Wednesday, April 30, 2008
"I think I've been a pretty good friend," he said.
I think your opinion of yourself doesn't really matter when you're judging what a good friend you have or haven't been. Seems to me in this situation, that what matters is the opinion of those you think you've been a friend to. And if your friends are telling you that you haven't been a good friend, that trumps your opinion of yourself.
- He told me he had lived in Austin, Texas.
- I told him that my dad was born there.
- I told him my grandparents lived in Kerrville, Texas for decades.
- He told me that his father and his father's father and his father's father's father lived in Kerrville.
- He told me there's a street there named after his family.
- I told him my father's father's father's father lived in Austin, and there was a street there named after my family.
- He told me his family were mainly Texas Rangers back in the 1800's.
- I told him my family consisted mainly of gunslingers hunted by Texas Rangers.
- He told me that wore a pistol in the waistband of his scrubs as he searched for survivors of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans.
- I told him I have a pair of furry leopard spotted handcuffs.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
I suppose, speaking from a purely practical point of view, it was actually not a bad investment.
I think I spent somewhere in the range of $39.99 for the privilege of communicating with romance minded men within a 300 mile range.
I received, in return for my investment, 3 decent dates.
They consisted of:
- A muffaletta sandwich, half a bag of chips and a diet Dr. Pepper from Granzella's.
- A steak dinner and two glasses of Cabernet, followed by a movie and a giant diet coke.
- Another steak dinner with a bottle of Louis Martini Cabernet, and one follow up glass of wine.
It cost me:
- $40 in gas to meet one date
- $5 in long distance charges
- $3 in materials for a couple of cds I made for one musically interested date
- 3 hours of driving time
- Just a shred of my dignity
So all in all, I think it all pans out pretty evenly. I had some nice meals, good wine, interesting conversation, and my dog loved the steak scraps.
For the record, my favorite date was the muffaletta sandwich.
I'm not saying I'm done with dating forever. But a month of that was enough for me.
But you'll be happy to hear that before I signed off forever, I made one last sweep for land mines, and may have found one that's armed - literally.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Shortly after my ex moved out, I was out with a girlfriend, and saw a friend across the bar, a firefighter who'd played on my softball team the year prior. I went to speak to him, and noticed a beautiful man standing next to him. Tall, shaved head, big eyes. Big, brown, beautiful Sicilian eyes. I felt him looking down at me. I looked up into those gorgeous pools, hopeful that he might actually be attracted to a 41 year old with a few extra pounds and a ten year old at home. Apparently he was.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Here's some interesting stats on the men who have checked out my internet dating profile so far:
Almost all of them have beards, motorcycles, and have included photos portraying themselves with dead fish on a hook (or bloody, in their hands). Like that's a turn on for women.
And you wonder why some men complain their wives just lay there like a cold fish. Isn't that a turn on for men?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Not that I wish him any ill will or anything. Just an ill wind.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
"You used to have hair like that, down to your ass."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't wear it in a bun. That is so gay."
Monday, April 21, 2008
I thought I was intense. On fire. A meteor. But in his company, I'm a pussycat.
But if he pissed me off and I flipped him off, he'd just laugh and maybe kiss me instead of holding a grudge for a year.
He is Henry Rollins. He is Dali. He is Triple Scorpio. He is Mozart, Sid Vicious and G Love all rolled into one.
My future potential has a lot of potential.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
I am so ashamed to admit this. If you claim I said this, in public, I will deny it.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Musings on a potential future lover.
No one in particular.
Just where my mind went while I was in the Safeway produce aisle a few days ago.
I translated it into French, using Babelfish.
Then I translated it back into English.
Quand je suis au magasin d'épicerie et les fraises ont lieu dans la saison, je pense à sélectionner les baies les plus rouges et les plus mûres et les alimenter à mon amoureux dans le lit.
Quand c'est un beau jour, je pense à la façon dont gentil il devrait s'étendre dans un pré, faisant une sieste avec mon amoureux, et lisant des livres ensemble.
Une nuit claire, je pense au sujet de ce que serait il comme au stargaze de mon baquet chaud, et contemple l'univers, les bras de mon amoureux enroulés autour de moi.
La nuit quand je vais dormir, j'allume mon côté gauche, et imagine mon amoureux derrière moi, m'embrassant, mettant en forme de tasse mon sein dans une main, le reste de nos doigts et des jambes entertwined, peu embrasse décorer mon cou.
When I am with the store of grocer and the cutters take place in the season, I think of selecting the reddest bays and ripest and of feeding them with my in love in the bed.
When it is one fine day, I think of the way in which nice it should extend in pre, making a nap with my in love, and reading books together.
One night clear, I think about what it as with the stargaze of my hot bucket would be, and contemplates the universe, the arms of my in love rolled up around me.
The night when I will sleep, I light my left side, and imagines my in love behind me, embracing, formatting of cup my centre in a hand to me, the remainder of our fingers and legs entertwined, little embraces to decorate my neck.
When I am outside with friends, I imagine that my in love is with us, an arm draped above my shoulder, according to the conversation and the laughter, and leaving me sip on his beer. I imagine my in love to seize my jacket of the back of the chair and to whisper in my ear, "love of I your friends, but leave suits us between in the bed."
I think of suction on his lower lip. To slightly run my fingers in bottom of its chest under its button of belly, but above its buckled hair and to intend its breath to catch. I imagine to draw his hair right, and to leave fingerprints on my in love behind.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Have you checked out the Worst Pickup Lines at the bottom of the page?
The above nugget, a little gem, popped up this morning.
I'd like to happily report that since I have made a steadfast rule to not give my phone number out come hell or high water, I have been virtually flooded with male companionship requests.
There's the barbecuing grandfather 25 miles away who would like to take me to dinner tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Or perhaps the one after that. And he'd like me to call him. Anytime. Day or night.
Then we've got the math teacher who promises not to get pissed off if I beat him at Boggle. Which you know I will. But if he gives me a 6th grade pre-algebra problem, I'm screwed. Not literally.
There's also the guy that looks like my Dad. I just can't even make jokes about that. But I asked him if it was alright with him if I set him up with one of my friends (if I can think of anyone who'd like to date my dad besides my mom).
This morning, I heard from a wildlife biologist who called me an "attractive red head." I have no idea where he got that impression. Maybe he's corresponding with so many women that he's getting us mixed up. I hope that doesn't happen to me.
And there's my twin brother, separated at birth, who said, "People who don't like classical music usually haven't spent any time listening to it. Fuck 'em. Bach fucking rocks." Right on, brother! He also said, "Thank God for punk rock, " and apparently spent as much time in the principal's office as I did growing up. I want to marry this man. Ok, I take that back. Immediately. I take it back. You never heard that out of my mouth. But I can't wait to meet him halfway in between here and there.
And of course there's my detective, who popped into my office yesterday. The only one of these men I've actually met and shared a meal with (other than a late night snack at the keyboard). He asked what I was up to next weekend. I said, "Nuthin. But I'm not giving you my number. You know. The jinx."
He said, "I know where to find you."
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Regarding the little experiment I conducted last week?
The results seem to still be holding.
The guy from the next county over, who told me he had a sudden 'family emergency' and had to break our date, but would contact me to reschedule?
Not that I thought he would.
If he does actually call me, that would mean that the men I give my phone number aren't dropping off the face of the earth altogether (destroying my theory), and it would mean something else is going on instead.
Like, perhaps men are simply in it just for the hunt....tracking down the elusive phone number, and as soon as they've found it, they jot it down in their little black book and head back out on the hunt for the next number. You don't think that's what's going on here, do you? That men really are all about the pursuit and never about the catch?
Well that's no fun.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
"I know this is going to be a little bit strange, but I think you might be interested in meeting a friend of mine. I saved your profile a couple of weeks ago ... blah blah blah...you know this part... But in the meantime, I've just been thinking about this good friend of mine who lives near you in the Bay Area, who is semi-recently single that I just have a hunch about. I've looked at your profile a couple of times, and I just keep thinking, "He's so cool, I bet he'd really like my friend from college." She's a jet pilot, travels around the world, has her MBA, and she's gorgeous. Athletic, outdoorsy, tall, slender and a blonde, blue eyed goddess."
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Put your bets on me to finish last
Or just scratch altogether.
Maybe this is just a bad case of Murphy’s Law.
Or maybe there IS a God, and she DOES NOT like me.
But for some reason, I fall flat on my face right out of the gate, every time.
With every man I’ve communicated with online, as soon as we’ve gotten to know each other well enough that we’ve both agreed to meet, and I give them my phone number, they disappear off the face of the earth. Remember the Wild Canadian Boar? It happened with him. And the Deep Swimmer? Him too.
"Don't take this the wrong way. "
Saturday, April 12, 2008
“Let’s go swimming.”
That’s what he said to me.
I have had a Lemony Snickett month. A series of unfortunate events. But you know what? I didn't give up on men. In fact, I continued forging on, unwilling to give up. I know, I've been ruthlessly hard on them in Blog World. But those guys - they deserve it. I know there are good men out there.
Eventually, all my friends keep telling me, something's gonna give.
And not all that long into it, I came across someone special. Someone who got me. I was overjoyed to finally meet someone, although he’s far outside of my zip code, who thinks like I do. He had no use for the shallow end of the pool. He loved that I told him that I am a mermaid who enjoys the deep end of the pool, where the water is warm and your feet can’t touch bottom. We talked for a week, several times a day. In long, soul exposing letters. He said to me, “You’re so outwardly focused, always doing things for others. Tell me. Do you know what lurks deep inside?” And we shared. We both typed to each other with tears clouding our eyes, talking about years of inward self-exploration which led to life changes and journeys into dark places only to come out eventually into the light.
He was unafraid. He welcomed the brightness of my glow. The intensity of my being. After so many recent disappointments, my spirits were lifted, even though I had to go looking 2 1/2 hours away to find someone my own age who thinks on the same level, and wants to explore a relationship the same way. He just wanted to make sure that if he was going to take a chance on me, that I wasn't someone who had a brick wall built up around my heart. That I was willing to open up, ready to give and receive. That the hurt of my past didn't cause me to exist on only a superficial level in the future to protect my tender spots. He wanted to know that I was willing to go on a journey of self-exploration with him. If I would hold his hand when we jumped into the deep end of the pool together.
He wanted to meet me.
He had a long way to drive.
But he was up for it.
I knew that if he liked my letters, he would love meeting me in person. Because I have so many journeys to tell him about that we hadn’t covered. I knew we’d spend hours and hours talking when we finally met, being forced out of the restaurant when they turn off the lights. And that we’d continue our conversation, walking along the river.
In an email he said, “Next Friday. I’ll come to you.”
I said, “Yes. Let’s meet. It’s going to be wonderful. Here’s how to find me.”
The next morning I was on the phone with a friend. I told her I had a date.
“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “You know how you are.”
I said, “No, I’m not. This is a good guy, very sincere. We’re connecting at a very deep level. But I just gave him my phone number and full name. Isn’t this, judging from the past, when he’s supposed to fall off the edge of the earth and disappear?”
As we were laughing, I clicked on my email.
I had 1 message.
It was from him.
You already know what it said, don’t you?
“Thank you for the reply and insight. I have a confession to make. I had dinner with a group of co-workers last night. I have worked with most of them for 10 years off and on. One of my friends introduced me to someone I have known for a while but timing was never there.
I was given the opportunity to talk with her about her travels, life journey, and her passions. We talked until 2 a.m., until we were kicked out of the wine bar. I told her about you, and our great communication. What is strange is we had shared the same information that you and I had. Only because we have worked together was this "connection" created. I wasn't expecting anything. I did want anything. I can not help but get that meeting and sharing out of my head. I have come to the decision to explore this connection and ideals of life. The main choice was not only timing but our distance. I do not mean to offend but would rather be upfront with you. I will put myself on hold for now with this site, and see what life brings. Thank your for your time, communication, and openness. A part of me is tormented.”
You think you're tormented? Oh, honey. You don't know torment. You've just met someone. You're ecstatic. You're filled with hope and excitement and giddiness. Butterflies in your stomach, tears waiting to spring forward from your eyes. You spoke to her about me and our amazing conversations, and how much you were looking forward to finally meeting me. Your heart was swelled. Your insides were swirling. She saw that light in you, and wanted it for herself. I don't blame her. I'd like to take some of the credit for priming you to be ready to experience the true joy of opening up your soul to another and having it polished, filled up and handed back to you. Plumper, redder. More delicious. You are not tormented. That would be me.
Friday, April 11, 2008
David Romanelli has pinpointed how I've felt all week in Livin' In The Moment.
Think about the difference between a good movie and a great movie. A good movie engages your mind enough to keep you in the cinema for two hours. But a great movie makes you feel intense love, despair, anxiety, fear and hope. In much the same way, a human being that makes you think is an interesting human being. But a human being that makes you feel enough emotion to stand up and act - or keel over in laughter, or wipe the tears from your eyes - that is a truly powerful human being.
It'll all make sense tomorrow. Maybe.
I was on a blind date a while back....
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
An open letter to the fella who left a dozen red roses and a stuffed bunny on my doorstep on Valentine's Day
I just don't know how I can thank you.
I have absolutely no idea how I am going to thank you, because I have no idea who you are.
Don't worry, I got the note you left. It was really sweet and humorous, especially the part about the flowers being for me and the bunny being for my daughter, unless I had a thing for stuffed animals. I thought it was interesting that you put photographic paper in your printer to put the note on, but made sure to sign your name in ink at the bottom, a personalized touch.
The thing is, and I'm embarassed to say this, but I can't make heads or tails of your signature.
And that has put me in a pretty delicate situation that has proven to be pretty awkward.
I've been asking around, and nobody will admit to giving me the flowers.
There was the guy who was my good friend and was a little more than a friend for about 2 weeks back in January. He seemed like the most likely candidate to feel obligated to do something for me on Valentine's Day, but at the same time, I really didn't think he'd want me to confuse our relationship for a romance. But I asked him anyway if the flowers were from him, and he says they weren't. And now he's avoiding me like the plague.
So I asked all the rest of the men in my life. I asked the guy I'm having dinner with tomorrow night, my buddy that I had lunch with last weekend, my sweet gay neighbor across the street, and a couple of my married guy friends, which was a real stretch, since I knew they hadn't even gotten flowers for their own wives. But hey. You never know. They all denied it.
I didn't stop there. After I ran out of potential men, I moved on to women. They all thought it was really sweet that I received roses and tried to help me decipher your signature, but no one has confessed to being responsible for your act of kindness. Or romance, I'm not sure which. At one point, I was convinced that someone was playing a cruel joke on me, giving me roses to mislead me into thinking someone had romantic feelings for me, and intentionally signing an illegible name. But my friends tell me I'm being ridiculous, that nobody, friend or foe, would go to the expense of buying a dozen red roses and a stuffed animal for a joke. I checked into it, and when I realized the outrageous price tag on red roses on Valentines Day, I agree. It wasn't a joke.
So I apologize if I hurt your feelings or seemed rude for never thanking you for the lovely gift. I imagine that you think I'm a heartless destroyer of men's hearts because you did such a sweet thing, and I never even acknowledged it. Since two months have gone by and you have still not made yourself known to me, I thought a public display of gratitude was in order.
Thank you, whoever you are.
The flowers are dead and gone now, but I've saved the note, and keep buying fresh flowers to remind me of your sweet gesture. Maybe someday you'll find the nerve to ask me why I never thanked you.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
I went to a party the other night to celebrate the collective birthdays of a couple of Rams in a joint fete. I didn't know more than a handful of people there, and that was a good thing. I'm trying to get out of my social circle (which is harder than it sounds) to meet new people.
I put on my party hat, which in this case was a metal Viking helmet with large horns protruding out the side. Seemed appropriate, for the Ramma Jamma celebration.
I met some fabulously interesting guys. The new photographer for the paper, with a thick drawl and a passion for grocery store candy machine figurines. He's kind of touchy feely. I like that. The fantastically adorable forest service employee who offered me a personal tour of the smoke jumping school (I smell heat!). And then there's the bleached blonde, totally cool homeboy who, like me, stays up way too late manically creating stuff. He and I talked for hours. I like talking.
The smoke jumper ate a burger while we were talking, and I thought I spied a bit of barbecue sauce on the side of his nose. But I wasn't sure, know what I mean? What if it was a booger. Or worse, part of his face. You don't want to try to wipe off someone's birthmark. So I tried not to look at it, and felt kinda bad because if it were me, I'd want someone to tell me, "Hey, you got some crap on your face." But no, I didn't want to embarass him, so I just tried to be attentive and look directly into his eyes and not at his nose.
Don't look at his nose.
Don't. Look. At his nose.
Finally, thankfully, he got involved in a conversation with someone else.
That's when I started talking to the blonde boy. And it seemed like we talked for hours. He was just fascinating to me.
Eventually, I had to go to the bathroom. I was so proud of myself for getting out of my normal group of friends and meeting new and interesting people, that I sassily said to my reflection in the mirror, "You go, girl!" and gave myself a big ol' smile.
I didn't eat any of the hamburger, so I'm pretty sure it was bits of brownie in my teeth.
Yeah, you go girl.
By the way, the guy in this photo, courtesy of Getty Images, isn't nearly as cute as the boy who had barbecue sauce on his face. But it had to do.
What's a Dater Hater to do on a Friday night? I was at a local watering hole with some galfriends, and bumped into an acquaintance of the XY persuasion that I'd seen on Yahoo! Personals.
I asked him why men are so rude and disrespectful that they don't bother responding to friendly inquiries from women on internet dating sites.
He told me maybe I should work on my profile.
I have a great profile. Well, I thought I had a great profile. I mention that I'm outgoing, funny, a little bit wild, but also the most dependable person you've probably ever met. I mention that I'm into music and movies, scrabble night and frisbee in the park, pint night at the pub and bicycling along the river. I also mention that I have a masters degree in kissing.
For those of you who know me, do I have myself pegged accurately? I can take it if you disagree. Afterall, my goal this April is to learn how to be flatly rejected over and over again.
He said, "Did you screw up your photo then? You're totally cute, great hair, nice smile, nice eyes. Did you post an unflattering picture?"
"No, I'm totally cute in my photo!"
"But does it show off how fantastic your tits are?"
"You know what would get you some attention?"
I'm all ears.
Remember, I don't make any of this up.
"You should say you love giving blowjobs."
Thanks to Getty Images for the photo that just doesn't do this blog entry much justice. But I'll take what I can get.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
When I first entered the world of internet dating, it was totally incognito. I had a profile, but nobody could see it. Of course, that meant no one could find me. Only the men I contacted personally would have access to my vitals. At the time, I was confident that I was only going to have to reach out to one or two men, put myself in front of them, give them a big, sparkly smile, and they'd be smitten, interested, want to meet me immediately, and I'd have no further need for internet dating.
It just didn't happen that way.
First I reached out to my Canadian Wild Boar. You know how that turned out. I also reached out to another guy who hadn't been online in the past couple of months (I smell a June wedding).
After the Homecoming King decided he preferred his ex-wife to me, my immediate reaction, within 5 minutes of him leaving the room, was to go online and turn my profile on to be viewed by anyone.
I Am Open For Business!
I was pissed off. Not at the Homecoming King, mind you. We're actually still friends. I hope good things happen for him. I just wish even better things would happen for me, and they're not.
But he was definitely the straw that broke the camel's back. I was ready for the shallow end of the pool. No more getting emotionally involved. No more getting excited or giddy, no more butterflies in my stomach, no more being nice. I decided that I was going to put myself out there like a tomato in the vegetable bin and let all the men pick me over, check me out, see if I was worth having for dinner. And then I'd go out with whoever asked me, but they'd be getting the new me. The shallow, uninterested, skeptical woman who starts off pessimistic and makes them change my mind. You want a piece of me?
WORK FOR IT.
If there was one mistake I've made when it comes to menfolk in my life, it's definitely that I haven't made them work for it. I give in way too easily, because at heart, I'm a passionate, sensual, romantic who loves intimacy and being in love.
Now that I'd opened up my profile, all my girlfriends said, "Just relax. Let them come to you." Meaning sit on my hands, be patient, and they'll start winking and emailing in droves. Because I'm a total catch. Well, that's what all my girlfriends say.
One thing you should know about Yahoo! Personals. You can set your account up so that you can sleuth around, check out profiles without the other party knowing. Or, you can boldly march in and leave footprints. So far, in the past 3 weeks, 23 men have left footprints on my doorstep. I'm guessing that hundreds are hiding in the bushes. How many have had the guts to ring my doorbell?
No, he's not the guy for me. He had a neck chain, a photo of him, hair slicked back, in his Camaro. Sunglasses and moustache. And he's a good Christian. That's actually the only thing I have a problem with. Poor guy, he doesn't know that my ex became so religious that I am still finding droppings of faith all over the house that I keep having to clean up, and he's been gone 8 months. I can't do Christians. I've got a religious gag reflex thing now that I just can't help.
But at least I emailed him, and was straight up with him. Told him that I probably wasn't date material for him because of my current religious attitude.
But at least I was polite enough to respond.
Because I think it's rude when someone makes the effort of putting themselves out there, and not receiving even an acknowledgement that you exist. And yet, this is the general modus operandi of all the men out there involved in the internet personals.
Back to this patience thing. I have none.
So after a few days, I started contacting men from 35-45 who peaked my interest. I left short, cute, messages telling them we had some things in common, or I liked their profiles, and to check me out and get in touch.
I wrote to 10 men. Wanna take a guess as to how many of them wrote back?
Shall we break it down into how many wrote back who wanted to immediately meet me for drinks, those who had a one sentence reply encouraging me to tell them more, and those who responded with a polite rejection?
I'll let you know as soon as one of them does any of the above.
I'm already far too insecure to deal with the rejection of men I already know and have kissed. Now I'm opening myself to flat rejection from numerous, random men I've never even met. Could this get any more pathetic?
Saturday, April 5, 2008
My Attempt At Catching The Elusive Wild Canadian Boar
One night, in a fit of frustration while I was on a month long holding pattern to see if some guy I kissed was ever going to call me back, I perused through the Match.Com profiles in my zip code. I was looking for a guy with a college degree who doesn't smoke (much), is somewhere between middle of the road and liberal in his political leanings, and doesn't own a bible.
We had a lot of similarities.
Both separated. With kids. Gainfully Employed. Love to laugh. Love live entertainment and movies. He's Canadian. I lived in Alaska once. Close enough.
And here's the thing: he said he liked women who weren't afraid to show their wild side. Well, that's me.
Nuthin'. No response.
I thought about it, and came to the conclusion that since the computers that sort out who's right for whom had twice come up with "Loves to Laugh," as the guy for me, that I'd better just go for it. What did I have to lose?
I gave Yahoo Personals my credit card number so I could have the luxury of communicating with him, and then emailed him. Told him the Cyber Gods thought we'd have chemistry. We didn't want to make them angry, did we?
We emailed back & forth a few times on Thursday. I offered up a couple of possibilities to meet in person. Afternoon at the dog park. Pint night at the pub. Starbucks on the corner. He said he'd meet me now if it wasn't so late. Friday was out, he had a hunting education class with the kids. How about Saturday? I couldn't Saturday, but I said I had the entire next week open and available, and (gulp) decided to give him my phone number.
And then he disappeared. Never heard from him again.
Is that some kind of Canadian mating ritual? Is he testing out my hunting skills? Wants to see just how wild my wild side is? Sorry. My wild side does not include putting on camo, smudging my face and setting up a duck blind out in Central Valley to hunt you down. I'd send my dog out for you, but it's hard to pick up a scent over the internet.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Apparently, the key to getting a man to beg you to call him is to treat him with complete disdain, goad him into an argument and behave like a total disrespectful bitch. Why didn't anyone explain this to me before?
Wednesday night I'm with my girlfriend, and we go to this quiet little wine bar so I can complain about my rotten luck with men. We walk in the door, and there at the end of the bar, is this little guy. I think even he would describe himself as Leprechaunish. He didn't speak with a Gaelic lilt. But he was bearded, wearing a white business shirt (I could even see an undershirt poking out from his unbuttoned collar). And he was rather smallish. OK, I'm being nice. I have to stop doing that. He was a tiny little man with astoundingly small hands. If he'd asked me to sit on his lap, I would've crushed him. And he was really drunk.
"Hey Ladies! Come sit over here!" he shouted when we walked in the door, and patted the seat next to him. My friend made a beeline for stools at the other end of the bar. I grabbed her elbow and steered her over his way.
"What are you doing?!" she stage whispered.
"Come on, it'll be fun," I say.
You know what I was thinking, dontcha.
I'm a man hating she-bitch on wheels right now, this will be good practice. I don't feel like being nice to men, and this is the perfect man to not be nice to. Plus, it'll be great fodder for tomorrow's blog.
I knew he wouldn't let me down. And he didn't.
He was a slurry, obnoxious, loud little man with a big drinking problem, so I immediately starting pushing his buttons, goading him into an argument. I was gonna learn me some skillz.
I told him I thought I recognized him from somewhere. Sex offender registry? County jail inmate website? (I figured it out later. I'd seen him at a concert the year before, and he was removed from the premises for being drunk and obnoxious.)
He wanted to know my name in the worst way. I wouldn't tell him. He said, "I don't give a shit anyway."
I begged to differ.
"As soon as I tell you my name, true, you won't give a shit. But it's going to drive you nuts as long as I don't tell you my name, because you want to know what it is so badly. So yes, you do give a shit, and there you have it."
"Is it Kathy? Beth?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
He clenched his little fists and banged on the countertop.
He says, "I'll tell you my name!" He pulled out a business card and tossed it to me.
"Ahh, you're an attorney. Some attorney. You can't argue for shit. If I was an attorney, I'd kick your ass all over the courtroom."
That's when he got up from the barstool (that's also when I realized he was about 5 foot 4), and did this crazy little dance, waving his arms and swinging his hips around. It was downright freaky. Kind of like a belly dancing gorilla.
Where's my damn Taser?
And then he started speaking in Japanese. Fluently. Well, if you asked a Japanese person, they'd probably tell you he was slurring fluently in Japanese.
But I am not making this shit up.
My friend says, "I think I'm turning Japanese."
I say, "I'll bet he's big, in Japan. Here, not so big."
I was feeling just a little bit guilty that I was being so incredibly rude to this guy, but only because I'm usually so damned nice. Too damned nice. And those days are over.
And then he left. His parting words: "Well, you've got my card, call me. We'll have a drink, grab a coffee, whatever. We'll have fun. Call me. It was nice meeting you. Call me."
Note: Thanks to Getty Images for finding me the perfect photo of an attorney doing a gorilla belly dance. Never thought I'd find an image of that. Admittedly, first I looked for a drunk Japanese man dressed as a Leprechaun. No luck there.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
I received this handy advice from "Unsettled" yesterday. I just wish I'd had one last night when I met the Japanese leprechaun.
More on him later. Much more.
"I believe what you may be missing is the all important Taser. This remarkable tool has proven very beneficial as a way of discouraging rude and thoughtless behavior. Just when your date opens his mouth and emits a very unsatisfying nasty, just ZAP! him! You'll feel much better. It's also useful as a deterrent for you. ALWAYS start a date by identifying which end of the narcissism pool your date is from. If it's a place in high school you never wanted to be, then ZAP! yourself. NO need to entertain the high school quarterback, then or now. You might even start all conversations with new dates by identifying their status in high school. I personally recommend former geeks. Course, once a geek always a geek, but by this time they all make really good money and enjoy someone to have fun with. Give the former shallow end a chance: look for the pointy rim glasses and pants pulled up too far. You might be pleasantly surprised..."
I actually got a little excited, thinking maybe what I needed to do was to go find myself a geek to help me design my own Date Taser - a slim line model in zebra stripes or leopard spots, or pink with rhinestones that would fit snug inside my bra where my cell phone normally resides. And then I found that someone else had already done it for me.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Don't Date The High School Quarterback Part II
I sat around waiting for him to call me for about 5 weeks. I know, that's a ridiculously long time to wait. But nobody else was beating down my door to ask me to dinner, so really, I wasn't waiting. I was just living my life. And hoping he'd eventually call. I saw him once, at a party (he was the guest of honor) at a local tavern. Briefly. I just said a quick hello & then stayed away. Because I didn't want to be pushy or overbearing, didn't want him to think I had stalker potential or that I was pathetically desperate. Plus, all my friends were saying, "Guys love a good chase. Let him chase you!"
Then a few weeks later, I bumped into him again, same tavern.
I said, "Long time no see."
He hugged me, said things had been pretty crazy, but were finally leveling out. I said, "Yeah, I actually thought maybe you were upset with me about something because you never called me."
He said, "Yeah, well, you're smart, and you're pretty (I won't argue this point, but how does he know?) but you're aggressive, and I just can't do aggressive." And then perhaps to illustrate his point, he told me how he'd dumped another gal after they'd gone to dinner a few times because she'd asked him where the relationship was headed. He told me that she'd chosen the worst possible time to ask him this, so he ended it. Crushed her little head.
It was at the party. I'd seen a sweet faced blonde who stood in the hallway near the bathrooms, facing the crowd, wiping away tears and being consoled by a friend. I thought to myself, Now that looks like a girl who just got dumped. Poor thing. But why is she standing there, out in the open, crying? Obviously the guy who just dumped her is in this room, because she was all smiles 10 minutes ago, and nobody's left the party. So why doesn't she go into the bathroom to cry? If some guy had just dumped me, I certainly wouldn't stand out in the open and cry like that where he could see me.
I get it. He can't see you.
So I told him, "Yeah, I was there when you dumped her. You made her cry."
He let out an astonished, "HA! I knew it! I knew it! You were paying attention! You were watching me!" And he said it as if I'd been busted spying on him.
Conceited, self-centered prick.
"No. I wasn't watching you. I was watching her. Jerk."
I walked away from him while he was still talking to me.
He's blind, alrighty. In more than one way one.
Rule #1: Don't Date The High School Quarterback
I really never dated when I was younger, and it's coming back to bite me in the ass big time. I think by having a constant stream of steady boyfriends from high school on, I never learned how to be single. And by single I mean thick skinned. There's a layer or two of epidermis that I'm missing, which can leave a gal like myself pretty vulnerable if she finds herself dating a self-absorbed high school quarterback who grew up in a world where he was so important and popular that there were no consequences for astonishingly rude behavior.
It doesn't matter that he went blind in his 20's. Or that he's gone through the horrid experience of organ failures and transplants (more than once). Or that he's broken just about every bone in his body skiing and mountain biking. Did I mention he's blind? When you're blind and choose to do these crazy reckless things, you tend to crash & fall down a lot. These pitfalls of life didn't stop this guy, so don't feel sorry for him. He wouldn't want you to. Besides, he's got endorsements. Major endorsements. He's everybody's poster boy. Instead, feel sorry for me, ok?
Because I dated the guy, without realizing he'd been the captain of his high school football team. Had I known that, it would've never happened.
I had a blind date!
We met on the phone. He liked my voice. We flirted. There was chemistry. We met for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. I watched him as he walked in, feeling his way down the length of the establishment by touching the backs of chairs. We sat next to each other and listened in on conversations on the other side of the room, giggling and whispering.
He was cute. Great smile. Cocky. Sharp wit. I picked the red onions out of his salad because I thought maybe he might want to kiss me later. And he did. In fact he turned to me long before I had finished picking through my chicken caesar and said, "Wanna go back to my place and make out like high schoolers?"
I walked around his apartment, looking at his life, framed on the walls: Blind date and Bill Clinton. Blind date as a World Cup skiing champion. Blind date and his saintly mother. He told me that this was a rarity, allowing a woman into his inner sanctum. So for a moment there, I felt special. And then we kissed for a good hour and a half.
Somewhere during that time, I made a mistake. I didn't realize it was a mistake at the time, but now, I get it. I told him I liked him. Bad move. I told him this mainly because it was true. I liked him. And I told him I thought we seemed to be a good match. Another famously bad move. I meant it, though. I just shouldn't have said it. We were having such a good time playing off of each other, making each other seem smarter, funnier, sexier. Our lips fit together pretty well. I wasn't planning our wedding or thinking about where that framed photo of him and the former president was going to go on my living room wall (although I have the perfect place - where the photo of the Eiffel Tower was that disappeared right around the time my ex-husband moved out). I was just thinking, this guy is funny and smart and I like the way he kisses. Sure would like to do this again.
Gee, it's getting late.
Just before I left, he said, "So, what do you want?"
I replied, "I want you to call me."
He said he would. He most definitely would.
He most definitely never did.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008