Posts Tagged ‘feeling pretty

Saturday morning I woke up with diarrhea. I’ve mentioned in this blog before that I have diarrheal IBS – have had it for 20 years and it’s a condition I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

It started after a trip to India when I was 15. We’d been there for the whole summer and on the last day, I shit myself.  I couldn’t even get to the bathroom in time. We’re packing for the plane ride home, mom’s yelling at me (like I did it on purpose) and the whole f’ing family knows. I was SO embarrassed.

And after that, my stomach was never the same (before there had ever been any studies, I KNEW that what happened on that trip was what caused my subsequent IBS.) I have to be incredibly careful when I eat, I’m never sure what’ll set it off  — I can eat pizza one day and be fine, have the same pizza the next day and be sick to my stomach – and have spent more time in my bathroom, cramping and crying and feeling like I’m dying, than I care to admit.

It’s hard to explain to people who don’t understand or have never dealt with it. It’s not just “an upset tummy.” It’s an upset tummy on steroids. It makes me want to die, and half the time I feel like I am – and then I start to pray that I don’t die sitting on my toilet cause that’s not how I want the cops to find me.

It feels like I’m shitting out my insides, and when I’m done, there is nothing in my body. I have no energy and no nutrients and am physically exhausted. All I want to do is lay in bed and sleep until I feel like I can eat again without my body trying to expel everything, but that’s no way to live life, so I push through and do the daily things I would if I wasn’t sick, just usually at a slower pace.

(So… imagine how I felt Saturday night – after the diarrhea, after the workout, after the hike and it’s 7pm and we still hadn’t eaten. I was starving and trying not to be cranky and just H.U.N.G.R.Y.. I mentioned to “the Bod” after the hike that I was tired, and he said, “Maybe you should’ve eaten lunch.” As I said to him, “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to have to shit in the woods so I thought that was a bad idea.”)

Luckily, my friend are all awesome and understand that if I’m gone for 30 minutes at a time, I’m probably sick and it’s best to leave me alone. I’m super open about my bowel issues because I have to be – what’s the most common first date? Dinner and drinks. And I never know if dinner will upset my stomach or not, so I tend to give my dates a warning. It’s not the most romantic discussion to have, but a necessary one when you’re dating me.  I carry Immodium everywhere I go. I’m never without it.

So Saturday, after I’d finished being sick all morning, I decided to still go in for my training session and just ask him to go easy. I found out a few sessions ago that my trainer has Crohn’s Disease, so we’ve discussed our various stomach issues since then.

When I got there, he asked, as he always does: “Hey! How are you??”

And all I had to say was, “My IBS flared up this morning. I can’t do abs today and need to take it easy.”

Him: “Sure, no problem. We’ll skip the endurance stuff, do some easy legs and still get you worked out.”

Awesome. Just awesome.

So then we’re just chatting about weight, how it fluctuates and how we feel about it. I told him that this 10 lb weight gain I’ve had is because, for about 2 years now, my IBS hasn’t been as bad as it was. My body actually is holding on to food and nutrition and although it’s annoying I’ve gained the weight, it’s the first time in 20 years I feel healthy. I’m not starving all the time. I can eat and although I still worry and it still flares up, it’s been far less of an issue than it has been before. I pray it stays this way.

He told me how when he gets his Crohn’s flare ups, he loses a lot of weight and his 6-pack shows even more – which some people find attractive and he hates, because it means he’s sick:

“If my abs are showing that much, it means I’m not doing well.”

And I understood completely because 2 years ago, I came back from a trip to Kenya.  I was sick while there and for MONTHS afterwards, couldn’t keep anything in my body. I would literally eat and shit it out within 10 minutes (and for those who think that’s impossible…it’s not). There was nothing in my system and there was nothing the doctors could do for me.

It was July and bathing suit season and all I heard from everyone was:

“Wow. You look great! Your stomach is so flat!!!”

And there’s nothing I could say but “Thanks” when really what I wanted to say was:


Cause, sure, I may have looked hot – but I was completely unhealthy and not able to keep anything in and tired all the time and not digesting. And  there’s no way to understand how it feels to look ‘hot’ but feel awful, unless you’ve been through it… and he has.

So when he told me how he felt when his abs show, I knew exactly what he meant, and he knew how I felt that even though I may have looked amazing, I wasn’t happy.

And to be able to discuss that with someone who actually understands is rare (thankfully) – but the fact that he’s my trainer makes me even more grateful, because he gets it. He gets my body and he gets my worries and he gets the issues, without being grossed out about it.

The weird part of this is, after those months and months of being sick, something happened and I could almost feel a literal change in my body – whatever was causing my IBS  – it wasn’t/isn’t gone, but it definitely wasn’t the same as it was. I can’t explain it. But I knew when that bout of “traveler’s induced IBS” was finished, there was something different. I knock on wood daily that it stays this way and doesn’t come back the way it used to be.

But the best part of this whole downer of a story is, while we’re talking about this and I’m doing my squats is he looks me up and down, with the ‘extra’ weight on me, and says:

“Yeah. You’re definitely fine. You’ve got nothing to worry about. 80% of the people in this gym would love to look like you.”

Damn. I am pretty sure a few drinks and we could get this thing done. And by ‘this thing’ I totally mean sex. With me. I wouldn’t even comment on how hot his abs are. 😉




I’m old…ish. I know it. And this weekend totally reaffirmed that. Let me count the ways:

1) At a happy hour on Friday, I spent most of the time discussing my desire to go to ANY type of dinner theater in town: murder mystery, Shakespeare in a pub, Medieval Times… whatever. If there’s food and a show involved, apparently, I *will* be there.

2) Also at this happy hour, we discussed the possibility of having twins or triplets. My NATURAL possibility is high, because I’m so old, my ovaries are shooting out multiple eggs at a time.

3) A mutual love for  Downton Abbey was also discussed (even though I thought the second season sucked). I’d rather watch Masterpiece Classic than Keeping up with the Kardashians. Actually, that just makes me smart. Not old.

4) Going out on Saturday evening, we realized a few of us needed to eat, and we didn’t want to drink without some food (responsible drinking =OLD). We ate and had drinks… and sat there till “last call” and never made it to the bar we wanted to, because we were all so freaking stuffed. So we now know that we have to either choose food or drinks on a given night, because we can’t do both. And then we talk about our distended bellies and made scatological jokes on how to relieve the pain of having eating the worst possible food.

5) We ate here and I don’t even care that the girls were at least 10 years younger than me. I’m confident enough in myself to delusionally think I could get a job there… if i really wanted.

6) Recovery from a night out takes a full day, at minimum.

7) I prefer to wear elastic waist band pants. As much as I possibly can. This may be due to the weight gain and not the age, but let’s face it… the hopeful eventual weight loss is going to be difficult because of said age.



So after a bit of a drought with Match, I had two dates this weekend. And they couldn’t have been any more diverse… Muslim boy on Saturday afternoon, and an Irish guy on Sunday night.

I met the Irish guy last night at a local steak/sports bar, and he’d taken the train over (MARTA is smarta!) which I thought was cool. I never take MARTA anywhere, not even the airport. But it’s such a Euro-thing to do, right? Public transportation is so great, if you actually use it. I do not.

One of the last times I rode MARTA some cracked out old woman was trying to sell us drugs and didn’t have any underwear on. I was scarred for LIFE. Seriously. It’s hard to “just ignore” someone when they’re yelling at you and also displaying goods which may or may not be for purchase. She didn’t say.

Anyway, back to my date! I was not just impressed with his desire to reduce pollution and not drink and drive but also his Irish brogue. So cute!  Physically, not really my type but I figured I could just close my eyes and listen to him talk if it came down to it…

I got there about 5 minutes late, and he was already half a beer down. Sadly, not drinking Guinness as I thought he would be, but Heineken.

Fast forward 4 hours (after discussing work, telework, the Euro, the economic collapse associated with the Euro, maths, liquor, Irish bars, work again, living in the States, living in Ireland, some long pauses with no chatting) and we’re both a few drinks in. Except he can drink 2 for every 1 of mine, so he’s basically put down a 6-pack. Plus the last couple of rum and cokes that I ordered, I couldn’t actually finish because they were all rum and I did have to drive – so he drank them. All the while telling me how rum and cokes are his favorite drink too – I think he was excited about the ‘kismet’ of that, but come on. It’s just that rum and coke is a hard drink for a bartender to fuck up, so it’s the easiest one to have on stand-by.

Basically, he was, as they say in the Emerald Isle, pissed. Or, as we say here, drunk off his ass. (What is, “Irish Stereotypes for $1000”, Alex??)

I ordered some food to help soak up the alcohol, but he wouldn’t have any. Guess it would’ve got in the way of his buzz. And then, as I watched him stumble to the bathroom, I knew I couldn’t leave him to take public transport home – the half-naked, drug-selling women would’ve just taken advantage of him.

So I went to use the restroom myself before we left and came back and he started swaying his way towards me, and I saw that his card was still sitting in the bill-fold (I’d offered to contribute, but he said no) – so I said, “Oh, they haven’t run your card yet?”

And the bartender pulls out his card and his copy of the bill and hands them over. Oh, they’d run it, and he was about to walk out of the bar without his credit card. Honestly, I have no clue if he signed the bill or left a tip. He didn’t even remember his card was still sitting there, in plain sight! I debated going back to see if he’d left a tip, but I honestly couldn’t be arsed. (I am super enjoying Brit slang, if you haven’t noticed).

So I drove him back to his place. And he was very sweet and very thankful about it and had forgotten his gate card for the pedestrian walk-way, so had to call himself from the car gate area and walked through that. Oy. I did totally wait till he was inside his complex before I drove off.  You know, I like to make sure my dates make it back home. I figure it’s the least I can do.

I would totally see him again, in a group setting, where I wasn’t responsible for his health and well-being. He’s fun and appeared to be surprised I was smart and conversant in many topic areas (Who is he meeting off match? Sheesh. I didn’t think anything we talked was that groundbreaking!). By the way – the accidentally (??) back-handed compliments I get from guys are just awesome. The Muslim boy told me: “Yeah, I got married young because I was too much into physical appearances. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”   Ummmmmmmmmmmmm…….. thanks, asshole.  Ok, I don’t even think he meant it the way I took it, but come on! Who says that on a first-date? I’ll just believe it’s because he’s out of practice.

Match Cost and recoup-ment:

After Saturday’s date, I had $54 left to recoup. Last night I had an appetizer and 3 drinks, about an average of $9 each, so that’s $36.

Only $18 left to get back.  Also, just for a disclaimer:  This is just me being tongue-in-cheek. I always offer to contribute and I mean it – I have no problem splitting the cost. I know these guys are in the same boat I am in terms of having paid for Match, and I appreciate it a lot when they treat it like a “real” first date, and not just some internet-assisted meet-up, which is what it is.

When British and I first started our ill-fated adventure in cross-continent relationships, one of the things he would often tell me was “You are so pretty.” And I lapped it up like a little puppy.  Seriously, who doesn’t want to hear that, especially when it’s softly said in an amazing accent??  I sure as fuck did.

But little did I know it’s just the British equivalent of the American frat-boy-ism: “You’re sooooo hot!!!”  Which means nothing, actually. It’s just a segue to “Wanna come back to my place??”   Sigh.

I didn’t realize it till this trip though. The first night we met the British military boys, their commander kept telling me how much he liked my “pretty face.” Sweet, and again, I have no problem receiving attention, so I totally bought into it.

Then the next night, we went to another pub in Leicester Square. I was waiting for my drink and the bartender (tall and cute, just my type!) came over and asked for my ID. Ok, isn’t the drinking age in the UK like 16 or something? There was no way he needed to ID me. But I handed it over, and he looked at my year of birth and this look of utter surprise came over his face and he says: “Wow. You look great!”

Um, thanks!?  I was pretty offended. Can I just get a damn drink? I don’t need to be reminded I’m old as dirt. His take was that I should be flattered he needed to see it. Hmph.

Anyway, he continued to chat, asked what I was doing there, how long I was in town, etc and finally after making my drink (hello, the ONLY thing I wanted) he leaned over and whispered, “You are so very pretty.”

Which then threw me off guard – and it was my turn to look surprised because it was so random, and yes, SUPER sweet, but that’s also when the light bulb went off. Do they even mean it, or is it just a numbers game? Like if they say that to 100 women, 5 will be flattered enough to do something?  I can’t figure out if the boys there actually do think I’m attractive and are being honest and I should move to take advantage of it!?!?!??? OR is it just a line?

(Also, did I get any free drinks out of this? NO. So totally useless as far as I was concerned, even if he did mean it. )

The rest of the night was spent with these Italian guys we met at the bar – they were hilarious! Two spoke English perfectly fine, but the third didn’t. So how is it that he spoke with his hands, on our bodies? It’s like he got away with free grabs just because he was unable to speak the language… not a bad play, actually.

Some highlights from the night:

Me and C: “Hey, look at that Italian place, Bella Italia, would you want to eat there? ”
Them: “No-a! Would you-a eat-a in a place-a called Beautiful USA? Because-a all that meanz-a is Beautiful Italia. It’s-a dumb-a.”

Them (talking about having two taps instead of one in the bathroom sink): “Why are there-a two faucets? You either burn-a your hand-a or you freeze-a your hand-a! It’s-a impossible to get it right-a!!”

Them: “We love-a going to the pubs-and-a-clubs-a!”

Them: “We are staying with a divorcee. He likes to talk-a. He is lonely and tries to talk-a to us-a every day. We try-a to avoid him.”

Them (while we’re eating pizza): “It’s ok-ah. For pizza not in Italy, it will do-a. We don’t-a use ketchup on our pizzas like you do-a.”

Them (after I spilled water on myself at dinner): “That’s-a what you get-a for drinking that poison-a!”

It was a great night overall. I definitely still have a thing for cute boys with accents… just need to figure out how to make that work in my life here. Or you know, marry this guy and have it all (or this guy, both are pretty amazing in their abilities)…

Actually…without the accent, he’d just be American. And wearing a funny hat.


I feel like this picture sums up the night better than I can in words, but I’ll still try. We (my friend (C), who’s giving the ‘thumbs up’ in the pic and I) met the Brits on the tube. We chatted a bit on the train, and quite honestly, they didn’t seem like they wanted to talk to us, but  since they just happened to be alighting at the same stop as us, and we just happened to go to the same bar as them, we ended up spending a LOT of time together that night.

We started at a pub, where we all bought rounds of drinks – they boys were cute and fun to chat with and they were in London as part of the military brought in to help protect the games. So, I’m a sucker for military boys and when they told us they’re not treated as well as the guys (and girls) in the US military, I thought it was our duty to show some American hospitality. Honestly, I would’ve bought all the drinks if they let us!

BUT! Hurray for British chivalry and not letting us do that! (Because, come on, it’s fucking expensive with the conversion. I tried not to think about it the whole time and just pretended that that one £ equals 1 USD. According to my bank statement, it does not.)

Anyway, they ranged across ages and we had almost one fight, because boys will be boys, no matter where in the world they are.  But, I loved them because their crew leader kept telling me how pretty I was and how much he liked my face.  Yeah, I’m a sucker.  Whatever.

We drank at the pub, ate some crappy Chinese food, and then went to the club (where the shots were taken). SO MUCH FUN!! Music was awesome and Team Slovenia was there! They were the freaking tallest girls I’d ever seen. I totally wanted to take pictures, but they were drinking, having fun, hanging out… I didn’t think they’d want some random taking pictures of them like they’re in a zoo.

So we danced the night away. And drank the night away. We didn’t leave the club till 330am and didn’t realize we had no trains left to get home. The two boys who were left with us were super sweet and offered to walk us back to our hotel, which was literally an hour in the wrong direction from where they needed to be – we told them we’d be fine on our own, and they said: “Oh no! You can’t walk alone here! It’s LONDON! It’s not safe! If this was Somerset, you’d be ok.”

Which made me and C both giggle, because clearly they have no idea what it’s like to walk at night in the ATL. Although, honestly, neither do I because I refuse to do it for fear of being shot.

We parted ways in Trafalgar Square, and C and I weeble-wobbled our way home, getting lost and giggling the whole way back to our little room. We finally made it back at 430am. Yeah… we were not up so early the next day, but it was well worth it.

It was a chaste night, nobody made out… hell, actually, nobody made a move. Which is honestly refreshing and a little weird. I”m so used to “Nice tits! Wanna fuck?” that I get totally stunned when that’s not what’s said or what happens.

We kept in touch with them while we were there, and they even tried to get us into the stadium using their credentials. Nope, didn’t work out so well, but it was nice of them to even bother trying.  They even offered to take us site-seeing on Sunday, their day off. We declined because we had plans, but seriously – how nice is that!

It was really a great first night and welcome to London. They did the city proud 🙂


Walking through London at night, with our bodyguards


The quintessential phone booth picture from our 100mile hike back to the hotel. I didn’t realize there was someone in the last booth. Turned out there were two someones, engaged in a make out session, because of course. I stunned them with the flash. Haha!  😉


Friday night was the last night in Windhoek. As per every night, I ended up at my favorite hotel bar with my favorite bartenders.

A and the Canadian Cricket Player (CCP) joined me and we did what we’d done for about 2 weeks straight: talk, laugh and drink a LOT.  We were there for awhile and I eventually, somehow, fulfilled my dream of being a bartender!!! The staff were totally super sweet to me and let me behind the bar to make drinks. I just poured the shots as I was told, but still, I was so excited and had so much fun. The Bartender had said I could come back there before, but I was so worried they’d get in trouble. That last night, he came over, grabbed me by the hand and led me behind the bar. 🙂

We made some sort of flaming drink, some blow job and muff dive shots and then some random guy asked me for a whiskey. He thought I really worked there! Most flattering part of the night. Ha.

So from there, me and A and the cricket team went to El Cubano, a club in the hotel. We danced some salsa and drank some more, of course. A had gone down first, and they had charged her $100NBD to get in but since she was staying at the hotel, she should’ve got in for free.

On our way out of the club, I got into it with the ‘bouncer.’  He refused to give her a refund even after she showed her room key. His logic was so fucking dumb: “But you’ve already gone in, so why should you get your money back?” Um… because she shouldn’t have paid in the first place! Dumbass. I pointed this out and he was so adamant he was right. I asked (ok, more like demanded) for his manager but at this point, A and CCP took me by both sides and pulled me away. I think they were worried I’d end up in a fight, but I could’ve totally taken him. He was tiny. As they’re making me leave, I’m yelling at the guy: “You only took her money because she’s African!”  They both agreed I was right but everyone was ready to get to the next place, so we left.

We got to D-Club at I don’t even know what time. It was so late and I was so tired and so drunk. I didn’t want to go, but as A said, when was I ever going to do this again, with this group of people? I should live to regret it.

And she was right! I am glad I went, even if the next morning wasn’t that great. Anyway, we get to the club, have a little more to drink and dance and CCP and I were sitting on a little stage area and he just kissed me! And then we made out. A lot. At the club. I’m sure there are probably pictures somewhere, hopefully I’ll never see them. He was a good kisser and definitely wanted to do more than just make out… that was obvious. Ha ha!

So this whole time, I was being a little naughty and texting The Bartender. He had come down to meet us at the first place and I wanted to go back and see him.  (You know, because in the scheme of things I should always put more effort into a super young bartender rather than an around-my-age pro-athlete (even if it is just cricket). Ay yi yi.  My decision-making skills need some work when it comes to men — clearly.)

In any case, we finally went back to the bar/hotel and met up with The Bartender. I was done drinking at this point, and dancing. It was fucking 4:30am. I just wanted to get to bed.

I said goodbye to A first and then CCP (told him I was going to bed and he asked if I wanted him to tuck me in. Um, ewww. No. I do not.) and then snuck out before any of them could follow me. The Bartender gave me his jacket to wear and we had to pass by his front desk colleagues for him to take me to my room. (It’s slightly embarrassing, actually, and not the first time I’ve been judged by hotel staff. Will fill you in on that story later.)

He took me to my floor, we said our goodbyes and kissed outside my room for a little bit. I was SUCH a good girl and did not invite him in. I actually don’t think he would’ve come in anyway, he was really nervous about being caught. He told me I made quite an impression on him and that if I ever wanted to work behind the bar, I had a place with him. Awwwwwwwwwwwww!

Oh! And! While we were walking, he told me the cricket team had been after every girl possible in the hotel. I think that was his not so subtle way of telling me I wasn’t that special to CCP. I didn’t really say much, except was I the first guest he’s ever made out with? I really doubt it. A lot.

So, the tally for that night was 2 boys, about 2 hours apart. Not bad. Tally for the trip was 3 total, bookending the first and last nights…. And diverse! One American, one Namibian and one Canadian/Indian. I’m SO getting my groove back for real. Awesome.

He was 23 and a firefighter. I was 30.  We met at the wedding of my friend, who happens to be his step-sister. A bunch of us were staying at her house, but I came in so late I didn’t meet anyone till the morning of the wedding.

I knew she had a hot step-brother and he did not disappoint. Over 6′ tall, blonde, blue eyes, ex-college quarterback and a body to die for…  and he had a girlfriend. I assumed nothing was going to happen given that I was already ancient and he had mentioned at the rehearsal dinner that he was thinking of proposing to her (they broke up soon after).

So, fast forward to the reception – we were all pretty drunk after an awesome open bar and he and I were dancing together.  Again, I figured he was just being nice to his sister’s friend since I was there alone, as usual.

We walked out together at the end of the night, and he grabbed my hand and then stopped me, pulled me in and kissed me. It was amazingly romantic and sweet, except for the person who was walking with us and didn’t quite know where to look while this all happened.

And from there… it was on. Went home, realized neither of us had protection so made a quick condom run to Walmart (safety first! And thank god for 24 hour stores) and went at it.

6 times in one night. SIX TIMES. SIIIIIIIIIXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TIMES. I don’t know if it’s because he was 23 or because he was in such a good shape or  if we just clicked but it was THE best sex I have ever had.

I was his best sex too. I know because he told me and it wasn’t one of those things that were just said in the heat of the moment. Or, at least, I choose to believe it wasn’t.

We fucked every which way possible and it was absolutely awesome. We hooked up one more night after that, and then we were done. It was a brief fling that made me incredibly happy.

A few notes to this story:

1) I asked him when he knew that he wanted to fuck me and he said he knew the minute he saw me in the morning in the kitchen, standing in my tee and shorts that I slept in. He said he would’ve bent me over the sink but didn’t think that was appropriate considering we’d just met.  Eh… I would’ve let him.

2) Apparently, we didn’t clean up well after ourselves. We thought we had, but my friend found a used condom on her floor. Her reaction was: “Well, at least we know he’s fertile.”  This is why I love my friend. 🙂

3) While in Savannah, we shared a van with these super cute firefighters from Boston. My drunk ass told them the story of “The Best Sex I Ever Had” because I feel it’s my duty to let them know how well represented they are.  The really cute one told me he was too drunk to try to break the record, but he would dig deep and be able to pull off at least one, if I wanted.  I did want, but figured I shouldn’t screw some guy that I knew for 5 minutes. But I did want to.

4) My best-sex-ever just got married a few weeks ago. My friend was at the wedding, of course, where she ending up fucking his friend, during the reception, in her car. This is also why I love her 🙂   She told her brother what she’d done and he replied, “Now we’re even”… awwwwwwwww yeaaaaaaaaaaah. Gotta admit, it’s a little bitchy of me, but I fucking love that on his wedding day, he remembered what we did.


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