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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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.
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