Friday, April 28, 2006

I'm your vehicle baby

It's overly cliched and stereotyped but men love their cars more than they love their women. That's all well and good and I'm perfectly okay with playing a second fiddle to the Mustang (mostly because I probably love that Mustang more than I love my boyfriend--I got to pick the color), since usually it means I get to look positively adorable riding shotgun in such a sweet-ass car.

But what I don't understand is why men can't keep their sweet-ass cars clean.

Mr. Toad is not the fanciest car on the street but he's always relatively clean. He needs to go to the car spa right now but at least when people get in him, they are not overwhelmed by the stench of garbage. If the person in the front seat wants to move the seat back, he or she does not first need to clean out all of the empty water bottles from the space behind the seat. People can sit in the backseat with minimal rearranging (usually it means moving my gym bag to the trunk). I mean, how fucking difficult is it to take the trash out of your car with you when you get out? Chances are good you're going by someplace with a trash can--use it!

Contrary to what these men believe, there's nothing sexy about a sweet car that is completely trashed on the inside.

The worst part is, all of these guys MUST know this because when we first started dating, they were all very diligent about detailing their cars before they came to get me and take me out. But unfortunately it seems with the comfort of sweatpants, morning sex, and Saturday nights on the couch watching UFC (guilty pleasure--what can I say?) comes a messy car. And that sucks.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

I see London, I see France...

I believe I've mentioned this before, but Shrek's underwear of choice was unwashed, freshly-skid-marked boxers. One week, he decided that he was more of a briefs guy (to be honest I think the reason was something about how his little boy parts hurt). Anyway, he had only one pair of briefs, and they were green, blue and grey combined in a rather feminine pattern. Like you'd expect from him, the elastic was stretched, and there were several small holes adorning these hotpants. But above all, they had the most un-masculine pattern I have ever seen. I think he may have accidentally picked them out from the women's section of the store.

No, this is not about how I think he wears women's underwear, that is another Ex. And yes, I am pretty sure he only wore the one pair for the entire week (because I do not think another pair of undies like these could possibly exist...the world would implode). Let me just say here, that I understand that guys wear briefs to the gym for reasons which I do not wish to discuss. But, I assure you, that he did not set foot in the gym once during this week...or anytime while we were dating for that matter. Furthermore, I am all right with neutral, masculine and above all, clean briefs. These were none of the above (well, except they were briefs).

Anyway, during the week of the briefs, the fraternity which he was pledging had some sort of ritual, and in this ritual, the guys had to strip down to their undies (and do a goat!) for some sort of ceremony. Anyway, I find myself laughing hysterically whenever I think about all his brothers in their boxers, and Shrek with his fat-ass crammed into a pair of (what were probably women's) dirty, mutli-colored, hole-covered, busted-ass underpants. His brothers made fun of him for that for months (maybe longer, but I am not sure because, we broke up). So much so, that I am pretty sure he threw those things out.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

They Don't Really Deserve It

So, after reading RGB's comment on my last post, I got to thinking. Why is it that I am infinitely harsher and crueler to the ex's that didn't hurt me? I mean, the cowboy--essentially a nice guy. Not for me, but a nice guy nonetheless. We broke up. It wasn't a painful breakup. Neither of us were particularly affected by it. Well, at least I wasn't. I can't be quite sure about him. But for some reason, I feel the need to ridicule him on a blog, point out his flaws, and generally try to portray him as a fool (which he really kinda was), safe behind the anonymity of the internet.

The breakup with Drunk Ex on the other hand destroyed me. I cried for days, drank heavily, and refused to go to classes. I was a mess. I would freak out every time I heard his name and to this day I allow very little discussion of him even though he is still good friends with a good number of my friends. Last New Years, I found out that he had had an enormous crush on one of my best friends while we were dating. He even made a move, but, thankfully, she was a good friend and shot him down. But she didn't tell me about it. So when I did find out, it hurt me all over again. It prompted questions like "Why wasn't I good enough?" and "What does *good friend* have that I don't?"

The point is that this boy hurt me over and over again, but for some reason I only make one, not really very critical post about him. I mean, sure the post is sorta mean, but when you compare it to posts I make about the Ex's that I never really cared about, there is definitely a difference. You can see the same pattern with the other Ex's that hurt me really badly: the high school ex who wouldn't touch food with his hands, the college ex that didn't know how to order wine. What I write about them just isn't as mean as what I write about others.

If you will notice, RGB is the most critical of Ex#3, the Ex who hurt her the most. Why am I different? Why am I the least critical of the ones who hurt me the most? Is it because maybe I blame myself for the failure of the relationship?

RGB has her beer goggles on as well.

The events of this night were, at best, hazy. I am really unsure of what happened. What I can say for sure is this: It was the second week of my freshman year of college, and I took my first trip to one of the college bars right off campus with some friends from my floor. Other than that, no information from this night is certain, it is simply what I have pieced together from my friends' accounts of the evening.

Like I said before, this was very early my freshman year of college. One of the local bars had quarter pitcher night on Thursday. Of course, being a cute girl, I didn't even have to pay a quarter. So, this was my first time in a bar, and it was all very exciting. Also, I did not drink much in high school, so I was a bit of a one-beer-wonder. Well, about a few too many drinks later, I remember coming home with my friends.

One of the girls I am with gets a call. It is a guy she had met a few days earlier, and he says that he saw her at the bar with her friends. In particular, he comments that he noticed her friend with the nice ass (this was me...I know, right?). She is so school-girl giddy that she might get to play match-maker, that she gives him my number, and takes his number, and puts it in my phone. No harm done, right? Wrong.

My phone rings the next day, and my call ID says "Honeysuckle" (I can't make this stuff up!). I look at this and think "who the hell is named 'Honeysuckle?" I answer, and it ends up being a guy from the bar, who basically tells me the story which I just told. Curious, I agree to meet this guy (this is before the days of facebook, where I can just see what he looks like beforehand). He is more than just a little sketch. He was chubby, had a mole, and sweated. Constantly. Gross. I wish I had just assumed he was not someone I would want to encounter sober. The name should have given that away.

A word of advice: never agree to meet someone named "Honeysuckle" who somehow gets your phone number while you are in an altered state of consciousness.

Monday, April 24, 2006

There are some things that even alcohol can't fix

So, during my first half of my freshman year of college, I dated this guy, lets call him Drunk Ex. (Interesting side note: I met him the same day that I first met RGB.) It was one of the weirdest relationships that I've ever been in. We never really defined what we were and so we were never official. This fact made the relationship a little odd. Basically, he cheated on me and I cheated on him. It was a big mess and we both resented the hell out of each other by the end of it.

Anyway, Drunk Ex is a raging alcoholic. No doubt in my mind. RGB will probably say something about how I am hardly the one to accuse someone else of being an alcoholic, but whatever, I am totally not as bad as he is. He once spent an entire week drunk. I don't know how he did it without dying, but he did. And its not like it was something that he didn't mean to do and just kinda happened. No, he set out on a mission to stay drunk for a week. How that boy has not died yet, I don't know. Another time he called me at 4 in the morning to tell me that he was drunk and lost in the ghetto and was sitting in a Laundromat/bar. Yes, you read correctly. He was in a Laundromat that doubled as a bar (because apparently laundry is too strenuous a task to be accomplished with a little liquid assistance).

However, his alcoholism is not the point of this post. I'm going to try to get to it.

Drunk Ex and I broke up, not surprisingly and I was perfectly willing to write it off as a bad relationship and leave it at that. I mean, I've had worse relationships and I honestly felt that I had been a very bad girlfriend and therefore did not have much of a right to complain about how he was a very bad boyfriend. But then about three weeks ago, I get a phone call from a friend of mine to tell me that Drunk Ex was in town and was looking for me. So, he calls me later on and says that he wants to talk to me. I meet him outside and he presents me with this stuffed frog (because he remembered that he had really never bought me anything the whole time we were dating) and says that he wants to apologize for everything that happened between us. Now, I would have been fine with this and even thought that it was sweet had Drunk Ex not been shitfaced at the time of the apology. He kept trying to launch into an obviously rehearsed speech, but he would get a few sentences in and then forget where he was and start over again. I think I heard the sentence "I know I was a bad boyfriend" about fifteen times. And he kept apologizing for being drunk. Anyway, the whole ordeal was awkward and embarrassing.

And then he tried to kiss me. Um, no. Been there, done that.

But then I got high...

The summer before my senior year of high school I dated this guy who was totally not my type but I was 17 and wasn't looking for Mr. Right. The sort of guy who eventually failed out of Catonsville Community College. The sort of guy who probably is either dead or retarded by now. This is the sort of guy who would wake and bake every morning and would cry if he missed a 4:20. I mean, I'm all for a little recreational pot use on the weekends or whatever (okay, fine, not really but I can pretend), but this guy took it to the extreme. He had done more drugs than I could name, and I was like the valedictorian of DARE in fifth grade (no shit).

But he was a little older and had a fake ID so I could have alcohol whenever I wanted to. I was drunk off my ass 75 percent of that summer. To make things ever better, his parents went away all summer so he had the house to himself and we threw incredible parties all the frickin' time.

This guy, BS (fitting, huh?), was my first "boyfriend" after the high school sweetheart (the Mormon) and I broke up and I think the fact that he was the antithesis of Mormonness probably drew me to him (okay, fine, that and the beer).

At first the drug thing was rebellious and that was dangerous and that was a turn on. But when you're trying to talk on the phone and you hear the distinct gargling of bong water (we've all heard it), it's a little distracting. Our conversations would go like this:

Me: "So I think we should go get sushi at that new place by Riverside for lunch--what's that noise?"
Him: [coughs] "Umm, nothing."
Me: "Seriously, you're getting high at 11:23 on a Wednesday morning?"
Him: "It's wake and bake, and I helped."

This got real old real fast.

So anyways, I knew this relationship had no long-term potential (I couldn't bring him to Homecoming or anything--I'd probably get suspended!), but I figured I'd be the one to dump him. So imagine my surprise when, labor day weekend, he comes over to take me to lunch and a movie (I had to work that night) and says we need to have a serious talk after the movie (um, because that's not a red flag). I make him tell me what we're going to talk about right then and there. So he dumps me and I cry a little (because I don't know, I wanted to be the one doing the dumping) and I'm about to go in my house when he says "do you still want to go to the movies"? Meaning, "Do you still want to fool around in the movie theater?".

Yeah, let's do that jackass. Go smoke some more pot there.

Too Sexy for Shrek...

I am really pretty. I just want to put that out there. I am not going to beat around the bush and infer that people find me attractive in an attempt to not sound arrogant. After all, I am arrogant. And pretty. Really pretty. I don't mean "pretty" in the way that is exotic or unconventional or subjective. I just am pretty.

With that said, now let me talk about Shrek. The truth is, he wasn't unattractive. CMS will probably comment on how fugly he was, but I think he was slightly above average on the attractiveness scale, but nothing extraordinary. The truth is, I don't even like guys who are amazingly gorgeous. I am not really someone who goes for looks. Anyway, Shrek was not bad-looking, but he was in no way as attractive as I am. His coworkers jokingly discussed how I am too cute for him one night and he found out about it. Then, the sh*t hit the fan.

I thought it was kind of funny, but he was absolutely livid that people would say I was too attractive for him. From that day forward, I never heard the end of stories about how every single time when he goes to the mall back home, at least 6 girls come up to him and give out their numbers without having even spoken with him. I nod, smile and go "is that so? Wow!" Not enough. Next, he comes over and tells me that every sorority on campus invited him to their crush parties (my own excluded) and when invited said that they "want really hot guys to come." Again, nod, smile "how about that." Then, he tells me that a girl in his class asked him out. "How nice. Was she cute?" Next, it's that he believes that he should get a job at the gay club as a shot boy, and he would make a ton of money, because he is so hot. Ok, I nodded and smiled at the time, but I've got to say here that he was very out of shape, and no one would pay to see him without a shirt. Unless they liked fat porn or something. This went on for months when finally, he dropped the bomb. He informed me that he could very easily date someone more attractive than me. Wrong. He went on later to say that he couldn't really.

The point is, I never cared about how attractive he was. If he hadn't wasted so much time with his head up his ass, being jealous of something so superficial, he would seen that. Everyone else could see that. I was willing to let him believe that he was better-looking, smarter and whatever else. Rather than see this, he was so concerned with trying to win a competition against me that I was never participating in.

I have since dated people who are more attractive, smarter, more well-mannered, more cultured and overall better people. He will never date anyone who can even hold a light to me in any way.

Friday, April 21, 2006

It's nothing personal...

I briefly dated this guy while I was living in Minnesota. Not surprisingly, we both worked in politics. To make a long story short, the relationship was more about convenience than anything else and he was very immature and when it wasn't convenient to date anymore, we ended it. But it didn't exactly end on the best of terms and he completely bad-mouthed me to the political circles in Minnesota, which effectively limited my career-growth options.

But that's okay because I moved back to Washington and onto bigger and (much) better things and from here I blackball him from DC-political jobs on a regular basis.

The thing is, I don't really harbor any resentment towards him anymore, and it's not like I wouldn't be able to work with him in Washington, but at this point it's just entertaining to see how many jobs I can keep him from getting, just for my own entertainment--it's like a game.

Maybe one day, I'll decide to give up and actually give him a good recommendation because he'd be a competent employee. He's not leadership material but he's good with logisitical stuff and could easily fit in somewhere in the political scene in Washington, but for now it's more fun this way.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Well, someone has never seen a circus!

Out of everyone I have ever met, no one had ever been as consistently wrong as Shrek. Out of everyone I've ever met, no one has ever been as consistently certain he was right as Shrek. See where I'm going with this?

If you had asked me two years ago to name an example which illustrated both of these two qualities, I could have rattled off about a million in a heartbeat. It seems that, over time, these instances have faded into the back of my mind, and I am now left only remembering a numbered few situations. My favorite of these situations would have to be this one:

I was riding in the ogre's car, talking on the phone with my sister about nothing and everything. When I got off the phone, Shrek demanded to know what we were talking about (I should point out here, that he demanded to know about every conversation I had with anyone, as he was incredibly paranoid that I might be *gasp* talking about him...but for the record, I totally wasn't).

I shrugged it off, and just told him that she had called to say that a calliope (pronounced Ka-lye-Oh-Pee) from the town which she was living in at the time was being sent to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and that people for reason (unbeknownst to either of us) everyone was making a huge deal out of the damn calliope. After having said this, Shrek rolls his eyes, and lets our the most contempt-filled laugh you can imagine.

The conversation which followed was something to this effect:

Me: What?
Shrek: Calliope (ka-lye-oh-pee)?
Me: yeah...
Shrek: that's not how the word is pronounced
Me: The instrument with the pipes? Are we talking about the same thing?
Shrek: yes, and it is Kaul-i-oop-A.
Me: No.
Shrek: It is a French word. It is kaul-i-oop-A.
Me: First of all, I am pretty sure it is derived from Greek, the word "Kalli" as in "kalliopolis" like Plato's Republic.
Shrek: It's French.
Me: Does it even matter where it came from? The point is, in English we say "Ka-lye-Oh-Pee."
Shrek: Have you ever heard it pronounced before.
Me Yes, have you? Why don't we look it up when we get home?

We got home, looked it up, and Shrek still insisted that it was Kaul-i-oop-A. Wtf? I guess not only can he not pronounce "calliope," he also can't read phonetic spellings of words. He even claimed that the recording of the word being said on the dictionary website was inocrrect.

There are a few other examples of him being proven wrong, and still insisting that he is right, but why bother listing them?

Sunday, April 16, 2006

CMS has her beer goggles on...

Ok, so this is a story about a guy who was never my boyfriend (and therefore not a loserex), though he definitely wanted to be. But, it deserves to be told anyway.

Around Valentine's Day of this year, I got the following facebook message:

You will very likely find this message "outof the blue". I'm pretty sure you have no recollection of me whatsoever, and understandably so. We met very briefly close to a year and a half ago at the Medical fraternity's Luau. I was the medical student that bummed the next to last cigarette from you and shared your last cigarette at that party. The fact that I remember such detail may give you a hint about the impression you made on me... I thought you were VERY cute and... HOT! Anyway, I never had the chance to get your number or get to know you more... We parted on a dangling conversation. Anyway, granted that I had had quite a few beers that night, the impression was strong enough that I tracked you down and am sending this message now. I wanted to do this last year but for many reasons I did not. Besides, all I knew about you was your first name and that you were in International development economics. You're probably thinking at this point that this is a warped, frustrated, foreigner and nerd of a med student trying to score or just lonely around Valentine's. I swear that's not the case, especially since I'm in Texas now. The reason I'm sending this message is because I may regret if I never do... You see I've lived a fairly "prophylactic" life, although, I'm a total looser. But I couldn't help trying to contact you somehow,and I figured around valentine's would be an appropriate time since I've found you on facebook. Well, I don't expect to have swept you off your feet, but I'd really like to get to know you maybe have a few drinks again...If nothing else, I hope this message lets you know you are being admired, or maybe put a smile on your face, or at the very least amuse you! Happy Valentine's! Your not so secret admirer, XXXX

I have not changed anything in the message (except eliminating the name, of course), so all the spelling errors, etc are his--so yes, he used the word "prophylactic" and then misspelled "loser" in the same sentence.

The funny thing is that I actually do remember this guy. I remember him bumming cigarettes off of me and me actually being into him (he was a med student and I was drunk). I also remember my friend pulling me away from him while shrieking "Beer goggles, beer goggles" in my ear.

I do have the worst beer goggles in the history of the world. Ask anyone.

"Oh CCG, this is so going on Loser Ex."

Friday night the boyfriend and I met up with my sister and her boyfriend and Officer/Gentleman at Cap City. O/G was on his best behavior: he looked good (OMG, he looked great), he wasn't being a princess, he was treating me like a princess--all the makings of a great night. Until late in the night when the TV at the bar changed from the O's to some NBA game (I don't know which one).

Boyfriend loves baseball. I can always get him in a good mood by taking him to baseball (and it's a good thing when he's in a good mood because I usually get stuff like jewelry). He'll probably propose on the scoreboard--actually, he'd better not because I'll say "no" on account of it being a dumb proposal. But I digress...boyfriend loves baseball. Boyfriend HATES basketball. Especially the NBA.

I was proud of him, he didn't throw a fit, he politely asked the waitress to change the TV back to baseball. She disappeared for a few minutes and came back and told him someone else had requested to watch basketball. That's where shit hit the fan. Yes, he was justified in being angry (we had been there throwing back beer for close to four hours at this point), and yes, it was appropriate to ask for our check and announce we were going to find a bar that was showing baseball. And yes, it was very good of him to pick up my and BRG's tab. But it was COMPLETELY out of line to not tip the waitress and then write "next time keep it on baseball" on the credit card slip".

Luckily my sister had cash, which she slipped me (after making the aforementioned declaration) and I slipped the waitress while boyfriend wasn't looking, but I was aghast. I think what made the situation worse was that he was proud of it. Gentlemen, if you're not going to tip your waitress out of principle (and you should ALWAYS tip your waitress, at least ten percent), PLEASE never tell your date. And especially don't tell your date's sister and her boyfriend and expect a pat on the back. That really only makes you an asshole.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

You did this to yourself.

If you stop and think about it, every guy we date is a potential loser. We just don't publicly acknowledge their loser traits until after the breakup. I knew with all my exes what their loser qualities were while we were dating, but I pushed them aside and tried to focus on the positive until they forced me to open my eyes and stop ignoring their ugly shoes or bad manners or stupidity.

I could tell you right now everything I'm going to say about the current when (and/or if) he becomes an ex. But because I'm still blissfully in love with him (and I really do want to stay that way), I choose to ignore things like the fact he won't buy or consume French wine (he does keep the apartment stocked with ridiculously sinful, ridiculously expensive Italian wine).

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

In a boy's dream.

Never date a guy you meet at happy hour. Especially if that happy hour entails dollar drafts at Rock Bottom.

I made this mistake last summer--my sister and I met him, after several beers I gave him my card and he called a few days later and asked me out. Ordinarily I would have politely turned him down but he was really attractive and I wasn't exactly looking for a long-term thing at the time.

We were supposed to meet at a local Spanish tapas bar (I hate tapas--I think they are pretentious but he suggested it) at 6:30. At 6:15 he called and said he was going to be late because he decided to go running and still had to take a shower.

I'm sorry, if you have someplace to be at 6:30, you get your workout out of the way at lunch. But being nice (and having already cleared my calendar for the night), I agreed to wait for him at the bar. But I did run up a nice little tab on sangria and this awesome eggplant dish. (Hey--I'm not that innocent.)

He finally arrives at 7:15, closes out the bar tab (good thinking pal) and gets us a table. Then he asks if I've ever been to Spain and when I say no, he takes my menu and starts ordering stuff for us in Spanish. I didn't mind--a man who knows his way around a wine and tapas list AND can order in a different language is sort of attractive.

What I did mind was how he wanted to tell me, in painstaking detail, all about how he broke off his engagement with his fiancee. And how much adversity he faced growing up in the northern 'burbs of Chicago (riiiight). And how he used to be a male model. And how he was leaving in the morning to fly to Seattle to go backpacking with Dave Matthews (of Dave Matthews Band fame) and his father because they were all really close. In fact, I think Dave was sending his private plane to pick this guy up.

Come on...do I really look like I fell off the back of the turnip truck?

The highlight of the evening came at the end, when he was walking me to my car and said "I don't know what to do with you: you are so sweet and innocent and it just makes me want to bend you over and fuck you."

I put a very fast end to that date and never called him back.

I hope he had fun with Dave.

Adventures in Etiquette

So, last October I went to visit Ex No. oh-I-don't-even-know-anymore who lived halfway across the country. I was really excited because it was my birthday and I hadn't seen him in about a month. So, obviously I was expecting something BIG--a grand gesture, if you will. Well, my birthday night started out really well. He had made reservations at a very nice restaurant on the beach. He had even called ahead to make sure that the restaurant served crème brulee--my favorite dessert. He was dressed nicely (I told him what to wear and he actually listened to me). Things were going great for a change.

Not for long. Well, we get to the restaurant (a little late, but that can't be blamed on him. Anyone who knows me knows that I am five minutes late for everything). We sit down--so far, so good. I had not been humiliated. Yet. We decide to order wine and that’s where things go wrong. The waiter brings out the wine and holds it out so the ex can see it. Well, the ex grabs the wine out of the waiter's hands, nods at him, and sets the wine down on the table. This is immediately followed by me saying "Oh my God *name withheld to protect me from lawsuits*" louder than I had intended and dropping my head into my hand. The waiter stared at us with absolute contempt. You have never experienced true humiliation until a waiter has looked at you as if you are PWT straight from the trailer park. Well, the waiter picks up the wine from the table and apparently decides to dispense with the whole ceremony. He just pours the wine and, I swear to God, he rolled his eyes as he walked away.

Maybe I could forgive the ex for this if he had a legitimate reason for not knowing the appropriate way to handle ordering wine at a nice restaurant--maybe if his family wasn't very affluent or he was from the middle of nowhere where Applebees is considered the height of class. But he's not. He's from a big city and his father is an absurdly successful doctor. I know that he has been to nice restaurants before. There is simply no excuse.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Dirty little secret

I got home from Marathon Monday at the gym tonight and checked the mail...bills, one of those coupon mailers (baby, we're going to Don Pablos this weekend!) and a package. Yes, it was addressed to the previous occupant of the apartment but it felt like a DVD and I had some time to kill before the boyfriend got off work.

So I'm on the phone with a friend and I'm carefully tearing into the envelope (as to not ruin the manicure that I got on Saturday morning--it needs to last through Easter) trying to see what my new movie is.

Then I start screaming.

It's porn. Girls Gone Wild-esque.

So I hang up and immediately call RGB and she points out that Girls Gone Wild is a series and you get one DVD every month so I'm now in the porno of the month club. Sweet.

It sort of reminds me of the time Dumdum DVR'd porno and forgot to erase it and then my friend and her boyfriend came to stay with me for the weekend and her boyfriend turned on the TV, hit the DVR button (I guess they don't have the digital cable in Minnesota) and right there on the screen was Forrest Humps or whatever. Nice.

The Laws of Dating (Part I)

A little while back, CCG mentioned a guy who google-searched her. From his google-search, he found her blog, and more specifically, an entry explaining her desire to two-week him. We agreed that this was an illegal search in the laws of relationships, and therefore he could not use the evidence found in this search against CCG.

I am not saying I have never google-searched someone before (I always want to make sure a guy I am about to go on a date with is not on the registered sex offender list for raping goats, or a member of a cult), but the point is, I know this is an illegal search. Therefore, any information I find, I cannot admit to knowing to the other party. This is just one of the laws of dating, if you break it, you are punished by not getting another date.

Today, I’ve been thinking about another issue in the realm of relationship legality. What is the legal way to acquire a phone number, and is it only appropriate to call someone whose number was obtained legally? The answer to this is very simple. The acceptable way to get my number is by me giving it to you personally.

Of course, I will accept a broad definition of what it means for me to give you my number personally. For example, if I call you first (minus call ID block), then I am letting my number show-up on your call log, therefore, this would be considered me giving you my number (don’t hold your breath for this to happen though because, I never call a guy first). If a friend of mine gives you my number after asking me for permission, this counts as getting it from me as well. It is only appropriate to call me (or any other woman) if you obtained her number in one of these ways (i.e. if she gave you her number).

With that said, let me tell you about a stalker I once had. I met a terrible sketchy old man in a bar a very long time ago (long enough ago that I should not have been in the bar…and of course, I was not consuming alcoholic beverages, because Loser-Ex does not condone underage drinking).

Ok, perhaps what I said about him being old was a bit of an exaggeration. He wasn’t old, but he in his mid to late 40’s, which makes him old by my standards of datable men. Anyway, he obtained my number in the most blatantly illegal way possible. Had he asked for my number, I would have, without hesitation, given him the rejection hotline.

But did he ask? Oh, hell no!! He grabbed my phone out of my hand (I was checking a text message at the time, and also not talking to him), and used it to take a picture (wtf?) and send it to himself! So, not only did I have to pay for a damn picture to be sent, he also got my phone number from sending it to himself.

I made it abundantly clear that I was pissed about him taking my phone from me, then using it to take a picture. However, this did not deter him from calling me a few days later.

At around midnight on a Wednesday, I got a phone call from a local number. Not recognizing the number, I answered, and it was him. He informed me that he had gone to 10 different bars the night before (6 of which are college bars a few blocks away from my school) and had not seen me. He asked where I go out. I told him I never go out.

He then said he had been to campus too. I told him I live off campus, in the suburbs. Then, I told him I had to go, and not to leave a message if he calls back because my voicemail is broken. He called regularly for 6 weeks, and I never answered the phone again. I hope he found a new person to annoy, because I sure as hell never want to hear from him again.

The point of all this is: If a girl does not give you her number, you can safely assume she does not want you to have it. Ergo, it is not a good idea to call her everyday. If you do, she will write about how creepy you are on a blog, and possibly get a restraining order against you.

Caress me down...

So, Shrek and I somehow got to talking about massages one day, when he revealed a shocking confession. Apparently over the summer, he had gone to get massages once or twice a week!

Not the shocking secret you expected? Yeah, me neither. He went on explain that he hadn't told me because he knew I would be jealous that some other woman was touching his pimpley back. To this day, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why he was so convinced of this. I told him that didn't bother me at all, and I didn't know why he had been so afraid to tell me. He claimed it was because he would not tolerate me ever getting a professional massage from a man. This seems really weird to me. I mean, what exactly does a massage entail for him? As I write this, I am still confused about his mind-set. To make this easier on me, I am just going to assume they were relief massages, and that's why he went to such great lengths to keep them a secret. Man, do I feel bad for that masseuse. She had to touch his backne, his other parts, and (knowing him) probably got no tip whatsoever.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

A Real Fine Place to Start

Dum-dum wore these God-awful (I mean truly heinous) black sneakers. ALL THE TIME. It was okay in the dead of winter, I'm all about closed-toed shoes in January (or to work and stuff) but it was July and he was stompin' around in ugly black sneakers with his shorts and he looked like an absolute retard.

And it's not like he didn't own more appropriate shoes--I bought him a nice pair of brown flip flops in April, which he refused to wear because they hurt his toes.

Quit being such a fucking pussy. Geez.

Anyways, so yeah, he wore really ugly shoes and everyone laughed at him, myself included.