This weekend I spent some quality time with my family, which I haven't done in a while. The following conversations actually happened.
Me: "Guess what Mom? I have a date next week. Isn't that nice?"
Mom: "Oh, that's nice. Just don't expect anything from him."
Way to keep it real, mama.
Cousin's Grandmother: "How old is she now?"
Mom: "27."
Cousin's Grandmother: "Oh, she's ripe."
So at what age do I start to rot and mold?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Un-trainable Trainer
One of my favorite bloggers contributed this today! You can follow her other stories here and here.
From an early age, my mother taught me the importance of being well-groomed and always looking presentable.
When I was in college, I dated a guy who wore unattractive jeans (like not a good-looking wash) and old 80s hair metal band shirts. No, not the vintage-y kinds from Urban Outfitters. I’m talking about the kind that you can get from Target for $5. And they had holes in them from wear and tear. And they were faded. I eventually trained him to look nicer by introducing him to the American Eagle store. Baby steps.
Flash forward a few years, and I’m a single girl living in San Francisco. After I moved into a bigger building, I kept running into a really, really hot tall guy, and he’d smile at me every time and say hi. I’d smile back and then continue on with my life, because everyone knows that someone this attractive is definitely not going to be a “nice guy.” He liked my dog, so I think he used that as an “in” to every conversation we ever had. Our conversations were pretty limited, and they included him telling me his name, which I would promptly forget, resulting in me asking him and the doorman multiple times what his name was. How embarrassing.
Finally one day he told me that he wanted to hang out. That’s nice, sure. We’re neighbors. So we hung out, and I noticed that every single time I ran into him in the building and whenever we hung out, he’d be wearing sweatpants.
Oh, he’s a personal trainer. That’s understandable.
One night, we went to dinner after work. He’s a picky eater, and I eat everything, so I let him choose. OSHA Thai in SOMA? Sounds great. Meet you downstairs in 10 minutes.
When he showed up in the garage, I thought I was going to die. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a zip-up sweatshirt. I was wearing nice jeans and a top I’d worn to work (read: nice). I finally decided to ask if he owned anything besides sweatpants.
“Yeah, but no one’s ever seen me in non-sweats. I have about 70 pairs of sweatpants.”
Okay. Psycho.
I wrote this wardrobe mishap off as a one-time thing, because you know, it was late, we’d both been working a full day, yadda yadda.
Then one morning, he wanted to go have brunch. What does he wear? Another pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. This is getting kind of ridiculous, especially since we were in a super cute restaurant.
It was at that moment that I decided that dressing this guy was going to be an unattainable goal. It was actually borderline mortifying to be seen out in a nice restaurant with someone in sweats and sneakers. This project wasn’t worth tackling, despite his cute face.
I didn’t need to tell him that I couldn’t see him anymore; he was eventually arrested for threatening an ex-girlfriend, and then he was forced to move out of the building due to his sketchy record. Stay classy.
From an early age, my mother taught me the importance of being well-groomed and always looking presentable.
When I was in college, I dated a guy who wore unattractive jeans (like not a good-looking wash) and old 80s hair metal band shirts. No, not the vintage-y kinds from Urban Outfitters. I’m talking about the kind that you can get from Target for $5. And they had holes in them from wear and tear. And they were faded. I eventually trained him to look nicer by introducing him to the American Eagle store. Baby steps.
Flash forward a few years, and I’m a single girl living in San Francisco. After I moved into a bigger building, I kept running into a really, really hot tall guy, and he’d smile at me every time and say hi. I’d smile back and then continue on with my life, because everyone knows that someone this attractive is definitely not going to be a “nice guy.” He liked my dog, so I think he used that as an “in” to every conversation we ever had. Our conversations were pretty limited, and they included him telling me his name, which I would promptly forget, resulting in me asking him and the doorman multiple times what his name was. How embarrassing.
Finally one day he told me that he wanted to hang out. That’s nice, sure. We’re neighbors. So we hung out, and I noticed that every single time I ran into him in the building and whenever we hung out, he’d be wearing sweatpants.
Oh, he’s a personal trainer. That’s understandable.
One night, we went to dinner after work. He’s a picky eater, and I eat everything, so I let him choose. OSHA Thai in SOMA? Sounds great. Meet you downstairs in 10 minutes.
When he showed up in the garage, I thought I was going to die. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a zip-up sweatshirt. I was wearing nice jeans and a top I’d worn to work (read: nice). I finally decided to ask if he owned anything besides sweatpants.
“Yeah, but no one’s ever seen me in non-sweats. I have about 70 pairs of sweatpants.”
Okay. Psycho.
I wrote this wardrobe mishap off as a one-time thing, because you know, it was late, we’d both been working a full day, yadda yadda.
Then one morning, he wanted to go have brunch. What does he wear? Another pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. This is getting kind of ridiculous, especially since we were in a super cute restaurant.
It was at that moment that I decided that dressing this guy was going to be an unattainable goal. It was actually borderline mortifying to be seen out in a nice restaurant with someone in sweats and sneakers. This project wasn’t worth tackling, despite his cute face.
I didn’t need to tell him that I couldn’t see him anymore; he was eventually arrested for threatening an ex-girlfriend, and then he was forced to move out of the building due to his sketchy record. Stay classy.
Online Dating Algorithm Fail
Guest post from the always awesome KT Brazil. A real-life online exchange that occurred between her and a potential match on OKCupid. Wow.
(8:29:18 pm):86% match
(8:29:54 pm)KTBrazil:impressive, eh? ;-)
(8:30:02 pm):not sure yet ;-)
(8:30:10 pm)KTBrazil:9% enemy though. what's that all about
(8:30:25 pm):who knows, but its very low so no big deal
(8:30:38 pm)KTBrazil:can't all be rainbows and skittles
(8:30:56 pm)KTBrazil:how's your week been?
(8:31:07 pm):almost over
(8:31:22 pm)KTBrazil:werd
(8:31:35 pm):?
(8:32:24 pm)KTBrazil:sorry. I use outdated slang on occasion.
(8:32:43 pm):no worries
(8:32:47 pm)KTBrazil:i hear ya. only 8 hours seperating me from the weekend
(8:32:57 pm):and then what?
(8:33:11 pm)KTBrazil:awesome show at Congress on Friday night
(8:33:25 pm):ok...
(8:33:35 pm)KTBrazil:then i think my friends are throwing me a surprise birthday party on Saturday
(8:33:37 pm)KTBrazil:haha
(8:33:41 pm)KTBrazil:you?
(8:33:44 pm):great
(8:33:47 pm):and your on here why?
(8:35:18 pm)KTBrazil:...looking for love?
(8:35:20 pm)KTBrazil:haha
(8:35:49 pm):u seem to have friends, congress and a decent social life/scene...so why here?
(8:37:43 pm)KTBrazil:sure. but I don't fuck my friends. and the bar scene is great if you're looking for a fling, but that's not what I'm looking for
(8:38:10 pm):and the internet has quality, long term guys?
(8:38:23 pm)KTBrazil:who knows. joined yesterday.
(8:38:49 pm):I'd take my chances at Congress to be honest
(8:38:54 pm)KTBrazil:what are YOU looking for, Mr. JudgeyPants?
(8:38:58 pm):there is nothing but one nighters on here
(8:38:58 pm)KTBrazil:lol
(8:39:06 pm):Im just being honest
(8:39:30 pm)KTBrazil:so that's what you're here for then? the next one-nighter?
(8:39:44 pm):no, a two nighters
(8:39:48 pm):or three nighter
(8:40:11 pm)KTBrazil:fair enough
(8:40:57 pm):getting sex is easy but quality sex is not
(8:41:00 pm):at least not in tucson
(8:42:18 pm)KTBrazil:Well, maybe that's because the quality women are looking for more than you're offering
(8:42:53 pm):not at all...where are these quality women first of all? Im a quality guy but how do they know that?
(8:43:18 pm)KTBrazil:you just told me that you're not looking for anything more than casual sex
(8:43:28 pm)KTBrazil:how does that = quality?
(8:43:29 pm):when?
(8:43:53 pm)KTBrazil:so that's what you're here for then? the next one-nighter? no, a two nighters or three nighter
(8:44:13 pm):meaning more...ding dong
(8:44:45 pm)KTBrazil:haha, well that's not what it sounded like.
(8:45:01 pm):well how can it sound like anything when we are just typing..
(8:45:31 pm)KTBrazil:you're also kind of a snarky asshole, though. so maybe that's it. maybe that's just the typing too though.
(8:45:56 pm):ah, and here comes the name calling....nice
(8:47:12 pm)KTBrazil:dude, you've been trying to put me on the defensive this whole conversation. just trying to offer some constructive criticism.
(8:47:25 pm):goodbye DUDE
(8:29:18 pm):86% match
(8:29:54 pm)KTBrazil:impressive, eh? ;-)
(8:30:02 pm):not sure yet ;-)
(8:30:10 pm)KTBrazil:9% enemy though. what's that all about
(8:30:25 pm):who knows, but its very low so no big deal
(8:30:38 pm)KTBrazil:can't all be rainbows and skittles
(8:30:56 pm)KTBrazil:how's your week been?
(8:31:07 pm):almost over
(8:31:22 pm)KTBrazil:werd
(8:31:35 pm):?
(8:32:24 pm)KTBrazil:sorry. I use outdated slang on occasion.
(8:32:43 pm):no worries
(8:32:47 pm)KTBrazil:i hear ya. only 8 hours seperating me from the weekend
(8:32:57 pm):and then what?
(8:33:11 pm)KTBrazil:awesome show at Congress on Friday night
(8:33:25 pm):ok...
(8:33:35 pm)KTBrazil:then i think my friends are throwing me a surprise birthday party on Saturday
(8:33:37 pm)KTBrazil:haha
(8:33:41 pm)KTBrazil:you?
(8:33:44 pm):great
(8:33:47 pm):and your on here why?
(8:35:18 pm)KTBrazil:...looking for love?
(8:35:20 pm)KTBrazil:haha
(8:35:49 pm):u seem to have friends, congress and a decent social life/scene...so why here?
(8:37:43 pm)KTBrazil:sure. but I don't fuck my friends. and the bar scene is great if you're looking for a fling, but that's not what I'm looking for
(8:38:10 pm):and the internet has quality, long term guys?
(8:38:23 pm)KTBrazil:who knows. joined yesterday.
(8:38:49 pm):I'd take my chances at Congress to be honest
(8:38:54 pm)KTBrazil:what are YOU looking for, Mr. JudgeyPants?
(8:38:58 pm):there is nothing but one nighters on here
(8:38:58 pm)KTBrazil:lol
(8:39:06 pm):Im just being honest
(8:39:30 pm)KTBrazil:so that's what you're here for then? the next one-nighter?
(8:39:44 pm):no, a two nighters
(8:39:48 pm):or three nighter
(8:40:11 pm)KTBrazil:fair enough
(8:40:57 pm):getting sex is easy but quality sex is not
(8:41:00 pm):at least not in tucson
(8:42:18 pm)KTBrazil:Well, maybe that's because the quality women are looking for more than you're offering
(8:42:53 pm):not at all...where are these quality women first of all? Im a quality guy but how do they know that?
(8:43:18 pm)KTBrazil:you just told me that you're not looking for anything more than casual sex
(8:43:28 pm)KTBrazil:how does that = quality?
(8:43:29 pm):when?
(8:43:53 pm)KTBrazil:so that's what you're here for then? the next one-nighter? no, a two nighters or three nighter
(8:44:13 pm):meaning more...ding dong
(8:44:45 pm)KTBrazil:haha, well that's not what it sounded like.
(8:45:01 pm):well how can it sound like anything when we are just typing..
(8:45:31 pm)KTBrazil:you're also kind of a snarky asshole, though. so maybe that's it. maybe that's just the typing too though.
(8:45:56 pm):ah, and here comes the name calling....nice
(8:47:12 pm)KTBrazil:dude, you've been trying to put me on the defensive this whole conversation. just trying to offer some constructive criticism.
(8:47:25 pm):goodbye DUDE
Monday, August 2, 2010
How to Not Make Friends and Creep People Out
Ok people. For real now. If there's one faux pas that we should all strive to stay away from, it is trying to add a person as a friend on Facebook that you have NEVER MET. It does not matter that you have mutual friends. Face to face contact is REQUIRED and a formal introduction made. Until then... REFRAIN FROM HITTING THE "ADD AS A FRIEND" BUTTON. This ain't MySpace, people.
If you ignore this advice, be assured that you will cause confusion and potentially annoyance. Maybe you'll get accepted. You'll probably be rejected. If the latter happens for the love of God DO NOT try to add them as a friend again. Because now you have just crossed the threshold into creepy stalker territory and your well meaning intentions have now creeped the shit out of the person you hoped to friend in the first place. And really, do NOT send them messages such as the following:
SFC August 2 at 9:09pm
How are you? hope you don't mind my message though we don't know each other but hope we can be friends! Fell free to add ok?
Blessings.
94109 August 2 at 9:10pm
i do not accept friend requests from people i have never met. hope you understand.
SFC August 2 at 9:13pm
Ok! I do understand. Hopefully some time then though I don't know where you usually hang out.
(True story, folks.)
WTF dude. I'm changing my locks and going to bed with a can of mace.
If you ignore this advice, be assured that you will cause confusion and potentially annoyance. Maybe you'll get accepted. You'll probably be rejected. If the latter happens for the love of God DO NOT try to add them as a friend again. Because now you have just crossed the threshold into creepy stalker territory and your well meaning intentions have now creeped the shit out of the person you hoped to friend in the first place. And really, do NOT send them messages such as the following:
SFC August 2 at 9:09pm
How are you? hope you don't mind my message though we don't know each other but hope we can be friends! Fell free to add ok?
Blessings.
94109 August 2 at 9:10pm
i do not accept friend requests from people i have never met. hope you understand.
SFC August 2 at 9:13pm
Ok! I do understand. Hopefully some time then though I don't know where you usually hang out.
(True story, folks.)
WTF dude. I'm changing my locks and going to bed with a can of mace.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Ted sweats for 20 minutes
Today I bring you a post from the same pen that wrote the great missed connections spoof that was featured in Craigslist's "Best of" section. He is a funny and kind-hearted 25 year old eligible bachelor who, despite all of his great qualities, fails to bag himself a quality lady.
Ted earned himself that nickname recently when he remarked one day that I'm like Barney from "How I Met Your Mother", without all the sleeping around. I don't watch this show but he explained how I am a great wingman, provide valuable insight into the female psyche and have an acerbic sense of humor. (Sidenote: I'm offering my services to all you single men out there. $25/hour flat rate.) One can only deduce that if I'm Barney, then he's Ted.
It might be easier to provide background this way:
You catch my drift by now, I'm sure. So when I mentioned that I created this blog and offered a guest spot in the content department he took me up on the offer. Enjoy.
The 20 Minute Date
I've been caught off guard quite a few times in my life: Every time
I've been hit in the crotch, "Your sister's pregnant and the wedding
is next month", "Son, we're putting you on Ritalin". None of those
quite tops the 20 minute date. It all happened when going out for a
drink to meet this girl who we shall call....Mildred. I honestly
don't remember her name so I am going to give her the least attractive name possible.
So Mildred and I met on Match.com. She first came to my attention via
that time-tested come hither maneuver, the "wink". I've come to
understand the wink as "I'm too scared/busy/not interested/creative
enough to send you an email but you've got a few nice pictures and
there's a chance you're not a sexual predator." She and I exchanged
emails, small talk mostly about things relating to SF, hiking, and
museums. It seems 90% of people on Match.com love hiking, although
I'd bet most of them consider brown bagging in the park a "backpacking" trip. Not that I'm judging, I love brown bagging as
much as the next degenerate.
After the requisite three emails we mutually agreed upon a meetup spot
for a drink. Fly Bar on Divisadero, normally a great place during the
week but a terrible choice for a Saturday night. I arrived on time,
maybe 5 minutes early. I stepped into the bar from the arctic SF
summer night and was greeted with a blast of heat, humidity, and body
funk. The place was packed, shoulder to shoulder and had become a
bikram yoga studio. I was almost immediately soaked in sweat despite
taking off my jacket and rolling up my shirtsleeves. This isn't a few
beads on the forehead, this was one was one of those full body sweats
that envelopes you beginning your scalp, down your back, over the ass
and ending behind your knees. Nothing says uncomfortable first date
like the "I just ran 15 miles" look.
I ordered a beer and vainly tried to wipe the deluge of sweat from my
forehead as I waited for date to show. A few minutes later I saw the
door open from the corner of my eye, and as I glanced up I saw
Mildred. She squinted and scanned the crowded bar for a few seconds,
and as we made eye contact I saw her make a strange facial expression.
It lasted only a split second, but it looked to be some recoil of
fear/surprise. Think Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction when he
realizes Glenn Close is batshit crazy. Red Flag #1. I don't know
what she was expecting, I'm not Quasimodo or anything and my pictures
do a pretty good job of representing me.
We had the usual introduction and exchanged niceties to start things
off. Then as we were going through the basics, "How long ago did you
move to SF? How do you like living here? What neighborhood do you
live in?" That last one got me a surprise answer, and Red Flag #2.
"Oh, I don't live in SF, I live in Daly City." Now, not that I'm a
snob and look down upon those that live outside of city limits or in
far flung neighborhoods, but is a little honesty really too much to
ask for? Daly City is not SF by any stretch of the imagination,
despite it's proximity. Just suck it up and admit you live there, is
it really that hard? On the bright side, at least you don't live in
Modesto. No one wants to live there, believe me. I have some cousins
who grew up there, and they're going to need years of therapy to get
over it.
The conversation continued with a few periods of awkward silence. At
the time I attributed it to first date jitters; I didn't have much
dating experience and Mildred wasn't exactly helping to facilitate the
conversation. So I ordered a 2nd beer and offered her one, hoping
another drink may help to break the tension. She declined, and after
I'd had a few sips she stood up and asked if I wanted to go outside.
By now we were both sweating due to the room reached a temperature and
humidity level rarely found outside of subtropical rain forests. I
thought she wanted a momentary breath of fresh air, but boy was I in
for a surprise.
We stepped outside, I had left my jacket at the bar along with my
beer, while she brought her purse and coat. I didn't notice. As we
stepped outside she immediately turned to me "I'm not really feeling
the conversation, I'm going to head out." I was stunned. The Daly
City girl who can't carry on a decent conversation is bailing on me?
I was crushed, it was like watching the wheaties commercial they made
a few years ago of Kirk Gibson crushing a home run off the Eck in the
1988 World Series after I'd spent years repressing the memory. It was
the first of many disappointing sports moments I would go on to
experience. Thank you, Bay Area sports franchises.
"Uhh okay, have a good one?" I replied. (Yes I put the question mark
there on purpose). She walked away and I was left with 3/4 of a beer
and a sweat soaked shirt. I finished my beer and met up with some
friends who were just on the other side of Geary. I replayed the
events for them and they sure got a kick out of it. "Twenty minutes,
that's all she gave you?". "Wow man you can't even cut it with Daly
City women." After a few minutes of consummate ball busting, one of
them raised an excellent point: "It sounds like she was a real winner,
20 minutes was enough for you to find that out." I thought about it
for a few minutes and it dawned on me. "Yeah, I got dropped after 20 minutes on the first date but so what?" There was no way in hell
there was going to be a second. She was boring, we had nothing in
common and she lived in Daly City and was in denial about it.
Sometimes, these surprises are for the best even if it's not readily
apparent.
-"Ted"
Ted earned himself that nickname recently when he remarked one day that I'm like Barney from "How I Met Your Mother", without all the sleeping around. I don't watch this show but he explained how I am a great wingman, provide valuable insight into the female psyche and have an acerbic sense of humor. (Sidenote: I'm offering my services to all you single men out there. $25/hour flat rate.) One can only deduce that if I'm Barney, then he's Ted.
It might be easier to provide background this way:
You catch my drift by now, I'm sure. So when I mentioned that I created this blog and offered a guest spot in the content department he took me up on the offer. Enjoy.
The 20 Minute Date
I've been caught off guard quite a few times in my life: Every time
I've been hit in the crotch, "Your sister's pregnant and the wedding
is next month", "Son, we're putting you on Ritalin". None of those
quite tops the 20 minute date. It all happened when going out for a
drink to meet this girl who we shall call....Mildred. I honestly
don't remember her name so I am going to give her the least attractive name possible.
So Mildred and I met on Match.com. She first came to my attention via
that time-tested come hither maneuver, the "wink". I've come to
understand the wink as "I'm too scared/busy/not interested/creative
enough to send you an email but you've got a few nice pictures and
there's a chance you're not a sexual predator." She and I exchanged
emails, small talk mostly about things relating to SF, hiking, and
museums. It seems 90% of people on Match.com love hiking, although
I'd bet most of them consider brown bagging in the park a "backpacking" trip. Not that I'm judging, I love brown bagging as
much as the next degenerate.
After the requisite three emails we mutually agreed upon a meetup spot
for a drink. Fly Bar on Divisadero, normally a great place during the
week but a terrible choice for a Saturday night. I arrived on time,
maybe 5 minutes early. I stepped into the bar from the arctic SF
summer night and was greeted with a blast of heat, humidity, and body
funk. The place was packed, shoulder to shoulder and had become a
bikram yoga studio. I was almost immediately soaked in sweat despite
taking off my jacket and rolling up my shirtsleeves. This isn't a few
beads on the forehead, this was one was one of those full body sweats
that envelopes you beginning your scalp, down your back, over the ass
and ending behind your knees. Nothing says uncomfortable first date
like the "I just ran 15 miles" look.
I ordered a beer and vainly tried to wipe the deluge of sweat from my
forehead as I waited for date to show. A few minutes later I saw the
door open from the corner of my eye, and as I glanced up I saw
Mildred. She squinted and scanned the crowded bar for a few seconds,
and as we made eye contact I saw her make a strange facial expression.
It lasted only a split second, but it looked to be some recoil of
fear/surprise. Think Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction when he
realizes Glenn Close is batshit crazy. Red Flag #1. I don't know
what she was expecting, I'm not Quasimodo or anything and my pictures
do a pretty good job of representing me.
We had the usual introduction and exchanged niceties to start things
off. Then as we were going through the basics, "How long ago did you
move to SF? How do you like living here? What neighborhood do you
live in?" That last one got me a surprise answer, and Red Flag #2.
"Oh, I don't live in SF, I live in Daly City." Now, not that I'm a
snob and look down upon those that live outside of city limits or in
far flung neighborhoods, but is a little honesty really too much to
ask for? Daly City is not SF by any stretch of the imagination,
despite it's proximity. Just suck it up and admit you live there, is
it really that hard? On the bright side, at least you don't live in
Modesto. No one wants to live there, believe me. I have some cousins
who grew up there, and they're going to need years of therapy to get
over it.
The conversation continued with a few periods of awkward silence. At
the time I attributed it to first date jitters; I didn't have much
dating experience and Mildred wasn't exactly helping to facilitate the
conversation. So I ordered a 2nd beer and offered her one, hoping
another drink may help to break the tension. She declined, and after
I'd had a few sips she stood up and asked if I wanted to go outside.
By now we were both sweating due to the room reached a temperature and
humidity level rarely found outside of subtropical rain forests. I
thought she wanted a momentary breath of fresh air, but boy was I in
for a surprise.
We stepped outside, I had left my jacket at the bar along with my
beer, while she brought her purse and coat. I didn't notice. As we
stepped outside she immediately turned to me "I'm not really feeling
the conversation, I'm going to head out." I was stunned. The Daly
City girl who can't carry on a decent conversation is bailing on me?
I was crushed, it was like watching the wheaties commercial they made
a few years ago of Kirk Gibson crushing a home run off the Eck in the
1988 World Series after I'd spent years repressing the memory. It was
the first of many disappointing sports moments I would go on to
experience. Thank you, Bay Area sports franchises.
"Uhh okay, have a good one?" I replied. (Yes I put the question mark
there on purpose). She walked away and I was left with 3/4 of a beer
and a sweat soaked shirt. I finished my beer and met up with some
friends who were just on the other side of Geary. I replayed the
events for them and they sure got a kick out of it. "Twenty minutes,
that's all she gave you?". "Wow man you can't even cut it with Daly
City women." After a few minutes of consummate ball busting, one of
them raised an excellent point: "It sounds like she was a real winner,
20 minutes was enough for you to find that out." I thought about it
for a few minutes and it dawned on me. "Yeah, I got dropped after 20 minutes on the first date but so what?" There was no way in hell
there was going to be a second. She was boring, we had nothing in
common and she lived in Daly City and was in denial about it.
Sometimes, these surprises are for the best even if it's not readily
apparent.
-"Ted"
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Background Check Fail
I have attracted some real winners in my dating life. Between the axe-murderer artist, musical loving steakhouse server and the handlebar mustachioed drummer (who was certifiably crazy, as in brought a whole new meaning to the term "a screw loose", but hands down one of the best lays of my life... oh sorry, tangent) I have seen my fair share of B-squad material. And you can't escape them, they will pop up at any inopportune time just waiting to dangle the Potential Boyfriend Carrot in front of you, only to yank it away leaving you to fall flat on your face in a big pile of Reality Shit.
A year and a half ago it happened at work. I was already in the throes of my frustrating unrequited crush on "I'm not Kate" Jack when my company hired Brad. Brad was our new sales manager and working remotely from Arizona, and he was like every other typical ex-frat boy salesman living it up in Scottsdale. In other words, totally hot, not much substance, and potentially questionable morals.
He came out to the Shores during his first week of work to get acclimated with the company and the products and services. Being that I work in marketing and typically that department works closely with sales, Brad came by and visited my cube often with questions, requests, whatever. And... just my cube. I was flattered that he singled me out when he could have asked anyone else. Let's face it, we love it when hot members of the opposite sex pay attention to us.
Admittedly, I tried to sneak a peak at his ring finger. I think most of us do this once you reach a certain age and you're single, check out the available goods. But oddly enough it wasn't as easy as you would think to catch a good look and it took a few days before I was able to determine that he was in fact married. Typical. He WAS originally from Oklahoma after all.
A few weeks later he flew back out to the Bay for our company holiday party. It was a low-key affair being held at the CEO's house and all were invited to an intimate dinner at his Palo Alto home. Yours truly had no date to invite so I brought along my sister, Deens, to be my plus one.
When we arrived the cocktail hour was underway and Brad soon found his way over to me and I introduced him to my sister. And very soon, in the midst of making small talk some very odd conversation ensued. Dare I say... innuendos were being made?? Read and assess, dear readers.
Me: "So will you be coming out often to the Shores?"
Brad: "Oh, maybe every month or so. Why, do you WANT me to come out often?" *wink*
Me: "Where are you staying out here?"
Brad: "Over at the Sofitel. You guys should come back after the party for a nightcap."
Deens, not quite catching on yet that he was an employee: "So how do you guys know each other?"
Me, trying to be funny: "Oh just met him tonight. Picked him up on the side of the road."
Brad: "Then we went back to the hotel and hooked up. And she decided to bring me here."
As I accompanied my sister outside for a smoke, she takes a drag, rolls her eyes and says in an exasperated tone**, "He totally wants you. By the way."
Me: "Dude, he's married. Hello. Ring on finger. And a co-worker."
Deens: "Whatever. He was totally eye-fucking you and practically propositioning you."
**(*Sidenote* I cannot express how funny my sister's tone of voice can be, but try to imagine the most sarcastic and biting Valley girl accent with undertones dripping with "You are so beneath me." If you know her, you know what I mean and it's funny. If you don't know her and met her, she would scare you.)
I scoffed at her ridiculous notions some more and we went back inside. Shortly before we sit down for dinner Deens jabs me in my side and whispers in my ear, "SISTER! You have got to be fucking kidding me. He took off his fucking WEDDING RING! WHAT A LOSER!"
WHAAT? I turn around and he was indeed going commando on his ring finger. Needless to say I was thoroughly disgusted and spent the rest of the evening ignoring him and chatting with our super nerdy yet well meaning QA manager (who is like Rainman, except, not autistic and a walking National Geographic/Encyclopedia/Trivial Pursuit answer guide).
A few weeks later Brad was fired after something unsavory was uncovered during the routine background check that all employees were required to undergo. I never did find out what it was that got him the boot, but I'll let your imaginations run wild as mine did. And with that, I leave you with this:
A year and a half ago it happened at work. I was already in the throes of my frustrating unrequited crush on "I'm not Kate" Jack when my company hired Brad. Brad was our new sales manager and working remotely from Arizona, and he was like every other typical ex-frat boy salesman living it up in Scottsdale. In other words, totally hot, not much substance, and potentially questionable morals.
He came out to the Shores during his first week of work to get acclimated with the company and the products and services. Being that I work in marketing and typically that department works closely with sales, Brad came by and visited my cube often with questions, requests, whatever. And... just my cube. I was flattered that he singled me out when he could have asked anyone else. Let's face it, we love it when hot members of the opposite sex pay attention to us.
Admittedly, I tried to sneak a peak at his ring finger. I think most of us do this once you reach a certain age and you're single, check out the available goods. But oddly enough it wasn't as easy as you would think to catch a good look and it took a few days before I was able to determine that he was in fact married. Typical. He WAS originally from Oklahoma after all.
A few weeks later he flew back out to the Bay for our company holiday party. It was a low-key affair being held at the CEO's house and all were invited to an intimate dinner at his Palo Alto home. Yours truly had no date to invite so I brought along my sister, Deens, to be my plus one.
When we arrived the cocktail hour was underway and Brad soon found his way over to me and I introduced him to my sister. And very soon, in the midst of making small talk some very odd conversation ensued. Dare I say... innuendos were being made?? Read and assess, dear readers.
Me: "So will you be coming out often to the Shores?"
Brad: "Oh, maybe every month or so. Why, do you WANT me to come out often?" *wink*
Me: "Where are you staying out here?"
Brad: "Over at the Sofitel. You guys should come back after the party for a nightcap."
Deens, not quite catching on yet that he was an employee: "So how do you guys know each other?"
Me, trying to be funny: "Oh just met him tonight. Picked him up on the side of the road."
Brad: "Then we went back to the hotel and hooked up. And she decided to bring me here."
As I accompanied my sister outside for a smoke, she takes a drag, rolls her eyes and says in an exasperated tone**, "He totally wants you. By the way."
Me: "Dude, he's married. Hello. Ring on finger. And a co-worker."
Deens: "Whatever. He was totally eye-fucking you and practically propositioning you."
**(*Sidenote* I cannot express how funny my sister's tone of voice can be, but try to imagine the most sarcastic and biting Valley girl accent with undertones dripping with "You are so beneath me." If you know her, you know what I mean and it's funny. If you don't know her and met her, she would scare you.)
I scoffed at her ridiculous notions some more and we went back inside. Shortly before we sit down for dinner Deens jabs me in my side and whispers in my ear, "SISTER! You have got to be fucking kidding me. He took off his fucking WEDDING RING! WHAT A LOSER!"
WHAAT? I turn around and he was indeed going commando on his ring finger. Needless to say I was thoroughly disgusted and spent the rest of the evening ignoring him and chatting with our super nerdy yet well meaning QA manager (who is like Rainman, except, not autistic and a walking National Geographic/Encyclopedia/Trivial Pursuit answer guide).
A few weeks later Brad was fired after something unsavory was uncovered during the routine background check that all employees were required to undergo. I never did find out what it was that got him the boot, but I'll let your imaginations run wild as mine did. And with that, I leave you with this:
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
So I almost dated an axe-murderer
I have met a lot of crazy people and done a lot of stupid shit in my life. I suppose I've always had a carpe diem approach to things, justifying my actions by saying, "Well it seemed like a good idea at the time!"
I don't want to even get into some of the things I've done, lest I be judged, but let it suffice to say that I am shocked that I have never:
- been arrested
- ran off to Mexico with a band of hippies
- ended up comatose in a hospital
- been slipped a roofie and kidnapped
- become a roadie for a rock band
- become a groupie of a rock band
- suffered from long term brain damage
- lost any limbs
- gotten entire sleeves tattooed on myself
Mostly though, I've been pleasantly surprised by how these encounters turn out, they've afforded me great opportunity to get to know some amazing people and have some unique experiences.
The operative word here is "mostly". Like I said, I've met some characters and one particular guy stands out in my mind.
This is another Tucson story. I'm beginning to realize that when I was a senior in college my dating life took on a very laissez-faire approach. Anyway, near my apartment complex was a grocery store called Fry's. This is indeed the same Fry's that owns the Fry's Electronics stores in the Bay Area. I guess they were started by brothers - one went the electronics route while the other went groceries. There was a cute young guy there that caught my eye (surprise fucking surprise). You can judge me all you want but when you're a 21 year old college student who works at a tanning salon (an oxymoron if I've ever heard of one, a tanning salon in Arizona) the fact that you're considering slumming it with the bagger boy is pretty trivial.
For months I would see him whenever I'd go to pick up groceries or toiletries, or as was often the case, a bottle of booze or beer. Sometimes he would be helping me. Other times I'd merely pass him by in the store. We always made eye contact. He always made a point to smile and say hello.
I don't remember how we eventually ended up exchanging numbers but we did, and began texting with each other. And eventually plans were made to hang out. Ok, I'll be honest. Plans were made to do a drug deal over at his house and somehow that constituted hanging out.
Yes, it's true. One of the many stupid things I've done in my life included dabbling in drugs, but I believe that on this particular evening I wasn't making a purchase for myself. I don't think bagger boy, whom I'll refer to as BB henceforth, was even a dealer really - we were merely the middle men between the dealer and my friend who was looking to score a hit. Ok, add that to the list... shocked I never ended up becoming a drug mule in a drug empire that a Mexican cartel was running from Nogales to the States via Tucson. I was a silly fuck, yes I was, but you're pretty much invincible when you're 21, obvi.
So on the appointed evening, I drove over to his house. I went in and we chit-chatted with his roommate while BB weighed out the goods. Ever the gracious host, lines were offered along with a beer. Both were probably accepted. After the exchange was made I hung out for a little while longer, getting to know the kid (by this time I found out he was 19 - this was a problem for obvious reasons).
As we're sitting in his room, checking out his posters, guitar, what the fuck ever, he mentions he's an artist.
"Oh really? What kind of art?"
"Oh, all kinds but I've been sketching a lot lately. Want to see some recent work?"
How dishy. He might be a child, but he's cute and an artist. His stock was beginning to rise in my eyes.
He pulls out several sketchpads. He flips through a couple pages, showing me some still life, a nude, scenes that were drawn, an Asian girl... and then, another Asian girl...
"Huh," I thought, "how funny. That drawing looks oddly like me, but I probably only think that because it's an Asian girl and we all look alike anyway."
As he continued to flip through the pages, more and more sketches of the same Asian girl popped up. I couldn't deny it to myself any longer. That Asian girl in the drawings was me.
I'm sure some girls would have been flattered, even touched, by this gesture. He was obviously entranced enough to sketch me from memory, not once but a good ten times. Well, I am not like most other girls. The alarms went off in my head and I was freaked out. His stock plummeted to negative numbers and I began to panic just a little bit.
I don't even remember what happened right after this, all I know is that the foremost thought in my head was "GET OUT OF HERE." I probably made up some lame excuse and made my exit.
BB followed me out to my car and held me close at the door. He bent forward to kiss me and nuzzle my neck as I braced myself and hoped he would hurry the fuck up and get on with his goodbyes so I could get the hell out of there.
"It's such a nice night. You know there are some amazing views up in the mountains, I would love to take you up there for a drive, we can stargaze and just see the city lights. No one else goes out there - we could be all alone."
If I was creeped out before this pushed me over the edge. My non-romantic/no bullshit/guy's girl/hates chicks flicks/makes fun of sappy girls self screamed inwardly, "OH SWEET JESUS HE'S AN AXE-MURDERER I KNEW IT!!!"
In retrospect I suppose I was being a little melodramatic but dammit I wasn't taking any chances. I may seize life by the seat of the pants but this was too much. Go to a stranger's house to buy drugs? Sure. Go on a romantical date with a sweet tender boy who drew beautiful pictures of me to stargaze in the mountains? I don't think so. I might do some stupid shit but at least I escaped that potential white abduction van scenario where I end up hacked to pieces in the Pima wash four days later. See? I have a little bit of self-preservation in me.
I don't want to even get into some of the things I've done, lest I be judged, but let it suffice to say that I am shocked that I have never:
- been arrested
- ran off to Mexico with a band of hippies
- ended up comatose in a hospital
- been slipped a roofie and kidnapped
- become a roadie for a rock band
- become a groupie of a rock band
- suffered from long term brain damage
- lost any limbs
- gotten entire sleeves tattooed on myself
Mostly though, I've been pleasantly surprised by how these encounters turn out, they've afforded me great opportunity to get to know some amazing people and have some unique experiences.
The operative word here is "mostly". Like I said, I've met some characters and one particular guy stands out in my mind.
This is another Tucson story. I'm beginning to realize that when I was a senior in college my dating life took on a very laissez-faire approach. Anyway, near my apartment complex was a grocery store called Fry's. This is indeed the same Fry's that owns the Fry's Electronics stores in the Bay Area. I guess they were started by brothers - one went the electronics route while the other went groceries. There was a cute young guy there that caught my eye (surprise fucking surprise). You can judge me all you want but when you're a 21 year old college student who works at a tanning salon (an oxymoron if I've ever heard of one, a tanning salon in Arizona) the fact that you're considering slumming it with the bagger boy is pretty trivial.
For months I would see him whenever I'd go to pick up groceries or toiletries, or as was often the case, a bottle of booze or beer. Sometimes he would be helping me. Other times I'd merely pass him by in the store. We always made eye contact. He always made a point to smile and say hello.
I don't remember how we eventually ended up exchanging numbers but we did, and began texting with each other. And eventually plans were made to hang out. Ok, I'll be honest. Plans were made to do a drug deal over at his house and somehow that constituted hanging out.
Yes, it's true. One of the many stupid things I've done in my life included dabbling in drugs, but I believe that on this particular evening I wasn't making a purchase for myself. I don't think bagger boy, whom I'll refer to as BB henceforth, was even a dealer really - we were merely the middle men between the dealer and my friend who was looking to score a hit. Ok, add that to the list... shocked I never ended up becoming a drug mule in a drug empire that a Mexican cartel was running from Nogales to the States via Tucson. I was a silly fuck, yes I was, but you're pretty much invincible when you're 21, obvi.
So on the appointed evening, I drove over to his house. I went in and we chit-chatted with his roommate while BB weighed out the goods. Ever the gracious host, lines were offered along with a beer. Both were probably accepted. After the exchange was made I hung out for a little while longer, getting to know the kid (by this time I found out he was 19 - this was a problem for obvious reasons).
As we're sitting in his room, checking out his posters, guitar, what the fuck ever, he mentions he's an artist.
"Oh really? What kind of art?"
"Oh, all kinds but I've been sketching a lot lately. Want to see some recent work?"
How dishy. He might be a child, but he's cute and an artist. His stock was beginning to rise in my eyes.
He pulls out several sketchpads. He flips through a couple pages, showing me some still life, a nude, scenes that were drawn, an Asian girl... and then, another Asian girl...
"Huh," I thought, "how funny. That drawing looks oddly like me, but I probably only think that because it's an Asian girl and we all look alike anyway."
As he continued to flip through the pages, more and more sketches of the same Asian girl popped up. I couldn't deny it to myself any longer. That Asian girl in the drawings was me.
I'm sure some girls would have been flattered, even touched, by this gesture. He was obviously entranced enough to sketch me from memory, not once but a good ten times. Well, I am not like most other girls. The alarms went off in my head and I was freaked out. His stock plummeted to negative numbers and I began to panic just a little bit.
I don't even remember what happened right after this, all I know is that the foremost thought in my head was "GET OUT OF HERE." I probably made up some lame excuse and made my exit.
BB followed me out to my car and held me close at the door. He bent forward to kiss me and nuzzle my neck as I braced myself and hoped he would hurry the fuck up and get on with his goodbyes so I could get the hell out of there.
"It's such a nice night. You know there are some amazing views up in the mountains, I would love to take you up there for a drive, we can stargaze and just see the city lights. No one else goes out there - we could be all alone."
If I was creeped out before this pushed me over the edge. My non-romantic/no bullshit/guy's girl/hates chicks flicks/makes fun of sappy girls self screamed inwardly, "OH SWEET JESUS HE'S AN AXE-MURDERER I KNEW IT!!!"
In retrospect I suppose I was being a little melodramatic but dammit I wasn't taking any chances. I may seize life by the seat of the pants but this was too much. Go to a stranger's house to buy drugs? Sure. Go on a romantical date with a sweet tender boy who drew beautiful pictures of me to stargaze in the mountains? I don't think so. I might do some stupid shit but at least I escaped that potential white abduction van scenario where I end up hacked to pieces in the Pima wash four days later. See? I have a little bit of self-preservation in me.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
There's no you and me, babycakes
First guest vlog entry from the one and only JC, who gets into as many crazy shenanigans as me.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Um... I'm not Kate
*Names changed to protect the innocent*
Yesterday was like any other work day – it certainly started out just like any other. I woke up at the ass crack of dawn to make my 6 a.m. Bar Method workout. (Why you ask? Why indeed? Because I am vain and want the ass and thighs of steel like my instructors?) I picked up my daily Peet’s. (Total waste of money. I can fall asleep after a cup of coffee.) I drove myself to the Shores where my company resides in a lovely corporate office building that has an IKE’S PLACE on the first floor. (If you’re in the know, you know this is a B.F.D.) I logged in, checked email and all the various news outlets that I simply cannot begin my day without. IM’ed with a few friends. And finally… you know, started working.
This sounds like some boring shit, and I would tend to agree. Little did I know that our mid-afternoon meeting held an unexpected and awkward surprise for me.
In the mid-afternoon our team convened to review the Web copy, layout and UI for a new product we were about to launch. Did I mention I work in marketing? Well, I do, and the marketing team plus our summer interns were all gathered around the table. I was sitting at the very end of the table, next to my co-worker/friend, Jack. We were walking through the new feature sets and testing out the UI of the consumer-facing portions of this site when all of a sudden, I feel Jack’s hand on my back.
Let me back up for a minute to provide a little background information. When I started working at this company two years ago, Jack caught my eye. He is a very witty, sensitive, and smart man that has a very Hugh Grant-esque air about him both in terms of charms and looks. Naturally, I was interested. Apparently the feeling was mutual. For the first six months we flirted like mad and had the most ridiculous sexual tension that you could have cut with a knife. Luckily he had the foresight to realize that dating a co-worker is a bad idea and nothing ever happened, much to my chagrin at the time. Today we are nothing but good friends and we often chat about his relationship with his lovely girlfriend, Kate, while he gives me advice about men. Ok, back to the story.
So, we’re sitting there in the middle of our meeting discussing fascinating topics such as grammar and whether or not that green color will pop better than the orange, when all of a sudden I feel Jack’s hand on my back. And begin to stroke up, and down… and up, and down…
I instantly froze. I was all sorts of confused. I believe the first thing that came to my mind was, “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
Maybe there was some purpose in him caressing my back? I sneak a peek at him. Hm, no. He’s definitely still going on about the grammar of that one sentence. He isn’t even looking at me. What could this possibly mean? It’s like he isn’t even aware of what he is doing, he is just carrying on as if this is a completely normal part of a marketing meeting. I then sneak a peek around the room. By some grace of God, no one has noticed. Well, if they have, no one is saying anything or reacting. Everyone has looks of serious concentration on their faces, nodding along as Jack continues his analysis and rubs my back. I try to get his attention but he is completely oblivious. The one time he looks over at me and sees my frantic expression on my face, he interprets it as: “That’s a stupid idea, why would we decrease the size of that button?” Jack says, “Well, don’t you agree? Right now we’re really tight on the spacing over there, if we just decrease it a little bit it will give that section some air and then maybe the copy won’t wrap in that awkward way.” Oh, my fucking God there his hand goes down to the small of my back, rubbing. And strokes back up, and down…
Part of me is shocked. Part of me absolutely mortified. And the really immature part of me wants to start laughing out loud. I am simultaneously struggling not to laugh while I turn beet red and look around the room furtively trying to discern whether people have noticed yet. This is now going on a good, oh, minute and a half to two minutes now. Two excruciating minutes.
Finally. Finally for the love of all that is good and holy, I catch his attention and make very pointed sharp glances at his hand on my back. It's his turn to freeze and become all sorts of confused.
"What....? OH. Oh my God. OH, my God. I'm sorry!"
I can't help it, I start snickering and cannot stop. Upon Jack's random outburst and my giggling the entire team's attention is now focused on us. Questioning, wondering, what the fuck are they up to now?
Because he is so flustered, Jack stammers, "Uh, I just, uh I don't know what just happened I was touching her back and didn't know, uh..."
And because I'm still flustered and mortified and amused, all I can manage is, "Um. I'm not Kate!"
Non-plussed, my boss just says, "Ok, I don't know what just happened but anyway...". The meeting continues without further incident.
Jack types out a note on his laptop, and flashes his screen at me: "I'm really sorry. I was up til 4 last night. I don't know what just happened, I'm mortified."
Well, all I can say is that a little unexpected back-rubbing does way more than a cup of coffee to jolt me awake from a mid-afternoon slump.
Yesterday was like any other work day – it certainly started out just like any other. I woke up at the ass crack of dawn to make my 6 a.m. Bar Method workout. (Why you ask? Why indeed? Because I am vain and want the ass and thighs of steel like my instructors?) I picked up my daily Peet’s. (Total waste of money. I can fall asleep after a cup of coffee.) I drove myself to the Shores where my company resides in a lovely corporate office building that has an IKE’S PLACE on the first floor. (If you’re in the know, you know this is a B.F.D.) I logged in, checked email and all the various news outlets that I simply cannot begin my day without. IM’ed with a few friends. And finally… you know, started working.
This sounds like some boring shit, and I would tend to agree. Little did I know that our mid-afternoon meeting held an unexpected and awkward surprise for me.
In the mid-afternoon our team convened to review the Web copy, layout and UI for a new product we were about to launch. Did I mention I work in marketing? Well, I do, and the marketing team plus our summer interns were all gathered around the table. I was sitting at the very end of the table, next to my co-worker/friend, Jack. We were walking through the new feature sets and testing out the UI of the consumer-facing portions of this site when all of a sudden, I feel Jack’s hand on my back.
Let me back up for a minute to provide a little background information. When I started working at this company two years ago, Jack caught my eye. He is a very witty, sensitive, and smart man that has a very Hugh Grant-esque air about him both in terms of charms and looks. Naturally, I was interested. Apparently the feeling was mutual. For the first six months we flirted like mad and had the most ridiculous sexual tension that you could have cut with a knife. Luckily he had the foresight to realize that dating a co-worker is a bad idea and nothing ever happened, much to my chagrin at the time. Today we are nothing but good friends and we often chat about his relationship with his lovely girlfriend, Kate, while he gives me advice about men. Ok, back to the story.
So, we’re sitting there in the middle of our meeting discussing fascinating topics such as grammar and whether or not that green color will pop better than the orange, when all of a sudden I feel Jack’s hand on my back. And begin to stroke up, and down… and up, and down…
I instantly froze. I was all sorts of confused. I believe the first thing that came to my mind was, “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
Maybe there was some purpose in him caressing my back? I sneak a peek at him. Hm, no. He’s definitely still going on about the grammar of that one sentence. He isn’t even looking at me. What could this possibly mean? It’s like he isn’t even aware of what he is doing, he is just carrying on as if this is a completely normal part of a marketing meeting. I then sneak a peek around the room. By some grace of God, no one has noticed. Well, if they have, no one is saying anything or reacting. Everyone has looks of serious concentration on their faces, nodding along as Jack continues his analysis and rubs my back. I try to get his attention but he is completely oblivious. The one time he looks over at me and sees my frantic expression on my face, he interprets it as: “That’s a stupid idea, why would we decrease the size of that button?” Jack says, “Well, don’t you agree? Right now we’re really tight on the spacing over there, if we just decrease it a little bit it will give that section some air and then maybe the copy won’t wrap in that awkward way.” Oh, my fucking God there his hand goes down to the small of my back, rubbing. And strokes back up, and down…
Part of me is shocked. Part of me absolutely mortified. And the really immature part of me wants to start laughing out loud. I am simultaneously struggling not to laugh while I turn beet red and look around the room furtively trying to discern whether people have noticed yet. This is now going on a good, oh, minute and a half to two minutes now. Two excruciating minutes.
Finally. Finally for the love of all that is good and holy, I catch his attention and make very pointed sharp glances at his hand on my back. It's his turn to freeze and become all sorts of confused.
"What....? OH. Oh my God. OH, my God. I'm sorry!"
I can't help it, I start snickering and cannot stop. Upon Jack's random outburst and my giggling the entire team's attention is now focused on us. Questioning, wondering, what the fuck are they up to now?
Because he is so flustered, Jack stammers, "Uh, I just, uh I don't know what just happened I was touching her back and didn't know, uh..."
And because I'm still flustered and mortified and amused, all I can manage is, "Um. I'm not Kate!"
Non-plussed, my boss just says, "Ok, I don't know what just happened but anyway...". The meeting continues without further incident.
Jack types out a note on his laptop, and flashes his screen at me: "I'm really sorry. I was up til 4 last night. I don't know what just happened, I'm mortified."
Well, all I can say is that a little unexpected back-rubbing does way more than a cup of coffee to jolt me awake from a mid-afternoon slump.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Cockblocked by Writer's Block
Technology is amazing. For better or for worse, we live in an era where an eight month old baby who was born deaf is able to hear his mother's voice while millions wasted time with Tamagotchis in the 90's.
One such amazing service of recent times is the advent of online dating. From Match.com to plentyoffish.com to jdate.com to the seedy ashleymadison.com, the opportunities are ripe for finding that special someone. I also happen to know for a fact that you CAN find love online. I personally know two women who are happily married and happily engaged.
For whatever reason, online dating has always seemed like the final frontier. I always resisted, claiming that I preferred to meet men organically. Then I countered that online dating just opens you up to so many more opportunities for rejection. Well fast-forward to 27, single for 2+ years with only one legitimate dating experience and more awkward encounters than I care to admit and the chip in my armor was beginning to crack. While I felt perfectly content not dating, my situation was apparently really desperate to everyone else around me. Girlfriends were dying to get me laid. ("We need to clear the cobwebs down there.") Trips to the adult toy store were offered by my gays. ("Honey I'm telling you, THIS is the model you want. It's got the girth and the length.") My sister threatened to sign me up for multiple online dating accounts without telling me. ("I'm going to sign you up for all of them. And one day you'll come home and I'll say 'Get dressed bitch. You're going to dinner in a half hour.'") And perhaps the scariest of all, my aunt offered to set me up with a nice Korean Christian boy from her church. ("Thank you, I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a blunt spoon. While fornicating. On a Sunday. With another heathen. While taking the Lord's name in vain. Amen.")
The more friends encouraged online dating, I thought about it. And pondered the possibilities. And then it hit me like an epiphany from the Man himself: Oh shit. This would actually allow me the opportunity to just weed out all the incompatible and homely guys (What? Like you wouldn't either? Don't lie to me.) and allow me to filter my results so that I don't have to waste my time! The thought that I could search, point and click my way to a date with some tall 30 year old never married man who loves to run and watch funny movies, all in the comfort of my home in my sweats, was VERY appealing. I was sold.
So one bored Sunday evening I sat down and rolled up my sleeves and began the process. I carefully thought about the qualities I was looking for in a man and gave a lot of thought to my choices as well, as far as my interests, political views and whether or not I prefer cats over dogs. (I'm a dog person, by the way.) I honestly think I spent about an hour on this part - my future was at stake here, people. How could I play Russian Roulette with my life when such serious consequences such as ending up on a bad date with a Sarah Palin-loving, Chinese-crested owning, curling enthusiast could occur? (Actually, that would be freakin' hilarious.)
And then I reached the point where I had to come up with a short "tagline" for myself and write a short "About me and what I'm looking for" description. I was completely stumped. What the F was I supposed to say about myself? Anything I came up with just made me sound like an asshole. I totally get that you're supposed to be selling yourself in these profiles but really? And anyway, I think that one has a pretty skewed version of themself so whatever I write was going to be completely subjective to how I view myself. Hello, I'm basically perfect. I KID, I KID.
In all seriousness, this is what I came up with after several stumped hours:
"My name is __. I like puppies. I run marathons. I hope you're a musician/runner/investment banker. San Francisco rocks!"
Well screw it, I decided to go to bed and finish this later. I'd already wasted enough time on what could be the most self-indulging and vain exercise ever, and I had to go to work in a few hours.
The next day I had this unfinished assignment hanging over my head and it kept looming in the back of my mind. You know that really uncomfortable feeling that you get, like when you know you're down to your last pair of underwear and you need to do laundry but dammit you have no quarters and you're supposed to go bar hopping tonight? Or how you know that you have another two days to return $500 worth of impulse purchases but how can you possibly deal with Union Square on a weekend with *gasp* tourists to fight your way through? Well let me tell you, coming from the world's biggest procrastinator (my Type B side) this writing assignment was stressing me out. Time went by, and every day I felt the growing pressure of that unfinished profile. Of course, I had made the mistake of telling a couple of (very excited) girlfriends about my attempted foray into online dating. Every other day one or all of said girlfriends would pester me.
"Well? Have you finished your profile yet?"
"No. I still haven't been inspired."
"What the hell is there to inspire? It's about you. Talk about yourself. That can't be too hard."
"BUT I DON'T WANNA DO IT! WAHHH!"
I felt like a petulant 11 year old all over again, being forced against my will to go to a summer camp in the woods of rural Korea when I don't speak any Korean at all. (My mother dumped off my siblings and me at this camp under the pretense of having us expand our horizons and learn the language. I think she was just sick of us whining that it was too hot and that we wanted to go home to California.) Yes, it was that dread-inducing and terrifying.
I don't like the feeling of having something due hanging over my head, it gave me horrendous flashbacks of my sad excuse of an academic career during college, but I honestly had no idea what to say about myself. After a month of nothing, I caved under the pressure and waved the white flag of defeat. I deleted the account I never got to finish setting up. I was cockblocked by writer's block.
Correction. I cockblocked MYSELF because of writer's block.
My love life: So pathetic it's hilarious.
*Clarification* Some wondered why there wasn't a guy/awkward situation involved. The point I was trying to make here was "I'm just awkward in general, and here's yet another example of how I can't/don't get dates."
One such amazing service of recent times is the advent of online dating. From Match.com to plentyoffish.com to jdate.com to the seedy ashleymadison.com, the opportunities are ripe for finding that special someone. I also happen to know for a fact that you CAN find love online. I personally know two women who are happily married and happily engaged.
For whatever reason, online dating has always seemed like the final frontier. I always resisted, claiming that I preferred to meet men organically. Then I countered that online dating just opens you up to so many more opportunities for rejection. Well fast-forward to 27, single for 2+ years with only one legitimate dating experience and more awkward encounters than I care to admit and the chip in my armor was beginning to crack. While I felt perfectly content not dating, my situation was apparently really desperate to everyone else around me. Girlfriends were dying to get me laid. ("We need to clear the cobwebs down there.") Trips to the adult toy store were offered by my gays. ("Honey I'm telling you, THIS is the model you want. It's got the girth and the length.") My sister threatened to sign me up for multiple online dating accounts without telling me. ("I'm going to sign you up for all of them. And one day you'll come home and I'll say 'Get dressed bitch. You're going to dinner in a half hour.'") And perhaps the scariest of all, my aunt offered to set me up with a nice Korean Christian boy from her church. ("Thank you, I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a blunt spoon. While fornicating. On a Sunday. With another heathen. While taking the Lord's name in vain. Amen.")
The more friends encouraged online dating, I thought about it. And pondered the possibilities. And then it hit me like an epiphany from the Man himself: Oh shit. This would actually allow me the opportunity to just weed out all the incompatible and homely guys (What? Like you wouldn't either? Don't lie to me.) and allow me to filter my results so that I don't have to waste my time! The thought that I could search, point and click my way to a date with some tall 30 year old never married man who loves to run and watch funny movies, all in the comfort of my home in my sweats, was VERY appealing. I was sold.
So one bored Sunday evening I sat down and rolled up my sleeves and began the process. I carefully thought about the qualities I was looking for in a man and gave a lot of thought to my choices as well, as far as my interests, political views and whether or not I prefer cats over dogs. (I'm a dog person, by the way.) I honestly think I spent about an hour on this part - my future was at stake here, people. How could I play Russian Roulette with my life when such serious consequences such as ending up on a bad date with a Sarah Palin-loving, Chinese-crested owning, curling enthusiast could occur? (Actually, that would be freakin' hilarious.)
And then I reached the point where I had to come up with a short "tagline" for myself and write a short "About me and what I'm looking for" description. I was completely stumped. What the F was I supposed to say about myself? Anything I came up with just made me sound like an asshole. I totally get that you're supposed to be selling yourself in these profiles but really? And anyway, I think that one has a pretty skewed version of themself so whatever I write was going to be completely subjective to how I view myself. Hello, I'm basically perfect. I KID, I KID.
In all seriousness, this is what I came up with after several stumped hours:
"My name is __. I like puppies. I run marathons. I hope you're a musician/runner/investment banker. San Francisco rocks!"
Well screw it, I decided to go to bed and finish this later. I'd already wasted enough time on what could be the most self-indulging and vain exercise ever, and I had to go to work in a few hours.
The next day I had this unfinished assignment hanging over my head and it kept looming in the back of my mind. You know that really uncomfortable feeling that you get, like when you know you're down to your last pair of underwear and you need to do laundry but dammit you have no quarters and you're supposed to go bar hopping tonight? Or how you know that you have another two days to return $500 worth of impulse purchases but how can you possibly deal with Union Square on a weekend with *gasp* tourists to fight your way through? Well let me tell you, coming from the world's biggest procrastinator (my Type B side) this writing assignment was stressing me out. Time went by, and every day I felt the growing pressure of that unfinished profile. Of course, I had made the mistake of telling a couple of (very excited) girlfriends about my attempted foray into online dating. Every other day one or all of said girlfriends would pester me.
"Well? Have you finished your profile yet?"
"No. I still haven't been inspired."
"What the hell is there to inspire? It's about you. Talk about yourself. That can't be too hard."
"BUT I DON'T WANNA DO IT! WAHHH!"
I felt like a petulant 11 year old all over again, being forced against my will to go to a summer camp in the woods of rural Korea when I don't speak any Korean at all. (My mother dumped off my siblings and me at this camp under the pretense of having us expand our horizons and learn the language. I think she was just sick of us whining that it was too hot and that we wanted to go home to California.) Yes, it was that dread-inducing and terrifying.
I don't like the feeling of having something due hanging over my head, it gave me horrendous flashbacks of my sad excuse of an academic career during college, but I honestly had no idea what to say about myself. After a month of nothing, I caved under the pressure and waved the white flag of defeat. I deleted the account I never got to finish setting up. I was cockblocked by writer's block.
Correction. I cockblocked MYSELF because of writer's block.
My love life: So pathetic it's hilarious.
*Clarification* Some wondered why there wasn't a guy/awkward situation involved. The point I was trying to make here was "I'm just awkward in general, and here's yet another example of how I can't/don't get dates."
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Don't call me "Sweetheart"
When I was in college at the good old U of A (that's Arizona, bitches) I frequented the Coffee Xchange on Speedway and Campbell on evenings when I had to complete a last minute cram session the night before an exam. BFF Ali and I would lug our pristine-condition books, laptops, notebooks, pot and adderal (don't ask, this was one of many "seemed like a great idea at the time" moments) and set up shop in a corner while we drank lots of coffee, furiously typed out notes and snuck out to the car to take a hit off the batty.
Clearly this is the perfect setting for romantic encounters. And being that we are at the U of A, which possesses a disturbingly high percentage of really really good looking people compared to the general population of America, you are bound to run into and meet someone who tickles your fancy. Even at 2 am at a coffee shop.
One magical evening, hopped up on coffee, adderal and pot, I caught the eye of a very handsome, tall, dark-haired man. Being the brazen little hussy that I am at 22 years old I find a way to strike up conversation with him and bagged myself a date. Score! Not bad for a late evening study session on a Monday night.
Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that he was a 31 year old man studying alone at 2 am in a coffee shop picking up young girls. Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that he took his job as a server at Flemings very seriously (He was a "foodie". Alledgedly.). Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that I was meeting him at Centennial Hall for a performance of "Hairspray" for our date. No, none of this registered at all. It was only when I met up with him and arrived five minutes late and was chastised for my lack of punctuality (I couldn't find parking, fucker) I had this feeling at the pit of my stomach that quietly whispered "This is not a good idea. Run away now."
They say you should always listen to your gut instinct and I'm shamed to say that I ignored it. Determined to display some some semblance of good manners, I stayed. And watched three hours of "Hairspray". And endured the ridiculous comments he would make about the music. And worst of all, listened to him call me "sweetie" and "sweetheart".
When you have to physically restrain yourself and resist the overpowering urge to punch your date for calling you "sweetheart" even I knew that I needed to get rid of this fool. I practically bolted from my seat the moment the curtains went down - I couldn't get outside fast enough and away from this douche. Stopping short of running away, I forced myself to turn to him and say my goodbyes and thanks you's like the classy and polite little lady my mama raised.
This was not to be.
"So what shall we do now? Grab dinner? Perhaps a drink?"
FUCK. What now? If I had to spend one more minute with this guy I was not going to be held responsible if my fist somehow "accidentally" connected with his stupid smug face. And then a flash of brilliance! It was a Thursday night! That could only mean one thing...
"Well, I have a standing date with 20 of my friends to meet up at Bisonwiches for dollar pints on Thursday nights. And you're welcome to join us, if you like." Anyone with the ability to pick up a hint would understand this was a polite way of telling him to fuck off, but unfortunately he didn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer and actually joined us. FML.
The following ensued:
- Ignored him for the following two hours while I mingled with an assortment of about 23 friends
- Flirted with that cute guy Todd who I've had my eye on for a few months
- Made horrible date buy me several beers
- Made a date with Todd
- Ignored him some more
- Got horrible date to drive myself, bff and Todd back to bff's house.
As I FINALLY got to say my goodbye's, I feigned exhaustion and the claim that I was going to get myself home from there. Horrible date, who I am now realizing may be the slowest person alive, says:
"You know, that's not exactly how I envisioned our first date to go. On our next date I'd really like some one on one time."
With a smile plastered to my face and a stiff nod as I back-pat/hugged him goodbye, all I could think in my mind was: "Hell to the mother fucking NO you are not getting a second date."
I spent the following weeks ignoring his calls and sending him straight to voicemail. Every time I saw his name pop up on caller ID my skin crawled as I had flashbacks of him whispering "Sweetie" to me in the dark of Centennial Hall. But being that we live in Tucson and that I'm a creature of habit who frequents the same spots over and over again it was only a matter of time before I ran into him.
Back to the original scene of the crime. BFF sees him and says: "Isn't that horrible date over there?". SHIT! I contemplate trying to sneak away undetected but then I figured, fuck it. I'm not going to let him make me feel awkward about it. HE can feel awkward about it if he wants to. Screw him! (Did I mention I am not only a brazen 22 year old hussy, but an overly confident arrogant bastard as well?) And so I saunter by, give him a big smile and say "HI!" and walk past his table to mine.
Yes, I know I am an asshole. But dammit, don't call me "sweetheart".
Clearly this is the perfect setting for romantic encounters. And being that we are at the U of A, which possesses a disturbingly high percentage of really really good looking people compared to the general population of America, you are bound to run into and meet someone who tickles your fancy. Even at 2 am at a coffee shop.
One magical evening, hopped up on coffee, adderal and pot, I caught the eye of a very handsome, tall, dark-haired man. Being the brazen little hussy that I am at 22 years old I find a way to strike up conversation with him and bagged myself a date. Score! Not bad for a late evening study session on a Monday night.
Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that he was a 31 year old man studying alone at 2 am in a coffee shop picking up young girls. Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that he took his job as a server at Flemings very seriously (He was a "foodie". Alledgedly.). Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that I was meeting him at Centennial Hall for a performance of "Hairspray" for our date. No, none of this registered at all. It was only when I met up with him and arrived five minutes late and was chastised for my lack of punctuality (I couldn't find parking, fucker) I had this feeling at the pit of my stomach that quietly whispered "This is not a good idea. Run away now."
They say you should always listen to your gut instinct and I'm shamed to say that I ignored it. Determined to display some some semblance of good manners, I stayed. And watched three hours of "Hairspray". And endured the ridiculous comments he would make about the music. And worst of all, listened to him call me "sweetie" and "sweetheart".
When you have to physically restrain yourself and resist the overpowering urge to punch your date for calling you "sweetheart" even I knew that I needed to get rid of this fool. I practically bolted from my seat the moment the curtains went down - I couldn't get outside fast enough and away from this douche. Stopping short of running away, I forced myself to turn to him and say my goodbyes and thanks you's like the classy and polite little lady my mama raised.
This was not to be.
"So what shall we do now? Grab dinner? Perhaps a drink?"
FUCK. What now? If I had to spend one more minute with this guy I was not going to be held responsible if my fist somehow "accidentally" connected with his stupid smug face. And then a flash of brilliance! It was a Thursday night! That could only mean one thing...
"Well, I have a standing date with 20 of my friends to meet up at Bisonwiches for dollar pints on Thursday nights. And you're welcome to join us, if you like." Anyone with the ability to pick up a hint would understand this was a polite way of telling him to fuck off, but unfortunately he didn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer and actually joined us. FML.
The following ensued:
- Ignored him for the following two hours while I mingled with an assortment of about 23 friends
- Flirted with that cute guy Todd who I've had my eye on for a few months
- Made horrible date buy me several beers
- Made a date with Todd
- Ignored him some more
- Got horrible date to drive myself, bff and Todd back to bff's house.
As I FINALLY got to say my goodbye's, I feigned exhaustion and the claim that I was going to get myself home from there. Horrible date, who I am now realizing may be the slowest person alive, says:
"You know, that's not exactly how I envisioned our first date to go. On our next date I'd really like some one on one time."
With a smile plastered to my face and a stiff nod as I back-pat/hugged him goodbye, all I could think in my mind was: "Hell to the mother fucking NO you are not getting a second date."
I spent the following weeks ignoring his calls and sending him straight to voicemail. Every time I saw his name pop up on caller ID my skin crawled as I had flashbacks of him whispering "Sweetie" to me in the dark of Centennial Hall. But being that we live in Tucson and that I'm a creature of habit who frequents the same spots over and over again it was only a matter of time before I ran into him.
Back to the original scene of the crime. BFF sees him and says: "Isn't that horrible date over there?". SHIT! I contemplate trying to sneak away undetected but then I figured, fuck it. I'm not going to let him make me feel awkward about it. HE can feel awkward about it if he wants to. Screw him! (Did I mention I am not only a brazen 22 year old hussy, but an overly confident arrogant bastard as well?) And so I saunter by, give him a big smile and say "HI!" and walk past his table to mine.
Yes, I know I am an asshole. But dammit, don't call me "sweetheart".
"So who are you dating these days?"
The other night I was circling AT&T ballpark, desperately searching for parking as most San Franciscans who are dumb enough to own a car do on a Friday night when they insist on driving. It's bad enough that I'm an Asian girl in a car, but now I'm doing the "drive, halt, drive, cross to the other side of the street, stop in the middle of the road, repeat" in my search for the ever elusive parking spot less than a mile away from Bar Basic. Did I mention I'm trying to text, too? At the moment I am my auto insurance agent's worst nightmare and the culmination of every bad Asian girl driver joke. (For the record, I'm a freakin awesome driver.)
For some reason, my friend Henry decides this is as good a time as ever to lay that dreaded question on me:
"So, who are you dating these days?"
My mind draws a blank. How am I to explain to him that it's hard being single in the city when you are ridiculously picky? That I just don't see the point in dating someone unless I really click with them, and those ocassions are so far and few between? That I usually just end up befriending most guys rather than date them? That when I do find a guy I like and/or go on a date it usually ends up being a comedy of errors? And doesn't he know that I can't really have real conversations with people when I'm distracted by my quest for a parking spot on a Friday night when the Bo Sox are in town? (Whoa was that a parking spot? Dammit there's a fire hydrant there...). And so I blurt out the first response that comes to mind:
"Um. I don't date. I have awkward encounters."
This apparently required some explanation (once I found parking, three blocks away from the bar, woot!). And so, dear friends and Internet lurkers, here are my stories. Enjoy.
For some reason, my friend Henry decides this is as good a time as ever to lay that dreaded question on me:
"So, who are you dating these days?"
My mind draws a blank. How am I to explain to him that it's hard being single in the city when you are ridiculously picky? That I just don't see the point in dating someone unless I really click with them, and those ocassions are so far and few between? That I usually just end up befriending most guys rather than date them? That when I do find a guy I like and/or go on a date it usually ends up being a comedy of errors? And doesn't he know that I can't really have real conversations with people when I'm distracted by my quest for a parking spot on a Friday night when the Bo Sox are in town? (Whoa was that a parking spot? Dammit there's a fire hydrant there...). And so I blurt out the first response that comes to mind:
"Um. I don't date. I have awkward encounters."
This apparently required some explanation (once I found parking, three blocks away from the bar, woot!). And so, dear friends and Internet lurkers, here are my stories. Enjoy.
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