heart shaped boxes of cheap chocolates or balloons shaped like lips is give something your loved one they will really appreciate. Like laundry. Or grocery shopping. Or wash the car. Or the carpets. Or the dog. Whatever shitty chore they always do without complaint, do it for them on the 14th and leave them a love note.
We should all leave more love notes around. In packed lunches, on the bathroom door, means a lot more than some ecard you fwd them from your facebook newsfeed. Furthermore I don’t think Valentines day love should strictly be reserved for romantic relationships. All you single people pack up the pity party and show some love to someone you truly appreciate. A roommate, family member, dear friend, a bunny.
Why isn’t there more of an anti-Valentines Day movement. Surely couples are over it, singles cry over it, kindergartners stress over it (Valentines is not only a hard word to say when you are five but harder to spell and write). This holiday has been blown out of proportion for far too long. It is unrealistic to think your life will magically rise to romantic comedy caliber for 24 hours. After you’ve been wooed, who’s got time for this type of charade? Cupid is an alcoholic baby with terrible archery skills. There is no good judgement there. But if you do get the chance, have some hot sex. That’s about all this holiday is good for. I won’t be canceling that.
October 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
For the record, there was no proposal. On my hand there are exactly zero diamonds. The only thing Mister Red has taken a knee for lately is the bottom drawer and P90x. Both of us working around the clock to establish our careers haven’t had a day off in over a month and the last “vacation” we took was to drive a vehicle across the country as fast as we could. We’ve committed ourselves to events only as far as Thanksgiving. And we don’t even have a dog.
With the facts laid out for you, what would make anyone think we were getting engaged any time soon? Right. Well, my mother has already started planning the wedding that has yet to be proposed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited both my parents approve of the Irishman I’ve choose, that helps when you live in sin in the eyes of the Catholic Church.
If you remember, I had some inquires when I recently changed my relationship status on Facebook. Those inquires were family related and directed to my mother. Apparently, to the older generation, when I changed my relationship status on my social network (despite living together out of wedlock) that meant a ring was around the corner. My mother waited to ask me about it until we were in person. She spoke in a low almost whisper, “do you think he’s going to ask anytime soon, I’d like to prepare your father.” WHAT?! No sooner did I say, “no it’s not happening soon but it will eventually happen,” did we start talking about venues. Exactly the type of conversation I was trying to avoid by not listing my relationship status to the public.
Right there I had to break it to her that I had not envisioned my “big day” at their house in the backyard. Argument ensued. “Well where does Mister Red want to have the wedding?” I don’t know…. he hasn’t asked me to marry him yet!!! Geez. About 24 hours goes by and she brings it up again, having come to terms with the fact that the event will never ever be held at my childhood home. This time she has stipulations about how much she will be able to help if we are across the country and that some how leads to bridesmaid dresses. While we are being candid, I express that I wasn’t sure if I wanted any (I mean, I’ll be over 30, I don’t even know any “maids” now). Blasphemous! She is outraged at my non traditional ideas.
Another few hours goes by and she decides that the bridesmaid battle is something she’ll fight for later. What she really wants to insure now is that I do not have the wedding outside in the summer. It’s too hot. And if I do want to get married outside I shouldn’t plan for the spring because the weather is unpredictable. Which leads her to her next point… I cannot under any circumstances get married during football season. Great… so that leaves the last 2 weeks in February. Thanks for narrowing that down for us, Ma.
When my parents came to visit Mister Red express his intentions to my father. After all they were staying in our apartment, it was kind of hard to mask that we share a bed every night. He basically said (although more eloquent I’m sure), “I’m broke, but I do want to be bound by law to your daughter.” I have not heard one word from my father on the subject. However, my mother brings up the wedding that has yet to be proposed every time we talk. Her latest idea is that everyone gets a veto. Like this is some sort of matrimonial government. Each of my parents get a veto, each of his parents and both me an Mister Red get one too. How generous. If at anyone one point in the wedding planning process something gets decided that one of the parties does not like they can use their one veto to get their way. I have 2 questions for that. One is: what stops me from using my veto to veto her veto? The other is: why are we discussing this if we aren’t even engaged yet???
Hopefully she’ll get it all out of her system now and then in 7 years (according to Mister Red) when he actually does propose, she’ll be too tired of it all.
August 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
Betty in the Lime-light: Kentucky Stud Part II
Dates have to progressively get better, otherwise just quit while you are ahead. I think there should be all sorts of fun, butterfly in the stomach, excited, anticipation for a date. That’s half the thrill. I’m a girly-girl; I love high heels, dresses, jewelry and tossing my glorious straight hair over my shoulder when I flash a movie star smile at a man. Dates should be full of flirting and laughing. A woman is never sexier than when she is truly having enjoying herself.
I should have known to just cancel the whole second date with Kentucky Stud when my pre-date anticipation had more to due with the dread of being bored than the excitement of possibility. I like to primp before a date, I enjoy the ritual that will turn me into a knockout but the Kentucky Stud is the type of young Southern gentleman I actually have to dress down for. Big uuuggghhh factor right there. I told one of my girlfriends how nervous he had seemed on the fist date and she told me to dress really low-key as he sounded like the type of guy who would pee his pants with fear if he saw me dressed up. Just the fact that I had to wear a t-shirt and jeans on a date was a big ‘ole red flag. Why be anything less than my true self? And if the Kentucky Stud can’t handle the heat than he should get out of the game. But, taking a friend’s advice and against my own better judgment, I wore a t-shirt and jeans.
For this evening outing, the Kentucky Stud met me at my house and then I drove the both of us to my local “casual yet hip” bar. We were on my turf so there was no motorcycle riding this time. The whole date was awkward and painful and I spent an entire hour watching him nurse one, yes I said one, beer. As I attempted to make conversation I was also calculating how long I needed to be out on this horrible date, how soon could I make an excuse without seeming rude and what in the hell was that excuse going to be? Half a beer did not magically turn the Kentucky Stud into a comedian and although I wanted five more glasses of wine I stuck to one so he wouldn’t know that his boring personality had turned me into an alcoholic. The strong, silent type is definitely NOT my type.
Finally we headed back to my place and instead of inviting him in I said “I have to get to bed because I have to wake up really early tomorrow” which is just another version of the “I have to wash my hair” excuse. He went in for a kiss, which I turned into an awkward hug. A buddy-pat on the arm and I sent that Kentucky Stud on his way. City girls and country boys just don’t mix. You won’t see this city girl trading in her high heels and red carpets anytime soon.