To pay a last tribute to a nearby dive bar that was closing the next weekend, a bunch of friends and I went for a final night of debauchery and libations.
I was there with a few of my guy friends, and I was the only female in the bunch. One starts macking on some girl, which I support whole-heartedly. The boy needed some attention and she was certainly cute and lively enough to be a good fit for him. Bravo!
And then of course, a few of the guys get catty. My friend had picked up the girl in 10 minutes. I felt a challenge coming on.
These guys didn't think I could pick up a guy in 10 minutes or less. Psh. Watch this.
I saw a cute guy in a red shirt. I made eye contact, smiled, and looked away. This happened once more, and I had no doubts the guy took notice. Less than five minutes later, he was up at the bar getting a drink. He slipped right behind me at the only openish spot on the bar where the bartenders could get to him.
I made my move by slowly backing up and laughing at a joke one of the guys told. (It was opportune!) Bumping him, I apologized, and turned back around.
Don't get me wrong - I was blatantly picking this guy up. It was not the least bit hidden from either of us, though my friends may have missed it. But I wasn't expecting quite this response...
I had my back turned to red-shirt guy, and was back discussing who knows what with my friends when I felt it. Red-shirt guy pinched my ass.
It was obvious. No other way to explain it. And no other hands to place the blame on. Red-shirt guy had copped a feel and/or made a pass at me by pinching my rear end!
Whoa there! Little forward. So I turned around, and in response, said, "subtle."
He turned to me, rather sheepishly, and asked, "too bold?"
Too bold? Guys, pinching a girl's ass makes you a lobster. Especially when you are also wearing a red shirt. Let's be classy here.
Granted, I still responded, and some of you may think that amounts to success. It does not. I immediately wondered how many girls actually respond to ass pinching and how many Red-Shirt guy had gotten to go home with him based on this type of action.
To make things clear to all you guys out there - don't get pinchy till the second date, at least. Then at least I like you for something other than your lobster hands.
And on a side note - don't ever test my skills in picking up a guy. It took me less than ten minutes to get my ass pinched, let alone getting the guy interested.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part II
The way I explain The Dud to my friends is that he is the type of guy I'd want to go to bed with, but not the type of guy I'd want to wake up with. In fact, waking up with him was quite an ordeal.
Aside from the usual 5 more minutes game, trying to convince me to call out of work and taking too long in the bathroom (therefore limiting my hair and make up time), I had to worry about him staying the hell out of my things.
One of the many items that he seemed to have a particularly strong interest in was my sorority t-shirts. For those of you who do not know me, I am not a particularly large girl. Most of my t-shirts from sorority date parties are youth sizes. The Dud wore a men's large in shirts. This means, that in order to find a t-shirt in my closet large enough for him, he would have to take several out and go through them.
He would try on several, stretching them all out in the process, until he finally would find a random hand-me-down shirt that was an adult small or medium that he was able to stretch enough to fit over his shoulders.
By the time I got out of the shower, there would be a big pile of t-shirts all over my bed, and The Dud would be proudly wearing a shirt that was entirely too small for him and asking if he could wear it home.
I know there is a bit of a double standard here. I love wearing clothes of the men I date. In fact, one of my dirty secrets is that I still keep (and wear) clothes of several of my exes. But the difference is this: I wear my exes' over-sized t-shirts and boxers in the comfort of my own home. The Dud wore my t-shirts out to run errands. I can't even imagine the looks he must have gotten from people. There was something truly disturbing about seeing a pink bid day shirt stretched across man-sized shoulders.
Aside from the usual 5 more minutes game, trying to convince me to call out of work and taking too long in the bathroom (therefore limiting my hair and make up time), I had to worry about him staying the hell out of my things.
One of the many items that he seemed to have a particularly strong interest in was my sorority t-shirts. For those of you who do not know me, I am not a particularly large girl. Most of my t-shirts from sorority date parties are youth sizes. The Dud wore a men's large in shirts. This means, that in order to find a t-shirt in my closet large enough for him, he would have to take several out and go through them.
He would try on several, stretching them all out in the process, until he finally would find a random hand-me-down shirt that was an adult small or medium that he was able to stretch enough to fit over his shoulders.
By the time I got out of the shower, there would be a big pile of t-shirts all over my bed, and The Dud would be proudly wearing a shirt that was entirely too small for him and asking if he could wear it home.
I know there is a bit of a double standard here. I love wearing clothes of the men I date. In fact, one of my dirty secrets is that I still keep (and wear) clothes of several of my exes. But the difference is this: I wear my exes' over-sized t-shirts and boxers in the comfort of my own home. The Dud wore my t-shirts out to run errands. I can't even imagine the looks he must have gotten from people. There was something truly disturbing about seeing a pink bid day shirt stretched across man-sized shoulders.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part I
I absolutely hate babysitting. I used to watch two of the most unruly children imaginable. If I turned my back for one second to put in a movie, by the time I turned back around, they would have broken something. In addition, one had bladder control issues and once peed every single pair of pants he owned. Basically, I was scared out of ever wanting to have or be around kids at a very early age.
But as much as I hated babysitting two children under the age of 8, it was nowhere near as bad as having to babysit a 25 year old. In a lot of ways, the Dud was worse than the unruly children.
Once, his fumbling around in my kitchen woke me up around 4 in the morning (on a Tuesday), so I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing by the refrigerator with a large drink in his hand and some of it spilled on the floor. With a stupid grin on his face, he told me he just wanted an orange juice. I knew better. I took a sip of his drink and found that it was mostly vodka. Not only was I annoyed that he seemed to think it was acceptable to drink a ton of my vodka (I do not drink cheap alcohol), it was fricking 4 in the morning and I was sleeping. Why on Earth did he need a stiff drink at 4 in the fricking morning?
Not to mention, his late night shenanigans made him not want to get up when I was getting ready for work. I sure as hell wasn't going to let him stay in my apartment unattended after the fiasco from the night before, so i ended up practically dragging him to my porch and calling a cab to come get him.
Sadly, this is only one of several stories about why The Dud cannot be left unattended.
But as much as I hated babysitting two children under the age of 8, it was nowhere near as bad as having to babysit a 25 year old. In a lot of ways, the Dud was worse than the unruly children.
Once, his fumbling around in my kitchen woke me up around 4 in the morning (on a Tuesday), so I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing by the refrigerator with a large drink in his hand and some of it spilled on the floor. With a stupid grin on his face, he told me he just wanted an orange juice. I knew better. I took a sip of his drink and found that it was mostly vodka. Not only was I annoyed that he seemed to think it was acceptable to drink a ton of my vodka (I do not drink cheap alcohol), it was fricking 4 in the morning and I was sleeping. Why on Earth did he need a stiff drink at 4 in the fricking morning?
Not to mention, his late night shenanigans made him not want to get up when I was getting ready for work. I sure as hell wasn't going to let him stay in my apartment unattended after the fiasco from the night before, so i ended up practically dragging him to my porch and calling a cab to come get him.
Sadly, this is only one of several stories about why The Dud cannot be left unattended.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The Sky is Falling
My sophomore year of college I got a free bed from my Aunt and Uncle. It was a loft bed, which is similar to a bunk bed but lacks a bottom bunk. Instead of another bed, underneath the bunk was a desk and a small fouton I liked to study on. I had wooden floors, and a kinda modern steel bookshelf that you could stick together and arrange how you wanted it. I really enjoyed the setup, but didn't recognize the potential pitfalls until I dated Rock.
We'd been seeing each other for awhile, so at some point he earned a trip home. We cooked dinner, watched a movie, and otherwise had a fun night. We fell asleep on the couch for some portion of the night. When I woke up, I shook him and suggested we go sleep on my bed since it was more comfortable.
Sidenote: I'm not beating around the bush here. This is literally how this happened. I'm not trying to skirt the issue of whether something more than sleeping was occuring - it wasn't.
Like I said, my bed is essentially a bunk bed. You have to climb up the ladder on the side to make it to the top, as well as avoid hitting your head on the fan which just barely hangs over a small portion of the foot of the bed. I turned off the fan to avoid any mishaps.
When we made it onto the bed, I thought we were all clear.
A few hours later, I hear a huge crash and the sound of steel bookshelves flying. I look to my side and realize my guest had fallen out of the bed - like a rock. Somehow, he managed to miss the fouton which would have made for a softer landing. Instead he swung further underneath the bed, landed on the steel bookshelf and the hard wood floors.
Now perhaps this is just clumsy. Or just unfortunate circumstances. In fact, I'd be willing to put money on that. But still, there is nothing funnier than your boyfriend falling out of the top bunk of a bed. I mean, anyone falling out of bed really would have been just as funny, but it was hilarious.
As I giggle, he starts laughing with me. Of course his laughter was mixed with a number of "oww"s and "that hurt!" I got him some ice for his back and we went back to sleep.
Later in the week, I asked if he wanted to come over again. He told me he wanted to be nowhere near my "demon bed." At first I thought he was joking, but no, he literally said he would never stay at my place again.
Here's a thought, Rock. Just don't fall off the bed! It's not hard! Do you fall out of a normal bed? This thing was a full size. It's not like we were squished and having to be in close quarters to where if you rolled funny it would happen again. Just don't flail and tada you don't fall! I even turned off the fan to avoid him getting hit in the face, which meant the room was a proverbial inferno until I opened a window. I thought it was loser proof.
Way to prove me wrong.
We'd been seeing each other for awhile, so at some point he earned a trip home. We cooked dinner, watched a movie, and otherwise had a fun night. We fell asleep on the couch for some portion of the night. When I woke up, I shook him and suggested we go sleep on my bed since it was more comfortable.
Sidenote: I'm not beating around the bush here. This is literally how this happened. I'm not trying to skirt the issue of whether something more than sleeping was occuring - it wasn't.
Like I said, my bed is essentially a bunk bed. You have to climb up the ladder on the side to make it to the top, as well as avoid hitting your head on the fan which just barely hangs over a small portion of the foot of the bed. I turned off the fan to avoid any mishaps.
When we made it onto the bed, I thought we were all clear.
A few hours later, I hear a huge crash and the sound of steel bookshelves flying. I look to my side and realize my guest had fallen out of the bed - like a rock. Somehow, he managed to miss the fouton which would have made for a softer landing. Instead he swung further underneath the bed, landed on the steel bookshelf and the hard wood floors.
Now perhaps this is just clumsy. Or just unfortunate circumstances. In fact, I'd be willing to put money on that. But still, there is nothing funnier than your boyfriend falling out of the top bunk of a bed. I mean, anyone falling out of bed really would have been just as funny, but it was hilarious.
As I giggle, he starts laughing with me. Of course his laughter was mixed with a number of "oww"s and "that hurt!" I got him some ice for his back and we went back to sleep.
Later in the week, I asked if he wanted to come over again. He told me he wanted to be nowhere near my "demon bed." At first I thought he was joking, but no, he literally said he would never stay at my place again.
Here's a thought, Rock. Just don't fall off the bed! It's not hard! Do you fall out of a normal bed? This thing was a full size. It's not like we were squished and having to be in close quarters to where if you rolled funny it would happen again. Just don't flail and tada you don't fall! I even turned off the fan to avoid him getting hit in the face, which meant the room was a proverbial inferno until I opened a window. I thought it was loser proof.
Way to prove me wrong.
Monday, January 14, 2008
It's Peanut Butter and Jelly Time!
Drunk dialing is not necessarily the greatest idea... ever. While you certainly can get things off your chest that in other circumstances you may not be able to properly put into words (even though you could avoid slurring if you did so without drinking beforehand), phoning exes, currents, or aquaintances is about as immature as you can get. There is simply nothing that can't wait till you're sober that you need to get done. Unless of course, it's for a midnight rendezvous of somesort - then you better not be so drunk it's... how do I put this delicately?... not worth it.
Drunk dialing you may remember in the morning. But there's something worse, and though most people still categorize it as drunk dialing, I think there's such thing as wasted dialing. If you're competely wasted, there's a high probability that you should not be using your phone, period, as you will not recognize how drunk you are when you make the call.
I got a call from an ex - who will now be referred to as "PBJ" after this story - late on a saturday night after he and I had gone out with different sets of friends. He wanted to meet up. Not thinking much of this phone call, and under the impression it was a drunk dial not a wasted call.
I arrived at his place after only having two drinks over the night myself since I had my car. I walked in to a darkened apartment. I saw PBJ sitting on his couch, in the dark, with his poor dog looking quizzically at him for not petting her. He stood to greet me... or perhaps more wobbled to greet me.
He leaned in. "Heeey therrrrrre. Howzit goeeeeen." Yowza - beer breath. But there was some other smell I couldn't quite put my finger on before I stepped back.
"Hey. Wow you must have drank a lot tonight."
"Yeeeeaaaah. But that'z ook."
Then he leans in for a kiss. Now I figure out what that other smell is. Peanut Butter.
"Did you have any peanut butter before I came over?"
Instead of answering like a human being, he lunges in and kisses me. When he steps back again, there is a smearing of peanut butter across my face. The sticky substance is all over my face. Gross.
His next statement: "Owwwwwwwwwww." Turns out he had a cut on his tongue. First he blamed me, but considering he hadn't gotten that far, I knew it had nothing to do with me.
I go into the kitchen in search of a paper towel or something to wipe the mess off of me and to grab some ice for his tongue to help stop the bleeding.
On the counter sits the jar of peanut butter with the knife still sticking out of it. Because I'm civil and a nice person, I decide to try to clean up his drunken snack. Removing the knife from the peanut butter jar, I discover that it's the sharpest knife he had, serated, and HUGE. And there are obviously tounge streaks still on the knife. PBJ had licked the knife during his binge.
Meanwhile, PBJ starts snoring in the living room. I had been there for ten minutes.
Ridiculous.
Drunk dialing you may remember in the morning. But there's something worse, and though most people still categorize it as drunk dialing, I think there's such thing as wasted dialing. If you're competely wasted, there's a high probability that you should not be using your phone, period, as you will not recognize how drunk you are when you make the call.
I got a call from an ex - who will now be referred to as "PBJ" after this story - late on a saturday night after he and I had gone out with different sets of friends. He wanted to meet up. Not thinking much of this phone call, and under the impression it was a drunk dial not a wasted call.
I arrived at his place after only having two drinks over the night myself since I had my car. I walked in to a darkened apartment. I saw PBJ sitting on his couch, in the dark, with his poor dog looking quizzically at him for not petting her. He stood to greet me... or perhaps more wobbled to greet me.
He leaned in. "Heeey therrrrrre. Howzit goeeeeen." Yowza - beer breath. But there was some other smell I couldn't quite put my finger on before I stepped back.
"Hey. Wow you must have drank a lot tonight."
"Yeeeeaaaah. But that'z ook."
Then he leans in for a kiss. Now I figure out what that other smell is. Peanut Butter.
"Did you have any peanut butter before I came over?"
Instead of answering like a human being, he lunges in and kisses me. When he steps back again, there is a smearing of peanut butter across my face. The sticky substance is all over my face. Gross.His next statement: "Owwwwwwwwwww." Turns out he had a cut on his tongue. First he blamed me, but considering he hadn't gotten that far, I knew it had nothing to do with me.
I go into the kitchen in search of a paper towel or something to wipe the mess off of me and to grab some ice for his tongue to help stop the bleeding.
On the counter sits the jar of peanut butter with the knife still sticking out of it. Because I'm civil and a nice person, I decide to try to clean up his drunken snack. Removing the knife from the peanut butter jar, I discover that it's the sharpest knife he had, serated, and HUGE. And there are obviously tounge streaks still on the knife. PBJ had licked the knife during his binge.
Meanwhile, PBJ starts snoring in the living room. I had been there for ten minutes.
Ridiculous.
It wasn't so much that he passed out, nor was it the peanut butter alone. If he had just been ready to pass out, that's fine. No biggie. And some might argue that peanut butter can be... interesting... in certain situations. Perhaps. But if you invite me to come over before you pass out, proceed to make a pass at me, and then still fall asleep... we have a problem. In this situation, it is niether cuddly nor kinky.
And it's definitely not cute.
Lesson to other boys - be very careful when you make midnight treats after a night of drinking. If it is a snack over which you have very little control that may end up all over your face or with which you can somehow manage to hurt yourself - do not invite a girl over. She will leave. And she will be mad you made her smell like peanut butter and gave her nothing in return.
Da Da Dadadadada Da Da Dadadadada (The Chicken Dance)
The thing I hated most about Fred was the fact that he was completely incapable of not making a total ass of himself. I truly dreaded introducing him to anyone I knew, and hated going anywhere in public with him.
He had a way of embarrassing the hell out of me anywhere we went. I truly mean anywhere. The sorority formal where he decided to loudly announce that another girl looked like a man; the brunch where he was too stupid to figure out a prix fixe menu; my coworker's party where he decided it was appropriate walk around with his pants around his ankles because he was proud of his Nintendo boxers; the release party of a documentary where he decided to pick a fight with some reporters from a national news magazine and the infamous jorts incident are just a few of the times I found myself thoroughly humiliated because of him.
One of the more embarrassing incidents was the first time I introduced Fred to CCG and Dum Dum. Now, Dum Dum was a little special himself, so I figured that nothing Fred could do would be any worse than whatever tricks Dum Dum had up his sleeve that day. I really expected Dum Dum's shenanigans to outshine Fred's. But, I was in for a surprise.
The first time I took Fred to meet CCG and Dum Dum, we went to a local bar for happy hour. In addition to a few beers, we ordered some hummus, potato skins and buffalo wings. As soon as the snacks arrived, Fred wasted no time diving into the buffalo wings. He quickly devoured a couple of them and then...put his chewed-on chicken bones back on the plate with the rest of the wings. Disgusting!
Now, before I say anything else about this, I would like to mention that Fred insists there were no extra plates to put food on. All other people involved remember there being plates (perhaps Fred was too busy stuffing his face to notice). Even if this had been the case, Fred could have either asked for a plate (the bar was not busy), or put the bones on his napkin.
Plates or no plates, it was disgusting. CCG and Dum Dum were both totally grossed-out by this display. Yes, Dum Dum, the loser who had been traipsing around the city all day in high top black sneakers, shorts and no socks was disgusted by something my boyfriend did. That's damning. I was absolutely mortified by this experience.
But, the worst part was the fact that Fred was oblivious to their reactions just as he was oblivious to the fact that no one else touched the buffalo wings.
Since this was early on in the relationship and I hadn’t given up hope that I could mold him into someone who didn’t humiliate me, I mentioned the incident to him a few weeks later. Rather than consider my comment, he immediately got defensive and insisted that there were no plates and that CCG and Dum Dum had no grounds to think he behavior was inappropriate. I told him in the future to just use a plate and let the issue go.
Fred did not, however, let it go. It apparently bothered him enough that he brought this story up to all of his friends until he finally got some girl* to agree with him that he behaved appropriately in this situation. This really pisses me off.
I know this girl knew better than that. I don’t even know this girl, but hell, Dum Dum knew better! Look, I know that people often choose being nice over being honest, but seriously, there is a point where being nice does more harm than good. Fred did something inappropriate and by telling him it was acceptable, this chick is contributing to his behavior. Women like her are the reason there are so many men so set in their inappropriate ways.
* My note to this girl: I sincerely hope that your future husband gets belligerently drunk at your wedding and decides it is appropriate (because some girl told him so) to start stripping while you’re dancing with your father.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Somebody Save Me
Yay for a joint post!
BJA
Disclaimer: This isn't the happiest post.
I had a horrible habit while dating String Bean that I'm disappointed to look back on now. I let him get away with most of the ways he treated me because I thought I needed to save him. My mom called it "broken-wing syndrome." My brother did it with one of his girlfriends, so this isn't simply a habit of women to pick up a partner who has the best of times just as often as the worst of times.
Let me actually explain a few things. String Bean was messed up in the head. He claimed it had to do with where he went to high school and a certain incident that happened on April 20, 1999... most of you should know what that was. He was injured. Plus his parents were divorced, he lived in a volatile family life with no one to look up to (including one uncle who had a restraining order from the rest of the family). He used his past as an excuse to treat me badly. Or maybe I simply used it as an excuse. He was hurtful, violent, judgemental, and possessive. He cheated, lied, yelled, drank, and mentally abused me in ways that today I know I would never accept.
I wish someone had shook me when I dated him and told me how many better guys are out there. Even then, I look back and people I knew did try to help me see it. My parents, his parents, his brother, his friends, my friends... they all told me that he wouldn't change. But I wanted so badly to believe that this man I had fallen in love with, the man I had watched myself grow and change along with and who I had seen what I thought was progress in... I couldn't believe he wasn't the man I "knew" he could be. I was so caught up with the fact that he just had to be the person I thought he was when I first met him - funny, creative, liked going on walks, made me laugh, gave me gorgeous jewelry, danced with me - that I was willing to wait through it all to be the one there for him when he finally acheived it.
I didn't realize that I was trying to be his savior. And the real kicker? I lost friends over it. I lost friends who couldn't bear to see how he treated me and how I treated myself with him. They told me time and time again and I came up with excuses. I thought they were reasons at the time, but they were nothing but excuses.
He cheated because his last girlfriend cheated and he can't open up to women. - No, he cheated because he had no respect for our relationship.
He lied because he had taught himself to cover up his true feelings and didn't want to hurt me. - Nope, he was a compulsive liar who had been lying so long he couldn't stop. And he just didn't want me to know.
He was abusive because he harbored pain and aggression from the shooting. - False. He was abusive because I took it. Because I stood up to him and was in his way.
He drank because he hid his pain through alcohol and hadn't learned to control it. - Wrong again. I even had the stupidity to tell him that song line, "whenever you need something strong, baby, just let me know." If I knew then what I know now...
To any girls who have gone through this - you can't change him. You can't save him. He has to save himself. You can believe all you want that you are the one who will give him the opportunity, the reason, the motivation to change. But you'll be wrong. When he wants to change, he will. But until then you will be hit, abused, cheated on, and otherwise treated as less than the woman you are.
To guys - most of you will never be like this. And I thank God for that. Yeesh, even the guys featured on this blog for the most part will never reach this level of loserex. I mean abusive guys are scraping the barrell!
I don't know what made me write this today. I started talking to an ex of mine and we talked about what we learned from each other and whether or not we learned the MOST from each other. And I have to say, the one who taught me the most about life and love, relationships and myself, was String Bean.
The benefits of this type of blog is we women can vent about things that drove us crazy in our previous relationships. (See CrazyHo for the newly birthed guy version.) Some are the quirky habits that guys can change of course, some are ones that are specific to certain dead beats who most would not imitate, and some are things that perhaps we couldn't deal with, but another girl might. (Think fajitas, early morning booty calls, and tattoos.)
A real man would never do the things String Bean did. No excuses, no reasons, no meds. And I am so happy I figured that out before my boobs started to sag.
RGB
It would be very easy for me to write my horror story of dating Shrek. He was not a good person. There are very few people I honestly feel this way about. In fact, other than Shrek, there is only one person I know personally who I would say is not a good person. While I was dating him, I didn't believe this. I honestly thought that his behavior was a result of his less than ideal upbringing, but that it wasn't ingrained in him -- it wasn't an unchangeable part of his character. I thought he was just waiting for someone to come along and help him. I thought I was going to be the person to do that. By dating him and by tolerating his completely unacceptable behavior, I thought I was saving him. I was really just enabling him.
But, as it has been said before, this is "LoserEx," not "Why My Ex is Going to Rot in Hell." I'm not going to talk about him. The point of my blurb is not to tell the world that Shrek is a horrible person -- everyone else seemed to pick up on that pretty quickly. My point is that you cannot change someone.
On a less serious note: when I met Fred, I saw a lot of things a couldn't stand, but I thought I saw potential to mold him in to the person I wanted to date. Fred was unattractive, slightly overweight, dressed like a retarded child and had absolutely no clue how to behave himself in public.
I thought I would start by pressing the clothing issue. I gave several gentle hints that I did not like the way he dressed. In fact, look back a couple of years on the blog and take note of how many "what not to wear" entries there are. When the gentle hints didn't work, I tried buying him clothes I liked. He would wear them and claimed to like them, yet he never bought similar clothes when left to do his own shopping. I finally banned certain articles of clothing. Specifically the Hawaiian shirts and jorts. He stopped wearing them for a few weeks, then picked right back up again. My grade for changing his fashion sense: F
While this was going on, I decided to work on the area of his appearance as well. Granted, what Fred really needs is a chin implant, but I would never tell someone to get cosmetic surgery. His jaw line was weak and feminine. A chin implant would have given him a better profile and balanced out his other features. Anyway, since I couldn't really bring this up, I tried to suggest other things: a better haircut, bleaching his teeth (they were the nastiest shade of yellow you can imagine), clipping his nails, not washing his face with old spice body wash. He listened to none of my suggestions. My grade for changing his appearance: F
After dating for several months, Fred really started to pack on the pounds. Granted, he was never thin, but HOLY CRAP did he get big. I suggested we do several activities together such as, rock climbing, hiking, joining the new (and really nice) gym next to his apartment and running. He shot down all of my ideas. I would even go to the gym in his apartment building, thinking he would feel motivated to come along. Instead, he spent this time playing on his computer. My grade for changing his weight: F
The worst of all was his inability to behave in any social situation. He was loud, make inappropriate comments and basically was unaware of what everyone else was doing. There is not enough room on the internet for me to mention all the times he proved this. Basically, every time I thought I had him trained enough for a certain social situation, I ended up being wrong. I'll write an entry about this soon, but really, there are too many to mention now. My grade for changing his ability to behave in public: F
Yes, these examples are trivial compared to my problems with Shrek. But, seriously, if stupid trivial behaviors like these can't be changed, it is foolish to think that major character flaws can be.
BJA
Disclaimer: This isn't the happiest post.
I had a horrible habit while dating String Bean that I'm disappointed to look back on now. I let him get away with most of the ways he treated me because I thought I needed to save him. My mom called it "broken-wing syndrome." My brother did it with one of his girlfriends, so this isn't simply a habit of women to pick up a partner who has the best of times just as often as the worst of times.
Let me actually explain a few things. String Bean was messed up in the head. He claimed it had to do with where he went to high school and a certain incident that happened on April 20, 1999... most of you should know what that was. He was injured. Plus his parents were divorced, he lived in a volatile family life with no one to look up to (including one uncle who had a restraining order from the rest of the family). He used his past as an excuse to treat me badly. Or maybe I simply used it as an excuse. He was hurtful, violent, judgemental, and possessive. He cheated, lied, yelled, drank, and mentally abused me in ways that today I know I would never accept.
I wish someone had shook me when I dated him and told me how many better guys are out there. Even then, I look back and people I knew did try to help me see it. My parents, his parents, his brother, his friends, my friends... they all told me that he wouldn't change. But I wanted so badly to believe that this man I had fallen in love with, the man I had watched myself grow and change along with and who I had seen what I thought was progress in... I couldn't believe he wasn't the man I "knew" he could be. I was so caught up with the fact that he just had to be the person I thought he was when I first met him - funny, creative, liked going on walks, made me laugh, gave me gorgeous jewelry, danced with me - that I was willing to wait through it all to be the one there for him when he finally acheived it.
I didn't realize that I was trying to be his savior. And the real kicker? I lost friends over it. I lost friends who couldn't bear to see how he treated me and how I treated myself with him. They told me time and time again and I came up with excuses. I thought they were reasons at the time, but they were nothing but excuses.
He cheated because his last girlfriend cheated and he can't open up to women. - No, he cheated because he had no respect for our relationship.
He lied because he had taught himself to cover up his true feelings and didn't want to hurt me. - Nope, he was a compulsive liar who had been lying so long he couldn't stop. And he just didn't want me to know.
He was abusive because he harbored pain and aggression from the shooting. - False. He was abusive because I took it. Because I stood up to him and was in his way.
He drank because he hid his pain through alcohol and hadn't learned to control it. - Wrong again. I even had the stupidity to tell him that song line, "whenever you need something strong, baby, just let me know." If I knew then what I know now...
To any girls who have gone through this - you can't change him. You can't save him. He has to save himself. You can believe all you want that you are the one who will give him the opportunity, the reason, the motivation to change. But you'll be wrong. When he wants to change, he will. But until then you will be hit, abused, cheated on, and otherwise treated as less than the woman you are.
To guys - most of you will never be like this. And I thank God for that. Yeesh, even the guys featured on this blog for the most part will never reach this level of loserex. I mean abusive guys are scraping the barrell!
I don't know what made me write this today. I started talking to an ex of mine and we talked about what we learned from each other and whether or not we learned the MOST from each other. And I have to say, the one who taught me the most about life and love, relationships and myself, was String Bean.
The benefits of this type of blog is we women can vent about things that drove us crazy in our previous relationships. (See CrazyHo for the newly birthed guy version.) Some are the quirky habits that guys can change of course, some are ones that are specific to certain dead beats who most would not imitate, and some are things that perhaps we couldn't deal with, but another girl might. (Think fajitas, early morning booty calls, and tattoos.)
A real man would never do the things String Bean did. No excuses, no reasons, no meds. And I am so happy I figured that out before my boobs started to sag.
RGB
It would be very easy for me to write my horror story of dating Shrek. He was not a good person. There are very few people I honestly feel this way about. In fact, other than Shrek, there is only one person I know personally who I would say is not a good person. While I was dating him, I didn't believe this. I honestly thought that his behavior was a result of his less than ideal upbringing, but that it wasn't ingrained in him -- it wasn't an unchangeable part of his character. I thought he was just waiting for someone to come along and help him. I thought I was going to be the person to do that. By dating him and by tolerating his completely unacceptable behavior, I thought I was saving him. I was really just enabling him.
But, as it has been said before, this is "LoserEx," not "Why My Ex is Going to Rot in Hell." I'm not going to talk about him. The point of my blurb is not to tell the world that Shrek is a horrible person -- everyone else seemed to pick up on that pretty quickly. My point is that you cannot change someone.
On a less serious note: when I met Fred, I saw a lot of things a couldn't stand, but I thought I saw potential to mold him in to the person I wanted to date. Fred was unattractive, slightly overweight, dressed like a retarded child and had absolutely no clue how to behave himself in public.
I thought I would start by pressing the clothing issue. I gave several gentle hints that I did not like the way he dressed. In fact, look back a couple of years on the blog and take note of how many "what not to wear" entries there are. When the gentle hints didn't work, I tried buying him clothes I liked. He would wear them and claimed to like them, yet he never bought similar clothes when left to do his own shopping. I finally banned certain articles of clothing. Specifically the Hawaiian shirts and jorts. He stopped wearing them for a few weeks, then picked right back up again. My grade for changing his fashion sense: F
While this was going on, I decided to work on the area of his appearance as well. Granted, what Fred really needs is a chin implant, but I would never tell someone to get cosmetic surgery. His jaw line was weak and feminine. A chin implant would have given him a better profile and balanced out his other features. Anyway, since I couldn't really bring this up, I tried to suggest other things: a better haircut, bleaching his teeth (they were the nastiest shade of yellow you can imagine), clipping his nails, not washing his face with old spice body wash. He listened to none of my suggestions. My grade for changing his appearance: F
After dating for several months, Fred really started to pack on the pounds. Granted, he was never thin, but HOLY CRAP did he get big. I suggested we do several activities together such as, rock climbing, hiking, joining the new (and really nice) gym next to his apartment and running. He shot down all of my ideas. I would even go to the gym in his apartment building, thinking he would feel motivated to come along. Instead, he spent this time playing on his computer. My grade for changing his weight: F
The worst of all was his inability to behave in any social situation. He was loud, make inappropriate comments and basically was unaware of what everyone else was doing. There is not enough room on the internet for me to mention all the times he proved this. Basically, every time I thought I had him trained enough for a certain social situation, I ended up being wrong. I'll write an entry about this soon, but really, there are too many to mention now. My grade for changing his ability to behave in public: F
Yes, these examples are trivial compared to my problems with Shrek. But, seriously, if stupid trivial behaviors like these can't be changed, it is foolish to think that major character flaws can be.
Here's Lookin at You Kid
Ever notice how every relationship you've ever been in has pet names?
Some are traditional - baby, sweetie, darling, honey, sweetheart... etc.
Some are a little more complicated - sugar plum, baby girl, schnookums, shugie bear, mclovin, googlybear, snuggle muffin... whatever.
Most of them, I can get on board. I can handle the traditional obviously easier than the more complicated, but either is acceptable in most situations. Clearly these names are private or among close friends, and shouldn't be shared in professional or networking situations. Fortunately, I have never dated a guy to make that faux pas, but I thought I'd mention it for the studious gentlemen who may read this and need a clue or two for appropriate nickname usage.
Unfortunately, I have dated a guy who used a nickname that is not acceptable. This may be nitpicky, but do not ever ever ever call a girl kiddo.
"Hey kiddo, you should come over."
"Well hey there kiddo, what are you doing right now?"
"Oh kiddo."
I can get on board with most names, but not kiddo. I'm not eight. And I don't want people thinking I'm dating a perv. As far as I know, you're not one, but calling me kiddo sends the exact opposite message. Not to mention there are times when it is just effing awkward.
Lesson today: Don't call girlfriends a nickname than can only be described as creepy.
Some are traditional - baby, sweetie, darling, honey, sweetheart... etc.
Some are a little more complicated - sugar plum, baby girl, schnookums, shugie bear, mclovin, googlybear, snuggle muffin... whatever.
Most of them, I can get on board. I can handle the traditional obviously easier than the more complicated, but either is acceptable in most situations. Clearly these names are private or among close friends, and shouldn't be shared in professional or networking situations. Fortunately, I have never dated a guy to make that faux pas, but I thought I'd mention it for the studious gentlemen who may read this and need a clue or two for appropriate nickname usage.
Unfortunately, I have dated a guy who used a nickname that is not acceptable. This may be nitpicky, but do not ever ever ever call a girl kiddo.
"Hey kiddo, you should come over."
"Well hey there kiddo, what are you doing right now?"
"Oh kiddo."
I can get on board with most names, but not kiddo. I'm not eight. And I don't want people thinking I'm dating a perv. As far as I know, you're not one, but calling me kiddo sends the exact opposite message. Not to mention there are times when it is just effing awkward.
Lesson today: Don't call girlfriends a nickname than can only be described as creepy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
