Broken Telephone.

Darlings.

Well it's rainy, I'm miserable, and I have a happy couple making out in front of me, yippee!
The good news: there's coffee, biscotti, and God has decided to bless me with weather to match my mood.
Phew.

But I digress....

Don't you just HATE it when you're sitting by the phone waiting for a guy to call or text?
It's the absolute worst.
WORST.
A professional athlete at that.
Honestly, what was I thinking??

Lord knows I've been down this road before.
For SOME reason - be it basketball, baseball and (especially lately) football...athletes love the black cat...and I can shamefully say, I love them right back.
(Well, I least I switch the sports up - actress Alyssa Milano was apparently a serial dater of major league pitchers)

Whether I want to admit to myself or not, a certain wide receiver has caught my attention.
I sulked miserably when I hadn't heard from him.
(Turns out, he had been hospitalized - no joke!)
And of course, he eventually did call.

Always ready to turn a negative to a positive, I reached out to people I hadn't talked to in ages.
Friends, family, my sister.
You know, the essentials.
It "levels" me out so-to-speak...
(Like longing for my loved ones replaces the vulnerability that comes with meeting someone new, if that's possible.)

Oh how I'd missed them.  Still do.

Look who knows what's going to happen with me and (ahem) "Mr. Player," but as my best friend reminded me - "isn't it nice to know you can still feel like that for someone?"  I had to agree.
I'm not wasting my time on dates that go nowhere anymore.
My time is too valuable.

I'd much rather be available for the people I love the most.
Including me.

Until next week...

Well sometimes I go out by myself

And I look across the water

And I think of all the things, what you're doing

And  in my head I paint a picture

~ Amy Winehouse

Paradise Island.

Mama's got a headache.
Too little sleep, too much wine and way too many laughs...
Here we go again.

In the midst of mine and K's "I've given up on men" conversations, I got this email from a twitter friend last night: 
"You had tweeted something to me about dating recently - how goes it!?! I hear NY is a Dater's paradise."
(He was responding to this blog.)

Paradise: land, feeling of great pleasure; absence of evil.

In New York City, the seeking of "great pleasure" is the reason we get out of bed at all!
The pursuit of fashion, alcohol, drugs, caffeine, sex (and more sex!) is the fuel to our fire. 
Carrie Bradshaw wasn't kidding around.

What Carrie and the girls DIDN'T have to deal with tho, was text-messaging.
(Can you imagine how much more Samantha would have gotten laid if they had?!)

Over the past few weeks, I've been invited out last minute and surprised (at work) by my growing number of boyfriends.  Last night was no exception. 
I was beckoned to "come over and cuddle" after a 14 hour shift at the bar. 
As tempted as I was, what I REALLY needed was a cocktail and a shower.

K and I agonized over what my next move/response should be (with shrieks of laughter) for an hour.  (Meanwhile, we had to deal with her romantic situation involving a man who asked only to be referred to as "that Jew from Brooklyn.")

In my attempt to sound coy and flirty, I sent him a message that made no sense (I forgot to add a word) and he responded asking if I was questioning his underwear. 
And the hits just keep on coming.

The problem with text messaging is that it while it allows for spontaneous planning - what it DOESN'T do is wash your hair provide you with fresh clothes. 
(It did however, hook us up with PLENTY of laughter.  An ab exercise of hysterics.)

In the end, I didn't make it over to his place.
I was far too busy enjoying my friends.
(Bonus: ended up meeting someone new in the process)

May the year of fun continue.

Until next week...

I'm not ruling you out
I'm just in doubt

As to what you say you're all about
~ Amy Winehouse