In which I drive on the wrong side of the road and have trouble making friends

I can't drive.

Well, I guess I technically CAN, but I hate to and it usually makes anyone else in the car with me terribly uncomfortable.

This might have something to do with how I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white, sweat a lot, and shriek when cars pass me too fast ... or maybe not.

I feel bad about admitting this and reinforcing to anyone the Women Are Bad Drivers stereotype. I'm just one woman, yo. But, I confess, I'm one of THOSE women.

I was going to say how I don't understand why people are fearful of being in a car with me because I'm a careful driver who hasn't had an accident since she was a rookie, yada yada.

But the other day I took my first adventure out on my own in my new sparkly city of Minneapolis to meet a friend for lunch. Said lunch was in St. Paul, which is very close but where I have never driven to before.

So, like anyone would, I mapquested the shiz out of it.

Now confident in where I was going, I set out. However, there was no road labeled CR-20, my first step. So, I went where I thought I was supposed to go. Which, as it turns out, took me on a long one-way street into downtown Mpls. From there I proceeded to:

* Drive on the wrong side of the road down a major thoroughfare
* Be lost for 15 minutes
* Be beeped at for driving too slow on the freeway
* Be beeped at for not knowing how to properly parallel park
* Run a red light
* Get lost for another 10 minutes
* Have to make no less than four u-turns because I was going the wrong way
* Park two blocks from my apartment so as to not have to attempt parallel parking again.

So, yeah ...

Phoenix is one big parking lot with six lanes in each direction. I'm adjusting to life in this big old city. But I'm loving that it's a very walkable city with better public transit than PHX. I will be hoping to keep the car parked as much as possible.

In all of that, you may have missed the point that I MADE A FRIEND and had a lovely lunch in the middle of all of this.

Being here has been a big adjustment for me. Moving from what was, essentially an adult dorm full of dozens of friends who would have dinner, play video games, drink beers any night of the week, I guess I forgot what it was like to be alone a lot.

So I was super excited when a friend of a friend suggested we get together.

Until the part of the conversation where she asked me what my hobbies are.

Dead Silence. Blank stare. More silence.

See, the thing is, like anyone, I like to look good, interesting, smart even, to new people. And the things is, I think I am smart and interesting.

But I don't really have a lot of things that would qualify as "hobbies." I don't run (again, why do people run? Where are they going? They don't look cute doing it. I don't get it.) or cycle (although I enjoy me a Sunday cruise if it ends in Bloody Mary, but alas, I am, at the moment, bike-less.) I don't take any classes or do things like make jewelry or knit sweaters.

So, when people ask me about hobbies, I always draw this dumb blank. But I do have hobbies. I write this blog. I love me some Twatter. I drink a lot. Which takes careful practice.

I mean, I drink a lot. I've realized that eating and drinking had become my primary hobbies in PHX. Every night was a HH, or a dinner with a friend, or having a friend over for dinner and wine.

So, now that I don't have that kind of gig going, I'm going to need some new hobbies. I mean, I used to have hobbies -- like painting and playing music and stuff. I can get that back, right? Or is it like once the girls go south, cuz, I'm not down for surgery.

This is where you come in. WHAT THE EFF SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE?

What's been fun for you all? I'll admit now, I'm not the most "active" person. And when I've tried to be, I get injured. So, rock climbing is probably out. Also, I'm temporarily terribly poor. So, like, diamond collecting is out. Dammit.

Help me. I'm bored.

And now you have to leave! And I have to live with a boy! (but not actually.)

OK kiddos. Tomorrow is the big move.

I’m not all the way packed. I’m certain what’s left is not going to fit in my car. Also, there is definitely no room for Barksdale who will probably have to ride in the IKEA bag with my sheets and pillowcases. Soooo, I’d say I’m pretty ready.

It hasn’t really sunk in that I’m moving. I think that will happen two weeks from now when I’m Overhunged and partied out and I just want to go home and sit on Martini’s couch and watch Celebrity Fit Club, eat tortilla soup and laugh uncontrollably when Tanisha Thomas starts screaming and runs into the desert for no reason except she just has so much anger because it’s really hard being part of the Bad Girls Club - and then I realize I can’t do that.

I mean, I’m very excited for all the “new stuff.” I’m an adventurer and an Urban Gypsy fo sho. And, I’m very excited to get to live in the same city as the BF – A guy I’ve “known” like three years now but never resided within 1,500 miles of.

Last night while lying in bed with my sometimes lover, Insomnia, I admit I did get sad about leaving Martini. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I may never be ready. I’m much better with burying emotions behind bourbon and hot Cheetos than I am at discussing them.

For those who have followed this blog you know she and I have been through breakups, moves, illness, broken bones, and more together.

We’ve celebrated birthdays and new pets. We’ve taken trips, made fun of famous people – to their faces, been in movies, met new boys, skinny dipped, binge ate (and drank. Maybe. Nevermind), and countless other things. Really, we’ve practically lived together for the last year. People she works with think we’re dating. Which wouldn’t be so bad (Reason No. 341 why I wish I didn’t love the peen.)

Whenever I feel real emotions that aren’t happy ones, I usually pretend I’m a character from TV or a movie and react the way they would to a situation. Yes, that’s very normal. No, I’ve never talked to a shrink about it.

All I could think about last night was that line from Friends where Rachel has to move out so Monica can live with Chandler and they get in a big fight but really it’s because they’re both so sad and then Monica cries and says “And now you have to leave and I have to live with a BOOYYY!!!”

(I won’t be living with my boy, but still!)

So enjoy this because I’ve been feeling very Gellar today. I’ll see you when I get to Minneapolis.




P.S. It's my birthday today, so ... yeah. I'm 31. When did that happen? Will I ever stop sticking my face in birthday cake?

I'm stoic. I'm patient. I'm a rock. I miss my BF!

I don’t miss people.

That sounds awful to admit out loud, but it’s true.

As a baby, I’m told I wouldn’t leave my mother’s arms without screaming and crying and shrieking and balling up my fists and shaking them frantically until someone PUT ME BACK IN HER LOVIN’ ARMS, DAMMIT!

But after that yellow bus came to get me on the first day of kindergarten and I saw there was a new place, with new people, and fraking fingerpaints! And delicious cookies! And glorious song singing! And Jill, with the beautiful blonde pig tails! And Joey with the giant blue eyes and weird laugh!!! – Well, I just never looked back.

It used to hurt my mom and dad’s feelings that I could go away to camp or summer stock or, you know, go live in England for awhile, and when I’d come back they’d say, “Did you miss us?” and I’d say, “Nope, because listen to all the cool stuff I did! I was too busy to miss anybody.”

I’ve lived a lot of places and visited even more and been lucky to have an incredible life full of friends all over the world. Sometimes they say they miss me. Or they get teary-eyed and frownie when I leave from a visit. And I don’t GET it. I mean, I’ll see you soon, right? Or soon enough. And in the meantime, we’ll Twat and FaceSpace and I’ll send you emails with links to kittens frolicking in flowers with Star Wars music playing in the background. Or this.

AND in that same time, I’ll be busy making new friends and squeezing all the good shit out of life and collecting stories about weird Bulgarians I partied with who had gurneys in their living room and referred to people as “Fucking Cunts” as a term of endearment and drank cheap, piss-like champagne but insisted on squeezing fresh orange juice for the vodka so that the next time we get together over beers I’ll have awesome things to tell you about.

See?? There’s no reason to miss people, right?

That being said, I miss my VC.

In life, sometimes you say things, but you don’t really mean them. Like when I say your amorphous, hairy, drooly baby is cute. Or when I say I’d love to help you move. Or when I say I don’t know where I got The Herpe because really I’ve never put my lips on anything but my toothbrush. Wait ... that’s called Lying. My friends have been talking to me about this concept. (Oh, and I don’t have The Herpe. At least, I’m 99 percent sure of this. In case you want to make out. Which, I know you do.)

There were times during the last 10 months of this long distance gig where I said “I miss you” but what I really meant was, “I’d like to see you.” Or “I’d really like to have sex right now.” But I didn’t have a feeling of actually missing something. I didn’t even know what that feeling was because I don't think I had it before. I used to think it was about tears, and pining and all that stuff that's for the birds.

Well, now I know what it is. It’s still going to the party and still having fun but catching yourself thinking it would be more fun if that person was with you. It’s seeing that weird Bulgarian guy, wearing a shirt he’s cut the sleeves off of and drinking a drink he just found laying around and knowing that if that person were there you could just look at him in the eye and you’d both be thinking the SAME THING and that later you would sit on the couch and make endless jokes about it in bad accents. And that in the morning you’d wake up and get to have morning sex and all would be right with the world.

Someone has taught me how to miss things. Good work guy.

I'm ready to move.