Boys are gross

Ok so I know that the kiss of death for blogs is infrequent postings... so, sorry loyal followers. Maybe Jacqui has stories of her exciting dating life in NYC she can regale us with? Also, it's hard to post consistent stories of your dating life that are funny, yet tinged with bitterness when you are getting laid... Also, it's summer. You know how it is.

First, an update: So I Facebook friended that guy I was in love with last year who fled my apartment. He accepted my request and now I can cyber stalk him whenever I want. However, reminding him of my existence did not cause him to fall madly in love with me and come crawling back. Weird. Not at all what I expected...

On to the real post: This is actually more of a rant and I'm hoping someone can shed some light on this phenomenon and offer theories on why it happens. It can be both a red flag and a deal breaker. I call it "Boys are disgusting and they have the squalorific living conditions to prove it."

So, I dated this guy once who was really gross.* The first clue was the first time I went over to his apartment and it was in a state of disarray. But I figured since he was in the process of moving, I would cut him some slack. The second clue was when I told a work friend who I was dating, and before she could censor herself, she involuntarily gasped and blurted out, "He's a slob!" The third clue was when I went to his house and the bathroom smelled like a port-a-potty. The fourth (and what should have been final) clue was the first night I stayed over at his house, his bed was dirty. Like sandy. Like there was beach sand in his bed. Like someone dumped a shoe full of beach sand in his bed. Truth. (I mean, if you know that a girl you are dating is likely to stay the night for the first time, and you are presumably going to be having sex in your bed, which you must be aware is full of sand since you sleep in it, and I think this would be a situation you could spot coming from at least a couple of hours away since you were probably the one who did the inviting her over, CHANGE YOUR FUCKING SHEETS in preparation for your night together.) Also, there was mold in his shower. Oh, and he had mice.**

So he moved into his boss's house because his boss was taking his whole family to Alaska for the winter and wanted someone to house sit. After a few months, this place was so trashed, it would have been unrecognizable to the boss. It's like a college frat house. The floors are sticky and there are flies and an unpleasant smell emanating from the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. There are glasses scattered about, half-full of an unidentifiable liquid. This is how you treat a place that's not even yours? And this wasn't a house full of boys living there. There was just one.

I figure if we are going to be hanging out at his house, (he did have a TV, after all) I'm going to need to give it a good once-over so I don't have to feel the need to shower immediately after I leave the place. So I go home and gather up all my cleaning supplies. Then I go to the drug store and buy one of those masks that people use for painting or working with toxic chemicals. Not kidding.

So I get to his house all ready to get down to business and clean the shit out of that place. I ask him where the vacuum is. He says he doesn't know. I'm sorry, what? He had been living there for three months at this point. And he had never seen the need to vacuum? And showing him where it was kept was apparently deemed unimportant in the instructions/grand tour from the homeowners.

Whatever. I move on to the bathroom. After scrubbing for 30 minutes, that bathroom is fucking spotless. I come out, and the boyfriend says, "Hey, did you notice the bathroom kinda smelled like urine?" I'm sorry, what? All this time I had assumed that he had some kind of nasal medical condition that prevented him from noticing that his bathroom smelled like urine, because why would a grown-up knowingly let his bathroom go on smelling like urine if they were aware of it, especially if their own inaccurate aim was probably the cause of said urine smell?

This was simply too much for me. It hurt my brain. I left. But I also left behind the cleaning supplies, as a gesture of goodwill.

So, with the guy I am dating now, I am having flashbacks to that first dirty boyfriend. He's 33 years old and doesn't own a vacuum. And half of his apartment is carpet so it's not like he can sweep. And he's lived there for a year and a half. He says he borrows one when he needs to vacuum, but I can pretty much guarantee that floor has not seen a vacuum in 18 months. Also, (boys take note! write this down!) when your toilet and sink start getting that bright pinkish, orangish mold around the edges, (you know what I'm talking about) it's time to bust out the fucking Soft Scrub.

*Let me just say that I have pretty low standards when it comes to housekeeping. There are often dog fur tumble weeds rolling around the hallways before I will pick up a vacuum. Former roommates can attest to my disregard for neatness. Sometimes my bedroom floor is not visible because of all the clothes in various stages of dirty on the floor. About a week after I moved in with the only boyfriend I have ever lived with, we had dinner with my parents. My dad turned to my boyfriend and said, "So, how do you like living with a slob?" The point is: My standards are so low that to not be able to meet them puts you on a whole 'nother level of disgusting.

**In his defense, everyone had mice. It was a really bad (or good?) year for mice in the ADKs.

This is what it's supposed to look like

So for all you women out there trying to wade through and make sense of the confusing does-he-like-me-are-we-dating-or-just-friends quagmire, I have your answer.

Here's what it's supposed to look like: So I met this guy on Match.com and on the third email he quit beating around the bush and asked me out. (Note to internet daters: I do not need another excuse to dick around and waste time online. This website is to facilitate meeting people in REAL LIFE. I don't need cyber boyfriends. So either ask me the fuck out already or stop emailing me twice a day with your ridiculous small talk and emoticons. Thank you.) We went out for tacos and margaritas. Everything went swimmingly (as far as I was concerned), we had great conversation, had a lot in common and I didn't get too drunk, confess wildly inappropriate stories for a first date or do anything else to horribly embarrass myself.

As he WALKED ME TO MY CAR, (get ready, this part is key) BEFORE THE DATE WAS OFFICIALLY OVER, he ASKED IF I WANTED TO HANG OUT AGAIN. I said yes. Then we hugged and he said he would call me. He texted two days later and said he would be busy studying for finals for the next few days but that he had fun with me and wanted to hang out again.

I texted him after his finals to ask how they went and he IMMEDIATELY CALLED ME and asked what I was doing that night. We ended up meeting for drinks that very night. Then, he walked me to my car again and KISSED ME GOODNIGHT. (As an aside: what the kiss symbolized was way more important than the actual kiss. The actual kiss was clumsy because he was wearing a hat and I was wearing spectacles so we had to maneuver around facial obstacles. Also, it was raining, we were standing in the middle of the road and almost got hit by a car. But that's not the point. The kiss moves our relationship from two strangers, who met on the internets, hanging out in a bar, to hey, I might be romantically interested and might think about dating you.) Translation: I think you are cool/attractive enough to want to hang out with again and the thought of maybe possibly getting naked with you sometime in the near future does not make me recoil in horror.

You know what DOESN'T say that? Fleeing my apartment like it's on fire with barely a goodbye and a one-armed hug with a bike between you. Also, rationing sex doesn't say that (more on that later.)

Then, he TEXTED ME THE NEXT DAY and said he had fun again. He said he wanted to hang out again and that he would call me soon.

Now, I have no reason to believe this will end in anything less than a spectacular implosion like so many other dating scenarios that have become the fodder for this blog. And I'm not even sure yet if I really like him. But I don't even care. Even if I never hear from him again, I will be OVERJOYED that this has at least gotten as far as it has and that this guy seems to GET all of the little social cues and nuances of dating and what you are SUPPOSED to do if you might like someone. He's playing by the rules. He's predictable. He makes sense. He does not leave me scratching my head and cursing the confusing boy behavior. I know where I stand after only two dates.

And THAT is what it's supposed to look like. Write that down.

Jose Cuervo, You Are A Friend Of Mine ...

I realized something today.

The difference between my emotional IQ now, at the age of 29, and 22 year-old me is merely that I am now fully cognizant of how delusional I am. This is a revolting development really. The painful part of going crazy is the part where you feel yourself slipping away, or so I'm told. Once you are crazy I hear it's pretty cool. Velcro shoes and crazy straws for everyone!

I am currently in New York, interviewing, visiting friends, and most importantly making poor decisions in my love life. My bad relationship choices are now officially bi-coastal. The realization that I really hadn't evolved much with age washed over me last night as I caught myself in a bold faced lie. A lie that many many many women have told before and many many many more will tell in the future. I looked directly into the big brown puppy eyes of the phone sexer and said "I'm not looking for a relationship either! Just fun is great for me!"

This phrase went through the rube Goldberg device that resides in the part of my brain where emotional/relationship intelligence is supposed to be stored and popped out the standard reasoning for this lie, "He says that, but look how he's looking at me. he'll change his mind. just give it time" I just can't seem to resist the emotionally unavailable. I feel like Odysseus trying to resist the Sirens song. I'm pretty sure I cannot do it alone. I am going to need someone to tie me to a metaphorical mast or whatever so I stop crashing my vagina into all these dead end men.

A few observations about why I might find these men so appealing that I have sorted out in my musings today.

First, for whatever reason, they all seem to be excellent in bed. My ex and the phone sexer are about as self-centered as they come. They orbit themselves. Yet, I have never come across two more INCREDIBLY giving men in the bedroom. Truly, what they do should be studied and comprehensive pamphlets should be handed out to descent kind-hearted men everywhere. In my personal research, the good guys just don't throw you around the surfaces of the apartment like that as often. I suppose I could ask that of the nice guy, but that seems awkward. "Umm, I was just thinking, how about you throw me up against the window of your high rise and pull my hair in front of god and all of Wall St, you know, for a change...of pace" SEE! It just doesn't sound as classy when you have to spell it all out. I prefer to have my castle stormed.

Number Two: I think there is a good bit of Groucho Marx in me. I don't want to be a part of any relationship that would willingly have me as a component. If I have to beat you into submission, then I can be reasonable sure that you have seen my crazy parts. Like the part of me that likes to wake up ultra early after a long night and eat 16 Eggo waffles in bed while discussing current events, for example. I figure, a rational person should pump the breaks a time or seven when they witness my neurosis in all its glory. If you can't wait to be a part of it? Well I find you suspect.

Number Three: My mother. Enough said there. I can't pin point it exactly, but I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that she is at least partially responsible for this. When in doubt, assume it's something your mother did.

That's it for now. I am going downtown and have some tequila. That feels like the right thing to do. I can't wait until I am full crazy, like Britney circa the head shaving. In relationships, as in fast food calorie count, ignorance is truly better. Sigh.

Life In The Weird Lane

"Hey Man, are you available next weekend? I want to serenade Danielle again."

That is apparently a real sentence said by a real man who lives right here in the United States of America. My co-worker told me that he was asked to be a part of a makeshift barbershop quartette put together by his buddy to serenade his wife. So many thoughts swirled around my head once I stopped laughing so hard I was momentarily blind. First, this is a level of sticky sweet hokeyness I would never wish to be a part of. Overtures made via jumbo tron, people springing from cakes, men stripping to a group of squealing girls, sky writing, and awkward friend serenades all fall somewhere just above drugless root canal on my list of leisure activities. Secondly, I want to meet this man's wife. I can't seem to get a second date, she is pulling down repeat serenades. I will bring my steno book and see what I can't glean from observing her operations. Off the top of my head? I suspect she might be skilled in the powers of hypnosis or do-it-yourself frontal lobotomies.

This story reminded me of the only time in my relationship history that I have been publicly recognized (humiliated) by my significant other. It is now referred to only as "The Poetry Slam". A day that will live in relationship infamy.

It started innocently enough. ( I always say that. Note: Get new Lead in.) We had just moved into our new apartment are were hosting all our local friends to warm the place as you do. A lot of booze, a little BBQ, lots of people crammed into a small space we didn't own, the usual. Then it happened. Most of this next part was told to me by my friends who watched in horror as I drank white wine directly from the jug in the kitchen.

My Ex, who shall remain nameless, let's call him, Narcissus, gathered everyone around for some kind of announcement. Some people later told me they thought he was going to propose. No, no, not a proposal. Instead he proceeded to read a 12 page book of poetry he wrote when he was in High School. Now, not everyone had come inside for the first announcement, but once poetry was promised the husband of my good friend from college ran outside and announced "GUYS! he's going to read poetry, GET IN HERE" With friends like that, who needs enemies? Anyway, clearly the old friends knew it wasn't a proposal. I can't blame them for wanting to witness the inevitable humiliation. No one goes to Nascar to watch left turns all day, they come for the potential fiery crash. This was a guaranteed car crash, an impromptu stop on the Whitney Houston revival tour or Sarah Palin campaign speech. Good Stuff, Cheap.

He recited poems on such subjects as Dutch Babies (a fattening breakfast item apparently), his favorite hometown breakfast locale "OId South", and, my personal favorite, his high school sweetheart. After the one about his high school love, I heard a collective "Awww" come over the crowd. I peaked my head out just enough to shake my head and say "Not me" then returned to my jug. Some one of my sweet girlfriends tried to defend me and asked why on earth he would be compelled to read a poem he had written about another girl at our housewarming. A valid point, and I do appreciate her attempt to come to my defense. Yet, alas, she unwittingly made it worse. His brow furrowed almost audibly and he said "I'll be right back" and shut himself into our bedroom. I wish this night had continued to follow the teen horror movie arch and he had been carried away by an ax murderer after this declaration. No such luck. He emerged ten minutes later with an uninspired ode to me that he read to the group. I was so flustered that I dropped the jug, shattering it and spilling the remaining contents all over the kitchen floor. A silence fell over the place. Cricketeers. A couple people got up to help me slop up the wine. I overheard my friend Sarah soberly mutter "Wow, Jacqui is a really good girlfriend. I never knew." That story still comes up a minimum of twice monthly. Frankly, I wish more people had been there. Hindsight, it's one of the funnier moments of my life.

Sometimes I think maybe I'd like to meet someone "normal". But who am I kidding? Normal isn't my color of wonderful. I love a good story.

To friend or not to friend?

So I found this guy I had/have a major crush on on Facebook. Yeah, I searched for him. I'm an internet stalker. Last I knew he was all anti, but I knew it was only a matter of time before Facebook drew him in because, after all, it's taking over the world. The question is: do I friend him or not?

Friending someone seems innocuous enough. I mean some people have like 5,000 friends. Some people have "friends" they have never even met in real life. But I'm getting conflicting advice on this one. I mostly want to friend him because I want to scour his pictures and try and figure out if he's dating anyone. And also because I'm hoping reminding him of my existence will remind him of how cool I am and that he's madly in love with me. And then we will live happily ever after. Or I will just reveal that I'm a creepy internet stalker. Not that I'm above that. I don't mind being labeled.

So... here's the deal with this guy: I went to the bar with my two married friends (a couple, hetero) and there was this guy in a yellow shirt who was hot like whoa sitting behind me. You should talk to him, my friend says. And I was all, no, he's sitting alone at a two-top, clearly waiting for his date, I'm not talking to him. And then the weirdest thing happened: HE started talking to US. Turns out he vaguely knew my friends through other mutual friends and he recognized them. That was my in.

Just after I had downed the last of my second beer and was feeling way too confident and ready to get my flirt on, his friends arrived and he moved to a bigger table. So, buoyed by three I.P.A.s, I pulled about the ballsiest move I've ever tried. As we were leaving, I walked over to his table where he was sitting with about six of his friends, said something to the effect of I had enjoyed meeting him and wished we could have had the opportunity to talk more and slipped him my number.

And then I reverted to a giddy 13-year-old as I fought the urge to look over my shoulder as I ran away. We actually had to drive right by him sitting outside and we got stopped at a light right next to his table. I ducked down in the back seat and said to my friends, "Ishelooking?Ishelooking?Ishelooking?Ishelooking? And then I tried to will the light to turn green. Didn't work.

The whole fun of that stunt was pulling it off and feeling like a rock star. I never expected him to actually call me. But he did. We hung out four times. We mostly rode our bikes around the city and got drunk. He thought I was really funny and told me so. See, drunk me is a real interesting gal. Sober me, it's hit or miss. So I had to make sure alcohol was involved every time we hung out so I could keep playing comedian. This was a lot of pressure that lead to hungover days at work, mystery bruises and broken bike parts.

But we got along really well and he kept asking me to hang out/and/or returning my phone calls and agreeing to hang out with me again. We had great conversations. (At least I think we did, the parts that aren't hazy.) I was basically in lurve.

On the last "date" he left his bike in my apartment and we walked to the bar. You can see where this is going. Or at least I did. Or thought I did. He would have to come inside to retrieve his bike and I would convince him to just ride it home in the morning. We were totally going to make out. At least.

Except that when we got back to my place he grabbed his bike, hoisted it over his shoulder and fled my apartment like the building was on fire. He didn't even take the time to buckle his helmet. He gave me the cursory, one-armed, obligatory hug, with his bike BETWEEN us, (yes, he actually placed a physical barrier between us so he wouldn't have to touch me too much) as he mumbled something vague about hanging out again. He then jumped down six stairs and knocked over plants and lamps in his haste to get away from me. He made a him-shaped hole in the wall as he ran through it, you know, like on cartoons. He did NOT want to make out.

I discussed this scenario with my friends and we all came up with the same obvious, undeniable conclusion: he had explosive diarrhea and had to get home quick. It's called the Theory of Occam's Razor: the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

After that I didn't hear from him for a few days, and not known for my patience, I decided to force the issue. I texted and asked if he had a good time the other night because he left in kind of a hurry (understatement of the year). He replied something totally cryptic and said he was in a weird place right now and asked if I wanted to get together so he could explain it all. (Translation: (ex)girlfriend's got me by the balls.) Since I saw no reason to meet up so he could reject me in person (over text message will do just fine, thank you) and tell me whatever head-casey sob story (because he was a faux-sensitive, hipster guy) about why he couldn't date me, and since I do not play armchair psychologist to that bullshit (I have enough neuroses of my own to keep myself occupied, thanks) I politely declined, said I had had a lot of fun with him and if he ever wanted to hang out again, he had my number. Clearly, he must have fallen off the face of the earth because I never heard from him ever again.

Until nine months later when I Facebook stalked him. So the question remains: Do I friend him or not?

Relish, part II

Except that I did. Hear from him again. And before I knew it, we were dating. Well, having sex at least. And I still was not sure if I liked him or not. He was kind of boring and straight edge and a conformist. Suburban. Vanilla. Underwhelming. Yawn.

But turns out he had one redeeming quality: He was the best sex I've ever had in my life. Honestly, I had low expectations for him, but dude has got moves. It was like I didn't even have to tell him what to do, he just KNEW. It was like he read my mind. It was the kind of sex you have only with someone that you've been with for a long time and you know each other really well and know exactly what the other person likes.

I had suspected that this (the best sex) might be the case for a while. But I was skeptical. At first I thought it might be due to the fact that I had been celibate (not for lack of trying) for nearly a year and I had actually just forgotten what sex was like. So I thought perhaps my standards had been lowered and I withheld judgement for the moment. But after giving him several tries, they were all fantastic and I had to conclude that Relish was awesome in bed. I wanted to meet his ex just to shake her fucking hand.

But then the sex, it went to my head. Do you have any idea what a year-long dry spell does to a person? Especially when the last boy in your bed turned out to be (surprise!) a virgin? And then you accidentally stumble upon what is apparently God's gift to women cleverly disguised in a dorky exterior? That does some crazy shit to your head. I got greedy.

I began Facebook stalking him and wondering who every woman was that posted on his wall. Were they too getting to experience his magic penis? Were they in on his secret? One day he cancelled plans with me because he crashed his bike and was sore. He sent me a pic of his road rash. My mind raced. Obviously it wasn't really a picture of him. It was a photo of someone else's road rash and he was just trying to invent an excuse to blow me off. (In my defense, can't help being skeptical, I'm a journalist. I assume everyone is lying. You know the saying: If your mother says she loves you, check it out.) This was getting out of hand. I was getting paranoid. (I realize that revealing the inner workings of my brain does little to dispel the myth of the psycho girl. Noted.)

Now comes the real problem. Relish tagged along with me for Thanksgiving with my friends. All through the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the pumpkin pie, the Trivial Pursuit (will this game never end?!) my brain was consumed with thoughts of the awesome sex we were going to have later. After we (finally!) got back to my house, he declined to come inside, saying he had to work in the morning and drove home instead. This was also the only time in months that neither of my roommates were home and possibly the only time that this would happen for the foreseeable future. He left me sexually frustrated. Talk about a missed opportunity...

That weekend we went skiing and had sex and it was great. But then he did it again.

He came over on a weeknight to hang out. We watched a movie in my room. On my bed. And by watched a movie I mean I looked at my watch repeatedly and wondered when the damn movie would be over so we could get to the sex already. It was all I could think about it. But the second the credits rolled, he jumped up. And he left. It was only 9 p.m. No sex. Not even any making out. Played the ol' gotta get up early card. Again. And he was about to leave to go out of town for two weeks.

Does anyone see what was happening here?! HE WAS RATIONING THE SEX. When a guy says they gotta get up early, translation: I'm just not that into you. Everyone knows that one. But maybe he WAS having sex with other people and he was just spreading himself a little thin? In any case, he had flipped the traditional gender power dynamic and HE was denying ME.

This would not do...

Email Killed the Sexting Star, Amongst Other Things...

I would like to take a moment to discuss what I believe is the worst thing to happen to single women this decade other than the rising acceptance of wearing tights as pants. (All I'm saying ladies, is cover all of both buns and let there be no chance the outline of your vagina might show. It's simple.) I'm referring to text messaging. You know what? Fuck it. I mean all of it, email, facebook, twitter, google, and yes, blogs.
My recent life has been affected far more than I would like by the all mighty power of instantaneous information. There was a time when we were all forced to wonder a little bit. There was a time when I met a guy, gave him my number, and got a blissful couple days or even a week of wondering when/if he would call, what's his story, what turns his cranks. Unfortunately, I was thirteen during this brief blissful period and I have spent the bulk of my adult dating experiences thereafter staring at an ever increasing number of devices waiting for one type of cryptic message or another. I fill that initial time after meeting someone new with google and facebook searches. Invariably, by the time he calls, I know so much that I have to remember what I learned through unsanctioned internet stalking so I don't let it leak out in conversation before I should technically know it. Upon examination, this is disturbing.
Last Sunday night, while I was in the process of sleeping off that mean hangover?
My ex-boyfriend invaded my bedroom via text message. He said only "I hope you are well ". That might seem benign if you don't know me. But it's not. We broke up just over two years ago. It was the end of a relationship that lasted off and on five years. It was doomed from the start and everyone involved knew it except me. Anyway, the details are for another day. For the purposes of this post, suffice it to say, he left me. It was a rough break up and I went through a couple misguided periods of attempted friendship. Of course, we had sex during these periods. You know, cause that's very friendly, the friendliest even. He took care of my cat (which was once our cat) this past Thanksgiving. When I came back, I felt that something had shifted. I asked him if he was seeing someone. He casually replied "yes, just since last week". Timing seemed convenient there. Not to worry though, he told her we were still friends and she was cool with it.
Oh FANTASTIC, she is cool with us being friends? No one splained it like that before. Is she also cool that we had sex last week? That seems less likely. In that moment, I made a decision. That was it. I was done. I told him firmly, under no circumstances was he ever to contact me again. I deserved the same chance to move on and he was helping me perpetuate a bad pattern. He said he understood and promised to leave me alone.
His respect for my wishes lasted exactly four months, then he texted me at 1AM. That's his general modus operandi. Wait 3 months or so, then text me when I'm finally content. He has radar for my contentment. It's his gift. He texted again two days later to tell me it would never happen again. The weight of the unintended irony exploded my smart phone.
This intrusion mixed with a half bottle of red wine led me to internet sleuth him a little. He also has a blog. There is some revisionist history about us but mostly it's just a chronicle of the happenings in his life. His girlfriend is beautiful. (Run. Like. Hell. Darlin.) His pizza appears to have landed cheese up. Yet, he still wants to rock my boat every few months. Why, you (me) might wonder? Why not? It's just so easy! A few taps on the iphone keys and he's right here in my bedroom. Instant relief for him, instant crazy internet stalker for me. It burns me that I am forced to have enough will power for two people.
The phone sexter you might say would be the flip side of such technology, the happy, fun, intrusion. Well, email killed the sexting star last week. I emailed him something too racey apparently. What did I say? Well I'll tell you so you don't make the same mistake. "I want to make out with you".
His reply? "I don't know what to say when you say things that."

Really? Really? REALLY? I have nothing further on this. I'm mystified. Apparently, sexting is like Pretty Woman. No kissing on the mouth, too personal. Write that down.
Then there was all my sleuthing of last weekend's fling. I wasted valuable moments of my life checking to see if he tweeted or blogged about our encounter in any identifiable way. You know, the usual. I feel like women, myself included, lament the fact that no one ever "calls" us anymore. Well the fling called, and I saw his name appear on my phone and almost threw it across the room. The other half of someone calling you, is you having something non-crazy to say, or a series of those things even. I think maybe I only pretend to miss the good old days when people actually spoke to each other. In reality, I'm just hoping for the text so I can carefully craft something coquettish and droll to say in response. That's a tough combo to aim for, but with the right amount of time and thought I've achieved it. I swear.

After a very emotional Sunday, I have decided to try something new. I am going to ask for what I want. I came in to work this morning and told the phone sexer (via combo instant message and text message of course) that I was tired of the men in my life reminding me not to expect too much. Time to throw that recording out. It's been skipping far too long. He respected me for being honest about how I felt and I feel much better. The new me is emotionally unfiltered. Life is too short, hug everyone. You're all getting an electronic hug right now, can't stop me, here it goes.... xoxo - Gossip Girl.

(That pop culture reference was shameless and inexcusable but I just couldn't help it.)

Relish, Part I

The story with this guy is going to be a multi-parter. He had a funny name. For argument's sake, let's call him Relish, as in the condiment. You know, green, made from pickles?

So we met online and we hung out three times. I still wasn't really sure if I liked him or not, but you know what helps me determine whether I like someone or not? A good make-out session. They always help with judgement calls. So when he asked me to hang out the fourth time, I was really hoping he would ask me to "watch a movie at his place," which everybody knows is code for making out.

But alas, he didnt suggest that. He didn't have a plan at all. He invited me to his neck of the woods and didn't even have date IDEAS. We ended up walking around town and then we ate salads. And we split the check, he didn't offer to pay. All this is fine, but it's also an indication that this is NOT a date.

We go back to his house and I'm still thinking that I've put in my time and paid my dues by enduring four dates worth of obligatory getting-to-know-you small talk and when are we gonna make out already. In fact, four dates worth of small talk and not making out is overkill. I decide I'm gonna elbow my way into his house and see what happens...

So I'm all standing awkwardly in the driveway waiting to be invited inside, you know, like a vampire, and he gets the hint and is all faux-surprised that I'm lingering creepily, pretending like it never occurred to him I might want in and says, "Oh, do you want to come in or do you have to take off?" I think he felt obligated to invite me in because it was only like 8 p.m., but he didn't really want to. Never one to be so easily deterred by something as silly as the fact that a guy clearly wants me to leave, I say, "Well, I can come in for a few minutes."

So we walk past his downstairs bedroom, and he passes up this opportunity to invite me into it to view his childhood photos/matchbox car collection/Led Zeppelin CD box set/whatever other dumb excuse boys use to lure you into their bedrooms so they can get you into bed. So we go upstairs and drink water and stand around his kitchen in self-conscious silence, while his roommates wander in and out. I'm starting to wonder why he even asked me to hang out tonight.

Even though it's only like 8:30 p.m., he's yawning like crazy so I finally admit defeat, and say I gotta go. I realize that I'm getting neither a free salad nor laid tonight. He walks me to my car, kisses me like I'm his Goddamn grandmother (one kiss, way too polite, no tongue, no ass-grabbing) and he says, "I will call you Sunday."

Uh-huh, sure you will. (In today's dating world, "I will call you" has become a blow-off line. It's akin to letting someone down gently. If someone says they will call you, you can be sure they will NOT call you. It's not a lie. It's code. By telling you they will call you, they are letting you know, as nicely as possible, that they WILL NOT be calling you. Nice seeing you, but no thanks.) And keep in mind we had previously discussed hanging out Sunday night. He did not ask to see me Sunday night or try to make plans right then and there, even though he knew I was free, but instead said he would call me.

By the fourth date, shouldn't a guy be trying to get you into bed? That would be the respectable thing to do. So I leave annoyed that I showered for this and 100 percent certain this guy is NOT into me and that I will NOT be hearing from him Sunday, or any other day...

The Myth of the Psycho Girl

OK. So. I'm sick of how women are constantly characterized as controlling, ball-busting, angry, bitter bitches. And men are fun-loving, laid back free spirits. Wheee! Men are allowed to dick around during their 20s and 30s (that's like two decades!) abusing substances, living out of vans, hooking up but avoiding real relationships (or any kind of responsibility), "finding themselves" and having adventures (but not real jobs), in a state of perpetual adolescence. I read a really interesting article a few weeks ago in Salon about this perpetual adolescence thing. This is not only expected of them, it's encouraged and glorified in popular culture (Wedding Crashers, Knocked Up, The Hangover). And if women occasionally get fed up with their childish antics, it's us who are the psychos.

Well I have a hypothesis. It's called: There's No Such Thing as the Psycho (Ex)Girl(friend), There are Only Asshole Guys. And yes, I stick by my hypothesis title at the risk of sounding angry and bitter...

Example #1: So my ex's best friend, J, was in town this weekend. He called me to see if he could stay at my house and if I could bring him to the airport (this is the story he told me) because the couple (his friend M and his fiance) he was supposed to be staying with got into a huge fight and he had to leave their house. Here's what I found out really happened: J's flight got in at midnight and his couple friends dutifully went to pick him up. The next morning, itching to get snowboarding early, J grew impatient when the fiance had to be dropped off at work at 9 a.m., thereby delaying his departure to the mountains. So a fight and angry e-mail exchanges ensued between the fiance and J, at the end of which bridges were burned, J had nowhere to stay and was probably out (at least) one friendship.

He blamed the whole thing on M's fiance. He said M had a habit of going out with girls who were controlling, bitchy and the fun police.

But here's the thing: J is a freeloader. I know this because he lived on my and my ex's futon for weeks at a time. I like him a lot, but even I used to get annoyed with him. He's a really nice, happy-go-lucky kind of guy, but you care less about that stuff when his snoring is keeping you awake at night and he's breaking your kitchen appliances.

The point is this: The fight was NOT all the fiance's fault and if J wanted to stay friends with M, he should have at least made an effort to be nice to the girl he's with. The real problem here is J's unwillingness to realize that M is one of the few men who has succeeded in graduating from his perpetual adolescence and is now a grown-up with a real job and is engaged to be married. But in this scenario, his fiance becomes the manipulative succubus who won't "let" M hang out with J. Controlling, psycho girlfriend is the story J will tell when people ask what the shit happened. I've never even met this girl, but I'm already on her side.

Example #2: A friend of mine (who is 30) asked this girl (who is 21) to be his date at a wedding because she's "really fun." (As an aside, not only is this girl 21, she also has a tiny tattoo of a mustache on the side of her index finger, or maybe it's her middle finger, I can't remember, which makes for A LOT of mustache ride jokes and photo ops, and makes her really popular with the guys. She sticks her finger under people's noses and everyone laughs. It's like her party trick. I can't decide if it's really cool or really fucking retarded.) But he didn't really like her. So they go to the wedding, have fun, don't have sex (I just made out with her! That's it, I swear!) and several days later my friend asks her for her (hotter) friend's phone number. And she gets pissed. And won't talk to him anymore. And he doesn't get why. She must be a psycho.

If you ask me, he did a poor job of managing her expectations.

I asked him why he 1. was hanging out with 21-year-olds in the first place, 2. would think it's ok to bring one to a wedding if he had no intention of dating her, even if he didn't have sex with her, (purposefully not fucking you is apparently asshole guy code for "I'm just not that into you, make no mistake, we are just friends, even though I invited you to be my date at a wedding and then kissed you").

He said younger girls are more fun because all the girls his own age are angry and bitter and jaded.

Well congratulations, asshole. You have just added another to our ranks. Welcome to our demographic, finger mustache tattoo girl. At this rate, we will achieve world domination earlier than I'd hoped.

The 25-year-old Virgin

So I met this guy at a mutual friend, M's, party and he asked for my number. He actually called me the very next week. He was super hot. Looked like Ethan Embry, you know, Mark from Empire Records? He lived in a town an hour away and volunteered to come take me out to dinner. He was really nice and sweet, brought me a present and everything. So four hours and a lot of drinks later he's back at my apartment and I have tricked him into staying the night instead of driving all the way back home. He used my spare toothbrush and everything.

All the signs are pointing in one direction. The universe is aligning and it looks like things are going to go my way for once. When the realization strikes me, I'm practically giddy and I can't wipe the shit-eating grin off my face: I am going to get laid. I'm sure of it. After a six-month-long dry spell, I've convinced myself this is basically going to be the most awesome sex of my life.

So when, after 20 minutes of naked making out this guy isn't inquiring where I keep the condoms or whipping out one of his own, I start wondering... What's a girl to do in this situation? Do I take charge and just proceed to fuck him? That's not really my style. Do I ask if he wants to do it? What if he says no? Awkward. This is so confusing. This has never happened to me before.

I did none of the above. What I did instead was obsess over why he wasn't trying to have sex with me and wonder what I did to turn him off. I decide maybe we are too drunk for this anyway and propose we go to sleep.

A few days later I asked our mutual friend what the guy's deal was and why he wasn't more aggressive in the bedroom. She replied with a bombshell so horrifying I refused to believe it.

"I think he might be a virgin."

There was no way this kid was a virgin. He's 25. And he lived with his last girlfriend. For like four years. Impossible. Twenty-five-year-old virgins, especially ones with live-in girlfriends, simply don't exist. They are mythical creatures, like unicorms. To still be a virgin at 25 would mean deciding to actively refuse to have sex and that just does not compute.

So to settle the argument, my friend texted her husband, D, who just happened to be with the guy in Las Vegas at a bachelor party. D must have just shouted across the bar to the guy, asking if he was a virgin, because immediately came the reply: "Not a virgin."

Awesome. So the next time I see him, I figure it's all systems go. And by the way, he happened to be going to Asia for the next three months as part of his graduate program, meaning his next date with me could possibly be the last time in the foreseeable future he's getting any action. It's a sure thing.

So we go out again and same deal: dinner, drinks, my house, naked making out. And the same thing happens. He's not making any move to go further. Let me recap that for you: He's naked in bed with a naked girl who is MORE than willing to have sex with him AND he's leaving in three days for Asia, which means the pressure is on as this is probably his last opportunity for some booty (at least on American soil) for the next three months. And still... nothing. So we spoon and go to sleep.

And by go to sleep I mean lay awake for hours, sexually frustrated, contemplating dying my hair, losing 10 lbs and thinking about what I can sell to get enough money to pay for a boob job because I'm clearly unattractive and unfuckable to the opposite sex. This is confounding.

I replay snippets of conversations in my head. Did I offend him somehow? What did I say? Could I actually be hideous and I'm just unaware of my hideousness? Should I have done more giggling and lip biting? If I had a glaring personality flaw, my friends would tell me, right? What's wrong with me?! I wore a short dress for fucksake! Could he be a Jesus freak?

So the next morning he says, "Oh, by the way, so you and M were talking about me the other day," meaning the text question while he was in Vegas asking if he was a virgin. "What were you guys saying about me?"

Uh oh. Busted. I have to downplay that I kissed and told and that we were talking about him behind his back. Its rude. I start backpedaling. And sweating. And blaming my friend. And talking really quickly: "Oh, that silly M, for some reason she said you were a virgin. But don't worry, I didn't believe her. Isn't she so silly? I don't know why she would think that. I told her you definitely were not a virgin but she insisted on asking D anyway..."

Me: Nervous laugher

Him: Silence

Turns out he was a 25-year-old virgin. Huh. Guess they do exist. And I'm an asshole.

I guess I should have suspected something when D said we shouldn't date because I would eat him alive. At the time I was insulted by that comment, but now I think it was more like a warning I didn't heed.

Anyway, I'm not knocking virgins. I'm not saying don't date them. But if you don't know for sure the guy you are dating is a virgin (and what 25-year-old is going to admit to that shit? When you are in the middle of a bachelor party in Las Vegas and your friend asks if you are a virgin, there is only one correct answer. Although if he had said yes, maybe his friends would have pitched in for a hooker and voila! problem solved...) it wreaks havoc with your self-esteem wondering why they aren't trying to have sex with you. And after you find out they are indeed a virgin, it wreaks havoc with your self-esteem wondering why they aren't trying to have sex with you.

So I guess what I'm saying is: Don't date a virgin. It's a deal breaker.

Damning with faint praise and harsh punctuation

*Again, the amazing Jacqui:

Well, that happened.

So I went out with the brave Valentine's Day caller on Tuesday. I had a feeling he was going to be perfect, and I was correct in my assumption. He was smart, kind, polite, witty, and very cute. I say was, because to me he is dead. Turns out he just wasn't that into me.

My friends keep saying, "You don't know that for sure!" "Don't be negative!" "Keep the faith!" "Relax, He might call!" Yeah, see here's the thing: no he won't. Most intelligent people of a certain age can get a pretty clear read on whether or not there will be a second date by the end of the first date. Friends, I love you, but you also know he isn't going to call again, so please don't patronize me. It's my pathetic dating life, I get to be the one in denial if I so choose. You should be the realists telling me to cut bate and fish in someone else's pond. Does that make sense? Probably not. I don't care.

So here is what happened. We work in similar industries so we had a lot to talk about, blah blah blah, wine wine wine, at some point I fell deeply in love with him, then he didn't try to kiss me or ask to see me again. This is puzzling because the conversation was great, he kept ordering more drinks, acting all "interested" in what I had to say. Woof.

It's quite possible that he knew within three minutes of meeting me that he did not want to see me again, or in other words, that he didn't want to see me naked at any point in the future. On the topic of not wanting to see me naked, another thing people have begun saying to comfort me is: "At least he didn't just sleep with you and never call." Hmmm, how to put this delicately.... THAT'S EQUALLY IF NOT MORE OFFENSIVE....to me, at this fragile, umm, moment in my life.

It's also possible that I talk far too much on a first date (at some point the Duke lacrosse players sex scandal came up, I can't exactly say how, but rape is probably not a first date topic. Whoa. That may be the real take away here. Shiver). Anyway, since we have a mutual friend I decided to be an adult and text a quick "Thanks for last night, I had a lot of fun!" I didn't expect any reply, but I did get the following a couple hours later: "Yes. It was a good time."

Now, what I find most interesting/disturbing about this is his use of punctuation. There are only six words, but he used two periods. YIKES. I felt like replying, Jesus, buddy, was it THAT bad? ! Quit yelling at me. Yes PERIOD. That first period sounded like a piece of wet cotton hitting the ground. It actually made a sound when it hit my phone. It is the text equivalent of a handshake and pat on the head.

So, no, methinks I won't be hearing from Mr. Wonderful again. Next date I'm going with a low cut blouse and an excessive amount of lower lip biting.