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.

Does it make me a bad person if...

During and after a break up, I think most adults try to move on with some (at least outward appearance of) maturity, grace and integrity. They try not to let things get too ugly, try to take the high road, be the bigger person, remain civil. Some even try to be friends. Not me.

When I feel like I've been wronged in a relationship and its aftermath, I get petty. And childish. I resort to name-calling. I actually say out loud everything mean and hurtful thing that I've been thinking. Every midnight confession, dirty little secret, insecurity, secret fear and weird quirk that the ex has allowed me to be privy to over the course of the relationship, I throw in their face. I twist the knife. I say I told you so. I go for the jugular. I burn bridges. I figure, what have I got to lose? I mean, besides my dignity, which by this point is probably long gone anyway...

There is a word, a most beautiful German word that has no English equivalent and that perfectly describes my feelings toward a few exes of mine. Schadenfreude.

So imagine my inner delight when my (very materialistic) ex recently posted on Facebook pictures of a tree that fell on his brand-spanking-new Subaru during a wind storm. Basically destroyed the roof. I smiled a little on the inside. Ok, I smiled a lot. The thought of missing out on the chance to revel in rare instances like this has basically kept me from unfriending him.

I do not think it makes me a bad person to secretly delight in the misfortune of someone who ripped my heart out and then stomped on it. Repeatedly. (This break-up was so bad, I moved across the country rather than deal with it and him in our tiny town.) However, kinda, (sorta) thinking (for a split second) that it was (maybe just) a little bit of a shame that he wasn't actually INSIDE the car when the tree fell? Jury is still out on that one...

Here's how I know God hates me

So I used to have this... let's call him a boyfriend for the sake of argument, who I dated at the end of college. We will call him college boyfriend. I was a senior, weeks away from graduating and he still had a few years left. We had already been friends for years. He was younger than me, shorter than me, smarter than me and I love, love, loved him. I could have been happy with him forever.

But alas, it wasn't meant to be. I moved home and so we lived 2,000 miles away. We still talked and emailed and visited each other here and there for about a year after I graduated, but we never really discussed any specifics, like whether we were actually together or not.* In the end, the distance got the best of us and whatever we had died. Fast forward five years and I have moved to the city where he lives. Unfortunately, he now has a girlfriend.**

So one day a few weeks ago, I notice on Facebook (Facebook: ever the crusher of dreams, the informer of exes loves lives.) that he and the gf are engaged. Engaged! The horror! I send off a few texts lamenting this fact to friends who knew us as a couple, looking for some consolation, or at least assurance and validation that despite not being engaged myself, I'm still a good person, (or at least cooler/better looking than the fiancee.) I was bummed, but it was nothing a little whiskey and a good cry couldn't fix. I go into work the next day feeling much better about the situation. I'm practically over it.

So I'm on my lunch break, reading a magazine on the outdoor 10th-floor balcony of my building when I hear a voice. HIS voice. And I don't mean Jesus. I turned and there he was. What was he doing in my building?! I started sweating. At first I didn't think it was a big deal because people tour my building all the time. I figured he was on one and would soon be leaving. But then I noticed he was sitting down to eat his lunch with a bunch of similarly aged and attired people. I think maybe I can wait him out. But I've got work to do and I'm beginning to get sunburned. I start to search for escape routes, but he's sitting right in front of the only door back inside. Convenient. There's no way I can slip past him without being spotted. There's no avoiding it. I'm going to have to say hi and make awkward small talk.

So I go over and try to act all surprised to see him and pretend like I haven't been fidgeting and panicking for the last 10 minutes. I'm literally shaking. The engagement is the elephant in the room and cannot be ignored. "Congratulations," I say, hoping he will want out of this awkward exchange as quickly as I do. No such luck. He starts gushing all about how he proposed on vacation and how he ordered the nice bottle of wine and then he compared the feeling to skydiving. I had had enough. If he didn't shut up soon, I was going to sky dive myself right off that 10th-floor balcony. I mumbled something about how we should catch up sometime and ran away.

Turns out he's an intern in my building all summer. It's a good thing I like eating lunch at my desk. All I'm saying is when the whole (main) reason it didn't work out for us was because of the distance, and now we spend eight hours a day separated by just two floors, that is not irony or a coincidence. That is the universe shitting on me.

*So the year after college graduation was a pretty bad one for me. I was underemployed, bored, depressed, lonely and living with my parents. I needed something and someone to do. So I kind of started dating this other guy, let's call him K, while the college bf and I were still-together-but-not-really-together. I didn't even like K. No one liked K. He was a douche. Like I said, I was bored. So when the college bf was coming to town, I stopped returning K's phone calls and started blowing him off. This, apparently, was suspect to him.

So one night while the college bf and I are canoodling on the couch at like midnight, the phone rings and it's K. He had apparently driven to my house, peeked in the windows, seen the canoodling, flipped his shit and was now screaming at me on the phone, calling me every name in the book and vowing revenge. (Now, keep in mind, we lived in a very rural area. Cars do not sketchily park on the sides of the roads and their occupants do not prowl around houses at midnight and play peeping tom without someone alerting the residents of the house, most of all the family dog. This was how I figured out our old dog was going deaf. That fucker. Thanks for nothing, fleabag. You've got like one job and you can't even do it right.) I ran to the door and locked it. The only thing that prevented K from busting down the door and getting his revenge was the fact that my 60-year-old parents were asleep upstairs. I had never been so happy to be living with my parents in my entire life.

This little incident more than likely contributed to the demise of both relationships. I was a jerk. Lesson learned: Get a new dog when yours starts going deaf.

**I met his gf a few times at parties and such. I wasn't impressed. At this one party last year, the college bf and his girlfriend were talking about how they had done this 10k race that morning. It's a very well-known and popular race and apparently you have to submit a previous 10k time for them to seed you correctly. You have to prove you have done a 10k in less than an hour and a half.

Well, as usual, I had had a few drinks and since I was pretty sure I, or any person in reasonable health could WALK a 10k in less than an hour and a half without breaking a sweat, (I have gone a 52-minute 10k in a triathlon for chrissakes and I'm no runner) I (loudly) proclaimed that it was insulting to have to prove it to the race directors and if they wanted proof, well here was my proof: I am not 300 pounds nor am I 80 years old. I sat back and waited for the laughs. Turns out the gf clocked in at 1:21 for a 10k.

Ok, I'm an asshole. And she probably wasn't impressed with me either. But, seriously, how do you marry someone who takes 1:21 to do a 10k? That's just embarrassing.

Jennifer Aniston vs. The Oprah

This week the long-running Oprah Winfrey show came to an end. She's on to bigger and better. Many news stories and celebrity "news" stories this week chronicled her success, her rise to fame and riches by overcoming the poverty and abuse of her early years. She's a philanthropist who has done charity work with girls and schools in Africa. Her book club endorsement can make or break an author. She created trends. She gave audience members cars. She has her own magazine and soon-to-be cable network channel. She spawned Dr. Phil and Dr. Oz. She ushered in an era of copy cat talk shows and hosts that wanted to follow in her footsteps. She's a media mogul. Earlier this year, Forbes put her net worth at $2.7 billion. Yes, folks, that's a b. She's bigger than Jesus. I like to refer to her as "The Oprah."

And THIS is exactly just how wildly (unattainably) rich, famous, successful and influential women have to be before people, the media and the tabloids will shut the fuck up and stop obsessing about when is she gonna get on the marriage and kiddies train already. Sorry, Jennifer Aniston, you're just not there yet. There is absolutely no hope for the rest of us...

Wedding Season or A Small Pony

It's almost Memorial Day. Summer is upon us. And you know what that means? Wedding season. And I love a good wedding. The dressing up, the drinking, the dancing, the groping randoms on the gold course... love is in the air. I can only hope that this wedding season is as fun as last year's.

I was in a good friend from childhood's wedding last year and found myself the only single girl in the wedding party. Actually, that's not true. There was another single girl, a cousin of the bride, and when I tried to do a little female bonding and jokingly commiserate about our relationship statuses, she told me her boyfriend had recently died of cancer. She wins. I'm an asshole.

Regardless, single is not a good place to be at a wedding, especially when the male half of the wedding party are in relationships/unfuckable. First, I tried hitting on the photographers. I spotted a wedding ring on one. He was out. So I asked the other one what he was into. He said, "Jesus." I said, haha, no, really. He said, "Jesus." Ok, strike two.

So imagine how fortunate I felt when I saw one of our mutual friends, a super cute and sweet guy I knew that I used to work with, E. I hadn't known he was coming to the wedding. The last I knew he had a girlfriend, but I quietly asked around and they apparently broke up. He was flying solo that night and in need of a rebound. That was all I needed to hear.

Several drinks and some dancing later, we are making out behind a tree on the golf course adjacent to the pavilion where the reception was. At the time, I thought we were being really stealthy, but he told me later that there were hoots and applause from some of the guests as we ran out.

After making out against a tree for somewhere between five minutes and an hour, (vodka tends to make you lose all sense of time) I became paranoid that our absence would be noted. I insist we go back inside and act nonchalant.

So I'm busy acting nonchalant when the groom comes over to me (our absence was most definitely noted) and says something to the effect of "You should tap that. E is hung like a small pony." Now I'm just confused. Is that good or bad? Because I thought the expression was "hung like a horse." Can you elaborate? I ask. "E has a really big dick," the groom tells me, winking and nudging like we are in cahoots. The seed has been planted. I HAVE to see for myself.

So I find E, suggest another make-out session and creep not-so-stealthily away again. (It's hard to be sneaky when you're wearing heels and stumbling.) So we are making out and I move my hand a little further south... Wow. Holy crap. The groom wasn't kidding. This thing is huge. This guy won the anatomical lottery. He belongs in Ripley's Believe It or Not. Or at least pornos. Feeling isn't enough, especially through the clothes. This, I have got to SEE with my own EYES.

So I start unzipping his pants. I'm so focused on getting the confounding layers of clothing, zippers, buttons and belts to cooperate with my super dexterous drunk hands so I can get a glimpse of this thing, just to see if it's real, that I don't realize what HIS hands have been up to. The top half of my strapless dress is now down around my waist, yet the bottom is also hiked up to my waist, so the dress effectively covers NOTHING but my waist. It's basically a cummerbund at this point.

It's at this exact, very opportune moment that a fellow guest decides now would be an appropriate time to pull a golf cart around to pick up grandma from the reception and drive her to the parking lot. For a brief second we were illuminated, squinting and frozen in the headlights. Guess we should have picked a bigger (or further) tree. Almost busted. That was a close call. We convince ourselves that they probably didn't see anything, but I'm still freaked out. I decide these antics have gone a bit too far. (I like to keep it classy at weddings.) So we pull ourselves together and go back inside.

Unfortunately, I never did get to find out if that thing was the real deal. You see, there were no hotels to stay at, as the wedding was in the middle of nowhere. He couldn't come to my house because I was staying with my parents and I had a painfully early flight out the next morning. He lived 30 minutes away so I couldn't go to his house. My parents are old. I was being considerate. The embarrassment of me stumbling in at 6 a.m. still in my bridesmaid dress could very well have done us all in. So we parted ways. Sigh.

A few weeks later, my friend the bride asked if E and I had had sex on the golf course the night of the wedding because a cousin or friend or aunt or grandma or someone, I don't remember who, had told her they had seen two naked people. I said, no of course not. We just made out. Which was (mostly) the truth.

So, no, cousin/aunt/friend/grandma/whoever sabotaged the imminent verification that I had indeed just discovered God's gift to women with those perfectly ill-timed golf cart headlights, I WISH we had been having sex. The fact that we DIDN'T have sex may turn out to be the biggest regret of my life. You have quite the imagination, but no, nothing quite that cool happened on the golf course. And I have you to thank.

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.

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.

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.)

I'm Not A Hipster But I Flip It Like A Sneaker Pimp...

The plot she thickens.

My hangover lasted exactly 48 hours. During this period of time, "God" or the Universe or whatever you believe spins this sphere, sent me glimpses of what happened Saturday night. In the words of my friend Matt "YES, the night Jacqui went to Hollywood!" I've been here four years, and I have never taken it to the limit like that. As I think of leaving here, I think maybe it's good I took it all the way live at least the one time...

I am not good at keeping secrets so I have iterated this story to most of my friends. Not sure why I do that. I'm either seeking approval or attention. I'll let you know when Linda my therapist sorts that one. I'm thinking it's likely a combo. The attention seeking part of me will continue to pay her $100 an hour to discuss... Whoa, she is a genius. Job security.

Anyway. So far, what bothers me most, is the response of the two girlfriends I was with pre-sexcades. The first thing they both said when I gave them the rundown of the pornographic Cat in the Hat Story that was my Saturday night, ya know, I will do you in a hall, I will do you in a stall, apparently I will also do you in your car, Sam I Am, was: "You were wearing pants?!"

I think I would like that to be the title of my autobiography actually. I think Katherine Hepburn would be proud.

I am also bothered by one particular memory that keeps intruding on my day. He did, at one point, ask if we could go to my place. I remember thinking, eh, sounds like the makings of an awkward morning. I think I made some kind of face to indicate that I wasn't into that idea. I don't even think there was a verbal response. Just a blank stare and a pained look is what I remember. I don't know why he didn't offer his place. I think we were likely both of the mind that this should be kept as impersonal as possible. Drunk me is a real interesting gal. I'm going to dog ear this page in my journal to discuss with Linda. We need a couple on this level of intimacy phobia.

Next thing that bothers me is the fact that he called me Monday night... at 11:15PM. I was thinking it was my boss or maybe the phone sexer... super, but no, it was Sexcapades. No rest for the morally questionable it seems. When he asked for my number I found it perplexing. I wasn't going to ask for his. We didn't even do it indoors. Why bother? But I gave it to him since we have a mutual friend. I figured it was just a formality. Then he called, at 11:15 at night. I didn't answer cause, way too soon for a booty call buddy, and what else can it be? Anyway. He left a nice message saying call him tonight, cause "he'd be up" or tomorrow, ya know, when the rest of the people with regular jobs will be awake. I figured I'd go ahead and call him the next day cause I'm adventurous, see what he had to say. After all we're just two adults who blacked out and had sex in a hotel bathroom. Should be an interesting conversation.

Well I got a text at 9:30AM saying "I told "our mutual friend" nothing happened". This a group of middle-aged man children. I am thinking there is a 10-15% chance this is true. I like the effort however. There was some banter during which he revealed some things that lead me to believe that he was not so drunk as I. Hmm. Black Out Drunkenness should happen in pairs cause then no one has to know the truth. I find myself sitting here, wondering, what ELSE does he know about me. I have a tendency to say too much (I know you're shocked I'm sure), so there is a universe of embarrassing things I might have said. I've been watching his twitter feed.. I'll let you know if something shows up that I can claim.

P.S. This all happened while I was wearing a vintage Clash t-shirt that I had just purchased that day. I've been staring at thing wondering who owned it previously. I bet they did it all the way live as well...

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...

What Color Is My Shame?

This turned out to be an interesting weekend. I have a shame headache (I'll explain but just know that it's super painful and consuming) so this post is just going to be free form stream of consciousness Virgina Wolfesque. If Virginia ever happened to be into the kinkier side of life.

I learned a couple things about myself this weekend. No, no, don't get excited, I still don't know what color my parachute is. Side note, next person who tells me I should read that book gets it between the eyes. I have a theory that no one has ever read it. I think the propagation of the myth that this book solves anything besides what to do with that extra $20 we all have lying around is perhaps one of the greatest money-making coup detat of our generation. I'm going to write a book called I'll Tell You What Color Your Parachute Is If You Give Me $15, try and scoop up part of that market. I did, however, learn that I am a bit of a freak. More on that in a moment.

Friday night started out innocently enough with a nice relaxing 2500 meter swim. I was high on post workout endorphins. I was loving life. I went into the locker room afterward to shower and head home to watch Dateline and drink red wine from Trader Joe's. Ya know, cause it was Friday. I closed the door behind me. I repeat I CLOSED the door. I took my bathing suit off in one of the bathroom stalls and remembered my towel was still on the bench in front of my locker. Meh, I closed the door, it's cool. It's a locker room. I'll just pop over and grab it au naturale. I open the stall door to do the naked scoot over to my towel. Mid-scoot, I realized the door was now all the way open and I was standing there giving full frontal to the pool deck. By my calculations, oh, about 3-5 people got that show. Apparently, the maid Maria is a bit of a stealthy ninja. As I am standing mouth agape, Maria springs from the ether and says "Oh. You want that I should close door?".

Sigh. Nah, not now, it's fine, that's over. Leave it open.

That really set the tone for the weekend.

I'm still piecing together exactly what happened last night. I don't know exactly what I drank, but judging by how I feel today, I'm going with All Of It. It started out innocently enough. I went with a couple lady friends to see another friend's stand up show. I think here is a good time to mention that I had not had sex since sometime in 2010.(Sex has not been Cheap for Me Dr. Smug from aforementioned Slate article). I thought I was doing relatively OK with this fact. Turns out, there has actually been a section of my brain just not getting any blood. Something I drank last night woke it up, and well, that part of my brain wanted to have sex everywhere with a cute relative stranger. I'm not going to claim to know all the details. That would be lying, and I won't do that to you.

I woke up in my apartment face down in my own bed. Good start. I was however cringing like a vampire at the light beginning to stream in through my bedroom window. Then I started the painful process of remembering why I felt like vacating my own skin. Oh. Oh. OH. I slept with cute comedian friend of my friend last night. That's not so bad you might say, and you'd be right, cept there's more.

I texted him when I started to remember the details "Can we please agree to tell this story differently..." He said: "In a stall a hall and a car. It's like our own Planes Trains and Automobiles. Then you lost your shoe like pornderella". Here is a good time to impart a bit of wisdom all single ladies should hear. Do not sleep with comics unless you are down with becoming part of the act. He travels the country and is moderately successful so if you ever happen to hear about Pornderella, well, ya'll will now know where that came from... Hoorah.

I live this pain so you don't have to...

Anyway, as the hangover has evolved and progressed (I swear this one is epic. I have detected 3 levels of misery that each make me want to volunteer to help cool the reactor) I started to remember things. I hate that. I had a vague memory of us going at it in a hotel bathroom, no one had been in there, but then a group of hammered ladies walked in. We stopped and I suited up and told him to shhhhh. I am pretty sure I made the Shhhh noise. For the record, there is almost nothing louder than someone making the shhh sound. Nice. My "plan" was to go out and casually leave and he could come out in a couple minutes.

I have a distinct memory of his smirk as he sauntered out of the stall. The group of party girls stopped, and in my memory, the ringleader said "Not cool. I'm gonna tell."

Horror.

So, I texted him and told him about this memory hoping he would say, nah, that didn't happen, silly worrier! Instead, he says her actual response was: "I veto that!"

Thanks anonymous girl who caught me hooking up in the hotel ladies room. You were right. I could not say it any better myself. Sober me would like to veto that as well. But alas, can't be done. I have a friend who has coined a new word. Unf#*k. It's the lurid companion to unfriend. It probably needs no further explanation. This morning, I thought for a bit about how nice it would have been to hit the Unf*#k button on this one...

Now I'm thinking, probably good I did it now. If this is what happened after a 6 month drought... I shudder to think what would happen if we approached a year. I'm going to bed now. I'm hoping the shame headache will subside by tomorrow AM. I am also hoping he meant it when he swore he wouldn't tell our mutual friends about our sexcapdes. My guess? One of those things won't be true in the morning.

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

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.