I usually have good dates. Even when there is no chemistry, if there is liquor involved, you can count on having a good time with me. [Just tootin my horn, y’all! Honk-a-honk-a. And did I just pimp myself out?]
Sometimes I make a friend out of the deal. A lot of times I do get my heart tossed in a blender.
The one bad date that I can think of lasted only 10 minutes because I wasn’t going to sit around with some uptight pretentious dandy who rolled his eyes at me and tainted my little galaxy hut and it's BYOB (Bring-Your-Own-Boy) glory. As quickly as you taketh boy there, you can removeth. My final words to him were: "I'm so glad I didn't waste a Friday night on you." I think I had pig-tails and my trapper keeper on my hip when I said this.
Sometimes the dates might be a little boring and you know this is the case when you recite all the ways you love the potato. Sweet love, my little spuds! Oh wait, my archives just pinched me in the butt to remind me of the Princess and Ugly Stepchild Date, or how two people can go on the same date but have a remarkedly different experience – it’s the champagne vs. the miller high life lite date. Hee hee. That post still makes me laugh because it was really that bad. [Now time for another Phil Collins joke: He was no easy lover.] OK. So aside from that, no horror stories.
So last night was just another dating story...
I showed up five-ten minutes late, which is probably rude but he was unsure whether he would be minutes early or minutes late from our agreed upon time as he was at metro’s mercy. And she has hated me lately – cold weather go away so I can start walking to work again. I like the guy arriving before me anyway – I like to see how he is going to handle the whole drink/chivalry thing. He did well. First he commented on my beautiful smile [Honk if you like me!], got me a drink - actually a pitcher!, and took my coat and hung it up for me. Good, right?
So a pitcher of sangria turns into dinner which then turns into shooting pool. Now if I had a dime for every time a guy tells me over the course of a date that I might be "the coolest chick" or "a dreamgirl" or "can't believe you are not taken yet" or just propose to me on the spot, well then I’d have $42.30 in my pocket and then I’d march over to sephora and empty those pockets on a lovely new potion. He said something along these lines probably because we have had lengthy exchanges on football, I know how to play pool, I drink beer, blah blah blah – you know, the guy’s girl thing was overpowering the pretty pink package in stilettos. [Another toot for me! I'm my own one-man band.] Then a dime fell from the sky. And we know how that story ends.
Just another dating story until...
I forgot that pool was an opportunity for dudes to ogle the sweet ass and cleavage. And so my rump and stumps were on show and apparently free game for commentary from the peanut gallery. He surmised that I probably had really nice legs because "ballerinas are hot." In which case, I had to remind him again that I am hardly a ballerina. If you could be a fly on a wall in that class - oh boy! I spend half the class cracking up at myself. He also proceeded to inquire about my underwear. ETc. He was also getting a little too touchy feely.
Apparently he brought his own horns along to toot because he told me that I really must see him without his shirt on. He promises that I would be impressed. I should tell him that I am easily impressed in that department. I mean, you usually get me at Forearms. He also asked me to go back to his place for just a half hour so we could make out because I'm an awesome kisser. [Ten horns a tootin! One big fat egg.] And is this high school? Seven minutes in heaven?
And because I like to believe the best in people, I am going to attribute these actions from what was an otherwise polite gentleman in the first half of the date (really), to a case of Too Much Alcohol (TMA). TMA can make you do very bad things. I know because when I got home at 12:30 last night, I sent a text message to Sham-oo (who incidently has been the subject of my cryptic last two posts) and because I was secretly hoping he wouldn't respond, I refused to look at my phone until my friend, Snow White, made me. He replied with a cryptic message of the blah! Blah!!! blah! kind. The boy likes his exclamation points!!!!! So TMA can have very strange effects on people. Have you ever seen Blind Date, the movie?
To further support the Gentleman Persona, at the end of the date, he put me in a cab and paid my cab fare. So I am not sure what to think.
The question is: Do I go out with this guy again?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Do I Have To Go On Another Date?
Indications that you are so OVER IT:
--You eat a big greasy hamburger and french fries from five guys followed up by a candy bar and root beer the night before the date. [Normal practice: You hit the gym and feast on carrot sticks and yogurt to fit in your skinny clothes.]
--You don't wash your hair the day of and you actually contemplate dying it with that semi-permanent dye you got over the weekend. [Normal practice: You NEVER experiment with hair color! And you wash your hair with the $20 Frederik Fekkai apple cider shampoo.]
--You wear an outfit you don't particularly like: the pants are baggy, the shoes matronly, and the top too frou frou. [Normal practice: You buy something new.]
--You don't use a Whitestrip. In fact, you don't even brush your teeth before you leave the office. [Normal practice: Multiple whitestrips! And brush your teeth, dirty mouth.]
--You wear your highest heels - even though they pinch your feet - knowing he is 5'9" - which means you will be taller tonight. [Normal practice: Wear the cute leopard print ballet-like shoes that you have been wearing a lot lately because the ballet and pilates is paying off.]
--You plot how you are going to work into the conversation your distaste for the gym and all things outdoors, and your love of five guys knowing that he is a serious gym rat, camper, and self-proclaimed veggie lover. [Normal practice: Would tell him about the one time that I did go camping and it wasn't so bad after all. I still would ask him if we could hire out someone to build the fire.]
--You contemplate how you are going to get home in time to see American Idol. [Normal practice: Fuck AI!]
--You might curse online dating. [Normal practice: Endorse it - tell him about the friends you have made from it and the friends who have married.]
Essentially I plan on being my own little Debbie Downer.
Edited to add: Shit, I just flat-ironed my hair and put a bobby pin in the left side - code for: pulling out the big guns. If only I had time to go buy a new outfit!! (Some things will never change around here.)
--You eat a big greasy hamburger and french fries from five guys followed up by a candy bar and root beer the night before the date. [Normal practice: You hit the gym and feast on carrot sticks and yogurt to fit in your skinny clothes.]
--You don't wash your hair the day of and you actually contemplate dying it with that semi-permanent dye you got over the weekend. [Normal practice: You NEVER experiment with hair color! And you wash your hair with the $20 Frederik Fekkai apple cider shampoo.]
--You wear an outfit you don't particularly like: the pants are baggy, the shoes matronly, and the top too frou frou. [Normal practice: You buy something new.]
--You don't use a Whitestrip. In fact, you don't even brush your teeth before you leave the office. [Normal practice: Multiple whitestrips! And brush your teeth, dirty mouth.]
--You wear your highest heels - even though they pinch your feet - knowing he is 5'9" - which means you will be taller tonight. [Normal practice: Wear the cute leopard print ballet-like shoes that you have been wearing a lot lately because the ballet and pilates is paying off.]
--You plot how you are going to work into the conversation your distaste for the gym and all things outdoors, and your love of five guys knowing that he is a serious gym rat, camper, and self-proclaimed veggie lover. [Normal practice: Would tell him about the one time that I did go camping and it wasn't so bad after all. I still would ask him if we could hire out someone to build the fire.]
--You contemplate how you are going to get home in time to see American Idol. [Normal practice: Fuck AI!]
--You might curse online dating. [Normal practice: Endorse it - tell him about the friends you have made from it and the friends who have married.]
Essentially I plan on being my own little Debbie Downer.
Edited to add: Shit, I just flat-ironed my hair and put a bobby pin in the left side - code for: pulling out the big guns. If only I had time to go buy a new outfit!! (Some things will never change around here.)
Friday, January 26, 2007
When There Is Fish
Me: Well, you know he is a Pisces.
Mom: I told you there is something weird about Pisces.
Me: They are fish, you know, they-
Mom: Are spineless?
I'm glad it didn't work out.
I would have been a country club wife living in some very rural Virginia town with nothing but a golf course and an ATV. I might have fallen off that ATV. I could have a broken leg.
We would have had a yappy little dog - who wouldn't be Tom Ford - but instead named after some newly-retired football player who wouldn't fetch your slippers and let you paint his toenails. He wouldn't sit at my feet. Instead he would stand with paws in the air on the command of "touchdown." I would tire of "touchdown Tiki" on a daily basis.
I would be alone a lot because who is going to visit me out in that town nobody has heard of - 40 miles outside of the city. He would mysteriously disappear on the weekends. He would still insist on keeping up pictures of the Redskin cheerleader and recite the story of "When I dated a Redskin Cheerleader" over and over when asked, "Who is that hot girl in all your pictures?"
We would have to board employees of his "management trainee program." We'd probably be audited by the IRS. I would get tired of paying for everything with cash and the places I frequent would not be able to cash my $100 bill.
I'd get tired of his humongous feet.
But boy am I glad I never have to hear him say, "sat-uh-dey" again.
Mom: I told you there is something weird about Pisces.
Me: They are fish, you know, they-
Mom: Are spineless?
I'm glad it didn't work out.
I would have been a country club wife living in some very rural Virginia town with nothing but a golf course and an ATV. I might have fallen off that ATV. I could have a broken leg.
We would have had a yappy little dog - who wouldn't be Tom Ford - but instead named after some newly-retired football player who wouldn't fetch your slippers and let you paint his toenails. He wouldn't sit at my feet. Instead he would stand with paws in the air on the command of "touchdown." I would tire of "touchdown Tiki" on a daily basis.
I would be alone a lot because who is going to visit me out in that town nobody has heard of - 40 miles outside of the city. He would mysteriously disappear on the weekends. He would still insist on keeping up pictures of the Redskin cheerleader and recite the story of "When I dated a Redskin Cheerleader" over and over when asked, "Who is that hot girl in all your pictures?"
We would have to board employees of his "management trainee program." We'd probably be audited by the IRS. I would get tired of paying for everything with cash and the places I frequent would not be able to cash my $100 bill.
I'd get tired of his humongous feet.
But boy am I glad I never have to hear him say, "sat-uh-dey" again.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Alter Egos: Reality Or Make Believe
This week's visit to the couch assigns me the nametag: Hi! My name is...Little Miss Drama.
You see, it is probably no surprise to those still on board (and you got your own name tags, don't you?) that I tend to have an overactive imagination. Along those lines, I will romanticize a guy here and there. If there is a spike to his hair - he has a pompadour! White sweat pants - he's a pervert! Serenades me with the guitar - he's a bad boy! Wears a velvet jacket, like my own - he's gay! All of those together? Whoa - Rock-and-Roll-hall-of-fame-Tom-Cruise-IS-gay-Elvis-has-not-left-the-building-and-most-certainly-did-not-die-on-the-can-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps! So a kiss on a shoulder, a gaze in the eye, karaoke with broken zippers, drunk texts, lint-rolling - it's all for romance, isn't it?
And so I might just build a guy up - perch him up on that pedestal. Because it's usually better than the reality. And then when the reality is really that - Real Pedestal Romance and sweet and tingly - then I can't go up with it. So I will find fault with the littlest thing (like, say, an accent) and if I can't find the fatal flaw I go and create a whole alter ego of an unsavory nature for the chap because my own little make-believe that I - and I alone - participate in will protect me from what I am afraid of and something that has been so alien to me for a very long time now: a real, live good-to-me man. Who is cute, funny, successful, happy, kind, and has a dog that I have been given free reign to decorate!
A Walk In The Woods (smitten!) turns into a Walk In Space (cu-cu!) turns into a Walk In The Bookstore (support for the cu-cu!) because what I am doing in my own head and sparing you the details of - is actually fodder for kiddie lit. I have recently discovered the children's SkippyJoe Jones books centered around a siamese cat whose head and ears are too big for his body (thank you Mr. Illustrator! and I have my own bone to pick with my own illustrator - does my butt really have to take up so much room on the page - really? and can't you just give me the Ashlee Simpson nose? contract negotiations are in order or I may walk to Mickey Mouse, he's offering me lots of cheese). So this mighty charming character believes that he is really a chihuahua. So he (I'm not sure, but I think with the author's help - reality-make-believe-line-blurred) creates this whole alter ego around this image in which he becomes Skipito Friskito and he fights crime or something of the sort. Banditos be damned! So charming! Sign me up for the fan club.
And so my point? If only to remind you that, no, I am not dating a crime-fighting endearingly fucked-up cat. But, I might think I am on the verge of something a little more real. So my inner dialogue leaves me to kill his alter ego off in a climactic blow-up scene that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and an endorsement from McDonalds and is really too violent for these pages anyways (gun control). (Details withheld due to: Sharing is so 2006 and 2005 Jinx and the Crazy Has Left The Building.)
Is it the Real Thing or something Make Believe?
In due time, banditos...
You see, it is probably no surprise to those still on board (and you got your own name tags, don't you?) that I tend to have an overactive imagination. Along those lines, I will romanticize a guy here and there. If there is a spike to his hair - he has a pompadour! White sweat pants - he's a pervert! Serenades me with the guitar - he's a bad boy! Wears a velvet jacket, like my own - he's gay! All of those together? Whoa - Rock-and-Roll-hall-of-fame-Tom-Cruise-IS-gay-Elvis-has-not-left-the-building-and-most-certainly-did-not-die-on-the-can-while-my-guitar-gently-weeps! So a kiss on a shoulder, a gaze in the eye, karaoke with broken zippers, drunk texts, lint-rolling - it's all for romance, isn't it?
And so I might just build a guy up - perch him up on that pedestal. Because it's usually better than the reality. And then when the reality is really that - Real Pedestal Romance and sweet and tingly - then I can't go up with it. So I will find fault with the littlest thing (like, say, an accent) and if I can't find the fatal flaw I go and create a whole alter ego of an unsavory nature for the chap because my own little make-believe that I - and I alone - participate in will protect me from what I am afraid of and something that has been so alien to me for a very long time now: a real, live good-to-me man. Who is cute, funny, successful, happy, kind, and has a dog that I have been given free reign to decorate!
A Walk In The Woods (smitten!) turns into a Walk In Space (cu-cu!) turns into a Walk In The Bookstore (support for the cu-cu!) because what I am doing in my own head and sparing you the details of - is actually fodder for kiddie lit. I have recently discovered the children's SkippyJoe Jones books centered around a siamese cat whose head and ears are too big for his body (thank you Mr. Illustrator! and I have my own bone to pick with my own illustrator - does my butt really have to take up so much room on the page - really? and can't you just give me the Ashlee Simpson nose? contract negotiations are in order or I may walk to Mickey Mouse, he's offering me lots of cheese). So this mighty charming character believes that he is really a chihuahua. So he (I'm not sure, but I think with the author's help - reality-make-believe-line-blurred) creates this whole alter ego around this image in which he becomes Skipito Friskito and he fights crime or something of the sort. Banditos be damned! So charming! Sign me up for the fan club.
And so my point? If only to remind you that, no, I am not dating a crime-fighting endearingly fucked-up cat. But, I might think I am on the verge of something a little more real. So my inner dialogue leaves me to kill his alter ego off in a climactic blow-up scene that would make Quentin Tarantino proud and an endorsement from McDonalds and is really too violent for these pages anyways (gun control). (Details withheld due to: Sharing is so 2006 and 2005 Jinx and the Crazy Has Left The Building.)
Is it the Real Thing or something Make Believe?
In due time, banditos...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)