Tuesday, August 26, 2008
People like Fred, whose long and storied life of crime began well before, and continued long after, I met him.
This brings me to the story of his 22nd birthday, which he decided to ring in with an Alice in Wonderland themed party. This included him dressing up as the Mad Hatter. Not so shockingly, he promoted it as a party in which all sorts of illegal drugs would be available. Apparently this was the type of life he desired prior to his security clearance.
As much as I love the NOPD, I had no desire to celebrate my loser ex’s 22nd birthday in jail, so I opted not to attend his druggy party. But, whether I wanted to or not I still got to listen to all Fred's planning details. One afternoon, when I arrived at his apartment I was shocked to see a pink and yellow plastic play house.
"We're going to put a keg inside!" exclaimed Fred. I told him that was a cute idea then asked where on earth he even bought a playhouse.
"Well, we didn't buy it."
"Did you dumpster dive or something?"
"No, we took it from a playground...in front of a church."
Yeah that's right -- there really was nothing else to say.
Between the drugs and stealing from church, the majority of Fred's normal friends decided not to attend and, the party guests ended up being the weird druggy friend-of-a-friend type of crowd. I only knew one person other than Fred and his roommate who ended up going to the party. She felt uncomfortable and didn't stay long. Apparently Fred sat alone on the couch eating pan after pan of pot brownies while moping that no one cool had come the entire time.
Maybe this was him being smited for stealing from a church.
I'd like to say that he grew from this experience, but that's not exactly what happened. In fact, when he found a Wal-Mart ad in the paper for the playhouse a couple of months later, he proudly announced to anyone who'd listened that he wasn't a "sucker" like anyone who paid $29.99 for the playhouse. Classy, classy guy.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
I couldn't wait to escape. On Wednesday, we finally figured out how to get out of our house and to my friend Becky-lou's. (Obviously a made-up name, get over it.) We spent the day watching movies, acknowledging the fact that all other options were buried under four feet of snow.
Instead of being an adult, String Bean abandoned ship. He careened (without a coat) into the snow towards his own home. Remember - he's drunk, he has a phalic symbol on his face, and he's increasingly growing closer to frostbite and/or freezing to death. Logically, he calls me.
My young and naive head could not wrap around the idiocy String Bean was engaging in. But, "savior" I felt I was, I begged Becky-lou and her father to let us drive his SUV through the snow and out of the neighborhood into the main town where StringBean was apparently wandering. Mind you, it was now icy, and the plows hadn't come through, so it was only what had melted down or been shoveled by hand that we could travel over.
The 10 minute trip took much longer than it should have because of the snow and the inability of the SUV to operate as a snowplow. We spun a few times, but fortunately got out in one piece and without having slid into a pole or curb. But the situation wasn't getting any better. StringBean wouldn't answer his phone. He was lost in the snow drifts.
After driving almost aimlessly through the deserted snowy streets of my home town, I spotted a lone figure stumbling through the piled-up snow. Sure enough, it was String Bean, who proceeded to beligerently tell me off for "following him". Like I really wanted to be trudging through ice and snow to save his ass.
We left after about 20 minutes of unyielding insults and anger, when I finally realized what a douche I was dating. If he refused to get in the car and was going to be a drunken ass, there was no use fighting with him.
Come to find out the next day that String Bean had been approached by another vehicle shortly thereafter. This one had flashing red and blue lights and a couple of cold and bitter men with flashlights who were justifiably a little peeved at this drunken idiot wandering around without a coat with a p*nis on his face. Fortunately, the officers decided to give String Bean a ride home, but not before giving him a breathalizer and a ticket for being drunk in public.
The next day, when we all could finally get cleanly out of the neighborhoods and the snow plows had done their part to clear the roads, I talked to String Bean about his frozen escapade. He defended his actions by claiming he was, ahem, NOT drunk. Didn't seem to register that he had a ticket indicating otherwise. And to top it all off, somehow it was my fault that he had been out in the cold.
Yes, String Bean. And I drew the p*nis on your face, too. I got crazy skills.
Monday, August 18, 2008
1. Text messages and/or emails describing your physical and/or emotional state that are sent during normal working hours are inappropriate. Not to mention, we have it in writing if we decide you are too stalkerish to continue contacting us unabated.
2. Gchat is definitely the wrong forum to begin a discussion on the hardness of your.... day. I cannot stress this enough. You DO realize the potential for coworkers or superiors to see your little conversation with yourself, don't you? And you also, I'm sure, are aware that google stores these chats?
3. Voicemails are equally distasteful. Fortunately, my voicemail cuts off after a few minutes and you better be done with your message. If the time before it takes the tone to sound is all you need to do what you need to do, there's a reason we didn't pick up anyway. These are, of course, general tips on how to NOT approach phone/text/email/chat sex with a girl.
As I was walking to work one morning, my phone started going off. "Crap," I thought, "my boss must have broken the copy machine again."
But, as I dug my phone out of my purse, I saw that it was actually the Dud. I was a little confused as to why he was calling, but I answered.
"What are you wearing?"
"Oh, I'm wearing a black suit. Why? Do you see me? Are you here too?" I started looking around trying to find a doofy blond guy on a cell phone.
"What are you wearing under that?"
"Oh, dear lord. Dud, you realize that I am walking down K street right now? This conversation is not appropriate."
He then proceeded to whine. I'm not sure what he expected. It was 8:15am on a Tuesday. I was going to work. Apparently he did not understand that I did not want to have this conversation. His penchant for phone sex was really quite disturbing to me. But, even if I had been up for it, surely he could have chosen a better time to make these calls.
Apparently this concept was lost on him because the following several weekdays, I received similar calls. The time always varied with when he woke up. Sometimes the calls came on my way to work, sometimes while I was sitting at my desk, sometimes while I was out at lunch.
Of course, hanging up the phone was not enough to get him to calm down. He would then proceed to send lewd text messages describing the state of his genitals and his general level of excitement. He would send me about ten of these, all of which I would not respond to. He would then call in an attempt for there to be some sort of grand finale.
However, soon it became apparent that my response to this was not important. He seemd to get his jollies off sending me gross texts whether I responded to them or not. I must have had thousands of unanswered texts about his junk.
Obviously, I had nothing to say back to these messages, so I would ignore them, along with the phone calls. He did give up on the phone call segment of this routine, but he still kept sending texts months after we quit talking. I suppose the thought of me sitting at my desk, showing my coworkers the messages from my perverted stalker really did it for him.
As a more broad hint, I would broach the subject with your girl before you attempt any of the above. Assuming she'll be into it or receptive is presumptuous, but there are some girls out there who might get just as many jollies from such antics. Just... not me or RGB.
Diego tried to... invite me to participate... multiple times, and, to his credit, not necessarily all the most innapropriate venues, but certainly after making it clear I was not into it, the subject should have been dropped. And no, switching forums from phone to online doesn't work either.
Yet, the most heinous of these offenses was a guy a did not date at all. I did not go on one date with Announcer Boy. Two of my friends did, however, at different times. The lesson that should be taken from this experience is that texting the same message to multiple people is for making movie or bar plans for a group of people - not phone sex.
One night, I was having a girls night with friends, of which Friend 1 and Friend 2 had dated Announcer Boy. Friend 3 also knew AB, yet Friend 4 had yet to make his acquaintence, which explains her being saved this experience.
My phone started ringing it's text message tone, followed immediately by Friend 1, Friend 2, and Friend 3's phones. Four phones all going off at the same time.
"What color "undergarments" are you wearing?" (undergarments replacing a word a bit more graphic.)
All four of us. Same message. From AB. So, brilliant ladies that we were, we all responded with a very graphic and specific description of our fictional undergarments. The catch - we used the exact same description. Something to the tune of polkadots and bows, a specific cut of undergarment, and a wonderful combination of greens, pinks, and blues.
Moments later, my phone rings. Only mine, none of the other girls. Rather quietly, perhaps even timidly is the best characterization of this approach, AB asked, "Are you with Friend 1, Friend 2 and Friend 3?"
"Why yes, AB. And we're having one big matching panty orgy without you."
Needless to say, his phone sex extravaganza did not work out the way he had hoped.
Since we all called him out on his antics, hopefully he has learned to stick with one-on-one text sex. But who am I kidding? He's on loserex, so obviously he just found a new crop of unsuspecting women to canoodle over time and space.
The bottom line is this: if you're the type of man who...enjoys certain types of phone conversations, try to do so with class (well, as much as you can really show in this situation). That means, call at an appropriate time, only call the person whom you are dating, only call someone who is receptive to this form of contact. If you can't follow these rules, then it might be time to suck it up and call a 900 number. Sure it's pricey, but I assure you, the $4.99 a minute is a bargain price to pay to maintain your dignity.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Well, maybe not as gross as the fact that he cleaned his ears with a car key. And probably not as gross as all those times he spit phlegm into half empty soda bottles which he forgot to throw away for weeks, leaving a nasty culture of whatever lurks in his throat. And definitely not as gross as that really gross thing he once did that I told BJA about earlier. But, it was still pretty nasty.
I waited for about 2 months before I finally said something about the unibrow. By this time it was Bert from Sesame Street bad. I suggested he get it waxed into two distinct eyebrows, the kind most non-neanderthals have. My suggestion did not exactly go over well. There was no way he was going to get his eyebrows waxed. That was for chicks. He didn't want to look like a chick with thin, arched eyebrows. I explained that they would not give him girl eyebrows, but he still refused to go.
His male boss told him the next day that I was right about his unibrow (God bless this man), so he came back to me and asked me to get him an appointment to have it waxed. Luckily, I had an appointment later that week, so I called up and they were willing to squeeze him in right after me.
When we arrived to the appointment, he was nervous, so I asked if he could come back with me and watch me get mine done first, thinking he would see that it wasn't too bad. Sure enough, watching me get my eyebrows done put his nerves at ease for when he got his done.
Until the first rip. He started crying. Crying! I don't mean the few reflexive tears that an eyebrow waxing sometimes produces either. I mean all out crying about how much it hurt.
God, I remember this scene so vividly. The relaxing mood music playing softly in the background. Several small, white candles warmly glowing in an otherwise dimly lit room. The smell of lavender and sage hanging in the air. A 6'5", 230lb man crying hysterically about how much pain he was in. A confused and slightly frightened esthetician exchanging awkward looks with me.
He managed to get through the entire process (which was really only like 2 minutes) without running out, but he spent the next three weeks telling everyone how I made him get his eyebrows done. And it was the most painful thing, ever. And that I had no idea how much it hurt. Um, hello? I got mine done right in front of him beforehand.
He resolved to shave his unibrow, thus leaving two uneven eyebrows and some thick stubble between them.
His asinine belief that his rip shod shaving job was on par with the professionals was beyond incorrect, beyond loser. It was pathetic. And his eyebrows, effectively reduced to caterpillars chasing each other through some sparsely populated forests, looked foolish.
But nevermind that, at least I didn't have to see him cry again.
Monday, August 11, 2008
So, I am back at my parents' house in small town Louisiana after making a sudden, mad dash from Little Rock, Arkansas where I had been living with my (now ex-) boyfriend. I am fully aware of the white-trashiness of that last sentence. I know that ninety percent of those reading this are envisioning me with a bleach blond perm and bandanna print tube top, living in a circa- 1980 single wide trailer. But that's really not how it was. Little Rock is actually a really nice city. It has an enormous amount of beautiful early twentieth century arts and crafts architecture and nice, intelligent people.
I'm sitting in my childhood bedroom that has since been converted to the office, drinking Franzia at one o'clock in the afternoon and lamenting the loss of my year and a half relationship. But its a weird feeling of sadness, mixed with excitement for the next part of my life. I feel free--if I had stayed with him I'd never have left Little Rock (as nice a city as it is, there simply is no opportunity for me there). But despite this, I am sad. He and I have had some amazingly fun times and there for a while, I honestly thought I could settle for life in Arkansas and be happy. It wasn't exactly what I wanted from life. But I thought, well life's never what you expect it to be...so maybe this is it. But the longer I was there and the more our relationship deteriorated, I more I realized that I was settling for something that would never make me happy. I realized that if I stayed, ten years from now, I would only resent him because I never had the chance to do what I wanted to with my life.
So here I am, back at home, trying to decide what to do next. Its an odd feeling to have all of your plans destroyed in less than a half an hour. But I'll make it through. And I'm sure as this relationship fades into my past, I'll have some funny stories to tell. (Like the airbrushed tiger t-shirt I got for Christmas.) Just give me some time. It's still too soon to be able to think about it too much.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Several years later, I started dating a guy who also had a first name that rhymed with Stan. He was attractive, ambitious, intelligent, highly-principled and had a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor that I loved--he was perfect for the first several months until I discovered his quirk: his life goal was to stick it to the man. Seriously, I have never met a person who liked to stick it to the man more than he did. And his preferred method of sticking it to the man was to simply stop patronizing "then man's" business. The list of places he wouldn't patronize was longer than the list of places he would. And he seriously thought that he could cause financial ruin to those businesses that crossed him.
At first it was sort of attractive that he was that highly principled because I am too (ask me why I only stay at Marriott-family hotels). Then it was somewhat obnoxious (mostly when he wouldn't take me to Target on a Saturday). As time passed, it ceased to be obnoxious and started to be a neverending source of entertainment, as in "how did you stick it to the man today babe?".
One time, we went back to the midwest for my girlfriend's wedding. She was from the same small town as my boyfriend so we made a long weekend out of it and spend some extra time with his family. He was supposed to fly back on a Monday afternoon and get home around 7PM but the boyfriend decided on Sunday afternoon that he wanted to get home earlier in the day so he called AirTran and asked if he could get on the 7AM flight. They only had business class seats available on that flight so it would have cost him about $400 to change flights.
Can I just transfer my coach ticket use my frequent flier points to upgrade to business class? No because you need a confirmed seat on the same flight to do that.
Can I use my frequent flier points to upgrade on my confirmed flight and transfer that ticket? No it doesn't work that way.
I should probably mention that we had a bunch of frequent flier points because a) we did a dual-city relationship for a while but mostly b) we had a AirTran credit card that we put a great deal of our credit card expenses on so we could get the points. Boyfriend saw these points as a negotiation tactic.
Well, you do realize that I will be cancelling my A+ rewards Visa card?
I've got to hand it to the customer service lady because in this situation she was about 10 times wittier than I could have been:
Well sir, the airline doesn't really lose anything if you don't use your frequent flier miles. That's a benefit reaped by the customer. So really, you are only punishing yourself. And the credit card is owned by a bank, AirTran doesn't get money from the card, it gets customer loyalty which is more important to its business model anyways. So I don't really care if you cancel your card.
The boyfriend was pretty deaf from spending too much time on the firing line which benefitted me in a great many ways: 1) I could make snarky comments under my breath and he never heard them, 2) I could discuss his Christmas present on the phone with my mom when he was across the room and he was still surprised on Christmas morning, and 3) he kept his phone turned up so loud I can hear it across the room. Therefore, I heard this exchange as clear as day and I started laughing my ass off. I may have actually shot beer out of my nose, I laughed so hard. Shocked that he got put in his place by a customer service rep, he quickly and politely ended the call. I immediately called sister and told her the whole story and he was quickly dubbed "[rhymes with Stan] [rhymes with Stan], stick it to the man".