Anyways, we were drinking/party buddies for a few years, and then one drunken hot summer night, we made out. Because that’s what friends do, right? Anyway. All that matters for the end of this story is that we did not sleep together. Trust me.

This first base hook-up was about two years ago.

Fast forward to about two months ago, I receive a private phone call at work (he Googled me. Awesome). I’m surprised at first, being that it’s been some time since we spoke — in fact, I forgot who he was for a moment. Real World tells me that he has a girlfriend who he cares oh, so very much for, who happened to enter his life right around the time when said make out party occurred. Way awesome. Continue…

He says his girlfriend believes something happened between us by merely seeing a group picture from the night we all hung out (of which I was included) by the photo date on the computer. Crazy is gonna keep coming. Keep up…

Long story, short, he asks me to cover for him in the coincidence we may run into one another during baseball season. Phone call ends.

A couple weeks go by, I forget about the situation after a few laughs with my current BF, and I receive yet another phone call at work. Story changed a little bit. Real World came clean to his woman that I made out with him. And that’s, like, why we don’t hang anymore. Stupidly, I agree to his “plan,” you know, in case I ever run into this girlfriend who I do not know. I’m beginning to find new reasons as to why we are not friends and only bar buddies.

Maybe another week… (two?) go by, and I get yet another private call on my work number, but this time, it is HER. She explains that Real World came clean about everything. As if there was anything really to tell. Regardless, she’s apparently a masochist much like myself, and wanted FULL gross details of everything that happened on night in question.

Mind you… I’m at work. And yes, I work in a generally liberal environment, but in my head, at that time, it was completely awkward.

I then make the mistake of giving Slowly-Turning-Psycho my cell number to call me after work hours. She doesn’t call me until another day or two (I recognized her area code in the missed call list). Yes, I missed the call unintentionally, though she did not leave a message. But at this point, I’m annoyed and feel it’s not my place to be interrogated by Speedily-Turning-Psycho because HER boyfriend lied. Cheated on her. Whatever. I ignore all calls. She did call my office number a few more times as well.

And another week or two goes by. Once again, the memory fades of the story I’m not supposed to forget, and I see an unknown — yet slightly familiar — number come up on cell when I was on a mini-weekender-vacay. It’s Real World, but I don’t confirm that until he leaves me a message. He, again, needs to clarify events of the night in question… which in my mind reads, “Let’s get our stories straight.” She stalks calls me shortly thereafter. Once again, I ignore both of their calls.

Yeah, you think this has gone on for far too long too, right? I then get an email. Apparently, Holy-Crap-Psycho called ANOTHER girl (at her workplace too), harassing her about explicit relationship info (read: Real World cheated with her too). I know this because Another Girl is a friend of mine. They ironically met on Match, but I knew them both. Which, neither of us knew, nay were TOLD, that Real World had a girlfriend. Blah, blah, blah…

I get an email from Real World asking if Psycho has contacted me with a fake email address that looks like his name, but is not, save for an extra period and middle initial or some shit. He informs me that Really-Really-Psycho created an account to resemble his personal email — and to NOT respond — even if I thought it was him. I respond, copy BOTH emails — regardless of fake Real World, real Real World or Psycho-Psycho — and demand they stop contact.

Two points here: 1) we did not sleep together and there wasn’t anything more to “tell.” Sure, kissing is cheating in most eyes — I get that. He’s a dick for lying to me, lying to her… and well, being a dick. 2) there comes a point in relationships where you need to figure out shit for yourself. Whether I’m lying (”covering” for him), he’s lying (”covering” his own ass)… it’s the girl’s (in this story) decision to make — and that does NOT include harassing the shit out of an innocent third party to the point of threatening legal restraining orders. Yeah, the situation got to that point for me.

See? These slimy assholes really do exist.

I get it — we were friends, and apparently I was supposed to be “friend-like” by reciprocating the lie. Reciprocating? Perpetuating? What works here? My question, guys… ladies: where does the “friendship” standard end? Would you cover for a friend in this situation? Would you sell the slimy slug out?

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When I stated that I ordered an iced, all amounts of WTF-ness ensued. I had to repeat at least 15 times what I had ordered — even offering to hand her my receipt (which had the correct item listed). I have to keep correcting the staff: first, one idiot thought icing the coffee meant to just throw some ice into the hot coffee; second, another woman (looked like a shift manager) kept saying the word “small” (when I ordered a medium); and further correction-after-correction about it being a latte and not a coffee and with vanilla flavoring… Many apologies occurred on behalf of the staff — with the three of us in the car cracking up as to “how many people does it take to make a latte?”

The best part of the window was the woman who initially handed the coffee to me, started mumbling about something — at first, I was picking up random bits of info, but it sounded as if she was upset. Opening my ears a bit more, I listen to her bitching about her daughter leaving her for a man in another town, and how now she’s all alone — “ALL ALONE.” She even muttered “shiiiit” in what was quite possibly the crux of all drive-thrus. It was completely random and wholly hilarious that she would retell her story to three strangers sitting at a drive-thru window. Poor woman must have really felt ALL ALONE.

For my extended “trouble,” the shift manager handed me a couple of free iced coffee coupons (which I already lost, dammit) and my takes-four-people-to-make-an-iced-latte latte.

Not surprisingly, it tasted like shiiiit.

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Foregoing the “white water rafting” portion of the camping trip this year in West Virginia, a group of us went for a zip-lining adventure. It was decidedly more fun than the tree-tops tour in Hocking Hills last summer, but not nearly as thrilling as rafting. Maybe I’ll go balls out and kayak the New River next year.

Right?
Right.

The weekend was complete with, well, round-the-clock alcohol abuse, a giant hillside soaped-up slip-n-slide (used predominately while I was napping, but I took advantage during the rain… in all my clothes), a game of whiffle ball (where the ball hit my person more times than necessary), hula hoop contests, way too many hip-a-longs to that awful Helen Keller song, dance party at the High Water local dive and a local (WV) band who sang, “You Can’t Have a Baby in the Butt” among other great tunes at our campfire. I missed more “events” than necessary due to a) not being able to handle my liquor like a 21-year-old; b) being completely exhausted by sun, drink and activities; c) being overcome with bouts of annoyance and general pissy-ness; d) realizing that I’m getting older and lamer; and e) experiencing sadness that I no longer have a body worth streaking. *sigh*

I am definitely still in recovery from the annual WWR/camping weekend. I’m hoping that these little nagging, nervous things in my belly are also a side effect of the trip.

Or perhaps I’m just not used to having butterflies.

Oh, please let it be butterflies…

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He was one of the skiddish participants mentioned with a conservative employers.

Everybody wang chung, indeed. Shaking your stick not part of the record competition.

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Want to stay in that hug!

While I am beyond exhausted, and probably touched with some sort of migraine/alcohol poisoning blend, I am beyond happy. And emotional, but that’s an entirely different matter.

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Lsrccrd! for the answer: “Longaniza from the Philippines.”
Anything associating a penis, foreign or not, using the word “long” is OK by me.

Thanks and send your mailing info to melinda@pursuitofyourboyfriend.com

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Nevertheless, at the beginning of my holiday weekend, my mom messaged me… ahem, on Facebook, that she and my dad honeymooned at Atwood Lake Lodge near New Philadelphia. AB and I were on our way to Tappan Lake. It’s in the vicinity, for the blissfully unaware.

Backing up just a bit, AB & I caught fireworks on both Thursday and Friday in downtown Cleveland. Thursday was the annual free concert by The Cleveland Orchestra, which is always such a delight for downtown! Friday we climbed up to the roof of a building on Euclid (after a fun birthday dinner for my cousin at Mallorca where AB met some more fam) to watch the show after the Indians game. Beers in hand, of course.

We spent another drink or two catching up with friends at The Greenhouse Tavern, then settled in (kinda) early for our coffee-shop-is-not-open-yet drive to Tuscarawas County. (Seriously, I only know how to spell that because of my job working with county recording and auditor offices). I, ahem AB, made my awesome Strawberry Margarita Cake. And he put together an awesome southwest-style pasta salad (which I’m still eating… love party leftovers).

Our day at the lake house was a blast. The weather cooperated by being just a shade less of full sun, and the lake temperature was like bath water. I was able to meet some of AB’s friends from college, where we spent majority of the day on a rented pontoon boat, then some tubing. As one would expect with Fourth of July parties, there was a TON of eating and cornhole (I’m getting better), s’more beers, actual S’mores. The campfire rounded out a perfect crispy-cool night.

Sunday, AB & I dominated in cornhole (I’m really getting better… or very, very lucky) at a cookout at his parent’s. (His dad kept calling me the ringer). More food! More sangria! Man, I love summer.

We are gearing up for our camping weekend! Yes, it’s that time again — my annual crazy white water rafting extravaganza in West Virginia! While I decided on the “camping-only” option this year, we have four days in the outdoors, with our bikes, a little rock climbing, zip-lining and we partying with 121 of our closest friends (largest turn out thus far)!

Do we remember what happened last year? Oh, the irony… Yeah, that is always fun to read and laugh.

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Forgive me Father Snyder (from this incident) for I probably would have reported your perverted ass too.

What is it with the driving perverts on 90? I have witnessed on at least two separate occasions an incident of indecent exposure while driving.

This goes well beyond keeping your eyes on the road, no?

*honk* *honk* “Keep your dick in your pants, you… dick! “

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In a somewhat odd manner of celebration, I am going to have my brakes replaced today.

Talk about replacement!

There have been a LOT of changes (more than just a few new “car” parts) since the planning of that wedding (the engagement date was exactly a year prior to “the date,” so we’re talking four years of personal growth and oil changes). One, for obvious, I am not married. Two, for not so obvious, I am nowhere near being hitched. And three, having a ring, a piece of paper, an open bar or two-and-a-half-plus-a-dog doesn’t rule or map my personal or dating life because, well, I don’t really find it all that important or interesting.

Happiness has entered my life in more ways than I have imagined since the day I ventured into formerly-engaged territory. None of which has cycled around a white dress or penis parties. Oh wait… scratch the latter. Sure, there were plenty moments of financial despair, of seemingly-never-ending heartbreak… and quickly-spiraled loneliness. But today, at this moment of entry, I am definitely happier than I was four years ago: came with age, a better sense of self, an independent security and in finding better compatibility.

Came with the realization that by planning said wedding, I not only lost myself, but my fiance. I got to keep the car, but I eventually replaced that as well.

Will I get married one day? Probably. Maybe. I really don’t know. What I do know, is that I no longer feel as though my life is an empty wasteland if I don’t. And if-and-when I do, then it would mean so much more than flashing my huge practically-flawless diamond (worth a quarter of the initial appraisal upon resale), spending $2,000 on a dress that I will wear once (completely losing the deposit) and a hangover on my honeymoon (every 3,000- or 5,000 miles?).

And for those that are immensely curious, my ex ended up married anyway. No word on if it’s still under warranty.

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Admiring the bar (and varied beer list!!), we remarked how this was almost like Symon’s answer to The Greenhouse Tavern (one of our favorite places) — with a similar trendy-staff-funky-restaurant-yet-relaxed-lounge kind of vibe.

Back to the beer list… it is just fantastic! There were many beers of which I had never heard — both draft and bottled — and I started on the “fruity” list with a Rodenbach Flanders Red Ale. Delicious, raspberry-ish taste (and reasonable price point) made it a definite “I-want-to-try-everything-on-the-list” draft night. Perhaps I’ll spread those tastings across multiple visits.

After being seated, I ordered another “funky/odd” draft from the list — a Rogue Morimoto Soba Ale (vegetable beer?!). I have never heard the term “vegetable beer.” It was equally as delicious as my first selection, at an equally as happy-hour draft pricing. I have no knowledge to actual “happy hour” prices, but with nothing on the menu more than $18, this is definitely a wallet-friendly night out.

With our second round of beers (and full orders placed), our appetizer of wings arrived. While small, they were easily pulled from the bone. I believe the vegetables in the wing basket were sweetened peppers (or perhaps a pepper slaw?) and balanced out what I thought was an otherwise overly seasoned (salty?) wing.

Unfortunately I had the same “my-taste-buds-say-salty” sensation on the fried Brussels sprouts. Although I have a new idea in preparation, as I typically pan sear the sprouts whole when I prepare them at home.

What was generally uneventful at the forefront of my meal, was immediately improved upon my first bite in to the Bar Symon burger (basket-ed with again, weirdly salted fries and sweet, sweet ketchup). Served on a giant English muffin, topped with bacon, fried egg and cheddar — and cooked PERFECTLY medium rare without nary a bloody or greasy run in sight — my mouth was in complete heaven for quite possibly the burger that I would order if I ever find myself on Death Row (potentially for killing someone over eating my burger).

AB ordered the lamb roast (special for Wednesdays, until they run out; cannot wait for Goat Taco Tuesdays!), which was also cooked to perfection and topped with a seriously to-die-for mint-cilantro-yogurt sauce and paired with sliced potatoes.

After eating quietly my entire burger-of-mass-delight, I truly imagined there to be no room for dessert. Yet, I always need to know what is on the list. Upon hearing from the other side of the table an inquiry to the infamous Guinness ice cream, I decided on the telepathic suggestion of the waitress — as “ice cream sandwich” was really the only thing I heard. This resulted in yet another fabulous decision, as two pieces of triple-stacked banana bread sandwiches, layered with a light spread of peanut butter were presented for our full enjoyment. Emphasis on full. The extra side of peanut butter to drizzle over was just bonus.

Being stuck on the west side in soccer-mom-suburbia has pained me time-and-time again with its excess in (disgusting) chain establishments, so we will most definitely make return visits to Bar Symon. There are several items on the menu over which I was salivating (big board of sausages! tomato soup! mac & cheese!!!), and our first meal was a great start.

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