Chase (v): To follow rapidly in order to catch (this could pertain to my career), to go and follow in pursuit (I think I’ll assign this to love)

I wish I had a PhD in life, unfortunately I don’t. It’s a hard thing to do and being an independent woman in Boston doesn’t make it any easier; I’m a triple A, work till I drop, laugh a lot because I can, walk fast, talk fast kinda girl. I do it all and I do it in 5 inch heels.

You would think navigating a career and a new relationship while breaking the age barrier of 30 would be as easy as getting home in a timely manner during a sox-yankees series (this ladies and gents is sarcasm at its finest). However it is not and I am stumbling through this cray cray life one day at a time with a iPhone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

These are my daily musings; my everyday observations. I am here to rave, rant , tell my stories and perhaps laugh at those times when wine and over priced shoes, tears just aren’t enough.

So what happens after you caught Prince Charming? You could say I’m still Chasing Boston.




Monday, December 13, 2010

Episode 12: “Pete and Repeat were in a boat….”

Courtney’s date fell off, who’s left? Repeat.

It was a scene right out of a bad 80’s movie (sans teased hair and lace gloves); there I was in my poof skirt birthday dress and 5 inch zebra stilettos perfectly fitted to my pedicured toes standing in the middle of my living room. The most amazing people I know were all around me and all I could think about was that Mr. New Guy was not one of them. Hours went by and I kept an ear to the door; open then close, open then close. I would strain to hear the voices coming in, none of them matching his. Finally with the help of a bottle of 1981 Moet, being stood up on my birthday didn’t seem so bad.

Then came the tequila shots promptly followed by chocolate cake which was chased by more champagne and by the end of the night I had forgotten where I was, why I couldn’t stop the tears, and where I left my shoes……seriously, I lost my shoes.

I had crossed the threshold of what would surface as the three month curse. It was like I had sold my Babe Ruth to the Yankees and was being infinitely punshishd for it….only I couldn’t figure out what exactly I had sold to whom.

365 days later, there I was in my nude one shoulder birthday dress and 5 in red suede stilettos perfectly fitted to my pedicured toes sitting in the middle of my living room. The most amazing people I know were all around me and all I could think about was that Dr. New Guy was not one of them. Hours went by and I kept an ear to the door. The Vulcan death grip I had on my phone rivaled that of the Chinese death grip I had on my champagne glass and I was in a constant battle as to which one I should put to my face more. I would strain to hear footsteps on the stairs and none of them stopping outside of my apartment. Finally with the help of a bottle of Veuve, a glass of Malbec and a can of Four Loko, being stood up on my birthday (again) didn’t seem so bad.

It was to the day 3 months. Here I was a year older and none the wiser. Did I not learn anything over the past year? I was standing in the doorway of the House That Smith Built; shoeless, date-less and holding a pink rabbit.

Between Mr. New Guy, Dr. New Guy, McSport, and Houdini I was rounding out my year still single, still fabulous and still holding stock in energizer batteries.