Lola vs. Big Secret: Revealed

So, I am writing this post about two and 1/2 bottles of wine deep. And I think I may have actually eaten some cork in the process, since the third bottle gave me a bit of trouble with the whole opening thing. Yeah, so it's probably not a good idea for me to actually be typing but I'm hoping spell check will be my saving grace tonight. Or it may just bring on some entertaining typos. And I'm all about entertaining the masses.

I had a huge wake up call tonight. The kind that stops you dead in your tracks, causes your stomach to drop right into your feet, and your skin to feel like it's on fire. And it's made me realize something. That life is so preciously, amazingly short. It's intoxicating and horrible and wonderful but it should never, ever be taken for granted. And it's so heart-breakingly short.

I've been hiding and running from feelings (yuck, how does this word still give me the shivers?) for so long that I don't even know what normal is anymore. I can toss off an I-don't-give-a-shit grin like the best of them. And I've always done this with a suggestive, devil-may-care wicked tilt to my lips. You don't matter to me. Nothing gets to me. I'm impenetrable.

This seemingly sudden change in mentality is ironic because I was literally JUST having a conversation with a friend today about how I believe liking someone only leads to bad juju. It leads to complications and messiness and insanity. But isn't that what life is all about? Messiness and complications and passion and insanity? So maybe it's time for me to be a little more open to something else. Because deep down in this cold, blackened out husk of a heart, I know that this is not the way she would want me to live my life.

Plus, do I really want Karma hunting me down, stringing me up, and putting me on the rack? No, because, torturing- if it doesn't have anything to do with sex- is not fun. However, this does not mean I'll stop my alcoholic shenanigans or socially awkward commentary on dating or life. It just means that this lesson- that I have sadly had the misfortune to learn tonight- takes a bit of precedence over the intense fear of intimacy that has become so intrinsic to my life.


So what does this really mean to this commitment phobic little blog? It means I'm still sarcastic, I'm still a naughty, reckless, irrepressible flirt and I will never, ever be the hearts and flowers type of girl (football fields and alcohol maybe?) but I'm tired of running. And I'm done hiding. And maybe I'm just a little bit done with breaking so many hearts.

Lola vs. A Reputation for Trouble

Just what does it say about me when I get this kind of text message from one of my friends:


GirlFriend: So, can I ask you some advice? You're the first person I thought of.
Lola: Go ahead, shoot.
GirlFriend: One night stands. I'm not used to this sorta thing, don't know the rules.
Lola: Okaaaay. Sure. Well, did he ask you for your number? I don't remember. I just passed out last night. Good god, I was drunk.
GirlFriend: I don't have ur problem of having to beat off guys...u sexy lady... wait beat off.. no pun intended. I'm like the worst person for this... so can you let me know if you go anywhere to get std tests or anything lol thanks.
Lola: I wouldn't say I beat off guys- Wait, I'm the FIRST person you thought of concerning STDs?

This was a little disconcerting and I thought, mayhaps (Ok, yeah, I know this word went out of style circa the 1800's but it's just so fun to type/say) a bit unfair. Is my reputation, even among friends, really that bad? It can't be. I'm just misunderstood. So I started cataloging my life over the past year. I have actually slept with one guy more than once! Yay me! But ,oh crap, he wasn't someone I should have slept with. Ok, sooo that's one strike against me. I've had someone move across the country to get away from me. Ugh, strike number two. I forgot the last name of at least one person I've slept with over the past year. Stupid strike number three.

However, these three things do not necessarily a reputation for trouble make. Then I came across this text message exchange I had with my infamous BFF Kane awhile ago:

Kane: So Lola do you have any BBQs today? Btw, you were probably too drunk to remember us talking last night, but the good looking dude from my old job is in fact single. And what the hell was going on at your house?
Lola: Hahaha. I got trashed and ended up with a whole bunch of random people here. Who I legit met on my street. Oh cool, we should all meet up sometime. Kind of hung over today and I have to cook dinner for my mom. Maybe hang tomorrow?
Lola: P.S. I also may have have slept with one of the random guys at my house last night. I hope he doesn't call me again. But he asked for my number. Crap.
Kane: Jeez, Lola. You sleep with people the way most people brush their teeth. It's part of your daily routine.
Lola: Brush teeth, sleep with random guy, grocery shopping, afternoon tea- just to class it up a little.

So was that the proverbial nail in my trouble making coffin or just another misunderstood misdemeanor?

Lola vs. The Super Glue Incident of 2010

This Incident/Accident actually happened a few weeks ago. After I called up V, and described to her the debacle that is my life, she declared that "the story is effing awesome and needs to be out in the blog world ASAP." Sooo, the ASAP lasted a bit longer than expected. I blame the Germans.

If you are a faithful reader, you are well aware of my propensity for spectacular falls. If you're a new reader, well , consider yourself informed. I fall spectacularly.

Cue backstory: I had decided to schedule three dates within the span of seven days. I know, it sounds bad. But I had a few precious days to myself and for some reason I had it in my head that I needed to cram dating in before certain things in my life took over again. Plus, dating also gives me the opportunity to create fun nicknames like Perfect Stubble Guy in order to amuse all of you. And really, what's the point of remembering their names? They're never around long anyway. Yeah, I know, really not painting myself in a good light here.

So this my blogger friends, is the story of date number 3- The Double-Date...

Running incredibly late for the aforementioned date, I raced up the steps with my laptop slung over one shoulder and my gym bag over the other. In my haste I caught the end of the step with my toe and went sprawling on my kitchen floor. When my vision returned to normal after clocking my head hard against the door, I stood up on bloody, scratched knees and realized the strap to my new, sexy black shoes had snapped. Growling something under my breath, knowing my friend would be here any minute, I staggered- on one shoe- to the cabinet. Jerking the door open, I rummaged and found the tube of super glue that was cleverly hidden behind a copy of Game Informer magazine and a package of light bulbs.

I popped the cap, squeezed the tube, and super glue squirts all over my hands, arms, and the offending shoe I was attempting to fix. So of course my thumb sticks to the strap and I have to yank it hard, which tears off a portion of my skin. By now the glue has dried on my arms, leaving a trail of crusty white sticky stuff all over my arms. I run to the sink and attempt to use the Brillo pad to scrape the glue from my skin. This just makes it worse because now, not only is my skin red and raw, but the remaining white crap is still flaking off of me.

Of course my friend chose this moment to ring my doorbell so I have about three seconds to wipe my knees, brush a comb through my disheveled red hair, straighten my skirt, and slip into my stupid shoe. Still in a bit of pain after my ridiculous fall, I climb gingerly into her car and she tells me that this date is the exact thing I need- as if I hadn’t had two others in the past 7 days- and how this guy is so nice…blah…blah…blah… it’ll take my mind of things…blah…blah…blah.

When we get to the restaurant, I proceeded to have a double-date with pretty much two of the best-looking men I had ever seen. The type of good-looking that makes you wonder why the hell they are walking around among us mere mortals. And the kicker? My date was a complete and utter gentleman. Like standing every time I got up to go to the bathroom complete gentleman.

Which was probably about three or four times since my skin was itching and I thought I was still bleeding. The whole time I kept thinking, this guy totally thinks I’m snorting cocaine.

So at the end of the date there I was bruised, still battered, with crusty white stuff flaking off the length of my arms, staring into the deep chocolate eyes of a man whose previous job included going to clubs, flashing those dimples, and getting paid to look hot.

And I am left with the question, what in gods name made him ask for my number?