Thursday, February 26, 2009

Men vs. Women (Spoiler: I think the men usually win)

A girl I know was dumped, hard, by her long-term boyfriend when he found someone new. Problem was, he still wanted to hit the familiar. Probably because she knew his kinks, it was easy, it was comfortable. So she gave it up, but it drove her nuts. And all of her friends frowned on her for it—and I’ll admit it, I was among their ranks.

Now take a man I know (I know this is way different, but bear with me): I went out with this Guy (Let’s call him Guy, but pronounce it the French way. Soft ‘g’ followed by a long ‘eeee.’ Try it: "Guy." Isn’t that nice? After all, he was an excellent kisser, just scruffy enough and he pulled away at the perfect moment) a few times, then I dumped him. Not hard, no. Ole June just told him that I didn’t really think we were compatible. I had fun going out, but in all honesty, he was a brute and a conversation hog when my friends were around. One on one with me? Perfectly charming. But it became a problem later. Oh and Guy drove a shitty car. Not sort of shitty, but very shitty, bad upholstery and a spider crack crawling across the windshield, and he didn’t even work full time.

But I digress: I dumped him. He was none too pleased, and tried to talk me out of it. No go, buddy boy. A couple of weeks later, I was checking my email and his little green available button popped up. He IM’d me. And I’ll admit it: I was pretty wasted (it was a Sex in the City watching and wine drinking party night), and pretty randy. Not sure how long it took for me to subtly invite him over—not long, though.

Now here’s the thing I like about men. Did he once complain that I didn’t like him and I was using him for his body when I dumped him and then invited him over for a late night bootie call? No. He hopped right into that godawful jalopy and right into my sateen sheets. Did he think that because I’d let him sleep over that we were ‘on again?’ No. And did his friends look down on him because I thought I was too good for him unless he had his pants off? I doubt it. Did it hurt his self-esteem to have meaningless sex with someone he was interested in for more? If so, he certainly didn’t act like it when he bounced out of my apartment the next morning, whistling Dixie.

Grand Theft Auto

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from "Trodo." Who doesn't love a little crime with their dates?**

Around this time last year I broke up with my ex and was on the prowl for something new, exciting and distracting. A friend figured she would be kind and gave my name and number to a friend of hers. I should have known something was not right from the get-go when, instead of calling me, he messaged me on Facebook first. A day or two go by of us exchanging vague, non-specific pleasantries back and forth – him with the intent of wanting to meet up, me with the intent of being polite so he’d take the hint, shut the hell up and leave me alone.

But, as we all know with bad dates they just don’t get the hint. Car Boy eventually worked up the courage to ask me for coffee and I brushed him off with an ‘Oh sorry, too busy with work’ excuse. Then he text messaged me with another ‘Hey lets go for coffee!’ Me: ‘I’m sick.’

Next I get a flurry of determined (stalkerish) messages about how he’d do the nice thing and bring the coffee to me because I am so sick. Yeah, no, I can’t have him doing that so I eventually agree to meet up at a different time later that week.

The planned date time comes and goes and I don’t hear from him. Instead of being relieved, I have to admit I was somewhat curious that he let it drop after all his hard work so I text him.

Three days later he gets back to me. Apparently he was doing some ‘Training for work and blah blah blah blah.’ I hesitantly accept this line, and I agree to go out with him the next night.

Date night comes and he arrives at my place to pick me up. I have to admit he was kind of good-looking in the fierce bald way, but he totally blew it when he matched that look with a Christmas sweater. That had danglies on it. Dangling Christmas dangles—if that isn’t a red flag I don’t know what is. But: Car Boy had a great Jeep.

So I get in the jeep and we (he) decided that instead of going to sit inside a place full of potential witnesses, we’d hit a coffee drive thru and drive around. But despite everything, Car Boy is somewhat of an interesting guy to talk with (minus the fact that all he really did was talk about cars and I could only nod along, give doe eyes and act interested), so it was rather easy.

After a good hour of being parked down near a river that screamed ‘Make out point,’ he decides that he is in fact a horny teenager going to get some action! He puts the moves on me; leaning close, sliding arm around shoulders, puckering up his lips and attempting to look me longingly in the eyes. I wanted to vomit and this conversation followed:

Me: Yeah, time for me to head home.

Car Boy: Oh, okay, well have a good night.

Me: Um…you picked me up?
Car Boy: Yeah, I know.

Me: You’ve got to drive me back home.

Car Boy: Oh, right.

His astuteness astounds and stuns me into silence as he begins to take me home. But then! Instead of taking me home, he goes and picks up his friend instead! Even worse, I get shuffled to the BACK of the jeep for this to happen. I would have gotten out if I knew where exactly we were and found my own ride home but before I thought of that I was trapped in the back seat.

Next, he drives to the opposite end of town from where I live. I’m now a good 40 minutes from home. In the industrial park. With Car Boy and his friend. Trapped in the back seat.

Soon we find ourselves parked outside of a locked, chain link fence that is keeping us out of a darkened parking lot. It was at the point his friend got out of the Jeep, reached into the back (where I’m sitting) to grab a pair of chain cutters that were under the seat, and he goes to the fence. I dig through my purse to find my phone and SOS some help, but it’s dead. Great.

His friend cuts the lock on the fence and pushes the gates open only for us to drive right on through. I just witnessed by first up close and personal B&E. Car Boy jumps out of the vehicle after parking, telling me to wait there.

Five Minutes go by.

Ten Minutes go by.

He finally comes back around the 15-minute mark. He doesn’t come back alone. Nope, he’s bearing gifts! Greasy, oily headlight gifts. Which he promptly dumps in my lap asking, ‘Hey, can you hold this?’ This repeats over and over until the back is littered with car parts. Seriously, car parts. He’s stealing car parts from an auto shop parking lot.

You know what makes this all sweeter? About the fifth time he starts talking about his sexual powers, but he starts talking as if we were in mid conversation about it already. So while he’s stealing vehicles I’m learning he’s got a dick that is just ‘made to tickle the girls the right way.’ Is stealing an aphrodisiac?

Just when I think things can’t get any worse, I hear the sound of an engine start. His friend had hotwired a vehicle and peeled out of the parking lot. Cue for us to leave. We peel out of there and I finally get a ride home. He expects a good night kiss; I stare at him as if he’s grown two heads that each has a dick flopping from his forehead.

Next day at work – extremely paranoid by then – I get a call from my friend. Car Boy and his friend have skipped town. Apparently they had some trouble with the law. My paranoia goes into overdrive and for the next two weeks I refuse to leave the house without giant sunglasses to hide my identity and believe I’m being followed.

I deleted his number from my phone. He still tries to get in touch with me today. But hey, we made it into the newspaper.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Tarzan Responds

**Editors' Note: Last week a guest submission from "Jane" came in about the first time she saw her boyfriend too drunk. Her boyfriend, Tarzan, responded this week.**

I must admit I was amazed at the response I received by your friends when I (drunkenly, I admit) made my pubic hair preferences public knowledge. Aghast looks, dropped jaws, smirks of derision. Since when did an attraction to a natural and beautiful thatch of luxuriant pubic hair become a sexual deviance? I argue that a sculpted and manipulated bush, or god forbid, a fully shaved one is much more strange and freakish.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Dating a Banker Anonymous

There was an article in the NYTimes recently about a support group started by some women living in NYC whose relationships went in the shitter due to the recession:

Are you fucking kidding me?

The one common thread among them is their romances with high powered, financial wankers have all suffered as their men have come under the stress of a market collapse and economic recession. No more credit cards or $250 eye brow waxings. No more unhindered consumerism at their boyfriend's and/or husband's expense.

Here's a quote from the article:

"In addition to meeting once or twice weekly for brunch or drinks at a bar or restaurant, the group has a blog, billed as “free from the scrutiny of feminists,” that invites women to join “if your monthly Bergdorf’s allowance has been halved and bottle service has all but disappeared from your life.”

I know I'm a freak who would rather wear elastic waistbands and baggy socks, but what is the fuck is bottle service and how fucking lame do you have to be to pay for it?

Thursday, February 19, 2009

The First Time I Ever Saw My Boyfriend Too Drunk

**Editors' Note: This guest post hails from a gal who asked to be called "Jane." Names have been changed to protect the hairy.**

It was only 3 months after my own, overly drunken fiasco that I had to wait to see my boyfriend's version. There's probably a Hallmark card somewhere, but I'm not so sure I want to mark the anniversary. My friends who were witnesses have taken it upon themselves to remind me. Regularly.

Here's the story:

Boyfriend comes to my regular-Tuesday-night-supper-club crew's movie night. We had decided to watch the Big Lebowski while drinking white russians. Someone had brought over Kahlua Especial, which is 70 proof. Not realizing that this Kahlua was actually as strong as the vodka we were generously pouring, we generously topped off the drinks with more fire water.

The bottle runs out. Someone reads the label. Holy shit guys, we're a lot drunker than we probably realized. The Dude was only half done abiding so we kept going. Someone went to buy more. Not especial this time, but still. Regular Kahlua is about 40 proof. Nothing to scoff at.

I was taking it easy (strange in itself) because I hadn't brought my A game. Not necessary as I came to find out later as boyfriend brought his.

I went outside to hang with the smokers and catch some fresh air. My dear friend was leaving for several months, so I wanted to see her as much as possible before she left. We chatted about how well it was going with boyfriend.

When I reentered the party, the remaining folk were silent, including my clearly drunk boyfriend.

"Hey guys. What are ya'll talking 'bout?"

"Oh, preferences..." said one of my girlfriends with a derisive smile.

"I told them about my preference for the natural look," said a slightly slurring boyfriend.

Knowing exactly what he was referring to, I immediately blushed red and flustered my way to the coach. Looking around, everyone was smiling at me. They all knew too.

"Well I still keep it manicured. Whatever. When in Rome, do as...whatever. Just whatever."

Later when we were ready to go, I said "Come on Tarzan. We're going home."

My friends still find it immensely funny to say things like, "Don't trip over your pubes" or "You need to comb your hair" or other helpful grooming tips.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

**Sappy lovey dovey alert**

Being in love with my boyfriend feels like this video.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Getting used to new things

I think it's strange what we can get used to, and how these things don't seem at all strange at the time, not until they're undone.

A recent meeting with an ex highlighted the point for me. Poster Boy and I were getting together for one final exchange of stuff.

(Or we thought it was final, that process seems neverending, the unentwining of things, pictures, friends, bank accounts, tax documents. Everso thankful there had to be no courts involved, no kids, even more)

More than six months had passed, the holidays were over. And we'd both moved on, and both had new people in our lives. Somehow, this was the first meeting at which things were comfortable. I could tease him without getting nasty. We could laugh without following it up with sad silence. No one cried, no one yelled. There was a brief, awkward hug (I refused to shake his hand. That seemed stupid). We shared a beer. He asked me about the New One, I gave up only as much info as I was willing to, danced around other questions. Then Poster Boy, in classic form, asked, "if this dude" was going to try to find him and fight him or something. I laughed, admitting New One had asked the same question of him. But then I answered, "No, no. He's really nice," and immediately after saying it, I realized that there was noticeable surprise in my voice.

Poster Boy looked at me, "Oh yeah? He is? I have that, too," he said, eyes wide, incredulous.

We nodded together, slowly.

"So, do you guys fight?" he asked.

"Oh, no. No." I said, "You?"

"No, huh uh."

We looked at each other, shaking our heads. Shrugged. As if we'd had no idea such a thing was possible.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Why Dating Co-Workers Is A Bad Idea

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from "Slightly Disheveled." This is why we don't date co-workers.**

I was a head hostess in a "gourmet" pizza place. Our pasta chef was only a little bit older than I was and was really cute in a kind of awkward skater way. I flirted with him and exchanged off-color jokes and we were... friendly. He was quirky and offbeat. I like that.

He eventually got around to asking me out and took me out to dinner and to his favorite bar. I displayed my full range of ineptness at pool. Had some... was I young enough to have ordered RED WINE in a Dive Bar? I guess I was. One of the girls there kinda pulled me aside to tell me that he was bad news. Okay. Jealous much?

I got the flu soon after and he wanted to fix me a blood orange salad with a orange-balsamic vinaigrette dressing. He was speaking my language, so I let him come over. It was delicious. I agreed to another date after I got better.

He came into work the next time Absolutely Brilliantly Happy. He swung through the door and walked up to me and said: "You'll never ever guess what I found on my way to work. It's so cool. Not everyone would understand it though. But you would. You're really going to love this." He opened up his brilliant yellow backpack to show me three wet objects the size of a man's fist wrapped and tied off neatly in those long baggies that newspapers get delivered in. I was perplexed.

"They're cat heads."


"I'm going to put them in the back yard with the rest of them. You put a rock on top of the hole and the other critters don't eat them but the bugs clean them off."

I told him that I couldn't go on that date with him after all.

So he started showing up in my backyard at night watching my house "To make sure I was okay." He told me to watch for his Mickey's Wide Mouth Bottles in the recycling so that I would be able to tell how long he spent each night watching my house. Which he did... for about four bottles a night... for the next three weeks.

I left the state.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Dating is Really Weird

Um. I don't know what to say about this.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

The Pubic Combover

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "Donna Trump." What we'd like to know is how'd it go that weekend? Perhaps a follow up post Donna?**

The best part about a long distance relationship is that you can go chunks of time without worrying about maintaining the illusion that you are nearly hairless on most of your body. While I don't ever subscribe to the fully shaved pubes, I do like to keep them tidy when I'm getting ready for a weekend bedroom marathon.

I was doing just that the other day, getting ready to go see my man, who, honestly, probably wouldn't care one way or the other whether I had trimmed in preparation for him or not. Here's how it goes:

I get out the trimmers and start doing my thing. It's been a VERY long day, I'm exhausted, and with one slip of the wrist everything changes. There, about an inch northeast of ecstasy, is a nearly bald spot. DAMN SHIT FUCK HELL STUPID FUCKING FUCK SHIT. I go to the mirror to inspect the damage. Since we're always more critical of ourselves, I'm sure it's the most obvious thing in the world.

First things first, can I cover it? I start manipulating the rest of the hair around it to try and cover it up. Marginal success. There's really nothing else I can do. I refuse to shave it all off to cover up my mishap.

It's late, I go to bed and decide to discuss it with the roommate in the morning. Meanwhile I think about how I can keep my guy from seeing it. Is this going to be a lights-off, dark-of-night sex only weekend? No daytime fun? That doesn't sound good...

My roommate assures me that it's not noticeable, especially when I manipulate the surrounding hair.

And that is how I created the pubic comb-over.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Dating Is Weird Gets Reviewed!

So it's happened. A self-described "critical blog analysis" blog-review blog reviewed us. Wha? Yeah, exactly. A blog about blogs reviewed our blog. Stupid blogosphere.

But get this! They didn't like us.

They said things like:

"The main problem is that the stories aren't crazy or over the top enough. I know some really strange stuff happens in the world of dating, I just know it! It's just not getting reported, obviously. The sort of stuff you'll find on Dating is Weird is your average, every-day kind of weirdness. Yes, the stories are strange... But they're very believable. When I read a blog like this I wanna be like 'He did what!?' and 'She touched what!?' and 'No way!'"

They also said, "This blog journals hundreds of strange / bizarre / funny / 'zazzy' dating stories."

First of all, what the fuck is zazzy? Does anyone know? Can someone help me out? Cause maybe I'm so boring and lame and too believable to know what zazzy implies.

And secondly, hundreds? Um no. We just broke 100 stories here at Dating Is Weird. If you're going to review a blog critically, get your facts right. Maybe I'm just a stickler for accuracy, call me General Eric Shinseki, but it's not hard to count to 100. I just did and it only took a minute.

And finally (though I could go on) if the stories here are the "average, every-day kind of weirdness" of dating, thank fucking god I'm not dating you Drew. Because pissing the bed, farting while going down on a girl, going on a date with a homeless bum and shitting in the hood of your ski suit while trying to pick up a snow bunny are NOT average, every day type of events.

Thanks for the review though!

P.S. In the email he sent me, he said and I quote verbatim, "Your blog has been reviewed! Again, I wouldn't take the review too seriously. Enjoy"

Good thing even they don't take themselves seriously.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Three ways to confuse the Serial Monogamist

1) Go out on one date. At the end of the date, ask for date two, to which she replies, “Maybe let’s grab a beer sometime, you know, as friends?” Follow up with near daily joke email forwards.

2) Go out on three dates. Get into an argument on date #2 and date #3. When you try to set up date three, and she says, “you know, actually, this is going to sound really strange, but I think not. I’ve met someone, and I think it might go somewhere. You’ve been there, right?” Tell her, of course, yes, sure. Thanks for being honest. "Pocket dial" her that night, so she can hear what sounds like a bar in the background. When she texts, asking if that pocket dial was intentional, ignore her. Then, weeks later, send her a text, just saying hi and wondering how she is.

3) Go out on two dates. Try to make date three. When she explains that while you seem really nice, you two don’t seem to be a match, tell her she’s “wrong.” Then continue for weeks afterward to send emails and texts. Continue this even after you’ve sent a text that says, “Hey stranger, how are you doing?” and she replies, “Good. I’m seeing someone.”

Isn’t it OK to just stop talking to someone you went out with just a few times, after it’s clearly, amicably way, way over?

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Strictly Business

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post started out as a conversation we had on the phone yesterday with a friend. Quickly realizing he sounded too much like a Craigslist personals ad to not share on DIW, we wrote down what he said.**

So here's how my dating usually goes:

Either I like a woman or she likes me in the romantic way. Rarely is it a two way street. One person feels it much more than the other and it's obvious but not awkward. Or at least, it's not awkward in the we-have-to-have-a-conversation-about-me-having-feelings-for-you sort of way.

It's more like a business negotiation. In fact it usually is. I like to have it over lunch. "Hey, let's talk about us and grab a bite to eat." That way it's no big deal.

You figure out the details like, hey we're going to sleep together from the hours of 12 am and 4 am, we'll call each other typically between 5-8 pm. And outside that, we do our own thing.

But always, always one is secretly wishing it will turn into something more.

So then you sleep together, maybe like 3 times in a row, boom boom boom.

And then you take a break because it gets too serious for one person.

But then you start calling each other again and things return to normal, ie sex, and then you're right back to where you started which is one person wanting more and the other doesn't so then the awkward conversaiton ensues.

I'm done with that crap.

Here's what I'm looking for:

I have good women friends and I value them a lot. I'm not trying to fuck my women friends because that's a horrible idea, so that's why I have to find strange trim instead

So unless my skirt is flipped, i don't want to date you. I want to have sex with you because daminit beating off gets old and sometimes I just want to eat the pie.

That's why I end up seeming like an asshole because I'm like, I'll call you. Between the hours of 12 and 4 am. Sometime in the next three weeks. We already worked that out. In our negotiations. Remember?

So if you're looking for the same, actually just looking for no-strings- attached sex, feel free to drop me a line.

Women who want more need not apply. No seriously do not fucking apply. For really real, just don't.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Mister, Mister

Six months after dating a guy for more than a year and suffering from a humiliating and public separation, I was ready to try dating again. I found the perfect guy. He liked to have a good time, but was opposite from my ex in that he was a) nice to me b) could drive, and did c) called and showed up when he said he would.

I had a good time with M. He'd whisk me off to the beach for the day, play me cheesy Bon Jovi songs, and generally was just a nice guy to be around.

Things started to go south when I realized that he was MUCH more feminine than I am. I'd show up at his place for a date, and sit on the couch for 30 minutes while he tried to figure out what to wear. He'd come out with two shirts, hold them up, and ask my opinion.

"That one," I'd quickly say.

He'd hustle back into his room, then 5 minutes later come out with the shirt I'd picked, and a new choice.

"What about these two?"

"The one I picked before," I'd say. At first I thought it was kind of funny.

He primped, he gelled, he shaved more often than I did, and often smelled better. He played cheesy Bon Jovi songs.

As time went on I became less amused and more terse with him, which wasn't fair on my part.

Finally, after a couple months of dating, we parted on good terms.

Not 4 months later the news came. M is gay. I heard it through the grapevine. It was so obviously true. I haven't seen him more than twice since then, we both went our separate ways, but to me he seems to have really found himself. Seems more comfortable in his skin. I don't know if he always knew and just tried to hide it because of the right-wing redneck town we lived in, or what.

I like to tell myself that even if he did know, my being a tad bitchy at times pushed him over the edge of wanting to give it a go with women. I'm probably giving myself too much credit. Either way, I was the last girl he ever had sex with.