Death of a Salesman

I try not to pick up guys in bars. Granted, it happens, and occasionally I can meet someone who shares my affinity for tasty liquors. Mistake number one should have been meeting the guy at a bar anyway, but whatever.

Salesman seemed perfectly normal. In fact, he was relatively interesting, with a cute laugh and everything. We went out for dinner the next night, and had a great time. He called me a week or so later, letting me know that he would be in town again for a business meeting (he lived an hour or so away) and that he'd like to take me to dinner, again. How sweet, right?

He came to pick me up, and I noticed his suitcase in the backseat. I asked if he had checked into his hotel yet, and if he needed to do that before we went to dinner.

"Well... I didn't get a hotel...I was kind of waiting to see how the night went."

Hang on. Not only did I just discover Salesman to be a cheapskate, he also had assumed I was easy.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation, I told him that in dire circumstances I might could offer my guest room.

He wasn't too much more creepster other than being a hornball, so I set up the mattress in my guest room and told him he'd be welcome to sleep there. In the morning, I woke him up so I could head off to work.

After glancing in my room, he actually got pissy with me that I had a big bed and made him sleep on a blow-up mattress.

I'm sorry. You made some incorrect assumptions here that I will now point out. These are surefire ways to leave you out of my life completely should the opportunity come up again.

A) I am not easy. Taking me out to dinner twice does not equal coming home with me. You're lucky I even offered the blow-up mattress.
B) You're cheap. Get a hotel. Your business pays for it anyway.
C) Don't assume that you're smooth enough to get in my pants on a second date. You're not.

Salesman could sell things - but not his ability to woo a girl. I'm not buyin.

Nice Hands, Lobster

To pay a last tribute to a nearby dive bar that was closing the next weekend, a bunch of friends and I went for a final night of debauchery and libations.

I was there with a few of my guy friends, and I was the only female in the bunch. One starts macking on some girl, which I support whole-heartedly. The boy needed some attention and she was certainly cute and lively enough to be a good fit for him. Bravo!

And then of course, a few of the guys get catty. My friend had picked up the girl in 10 minutes. I felt a challenge coming on.

These guys didn't think I could pick up a guy in 10 minutes or less. Psh. Watch this.

I saw a cute guy in a red shirt. I made eye contact, smiled, and looked away. This happened once more, and I had no doubts the guy took notice. Less than five minutes later, he was up at the bar getting a drink. He slipped right behind me at the only openish spot on the bar where the bartenders could get to him.

I made my move by slowly backing up and laughing at a joke one of the guys told. (It was opportune!) Bumping him, I apologized, and turned back around.

Don't get me wrong - I was blatantly picking this guy up. It was not the least bit hidden from either of us, though my friends may have missed it. But I wasn't expecting quite this response...

I had my back turned to red-shirt guy, and was back discussing who knows what with my friends when I felt it. Red-shirt guy pinched my ass.

It was obvious. No other way to explain it. And no other hands to place the blame on. Red-shirt guy had copped a feel and/or made a pass at me by pinching my rear end!

Whoa there! Little forward. So I turned around, and in response, said, "subtle."

He turned to me, rather sheepishly, and asked, "too bold?"

Too bold? Guys, pinching a girl's ass makes you a lobster. Especially when you are also wearing a red shirt. Let's be classy here.

Granted, I still responded, and some of you may think that amounts to success. It does not. I immediately wondered how many girls actually respond to ass pinching and how many Red-Shirt guy had gotten to go home with him based on this type of action.

To make things clear to all you guys out there - don't get pinchy till the second date, at least. Then at least I like you for something other than your lobster hands.

And on a side note - don't ever test my skills in picking up a guy. It took me less than ten minutes to get my ass pinched, let alone getting the guy interested.

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part II

The way I explain The Dud to my friends is that he is the type of guy I'd want to go to bed with, but not the type of guy I'd want to wake up with. In fact, waking up with him was quite an ordeal.

Aside from the usual 5 more minutes game, trying to convince me to call out of work and taking too long in the bathroom (therefore limiting my hair and make up time), I had to worry about him staying the hell out of my things.

One of the many items that he seemed to have a particularly strong interest in was my sorority t-shirts. For those of you who do not know me, I am not a particularly large girl. Most of my t-shirts from sorority date parties are youth sizes. The Dud wore a men's large in shirts. This means, that in order to find a t-shirt in my closet large enough for him, he would have to take several out and go through them.

He would try on several, stretching them all out in the process, until he finally would find a random hand-me-down shirt that was an adult small or medium that he was able to stretch enough to fit over his shoulders.

By the time I got out of the shower, there would be a big pile of t-shirts all over my bed, and The Dud would be proudly wearing a shirt that was entirely too small for him and asking if he could wear it home.

I know there is a bit of a double standard here. I love wearing clothes of the men I date. In fact, one of my dirty secrets is that I still keep (and wear) clothes of several of my exes. But the difference is this: I wear my exes' over-sized t-shirts and boxers in the comfort of my own home. The Dud wore my t-shirts out to run errands. I can't even imagine the looks he must have gotten from people. There was something truly disturbing about seeing a pink bid day shirt stretched across man-sized shoulders.

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part I

I absolutely hate babysitting. I used to watch two of the most unruly children imaginable. If I turned my back for one second to put in a movie, by the time I turned back around, they would have broken something. In addition, one had bladder control issues and once peed every single pair of pants he owned. Basically, I was scared out of ever wanting to have or be around kids at a very early age.

But as much as I hated babysitting two children under the age of 8, it was nowhere near as bad as having to babysit a 25 year old. In a lot of ways, the Dud was worse than the unruly children.

Once, his fumbling around in my kitchen woke me up around 4 in the morning (on a Tuesday), so I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing by the refrigerator with a large drink in his hand and some of it spilled on the floor. With a stupid grin on his face, he told me he just wanted an orange juice. I knew better. I took a sip of his drink and found that it was mostly vodka. Not only was I annoyed that he seemed to think it was acceptable to drink a ton of my vodka (I do not drink cheap alcohol), it was fricking 4 in the morning and I was sleeping. Why on Earth did he need a stiff drink at 4 in the fricking morning?

Not to mention, his late night shenanigans made him not want to get up when I was getting ready for work. I sure as hell wasn't going to let him stay in my apartment unattended after the fiasco from the night before, so i ended up practically dragging him to my porch and calling a cab to come get him.

Sadly, this is only one of several stories about why The Dud cannot be left unattended.

The Sky is Falling

My sophomore year of college I got a free bed from my Aunt and Uncle. It was a loft bed, which is similar to a bunk bed but lacks a bottom bunk. Instead of another bed, underneath the bunk was a desk and a small fouton I liked to study on. I had wooden floors, and a kinda modern steel bookshelf that you could stick together and arrange how you wanted it. I really enjoyed the setup, but didn't recognize the potential pitfalls until I dated Rock.

We'd been seeing each other for awhile, so at some point he earned a trip home. We cooked dinner, watched a movie, and otherwise had a fun night. We fell asleep on the couch for some portion of the night. When I woke up, I shook him and suggested we go sleep on my bed since it was more comfortable.

Sidenote: I'm not beating around the bush here. This is literally how this happened. I'm not trying to skirt the issue of whether something more than sleeping was occuring - it wasn't.

Like I said, my bed is essentially a bunk bed. You have to climb up the ladder on the side to make it to the top, as well as avoid hitting your head on the fan which just barely hangs over a small portion of the foot of the bed. I turned off the fan to avoid any mishaps.

When we made it onto the bed, I thought we were all clear.

A few hours later, I hear a huge crash and the sound of steel bookshelves flying. I look to my side and realize my guest had fallen out of the bed - like a rock. Somehow, he managed to miss the fouton which would have made for a softer landing. Instead he swung further underneath the bed, landed on the steel bookshelf and the hard wood floors.

Now perhaps this is just clumsy. Or just unfortunate circumstances. In fact, I'd be willing to put money on that. But still, there is nothing funnier than your boyfriend falling out of the top bunk of a bed. I mean, anyone falling out of bed really would have been just as funny, but it was hilarious.

As I giggle, he starts laughing with me. Of course his laughter was mixed with a number of "oww"s and "that hurt!" I got him some ice for his back and we went back to sleep.

Later in the week, I asked if he wanted to come over again. He told me he wanted to be nowhere near my "demon bed." At first I thought he was joking, but no, he literally said he would never stay at my place again.

Here's a thought, Rock. Just don't fall off the bed! It's not hard! Do you fall out of a normal bed? This thing was a full size. It's not like we were squished and having to be in close quarters to where if you rolled funny it would happen again. Just don't flail and tada you don't fall! I even turned off the fan to avoid him getting hit in the face, which meant the room was a proverbial inferno until I opened a window. I thought it was loser proof.

Way to prove me wrong.

It's Peanut Butter and Jelly Time!

Drunk dialing is not necessarily the greatest idea... ever. While you certainly can get things off your chest that in other circumstances you may not be able to properly put into words (even though you could avoid slurring if you did so without drinking beforehand), phoning exes, currents, or aquaintances is about as immature as you can get. There is simply nothing that can't wait till you're sober that you need to get done. Unless of course, it's for a midnight rendezvous of somesort - then you better not be so drunk it's... how do I put this delicately?... not worth it.

Drunk dialing you may remember in the morning. But there's something worse, and though most people still categorize it as drunk dialing, I think there's such thing as wasted dialing. If you're competely wasted, there's a high probability that you should not be using your phone, period, as you will not recognize how drunk you are when you make the call.

I got a call from an ex - who will now be referred to as "PBJ" after this story - late on a saturday night after he and I had gone out with different sets of friends. He wanted to meet up. Not thinking much of this phone call, and under the impression it was a drunk dial not a wasted call.

I arrived at his place after only having two drinks over the night myself since I had my car. I walked in to a darkened apartment. I saw PBJ sitting on his couch, in the dark, with his poor dog looking quizzically at him for not petting her. He stood to greet me... or perhaps more wobbled to greet me.

He leaned in. "Heeey therrrrrre. Howzit goeeeeen." Yowza - beer breath. But there was some other smell I couldn't quite put my finger on before I stepped back.

"Hey. Wow you must have drank a lot tonight."

"Yeeeeaaaah. But that'z ook."

Then he leans in for a kiss. Now I figure out what that other smell is. Peanut Butter.

"Did you have any peanut butter before I came over?"

Instead of answering like a human being, he lunges in and kisses me. When he steps back again, there is a smearing of peanut butter across my face. The sticky substance is all over my face. Gross.

His next statement: "Owwwwwwwwwww." Turns out he had a cut on his tongue. First he blamed me, but considering he hadn't gotten that far, I knew it had nothing to do with me.

I go into the kitchen in search of a paper towel or something to wipe the mess off of me and to grab some ice for his tongue to help stop the bleeding.

On the counter sits the jar of peanut butter with the knife still sticking out of it. Because I'm civil and a nice person, I decide to try to clean up his drunken snack. Removing the knife from the peanut butter jar, I discover that it's the sharpest knife he had, serated, and HUGE. And there are obviously tounge streaks still on the knife. PBJ had licked the knife during his binge.

Meanwhile, PBJ starts snoring in the living room. I had been there for ten minutes.

Ridiculous.

It wasn't so much that he passed out, nor was it the peanut butter alone. If he had just been ready to pass out, that's fine. No biggie. And some might argue that peanut butter can be... interesting... in certain situations. Perhaps. But if you invite me to come over before you pass out, proceed to make a pass at me, and then still fall asleep... we have a problem. In this situation, it is niether cuddly nor kinky.

And it's definitely not cute.

Lesson to other boys - be very careful when you make midnight treats after a night of drinking. If it is a snack over which you have very little control that may end up all over your face or with which you can somehow manage to hurt yourself - do not invite a girl over. She will leave. And she will be mad you made her smell like peanut butter and gave her nothing in return.

Da Da Dadadadada Da Da Dadadadada (The Chicken Dance)

The thing I hated most about Fred was the fact that he was completely incapable of not making a total ass of himself. I truly dreaded introducing him to anyone I knew, and hated going anywhere in public with him.

He had a way of embarrassing the hell out of me anywhere we went. I truly mean anywhere. The sorority formal where he decided to loudly announce that another girl looked like a man; the brunch where he was too stupid to figure out a prix fixe menu; my coworker's party where he decided it was appropriate walk around with his pants around his ankles because he was proud of his Nintendo boxers; the release party of a documentary where he decided to pick a fight with some reporters from a national news magazine and the infamous jorts incident are just a few of the times I found myself thoroughly humiliated because of him.

One of the more embarrassing incidents was the first time I introduced Fred to CCG and Dum Dum. Now, Dum Dum was a little special himself, so I figured that nothing Fred could do would be any worse than whatever tricks Dum Dum had up his sleeve that day. I really expected Dum Dum's shenanigans to outshine Fred's. But, I was in for a surprise.

The first time I took Fred to meet CCG and Dum Dum, we went to a local bar for happy hour. In addition to a few beers, we ordered some hummus, potato skins and buffalo wings. As soon as the snacks arrived, Fred wasted no time diving into the buffalo wings. He quickly devoured a couple of them and then...put his chewed-on chicken bones back on the plate with the rest of the wings. Disgusting!

Now, before I say anything else about this, I would like to mention that Fred insists there were no extra plates to put food on. All other people involved remember there being plates (perhaps Fred was too busy stuffing his face to notice). Even if this had been the case, Fred could have either asked for a plate (the bar was not busy), or put the bones on his napkin.

Plates or no plates, it was disgusting. CCG and Dum Dum were both totally grossed-out by this display. Yes, Dum Dum, the loser who had been traipsing around the city all day in high top black sneakers, shorts and no socks was disgusted by something my boyfriend did. That's damning. I was absolutely mortified by this experience.

But, the worst part was the fact that Fred was oblivious to their reactions just as he was oblivious to the fact that no one else touched the buffalo wings.

Since this was early on in the relationship and I hadn’t given up hope that I could mold him into someone who didn’t humiliate me, I mentioned the incident to him a few weeks later. Rather than consider my comment, he immediately got defensive and insisted that there were no plates and that CCG and Dum Dum had no grounds to think he behavior was inappropriate. I told him in the future to just use a plate and let the issue go.

Fred did not, however, let it go. It apparently bothered him enough that he brought this story up to all of his friends until he finally got some girl* to agree with him that he behaved appropriately in this situation. This really pisses me off.

I know this girl knew better than that. I don’t even know this girl, but hell, Dum Dum knew better! Look, I know that people often choose being nice over being honest, but seriously, there is a point where being nice does more harm than good. Fred did something inappropriate and by telling him it was acceptable, this chick is contributing to his behavior. Women like her are the reason there are so many men so set in their inappropriate ways.

* My note to this girl: I sincerely hope that your future husband gets belligerently drunk at your wedding and decides it is appropriate (because some girl told him so) to start stripping while you’re dancing with your father.

Somebody Save Me

Yay for a joint post!

BJA

Disclaimer: This isn't the happiest post.

I had a horrible habit while dating String Bean that I'm disappointed to look back on now. I let him get away with most of the ways he treated me because I thought I needed to save him. My mom called it "broken-wing syndrome." My brother did it with one of his girlfriends, so this isn't simply a habit of women to pick up a partner who has the best of times just as often as the worst of times.

Let me actually explain a few things. String Bean was messed up in the head. He claimed it had to do with where he went to high school and a certain incident that happened on April 20, 1999... most of you should know what that was. He was injured. Plus his parents were divorced, he lived in a volatile family life with no one to look up to (including one uncle who had a restraining order from the rest of the family). He used his past as an excuse to treat me badly. Or maybe I simply used it as an excuse. He was hurtful, violent, judgemental, and possessive. He cheated, lied, yelled, drank, and mentally abused me in ways that today I know I would never accept.

I wish someone had shook me when I dated him and told me how many better guys are out there. Even then, I look back and people I knew did try to help me see it. My parents, his parents, his brother, his friends, my friends... they all told me that he wouldn't change. But I wanted so badly to believe that this man I had fallen in love with, the man I had watched myself grow and change along with and who I had seen what I thought was progress in... I couldn't believe he wasn't the man I "knew" he could be. I was so caught up with the fact that he just had to be the person I thought he was when I first met him - funny, creative, liked going on walks, made me laugh, gave me gorgeous jewelry, danced with me - that I was willing to wait through it all to be the one there for him when he finally acheived it.

I didn't realize that I was trying to be his savior. And the real kicker? I lost friends over it. I lost friends who couldn't bear to see how he treated me and how I treated myself with him. They told me time and time again and I came up with excuses. I thought they were reasons at the time, but they were nothing but excuses.

He cheated because his last girlfriend cheated and he can't open up to women. - No, he cheated because he had no respect for our relationship.

He lied because he had taught himself to cover up his true feelings and didn't want to hurt me. - Nope, he was a compulsive liar who had been lying so long he couldn't stop. And he just didn't want me to know.

He was abusive because he harbored pain and aggression from the shooting. - False. He was abusive because I took it. Because I stood up to him and was in his way.

He drank because he hid his pain through alcohol and hadn't learned to control it. - Wrong again. I even had the stupidity to tell him that song line, "whenever you need something strong, baby, just let me know." If I knew then what I know now...

To any girls who have gone through this - you can't change him. You can't save him. He has to save himself. You can believe all you want that you are the one who will give him the opportunity, the reason, the motivation to change. But you'll be wrong. When he wants to change, he will. But until then you will be hit, abused, cheated on, and otherwise treated as less than the woman you are.

To guys - most of you will never be like this. And I thank God for that. Yeesh, even the guys featured on this blog for the most part will never reach this level of loserex. I mean abusive guys are scraping the barrell!

I don't know what made me write this today. I started talking to an ex of mine and we talked about what we learned from each other and whether or not we learned the MOST from each other. And I have to say, the one who taught me the most about life and love, relationships and myself, was String Bean.

The benefits of this type of blog is we women can vent about things that drove us crazy in our previous relationships. (See CrazyHo for the newly birthed guy version.) Some are the quirky habits that guys can change of course, some are ones that are specific to certain dead beats who most would not imitate, and some are things that perhaps we couldn't deal with, but another girl might. (Think fajitas, early morning booty calls, and tattoos.)

A real man would never do the things String Bean did. No excuses, no reasons, no meds. And I am so happy I figured that out before my boobs started to sag.




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It would be very easy for me to write my horror story of dating Shrek. He was not a good person. There are very few people I honestly feel this way about. In fact, other than Shrek, there is only one person I know personally who I would say is not a good person. While I was dating him, I didn't believe this. I honestly thought that his behavior was a result of his less than ideal upbringing, but that it wasn't ingrained in him -- it wasn't an unchangeable part of his character. I thought he was just waiting for someone to come along and help him. I thought I was going to be the person to do that. By dating him and by tolerating his completely unacceptable behavior, I thought I was saving him. I was really just enabling him.

But, as it has been said before, this is "LoserEx," not "Why My Ex is Going to Rot in Hell." I'm not going to talk about him. The point of my blurb is not to tell the world that Shrek is a horrible person -- everyone else seemed to pick up on that pretty quickly. My point is that you cannot change someone.

On a less serious note: when I met Fred, I saw a lot of things a couldn't stand, but I thought I saw potential to mold him in to the person I wanted to date. Fred was unattractive, slightly overweight, dressed like a retarded child and had absolutely no clue how to behave himself in public.

I thought I would start by pressing the clothing issue. I gave several gentle hints that I did not like the way he dressed. In fact, look back a couple of years on the blog and take note of how many "what not to wear" entries there are. When the gentle hints didn't work, I tried buying him clothes I liked. He would wear them and claimed to like them, yet he never bought similar clothes when left to do his own shopping. I finally banned certain articles of clothing. Specifically the Hawaiian shirts and jorts. He stopped wearing them for a few weeks, then picked right back up again. My grade for changing his fashion sense: F

While this was going on, I decided to work on the area of his appearance as well. Granted, what Fred really needs is a chin implant, but I would never tell someone to get cosmetic surgery. His jaw line was weak and feminine. A chin implant would have given him a better profile and balanced out his other features. Anyway, since I couldn't really bring this up, I tried to suggest other things: a better haircut, bleaching his teeth (they were the nastiest shade of yellow you can imagine), clipping his nails, not washing his face with old spice body wash. He listened to none of my suggestions. My grade for changing his appearance: F

After dating for several months, Fred really started to pack on the pounds. Granted, he was never thin, but HOLY CRAP did he get big. I suggested we do several activities together such as, rock climbing, hiking, joining the new (and really nice) gym next to his apartment and running. He shot down all of my ideas. I would even go to the gym in his apartment building, thinking he would feel motivated to come along. Instead, he spent this time playing on his computer. My grade for changing his weight: F

The worst of all was his inability to behave in any social situation. He was loud, make inappropriate comments and basically was unaware of what everyone else was doing. There is not enough room on the internet for me to mention all the times he proved this. Basically, every time I thought I had him trained enough for a certain social situation, I ended up being wrong. I'll write an entry about this soon, but really, there are too many to mention now. My grade for changing his ability to behave in public: F

Yes, these examples are trivial compared to my problems with Shrek. But, seriously, if stupid trivial behaviors like these can't be changed, it is foolish to think that major character flaws can be.

Here's Lookin at You Kid

Ever notice how every relationship you've ever been in has pet names?

Some are traditional - baby, sweetie, darling, honey, sweetheart... etc.

Some are a little more complicated - sugar plum, baby girl, schnookums, shugie bear, mclovin, googlybear, snuggle muffin... whatever.

Most of them, I can get on board. I can handle the traditional obviously easier than the more complicated, but either is acceptable in most situations. Clearly these names are private or among close friends, and shouldn't be shared in professional or networking situations. Fortunately, I have never dated a guy to make that faux pas, but I thought I'd mention it for the studious gentlemen who may read this and need a clue or two for appropriate nickname usage.

Unfortunately, I have dated a guy who used a nickname that is not acceptable. This may be nitpicky, but do not ever ever ever call a girl kiddo.

"Hey kiddo, you should come over."

"Well hey there kiddo, what are you doing right now?"

"Oh kiddo."

I can get on board with most names, but not kiddo. I'm not eight. And I don't want people thinking I'm dating a perv. As far as I know, you're not one, but calling me kiddo sends the exact opposite message. Not to mention there are times when it is just effing awkward.

Lesson today: Don't call girlfriends a nickname than can only be described as creepy.

Merry Christmas!

Now that I’ve gotten the annual “bad gift” post out of the way, I can put up my 2007 holiday post. This year, I got together with BJA and decided to make this years’ entry about family...more specifically, uncomfortable holiday experiences with our exes’ families (or our own, whatever). If you have any good stories to add, post in the comments section, or email me.

So, I will kick things off:


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I had just met Fred (we weren’t really even dating at this point) when a hurricane was heading toward the city I went to college in. Class was going to be canceled for several days, giving us plenty of time to leave campus and go wherever for a while. This was about a week after things ended with Shrek, so I was feeling particularly awful and just wanted to go home (I should mention home was 1200 miles away. Clearly this wasn’t one of my most rational decisions). I had planned to take a flight back home, but Fred told me that he was going to drive out of town and was willing to take a 1200 mile detour and he would drive up to his house (another 500 miles) after that.

Somehow during the 18 hour car ride, Fred managed to convince me to spend a day at my house, then ride up to his with him.

By the time we had made it to Fred's house, I was completely drained from my recent break up, a long road trip, and the stress of having to leave school so suddenly. When we got to Fred’s neighborhood, he called his parents to tell them we were close. They were over at Fred’s uncle’s house and told him to just come over there.

When we got to the uncle’s house, there was a full family party going on. Parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, EVERYONE was there. So, not only did I have the stress of meeting parents, I had the stress of meeting the whole extended family. Seriously.

Luckily, everyone was really nice, but there were a few VERY awkward moments. The one that sticks out in my mind the most is when Fred’s uncle, after having talked with me for 3 minutes, gave me a very sincere look and asked if I had considered marrying into the family. I was completely caught off guard, and frankly, a little frightened by the question. I responded that it was not something that I had considered. I was then invited to marry into the family. Definitely the most intense meeting of an ex’s family I’ve ever had.

BJA

Holidays are just the time for family, friends, fun, and festivities. Unless you're dating a loser. Then you can toss in a little mortification.

I was dating Neanderthal for... well in hindsight a lot longer than some of the others. He wasn't as bad as many of the guys featured in this blog. In fact, on a whole he was a good boyfriend. But his manners were deplorable. And after his behavior in front of my parents during the holidays... well it didn't last much longer.

Guys, may I stress that you must learn how to hold a fork before you dine outside of your home? You hold it as you would a pencil, or at least that's the closest approximation I can come up with. You do NOT hold it, as Neanderthal did, in a full fisted grip that enables you to shovel food in your mouth. It is gross. And it's ineffective. I can tell because the food is falling off of your fork in different directions. I remember my Granny, who was an impeccably mannered woman, trained by Mrs. Manners, nearly dropped her jaw. Please do NOT mortify me in front of my grandmother.

Food shoveler. Gross.

Drink it up

I was in college once -- really. I understand the whole "leave no soldier wounded" mentality regarding alcoholic beverages. In fact, much to my mother's dismay, I still practice this sometimes (I can't even begin to tell you how many times my mom has told me "you've had enough; leave that soldier wounded"). I completely understand if one wants to finish his or her beer before getting up and leaving the table at a restaurant.

But Fred took this to a whole new level. The first time we went out to eat, he got up to go. I followed his lead, stood up and started to walk to the door. I was outside before I turned around and saw Fred's fat ass still standing at the table, chugging every single liquid on the table. Really. His beer, my coke, his water, my water. He drank each beverage as if he were trying to set the world record for speed drinking, resulting in beer, coke and water dribbled on his face and the front of his shirt. I had never seen anything like this before. It was truly a disgusting display.

When he finally made it outside, I had no idea what to make of what I had just seen. "Thirsty?" I asked him, slightly confused. I figured this was a one time deal, so I didn't really press the issue. Boy, was I wrong.

Every single time we went out, he would do this. It's not the fact that he wanted to drink everything on the table that bothered me -- it was the fact that he could not do this while sitting at the table. He would stand up, sometimes put on his coat, then chug everything on the table as if in two seconds, all the glasses would be taken violently away from him and he would never have another drop of liquid again. He did not leave a drop of anything on the table. It was amazing. He even consumed a good amount of the ice in his quest to drink as much as physically possible. Every single fricking time we went out. Even though it was clearly his goal to cram every liquid on the table down this throat as quickly as possible, the entire act usually took around a minute, which usually meant I was well on my way out the door before he started to actually leave.

I asked -- no, begged him to just drink what he wanted to drink while he was still sitting down. Aside from looking like a complete ass, he was blocking traffic for the wait staff trying to do their jobs by standing up in the middle of an aisle.

After a couple of months of this, I would start not getting up when he did because I knew the whole chugging display would take-up a ton of time.

Finally one day, I stopped him before getting up and told him in a very stern voice that I was serious about him not standing up to do the obligatory chug every single time we went out. I asked him to remain seated and drink what he wanted to drink. He seemed to listen and sheepishly finished his water, then said he was ready. I thought I had finally gotten through to him, and happily stood up and made my way to the door.

Half way out, I turned around and saw him standing at the table, chugging my drink. He looked at me as he finished my drink with a big, shit-eating grin on his face. Not only did he look like a complete dumbass, he was doing it just to spite me. At this point, it wasn't the fact that he was completely (for this and other reasons) not restaurant-trained that bothered me, it was the fact that he was determined look like white trash everywhere he went, even when he knew better.

The moment I locked eyes with him as he was putting my empty glass on the table was the exact moment I knew things weren't going to work out.

Kleptomaniac

I think everyone went through a phase when they were younger where they stole things or didn't tell on a close companion who stole something. I'm not talking clothing or anything of that nature, MOST people realize that's just stupid. (Although to be honest, String Bean was guilty of that, too. I never saw him do it, but I saw his accounts and his new clothes - he didn't have the money.)

Moving on. String Bean must have been a kleptomaniac. What most bugged me about String Bean's stealing habbits is that there was really no use for whatever he managed to yoink. Some examples:

1) The fake metal plates from Qdoba Mexican Grill. - They're actually plastic, but they painted them silver to make them look more classy I guess. There is absolutely no reason to have a pile of these. They sat in his closet for months collecting dust.

2) The ketchup bottle from Dennys. - Newflash, ketchup is not expensive. There is no need to steal this from a cheapo restaurant establishment whose selling point is that they are always open for the drunk and hungry masses who spend more on booze than food.

3) The saltshaker from Denny's. - Seriously. Why in the world would anyone need a random saltshaker? And while we're thinking about it, why not just grab the pepper shaker, too, to round out the pair.

4) A fork from an upscale Denver restaurant. - Just when String Bean gets something right, a nice dinner for two downtown with a carriage ride beforehand... he steals something. No less, a fork. It's a nice restaurant! Why does he feel compelled to steal the fork? Does it make him feel better about the beaucoup bucks he just dropped on dinner? Is it revenge for ostentatiously high prices for minimal food?

This one made me mad. WORSE, String Bean tells me about it afterwards and proceeds to try to break the fork. He bended the thing till it snapped. Why steal something, then break it for good measure?

5) Office supplies from wherever he saw them - String Bean couldn't write, spell, or even add so I don't know why he wanted office supplies. Like an office would ever hire his ass.

6) My magazines - Perhaps there was more trouble in this relationship than I was aware of.

7) Coins from the "extra change" jars at cash registers- Aren't these supposed to be rounding out the purchase? But noooo.

8) Food off my plate - Granted, he was paying for it sometimes (maybe slightly LESS than half the time) but come on. I felt like Joey in friends when he wouldn't share the french fries with his date. "BJA doesn't share food!!"

9) Pennies from fountains - Much like the coins from the checkout, these aren't meant for you, String Bean. Leave them be.

10) CDs. - Ok, some use for these. BUT, though I never saw him do it, he used to go to places like Radio Shack and Best Buy, open the bottom of CDs so as not to break the plastic seal on top. Just sorta popped off the end that holds the CD case together by lifting it out. Made the CD open like a briefcase rather than the book if that helps for the visual. Then he'd simply take the CD. Leave the case. And the poor person going off to buy the case probably ran into the - I bought this CD and there's no CD in it -problem. THAT is just plain stealing. No way around it.

Oh, he'd also take them from his friends. His justification was that they took them from him.

I know I said he always stole pointless things and the CD's don't count, but the idea behind my rant is that String Bean was a raging klepto.

If He Only Had a Brain...

If you are dating someone whose mind is consistently inside the beltway - you darn well better know your politics or at least SOME degree of history.

Here's one for you:

"Well I don't know much, but at least I know George Washington was our first president and Abraham Lincoln was our second."

Excuse the idiocy here. These two didn't even live in the same century, really. First president was G. Wash, well done, buddy. I might have even been ok if I realized he was just saying the first two that most elementary school children remember. To some extent, that might make sense to me. Though I still don't understand how you can omit John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, or James K. Polk, I could understand not knowing our ninth president, William Henry Harrison. While I may know a thing or two about him, most Americans probably don't.

But really, Abraham Lincoln was decades after George Washington. I can't even fathom how someone could not realize that the Revolutionary War that Washington fought in was no where near the same time frame as the Civil War that Lincoln attempted to end.

This guy was almost as bad as when I dated a guy who didn't pay much attention to politics... at all. As a disclaimer, it's somewhat ok if you don't spend the time agonizing over political implications as I do. It takes a strong stomach in most cases. But really? There's only so much absurdity I can handle when it comes to who you voted for.

"So who did you vote for in the last Presidential election?"

"Wasn't his name Sam or something? I don't know. The one that wasn't Bush."

Now, unless Sam was a write in, you have to be a complete idiot. If you don't know who you're voting for, or don't care enough to find out your options or even remember the damn name, don't freakin vote. Your vote is the kind that makes others who DO care about who wins the next election believe that their vote doesn't count.

And I'm spent. If he only had a brain...

Happy 3 Year Anniversary, Losers!

I can’t believe three years went by so quickly! It seems like just yesterday a devastated and bitter RGB started a blog to tell everyone in internet land just how much she hated Shrek. Since then, things have certainly taken off. This blog has seen more exes, more contributors, more posts and more crazy antics than I had ever expected it to.

I’d like to thank all the contributors of Loser-Ex for sharing their sometimes outrageous, sometimes thoughtful, always intriguing stories with the world. I’d write more, but really, who wants to read my reflections on the blog?

To celebrate three years, our brother site, Crazy Ho, is being launched. Crazy Ho will be like Loser-Ex, except it will have a panel of male writers blogging about their female exes. We hope that you will love it (almost) as much as you love Loser-Ex.

You Don't Own Me

String Bean was a control freak. And I don't mean over just anything, mostly over me and any subsequent girl friends he later possessed.

I needed a favor from a close guy friend of mine, Jason, who I had known for years. I pick up my cell phone and begin clicking through my contacts to find his number. Once, twice, three times, I go through the list. His number isn't there! Fortunately, I had my old cell phone and I looked it up and added it back in my phone. I was perplexed as to how the phone had misplaced the number. Did cell phones get bugs? Could it have deleted itself?

The same situation arose a few days later with ANOTHER of my male friends (Ian) and a mutual one of String Bean's. That number too had mysteriously disappeared from my phone.

Honestly, at the time, I had no idea what had happened. Not too much later though, I catch String Bean scrolling through my phone with a little pouty face on. "How did you get Ian's number?"

"I went by his work and got it back. Somehow my phone deleted him out of the system or something. Isn't that weird?"

"Why the hell do you want his number?"

Umm excuse me? This a$$hole went into my phone and deleted the numbers of the guys I knew because he thought I was having an illicit affair with them or something. (In hindsight, I probably should have. This IS the same guy who pulled the stupid stories...) But that's neither here nor there. What kind of person is so insecure about themselves that they have to go through their girlfriend's phone and physically remove all potential challengers?

To top it off, he did it to his next (and now ex) girlfriend. Here's a transcript of what she sent me (slightly cleaned up... she was pretty angry... They live together but she'll be moving out at the end of the month.)

"So, he started pouting again!! (surprise surprise) when I came home from work today with some boxes for when we move and so he starts pouting and then of course we start talking about it and then we talk about why our relationshiop ended, this a$$hole is saying that I "emotionally cheated" on him with other guys.

I asked him how, and he said that I have very close friendships with guys that took intimacy away from him!

I asked him, if he thought it was ok if girls and guys had a purely close friendship? He said, NO. And he says that guys and girls can never be just friends without someone having more feelings. I said bullshit. Cuz I have 3 guy best friends that have never formed any sort of bond other then friendship and I told him if he seriously thought that he should go check the screws in his brain.

I was so livid and still am. I told him that HE can never have a pure friendship with a girl because he'll want to just sleep with her... he didnt like that too much."

Ugh. Possessive boyfriends are nothing more than future loserexes. And seriously, you have to understand that it's perfectly natural for girls to have guy friends outside of her relationship with you. And that doesn't equal with emotionally cheating, nor should you accuse her of such. That's just stupid. Then again, so is String Bean.

You don't own me. Don't say I can't go with other boys!

Every Step You Take

I am creepy. If you’ve ever gone on even one date with me, you can be sure I’ve googled you, looked you up on every social networking site and probably asked several of my friends if they know you. I am horrible about this. But, I can justify my stalking. I don’t want to end up alone with some creep who is going to kill me then throw my body in the Potomac. It may be a stretch to say that I stalk potential dates as a safety measure, but at least (at some very small level) I can say that my stalking is justified and not just creepy.

One of my exes, on the other hand, can not justify his stalking. I have elected not to use even the pseudonym of my ex this time because, this is really screwed-up. This ex openly admitted to checking his ex’s (we’ll call her Bertha) Internet browser history and her email. Furthermore, he didn’t see a problem with this. Granted, he did make some great finds, such as the fact Bertha has quite the fondness of lesbian porn, but I still find this to be a little over the line.

What was even worse was the fact that he continued to check Bertha’s email after they had broken up. Again, he did make some juicy finds, like her correspondence regarding a one night stand with the grossest guy on campus (side note: the one night stand guy totally had the worse acne known to mankind…and an uncanny resemblance to Quasimodo), but really, who does this? The fact that he admitted to finding this email the ‘one time’ he checked makes me think that he was probably really checking her email on a daily basis.

If I hadn’t made a point to change all my passwords, he’d probably be reading my email right now.

Bad Gifts: Part Trois

It's that time of year again, which means it's time for the annual "Crappy Christmas Gifts my Exes Gave Me" post. This year, I am going to do something a little different. I've already told everyone about the bad gifts I've received (here and here).

I really don't want to beat a dead horse on this one, so I am asking everyone to either e-mail me at loserexrgb@gmail.com or, post in the comments section about a bad gift that your ex has given you.

I probably can think of one or two I haven't mentioned yet that I will be willing to throw in...

BJA
I haven't been a blog member for other Christmas occasions, so I have the exciting privilege of explaining a few bad Christmas gifts I have received over the years.

One year my ex gave me a build-a-bear cat. When you squeezed its arm it would say "Meow, Meow, Meow." Cute. It's a cat.

Side note: The sound button was in the arm because String Bean put it in wrong. Don't ask me how you screw up a process meant for toddlers.

What's the point of a sound-making stuffed animal to a high school senior? I can't wear it and I can't show it off without being laughed at. To top it off, when I roll over in the middle of the night it yells at me and I wake up to the screeching sound of a mechanical mew.

I ended up giving the cat to my cousin the next year. She's five. Loves it.

Another side note: Don't give a girl the same gift you already gave her. String Bean thought this was such a great gift that he reprised the sentiment with a pink bear for the next Christmas. I haven't found a cousin who wants a bear that says, "I love you baby girl" in String Bean's voice. If you know of any takers, leave a comment.

Other gifts that should be avoided:

The sweater your mother gave you last Christmas. - Not appropriate for your girlfriend if you wouldn't wear it.
A book in a language I don't speak. - Self explanatory.You 're either not paying attention or grabbed the first book that's cover looked interesting.
A fake trip to Italy in the same envelope as a cheap gift certificate to Old Navy. - Beyond angry about this one, still. I was all kinds of excited.

RGB
Ok, I told you I had more bad gift stories.

This one is a little different because, it’s not about a bad gift I was given, but it still seems appropriate for the post.

Back in high school, while I was dating Boris, a friend of mine threw a New Year’s Eve party which included a white elephant gift exchange (I’ve recently been told this is not a widely-used term, so I will explain: a white elephant gift is one that is essentially of no use or value – a gag gift of sorts). I was incredibly excited when I heard about the white elephant part and immediately went to my basement to find the biggest piece of crap that I could wrap up.

My finding: an eagle centerpiece made of pinecones (I really don’t know how this crap gets in the basement anyway) that my mother was eager to part with. This stupid pinecone eagle was about 15” tall and TACKY. The eagle looked like he was a little special. Oh, and I threw in a pinecone eaglet as well (yes, someone made more than one of these). It could not possibly fit anyone’s decorating scheme (unless they were into tacky nature paraphernalia). No reasonable person would ever buy this or accept it as a gift.

Unfortunately, Boris was far from reasonable. When he came to pick me up for the party, I was still laughing about the eagle as I carried it out to the car in a box. I explained to him the contents of the box and how ridiculously tacky they were.

When the gift exchange began, the mother of the host stepped in and said she thought this was mean, so she threw in several good gifts that were things people actually wanted. A few of the attendees also seemed to feel bad about the white elephant idea and brought nice gifts. Basically, there were plenty of good options for anyone who wanted. I guess Boris did not want a good gift. When it was his turn, he beelined straight to the gifts and picked-out mine.

I found it to be incredibly weird that he would chose a piece of crap over something nice. But, that was nothing compared to how weird it was that he brought the piece of crap home to his parents who promptly displayed it in a very prominent location in their living room.

A Little Less Talk...

Sasquatch spoke like Shakespeare. Don't get me wrong, Sasquatch is actually a great guy. But he always spoke as if someone was listening and writing down every word that came from his mouth. Sorry buddy, I don't carry a voice recorder in my pocket. And typically, what he would say has either been said before or is not nearly as deep as he thought. Although, I have to say, sometimes the poetic thought and rituals were endearing... but they simply wore me out. There's only so long you can date someone who reminds you of Edgar Allen Poe or Ernest Hemingway, without the creepster part.

But the high faluten speech wasn't just when we were alone. Sasquatch came to dinner with myself and my parents. When the waiter came by to take our order, I jokingly remarked that both he and my father would want something spicy. Hello, they both like spicy food! I didn't specify a dish, so I knew the waiter wouldn't write the order down, "something spicy." I know he doesn't speak English well, but goodness gracious, I'm sure he's not an idiot.

Instead of laughing or recognizing it was a joke, Sasquatch turned to me and deadpanned, "Do not speak for me, for I can speak for myself."

Excuse me? At first I was simply stunned. I wasn't sure how to respond. After all, my parents were across the table. To top it off, my father does the typical guy response, "OOOOOOOO!" I think daggers shot from my eyes at this crazy man who I'm apparently related to. I secretly hoped at this moment the milkman was actually my father.

The point of my outrage is that I felt as though Sasquatch was trying to put me in my place. Sasquatch knows what he wants and he's set in his ways. That might make him a spectacular catch for someone someday. But not for me. I'm too opinionated and driven to be spoken to as though I'm a child rather than a girlfriend.

Please know that Sasquatch is a good guy, he's not remotely as retarded as some of the exes highlighted in this blog. Yet some of his mannerisms and comments are most certainly the kind that are detrimental and... well really just awkward... and that makes some of these stories a perfect fit for Loser-ex.

Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear

One thing I cannot stress enough to guys concerned about how they look naked - suck it up and get a wax. I know perhaps guys can't help it when they're hairy, nor do I blame them. But here's the thing, if it bother's you - go all out and get it fixed.


Sasquatch was just generally hairy. Hence, his nickname. Again, I don't fault him for being a hairy guy, it's in his genes. But what made it uber awkward was that he would try to shave his shoulders, which, I guess, was the part he most despised.


The problem with strategically shaving parts of your hairy body comes when you put clothes ON. Sasquatch's t-shirts would catch on his shoulder stubble, and ride up. I was constantly having to fix it so that he didn't look like he was wearing a stupid muscle shirt.


Side note: Muscle shirts are always stupid. No excuse. You look like a fool.



I felt bad for Sasquatch. Half the time I was with him I felt like I was covered in dog hair and I had to remind myself... no you're dating a Yeti. (Don't think I'm being mean, I told him as such, and in turn he called me his Midget. Fair game here, ya'll. I'm not evil.) It's a little gross to get up and wonder where all the random disgusting hair came from.

Another side note: If you're this hairy, clean your damn shower often and consistently. It's friggin gross when it covers you, your bed, AND you bathroom when you don't take the time to wax, change your sheets every night, or clean the damned bathroom.

Back to my main point. Get a wax. Painful as all hell, and you'll be red for a day or two. But ya'll play football and hockey and whatnot. Isn't the motto no pain no gain? Well here's a new one for you to work with.

No pain, no game.

Parting gifts...

One month after my fiance and I broke things off for good (the second time), I got a funny call from my roommate.

"Did you know that The Cowardly Greek stopped by to drop off some things?"

"Um...no!" I thought to myself, "What on earth could he have dropped off? Last time I was at his place I made sure to get everything, because I figured that ship was sinking."

So I asked my roommate what on earth was so important that he would drive 2 hours in order to drop off (we were slightly long distance).

She told me: A vacuum, a set of hot curlers, and...a box of tampons.

The vacuum was a piece of shit, the curlers I didn't use anymore, and the tampons. Ohmygoodness....I can't get over the tampons. The subext - whether intended or not - was, "you menstrating bitch!"

The bastard drove 2 hours to my house and 2 hours back in order to drop off worthless crap. I just hope dropping off this stuff served some sort of cathartic purpose for him because no matter how much I still hate him to this day I can't get over those damn tampons...

signed,
Madame Jacqueline
Guest Blogger