Damn Hooligans.

I realize it's been a very long while since my last post. And I have a perfectly good (few hundred) reasons for that. But basically, it's because...

I'm really starting to dislike criminals. The scum of the earth, bottom of the pond, law-breaking mongrels who have absolutely no respect....

...for a decent dating schedule.

Not that I ever liked criminals. But they really should be more flexible. Damn hooligans.

To start, I haven't been able to see the cop in over a week (and even before that, there was one week dating delay due to additional scheduling conflicts). Okay, okay, it's not like I'm boo-hooing, but I have to admit, seven(+) days of not seeing someone isn't exactly what you want for a budding relationship.

So what happened? Well, for the first thwarted date, a prisoner was at the hospital and the cop had to "sit" on him -- as in safely secure, watch, keep an eye out, and make sure everything was all right while he was in the hospital's care. Long story short, he didn't get off until about 2 a.m. and then had to turn around and work his 5:30 a.m. shift. The guy slept in his car for a few hours and rolled straight into a 16-hour shift.

Then another 16-hour shift the next day, followed by a hectic workweek (he also works most of the weekend while I don't), and...

Well, you get the picture.

Justice never sleeps. Or so they say. Let's do the math, shall we?

No dates = a whole lot of nothing = makes for bad blog material.

Now, please don't think I'm going on these dates for the sole purpose of writing about them. I'm just stating that, honestly, the reason I haven't posted in a while is because there hasn't been a lot to post!

These criminals really need to get their act together. Take a page from Aretha and have some R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

{Cop it to me, cop it to me, cop it to me.}


-- Miss Matched

Is that what I think it is?

He grabbed a black gift box from the kitchen counter and handed it to me. It was square -- about the size of a paperweight.

"I wanted to see you so I could give you your gift," he said, clearly ready for me to open it.

I had barely unleashed the dogs and hugged him hello. I couldn't believe he didn't have jetlag and wasn't exhausted. His plane had landed in the states only a few hours earlier, but he seemed wide awake.

It was a weeknight, so I had just spent the last hour fighting traffic to make it to his place. He looked exactly the same (after all, it had only been a week), but I was very happy to see him. And find out what was in the black box.

The top of the box said something about "crystal" gifts, so I carefully lifted the lid.
Inside was a solid glass clock that had "London" etched in it, along with various landmarks.

Funny thing is, you can't change the time. The back of the clock is encased within the glass, so there's no way of getting to it. And the cool thing is, it's set on London time. Why would you want to change it in the first place?

Thoughtful and yet not overly thoughtful. I liked it.

It looks good on my shelf at work.

"Really, you didn't have to do that," I told him, smiling. "I was only kidding when I said you should bring something back!"

"No, I wanted to." He opened the pizza box that was sitting on the counter. He fixed me a plate and we moved to the couch to eat, trying to keep the dogs' noses out of our pepperoni.

He flipped the channel to Justified, and I begged him to show me his London photos. But his camera was still charging and he had taken more than 200. He told me about his trip and how he liked Manchester so much better than London. (Not having been to either, I just nodded because I didn't have an opinion about one over the other).

And he said he really did try to make it to Ben's Cookies -- I recommended he try it based on @WhitforBrit's blog and celebrity endorsement. (Ha, well, celebrity in my mind, anyway. I'm addicted to her blog. But that's another post for another day.)

"I asked around about them and everyone kept telling me how amazing they were," he said, referring to Ben's Cookies. "But no one could tell me where to go or how to get there! So I never did find them."

So he didn't get to experience what is apparently the best cookie on the face of this planet, but he wasn't short on the sweets.

{Note: I'm not one to kiss and tell all -- only pieces here and there -- but if you'd like, feel free to stop reading now. Consider yourself warned.}


Did I mention he's a good kisser? So yes, naturally, we started making out and moved to his bedroom. Now, now, don't go making any assumptions. I said making out.

As we were kissing, my hand hit something under the pillow. The lights were off and I couldn't see anything in the dark. But it was cold. Hard. Metal.

"Wait... wait, what is... what is that?" I stopped kissing him and formed the words slowly, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

"What?" He asked, confused.

And then, 0.25 nanoseconds later...

"Oh shit!" 

He leapt over me to grab it, blocking me from getting any closer. He sounded surprised, but not worried. There was almost a chuckle in his voice, and even though it was dark, I could have sworn he was almost laughing. He picked it up and moved it to his dresser.

"It's my gun," he said casually. "Don't worry, it was locked down."

I assumed by "locked down" he meant the safety was on. After I had a moment to process what had just happened, I nervously laughed. (You know how you laugh when you're not sure what else to do?) I mentally reminded myself that no, my hand/arm/face hadn't been blown off and yes, everything was all right and under control. And after replaying the event in my head and laughing at the absurdity of it all, I did have to admit...

...it was kinda hot.

Cops and Tattoos

Imagine my surprise when he told me, "No, I'm allergic to the ink."

Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself when I assumed that surely, just surely, he would have a tattoo. At least one. Or perhaps I'd been watching too much TV which led me to believe that all cops have some sort of permanent ink, no matter how small.

I rolled over on my side on the couch we were both sharing and peeled my eyes from Pawn Stars just long enough to give him an inquisitive look.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really. My mom is allergic to whatever they put in the ink. So I figured I would be too."

I rolled back over with my back toward him and secretly smiled. Little did he know that I actually joke to my friends about being allergic to the ink as well. My fair skin never took well to things like wool... I wasn't going to chance a limb with permanent ink.

Besides, I've never really been that girl who's attracted to the guy covered from head to foot in tribal patterns, latin phrases and initials of his ex-girlfriend that have been replaced with a nice little collage of skulls, X's and daggers.

Nope, can't do it. It just doesn't get my blood boiling.

And here's my reason why:

I dread having that inevitable conversation with my mom. You know.
This one:

Mom: "He has tattoos."

Me: "Yes, Mom, I know."

Mom: "Those are permanent."

Me: "Yes, Mom, I know."

Mom: "Well, that laser technology gets better and better everyday, but I still don't understand how someone can do that to themselves."

Me: "Yes, Mom. I know."

Add this to the fact that my last boyfriend swore up and down the first tattoo he'd ever get would be in honor of his friend who died in a motorcycle crash, but as soon as we broke up, he got a skull and cross bones of a redheaded girl with "poison" written in the middle. Nice touch. Definitely not subtle, but nice way to memorialize me forever on his right calf.

So to say I was relieved that the cop didn't have any tattoos was putting it lightly. Something that permanent should have much thought go into it, I felt. Not that I'm against all tattoos -- I'm just against the ones that aren't well thought out.

A good friend of mine once told me that if you wanted a tattoo, wait a year. If you still want the same thing that same time next year, then go ahead. But if you changed your mind in the last year, you'll thank yourself you never went through with it.

"What about you?" he asked, as he flipped the channel back to How I Met Your Mother.


"Tattoos? Oh, no. No, none for me." I smiled, but he couldn't see it since my back was toward him.

He was earning points very quickly with me, and he didn't even know it.

-- Miss Matched