I'm a Loser Baby (Part 2)

Stringbean and I had been on our last leg when the flying squirrel incident happened, but I finally found the strength and/or balls to dump him for good a few months later. (Remember - we were long distance, so it took longer than it EVER would have had I been continually submitted in person to the loserness that was Stringbean.)

Once again, Stringbean neglected to call me the night before. At this point, however, I had grown accustomed to his flakiness and didn't think much of it. I was in class, trying to focus on what my professor was telling me about the phonetic alphabet and the french language, when my phone buzzed. The number came up as "Unknown," and I let it roll to voicemail. I imagined it was Stringbean, and thought it was appropriate to make the jerk wait. He knew I was in class, and, quite frankly, I didn't care what he had to say at the moment.

When class ended, I checked my voicemail.

"Hey baby girl it's me... (automated voice jumps in) is trying to call you from Jefferson County Detention Center. This call is collect and cannot be returned."

Needless to say I was not amused. My boyfriend was in friggin JAIL.

I called his Dad to find out what happened. He was a little sketchy on the details, but Stringbean had been arrested the night before for assault, and his Dad made the executive decision to leave his ass in the slammer for a day or two. I fully supported his decision.

Meanwhile, I called his buddy Bovi to find out the "real" story. Stringbean and some chick had been arguing inside the house. Bovi had young kids who were sleeping and decided that the two of them could take their dispute outside and leave the kids in their peaceful slumber.

Yet, once outside, it seems the argument esclated. Suffice it to say that the neighbors called the cops when they saw a young man and a young woman turning to blows to solve their argument. When the police arrived, they found Stringbean on top of said young woman, appearing, apparently, to be strangling her.

When Stringbean finally called at a time I could answer, I had very little to say. No amount of crying, "you're supposed to support me," "I called you because I thought you'd be the only person who would be on my side," or any other various blubbering statements could sway me.

Stringbean and I were finally over. It saddens me to this day that it took a jailhouse phone call for me to walk away from this loserex.

The Story of Us

I started my first blog my junior year of college. Putting your innermost thoughts on the internet and putting the link in your AIM profile is probably not the smartest thing to do, but all of my smart/witty/deep friends were doing it and we all do really dumb things in college. At least I didn't get herpes or something.

The next summer I dated MB. MB wasn't as smart/witty/deep as me and my friends, but he wanted to pretend so he started his own blog. Unfortunately, having already graduated from college (and I am using the term "college" very loosely) and being marginally employed, the content for his blog was pretty mundane. He attempted to make up for it by posting song lyrics (usually Italian opera lyrics that no one understood) and some of his original poetry (he was self-published). Shortly after we broke up, he took a stab at writing fiction. Really grotesque fiction (think scripts for snuff films). About me. Using my real name.

I am not going to go into details, but let's just say with a good bit of alcohol in my system, I could probably be persuaded into a few kind-of-kinky things. Necrophilia is not one of those things. Especially if I am the dead one.

Ordinarily, this would be terrifying and I would look into restraining orders, but, as I may have mentioned before, MB was questionably literate. So much so that you had to read each sentence three or four times before you understood what he was trying to convey. So instead of taking out a restraining order, I printed out a dozen copies of one of his creepier stories and left them on the editing table of the newspaper office on a Sunday afternoon.

My fellow editors are to this day some of my best friends because just like me, they are a) anal about editing things and b) willing to do just about anything to avoid doing actual work.

My friends didn't let me down and immediately began editing MB's prose and researching the submission requirements for the literary magazine (as in we called the editor of the literary magazine, told her we were writing a story about it and asked a bunch of "interview" questions--then, so no one would suspect anything, we stuck a random "call for submission" text box on the A&E page). We put MB's real name on his story and stuck it in the magazine's on-campus mailbox in the middle of the night.

I wish I could say it got published, but it didn't. Surprisingly, the literary magazine actually gets enough submissions that they are able to reject some. I never heard about it again, unless you count every editorial meeting for the rest of the semester.

I guess it's all for the best, as it probably would have resulted in both of us getting in real trouble if it had been published. And while I am all for making my exes pay for their transgressions, I don't think any of them have done anything bad enough to deserve jail time.

Alcohol, Part 3

After the riverboat episode, Fred was in quite a bit of trouble (well, as much trouble as one ever really gets in during college). Since he had already completed the mandatory on-campus alcohol class and counseling following his experiment in pantslessness, they had to give him something a bit more substantial -- the requirement to attend an off-campus alcohol evaluation. This meant that Fred would have to pony up a few bucks to pay for a psychological evaluation. And paying for anything was not Fred's style. Seriously, he wiped his ass with newspapers he found around campus to save money on toilet paper.

Not wanting to give up his life long streak of being unreasonably cheap, he considered his alternatives. His conclusion: find a professor licensed to practice psychology and get him to sign off on the forms. Of course, Fred didn't actually know any professors who fit the bill, so he "asked" that I have my advisor sign off on his papers.

I was appalled that he saw no problem with making me ask my advisor to do something illegal, and unethical for my alcoholic boyfriend (seriously no judgment -- he had a problem). He didn't even want to go talk to the guy, he just wanted to give me the papers and have them get signed.

Obviously, this was a no go. There was no way I was going to ask a professor to put his job on the line because my boyfriend is a cheapskate alcoholic. Fred eventually came up with the money to get the evaluation -- and held it against me for the rest of the time we dated.

On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City...

During college, I went on a few trips with Fred, all of which I paid for – hotel, drinks, the works. Invariably he never seemed to have the money to cover his part -- including things like gas, food, or even coffee. This wasn't too bad though I rationalized, since most of our trips were short and didn't involve major investments. So you can imagine my surprise when Fred told me he had saved up and wanted to take me on a vacation to the beach. I was absolutely thrilled.

Turns out, that beach was Atlantic City -- I don't gamble. Fred however does, but I assumed we would still spend some time together at the shore. I was wrong. From the moment we got there he dragged me from casino to casino and refused to even consider going to the beach. He hadn't even bothered to pack a swim suit. Not to say that seeing the casinos wasn't neat. It was. I had never experienced the glamour of endless chain smoking, the hopeless clicking of the slot machines, or the women “working” the floor before. All of these side acts however paled in comparison to the real fun I experienced watching Fred lose money playing poker for hours on end.

Now I feel I should mention that when Fred had said he was saving up it turns out he didn't mean for a nice hotel or for going out to dinner. The money he had been saving was strictly for gambling. And I got to spend two days of watching my boyfriend, who had never so much as taken me out to dinner, blow $800 playing poker. Ok, that is actually not true. I only got to watch him blow $300. The other $500 was blown while I was sleeping -- he snuck out of the room at 4 AM to “get his money back.” At this point you may be wondering how we paid for meals, gas, and pretty much everything else on the way home. The answer is yours truly got to cover it all.

In the long run though I guess that was a small price to pay for getting Fred out of my life – which happened not long after – permanently.

I'm a Loser Baby, So Why Don't You....

When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics - Part 1.

In a relationship, it is critical, and even necessary, to support your partner when they fall into hardship or difficult circumstances. However, in certain situations, this particular caveat is null and void.

Stringbean had a knack for "forgetting" to call when he got home after the bar or other activities, even after confirming that he would. We were in a long distance relationship, which made it all the more difficult to maintain trust and closeness that thousands of miles can obviously sabatoge. I'm not one to get upset about not calling per se - I am one to get upset about not calling if you said you would. It's a follow-through thing, nothing more. But that wasn't necessarily the issue during this particular event.

It was October, and I was upset that I hadn't been called the night before, but I continued about my business that day without pause. I was campaigning for a congressional candidate and couldn't have been happier waving signs and getting honked at out in the middle of the road. Then my cell phone rings. Rather than Stringbean calling me, it was a friend of his, whose name I will also protect by referring to him as Squatty.

Squatty: "Hey BJA, just wanted to give you an update on Stringbean's condition."

Why do girls get upset when you don't call when you say you will? Cuz if you get hurt or something else happens, we are left completely out of the loop, and distance only exacerbates the fear and worry.

Me: "What do you mean? What happened"

Squatty: "You mean you don't know???"

Uh... no.

Turns out brilliant Mr. Stringbean had gotten beyond wasted at a party the night before at a friend's apartment. Someone had made a comment that apparently made him angry, and he decided he wanted to leave. His friends, not wanting to support his death wish, told him no. They hid his keys and locked the door, while one of the bigger guys (lest we forget why Stringbean received the nickname...) stood in between him and the exit.

Stringbean was not about to be stopped however. Without thinking (obviously) he decided another exit was preferable. He jumped off the balcony.

It was a third story apartment.

Needless to say, Stringbean wound up in the hospital with broken bones and an alcohol violation. The ticket came from the fall, which I know may sound awkward, but follow me on this one. Stringbean didn't just yell out a carnal yell as he leapt from the balcony, but proceeded to justify his actions at the top of his lungs, disturbing the neighbors, by claiming he was, in fact, a "flying squirrel."

Sometimes I don't even know how to end these stories. And it's ridiculously pathetic this is only Part 1 of "When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics."

The Use of this Blog

I feel the need to say something here.

We write on this blog to vent, to share, and to hopefully impart some knowledge on guys out there who don't understand why women lose their cool or get angry about something they do.

It's not meant to hurt (usually), but it is meant for those of us who read it (which is only those who write it and a few of the exes described herein.)

So for those of you who are angered by what you read here, grow up. You are welcome to contribute to our sister blog "Crazy Ho" and talk mad shit about us. Fortunately, we know when we screwed up in our relationships, just as much as when we are"vindicative," or even, excuse the language, a "cunt." And we make no apologies for it.

We don't use names to protect those who might be hurt. We use song titles when possible just as a standard. (See: OFFSPRING) We also don't check blogs every day of our exes, though we're sure they talk about us - even unkindly.

However, let's get one thing straight. We didn't make this shit up. Our commentaries are vivid and honest. Sometimes we make it a little more kindly to protect those who we still give a damn about. Be angry. But don't expect us to keep our mouths shut when we tried to end it amicably and find the tactics and actions of our exes to be vindictive and childish, too.

And that's ALL I have to say. Quit reading my blog if it makes you so damn bitter.

PS. Not a word that was said here was not said to your face. And you know that. I said every word to you because I'm not a bitch.

PPS. We're especially prone to post stories after we feel the ex has sufficiently moved on that it wouldn't evoke some sort of reaction. Or when they play the game of calling us things behind our back. We see that as a big ole' green light for sharing stories.

Hey, Why Don't You Get a Job?

There's some comfort in blissful ignorance. Never knowing what's in store or what's down the road and having blind joy and excitement for the time to come is characteristic of a special kind of person. There's an old demotivational poster just for them.

"There is no greater joy than soaring high on the wings of your dreams, except maybe the joy of watching a dreamer who has nowhere to land but in the ocean of reality."

I understand the hope, the dream, the idealistic tendency to feel prepared, or the fake it till you make it mentality. But at some point, you have to also be realistic. And when all else fails, you have to at least try.

Diego is a bright guy. He's not the traditional loser we generally refer to on this site in that he's definitely intelligent. Perhaps that even exacerbates the disappointment we, as women, find with men who end up as loser-exes. Intelligence gives you such a leg-up and yet... I guess intellect isn't always followed by perfection, but the least we could ask for is proofreading.

Diego wanted to move to the big time. He wanted to leave his small college town and venture to the wide world of the big city, with big names, companies, and causes to boot. Being that I was already here, I was happy, even eager, to help. I have a few connections here and there, and know a few hiring managers, so I asked him to send me his resume.

Diego didn't have much experience to speak of. The trouble with having no experience in the field, in a town completely and utterly revolving around that exact field, tends to be that no one wants to hire you. When your star accomplishments out of undergrad were holding an office (not President) of one club, even though it was of considerable size, and two jobs as a waiter and a golf-course attendee... you're not turning heads easily. So I tried to help him improvise. Spice up the story, use descriptive verbs and emphasize the volunteer experience you have, right? Diego was by no means an idiot, and I had confidence he could handle anything one of these employers could throw at him if he could just get in front of them... but it would take some work.

Well, when I finally received the resume, it had a litany of problems. It was in different fonts, had misspelled words like February, switched tenses back and forth between present and past.... and just basically reeked of "do not hire me." To highlight the barrage of mistakes, I used Microsoft's nifty "Track Changes" tool. I corrected the spelling errors, rearranged bullet points, fine tuned the wording, and used a thesaurus for action verbs. After feeling like we had at least taken a step in the right direction, I returned the resume, with changes highlighted in red, to Diego. I wanted to ensure he saw where he'd made mistakes, and how to fix them and make his resume minimally acceptable.

I had really hoped my critiques had sunk in. What kind of message does it send your future employer if you can't read through something as important as your resume for mistakes? Let alone what do they think when you can't even stay in the right tense or mention "learning about the office environment" as one of your bullet points of what you did at an internship from high school....

The next day, he found a job he was interested in. Off went the resume to a prospective employer with my own email covertly attached in the "bcc" line, so as to prove he did actually send his resume and was moving forward on his own.

The first thing I noticed was the lack of a cover letter. You MUST introduce yourself and convey why you are not only interested in the job, but why they should be interested in you. This is especially critical when your resume lacks any substantive experience! There was but a sentence, urging the recruiter to review his resume and stating his intent to move upon the offer of a job. (On this note, you MUST say I will be there on this day at this time, may I meet with you or your hiring manager!!! You can't say I won't move unless I get hired by you because not only am I not a local, but I am unsure of whether or not I'm willing to take the leap unless you leap first.)

And perhaps I exaggerated... he had two sentences. The other offered an interview by either phone or email. Email, folks.

The last, and more heinous offense, was that the resume was still redlined. All the changes I had made, comments, misspelled words, crossed out words, rearrangements, etc... were all there highlighted on the screen for the potential hiring manager to see.

(Note: Picture not mine. Saw it online and it cracked me up. Fit well here. Visit www.CartoonStock.com for more hilarious ones!)

Needless to say, I was mortified. While I do not doubt that Diego is plenty intelligent and would make a good employee to someone in the DC area, I worried after seeing him make this mistake, and if I was doubting him, you know some office assistant was laughing her ass off and hanging that thing on the wall as the ideal of what not to do to get hired.

It was an honest mistake, to be sure. But let's get serious here. Any hiring manager would see that as a fatal flaw simply because you didn't properly prepare a document, nor do you show yourself to be adept at proofreading at first glance. You can't naively expect to be hired just because you're sweet and southern. Jobs up here look for demonstrated talent - and you have to show them to get them to see it, even if we know you have it.

Post-script: He improved his ability to submit resumes over time and got pretty good at them, along with cover letters. And, while Diego never got hired in Washington, he found employment at a local middle school coaching football.

Alcohol, Part 2

In my last entry about Fred’s drunken shenanigans, I mentioned that it was uncommon to get an alcohol violation at my school. Well, it's damn near impossible to get two!

But somehow Fred managed to accomplished this. I know, impressive, right?

During his senior year of college, he assisted with freshman orientation -- actually how we met – we were both coordinators. Anyway, one of the events was a party for freshman on a boat that was, of course, alcohol free.

Now, I know that there really aren't alcohol-free events during orientation and a few of the upperclassmen assisting with orientation would have a couple of beers beforehand. But, Fred never knew when to say when.

Consequently, upon arrival one of the event planners – who also happened to be his roommate -- told him to go home. He ignored this suggestion. The orientation director then caught a wiff of Fred and saw that he could barely even stand up and fired him in front of everyone.

Hurt and blaming his roommate, Fred returned to his dorm. Rather than just passing out like a normal drunk person, he decided to get even by pissing all over his roommate's bed.

Not before crying about not going on the boat ride though. No joke, he fricking cried about it. Seriously. Like effing tears pouring down his face, choked-up, hysterical crying. I cannot possibly emphasize this enough. This isn't really relevant to the rest of the story. I just wanted to point out that Fred cried about not riding on a boat.

Prior to his roommate returning Fred was pretty much guaranteed an alcohol violation courtesy of his display at the boat. But, when his roommate returned home to a bed dripping wet in piss and reported him he acquired even more charges. Then, he threw the soiled bedding into the garden below his balcony, thus acquiring even more charges. It was an alcohol violation bonanza!

Alcohol, Part 1

I wouldn't say Fred was an alcoholic. I don’t judge -- well actually I do judge but I don’t make clinical diagnosis so let’s just say he was a damn moron. His escapades are so ridiculous that they need to be broken up in to three different entries – this is the first:

Most college freshmen have crazy alcohol-induced adventures shortly after moving away from home. Of those, a few unfortunate or stupid people end up getting an alcohol violations. At my school, it was really really hard to get in trouble for drinking too much. One would have to do something incredibly stupid to achieve this. Fred did.

Anyway, upon arriving at his room after a night of heavy underage drinking, Fred decided that pants were not for him. Underwear was also not for him. In fact, he wanted to be "Fred just a shirt," and insisted that everyone address him as such. He also, as his moniker suggested, was wearing only a shirt.

He proceeded to parade down the coed hall in just a shirt. A great way to meet -- and alienate -- your classmates during your first week of school!

His friends attempted to keep him confined him to his room, but were unsuccessful. The RA, who refused to address him as “Fred just a shirt” promptly called the paramedics who threw him into the back of an ambulance and sent to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.

Fred did accomplish his goal – while getting his stomach forcibly pumped he did get to wear a hospital gown – without pants!

I'm just kidding, they gave him pants. And a big fat alcohol violation.

Bottle of Red, Bottle of White

Have your ever dated someone aspires to be classy? If so you may appreciate the following.

While in college , Fred decided he didn’t want to look out of place at dinner parties (although the only “dinner parties” he ever had to worry about attending involved pizza and PBR), so he decided to become an expert on wine. It seemed a little odd for someone his age, but I didn't mind. After all, it is kind of really sexy when a guy knows his way around a wine list.

Of course, he assumed I would teach him everything myself. But while I do enjoy drinking it as much as the next girl, I really am the worst person to ask about wine. The truth is I only go to wineries for the free alcohol. I usually don't pay attention to anything I am being told about the wines. I can't taste the damn vanilla undertones and I don't really care how the light refracts in your pinot grigio. But, I suppose compared to his friends who exclusively drank everclear, I was the closest thing he had to a sommelier.

Anyway, Fred insisted we go to the wine store one day so he could pick out a few things. When we arrived though, he entered an almost fugue like state of fascination at the sheer variety of wines. He had only ever known Franzia Red, Franzia White and Franzia Pink. The wine store was truly an exciting and educational experience. Standing in the California white section, he asked me the difference between a riesling and a chardonnay. I told him that it's pretty much the grapes they use (there is no doubt in my mind that there is a more elaborate answer than this, but I sure as hell don’t know it…if you really feel the need to enlighten me, go ahead, but I most likely won’t remember anyway).

"Oh, yeah, they use grapes for white wine, right…” he commented. “And so, for different types of red wine, they use different types of watermelon?"

Seriously. And yes, I know there are novelty fruit wines that probably do use watermelon, but that is not what he was referring to.

He was 22 years old and thought red wine came from watermelons. But then again, this was the guy who thought that champagne glasses were called "flukes" (yes, fluke, as in whale tail, or barb, or part of an anchor, or accidental advantage, fluke) instead of "flutes." He probably thought vodka came from hotdogs, too.

I wish I had let him ask the wine store staff this question.

Till Death to Us Part... Or you know, whenev.

Weddings are bright, cheerful, and momentous occasions. The bride and groom share their new family with all their friends and loved ones, and all come to share in their joy. Granted, we all know that in a matter of years they'll be at each others throats, but that comes with the territory of tying the knot.

For the bridal party, weddings are even more hectic. Yes, we always must cater to the whims and worries of the bride, and we do so gladly. But we shouldn't have our own worries.

For me, the majority of the trouble came after the wedding itself. A close friend and former boyfriend of mine was my date to the wedding - from hereon referred to as "The Date." He happily accompanied me and even, quite sweetly, wrapped my gift for me after the airport had rudely ruined my careful packaging. And because... well I'm bad at wrapping anyway, so it was probably for the best.

Following the happy newlywed's send-off after the reception, the rest of us took off for some fun. The city is rife with bars, dance halls, jazz bands, and clubs. We went to a few of the town's most famous locations, renowned for their delightful elixirs of excessive alcoholic content. No city in these United States is more well known for the party life. (Hint - less gambling, more drinking. And beads.)

The Date and I had a long history though. We had been off and on for nearly a year. But, much to his chagrin, I had met someone new and I wasn't about to cash out for an old love who lived thousands of miles away from where I had moved after college. While this certainly was painful for the Date to hear, and surely I could have put it slightly better to him when I explained that I was falling for someone else... it still does not excuse the remainder of the evening.

I was tired. Waking up early to be wedding-wing-man takes a lot out of a girl! So by midnight I was dragging, and by 1am I headed back to the hotel. The Date stayed out with the Maid of Honor, the Best Man, a few other members of the bride and groom's party, and a few old friends of the couple. These guests included my former roommate from my last year in college. Nice girl, but at times... how do I put this delicately... overly friendly with members of the opposite sex. And by at times, I mean many many times over the course of my living with her. Not every roommate keeps a tally board.

I'm still a little sketchy on the details of the evening. And suffice it to say, I'm ok with it remaining that way. The Date did eventually return to our hotel room. At 5am. I didn't think much of it at the time, because this particular city has bars that open their doors to thirsty patrons twenty-four hours a day. Regularly! But I also did not need to hear what had happened through the night.

Remember, this was my ex. The Date and I had been together for awhile but had broken up after he had made a... bad judgment call.

Well, he made another one.

The Date had gone to my old apartment. Where my ex-roommate still lived. He had gone with said roommate. He had accompanied her into the room next door to the one where he had visited me over the course of our relationship.

I won't get into the nitty-gritty. It's one thing to partake in these acts. It's another to be drunk when such horrendous choices are made. And it is yet another to come back to your ex and tell her what you have just done to her former roommate. We may have been over, but let's put our thinking caps on and know better than to be downright vindictive and crude.

Next time, no former boyfriends will be chosen as my date to a wedding. Only currents or completely platonic friends.

Negotiations over.

Drink it up

Soda molds. I didn't realize this right away. I suppose it ought to be intuitively obvious – it is wet and sugary. But, I think I had always kept urban legends in the back of my mind about how Coke's acidity makes it a great car battery/highway/toilet/grease cleaner. I realize that none of these are true, but the idea still must have stuck on some level.

Also, there was the fact that prior to dating Shrek, I had never seen, or heard of, a soda molding. Like 99% of the population, after opening a soda, I reseal it, consume it, or dispose of it within an hour. Aside from not wanting to attract flies, there is the issue of a half-empty can of soda being a spilling hazard. Being clumsy, I make a point to not leave anything around that could potentially be knocked-over and create a mess. Shrek did not share my diligence in soda management.

Shrek drank more soda than anyone I have ever met (a combination of this and poor oral hygiene contributed to his nasty-ass teeth, but that is another story). He went through 3 cases of it a week. And this is not counting the sodas he bought from the machines in the dorms, the food court on campus or at Burger King. Shrek was also not known for his cleanliness. His dorm was always messy and dirty.

One day, he had gotten stuck working at the front desk of the building for a lot longer than expected (the person with the shift after him decided to leave town without bothering to tell anyone). I felt a little bad for him and decided to do his laundry since I knew he had planned to when he was done with work. I gathered up about 8 loads worth of dirty clothes (it had been a while) and took over the entire laundry room.

When I went back to his room to put his detergent away, I noticed that his room was really gross. Not wanting to bring clean clothes into a dirty room, I decided to throw away some of the trash lying around. I put all the paper plates and candy bar wrappers sitting around in a trash bag. I then went to round up the 20-some soda cans sitting throughout his room and realized that many of them still had soda inside.

So, I took as many as I could carry (4 – I have small hands) across the hall to the bathroom so I could empty them out in the sink. I poured out the first one. Out came some flat Cherry Coke…and a small white mass.

I assumed it must have been something other than mold. I mean really, who leaves soda cans sitting out long enough to mold?

I poured out the next can and even more white stuff came out. At this point I realized what was going on. I was totally grossed-out by the idea of dumping moldy soda in the sink. But, I was even more grossed out by the thought of Shrek just ignoring them for the rest of the year. So, I opted to continue with my plan of emptying all the soda cans and disposing of them.
Out of all the cans in his room, there were three that had no visible traces of mold inside. Three. I have no idea how long it takes a soda to mold to the degree that some of these had, but I am guessing it is a few months.

The worst part was, even after having a talk about the moldy soda, he did not get any better about cleaning up. The next time I was over (a few days later), there were 6 new open cans sitting on his desk.

It's Goodbye Time

The Sap was a nice guy. At least at the beginning. He was sweet, even went a little overboard by bringing a dozen roses to our first date. Granted, it was a week after my birthday, and he felt compelled to make sure I caught that he noticed and had listened the day I met him. It was actually a very nice gesture.

Our second date took a turn towards stalker. Let's talk about bringing up what a girl wore on the day before your date, when she had not planned or even noticed that you had "seen" her. Let's also talk about dropping the L-bomb. And, to really round it out, let's find out what you want to name your kids.

The Sap and my budding relationship quickly ended. A quick talk explaining that we weren't in the same place and I was no longer interested in pursuing this relationship, and I felt the deal was done. A few calls over the next week that were not returned, seemed to send a similar message. (Apparently, explicitly saying "no, I do not want to date you anymore" just doesn't do the trick.)

But the Sap was not done.

Six months later, (SIX MONTHS) I get a text message. From a number I do not know but has the area code that the Sap would have possessed.

"BJA, hey it's Sap. I wanted you to know I haven't met anyone who is as smart and beautiful as you and I really want to see you again. Please call me. My house number is __________, my pager is ___________, or you can email me at _____@_____.com. Hope to hear from you soon. You are the most amazing woman ever."

OMG. Stalker's suck.

High School Never Ends

I don't know about you, but when high school ended, I was relieved. No more pencils, no more books, etc. kind of relieved. I had college to look forward to! String Bean, on the other hand, wasn't going to college. He had actually graduated the year before me and hadn't managed to find a way to get into a decent community college, let alone a four year institution and a far cry from the ivy league.

Here's the brutal truth about those who don't go to college. For a large portion of them (but by no means all, there are many brilliant non-college grads who do very well for themselves), high school was IT. The highlight of their lives! It was all downhill from there, right? But for those of us who either went to school or at least matured in some manner (although many who even went to college never saw the light of maturity...), we never wanted to revisit our high school years.

So when String Bean said a friend of his was throwing a house party the summer after my freshman year of college, I was perfectly content with going. I'd just come home from college, where house parties meant kegs, having fun, letting loose, and generally having a fantastic time because the cops weren't coming by. I wasn't 21 yet, but who cares? We were blocks from campus and had plenty of friends to make sure everyone could walk at the end of the night, or at least one person could be the one we leaned on. (Very little "law enforcement" in the Big Easy...)

Much to my surprise, String Bean drives us to this hole in the wall house in the middle of lower suburbia on the outskirts of my home town. This isn't a college level party... its not even in an area where college kids live... let alone where cops won't dare travel. Worse - it was some high schooler's house.

She was 14. Not completely unfortunate looking, but certainly not the queen bee of anything, and definitely barely out of diapers. Have you ever noticed how those younger than us think that the more the show the hotter they look? Let's remember that this mindset is only expected from strippers or for costume parties. If your midriff is showing and you're jailbait - you darn well better put some clothing on. This concept apparently escaped these young high school bimbos.

We arrive, I disdainfully examine the "party." Guess what we're here for. We're the alcohol buyers. The high schoolers fish through their pockets for the twenties they stole from their parents' wallets. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased. But I used their money to get some fine liquors I wanted, so I felt at least some sense of revenge.

When we returned, the drinking began. That part was expected. What wasn't on my list of things to do was run from the cops. But that is exactly what happened.

Let's be clear - I had high school parties in high school. But we weren't retarded enough to let the drunk guys go out back and have wrestling contests while blasting music at 1am. And never, EVER did I have to deal with diving over a fence to escape cops who actually care about noise and underage drinking violations.

Since when is it ok to take your girlfriend to a party thrown by 14 year old skanks? Thank goodness that ends after college. Or at least I really really hope I don't run into any losers who think that's ok at forty.

Seriously. Why were we there?

I do not miss high school.

Follow Your Nose

Sometimes when you need to blow your nose, a box of tissues is just not close by. I understand this. In college, I would only buy tissues if I had gotten sick enough to go through them in a few hours. The rest of the time, I used toilet paper. Sometimes even napkins. I am not ashamed to admit my gross habits (for the record though, I have gotten past this and currently have three boxes of tissues on my desk ... but that is only because work pays for them since they are office supplies).

When tissues are unavailable, there are alternatives, some better than others. If I had to rank the alternatives, I would put toilet paper at the top of that list, followed by cheap napkins (softer than the nice ones), then nice napkins, then paper towels, and then...creative options. Thankfully, I have never gotten to the creative options. Fred, on the other hand, has.

One night I was at his apartment making enchiladas and he decided that he absolutely had to blow his nose immediately. Sure, there were napkins and paper towels in the kitchen. And there was toilet paper in the bathroom. If he were truly a purist, I am sure his anal-retentive roommate had some tissues to spare (Actual real tissues! What a concept!). But Fred opted for the creative option. His choice? A corn tortilla. I'm sure his inner monolouge was something like "I'm such a rebel, I am blowing my nose with food!"

I can't even begin to describe how nauseating it is to see someone blow their nose into the food you are cooking, but trust me, it was not a good time.

I was completely appalled that he decided to use a corn tortilla to blow his nose out of some sick interest rather than out of necessity. Furthermore, an unfried corn tortilla is actually kind of crumbly and not really a good material for this, ergo, it did not exactly work out the way he had hoped. Not to mention, they were much more expensive than any other option and they were what I was fucking cooking for dinner.

I don't know if he thought he was being innovative, funny or both. I found his display to be none of the above. And he was making his own dinner for a very long time after that.

Ode to Fred's Car

Every girl out there has dated a guy with a bad car at one point. And anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that I've dated some guys with really REALLY bad cars…like Shrek and the Reagan administration era teal station wagon. For the most part, I am willing to overlook things like cars if the guy in question has other good qualities. I mean, it is kind of really hot if a guy drives something fast and European (I'll let you know as soon as I find one) but, a great car isn't the first thing I look for in a guy. And besides, you don't come to LoserEx to read about hot guys with fast cars. You come to read stories like this one.

Fred's car – a little Japanese number - was on its last wheel. The bumper had been knocked almost completely off in a rear-end collision and was held on – I'm not exaggerating - by bungee cords. The sides were dented in and covered in deep dings from the time Fred got his ass handed to him by a one night stand's boyfriend. But that's another story.

At this point I want to make it clear that I understand that things happen, sometimes cars get dents. In fact I've caused a fair share of dents in cars – both mine and other peoples (hopefully not yours ;). But there is a world of difference between the "Hey, it looks like the paint is a little scratched" and "Hey, your fucking door is about to fall off!!" situations. Fred's car fell into the second category.

The aforementioned incidents resulting in the detached bumper and dented sides were both reported to insurance and money was collected from each incident. However, Fred decided that it was better to keep this money for potential mechanical problems rather than use it to fix the extensive cosmetic damage.

I certainly understand wanting to save this money for something more vital to the operation of the vehicle than the appearance of the door. However, when the bumper is dragging in the street and shooting sparks next the gas tank, I think maybe it's ok to address cosmetic issues. But, I digress.

Fred wanted to save money for mechanical problems. Fine. Except for when those mechanical problems inevitably arose, the money was no where to be found.

So, with a complete lack of regard for the condition of his vehicle, Fred managed run his jalopy into the ground until the transmission gave out. This meant I had to chauffeur his ass around for the next six weeks while he tried to come up with the money to get his car fixed. Not the best situation, but the fact that he actually had a driver's license at least gives him a few points over Fruit Fly.

He did eventually get the transmission replaced, but 8 months later, the compressor went out. At this time, it was early spring, so I didn't really notice. But by the time it was 90 degrees and humid that summer, I sure as hell noticed.

I had (wrongly) assumed that Fred, like any normal person would have gotten his compressor fixed when he realized it was broken. But, Fred was not a normal person. I realized in the middle of a road trip on a particularly hot day that he had not bothered to replace the compressor.

Of course, this was also the day that we ended up getting stuck in a traffic jam for 2 hours. At which time, he decided to pass the time by rolling down the windows and blasting Raffi. I should have rallied up all the poor people within an earshot and kicked Fred's ass on the non-dented side of his car. At least then it would have matched.

Fred's reason for not fixing the compressor was that it only affected the air conditioner and the ability for the car to start. He decided air conditioning was not a priority and he was willing to screw around with his car for a good 10 minutes to get it to turn on each time.

So needless to say, at the end of the summer I felt a bit relieved to go back to school and get away from the car and Fred for a little while. At least until he decided to visit me. Fred opted to drive to my school (at $150, a plane ticket was prohibitively expensive). After a short ten hour drive he showed up on the steps of my dorm. I had once again assumed that he had replaced the compressor before taking such a long drive, but I was wrong. And of course, it was when he was at my dorm that his car did not start.

I had to call AAA to come tow his busted-ass car to the local garage. Upon arriving at the garage, Fred announced that he had no money, so I had to pay the $60 labor fee for the inspection.

But after the inspection Fred decided they were going to charge him too much to fix his car, so he demanded to go elsewhere. Great. Except, his car didn't start.

I had to call the tow truck AGAIN and have them tow the damn thing to the parking lot in front of Fruit Fly's house. This was a very awkward conversation. Also, try calling AAA sometime and asking them to tow a car to a residential parking lot. Trust me, it takes a lot of pleading.

Now, after a long fun filled weekend of towing and gas stations I had Fred stuck with me, and he apparently had to be at work in 12 hours. Despite the fact he worked at a fricking electronics store at the time as a sales associate, he refused to call out.

I had exams the next day, there was no way I could drive him. He refused to take a Greyhound bus. He refused to rent a car. So flying his ass out was the only option . The ticket for the flight leaving in 5 hours was $850. Guess whose card that went on?

A month later, Fred drove back down with his dad so they could try to fix the car. They didn't fix it per se, but they got it to start by pushing it down a hill (somehow this took 8 hours). His dad then had to drive the car all the way back home, knowing that if the car stopped, it would not start again.

I hope that poor man didn't have to pee during the long trip home.

You are My Princess...Right?

Romance goes a long way in relationships. Sometimes the tiniest bit of effort can produce such astonishing results that women just melt. Flowers for instance. Jewelry for sure. A card in the mail for no purpose. A note on the car window. Candy. (Yum!) Making dinner. Writing a fictional story... wait... that's a little much.

I had been dating Gumby for a little over a month. I had found that I really didn't have the time or energy to devote to the relationship as school got more intense and the college search kicked into gear. I felt as though I was neglecting him, and I told him as such.

His response was to write me a story.

Let me preface this by letting you know how Gumby and I met. He was working at the local grocery store where I lived in Colorado, and I was a friendly shopper. My flip flop shoe had broken while I was in class, and I needed a quick cheap replacement. So I swung into the grocery store which I had noticed was offering flip flops for $2. Killer deal when you needed a quick fix in the shoe department. Gumby struck up a conversation, and asked me out. We went on a double bowling date with a friend of his named Ian. And from there it became a relationship.

Now, I can get to his "story" in response to me saying I didn't really have the time for him.

"Once upon a time in a high mountain kingdom there lived a beautiful princess. One day she came to a stable far from her castle. The lowly stable hand was awed by her beauty and offered to assist her with whatever she needed."

(Pause for the corniness to sink in....)

"When he muscled up the courage, he asked the beautiful princess if she would like to meet him in the village, where they could sample the local fare and enjoy the festivities of the night. When she agreed, he was smitten."

(Seriously.)

"The agreed upon night, the stable boy travelled far into the hills, onward and onward until he reached her castle. He was accompanied by a fellow squire, let's call him Ian, as he ventured forward on the clear and crisp spring night. For weeks, the two frolicked through the fields, enjoying the serenity of the mountain air."

(Yeesh...)

"Then, one day, the princess told the stable hand that things were just too busy. And she worried that she was neglecting him and the time they spent together. But the stable hand was not worried. He knew that the princess cared for him deeply and was only concerned about hurting him. So he assured her, that any time she had available was alright by him. Just hearing her voice once a week was enough to put him on cloud nine."

It went on in that vein. Essentially, the idea was: don't break up with me, I'll be fine just seeing you less and still calling you my girlfriend.

This type of behavior is unacceptable. It comes across as needy. We women do not want needy guys. So here's the thing - even a cute story is not enough to get a girl to stay with you when she feels her schedule is no longer conducive to a relationship. Our goal, or at least my goal, was to not hold Gumby back because I knew he would eventually resent that I never saw him. I knew that I would eventually resent never seeing him.

Relationships take dedication and time. They do not require neediness. So leave the princess crap at home.

Feeling Lucky?

Fred and I used to go to a Mexican restaurant near his house quite frequently. Well, more frequently than anywhere else -- he didn't like to go out much. Anyway, the first time we went, I ordered steak fajitas which were incredibly good, but ended up being rather large. So the next time we went, we ended up splitting an order of the steak fajitas.

Now, I should point out a mundane detail that really didn't catch my attention the first time either. Since I ordered a meat dish that involved cutting, the waiter had brought me a steak knife. The second time we went, since we were splitting the entree, the waiter just gave the steak knife to Fred. He made some comment about having received the 'lucky knife,' but I didn't really think too much of it. I just assumed this was his lame-ass attempt at being funny.

The third time we went, after we had ordered, he looked at me excitedly, and said "I wonder who's going to get the lucky knife this time." I looked at him and asked what exactly he thought the purpose of the lucky knife even was. He told me "I'm not sure, I think it's just some kind of tradition in Mexico."

D'oh. I still have no idea how someone who was in his mid-twenties managed to never grasp the concept of a steak knife. He honestly thought it was just a little lucky treat that someone at each table was randomly rewarded with for eating dinner. Seriously, how the hell did he function?

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part IV

I have some minor health issues that are not particularly life threatening, but are particularly painful. As a result, I have some very needed prescription painkillers.

The first time the Dud was over at my apartment, he was snooping through my stuff and came across my prescriptions. I explained to him why I have them and that they are very much needed. However, my explanation apparently went in one ear and out the other.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed that my pills started to disappear-- several at once. And usually after the Dud had spent the night. Seeing that he was stealing my medication, I started hiding them in my dresser, thinking that he would be less inclined to take them if they were not in plain sight.

That didn't stop him. I came out of the shower one morning to see him digging through my drawers. When I asked him what he was doing, he nonchalantly asked "Hey, where are your drugs?" as if this were a perfectly acceptable and legitimate thing for him to be doing.

While I do not condone taking a medication prescribed to another person, I would at least be able to understand where he was coming from had he been suffering from a kidney stone or something. But, no. He was in no pain whatsoever and was taking my painkillers recreationally.

I was livid that he honestly felt no shame in taking medication from a sick person. That's like stealing food from starving children in a third world country (I mean in concept, not in severity). Who the hell does that?

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part III

Once again, the Dud had spent a weekday night over and was getting in the way of me getting ready for work. I decided to lock him out of my bathroom so I could straighten my hair in peace.

That didn’t last long. Within seconds of turning the lock, I heard him opening my dresser then announcing that he was rummaging my underwear drawer. I calmly asked him to stop. He was quiet, so I assumed he had.

A minute later, he asked “If you came out here and I was masturbating with this blue and white lacy thong, would you be pissed?”

No, I am not making this up. I explained to him that I would be pissed and that when I came out, he better not have said undergarment.

A minute later, when I came out of the bathroom, he was in my bed, being intimate with my blue and white lacy thong. Gross. I immediately took it away from him and threw it in my hamper. I have washed it several times since, yet still feel too disgusted by it to ever wear it.

I'm sure there are people out there who would not find this offensive. I am sure there are even people who would be turned on by this. I am not one of those people. I find this incredibly offensive. Perhaps this makes me prude (and trust me, I've been called this many times before).

However, nasty or not, he did something that he knew I would find offensive and disgusting. In fact, he did it primarily for the purpose of ticking me off. While I am incredibly bothered by the nastiness of the situation, I am more bothered by the fact he had the audacity to come to my house and purposely try to do things that would be offensive to me after I specifically requested he not do those things. He honestly found it amusing to do things that were upsetting and offensive to me and expected me to just let it slide.

The way I see it, this is on par with me going to his house, taking a crap in his living room, then thinking it's funny that he is upset by that and expecting him to get over it. It just doesn't seem reasonable, does it?