Monday, December 12, 2011
Southern Girlfriend noun : A female from the Southern United States who, once in a monogamous relationship, shows a different side of her personality that exaggerates any tendencies toward bossiness, neediness, and short tempers.
I will admit that when SM called me this, it was kind of a shock. In fact, I was a mite offended once I realized what she was saying. I'd never heard this term, and I suspect she made it up, but I get it. I'd been snuggling with my dude after a hard day, letting him dote on me, and drinking it up. But in the meantime, I'd made sure he'd called his mother. And then I made sure he washed his hands before dinner (In fairness, he'd been rubbing my feet.). And then I used a baby voice for no apparent reason. And then I asked him to get me a drink. And then I pouted when he said something negative. And then I asked him to do something that I should've gotten up and done myself.
WHO AM I? What kind of person does this? Especially a person like me who never asks for help! This is the same boyfriend who I wouldn't let drive me (four hours) to the airport, and fussed at me for never asking for assistance. And SM was the one who told me that I should let my wonderful boyfriend do sweet things for me. So, is it the big shit that I'm against, but I can revel in the little things? Is it harder to say "no" in person?
Regardless, here's the great part of being Southern - if you find a Southern boy, he expects a strong woman and knows how to please her. Southern folks come from strong Southern mommas who rear great Southern men (and women). We like to be handy and helpful and to make others happy. I would argue that we really do have the last bastions of gentlemen and ladies who would do anything for the ones we love, and a hell of a lot even for a stranger on the street. Don't believe me? Ask SM - she fell hook, line, and sinker for a handsome, blue-eyed boy with a sweet Southern accent and a heart that will do anything for her. And his momma.
Monday, November 28, 2011
** Today we have a guest post from Blondie, who has agreed to share some of her dating adventures in the city. Like some people we know (ahem) Blondie is enjoying a fairly fresh foray into singledom, making good use of the wonders and joys of the Internet. ***
Friday night was supposed to be my dating night off. Thursday night I had been with a couple I see, and I had a date on Saturday with a guy I've been seeing for a little while - so Friday I was going relax and give my "body" a rest.
I ended up going out to the bars with a couple friends. The plan was just to have a beer or two, go home and watch a movie. Well, I get to the bar and we hang out a bit and I realize that this guy who I've had a massive crush on at the gym is there. Not some guy I've seen - but a hot 6 foot 7 inch tall basketball player I've been watching while I cool down on the track for the last 5 years.
I tell my friend the story and he talks me into talking to the guy. Long story short - I talk to him and end up going home with him that night. Yep - I got to sleep with my gym crush. But that's not all.
Side note - this gym guy ends up not being very bright. It was an interesting situation for me - I felt like one of those guys who sleeps with hot dumb chicks. While we were hanging out post sex, I was found myself having an internal debate about hotness vs. intellect. Does his hotness make up for lack of smarts? Would I ever dare bring this guy around my friends? Would I be comfortable keeping a guy around for sex just because he was hot, even if he wasn't that interesting to talk to? (I appreciate that this might make me sound like an asshole but I have smart friends and they would call me out on this.)
But, the sex is fun, I have a good time. And, oddly, after sex, he hung out completely naked until I left. He was up walking around, doing all kinds of things. I thought it was cool how comfortable he was, most guys throw on a pair of boxers or something. Though I guess I could have done without him leaving the door open and looking at and speaking to me while he pissed.
As we're hanging out afterwards, he asks if I want to spend the night. I say no because, quite frankly, his apartment was kind of a shit-hole. I don't quite understand how a 32-year-old guy with a professional-type job could live like that. Anyway, I say no thanks and go home at about 3:30am or so. When I got home, I sent him a text saying I made it home safely. He didn't text back until the next day, but this is the conversation:
Me - I made it home safely.
Him - Who is this?
Me - Uh ... Blondie. The girl you slept with last night.
Him - Haha, no seriously, who is this?
Me - I am serious. Don't you remember?
Him - I'm in Seattle with my fiance. I think you have the wrong number
Me - HA! You're right. Wrong number. That's hilarious.
It turns out that I don't have the right phone number for this guy. He just gave me his number, I didn't give him mine. So now, not only did I hook up with the hot dumb guy, but I'm the one who never called again. Part of me feels a tad bad about that, but part of me thinks it's a little funny, if a bit of a bummer because I would like the option of sleeping with him again ... but c'est la vie.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
"You're going to get raped. I heard they pay for women they're so desperate for pussy up there," said one idiot at a bar when I told her where I was moving.
"8-to-1 guys to girls. You don't even have to be hot to get proposed to I heard," said her friend.
"Get a gun," was my brother's request before boarding the plane.
And with that sage wisdom, I went to a local watering hole to meet some new gal friends two nights ago. I didn't make any effort whatsoever to look cute. In fact, I did the exact opposite. No shower after two days of skiing and hat wearing. I didn't even change out of the sports bra from said ski. I managed some deodorant and a different hat, but not much else. I chose one of my more pointed t-shirts (a bright red shirt called "burning bridges" with an image of a guy burning the bridge between him and a woman on the other side). What the hell anyway with all that stupid romance shit.
We saddled up to the bar and of course the three old guys sitting to the right of us starting making conversation, but they were fairly easy to not engage. I find old guys far more fun to drink with than younger dudes mainly because they're harmless and have funnier stories. If you tell them you're not interested, they're not butt hurt and they'll often still buy you a drink for being cool enough to not be a complete bitch. Younger guys on the other hand...sigh.
There was one of said younger versions of the male species to the left of my friend. I noticed him glancing at us every 30-45 seconds and looking for a way to insert himself in the conversation. I also noticed him staring at my tits every time he looked over. Did I mention I was wearing a t-shirt and sports bra and am not exactly a Victoria's Secret model? I have pretty much no boobs to speak of, particularly in a sports bra and t-shirt so I was curious what he kept staring at.
He finally figures out how to interrupt our convo with some asinine comment. He asks me a question, to which I ask him why he's been staring at my tits for 40 minutes. With absolutely not a moment's hesitation, he shifts his gaze to my general torso area and does not look up while responding that he's trying to figure out what my shirt means.
"Really? I'm confused how a bridge burning with a man on one side and a woman on the other is confusing."
"Oh. That's a guy, huh?"
"Yep. A guy. Burning a bridge. The shirt's called burning bridges, weird huh?"
The entire time, he has not once lifted his gaze to make eye contact.
"You're still staring at my tits dude."
"I know. I just don't really get your shirt."
I didn't engage him any further except to make a rather horrible, politically incorrect joke a few minutes later. I wanted to give the angry, lesbian feminist vibe because that's never failed in the past to scare guys away, but this guy didn't seem to mind neither my condescension nor general insulting of his ethnic identity. He asked what we were up to later that night.
Might have to take my brother's advice after all.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Over a glass of wine, the three of us sat talking, and my friend's sister told me that whenever I woke up in the morning, we could go out and get breakfast together, and she'd be happy to show me around her town a little bit, as I hadn't spent much time there.
"And of course, if you'd like, we can go ring shopping! I know some great jewelry shops!"
Back up a little bit. I'm in a relationship. Have been for about 2.5 years. I'm 30. In the last year, I moved across the country to be with him. So, would I like to go ahead and get - if not hitched - engaged? Sure. And I don't see the point in pretending that's not the case. I don't try to advertise or bitch about it, but I'm not going to lie about it - definitely not to my closest friends. But, now I have to wonder.
I mean, I figured my friend would give her sister some backstory on me. She knew where my friend and I had met, she knew the basics of why I live in the south ... but is "she's waiting on her slacker boyfriend to propose" on the short list of details about me that I expect people to hear before they meet me? Yikes.
It brought me back to a conversation my boyfriend and I had before we moved out here. Two friends of mine had been together for 10 years, and I knew she was ready to get things moving. Get married, think about starting a family. So when I saw him, and she wasn't around, I'd nudge. And I wasn't subtle.
"Dude. What are you waiting for? When are you going to put a ring on it?"
It made me feel annoying, but I checked with my girlfriend, and she was totally OK with this type of encouragement. [I mean, I could write another blog post about why and how it is that there are certain decisions in hetero relationships for which women are basically removed from the decision-making process. You can't nag. You can't push. You're not supposed to complain, lest you be one of those gross old-fashioned girls who actually - gasp - wants to get married. Yuck. We're not supposed to care. And it's not like you could do something crazy like ask him.]
When my b.f. heard me talk about this couple, and about how the fellow needed to get his shit together, he wondered if I was trying to give him a hint.
"No, dear. They've been together for a decade. It's a different situation."
But that conversation was a year and a half ago. Are things different? Is living in the south affecting my views on marriage? Out here, people give me a sidelong look when I mention that I moved across the country to live with my boyfriend. People check my hand when I talk about him. I've literally been told that Jesus wants me to get married. His stepmother told him it bothers her that he hasn't at least bought me a ring.
I don't know. But I do know this: I told my boyfriend the ring shopping story when I got home. I'll let him decide what it all means.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The first story starts several years ago, while I was perusing a friend's website. I found a link to this site and started reading through the postings. I was amused and appalled, but disgusted in that car-wreck sort of way. I kept reading. I found a posting about someone's disturbing date.
It sounded bizarrely familiar. It was a date I went on. Yes, it was blogworthy how bad the date was. I had blogged it for another blog. Since everyone was wondering who in the world would have gone on a date with this particular Contributor, I left a link to my blog at the end of the "comments" section. It became a Blogwar. It was awesome, but our friends eventually made us make peace with each other and the blog was pulled from this site and the other site as well.
Of course, I swore up and down that I would never do that again to someone, because I then understood how it felt to stumble upon someone else's version of my bad date. Of course... I lied. I'm a blogger.
About a year passed, and I became a contributor to this blog. After a particularly interesting Thanksgiving party, I blogged the evening. That very day, I got an e-mail at my work from the guy whose party it had been. He asked me pretty please to pull the blog posting because it might endanger his livelihood if it got around town that he partied quite that hard. I had no idea that he even knew about the blog, but one of his workmates was an avid reader and was able to identify him from the bits and pieces I dropped throughout the story. We pulled it.
I guess the moral of this story is that you really should not date or party with a blogger, that we are all a bunch of asshats. We really are. We function on the belief that you all want to be the stuff of literature. Send us your stories. Happy dating!!
Monday, October 24, 2011
Looking for more wackadoodle stuff like this? Start with Stuff Fundies Like.
And if you're not a sodomite, go ahead and check out the site here.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
For once, all of us were occupied with our respective boys and didn't have much to bitch about. However, for better or worse, things have changed (at least for this kid).
We've got things cooking, loves. Just bear with us. And until then....
Friday, September 30, 2011
I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that it's probably NOT an awesome date movie. Well, not an early-in-the-relationship-date movie. If you know your partner's number and you're secure in your status, by all means, go together. But if you're likely to leave wondering what your date's number is, or whether your number will matter to your date, perhaps that particular person is not your best choice of companion.
Wanna know the craziest thing? I'm hawking an Anna Faris movie and not getting paid to do it. Thank jeebus it's almost the weekend, because I worry about myself.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
There's a new clip about Facebook-stalking. Done and done. We've all done it, we've all been victims of it. Hell, on the first date with the guy I'm seeing now, he freely admitted to Facebook-stalking me. For a minute, I was kind of turned off. I mean, I hadn't done that (though I had Googled him). Then again, I also knew exactly what I would be doing as soon as I got home. Plus, it made the "do I friend him?" internal debate nonexistent.
In this world of social networking, can we expect not to be cyber-investigated? What is the protocol? Check out this clip and see if you agree with her style...
Monday, September 12, 2011
Because of that last effing double standard, I think a lot of girls have considered reusing our numbers. You know - the relationship ended on a decent basis, the sex was good, you're lonely and horny, and why go find a new guy/number when you could booty call the old one?
I was having this debate with myself not too long ago, thinking of just who I could call, when I ran across this movie. When I was in school, I had a friend who had read in Cosmo (the source of all legitimate sexual information, of course) that the average woman kisses 78 men before she kisses the one she'll marry. That's some lip-whoring, I think, but I don't judge. (I'm the good girl on this site, anyway. Who care what I think.) So, that's the first thing I thought of when I saw this movie. Anna Faris's character doesn't want to add on to her sex number because of a magazine article she read. This trailer just stuck me as so funny - a recycling PSA. I mean really, who hasn't had that feeling? For the good of your sanity and your sex drive, reduce, reuse, recycle, right?
Watch the PSA here and let me know what you think.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
"What are you going to tell them about the artist, if they ask?"
"I'll tell them that my Boyfriend made it."
…and then Immediately Regretted It. All I could think of was that scene in “Young Frankenstein” where Frau Blücher belts out “HE VAS MY... BOYFRIEND!” Has it been too short of a time for me to Boyfriend him? He looked dazed for a second and my face erupted with some form of "I'm sorry" or another.
"No, it's okay. I like that you said that."
There are rules, it seems, as to when and where it is proper to Boyfriend or Girlfriend people. I have no idea what the etiquette is and have always seemed to flub it. One guy took such umbrage with the term that I actually broke up with him because even after dating for four months—monogamously and seriously—he still bitched when I used it. Boyfriend. There is something awful about saying the term out loud for the first time… as if it were a binding legal clause and not the term defining the man that you are seeing. I hate that, but I like having a Boyfriend.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
- I started the conversation with a sports question. This I blame on nerves - he was watching a baseball game earlier and I was grasping for a topic. However, I failed to steer the topic away from sports and instead opined at length about My Favorite Local Sports Team which, I should add, is a rival of His Team. I can only suppose this may place me in "one of the guys (who pulls for the wrong team)" territory.
- Though he knew I'd been baking all night, I failed to use this as an opportunity to extol the virtues of my buttercream or emphasize my domestic goddess status and take-me-home-to-momma qualities. Every smart girl knows that men's hearts and stomachs are truly linked, but we Southern girls are trained to home in on this weakness. Fail #2.
- I complained about my job and how little money I make. Yeah, I tried to joke about it, but it's just not a smart topic of conversation. What's next, how I've been constipated the past few days?
- As I pulled into the driveway of my house, I exclaimed, "Oh, Dad's still up! I should probably go say good night." He already knew I live at home, and I was kinda looking for a way to end the call. But still, it cant feel good to be met with the equivalent of "No, dude, I can't talk to you anymore because DADDY!"
- I had a conversation with my cat. Okay, really I just said, "hi, sweet man." But I said it with the phone to my ear and in mid-conversation. When dude said, "huh," I said, "Oh, just talking to my cat." I think that to most of the US's male population, that translates to something like "SCARY WEIRD FREAKSHOW RUUUUN!" But I could be wrong. Still, Kitty and I are a package deal, as The Girl Next Door likes to remind me. But hey, she's a crazy cat lady, too.
So, upon further reflection, maybe my subconscious is telling me that I am not or should not be into this guy. Any amateur psychoanalysts care to translate?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
One of your lovely DIW-ers will be in touch with you to get more info so that Macmillan can put things in the mail.
Thanks for all of you who commented and to Macmillan for this chance!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
(FRIDAY/SATURDAY 2:00 A.M.)
HIM: Are U in?
ME: Functionally asleep. Goodnight. Been lights-out for almost an hour now.
HIM: What floor are you on again?
HIM: But I am in the elevator.
ME: You have a home to go to don't be weird like this.
HIM: The only weird part is that you don't want to f#ck me.
Me: You're being really weird now and by weird I mean illegal.
HIM: Okay, if U say so.
(SATURDAY/SUNDAY 2:10 A.M.)
HIM: Hi. Sex? I like it :)
(MONDAY, 6:09 P.M.)
HIM: Sorry about Saturday. I was drunk which is never an excuse! Sorry!
This evening New One and I are going to dinner and a movie. My phone will be turned off at night from now on.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
- DO have at least one profile picture that was not taken with a shitty cell phone camera.
- DON'T put up a picture of you and another person of the same sex and fail to differentiate as to which is you. Especially if that's your only picture. Granted, you're probably the ugly one.
- DON'T put up photos of yourself clad head to toe in your alma mater's or favorite sports team's gear. Two reasons: 1) Okay, super fan. Appreciation and commitment are great. But if your best picture was taken while you were drunk at a football game, that's not a good sign. 2) You immediately cross out anyone who hates your school. I once found a really cute guy who was a huge Buckeyes fan. He didn't even get a wink.
- DON'T put up pictures of yourself with children if you don't have children. If you feel that you must, please make it very clear that it's your niece/nephew/best friend's kid/latest kidnap victim.
- DON'T, for goodness' sake, put up a "mirror picture." This especially holds true for you, gentlemen. Not notorious for the cleanliness of your bathrooms, you don't always put out the "take me home to momma" vibe when you scare us away from YOUR home before we've even met.
- DO use proper grammar and real words. Text speak or whatever the young folks are calling it now does not convey that you are a real, grown-up person who knows words and grammar. Once you get to chatting, relax the comma usage a bit, sure. First impressions still count, though.
- DO realize that some things that mean a lot to you are really divisive (see: sports fandom, religion). Sure, talk about how much you love Jesus, but only if you're willing to let Jesus turn away some prospective dates for you.
Okay, so that's just a few things for now. This may have to be an ongoing series...
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
frenchie: hi honeybun
serial: whaddup dollface??
frenchie: oh, nothing
serial: You already dumped him.
frenchie: i know!
serial: Poor guy.
frenchie: i know
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
So... the moment was right and we're getting it on. Somewhere in between the thought and the completion of the act ALWAYS comes the mandatory male statement: "I AM GOING TO CUM" ...and I am confused every single time it is said. By every single guy that I have ever been with.
Of course you are. This is obvious. It is, in fact, the reason that most of you get into this situation in the first place. Are we supposed to say something in return? It really interrupts the mood and totally turns me off, actually. Where on earth did this ritual begin and how did it spread to ALL of the men I've ever been with?
Get this right: I am very supportive of you completing the act, and I highly recommend it. It's just a question of WHY every single one of you uses the exact same phrase.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Please enjoy this oh so funny post from Gayle about one guy who couldn't take a hint to save his life!
About 15 years ago I made my maiden voyage to Martha's Vineyard. There weren't many people on the ferry from Wood’s Hole, just a handful of us, so the handsome, pock-marked man with a calm look caught my attention. I don't remember how we ended up talking (my ex-husband would say that I probably pushed my breasts out and tossed my hair, something he always says I do when I flirt)but I found out that he was the roadie/manager for a band that was playing at a bar in Oak Bluffs very close to where the ferry docks. Somehow I wormed my way into his lunch with the band members at the bar who asked me to come see them play that night. I didn't think that there would be any way in hell that my two gay, West Coast friends who I was visiting would come with me to continue my flirtation with a roadie for some hippie-ish bar band. But, well, they did and it actually became their MISSION to get me laid.
We had a great time at the bar and the band was surprisingly excellent. When they had played their last set and Clive started breaking down, my friends URGED me to suggest that he come back to my hotel room. The bar lights were flashing last call, and my friend was insisting that I slip him my room number. Somehow, it ended up on a napkin along with my lipsticked mouth imprint and my friend ran to the stage to give it to him. I was mortified. I was thrilled.
Like a ship captain's wife holding vigil, but without the widow's walk and flowy white nightgown I stared out my window almost all night, waiting for Clive to walk up the path to the hotel and come rap at my door. The bed was right under the window and I remember just finally sinking, rather sadly, into sleep. When I left the next morning to go meet my friends, I noticed that they had left a little note taped to a post that said "Gayle's Room" with an arrow pointing in my direction.
Back in Boston, with e-mail in its infancy, I found yet another way to contact Clive and I received an e-mail back, with some semi-apology about not coming back to the hotel, how he had taken a late-night walk and watched the sunrise. At the end of the e-mail, though, he said that there was something he really wanted to talk to me about in person and wondered if I would meet him in Providence when the band was playing, sometime during that next week. Something he needed to talk to me about in PERSON? Was he going to profess his love for me and needed me in front of him to kiss passionately and carry me away into the Providence sunset? In my mind, that was the only option and I told him that, yes of course, I'd be there.
I drove the hour-plus thinking of nothing else but how exciting a first kiss would be.
I walked into the rather large place and saw Clive, in shorts, Timberlands and a tee-shirt. We hugged each other and sat down at a high-top table, ordered drinks, some pub-ish food and made quick small talk. Within maybe 8 minutes, Clive pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and took out a pen.
"This is what I wanted to talk to you about." He started drawing boxes and arrows and began to describe something that I couldn't even follow. Why was this man DRAWING DIAGRAMS ON A NAPKIN WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE KISSING ME????? It didn't take long before the boxes became a pyramid and I realized what was happening. I became an arrow on the bottom of a pyramid. He thought that I would bring him money and a bump up to the next level. To this day, I'm still confused how "boxes" could make someone rich.
I let him finish his spiel and he went back to setting-up for the band. I was stunned. I was temporarily immobilized. I had an hour and a half drive home and it was already way past my bedtime. All I could think about was how it wouldn't matter anymore if I smoked a million cigarettes because my breath wasn't an issue. I'm pretty certain that I had it in me to laugh, shake my head and not blame it on myself for being deficient in any way.
There have been some other doozies of dates and situations since then, but, I'm sure that this will stand out as one for the "Dates From Hell" record books.
If you liked this, do be a dear and visit her blog at http://mylifeinthemiddleages.blogspot.com/
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Though I'm not given to quoting our 43rd president, what was that quote that W mangled once? "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." Didn't he add an "aw, fuck it" on the end? That's the part I can't get right. "Fuck it, and fuck you." I say it, and I think it, and I never believe it.
You got me. Damn you, you got me. I haven't felt like this about someone in... 10 years? Since my first love. And what kills me is that I'm afraid I love you. It should turn my stomach to write that, but I kinda tear up instead. You, who I only spent one night with, though I remember every second of it. You, who's so charming and handsome. You, who can take my shit and give it right back. You, who has run off how many times now?
Some days I hate you. I'll scan across your number in my phone's contacts, and my blood boils. I raise my finger to delete your information... but I never do. An old conversation or picture will pop up and I want to write you letters about my hatred and loathing for you... but I don't. Because I don't hate you. And I want you around. But goddammit do I hate you and want you out of my life.
You make me act irrationally. Do you know how much that sucks? Me, who chooses brains over guts 100% of the time, who maps out her life in Excel spreadsheets, who can't hold a grudge because they just don't make good sense, and who gets panicky if she thinks she screwed something up. Did I screw you up? Not you, really, but what we could have had? I know I didn't, but I still can't figure out what happened, and it makes me crazy.
That leaves it up to you. For whatever reason, you can't handle this situation, or you can't handle me. I know I haven't screwed up because dammit, you keep coming back. You feel this, too - you've told me that much. But you just can't deal. Maybe you need to figure out how to be vulnerable enough to be a real man, or maybe you need to find spine enough to deal with your own shit before you can be with someone. I certainly don't know what it is, and I can't pretend to.
So, from now on, I will let my tiny little torch burn for you, and I will leave it at that. I won't try to stifle it, but I won't let you share it. I'll figure out how to embrace this twisted, sick, amazing feeling that I have for you, but I won't embrace you. I won't stroke your ego. I won't validate your feelings. I won't beg you to talk to me. I won't expect anything from you. But I know that you'll be back. I know that one day, you'll try again. You probably won't have gotten your act together, but if you fail that time, I'm willing to bet you'll try yet again. And one day, you'll have put yourself together and screwed your head on straight and learned how to be a man. Then, and only then, can we really do this.
Until then, though, fuck you.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’m not interested in that. Really, can’t we please, for just a moment, admit, all together, that it’s weird, so very weird, to have exes in the universe? I don’t want to pretend that I’ve moved on—which I have, in a sense. I’m not stopped, I’m not waiting, or weeping. I’m just thinking.
Isn’t it strange that there are people in the world that you used to lay next to every night (if you’re a cohabitating type of serial monogamist, at least), who now have these lives that don’t involve you? They have wives and girlfriends and fiancés and children, and you have new loves, and you live somewhere else, and why does that have to mean you can’t still call his mother? Why does that have to mean that you’re a stalker if you want to see a photo of his new family?
One reason I’ve been thinking is because I’ve been hearing a lot from an ex who was an item so long ago I hesitate to think of him as more than a very old friend. I was visiting home not long ago, and he randomly called. He didn’t even know I was in town, but he instantly started pushing to see me. I agreed to dinner at his intense insistence—he hinted at some sort of trauma. He promised he’d be pathetic, and offered to buy.
We got in the car, and I said, “So. What was all that? What’s up with you?”
“Right,” he said. “So, my wife left me.”
Of course she did. Although there was one point in my life that I’d considered him my backup plan, my safety, in case my life didn’t go the way it expected, I gave up that plan about four years ago when he told me he was having a baby. Since then, I’d been firmly in the camp that supported his relationship, and I’d even been charmed by his wife – and while we’re being honest, I’ll just put it out there. I’m prettier than his wife.
“Oh, buddy,” I said. “That sucks.”
“For her teacher,” he said.
“Yikes,” I said.
“Who is a lady,” he said.
At dinner, he told me the whole sordid story. It’s pretty fucking tragic.
He knew our server, it was why he’d picked this particular restaurant. When the server walked away, my friend confessed, “he doesn’t know yet.”
This break had been sudden, and the whole thing had only gone down about three weeks prior. My friend described to me how he understood depression for the first time in his life.
“I wake up in the morning, and I can’t think of a reason to get out of bed. And even when I can, I just can’t think of how in the world I’m going to make myself do it.”
I hugged him, and got a little drunk with him, and said what little, weak things you can say to comfort a friend whose family has just been torn apart. Mostly I listened to him. And when our server asked what the wife and kid were up to, he got the bad news. When our bill arrived, I think it was $5.
“I’ve been getting a lot of free meals lately,” he confessed.
What little things we can do to comfort a friend.
Later, after I’d left town again, he texted me, saying he wished he’d been able to spend more time with me when I was in town.
“I have a lot of friends here, but none like you,” he said.
I’m not sure what he meant by that. In a literal sense, he doesn’t have any other friends who took his virginity. In another sense, he probably doesn’t have any other friends who have considered making a life with him. I’ve thought about what our kids would look like. I’ve considered whether I would take his last name.
But he probably didn’t mean any of those things.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
- Meet neighbor.
- Run into neighbor again.
- Have a long conversation with neighbor.
- Go out to lunch.
- Run into neighbor again.
- Go out to bar.
- Make out on sidewalk.
- Decide dating neighbor is bad idea.
- Become friends.
- Go out to lunch. As friends.
- Drink bottle of wine with neighbor.
- Have sex with neighbor.
- See neighbor escorting a girl out of his apartment at 9am on a Sunday.
- Cry on neighbor's couch for 3 hours.
- Ask him to cat-sit the following weekend.
- Avoid neighbor.
- Run into neighbor. Limit conversation to discussion of SSRIs and cats.
- Avoid neighbor.
- Give neighbor a basket full of whiskey and candy as a "thank you" for cat-sitting.
- Avoid neighbor.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
He called because I "am the only sane person that he knows" and he had to talk to somebody. He just broke it off with the girl he started seeing right after I broke up with him. He had JUST left a bar where he had dumped her and during his walk home, he told me what a mess she was and all that sort of garbage. He got to his house and was smoking on his porch when he quickly told me that she was there at his house and he had to go, but that he would call me back in a few.
I texted him "Do you need me to call the police?" jokingly after about a half hour. He said no, that the police were already there and that he was watching her get arrested.
So, he calls me back and goes on and on about how she was crazy and had a drug problem and drank too much. I remained silent and smirking. I AM so much better than that and was SO GLAD that I was over him. He was slurping down scotch while he was talking. Then came the big pause: "I have something I have to tell you and you're not going to like it."
Right after I broke up with him, he called an escort service. He was dating the girl from the escort service.
That's right: not a stripper or a topless waitress, he went directly to dating a whore. A whore with two kids. He kept talking. She was addicted to crack. In the first month of dating, they had ALREADY had a pregnancy scare. She was arrested in front of his house for drunk driving... with her three-year-old daughter in the back car seat...driving the wrong way on a one-way street. She had a key to his house. She said that she loved him. That was why he babysat her kids while she went off on tricks. Oh... and she was "really, really hot".
Did I have to explain that she was playing him for his money? Yes. Twice. "Trip" had never, apparently, actually met a whore before and must have missed all of the movies and books where the whore plays the rich guy for his money. He asked me what he should do. If he should break it off.
"It depends on how much drama you want in your life. If you want a psychotic crack hoe having your baby and really want to pay her monthly for the next 18 years, I'd say no. You should stay with her for a while. It will be very exciting... like watching COPS. If you don't want a crack baby, I'd say that you should change your locks tomorrow morning and never talk to her again."
He ask me if I'd go to drinks with him the next night. I politely declined. He changed his locks and is shopping for a psychiatrist.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Hey! Whatre you doing?
whipping some stuff out before I get out of here
and then tomorrow's FRIDAY
Yes it is!!! WOO HOO!!!!
big plans this holiday wekend?
cleaning my floors
Actually I might spend a night in a cabin on the Waccamaw
and do some kayaking
so that'll be good
Oh, you know, and being pious, of course
well...I cleaned floors last weekend so thais done...YEAH!!!
a little golf Frdiay and Saturday mongings...
and I do have to clean out the garage one day...BOOOOO
I hate chores
Why did I think they'd go away when I grew up?
I think I need to have kids. Make them start doing some dishes.
they just get more and more and more
we need FUN in our life...hhhmmmmm
This is where I start to feel squeamish. I mean, OK. I like fun. But that long "hhhmmmmmm" felt like a hot breath across a phone line, right? That's not fun. It certainly ain't sexy. So I tried to keep it light and jokey. I figure, can't we all agree that work sucks, eh? Eh?
Oh, what, like work isn't FUN for you?
It doesn't bring you enough JOYJOYJOY?
there you go again..scarcasim...I LOVE IT!
I just can't help it
I'm glad someone around here appreciates it
I do...let it FLY!!!
I still have to figure out different types of humor.
Not everyone thinks I'm hilarious, apparently.
i find you hilarous and interesting...
I don't want bald, married guys my dad's age to find me interesting. Especially if they can't spell for shit. Again, I retort with a joke.
That's why we get along
There's a pause, so I think it's over. Oh, no.
tell me something unique
Um, what? Is this how old people flirt? Is he that bored? I hardly know this guy. He works in a different building. (I think his WIFE works in my building though.) Are we all of a sudden on Match.com? I play it safe by playing stupid.
see...you haven't figured me out yet...I am haviong a tought ime with an outage over here and thoiught I would settle my stress by being silly wiht you
I'm slow sometimes
not a problem...
OK, DIW. What is this? Am I being paranoid? Is he just so well-meaning and innocent and I'm the one projecting? Should I avoid this guy?
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
At this point, you've probably pegged me as the jaded dumped one. Wrong, kids. In this case, I'm the dumper. I'm the one whose deal was broken by a totally clueless yet very well-intentioned young man. The clues started out small, with him forgetting things I'd told him while I painstakingly remembered his schedule. Then he started only getting in touch when he wanted a li'l sumpin, not just to get have a nice chat. THEN he forgot the species of my beloved pet whom I talk about all the time (that's right, I'm a crazy cat lady, not a dumb dog dresser-upper). Lastly, when a friend came back to the state from a war zone where he'd been for over a year, dealbreaker said "Oh, then I guess I'll just play things by ear." No, sir, you won't.
It had gotten to the point where I was annoyed every time I spoke to him - wanted to reach through whatever device we were speaking through and slap some sense into him. He corrected me and always had to have the last word. While I know I'm full of corrections, I'd like to think that I can shut my damn mouth and detect irritation. Him, not so much.
Tonight, we had a chat. I told him things hadn't felt right lately; we were just half-hearted chats in between booty calls. He said he had no idea. Completely blindsided. Thought I was happy with the whole situation. Guess that's what happens when you don't talk....
Now, I could be wrong in all of this. I could be a heinous bitch who broke a booty call's li'l heart, and I do hope y'all tell me if that's so. On the other hand, I finally did something I've had problems doing - I had "the talk" when I didn't want to, and I didn't lead anyone on or drag anything out. My relationships usually end when I, in fullblown sobbing tears, say "DON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE?!" Okay, that's not quite accurate, but it feels true.
At this point, I'm beginning to feel that this dating shit just isn't meant to make sense. Maybe I should read "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" like my mom suggested after all....
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
If you're a breeder: Between your parents' house, your dorm, your roommates, and then kids of your own, a retirement community, maybe a nursing home ... there are very few -- precious few -- years when you can wake up on a Sunday morning and stagger out to your living room to find you'd left a pile of underwear on the floor, empty bottles stacked up on bookshelves, and lube and toys on the coffee table. Enjoy them.
I know I plan to.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
A good looking friend of mine recently joined Match.com. We'll call him "Guy." Guy already has plenty of dates, and his online dating hasn't stopped him from asking out the chick at the bar, all of my friends, pretty much any cute girl.
So I asked, would you be willing to let us publish the conversations, au total, on DatingIsWeird?
He's game. Sorta. I had to buy him beers and dinner so I could transcribe what follows is.
I didn't feel like u invited yourself last night.
Going through some bullshit right now,
(A few days later....)
(Again, a few days later...)
I might go out tonight.
Okay I'm not. Talk to u tomorrow :)
(The next day)
(A few logistical texts later. I'm going to include times from here on out because they also say something...)
(Guy calls Girl #1 twice)
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
So, it's time to break it off and all I am really wondering about is the actual break-up scene, and specifically: what I should be wearing. I'm trying my best to make this into something deeply psychological, but it isn't. I'm trying to make this as tasteful as possible because he's been drunk texting me some horrible things and I really don't want to bring them up at the break-up. I just want to meet with him in person (respectful) and tell him that it isn't working out (clear). Every time I play the scene out in my head though, my outfit changes. One part of me wants to dress like the total psycho that he wishes I would act more like (making it easier for him to psychologically dump ME) and one part of me REALLY wants to show up in business attire and slap a home run.
This is pretty much the shallowest possible reaction to this scenario. I know. The thing of it is, I'm really kind of a clothes person and can't get away from the theater aspects of a possibly psychologically explosive scene. When I play it back in my head later, I don't want there to be any possible way that I could have diffused the situation any more. He and I are both kind of "dramatic" and I am swearing to you, gentle reader, that I will be on my very best behavior.
So: I'm leaning towards the professional attire and the "I am a more mature person than you are and you're not going to drag me into your personal hell anymore." I can't believe that I'm actually considering dressing up all artsy and giving him extra credit for the cognitive dissonance caused by my words versus my outfit.
Or should I just let him wonder and not even give him the satisfaction of a break up?
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Between my and my friends' dating experiences lately, stereotypes have come up a lot. For one pal, it was a guy "acting like a chick" when he spilled his guts about feeling nervous and hesitant in their young relationship. For another, it was having her little white girl mind blown when the black guy she started sleeping with turned out to be extremely well-endowed.
Point is, these things stick around because they're true. But do they have to be? When it comes to biological features (so to speak), these things are inescapable. Do we have to say that a dude acts like a chick, though? Why can't he just be sensitive, or honest? The worst part is that so many of us feminist, intelligent, open-minded chicks are guilty of this. We want sensitive, honest, open men, but when they show their feelings, even WE say they're being too feminine.
And how about stereotypes and double standards? Why must they frolic about datingland like two such best friends? In fact, I think I conflated them in that last paragraph. As a girl who's "one of the guys," "the funny fat girl," and "too smart for her own good," I've been placed into several of the categories that act as both stereotypes and double standards. When you break it down, these all presuppose that a certain quality in a person means that she (in these examples) will have certain behavior. (Ex., Smart girl = nothing but hassle. Smart guy, though...)
Here's my upshot on all of this: Be your gotdamn self and let others do the same, especially your potential loves. Keep an open mind and just let things come.
As a control freak, I find this crazy hard to accept, but I try. I really do. We'll never be rid of stereotypes or double standards, so I say accept them for what they are - half truth, half lunacy, and zero relevance to that attractive person across from you. Take it from the little white girl who got her mind blown.... ;)