I'm being eaten alive

The Dutch translation for mosquitoes is 'little fucker'. That could not be more appropriate.

Oh god this story.

(I'm about to pop soon from the craziness (despite your entertainment) so that I can work on these ulcers and lay off of the anxiety medication.)

So it hasn't been the best couple of days. My trip to Boulder was purposely cut short, so instead of blogging from Einstein Bagels this morning with the PYT, I'm still in GJ typing away at my desk. I'll still go, just not for as long as I was hoping. (there was a rule breaker involved) I'm seeing my lawyer in Boulder (who for some reason is my anxiety problem), and going to the museum on Thursday for the last week of the BodyWorks exhibit, and the Training for the Tour de France movie at IMax.
That will be my reward for not snapping in the law office.

So my story. I had a date. It was bad. And just like salt in the wound for the rest of the night.
What happened Amanda?
Oh, let me tell you. So it really was 105 here the other day. And this guy that I met earlier in the week called to see if I wanted to go up to the Mesa and go hiking. Lets call him....Matt Foley. Knowing that it is usually 20-30 degrees cooler up there, I said yes. And I decided to drive. (the Jeep not the bus, I was afraid with the heat the bus might blow up)
We head up to the Mesa and it's your average 'uncomfortable don't really know this person' chit chat. I realize about half way up the mountain that I suck at this. I also realize half way up the mountain that I don't have any bug spray. If you don't know me, you should know that around 20 I developed allergies to bug bites. Spiders being the worse, and 7 mosquito bites=1 spider bite. Don't even get me started on bees. So my logic is: If I am hiking fast enough, it won't be a problem. My logic is shit. I got eaten alive the second we got close to the lake. Then I had to pee and the only facility near a campsite was infested with bees, so I opted to copasquat in the woods. A mosquito bit my butt. And like my pee, that's the point where everything started to roll down hill.
I think for a second, and instantly know that the benadryll is in the bus with the bugspray.
I've got to get out of here.
When I climb back up the hill (scratching my butt of course), I asked Foley to count the bites on my back.
9
+ 1 on my butt and 4 on my legs=
We need to get the hell out of here.

I don't think either of us were really comfortable on the drive down the mountain, me (just wanting to make it to the country store in Mesa to buy Benadryll before I can't breath) rubbing my back side to side on the back of the seat, scratching like a jonesing crack head on my legs butt and head. And him trying to tell me to stop scratching them. I shoot him 'The Look' I learned from Lance Armstrong.

Nothing more to say.

Except when I went to drop him off I asked where his house was......
(I had picked him up at the rec center)
'Yea, about that........I sold my house 2 months ago.'
(well, I knew he was moving in 2 weeks)
'Um ok, so where are you staying?'
'In my car....well, van actually'
(I'm pulling up in this parking lot and see the green minivan)
Thank god this is over. And you know me, I can't help but throw one last one out there..so I ask.....
'Ever park it down by the river?'

Deal breaker #2. (a lesson I learned early on) Don't date men who live in there cars.