Adventures in Etiquette Part Deux

As trivial as it seems, every time I think about this story I get angry. The one time I tried to tell this story to someone, I couldn't keep from yelling and cursing at the end of it. It just pisses me off that much. The thing is, I never made a big deal about it at the time. Maybe I did. I think I have tried to block anything pertaining to it out of my mind.

Sure, Fred had disappointed me in the past, but I was sure that on this day, he wouldn't. It was the best time of year in the best city in the world. We were going out to brunch, which is the best meal ever. This should have been perfect. Everything was lined-up so that a screw-up seemed impossible. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

We arrived at the small historic hotel where I had enjoyed many a brunch in the past. We were seated at an outside table with a prime view. Fred was even dressed reasonably well (could have been better, but I was willing to take what I could get). Everything was going so well. Then, fate threw Fred a curve ball.

The menu had been changed from à la carte to prix fixe. Fred did not have nice things growing up, so an unfamiliar menu with some fancy French words at the top really confused the hell out of him. I could see this would end horribly, so I explained to him what "prix fixe" means, and even went through with him and picked out what he would order. Crisis averted. Except, not really. Oh, I wish it had been that simple.

The waitress returned to take our order and Fred began. He picked his appetizer. So far so good. Perhaps Fred was going to actually go a day without embarassing himself as well as those around him. He chose his salad. Ok, still good.

That's included in the $49.99, I presume?

Wait, what? Did he really just ask that? I was mortified. Yes, dumbass, FRICKING FIXED PRICE!!! HOW HARD IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND?!?! IT EVEN SAYS 'SELECT ONE' UNDER EACH DAMN HEADING!!!!! AAAAHHHHH!!! Sorry. I told you this story really makes me angry.

How the hell could he have screwed this up? Everytime I imagine him saying this, I want to punch someone. Not only that, but he said it in the most pompous voice ever. Fred had this habit of ordering his food in a really pompous manner (think sterotypical butler voice). I think he thought it made him sound classy. Except it really just made him sound even trashier. Fred had a way of handling every situation without showing one iota of class. There was no changing this; he was completely hell-bent on looking like a tool.

But really, was he not listening to any of the past 10 minutes I spent explaining the menu to him? Or was he just too much of a douche to believe anything I told him? Why the hell did he not trust what I had told him? I was beyond offended that he wouldn't listen to me (but not nearly as offended as I was humiliated by his behavior).

The waitress made a face that said "who let you out of the trailer park?" as she rolled her eyes and sheepishly told him that each course is, in fact, included in the prix fixe menu.

CMS, I feel your pain. I never knew true humiliation until someone in the service industry looked at me with contempt.

You're calling too late

The douche-baggery of the men in Washington never fails to amaze me. I had a rather close encounter with it in a phone call yesterday afternoon. Annoyed, I decided that I was going to be an even bigger douche back.

work line rings, a local number I don't recognize shows up on the call ID

Me: *insert name here*
Some guy: Hi, this is Chris, we met at the bar last Tuesday
Me: Oh, hi. How have you been?
Some guy: Great, look, hey, I was calling to see if you wanted to go out for drinks at *some probably lame-ass bar I've never heard of and have already forgotten the name of* tomorrow after work. It's right near your office.
Me: Wait, do you mean "last Tuesday" as in two days ago or as in nine days ago?
Some guy: It was last week, so I guess that's nine.
Me: And you're calling me now...
Some guy: Yeah, sorry I've been really busy

I don't even go into the "you're not too busy to make a 5 minute call" speech. I don't even go into the "If you're so busy, why don't you try planning in advance rather than asking me out the day before" deal. I don't even want to put up with this crap.

Me: I'm going to be honest with you, Chris. I really don't go out with people who don't show some enthusiasm about seeing me. I am getting the impression that your original plans canceled on you. I am not going to be your fall-back. I've got to get back to work now. It was nice hearing from you.

I hang up.

There's no doubt in my mind that this was a bitchy move on my part. But, really, if a guy can't make the call within a week (and even that is probably too long), then he really isn't worth my time. Think of getting my card as getting an offer to take me out. Just bear in mind that this offer expires after seven days.

You're always dressed to kill...

If I were to make a dating application for myself right now, one of the first sections would be about dressing appropriately. I would give a list of situations which could possible arise and ask what would be the right outfit for a guy to wear in each situation. There would also be questions like "what color shoes would you wear with a navy blue suit" and other items assessing their basic knowledge of not looking like a douche.

In fact, that's not a bad idea. Perhaps I really ought to put together a dating application.

Every guy I've dated has had a wardrobe that disappoints. Boris had the "field master" sweatshirt, Fruit Fly had a dog collar, Shrek had the Big Dogs shirts and Fred, despite hearing my problems with the previous three, wasn't much better.

The wardrobe issue epitomizes my problems with men. I put entirely too much effort into things they will only take for granted . I put thought and consideration into my appearance. If I didn't, I'm sure said men would never have been attracted to me int he first place. Sure, I understand that this is not what makes my relationships work. But, honestly, if I put the same effort into my appearance that these men put into theirs, they never would have approached me in the first place. The men I've dated just come to expect that I will not look like I rolled out of bed. They assume that I will go through all that trouble. And yet, not one of them ever bothered to think about how I feel about the fact they can't be bothered to put aside 10 minutes to find something to wear that is clean.

I can't even begin to go into all the times I've straightened my hair, curled my hair, dyed my hair, worn more skirts, worn more colors, worn more make-up, not worn my wellies, worn the lacy underwear and worn the ugly-ass sweater with the ostrich feathers (that made me get a rash around my neck) all because some loser ex-boyfriend liked that better.

But yet, not one of these guys could have cared less about what I wanted. They still wore their jorts, wore their Hawaiian shirts, wore socks with Birkenstocks (with dress pants in winter), wore pit-stained shirts, wore dog collars, wore free shirts out to dinner, wore green jeans, wore dirty underwear and countless other items which I did not approve of.

I've tried telling them, begging them, buying them clothes, showing them pictures. Everything. People say that men are clueless about dressing and want a women's opinion. Bullshit. These men are set on looking like special ed students who try to dress themselves.

I am not saying that I resent getting dressed-up for the men I date, because I certainly do not. Quite the opposite is true. I don't want to be one of those women who dresses frumpily and looks 10 years older than she actually is. I want to look pretty. I want my boyfriend to still look at me after we've been dating for 2 years and think that I am attractive.

I just want him to not want me to look at him after 6 months of dating and be embarrassed.

He's just one more

This has been sitting in my draft folder for weeks now. It's time to get it out.

I'm not the most morally sound person. I often knowingly try to do the wrong thing. Sometimes for personal gain, but usually just for my own amusement. Sure, I feel guilty about some of things I do. I mean, after I can stop laughing about them. But, it's only just a matter of time before I come up with some other ridiculous plan to do something vindictive, or just plain mean.

Obviously, my exes are often the victims of all this. I dated Shrek's fraternity brother; I stole Shrek's TV remote (the TV wouldn't turn on by pushing the button on the unit itself); I signed Fruit Fly up for about 20 free bibles to be delivered by Mormons; I prank called a guy I briefly dated in high school about 50 times (all collect calls that he actually accepted, resulting in an extra $95 on his phone bill); I projectile vomited guacamole in Boris's bathroom (OK, that wasn't intentional); I signed Fruit Fly up for a gay porn magazine; I made Shrek fail out of college (at least he said so, and I am sticking with that). There are probably even more things I could add to this list, but it's been so long I don't remember anymore.

I am good at this type of thing. It takes real talent to come up with this kind of stuff. Luckily, my exes are not nearly as good at this as I am. My most recent ex (yeah, I'm up to 4 now) is perhaps the worst. For the sake of clarity, I will refer to Ex 4 as 'Fred,' because he had the same physique as Fred Flinstone.

I had decided that I was not going to do anything vindictive this time. Partially out of respect for Fred, and partially out of a feeling that I need to handle these things in a more adult way. However, he chose not to take the high road. I can't fault him for this because I've done it so many times myself. In fact, I'm doing it right now by sharing that he did.

Fred and I dated for 2 and a half years, so obviously during this time, he had accumulated a large amount of my stuff. Well, when he bagged-up all my stuff, he decided to throw in a little surprise for me: some other girl's underwear. He might try to play the "they must have gotten mixed-in with my laundry" card, but I'm not buying it. After two and a half years, I would think he would know what kind of panties I wear. Honestly though, I found this hilarious. I mean, the idea was a good one, but the execution was awful. The underpants he chose to include were size 7 (for you guys out there, that means HUGE) and they were the kind that one purchases in packs of 10 at the grocery store. Obviously not the kind of underwear I have and obviously not quite the type of underwear that would make me jealous. I am going to refrain from writing out my judgments about the owner of these underpants. You all know what I'm thinking.

So, Fred, I am not going to even ask where you met the owner of the underpants (honestly, I don't want to know). But really, I have a bit of advice on how to pull this off better for your next ex. Go to Nordstrom and throw down the plastic for some saucy little red g-string, size small (part of me thinks you're bluffing with this one anyway). Then she'll be jealous, not humored.