The one in which I offend as a means of seduction

So I was texting with my brother's fiance about the First Love who recently resurfaced and the current Match.com candidate - we'll call him Construction Guy.

Brother's Fiance: Construction Guy sounds a bit rough for you, Colby. You like 'em more refined, don't you?

Me: Yeah, but he's like 6'3. I like 'em tall more. Except he canceled our date, so I'm wondering if he's just a text attention whore.

Minutes pass as I juggle texts between Construction Guy and Brother's Fiance.

(Angry Bell: I know. You warned me.)

Me: Maybe I should just give First Love a real chance. He's consistent. He doesn't cancel dates. He's totally wooing me, AND he drives a BMW, so he matches me - lifestyle wise.

Guess who that last one went to?

Yeah. Not Brother's Fiance.

Construction Guy: ..........

I'm so good at this dating thing.

The one in which he offends as a means of seduction

Him: So does ignoring men work for you?

Me: I'm assuming that means you winked or e-mailed me and I didn't respond???? Um. I don't know. Does being rude work for you?

Him: Why did I have to be rude to get you to respond to me? Let's move past this. Make nice. Make friends.

Me: No thanks. You're done.

Him: That's ok cause you're totally too angry for me.

The End

Match.com is awesome!

And then there was one

I believe I just decided that I was ready to start dating again. Didn’t I? Hmmm. So the first love came into town this weekend with his boys, on a boys trip, a poker trip.

We haven’t seen each other in 15 years. Since the night he devastatingly ended things, and I walked out the door forever - or I thought it was forever.

He came into town. We had drinks. He decided after spending three hours with me that fifteen years ago he made the biggest mistake of his life in letting me go.

(Insert “Of course he did.” here.)

Good readers!

Three hours turned into an all-nighter at the casino, nightclubs, etc.

When he walked me to my car at 6am, he asked if he could spend more time with me.

So anyway - it’s a bit overwhelming, but I’m willing to entertain his quest to see if we're supposed to be together. He’s already booked a flight to come visit in two weeks. Strong work.

I decided of course that I can’t stop the online dating thing as this thing with the first love is not a done deal. So, here are the latest from the other truly awesome men in my life.

From Repetitive-Use-Of-Pronoun Guy:

“I am looking for a woman who has a high level of self respect for herself and that can respect me for the level of respect I have for her and myself.”

What?!

I mean, I know what he’s trying to say, but wtf.

Username: Exquisite Celica.

Enough said.

It puts the lotion on its skin

It’s been a long time no talk, my friends. What was supposed to have been a brief hiatus turned into a lengthy sabbatical and this last year has flown by.

So here’s the update.

Let’s get the sadness out of the way first. My mom is still with us, still in the group home for seniors with memory disorders, still disappearing day by day as her brain is consumed by the disease that began to rob us of her six years ago. She is peaceful. Content. She doesn’t know any better anymore. Some days I think she might still know us, other days we are just people who drop by and visit. Bastard of a disease.

In the area of my life, um . . . . life is great.

I’m back in fighting shape, unrelated to my past foray into karate. I tested for, passed and obtained my yellow belt, but that was pretty much the end of it. It went something like this.

In class. Sparring.

Sensai aka Captain Awesome: “Hit her harder. She can take it.”

Me: “Um. Yeah. No she can’t.”

I just couldn’t reconcile myself to being punched, kicked, hit, pinned to the floor and otherwise knocked around. Weird. I know.

So that’s done, and I’m on to other adventures which include a new job, tennis and golf lessons and online dating.

What?

The heck you say.

Yes friends. I’m coming off the self-imposed exile on which I placed myself and am joining the superficial, I’m told horrifyingly scary, dating scene in Las Vegas. Online and otherwise. It's been awesome. And by awesome, I mean not at all.

The first guy who responded to my profile wrote the following:

“I think you are everything I am looking for, and we will make a wonderful couple.”

So, I guess that’s it. I’m engaged. We’re engaged?

Holy crap! Don’t they typically ask to meet for coffee or a cocktail or a quick once-over before they decide you’re the one?

Or there was the guy whose username was “kill4head.”

Um.

I know I’m new to this, but was he really suggesting that he would kill for a blowjob?

Sold!!!!

Or how about the guy whose username is “buffalobill” and cites his favorite song as “Goodbye Horses?”

No thanks, Bill. I like my skin just where it is, and I’m not a size 14, so I guess I’m not really your type anyway.

But for reals, what kind of woman is he looking for? The kind that falls in love with Charles Manson or Scott Petersen? A woman who will write him love letters while he's in prison and marry him through the bars?

While he's in prison!

Ugh.

George Clooney has still not called by the way since my recent overture.

Rude.

George: “I’m only going to wait one more week. I’ve got options, you know? See above.”

So, I’m back. There is much more to tell about my fabulous new job (it really, really is great - totally not like work and by that I mean I‘m going to a private party for Louis Vuitton this week - for work). Then there‘s my crazy, lonely desperate-for-friends, verbal diarrhea of the mouth, tennis instructor, a new puppy playmate for Lola and of course my continued adventures in dating.

Perhaps some redecorating as this corner of the interweb is a bit dusty.

I’m happy to be back.

Talk soon,
C

An open letter

Dear George Clooney:

Totally do not need to marry you. A year or two is just fine.

Call me.

Colby

Editor's Note: I might be coming back. For real this time.

A break from my break

It's been almost 4 months since I began this hiatus, and I'm starting to feel like I may want to come back. I think my brain is a bit atrophied. Despite the fact that I've felt like I had nothing to say, I've missed writing.

I thought I'd cheat a bit to get myself back into the groove and re-publish some posts of the past. This post is from June of 2009.

This was not well planned

After Mom’s knee-replacement surgery last year, she bought herself a bike. This bike did not make the move with her from Oregon to California. Which is really the right thing, because she would never have been able to balance on it. Her legs just aren’t strong enough.

She’s been asking about it a lot lately, though, so I decided to compromise and buy her an adult tricycle. 2 wheels on the back – great for rehabbing a knee. No balance required.

The kind boys at WalMart put it together for me, and since their store is about 10 miles from my house, and I don’t have a truck, and no one else I know has a truck, the only logical conclusion was to ride it home.

I decided to be careful and meticulously plan the ride. I went on Mapquest to map the route, as clearly I need to avoid highways or main drags that either don’t have a bike lane, or don’t have a sidewalk.

I found a safe route.

A smarter person than I would have then perhaps driven the route once in their car in order to identify any major obstacles like scary, desolate rural areas alongside serial killer-attracted reservoirs or even just the simple stuff – like steep, 90 degree inclines.

I didn’t do that.

The first mile. Downhill. Smooth.

The next three miles? Up.

Up.

And then up some more, with Mom’s new shiny, pretty, 100lb rehab bike. There were points where it was so steep, I had to get off and walk it up the hills (pretty much those entire 3 miles.)

9.9 miles later, I was sweaty. My hair was dripping. I was a hot mess. Scratch that. Not so hot, but definitely a mess.

I ran into some yummy fireman at a stoplight. I looked up and just looked right back down.

I stopped at Mom’s facility on the way home to give her a peek (read: rest and prevent a heart attack).

She hasn’t ridden a bike in 43 years – since the tumor – now with the knee-replacement surgery, her leg bends, and this bike is a real option for her.

Mom smiled like I haven’t seen in years. She was grinning from ear to ear as she rode the bike down the sidewalk and back. It was a moment.

I rode the bike the rest of the way home, and now everything hurts. I don’t know how I made it up the stairs to my place, but I did.

I collapsed.

I’m glad now that I never planned to have children because I’m pretty sure I’ve caused permanent, physical damage to my special place, and I will never again judge anyone for wearing those padded bike shorts.

And now as I'm lying on the sofa writing this, muscles tightening and stiffening, I think to myself, seeing her smile and ride that bike is well worth the pain I’m sure I’ll be in through 2010.

Editor's Note: 2010 is almost over and I've found that while I've physically recovered from this experience, I'm quite sure that children are still not possible.

I’ve got all my life to live

Have you ever gone someplace and once you’re there, looked around and wondered how on earth you made it to this place?

I blame my brother.

Brother (via text): “Hey Sister. You’re going out tomorrow night -- downtown for drinks and music. K? K. Good.”

I thought to myself what a good guy he can be. He’s thinking of me. He knows I’m still new here and don’t have a network of friends, so he’s sent me an invitation. Or a direct order, I guess. But an invitation out none-the-less.

My first instinct was to text his gf and ask about wardrobe. But then I dialed back in my head. I know the places we go to. We go to nice places. There’s no need to ask questions. Dark jeans, 3 inch peep-toes, charcoal grey-vintagey top. Black patent Chloe handbag. The uniform.

Oh how horribly wrong I was.

Upon arrival to my brother’s house, he greeted me wearing a Yankees jersey, plaid shorts and flip flops.

Hmmmm. Something wrong here.

His gf arrives, and while undeniably cutely dressed, she’s equally as casual in shorts.

I’m getting scared at this point.

And then I was handed this.



In case the pic isn’t clear enough.

That would be a VIP pass.

To.

Gloria Gaynor.

You’re jealous. I know.

I completely understand that.

And so we traveled to the Fremont Street Experience for D-list Vegas and Gloria Gaynor.

Fremont is basically a cobblestone walk-street that connects the old casinos like Binions and The Golden Nugget. It’s old, dirty, downtown Vegas. It rather feels like you’re walking through a traveling carnival. Both the attendants and the staff. Creepy. Carnie vibe.

But, we were VIPs.

We had red carpet treatment.

With our VIP passes around our necks.

And by VIP, I mean I got to stand next to the speaker that vibrated me through my core, and not in a good way. And I got to stand next to a lady, who had a 16 month old baby in her arms. And she danced. Next to the speaker. With the baby. Who I’m quite sure now suffers from both permanent hearing loss and shaken baby syndrome. I actually read that it’s on the rise here in Vegas. The economy being so bad here. People are stressed and they’re shaking their babies. I’m wondering if they considered the Gloria Gaynor and the Fremont St Experience factor in the statistics. I’m thinking no.

The place was jammed with the banjo set, the gays, and 40ish divorcees looking to make their contribution the moment the anthem began.

I will survive.

I will survive.

I will survive.

The irony of the song was not lost on me. There appears to be a conspiracy to invite me to music events even though we're all clear on my music disability.

Anyway . . . . people were staring at us in the VIP section. The banjo folk were staring at us. Staring at our misperceived privilege.

I wondered if they were thinking: “Those people probably think they’re so cool. VIP passes at Gloria Gaynor. They think they’re cool, but they’re really just dorks.”

I saw those looks on their faces, and I wanted to shout - “Oh no, sir. We are under no illusions that being here. On the red carpet. At Gloria Gaynor. Makes us cool.”

No illusions at all.

I looked down at my high heels and my Chloe handbag, and I looked at my brother and his flip flops, and I thought to myself, you really could have skipped me on this one, bro.

Call me the next time your opening vintage Dom or 99 Penfolds. I’m on board for that. Consider this my advanced RSVPs.

In closing, I will say that I’ve been in a funk. A writing funk. My life is good. But my writing is not. I began this blog during one of the worst times in my life. My mom was just diagnosed, I was going through mergers, being unfulfilled professionally, depressed even - a little bit. I think.

I think I started this blog to vent. To scream when I was angry. To laugh when I was inspired. To connect with people who were experiencing what I was.

But I’m in a good place now. Since the aunts stepped in, I feel like I got a second chance at life, and dare I say - I’m even happy.

I haven’t said that in a long time. But the interesting thing with me - happiness seems to mean a serious case of writer’s block. I mean - I’m even starting to genuinely like my karate instructor, so you know something must be up.

So, I’m putting away the keyboard for a bit. To enjoy my life. To get back out there and live. And in the words of Gloria Gaynor - kind of.

I will survive (to write another day).

It’s truly been a pleasure reading your hilarious comments and receiving your internet-love. Because I love you all so much, you’ll still see me dropping your corners and leaving my usual inane comments because even though I may not have a lot to say these days, I still need hear what you do.

Love to all,
C

I'll take mine by Diane Von Furstenberg (DVF)

I am the Stay Puff Marshmallow girl, or that's how I felt when I put on my karate uniform last night. I'm sure it has a proper name, and I'm probably being totally blasphemous by not using it.

I mean it.

These dojo fools are much profesh and take themselves super seriously.

I'm probably completely missing the whole BS respect and honor for the discipline part of studying martial arts by blogging and mocking it, but whatev.

I look like a giant, puffy cloud in my new, over starched, white ensemble which reminds me of an unruly bathrobe with matching pants.



So, the pants are drawstring with cut-outs at the hip on each side. Like vents, I guess. But why? I do not know. They remind me a bit of wrap-around shorts that we wore in the 80s when were young girls, when we could because we had not an ounce of body fat.

Remember these?



We actually wore those, and I think they might even be in style again. At least the romper aspect.

But I digress.

The pants.

They gape open when you do any type of movement, so I guess I'm going to have to invest in some granny panties so I don't flash the room.

Those should work, no?

I know.

So hot.

It can't be helped.

Another irritant about the uniform is the fit. The pants hit at your natural waist. Which after a decade of wearing low-rise, or lower-rise pants, really feels like they hit your neckline. Strangling you. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Mom pants.

They totally blow.

The bathrobe, or the top, is much like a DVF wrapdress.



Or a bathrobe. Same diff.

It has that inner tie to keep the top from opening and exposing, and then it has the outer tie for the top layer. Then the belt.

Something occurred to me last night though about Captain Awesome. His bathrobe always gapes open. I remembered thinking to myself, why does his gape? No one else's gapes.

And of course - it then occured to me. We are constantly being shown (and probably supposed to be admiring and drooling over) his pecs and his abs - the first row of his 50ish year old 6 pack. Only a little ab. But a lot of man boob.

Captain Awesome is not tying his inner bathrobe tie!

He's deliberately and purposefully showing us his awesomeness in full, proud glory!

Or past glory.

Anyway, DVF? If you're free? I'd like my pants a little lower on the rise, and my bathrobe tailored with I'm thinking a nice jersey knit. For movement. Kthxbye.

Note: The brilliant LiLu suggested that I put my Sensai's name online via Pig Latin so as to prevent him from getting a Google Alert on himself. I soooo know he has one set. So anyway, here it is. Check him out via his IMDB, straight to DVD, d-list martial arts movie career. Feel free to join me in making fun of him, or if you've heard of him and are a fan of his movies, I'd like an explanation.

Update (I did it wrong the first time): Effjay Peakmansay

Here's a link to a translator if you need it. They even have iPhone app for this. Crazy!

I'm sure at some point, I'll write more about the actual karate activities, but he made me do push-ups last night. For like the first time since high school PE, and I can barely lift my arms to type this.

Wax on, wax off.

Show me sand the floor

I was invited recently by new friend T to take part in a free women’s self-defense class at this new dojo in Las Vegas, and since I’m killing myself to do all things active lately and get myself back to fighting shape (metaphorically speaking at the time), I decided to go.

The gym and the class is hosted/owned by this Steven Seagal type, but not. You’ve heard of Steven Seagal. You justhaven’t heard of this guy. I’d even make fun of him for copying Steven’s all black style, but alas, he gets to have that one because apparently he’s like a 17th degree black belt in a million different disciplines, and when you’re that awesome, you get to wear all black.

So Captain Awesome, while obviously a total badass, really really really wants to talk up his non-existent movie career. Meaning, I guess he’s done a bunch of movies, they’re just not movies you’ve ever heard of, but that doesn’t stop him from all throughout the class, dropping the titles and gesturing to all of his movie posters that line the walls.

Captain Awesome: “I don’t make money from my martial arts studios. I don’t invite women to these free self-defense classes because I’m hoping to eventually make money off of them.”

Captain Awesome: “I make my money from my movies.”

Me: Snicker. Sure you do, Jean Claude.

When class was over, he showered T and I with attention, gave us calendars, brochures and a DVD with a compilation of clips from his movies that he aptly titled “The Nutcracker.”

Because, get it? He busts balls!

When I got home from my first class, I went on IMDB and while checking him out, found what I’m pretty sure is a D-list, straight-to-dvd, martial arts movie career.

Star.

None the less, T and I have decided to start training with him. Seems like a good thing to add to the regimen, and if nothing else, he’s entertainingly full of himself which presents me with a significant number of eye-rolling/smirking opportunities.

Is that wrong? That I’m now paying for the opportunity to mock someone?

I’m thinking no. Not as long as I at least advance to my yellow belt.

Last night was our second class, and I decided to count the number of times in a hour that he used his favorite phrase, “in my movies.”

Seventeen.

I kid you not.

In closing, I’ll say this will be a new series here at Colby in Sin. I’m thinking it should be tagged as “Tales from the Dojo.”

And so my friends, I invite you to follow me on a ridiculous quest while I wear a white jumpsuit and seek to obtain colored belts.

PS - I’d love to tell you his name so you can fully internet-vet him and join me in my mocking, but his ego’s so big, I imagine he has himself set up in Google Alerts. I can just see him reading his email now, “Captain Awesome mentioned on Colby in Sin blog.”

Since T and I are like the only girls in his class, I’d be outed, and we just can’t have that.

Wax on, wax off.

Lost and found in Las Vegas

I was innocently out walking with the puppies when I saw something in the road today.

No.

It can't be.

Can it?

As I got closer, it became more clear.

Someone lost their ummmm . . . . . toy.

Did you lose yours?

If this is yours, you must kind of be walking a little off because this thing is freakin huu-uge. And it's a bit dirty. Do you have some fireplace/ash/chimney sort of game going that you'd care to share with the group? I'm sure you know how most people love fireplaces.

Anyway, if you want it back, call me. I'll return it to you for the cost of shipping and handling.

Kidding.

It's still in the road.

But if you want it back, I'd be happy to Mapquest it for you. Perhaps it's even visible on Google Earth. I mean really. Considering the size, it has to be.

Welcome to Vegas.

You're welcome.

Editor's Note: I think the thing I loved best about this experience was snapping the pic on my iPhone, then clicking the action button and being offered the opportunity to set this image as my wallpaper.

Um. No.

The most expensive vacation that wasn't

I think we’re all probably clear now that my trip to Scotland was foiled by Iceland’s volcano.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve been thinking about the costs involved in this vacation that wasn’t.

First, the puppies. Meet Cash and Lola.

Lola’s my girl, rescued and adopted a year ago. She’s 6 lbs, a delicate mix of Italian Greyhound and Chihuahua. Cash is our new boyfriend. He’s 2, and he’s my aunt’s puppy. I’m serving as foster mommy while she returns to Iraq/Afghanistan for a year. I didn’t know that he was 112 lbs when I offered to take him in, but we have fallen in love with him. He’s a rescue as well, a German Shepherd, Lab and Chow mix. I catch them lounging together in the sun all the time. Lola was sleeping against him but quickly sat up as I approached to snap the pic. I love her dreamy sleepy eyes.

I digress.

Gift cards. The vacation that wasn’t required friends to take in the puppies, and for their gracious hosting of the puppies, I have $75 in Starbucks gift cards with which to thank them.

$75 down.

Let’s also note the British pound conversion process. For my travels to the UK, I asked my friends at the bank to convert $1000 US into the pound. It became 620.

Our economy blows.

There were also conversion fees to pay, but the bottom line is my $1000 became 620. Because I never got to the UK, I then had to convert the pounds back. And so I visited my friends at the bank again, handed them my un-used, still sealed in the bank envelope 620 pounds.

After converting it back, can you guess the deposit amount into my bank account??

$898.

We are worth less now than we were a week ago.

$1000 became $898.

Another $102 down for the vacation that wasn’t.

I had no luggage, so I bought a darling set of Liz Claiborne.

Vintage-y. Pretty. The set was a couple of hundred dollars.

I didn’t have a passport. I paid rush fees. It was about $100.

I didn’t have a camera. Best Buy now has a couple hundred dollars.

But hey, at least I now have a passport, luggage and a camera.

And just so I’m not a total Negative Nelly with this post, I will say that we very much enjoyed our brief stay in New York City while we held out hope that the skies would clear. We did not so much enjoy the cost of our hotel, but we had amazing views of midtown. I saw a hilarious play on Broadway.

God of Carnage. Despite the title sounding so, it was not Biblical. Hilarity.

We got drunk on margaritas at Rosa Mexicano in Lincoln Center.

We got more drunk after that at Smith & Wollensky’s.

When the volcano continued to spew ash and our hope was finally gone, we boarded a flight home to Vegas.

Now, since you don’t get a refund when your flights are cancelled due to a natural disaster, you get a credit, I now have $3000 banked with United.

Where should I go?

I have a passport, new luggage and a new camera.

I have to go somewhere.

This is definitely not Scotland

It’s official. Of course you’d have to be in Siberia not to know this.

But wait!

That’s right.

You can’t get to Siberia either!! So, you have no excuse.

The UK is shut down as is quite a bit of Northern Continental Europe due to the bitch whose name I can’t begin to pronounce (nor can I be bothered to look up the proper spelling of the volcano in Iceland that has brought air travel to a halt in Europe and the UK).

After sitting on the New Jersey tarmac for close to two hours last night, at the order of the captain we de-planed and hung in the terminal, holding out hope, that somehow Scotland was spared and our vacation would come to fruition after all.

No such luck.

So, Brother and I bailed on our Jersey Shore friends and headed to NYC for the night, to rest, re-group and re-plan.

That pic above is the view from our midtown hotel room.

Pretty.

I love the city.

So as the world of Europe has seemed to have shut down for at least a week to 10 days, and I will no longer have the opportunity to regale you with tales of the Loch Ness Monster and my tours of ancient castles, let me leave you with a story, along the lines of the battle of the sexes, and you tell me.

Am I right? Or is he wrong?

Both of those answers point to me, but anyway here goes.

Me: “What time are you picking me up to go to the airport?”

Brother: “645ish (am).”

645am arrives and my brother and his gf arrive to take us the airport. Brother grabs my bags and loads the car while I brush my teeth. Maybe 5 minutes have passed.

20 minute drive to the airport and we arrive at 715ish.

Flight Check-In Guy: “I’m sorry there is a 45 minute window to check bags before your flight, we can’t take your bags.”

I think to myself, what time is our flight? I hear 7:59 am.

Brother (to me with snark): “Well if you hadn’t been late.”

WTF?

Me: “You’re making this my fault?”

Brother: “You weren’t ready to go when we got there.”

Me: “I was 5 minutes. And by the way, I didn’t even know what time our flight left. It was your decision to pick me up an hour before our flight.”

Silence.

Who does that? On an international flight, when you need to check bags, who cuts it that close?

So you tell me.

My fault that we missed the first flight or his?

Now since I’m alone in an NYC hotel room, and my brother ditched me to go play Bethpage Black, I’d better hear that I’m right.

But I am anyway, right?