After spending a couple hours getting to know each other, I was ready.
I’ve waited a long time for this moment.
Taking my time, I slowly warmed her up. Pushing all the right buttons, her fine motor began purring beneath me. I wrapped my hands around her, slowly stroking her, discovering the feel of her, getting to know her better.
She had unexpected strength and power, but she gave over full control to me, completely trusting me. Not one to hold back, she gave me as much as I wanted, as much as I could take.
I wanted all of her, and I was ready to take her to the next level.
With her sweet motor purring beneath me, I
If you don’t share this story, zombies will get you. (Just a little.) . . . → But wait, there’s more! : The Best Date I’ve Had Since I Joined Match.com
<rant on> (That’s code for “the following is more rant than post”, thankyouverymuch. That’s also a disclaimer. I just need to get this out so I can move on with the dating. If you’re new here, I Joined Match.com. I blame the cold medicine is the first in this series, and continues with Adventures in Online Dating, then Match.com The Odds Are Good That the Goods Are Odd, and Time To Light A Match.com. We are now at post number five, a rant. The others are better.
You are under no obligation to read further, but your assistance with the question at the end is greatly appreciated.)
This is terrible.
I’m becoming jaded. Jaded by the lack-luster, creepy, freaky, sex-starved oddballs who contact me on Match. Very few bother to read my profile. Very. few.
Where people look. (Totally borrowed from a site that also borrowed it. Unfortunately, I don't know the origin.)
How Not To Match.com
First off, just don’t join. When I started this it was to honestly find someone to date, and with whom to hopefully form a nice, long-term relationship. Now I’m fighting becoming jaded. And I’m not sure I’m succeeding.
While it takes a LOT of weeding through garbage to find the nice guys in the mix, it seems hardly worth it when you have to contend with the buggy, glitchy software, and the crappy Match.com interface.
It automatically sends “winks” as if they’re from me! To people at whom I would not choose to wink. Match . . . → But wait, there’s more! : How Not To Match.com
If this is your first time here, Welcome! And also I’m Sorry.
This is post number three in the saga of my online dating experience. You can start crying for me anytime. Read these to get caught up: First, I joined Match.com , and second, Adventures In Dating Part 1.
No, you're not a stalker, you're just lonely and looking for an instant girlfriend.
How do you all like my new Match.com slogan? “The Odds Are Good That The Goods Are Odd”
And boy are they odd.
Biker Boy is a Jekyll and Hyde. He’s either all clingy with me, sending me tons of emails and calling me several times the same day, whining I’m dating others while we get to know each other, or completely selfish, controlling, and downright rude. After turning down his last minute request for dinner the morning of Valentine’s Day, he proceeded to email me several times and call me twice that evening. The evening I said I was going to be out.
As if this wasn’t enough, the next morning when I check email for the first time since the day before, I find several emails from him, and this one: ‘Wassup? You pissed? insulted? Done? Or none of the above? How are you today?’ All because I didn’t respond while I was out???
In my reply I asked if he’d forgotten I had plans (did he not remember I turned down his date that very morning??). I explained being out with a friend means . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Match.com: The Odds Are Good That The Goods Are Odd
My life has been nothing if not full of adventures.
The dating segment of my life accounts for much of that.
Remember that guy you all said I should go ahead and contact first? Most of you already know I did, and he wrote back. The funny thing is it turns out we have a few friends in common. He’s only lived in California six months so I just haven’t run into him yet. So I probably didn’t need to spend $60 on Match.com to meet him. *sigh*
He’s a year older, divorced, and he’s gainfully employed (whew, one of us should be). Of course, he has one of the aforementioned Harleys. A really nice one. I’ll admit, I have a fondness for Harleys. It’s hard not to notice a nice one, and to know a hot man wields all that power between his legs.
Oh, hello. What are you doing here? Right! I was talking about my dates.
Gees, I’m such a bike slut. I really do like other things about him and would be interested even if he didn’t have a bike. I’m not THAT superficial.
He at least took the time to read my profile. Not many others did…
If you don’t share this story, zombies will get you. (Just a . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Adventures In Online Dating Part One
Holy heart failure Batman! I joined an exercise Boot Camp.
The cat took me for a walk.
In case you don’t know, Boot Camps are a hardcore outdoor exercise program where they run you backwards up hills, and make you do backwards pushups and a ton of squats and other evil stuff. There’s also a strict diet plan that doesn’t include sweets. They’ve set me up to fail.
I don’t know why I signed up. Really. The only thing I can figure is I was under the influence of an overdose of cold/flu medicine at the time.
I believe being “under the influence of cold medicine” is grounds for temporary insanity. Not that I necessarily qualify for the “temporary” part.
This particular Booty Camp is ten weeks long, and it started this past weekend. (I’m calling it “Booty” camp because it’s all about getting my booty in shape.) Needless to say, my booty was bringing up the rear of the booty camp. Thank goodness I wasn’t the very last booty, like I was six months ago. This time there were about 200 people so my odds were better.
“Before” photos were required. Mine are really awful looking – which is why I joined the Booty Camp. If I do well, I may share the “after” photos. Maybe… but they might be awful, too.
If you don’t share this story, zombies will get you. (Just a . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Atomic Batteries to Power, Turbines to Speed
Capitola Begonia Festival 2010. Outlaw 36 Gang's Octopus's Garden took third place. (photo courtesy of/borrowed from The Santa Cruz Sentinel.)
What is it with me and these Live Blogging fails?? Seriously.
I don’t claim to be a techno genius, but it shouldn’t be this hard. Twitter hates me. That’s all I can think of.
Or, my unicorn force field has disturbed the ability of my technology to function correctly.
Well, on with the AWESOMENESS that was to be my live blog from the Capitola Begonia Festival.
If you don’t share this story, zombies will get you. (Just a . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Capitola Begonia Festival is Live Blogging FAIL #2
Sunset cruise on the Princess Monterey. It helped, but just enough to get me through the week.
From Mega Yachts to Tiny Houses.
This blog all over the place.
But if you’ve read at least three posts here, you already knew that. Besides, I wouldn’t know how/where to categorize this whole blog, given the limited options provided by Google and Yahoo.
Whatever. Their loss.
Actually, “Whatever” might just be the perfect category.
But I digress. Yet again.
Lately I’ve had this sense of unrest, this sense of needing to GO. Go where, I don’t know, but just to GO. Somewhere, almost anywhere, really.
I have a bad case of wanderlust. This happens to me quite regularly. I do love my wanderlust, it takes me to the most interesting places, on some interesting journeys, and fun adventures.
But it won’t be ignored. Like an intense craving, or more like being pulled towards something. I HAVE to go. I can stave it off for a month or so by spending a day or three at the coast, either Monterey or Santa Barbara. For years that has been enough.
But not anymore. It seems my wanderlust has grown stronger. A trip to the coast only seems to stave it off or a week or two rather than a month or two. Now it calls to me ALL. THE. TIME. Three months ago it was already calling me constantly when I mentioned it in Panic Much? FEAR = F*ck Everything And Run. I still want . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Tiny Houses and The Great Wanderlust
There's a spy among us.
I spied. A lot. I waited outside houses, often for hours at a time, waiting for him to leave. I followed him work, to his girlfriend’s house, to the dentist, to the grocery store, you name it.
Like a shadow, I followed him everywhere.
I was a Private Investigator.
You thought I meant FBI or CIA? Nope. Too crazy. (Me, not the government. Never the government.)
What? Oohhh, you thought I was a stalker?! No, not that either.
When you get paid to do it, it’s not called stalking.
Someone once described private investigation as 94% boredom and 6% pure adrenalin. They’re absolutely right. It’s the 6% adrenalin that makes up for standing in line all day at some courthouse waiting to pull court documents on the subject, then only to read how he got busted for being a loser (hitting his girlfriend, stealing, etc). Or for waiting for hours watching someone’s house and they never leave.
All day long. Not once do they go out. zzzzzzzz
But the 6% pure adrenalin makes up for all that. Like when you get the dirt on your subject: you get the photos of the suspected activity, you get the information the client was hoping wasn’t really there, you get to follow them somewhere. Anywhere, really. That’s fun.
About 60% of the cases were what we called “domestics”: a husband or wife wanting to know what the spouse was up to. I’m often asked the gender ratio of clients: Almost half . . . → But wait, there’s more! : I Spied
Mist hung in the air as a gentle breeze caressed my skin.
Tons of seal pups! The brown things are not rocks – that's the pups.
The air smelled fresh, as it always does at the sea. Seals barked in the distance, their sounds echoing off the row of shops and restaurants. Seagulls scurried away as I drew near, some taking flight. The occasional whiff of sauteed garlic and fried seafood wafted through air.
A gust of wind caressed my bare legs, giving them goosebumps. Men winked and smiled as I sashayed down the long dock.
Excitement was in the air. The hair at the back of my neck tingled.
I was simultaneously electrified with anticipation yet afraid of the potential danger being so close to the known killers. I waited with baited breath, hoping to catch a glimpse of the large, dangerous group. Others were scared, too, while some jockeyed for the best spot to see them.
The water lapped at the side of the large passenger vessel as it gently pushed off the dock. There was a long journey ahead of me.
A shiver went up my spine.
If you don’t share this story, zombies will get you. (Just a . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Old Fishermen, Fresh Fish, and Dangerous Bad Boys
View from Santa Barbara Castillo, Alicante, Spain
Finally, after one too many planes, I got to see Spain! Thank goodness there weren’t actually any trains involved.
Alicante, Torrevieja, and Cartagena, Spain are in the Costa Blanca region on the Mediterranean. (Costa Blanca means ‘White Coast’, and is probably so named for the abundance of British expats ) Actually they say it’s named for the white beaches, which are lovely and covered with half-naked British expats during August, which makes them even lovelier.
Torrevieja happens to be on almost the exact same latitudinal line as where I live in California. We, however, don’t have an abundance of nude beaches. We need to work on that. In September the weather was a perfect 80-85 degrees (F) most of the time. As foreshadowed in my first post, it did rain a bit on a couple days and was a bit overcast. (Photo gallery at end of post.)
Every cafe or restaurant has an outdoor seating area. Dining by the water, or just grabbing a cup of coffee or tea in the afternoon, watching the shore and the people strolling by quickly became one of our favorite things to do. It was easy to see why this is a popular pastime in Europe. It’s something I still miss as it’s hard to find around here.
If you don’t share this story, zombies will get you. (Just a . . . → But wait, there’s more! : Planes, Trains and Adventures in Spain