Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Merry Christmas!

Now that I’ve gotten the annual “bad gift” post out of the way, I can put up my 2007 holiday post. This year, I got together with BJA and decided to make this years’ entry about family...more specifically, uncomfortable holiday experiences with our exes’ families (or our own, whatever). If you have any good stories to add, post in the comments section, or email me.

So, I will kick things off:


RGB

I had just met Fred (we weren’t really even dating at this point) when a hurricane was heading toward the city I went to college in. Class was going to be canceled for several days, giving us plenty of time to leave campus and go wherever for a while. This was about a week after things ended with Shrek, so I was feeling particularly awful and just wanted to go home (I should mention home was 1200 miles away. Clearly this wasn’t one of my most rational decisions). I had planned to take a flight back home, but Fred told me that he was going to drive out of town and was willing to take a 1200 mile detour and he would drive up to his house (another 500 miles) after that.

Somehow during the 18 hour car ride, Fred managed to convince me to spend a day at my house, then ride up to his with him.

By the time we had made it to Fred's house, I was completely drained from my recent break up, a long road trip, and the stress of having to leave school so suddenly. When we got to Fred’s neighborhood, he called his parents to tell them we were close. They were over at Fred’s uncle’s house and told him to just come over there.

When we got to the uncle’s house, there was a full family party going on. Parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, EVERYONE was there. So, not only did I have the stress of meeting parents, I had the stress of meeting the whole extended family. Seriously.

Luckily, everyone was really nice, but there were a few VERY awkward moments. The one that sticks out in my mind the most is when Fred’s uncle, after having talked with me for 3 minutes, gave me a very sincere look and asked if I had considered marrying into the family. I was completely caught off guard, and frankly, a little frightened by the question. I responded that it was not something that I had considered. I was then invited to marry into the family. Definitely the most intense meeting of an ex’s family I’ve ever had.

BJA

Holidays are just the time for family, friends, fun, and festivities. Unless you're dating a loser. Then you can toss in a little mortification.

I was dating Neanderthal for... well in hindsight a lot longer than some of the others. He wasn't as bad as many of the guys featured in this blog. In fact, on a whole he was a good boyfriend. But his manners were deplorable. And after his behavior in front of my parents during the holidays... well it didn't last much longer.

Guys, may I stress that you must learn how to hold a fork before you dine outside of your home? You hold it as you would a pencil, or at least that's the closest approximation I can come up with. You do NOT hold it, as Neanderthal did, in a full fisted grip that enables you to shovel food in your mouth. It is gross. And it's ineffective. I can tell because the food is falling off of your fork in different directions. I remember my Granny, who was an impeccably mannered woman, trained by Mrs. Manners, nearly dropped her jaw. Please do NOT mortify me in front of my grandmother.

Food shoveler. Gross.

Monday, December 24, 2007

Drink it up

I was in college once -- really. I understand the whole "leave no soldier wounded" mentality regarding alcoholic beverages. In fact, much to my mother's dismay, I still practice this sometimes (I can't even begin to tell you how many times my mom has told me "you've had enough; leave that soldier wounded"). I completely understand if one wants to finish his or her beer before getting up and leaving the table at a restaurant.

But Fred took this to a whole new level. The first time we went out to eat, he got up to go. I followed his lead, stood up and started to walk to the door. I was outside before I turned around and saw Fred's fat ass still standing at the table, chugging every single liquid on the table. Really. His beer, my coke, his water, my water. He drank each beverage as if he were trying to set the world record for speed drinking, resulting in beer, coke and water dribbled on his face and the front of his shirt. I had never seen anything like this before. It was truly a disgusting display.

When he finally made it outside, I had no idea what to make of what I had just seen. "Thirsty?" I asked him, slightly confused. I figured this was a one time deal, so I didn't really press the issue. Boy, was I wrong.

Every single time we went out, he would do this. It's not the fact that he wanted to drink everything on the table that bothered me -- it was the fact that he could not do this while sitting at the table. He would stand up, sometimes put on his coat, then chug everything on the table as if in two seconds, all the glasses would be taken violently away from him and he would never have another drop of liquid again. He did not leave a drop of anything on the table. It was amazing. He even consumed a good amount of the ice in his quest to drink as much as physically possible. Every single fricking time we went out. Even though it was clearly his goal to cram every liquid on the table down this throat as quickly as possible, the entire act usually took around a minute, which usually meant I was well on my way out the door before he started to actually leave.

I asked -- no, begged him to just drink what he wanted to drink while he was still sitting down. Aside from looking like a complete ass, he was blocking traffic for the wait staff trying to do their jobs by standing up in the middle of an aisle.

After a couple of months of this, I would start not getting up when he did because I knew the whole chugging display would take-up a ton of time.

Finally one day, I stopped him before getting up and told him in a very stern voice that I was serious about him not standing up to do the obligatory chug every single time we went out. I asked him to remain seated and drink what he wanted to drink. He seemed to listen and sheepishly finished his water, then said he was ready. I thought I had finally gotten through to him, and happily stood up and made my way to the door.

Half way out, I turned around and saw him standing at the table, chugging my drink. He looked at me as he finished my drink with a big, shit-eating grin on his face. Not only did he look like a complete dumbass, he was doing it just to spite me. At this point, it wasn't the fact that he was completely (for this and other reasons) not restaurant-trained that bothered me, it was the fact that he was determined look like white trash everywhere he went, even when he knew better.

The moment I locked eyes with him as he was putting my empty glass on the table was the exact moment I knew things weren't going to work out.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Kleptomaniac

I think everyone went through a phase when they were younger where they stole things or didn't tell on a close companion who stole something. I'm not talking clothing or anything of that nature, MOST people realize that's just stupid. (Although to be honest, String Bean was guilty of that, too. I never saw him do it, but I saw his accounts and his new clothes - he didn't have the money.)

Moving on. String Bean must have been a kleptomaniac. What most bugged me about String Bean's stealing habbits is that there was really no use for whatever he managed to yoink. Some examples:

1) The fake metal plates from Qdoba Mexican Grill. - They're actually plastic, but they painted them silver to make them look more classy I guess. There is absolutely no reason to have a pile of these. They sat in his closet for months collecting dust.

2) The ketchup bottle from Dennys. - Newflash, ketchup is not expensive. There is no need to steal this from a cheapo restaurant establishment whose selling point is that they are always open for the drunk and hungry masses who spend more on booze than food.

3) The saltshaker from Denny's. - Seriously. Why in the world would anyone need a random saltshaker? And while we're thinking about it, why not just grab the pepper shaker, too, to round out the pair.

4) A fork from an upscale Denver restaurant. - Just when String Bean gets something right, a nice dinner for two downtown with a carriage ride beforehand... he steals something. No less, a fork. It's a nice restaurant! Why does he feel compelled to steal the fork? Does it make him feel better about the beaucoup bucks he just dropped on dinner? Is it revenge for ostentatiously high prices for minimal food?

This one made me mad. WORSE, String Bean tells me about it afterwards and proceeds to try to break the fork. He bended the thing till it snapped. Why steal something, then break it for good measure?

5) Office supplies from wherever he saw them - String Bean couldn't write, spell, or even add so I don't know why he wanted office supplies. Like an office would ever hire his ass.

6) My magazines - Perhaps there was more trouble in this relationship than I was aware of.

7) Coins from the "extra change" jars at cash registers- Aren't these supposed to be rounding out the purchase? But noooo.

8) Food off my plate - Granted, he was paying for it sometimes (maybe slightly LESS than half the time) but come on. I felt like Joey in friends when he wouldn't share the french fries with his date. "BJA doesn't share food!!"

9) Pennies from fountains - Much like the coins from the checkout, these aren't meant for you, String Bean. Leave them be.

10) CDs. - Ok, some use for these. BUT, though I never saw him do it, he used to go to places like Radio Shack and Best Buy, open the bottom of CDs so as not to break the plastic seal on top. Just sorta popped off the end that holds the CD case together by lifting it out. Made the CD open like a briefcase rather than the book if that helps for the visual. Then he'd simply take the CD. Leave the case. And the poor person going off to buy the case probably ran into the - I bought this CD and there's no CD in it -problem. THAT is just plain stealing. No way around it.

Oh, he'd also take them from his friends. His justification was that they took them from him.

I know I said he always stole pointless things and the CD's don't count, but the idea behind my rant is that String Bean was a raging klepto.

Friday, December 14, 2007

If He Only Had a Brain...

If you are dating someone whose mind is consistently inside the beltway - you darn well better know your politics or at least SOME degree of history.

Here's one for you:

"Well I don't know much, but at least I know George Washington was our first president and Abraham Lincoln was our second."

Excuse the idiocy here. These two didn't even live in the same century, really. First president was G. Wash, well done, buddy. I might have even been ok if I realized he was just saying the first two that most elementary school children remember. To some extent, that might make sense to me. Though I still don't understand how you can omit John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, or James K. Polk, I could understand not knowing our ninth president, William Henry Harrison. While I may know a thing or two about him, most Americans probably don't.

But really, Abraham Lincoln was decades after George Washington. I can't even fathom how someone could not realize that the Revolutionary War that Washington fought in was no where near the same time frame as the Civil War that Lincoln attempted to end.

This guy was almost as bad as when I dated a guy who didn't pay much attention to politics... at all. As a disclaimer, it's somewhat ok if you don't spend the time agonizing over political implications as I do. It takes a strong stomach in most cases. But really? There's only so much absurdity I can handle when it comes to who you voted for.

"So who did you vote for in the last Presidential election?"

"Wasn't his name Sam or something? I don't know. The one that wasn't Bush."

Now, unless Sam was a write in, you have to be a complete idiot. If you don't know who you're voting for, or don't care enough to find out your options or even remember the damn name, don't freakin vote. Your vote is the kind that makes others who DO care about who wins the next election believe that their vote doesn't count.

And I'm spent. If he only had a brain...

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Happy 3 Year Anniversary, Losers!

I can’t believe three years went by so quickly! It seems like just yesterday a devastated and bitter RGB started a blog to tell everyone in internet land just how much she hated Shrek. Since then, things have certainly taken off. This blog has seen more exes, more contributors, more posts and more crazy antics than I had ever expected it to.

I’d like to thank all the contributors of Loser-Ex for sharing their sometimes outrageous, sometimes thoughtful, always intriguing stories with the world. I’d write more, but really, who wants to read my reflections on the blog?

To celebrate three years, our brother site, Crazy Ho, is being launched. Crazy Ho will be like Loser-Ex, except it will have a panel of male writers blogging about their female exes. We hope that you will love it (almost) as much as you love Loser-Ex.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

You Don't Own Me

String Bean was a control freak. And I don't mean over just anything, mostly over me and any subsequent girl friends he later possessed.

I needed a favor from a close guy friend of mine, Jason, who I had known for years. I pick up my cell phone and begin clicking through my contacts to find his number. Once, twice, three times, I go through the list. His number isn't there! Fortunately, I had my old cell phone and I looked it up and added it back in my phone. I was perplexed as to how the phone had misplaced the number. Did cell phones get bugs? Could it have deleted itself?

The same situation arose a few days later with ANOTHER of my male friends (Ian) and a mutual one of String Bean's. That number too had mysteriously disappeared from my phone.

Honestly, at the time, I had no idea what had happened. Not too much later though, I catch String Bean scrolling through my phone with a little pouty face on. "How did you get Ian's number?"

"I went by his work and got it back. Somehow my phone deleted him out of the system or something. Isn't that weird?"

"Why the hell do you want his number?"

Umm excuse me? This a$$hole went into my phone and deleted the numbers of the guys I knew because he thought I was having an illicit affair with them or something. (In hindsight, I probably should have. This IS the same guy who pulled the stupid stories...) But that's neither here nor there. What kind of person is so insecure about themselves that they have to go through their girlfriend's phone and physically remove all potential challengers?

To top it off, he did it to his next (and now ex) girlfriend. Here's a transcript of what she sent me (slightly cleaned up... she was pretty angry... They live together but she'll be moving out at the end of the month.)

"So, he started pouting again!! (surprise surprise) when I came home from work today with some boxes for when we move and so he starts pouting and then of course we start talking about it and then we talk about why our relationshiop ended, this a$$hole is saying that I "emotionally cheated" on him with other guys.

I asked him how, and he said that I have very close friendships with guys that took intimacy away from him!

I asked him, if he thought it was ok if girls and guys had a purely close friendship? He said, NO. And he says that guys and girls can never be just friends without someone having more feelings. I said bullshit. Cuz I have 3 guy best friends that have never formed any sort of bond other then friendship and I told him if he seriously thought that he should go check the screws in his brain.

I was so livid and still am. I told him that HE can never have a pure friendship with a girl because he'll want to just sleep with her... he didnt like that too much."

Ugh. Possessive boyfriends are nothing more than future loserexes. And seriously, you have to understand that it's perfectly natural for girls to have guy friends outside of her relationship with you. And that doesn't equal with emotionally cheating, nor should you accuse her of such. That's just stupid. Then again, so is String Bean.

You don't own me. Don't say I can't go with other boys!

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Every Step You Take

I am creepy. If you’ve ever gone on even one date with me, you can be sure I’ve googled you, looked you up on every social networking site and probably asked several of my friends if they know you. I am horrible about this. But, I can justify my stalking. I don’t want to end up alone with some creep who is going to kill me then throw my body in the Potomac. It may be a stretch to say that I stalk potential dates as a safety measure, but at least (at some very small level) I can say that my stalking is justified and not just creepy.

One of my exes, on the other hand, can not justify his stalking. I have elected not to use even the pseudonym of my ex this time because, this is really screwed-up. This ex openly admitted to checking his ex’s (we’ll call her Bertha) Internet browser history and her email. Furthermore, he didn’t see a problem with this. Granted, he did make some great finds, such as the fact Bertha has quite the fondness of lesbian porn, but I still find this to be a little over the line.

What was even worse was the fact that he continued to check Bertha’s email after they had broken up. Again, he did make some juicy finds, like her correspondence regarding a one night stand with the grossest guy on campus (side note: the one night stand guy totally had the worse acne known to mankind…and an uncanny resemblance to Quasimodo), but really, who does this? The fact that he admitted to finding this email the ‘one time’ he checked makes me think that he was probably really checking her email on a daily basis.

If I hadn’t made a point to change all my passwords, he’d probably be reading my email right now.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Bad Gifts: Part Trois

It's that time of year again, which means it's time for the annual "Crappy Christmas Gifts my Exes Gave Me" post. This year, I am going to do something a little different. I've already told everyone about the bad gifts I've received (here and here).

I really don't want to beat a dead horse on this one, so I am asking everyone to either e-mail me at loserexrgb@gmail.com or, post in the comments section about a bad gift that your ex has given you.

I probably can think of one or two I haven't mentioned yet that I will be willing to throw in...

BJA
I haven't been a blog member for other Christmas occasions, so I have the exciting privilege of explaining a few bad Christmas gifts I have received over the years.

One year my ex gave me a build-a-bear cat. When you squeezed its arm it would say "Meow, Meow, Meow." Cute. It's a cat.

Side note: The sound button was in the arm because String Bean put it in wrong. Don't ask me how you screw up a process meant for toddlers.

What's the point of a sound-making stuffed animal to a high school senior? I can't wear it and I can't show it off without being laughed at. To top it off, when I roll over in the middle of the night it yells at me and I wake up to the screeching sound of a mechanical mew.

I ended up giving the cat to my cousin the next year. She's five. Loves it.

Another side note: Don't give a girl the same gift you already gave her. String Bean thought this was such a great gift that he reprised the sentiment with a pink bear for the next Christmas. I haven't found a cousin who wants a bear that says, "I love you baby girl" in String Bean's voice. If you know of any takers, leave a comment.

Other gifts that should be avoided:

The sweater your mother gave you last Christmas. - Not appropriate for your girlfriend if you wouldn't wear it.
A book in a language I don't speak. - Self explanatory.You 're either not paying attention or grabbed the first book that's cover looked interesting.
A fake trip to Italy in the same envelope as a cheap gift certificate to Old Navy. - Beyond angry about this one, still. I was all kinds of excited.

RGB
Ok, I told you I had more bad gift stories.

This one is a little different because, it’s not about a bad gift I was given, but it still seems appropriate for the post.

Back in high school, while I was dating Boris, a friend of mine threw a New Year’s Eve party which included a white elephant gift exchange (I’ve recently been told this is not a widely-used term, so I will explain: a white elephant gift is one that is essentially of no use or value – a gag gift of sorts). I was incredibly excited when I heard about the white elephant part and immediately went to my basement to find the biggest piece of crap that I could wrap up.

My finding: an eagle centerpiece made of pinecones (I really don’t know how this crap gets in the basement anyway) that my mother was eager to part with. This stupid pinecone eagle was about 15” tall and TACKY. The eagle looked like he was a little special. Oh, and I threw in a pinecone eaglet as well (yes, someone made more than one of these). It could not possibly fit anyone’s decorating scheme (unless they were into tacky nature paraphernalia). No reasonable person would ever buy this or accept it as a gift.

Unfortunately, Boris was far from reasonable. When he came to pick me up for the party, I was still laughing about the eagle as I carried it out to the car in a box. I explained to him the contents of the box and how ridiculously tacky they were.

When the gift exchange began, the mother of the host stepped in and said she thought this was mean, so she threw in several good gifts that were things people actually wanted. A few of the attendees also seemed to feel bad about the white elephant idea and brought nice gifts. Basically, there were plenty of good options for anyone who wanted. I guess Boris did not want a good gift. When it was his turn, he beelined straight to the gifts and picked-out mine.

I found it to be incredibly weird that he would chose a piece of crap over something nice. But, that was nothing compared to how weird it was that he brought the piece of crap home to his parents who promptly displayed it in a very prominent location in their living room.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

A Little Less Talk...

Sasquatch spoke like Shakespeare. Don't get me wrong, Sasquatch is actually a great guy. But he always spoke as if someone was listening and writing down every word that came from his mouth. Sorry buddy, I don't carry a voice recorder in my pocket. And typically, what he would say has either been said before or is not nearly as deep as he thought. Although, I have to say, sometimes the poetic thought and rituals were endearing... but they simply wore me out. There's only so long you can date someone who reminds you of Edgar Allen Poe or Ernest Hemingway, without the creepster part.

But the high faluten speech wasn't just when we were alone. Sasquatch came to dinner with myself and my parents. When the waiter came by to take our order, I jokingly remarked that both he and my father would want something spicy. Hello, they both like spicy food! I didn't specify a dish, so I knew the waiter wouldn't write the order down, "something spicy." I know he doesn't speak English well, but goodness gracious, I'm sure he's not an idiot.


Instead of laughing or recognizing it was a joke, Sasquatch turned to me and deadpanned, "Do not speak for me, for I can speak for myself."


Excuse me? At first I was simply stunned. I wasn't sure how to respond. After all, my parents were across the table. To top it off, my father does the typical guy response, "OOOOOOOO!" I think daggers shot from my eyes at this crazy man who I'm apparently related to. I secretly hoped at this moment the milkman was actually my father.


The point of my outrage is that I felt as though Sasquatch was trying to put me in my place. Sasquatch knows what he wants and he's set in his ways. That might make him a spectacular catch for someone someday. But not for me. I'm too opinionated and driven to be spoken to as though I'm a child rather than a girlfriend.


Please know that Sasquatch is a good guy, he's not remotely as retarded as some of the exes highlighted in this blog. Yet some of his mannerisms and comments are most certainly the kind that are detrimental and... well really just awkward... and that makes some of these stories a perfect fit for Loser-ex.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear

One thing I cannot stress enough to guys concerned about how they look naked - suck it up and get a wax. I know perhaps guys can't help it when they're hairy, nor do I blame them. But here's the thing, if it bother's you - go all out and get it fixed.


Sasquatch was just generally hairy. Hence, his nickname. Again, I don't fault him for being a hairy guy, it's in his genes. But what made it uber awkward was that he would try to shave his shoulders, which, I guess, was the part he most despised.


The problem with strategically shaving parts of your hairy body comes when you put clothes ON. Sasquatch's t-shirts would catch on his shoulder stubble, and ride up. I was constantly having to fix it so that he didn't look like he was wearing a stupid muscle shirt.


Side note: Muscle shirts are always stupid. No excuse. You look like a fool.



I felt bad for Sasquatch. Half the time I was with him I felt like I was covered in dog hair and I had to remind myself... no you're dating a Yeti. (Don't think I'm being mean, I told him as such, and in turn he called me his Midget. Fair game here, ya'll. I'm not evil.) It's a little gross to get up and wonder where all the random disgusting hair came from.

Another side note: If you're this hairy, clean your damn shower often and consistently. It's friggin gross when it covers you, your bed, AND you bathroom when you don't take the time to wax, change your sheets every night, or clean the damned bathroom.

Back to my main point. Get a wax. Painful as all hell, and you'll be red for a day or two. But ya'll play football and hockey and whatnot. Isn't the motto no pain no gain? Well here's a new one for you to work with.

No pain, no game.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Parting gifts...

One month after my fiance and I broke things off for good (the second time), I got a funny call from my roommate.

"Did you know that The Cowardly Greek stopped by to drop off some things?"

"Um...no!" I thought to myself, "What on earth could he have dropped off? Last time I was at his place I made sure to get everything, because I figured that ship was sinking."

So I asked my roommate what on earth was so important that he would drive 2 hours in order to drop off (we were slightly long distance).

She told me: A vacuum, a set of hot curlers, and...a box of tampons.

The vacuum was a piece of shit, the curlers I didn't use anymore, and the tampons. Ohmygoodness....I can't get over the tampons. The subext - whether intended or not - was, "you menstrating bitch!"

The bastard drove 2 hours to my house and 2 hours back in order to drop off worthless crap. I just hope dropping off this stuff served some sort of cathartic purpose for him because no matter how much I still hate him to this day I can't get over those damn tampons...

signed,
Madame Jacqueline
Guest Blogger

Tattoo Tale Part 2

I felt inspired by RGB's tattoo rant and wanted to add a #3 to her tattoo stories. Ok, well it's my tattoo story so... whatever. You get the idea.

I am also not completely anti-tattoo. I can live with them, though I do not intend to ever get one myself. If I want to immortalize something that means something to me, I won't use needles and ink to do so. Some girls may find a large tattoo covering a back or arm to be damn sexy... but those girls typically ride on the backs of motorcycles or wear all black with piercings sticking out of every orifice. (Moment to say eww to that, as well. Gross.) I have yet to meet a girl who finds a guy whose entire body is covered in tattoos a turn on unless they themselves are painted from head to toe.

Here is my tale of tattoo woe. I dated a guy who was altogether a great man and date. Lot of fun, easy to talk to, easy on the eyes...to this day I still think he's stellar. But his tattoo threw me for a loop.

Guys: if you get a tattoo that only remotely looks like you wanted it to, chances are that we women will have no idea what it was supposed to be. Of COURSE I wondered what in the world you had on your arm. Then when I guessed it was a mongoose, of COURSE I was extremely confused as to why in the world you would put a mongoose on your arm. I deduced that it was an educated guess because you had a snake on the other shoulder. Being that you're one of those guys who has multiple tattoos with no corresponding theme, I logically assumed you wanted one to be chasing the other. (Lame thought - perhaps. But not as lame as putting a tattoo that looks like a mongoose on your arm.)

The poor guy looked horrifed when asked me what I thought it was. My response was far from what he wanted to hear. What I had taken for a mongoose was apparently a panther.

Do not get offended if your panther looks nothing like a panther, but rather a mongoose. I didn't take the ink to your arm, the crazy man (or lady) with the tattoos covering him (or her) from head to toe did.

You Realize Those Don't Wash Off...

First, let me just say that I am not anti-tattoo. I do not have any myself. This is partly due to the fact that I am a huge wuss about any sort of pain, but more due to the fact that I can’t think of anything significant enough to me that I would want it on my body for the rest of my life. Also, thinking about what it would look like when I am 60 is kind of gross. I don’t care if people get tattoos; it’s their right to do as they please with their own bodies.

But, there are a few instances in which they slightly irk me, and those are:

a) When one gets several very large, very visible tattoos (to the point where they cannot be covered-up), then complains that they were discriminated against at a job interview due to the fact they have tattoos.
b) When one gets a tattoo that is a word in a language that he or she does not speak (I don’t think it means what you think it means…).
c) When someone gets a tattoo which has no real significance to them (i.e. a tramp stamp).

With that said, here are two tattoo stories I have (that's right, it's a holiday double-post!):

1) I went on date a a few months ago with a young man who, while not a total loser, was not exactly my penguin. Our conversation somehow turned to the topic of tattoos and he asked if I had any. I told him that I did not and explained why. He agreed with my opinion of getting a tramp stamp, or the male equivalent (which is a tribal armband or Chinese character). He mentioned that he was planning on getting two tattoos. I asked him what he wanted to get and the answer blew my mind.

He wanted to get a picture of each of his parents – one on each arm.

I gave him a look of puzzlement and disgust. He was insistent that this was a good idea. He explained that he was really close with his parents and that he would (obviously) get pictures of them when they were younger. Fine.

I also have a good relationship with my parents, but I do not feel the need to have pictures of them on my body. Furthermore, I don’t know his mother, but something tells me that she probably does not want to be commemorated via his arm tattoo. Just a thought. Also, did it ever occur to him that girls might find it creepy to hook up with a guy and have to look at pictures of his parents the whole time? Creepy.

2) Fred did not have any tattoos, but told me he knew exactly what he would get if he ever got one. It seemed that he had really put a lot of thought into what tattoo he would get, so I asked him what his idea was.

He wanted to get a tattoo of Fred Flintstone with a lawnmower. He would get it close to his nether regions and shave a strip of hair next to it add to the overall effect. This way, he rationalized, if he ever got tired of looking at it, he could just stop shaving and it would be covered-up. Classy.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Who's There?

In response to BJA's unwelcome house guest at the wee hours of the morning...

For the most part, my stories are about incidents which took place several months or years ago, after I have detached myself from them enough to share them publicly. But, every now and then, I encounter such epic fail from a former fling, that it instantly earns a spot on Loser Ex. This post is about such epic fail.

The young man in this story is someone I dated casually for a few months, but things quickly died down once I realized I really did not like his personality at all. Having a conversation with this guy was painful. Really. I’ll always think of him as the kid who was popular in high school, but went downhill afterward. He was attractive and from a good family, but had zero ambition. I will refer to him as “The Dud,” because that is the name by which my friends know him. Aside from that, he had a lot of drama that I had no desire to deal with. But, that is neither here nor there. The only important thing to note here is that prior to this incident, we had not spoken in several weeks.

One recent Friday night, I was at WHG’s apartment. Around 2:30am, my phone started to ring. When I saw that it was The Dud, I let it roll to voicemail. The phone rang again. I let it roll to voicemail again. The phone rang a third time. Voicemail again. The phone then rang seven more times before I finally turned it off. At this point it was 2:50am. I should probably mention that I almost never turn my phone off. I am always paranoid that there will be some sort of emergency in the middle of the night and someone will need to get a hold of me.

The next morning, I turned my phone on as soon as I got up. It immediately started beeping like crazy from all the texts and voicemails I had received. First, I flipped through the text messages. They were all from The Dud. The first few were telling me that he was outside my apartment. The next few were telling me to come let him in because it is cold and rainy. The last few were telling me off for not letting him in. The voicemails followed the same pattern.

Now, let me point out a few factors that make this ridiculous. First of all, The Dud does not drive. There was some issue with his license a while ago, that I never really got the full story on (he tends to lie a lot). So, that means that despite not getting any sort of response from me, he decided it was a good idea to take a cab over to my apartment.

I should also note that cabs do not drive by my place. In order to get a cab at my place, one has to call a company. It usually takes at least 10 minutes for one to arrive. So, not only did The Dud come over to my place without having spoken with me, he also put himself in a situation from which it would be very difficult to get home.

Also, it was fricking cold. I really hope he had a nice warm coat and mittens on. It was rainy too. So, to recap, The Dud, not having spoken with me in several weeks, decided to cab it over to my place with no ride home so he could stand in the cold and rain and wait for me to come let him in. Then, he got pissed at me for not answering my phone at some odd hour of the morning.

I honestly expected there to be a brick through my window when I came back home.

Apparently he wasn't too upset though. He played the blow-up my phone game again a few nights later. I really don't know how many calls I have to ignore before he finally takes the hint.

Knock Knock Joke

Normally, I would find knock knock jokes funny. But not when it's real knocking, and not when it's five o'clock in the morning. Actually, it may have been closer to 4:30.

The weekend before this particular incident, I had gone with a girlfriend of mine visiting from back home to a local bar. We met a cute boy in the Marines with muscles that go on for miles and sparkling blue eyes. I should have seen that this situation would be trouble. The guy was sweet, nice, worked a lot, so he didn't have much time to come and hang out with me. Not that I blame him, it's a pretty hectic and demanding job working for the United States Marine Corps.

But G.I. Joe doesn't get a free pass for everything just because he's a military man. I had stayed up late the night before because I had been in class until 10:00pm. The drive home from where I attend school and where I live is at least 30 minutes, so I didn't actually get to bed until 12:30 after making dinner, finishing up some school work, and relaxing for a bit.

Somehow, G.I. Joe thought it would be fun to come over and see me before work... if you know what I mean. My phone rings, but it's 4:30 in the morning and quite frankly I'm sleeping. What kind of psycho calls at that hour?

So anyway, I figured that would be the end of it and I roll back over and continue sleeping. Suddenly, I'm reawakened by a pounding on my door. Literally, a pounding. I was concerned that someone was beating my door down and breaking in. I'm positive that my neighbors had the same concerns. My roomate looked scared out of her mind.

I look through the peep hole, and there's G.I. Joe. All dressed for work and apparently thinking he's going to get a treat for waking me up this early. Yes, boys, cuz waking a girl up is definitely a way to get into her pants.

False.

Like I said, G.I. Joe seemed so normal at first. But don't play the knock knock game before the sun comes up. Not cool.

Monday, December 03, 2007

When Bad Stories Attack

This is my first post on this blog. Yay! And boy, do I have some great loser-ex stories to share with my fellow bloggers and readers.

For my first post, I'm going to tell you about Ex.1, or "String Bean," a slimey SOB with a propensity to find other girls to play with while I was away at college. He earns the nickname String Bean due to his inability to gain weight. I swear, the boy weighed less than I do, and I'm not a big girl. He was a good ten inches taller than me, too.

I'm prompted to share my story of how I dumped this particular man because his most current ex and I have been exchanging ridiculous stories of him now that she finally clued into to his lack of brain power. It's a little amusing to be able to recall some of the stupid things he did, and to then find out that he continues to pull the same stunts!

What is it that makes boys believe they can get away with cheating by trying to come up with a cover? It doesn't work, and it's especially ridiculous when they think they've pulled the wool over our eyes with some fancy story-telling. They seem to think that if they tell us "what happened" with enough enthusiasm, we'll accept it no matter how unlikely it may sound. Allow me to share the final straw of String Bean and the reason I am thrilled to be able to call him a "Loser-Ex."

I was away at college, and my soon-to-be-ex was moving out of his parents home for the first time. I could call it growing up, but it's too much of a stretch for him, so I won't. He moved in with my best friend, a guy who I had known for nearly six years. My friend and I are close, and very little gets past him that doesn't make it's way to me. This made it even sillier that he actually thought he could get away with what happened.

The fact that he was living with my best friend didn't stop String Bean from taking advantage of his new place and all the freedom and free women surrounding him. Late at night "Friend" came home to discover that String Bean's shower had some strange noises coming out of it. Turns out a lady-neighbor had come over to meet String Bean and Friend, and... well, she got to know her new building mate a little too well. "Friend" opened the door just to be sure, saw what was happening, and immediately made a telephone call.

Now, cheating is horrible, regardless of circumstance. But what truly sets String Bean above and beyond the normal cheating ex was his cover story. When I called, the pathetic excuse of a man wanted to explain himself to me.

"You don't understand baby. [Friend] doesn't know what he saw. [Lady-Neighbor] had come over with a friend of hers, and the two of them got pretty drunk. They wanted to take a bath and I was concerned that they were going to drown, so I joined them in the bathroom. She's a lesbian, and those noises that [Friend] heard weren't me. They were the two girls."

Are you kidding me? Could the story have been any more ridiculous? String Bean was trying to cover his illicit sexual encounter with a neighbor in the shower by trying to tell me that his neighbors were lesbian sluts who go at it in new neighbor's apartments.

Fortunately, I am not the idiot String Bean took me for. I think my exact response was... "In the effing shower? You know what, don't call me anymore. Not only are you a lying, cheating, asshole, but you're a complete imbicile who can't even come up with a plausible cover story. You're more stupid than I ever imagined. Hey, know what else? I faked it. Everytime."

I don't like to think of myself as vengeful, but that felt good. Not to mention I suppose being honest can't count as revenge. String Bean was a compulsive liar. And for not coming up with a better story, he's also a completely incompetent loser.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Your Song

Fred is completely tone deaf. It’s awful. I have never heard anything quite like him trying to sing. It sounds like a chain-smoking buffalo being tortured. I’m kidding. I’m sure a chain-smoking buffalo can carry a tune better than Fred can.

There is no description I can give here that would truly give his lack of singing ability justice. If you have never heard it, I can’t even begin to explain just how truly horrible it is.

The best I can say is that when he sings, he sings the same note over and over, completely unaware (or unable) to change notes with the song. Every song sounds identical when he sings it. Also, he smokes about 2 packs a day, and his voice sounds like it. Plus, he kind of whines when sings. And he is LOUD. So, imagine a loud, whiney, scratchy, atonal song with the lyrics all wrong and that is what Fred sounds like.

Of course, Fred is not a total moron (I swear he’s only mildly retarded) and is quite aware of his lack of talent in this area. In fact, he finds humor in his complete inability to carry a tune. So much so that he often subjects unsuspecting victims to his vocal talents. It is so bad that I used to make fun of him when he started to sing by singing even louder than him in a retard voice.

That’s right, tubby. I was making fun of YOU when I did that.

Knowing that he cannot sing, and that everyone in the world finds his attempts at singing utterly repulsive, Fred decided one night to put on a karaoke performance for a bar full of people. The song he chose: “Bohemian Rhapsody.” *Sidenote: I hate this song more than anything in the world. It is absolutely stupid and annoying. Furthermore, it annoys me that every ignoramus in the world thinks so highly of it. Do not leave me messages defending this piece of crap. Nothing you can say will make me like or appreciate this song.*

I am not a fan of karaoke myself, but it seems the general rule of thumb is to choose a song that is upbeat, fun, and above all, SHORT. As expected, as soon as the song began and the entire bar heard Fred start to sing, the bar went outside to take a smoke break. For some reason, no one kicked him off stage at this point.

About five minutes into the song, people started to return from their breaks, took one step inside, heard Fred’s awful voice, then ran back outside for another cigarette. Fred had effectively ruined everyone else’s night out. I’m sure he was completely oblivious to the dirty looks he was getting from the entire bar for the rest of the night.

Seriously, Fred, it would have been funny to sing something short. You know, “haha, that guy can’t sing.” That’s funny for about 2 minutes. That way, everyone has realized that you are tone deaf, and can go home and tell all their friends about how terrible it was. Any longer and you’re just being mean. Furthermore, you probably made the bar lose a lot of business that night.

My heart goes out to the poor bartenders who were stuck with having to listen to Fred for the full ten minutes. I hope Fred at least bothered to leave them a decent tip that night. Although knowing him, that’s not likely; he was notoriously cheap.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

For the Movies

Fred lacked the common sense and cultural awareness necessary to make him a socially functional person. I’m sure this has been made abundantly clear already.

He would constantly do retarded things that made absolutely no sense, and could have been avoided if he would just take his fat head out of his smelly ass.

For example, one time he was over at my apartment and noticed a pile of unopened NetFlix on my table. He decided that he absolutely had to know what movies I had ordered, so he opened them.

Now, let me just say that while some people may take offense to someone else opening their mail, I would not (unless the mail were a bill, a paycheck, or something else that was clearly personal). So, in theory, I have no problem with someone checking out my NetFlix, even if it means opening a sealed envelope.

What I do have a problem with is someone opening the envelope inappropriately. For all three of you who do not subscribe to NetFlix, they come in little red envelopes that they can also be sent back in. On the front of the red envelope, there is your address, the return address, a large, black dotted line over a perforated line, and a large, bright yellow rectangle which says “open on this end” and has arrows pointing to the perforated end on which the envelope is to be opened in such a way that it can still be resealed and mailed back in to the distribution center.

It seems a little silly that they would have to tell you which end to open. If you have seen one of these before, then you know it is intuitively obvious to 99.99% of the population. Fred is in the 0.01%.

When I came out of the bathroom, Fred announced that he had looked at my NetFlix. I glanced down at my table and saw the envelopes ripped open across the middle. All three of them, destroyed.

I asked why he had opened them that way when there were explicit instructions on how to open the envelope. He remarked that he didn’t notice that, and that he didn’t wanted to open them anyway, he just wanted to peek at what they were. Great, so “peeking” at them involved ripping the entire back of the envelopes open.

When I was ready to send them back, the envelopes were completely destroyed, but since Fred refused to give me postage to pay for the pre-paid envelopes he destroyed, I had to tape them back up. I was ashamed when I had to bring my summer camp arts and crafts-esque pieces of crap to the mailbox.

Now the NetFlix guys think I ride the short bus.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

I Think I'll Have Myself a Beer

Fred decided to rush a fraternity his sophomore year of college. He had missed out on the whole IFC rush shindig both years, but when he heard that a new chapter was starting on campus, he decided that he would give this a shot (side note: joining a new fraternity is for losers who couldn't get in an established chapter).

Since there were no current members of the chapter, the rush events were all very official and held by alumni from other chapters of the fraternity as well as other current members from nearby schools.

Now, I am not 100% sure if this is a universal rule, but I know that it was widely known that at my college, fraternity rush events are "alcohol free." What this means is a fraternity will throw a picnic or poker tournament during the early evening which will have an end time of 8pm. After 8, the fraternity busts out the booze, or goes to a bar and will invite rushees to join them. One fraternity tried to do a true alcohol-free rush one year, and their pledge class quality reflected this poor decision.

Anyway, when there are advisers, people from the fraternity headquarters, or IFC officers present, the fraternity rush events are very strictly dry.

The first event held by the fraternity Fred was interested in was a crawfish boil to be held on the quad one Saturday afternoon. Fred suited-up in his best Hawaiian shirt and jorts and waddled his fat ass over to the party.

After arriving at the party and signing-up as an official rushee, he wasted no time speaking with some of the advisers who were flown in from across the country to establish the chapter. After introducing himself, he asked where the keg was.

An awkward silence fell over the group and several uncomfortable looks were exchanged before one advisor finally explained that rush events were dry. Fred was shocked and proceeded to express this.

It blows my mind that he managed to never figure this one out. He had seen two classes go through rush at this point, and surely he must have heard someone talking about this. Furthermore, I don't understand why he ask someone the whereabouts of a keg if no one around him was drinking.

Apparently he managed to never figure out that alcohol is not served at the official rush events, rather at the unofficial events held later in the evening. After his display, he didn’t have to worry about being invited to one of those.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Careful Where You Swing That

Despite having gone to a reputable college, Fred still does not have a basic grasp of the English language. The one thing which annoyed me above all else was his inability to correctly pronounce the word “ask.” He would pronounce it as “axe.” This lead to many situations in which I was embarrassed to introduce him to anyone I know. I didn't want people to think I was dating a retard.

This did, however, make for some hilarious conversations.

Him: “I axed him about it, but he never got back to me.”
Me: “I don’t blame him. If you went all Lizzy Borden on my ass, I wouldn’t want to talk to you again either.”

or

Him: "I'll axe tomorrow."
Me: "Did you accept a job as a lumberjack?"

or

Him: "Did you axe yet?"
Me: "Do I look like Paul Bunyan to you?"

or

Him: "I'll axe"
Me: "You'll axe what? That wood in the backyard?"

or

Him: "I axed everyone there..."
Me: "This is beginning to sound like a B horror flick."


I used to have a ton of these, but right now I can't seem to remember very many.

I asked him numerous times to please learn to speak like he had at least an iota of intelligence and class. I begged and pleaded with him on this issue for two years. At first, he would roll his eyes and repeat the sentence, emphasizing the word "ask" to the point where people around us would snicker at him.

After awhile, I suppose he realized his years of New Jersey trash upbringing could not be corrected by me, so he brought to my attention the one linguistic fact he had ever learned.

"It's a holdover, pronouncing it as 'axe.' That's how people said in in Elizabethan times."

Congratulations, Dr. Dumbass. Now I don't think you sound like a derelict, I think you sound sophisticated, like you are reciting Shakespeare to me. Oh baby, read me a sonnet.

In case you haven't noticed, no one speaks in Middle English anymore, Asstard.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

They saw him rollin', they hatin'

Shrek drove the ugliest car. Bright teal circa 1990 station wagon. Yuck! To make matters worse, he never cleaned his car. It was filled to the brim with fast food bags and half-eaten food. There were soda spills all over the seats and every surface was sticky, squishy, slimy, or otherwise sickening. The worst part of all was the foul stench that hit me like a brick wall every time I opened the car door. I can’t even begin to describe what it smelled like – it is unlike anything I have ever encountered.

I loathed riding in the nasty-wagon. It was repulsive on the inside, and humiliating on the outside. At a school where everyone drove a nice car, the teal nasty-wagon stuck-out like a sore thumb. I would never want Shrek to drive me and my friends anywhere in the nasty thing (side note: it was his mother’s old car, and she gave it to him because she bought a newer model of the same station wagon in the same color – how tasteful). I would suck it up and call a cab before I would ask him for a ride.

After we broke up, I would start to feel nauseous every time I saw the nasty-wagon. Partly because I remembered how sickeningly filthy it was and partly because the thought of Shrek made me sick to my stomach (really gross psychosomatic problem I had for a bit).

Given my situation, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I got word that Shrek was leaving school. I could walk to class and not worry about running into him and having to awkwardly avert my eyes and hope he didn’t try to talk to me. I could eat in the dining hall and not look up to see that he was sitting at the next table. I didn’t avoid bars that I thought he would go to, I didn’t get nervous every time I walked past his frat house.

Three weeks after his departure, I was the happiest I had been in years. To celebrate, I had a me party with some girlfriends at the usual bar. On the way back home, I looked out the window of the cab as we came around the corner of fraternity row. From a few blocks away, I could see the nasty-wagon parked out in front of his frat house under a street light. I started to feel dizzy and short of breath. Then, as we were right in front of it, I noticed that it appeared to have been in a pretty bad accident.

As soon as I got back, I made everyone go back over to look at it some more. Sure enough, the front end of it was smashed. I assume that he could not afford to get it fixed to go home, so he left it at school. Or maybe it was totaled and he just didn’t have time to go through the whole insurance thing (how could he not have time? It’s not like he had a job or class or anything…).

Over the next few weeks, I made a point to walk a little slower when I passed by the nasty-wagon and laugh.

Apparently, others (I later found out, others = his own fraternity brothers, but that is another loser-ex worthy story that I won’t go in to right now) shared my contempt for Shrek.* During the rest of my time in college, I saw the gradual evidence that his car was the target of someone’s on-going vandalism project.

Each window had been smashed out, tires: slashed, headlights: busted, several vulgarities scratched and/or painted over the bright teal body, insides: destroyed. The grand finale was the morning I walked by his car and saw that the hood and the area around the car was black like someone had finally decided to blow it up. Who knew his own frat brothers would go all Carrie Underwood on his ass?

As much as I disapprove of such acts, I have to admit seeing his car in this shape made me feel a little better every time I walked by.

I would imagine that it is no longer there.

* His fraternity brothers couldn’t stand him anymore by the time he left and made this no secret to the rest of campus. The best part about this is the pledge class he wasn’t there to meet (rush was during the time he was leaving) all know him as “Shrek: the asshole.” It makes me almost not hate his fraternity anymore. Almost.

Friday, May 18, 2007

The Tiki God(father)*

Anyone who knows me knows I love costume parties. Unfortunately, the only time I have the opportunity to go to one anymore is on Halloween. But, back in college, there were always sorority and fraternity theme parties going on so I got to put together a costume about twice a month.

Shrek was not a fan of costume parties and would often bail out of going to mine at the last minute. Several times, he would listen to me all week carry on about how excited I was for the party, nod and smile, then wait until an hour before the buses left the night of the event to tell me he was too tired/busy/sick/whatever to accompany me. This would piss the hell out of me and I would go to the parties anyway and spend the night macking on his friends (you’ve got to appreciate the mature, healthy relationship we had).

Then the day I never expected arrived: the day of a party rolled around and Shrek had not bailed on me yet. The theme: Mafia Madness. Shrek and I spent the afternoon at the costume store to find accessories and such to wear to the party. I was stoked when I found some cute mid-sized squirt guns that I would later fill with a bottle of vodka. I also found a hobby horse for pretty cheap that I could cut the head off of and carry around.

Shrek was not impressed with my awesome finds. He told me the squirt guns were a dumb idea and wouldn’t work. Apparently no one would get the horse head either (because, you know, Godfather movies are obscure). In addition to not liking the items I had picked for myself, he did not like the ones I picked for him—a gangster hat, suspenders, a water gun. He spent a very long time milling around the store, ignoring any suggestions I made.

At last, he found something that caught his interests: a bamboo walking cane. No, really. I explained that this really didn’t fit in with the theme. And he insisted it was a good idea. He proceeded to buy an entire luau get-up. The explanation he offered was that he was a retired mafia boss living in Florida. Huh?

I consider myself an expert in costume parties and as such, I feel that my advice is superior to anyone else's on the matter. One thing that I always think about when I put together a costume is “Will people look at this and instantly know what it is?” A costume should not need a story to go with it. It should be obvious what the wearer is trying to be. If someone asks you what your costume is, that means you failed at dressing yourself.

When we arrived at the party, everyone loved my horse head and totally coveted my vodka guns, especially when the lame-ass bar decided to crack-down on the underage drinking at the party (which is unheard of in New Orleans).

People at the party looked at him like he was retarded. I drank myself into oblivion via my vodka guns (which I refused to share with Shrek because he told me it was a dumb idea). Very few people even bothered to ask about his costume. The ones who did asked if he was told the wrong theme.

By the end of the night, Shrek was running around telling people that the reason he was in a Hawaiian get-up was because I am a bitch and thought it would be funny to get him to come to the party in an inappropriate costume, so I told him it was a luau-themed party. Right. Because I totally wanted people to think I am dating a retard.

Someone went home very sober and very alone that night.

* We had some fun naming this entry. CCG was the creator of the title used, but a close second was one I came up with: "Say 'Hello' to my (retarded) little friend." Clearly, this is the inferior of the two titles, but it merits a mention anyway.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Cleanliness is Godliness

I will admit that I hate art. Not “the arts”—I enjoy music and dance and theater and have actually participated heavily in all of the above. I hate visual art. I have some hanging in the apartment because I hate bare walls more but I am physically unable to appreciate sculptures or paintings or galleries or displays or anything else.

However, if I hate modern art more than I hate the general category of art. By modern art, I am referring to ambiguous images spattered on canvas or created out of clay or cans or dead bodies or whatever “artists” are calling “medium” today.

Keep that in mind…

The first time Officer/Gentleman was living in Savannah (before OIF III), we weren’t very serious. There was an intimacy to our relationship that came from knowing each other for so long, and having dated seriously in college and when we were together it was like we had never broken up, but by virtue of living 1,362 miles from each other (before he went to Iraq), it couldn’t be that serious. I visited O/G in Savannah three times before he got deployed.

The first time I visited Savannah, it was June. His apartment was both messy and dirty. You could see the dirt on the floor of his shower. There were crumbs permanently affixed to his counters. Worst of all, there was a pile of plastic blue Super Wal-Mart bags that covered a 3-square foot area in the corner of his living room. It was about two feet high. I cringed when I thought about what sort of critters were living underneath that pile. But being young, foolish, in love and desperate to get our relationship back on track, I chose not to comment on them or the general condition of the apartment.

Then I visited in July. His apartment was filthy, as I expected (O/G was never a tidy person), the shower floor was black, so was the kitchen floor, there were chunks of pizza crust, dust, and dirt stuck in the carpets, there were six empty shampoo bottles in the shower. The pile of plastic blue Super Wal-Mart bags had now spilled out to encompass a five-square foot area of the room. Still about two feet high. This time, I decided to ask about the bags.

It’s just handy to have some plastic bags around for stuff.

Granted, but you clearly go to Wal-mart often, so the supply looks to be renewable.

The last time I visited was right before I went to work on the campaign in late August. The living conditions were deplorable. As in, if I had called his chain of command, he’d probably still be pulling staff duty. Luckily I wasn't staying there--we had planned a getaway to the beach and were just swinging by to pick up his stuff. The pile of plastic bags had overtaken a third of his living room. But it was no longer justified by the necessity of plastic bags.

It’s modern art.

He was so very proud.

We talked about getting together after the election but we could never seem to make plans. I think it was my subconscious telling me to stay the hell away.

How to Never Get in My Pants, Ever

I met a guy at the bar last week who was so awful, I am going to use him to illustrate the best method to not get in my pants.

1) Make sure you are only attractive when I am drunk, in a dark bar, and missing one contact. Once we got somewhere with lighting, I realized this bargoyle had an uncanny resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite.

2) Have a lame-ass job. IT guy is not a sexy profession.

3) Spill your vodka tonic down my white shirt. Classy.

4) Tell me that since you’re separated from you friends and live far away you’ll have to come home with me. Um, no you won’t.

5) When I go across the street with my sister and company to eat a drunk meal, leave the table before we order, then yell at me when you get back for not ordering for you. How the hell am I supposed to know what you like?

6) Do not offer to pay for your drunk meal. Look, ideally, you would have offered to split the check with the other gentleman at the table. Second best would be you at least offered to pay for my food. Acceptable would be if you paid for your own. You did none of the above.

7) Ask again if you can come home with me. No. This resulted in my running in a cab and slamming the door.

8) Facebook me. Now I can see that you lied about your age. Nice.

9) Ask me if I want to go out to eat lunch in the park this week. Lunch in the park = cheap = no. If you want to redeem yourself at this point, you should take me somewhere nice. Or not. You’d probably make me pay anyway. Cheapskate.

10) When I turn you down, ask me if I want to meet up with you this weekend. Again, that would be a big fat NO. Furthermore, if I wouldn’t give you a lunch hour during the week, what makes you think you can have a Saturday night? I don’t give those away to just anyone.

So there you have it. At this point, there is absolutely nothing Napoleon could do that would get him in my pants. If you want similar results then, by all means, please follow these steps.

The Paper Trail

For reasons which are about to become apparent, I am going to go into as little detail as possible about this situation.

When Fred was in college, he lived in an apartment with three other guys. None of these young men were particularly responsible and often neglected to buy items for the apartment such as paper towels, dishwasher detergent, hand soap and, worst of all, toilet paper.

In fact, they would never buy toilet paper. They would sometimes steal it from the dorms across the street when there was a box of it sitting out in the lobby. However, this box was often either guarded or not present (side note: this was still unacceptable because the rolls of TP from the dorm were the ones that are about a foot in diameter and do not fit in standard toilet paper holders like the one in their bathroom, ergo it had to sit on the floor which was disgusting).

At one point, it had been about 2 weeks since the toilet paper had run out and no one was making any effort to replenish the supply. I would just walk back to my apartment any time I had to go.

Fred, on the other hand, came up with his own method of handling this problem. It involved using either notebook paper or magazines. He had a special art to it, but I am not talking about that.

After awhile, it became tedious to keep walking back to my place, so I started carrying my own TP in my handbag. This was also a good idea since a lot of the bars I went to would run out in the middle of the night.

One morning I was over at Fred’s place when he got up and announced that he was going to the bathroom. I wasn’t paying much attention (I was hung-over) until I heard him rummaging through my handbag. I immediately sat up and asked him what the hell he was doing. He explained that he was getting TP. I was pissed. I told him there was no way in hell I was letting him use it and that he needed to march his fat ass to the store and buy his own roll. I was sick of having to even carry it around. He shrugged and went to the bathroom and presumably used a magazine. He continued to do this for a few more weeks until I finally told his mother and she flipped out at him.

To this day, I am still absolutely disgusted that he would continue to not buy toilet paper for months because the fact that he could just use alternate methods for free. This is the epitome of cheapness. I have never, in my life, seen anything as stingy as this.

Yummy yummy yummy

Ex 4 (who from here on out shall be referred to as “Fred Flintstone” due to the fact they had the same physique) had the absolute filthiest apartment I have ever seen. Let me back-up a little.

While we were in college, Fred lived next door to me with three other guys. They were all filthy and took pride in their filth. At one point, there was a red mold growing on the wall in their bathroom, but it was killed a few weeks later by a yellow mold which overtook it. The apartment did not once, in an entire year, see a cleaning product. The bathroom permanently smelled like vomit, crap and beer. There were ripped-up magazines (from when they decided not to waste money on TP) covering the floor and empty bottles of beer in the shower (one of his roommates was a raging alcoholic).

His roommates would sit around and brag about how messy it was. Gross. He finally did some “deep cleaning” at the end of the year. The apartment was a million times cleaner than I had ever seen it and it was still foul. His mother came to move him out after said deep cleaning and cried when she saw the place. She was really quite distraught that her son had been living in squalor.

But little Fred grew up and graduated from college. He moved away, got a job and an apartment. I assumed that he would really take pride in having his own place and keep it clean. I convinced myself that the only reason the other apartment was messy is because he had 3 other roommates who encouraged it. Not only that, but it’s easier to pass off responsibility for a dirty place when there are 3 other people to blame.

As is the case about the overly optimistic assumptions I make about men, I was wrong.

It was only a matter of weeks before the apartment was even worse than the old one. The bathroom was never cleaned, the kitchen had dirty dishes lining all free counter space and half-eaten food was sitting throughout the apartment. The combination of these things resulted in his apartment smelling like rotting ass. I even gave him cleaning supplies for Christmas (along with other things – this was really more of a gag gift) to encourage him to clean his nasty-ass apartment. Didn’t work.

Several times I suggested he get a maid service to come every two weeks. He would flip out and insist that he was capable of keeping his own living space clean. Bullshit.

I will be the first to admit that I am a messy person. I am not, however, a dirty person. Half-eaten food is something that really grosses the hell out of me. I am insane about dirty dishes too (don’t even ask how many times in college I was the one to crack and wash everyone else’s dishes). So, naturally, I would never want to cook in his kitchen. At first, I would help him clean-up the kitchen so it was clean enough for me to make dinner. After awhile, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I never wanted to eat anything that had been in that hell hole.

This resulted in us eating out a lot more, which led to Fred bitching about how much money he was spending on going out.

Well, dumbass, if you could have taken 30 minutes out of your busy week to do some dishes and wipe down the counters, you could have had all the cheap home-cooked meals you could stomach.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Say my name

I’m not going to lie – it kind of pisses me off when a guy I am dating cannot pronounce and spell my name correctly. I understand that I do not have the most common last name, but after 3 months of going out with me, he should really figure it out!

All it takes is paying attention to my outgoing voicemail message, calling me at work, looking at my e-mail address, reading my business card or JUST ASKING! Not that hard.

Even worse than someone not knowing how to spell my name is someone not knowing how to spell his own. I briefly dated a guy (same one who lied about where he went to school) whose middle name was Michael. He was born with this name, so the argument that it was new cannot be made. He was also in his 20s and not (to the best of my knowledge) retarded.

One day, he saw the name "Michael" written out somewhere and asked "oh, is that really how you spell it?" Um, yeah Dude.

I asked what other way he thought it was spelled. Apparently he got the "e" and the "a" mixed-up. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought maybe his parents are bad spellers and named him "***** Micheal", so I had him check his license. Sure enough, "***** Michael."

I honestly don’t know how he had gotten through life that long without knowing how to spell his own name. I mean, isn’t this something everyone knows how to do by kindergarten? Furthermore, you'd think he would have seen it SOMEWHERE before he reached his twenties.

It still blows my mind that he managed to not know how to spell "Michael" despite it being on his driver’s license, birth certificate, high school diploma, tax forms, voter registration, bank account and basically EVERYWHERE else. Dumbass.

Jailbird

My ex (the one who couldn't order wine), who I think I will call Clueless Ex from now on, was never exactly the most thoughtful person. When we went on vacation, he didn't book our room until about three days ahead of time, by which point there were no decent places to stay and we ended up in a crappy motel with uncomfortable beds. And then there was the time that he bought me a really nice earrings (really, they were gorgeous) for my birthday, but forgot that my ears weren't pierced. (He took me to get my ears pierced the next day, claiming that it was the second half of my present.) But this time, he really screwed himself over.

A few weeks ago, I got a call from a friend who was stuck in Bumfuck, Tennessee with Clueless Ex--because Clueless Ex was in jail! Apparently, while he was living in California (for about a year), he managed to get seven speeding tickets, none of which he paid. So, they suspended his license. I don't know if Clueless Ex didn't know this, or just didn't care, but whatever the reason, he was driving around with a suspended license. Well, he and some friends had gone up to Tennessee for a friend's bachelor party. Apparently, Ex acted like a dick the whole time they were there, but that's nothing out of the ordinary. On the way back home, he got pulled over and was arrested for driving with a suspended license. The thought of him in handcuffs makes me giggle like a little girl. The only thing that could have made it better was if they had kept him overnight.

While the whole idea of Clueless Ex being in jail fills me with glee, I think the more interesting part is the fact that he managed to forget to pay seven speeding tickets. I mean, who does that? How is it possible to forget to pay that many tickets? Or maybe he didn't pay them on purpose...did he think there wouldn't be any consequences? And also who gets seven speeding tickets in a year? I think that's a record. You would think that after about three tickets you would get the message that you need to slow your ass down. Tickets aren't cheap and neither is the inevitable increase in insurance (alliteration?) prices.

God, Clueless Ex is a dumbass.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Locked Out

I think that it's about time for me to make another Loser-Ex post. I don’t have too many stories to tell about my recent ex's because they have either been nice guys that I don’t really have any bad stories to tell or I didn’t date them long enough to have any stories other than just a description of their general douchey-ness. So I am going to share a story about a friend’s loser-ex.


Ok, now this friend is a sorority sister of mine and she is absolutely beautiful and deserves the very best. Well, I was dating a guy, let’s call him Fratty Ex, and I decided it would be really cute to set my friend up with his best friend so we could go on double dates. Well, I thought this guy was really nice and that he and my friend would be perfect together. He dressed really well, was from the best part of Houston, went to one of the best private schools in Houston, and was in the best fraternity on campus--all this was important to me at the time, I've since become less elitist. What I didn’t know was his habit of getting ridiculously, outrageously, insanely drunk.


Well, he and my friend had been out a few times and things seemed to be going well. So, she and I went with a group of friends out to a bar to meet up with him and his friends (this was a few days after Fratty Ex and I broke up, but he was back in Houston getting a root canal, so I wasn’t worried about running into him). Well, when we got there, he was already passed out on the bar. After a little while, my friend decided that he needed to go home. I was the driver that night, so I drove my friend and the loser-ex back to his house where she was going to put him in bed and then call me to come pick her up when she finished getting him calmed down. So far so good. I dropped them off and then went back to the bar. After about a half an hour, I checked my phone and saw that I had about ten missed calls from her. I went outside to call her back. When I got a hold of her, she told me that was hiding from the police behind a truck in a big pile of gravel. I went back inside the bar and collected a fraternity brother of his to come help me with whatever was going on. So, the fraternity brother and I drove over to the drunkard’s house (which was also Fratty ex’s house) and I called my friend again. By now, they were in the parking lot of the CVS nearby. I drove there and parked across the street and the fraternity brother and I walked over to the parking lot. When we got there, the guy was laying on the pavement covered in blood and my friend was standing over him crying. I started freaking out, thinking he was dead, but then he started moving. So I calmed down a bit. My friend then told me what had happened.


Well, after I had dropped them off, they were trying to get in the house, but the guy, in his drunkenness thought he didn’t have his keys (which it later turned out had been in his pocket the whole time). So, he decided to break a window instead, by punching his arm through it. Unfortunately, the house is a duplex and the landlord lives in the other half of the house, and he had gotten mixed up and broken the landlord’s window instead of his own. The landlord’s alarm went off and so the guy decided to run and my friend had to run after him. That’s how they ended up hiding in a pile of gravel. My friend told me later that while they were laying in the gravel, he kept trying to cuddle with her, while soaked in blood. And then they went over to the CVS parking lot, which is about when I showed up.


Well, my friend, the fraternity brother, and I were trying to get him up off the ground, but he kept yelling that he would only listen to Fratty Ex. As I said, Fratty Ex and I had just broken up and I really didn’t want to call him. I eventually gave up and called him at like 2 in the morning when he had had a root canal not twelve hours before. Fratty Ex (thankfully) told his friend to listen to me. After that it got a little easier. The three of us got him up off the ground and into my car. We drove over to their house, where there were about three police cars. The moment we pulled up at the house, the drunk friend sprang out of my car and ran into the backyard where he tripped and passed out. The fraternity brother ran after him and so my friend and I were left to deal with the cops by ourselves. My friend was crying and freaking out too much to talk, so basically I was the only one able to talk to the cops. The landlord was actually really cool about it, he was just happy that it hadn’t been somebody trying to break in. Well, the landlord wanted me to take the drunk guy to the hospital to get stitches. So, my friend, the fraternity brother, and I got the guy back into the car where he proceeded to bleed all over everything (to this day, I still have a six inch blood stain on the back seat of my car) and went to the emergency room. But once there, we could not get him out of the car. He simply latched onto the edge of my car seats and refused to move. After about 45 minutes we gave up and just drove him home.


The next day, he woke up and called my friend to ask why he was covered in blood.

Every rose has its thorn

The summer before I started college, I dated a "nice guy". He was nice--he had a job, he had a car and he could score beer from his older friends. What else does a girl need at 18? He wasn't exactly ambitious or particularly attractive but he probably had the best personality of any man I have dated--he was happy and funny and completely worshipped me. It was great.

To sweeten the deal, his parents had a time-share condo at the beach and he invited me on vacation with him. When you are 18, there is nothing better than a week at the beach. It wasn't a big condo so we would have to sleep on the pull-out couch in the living room, but other than going to dinner with the family a few times, we were free to do as we pleased. Everything was set for it to be the best summer ever.

That is, until we got to the beach and I realized that sleeping on the pull-out couch meant my suitcase stayed in the living room. And since the TV and VCR (this was when DVDs were still prohibitively expensive) were in the living room, as well as the door to the condo, people would be around my things all the time. This was before I was as meticulous (OCD) as I am now, but I made a real effort to repack my things every morning so I didn't make a mess in the common area.

One day, we returned from a morning of outlet shopping to find his mom and stepdad sitting on the couch watching TV. His dad was holding my round brush.

I should note that I had really short hair that summer. The day before graduation, I chopped my long hair to an earlobe-length messy/choppy style (this was about the same time Michelle Williams did it on Dawson's Creek). My stylist sold me a round brush for short hair that was more spherical than cylindrical--it sort of looked like a microphone with bristles.

I'll admit this brush was definitely interesting looking, but it had been packed in a closed suitcase! Meaning, someone had to open my suitcase and look through it to get my roundbrush. Someone being my boyfriend's stepfather.

I was so shocked I didn't know what to say. It was probably the creepiest thing I had experienced in my 18 years of living. It's not that I had anything scandalous in there--just some swimsuits and shorts and tshirts--I was much more low maintenance at this point in my life--but it still felt incredibly invasive. In fact, I think it was creepier because I had nothing scandalous in there so he was getting his jollies off some lip gloss, khaki shorts, pastel tshirts and just plain cotton underwear (like I said--I was much more low maintenance back then).

The worst thing about it though, is that the stepfather was completely unapologetic, as if it was completely normal to go through your son's girlfriend's things. He just looked at me and said "what's this?". My hairbrush, I told him. Oh. And then nothing, but not an awkward nothing that would suggest my boyfriend or his mom thought the stepdad was creepy, just an everyday occurrence nothing.

I told the boyfriend that I was hungry and wanted to go down to the boardwalk for lunch RIGHT NOW. After that, I started locking my suitcase in the car when we left the condo. I'm sure it looked weird as hell, but not nearly as weird as his perv stepdad sniffing my underwear. Besides, it was almost the end of the week anyways so I only had to do this two or three times.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

The War on Tourism

I hate tourists. I hated tourists in college and I hate them even more now. They walk slow, stand on the left side of the escalator, ask me for directions to the Washington Monument despite the fact it is visible from where they are standing, and generally piss me off.

There is only one thing I like about tourists and that is their willingness to buy me a ton of drinks. I found out very quickly in college that I can get a group of three men in town for a business conference to buy my entire sorority drinks all night if I just flirt a little.

Stupid men always try to tag a local on their business trips. Haven't they figured out that we're on to them? I can't even begin to tell you how many times I have gotten tanked on top-shelf alcohol on some out-of-towner's tab, only to sneak out of the bar while he was in the bathroom.

It's a game (and a fun one at that). But, one thing that really pisses me off is when married men think that a business trip is their time to go cheat on their wives. In my last entry, I bitched about Beefcake's infidelity, but at least Beefcake wasn't married and pulling crap like this.

Last week I was at a bar with my sister and we had multiple married tourists hit on us. A few of them at least had the foresight to take off their wedding bands before coming to the bar (although when they kept touching their ring fingers, and had a tan line from where their rings were, it was kind of a giveaway), but one didn't even bother to do that.

With his damn wedding band on, he had the audacity to ask me "where are we going after this?" Of course, I told him "seeing as you're married, we're not going anywhere together." To which he responded something crass about a two-state rule. I looked him dead in the eye and told him he disgusted me.

I hope these wives wise-up to their husbands and divorce their asses and take all their money.

This is why I plan to have a fidelity clause in my pre-nup.

Somebody told me

I've said this a thousand times before, but it bears repeating: Washington men are douche bags. Let's call this week's offender "Beefcake."

I met Beefcake through some mutual friends at a bar one night. We ended up exchanging cards and he called me within two days to ask me on a date. We went out to dinner and then to a bar and things went pretty well. I even ignored my easy-out call (Confession: every time I go on a date I am unsure about, I have a friend of mine call me an hour in. If things aren't going well, I pretend that I need to leave immediately to attend to an emergency. If things are going well, I either let the call roll to voicemail, or answer and tell the caller that everything is OK.).

We went on a second date, and that's when I started to get annoyed. I felt like he was completely insincere and that everything he said to me was a line he had delivered to many dates before me. I was slightly skeezed-out by the whole situation. A few days later, I said something in passing about Beefcake to one of his friends.

The friend then mentioned something about Beefcake's girlfriend. My jaw hit the floor. I asked if he was absolutely sure that Beefcake had a girlfriend. He was. They had been dating for 8 months and the friend had seen them together the night before. I explained that I had gone out with him twice and definitly not as friends.

I couldn't believe what a fricking skeeze-ball Beefcake was.The next day, Beefcake called and asked if I wanted to go to dinner later in the week. I told him I would call him back, but never did. I didn't even want to ask about his girlfriend because I was so put-off by the whole situation. I refuse to be a part of Beefcake's harem. I just wonder how many other women he is dating on the side.

I hope they all meet and kick his ass.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Wash that man right out of my hair

In honor of Sanjaya getting kicked off American Idol last night, we figured we'd have an open forum on the hair sins of our many exes. If you want to discuss the hair sins of an ex, please feel free to contribute by emailing us your stories. Or post them in the comments. That works too.

PS I hated Sanjaya. His hair annoyed me.

CCG
I am pretty particular about hair. All hair, but since I don't date women, this post will only be about men's hair. I decided last night, while flipping through Cosmo and watching TV, that I only like men with low-maintenance hair. I don't like "chickenhead", I don't like men with long hair, I don't like men who use excessive products in their hair.

I pay $75 for a haircut. I use $25 shampoo and conditioner and designer straightening cream with my $150 flat iron. Let's not even talk about my highlights. But this is okay because my hair is gorgeous and I am a girl. I don't like girly men. A man should pay no more than $15 for a haircut. He should spend no more than 30 seconds doing his hair in the morning.

My preferred male hair look might just be bald. On the right body, a bald head is really hot (see also: Bruce Willis). It is also manly and I go for really masculine men. But if a man isn't going to go all the way, I like it as short and low-maintenance as possible (officer/gentleman has the best hair possible--he buzzes it at Ranger Joe's and then doesn't mess with it).

There hair sins of my exes are numerous: ponytails, bad coloring, excessive product use, waiting too long for a haircut. But generally speaking:

- No, your ponytail was not hot. Chicks did not dig you with long hair. I never knew you when you had a ponytail but judging from the fact that your hair is now sort greasy and corse, I seriously doubt the "I got out of the shower, put my wet hair in a ponytail that trailed down my back and got on my motorcycle" was a good look for you. Your hair probably had nasty trailer park split ends and was greasy-looking and made you look like you work at the sleazy motorcycle repair shop. You are a frickin' attorney and a very impressive one at that. You have a great job and make great money and look incredible in your Brooks Brothers suits. I thank God you realized that and cut your hair. I also thank God there are no pictures of the offending ponytail that I have to look at.

- No, I do not have any hair gel you may use. If we go on vacation, you are obligated to bring your own grooming products. I don't ask you for a tampon. Also, I don't even use hair gel! Look at my hair--is it sticky and tacky like yours? Then chances are good I do not use your nasty Xtreme Sport hair gel.

- No, your hair does not look good "highlighted" with a bottle of peroxide. It looks brassy, damaged, splotchy and orange. You are very attractive with dark hair--that is why I am dating you. Please don't change that without consulting me first. And NEVER take hair tips from your friend Joe.

- You need a hair cut. Don't even take the time to ask me, just go to supercuts. Chances are if you noticed today, I noticed around this time last week.

- You need to shave. See how red my face and cheeks are? I am not flushed with passion.

- And a final note on body hair. I go through great discomfort and expense to remove mine. You are a big fan of when I do this. The absolute least you can do is take your clippers to the three Bs. Or I know my spa does mens waxing too--I can make two appointments at once. Also, hair coming out of your nose and ears may be a fact of life but for heaven's sake TRIM IT! There is no way in hell I am going to make out with you when I am afraid the monster coming out of your nose is going to bite me in the face.

RGB
I have been fortunate in that no one I have dated actually had bleached hair while we were dating. I did however have a very close call. Shrek was from an area that was rather, um, what's the tactful way of saying "trashy," again? Oh, yeah, rural. Shrek was from a very rural area.

His senior year of high school (before I knew him -- we didn't meet until college), he decided, for some reason completely unknown to me, that he should bleach his hair. Shrek had naturally dark brown hair, so bleached-white was not exactly the best color on him. But nevertheless, he let his 9 year-old cousin do the honor of combing bleach through his hair over the bathtub.

She missed a few spots, but they "weren't noticeable." I really don't know if they were or not because, I did not know him at the time. However, I would imagine that dark brown spots in a white-blond head of hair are, in fact, rather noticeable. But, that's neither here nor there.

I guess the "ladies" of the area in which he grew-up have different taste in men than I do because, Shrek insisted that they totally threw themselves at him even more than usual for the time that his hair was bleached (I think this is a load of crap. Shrek was pretty delusional about his own attractiveness). He therefore rationalized that bleached hair looked good on him. I am grateful I did not know him at the time.

- Oh, and Ex 2 (Fruit Fly) had blue hair before I met him. He wanted to dye it again while we were dating. That got a big "hell no" from me.

- A note on the nose hair issue: please, for the love of all that is good, get some nose hair clippers. I hate when guys decide to take care of their nose hair with a full size pair of scissors -- that's some scary stuff!

- Don't use my shampoo. It was expensive.

- If your hairstyle requires gel, you have a women's haircut.

CMS

Now, I want to preface this by saying that I am pretty open to all kinds of hairstyles in guys, with the obvious exception of super-gelled oh-my-god-are-you-in-the-mafia type hair. I even have a certain affinity for kind of longish, shaggy hair—but not the emo look-at-me-I’m-so-alternative shaggy hair with the side-swept bangs and (probably) streaks of some color not normally found in nature. (Seriously, emo kids make me want to either rip my own eyes out or kidnap them and lock them in a room with puppies and kittens and butterflies while playing nothing but Jimmy Buffet until they suddenly develop the urge to join the cheerleading squad.) But anyway, the point of this is that it’s pretty difficult to have hair so bad that it makes me mad.

But that doesn’t mean that it’s not possible. One of my ex’s (the one who didn’t know how to order wine, if you remember him) had bad hair when we were actually dating. He always gelled it so it stood straight up a la Ryan Cabrera. He also had a weird hairline—it was really uneven and sort of squiggled across his forehead. I guess that wasn’t really his fault, but he managed to emphasize it with his stupid gelled hair. Anyway, his hair was bad back then, but not bad enough as to be a deal breaker.

However, I saw him a few months ago, and his hair has taken a turn for the worst. Apparently, he thought it was a good idea to dye his hair the same color as his skin. So now when he gels his hair straight up, you can’t tell where his forehead ends and his hair begins. His hair looks like an extension of his forehead—like the Elephant Man or something. Just trust me, its bad. To add to this, he has decided to try to grow a full beard, but his facial hair is really patchy so he has weird bald spots all through his beard. It looks like the beard a malnourished hobo would grow.

-As a final note, I’d like to say that I don’t have a problem with facial hair per se. On some people, it looks really good. But please, please, for the love of God and all that is holy, if your facial hair grows unevenly or not at all in some places, shave. Seriously, it’s a sign from God that you are not supposed to have facial hair. Just embrace your babyface and move on.