The problem with change is that it’s often opposed by fear or force of habit. Wanting to be or do something different is easy, the execution...not so much.
For instance, it took me a long time to get over the fear of going back to school. Or at least to get over the fear enough to actually apply to one and make concrete plans to attend. I’m still terrified of being in a classroom again. I was stuck in a routine headed nowhere because it was safe and it was what I knew, but I wanted to go so badly that I finally said “enough” and grew a pair.
But my latest dilemma is a little more complicated than forcing myself to wade through paperwork and red tape. It’s not about just being afraid of change or being stuck in a rut. It’s also that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
Remember when I got tired of the single life, couldn’t seem to meet anyone new, and ended up dabbling in the online dating thing? And remember how, for my troubles, all I got was a few dinners, a few posts and a sore asshole? Yeah. And remember how I said I was done with that bullshit because it was time consuming, irritating and the majority of the guys are psychos?
Sigh. Well several months ago I inadvertently got drawn back into the snake pit. Seriously, it was not intentional.
I received an email one day from the dating site saying I had a new message. That was strange, seeing as how I hadn’t been on the account in months and, consequently, hadn’t had a message in months either. Apparently if you aren’t on there often, they don’t chat you up.
Being a curiosity killed the cat sort of woman I decided to see what it said and, as it turns out, it was from a guy I’d gone to high school with. I remembered him immediately – a tall, dark, bearded kid that wore big black tennis shoes and a trench coat all the time. In fact, he referenced his appearance himself in the email: “It’s me – Big creepy guy in the trench coat? I saw your profile and decided it’d be rude not to say “hi”.”
“No, no it wouldn’t be rude at all”, I thought, “Because we never spoke to begin with.”
What I said, however, was nice yet dismissive. Something along the lines of, “Yes, I remember you. Thanks for the message. See you’re still stuck in this godforsaken town too. Hope you’re doing well.” The subtext being, “Yep, we walked down the same halls. This is weird. You’re weird. High school sucked balls. Kthanksbye.”
What began then could best be described as a whirlwind of weirdness. I started to receive text messages and phone calls from exes that wanted to “hang out”, “catch up” and, my personal favorite, “go for a little swim...wink wink, nudge nudge”. And, I assume, because I’d logged onto my dating account, my inbox starting blowing up there as well. I went from no prospects to way too many in record time. It’s like they were all on the same period cycle or something.
I was chatting with guys again and trying to decide who, what, when, and where again. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be and I quickly realized that one thing I am not good at is juggling men. I had a hard time talking to more than one of them at a time because I would mix up details and forget things.
Not only that, but I like to focus all my energy on one thing, which is basically the anti-thesis of online dating. It’s not a hard thing to do when you’re the queen of the one night stand, don’t call me I’ll definitely be blocking your number club. But that wasn’t me anymore...or I didn’t want it to be. I still craved sex, sure, but it was now more about wanting the (gag) connection.
And it’s tricky because I’m such an overtly sexual person. I often don’t realize until later that I was being suggestive in the first place. Or, sometimes I know I’m doing it but I still can’t seem to stop myself. It’s hard to make a deeper connection when I’ve always been so immersed in the physical side of things.
So, I decided that since I was apparently giving dating another shot, I should take steps to change all that about myself – to make a concentrated effort to A) keep my hands to myself, B) watch my dirty mouth, and C) (the most difficult) stop thinking that wanting to have a relationship made me a needy girl and being ashamed of the fact that I was tired of being single.
At first it seemed to be going well. I went on a date with a really nice guy and we started talking on the phone and texting quite a lot. Occasionally there was a bit of flirting, but it was harmless and not at all risqué. I was feeling good about it, really excited that I was not only keeping myself in check but that we had so many interesting conversations.
But apparently we’d reached the statute of limitations on harmless flirting and interesting conversation, because he decided to nudge me in the opposite direction. With his penis. Or rather, with a plethora of pictures...of his penis.
Let’s see, there was one that was clearly taken at an upward angle, but zoomed in to make things appear larger than I suspected they actually were. There was the one following that at a slightly different angle that validated my suspicions about the first. And then there was “the montage”.
Allow me to commentate:
Photo 1: “This is a picture of my crotch covered in jeans. See that there? That’s the tell-tale bulge of my things-may-appear-larger, side-mirror-penis. Now wait for it, don’t get excited!”
Photo 2: “Oh! Oh! Look! He’s coming out to play! He’s a little shy at first, I know. That’s why he’s only poking his head out of my natty boxer shorts.”
Photo 3: “SHAZAM! Here he is in all his glory. And see?! He brought two ugly, hairy friends to make him look better!”
The whole thing was hilarious, with each picture arriving mere seconds after the other, but at the same time extremely disappointing. First, because I’d gone to such lengths to try and behave myself and he had to cheapen the experience. And second, because it was ill timed, terrible photography.
After that guy there was another with nearly the same story – great conversations, funny, interesting. Then the invisible switch flipped and he was making random comments about my tits and the like.
He didn’t actually use the word “motorboat”, but it was implied. And though I find the concept funny, the reality is actually quite awkward and slightly uncomfortable. It’s like when you’re running and not wearing a sports bra so they’re bouncing all over the place, only imagine them going that fast sideways, back and forth, instead of up and down. Though, given a choice, I’d certainly rather be “motorboated” than run without a sports bra...or run at all, for that matter.
Where was I?
Ah, then there was the slip up.
The “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t seem to meet anyone nice, so I’m going to agree to dinner with a guy friend that’s always liked me because, after all, we’ve been having lunch often and it’s been just fine.”
And even though I’d established ground rules about our friendship, mainly “you can compliment me all you want and we can be friends, but nothing else”, I ended up drinking way too much beer.
And even though we didn’t have sex, I did end up on my back.
Because he said, verbatim, that he’d been “dying to eat this pussy for years” and being under the influence I thought, “Self, how could you deny a dying man the treatment he needs?” I figured, why the fuck not?
I’d had sex with him years ago and that was horrific, so I wasn’t going there again. I’ve not had many good experiences in the oral sex department, and in fact I usually decline any offers, but I’d heard a rumor once from his ex girlfriend that he was excellent at it. So I shrugged and said, “As long as we don’t have to play Wheel of Fucking Fortune, go for it.” And he did.
I must say, though I was disappointed that I managed to break my ABCs of change rules, she was right. He was excellent. The only problem was, after two go rounds I was pretty sober and he refused to stop. I think it must have been some kind of ego thing, to see how many times he could make it happen. And no matter what some people may say, you can always have too much of a good thing. Especially if it comes with a nonstop commentary and demands to look at him, while he looks back with a creepy wet childish grin that screams “LOVE ME! I ALWAYS CLEAN MY PLATE!”
So, once again I said enough. No more online dating or hooking up with exes. “Self, you are unable to become involved with a guy, past the point of introductions, without getting penis pictures and offers to use your tits as bongos. Your vagina is not a frozen yogurt buffet for the needy and you just need to quit while you’re limping back in last place.”
Then I met someone – a friend of our new neighbors who has been hanging out on the lake with us nearly every weekend.
At first I didn’t even think of him that way. I simply liked hanging out with him, and everyone else, and thought he was funny. Then one afternoon we were floating together, cracking jokes and I realized, “Uh oh. I think I kind of like him.”
We’re both generally flirty people anyway, but it was when others started drawing attention to certain things that I really started to wonder if maybe he liked me too. Like when we all sat drinking one night on the dock and he lay down with his head in my lap, then held on to my hand when he finally got up to leave, releasing one finger at a time as if to hold on longer. Or how he somehow always ended up beside me or directly across from me on every boat ride and at every dinner. There were dozens of little signs that, had my confidence not been so wrecked by all my dating failures of the past, I probably would have jumped on, said “A Ha!” before suggesting, “Yo, let’s go make out behind the bleachers.” Or, you know, the classier, simpler version: “I like you.”
But maybe wasn’t good enough for me, I wanted to be sure. So I talked to his friends, our new neighbors, who’d quickly become my friends too. Basically I got the he’s always been a little flirty, but he’s actually quite shy speech. “I know he wants a serious relationship and he doesn’t just hop into bed with people”, she told me.
I decided then that my strategy would be to let him take his time and, if he was interested, he’d make a move when he was ready.
Unfortunately patience, shy men and subtlety are not on my list of specialties. So far I’ve gotten two kisses on the cheek, one “you’re so beautiful”, and a lot of disappearing acts. I’m not really sure any of those count as “moves”, except possibly the disappearing acts and that would be a move in the opposite direction. No bueno.
There’s apparently something fundamentally wrong with me, because it can’t be all these guys. I don’t know how to date AND I don’t know how to wait (patiently) for the sex.
My solution to this was to ask other people for advice, but unfortunately my friends and certain family members aren’t really qualified to give it.
Proof?
Claire: “Fuck him. He blew you off that one time. Ignore him. Wanna take a shot of this?”
Leigha (Yes, my 18 year old sister, Leigha.): “You should do what I do because it totally works. I don’t pay them any attention and they come running. Play really hard to get, mmk? They like it. Sigh. I love the game.”
Dave: “Put it on him. GET SOME, AL.”
Mom: “They all want one thing. Stop giving it to them. You did? Well, search me then!”
Grandma: “I’ve seen these commercials for products that help extend the penis. Does he own a house?”
Claire: “He’s probably gay anyway.”
Rachel: “You need to go out and get some strange.”
And we’re back to the beginning again, with virtually no improvement save for the realization that oral sex doesn’t always suck. The whole time. Back at the beginning with no idea what I’m doing, no current prospects (unless you count the one that’s “probably gay and wants you to be his beard”), and a cancelled dating profile.
The changing bullshit is hard.
Showing posts with label men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label men. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
The lunch date
Our first date happened almost seven years ago and I wasn’t attracted to him then. I was young, bored and I liked the way he complimented me with a serious expression, refusing any protests, feeble or otherwise. I let him take me out, I let him kiss me, and I let him buy me things to the point of being ridiculous.
But eventually I got tired of trying to like him “that way”, of letting him touch me when I didn’t really want him to, and stopped returning his calls. I found someone else and conveniently forgot about him, until his name would show up randomly on my phone or I ran into him in town.
Most of the time I ignored his texts and calls, saying only the bare minimum to be polite. I would wave and hurry away when I saw him out. But every now and then, he would catch me in a rough patch. Whether it was due to boredom, loneliness or deflated ego, he’d happily step in and boost me back up. And with an attitude that said I was clearly doing him a favor, I’d let him.
When I didn’t need him, he irritated me. I hated that he always seemed to show up everywhere I went. I felt like he was stalking me at times, but really, if I’m going to be honest (and this is all going to be brutally honest), he wasn’t doing anything that I didn’t allow him to. I never would have admitted it to myself, or anyone else, back then...but I wanted him on the back burner, just in case. Telling him off might have meant alienating him completely. And too, he was so fucking nice that I just couldn’t bring myself to really be mean to him.
Except now I realize that I was cruel to him all along. I knew he was crazy about me, possibly even in love with me. And instead of calling time of death, I let him repeatedly shock our relationship back to life. Let him hopefully watch a bunch of feeble lines on a monitor and wait for them to get bigger, all the while knowing what he didn’t – my heart would never work properly for him.
Seven months ago I made a stab at behaving like a decent human being. I had feelings for someone and, no matter how at odds their words and actions sometimes were, I knew they didn’t feel quite the same way about me. Because they never came right out and said “I don’t want you”, I kept thinking “it could happen”. But it didn’t, it won’t, and I knew there was a distinct possibility they were doing to me what I’d done to him, whether they realized it or not.
So when I received a message asking me to hang out and, as usual, telling me how wonderful I was...I finally said what should have been said ages ago. I told him that he wanted to be more than friends, he always had, and I didn’t. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him unless he was prepared to accept that. I was proud of myself for not dicking around, for saying it in what I thought was a decent, but clear way. He responded that he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, which made me feel like an ass, and then he promptly disappeared.
I thought about him for awhile after that. I wondered how he was doing and if he would come back around and try to be my friend, or if maybe that was something he’d never be able to do. I crawled even farther up my own ass, and wondered how long it would take him to get over me. How much time was I worth? But after a few months without a word or a glimpse of him, I forgot to wonder.
Then a few weeks ago I was driving home. I’d had one of the toughest, most emotionally charged days of my life. I don’t cry that often, but when I do it’s...volatile. I’d been blubbering for most of the hour it takes me to drive home when my phone went off. It was a message from him. He’d passed me, seen what a spectacle I was, and wanted to make sure I was alright.
Of course that set me off more, but I replied that I was okay. Then he said, after seven months of silence, “I always hoped it would work out between us. I’m still crazy about you.” Etcetera, I’m gorgeous, etcetera, he misses me.
And instead of saying “don’t” or “I’m sorry”, I latched onto those words like a life raft. I said “thank you” and sent a smiley face, knowing it wasn’t a good idea.
“Why didn’t it work out?”, he asked.
“I don’t know”, I said, all the while hating myself. I was feeling rotten and I wanted someone to make me feel better and I knew that, with a few noncommittal responses, he’d do just that.
He comforted me, asked me out to lunch, and I accepted. I was back on the vicious cycle, attempting to justify my behavior like I always had before – by telling myself that maybe this was it for me, maybe I was supposed to be with someone that loved me more than I loved them. He was a great guy, with a lot of qualities just screaming “settling down material”. Maybe I’d read too many romance novels and was overlooking what was supposed to be my chance, while I waited for a passion that didn’t exist. But I knew better – even though I was stepping back into the ring, this time I was completely aware of what I was doing. I was going to sucker punch him, and apparently no amount of self-loathing was going to change that. If I was cruel before, I was downright sadistic now.
Two days ago he showed up right on time for our lunch date. Everyone else was gone when I let him in the front door and he followed me back to my office. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the fluttery nervousness of a normal date. It was a nervousness born of knowing I was doing something wrong, and wondering if he’d call me out.
“You look nice”, he said.
I was surprised by how relaxed and casual he was and I forced myself to calm down too. He didn’t reach for my hand or my arm as we walked to the café, like I thought he would. He didn’t touch me at all.
I’d made jokes about getting a free lunch out of him, because that’s what I do...make terrible jokes. But when we arrived I waved away his protests and paid. I couldn’t have that on my conscious too. And apparently, buying him a club sandwich was supposed to make me feel better.
We sat down at a table by the window and we talked – about our kids, our jobs, and all manner of things we’d missed out on in the months we hadn’t spoken. I found myself laughing with him and feeling comfortable. He didn’t question me or compliment me, he didn’t look at me like he wanted to peel my skin off and wear it like a wetsuit. It felt normal – like two friends having lunch.
On the walk back I looked at his face, relaxed and confident, and I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he thought he was “wearing me down” or if, like me, he simply couldn’t stop himself from gravitating to what he knew would never work, out of some unfulfilled need.
In the lobby of my building he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. “That was nice”, he said. And I agreed, smiling and waving as he walked out the double doors and into the parking garage.
But my smile didn’t stick around very long. I’d no sooner sat down at my desk when I thought, “Wait...what just happened? Is he over me? He’s never that casual. What was wrong with him?” I knew I was being an egotistical asshole, but I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t fawn all over me like he normally would.
Two hours later I received a text message that said, “Thanks for lunch, had a great time. You looked stunning, as always.”
That was more like what I’d come to expect. And because my vanity knows no bounds, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.
I’d be willing to wager that I’ll hear from him again soon, and I’m not really sure what will happen. After exploring every unflattering angle of my behavior, and branding myself with labels I hate, yet completely deserve (like needy and cruel), I know something has to give. I know that, no matter how many times I may try to pretend or convince myself otherwise, he isn’t what I’m looking for. Now I just have to figure out if I’m the kind of person that needs something so badly, they take what isn’t rightfully theirs. I hope not. I hope I can find the courage to push him away for good and learn how to be truly alone, because maybe that’s all fate, God, or whatever decides these matters, is waiting for.
But eventually I got tired of trying to like him “that way”, of letting him touch me when I didn’t really want him to, and stopped returning his calls. I found someone else and conveniently forgot about him, until his name would show up randomly on my phone or I ran into him in town.
Most of the time I ignored his texts and calls, saying only the bare minimum to be polite. I would wave and hurry away when I saw him out. But every now and then, he would catch me in a rough patch. Whether it was due to boredom, loneliness or deflated ego, he’d happily step in and boost me back up. And with an attitude that said I was clearly doing him a favor, I’d let him.
When I didn’t need him, he irritated me. I hated that he always seemed to show up everywhere I went. I felt like he was stalking me at times, but really, if I’m going to be honest (and this is all going to be brutally honest), he wasn’t doing anything that I didn’t allow him to. I never would have admitted it to myself, or anyone else, back then...but I wanted him on the back burner, just in case. Telling him off might have meant alienating him completely. And too, he was so fucking nice that I just couldn’t bring myself to really be mean to him.
Except now I realize that I was cruel to him all along. I knew he was crazy about me, possibly even in love with me. And instead of calling time of death, I let him repeatedly shock our relationship back to life. Let him hopefully watch a bunch of feeble lines on a monitor and wait for them to get bigger, all the while knowing what he didn’t – my heart would never work properly for him.
Seven months ago I made a stab at behaving like a decent human being. I had feelings for someone and, no matter how at odds their words and actions sometimes were, I knew they didn’t feel quite the same way about me. Because they never came right out and said “I don’t want you”, I kept thinking “it could happen”. But it didn’t, it won’t, and I knew there was a distinct possibility they were doing to me what I’d done to him, whether they realized it or not.
So when I received a message asking me to hang out and, as usual, telling me how wonderful I was...I finally said what should have been said ages ago. I told him that he wanted to be more than friends, he always had, and I didn’t. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him unless he was prepared to accept that. I was proud of myself for not dicking around, for saying it in what I thought was a decent, but clear way. He responded that he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, which made me feel like an ass, and then he promptly disappeared.
I thought about him for awhile after that. I wondered how he was doing and if he would come back around and try to be my friend, or if maybe that was something he’d never be able to do. I crawled even farther up my own ass, and wondered how long it would take him to get over me. How much time was I worth? But after a few months without a word or a glimpse of him, I forgot to wonder.
Then a few weeks ago I was driving home. I’d had one of the toughest, most emotionally charged days of my life. I don’t cry that often, but when I do it’s...volatile. I’d been blubbering for most of the hour it takes me to drive home when my phone went off. It was a message from him. He’d passed me, seen what a spectacle I was, and wanted to make sure I was alright.
Of course that set me off more, but I replied that I was okay. Then he said, after seven months of silence, “I always hoped it would work out between us. I’m still crazy about you.” Etcetera, I’m gorgeous, etcetera, he misses me.
And instead of saying “don’t” or “I’m sorry”, I latched onto those words like a life raft. I said “thank you” and sent a smiley face, knowing it wasn’t a good idea.
“Why didn’t it work out?”, he asked.
“I don’t know”, I said, all the while hating myself. I was feeling rotten and I wanted someone to make me feel better and I knew that, with a few noncommittal responses, he’d do just that.
He comforted me, asked me out to lunch, and I accepted. I was back on the vicious cycle, attempting to justify my behavior like I always had before – by telling myself that maybe this was it for me, maybe I was supposed to be with someone that loved me more than I loved them. He was a great guy, with a lot of qualities just screaming “settling down material”. Maybe I’d read too many romance novels and was overlooking what was supposed to be my chance, while I waited for a passion that didn’t exist. But I knew better – even though I was stepping back into the ring, this time I was completely aware of what I was doing. I was going to sucker punch him, and apparently no amount of self-loathing was going to change that. If I was cruel before, I was downright sadistic now.
Two days ago he showed up right on time for our lunch date. Everyone else was gone when I let him in the front door and he followed me back to my office. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the fluttery nervousness of a normal date. It was a nervousness born of knowing I was doing something wrong, and wondering if he’d call me out.
“You look nice”, he said.
I was surprised by how relaxed and casual he was and I forced myself to calm down too. He didn’t reach for my hand or my arm as we walked to the café, like I thought he would. He didn’t touch me at all.
I’d made jokes about getting a free lunch out of him, because that’s what I do...make terrible jokes. But when we arrived I waved away his protests and paid. I couldn’t have that on my conscious too. And apparently, buying him a club sandwich was supposed to make me feel better.
We sat down at a table by the window and we talked – about our kids, our jobs, and all manner of things we’d missed out on in the months we hadn’t spoken. I found myself laughing with him and feeling comfortable. He didn’t question me or compliment me, he didn’t look at me like he wanted to peel my skin off and wear it like a wetsuit. It felt normal – like two friends having lunch.
On the walk back I looked at his face, relaxed and confident, and I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he thought he was “wearing me down” or if, like me, he simply couldn’t stop himself from gravitating to what he knew would never work, out of some unfulfilled need.
In the lobby of my building he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. “That was nice”, he said. And I agreed, smiling and waving as he walked out the double doors and into the parking garage.
But my smile didn’t stick around very long. I’d no sooner sat down at my desk when I thought, “Wait...what just happened? Is he over me? He’s never that casual. What was wrong with him?” I knew I was being an egotistical asshole, but I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t fawn all over me like he normally would.
Two hours later I received a text message that said, “Thanks for lunch, had a great time. You looked stunning, as always.”
That was more like what I’d come to expect. And because my vanity knows no bounds, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.
I’d be willing to wager that I’ll hear from him again soon, and I’m not really sure what will happen. After exploring every unflattering angle of my behavior, and branding myself with labels I hate, yet completely deserve (like needy and cruel), I know something has to give. I know that, no matter how many times I may try to pretend or convince myself otherwise, he isn’t what I’m looking for. Now I just have to figure out if I’m the kind of person that needs something so badly, they take what isn’t rightfully theirs. I hope not. I hope I can find the courage to push him away for good and learn how to be truly alone, because maybe that’s all fate, God, or whatever decides these matters, is waiting for.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
My biggest pet peeve
I’ve got a million pet peeves, just like most people. Every day is full of little irritations.
I can’t stand it when someone leaves the cap off the toothpaste or doesn’t flush the toilet. I loathe backseat drivers, slow drivers, and pedestrians. (Yes, pedestrians.) I hate poor grammar and people that read something aloud, even though I’ve already read it or am in the process of reading it. I don’t like it when people tap things, click things, or make any sort of continuous pointless noise. But my biggest pet peeve, the one thing that puts me so on edge my head starts to hurt and I begin to lose touch with reality – is whining.
Before I go any further let me clear a few things up. Yes, I am aware that I have whined before and will do so again. Yes, I am aware that makes me a hypocrite. Show me a person that isn’t, in some way, a hypocrite and I’ll show you my breasts. Both of them. (The few of you that may or may not have already seen them, or only one of them, keep quiet.)
Also – there is a difference between whining and crying, whining and venting, and whining and confiding. I think I’m relatively good at making those distinctions.
My sister is a crier. I am, predominately, a venter. And my child is a whiner.
I realize that all children whine from time to time, but I can confidently report that the kid does it in excess. It she had cheese to go with her whine, she could end world hunger. If it was an Olympic sport, she would win the gold, break the legs of the silver and bronze winners, and take their medals too. It’s gotten so bad that she only has one tone of voice and that’s the up-and-down-up-and-down cadence of The Whiner.
“MaMA! I WAnt some snACks!”
“MaMA! I WAnt to WAtch SPONGEbob!”
She doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it, so it’s a constant thing. And it’s entirely my mother’s fault (but that’s a different story).
If I’ve had a rough day and the first thing I hear when I walk in the door is “MaMA, MiMI woN’T LET me PLay WIth MY dSSSSSS!”...I start by chewing my lower lip. Then I suggest that there must be a good reason why Mimi won’t let her play with it, and more whining automatically ensues.
“Stop whining”, I’ll say. Sometimes this is followed by a threat, sometimes a bribe, and sometimes I just point to the closet door.
But it never fails – she always counters with: “I’M noT WHinING!”
Really? You could have fooled me, Taylor Swift Jr.
So the kid lit the fire on the whining pet peeve and has been vigorously fanning it ever since. Consequently, this hasn’t boded well for other people. They may not typically be whiners, but if they do it around me, even once, there is a strong possibility that I’m going to A) make fun of them, B) kill them with my death ray laser glare/derogatory remarks, C) begin singing “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares”, or D) turn around and walk off, muttering expressions of violence.
For instance – my cousin has a tendency to whine about her boyfriend. And though her boyfriend is indeed one of the most irritating and needy individuals I’ve ever met...I still can’t excuse the whining.
“He is constantly calling me and texting me and if I don’t text him back immediately, he starts freaking out. Ugh. I’m so tired of it. I can’t stand it. It’s driving me crazy. And he like, never wants to do anything with my friends and...” Blah, blah, blah, blahbity fucking blah.
To which I reply with something like: “He probably wouldn’t have to harass you by phone if you weren’t off slobbing on someone else’s knob all the time. Oh! SICK BURN! ...also true.”
Then I would most likely mime the aforementioned action by pressing my tongue into my cheek repeatedly in time with hand motions directed toward my open mouth. After which, she’d probably reference the one time I was ass raped. It’s our own brand of vicious cycle.
Anyway...whining. So it bothers me. And do you know when it’s particularly irritating? When men do it.
Yeah, I said it.
There’s the ever popular I want sex whine. “C’mon baby...you know you want to. C’monnnn!”
Listen, jackass. I told you I’m riding the cotton pony and it isn’t going to happen. Period. Times two. (But if I happen to cave just a little bit and end up giving you a blowjob, but stopping ¾ of the way through because goddamn it my jaw hurts, and you decide you want to go all high school and titty fuck me well...just know you’re going to be paying for it later.)
Real men don’t whine. They break headboards with their bare hands and shave their balls with straight razors. Or something like that.
Recently I was introduced to a new form of whining. We’ll call it the “I don’t actually know you, but...” whine. It’s really popular on the online dating scene.
Over the course of the last few months, I’ve come across several of these guys. I’ll start talking to them, emailing them or messaging them. Everything will be copasetic; we’ll be getting to know each other...then BLAM! The whining starts.
“If you don’t want to talk to me just say so.”
“I’ve had my heart broken too many times.”
“It’s been an hour...why aren’t you responding?”
“Merry Christmas! I hope you remember that it’s about the birth of Jesus!” - Ok that one wasn’t whining, but I had to share it anyway. This guy...is getting his own post. It’s going to be a doozy.
“Fine. I see how it is. Just delete my number.”
“No...don’t. Tell me what’s wrong?!”
Honestly, I don’t understand how or why I end up talking to these guys. The first and second time it happened I just stopped responding to their messages. After the third time, I lost it.
“Not only are you a big fat whiner, but you’re also a psycho.”
And he said, “You’re a bitch”.
And I said, “I’m betting you have mother issues so I’m going to forgive you for that one. But you’re still a whiner.”
And he said, “Fuck you, cunt.”
And that’s when a vessel popped in my forehead and I said, “I usually don’t mind that word. In fact, I use it quite often. But the blatant hostility in your response makes that too far, motherfucker. Too far.”
And he said, “C.U.N.T.”
And I said, “You know what, I apologize. You’re right. I’ve been terrible to you. Can we start over?”
And he said, “Really??”
And I said, “HAHA! Pussy!”
Then I congratulated myself by blocking his number, taking a Xanax, and sketching out a design for a new t-shirt:
I can’t stand it when someone leaves the cap off the toothpaste or doesn’t flush the toilet. I loathe backseat drivers, slow drivers, and pedestrians. (Yes, pedestrians.) I hate poor grammar and people that read something aloud, even though I’ve already read it or am in the process of reading it. I don’t like it when people tap things, click things, or make any sort of continuous pointless noise. But my biggest pet peeve, the one thing that puts me so on edge my head starts to hurt and I begin to lose touch with reality – is whining.
Before I go any further let me clear a few things up. Yes, I am aware that I have whined before and will do so again. Yes, I am aware that makes me a hypocrite. Show me a person that isn’t, in some way, a hypocrite and I’ll show you my breasts. Both of them. (The few of you that may or may not have already seen them, or only one of them, keep quiet.)
Also – there is a difference between whining and crying, whining and venting, and whining and confiding. I think I’m relatively good at making those distinctions.
My sister is a crier. I am, predominately, a venter. And my child is a whiner.
I realize that all children whine from time to time, but I can confidently report that the kid does it in excess. It she had cheese to go with her whine, she could end world hunger. If it was an Olympic sport, she would win the gold, break the legs of the silver and bronze winners, and take their medals too. It’s gotten so bad that she only has one tone of voice and that’s the up-and-down-up-and-down cadence of The Whiner.
“MaMA! I WAnt some snACks!”
“MaMA! I WAnt to WAtch SPONGEbob!”
She doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it, so it’s a constant thing. And it’s entirely my mother’s fault (but that’s a different story).
If I’ve had a rough day and the first thing I hear when I walk in the door is “MaMA, MiMI woN’T LET me PLay WIth MY dSSSSSS!”...I start by chewing my lower lip. Then I suggest that there must be a good reason why Mimi won’t let her play with it, and more whining automatically ensues.
“Stop whining”, I’ll say. Sometimes this is followed by a threat, sometimes a bribe, and sometimes I just point to the closet door.
But it never fails – she always counters with: “I’M noT WHinING!”
Really? You could have fooled me, Taylor Swift Jr.
So the kid lit the fire on the whining pet peeve and has been vigorously fanning it ever since. Consequently, this hasn’t boded well for other people. They may not typically be whiners, but if they do it around me, even once, there is a strong possibility that I’m going to A) make fun of them, B) kill them with my death ray laser glare/derogatory remarks, C) begin singing “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares”, or D) turn around and walk off, muttering expressions of violence.
For instance – my cousin has a tendency to whine about her boyfriend. And though her boyfriend is indeed one of the most irritating and needy individuals I’ve ever met...I still can’t excuse the whining.
“He is constantly calling me and texting me and if I don’t text him back immediately, he starts freaking out. Ugh. I’m so tired of it. I can’t stand it. It’s driving me crazy. And he like, never wants to do anything with my friends and...” Blah, blah, blah, blahbity fucking blah.
To which I reply with something like: “He probably wouldn’t have to harass you by phone if you weren’t off slobbing on someone else’s knob all the time. Oh! SICK BURN! ...also true.”
Then I would most likely mime the aforementioned action by pressing my tongue into my cheek repeatedly in time with hand motions directed toward my open mouth. After which, she’d probably reference the one time I was ass raped. It’s our own brand of vicious cycle.
Anyway...whining. So it bothers me. And do you know when it’s particularly irritating? When men do it.
Yeah, I said it.
There’s the ever popular I want sex whine. “C’mon baby...you know you want to. C’monnnn!”
Listen, jackass. I told you I’m riding the cotton pony and it isn’t going to happen. Period. Times two. (But if I happen to cave just a little bit and end up giving you a blowjob, but stopping ¾ of the way through because goddamn it my jaw hurts, and you decide you want to go all high school and titty fuck me well...just know you’re going to be paying for it later.)
Real men don’t whine. They break headboards with their bare hands and shave their balls with straight razors. Or something like that.
Recently I was introduced to a new form of whining. We’ll call it the “I don’t actually know you, but...” whine. It’s really popular on the online dating scene.
Over the course of the last few months, I’ve come across several of these guys. I’ll start talking to them, emailing them or messaging them. Everything will be copasetic; we’ll be getting to know each other...then BLAM! The whining starts.
“If you don’t want to talk to me just say so.”
“I’ve had my heart broken too many times.”
“It’s been an hour...why aren’t you responding?”
“Merry Christmas! I hope you remember that it’s about the birth of Jesus!” - Ok that one wasn’t whining, but I had to share it anyway. This guy...is getting his own post. It’s going to be a doozy.
“Fine. I see how it is. Just delete my number.”
“No...don’t. Tell me what’s wrong?!”
Honestly, I don’t understand how or why I end up talking to these guys. The first and second time it happened I just stopped responding to their messages. After the third time, I lost it.
“Not only are you a big fat whiner, but you’re also a psycho.”
And he said, “You’re a bitch”.
And I said, “I’m betting you have mother issues so I’m going to forgive you for that one. But you’re still a whiner.”
And he said, “Fuck you, cunt.”
And that’s when a vessel popped in my forehead and I said, “I usually don’t mind that word. In fact, I use it quite often. But the blatant hostility in your response makes that too far, motherfucker. Too far.”
And he said, “C.U.N.T.”
And I said, “You know what, I apologize. You’re right. I’ve been terrible to you. Can we start over?”
And he said, “Really??”
And I said, “HAHA! Pussy!”
Then I congratulated myself by blocking his number, taking a Xanax, and sketching out a design for a new t-shirt:
Friday, October 01, 2010
How you doin', daddy.
I currently have three unfinished blog posts in my folder. That has never happened to me before. I think the problem is, when I get interrupted from writing something, I lose my train of thought and it’s hard to get back to it later. I’m the sort of writer that has to sit down and do it all at one time, no matter how long it takes. I get flustered and irritated if I don’t.
One of the posts is about my mother and it’s undoubtedly the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted to write. (One of my favorites wrote a brilliant post about her mother – it was incredibly beautiful. They aren’t really similar so I hope she won’t mind if I put it up soon. If you haven’t read it yet, please do. And tell her I sent you.) The second one is about the only love letter I ever wrote and the third is about my sister’s 18th birthday...in a manner of speaking. Which one would you guys be interested in reading the most?
Anyway, I know I’ve been writing a lot about dating and I hope you haven’t grown too tired of it yet. There just seems to be an endless amount of material there.
I’ve been getting messages from so many different characters. It’s almost like sensory overload. Just yesterday I was contacted by a single dad who, according to his profile, is way more straight laced than I am (like, all about God and shit), a large, redheaded professor at a local college, and a man that wanted to know where I buy my hair products.
“Your hair is awesome. What do you use and where can I find it?”
I’m serious.
And then last night I got this little gem from a guy in the military:
“Let’s be honest, all guys want sex. My case is a little different. I was deployed for a year and I spent the next year working two jobs, managing 23 interns in my own start up business, and going to school full time. Long story short, due to my life situation I haven’t had sex in two years. I don’t know how I kept my sanity. You can keep your pity cause I don’t want it, but I wanted to let you see that I’m not some guy lookin for a quick lay. I’m looking for a friend who likes and needs sex as much as I do. I have two years of passion to unleash on the right person and I find you to be stunning and completely attractive.”
Whoa there, Sparky. First of all – the guy looks like he’s playing dress up with his daddy’s fatigues. Second – Seriously? I’m not that fucking stupid. He needs to unleash that passion somewhere else...maybe get a fleshlight. The whole thing sounds like a desperate attempt to pass on some foreign version of herpes he caught on a dark desert night, and start an epidemic among the vaginas of America.
I immediately had to text a friend about it.
Me: Dude! You wouldn’t believe this freakin email I just got from this army guy.
Him: Send it to me.
Blah, blah, blah – issues with sending.
Him: Two years of passion? That’s a lot.
Me: Hahaha. Can you believe that shit?
Him: He just needs your vagina.
Me: He should order one then. No entrar.
Me: I just couldn’t believe anyone could have that much gall.
Him: He’s an American hero.
Me: So is my vagina.
Me: Neutralized plenty of weapons.
Him: Nice one.
Me: I know, right.
He was in a cranky mood because I’d pissed him off earlier, but had he not been...he totally would have laughed his ass off.
I haven’t responded to it yet because I honestly don’t know what to say. I probably won’t say anything. After all, even though I would never proposition someone like that; I can fully understand what it feels like to be unwillingly celibate. It sucks.
Then, this morning, I received an email from a guy in England. I wondered why on earth he’d contact me, but then I thought, “Maybe he’s a transplant and lives here now.” Nope.
The last question on my profile asks that I share something about myself that no one else knows. And the last sentence of my answer is, “Also, sometimes I burp.”
Him: Sometimes you burp?! Awesome, I love a girl with a good burp! Can you burp on cue?
Ok, I thought that was a bit strange, but it made me laugh. I figured it was a joke.
Me: Haha. As a matter of fact, yes. I can.
Him: Cool. I’m not ashamed to admit that I think it’s hot when women burp! Got any plans for this weekend?
Hmm. Ok...maybe he’s serious. Still, this could potentially be an interesting conversation.
Me: Nothing wrong with that. To each his own. I’m going out with friends tonight, but I don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend. What about you?
Him: Exactly. I agree 100%! We all have our likes and dislikes, one of mine just happens to be women burping. I actually have a fetish for it if I’m being honest. I hope that doesn’t sound too gross...
I am beside myself with giggling by this point.
Me: Ha. I think a fetish is supposed to be a bit strange. Most people just don’t admit to them.
Him: Yeah they often are! I don’t go round shouting about mine, but why keep it to yourself all the time, you’re never going to be able to act on it if you do! I want one day to find a nice girl who can burp loudly and doesn’t mind burping in my face!
Oh...motherfucker. I dare anyone to say shit to me now about getting slapped in the face.
Me: Ha. I have no doubt you’ll find one.
Him: I hope so. All the cute chicks who burp seem to be thousands of miles away though!
Me: They are. Only uncouth American girls burp.
Him: Maybe it isn’t a burping fetish I have then, maybe it’s an American girl fetish! Haha I might have to get on a plane to find the girl of my dreams in that case!
Me: Perhaps it is.
It was strange because half of our conversation was normal and the other half...was like that. We talked about our jobs and traveling; I mentioned that I was planning a trip to England in the spring. Then he said that if I was near where he lived, and I felt like burping, not to hesitate. Like an idiot, I laughed and said “ok”. But in my defense, I was trying to treat the whole thing like a joke.
Him: I’ll hold you to that now you’ve said ok. I want to hear you burp now! Lol.
Me: haha.
Where do these people come from?
Right now I’m talking to two guys, other than Sam, frequently. One is very nice – exactly the opposite of what I would normally go for. And the other...the other was badass. His profile was hilarious – snarky, abrasive, smart. I loved it. We started talking and we had so much fun. But yesterday it took a turn into loony town.
He told me that he likes me. Ok, great, cool.
He told me he thinks I’m beautiful. Swell, thanks.
Then he told me that he wants to hold me and kiss me and lalalalala, etc, “I lied on my profile and the truth is that I actually have a vagina. P.S. – I will get sensitive when you back up and say you aren’t big on PDA. I’m on my period.”
Sigh.
It’s one thing if I know I’m talking to a lovey guy. It’s another for them to misrepresent themselves and then come out with this Casanova weirdo shit later on down the road. Psssh. Men.
In other news:
Tonight I have my third date with Sam. Well, I suppose you could call it the third. Technically all we accomplished on the second was a brief conversation and a sprint to his bedroom.
I know you guys are used to me completely spilling my guts and going into a detailed description worthy of a Harlequin novel, but somehow I don’t think I should right now. Suffice it to say – the sex was phenomenal and I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep with a younger man again.
I must go – errands to run, dancing in front of mirrors in my underwear singing “Waiting for tonight Oooooh!” to do.
One of the posts is about my mother and it’s undoubtedly the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted to write. (One of my favorites wrote a brilliant post about her mother – it was incredibly beautiful. They aren’t really similar so I hope she won’t mind if I put it up soon. If you haven’t read it yet, please do. And tell her I sent you.) The second one is about the only love letter I ever wrote and the third is about my sister’s 18th birthday...in a manner of speaking. Which one would you guys be interested in reading the most?
Anyway, I know I’ve been writing a lot about dating and I hope you haven’t grown too tired of it yet. There just seems to be an endless amount of material there.
I’ve been getting messages from so many different characters. It’s almost like sensory overload. Just yesterday I was contacted by a single dad who, according to his profile, is way more straight laced than I am (like, all about God and shit), a large, redheaded professor at a local college, and a man that wanted to know where I buy my hair products.
“Your hair is awesome. What do you use and where can I find it?”
I’m serious.
And then last night I got this little gem from a guy in the military:
“Let’s be honest, all guys want sex. My case is a little different. I was deployed for a year and I spent the next year working two jobs, managing 23 interns in my own start up business, and going to school full time. Long story short, due to my life situation I haven’t had sex in two years. I don’t know how I kept my sanity. You can keep your pity cause I don’t want it, but I wanted to let you see that I’m not some guy lookin for a quick lay. I’m looking for a friend who likes and needs sex as much as I do. I have two years of passion to unleash on the right person and I find you to be stunning and completely attractive.”
Whoa there, Sparky. First of all – the guy looks like he’s playing dress up with his daddy’s fatigues. Second – Seriously? I’m not that fucking stupid. He needs to unleash that passion somewhere else...maybe get a fleshlight. The whole thing sounds like a desperate attempt to pass on some foreign version of herpes he caught on a dark desert night, and start an epidemic among the vaginas of America.
I immediately had to text a friend about it.
Me: Dude! You wouldn’t believe this freakin email I just got from this army guy.
Him: Send it to me.
Blah, blah, blah – issues with sending.
Him: Two years of passion? That’s a lot.
Me: Hahaha. Can you believe that shit?
Him: He just needs your vagina.
Me: He should order one then. No entrar.
Me: I just couldn’t believe anyone could have that much gall.
Him: He’s an American hero.
Me: So is my vagina.
Me: Neutralized plenty of weapons.
Him: Nice one.
Me: I know, right.
He was in a cranky mood because I’d pissed him off earlier, but had he not been...he totally would have laughed his ass off.
I haven’t responded to it yet because I honestly don’t know what to say. I probably won’t say anything. After all, even though I would never proposition someone like that; I can fully understand what it feels like to be unwillingly celibate. It sucks.
Then, this morning, I received an email from a guy in England. I wondered why on earth he’d contact me, but then I thought, “Maybe he’s a transplant and lives here now.” Nope.
The last question on my profile asks that I share something about myself that no one else knows. And the last sentence of my answer is, “Also, sometimes I burp.”
Him: Sometimes you burp?! Awesome, I love a girl with a good burp! Can you burp on cue?
Ok, I thought that was a bit strange, but it made me laugh. I figured it was a joke.
Me: Haha. As a matter of fact, yes. I can.
Him: Cool. I’m not ashamed to admit that I think it’s hot when women burp! Got any plans for this weekend?
Hmm. Ok...maybe he’s serious. Still, this could potentially be an interesting conversation.
Me: Nothing wrong with that. To each his own. I’m going out with friends tonight, but I don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend. What about you?
Him: Exactly. I agree 100%! We all have our likes and dislikes, one of mine just happens to be women burping. I actually have a fetish for it if I’m being honest. I hope that doesn’t sound too gross...
I am beside myself with giggling by this point.
Me: Ha. I think a fetish is supposed to be a bit strange. Most people just don’t admit to them.
Him: Yeah they often are! I don’t go round shouting about mine, but why keep it to yourself all the time, you’re never going to be able to act on it if you do! I want one day to find a nice girl who can burp loudly and doesn’t mind burping in my face!
Oh...motherfucker. I dare anyone to say shit to me now about getting slapped in the face.
Me: Ha. I have no doubt you’ll find one.
Him: I hope so. All the cute chicks who burp seem to be thousands of miles away though!
Me: They are. Only uncouth American girls burp.
Him: Maybe it isn’t a burping fetish I have then, maybe it’s an American girl fetish! Haha I might have to get on a plane to find the girl of my dreams in that case!
Me: Perhaps it is.
It was strange because half of our conversation was normal and the other half...was like that. We talked about our jobs and traveling; I mentioned that I was planning a trip to England in the spring. Then he said that if I was near where he lived, and I felt like burping, not to hesitate. Like an idiot, I laughed and said “ok”. But in my defense, I was trying to treat the whole thing like a joke.
Him: I’ll hold you to that now you’ve said ok. I want to hear you burp now! Lol.
Me: haha.
Where do these people come from?
Right now I’m talking to two guys, other than Sam, frequently. One is very nice – exactly the opposite of what I would normally go for. And the other...the other was badass. His profile was hilarious – snarky, abrasive, smart. I loved it. We started talking and we had so much fun. But yesterday it took a turn into loony town.
He told me that he likes me. Ok, great, cool.
He told me he thinks I’m beautiful. Swell, thanks.
Then he told me that he wants to hold me and kiss me and lalalalala, etc, “I lied on my profile and the truth is that I actually have a vagina. P.S. – I will get sensitive when you back up and say you aren’t big on PDA. I’m on my period.”
Sigh.
It’s one thing if I know I’m talking to a lovey guy. It’s another for them to misrepresent themselves and then come out with this Casanova weirdo shit later on down the road. Psssh. Men.
In other news:
Tonight I have my third date with Sam. Well, I suppose you could call it the third. Technically all we accomplished on the second was a brief conversation and a sprint to his bedroom.
I know you guys are used to me completely spilling my guts and going into a detailed description worthy of a Harlequin novel, but somehow I don’t think I should right now. Suffice it to say – the sex was phenomenal and I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep with a younger man again.
I must go – errands to run, dancing in front of mirrors in my underwear singing “Waiting for tonight Oooooh!” to do.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Online dating - the saga begins
Day One
While filling out the required profile information, I notice that some options are quite limited.
Apparently I can only choose “I prefer not to say” on the drop down box labeled “Do you want children?” That’s not an option under the labels of smoking, drinking, height, body type, or religion. And frankly I find it disheartening that my options to choose from under body type are only thin, athletic, a few extra pounds, and Big and Tall. None of those describe me adequately at all. I debate on whether to email the company and suggest the choices “voluptuous” and/or “how you doin’”, but ultimately decide that there’s just no time for that.
It takes me the better part of an hour to write the three small paragraphs that make up the “about me” section because I keep changing my mind about what to say. I decide against using quotes from Wedding Crashers at the bottom, hit save and move on to picture selection. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t really have many pictures that A) look good (I’m not very photogenic and only manage to take one decent picture every blue moon), B) don’t show cleavage, and C) don’t show me engaged in drunken revelry.
I eventually decide on four pictures total, only one of which was taken while sober, but at least my makeup seemed to be holding up ok. The cleavage turns out to be largely unavoidable. Pun intended.
I go ahead and save all of the work I’ve done so I can get a basic overview of what it will look like. I can edit later.
There are three messages in my inbox already. I have no idea how that’s possible. Either these men have lightening fast fingers or this website is very sneaky and publishes as you’re writing. I don’t think I approve of either of those choices, but I click on the first mail anyway.
It’s from a nice looking guy with a shaved head that looks to be about my age. But even though I have a particular fondness for shaved heads, I recognize the cocky, “this is my come hither you lucky woman”, face immediately. I laugh. When I read the one line message, I laugh even harder. “u wanna have sum fun”.
Oh dear. Not even two hours into this and I’m being harassed by the illiterate. No, I don’t think I do want to have “sum” fun. I’ve never much liked numbers. Although, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you a lesson when you so very clearly asked for one: You – Brain + Creepy Come Hither Face = Never Going to Happen.
The second message is from someone named Matt (with a bunch of numbers behind his name all alluding to his, I assume, favorite sexual position – one which I myself have never been very fond of due to concentration issues etc.) who doesn’t have a picture. It says, “Hey girl you lookin’ good”.
Aside from the fact that our sexual preferences may not be found on the same page of the Kama sutra, there’s one other issue. Terrible though it may sound, I have no intention of getting involved or meeting up with someone that won’t display their picture. As I said in my recent I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-do-this-shit post, there’s a possibility that the creepy SpongeBob is lurking. And however farfetched it may seem to you, I wouldn’t even take that risk with your body, let alone mine. I am perfectly capable of putting lotion on my own skin, thank you very much. Yes, Matt, I believe I picked those pictures specifically because I was lookin’ good. Unfortunately I cannot return the compliment. Your blank square is...a nice shade of grey.
The third email is from a man, captured in profile, leaning casually against the side of a car. He’s wearing a blazer with jeans – a look I’m quite fond of, knowing how hard it is to pull off without looking sloppy or pretentious. It’s very ‘That sexy college professor I always wanted to see privately after class’ esque. “We are almost neighbors”, his message says. “P.S. – Cute pics.” Intrigued by both the picture and his claim of closeness (no one is ever my “almost neighbor”), I click the link to his profile to investigate.
He lives one town over, very close indeed, and after looking at two profiles that nearly sent me into a serious rant on the abuse of the English language, punctuation, and the sad state of our educational system, his is a breath of fresh air. Witty, informative, the correct use of “there”, and not one single “um” to be found. The only misgiving I have, so far, is his age – 39.
I’m certainly not a trophy 20 something woman and I have 4 feet of (visible) baggage. What would a divorced, 39 year old man that doesn’t have or want kids, want with me? Probably sex, I think, but I decide to message him back anyway. At least he can spell. Standards – the only form of birth control that’s free and self deprecating.
We are soon involved in prolific back and forth emails – he plays the piano, is a transplant from another state, and gets my sense of humor right away. (I’m not all straight forward vagina jokes, you know.) I’m genuinely interested in what he has to say, which doesn’t happen as often as it should, even with people I know. (No, I don’t mean you Aunt Christie. You’re very interesting, of course.)
We promise to contact each other again soon, as it is now getting late and someone is whining about not being able to use her laptop for hours. (That’s you, Aunt Christie.) And so ends my slightly successful first day of being a complete failure at meeting men the normal way – by bar hopping.
Day Two
I immediately begin giggling when I see the picture attached to my newest contact. He’s an Asian man, standing in a bathroom wearing black jockey shorts and nothing else. And while he’s certainly attractive, I vowed long ago to never take a man seriously when there’s a toilet in the background of a half naked picture. After all, Myspace was so five years ago.
After a few moments of deliberation, I decide to respond to his message anyway. How do I expect to get any material if I keep avoiding all the crazies? His message says, “Hey hey there beautiful. How are you doing?” And I respond with, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“I am alright. I think I just mess up my shoulder at the gym. Hahahaha oh well. Anyway, what are u up to?”
“That sucks”, I reply. “Nothing much, just on my way home from work.”
“Cool, what do u do? Nice, now u can hang out with me.”
Hang out with you? Your pecs are clearly larger than your IQ if you think three unimpressive sentences is going to get you anywhere.
The afternoon continues to go downhill when I receive a message from Paul, whose profile states that one of his interests is “God”. Paul has chipmunk teeth.
“hey whats up? my name is paul i’m single i love sports, the great outdoors and having a good time.i’m a straight forward type of guy who is honest, loyal, respectful, caring and someone u can trust no matter what. i hope to hear from u soon so we can talk. do you have a facebook or myspace?”
Sigh. Paul, my love, haven’t you heard of capital letters? Not only that, Paul, but are you aware that you copy and pasted that entire spiel from your profile, aside from the last line, into this message? No? Have you heard of the word “effort”, Paul? What about “vagina”?
I decide to see just how far being at least semi honest, like some of my readers suggested, would get me with Paul.
“Hi. I like some sports and the great outdoors are, I suppose, alright as long as that doesn’t include camping. I’m straight forward and honest as well. I do indeed have a facebook and a myspace, but I prefer not to share them with people I haven’t yet met. I do hope that doesn’t sound harsh, but obviously, being a straight forward person yourself, you must value that in others. I’m sure you understand. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to messaging through here for the time being.”
Paul, as it turns out, did not understand.
I contemplate adding “not God” as an interest under my profile, but quickly change my mind after a small flashback of Christian, jeep sex. I must remember to keep my options open.
Later
I’m lying across my bed, reading, when I receive a new message. I’ve already had several after Paul that don’t bear mentioning (Except the one from a man that looks suspiciously like a friend of my father’s. Eww.) and I’ve become rather cranky.
I glance at my phone, half heartedly stab the open button and let out a heavy sigh when I see the picture. “What do you want, piggy?”
Just as immediately, I start laughing at how utterly horrible I’ve become in a span of only two days. I’m simultaneously amused and horrified with myself.
So this, I think, is online dating. As far as I can tell, the only differences between this and the real thing are that I’m not wearing any beer goggles and applying makeup is optional. Apparently, all you really need to be accepted is an orifice and a keyboard.
While filling out the required profile information, I notice that some options are quite limited.
Apparently I can only choose “I prefer not to say” on the drop down box labeled “Do you want children?” That’s not an option under the labels of smoking, drinking, height, body type, or religion. And frankly I find it disheartening that my options to choose from under body type are only thin, athletic, a few extra pounds, and Big and Tall. None of those describe me adequately at all. I debate on whether to email the company and suggest the choices “voluptuous” and/or “how you doin’”, but ultimately decide that there’s just no time for that.
It takes me the better part of an hour to write the three small paragraphs that make up the “about me” section because I keep changing my mind about what to say. I decide against using quotes from Wedding Crashers at the bottom, hit save and move on to picture selection. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t really have many pictures that A) look good (I’m not very photogenic and only manage to take one decent picture every blue moon), B) don’t show cleavage, and C) don’t show me engaged in drunken revelry.
I eventually decide on four pictures total, only one of which was taken while sober, but at least my makeup seemed to be holding up ok. The cleavage turns out to be largely unavoidable. Pun intended.
I go ahead and save all of the work I’ve done so I can get a basic overview of what it will look like. I can edit later.
There are three messages in my inbox already. I have no idea how that’s possible. Either these men have lightening fast fingers or this website is very sneaky and publishes as you’re writing. I don’t think I approve of either of those choices, but I click on the first mail anyway.
It’s from a nice looking guy with a shaved head that looks to be about my age. But even though I have a particular fondness for shaved heads, I recognize the cocky, “this is my come hither you lucky woman”, face immediately. I laugh. When I read the one line message, I laugh even harder. “u wanna have sum fun”.
Oh dear. Not even two hours into this and I’m being harassed by the illiterate. No, I don’t think I do want to have “sum” fun. I’ve never much liked numbers. Although, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you a lesson when you so very clearly asked for one: You – Brain + Creepy Come Hither Face = Never Going to Happen.
The second message is from someone named Matt (with a bunch of numbers behind his name all alluding to his, I assume, favorite sexual position – one which I myself have never been very fond of due to concentration issues etc.) who doesn’t have a picture. It says, “Hey girl you lookin’ good”.
Aside from the fact that our sexual preferences may not be found on the same page of the Kama sutra, there’s one other issue. Terrible though it may sound, I have no intention of getting involved or meeting up with someone that won’t display their picture. As I said in my recent I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-do-this-shit post, there’s a possibility that the creepy SpongeBob is lurking. And however farfetched it may seem to you, I wouldn’t even take that risk with your body, let alone mine. I am perfectly capable of putting lotion on my own skin, thank you very much. Yes, Matt, I believe I picked those pictures specifically because I was lookin’ good. Unfortunately I cannot return the compliment. Your blank square is...a nice shade of grey.
The third email is from a man, captured in profile, leaning casually against the side of a car. He’s wearing a blazer with jeans – a look I’m quite fond of, knowing how hard it is to pull off without looking sloppy or pretentious. It’s very ‘That sexy college professor I always wanted to see privately after class’ esque. “We are almost neighbors”, his message says. “P.S. – Cute pics.” Intrigued by both the picture and his claim of closeness (no one is ever my “almost neighbor”), I click the link to his profile to investigate.
He lives one town over, very close indeed, and after looking at two profiles that nearly sent me into a serious rant on the abuse of the English language, punctuation, and the sad state of our educational system, his is a breath of fresh air. Witty, informative, the correct use of “there”, and not one single “um” to be found. The only misgiving I have, so far, is his age – 39.
I’m certainly not a trophy 20 something woman and I have 4 feet of (visible) baggage. What would a divorced, 39 year old man that doesn’t have or want kids, want with me? Probably sex, I think, but I decide to message him back anyway. At least he can spell. Standards – the only form of birth control that’s free and self deprecating.
We are soon involved in prolific back and forth emails – he plays the piano, is a transplant from another state, and gets my sense of humor right away. (I’m not all straight forward vagina jokes, you know.) I’m genuinely interested in what he has to say, which doesn’t happen as often as it should, even with people I know. (No, I don’t mean you Aunt Christie. You’re very interesting, of course.)
We promise to contact each other again soon, as it is now getting late and someone is whining about not being able to use her laptop for hours. (That’s you, Aunt Christie.) And so ends my slightly successful first day of being a complete failure at meeting men the normal way – by bar hopping.
Day Two
I immediately begin giggling when I see the picture attached to my newest contact. He’s an Asian man, standing in a bathroom wearing black jockey shorts and nothing else. And while he’s certainly attractive, I vowed long ago to never take a man seriously when there’s a toilet in the background of a half naked picture. After all, Myspace was so five years ago.
After a few moments of deliberation, I decide to respond to his message anyway. How do I expect to get any material if I keep avoiding all the crazies? His message says, “Hey hey there beautiful. How are you doing?” And I respond with, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“I am alright. I think I just mess up my shoulder at the gym. Hahahaha oh well. Anyway, what are u up to?”
“That sucks”, I reply. “Nothing much, just on my way home from work.”
“Cool, what do u do? Nice, now u can hang out with me.”
Hang out with you? Your pecs are clearly larger than your IQ if you think three unimpressive sentences is going to get you anywhere.
The afternoon continues to go downhill when I receive a message from Paul, whose profile states that one of his interests is “God”. Paul has chipmunk teeth.
“hey whats up? my name is paul i’m single i love sports, the great outdoors and having a good time.i’m a straight forward type of guy who is honest, loyal, respectful, caring and someone u can trust no matter what. i hope to hear from u soon so we can talk. do you have a facebook or myspace?”
Sigh. Paul, my love, haven’t you heard of capital letters? Not only that, Paul, but are you aware that you copy and pasted that entire spiel from your profile, aside from the last line, into this message? No? Have you heard of the word “effort”, Paul? What about “vagina”?
I decide to see just how far being at least semi honest, like some of my readers suggested, would get me with Paul.
“Hi. I like some sports and the great outdoors are, I suppose, alright as long as that doesn’t include camping. I’m straight forward and honest as well. I do indeed have a facebook and a myspace, but I prefer not to share them with people I haven’t yet met. I do hope that doesn’t sound harsh, but obviously, being a straight forward person yourself, you must value that in others. I’m sure you understand. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to messaging through here for the time being.”
Paul, as it turns out, did not understand.
I contemplate adding “not God” as an interest under my profile, but quickly change my mind after a small flashback of Christian, jeep sex. I must remember to keep my options open.
Later
I’m lying across my bed, reading, when I receive a new message. I’ve already had several after Paul that don’t bear mentioning (Except the one from a man that looks suspiciously like a friend of my father’s. Eww.) and I’ve become rather cranky.
I glance at my phone, half heartedly stab the open button and let out a heavy sigh when I see the picture. “What do you want, piggy?”
Just as immediately, I start laughing at how utterly horrible I’ve become in a span of only two days. I’m simultaneously amused and horrified with myself.
So this, I think, is online dating. As far as I can tell, the only differences between this and the real thing are that I’m not wearing any beer goggles and applying makeup is optional. Apparently, all you really need to be accepted is an orifice and a keyboard.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Seven things I like - Part four
4. Office intrigue (alternate option: being noticed)
Friday
“Guess who’s in the lobby?”
A redheaded coworker from down the hall stood grinning ear to ear in front of my office. I figured she was getting excited about the old Xerox man again, so I just shrugged.
“The new account manager. And he’s gorgeous.”
That caught my attention for a brief second before I remembered that our taste in men is vastly different. “Meh”, I said and shrugged again. She gave me a look that clearly said “You’ll see” and shuffled back down the hall.
A few minutes later, while I was absorbed in Excel spreadsheets, the Big Boss (who, ironically, is a very small man) stopped in the same spot my coworker recently vacated and cleared his throat. I looked up and he introduced me to the man at his side. (We’ll call him Juan.)
And for once, Red was right. He was gorgeous – incredibly tall and muscular with dark hair, dark eyes, and a naturally tan complexion many women would skin him alive to have. And he had an incredible smile. I was suddenly very self conscious about my less than put together state.
But after he left, my boss said the magic words: “It’s a shame he’s married. Got a six month old baby too.”
Sigh. Yes, a crying shame. Oh well, I thought, at least I can still enjoy looking at him without worrying what he thinks of me.
Monday
I strutted into the office wearing the lovely new heels I bought on vacation and stuck a pose in front of my boss’s office. “Ta-Da!” My favorite grey pencil skirt and turquoise top completed the ensemble. She gave me the teasing “I know who you dressed up for” speech and after a swift, yet completely true, denial...I went in search of coffee.
An hour or so later, when Juan came strolling in, I was standing in my boss’s doorway once more. He did a double take and said, “Well! You’re all dressed up this morning!”
“Yeah, this is how I’m supposed to look.” I laughed and took a sip of my coffee.
“Hmm. Yeah, because Friday you were, um...whew.” His unpleasant facial expression did the rest of his talking.
My mouth dropped in disbelief. Did this man, who’d only met me once before, just allude to the fact that I looked like shit on Friday? Granted I did look like shit on Friday, but that’s not the point.
My boss laughed and gave me a playfully stern look. “Yes, Juan. Maybe you can help me enforce the dress code around here.”
He looked me up and down and said, “Visible tattoos. The one on your back was showing on Friday. I’d make you cover them.”
I smirked at him and leaned forward. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t my boss then, isn’t it.” I turned on my heel and walked away.
Tuesday
When I got to work and sat down at my desk I said to myself, “Self, he’s new. He’s young. This is his first major account and he’s probably nervous. He probably heard you and D (my boss) ribbing each other and was trying to fit in. Give him the benefit of the doubt before forever labeling him a pompous fucker...even if his demeanor is telling you just that.”
When he stopped by that morning I smiled and said hello.
“So I just got hit on by this old lady employee”, he said.
“Oh yeah?” I smiled again encouragingly. We could bond over old people hitting on us...happened to me all the time.
“Yeah. I took her the mat ya’ll ordered for her to stand on and she...” blah blah bullshit bullshit ... “then she winked at me and asked if I was going to give her a raise. I told her no and...”
I was standing behind my desk, sifting through paperwork and looking for what I needed him to sign. Without looking up I said, “You should have said ‘yeah, I’ll give you an inch’.”
I was referring, of course, to the mat the woman was standing on which was about an inch thick. (It’s supposed to make standing for long periods of time more comfortable.)
He immediately burst out laughing. “That’s good. You’re witty.” He continued chuckling on his way out the door. There, I thought, that’s better.
Later, when I relayed the conversation to D she also started laughing. But, as it turns out, only because she thought I was referring to his penis and not the mat. Psssh! As if I would refer to a man’s penis when I barely know him.
Wednesday
Juan called my office line and asked if I’d like to have lunch with him, his wife, and their baby. Seeming almost like an afterthought, he suggested I also invite D.
“Um...I guess.”
I wondered why on earth he’d think I’d want to have lunch with his family. I only just met him and yes, though we semi bonded over a shared love of insulting the people that hit on us, I still hadn’t really decided if I liked him that much as a person. He still, at times, seemed stuck up and holier-than-thou.
D, however, was thrilled and couldn’t wait to get her hands on the baby.
He showed up in the suite with them in tow, made introductions, and we all walked to lunch.
The baby was very cute and chubby, if you like that sort of thing, and the wife was very thin and quiet. She looked a tad foreign, like Juan, with a long nose, dark complexion, dark eyes and hair. She seemed very nice, but the whole situation was awkward. His personality switched to, well, goofy.
If I were a nice person, I’d simply think that he was proud of his family and wanted to show them off to his new coworkers, thus creating a bond and ensuring future conversation topics.
However, since I’m not a nice person, the first thought I had was: I’ll bet his wife just wanted to see what kind of women he’s working with.
But after meeting her I decided that couldn’t be it. I settled for thinking: He’s super weird.
Thursday and Friday
I realized that he is indeed super weird.
Not for the first time that week, he sat in my office and basically said a lot of nothing while staring. One minute he would say something borderline offensive and the next he’d be awkward and nice.
I began having elementary school flashbacks of pigtail pulling and name calling, all while assuring myself that I surely had it wrong. There was no way...
Monday morning
I had to take the kid to the second part of her kindergarten registration, so I wanted to look nice. I wore a simple, black cotton dress with spaghetti straps and a low ruffled neckline, and silver sandals. I took the time to straighten my hair, which I hadn’t done in a very long time because it takes forever to tame my curly afro, and wore my usual makeup. Nothing very flashy or different, just how I usually look when I don’t roll out of bed and run screaming “I’m late goddamn it!” out the door.
I arrived at work around 10am, sat down, and immediately started working on reports. A few minutes later, Juan stopped at my door.
“Your hair...” He had a surprised look on his face.
“Yessssss”, I replied slowly.
“It’s straight!”
I widened my eyes with pretend shock. “Yes.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks.”
“Your eyes...”
I narrowed the objects in question. The conversation was starting to sound like a joke in the making. “Yesssss.”
“They’re dark...”
“Um...”
“You know, they look kind of...goth.”
“Goth?!”
“Not in a bad way, but yeah, they look kind of goth.”
I sighed. “They do not. This is no different from the makeup I’ve been wearing for the past week.”
We took the issue to D, who surmised that it must just be the straight hair that made it all look different.
Monday afternoon
About thirty minutes before quitting time D said she had to run upstairs for a minute. I nodded and went back to whatever I was doing.
Then he poked his head around the corner. Not Juan, though he’s every bit as gorgeous as the irritating Juan.
Josh.
I’ve worked for this same company twice – once for two years and now again, for almost another two years (with a two year break in between). And in that time, I’ve seen Josh a lot in the halls and in the cafeteria. He’s even been in my office a handful of times and we’ve spoken briefly about work related things. I used to hear rumors about what a womanizer he was, but then he got married and they had a baby. Well, he’s apparently not married anymore.
So there he was – all sharp angles, blue eyes and messy hair.
“Where’s my girlfriend”, he asked grinning. (That’s what he calls D.)
“She went upstairs for a sec, but she’ll be right back if you want to wait.”
He edged completely around the door frame and glanced at my name on the outside wall, then back at me. “Alyson? Are you new?”
“Nope.”
“Are you married?”
I cocked my head to the side and smiled, like I do when I’m wondering what the hell is going on. “No. But you are.”
“I’m divorced.”
“Oh.”
“You’re beautiful”, he retorted immediately.
“Heh...thanks.” I smiled awkwardly.
“I can’t believe I haven’t noticed you before...”
“I’ve met you several times.” I shrugged. “I don’t always wear makeup.” It was a peace offering, forgiveness for not knowing who I was. He continued to stare at me and he commented on my hair and makeup (I mean, what the hell is going on around here all of a sudden?). Then he said, “I don’t suppose you’d want to go on a date with me?”
I’d heard the back door slam a moment earlier and before I could reply there was my boss, D, standing next to him. “No, she doesn’t want to go on a date with you!”
They stood next to each other, facing me in the doorway, and I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to say. Was this all some kind of joke?
“She’s gorgeous”, he said to D.
“And she knows it”, she replied.
They continued to speak about me as if I wasn’t there for a minute or so. Then he said, “No, I guess you wouldn’t want to go on a date with me.” I smiled, but D started to shoo him out the door. He grinned and said “I’ll see you later” and was gone.
D came back and stood in front of me and I stared at her with undisguised irritation.
“I knew you wouldn’t want to go out with him”, she crowed.
“How the hell did you know that”, I yelled.
“...we call him the man whore? I didn’t think you’d”
“I haven’t gotten laid since fucking NEW YEAR’S! He’s hot AND a guaranteed lay. HELLO!”
“Oh!” She started laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it then.”
“Humph.”
She left and I attempted to go back to work, only to be interrupted again a few minutes later by an older male coworker, B, coming though the door. “Man! You’re hot stuff today!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Josh just stopped me in the hall outside to ask me all these questions about you and tell me how hot you are.”
I smiled, couldn’t help it. But I left it at that.
I really needed to stay late, but right at 4 I rushed out of the office and to my car. I couldn’t sit still any longer. As I drove down the ramps in the parking garage, I replayed the conversation in my head. By the time I hit the interstate less than five minutes later, I realized I was grinning like an idiot.
I actually said out loud, “Jesus, Alyson, knock it off!”
At first I wasn’t sure just what was so great, why I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. After all, it’s not like we actually had a date. Then it dawned on me: I couldn’t remember the last time a man called me beautiful.
It’s sad really, I mused, that I can be won over so easily. But still, it’s nice to hear.
Tuesday morning
As soon as I walked in the door D ambushed me. “I sent an envelope through his department secretary with your phone numbers and a note that said “call her”.
“Thanks”, I replied a tad sarcastically.
“I thought that’s what you wanted?”
“It is...I think...” Suddenly I wasn’t so sure. What if he’d just been talking a load of shit and flirting with me like he does everyone else.
Tuesday afternoon
I sat down at the lunch table next to Red and D, and across from Juan and B. We’d been laughing and joking for awhile when D brought up Juan’s comment about my “goth” eyes. He attempted to argue his case, but I interrupted him. Leaning across the table I said, “You know, you comment on my appearance more than anyone I know.”
He had nothing to say to that, instead looking down at a piece of paper he was rolling between his fingers. Everyone else roared with laughter.
A short time later everyone suddenly quieted down and looked to my left. I turned and Josh was standing there with a grin on his face. “Hi”, he said to the table in general and taking the seat next to Juan, across from me.
“Did you get my envelope”, D asked him immediately.
“Yeah”, he replied with a wink, “I’m going to take care of that later.”
After he and Juan were introduced the others continued their conversation. Josh glanced at my tray covered in lunch debris and pointed at the empty yogurt container. “YOplait”, he said with strange exaggeration. “Is that any good?”
I glanced at the container and back at him, catching Juan’s look of barely suppressed glee in the process. “Yeah, it’s decent.”
“What else did you have?”
I told him what I ate, he told me about his meal, and then we were drawn into the surrounding conversation. Red was silently laughing with her head down and Josh, figuring out that she was making fun of him, decided to cut his losses and leave.
“I’ll see you later”, he said with a smile.
As soon as he was out of ear shot, everyone lost it. Juan leaned across the table and wiggled his eyebows at me. “YOOOOplait”, he said mock seductively.
Even I had to admit it was quite funny. Until he said something that, for the life of me, I can’t remember...but it borderline irritated me. And when he followed it up with a line I DO remember, I snapped back.
“You”, he said in a cocky, insulting tone, “have awkward conversations with men.”
“ExCUSE me?”
The tension in the air was palpable. He attempted to make light of his remarks, but his tone was completely contradictory. Everyone started to get up and clear their things and as I rose with them I said, “I’m not talking to you anymore.”
Like a five year old child. Sigh.
Wednesday morning, today
My office phone rang at 9:20am and I answered, already knowing who it would be.
“Hi. It’s Josh.”
“Hi.” I couldn’t fight my stupid grin.
“I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast with me. We didn’t really get a chance to talk yesterday with everyone around so...”
“I don’t usually eat breakfast”, I replied, then immediately slapped myself in the forehead. What the hell?
He laughed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to...”
“Oh no, that’s not it! It’s...I don’t know if D will let me.”
“You get breaks don’t you?”
“Yes, but I...um...just...can you hold on a second?”
“Sure.”
I placed him on hold and hit D’s extension. “D! Josh is on the phone! He wants to know if I can have breakfast with him!”
“Now?”
“Yes!”
“Um...ask him if he can wait until later. Big Boss might wonder where you are and” blah blah blah bullshit cock blocking bullshit.
I went back to him and told him that I couldn’t go.
“That’s ok. I’ll try and come by for lunch or just stop by your office later.”
“Ok. Sorry.”
Wednesday afternoon, today
We sat at the same lunch table as the day before, missing only Juan. The others left the seat next to me conspicuously empty and before long, Josh came along to fill it.
We ate, laughed, and had a great conversation about random things. Cars, the weekend, work. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him. But for some reason I had trouble looking him directly in the face for any length of time. He’s maybe too good looking...and with the stubble he was sporting, mmmm. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts. Deep breaths.
Juan joined us halfway through the meal and sat at the other end of the table. Every now and then I’d look up and catch him staring at me with amusement. It was unnerving and at one point Josh noticed. He asked me a question about him, but I couldn’t hear everything he said. Rather than ask him to repeat himself, I made a “meh” back and forth gesture and a half laugh. No idea if that was a good thing or not.
Everyone behaved themselves and when Josh got up to leave, he said he’d catch me later.
Wednesday afternoon, today, an hour ago
Juan stopped by my office and leaned against the frame. Seeing a coffee cup sitting on my desk, he reached for it and said, “Did you make coffee?”
“No, that’s from this morning, but I was thinking about making some. Do you want some?”
“Yeah.”
“Go make it.”
“I don’t know how”, he said with a grin.
“I’ll show you. For future reference, when I need my coffee made.”
“Great.” He followed me to the break room/kitchen.
As I moved around the room cleaning the carafe and getting the filter, we talked about work. While the coffee was brewing I took out cups and placed them on the counter. I opened the top drawer with the packaged sugar, sweeteners, and creamer and interrupted him. “What do you need?”
“This.” He leaned across me to grab a container sitting on the counter.
The conversation turned to his time in the military and as he demonstrated what he was talking about with his body, he boxed me into the corner of the cabinets. For the few remaining minutes we were there, it felt like he was closer than he should be.
Now
I have no idea what is going on. One minute the office is quiet and normal...and the next it’s exploding with testosterone. Where did they all come from?
Juan is married. I keep telling myself that I’m imagining things, reading into things, but everyone around me says otherwise. “He’s got the hots for you”, D and Red keep saying.
Harmless flirting is fine, I can deal with that. It’s the intense looks, the verbal sparring, and the taunting smiles. It’s like he’s deliberately making me crazy.
I will NOT do anything stupid. I have some integrity. Plus there’s Josh for that, and I’m excited about my prospects there.
But just between you and me, no man has ever made me this unnerved.
Friday
“Guess who’s in the lobby?”
A redheaded coworker from down the hall stood grinning ear to ear in front of my office. I figured she was getting excited about the old Xerox man again, so I just shrugged.
“The new account manager. And he’s gorgeous.”
That caught my attention for a brief second before I remembered that our taste in men is vastly different. “Meh”, I said and shrugged again. She gave me a look that clearly said “You’ll see” and shuffled back down the hall.
A few minutes later, while I was absorbed in Excel spreadsheets, the Big Boss (who, ironically, is a very small man) stopped in the same spot my coworker recently vacated and cleared his throat. I looked up and he introduced me to the man at his side. (We’ll call him Juan.)
And for once, Red was right. He was gorgeous – incredibly tall and muscular with dark hair, dark eyes, and a naturally tan complexion many women would skin him alive to have. And he had an incredible smile. I was suddenly very self conscious about my less than put together state.
But after he left, my boss said the magic words: “It’s a shame he’s married. Got a six month old baby too.”
Sigh. Yes, a crying shame. Oh well, I thought, at least I can still enjoy looking at him without worrying what he thinks of me.
Monday
I strutted into the office wearing the lovely new heels I bought on vacation and stuck a pose in front of my boss’s office. “Ta-Da!” My favorite grey pencil skirt and turquoise top completed the ensemble. She gave me the teasing “I know who you dressed up for” speech and after a swift, yet completely true, denial...I went in search of coffee.
An hour or so later, when Juan came strolling in, I was standing in my boss’s doorway once more. He did a double take and said, “Well! You’re all dressed up this morning!”
“Yeah, this is how I’m supposed to look.” I laughed and took a sip of my coffee.
“Hmm. Yeah, because Friday you were, um...whew.” His unpleasant facial expression did the rest of his talking.
My mouth dropped in disbelief. Did this man, who’d only met me once before, just allude to the fact that I looked like shit on Friday? Granted I did look like shit on Friday, but that’s not the point.
My boss laughed and gave me a playfully stern look. “Yes, Juan. Maybe you can help me enforce the dress code around here.”
He looked me up and down and said, “Visible tattoos. The one on your back was showing on Friday. I’d make you cover them.”
I smirked at him and leaned forward. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t my boss then, isn’t it.” I turned on my heel and walked away.
Tuesday
When I got to work and sat down at my desk I said to myself, “Self, he’s new. He’s young. This is his first major account and he’s probably nervous. He probably heard you and D (my boss) ribbing each other and was trying to fit in. Give him the benefit of the doubt before forever labeling him a pompous fucker...even if his demeanor is telling you just that.”
When he stopped by that morning I smiled and said hello.
“So I just got hit on by this old lady employee”, he said.
“Oh yeah?” I smiled again encouragingly. We could bond over old people hitting on us...happened to me all the time.
“Yeah. I took her the mat ya’ll ordered for her to stand on and she...” blah blah bullshit bullshit ... “then she winked at me and asked if I was going to give her a raise. I told her no and...”
I was standing behind my desk, sifting through paperwork and looking for what I needed him to sign. Without looking up I said, “You should have said ‘yeah, I’ll give you an inch’.”
I was referring, of course, to the mat the woman was standing on which was about an inch thick. (It’s supposed to make standing for long periods of time more comfortable.)
He immediately burst out laughing. “That’s good. You’re witty.” He continued chuckling on his way out the door. There, I thought, that’s better.
Later, when I relayed the conversation to D she also started laughing. But, as it turns out, only because she thought I was referring to his penis and not the mat. Psssh! As if I would refer to a man’s penis when I barely know him.
Wednesday
Juan called my office line and asked if I’d like to have lunch with him, his wife, and their baby. Seeming almost like an afterthought, he suggested I also invite D.
“Um...I guess.”
I wondered why on earth he’d think I’d want to have lunch with his family. I only just met him and yes, though we semi bonded over a shared love of insulting the people that hit on us, I still hadn’t really decided if I liked him that much as a person. He still, at times, seemed stuck up and holier-than-thou.
D, however, was thrilled and couldn’t wait to get her hands on the baby.
He showed up in the suite with them in tow, made introductions, and we all walked to lunch.
The baby was very cute and chubby, if you like that sort of thing, and the wife was very thin and quiet. She looked a tad foreign, like Juan, with a long nose, dark complexion, dark eyes and hair. She seemed very nice, but the whole situation was awkward. His personality switched to, well, goofy.
If I were a nice person, I’d simply think that he was proud of his family and wanted to show them off to his new coworkers, thus creating a bond and ensuring future conversation topics.
However, since I’m not a nice person, the first thought I had was: I’ll bet his wife just wanted to see what kind of women he’s working with.
But after meeting her I decided that couldn’t be it. I settled for thinking: He’s super weird.
Thursday and Friday
I realized that he is indeed super weird.
Not for the first time that week, he sat in my office and basically said a lot of nothing while staring. One minute he would say something borderline offensive and the next he’d be awkward and nice.
I began having elementary school flashbacks of pigtail pulling and name calling, all while assuring myself that I surely had it wrong. There was no way...
Monday morning
I had to take the kid to the second part of her kindergarten registration, so I wanted to look nice. I wore a simple, black cotton dress with spaghetti straps and a low ruffled neckline, and silver sandals. I took the time to straighten my hair, which I hadn’t done in a very long time because it takes forever to tame my curly afro, and wore my usual makeup. Nothing very flashy or different, just how I usually look when I don’t roll out of bed and run screaming “I’m late goddamn it!” out the door.
I arrived at work around 10am, sat down, and immediately started working on reports. A few minutes later, Juan stopped at my door.
“Your hair...” He had a surprised look on his face.
“Yessssss”, I replied slowly.
“It’s straight!”
I widened my eyes with pretend shock. “Yes.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks.”
“Your eyes...”
I narrowed the objects in question. The conversation was starting to sound like a joke in the making. “Yesssss.”
“They’re dark...”
“Um...”
“You know, they look kind of...goth.”
“Goth?!”
“Not in a bad way, but yeah, they look kind of goth.”
I sighed. “They do not. This is no different from the makeup I’ve been wearing for the past week.”
We took the issue to D, who surmised that it must just be the straight hair that made it all look different.
Monday afternoon
About thirty minutes before quitting time D said she had to run upstairs for a minute. I nodded and went back to whatever I was doing.
Then he poked his head around the corner. Not Juan, though he’s every bit as gorgeous as the irritating Juan.
Josh.
I’ve worked for this same company twice – once for two years and now again, for almost another two years (with a two year break in between). And in that time, I’ve seen Josh a lot in the halls and in the cafeteria. He’s even been in my office a handful of times and we’ve spoken briefly about work related things. I used to hear rumors about what a womanizer he was, but then he got married and they had a baby. Well, he’s apparently not married anymore.
So there he was – all sharp angles, blue eyes and messy hair.
“Where’s my girlfriend”, he asked grinning. (That’s what he calls D.)
“She went upstairs for a sec, but she’ll be right back if you want to wait.”
He edged completely around the door frame and glanced at my name on the outside wall, then back at me. “Alyson? Are you new?”
“Nope.”
“Are you married?”
I cocked my head to the side and smiled, like I do when I’m wondering what the hell is going on. “No. But you are.”
“I’m divorced.”
“Oh.”
“You’re beautiful”, he retorted immediately.
“Heh...thanks.” I smiled awkwardly.
“I can’t believe I haven’t noticed you before...”
“I’ve met you several times.” I shrugged. “I don’t always wear makeup.” It was a peace offering, forgiveness for not knowing who I was. He continued to stare at me and he commented on my hair and makeup (I mean, what the hell is going on around here all of a sudden?). Then he said, “I don’t suppose you’d want to go on a date with me?”
I’d heard the back door slam a moment earlier and before I could reply there was my boss, D, standing next to him. “No, she doesn’t want to go on a date with you!”
They stood next to each other, facing me in the doorway, and I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to say. Was this all some kind of joke?
“She’s gorgeous”, he said to D.
“And she knows it”, she replied.
They continued to speak about me as if I wasn’t there for a minute or so. Then he said, “No, I guess you wouldn’t want to go on a date with me.” I smiled, but D started to shoo him out the door. He grinned and said “I’ll see you later” and was gone.
D came back and stood in front of me and I stared at her with undisguised irritation.
“I knew you wouldn’t want to go out with him”, she crowed.
“How the hell did you know that”, I yelled.
“...we call him the man whore? I didn’t think you’d”
“I haven’t gotten laid since fucking NEW YEAR’S! He’s hot AND a guaranteed lay. HELLO!”
“Oh!” She started laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it then.”
“Humph.”
She left and I attempted to go back to work, only to be interrupted again a few minutes later by an older male coworker, B, coming though the door. “Man! You’re hot stuff today!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Josh just stopped me in the hall outside to ask me all these questions about you and tell me how hot you are.”
I smiled, couldn’t help it. But I left it at that.
I really needed to stay late, but right at 4 I rushed out of the office and to my car. I couldn’t sit still any longer. As I drove down the ramps in the parking garage, I replayed the conversation in my head. By the time I hit the interstate less than five minutes later, I realized I was grinning like an idiot.
I actually said out loud, “Jesus, Alyson, knock it off!”
At first I wasn’t sure just what was so great, why I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. After all, it’s not like we actually had a date. Then it dawned on me: I couldn’t remember the last time a man called me beautiful.
It’s sad really, I mused, that I can be won over so easily. But still, it’s nice to hear.
Tuesday morning
As soon as I walked in the door D ambushed me. “I sent an envelope through his department secretary with your phone numbers and a note that said “call her”.
“Thanks”, I replied a tad sarcastically.
“I thought that’s what you wanted?”
“It is...I think...” Suddenly I wasn’t so sure. What if he’d just been talking a load of shit and flirting with me like he does everyone else.
Tuesday afternoon
I sat down at the lunch table next to Red and D, and across from Juan and B. We’d been laughing and joking for awhile when D brought up Juan’s comment about my “goth” eyes. He attempted to argue his case, but I interrupted him. Leaning across the table I said, “You know, you comment on my appearance more than anyone I know.”
He had nothing to say to that, instead looking down at a piece of paper he was rolling between his fingers. Everyone else roared with laughter.
A short time later everyone suddenly quieted down and looked to my left. I turned and Josh was standing there with a grin on his face. “Hi”, he said to the table in general and taking the seat next to Juan, across from me.
“Did you get my envelope”, D asked him immediately.
“Yeah”, he replied with a wink, “I’m going to take care of that later.”
After he and Juan were introduced the others continued their conversation. Josh glanced at my tray covered in lunch debris and pointed at the empty yogurt container. “YOplait”, he said with strange exaggeration. “Is that any good?”
I glanced at the container and back at him, catching Juan’s look of barely suppressed glee in the process. “Yeah, it’s decent.”
“What else did you have?”
I told him what I ate, he told me about his meal, and then we were drawn into the surrounding conversation. Red was silently laughing with her head down and Josh, figuring out that she was making fun of him, decided to cut his losses and leave.
“I’ll see you later”, he said with a smile.
As soon as he was out of ear shot, everyone lost it. Juan leaned across the table and wiggled his eyebows at me. “YOOOOplait”, he said mock seductively.
Even I had to admit it was quite funny. Until he said something that, for the life of me, I can’t remember...but it borderline irritated me. And when he followed it up with a line I DO remember, I snapped back.
“You”, he said in a cocky, insulting tone, “have awkward conversations with men.”
“ExCUSE me?”
The tension in the air was palpable. He attempted to make light of his remarks, but his tone was completely contradictory. Everyone started to get up and clear their things and as I rose with them I said, “I’m not talking to you anymore.”
Like a five year old child. Sigh.
Wednesday morning, today
My office phone rang at 9:20am and I answered, already knowing who it would be.
“Hi. It’s Josh.”
“Hi.” I couldn’t fight my stupid grin.
“I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast with me. We didn’t really get a chance to talk yesterday with everyone around so...”
“I don’t usually eat breakfast”, I replied, then immediately slapped myself in the forehead. What the hell?
He laughed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to...”
“Oh no, that’s not it! It’s...I don’t know if D will let me.”
“You get breaks don’t you?”
“Yes, but I...um...just...can you hold on a second?”
“Sure.”
I placed him on hold and hit D’s extension. “D! Josh is on the phone! He wants to know if I can have breakfast with him!”
“Now?”
“Yes!”
“Um...ask him if he can wait until later. Big Boss might wonder where you are and” blah blah blah bullshit cock blocking bullshit.
I went back to him and told him that I couldn’t go.
“That’s ok. I’ll try and come by for lunch or just stop by your office later.”
“Ok. Sorry.”
Wednesday afternoon, today
We sat at the same lunch table as the day before, missing only Juan. The others left the seat next to me conspicuously empty and before long, Josh came along to fill it.
We ate, laughed, and had a great conversation about random things. Cars, the weekend, work. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him. But for some reason I had trouble looking him directly in the face for any length of time. He’s maybe too good looking...and with the stubble he was sporting, mmmm. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts. Deep breaths.
Juan joined us halfway through the meal and sat at the other end of the table. Every now and then I’d look up and catch him staring at me with amusement. It was unnerving and at one point Josh noticed. He asked me a question about him, but I couldn’t hear everything he said. Rather than ask him to repeat himself, I made a “meh” back and forth gesture and a half laugh. No idea if that was a good thing or not.
Everyone behaved themselves and when Josh got up to leave, he said he’d catch me later.
Wednesday afternoon, today, an hour ago
Juan stopped by my office and leaned against the frame. Seeing a coffee cup sitting on my desk, he reached for it and said, “Did you make coffee?”
“No, that’s from this morning, but I was thinking about making some. Do you want some?”
“Yeah.”
“Go make it.”
“I don’t know how”, he said with a grin.
“I’ll show you. For future reference, when I need my coffee made.”
“Great.” He followed me to the break room/kitchen.
As I moved around the room cleaning the carafe and getting the filter, we talked about work. While the coffee was brewing I took out cups and placed them on the counter. I opened the top drawer with the packaged sugar, sweeteners, and creamer and interrupted him. “What do you need?”
“This.” He leaned across me to grab a container sitting on the counter.
The conversation turned to his time in the military and as he demonstrated what he was talking about with his body, he boxed me into the corner of the cabinets. For the few remaining minutes we were there, it felt like he was closer than he should be.
Now
I have no idea what is going on. One minute the office is quiet and normal...and the next it’s exploding with testosterone. Where did they all come from?
Juan is married. I keep telling myself that I’m imagining things, reading into things, but everyone around me says otherwise. “He’s got the hots for you”, D and Red keep saying.
Harmless flirting is fine, I can deal with that. It’s the intense looks, the verbal sparring, and the taunting smiles. It’s like he’s deliberately making me crazy.
I will NOT do anything stupid. I have some integrity. Plus there’s Josh for that, and I’m excited about my prospects there.
But just between you and me, no man has ever made me this unnerved.
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