Last Friday Night

I recently had a Friday night like that song. You know the one. No, not Rebecca Black. Katy Perry. "There's a stranger in my bed. There's a pounding in my head. I smell like a mini-bar. Think the city towed my car." And so on and so forth...

It started out innocently enough. This guy, let's call him A, asked me to meet him for a drink. Well, one drink turned into 17. We were downing shit I hadn't ever expected to drink again after high school: whiskey and cokes, Long Island iced teas, Irish car bombs. It was out of control. I think our bar tab was like $90. At some point I realize neither of us is in any condition to drive. But I still want to get him to come home with me. So I start texting my friend and harassing her to come hang out with us. I figure she can give us a ride, or at least help me brainstorm a way to get him back to my lair.

So she arrives and is pretty instantly fed up with our drunken shenanigans. Turns out we weren't nearly as funny as we thought we were to sober people. So while A is in the bathroom, my friend whispers to me that when he gets back, she's going to announce she's bringing me home and that if he would also like a ride to my house, then jump on in. Brilliant. And he totally fell for it.

So she drops us off at my house and I realize I've forgotten my keys. No big deal, there is a spare one hidden in the garden. Except that while I'm stumbling through the backyard, knocking over garden gnomes and stepping on tomato plants, my dog is inside barking his head off. (I had always wondered if my dog would react to an intruder in our yard, so this came as something of a relief and a welcome surprise. For a second.) Then I realized he was going to wake up my roommate and I would be caught bringing a boy home. In the year I had lived there, no one had ever brought a random home. I was about to be busted as the house slut.

As I'm turning over stones in the garden trying to remember where the key is hidden while simultaneously trying to get the dog to shut up by yelling "It's me, you fucking idiot!" A decides this would be an opportune time to pee in our raspberry bushes. "What are you doing?! We have toilets inside!" I yelled just as my roommate opened the back door to see what the shit was going on. She said later that she was confused to see a burglar in the backyard start waving and walking toward her. We stood there awkwardly in the kitchen, with me not introducing anyone. I apologized profusely, grabbed A and ran to my room.

Skip over the good parts...

The next day, feeling like a total asshole, I apologized some more to my roommate for waking her up. Then I started to tell her the story of how I met this guy and the crazy night I had. "Wait," she said. "You mean that guy last night? That wasn't S?"

S was the last guy I dated. We had stopped dating, oh, about 24 hours before I had started dating A. Not overlap exactly, but... pretty close. In her sleepy confusion in the dark, my roommate had mistaken the new guy for the old guy. In a momentary panic, I racked my brain, trying to remember if she had addressed A as S the night before. I couldn't be sure, but I didn't think so. Whew. That was close.

The Manimal

Somehow I always knew this one would end up as a blog post... So I started dating this guy, the manimal. The manimal was a term he came up with to poke fun at himself for being so hairy. He was hairy from head to toe, but he had the worst back hair I have ever seen on a human being. It was like head hair, but on his back. Remember Austin Powers? Now double it. He called it a full-body sweater. I know that sounds exaggerated, but just suspend your disbelief and go with it. It was true. Sadly, ironically, the poor guy was going bald. That has got to be frustrating when you have full, luscious locks everywhere but where you want them. I empathized with him and imagined it must be like when you gain weight and none of it goes to your boobs...

So anyway, the back hair was not really a problem for me because I like my men manly. We even went swimming in a city pool and I allowed myself to be seen in public with him without his shirt on. And although I'm not sure any of it actually penetrated through that forest and made contact with his skin, I put sunblock on his back. Plus, he had an awesome beard and I figured it was a trade-off for the back.

The problem was that the manimal was a child. A 33-year-old child. And I think he might have been dumb. Either that or all the years of drug/alcohol use had whittled his functioning brain cells down to four.

The first indication that he may not have exactly been on my (or anyone over the age of 10) intellectual playing field was when he started complaining that a salty salad at lunch had hurt the roof of his mouth. As a person who puts salt on everything, including salads, and probably eats three days worth of their recommended daily allowance of sodium in one sitting, and NEVER had it cut up the roof of their mouth, this statement was beyond ridiculous. I told him to think real hard and try to remember if perhaps he had had a toasty baguette or Cap'n Crunch cereal in the past few days...

Then he made some comment about how colds are not airborne. You don't say! So you mean we don't need to cover our mouths when we cough or sneeze after all? Hooray! And all that fear of getting sick on airplanes? No need to worry about your Typhoid Mary neighbor breathing on you anymore. You won't get sick, unless you make out with them, of course. Um... I'm pretty sure there is actually a cold remedy called "Airborne."

Anyway, the manimal was starting to annoy me. He didn't get my jokes, pop-culture or current event references or movie quotes. He wasn't real quick on the uptake. If things I said were over his head, what else wasn't he getting?

I began to worry about how I was going to end things. (I'm a bad breaker-upper, I won't deny it). So when things began to fizzle, I didn't try too hard to rekindle them. Then, apropos of nothing, he said he wasn't ready to be my boyfriend. I smiled on the inside and thought to myself, maybe this problem will just take care of itself. I told him (and meant it) that I didn't want him to be my boyfriend either, but if he wanted to continue our twice-weekly sex sessions, that was cool with me and in the mean time I was going to look for a boyfriend. He asked me if I was using him for sex. I said no. Oddly, I never heard from him again...

Top 5 Don'ts of online dating

I'm no expert on online dating. That's for sure. But I have noticed that A LOT of guys do the same exact off-putting, annoying things. So here they are, a little advice for the men out there: My top five don'ts of online dating.

1. Don't acknowledge the awkwardness of the online thing. Don't start your "About me" section with some disclaimer about how you're "not really sure how this online thing works" or "a friend talked me into signing up" or "I've never done the online thing." Yes, it's weird and awkward. We don't need to TALK about how it's weird and awkward. This is how people meet these days. Yes, even good-looking people who aren't completely socially inept. You date people you meet on the interwebs. Just own it. (This, however, does not mean that when you meet my family I won't tell them that we met in a coffee shop.)

2. Don't post pics of yourself with little children. I see the logic here. Men think all women want and love children. Our uteruses will just ache when we see how adorable you are and how good you are with kids. And we will want to date you. But for those of us who don't want/love children, those pics are kind of weird and creepy. If you must post pics of yourself with kids, please specify your relationship to them. Chances are they are your nieces and nephews, but if you don't state that, I might assume they are yours/your kidnapping victims.

3. Don't use exclamation points! Especially multiple exclamation points!!! Exclamation points are overused and under-felt and it just seems like you are screaming!! Either that or you are insane! Seriously, when I see someone use too many exclamation points, I think to myself: That person is crazy.

4. Don't try to be all things to all people. For example: I am very passionate at times, but I can also be laid back. I love to relax at home but I love going out on the town too. I'm a dog person, but I also love their evil arch nemesis: the cat. Something for everyone! Fun for the whole family! You're multi-faceted. No one can pin you down. I get it. But this also makes you sound crazy. Pick just one personality and go with it.

5. Don't beat around the bush. If you aren't suggesting a real-life, face-to-face meeting after oh about the second or third email, I'm going to get bored and ignore you. The point of this thing is to facilitate meetings in real life so I can see if you are indeed as hot as your pics suggest and if I would have sex with you. I do not need to waste any more time than I already do dicking around online so cut to the fucking chase already. Also, I am even less interested in an awkward half-hour phone conversation with a stranger than I am in continuing to send lengthy getting-to-know-you emails. This is not middle school. I don't spend week nights on the phone chit-chatting with pretend boyfriends. The phone is for making plans to meet up. So don't ask for my number unless you are going to use it to that end!!!!!!!!

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.

I got mansplained

Ok so I signed up for online dating. And by I signed up, I mean that drunk me let sober me be talked into it by one of my friends. But I'm on there nonetheless, proclaiming for the world wide web that I am single and ready to mingle. I had second thoughts when the first person to message me was a 35-year-old divorced Catholic with two kids, a place in suburbia and tons of shirtless photos of his tattooed chest. If this is the kind of person who thinks I would date them, Match.com had best review the way it calculates its compatibility algorithms...

One of the guys who messaged me soon after seemed cool enough. We had things in common, he looked really cute in his pics and he was a doctor. I do not see dollar signs when a guy is a doctor, I just figured it meant he was really smart and probably a good person. But I began to get red flags from this guy almost immediately. Douchey red flags.

He asked if I wanted to meet up so I gave him my number so he could call me expressly for that purpose. Instead, he begins texting me really stupid, inane, boring small talk while I'm busy at work. How's your day? Whatcha doing? I'm in Chicago, etc. (Here's the thing: If I have never met you, it's safe to say I do not care what you are up to and do not want to expend the time and brain power on coming up with funny/cute/coy responses to your texts while I'm on deadline. When we've met in real life and I see if you are indeed as hot as your pics suggest, then maybe I will engage in witty repartee. But not before.) I responded to his texts, but curtly.

Three days and 20 texts later, he finally decides on a place and time to meet up. I say, ok, great, see you tomorrow night. The next day he texts me to make sure we are still on. Uh... yeah. We just agreed on this 12 hours ago, remember? Then half an hour before we are supposed to meet he texts and says for me text him when I get to the place so we can walk in together. Hmm... I thought it was understood that when meeting someone, anyone, even friends, the first person to get there generally goes into the establishment, gets a drink or a table or whatever and waits for the other person. But I play along and text him when I get there, then I stand around awkwardly outside a trendy, hip bar while he keeps me waiting for 10 minutes. His douchbaggery thus far has sufficiently turned me off to the point that I no longer even want to meet him, but I silence the voice in my head that is screaming at me to run away while I still can.

Things went downhill from there. Five minutes in I knew I had made a mistake. The "date" consisted of me getting mansplained. For one hour. All men mansplain at one time or another and all women have been mansplained. Boyfriends do it, dads do it, strangers do it. Here's what it looks like: the man stands up taller and puffs out his chest so he can literally talk down to you, his body language suggests he knows waaaay more about whatever topic you are discussing than you do. He's an expert in fact. He sticks his chin in the air. Sometimes he closes his eyes while speaking, dismissing your thoughts and opinions while seething with condescension, all in a tone of voice that says, sit down, silly little girl, let me handle this, you don't want to hurt yourself by thinking complicated thoughts. When guys try to manage your expectations, it's a form of mansplaining.

He lectured to me, talked at me, talked over me, telling me how the world works. For one solid hour.

Here were his major points: Boulder is full of communists who hate dogs, doctors and journalists are a lot alike because they are both dying professions, (couldn't really make the leap on that one) the universal health care bill is bad because (sick) people will be getting something for free, because people are dumb and don't know any better they will go to physicians assistants and nurse practitioners instead of doctors, the city is not friendly to businesses and sets business owners up for failure, he lived in boston, hated it, he lived in the carribean, hated it, he doesn't have all the numbers on the economics of it, but he's SURE composting is bad, people who don't go to college deserve to make $15 an hour (this part was really funny to me, because I would sell my soul for $15 an hour. And although a few of those years were a little fuzzy due to all the 40s we drank, I'm pretty sure I actually went to, and graduated from, college. If he thinks $15 an hour is what people who don't go to college make, he is pretty out of touch with reality. Or at least my reality) Oh and because of some reason, blah, blah, I'd stopped listening, his income goes down by five percent every year. Oh yeah, ouch. I feel for you, doctor.

And here's the kicker: He does surgeries to implant some kind of spinal cord stimulator into people who have chronic pain. (Although he likes this kind of surgery, it's not worth it to him because he has to drive to a different hospital and doesn't get paid enough for it. You can see he went into medicine for all the right reasons.) Then he mentioned that a woman once asked him if he was able to implant one that would allow her to have orgasms whenever she wanted. He said yes, he was able to, but no, he didn't do it.

He would ask me questions about myself and then interrupt me to mansplain how I was wrong or interject his opinion on something he was clueless about. It was especially comical when he started mansplaining all about the journalism industry and how it works and what's wrong with it. He just kept talking. And talking. It was like he paid someone (me) by buying them one drink to sit there and listen to his lectures. And I'm pretty sure his hatred of me was equal, judging by his chilly good-bye as he sent me packing, although I can't figure out why since I barely got one word in the entire time and dutifully nodded my head and pretended to listen...

But here's the best part: As we were leaving he actually said, as if he had some kind of ESP: "You aren't one of those people who writes about their dates and how full of themselves they are, are you?"

No, of course not. You mean people do that?

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.

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...

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 pickins, they are slim, and it's 50 percent our fault

Ok girls, listen up. I have figured out how we are going to get guys to grow up and start acting like responsible adults worthy of dating us. But first, you must read this article from Slate that explains it all quite nicely. If me telling you to read it isn't enough, this is the title: "Sex is cheap: Why young men have the upper hand in bed, even when they're failing in life." Got your attention now? Read it. I'll wait.*

So, for those of you who still didn't read the Slate article despite my first footnote not making any sense, let me sum it up for you. Men like sex more than women like sex. (I'm inclined to disagree, but then when you've been involuntarily celibate for close to a year, your memories of sex are so distant they are probably skewed... so who knows.) In a society where women are plentiful, (and have lots of autonomy and authority) men don't have to be successful or commit because if their girlfriend dumps them, there's always another girl who will have sex with them. In a society (like engineering colleges) where the women are few and are in high demand, they can be choosy so the men compete for them, and so have to be more successful and driven and willing to commit or the women will not have sex with them.

So did most of my ex's friends at the aforementioned engineering college get married to their college girlfriends soon after graduating because they were in love? Of course not! It's because after four years in a girl desert they had no clue that in the real world women actually comprise 50 percent of the general population and thought that if they didn't marry the one they have now, they might not get to have sex ever again. Suckers.

Here's the kicker: While young men's failures in life are not penalizing them in the bedroom, their sexual success is hindering their drive to achieve in life. It's kind of like why buy the cow (stop playing video games/trying to "find" yourself and get a real job already) when they can get the milk (attractive women will still have sex with them despite the video game playing habit/lack of employment) for free.

Here's the take-away: Women, if we want to date men who are successful, driven and don't live in their minivans or parent's basements, WE NEED TO STOP REWARDING THIS KIND OF BEHAVIOR. Like Jacqui says, the pickins, they are slim and it's 50 percent our fault.

I've never liked the Lysistrata approach to solving anything, because, well, I like sex, too. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So from now on, women of the world, let's band together on this. It's called raising the bar. We need to NOT have sex with losers who exhibit ANY of the following red flags:

He lives in a vehicle and thinks it's cool. Living in vehicles is for homeless people.

He lives in the basement of his parents' house/Craigslist stranger's house

He is unemployed**

He calls you "chief"

He smells bad and/or has greasy hair. If these things alone are not enough of a deal breaker, they could also be indications he lives in a vehicle/his parents' basement.

He has four children with three different women, none of whom he was married to. (This is not (only) because children are monsters and what new girlfriend wants to deal with four of them, it's because he exhibits poor decision making skills/a troubling inability to wrap it the the fuck up.)

When you ask him what he does, he says he makes candy. (He does not make candy. In fact, it's his father's company in another state that makes the candy and ships it to him, which he then sells at farmers markets. Except that he doesn't really sell it at farmers markets. It just piles up in his house because he did not submit the proper paperwork on time to legally sell it at farmers markets. He is afraid to tell his dad about this situation so he makes his living waiting tables and selling weed. When his friends come over to smoke the weed, they eat the candy.) The not-having-sex goes double for this person.

He has aspirations of being a ski bum/river raft guide.

He has a fake wall to pretend he isn't living in a studio with a roommate***

He sleeps on a futon/couch/sleeping bag on the floor. Grown-ups sleep in beds. Fact.

This is not an exhaustive list, so feel free to add to it. The most important thing to remember, girls, is that if you have sex with any of these guys, you are fucking everything up for the rest of us. And you won't be doing them any favors either. How are they ever going to learn how to be productive members of society if you are having sex with them? So don't. Thanks in advance.

*Who are these women that say no when an attractive, young stranger approaches them while walking down the street and proposes casual sex?! This is basically my dream come true. And I would probably cry when they said "just kidding!" and I found out we were not, in fact, about to hoof it to their apartment for some afternoon delight, but that I was just a statistic in their stupid little graduate student psychology research project. That is just plain cruel.

**Since this is a recession and I'm not totally heartless, if the guy was recently let go, seems upset and a little worried that he was recently let go and is actively trying to find a new job, you may have sex with him. Especially if he has a job interview this week. But proceed with caution.

***This doesn't apply in Manhattan

Save Me From Republicans And Deliver Me From "Chief"

Two very interesting things happened to me this week.

On Friday evening, I had the unexpected pleasure of attending a taping of Real Time with Bill Maher and Gloria Steinem happened to be part of the panel. She is a personal hero of mine, and this was a thrill. That's Ms. Jacqui to ya'll because of this woman, pretty cool.

On Tuesday, I was hit on by a Republican. This was less thrilling, though the juxtaposition is amusing.

A trusted friend put it best when I told her about this happening: "Republicans don't even like women". Generally, I hate generalizations. However, this one has a certain ring to it for me.

He is a good friend of people that I adore, so I have it on good authority that he is a well meaning "good guy". Alas, it is my opinion that smart women don't sleep with republicans, even the well meaning ones.

You see, when he told me that he was reading the book George Bush "wrote" (come on, it's unlikely he can actually read the book let alone write it), I threw up in my mouth, just a little, OK a lot.

I mentioned this event to the phone sexer and he said "Jesus, does he know he doesn't live in Mississippi?" God bless the phone sexer for that. He is such a wonderfully sexy democrat I am now finding it challenging to manage my expectations.... But I digress.

Seeing Gloria Steinem speak reminded me that it is not only my own commitment phobia that makes me run in horror from a nice republican.

House Republicans recently used their new majority to pass a bill cutting funding for a whole smorgasbord of programs that serve underprivileged women and children. This includes $747M in cuts to funding for WIC (nutrition for underprivileged women, children, and infants), over a billion in cuts to Head Start education programs, and the elimination of tax breaks for private employers who offer health plans that cover abortions. This is what Republicans call "Winning".

Jon Stewart put it better that I could " ...The republicans in Congress are saying: You can't prevent an unwanted child, and you can't get care if you do get pregnant, and we won't give you any help feeding the kid after it's born, BUT those 2 mins when that skull is crowning, your baby is the most precious thing on earth".

Abortions constitute about 2% of the services Planned Parenthood provides and there is already a law in place preventing federal funds from being allocated to abortion services. So, congrats republicans, you just cut vital funding for HIV tests, cancer screening and birth control to name a few. Oh wait, I almost forgot my personal favorite. They want to close the pesky loop hole that allows federal funding for abortions as a result of rape, incest, or instances when the health of the mother is at risk. Young republicans, this is Super Sexy to mention during courting, if I do say so myself.

So, No, I don't think it's "cute" when you forward me republican propaganda. Additionally, I don't think it's funny when you reply "OK chief" to my request not to be put on any republican email lists, not even in jest. This brings me to another generalization I feel comfortable making. As a rule, do not call any woman you are interested in "Chief" under any circumstances, EVER. You just made me envision bludgeoning you.

Phone sex with a hot democrat it is.

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.

Phone Sex and 2 Goats ~ Jacqui

So I am now 100% sure that there is no such thing as having uncomplicated phone sex with a former fling.

I know, same old sob story right? But seriously hear me out. I am fairly certain I have uncovered a new level of commitment phobia. He may be a new species, I can't be certain, but stay with me.

About a year ago I had FANTASTIC sex with this guy who then promptly freaked out and moved across the country. Those two things are likely unrelated. He freaked and then moved for a job months later. I just like to save space. Yada yada, we reconnected, started texting, then sexting, and so on and so forth as you do. (It's important not to judge me yet. Important to me that is.)

Well after one of our recent rendevous, he said: " I just want to make sure I'm managing your expectations". I think I actually snorted when I laughed. Then I had to put the phone down and roll around on the floor in amusement. I began thinking how my writing would never be clever enough to capture the absurdity of the moment. Suffice it to say, "Pardon?"

I'm having phone sex with my former hook up who now lives 3000 miles away. Oh yeah, I can see where he might worry I was getting the wrong impression. This all screams serious relationship is imminent. In some countries, regular phone sex and two goats equals common law marriage.

After I composed myself, which took some time, I thought, why do some men feel driven to remind us, even in the most casual of circumstances, that we shouldn't expect to be graced with their wonderfulness too long? I suppose when I was 19 I swooned a bit too easily. I will say that. Now that I am, well, not 19, I have things to do, like my taxes (how is it that I OWE the State of CA?) and worry about whether or not it's too late to go to law school. I know what going somewhere looks like, and this ain't it.

The moral of this story is, if you have a decent man in your life, think long, and think hard before you let him go. The dating pool is shallow and filled with man children.

In the words of the most eloquent Tracy Morgan "Everyone needs to calm down, take a deep breath, and prepare their bodies for the Thunderdome. That is the new law".

P.S. What do you think he'd do if I texted him that I was moving back East? Mooohaha, I'm mean.

Welcome

What do you look for in a dating blog? If you've been scouring the interwebs for a chronicle of slightly inappropriate, ridiculous, sometimes pathetic and always hilarious real-life dating stories, you've come to the right place. For the singles out there, hopefully you can relate to some of the situations and take solace that you are not the only one being tossed around by the rough waters of the dating world. If you are in a relationship, hopefully you get a good chuckle at my expense and then you can go back to feeling smug in your coupledom and relieved that this shit doesn't happen to you anymore.

A note about this blog: Nothing is sacred. I will post about anything and everything in the name of noble causes like truth and humor. So if you recognize yourself here, it's likely that you have been a douchebag. But don't worry, I change the names of the guilty.

I'm also looking for guest posters, so if you have a story, share it with me.