The conclusion to the catfish story, a recipe for split pea soup, girlfriends vs girl friends, and really irritable and pissed off!

Okay, so an update on the catfish: she didn't show up to our date, not that I expected her to, or even that I really had much hope of it turning into any type of relationship. Really this was one of those situations where I kinda was hoping it would work out and turn into something just so in later years I could tell people the most awesome story of how we met—“yeah, I thought she was human trafficker but I showed up to the date anyway...”

That would have been a good story wouldn't it?

Anyway, so it was at Cary Street Cafe last Tuesday happy hour. I chose Cary Street because basically everyone knows me there and it is a bar where I feel comfortable. I was also hoping a lot of my friends would show up and be there so I wouldn't get drugged, thrown into the back of a van and wake up naked in Mexico somewhere. Well the only friends who showed were a couple I know who were sitting at the opposite end of the bar. I sat at my end for a while nursing a gin and tonic then went and talked to them for a bit.

So, to backtrack there's this other girl I was talking to the week before right as I was leaving. Apparently this was news—So did you see that girl Natalie was talking to?

She wasn't really my type but then again very few people in the RVA are. I was kinda hoping to run into her again.

“She had a really squeaky annoying voice,” my friend told me, “or at least the girl we all saw you talking to.”

“I don't remember that.”

Actually, I remember very little of our initial conversation. Whatever we talked about was very inconsequential. Probably something along the lines of:

Her: You come here often?

Me: I guess so, probably about once a week.

Her: My name is Nekjowfalas. What is your name?

Me: Natalie. (My credit-card receipt comes) I'm actually on my way out of here.

Her: Oh (disappointment). Will you be here next week?

Me: Probably.

I don't remember her having a squeaky voice. Anyway Nekjowfalas was at Cary Street on Tuesday, and did say hi, and did remember my name, but we didn't really have any conversation. I guess I should have gone and tried to talk to her but I'm not that type. I usually do have something to say, and usually do want to have a conversation, but almost always (even if I know someone relatively well) the other person needs to come say hello to me.

Oh and backing up again: I was looking good. “Sexy,” one of my friends told me the last time I wore that outfit. Actually I wore my date outfit all day, maybe I waited til evening to do my lips, but basically I wore the same outfit all day, and yeah I think I do look good in that outfit. I wore it to class, and Tuesday that week was the first week I tried to use my student ID to access the parking deck.

I swiped it; nothing happened. I swiped it again; still nothing happened. I swiped it a third time and when nothing happened for a third time I pushed the button for a ticket to gain access to the parking deck and drove to the teller window.

“My card doesn't work.”

“Honey,” the lady said, “That's the wrong card. You'll have to drive back around.”

So I drive back around, swipe the correct ID, gain access to the parking deck and drive too fast over a speed bump knocking the hood off my car. Okay. Just to clarify I don't drive a POS—It's European. The hood is only a small piece of plastic that isn't really attached. It just kinda snaps into place and has a strap to keep me from loosing it on these occasions—well I drive for about two laps around the parking deck before I decide that I should probably get out and reattach the hood before I park.

I am glad that I was dressed as well as I was, because at least people were probably justifying my ding-batted-ness as just dumb blonde behavior. In other words: I was appropriately dressed. I hate that stereotypical thinking, but I would have been much more embarrassed had I been (excuse the language) dykeing it up.

Wednesday: Nothing substantial or interesting happened.

Thursday: I fucking aced an exam about drugs! Then Thursday evening I had friends over.

Friday: I woke up feeling nauseated as hell.

When I was growing up I caught the stomach flu about once a year. Whenever I was sick my mother bought me frozen pizza and coca-cola—yeah, think Rosanne; my mom's from Indiana—now whenever I am sick all I want is frozen pizza and coke. I drove to Food Lion (which I admit is redneck as hell) because they have a pizza brand (Mama Rosa's) that is a guilty pleasure of mine. When I got home I threw-up violently—I popped a blood vessel in my eyeball and made my nose bleed. I spent the rest of the day alternating between shitting my brains out and eating frozen pizza while watching Dr. Who. Needless to say I called out of work the next day also.

My dog Victoria Elizabeth, who is absolutely in love with me and spends most of our time together either lying on my chest or staring at me, was really sick of me by Saturday night. Friday, she was sympathetic and worried. Saturday her facial expression said: “you need to get the hell out of here so I can have some alone time.” She spent the evening out of sight.

Sunday: I was feeling better, and went into work, but as I hadn't really seen or communicated with anyone on Friday or Saturday, I was feeling...cranky. Oh, and it was the Superbowl.

Actually, I could care less about having the Superbowl off. Perhaps another one of God's ways of punishing me, I was born a die hard Skins fan, and since they have pretty much consistently sucked every season for the past twenty-three years (I do remember them going to the Superbowl once when I was a child) I don't really follow football (the only sport I have ever enjoyed watching). The only thing is: a close friend of mine, is a Seahawks fan and was having a party, and she's only in town like two days a week and I don't get to talk to or spend much time with her.

Oh well...I had to work.

I missed basically the whole game. Then at the very end, the Seahawks were like a couple yards from the finish line and I thought they were about to win, and in my phone I had wrote “congratulations” in a text to send to my friend, and then they didn't win. I changed the text to: “sorry...it was a good game though or what I was able to see of it.”

I stopped for one beer on the way home after work. It was karaoke night, but I didn't really see anyone I felt like talking to.

Monday: the only day I have off all week, I really, really wanted to hang-out. Actually, let me clarify that. I woke up feeling pissed off and irritable and wanted to hang out with one of my girlfriends. (Okay, so as a woman who is into women this is complicated to explain: I have girlfriends that I'd let into the dressing room with me and girl friends that I wouldn't. It isn't that I feel closer to one group or the other...it's just...well, quite frankly my girlfriends are girls who basically are attracted to the same type of person I am and experience a lot the same frustrations the same way I do. My girl friends aren't (and well...quite often they are people I'm very attracted to and I wouldn't feel comfortable undressing or sharing some things with them without some sort of...commitment(?).) I mean, I don't always want a different perspective I usually just want more clarity on how I'm feeling.

Tuesday (yesterday): still irritable. I made split-pea soup for dinner. It was pretty delicious. Yeah here's a quick recipe (I'm finding that the more mature a cook I become the less ingredients I use):

Sweat three stalks of fine diced celery, one fine diced onion, three sliced carrots with a pinch of salt. Add one pound of split-peas, a ham hock and water (about four parts water to one part split-peas). Bring to a simmer. Simmer until the peas are thoroughly cooked. Add salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. My mother would run her split-pea soup though a food mill but I never have. Anyway I had that with French bread and butter and went to bed rather early.

Today: Still really irritable and kinda feeling really pissed off. I'm realizing however that I'm not going to write about it because, it probably isn't as serious as my emotions made it out to be and I would probably really upset people I care a great deal for. Oh and on that note I'm really glad I blog because I probably wouldn't have figured that out.

Anyway, that's what's going on this week.

Catfish and Fetish Modeling

So...Where do I begin?

Okay, I'll start at the beginning.

(If you want to skip ahead to the actual story skip these next two paragraphs)

I'm 32 years old and for most of those years I have been chronically single. If you took every relationship I've ever been in and combine them it would make a grand total of eight months out of my life that I have not been single—three girlfriends, well actually two girl friends and one trans guy I dated for two weeks who was not on T yet. He's the only person I've ever dumped. But before you get the wrong impression about me being a loner let me just say that I carry torches and tend to get myself in pseudo-relationships, as in, I fall in love with someone, am totally devoted to them, and they have no interest in a relationship with me—the “friend zone” so to speak. Though I will say I've learned a hell of a lot more from them about what I'm looking for and what I'm not, than I did from any of my actual girlfriends (and these pseudo-relationships have lasted a lot longer).

Anyway, I'm trying to change all this. Pseudo-relationships and dating people I'm not in love with suck. So I've been on OKCupid. I'm hoping since it's a dating site that most anyone I talk to at least is thinking of me in terms of someone they could date. And I'm hoping to hell that they're willing to wait. I'm very cautious about falling in love; once I fall in love it is very difficult for me to fall out of love. So for me anyway, sex (though important) isn't the most important thing. So with that in mind, if someone contacts me who isn't someone I know I couldn't be attracted to (as in pretty much all men) I give them a chance.

So, I've been on OkCupid since September. In September this girl contacts me. “Hi Natalie. How are you?” she says.

“I'm good :)” I reply, “How are you?

“I'm wonderful. Thanks for saying hi. You are beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

And she didn't respond. “Well,” I think, “You're going to have to do a little better than that,” and I forget about her. Then this Wednesday she gets in touch with me, we talk a little bit about my leather jacket (that I'm wearing in my profile picture) and then I give her my phone number. We exhange a few texts and then she tells me she's 4'7”, 120 lbs, nurse (she wrote it just like this with the article “a”), and the submissive type. She said she was looking to find a dominant aggressive female.

Okay, so I'm 5'10” and weigh more than I want to share, and this sounds shallow, but I don't want to be with someone who makes me feel like a giant. On top of that I am very much a bottom.

I respond and tell her I'm submissive also and that I'm looking for a relationship and not just sex.

“Me too. Well crap. You are a sub. Grrr.” She replies.

“LOL,” I text back, “Sorry.”

“It's okay. Maybe you could try to be a little domme :)”

So this genuinely makes me laugh. But I think about it. I'm flexible and I have been on top before. It isn't what I prefer. It felt ridiculous, and made me laugh. Actually my partner and I had to stop a couple times because we were laughing too hard to continue. So I'm rolling the idea in my head. I know I can't be dom all the time but I could occasionally, and if it were to be a partnership it might work out.

“hahahaha :) maybe dinner and drinks first.” I respond.

“Sounds great,” she says and then doesn't say anything else.

After a while I text her back. “Was I supposed to suggest somewhere to meet?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says.

So I tell her Cary Street for happy hour on Tuesday.

(On a side note I met a girl there last week who I might be meeting there again this week. We were talking at the bar, I was leaving she had just gotten there. “Will you be here again next week?” She asked me—“yeah probably.” I don't know if there's anything there, but I'm exploring all my options.)

Anyway, then I ask the OkCupid girl if she said she was 4'7”. That's really short (and honestly somewhat of an issue for me).

“Yeah,” she responded, “I'm short. I'm fun sized.”

“Okay, that's cool.” I texted. She didn't respond. Now I'm a little worried that maybe I inadvertently hurt her feelings by asking about something she is really sensitive about. On the other hand, I only asked for verification of something she had already told me and from what she's told me so far I don't really see a relationship with her going anywhere.

Thursday night I indulged in one of my favorite activities: drinking wine and sending topless selfies to my close friends. They tell me they enjoy this activity of mine also. After a few glasses of wine, I started to feel bad about possibly insulting the OkCupid girl, so I send her a text. I tell her that I didn't mean to insult her height, that I have body issues myself and I'm really sensitive to possibly insulting others. I asked if she still wanted to meet at Cary Street.

She responds that I didn't insult her and that yes she does want to meet.

So Friday morning, let's just say I wasn't feeling pretty. I didn't bother with makeup or a shower or anything, I just hauled my fat carcass to the Golden Corral for breakfast consisting of eight types of pork, three types of beef, two types of gravy, biscuits, and toast.

OKCupid girl and I are texting the entire time. Our conversation starts off fairly normal. She tells me she teaches high school. I'm wondering if maybe “nurse” was some sort of auto-correct, I'm also wondering why she has time to text me and smoke cigarettes. We talk a lot about cigarettes. I'm trying to quit. She isn't. She asks what brand I smoke. I tell her. Then she asks for a picture of me wearing my leather jacket (she'd deleted her Okcupid profile. I'm not going to speculate why). I sent her my profile picture (which she tells me she's already seen) and then another selfie I took the same day.

I, by the way, look really hot in my profile picture, no exaggeration. I really do.

She tells me I should be modeling. I send her a smiley face and say thanks. “Never thought about it?” she asks.

“I think I'm too fat :(“ I respond. (Just so you know, I am overweight but I don't think anyone would call me fat, though too fat to be a model is probably accurate)

OKCupid girl tells me she does fetish modeling on the side, and tells me I would make a killing. She asks for permission to send whoever it is she works for the first picture I sent her. And then really starts pressuring me to be a model. To the point that when I'm leaving Golden Corral she tells me to stop and pick up cigarettes.

Now, I have no moral objections to fetish modeling, however I do have a particular body issue that I would never feel comfortable sharing with anyone—I have abnormal genitalia and need reconstructive surgery. I have one firm rule when it comes to sex: they are not to be talked about, looked at, or touched. I actually have had some really satisfying sexual experiences with people who have respected that. I've also faced rejection because of it, but the way I look at it is: if someone doesn't have enough skill to work with my limits then they probably don't have much skill. Sex should be a full body experience and I have a great (for the most part) body—I would never be comfortable with, or modeling for someone who is into what I have between my legs, and the very idea that something like that might even be suggested makes me cringe.

This is not a point I'm going to bring up with OKCupid girl, because it isn't relevant yet, and I've found that even with people I end up being very compatible with, if they know this about me before getting to know me, it doesn't matter how much we have in common or even how attractive they think I am, I have no chance.

OKCupid girl would not relent to the point that I no longer think she's a real person, or that she runs a human trafficking ring—she wanted me to meet her in the parking lot of Martin's by a van to take photos of me smoking cigarettes and wearing leather/plastic outfits. Uh, yeah. Not on the first date.

She finally stopped texting me when I made it absolutely clear I wasn't going to do any fetish modeling that day.

I have to say two things: One, even though I know this person was probably a catfish I kinda have a big head right now, and two, if (in the highly unlikely scenario) this person turns out to be real, and turns out to be amazing and we fall in love etc. etc. etc. I'll have one hell of a story to tell about how I met her, and really my life is all about accumulating good stories.

Okay, well I have a third thing to say: I do not want to end up naked in a van in Mexico, so I'm inviting all my friends to Cary Street with me just to make sure I don't get drugged.

First week of classes and bra shopping.

I've been trying to think of a blog post to write all week. Nothing much happened this last week.

Monday night I worked the Galaxy Christmas party and didn't get home until four in the morning. My first day of classes was Tuesday. I needed to wake up at eight so I could get to class on time. I woke up groggy(to say the least), struggled to put on clothes and makeup and took my dog around the block for a walk--she shit twice. I don't know why all of a sudden she's decided that it is best to take two craps instead of one; maybe because she thinks it's funny when I've already thrown my baggy out--Anyway, I got in my car and my cell phone alarm (that reminds me to take my medication) went off.

I have a bit of a hormone imbalance and my body naturally produces too much testosterone so I take spironalactone which helps suppress it. Also over the past year I've been dealing with kidney stones so I carry my prescription of Oxy-codone around in my purse in case I need to take it. Long story short, oxy-codone pills look almost the exactly the same as spironalactone.

I almost swallowed four pills of oxy-codone right before my first day of class, working towards a substance abuse counseling certificate. Thankfully, I noticed the writing on the back of the pills first.

In class I was still not entirely awake. It's kinda like taking DARE as an adult, except the teachers are a bit more realistic--even heavy drinkers aren't necessarily alcoholics and smoking one joint won't get you addicted to crack. I think I'm going to enjoy the classes; I always liked learning about drugs. But the first day of class was really just going over the syllabus and introducing ourselves. You know: "Hi my name is Natalie. I like eating tacos. One interesting thing about me is that I'm competing in an international art contest." I hate these things--I'm not that interesting and I never know what to say.

So, I'm in class dreading my turn and looking around for lesbians. Yeah, that's what I do in any social situation where I don't know anyone: I look for lesbians. Only one girl stood out. She was one of the ponytail through a baseball cap, sweatshirt wearing type of girls girls, and looked like she probably plays softball, and/or a lot of sports. I'm not really a sports person. Balls are boring. I don't understand why anyone cares which team can put a ball through a net or into a net the most. The only sports I like are the ones that are about hurting people; football, boxing, Olympic wrestling, ultimate fighting (though I think I prefer boxing because... well, I think I'd rather watch someone get beat to a pulp with nothing but fists--just me). Anyway...

This is what I'm thinking: "You aren't really my type, but it looks like you're the only other lesbian in here so we should meet. I'm really nice and people tend to like me."

I forget what I said about myself when it was my turn.

After classes, and a second five hour energy I decided that rather than buy my books I should go home and try to take a nap. The nap didn't happen. I might not have been super alert but I wasn't falling asleep either. I lay on my couch with my dog for a couple hours then went out to Cary Street Cafe for happy hour, and (I discovered) open-mike night. I just got to say, I really enjoyed it. The bands were electric, jammy, and covered good music; the opening song was "Paradise" by John Prine, one of my favorites.

I took a cab home and ordered and extra large pizza with a two liter of mountain dew--yeah, I was hungry and totally not caring about the diet I'm supposed to be on.

Wednesday I wasn't able to buy my books because the campus was closed due to the weather, which, though the roads were icy, I didn't think warranted closing a college. I didn't check and drove all the way out to Parham Road to find the parking lot empty.

It was Thursday when I got my student ID.

JESUS CHRIST!!! I look awful on my ID. I look like a transsexual lesbian. It seriously bothered me looking at my photo. "I look like that!? Well shit! No wonder no one wants to date me. Maybe surgery can fix that? I don't really have the money but I can start saving..." I made a post about it on Facebook, and everyone commented telling me it couldn't be that bad, that ID photos are always terrible, and about their bad photos etc., except one friend. He liked it--asshole. Kinda funny though.

Friday I actually had extra money because it turns out I can buy textbooks with my financial aid even though I haven't gotten any refund into my account yet. I went bra shopping.

A month or two ago I took an online test about how my bra fit that told me I was wearing the wrong size. It said I should try going up a cup size or two and down a band size. This actually makes sense to me because for as big as my breasts are none of my bras really give me cleavage.

I love my breasts probably more than almost anyone. I wanted a bra that would show them off and make it hard for people to look away. Yeah, that's what I wanted. I was looking for a 36DDD or E. Burlington coat factory didn't have any bras this size. They did have some really cool black lady at church hats that I had to try on and take a selfie with. I sent them to a friend who joined me for the rest of the afternoon. After several stores and three hours of trying on all different sizes of bra that didn't really fit, I was about ready to give up on bras all together.

"Think people would notice," I asked my friend, "if I just stopped wearing a bra into Babe's?"
"Yeah,"

I went to Victoria's Secret for a fitting. It turns out I was wearing the right size to begin with. I am somewhere between a D and DD. I end up trying several bras that the sales lady kept handing to me under the door of my dressing room. After three or four I don't even bother putting my own bra back on while waiting for the sales lady to return. Instead I start bouncing around in front of the mirror getting my boobs to jiggle in circles. That's when the she decided to knock on the dressing room door. "Are you decent?" She asked.
"No," I said, "give me a minute."

I wonder if she knew what I was doing. Do they have cameras in those dressing rooms? Or does everyone bounce around in front of the mirror to see their boobs jiggle?

I finally pick out a bra. Seriously, considering how long it's been since I've slept with anyone, and how few people actually see my bra I don't know why it is really important to me to find one that is cute. And I don't understand why there are so many ugly bras out there. What junior fashion designer is designing all these things? And who is buying a bra made of blue vinyl? (Of course maybe that's why it was in the discount bin.)

Friday evening I wore my new bra to work (and my tank top with my jean jacket) to show the girls off. It's the right size and comfortable, but not what I wanted. Oh well.

Saturday night the girl from my class introduced herself. Maybe taking classes is a good way to meet people.

Oh, and on a final note. I don't know what this says about me, but I took an online inkblot test and every single inkblot looked like a woman's body (or two women's bodies), or oddly enough a lamp. It had multiple choice answers that except in one or two cases didn't have "naked woman" as an option. I chose the second best answer.

The result of my ink blot test said I was normal.

McCormick's after work: almost a Hot Dog Story.

Basically, I've spent the week alone. I went out after work on Sunday to Cary Street Cafe and had two beers during karaoke--celebrating a friend's birthday, yay!--It was a relatively quiet night, which suits me fine.

Monday I decided to drink martinis, so I bought a 1.5 liter of my favorite gin and started mixing. I drank two martinis, then a bottle of wine with dinner (Mexican style braised beef with Spanish rice and an avocado--delicious!), then after dinner I switched to gin and tonics and had about three. During this time I posted something on Facebook about being awesome. Then I smoked my vaporizer for a while and either watched TV and or listened to the radio--not sure which--until I was ready for bed.

Tuesday, I didn't drink a thing. (I'm trying to lose fifty pounds over the next  two years because I will be so fucking hot if I do, and I'm going in for major surgery in about two years and I think I'd be more comfortable with that if I was a little healthier. So, part of that plan is limiting myself to four drinks a night, with one night to drink as much as I want and one night not to drink a thing.) I started a painting, and spent most of the day running errands.

Yesterday, I continued my painting, and then went in for a very slow night at work. 

So basically three days with very little socialization outside of Facebook, three relatively quiet days. Oh, and I've been listening to Kind of Blue by Miles Davis in my car all week and taking long walks with my dog. It's been been a quiet introspective type of week for me.

Anyway, we closed the bar last night around mid-night and I gave my co-worker a ride downtown to McCormick's where her husband works and stayed for a couple beers.

I'm not going to describe McCormick's. I feel like most of my readers are already familiar with it. The bar was basically filled, some movie I feel like I should have recognized (maybe Full Metal Jacket?) was playing on mute on the television, and punk rock was playing over the sound system--a bit of a jolt after a week of Miles Davis, but on the ride over I'd been listening to The Cult  so not much. Two seats were open at the end of the bar next to some guy who recognized me, told me we'd had several conversations. I have no doubt that we have but I didn't really recognize him.

People think I'm lying when I say that all guys look to same to me--I'm not. I feel kind of bad that I didn't recognize him. I'm really going to try next time.

I sat down on the corner bar stool next to a very drunk Mexican guy, making inappropriate passes at several of the men in the bar, and trying to sing opera--loudly, and very badly. Oh, did I mention he claimed to be an "angel?"

I was apparently sitting very very tensely on my bar stool, because my co-worker noticed and asked if I was okay. If I had fur it probably would have been standing on end, but as it was the angel didn't notice. He turns towards me, my co-worker, and the guy I feel very bad about not recognizing and says "Hello girls and boys."

Oh dear god, no.

I kinda grit my teeth while he engages the other two in conversation. I'm grateful that he never really tried to talk to me, though I gotta say a part of me was thinking "I wish you would try to talk to me."

"I'm an angel." He tells us again, before singing opera, and getting yelled at by the bartender. "Have you ever met an angel before?"

"No,"

On a side not I actually have--and Lucifer, but that's another story--It was New Year's Eve  2007 and I was walking to Carytown after pregaming with a twelve pack. There's this really tall guy I worked with one summer when I did temp labor who had just finished a thirty-five year stay in prison. Anyway, he's one guy I do always recognize. I ran into him a couple blocks before the Byrd. He gave me a big hug and told me he was an angel of the lord, and that everything I wanted in life would be mine

So I excuse myself to use the restroom. When I come back my co-worker and I exchange seats to give me a little more buffer room. The angel becomes pre-occupied with the guy I didn't recognize playing with his hands or something and takes him into the lady's restroom. I'm pretty sure nothing happened, except maybe some nice explaining that both parties weren't interested.

After two beers, it was getting late, and I was getting hungry. My co-worker offered to buy me a hot dog, but I'm trying to lose weight. So I drove home and I ate leftovers.