Those who can’t do teach.
Never had there been a truer statement in my life. My dating life, to be exact. I can give other people sound advice. I can read chemistry between two potential love birds. I can figure out the right thing for someone else to say. But when it comes to me, I don’t have a clue. I have no read on the opposite sex. I can think they’re giving me all the signals in the world, and in the end they’re still dating someone else.
There’s a great story that I collected in 2011 to illustrate that very point. A guy that, amazingly enough, I’m still friends with, asked me out. Twice. And paid for me. Twice. Except he didn’t. Oh, he did pay. And he didn’t invite anyone else to come out with us. But it turns out he didn’t ask me out. It took him not asking me out a third time for me to figure it out.
We went to a baseball game with two other people. I felt good about my chances going into the night.
And then he didn’t sit next to me.
It’s funny how you can absolutely convince yourself of something, and the moment one small thing goes wrong you lose all hope. Him not sitting next to me told me everything I needed to know about the course of that night. Alas, the universe wanted to hit me over the head with the point.
In a roundabout way, the boy in question and I worked together. He knew most of my coworkers, including our two game mates, so the subject of office crushes came up. The other half brought up who they considered hot. I skirted the issue. And then it was the boy’s turn. And he told me he had a crush on someone else.
Straw, meet camel’s back. Knife, you were already in, but you can twist yourself now.
Obviously now it isn’t a big deal. I’ve transitioned into complete friendship with this guy. He’s dating someone else. But the story is like the ghost of crushes past, present and future.
Because PC (Potential Crush from two and three blogs ago) asked someone else on a date. And he didn’t tell me he liked this other girl. And he didn’t pay. And I wasn’t even that into him. But now I can add him to the proverbial list. And the list is getting long.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Three douches with a point
Every so often, someone without full brain capacity actually makes a good point. When I was walking home Monday night, I was strolling behind three such someones - men, to be exact. They were talking about a guy’s weekend they were planning.
One of the fellas was questioned about his ability to attend, given his status as a man in a relationship. He said something like “I’m not married, she’ll deal with it.” Then the three proceeded to talk about the girlfriend’s anatomy - luckily before I decided to tune out of the conversation they switched back to the original topic.
They brought up a friend who wasn’t in the trio. Apparently they were dissatisfied with that compadre’s answer to the proposition of a guy’s weekend. He had to clear it with his girlfriend. Apparently, he was married, just sans ring and license. And that’s when the brightest of the bunch said this: “He’s so whipped. He has to get her ok for everything he does. She has him by the dick and the balls.”
I was only being half sarcastic by calling the speaker the brightest of the bunch. Did he articulate his thought in the most eloquent of ways? No. The crudest? Yes. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a solid point there.
“Louise, do you want to go out for a drink with the girls?” Louise looks at you and grimaces. “Ooo see Lou and I are going to see Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked tonight.”
“Lou let’s play some pool tonight.” Lou lights up. “That’s great. Louise is great at pool.”
Ignoring the fact that someone named Louise should never date her male doppelganger Lou, you know you’ve had this conversation with one of your friends. We’ve all known that person who gets into a relationship and dissolves into his or her partner. Their daily decisions revolve around another person. They’re never an “I,” strictly a “we.” Suddenly you stop inviting Louise to things, either because you know she’ll have plans or Lou will crash the party despite the lack of an invitation.
But what causes someone to cling so hard to another person like that? I look at couples who spend every waking moment together and I think, “Man, I don’t like anyone in this world enough to spend that much time with him.”
As much as I’d like to be in a relationship, I’m not looking for someone to attach himself to my hip. I mean God, what could we possibly have to say to each other in that scenario? There’s only so many times I can rehash the last episode of Parks and Recreation with someone. I suppose that feeling may go away when I actually do meet someone and fall in love. But I’m really hoping it doesn’t. My hips are wide enough.
One of the fellas was questioned about his ability to attend, given his status as a man in a relationship. He said something like “I’m not married, she’ll deal with it.” Then the three proceeded to talk about the girlfriend’s anatomy - luckily before I decided to tune out of the conversation they switched back to the original topic.
They brought up a friend who wasn’t in the trio. Apparently they were dissatisfied with that compadre’s answer to the proposition of a guy’s weekend. He had to clear it with his girlfriend. Apparently, he was married, just sans ring and license. And that’s when the brightest of the bunch said this: “He’s so whipped. He has to get her ok for everything he does. She has him by the dick and the balls.”
I was only being half sarcastic by calling the speaker the brightest of the bunch. Did he articulate his thought in the most eloquent of ways? No. The crudest? Yes. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a solid point there.
“Louise, do you want to go out for a drink with the girls?” Louise looks at you and grimaces. “Ooo see Lou and I are going to see Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked tonight.”
“Lou let’s play some pool tonight.” Lou lights up. “That’s great. Louise is great at pool.”
Ignoring the fact that someone named Louise should never date her male doppelganger Lou, you know you’ve had this conversation with one of your friends. We’ve all known that person who gets into a relationship and dissolves into his or her partner. Their daily decisions revolve around another person. They’re never an “I,” strictly a “we.” Suddenly you stop inviting Louise to things, either because you know she’ll have plans or Lou will crash the party despite the lack of an invitation.
But what causes someone to cling so hard to another person like that? I look at couples who spend every waking moment together and I think, “Man, I don’t like anyone in this world enough to spend that much time with him.”
As much as I’d like to be in a relationship, I’m not looking for someone to attach himself to my hip. I mean God, what could we possibly have to say to each other in that scenario? There’s only so many times I can rehash the last episode of Parks and Recreation with someone. I suppose that feeling may go away when I actually do meet someone and fall in love. But I’m really hoping it doesn’t. My hips are wide enough.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Did I do that?
Steve Urkel used to knock over people, burn down houses and otherwise endanger everyone in his way, then look around and utter one simple phrase to wipe it all away: “Did I do that?” It’s a pop culture phenomenon everyone between the ages of 20 and 30 probably recognizes - much the the chagrin of the man behind the Urkel, Jaleel White, who is actually a suave guy. But I digress.
My lack of a dating life is filled with so many “did I do that?” moments - some recounted here, like hitting the tennis ball at a hot guy’s balls, and others yet to be shared (older men, homeless men and gang members, oh my!). Did I REALLY trust that random guy I met? Did I REALLY just walk away from someone who was hitting on me because I didn’t get it? And, most familiar, did I REALLY just say that?!?
Today I had one such moment. With the man in question from my last post, no less. Despite not holding out hope of anything really happening with said man - let’s call him Potential Crush, or PC - I still figured it wasn’t a bad idea to flirt. There were some positive moves last week, a few emails and exchanges. And then today I took a typical misstep back. Here’s a sample of the conversation:
PC: Hey how was your trip?
Me: Great! Did anyone tell you any stories about it?
PC: No, just that it was good.
Me: Oh, so you didn’t ask because you don’t really care.
PC: ...
What in God’s name did I think I was doing? Being cute? False. Bitchy? Seems so. There are tons of other responses I could have given, a few being:
Do you want me to tell you some stories?
I have some good stories to share.
What’s your favorite vacation you’ve taken?
Did you hear that I can be too sarcastic for my own good?
But no. I didn’t say any of those things. I said what I said. And there just wasn’t any recovering from it. The saying “I put my foot in my mouth” doesn’t even begin to cover it. If my foot was in my mouth maybe I couldn’t say half the things I do. Nope, I’d say “did I do that” just about covers it.
My lack of a dating life is filled with so many “did I do that?” moments - some recounted here, like hitting the tennis ball at a hot guy’s balls, and others yet to be shared (older men, homeless men and gang members, oh my!). Did I REALLY trust that random guy I met? Did I REALLY just walk away from someone who was hitting on me because I didn’t get it? And, most familiar, did I REALLY just say that?!?
Today I had one such moment. With the man in question from my last post, no less. Despite not holding out hope of anything really happening with said man - let’s call him Potential Crush, or PC - I still figured it wasn’t a bad idea to flirt. There were some positive moves last week, a few emails and exchanges. And then today I took a typical misstep back. Here’s a sample of the conversation:
PC: Hey how was your trip?
Me: Great! Did anyone tell you any stories about it?
PC: No, just that it was good.
Me: Oh, so you didn’t ask because you don’t really care.
PC: ...
What in God’s name did I think I was doing? Being cute? False. Bitchy? Seems so. There are tons of other responses I could have given, a few being:
Do you want me to tell you some stories?
I have some good stories to share.
What’s your favorite vacation you’ve taken?
Did you hear that I can be too sarcastic for my own good?
But no. I didn’t say any of those things. I said what I said. And there just wasn’t any recovering from it. The saying “I put my foot in my mouth” doesn’t even begin to cover it. If my foot was in my mouth maybe I couldn’t say half the things I do. Nope, I’d say “did I do that” just about covers it.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
THAT moment
You know that moment? When you’re with a member of the opposite sex and you’re having a really great time. You look at them, and you feel something inside yourself inch over to the line that serves as the border to crush territory. You have a choice in that moment - do I leap across the line or do I hang back?
It’s an interesting conundrum I was in just this week. I was hanging out with someone for pretty much the first time, and we were really hitting it off. And it got me thinking, as I am wont to do. It seemed like there was a flirtation, possible interest. But I’ve tried to gauge that before and I’ve been very wrong. So when it comes to crossing the line, what do I do with that past knowledge?
Crossing the line means making a second decision - do I embrace my past mistakes and take this extremely cautiously, aiming for a friendship instead? Or do I forget about the past and treat this as a new situation in which anything could happen?
And suddenly I’ve debated an entire life dilemma in my head as I’m still talking to the guy in question. Ultimately, I’ve decided not to cross the line. I’m not giving up on it entirely, but I will not let myself go into crush territory. At least not until there’s more to go off of.
My guy friend said my philosophy should be to “let it marinate.” Feel it out, let it grow, give it time - those are all things most people’s friends say, but mine say let it marinate (I’d have it no other way). I think it’s a great idea - in theory. Because waiting is so hard. And I’ve waited 24 years. I’m fucking tired of not doing anything. Of crossing lines and not meeting anyone on the other side. So I’ll let it marinate. But I can’t promise I have much more marinade in me.
It’s an interesting conundrum I was in just this week. I was hanging out with someone for pretty much the first time, and we were really hitting it off. And it got me thinking, as I am wont to do. It seemed like there was a flirtation, possible interest. But I’ve tried to gauge that before and I’ve been very wrong. So when it comes to crossing the line, what do I do with that past knowledge?
Crossing the line means making a second decision - do I embrace my past mistakes and take this extremely cautiously, aiming for a friendship instead? Or do I forget about the past and treat this as a new situation in which anything could happen?
And suddenly I’ve debated an entire life dilemma in my head as I’m still talking to the guy in question. Ultimately, I’ve decided not to cross the line. I’m not giving up on it entirely, but I will not let myself go into crush territory. At least not until there’s more to go off of.
My guy friend said my philosophy should be to “let it marinate.” Feel it out, let it grow, give it time - those are all things most people’s friends say, but mine say let it marinate (I’d have it no other way). I think it’s a great idea - in theory. Because waiting is so hard. And I’ve waited 24 years. I’m fucking tired of not doing anything. Of crossing lines and not meeting anyone on the other side. So I’ll let it marinate. But I can’t promise I have much more marinade in me.
Monday, January 9, 2012
18 girls, one guy and a stereotype
“It’s really hard for me, navigating splitting my time between 18 women.” Cry me a river the length of the Nile, Robert. I mean honestly. You just complained about having 18 women hand-picked, buffed, fluffed and delivered to you on a silver platter known as “The Bachelor.” And you have the nerve to say it’s hard for you.
But what’s even worse is that the women on this show have the nerve to validate a statement like that. At the end of tonight’s episode, a girl who could not have known Robert for more than 2 hours in two weeks, starts crying hysterically about how she’s never going to find love. I mean honestly. You hinged your entire romantic future on this doofus who already proposed to someone and got subsequently dumped on national television? Then you deserve to be fired. Or let go. Or be roseless. Whatever reality TV trope is applicable.
Even though I was currently contributing to the ratings of the show - let’s say it was for research, though morbid curiosity is usually what drives me - I consider this show to be the perfect example of what’s wrong with women. There’s one guy in front of them. His looks are decent. He makes a fair amount of money. He can carry on a conversation. He’s mine! I’m gonna win! (By the way, those last two sentences are practically quotes from tonight’s episode.)
Now it’s obviously not a secret that I would love to find a relationship. A guy worth fighting for. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to fight other girls for him. Women on this show put each other down and look straight into the camera and say - without irony - that the other girls better watch out. Watch out for what? Your boobs because you’re sticking them out so far it’s invading my personal space as I watch the show from my bed? Yes, you’re right, everyone should watch out for them.
We all know that these women are playing it up for the camera - more crazy means more air time - but then that points to a fundamental problem. It means that people want to see women cat fighting. It means that people expect women to fight over men, cry at the drop of a rejection and cut down other women. And it means there are women out there willing to live up to this reputation. And that I’m just not ok with.
But what’s even worse is that the women on this show have the nerve to validate a statement like that. At the end of tonight’s episode, a girl who could not have known Robert for more than 2 hours in two weeks, starts crying hysterically about how she’s never going to find love. I mean honestly. You hinged your entire romantic future on this doofus who already proposed to someone and got subsequently dumped on national television? Then you deserve to be fired. Or let go. Or be roseless. Whatever reality TV trope is applicable.
Even though I was currently contributing to the ratings of the show - let’s say it was for research, though morbid curiosity is usually what drives me - I consider this show to be the perfect example of what’s wrong with women. There’s one guy in front of them. His looks are decent. He makes a fair amount of money. He can carry on a conversation. He’s mine! I’m gonna win! (By the way, those last two sentences are practically quotes from tonight’s episode.)
Now it’s obviously not a secret that I would love to find a relationship. A guy worth fighting for. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to fight other girls for him. Women on this show put each other down and look straight into the camera and say - without irony - that the other girls better watch out. Watch out for what? Your boobs because you’re sticking them out so far it’s invading my personal space as I watch the show from my bed? Yes, you’re right, everyone should watch out for them.
We all know that these women are playing it up for the camera - more crazy means more air time - but then that points to a fundamental problem. It means that people want to see women cat fighting. It means that people expect women to fight over men, cry at the drop of a rejection and cut down other women. And it means there are women out there willing to live up to this reputation. And that I’m just not ok with.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Google background check
You go to a bar and meet someone new. Your friend tells you she wants to set you up with her friend. You flirt with a coworker. Once you’ve established interest in someone foreign to you, what’s the first thing you do?
Be honest. You go home and you stalk them. You search for them on Facebook - though that has gotten surprisingly tough given the relatively new privacy options. And then, if that doesn’t yield anything, you turn to Google. You could know all about their past without ever having had a serious conversation about them. Question is: Is this good or bad? Does this help the dating process or set it back?
I suppose in some situations it could be a great asset. For example, if the other person was previous arrested in a stalking case. Or they wrote articles about worshipping Satan. Or they run a blog about buttons. Which is scarier? I’m just not sure.
But at the same time, what if you misunderstand something you read? You may make a judgment that keeps you from pursuing something with that person. What if the button blog was started in honor of your potential date’s beloved grandmother? You’ll never know he has a softer side than the sarcasm you saw in the bar.
I think back to the days before all of our shit was posted to the public. We had the ability to sit back and look at the person across from us and really get to know them. At our own speed. At their own speed. Is that a terrifying idea? Yes. But it’s also exhilarating.
This topic is sparked by a conversation I had with a college friend. I was telling her she needed to meet my male friend - that she would greatly appreciate his sense of humor. She then proceeded to google-check him out. The conversation evolved not into what she found out about him, but what people would find out about us.
So I googled myself, like the narcissist we all are. Nothing too crazy to find, but it does make you wonder how you look to other people. What would a potential suitor think about the TV column I wrote in college? Or the student film I made? Or the fact that an article I wrote about hooking up (yes, I wrote about this crap even before post grad life) was picked up by some female blogs?
And what if they, God forbid, found this blog? They would know all of my secrets. And by secrets I mean thoughts I elect to post on a public source. Alas, potential suitors aren’t enough of a reason for me not to share my neuroses. Maybe I’ll find that someone shares the same ones.
Be honest. You go home and you stalk them. You search for them on Facebook - though that has gotten surprisingly tough given the relatively new privacy options. And then, if that doesn’t yield anything, you turn to Google. You could know all about their past without ever having had a serious conversation about them. Question is: Is this good or bad? Does this help the dating process or set it back?
I suppose in some situations it could be a great asset. For example, if the other person was previous arrested in a stalking case. Or they wrote articles about worshipping Satan. Or they run a blog about buttons. Which is scarier? I’m just not sure.
But at the same time, what if you misunderstand something you read? You may make a judgment that keeps you from pursuing something with that person. What if the button blog was started in honor of your potential date’s beloved grandmother? You’ll never know he has a softer side than the sarcasm you saw in the bar.
I think back to the days before all of our shit was posted to the public. We had the ability to sit back and look at the person across from us and really get to know them. At our own speed. At their own speed. Is that a terrifying idea? Yes. But it’s also exhilarating.
This topic is sparked by a conversation I had with a college friend. I was telling her she needed to meet my male friend - that she would greatly appreciate his sense of humor. She then proceeded to google-check him out. The conversation evolved not into what she found out about him, but what people would find out about us.
So I googled myself, like the narcissist we all are. Nothing too crazy to find, but it does make you wonder how you look to other people. What would a potential suitor think about the TV column I wrote in college? Or the student film I made? Or the fact that an article I wrote about hooking up (yes, I wrote about this crap even before post grad life) was picked up by some female blogs?
And what if they, God forbid, found this blog? They would know all of my secrets. And by secrets I mean thoughts I elect to post on a public source. Alas, potential suitors aren’t enough of a reason for me not to share my neuroses. Maybe I’ll find that someone shares the same ones.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Anything did happen
As we sat at our enormous dinner table - it was a reservation for 14 after all - my friend made a joke referencing the trailer for that awful yet timely movie, New Year’s Eve. On the night before 2012, he said, “According to the New Year’s Eve trailer, anything can happen.” We all laughed out loud at the joke. We thought we knew exactly what was going to happen. We’d finish our meals, drink, drink some more, then head across town to a party which indubitably had more alcohol. We’d dance, laugh at inane things and call it a year.
The thing about New Year’s Eve is that no matter how hard you try to curb your expectations, they will always be higher than the actual outcome. In year’s past, I had never spent a new year drunk, surrounded by friends. Plans would fall apart - like last year, when a snow storm made it impossible for me to go see my friend in Virginia - or I wouldn’t even try. More often than not, I would simply opt for sitting in my home with my parents, watching them doze off while waiting for Dick Clark and/or Ryan Seacrest to announce the new year.
But this year? This year was going to be my year. Because the only expectation I had was seemingly already met. Plans with friends. Lovely dinner. Grey goose vodka. Champagne. The hospital.
Yeah. The hospital. And that, my friends, would be the part I didn’t plan for. The part I was not expecting. At the cross-town party, while talking with a group of people, somehow wine ended up on top of my foot. Well, not so much my foot as my little toes. And not so much wine as a full bottle of wine. And not so much ended up as violently fell on. That’s where the hospital comes in. But only after the pain and the pools of tears.
Luckily my toes weren’t broken. It was diagnosed as a “crushing toe injury,” the fancy way of explaining exactly what happened. When I woke up later on the first day of 2012, they were red, black and purple and swollen. They hurt a lot - but maybe not more than my pride as I tried to walk with the ugly supportive shoe they gave me.
I told someone what happened the next day, and their response was “I feel like that would only happen to you.” And I very much agree with that. The majority of my stories end with the sentiment “and then it got weird.” Part of my New Year’s Resolution was to try and change that. Until the wine bottle beat those thoughts out of my mind.
I think it’s time I realize that I am probably just an awkward person. I attract strange situations. But maybe that isn’t a bad thing. It does give me some pretty good writing material.
The thing about New Year’s Eve is that no matter how hard you try to curb your expectations, they will always be higher than the actual outcome. In year’s past, I had never spent a new year drunk, surrounded by friends. Plans would fall apart - like last year, when a snow storm made it impossible for me to go see my friend in Virginia - or I wouldn’t even try. More often than not, I would simply opt for sitting in my home with my parents, watching them doze off while waiting for Dick Clark and/or Ryan Seacrest to announce the new year.
But this year? This year was going to be my year. Because the only expectation I had was seemingly already met. Plans with friends. Lovely dinner. Grey goose vodka. Champagne. The hospital.
Yeah. The hospital. And that, my friends, would be the part I didn’t plan for. The part I was not expecting. At the cross-town party, while talking with a group of people, somehow wine ended up on top of my foot. Well, not so much my foot as my little toes. And not so much wine as a full bottle of wine. And not so much ended up as violently fell on. That’s where the hospital comes in. But only after the pain and the pools of tears.
Luckily my toes weren’t broken. It was diagnosed as a “crushing toe injury,” the fancy way of explaining exactly what happened. When I woke up later on the first day of 2012, they were red, black and purple and swollen. They hurt a lot - but maybe not more than my pride as I tried to walk with the ugly supportive shoe they gave me.
I told someone what happened the next day, and their response was “I feel like that would only happen to you.” And I very much agree with that. The majority of my stories end with the sentiment “and then it got weird.” Part of my New Year’s Resolution was to try and change that. Until the wine bottle beat those thoughts out of my mind.
I think it’s time I realize that I am probably just an awkward person. I attract strange situations. But maybe that isn’t a bad thing. It does give me some pretty good writing material.
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