...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.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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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