The first time

Shrek and I had plans to go out to dinner one Friday. Unfortunately, I had a charity event right before which I ended up leaving early and running back home in order to make our reservations. When I got back to my dorm, he was waiting outside. I let him in and agreed to let him check his e-mail on my computer while I quickly changed clothes.

As soon as he sits-down and sees my wallpaper, he freaks.

Him: "What the hell is this?"
Me: "No idea. Hey, are my pink Michael Kors shoes over there?"
Him: "No, what is this on your computer?"
Me: "No idea, what does it look like?"
Him: "Naked men."
Me: "Are you talking about my wallpaper? They're not naked, they're wearing swimsuits"

It was a black and white photo I had gotten off of the Cosmopolitan website that had three men standing in the water at a beach and in pink letters it said "Have a Cosmo summer!" Totally harmless. I would have shown it to my grandmother and not felt embarrassed.

Him: "They're naked."
Me: "It's not like you can see anything."
Him: "I don't like that you're looking at other men."
Me: "Ok, change it."

Note: Shrek had a poster of Carmen Electra in his dorm in which she is wearing what appears to be a bikini bottom and a chain mail tank top. Her nipples were airbrushed out to make it not completely pornographic. I never said anything about it.

While I was none too pleased with the fact he had a scandalous picture of some skank on his wall, I figured that it really was not a huge deal. I mean, it could have been a whole lot worse. It's not like he had piles of dirty magazines with sticky pages under his bed or anything.

I was pretty irked that he would make such a big deal about a goofy picture on my computer, but decided I didn't want to get in a fight over it, so I just kept getting dressed and let him change the wallpaper to a picture of my dog.

A few minutes pass and I am just about ready to go.

Him: "Who is *reads screen name of a male friend from back home*?"
Me: "Oh, that's Mike. Tell him I'm heading out right now"
Him: "Why does he talk to you like this?"

I come over and read the message. It says "Hi RGB. I miss you. When are you coming back home?"

Me: "He's one of my best friends."
Him: "This is bullshit that your guy friends are so friendly with you!"

He went on to accuse me of sleeping with all my guy friends. This did not elicit the most polite response from me. He stormed out. I waited a few minutes and called him. He broke up with me.

I changed my wallpaper back to the Cosmo guys.

We ended-up getting back together two weeks later.

But not before I made-out with one of his friends against Shrek's car.

It was awesome.

Mr. Gigantic One-Eyed Wonder Weasel

...my ex-fiance was not.

But he did have an eye for younger women, which was odd, considering I am 18 months older than he is (a fact he lied about when we first met but this was minor compared to the other lies he told so I'm not going to make a big deal about it). By younger though, I don't mean a year or two or even five (which at the time would have still been jail bait). Nope, we're talking a good eight to ten years younger than he was. Teenagers, and not the "barely legal" kind.

He also never actually acted on his looking(to the best of my knowledge)--he is not a pedophile--he just liked to allude the the fact he was in an effort to score "cool points" around "the dudes".

Roger dude, you have your dirty little secret. Please do not share it with my sister's boyfriend. You know it is going to get back to my sister and then her mother and the next thing you know, my entire family knows you're slightly sketchy.

Oh, but he did.

We had driven to southern Virginia to visit my grandparents. My sister and her boyfriend met us there and we went to a popular nearby amusement park. As we were walking from one ride to the next, my ex-fiance nudged my sister's boyfriend, pointed to a girl and said "check her out". He did this several times in fact. My sister's boyfriend, who is far from classy but evidently classier than my ex, looked at girl and was like "dude, she's 14".

My ex-fiance's response?

"If there's grass in the field, play ball."

Yeah, and if you play ball with a girl who is younger than jailbait, don't be shocked when you get shot by her daddy or thrown in jail by the cops.

What's cooking?

One of my favorite restaurants in college was a little dive on the side of the highway. They have the most amazing pizza and Mexican food (random, right?) ever. It is totally the best PMS food in the world. Shrek would never take me there though because he knew I liked it. He was a dick that way. He made-up some lame excuse about how he was allergic to everything on the menu. He had a lot of made-up allergies which only remembered he had if it meant ruining something I wanted to do. Honestly, if he were actually allergic to half the things he claimed to be allergic to, he would have to live in a bubble and only eat rice cakes. But this entry is not about Shrek or his apparent allergies to everything.

Ok, so, the restaurant. Love it. Didn't go there much while I was dating Shrek. He was a jerk.

When I started dating Fred, I suggested that we go there for dinner one night. Not being a crappy person, he agreed to try it out. He even managed to find something on the menu that he was willing to eat (have I mentioned he's a really picky eater?). Since Fred insisted on getting an appetizer, I was full before I finished my enchiladas, so I got the remainder of them boxed-up.

We ended up going home after dinner and spent the night drinking and playing video games. Around 3am, I was still up and starving. Knowing that I still had my leftovers in the fridge, I asked Fredto go to the kitchen and heat them up for me.

Now, I knew that Fred couldn't cook, but I figured it doesn't take a rocket scientist (ha!) put an enchilada in the oven. I told him just to set the oven to warm, and put the enchilada on a pan and leave it in there for a few minutes. He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then came back and we played some more video games.

A few minutes later, I told him it was probably time to take it out, so we went back to the kitchen. As soon as we stepped into the hall, I smelled something completely foul coming from the kitchen. It only got worse as we approached.

I opened the oven and saw sitting inside a half-melted Styrofoam box on a cookie sheet with my enchilada peeking out through a hole that was burned through. Disgusting.

The melted box was all over my food and I couldn't eat it. Not to mention, it was probably toxic. I should probably say at this point, Fred was 21 years old. TWENTY-ONE FRICKIN' YEARS OLD AND HE DIDN'T KNOW STYROFOAM MELTS IN THE OVEN! Furthermore, it wasn't like he was an English or Phys Ed major--he majored in a science so there is no excuse.

To make matters worse, he was a typical man so all he had to eat in his house was beer, generic slim jims and a three-month-old petrified piece of teriyaki chicken that he called "Sparky." So I was sitting there in the middle of the night, starving and suffocated by the stench of Styrofoam enchiladas.

Needless to say, his inability to heat an enchilada made for a bad night for all parties involved.

And I wonder...

Second dates are awkward. I stress way more about a second date than I do about a first. A first date is always a crap shoot as far as the guy's personality goes. I go in knowing this and don't expect too much from it. But by a second date, I already know a little bit about the person and am looking at them with a more critical eye. On a first date, I get to know the guy; on a second date I figure out if I want to date him.

Usually after a first date, I have some sort of burning question that I am too embarrassed to ask. However, the wrong answer to this question will immediately make me not want to date the guy. So, I will resolve to bring it up as a joke on the second date. Everyone does this; if anyone tells you otherwise, it is a lie! But the catch is you only get one joke question. Just one. It would be totally lame to play the ask-personal-questions-jokingly-all-night game. So, every time I am about to go on a second date, I think long and hard about what I am going to ask.

I went on a second date last week, and knew that the one thing I wanted to know was whether my date had been married before (he is a bit older than I am). Luckily, he mentioned his buddy getting back together with his ex-wife, so I was able to deliver my joke question relatively smoothly (ok, as smoothly as one can honestly hope to deliver it -- it's always a little awkward). I got the right answer and was rather pleased with my efforts.

Later than evening, he asked his joke question. Out of all the questions in the world he could have asked, he picked one of the dumbest and least appropriate ones I can think of.

Have you had any work done?

Really, do I look like I've had work done? Granted, I am pretty attractive, but seriously, I am 23. Not many people are honestly in need of work when they are my age. What exactly was he saying? Does something on me look fake? Are my boobs too big? Are my cheekbones too high? I don't get it.

I gave him some sarcastic response to the effect of "I had a nose-job. I used to have a really cute button nose, but decided that I wanted to get a big German nose instead. I thought it would give me more character."

I still can't get over this. Do people actually think I've had work done? Enough so that this is the most burning question people have about me?

I don't even know what to say about this one.

You knew this was coming

I've posted entry after entry about the fashion choices of my exes, the whole time avoiding the one issue that really bothered me: Fred. I naively believed that by posting generic complaints about his three predecessors, he would have caught on to the fact that I am very aware of the clothes that the men I date are wearing.

But Fred was none too bright in the way of behaving appropriately.This was evident through his lack of manners, his lack of style, his lack of consideration for others and his inability to not constantly look like a douche. Social graces? He had none.

Fred graduated from college a year before I did, so we had a long distance relationship for a year (which is probably the only reason we dated so long -- if I had to put up with his fat-ass humiliating me on a day-to-day basis, I would have told him to kick rocks a long time ago).

Anyway, I had come home for a short time during our long distance thing. My parents live about 45 minutes away from his apartment, so going out with him was a bit of an ordeal.We had made plans for him to come pick me up (my car was at school) at my parents' house at 7:30, then we would go to dinner, then go to a bar in Annapolis.

I spent the next hour getting ready to go out. I hadn't seen him in several weeks, so I was expecting this to be a big deal. I put on my Rock & Republic jeans, a cute top and stilettos. I did my make-up (and not just the half-assed going-to-work make-up I normally wear) and straightened my hair. I give myself an A+.

Well, 7:45 rolled around and I heard Fred'sbusted-ass car drive up and him get out and ring my doorbell. I was excited about seeing him, and ran down the steps, eager to go on our date.

However, my excitement turned to shock, then rage, then disappointment the second I opened the door. Standing there was my fat-ass boyfriend wearing a too-tight, tucked-in, pit-stained Hanes undershirt under a wrinkled unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt which was most likely purchased at Wal-mart and a pair of crusty-ass Birkenstocks which revealed his monster toenails. The worst part of all, however, was the pair of ripped-up jorts he was wearing.

I am not kidding.

Honest to God, jorts.

I was absolutely livid. I had just spent the last hour making myself look cute and he looked like he had rolled out of bed. I told him I was pissed by what he was wearing. He carried on in his annoying-ass-ignorant-as-hell-sounding-not-fully-capable-of-speaking-English way about how he wasn't sure where we were going.

If he had been listening, this would not have been an issue. But more importantly,why would he think this was acceptable for anywhere? I asked him where the hell this outfit was appropriate for. Clearly not going out to dinner. Clearly not going out to the type of bar I had planned to go to. In fact, I can only think of three places where this get-up would have been appropriate: 1) to wash a car; 2) to wear to Wal-mart; 3)Applebees. Our plans involved none of these.

I went up stairs and put on my casual jeans with a t-shirt and flip-flops. We went to Fudruckers. I had a nasty-ass hamburger. Fred wanted to go to a bar afterward, but I was too embarrassed to even take him to Notties. I mean, there could have been people I knew from high school there. And if I showed up with that piece of trailer trash...well, a lot of people know me, and they would have talked.

So, after Fudruckers, I went home and sent Fred back to his place. I have never had a more horrible date than I did that night.

Fred- I was always so out of your league. The least you could have done was try to dress-up a little. I hope you get the woman you deserve one day.

That woman has buck teeth, a tattoo, a perm, a spaghetti-strap tank top, shorts to her see-you-next-Tuesday and platform sandals. Go get her, Tiger!

Old MacDonald had a farm...

There is a Mexican restaurant on the Hill that I frequent, not because it is particularly good but because it is cheap (when I was an intern they had 10 cent wings and 25 cent beers on Wednesdays), centrally-located and known by everyone in Washington, including cabbies (this is important because I never know addresses of places I want to go, just names and general locations).

No longer an intern, I usually visit this place during the week for lunch between meetings but Saturdays are all-you-can-eat chicken fajitas for $9 day and so in the past year I have been twice on a Saturday when I was craving fajitas. Both times I went with my boyfriend at the time (two different men). Both times I was horrendously embarrassed.

The first time I visited this restaurant, my date was going through this weird phase where he liked to eat everything Mongolian barbecue style: everything mixed together in a bowl. He would do this with everything: bacon and eggs, filet and mashed potatoes, the insides of a turkey sandwich--it was a weird phase for him. Anyways, I figured this behavior was reserved to our at-home dining and assumed he'd be fine in a restaurant.

Then he ordered.

"I'll have the fajitas. No tortillas though and can you bring me a really big bowl?"

My recount of this story does not do it justice, but he took all of the meat and vegetables on his skillet and dumped them in the bowl and then dumbed the pico and guacamole on top and then drowned everything in queso dip. And he ordered three more orders of fajitas. It was one of the grossest displays I have ever seen.

The waitress looked at us like we had been raised in a barn.

The next time I went to fajita night things went great until my date noticed I had eaten my last tortilla and interrupted the waitress while she was talking to another table to tell her I needed more tortillas. Chivalrous? Perhaps. Except for the fact that I had finished the rest of my food and really had no use for three more tortillas.

This fact was not lost on the waitress. She gave me my tortillas, which of course I could not eat, and spent the rest of our visit pointedly looking at them whenever she walked past. I almost wanted to put the tortillas in my purse so that I was no longer subject to her wrath.

Of course, the date was oblivious the dirty looks because she wasn't directing them at him. She had assumed (like a rational person) that he wasn't a complete caveman and that I had directed him to order me more tortillas as if it were entertaining for me to watch both of them dance. So he was fine sitting there for the next 30 minutes nursing his beer.

I have stopped eating at this restaurant until their staff changes or they take the poster with my picture and a big red x through it off the wall. Whichever comes first.

That's what friends are for

I mentioned previously that Shrek was an RA in college. Before the start of the academic year, this meant he went through 3 weeks of training. Three weeks seems superfluous, but I assure you if you saw the winners who were RAs, you'd understand why they needed a whole three weeks to teach them a few menial tasks.

Part of this training included B.S. team building activities such as scavenger hunts and craft time (seriously). Basically any cliche leadership retreat activity you can think of, they did. Meyers-Briggs test? Check. Moon survival activity? Check. Desert island? Check. Shrek didn't mind all the training though because he was really good friends with all the RAs. He would always go on about how close they all were. I wouldn't understand the training because I am not in a group of close friends like he was with his coworkers.

It always seemed like the other RAs did not like Shrek much. They would go out and often not tell him. Or all plan to go out on the night he had to patrol. I had a sorority sister who was an RA in the same building and she barely knew him even though he would talk about her all the time. Weird.

The climatic end to their three week training bonanza involved each person writing something nice about everyone else. The lists were then typed-up by their boss who gave each RA a list of anonymous nice things that everyone else had written about them. This simultaneously warms my heart and triggers my gag reflex.

Shrek spent all night working on his list, eagerly awaiting the next day when he would get a list of compliments (he was always fishing for them). The next afternoon, he came to my dorm with the list of compliments. If I hadn't known about this beforehand, I would have thought the assignment was to write a back-handed compliment about the entire staff in as little time as possible.

The compliments on Shrek's paper were things like "Shrek would probably be a good boxer (aside: Shrek had never boxed in his life)," another gem was "Shrek has a unique personality." There were a few variations of "If I were to get in a bar fight, I would want Shrek to be on my side (Shrek was a big guy)." But, the best one of all was "Shrek has a pretty girlfriend."

I think a few people didn't even bother to write something for him (or if they did, it got edited out) because his list had about 10 fewer comments than there were people on the staff.

But the weird thing is, Shrek didn't take the hint and still went on believing that he was the best of friends with every member of the staff. I could not believe how dense he was. I didn't realize it entirely at the time, but I later discovered that nearly everyone he had called his friend really thought he was a huge jerk. After the break-up, I had his RA "friends" and fraternity brothers telling me that he was such a dick and everyone wondered why the hell I put up with him.

Shrek made a point of saving the list. I guess he didn't realize that no one on there said anything that would suggest they even remotely liked him.

If my good friends (or hell, even my acquaintances) had to write nice things about me, I would hope they could come up with something a little better than commenting on how my physical attributes may be advantageous in a very specific situation.

Waiting on the World to Change

The Officer/Gentleman refuses to shop at Target. We visited the local Target when he first returned from Iraq to get towels and bathroom decor and being a Saturday afternoon at Target it was very crowded so we left the cart in the main aisle while we went to look at towels. Officer/Gentleman is slightly prissy about some things, including but not limited to his linens, the stripes on his shirts, his silverwear, the blanket on his bed, hotels he stays in, restaurants he eats in, bars he drinks in...pretty much everything, actually. So while he was choosing between aquamarine and turqouise towels, a Target Team Member saw his cart, assumed it was abandoned and reshelved the items in it.

When Officer/Gentleman returned (with no towels) to find his cart missing, he went ballistic and marched right up to the front of the store and demanded the store manager explain why his selections had been reshelved. The manager politely explained that Target Team Members were told to reshelf stock in abandoned carts to avoid having them blocking aisles. This pissed off Officer/Gentlemen so he told the manager we would never shop in Target again (speak for yourself, sweetheart, I still visit Target at least weekly--it's the Minnesnowta in me) and that we were only shopping at Wal-Mart from now on.

I enjoy the trip to Wal-Mart as much as the next Republican but everyone knows it isn't even in the same league as Target. I mean, I will wear clothes from Target. I own a pair of sweatpants from the Wal-Mart in Bedford because there wasn't a Target for 20 miles and it was the middle of the night and I was freezing. The Target store manager looked at us with the same contempt as if we had asked if salad was included in a prix fixe menu.

Months passed and Officer/Gentleman only shopped at Wal-Mart until one day when he was looking for some plastic storage drawers and they were on sale at Target. Officer/Gentleman's frugality outweighs his principle so we jumped in the Mustang and headed to Target (I think we were also just coming out of a major fight at this point and he was trying to make a concession by taking me to one of my favorite stores). He got his drawers and was happy and we could go to Target again.

Then one day, we went to Target to get a vacuum cleaner (he fired his housekeeping service out of a principle that I didn't exactly understand but at least he was making an effort to keep his apartment non-gross). As we were paying for the vacuum cleaner, he asked the Target Team Member checking us out if he could have a roll of quarters. She told him he'd have to go to customer service so we got in the customer service line. After waiting in line for ten minutes, we get to the counter and the Team Member informs us that it is corporate policy not to give out rolls of quarters.

Knowing him very well, I could see he was pissed off by this policy but he did not go apeshit like I would have expected, instead he put the vacuum cleaner on the counter and said "then I'd like to return this and may I have $10 of my refund in quarters." The Team Member told him credit card purchases can only be refunded to credit cards and this sent him over the edge (I was waiting). We stormed out of Target (without the vacuum cleaner) while he was loudly questioning how a store with such shitty customer service policies can stay in business.

Um...because they are not a bank???

CMS and RGB lament waitresses in fine dining establishments looking at them with contempt, but ladies, you have not experienced humiliation until that look of contempt has come from trailer trash wearing red Target shirt.

To my knowledge, he has still not been back to Target. He probably doesn't own a vacuum cleaner either. That's sad.

He works hard for the money

Shrek was the worst resident advisor my college had ever known. This didn't stop him from thinking he was really something special. He harbored these delusions that he was bringing order to the chaotic system. Like most RAs, he had the typical power-trip problem. But he took that to extremes. He even went on a 45 minute rant one day about how RAs should get special parking spaces next to the dorms (instead of having to park int he garage like everyone else). This drove me nuts because I could see no reason why an RA would need to park closer to a dorm than anyone else. But I digress.

Shrek really thought being an RA was the pinnacle of prestige at college. He assumed that everyone else coveted his lame-ass job. It's funny that he thought anyone else on campus actually wanted a job. I feel sorry for people who had to work through college.

He only really had three responsibilities: 1) go on patrols of the building; 2) respond to residents' concerns; and 3) make bulletin boards. He sucked at all three. But, his failure at the first two tasks were not nearly as ridiculous as his inability to make bulletin boards.

Every month, he would scramble to put-up some piece of crap. He was often asked to redo his board because it was so bad. One month, he did a bulletin for Hispanic Awareness Month which had a 3-D sombrero made from stuffing crumbled paper under another sheet of paper and drawing a circle around it with a marker. It looked like a lumpy purple tit. He must have realized it looked more like a purple boob than a Mexican hat because he took a marker and wrote "sombrarro [sic] " with an arrow pointing to it.

There was never any real information on his bulletin boards. Just a boatload of speculations which he had made regarding the topic. For example, the Purple Boob board had little blurbs which he had scribbled on with a green marker that said things like "there are a lot of Hispanics in the US today." I am not exaggerating this one. His comments were either obvious or incorrect since he couldn't be bothered to spend 5 minutes looking up anything. Also, despite the fact he had atrocious handwriting, he couldn't be bothered to type a single part of his bulletin boards.

As a result of the crappy bulletin boards and his crappy attitude, the residents decided to draw over his work or rip it down. It was quite an improvement. The first one that got destroyed was about treating women with respect (I find it rather funny that Shrek, of all people, had anything to say about this). Shrek went apeshit. He demanded to his higher-ups that the whole floor be punished for their sexist behavior. His boss, of course, realized that it wasn't a matter of sexism, it was a matter of crappy bulletin boards and told Shrek to fix his board and get over it.

The next several months, Shrek would leave his door cracked open and sit by it, waiting for someone to start tearing down the bulletin board. When he heard them, he'd swing open the door and start screaming at whoever was near the board at the time. This was really quite a sight to see.

I was only there for him catching someone once. He totally chewed the poor guy out. Then, rather than write him up on the spot, he wrote a note on his door board that said "Memo to self: write-up Manny." What a dick. Then, for the next two weeks, every time he saw him in the hall he would make some snarky comment like "I need to write you up still." Really, what a dick.

Of course, this just made it all the more fun for the residents to mess with him. They would wait until he went to class, then destroy the board, fill his door lock with glue and put a condom on his doorknob. This continued for the rest of the year.

Every month, the board was torn down within a matter of hours. Every month, he would go ballistic. I started looking forward to his board getting torn down so I could laugh about how much it pissed him off. Even years after the fact, I still find myself laughing uncontrollably when I think about the temper tantrum he threw over his destroyed purple boob.

The only time the board was not destroyed was when I put it up. This was also the only time the board looked even remotely decent. The guys must have known that someone else did it and decided not to mess with it.

I found it amusing that Shrek put so little effort into a job that he seemed to value so much. Too bad he got fired from it and then failed out of school (for the record, that was all my doing).

I hope Shrek invests more in his beer sales career than he did in the RA gig. Otherwise, I fear he may never get to be the skanky twins' escort at bar promotions.

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.

Oops, I did it again

Men are pigs and women are bitches. I don't know which came first, but they sort of drive each other.

Tonight I went to the bar with my sister and a friend. It was a fundraiser event for the fire department so the place was swarming with firemen and fire skanks. The three of us were probably the only respectable women in the bar (at least we were the only ones who weren't acting like complete whores).

Full disclosure: my ex-fiancee is a firefighter. I know the culture pretty well--or at least well enough to know that I wouldn't hook up with another firefighter if he were the last man on earth. Even removing my boyfriend from the table, every man in the bar had a snowball's chance in hell with me. To signal this, I stuck my ring on my left hand--boom--I was married.

But firemen aren't know for their intelligence.

A fireman who knows my friend came up to our table and introductions were made.

This particular fireman was on duty, wearing a uniform and just "dropped by to check out the party." Yeah right. He dropped in wearing a uniform to see if he could tag a fireskank in between his off-duty friends taking turns. Dumdum had a certain penchant for doing this too--he preferred some bar called Orange Balls though.

Being who I am and having an audience and a little bit of cider in me, I smiled real sweetly and asked "did you bring your truck? Oh, can I have a tour?". I see his eyes light up like only a man's who is about to get a handjob in the backseat can and he leads me out of the bar.

At this point, everyone at the table thinks I'm pursuing him except for my sister who knows me too well and knows damn well that I am going to get to play on the engine for awhile and then the poor fireman is going to have to buy me a beer and then I am going to simply leave the bar without talking to him again. This is actually my favorite bar activity--hands down.

Sure enough, I go downstairs, spend about ten minutes playing with the lights and sirens and putting on turnout gear and generally entertaining myself and having a good time while fireman is practically licking his lips. Then I decide to drop the bomb on him:

Him: "So, you seem to know a lot about fire fighting, what did you, date a fireman or something?"
Me: [starting engine] "Nope, I was engaged to one."
Him: "One from [name of department which current fireman also works for]?"
Me: [turning lights on] "Yep."
Him: "Who?"
Me: [putting helmet on my head] "Not important. Hey, will you take my picture?"
Him: "So you two broke up or something?"
Me: [turning everything off] "Yeah, he wasn't ready for commitment and he got really fat--it is better this way."
Him: "Good for you, you should go out and get yourself a hot piece of something."

At this point, it is blatantly obvious that he is insinuating he is the "hot piece of something." Please.

Me: [climbing down from truck--in three inch heels, no less] "I already have one."
Him: "Oh?"
Me: [handing him his helmet] "Yeah, okay, well, thanks for the tour. That was fun. Bye!"

And I ran back into the bar.

An all-star night would have been if I got him to buy me and my six closest friends shots and give me cab money (I actually did that to some LTC once--and then the LTC ended up stationed at the same post as my boyfriend and we ran into him at a ball and THAT was awkward as hell), but unfortunately, there were only three of us and the bagpipes were on my nerves and I wanted to leave so I didn't even press this guy for a beer. I should have taken one for the team-I suck.

I Couldn't Care Less

More and more I am finding that bars in this area tend to be the biggest freak shows. Last night I left work early and ended up at dollar draft night with a couple of friends (I can never turn down cheap alcohol). After an hour or so, I found myself surrounded by the damn nerd herd. Anyway, I was feeling particularly stand-offish and just wanted to hang out with my friends.

The ringleader of the group seriously began to invade my personal space, blabbing about who-cares-what. I kept my eyes glued on the nearby TV screen. After about 10 minutes of his rambling, he noticed that I was not paying any attention to him, so he asked if I liked Sports Center (it was the show that was on at the time). I told him "Not a chance. It's just that I could not possibly be less interested in anything you have to say right now."

He started laughing! I couldn't believe it. He thought that it was a joke.

Seeing that this wasn't working, I then pulled out my cell phone and started texting all my friends, telling them that I was talking to the biggest loser in the world. I hoped that he would look over at what I was saying.

He may have, but that didn't stop him from talking to me. His only redeeming quality was that he was willing to throw down the plastic for my bar tab from before he arrived.

The rejection hotline was made for people like him. Although, he probably thinks that is all a joke too. What a moron.

He don't see ugly through bloodshot eyes

A certain ex liked to tell me that he only dated the fittest, most attractive women. For example, after we had been dating for awhile, I teasingly asked him if a year ago he would have ever thought he'd be driving a hot sports car with an attractive blonde next to him and he soberly replied: "of course, I knew I was going to buy a [hot sports car] and I only date attractive blondes." I knew one of his exes and she was pretty plain-looking and a friend of mine knew a different ex and she apparently wasn't a looker either. But there was a certain ex that he kept on a pedestal. I had never met this girl and she didn't live anywhere near us so I couldn't stalk her or anything so I trusted that she was truly far prettier than I could ever be.

Until I found an old picture of them while snooping through his photos*. She looked like her face had been bashed in with a shovel. As in it was so bad, I spent about fifteen minutes consulting with my sister about how I could casually ask if she had been in a horrible accident and her insurance wouldn't pay for a good reconstructive surgeon. (We concluded there was no graceful way to ask that.)

I am not the prettiest girl in the world. Riding the metro on any given morning, you are bound to see at least five girls who are prettier--DC is full of them. My college was full of them too (I am pretty sure my college has one of the most attractive student bodies in the country). I do not expect to be the prettiest girl my boyfriend has ever dated--in fact, I don't really want to be the prettiest, I just need him to think I am. But for some reason, I consistently date men with heinously deformed ex-girlfriends.

I would say that maybe these men are really great guys who truly go for great personalities except I have a tendency to date superficial jackasses and I am a complete bitch and so I know they are not dating me for my stellar personality. But the really weird thing is, for the most part I don't date duds. Okay--I have kissed my fair share of frogs, but the past few have been attractive, athletic, intelligent and had good jobs. These men are good catches, but why haven't they found a pretty girl in a city which we've established is full of beautiful women?

And why are they dating me?


*It wasn't really snooping, they were in a box on his nightstand, that makes it fair game.

It Must Have Been the Mistletoe

Back in college, when I actually had free time, I used to make greeting cards for birthdays, thank-you notes and any other occasion which merited a card. I don't mean "make" in the sense of printing off my computer, or even using a sheet of computer paper and drawing on it. My cards were all quite tasteful, and carefully crafted.

One year, I had a particularly cute idea of making Christmas cards that would have a sprig of mistletoe tied to the front with a little red ribbon. On the inside would be red lipstick kiss. I think I may have thought up something corny like "Merry Kissmas" to write on the inside under the big red kiss. Well, it was actually most likely something more creative than that, but that was the general idea of the message.

So, I went to the store, bought heavy cardstock, mistletoe, ribbon and adhesive gold strips for a border. These were going to be the cutest cards, ever! I was so excited about it, I started putting them together as soon as I got home. In the midst of all the cutting, gluing and kissing, Shrek's fat ass wandered over to my dorm.

At first he didn't get it. "Why would you kiss a card that is going to a friend?" I explained to him the tradition regarding mistletoe. He told me that my cards were slutty, and that if he received one from a girl, he would assume she was hitting on him. I believe I have addressed this before, but Shrek always thought everyone was hitting on him.

Apparently he missed the memo on how to actually flirt with someone. I mean, seriously. A girl asked to borrow his notes, and he assumed she was really asking to suck his dick. Two girls asked him for the time, and he thought they were asking for a threesome. A guy held the door open for him and apparently that means that he wanted to be pounded in the ass by Shrek.

We got in a fight about the damn cards, and he threw the biggest temper tantrum imaginable about it. I ended up throwing them in the back of a drawer somewhere. Maybe one day I will make them again.

This time, I will send one to him with the message "Kiss my ass, dickhead!"

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

It's that time of the year again here at LoserEx. That's right, it's time for the shopping extravaganza that is buying my Christmas and birthday presents (please note the plural, meaning I do not accept joint presents -- each holiday deserves a distinct gift).

Two years ago, CCG made a post about appropriate gifting, but I think it's time for a refresher course about what not to give. So, here it is, for your education -- the top 10 worst gifts I've ever received from a boyfriend.

10) Grocery store bonanza!- I once got the grocery store special for Valentine's day. It was awful. I don't want a damn Hershey bar and the obnoxiously bright Crazy Daisies. I want something nice. But if you're not going to spring for that, then at least get me nice flowers and Godiva chocolate. And also expect me to sulk about the fact I didn't get anything nice.

9) 12 pounds of cheese- Who can even eat this much cheese before it goes bad? Who has room in their fridge for this much cheese? Not me. If anyone gives me cheese this year, I am hiding it in under their bed so it rots and stinks up their apartment.

8) A shirt with ostrich feathers around the neck- Understand that while I am not always the most stylish person, I am always better at picking out clothes than any of the men I've dated. Rule of thumb for the men in my life: if you think I might like a certain article of clothing, you are probably wrong.

7) A shirt that looks like something a hooker in Eastern Europe would wear- Let's discuss the rule for clothing again: if you think it is something I might like, you are probably wrong.

6) A self-portrait- there is only one face I would enjoy commemorated in a painting, and that is my own. But really, don't give me a portrait of myself either. The worst part about the self-portrait I got wasn't that it was a bad idea, or that it was poorly painted. No, the worst part was the fact it was given to me three weeks after Christmas and since my birthday falls during that time, I somehow did not get a birthday present.

5) A moderately-priced dinner- On my birthday, you are obligated to take me to an expensive dinner. There is no way around this. This is not my gift for my birthday. This is in addition to my gift, which for the record, I would not like to receive while in the restaurant. You should give it to me before we go out because, if you are worth the two hours I must waste going to dinner with you, then your gift is David Yurman that I can wear out to dinner.

4) A shirt from Hot Topic- WHY?

3) Tacky jewelry which exceeds the size of a quarter, and is probably worth even less- If you bought it at the airport in the "Celebrate Colorado" store, then it probably is not something I want. Thanks.

2) A stuffed koala bear with a red plant coming out of its ass- This needs no explanation.

1) Nothing- The best surprise is no surprise? Yeah, maybe if you're talking about getting tested for the hiv. When it pertains to a gift for me though, it had better be something.

There it is. I do not expect to get anything on this list ever again. If I do, there will be hell to pay.

Yes, I realize this is bitchy, but so is giving me a self-portrait. Furthermore, if you want a girlfriend who is low maintenance, check out the trailer park.

How was I supposed to know?

During the first month of my freshman year of college, a guy approached me at a bar and asked if I was in his psychology class. It ended up that I was. He then asked how I did on the last test and I told what my score was and his jaw dropped. I had gotten the highest grade in the class, and therefore had set the curve for everyone else. He had gotten a D-. He explained that there was just a lot that he didn't get. I asked if there was anything in particular that came to mind, and he said he didn't understand what "cognitive" meant. Oh boy. I apologized and told him if he ever needed any help, he could borrow my notes.

The next week in class, he asked if I wanted to get together to help him study. Not wanting to be a bitch, I agreed. We decided to meet later that week in front of the library.

When the time rolled around for our study date, I threw my text book and notes into my backpack and made my way to the library. He was already there (probably because I was 5 minutes late), and asked if I wanted to go grab something to eat first. It seemed reasonable since it was about 5 in the afternoon. So, I agreed, and we walked up the street to a local diner. We both got hamburgers, and paid for our own meals. As we walked back to campus, he suggested we go to his dorm instead of to the library. This should have sent up a red flag, but I just assumed that he didn't like the uncomfortable library chairs.

We got back to his room, and I sat down and started to pull out my books. He looked at me, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You actually brought your books?" he asked.

Apparently, he didn't really want to study, which I found ridiculous. Everyone else I tell this to laughs at me because, apparently "study" is a euphemism for "come over and screw." Damn, I wish that had been in my freshman handbook.

But, it isn't the whole studying facade that annoys me most about this; it's the fact that he was trying to get in my pants and didn't even pay for my dinner! Cheapskate.

A story from Shrek

He no shit told me this once:

Shrek always had beef with Nordstrom, which was a problem for me, because it is one of my favorite stores. His beef stemmed from the following incident.

He was at the Nordstrom in Denver (I know, big vacay for his family). Anyway, a sales person in so many words told him to leave because there was nothing there for him. This still shocks me, and makes me wonder what atrocity he must have been wearing. I have been to nice stores dressed crappily, but never so much so that I was asked to leave.

Anyway, he decided that this called for retaliation. I think he was going for that scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts returns to the store which refused her service, and shows the bags upon bags of Versace which she purchased down the street. Anyway, he didin’t have the funds to pull this off, so he tried to fake it. He told her that he was the nephew of *insert name of some used car dealership guy on those tacky commercials all over Denver* and that he was looking to buy three suits to go to work with his uncle, but he would take his business elsewhere.

To this day it still amazes me that when he tries to not sound like PWT, he just sounds even more like PWT. How sad is it that the least trashy profession he could come up with was used car salesman. What a tool.

I wonder if he went to Applebees after that to drown his sorrows in a plate of riblets.