Friday, April 4, 2008

It Boggles My Mind

Today I changed my internet dating profile to say that I'm the best darned Boggle player ever.  In response, Yahoo! Personals emailed me, suggesting that I consider checking out the profile of a guy they thought might be a good match.

He's a conservative logger who lives an hour away. He's a sports nut 10 years younger than me (okay, that's not necessarily a bad thing) who smokes a lot, and in his only photo he had his arms around a pair of sexy brunettes who looked to be Captain Morgan Rum spokesmodels. And he was a bad speller who can't figure out where to put an apostrophe. He's "not looking for a perminate relationship, but would'nt rule it out."
And then Yahoo! had the nerve to suggest to me that I relax my standards a little bit so they could match me up with a wider selection of guys. 
I might ask for my money back.

He's Big In Japan. Here, Not So Big.

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?"
"Which one?"
"Pick one."
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.
I'm on a very important educational mission of learning how to treat guys like shit.
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.