I shit you not, this is the greatest love story ever written, Part eight.

Seriously, this has turned into a much longer and amazing story as time has gone on. When I originally started planning on cluing you all in on what has gone on, there were maybe three parts to my story. Before I even got a chance to start posting, more and more parts started emerging. I hope you all are entertained by whats been going on, and I hope you are swooning, because I totally am. Now, if you're new around here, you'll notice that this is Part Eight of my story, and I assure you that you will be lost if you have not started reading from the beginning. If you haven't checked out part one, two, three, four, five, six, or seven, I suggest you do so in order to keep from being entirely confused. I'll wait.

So, where we last left off, I was dealing with an immature Ex in the best way that I knew how - moving all of my shit into a storage space before he urinated on it/burned it all to ashes. Maybe that statement was a bit extreme, maybe it wasn't. I was pretty vague in my previous post where I said I was being flipped off. Not only was I flipped off, I was also called many MANY names, getting phone calls from mutual friends who were extremely worried due to postings on facebook that I could not see because the Ex had deleted me, among other things. He got so drunk at one point that he couldn't sit up any longer and started flipping all the mirrors in the apartment over. It got pretty creepy, in a drunken way, and in a ritualistic way.

Originally, I had planned on keeping the apartment and just kind of staying out of the way until the Ex moved out. I had a bunch of savings and the Ex knew he couldn't afford the place alone. Once he knew I had a new Boo, though, everything changed and he didn't want me to have the place. Hence the reason I had just decided to put everything into storage. He claimed that he would figure out a way to pay the rent and he didn't care what I took with me when I left, he just wanted me gone. I reminded him that he owed me three months of electric, cable and internet, not to mention all the times I did food shopping with no compensation repaid. He told me to fuck off and bring him to court if I wanted the money. I also reminded him that I was owed security deposit as well as last months rent, at least part of it. Again, I was told to fuck off.

I got most of my stuff out within the next couple days, and I was eventually apologized to by the Ex, even though I really wasn't feeling that forgiving. I said it was okay regardless because I knew that it must have been hard on him to lose a girlfriend of almost three years, then to find out that it was actually to someone else.

A couple days later, the Ex asked me if I wanted the apartment still because he couldn't afford it. I said I didn't know. I really didn't. Would it be easier on me to just couch surf until I could find a place of my own? Put all of my personal belongings into storage and carry around a large backpack of my most prized possessions and have my cat stay with a friend? Have my mail forwarded to a PO box and just wing it? I had done this before, and to not have to deal with the dramatics of the Ex, this seemed like a much better plan that trying to stay somewhere that the Ex could potentially make a copy of the key to. I told him I needed to sleep on it for a while and I would get back to him as soon as I could make a choice. He said okay, and I was very impressed with how adult like he was being.

Later on that same night, my special guy asked me what I was planning on doing. I said that I wasn't sure, but I had the option of staying at the apartment after the Ex had moved out. I told him I wasn't sure because it might eventually feel awkward being there, knowing that the Ex and I had moved in together. I also said that I didn't really feel entirely safe being somewhere with a crazy ex knowing my address. Then began expressing how I also didn't know if he was the type of dude that would copy the house keys and potentially come back one day. I knew the Ex was doing drugs, and even if it were just as a way to get over the rough days of the break-up, I would absolutely die if any of my possessions were stolen in order to pay for illicit substances. I grew up in a home with a drug addicted family member, and having things go missing without noticing for a few years really really sucked. I couldn't do it again. I had looked at a few apartments, but considering it was now the third week into August, it was slim pickings for September rentals, especially in the college town that I reside in. Legitimately, I looked at a place smaller than a bathroom. It had a mini sink, and a tiny stove, and the only way to fit a bed into it was to have it by the stove. If I were cooking, the door to the stove would open ONTO the bed. Besides that, there was this stench that I could tell would never go away.

Anyway, I am getting off topic.

That's when the dude suggested that I move in with him because even if I were to find a new place that I liked, I would essentially be paying more than a thousand dollars a month so that my cat could have an apartment to himself. Even though we had only been together since the 8th, and it was probably, oh, the 21st at this point, he said that he felt like he had known me forever, and he never wanted to let me go. He said that although we can finish each others sentences, he still got the butterflies that one would get on a first date. I told him I wasn't sure yet. Again, I needed to think about it. Should I be jumping into something so serious so quickly? I was totally head over heels for this guy, and I couldn't see myself not being in love with him, but was this too soon?

The next day I went to the apartment to grab the rest of my items and put them into storage. I took the Wii, which I bought for the Ex, and for myself. Months before Christmas we had talked about going halfsies on a Wii. Eventually the Ex said he wasn't sure that we should do that, so I bought the Wii on my own. I am sure you all remember my Christmas list from last year? Well, that's one of the only blog posts I had linked on my facebook. And yes, that was to drop hints to the Ex as what to get me. He got me a TV. No where on the list was a TV. In fact, I had a TV, and this new one was pretty small. I have bad eyes, I couldn't even read it! So, I decided that the TV was bought mainly for him, and the Wii was bought mainly for me. Not only that, I took it as collateral. Would I ever see my bill money, my rent money, my security deposit? Doubtful. A few hours later I get a text from the Ex saying I was sketchy. I explained myself, and he didn't like it. Later on that night the Awesome dude asked me if I thought about his offer, and I told him that I would move in.

The next day was the first day that he could actually convince me to take a key to the apartment. He had put it out for me, and I would never touch it. He would tell me to stay at his place and sleep while he was at work, and I never would. I would sit in coffee shops and kill time on the internet until I knew the Ex wouldn't be home, completely ignoring the key that had been left out for me. That morning he MADE me put the key on my keyring, and I ended up sleeping most of the day at the apartment, for the first time, alone.

A letter to someone I never thought I would be conversing with again.

Dear Howard Fisk,

I remember that first day I talked to you. You ruined my day. Really. You did. I wrote a post about it, because seriously? You made me that pissed that I felt the need to let the (blogging) world know. I really was hoping that you were going to google your name and find what I had written about you. Months and months had past. Nine months and eight days, to be exact. I had practically forgotten about you. And then you finally did it. You read my blog post about how much I hate you.

And you commented. I nearly ROFLed. I know I LOLed. I also relived our previous interaction in my head, and out loud. A lot has changed in the past nine months (and eight days.) I feel like I should bring you up to date.

First, I would like to make it clear that I was NOT a secretary. I was a personal assistant. I practically ran that company. So yes, you calling me "Melissa the Secretary" pushed my buttons, because I busted my fucking ass working for that company. And, since then, I have moved on. I do not work in an office setting anymore, quite the opposite, actually. I get people drunk after their shitty office jobs. That's what I do. And I don't ever have to pretend to be nice to jerk-offs like you. Not that I could pretend that long with you, though.

Have you moved on since we last spoke? Have you found a better job yet? Judging from your demeanor, the collection agency job must have sucked. There were a lot of complaints on message boards about you, Mr. Howard Fisk, the guy in collections.

I wrote half of this letter, then filed it away in my drafts folder. I wasn't sure if there was much else I could say to you, and even debated posting it. Yesterday I decided to sign up for Google Analytics because I wanted to know more about my incoming traffic that my old tracker couldn't provide. After a long shift at work, I checked my dashboard on google, and guess what? Someone apparently had googled "Melissa the Secretary, Howard Fisk" and I am pretty sure you're the only one who would do such a thing. Looking further into my reports, I saw that you spent a whopping six minutes and nineteen seconds on my site, where the average is two minutes and eleven seconds. I smiled, and closed my laptop.

Upon waking up today, I decided that you were waiting for a response from me, why else would you google me again? So here you have it, I wrote a letter back to you. Would you like to guest post on my blog? I have been very busy these days and I would be more than happy to have you, really.

Your pal, not a secretary,
Mel

I skipped a few days because I went to see Maury.

SORRY GUYS! But I had something much more important to tend to.

SEEING MAURY POVICH.

I love Maury so much, that I woke up at 4:45 am on Friday, which is my usual bedtime, to hit the open road and head to Stamford, CT. Besides the fact that being in a car for three hours in the snow/rain/slush isn't fun, we managed to spill our coffees on ourselves at least three times. I had decided that even though the dress code wasn't business casual like when we went to see Jerry Springer, I decided I would wear my black mini skirt, the heels that killed my feet on Valentines day, a cute black and white polka-dot cardigan with lace by the buttons, and my (fake) pearl necklace. I wont lie, I totally looked awesome.

But I wasn't exactly dressed for the weather. Once we arrived outside the Maury studio, we were greeted by a line of at least 600 other Maury fans. I stood at the end, shaking in the cold. I thought I was going to fall over and convulse because my knees would not stop shaking. Eventually, about an hour later, we made our way to the front of the line, where we were told that the first taping was full and we would be guaranteed a spot in the second taping. Our faces fell as the dude wrapped neon yellow wristbands numbered 40-43 around our arms.

We all looked at each other and wondered what there was to do in Stamford, CT at 9am. We knew the answer was "nothing" but we still headed to the mall, even though we knew it wasn't open. There were hoards of woman jogging around the mall PUSHING STROLLERS. Like, A LOT of them. It was extremely bizarre. Luckily, Barnes and Noble was open, which had a Starbucks inside. I opted for the organic chocolate milk and a red velvet cupcake - my favorite.

After the cupcake, I started scoping out the arts & crafts books, many of which I regret not purchasing. I found the Stitch n' Bitch book for crocheting (I don't really knit, I had always crocheted, until last year for my birthday when Aleigha gave me the Stitch n' Bitch Knitting book and a pair of bamboo needles) and I saw so many fun projects! Why I didn't purchase this book? I will never know. I do know that sometime soon I will be buying this, as well as the other book that showed you how to make crocheted food items, such as cupcakes, strawberries, bacon and eggs.

Anyway, as we were leaving the mall, all of the baby-mama-joggers were now laying on the floor of the mall stretching in awkward positions as their children cried around them. We eventually made our way back to the studio for 11:30, which should have been a half hour before our taping time. We watched an episode of Maury while in the waiting room, catching it halfway through. I pulled out my LOGIC book after a few minutes, hoping to quickly pass the time. The episode ended and we quickly grew agitated. One of the security guards came in, starting the episode over, which occupied us, but made us realize that it might be a while before we got into the studio. That's when pizza after pizza was brought into the waiting room. They had ordered about twenty pizzas to hold us all over until the next taping began. SCORE! Also, keep in mind, that the Jerry and Maury studios are WAY smaller than they look on TV. The studio only hold about 200 people, and even at that, I think that is quite the over estimate.

After eating all of the pizza, waiting a bit more, and then seeing the second half of the Maury episode, again, we were finally starting to be summoned onto the Maury set. They called numbers 1-40, which wasn't good, because Jared had #40, and didn't want to sit somewhere totally different than Nora. Jared stayed with us and we waited for our numbers. Finally, after hearing many other ranges of numbers being called, we figured out that they skipped over 41-50, which could have potentially been bad, because when we brought this to the attention of the guy organizing the seating and he brought us in, there were literally only about ten seats left, and only one group of four. Thankfully we made it, and about 15 minutes later, the show started.

We were instructed to clap, awe, and boo at appropriate times, but at this point, us four were almost too tired to do so.

I wont spoil the show for you, because I will be urging all of you to check it out when it is set to air. However, I will say that the theme for the show was paternity tests.

The Least Hygienic Hook-Up Ever (and how it made me momentarily internet-famous)

I still haven't done my own TMIT Thursday, but hey, a guest post from one of the raddest chicks out there? A very close second best. Right?

Hey guys! It’s TKOG, over from Not That Kind of Girl, psyched to steal a little of Rebel Mel’s spotlight on this most TMI of Thursdays!

My current project, Not That Kind of Girl, focuses on spending this year doing 250 completely uncharacteristic things – many of them relating to being newly single out of a blissful four-year relationship. And dudes – dudes! – when it comes to dating, there’s good reason I’m looking to become a totally new kind of girl. What follows is a tale of dating failure so rank it’ll curl your nose hairs.

During the time this story took place (when I was 18, during my first year of university), I had the bad luck of breaking in a rash of virgins. A rash. My wording is not coincidental.

In my freshman dorm, my bff Justice and I took an interest in tormenting slash socializing a particular quiet specimen who lived next door. He was kind of immature for his age, and weird-smart. He never seemed to have anything interesting to say. Until. UNTIL! I google-stalked him one day and realized that the seemingly shy little wallflower next door was in fact an internet rockstar. I can’t give too much away, but let’s just say he has a Wiki entry, a friggin’ famous-ass blog, and he was the number-one google result for his (common) first name. Swoooooon.

So one night, after a few drinks, I asked him to take a walk with me after a party, we ended up laying in the grass talking about intellectual property rights, and – when I couldn’t handle my Blog Star Complex any longer – I leaned in and gave him his first kiss.

Kisses turned into make-outs – awkward and unskilled, but not entirely unpleasant make-outs – and we went up to his room, where I bee-lined for the bed, but he lingered by the sink. He said he had to brush his teeth, and took a new toothbrush out of its wrapper. I, I’m sure, pouted and kicked the mattress.

“You know,” he mused, mouth foaming with Crest. “This is the first time I’ve brushed my teeth at University.”

You guys. You guys. It was JANUARY.

Did I make out with him anyway? Oh, you know I made out with him anyway.

Things went well for a week or two. Although we only had one other hook-up of note. We made out for a while one afternoon (man, I miss college) and I realized that he didn’t just have a little natural funk. His particular funk had an almost physical heft to it, like an oil that clouded through the nasal passages. Potent, guys, potent. At one point, I stuck my tongue in his ear, then recoiled in horror. When I subtly rubbed my tongue on his pillowcase afterwards, there was an enormous chunk of orange-yellow wax left on the fabric.

Shortly afterwards, I made my escape. Then in the room a few minutes later, my back started itching. So I took off my shirt and asked my roommate if she could see anything. She told me I seemed to have a rash or hives, but then started giggling so hard that I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I found a mirror and saw to my horror that my back was emblazoned with screaming-red hives IN THE SHAPE OF A HANDPRINT on my back.

But TKOG, you’re saying, at least you got to break up with the (literal) slimeball and improve your break-up karma! And I’m touched, dear reader, by your simple, misplaced faith in 18-year-old TKOG. Although we stopped hooking up, I didn’t end things until weeks later.

Oscar Night 2005, to be exact. Martin Scorsese had just lost Best Director for “The Aviator,” and I was taking it hard. My mother called me and, I’ll admit, I may have been crying.

“Oh sweetie,” she told me, “you’ve already read it? Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.”

When I gave her the venerable ol’ wtf, she reluctantly told me to check Hive Boy’s blog. Where he had just posted basically a live-blog of our first hook-up. It wasn’t flattering. He basically gave the internet – using my real name, with a link to my real-life blog! – a blow-by-blow of the hook-up and his reactions. Apparently his first hook-up wasn’t a great experience, because he dispatched the whole mess with the type of ennui and disdainfully clinical curiosity usually reserved for describing surgical procedures in third-world nations. And, insult to injury, throughout the whole ordeal, he painted me in broad strokes as a floozy.

Me! A floozy! I mean, okay, obviously I was a bit sexually indisriminate, but come on, I’ve read “War and Peace,” I used to do calculus for fun, I have friggin’ thoughts about heteronormativity! I’m not exactly a “The Price is Right” model over here.

Shortly after reading the blog entry, I grabbed his (no doubt gangrenous) arm, dragged him outside, and shouted healthy, productive things (“I hope you get chlamydia of the face AND DIE!”), finally ending the semi-relationship. Although it didn’t end there; not really. Because the bastard had linked to my blog, which had my email address attached, I received an influx of literally hundreds of blog comments and hate-mails, all positively reaming me for apparently forcing my grotesque make-outs on the poor sainted little computer nerd. People dug through my blog archives, google-stalked me, found out information about me through channels I can’t even imagine, and sent me the absolutely filthiest hate-mail you could imagine. For months. In fact, up until the point my university email address was deleted, four years later, I still received the occasional hate-mail; my personal blog gets about 30 hits a month from that old entry, despite the fact that he removed my name and blog address after the chlamydia rant.

So. Basically I win at dating forever.

Oh, and a coda to the story: I found out, while googling him to write this, that he’s apparently gay now. Which makes me feel slightly better about the whole “hated hooking up with me so much – despite the fact that he continued to do it – that he had to live-blog the friggin’ experience” thing. Not much better, but a little.

If you want to check out more TMIT's, head over to Lilu's blog!

This seriously happened.

So, yesterday when I called my mom, she asked that I take a picture of Jamesdean to send to her. As I was watching tv tonight, my cat sat down next to me, on the couch. But not like a normal cat sits. Like a human. Like on his little butt with his feet in front of him and his head resting against the back of the couch.

I decided this was probably the best time to take a photo for my mom, so using my feet (so I didn't move the cat and make him change positions) I grabbed my camera off the table. I said "Hey JD, wanna take a picture for my mommy?" (Yes I talk to my cat. He responds. Don't judge.) I've got the camera in front of us and as I am pressing the button, JD moved his arm in just the right way...

My cat totally waved at the camera. I can't wait to see the response I get from my mom. I look so gross in this picture. Please pretend I look attractive, because there's no way in Hell I will ever capture a photo of my cat waving again.