Some people are such whiners.
And if you notice, everything sort of hits at once, right? When it rains, it pours crazy people, all around the same time of the month.
Brooke might kill me for that last sentence.
Seriously, though, let's just face facts here: we live in an apartment. Apartments, much like houses and other various places of residence, have pests. We get ladybugs, like clockwork, every spring.
LADYBUGS.
Not even cockroaches, or ring of fire ants or whatever the hell they're called, or cats. Just harmless, cute little ladybugs. And Brooke goes all Universal Soldier on me and demands I slaughter them all. They're cute! They're harmless! And they drive Brooke insane! As far as I'm concerned, they are .0001% proof of God's existence in this world. And I'm not about to wipe out an entire colony of ladybugs that are eating her leftovers, as long as they stay away from my cheese doodles.
And I have a breakfast date with Tommy, this weird Emo kid who had a crush on me in high school and tried to impress me by burning down the gym. While I was in it.
Clearly I'm going to need a good night's sleep to handle this date, and clearly Brooke's idea of the best time to get me to eradicate an entire coven of ladybugs is at 5 am. I didn't even know 5 am EXISTED.
So I'm tired, Brooke is losing her mind, Tommy's needy and um, weird on the date, and honestly, all I really remember about how it went involves coke, an answering machine, and a gun. It's really all kind of a blur, because after I got home I took a nice 18 hour nap.
Point being, I'm not a hippy or a voter or anything, but I really feel like this is my chance to show Brooke that life is sacred and important. I'd tell Tommy the same thing, except his family has since filed a missing person's report, so I don't know how to get a hold of him, and honestly, I really don't care that much. He probably just went on a two week long road trip without telling anyone. I do that all the time.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Prude, aka, that one guy who loved a bus a little TOO much
I know I haven't blogged about my dates in a while, you'll have to forgive that. I've been in mandatory grief counseling and only now is my therapist allowing me to do what she calls "process" (aka blog) what happened on the date with the guy who tried to fuck a bus.
Unsuccessfully, might I add.
Anyways, here we are, another one bites the dust. It started out innocently enough, and by that I mean I thought my date was totally innocent, maybe a little sheltered, a bit threatened by jello. You know, like raised Mormon, or something.
Also, his name was Wendell. Huge warning sign, right there.
So Wendell and I go out to lunch, I eat jello, he freaks out, and it's back to his place where he immediately starts bragging about his sexual history. I mean, talk about overcompensating. I know most of us have been there and done that, but Wendell was really going overboard about how he slept with this and that and demanding to know whether or not I had a problem with it. I guess he didn't like it when I sort of assumed at lunch that he was a prude. At any rate, Brooke would have died of shock after hearing what he's slept with.
Which brings me to another point here. Brooke usually lets me borrow her clothes, and by this I mean she hasn't yet replaced the lock on her door that I busted in, so I can still take her clothes, and I'm pretty sure she knows and is okay with it. And this morning, for the first time in like, decades, she said no to me. So I was already having an off day as I ate lunch with Wendell. In Brooke's dress. That she specifically told me not to get dirty. This will be important later.
Anyways, so it turns out Wendell's got this meat thing -- which I'm all for, being a Californian and all, we're kind of open to that kind of thing, but as long everything he slept with before me was clean, you know? Because I'm pretty sure that if you compared a bologna sandwich with Lindsay Lohan, the bologna would come out on top, am I right?
Mmmm, bologna sandwich....
Sorry, re-focused now. So off we go to the deli, where Wendell's all bound and determined to prove himself a man, and I'm all, Dude. Let it go. I don't care how many meats you've slept with. What matters is that right now, at this very moment, I'M the only meat you should be concerned with sleeping with. I mean, how many guys bring up their exes on the first date? I don't want to sleep with a guy and wonder how I am compared to all those deli cuts. That's just too much pressure for a girl.
And then there was the bus. Now, I don't know if Wendell had slept with buses before, I don't even want to know, but Wendell was hell-bent on fucking THAT particular bus. I guess when you have a type, you have a type, and you gotta do what you gotta do.
So Wendell ran over to do the bus, or rather, the bus ran over him, Brooke's dress got splattered, I'm in grief counseling (yawn) and Brooke's not talking to me. Again.
Like this was MY fault.
Unsuccessfully, might I add.
Anyways, here we are, another one bites the dust. It started out innocently enough, and by that I mean I thought my date was totally innocent, maybe a little sheltered, a bit threatened by jello. You know, like raised Mormon, or something.
Also, his name was Wendell. Huge warning sign, right there.
So Wendell and I go out to lunch, I eat jello, he freaks out, and it's back to his place where he immediately starts bragging about his sexual history. I mean, talk about overcompensating. I know most of us have been there and done that, but Wendell was really going overboard about how he slept with this and that and demanding to know whether or not I had a problem with it. I guess he didn't like it when I sort of assumed at lunch that he was a prude. At any rate, Brooke would have died of shock after hearing what he's slept with.
Which brings me to another point here. Brooke usually lets me borrow her clothes, and by this I mean she hasn't yet replaced the lock on her door that I busted in, so I can still take her clothes, and I'm pretty sure she knows and is okay with it. And this morning, for the first time in like, decades, she said no to me. So I was already having an off day as I ate lunch with Wendell. In Brooke's dress. That she specifically told me not to get dirty. This will be important later.
Anyways, so it turns out Wendell's got this meat thing -- which I'm all for, being a Californian and all, we're kind of open to that kind of thing, but as long everything he slept with before me was clean, you know? Because I'm pretty sure that if you compared a bologna sandwich with Lindsay Lohan, the bologna would come out on top, am I right?
Mmmm, bologna sandwich....
Sorry, re-focused now. So off we go to the deli, where Wendell's all bound and determined to prove himself a man, and I'm all, Dude. Let it go. I don't care how many meats you've slept with. What matters is that right now, at this very moment, I'M the only meat you should be concerned with sleeping with. I mean, how many guys bring up their exes on the first date? I don't want to sleep with a guy and wonder how I am compared to all those deli cuts. That's just too much pressure for a girl.
And then there was the bus. Now, I don't know if Wendell had slept with buses before, I don't even want to know, but Wendell was hell-bent on fucking THAT particular bus. I guess when you have a type, you have a type, and you gotta do what you gotta do.
So Wendell ran over to do the bus, or rather, the bus ran over him, Brooke's dress got splattered, I'm in grief counseling (yawn) and Brooke's not talking to me. Again.
Like this was MY fault.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Mystery Man
Well goddammit. If there was ever a time to have a lousy memory.
Don't get me wrong, it comes in super handy when it comes to birthdays, holidays, and other overly-sentimental days and moments that people expect me to remember simply because it's important to THEM. Nobody ever remembers Talk Like a Pirate Day, why should I remember their birthday? Or my birthday, for that matter. Or that funeral.
But sometimes being forgetful (or just not giving a shit, I forget which I feel most of the time) has its downfalls. Like when you go out with a seemingly normal, perfectly cute guy and have no freakin' clue why you rejected him the first time around. It was on the tip of my tongue, swear to god...
I knew Tony Tambler wasn't physically deformed. That's an easy one to spot. And mental illness usually shows up early on in the date as well (although Liam was so damn hot. And he really did smell good. Stupid schizophrenia, ruining a perfectly good thing. Can you tell I'm not over him?)
But Tony just had that...thing. He was cute, polite, intelligent, and his shoes were just the right balance of gay and straight. You know what I mean.
And I totally blanked. I think I spent a good portion of the night (when I wasn't making out with him) trying to rack my brain as to what the hell was wrong with Tony. He wasn't too weird, too normal, too tall, too short, he wasn't that guy who did the eyebrow thing which freaked the crap out of me, he was just...Tony.
And it's been a long time since I've been with a good kisser. So I just kind of went with it and figured when I remembered, I'd remember. I usually get those epiphanies at the movie theatre in the middle of sappy romantic comedies because then it's really fun to call Brooke and tell her my important self-realizations while pissing off the maximum amount of people that I can around me. Especially if Brooke is sitting right next to me in the movie theatre, but she still answers the phone because she can't resist. I think I did that four times during Twilight. She fell for it every time.
Anyways, Tony is good at, ahem, everything, and a good time is had by all, and then I come home, and Little Miss Killjoy is waiting for me on the sofa, all puffed up like a proud bird. I know that sign. It means I'm about to be proven wrong about something.
And I was. Cuz here I was, making out with Tony, thinking he was totally normal. And instead, it turns out he's a total freak who belives in marriage. And as sad as I am to see him go, a girl's gotta draw a line somewhere with the type of guys she dates, because there are some sickos and weirdos out there and I just barely dodged that bullet with Tony. Good god. Marriage? What kind of a mental illness IS that?
I miss Liam.
Don't get me wrong, it comes in super handy when it comes to birthdays, holidays, and other overly-sentimental days and moments that people expect me to remember simply because it's important to THEM. Nobody ever remembers Talk Like a Pirate Day, why should I remember their birthday? Or my birthday, for that matter. Or that funeral.
But sometimes being forgetful (or just not giving a shit, I forget which I feel most of the time) has its downfalls. Like when you go out with a seemingly normal, perfectly cute guy and have no freakin' clue why you rejected him the first time around. It was on the tip of my tongue, swear to god...
I knew Tony Tambler wasn't physically deformed. That's an easy one to spot. And mental illness usually shows up early on in the date as well (although Liam was so damn hot. And he really did smell good. Stupid schizophrenia, ruining a perfectly good thing. Can you tell I'm not over him?)
But Tony just had that...thing. He was cute, polite, intelligent, and his shoes were just the right balance of gay and straight. You know what I mean.
And I totally blanked. I think I spent a good portion of the night (when I wasn't making out with him) trying to rack my brain as to what the hell was wrong with Tony. He wasn't too weird, too normal, too tall, too short, he wasn't that guy who did the eyebrow thing which freaked the crap out of me, he was just...Tony.
And it's been a long time since I've been with a good kisser. So I just kind of went with it and figured when I remembered, I'd remember. I usually get those epiphanies at the movie theatre in the middle of sappy romantic comedies because then it's really fun to call Brooke and tell her my important self-realizations while pissing off the maximum amount of people that I can around me. Especially if Brooke is sitting right next to me in the movie theatre, but she still answers the phone because she can't resist. I think I did that four times during Twilight. She fell for it every time.
Anyways, Tony is good at, ahem, everything, and a good time is had by all, and then I come home, and Little Miss Killjoy is waiting for me on the sofa, all puffed up like a proud bird. I know that sign. It means I'm about to be proven wrong about something.
And I was. Cuz here I was, making out with Tony, thinking he was totally normal. And instead, it turns out he's a total freak who belives in marriage. And as sad as I am to see him go, a girl's gotta draw a line somewhere with the type of guys she dates, because there are some sickos and weirdos out there and I just barely dodged that bullet with Tony. Good god. Marriage? What kind of a mental illness IS that?
I miss Liam.
Monday, April 6, 2009
lesbian
blogging while hungover/ still possibly drunk not a good idea. just saying, if my spelling sucks and you can't understand what i'm talking about i'll ex plain it later.
going to make this one quick bc i might have to throw up again but can i just say that my head really hurts and it's not just bc i'm not gay. wait not sure i'm typign that right
what i'm trying to say is that i most of the time dont think i'm a bad person who leads people on, like if they dont have a chance with me i'm not gonna be all like yeeah, you have a chance with me, and i won't really date them except if they're taking me to a really nice restaurant but evn then if i don't want to keep dating them i won't, right? so here's the ting bc i'm supposed to go down on everyone I've rejected but Tammy was a lesbian and that makes me someone who leads people on bc i'm not Tammy nor am i a lesbian. but reuls are rules.
So fine i go on a date with tammy ans she's not actually that bad, i mean shes cute and everything but good god did brooke have to get me licquord up in order to just make tit to the date and she even had to drive me bc i was not in a position to be a diesignated driver by any means.
so I get dropped off at tammy;s place like i'm fourteen and going to the mall and brookes all 'have fun, go third base' and i'm all I hate you and tammy's like, who dropped you off? was that your ex-girlfrind? and I'm all, no. That was Evil Incarnate. Plus she's a tease you wouldn't like her.
And then of all things rammy fixes FOOD for DINNER. like that's okay to do vever. ANd i think i threw up in Tammy's closet, while I was peeing. which is kind of hard to do and i htink somebody should high gfive me.
anyways the date went badly bc there was food and tammy was a lesbian and i have a vague memory of throwing up hin her bathtub and wasn't sure how i got home. sluper tired now gonna go throw up one more time then call it a date.
going to make this one quick bc i might have to throw up again but can i just say that my head really hurts and it's not just bc i'm not gay. wait not sure i'm typign that right
what i'm trying to say is that i most of the time dont think i'm a bad person who leads people on, like if they dont have a chance with me i'm not gonna be all like yeeah, you have a chance with me, and i won't really date them except if they're taking me to a really nice restaurant but evn then if i don't want to keep dating them i won't, right? so here's the ting bc i'm supposed to go down on everyone I've rejected but Tammy was a lesbian and that makes me someone who leads people on bc i'm not Tammy nor am i a lesbian. but reuls are rules.
So fine i go on a date with tammy ans she's not actually that bad, i mean shes cute and everything but good god did brooke have to get me licquord up in order to just make tit to the date and she even had to drive me bc i was not in a position to be a diesignated driver by any means.
so I get dropped off at tammy;s place like i'm fourteen and going to the mall and brookes all 'have fun, go third base' and i'm all I hate you and tammy's like, who dropped you off? was that your ex-girlfrind? and I'm all, no. That was Evil Incarnate. Plus she's a tease you wouldn't like her.
And then of all things rammy fixes FOOD for DINNER. like that's okay to do vever. ANd i think i threw up in Tammy's closet, while I was peeing. which is kind of hard to do and i htink somebody should high gfive me.
anyways the date went badly bc there was food and tammy was a lesbian and i have a vague memory of throwing up hin her bathtub and wasn't sure how i got home. sluper tired now gonna go throw up one more time then call it a date.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Stalker
So. Remind me to never bitch about having a date accidentally give me a black eye (refer to earlier blog, please, but if you're too lazy to go back and check rest assured it's alcohol's fault) because earlier tonight the guy I went on a date with, the guy who had been tracking me and pursuing me for YEARS and was all, I love you, please marry me, let me buy you things, what do you want me to kill for you (ok, to be honest, when he asked that last one I was a little frightened) HEADBUTTED ME. DURING OUR DATE.
And then he dumped me. Unbelievable.
Who cares about personal growth or the fact that he's cutting back on stealing locks of hair from my shower drain? Did he really have to make our date all about him?
The answer is yes, yes he did. And this was AFTER I gave him all the stuff that I thought would make the night go better, like my mom's telephone number or the lock of hair. And I paid like $35 for that bra. Well, Brooke did, anyways. STILL.
So here I am, thinking romance or at least another dinner was looming on the horizon, he makes eyes at me from across the couch, I close my eyes, try to picture Seth McFarland to get in the mood, and BAM.
No, I'm not exaggerating. I literally heard a BAM as his forehead cracked into my nose. And then he got me some tissues, walked me to the door, and told me off. AND he kept the bra.
What a crappy date. Sometimes stalkers are SO selfish.
And then he dumped me. Unbelievable.
Who cares about personal growth or the fact that he's cutting back on stealing locks of hair from my shower drain? Did he really have to make our date all about him?
The answer is yes, yes he did. And this was AFTER I gave him all the stuff that I thought would make the night go better, like my mom's telephone number or the lock of hair. And I paid like $35 for that bra. Well, Brooke did, anyways. STILL.
So here I am, thinking romance or at least another dinner was looming on the horizon, he makes eyes at me from across the couch, I close my eyes, try to picture Seth McFarland to get in the mood, and BAM.
No, I'm not exaggerating. I literally heard a BAM as his forehead cracked into my nose. And then he got me some tissues, walked me to the door, and told me off. AND he kept the bra.
What a crappy date. Sometimes stalkers are SO selfish.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Threesome
The problem to saying "yes" to everyone I rejected...is EXACTLY why last night went the way it did. I'm still bruised, and not in a Dr. Phil, touchy-feely emotional kind of way. I mean that I still have black and blue spots on my legs and back from wrestling with Helen during what was supposed to be a nice and normal threesome, although some of that black and blue might still be left over from when I got bored and played tic tac toe on my leg with two different colored sharpies. Hmm, didn't think about that...
The worst part? I totally lied to Brooke. The only reason I'm even blogging about this and being honest is because she's out of town at a knitting retreat for the next couple days so she won't be able to read the truth (she only reads my blogs over my shoulder, as I'm typing them). But good God did last night suck.
Where was the passion? The romance? The sisterhood of...traveling pants? I dunno. I thought you worked together during a threesome and that it was supposed to be about, you know. The girls. Isn't sex always about the girl?
Apparently not, as Ted can now confirm. Helen and I sat there totally bored as he scrolled through his cell phone and probably called every single friend of his to brag about being in a threesome, and this is when he didn't even do anything with us. He even called his MOTHER. Ew. And I thought I had problems with boundaries.
The back story here, as you can probably guess, is that once upon a happier time Helen and Ted were all happy and in love and whatever. And they asked me to join them in a threesome, Ted asking because I think he wanted to be able to sleep with a girl without calling it cheating, Helen asking because I think she wanted to prove to Ted how "secure" she was in the relationship. Good luck with that, kids. You can tell how well that one was gonna end up, because after I gave a very polite "thanks but not ever, please leave," they broke up a few months later.
So here I am, on a one woman journey to change my luck with dating and figure out what the hell I missed the first time around, and word gets around that I'm dating everyone I rejected. Apparently that guy from the Chess Club in high school was more bitter than I thought, so he posted it on Craigslist. Thanks, little chess club tweako. Remind me to kick your ass again when we go on our date.
At any rate, Ted calls me up. Am I interested in the threesome now? he wants to know. And of course, I have to say yes. And then he suggests having a threesome with somebody else, NOT Helen, which breaks my rules, but it doesn't matter anyways because apparently Helen had sneaked into Ted's apartment and was living in his closet for a few days before he noticed and overheard the entire conversation. So great, we were all agreed, after Helen stopped wailing and making that god-awful whimpering noise. Threesome. His (and used to be hers, she loved pointing that out) place. 8 pm. Good times would be had by all. I ordered pizza to get in the mood. And then made Ted and Helen pay out of what was remaining in their joint checking account.
So fine, great, we order pizza, Helen discovers Ted's eHarmony account and we spend a good forty minutes calming her down, Ted has doubts, Helen is desperate and is no longer bothering to conceal the fact that she HATES ME AND WANTS ME DEAD (anyone detect a small problem here?) and we decide that it's a good idea to do this.
Want a recap in less than thirty seconds? Great. Because that's about how long it took, real-time, for Ted to get turned on and then orgasm. THIRTY SECONDS. I'VE SEEN GOLDFISH TAKE LONGER.
Meanwhile, Helen and I kind of got in a fight, meaning that she shoved me up against a wall after pulling my hair and smacking me in the face. And yes, true, I did technically break her finger, but she had it coming.
So that happened. My first (and hopefully last) threesome. Totally not erotic. Completely unsatisfying. And absolutely nothing like the movie "Wild Things."
What a bummer.
The worst part? I totally lied to Brooke. The only reason I'm even blogging about this and being honest is because she's out of town at a knitting retreat for the next couple days so she won't be able to read the truth (she only reads my blogs over my shoulder, as I'm typing them). But good God did last night suck.
Where was the passion? The romance? The sisterhood of...traveling pants? I dunno. I thought you worked together during a threesome and that it was supposed to be about, you know. The girls. Isn't sex always about the girl?
Apparently not, as Ted can now confirm. Helen and I sat there totally bored as he scrolled through his cell phone and probably called every single friend of his to brag about being in a threesome, and this is when he didn't even do anything with us. He even called his MOTHER. Ew. And I thought I had problems with boundaries.
The back story here, as you can probably guess, is that once upon a happier time Helen and Ted were all happy and in love and whatever. And they asked me to join them in a threesome, Ted asking because I think he wanted to be able to sleep with a girl without calling it cheating, Helen asking because I think she wanted to prove to Ted how "secure" she was in the relationship. Good luck with that, kids. You can tell how well that one was gonna end up, because after I gave a very polite "thanks but not ever, please leave," they broke up a few months later.
So here I am, on a one woman journey to change my luck with dating and figure out what the hell I missed the first time around, and word gets around that I'm dating everyone I rejected. Apparently that guy from the Chess Club in high school was more bitter than I thought, so he posted it on Craigslist. Thanks, little chess club tweako. Remind me to kick your ass again when we go on our date.
At any rate, Ted calls me up. Am I interested in the threesome now? he wants to know. And of course, I have to say yes. And then he suggests having a threesome with somebody else, NOT Helen, which breaks my rules, but it doesn't matter anyways because apparently Helen had sneaked into Ted's apartment and was living in his closet for a few days before he noticed and overheard the entire conversation. So great, we were all agreed, after Helen stopped wailing and making that god-awful whimpering noise. Threesome. His (and used to be hers, she loved pointing that out) place. 8 pm. Good times would be had by all. I ordered pizza to get in the mood. And then made Ted and Helen pay out of what was remaining in their joint checking account.
So fine, great, we order pizza, Helen discovers Ted's eHarmony account and we spend a good forty minutes calming her down, Ted has doubts, Helen is desperate and is no longer bothering to conceal the fact that she HATES ME AND WANTS ME DEAD (anyone detect a small problem here?) and we decide that it's a good idea to do this.
Want a recap in less than thirty seconds? Great. Because that's about how long it took, real-time, for Ted to get turned on and then orgasm. THIRTY SECONDS. I'VE SEEN GOLDFISH TAKE LONGER.
Meanwhile, Helen and I kind of got in a fight, meaning that she shoved me up against a wall after pulling my hair and smacking me in the face. And yes, true, I did technically break her finger, but she had it coming.
So that happened. My first (and hopefully last) threesome. Totally not erotic. Completely unsatisfying. And absolutely nothing like the movie "Wild Things."
What a bummer.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Mustache
I will be the first to admit that I may have made a mistake turning down Bruce, aka Mustache, the first time he asked me out, but I was rushing through the checkout line, wasn't really paying attention, and well...
There was something missing from his face. You know what I mean, right? When you look at someone, and there's this huge space between the nose and the mouth, and there's just...something missing. And you can't quite put your finger on it but you know it would make that person so much more attractive. So I waited until Mustache gave me a discount on my merchandise and then I turned him down when he asked me out. I had already learned the hard way that turning someone down for a date BEFORE he or she gives you a discount doesn't always result in aforementioned discount. I think I cried that day at Target when I learned that lesson.
Anyways, I was still kind of freaked out by Larry so even though we'd agreed to go on a date as my first official "dating-everyone-I-rejected" project I kind of just blew him off and didn't show up at the restaurant. I'm sure he was fine.
So I headed back to the super-store where Mustache first asked me out, found that he was moved to the sporting goods department, and I swear, while he was demonstrating a fishing rod to a family, I just stood there, in awe. Because he had grown a mustache.
I'm not quite sure what it is about his mustache, so maybe it's the fact that I'm a child of the eighties and Tom Selleck had one, but his mustache made me feel...taken care of. Like he knew how to take care of me. And that mustache rang with authority and confidence... it's not everyday that a man grows a mustache. Or hell, even can. And a man with a mustache? Clearly knows what he's doing. Tom Selleck did.
I was smitten. Mustache turned to me, and put down that fishing rod, knowing full well why I was there. He had this "I thought so" look on his face and honestly, that was almost as attractive as the mustache itself. Did I say smitten? I was already thinking about whose first-born I could steal and give to him as a sign of true devotion. Brooke told me it totally worked on Days of Our Lives.
And then...and then I had to go and blow it. Or rather, Brooke did. I'm still not one hundred percent sure she didn't screw me over on purpose, convincing me to shave right before a date when I had no idea that Mustache would reject me so cruelly. I always knew I was on to something with the shaving-and-bathing-optional approach to life. I'm not even sure why I listened to Brooke in the first place... it's not like SHE has a long line of suitors parked outside her front door. Or living on her balcony, like Larry.
Either way. I'm itchy, pissed off, and I've run off guy number two in less than a week. So far dating is running a distant second to eating hot dogs while watching Brooke try to watch Lost, and I'm pretty close to shaving her eyebrows while she sleeps tonight. Except it took her a really long time to forgive me the first time I did it, and I didn't have clean clothes to borrow for like, weeks.
There was something missing from his face. You know what I mean, right? When you look at someone, and there's this huge space between the nose and the mouth, and there's just...something missing. And you can't quite put your finger on it but you know it would make that person so much more attractive. So I waited until Mustache gave me a discount on my merchandise and then I turned him down when he asked me out. I had already learned the hard way that turning someone down for a date BEFORE he or she gives you a discount doesn't always result in aforementioned discount. I think I cried that day at Target when I learned that lesson.
Anyways, I was still kind of freaked out by Larry so even though we'd agreed to go on a date as my first official "dating-everyone-I-rejected" project I kind of just blew him off and didn't show up at the restaurant. I'm sure he was fine.
So I headed back to the super-store where Mustache first asked me out, found that he was moved to the sporting goods department, and I swear, while he was demonstrating a fishing rod to a family, I just stood there, in awe. Because he had grown a mustache.
I'm not quite sure what it is about his mustache, so maybe it's the fact that I'm a child of the eighties and Tom Selleck had one, but his mustache made me feel...taken care of. Like he knew how to take care of me. And that mustache rang with authority and confidence... it's not everyday that a man grows a mustache. Or hell, even can. And a man with a mustache? Clearly knows what he's doing. Tom Selleck did.
I was smitten. Mustache turned to me, and put down that fishing rod, knowing full well why I was there. He had this "I thought so" look on his face and honestly, that was almost as attractive as the mustache itself. Did I say smitten? I was already thinking about whose first-born I could steal and give to him as a sign of true devotion. Brooke told me it totally worked on Days of Our Lives.
And then...and then I had to go and blow it. Or rather, Brooke did. I'm still not one hundred percent sure she didn't screw me over on purpose, convincing me to shave right before a date when I had no idea that Mustache would reject me so cruelly. I always knew I was on to something with the shaving-and-bathing-optional approach to life. I'm not even sure why I listened to Brooke in the first place... it's not like SHE has a long line of suitors parked outside her front door. Or living on her balcony, like Larry.
Either way. I'm itchy, pissed off, and I've run off guy number two in less than a week. So far dating is running a distant second to eating hot dogs while watching Brooke try to watch Lost, and I'm pretty close to shaving her eyebrows while she sleeps tonight. Except it took her a really long time to forgive me the first time I did it, and I didn't have clean clothes to borrow for like, weeks.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Whiskey.
When you're locked in the trunk of a car with your date, waiting for the AAA guy to show up, a lot of questions occur to you. Not just basic questions, like, "How did I get here?" and "Am I wearing cute underwear in case the coroner does a full autopsy?" but also general questions like, "I wonder if this guy still likes me" or "Did I leave the oven on?" Things like that.
I'm not going to come full out and say that I got myself into that situation based on a dare...although I might admit that this whole thing started when I decided to finally prove Brooke wrong about what supposedly crappy taste I have in men. One minute I was defending the guy who accidentally punched me in the eye (he's recovering nicely, and thanks everyone who asked about him) and the next minute I was being asked out by a nice-but-strange-looking guy standing randomly in front of a construction site. And after I turn him down (hello, white suit?) then Brooke's all like, "You're into guys who treat you like shit," which was SO not fair or accurate, so I kind of had to go back and ask him out. And the date went kind of badly. Like, really badly. Like, he pointed a gun at my underwear. And then I think he went to a mall and shot a bunch of people (again, NOT my fault).
I'm beginning to realize that (and while I will be buried wearing Ugg boots and a mini-skirt printed with pink fuzzy unicorns before I admit that Brooke is correct about ANYTHING) Brooke might have a point that I need to reconsider my dating choices. I've been asked out by a lot of people, for whatever reason, and most I turned down, mainly because they seemed weird or didn't look interesting or were wearing a polo shirt. And the guys I didn't turn down? Well, sure, they were good for dinner and drinks, sometimes, but most of the time the guys I go out with turn out to be total...jerks. Who don't get me at all. In fact, oh cruel subterfuge, some don't ask me out while wearing polo shirts but show up to the DATE wearing polo shirts. That shit ain't cool.
So maybe I'm missing something here. Maybe I'm supposed to find out what was going on with all those other people that I didn't really give a chance. And then maybe I'll get to prove to Brooke that my taste in who I date doesn't really suck and is TOTALLY not my fault.
I'm not going to come full out and say that I got myself into that situation based on a dare...although I might admit that this whole thing started when I decided to finally prove Brooke wrong about what supposedly crappy taste I have in men. One minute I was defending the guy who accidentally punched me in the eye (he's recovering nicely, and thanks everyone who asked about him) and the next minute I was being asked out by a nice-but-strange-looking guy standing randomly in front of a construction site. And after I turn him down (hello, white suit?) then Brooke's all like, "You're into guys who treat you like shit," which was SO not fair or accurate, so I kind of had to go back and ask him out. And the date went kind of badly. Like, really badly. Like, he pointed a gun at my underwear. And then I think he went to a mall and shot a bunch of people (again, NOT my fault).
I'm beginning to realize that (and while I will be buried wearing Ugg boots and a mini-skirt printed with pink fuzzy unicorns before I admit that Brooke is correct about ANYTHING) Brooke might have a point that I need to reconsider my dating choices. I've been asked out by a lot of people, for whatever reason, and most I turned down, mainly because they seemed weird or didn't look interesting or were wearing a polo shirt. And the guys I didn't turn down? Well, sure, they were good for dinner and drinks, sometimes, but most of the time the guys I go out with turn out to be total...jerks. Who don't get me at all. In fact, oh cruel subterfuge, some don't ask me out while wearing polo shirts but show up to the DATE wearing polo shirts. That shit ain't cool.
So maybe I'm missing something here. Maybe I'm supposed to find out what was going on with all those other people that I didn't really give a chance. And then maybe I'll get to prove to Brooke that my taste in who I date doesn't really suck and is TOTALLY not my fault.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
you should see the other guy.
I am currently writing this with a black eye. And WHY do I have a black eye, you might ask? Because I went on a date with a very nice gentleman. Who happens to possibly be the biggest klutz in the entire world.
I'll keep this one short, as according to Brooke, my eye needs icing and a steak (and after she's done, I get to eat the steak and then the icing) but I accepted a date with Randall, the Other Straight Guy in my Improv group, Gettin Crazy with the Cheeeze Whiz, and it really should have been my first warning sign that he walked INTO my car door after last Wednesday's show. I mean, I'm not the most coordinated person on the planet, but walking INTO my door? It was right there in front of him and he just kept walking. Even I'm not that bad, except for that time I walked into a tree, but still. A car DOOR?
So after I'm finished bandaging him up (for walking into a door? How fast was he walking?!) he asks me out, and when I point out that Bob already said actors in the same troupes couldn't date he said that rule was for pussies.
I agreed immediately, and I think he thought that I saying yes to the date. Well, whatever. I still had Thursday through Tuesday to score free food, now that my Wednesdays were now performance art dining, so I went along with his idea to meet at a Mexican restaurant the following night.
Dinner: lovely. I ate nachos and lots of guacamole and then a nine layer burrito and three enchiladas, plus a taco salad because Brooke told me that girls should always order salads on dates. And then the waiters came over and brought balloons (was it my birthday again?) and after dessert was when Randall got what I can now deem officially as the Worst Idea Ever, which is that after a three hour Mexican food dinner with lots of margaritas and tequila, to tie a balloon to each of our wrists and then try to pop the other one's balloon. It seemed like a good idea when Randall's face was really blurry. Hindsight provides me with a solid Nay on that one.
So this is how technically Randall and I got in a fight, because as he was trying to hit my balloon, he accidentally punched me in the face. Hard. Hence, black eye.
But wait, there's more, as, in my drunken stupor and Randall being all blurry and having just punched me in the eye with his FIST, I swung wildly to pop Randall's balloon and may or may not have accidentally shoved him down a flight of stairs. Really, everything after that is kind of a hazy memory, but I do remember proudly telling the paramedics that the un-popped balloon that was still attached to my wrist meant I was a warrior princess. And then I threw up on someone's shoes.
This is the part of the blog (Brooke is reading this over my shoulder) where I'm supposed to state what I learned, but honestly, except for the part where I think Randall rolled over my left-overs as he went down the stairs, I wouldn't change a thing. Although I do feel slightly guilty that Randall broke both his legs.
Suddenly I don't think that rule about not dating people in the same improv group as you is such a bad idea.
I'll keep this one short, as according to Brooke, my eye needs icing and a steak (and after she's done, I get to eat the steak and then the icing) but I accepted a date with Randall, the Other Straight Guy in my Improv group, Gettin Crazy with the Cheeeze Whiz, and it really should have been my first warning sign that he walked INTO my car door after last Wednesday's show. I mean, I'm not the most coordinated person on the planet, but walking INTO my door? It was right there in front of him and he just kept walking. Even I'm not that bad, except for that time I walked into a tree, but still. A car DOOR?
So after I'm finished bandaging him up (for walking into a door? How fast was he walking?!) he asks me out, and when I point out that Bob already said actors in the same troupes couldn't date he said that rule was for pussies.
I agreed immediately, and I think he thought that I saying yes to the date. Well, whatever. I still had Thursday through Tuesday to score free food, now that my Wednesdays were now performance art dining, so I went along with his idea to meet at a Mexican restaurant the following night.
Dinner: lovely. I ate nachos and lots of guacamole and then a nine layer burrito and three enchiladas, plus a taco salad because Brooke told me that girls should always order salads on dates. And then the waiters came over and brought balloons (was it my birthday again?) and after dessert was when Randall got what I can now deem officially as the Worst Idea Ever, which is that after a three hour Mexican food dinner with lots of margaritas and tequila, to tie a balloon to each of our wrists and then try to pop the other one's balloon. It seemed like a good idea when Randall's face was really blurry. Hindsight provides me with a solid Nay on that one.
So this is how technically Randall and I got in a fight, because as he was trying to hit my balloon, he accidentally punched me in the face. Hard. Hence, black eye.
But wait, there's more, as, in my drunken stupor and Randall being all blurry and having just punched me in the eye with his FIST, I swung wildly to pop Randall's balloon and may or may not have accidentally shoved him down a flight of stairs. Really, everything after that is kind of a hazy memory, but I do remember proudly telling the paramedics that the un-popped balloon that was still attached to my wrist meant I was a warrior princess. And then I threw up on someone's shoes.
This is the part of the blog (Brooke is reading this over my shoulder) where I'm supposed to state what I learned, but honestly, except for the part where I think Randall rolled over my left-overs as he went down the stairs, I wouldn't change a thing. Although I do feel slightly guilty that Randall broke both his legs.
Suddenly I don't think that rule about not dating people in the same improv group as you is such a bad idea.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Bob the Knight, part 3
I mentioned I’m not an actor, right? Good. Because that should explain a few things about the date later on.
Really, all I want right now is a good medium rare steak and garlic cheesy mashed potatoes, but instead I’m stuck onstage with a group of people that may or may not be insane, and Bob my date and knight in shining pink is trying to get me to play some random game called “Yes And” with everyone else, and I have no idea what the hell he’s attempting to do. The audience is kind of laughing, but it’s usually when I say something that is neither “yes” nor “and,” and Bob is looking fairly grumpy at this point. I wonder if this means I’m not getting dessert.
Finally, at some point, I just crack. You can’t just put a girl on stage when she has NO IDEA what’s going on and she hasn’t been fed for almost two hours. You just don’t do those kinds of things.
Bob turns to me, after having what seemed to the audience a particularly hilarious scene with another actor about bargaining for the price of tomatoes, and says, “You have a third leg!”
Now, at this point, my brain kind of splits into two, one of which slightly remembers the very complicated rules of “Yes And”, which means I am supposed to reply, “Yes, I DO have a third leg, and…” and then insert whatever cleverness pops into my head.
But the other part of my brain, the part that is hungry and tired of being hungry and the fact that I almost got lost coming here but didn’t really get lost because it turned out to be the right place but I still went through the STRESS of feeling like I was lost, doesn’t really care about Bob or the audience or the rest of the improv group or my invisible third leg.
I calmly turn to Bob and say, “No, I don’t.”
Silence. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy in tight bright pink spandex look more like he was going to faint.
The crowd kind of gasps, too, and there’s a stirring among them, which makes me wonder if I’m going to end up on the evening news tomorrow under the headline AMATEUR ACTOR GETS LYNCHED BY AUDIENCE and someone whispers on stage, in one of those loud whispers that people in CHINA could hear, “She said NO.”
Bob looks stricken, but recovers quickly. “Yes, I can see that you don’t have a third leg, AND I can tell that you’re my long-lost sister!”
“No, I’m not. We’re not related, Bob.”
This is the point where the entire room sort of exhales one long horrified breath, and Bob whispers, almost to himself, “She broke character…” Like I even know what that means.
So I’m just standing there, on stage, and Bob’s just standing there, on stage, and we’re facing each other, and no one really knows what to say or do. The audience just waits, Bob waits, everyone else waits to see what I will do, and all I’m doing is trying to figure out how to steal food from the audience members.
After a couple uncomfortable seconds of neither of us doing anything, Bob catches me staring longingly at a cheese platter being passed around the back row, and suddenly, history is made.
“Jody,” he says, “Do you want to eat something?”
And I look at him, like, well duh, you idiot, why else would I be on a date with you, when it occurs to me what he’s doing. I straighten up and give him my best smile.
“Yes, I do want to eat something. And I want to eat something NOW.”
For whatever reason, the entire audience goes crazy, clapping and cheering, so Bob hops down off the stage and asks someone to volunteer their plate of food. Lo and behold, more than one person eagerly offers up their plate, which is awesome, because I wasn’t looking forward to having to choose between the chicken and the steak, and then Bob is back on stage and holding food in front of me in mere seconds.
“Do you want the chicken?” he asks, and by now I’m a pro.
“Yes, I want the chicken, AND I want the steak. And French fries. With ranch dressing. And rice pilaf. Also with ranch dressing.”
Again, the crowd laughs and claps, and Bob finds me a corner of the stage, puts the food in front of me, and gestures to the audience to cheer me on as a I polish off both plates of food. I’m an improvisational GENIUS.
Long after the show is over and I’ve had seconds and two slices of chocolate mud pie for dessert, all in front of a very supportive audience, the Gettin Crazy With the Cheeeze Whiz members try to talk me into joining the group.
“Jody,” says the other straight guy, “you don’t realize how awesome you were. The crowd loved you!”
I try to tell them as politely as possible that I’m not an actor, but they all say I’m a natural, it doesn’t matter, the audience loved me.
At this point, I’m totally confused, so I ask exactly WHAT Gettin Crazy with the Cheeeze Whiz has in mind for me to do.
And here’s where I strike gold, my friends: Bob the biker knight leans forward and says excitedly, “We can incorporate you eating into every show!”
At which point even I had to admit the brilliance of it all. So I’m in an improv group now. And Bob and I decided it’s better for the professionalism of the group if we’re just friends.
Although according to everything I’ve heard about actors, that last sentence makes no sense.
Really, all I want right now is a good medium rare steak and garlic cheesy mashed potatoes, but instead I’m stuck onstage with a group of people that may or may not be insane, and Bob my date and knight in shining pink is trying to get me to play some random game called “Yes And” with everyone else, and I have no idea what the hell he’s attempting to do. The audience is kind of laughing, but it’s usually when I say something that is neither “yes” nor “and,” and Bob is looking fairly grumpy at this point. I wonder if this means I’m not getting dessert.
Finally, at some point, I just crack. You can’t just put a girl on stage when she has NO IDEA what’s going on and she hasn’t been fed for almost two hours. You just don’t do those kinds of things.
Bob turns to me, after having what seemed to the audience a particularly hilarious scene with another actor about bargaining for the price of tomatoes, and says, “You have a third leg!”
Now, at this point, my brain kind of splits into two, one of which slightly remembers the very complicated rules of “Yes And”, which means I am supposed to reply, “Yes, I DO have a third leg, and…” and then insert whatever cleverness pops into my head.
But the other part of my brain, the part that is hungry and tired of being hungry and the fact that I almost got lost coming here but didn’t really get lost because it turned out to be the right place but I still went through the STRESS of feeling like I was lost, doesn’t really care about Bob or the audience or the rest of the improv group or my invisible third leg.
I calmly turn to Bob and say, “No, I don’t.”
Silence. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy in tight bright pink spandex look more like he was going to faint.
The crowd kind of gasps, too, and there’s a stirring among them, which makes me wonder if I’m going to end up on the evening news tomorrow under the headline AMATEUR ACTOR GETS LYNCHED BY AUDIENCE and someone whispers on stage, in one of those loud whispers that people in CHINA could hear, “She said NO.”
Bob looks stricken, but recovers quickly. “Yes, I can see that you don’t have a third leg, AND I can tell that you’re my long-lost sister!”
“No, I’m not. We’re not related, Bob.”
This is the point where the entire room sort of exhales one long horrified breath, and Bob whispers, almost to himself, “She broke character…” Like I even know what that means.
So I’m just standing there, on stage, and Bob’s just standing there, on stage, and we’re facing each other, and no one really knows what to say or do. The audience just waits, Bob waits, everyone else waits to see what I will do, and all I’m doing is trying to figure out how to steal food from the audience members.
After a couple uncomfortable seconds of neither of us doing anything, Bob catches me staring longingly at a cheese platter being passed around the back row, and suddenly, history is made.
“Jody,” he says, “Do you want to eat something?”
And I look at him, like, well duh, you idiot, why else would I be on a date with you, when it occurs to me what he’s doing. I straighten up and give him my best smile.
“Yes, I do want to eat something. And I want to eat something NOW.”
For whatever reason, the entire audience goes crazy, clapping and cheering, so Bob hops down off the stage and asks someone to volunteer their plate of food. Lo and behold, more than one person eagerly offers up their plate, which is awesome, because I wasn’t looking forward to having to choose between the chicken and the steak, and then Bob is back on stage and holding food in front of me in mere seconds.
“Do you want the chicken?” he asks, and by now I’m a pro.
“Yes, I want the chicken, AND I want the steak. And French fries. With ranch dressing. And rice pilaf. Also with ranch dressing.”
Again, the crowd laughs and claps, and Bob finds me a corner of the stage, puts the food in front of me, and gestures to the audience to cheer me on as a I polish off both plates of food. I’m an improvisational GENIUS.
Long after the show is over and I’ve had seconds and two slices of chocolate mud pie for dessert, all in front of a very supportive audience, the Gettin Crazy With the Cheeeze Whiz members try to talk me into joining the group.
“Jody,” says the other straight guy, “you don’t realize how awesome you were. The crowd loved you!”
I try to tell them as politely as possible that I’m not an actor, but they all say I’m a natural, it doesn’t matter, the audience loved me.
At this point, I’m totally confused, so I ask exactly WHAT Gettin Crazy with the Cheeeze Whiz has in mind for me to do.
And here’s where I strike gold, my friends: Bob the biker knight leans forward and says excitedly, “We can incorporate you eating into every show!”
At which point even I had to admit the brilliance of it all. So I’m in an improv group now. And Bob and I decided it’s better for the professionalism of the group if we’re just friends.
Although according to everything I’ve heard about actors, that last sentence makes no sense.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Bob the Knight, part 2
I have to be at the wrong place. I have to be.
Let me give you a little back story at this point and let you know that I’m supposed to be out on a date with Bob, the actor/knight/whatever, and the address he gave me is totally and completely wrong. I mean, I’m not the best at following directions, and there was that one time I ended up in North Dakota (it totally exists!) but I have followed the directions that the GPS gave me really, really well, and I haven’t even argued once, and I’m in front of what looks like a dark office building, and Bob asked me to meet him here for dinner.
So.Confused.
Except that Bob shows up, out of nowhere, on a bicycle. No, wait, I’m still confused. I look at him, as he un-straps his neon pink bike helmet, and he gives me a huge grin. I try not to notice that he’s also wearing what looks like a unitard. That matches his helmet.
Bob notices me noticing his outfit and I honestly think he thought I was checking him out, or was impressed, or was even the slightest bit interested in an explanation. He was wrong on all accounts.
“Cuts down on wind resistance,’ he says, and I nod thoughtfully, as if what he has just said completely explains the fact that he looks like a neon pink ballerina that could be targeted from outer space. “Ready to go in and meet everyone?”
And the surprises just keep on coming. Is this a surprise party? Is it someone’s birthday? Wait, is it MY birthday? No, Brooke would have remembered…
So we go into the dark office building, which I’m still kind of cranky isn’t a restaurant, and lo and behold, it’s… a theater.
It’s a dark theater space that is lit up once Bob gets in, and there are several other people there too, just sitting in the dark, although they are dressed somewhat more normal than Bob is, so that’s a relief. I’ve heard about gang initiations before and honestly, if I have to join a gang, I prefer it not be the tight bright pink spandex gang. You wouldn’t want to mess with people like that.
And Bob keeps smiling the whole time, like everything is going exactly according to plan, and at some point I have to ask, I just HAVE to.
“Bob,” I say, in my most patient talking-to-an-idiot voice, “Where’s the dinner and the show?”
And everyone kind of laughs as Bob makes some sort of sweeping gesture and says, “We ARE the dinner and the show!” and my heart drops into my stomach as I realized I have stumbled upon a gang of evil ballerinas who eat people.
Okay, that wasn’t it EXACTLY, but it was close. I’d unwittingly stumbled into an improvisation group.
“Wait, what?”
Bob explains that when he asked if I was interested in doing dinner and a show with him, he literally meant, WITH him. As in, onstage. Because he’s an actor. And he thought I was an actor. Which leads me to the next big Wait What.
“Why did you think I was an actor, Bob? Acting takes ambition. Do I look ambitious to you?”
Bob shrugs, says he just assumes everyone is an actor, and then says it doesn’t make a difference and I need to hurry up and get in character because the house opens in thirty minutes.
Wait, WHOSE house?
So here I am. Backstage. Every Wednesday night Bob and his friends put on dinner and a show for their improv group, Gettin Crazy With the Cheeeze Whiz, and he thought it would be a fun date if he physically forced me to join the improv group for an evening and then let me eat what the rest of the cast gets to eat after the show is over.
Brilliant. I love it. Can I go home now?
Let me give you a little back story at this point and let you know that I’m supposed to be out on a date with Bob, the actor/knight/whatever, and the address he gave me is totally and completely wrong. I mean, I’m not the best at following directions, and there was that one time I ended up in North Dakota (it totally exists!) but I have followed the directions that the GPS gave me really, really well, and I haven’t even argued once, and I’m in front of what looks like a dark office building, and Bob asked me to meet him here for dinner.
So.Confused.
Except that Bob shows up, out of nowhere, on a bicycle. No, wait, I’m still confused. I look at him, as he un-straps his neon pink bike helmet, and he gives me a huge grin. I try not to notice that he’s also wearing what looks like a unitard. That matches his helmet.
Bob notices me noticing his outfit and I honestly think he thought I was checking him out, or was impressed, or was even the slightest bit interested in an explanation. He was wrong on all accounts.
“Cuts down on wind resistance,’ he says, and I nod thoughtfully, as if what he has just said completely explains the fact that he looks like a neon pink ballerina that could be targeted from outer space. “Ready to go in and meet everyone?”
And the surprises just keep on coming. Is this a surprise party? Is it someone’s birthday? Wait, is it MY birthday? No, Brooke would have remembered…
So we go into the dark office building, which I’m still kind of cranky isn’t a restaurant, and lo and behold, it’s… a theater.
It’s a dark theater space that is lit up once Bob gets in, and there are several other people there too, just sitting in the dark, although they are dressed somewhat more normal than Bob is, so that’s a relief. I’ve heard about gang initiations before and honestly, if I have to join a gang, I prefer it not be the tight bright pink spandex gang. You wouldn’t want to mess with people like that.
And Bob keeps smiling the whole time, like everything is going exactly according to plan, and at some point I have to ask, I just HAVE to.
“Bob,” I say, in my most patient talking-to-an-idiot voice, “Where’s the dinner and the show?”
And everyone kind of laughs as Bob makes some sort of sweeping gesture and says, “We ARE the dinner and the show!” and my heart drops into my stomach as I realized I have stumbled upon a gang of evil ballerinas who eat people.
Okay, that wasn’t it EXACTLY, but it was close. I’d unwittingly stumbled into an improvisation group.
“Wait, what?”
Bob explains that when he asked if I was interested in doing dinner and a show with him, he literally meant, WITH him. As in, onstage. Because he’s an actor. And he thought I was an actor. Which leads me to the next big Wait What.
“Why did you think I was an actor, Bob? Acting takes ambition. Do I look ambitious to you?”
Bob shrugs, says he just assumes everyone is an actor, and then says it doesn’t make a difference and I need to hurry up and get in character because the house opens in thirty minutes.
Wait, WHOSE house?
So here I am. Backstage. Every Wednesday night Bob and his friends put on dinner and a show for their improv group, Gettin Crazy With the Cheeeze Whiz, and he thought it would be a fun date if he physically forced me to join the improv group for an evening and then let me eat what the rest of the cast gets to eat after the show is over.
Brilliant. I love it. Can I go home now?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Bob the Knight, part 1
I'm in the middle of watching The Real Housewives of Orange County Season 3 (well, I WAS watching a re-run of CHiPS, but Brooke changed the channel and the last time we fought over the remote, she kicked my ass. Because she's a HAIR PULLER, plus the knitting needles hurt a lot when jabbed into your neck) when Bob calls me back. I should probably back up a bit.
After that fiasco last week with Alvin and the medieval restaurant burning down, I was rescued from burning wreckage and unsound infrastructure by Bob, one of the knights that worked at the restaurant. Now, TECHNICALLY, because the restaurant/horse stalls burnt down, Bob is now unemployed, which is usually on my list of dating Hell No's, but I feel like Bob saving my life should count for something. So I accepted his woo-age in a moment of weakness, quite literally actually, as I was lying down on the ground between some goblets, and a still-smoking candelabra, watching hot firemen put out the blaze while horses galloped around. It was actually kind of romantic.
So it turns out that Bob is an actor, not a knight as I originally thought, and as he's looking for other employment, he wanted to take me out on a date. As long as he can still pay for food, and doesn't sew me a goddamn dress to wear while I eat aforementioned food, I'm good.
But Bob, it turns out, is really bad about keeping his cell phone on him. Or near him. Or on, for that matter. Or charged. So we've been playing phone tag for a while now, and every time I'm tempted to blow him off he calls back after like three days and says something sweet and totally explains about how he dropped his cell phone into his car engine while he was performing his own oil change, and then I'm kind of forced to think about how nice it would be if I had a guy around to change my oil too, so all is forgiven.
So anyways, Bob calls back, and after staring in utter confusion at my cell phone for like, three rings, I pick up, surely expecting it to be someone else. But it's Bob, he's really sorry, he lost his cell phone on the train and has spent the last week tracking it down, isn't it a miracle that he just got it back and would I like to do dinner and a show with him?
I say sure, and he asks if I'm free tonight. I say yes, and Brooke (who's listening on my shoulder to our cell phone conversation, as usual) whips her head around at me and glares. And as usual, I ignore her. I've just finished making plans to meet him at a theater later that night as Brooke has resorted to waving her arms in some sort of erratic fashion that makes me think she's having an asthma attack, so finally I hang up and ask her in my most polite, indoor, respectful of roommate voice just what the fuck is wrong with her.
Her eyes are wide with terror, and I'm beginning to think maybe she's having another episode about the bugs in our apartment, but instead she says, "You can't tell him you're free tonight!"
When I ask why not, her face gets this weird shade of red and purple (that's maroon, right?) and she practically screams, "BECAUSE YOU'RE FREE TONIGHT!"
Ah.
Then she goes on to explain that when a girl is free for the evening, she can't actually tell a guy she's free, because then it makes her look desperate or needy. I'm still confused.
"You need to look busy, Jody," Brooke says. "You have to be unobtainable, hard-to-reach, and you should never, under any circumstances, accept a date on-" (here her voice got all hushed, like that little kid in The Sixth Sense) "-THE SAME DAY."
Um. Right. I roll my eyes and head to Brooke's room to try on clothes, and I can hear her yelling from the living room, "YOU'LL DIE ALONE!"
After that fiasco last week with Alvin and the medieval restaurant burning down, I was rescued from burning wreckage and unsound infrastructure by Bob, one of the knights that worked at the restaurant. Now, TECHNICALLY, because the restaurant/horse stalls burnt down, Bob is now unemployed, which is usually on my list of dating Hell No's, but I feel like Bob saving my life should count for something. So I accepted his woo-age in a moment of weakness, quite literally actually, as I was lying down on the ground between some goblets, and a still-smoking candelabra, watching hot firemen put out the blaze while horses galloped around. It was actually kind of romantic.
So it turns out that Bob is an actor, not a knight as I originally thought, and as he's looking for other employment, he wanted to take me out on a date. As long as he can still pay for food, and doesn't sew me a goddamn dress to wear while I eat aforementioned food, I'm good.
But Bob, it turns out, is really bad about keeping his cell phone on him. Or near him. Or on, for that matter. Or charged. So we've been playing phone tag for a while now, and every time I'm tempted to blow him off he calls back after like three days and says something sweet and totally explains about how he dropped his cell phone into his car engine while he was performing his own oil change, and then I'm kind of forced to think about how nice it would be if I had a guy around to change my oil too, so all is forgiven.
So anyways, Bob calls back, and after staring in utter confusion at my cell phone for like, three rings, I pick up, surely expecting it to be someone else. But it's Bob, he's really sorry, he lost his cell phone on the train and has spent the last week tracking it down, isn't it a miracle that he just got it back and would I like to do dinner and a show with him?
I say sure, and he asks if I'm free tonight. I say yes, and Brooke (who's listening on my shoulder to our cell phone conversation, as usual) whips her head around at me and glares. And as usual, I ignore her. I've just finished making plans to meet him at a theater later that night as Brooke has resorted to waving her arms in some sort of erratic fashion that makes me think she's having an asthma attack, so finally I hang up and ask her in my most polite, indoor, respectful of roommate voice just what the fuck is wrong with her.
Her eyes are wide with terror, and I'm beginning to think maybe she's having another episode about the bugs in our apartment, but instead she says, "You can't tell him you're free tonight!"
When I ask why not, her face gets this weird shade of red and purple (that's maroon, right?) and she practically screams, "BECAUSE YOU'RE FREE TONIGHT!"
Ah.
Then she goes on to explain that when a girl is free for the evening, she can't actually tell a guy she's free, because then it makes her look desperate or needy. I'm still confused.
"You need to look busy, Jody," Brooke says. "You have to be unobtainable, hard-to-reach, and you should never, under any circumstances, accept a date on-" (here her voice got all hushed, like that little kid in The Sixth Sense) "-THE SAME DAY."
Um. Right. I roll my eyes and head to Brooke's room to try on clothes, and I can hear her yelling from the living room, "YOU'LL DIE ALONE!"
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
the worst thing about two chicks living together
...is that we both hate the entire goddamn world at the same time of the month, if you know what I'm saying. And have you ever seen someone KNIT while they are pissed off? Really, truly, pissed off? And then, while knitting amidst the pissed off, eat an ENTIRE cheesecake and wash it down with diet coke? While uncontrollably sobbing?
I never had either until yesterday. Right now my roommate scares the crap out of me.
Which is why I'm blogging from Larry's house. Larry being the guy who repeatedly asked me out starting around junior high, then, by total coincidence, ended up being my neighbor. In fact, he just made me strawberry waffles (totally my favorite comfort food) with shredded cheese on top and then asked me out again. Although, since I'm using his laptop to blog, I'm starting to feel like maybe I should just go out with him, maybe just this once, if only because it doesn't seem fair for me to just ignoreOOOH CHEESE.
I never had either until yesterday. Right now my roommate scares the crap out of me.
Which is why I'm blogging from Larry's house. Larry being the guy who repeatedly asked me out starting around junior high, then, by total coincidence, ended up being my neighbor. In fact, he just made me strawberry waffles (totally my favorite comfort food) with shredded cheese on top and then asked me out again. Although, since I'm using his laptop to blog, I'm starting to feel like maybe I should just go out with him, maybe just this once, if only because it doesn't seem fair for me to just ignoreOOOH CHEESE.
Friday, January 23, 2009
the coffee shop guy date
So Alex* asked me out last Friday, Alex being that guy at that coffee shop who never charges me for my drinks, which is weird. I mean, you think he'd notice by now that he forgets to ring me up every damn time, right?
Anyways, I'm ordering my usual cheese plate/roast beef sandwich/fruit cup/chocolate muffin/tall mocha with extra whipped cream mid-afternoon snack, and Alex as usual has it ready to go when I walk in, although lately he's been handing it to me in a trash bag, something about how he doesn't want to get in trouble with "upper-management." Whatever the hell that means.
As he's handing me my tall mocha with extra whipped cream and my garbage bag of food, our eyes kind of lock and he does this little cute grin thing that makes my heart skip a beat, although it might have just been the anticipatory rush my heart gets when it sees caffeine. At any rate, as I smile back, just thinking about all that whipped cream clogging my arteries, he says, "Do you like to eat with your bare hands?" and I swear to God, in that second, it was like Alex was put on this earth just so I could be insanely attracted to him for like four minutes.
In my utter glee to have someone besides me who thinks utensils are totally pointless, I excitedly slosh some of my tall mocha with extra whipped cream on a passing customer, and amidst the confusion Alex takes the opportunity to ask my dress size. I assume it's just his way of hitting on me more.
Alex then explains that he'd like to take me to this special place that's a little like dinner theater, but with no utensils and horses and stuff. I didn't really get the full story because the person next to me was whining about being burnt with coffee but Alex told me he'd make sure I was wearing something special when he came by on Tuesday night to pick me up, because apparently this is a fancy place. With horses. And no utensils. Could such awesomness truly exist in a world?
And even though Brooke warned me not to do this anymore, I accepted the date and gave him my phone number and address. And then I waited as Alex made me another drink, to make up for the one I sloshed.
So Tuesday rolls around and Brooke's all pissed because yet another guy knows where we live, not like it's a big deal because we both know Alex, or rather, Alex knows us. When he showed up, it was actually kind of cute, he brought me a tall mocha with extra whipped cream, and a one shot, caramel sauce on top and bottom, no whipped cream, light on the ice, with 7 1/2 pumps of peppermint syrup Vente iced Mocha for Brooke, just the way she likes it. She was won over instantly.
Then he presented my dress.
Apparently, when he'd wanted to know my dress size, it was because somewhere out in the universe was a forest green, corseted peasant dress that looked a bedazzler machine had thrown up on it. It even had the puffy sleeve thing going on, which kind of made me think of Brian Boitano's outfits when he played the elf in the Snoopy Ice Christmas Special that my mom used to play on the VCR when I was little while she was drinking.
So I'm kind of looking doubtfully at it and Brooke looks over at me to check my reaction, because I thought what I was wearing (jeans and a clean t-shirt with mostly clean socks) was more than enough effort for a fancy dinner with no utensils and horses.
And Alex kind of presents it to me in a way that makes me think he's really proud of it, which is about the time a horrible thought occurs to me.
"Alan," I say, because he's not wearing his name badge, "did you MAKE this?"
And he's all, "Of course. I spent all weekend making it just for you."
And Brooke and I just look at each other. And I grab the goddamn puffy Brian Boitano dress and head into the bathroom to change.
Two hours later:
I have never seen so much chicken in my life. And it's all over my fingers! And my face! And since it's supposed to be during the middle ages, I don't have a napkin any more than I have utensils, but I DO have a peasant dress. I try to hide the chicken parts that I wipe off my fingers in between the intricate beading on my corset.
Three hours later:
Okay. This was totally not my fault.
Alex is a swell guy, yes, and he's one hell of a coffee maker or whatever the hell that term is (banister? bar code? burrito? Whatever) but a dress maker he is NOT. As evidenced by the fact that my dress was way too long for me, and the only thing I could wear for shoes instead of my usual sneakers was a pair of Brooke's Shoes of Insane Discomfort that are also three sizes too small. So it's not exactly my fault that when I got up to head to the bathroom to wash the chicken off my dress, I ended up tripping into a table.
And it's definitely not my fault that the table I ended up tripping and falling into and slightly tipping over had lit candles on it, because apparently there were no fucking light bulbs in the middle ages either. Or fire extinguishers, for that matter.
And it's really, REALLY not my fault that everyone else was also wearing some version or another of velvet drapes. And that when they panicked after their costumes caught on fire, they'd tip over more tables with more candles.
On the plus side, only one horse died in the fire, and he was really old and the restaurant was trying to think of a way to give him a graceful exit anyways. So said the knight who carried me out of the burning wreckage and then asked me out on a date.
But the worst part of all of this is, now Alex is remembering to charge me for my tall mochas with extra whipped cream. Fuck.
* TOTALLY his real name. I just think it's cool to put those little stars after someone's name.
Anyways, I'm ordering my usual cheese plate/roast beef sandwich/fruit cup/chocolate muffin/tall mocha with extra whipped cream mid-afternoon snack, and Alex as usual has it ready to go when I walk in, although lately he's been handing it to me in a trash bag, something about how he doesn't want to get in trouble with "upper-management." Whatever the hell that means.
As he's handing me my tall mocha with extra whipped cream and my garbage bag of food, our eyes kind of lock and he does this little cute grin thing that makes my heart skip a beat, although it might have just been the anticipatory rush my heart gets when it sees caffeine. At any rate, as I smile back, just thinking about all that whipped cream clogging my arteries, he says, "Do you like to eat with your bare hands?" and I swear to God, in that second, it was like Alex was put on this earth just so I could be insanely attracted to him for like four minutes.
In my utter glee to have someone besides me who thinks utensils are totally pointless, I excitedly slosh some of my tall mocha with extra whipped cream on a passing customer, and amidst the confusion Alex takes the opportunity to ask my dress size. I assume it's just his way of hitting on me more.
Alex then explains that he'd like to take me to this special place that's a little like dinner theater, but with no utensils and horses and stuff. I didn't really get the full story because the person next to me was whining about being burnt with coffee but Alex told me he'd make sure I was wearing something special when he came by on Tuesday night to pick me up, because apparently this is a fancy place. With horses. And no utensils. Could such awesomness truly exist in a world?
And even though Brooke warned me not to do this anymore, I accepted the date and gave him my phone number and address. And then I waited as Alex made me another drink, to make up for the one I sloshed.
So Tuesday rolls around and Brooke's all pissed because yet another guy knows where we live, not like it's a big deal because we both know Alex, or rather, Alex knows us. When he showed up, it was actually kind of cute, he brought me a tall mocha with extra whipped cream, and a one shot, caramel sauce on top and bottom, no whipped cream, light on the ice, with 7 1/2 pumps of peppermint syrup Vente iced Mocha for Brooke, just the way she likes it. She was won over instantly.
Then he presented my dress.
Apparently, when he'd wanted to know my dress size, it was because somewhere out in the universe was a forest green, corseted peasant dress that looked a bedazzler machine had thrown up on it. It even had the puffy sleeve thing going on, which kind of made me think of Brian Boitano's outfits when he played the elf in the Snoopy Ice Christmas Special that my mom used to play on the VCR when I was little while she was drinking.
So I'm kind of looking doubtfully at it and Brooke looks over at me to check my reaction, because I thought what I was wearing (jeans and a clean t-shirt with mostly clean socks) was more than enough effort for a fancy dinner with no utensils and horses.
And Alex kind of presents it to me in a way that makes me think he's really proud of it, which is about the time a horrible thought occurs to me.
"Alan," I say, because he's not wearing his name badge, "did you MAKE this?"
And he's all, "Of course. I spent all weekend making it just for you."
And Brooke and I just look at each other. And I grab the goddamn puffy Brian Boitano dress and head into the bathroom to change.
Two hours later:
I have never seen so much chicken in my life. And it's all over my fingers! And my face! And since it's supposed to be during the middle ages, I don't have a napkin any more than I have utensils, but I DO have a peasant dress. I try to hide the chicken parts that I wipe off my fingers in between the intricate beading on my corset.
Three hours later:
Okay. This was totally not my fault.
Alex is a swell guy, yes, and he's one hell of a coffee maker or whatever the hell that term is (banister? bar code? burrito? Whatever) but a dress maker he is NOT. As evidenced by the fact that my dress was way too long for me, and the only thing I could wear for shoes instead of my usual sneakers was a pair of Brooke's Shoes of Insane Discomfort that are also three sizes too small. So it's not exactly my fault that when I got up to head to the bathroom to wash the chicken off my dress, I ended up tripping into a table.
And it's definitely not my fault that the table I ended up tripping and falling into and slightly tipping over had lit candles on it, because apparently there were no fucking light bulbs in the middle ages either. Or fire extinguishers, for that matter.
And it's really, REALLY not my fault that everyone else was also wearing some version or another of velvet drapes. And that when they panicked after their costumes caught on fire, they'd tip over more tables with more candles.
On the plus side, only one horse died in the fire, and he was really old and the restaurant was trying to think of a way to give him a graceful exit anyways. So said the knight who carried me out of the burning wreckage and then asked me out on a date.
But the worst part of all of this is, now Alex is remembering to charge me for my tall mochas with extra whipped cream. Fuck.
* TOTALLY his real name. I just think it's cool to put those little stars after someone's name.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Drawing the line somewhere
...this is the last time I wear medieval garb on a date. I'm not fucking kidding.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Brooke's gonna kill me, but...
eating her secret stash of Milano cookies (hidden in her ugg boots, of course) is totally gonna be worth it.
no, seriously...
Screw it. So I just started this blog mostly to humor my best friend, roommate, and occasional nemesis Brooke, who somehow convinced me last night that in order to get my dating life (and thus most of my actual life, does everyone else date a lot just to get free food?!) more manageable I should be all blog-like about it and it would make everything better. Only here I am totally bored out of my mind and wishing there was better reality television to watch. Maybe if I just turn on the television, and I'm really, really lucky, it will be one of those shows where people get kicked in the balls a lot. And then I'll find some cheese doodles to eat while watching it.
Anyways. Brooke said she's going to check up on me and everything, sort of like that counselor at camp did the entire summer after I did that one thing to the kid who wore headgear. Which reminds me, SAW IV totally owes me money for stealing that idea from me.
So I'm supposed to write about the guys I'm going on dates with and the guys I'm NOT going on dates with (read: all the freaks that ask me out, it's like this city is a goddamn MAGNET for them, or maybe I'M the magnet? Wait, deep thought, must resist...) and then you, the reader who is probably reading this when you're supposed to be doing something productive at work, gets to hear all about it and comfort yourself that at least it wasn't you who dated that one guy who had his jaw wired shut. Now, in his defense, it was because of a car accident, but it made the goodnight kiss super inappropriate.
Also, on a totally unrelated note, the guy that kept asking me out repeatedly from, like, seventh grade to oh, I don't know, a couple days ago (so WEIRD that he was at the same car mechanic's shop, especially when he asked me for a ride home after he told me he didn't have a car) just moved into the apartment across the courtyard. Is this a small world or what?!
Anyways. Brooke said she's going to check up on me and everything, sort of like that counselor at camp did the entire summer after I did that one thing to the kid who wore headgear. Which reminds me, SAW IV totally owes me money for stealing that idea from me.
So I'm supposed to write about the guys I'm going on dates with and the guys I'm NOT going on dates with (read: all the freaks that ask me out, it's like this city is a goddamn MAGNET for them, or maybe I'M the magnet? Wait, deep thought, must resist...) and then you, the reader who is probably reading this when you're supposed to be doing something productive at work, gets to hear all about it and comfort yourself that at least it wasn't you who dated that one guy who had his jaw wired shut. Now, in his defense, it was because of a car accident, but it made the goodnight kiss super inappropriate.
Also, on a totally unrelated note, the guy that kept asking me out repeatedly from, like, seventh grade to oh, I don't know, a couple days ago (so WEIRD that he was at the same car mechanic's shop, especially when he asked me for a ride home after he told me he didn't have a car) just moved into the apartment across the courtyard. Is this a small world or what?!
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