Hail to the Victors

I am a sports fan. Unabashedly and undeniably so. Mostly I watch football, with smatterings of Hockey and Baseball in there sometimes. I even watch college football (Go Longhorns) even though my college team wasn't really the best. (We did have an AMAZING rookie this past season really rock it out tho! So proud!)

So I understand exuberant support of one's college team, and even having such strong feelings for a school that was never even attended. However, there is a fine line between devoted fan and obsessed fan.

Wolverine worked security at one of the Big Three back when I lived in Michigan. He was a huge fan and dreamed of going to the Big House to watch a game, even though he had yet to attend college.

We went out drinking one night to a dueling piano bar. The two show masters decided to rev up the school rivalries by playing the Michigan fight song as well as the Michigan State fight song. They solicited donations into two pots, one for Michigan, one for MSU, on their pianos. Partiers could put money into the pot - $1, $5, whatever they wanted to - and whichever pot had more money would continue to play the song. If the other pot all of a sudden surpassed the one currently playing, then the winning school's piano took over the noise and played the school's song. This went back and forth as the MSU fans fought with the Michigan fans to get their song played. The winner was determined by whichever pot reaching the end of the song before anyone from the other school had contributed enough to stop the song.

Anyway, this got Wolverine all sorts of riled up. As the drinks continued flowing, he refused to stop singing. He was too drunk to drive and it was freezing cold (Michigan winters...), so we took a cab back to his place.

This is where it got annoying.

Wolverine was holding his keys out when we arrived at his apartment. The stubborn ass of a man then decided that, despite the fact that I was freezing and he didn't have a jacket, we could not go inside until he and I had sang the entire Michigan fight song at the top of our lungs.

First, I tried reasoning with him. It's cold. I'm cold. Give me the keys. You're being an idiot. Someone's going to call the cops.

Second, I tried wrestling the keys from him. "RAPE! RAPE!" Sure, make the cops come faster. Give me the damn keys!

Third, I tried browbeating him. Just give me the keys. You're drunk. You're an outright idiot. Stop being a dickhead. You are SUCH an ass.

Fourth, I halfway gave in. How about you sing it to me, then we'll go in.

None of this had any effect. He had a plan. Sing the song at the top of our lungs or we're staying outside all night.

So I re-hailed a cab and went home. Drunken stupid sports fans make lousy boyfriends.

Lie to Me

I've often wondered what the world looks like through Fred's eyes. Truly, he must live in some sort of unicorn fantasy land where anything is possible.

Either that, or he thinks the rest of us just fell off the back of the turnip truck.

Fred lied. Often. And poorly. And seldom about things of any consequence. He just really liked to lie. Of course many of the examples I would like to list here are either horribly humiliating, or fall more into the category of "why my ex has earned an especially hot corner in hell" than the category of "why my ex is a loser."

The first time Fred came to visit my parents, he was a two-pack-a-day smoker. No one in my family smokes. So, about every 45 minutes, he stand in my front yard and smoke himself silly. I'm not even going to touch how trashy this must have looked to the neighbors. Toward the end of his visit, my mom pulled me aside and said that while she was walking the dogs, she had encountered several cigarette butts in the yard and to please ask Fred to be more considerate. I could completely understand her annoyance with the situation and agreed to talk to Fred about it.

Later that night, I had the following conversation:

Me: "Hey, my parents have noticed a lot of cigarette butts in the yard. Moving forward, can you be more diligent about putting them in the trash?"

Fred: "They're not mine."

At this point, I was completely caught off guard. Whose did he think they were? None of my family smokes. None of my neighbors smoke. Did he honestly expect me to believe that some rogue smoker had taken-up leaving his trash in our yard several times a day without once being seen...and that this occurrence happened to coincide with Fred's visit? Not wanting to push the issue further, I just told him that I am happy he isn't leaving butts in my yard because my parents are angry with whoever is.

It absolutely blows my mind that he believed he could deny this and everyone would believe him. And that he would waste his efforts lying about something that truly was not a big deal. I should have realized that this was a sign he would only lie about bigger (see also, lesbian shower sluts) and more ambiguous things.

Wonder No More

I once went on an awkward date during which I was asked if I had had any work done. At the time, I was shocked, confused and self-conscious. I felt terribly concerned that something on me was fake-looking. I never really figured out what that something was.

Well, today, I think I have figured it out. When logging on to Facebook, one of my announcements was that my date from two years ago had posted some new pictures. I was slightly curious, so I decided to check them out. And, oh my god! His date looks to be about ten years older than me and like she had implants done when she was 18. They are obvious (if you've ever seen fake tits, then you know that they often have a weird ridge on top), and they are sinking down her chest (as they do over time), so they are now about 6 inches lower than boobs naturally occur.

So, the mystery has been solved. My boobs are apparently in the fake size range. And my bad date was just hoping they were, in fact, fake.

Hard as Nails

Most of my friends from middle school and high school stuck around the area for college. Not me. I went really far away. Consequently, I did not see my friends very often. The summer before my junior year, I spent at school, so by the time Christmas break rolled around, I had not seen my best friend from childhood for 8 months. We were both very eager for me to come home and had made plans to do several things. One of those things was to go to a New Year's Eve party together, as well as spend the day before the party together.

Fred showed up at my house the day after Christmas on very short notice and insisted that I come up to New York with him. I explained that I absolutely had to be back by Dec 30 because I had plans for early in the morning on the 31st. He acknowledged that I had made this request, so I assumed that he was OK with this arrangement and I went to see his parents. On the morning of Dec 30, he suddenly remembered that his family was going to have a dinner that night (they did this every night, so it really was no occasion) and he insisted that I stay. I reminded him of our original agreement and reminded him that I had made these plans with my friend several weeks ago, so it would be inappropriate to cancel on her now. Furthermore, I would see Fred at school, but I would not see my friend again until summer vacation.

He flipped out at me for "refusing to spend time with his family." Then he demanded to know what my plans even consisted of. Ok, so look, when I hang out with my friends, we aren't exactly saving children from burning buildings, or finding a cure for cancer. My plans in this particular case involved brunch, nail appointments and shopping. Yes, I will admit that none of these are really important on their own, but it was the fact that it was a day that both me and my friend had off and were willing to set aside for each other that made this important to me. I honestly don't care about brunch or nails or shopping very much, but I do care about spending time with my friends.

Fred seemed to miss the point in a lot of the things I did or said. Fred failed to see the whole bit about wanting to see my friend. And instead flipped the fuck out that I was "so superficial" and it was going to be so embarrassing for him to have to tell his family that I couldn't come over because I was "getting my nails done."

He really could have saved himself the embarrassment if he just told his family that I had made plans over three weeks ago, and this entire trip was sprung on me at the last minute and under the agreement that it would work around the plans I had already made, but Fred never did want to do things the unembarassing way.

Animal House

Vengeful exes are the worst. You might think of us as vengeful, but we aren't. We story tellers. If we were vengeful story tellers, we'd use their real names.

Now you remember Diego. There was a girl who had a major crush on him after he and I broke up (when he still wanted to rekindle our relationship) who took to name-calling. She thought I had puffy cheeks (I think I was chubby in the picture she saw - I am less chubby now) and she decided to call me a "chipmunk."

Diego never really stood up for me, but no matter, we weren't dating by then anyway. While it irked me because of the childish nature of it all, it was really not a huge deal. It was really more that I wanted to make a point that her immaturity was detrimental to her ability to attract men.

Until he made it a big deal. Diego and I finally called even a friendship off for good. I simply couldn't stand him anymore, even as a friend. He wanted more from me than I was willing to give because I had started dating a guy who I fell very hard and very quickly for. I mean, we're moving in together in a few months. It was a serious relationship that I wanted to be giving my all to. Point being, we had tried being friends, and it just wasn't happening.

Diego invited my roommate (who he met when he came to visit me and try to get a job... you remember...) out to visit him. So yes, they became friends. My roommate posted a few pictures of me on her facebook page, which wasn't a problem. However, it promptly became a problem when he took one of those pictures and posted it on his page with the caption: "There was a recent report of rabid chipmunks out... they tend to have issues with bright lights beware... and yes I stole this from {Roommate}."

I found out when my current roommate emailed me from Russia asking about the picture, and when RGB and SJT pointed it out to me.

It bugged me. Probably more than it should. While I didn't want him in my life anymore, I certainly wanted it to end amicably. I had to hear from my friends that it was not some ignorant ho calling me a rabid chipmunk, but someone who I used to care very deeply about. And he did this from a forum that was not just enough people to count on one hand - which would be the equivalent of all the readers of my blog (yaaaaaay)- but on Facebook. Where every person who knows him and knows our history could see it. Yes, I DO consider that betrayal and vengeful.

Diego used a picture of me and a spiteful caption in a location that all of his friends could see, but I couldn't. A blog at least you have access to, and all discussants have aliases. I almost wish my friends would have just let it die, but they felt the need to ask me if something had happened that prompted you to call me a "rabid chipmunk." Calling me names for the sake of calling me names? Juvenile is putting what he did nicely!

But Diego felt bad. He pleaded with me to understand his "joke" and to not be upset and cut him out of my life. Ok, I would get that, except that there was no way for me to "get" the joke. I didn't have access to it. If he had sent it to me via email and said "you look like a rapid chipmunk who's afraid of bright lights..." well then I might have laughed with him. But with poor execution, it simply reminded me of what I need to do to keep myself happy. Get rid of Diego.

Cuz name-calling and facebook are childish. Let's be honest. All the grownups use blogger.

Spelling RG Bee

My name, first and last, is ten letters. Ten. Even the most simple-minded person can remember a string of ten letters with five minutes of rehearsal. Unfortunately, Fred is unable to do this. Even with two and a half years of rehearsal.

The other day, I received a check in the mail from Fred. The first thing that caught my eye was the fact that my name was misspelled on the envelope. I figured it was just a fluke, but no. The check had the same misspelling.

We dated for two and a half fucking years and he never bothered to learn how to spell my fucking name. Not only did he not bother to learn it, he must have actively fought learning it. He had emailed me the day before sending the check and apparently did not notice the spelling of my last name in my email address. Seriously, what the fuck? You have to spell my name correctly to even email me! Furthermore, he has seen my name written out a million times and yet, somehow the ten letters did not string together in his head.

Although, this honestly shouldn't surprise me. This was the same guy who could not spell his own sister's first name. While trying to address a card to her, I asked Fred whether she spelled her name with an "e" or an "i" and Fred drew a blank (I ended up having him call his mother). I suppose that if after 18 years of his sister's life, he could not learn to spell her (very basic and very common) first name, then I really shouldn't have expected him to figure out my last name without at least 50 years' practice (I thank God every single day that he will not have the opportunity to practice my name for 50 years).

So, remember kids: pay attention in school. Misspellings are adorable when you're six, but when you're twenty-six, it's just fucking pathetic. Now I am stuck with a check that the bank most likely won't cash because someone is a fucking retard.

Nice going, douche.

What Not to Buy Your Girlfriend on Valentine's Day

So, I'm probably beating a dead horse by making another bad gift post. But, it's Valentine's Day, and bad gifts never fail to be hilarious. So, suck it up and pretend you haven't heard this one yet.

What I have recieved in the past:

Fred: The first Valentine's Day we were together, he gave me nothing. The big fucking goose egg. We had dated for 6 months, so I kind of expected something, but was left empty handed. I recieved flowers from 4 other people and he still didn't take the hint. I canned his ass shortly thereafter. We got back together and the next Valentine's Day we were together, he mailed me a care package from Walmart. Now, I love Walmart as much as the next person (ok, probably much much more than the next person), but V-Day is not the time to get me Walmart knick-knacks. A box of batteries, cans of soup and beef jerky hardly constitutes a romantic gift. And a big stuffed dog is hardly appropriate for someone who is not a child.

Shrek: Gave me a box of chocolates. But then he ate them. Seriously, he presented me with a half-eaten box of chocolates as a gift. And the only ones left were the ones he didn't want. Why even bother?

Fruit Fly: Gave me a vase that was covered by a stuffed koala...it's hard to explain, but basically, it looked like a red plant was coming out of the koala's ass. Also, he gave me a chocolate bar that fell on the floor at work and he therefore obtained for free.

Boris: Ok, this is actually really really sweet, but a little misguided. He decided to be very romantic for Valentine's Day and got me two dozen roses, a huge box of Godiva truffles, a big heart-shaped balloon and a card. Except, he did this at school (I was 16 at the time), so I spent the entire day lugging around my Valentine's Day bonanza (my locker was way too small for the balloon and roses). Also, I was (and still am) really shy, so I didn't exactly love all the attention these things brought me. I loved the gifts, but I would have preferred recieving them at home.

At this point, I am over the idea of Valentine's Day. This year, I am just hoping for a good dinner and a lot of alcohol.

The F Word

There are certain topics which are widely regarded as off limits for criticizing one's significant other. For example, I would never criticize a guy's height, penis size or baldness. Those are all things that are beyond their control and furthermore, if they were things that truly bothered me, I would simply not date the guy in question.

The list of off limits topics for women would probably include any facial features, breast size and weight. Of course, this didn't stop my exes from bringing up each of these topics. Perhaps the most alarming was the weight matter. I am not fat, so it would seem logical that no one would ever have anything negative to say about my weight. Apparently, this is not the case. Men seem to think that because I am not fat, they get a free pass on the weight issue, like it won't bother me. Well, assholes, it does.

When I was dating Fred, I was 5'8" and wore a size 0 (I have since ballooned up to a humongous size 2). Yet, he seemed to take pleasure in pointing out any area of me that had even an ounce of fat on it. One such area was my ass. I am not a big girl, but I have a lot of T & A. While this is not something I love about myself, it is something that I mostly accept and do not think about on a day-to-day basis. And seriously, if my ass still fit into a size 0, how much A did I really have?

I should also bring up that I grew 6 inches in high school and as a result, still had the faint remnants of stretch marks on my upper thighs in mid college (in case you really care, they are no longer visible). Well, one day Fred took it upon himself to point this out to me.

Fred: Your ass is too big

Me: It's a size 0.

Fred: But you have stretch marks. That means you're too fat.

Me: No, it means I grew six inches very quickly.

Fred: But it means you got too fat.

The conversation went on like this for a while before I finally gave up. Yes Fred, I am fat.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this is that he was, in fact, fat. 5'8" and 220 lbs is fat. Sorry, but it is. Yet, I would never have told him that. Also, I was much thinner than the girls he dated prior to me (and the ones he has dated since). If he ever called them fat, I hope they were more willing to roll with this kind of criticism than I was.

I often wonder what types of conversations he has had with these other women, given his penchant for playing fat police.

Fred: You're fat.

Fred's gf: You're fat, too.

Fred: Let's have fat sex.

Fred's gf: OMFG, I LOVE BUTTER!!!

Or something like that.

The Game

BJA and I both have boyfriends, so it has been getting tougher to come up with new posts. While this doesn't really count as an ex story, we feel that these losers have earned themselves a special place on our blog.

Last Saturday, we went out with some other friends and were soon accosted by two... interesting-looking gentlemen. Oh, why am I trying to be nice about this? They looked like fricking rednecks. One was sporting a wolf shirt with a leather vest. The other was wearing a tight (I mean like so tight there was visible nippleage) and unflattering (he did not have the body to be wearing anything tight) bright yellow New Mexico shirt and motorcycle boots. Even with a motorcycle convention going on in Washington, they were still sorely out of place.

As they approach us, New Mexico announces "I usually don't talk to ethnic girls, but you guys are really hot."

Um, what? Ok, aside from the fact that is massively inappropriate to say to anyone, it also was a little confusing to me. I would not describe either myself or BJA as being ethnic. We're both of European ancestry, just like the rednecks. I am assuming that BJA was the "ethnic" one of us since she has dark hair and eyes, but either way, it's still a stretch. BJA thinks it may have been my dress, which had a pattern that may have been vaguely Indian-esque.

The conversation continued with them basically sounding ridiculous and BJA and I politely making fun of them in a way that went completely over their heads. I finally slipped in an insult that was low-brow enough for them to get. And they found it to be significantly more funny than it actually was. After they had themselves a little giggle fest, they revealed to us their plan.

They were trying to get rejected by as many girls as possible. They wanted to know if we had any advice for them. I politely gave them two of my worst pick up lines and suggested they used them. Then their entourage came over to talk to me and BJA. The rest of the entourage was about as interesting as Wolf Shirt and New Mexico. Clearly, they were not putting this plan to work. I told them to get on it (trying to get them to leave) and they turned around to the girls behind us (while still looking like they were in our group). I told them to try talking to people on the other side of the bar, as far away from us as possible; because they'll look more reject-able if there are no women with them. They took the hint. I think deep down, they were grateful that I gave them each one more rejection to add to their count.

I get it. They go out and try to pretend like they want to get rejected, that way when they do get rejected, it was part of the plan. And if they don't get immediately dismissed, they think their victims will find themselves special when they're let in on the plan. It's not clever. It's not cute. It's annoying.

Look, guys, seriously, don't play games like this. If you want to talk to a woman, just go for it. Don't make up stupid-ass back stories. Don't tell me you're from out-of-state if you're really just from over the bridge. Don't ask me if I saw the fight outside. Don't pretend to be taking a survey. Don't pretend to show me a magic trick. Just don't. Be honest about your intentions. Even if they are just to get in my pants.

Dinner Crimes

Every girl has an insatiable desire to be pampered. One of the many surefire ways to impress a woman is took cook her dinner. The romance of a candlelit dinner and knowing your man slaved away on a stove or an oven for a while just to impress you is a surefire "win" for most guys.

But if you're going to go for it, you have to proceed carefully.

Most likely, if you burn the dinner or otherwise make it inedible, girls will forgive you. It's the effort that counts truly. We'll also likely never ask you to cook again if you royally screw it up badly enough, and we'll offer to cook from then on. We're ok with you attempting stuffed mushrooms or almond-crusted tuna steaks - whether you actually succeed or not. (Obviously infinitely more impressive if you pull it off, but I digress.)

A truly heinous offense, more-so than the failure to pull off a delicious almond-crusted tuna steak, and one for which you will not be forgiven, is making a huge fuss over a dinner that a.) you can't possibly screw up and b.) took hardly any effort over a monkey's capabilities.

We'll forgive you if you screw up something that took effort or was even remotely challenging. We'll sing your praises for trying to do something sweet, no matter the outcome. But if you come in saying you'll make us dinner, we expect a little effort... or if you're not going to really even try, humility.

Let me explain...

Berkley was a fast-talker. He was suave and smooth, but he definitely thought more of himself than I did in the end. One night, he announced, "Baby, I'm gonna make you dinner tomorrow night. How about some fish and pasta?"

Sounds wonderful, right? Fish is a challenging dish to prepare since its so easy to overcook, and pasta, while not exactly the most difficult entree to prepare, takes at least some degree of knowledge on how to cook. Score, a man willing to cook for me!

I was in for a disappointing surprise. I arrived just in time to see him in the midst of his meal preparation. The oven was on, and he was already cooking the pasta in the pot of boiling water... all seemed well.

Then I noticed the Kraft macaroni and cheese box... extra cheesy. I made this crap in middle school. Kids watched the blue box commercials when I was younger. This was not the pasta I was expecting.

But wait, it gets better.

I was sort of hoping against hope that the fish would be a little more high quality than mac and cheese from a box. Maybe he just didn't know any other way to make pasta, and I was more than willing to throw that in the "its the thought that counts" category.

He opened the oven to retrieve the fish... sticks. He made fishsticks. The kind you buy precooked and just set in the oven for 8 minutes or so.

I'm willing to let it slide if a man cannot cook. But bachelor food when you make a big fuss about cooking me dinner is absolutely unacceptable. This is the kind of "dinner" you make for kids you're babysitting because its the only thing they'll eat without crying for mommy. This is not something you play up for your girlfriend as a real San Francisco treat and then spend all of a middle-school amount of effort preparing.

Needless to say, I tried to pretend I was pleased. But Berkley's plan to impress truly fell flat. I would much rather he attempted a recipe with some degree of risk and fail miserably rather than pick something that pleases the under-age-10 crowd.

Fishsticks and Kraft macaroni and cheese = Dinner FAIL.

Cracker, Please

I don't eat many snacks. Usually, a box of cookies lasts about six weeks in my apartment (they usually get thrown out from being stale before they get eaten).

I was grocery shopping with Fred one day and decided that I wanted to get some crackers to keep at his place. I was over often and he did not have the most appealing food options (see also: six month old petrified chicken kabob).

Anyway, two days after I had purchased the crackers, I got a rare snack craving while at Fred's apartment and started searching his kitchen for my crackers. They were no where to be found. So, I asked Fred about them and he told me that he had no idea what happened to them and that one of his roommates probably took them.

I was a little pissed that his roommates would knowingly eat someone else's food, but I never said anything. Two weeks later, I brought TWO new boxes of crackers over to Fred's apartment. This time, I opted to keep them on a shelf in Fred's room instead of in the kitchen where they could be stolen by roommates. That night, I fell asleep after some studying. Apparently Fred stayed up a little later.

The next morning, I looked at the shelf and saw that both boxes of crackers were gone. I was furious. I opened a drawer in Fred's desk, and there were three empty boxes of crackers. The previous night, he had eaten both boxes of crackers. Two weeks prior, he had eaten my crackers, then blamed it on someone else, rather than choosing to fess up and buy me new crackers.

But honesty issues aside, who the hell eats two entire boxes of crackers in one night? I looked up the nutrition facts on these crackers and it works out to 2520 calories. In one night. And this was in addition to eating a full breakfast, lunch, dinner and other assorted snacks.

But, the worst part was that he didn't even throw away his trash. He kept it safely in his desk for those two weeks. And probably would have kept it all year if I hadn't found it. Disgusting!

Too Sexy For Clothes

Every girl has a fantasy she wants to live out with a guy. For some it's places, others it's outfits, and still others it's personas. I'm totally one of those I-want-a-guy-who-does-X girls. And what did I want? A stripper. Oh yeah. I never expected to have a chance to explore said fantasy, but, when I did, I realized the extent to which I hadn't thought this whole fantasy thing through.

Dallas was a nice guy. And yes, I am using his stripper name. (Don't track him down, I doubt you'll find anything based off of that... or at least you won't be able to narrow it down...) He was really a blast to be around and to this day I think he's a riot.

Yet, Dallas wasn't really what we'd call "classy," and certainly not high privileged. Not that he was broke, but that he had a propensity to spend his umm... hard-earned money... very quickly. Wisely though, was a complete other matter.

Dallas liked coupons. And I would have supported certain kinds - food... restaurants... etc. But Dallas liked the "5 for $5" coupons offered by the local thrift store down his street. That's right. He liked to buy used consignment clothes for $1 each. Shirts, jeans, jorts, button downs, ties, shoes, and, not even kidding, suits. He bought a blue zuit suit for $2.

Here's my thing. Thriftiness is a desireable quality. Living beyond one's means is unacceptable, frankly, and reflects poorly on your future abilities to buy me shiny things. So, while I respected Dallas' intentions of saving money, I was distraught that it was at the expense of decent clothing.

Sigh. I guess he was too sexy for his clothes anyway...

Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar...Ribs?

Meeting your significant other's parents for the first time totally sucks. Meeting them subsequent times also totally sucks. There is a great deal of pressure to seem responsible, but not controlling. To be polite, but not stuffy. To be fun, but not obnoxious. As if that's not enough, the odds are stacked against you from the beginning because every parent is convinced that no person in the world is worthy of dating their little snowflake.

For guys, there's the added pressure of what to do when the check comes. If you offer to pay, does it look like you're implying that the parents can't afford to? Does it send the message that you are trying to buy their daughter off of them? If you don't offer to pay, do you look cheap? While I would usually advise offering, I would say that depending on the situation, either could be the right answer to the check conundrum.

Then there is that hidden third route which is never the right answer. That is the one which Fred chose to take.

Fred came to visit me at my parents' house. Since he only packed jorts, this limited our dining options, but my parents still wanted to take us out to dinner. So, we went to a casual restaurant which served mainly burgers and such. My parents ordered wraps (they're health-conscious) and I ordered a burger (I am not so health-conscious). Fred decided that he just couldn't resist ordering ribs.

This was a little annoying to me since it is such a fussy and messy meal and no one else was eating it. I was a little shocked that he wanted to eat something that was so sloppy in front of my parents. But, I didn't say anything. I didn't even give him a dirty look when he proceeded to get barbecue sauce and bits of meat all over his face and his ugly ass Hawaiian shirt.

When the check came, Fred decided that he should offer to pay. But rather than offer to split the bill with my parents, he presented them with a barbecue sauce soaked five dollar bill. Why? Because he figured his meal was about five dollars more than everyone else's. I wish I were joking about this.

I can understand that he would not offer to pay for everyone's meal. He was 22 and at 22, taking four people out to dinner, even to a burger joint, is a big investment.

However, given that he had chosen to offer to pay part of the check, I feel like the minimum offer he should have made would have been for his full meal. The preferred would have been to just split the damn check -- maybe offering to throw in a few extra bucks if he were truly concerned about his meal costing more.

But just paying the difference between his meal and the table average? How did this seem like a good idea? I tried to whisper discreetly to him to just not offer at all. This would have been a lot less awkward than offering up five dollars.

My parents were confused and annoyed by the offer and politely refused. But they never let me forget it, despite my attempts to block that night out of my memory.

He's a Caaaaaniac, CAAAAAANIAC!

It's a little weird how much of my relationship with Fred revolved around chicken.

The night after I had discussed the chicken wings incident with Fred, we went to Raising Canes. Since Fred had already eaten one dinner and I am hardly the type of girl who can pack a continuous stream of chicken wings for three hours (sorry, I love my size 2 ass too much), we decieded to split a Caniac (which I paid for).

For those of you out of the loop, this includes 6 chicken fingers, some fries and two pieces of toast (this is important).

Well, since Fred was too busying blowing on a conch shell (insert phallic reference here), I went ahead and seperated the chicken fingers, removing three for myself. Well, this did not go over well. He threw a hissy fit (seriously, a fucking hissy fit) that I was trying to eat his food.

Um, wow. Didn't know he was so protective over it (just kidding, his fat ass and matching beer gut was a dead giveaway that he never let one morsel of food escape his claws).

Also, as a math major, he really should have realized that removing three chicken fingers from a six chicken finger meal is, in fact, taking half of it. But apparently he was blinded by the idea of being potentially denied a chicken finger.

In his fit, he claimed that I was trying to take his food from him. Apparently he believed this to be an ongoing problem. This was weird to me because we were about the same height, but I was half his weight. He was clearly not missing out on any food.

Anyway, I finally got my act together and and dumped him after this...I just wish I hadn't taken him back a few weeks later. D'oh!

Gotta Go Right Now

As a child, I didn't have the best coordination. I never could hold my pencil correctly and I tied my shoes the weird way (two loops instead of one). Not to mention, both my knees are covered in scars from the zillions of nasty spills I took. I'd like to say that this is one of those things that improved with age, but that would be well not true.

I'm as clumsy now as ever and on any given day, I 'm certain to have at least one knee bruised from tripping on the curb (Seriously, its like watching an episode of when curbs attack). I am completely clumsy, uncoordinated and awkward. This is an unchangeable part of who I am and I accept it but it has resulted in some interesting situations.

For example, I was home from college for spring break one year, while Shrek remained at school. I took this opportunity to spend time with my family and my high school friends.

One night, we were playing drinking board games -- girls vs. boys with the girls' team totally dominating at Simpsons Battle of the Sexes but after several beers, I needed a bathroom break.

I was really in a hurry and somehow in the process of trying to get my belt undone, I managed to jam it really badly. It had one of those slidey buckle things like an old boy scout belt and I managed to slip part of it out of where it was supposed to be and I could not get the thing undone. After unsuccessful attempts, I realized I needed assistance.

I snuck back out and pulled my friend to the side to see if she could get it unjammed. After a few minutes of pulling, she was unable to get it to budge. I discreetly pulled another girl to the side who was also unable to get it undone.

At this point I was in pain I gave up and asked a guy. This was incredibly embarrassing and awkward at the time, but he was able to get my belt off.

The next day, Shrek called and I mentioned what I had been up to over the past couple of days including the belt story which after the fact just seemed really funny to me.

Shrek did not see the humor in the situation. In fact, he spent the next 15 minutes screaming into the phone about what a slut I was.

At least that's what I think he screamed about the whole time. I put the phone down after five minutes to go get a drink of water and when I came back, he was still carrying on. I explained that it wasn't like I asked him to take my pants off -- I just needed someone to assist with my belt so I would not have to piss myself. But this point was lost on him.

Apparently not peeing my pants makes me a slut. But, according to him, my Vineyard Vines tote bag, Rainbow flip-flops and hairbands also made me a slut. I don't think that word means what he thinks it means.

Through the Looking Glass

When I was ten, my best friend and I stole some coins out of a dried-up fountain to buy a couple of sodas. That was the beginning and end of my life of crime. Shortly thereafter, I came to recognize and appreciate the norms and rules of society as well as property rights. I suppose this never sinks in for some people.

People like Fred, whose long and storied life of crime began well before, and continued long after, I met him.

This brings me to the story of his 22nd birthday, which he decided to ring in with an Alice in Wonderland themed party. This included him dressing up as the Mad Hatter. Not so shockingly, he promoted it as a party in which all sorts of illegal drugs would be available. Apparently this was the type of life he desired prior to his security clearance.

As much as I love the NOPD, I had no desire to celebrate my loser ex’s 22nd birthday in jail, so I opted not to attend his druggy party. But, whether I wanted to or not I still got to listen to all Fred's planning details. One afternoon, when I arrived at his apartment I was shocked to see a pink and yellow plastic play house.

"We're going to put a keg inside!" exclaimed Fred. I told him that was a cute idea then asked where on earth he even bought a playhouse.

"Well, we didn't buy it."

"Did you dumpster dive or something?"

"No, we took it from a playground...in front of a church."

Yeah that's right -- there really was nothing else to say.

Between the drugs and stealing from church, the majority of Fred's normal friends decided not to attend and, the party guests ended up being the weird druggy friend-of-a-friend type of crowd. I only knew one person other than Fred and his roommate who ended up going to the party. She felt uncomfortable and didn't stay long. Apparently Fred sat alone on the couch eating pan after pan of pot brownies while moping that no one cool had come the entire time.

Maybe this was him being smited for stealing from a church.

I'd like to say that he grew from this experience, but that's not exactly what happened. In fact, when he found a Wal-Mart ad in the paper for the playhouse a couple of months later, he proudly announced to anyone who'd listened that he wasn't a "sucker" like anyone who paid $29.99 for the playhouse. Classy, classy guy.

Snow Patrol

A few years ago there was this insanely crazy blizzard in my hometown. Worse, it happened over the first spring break in my life that my parents hadn't planned a getaway vacation. I was looking forward to hanging out with my friends, enjoying some time outside, and spending some quality time with String Bean without worrying about getting to school or practice on time.

Well, the snow ruined all that. It began snowing on Monday. Four feet later, I was snowed in and playing Life with my younger brother and parents by candlelight. You don't know real pain until you have one of those little cars stuffed with pink and blue "people" and your father says, "I hope this isn't what I really can expect from your life."

I couldn't wait to escape. On Wednesday, we finally figured out how to get out of our house and to my friend Becky-lou's. (Obviously a made-up name, get over it.) We spent the day watching movies, acknowledging the fact that all other options were buried under four feet of snow.

Meanwhile, String Bean had escaped from his house and headed to a friend's home, who apparently was having some sort of blizzard related drinking party. That night, they proceeded to get wasted. String Bean calls me, drunk, and screaming. Turns out a fellow partyier thought it would be hilarious to draw a... specific body part.. on String Bean's face when he passed out. Needless to really say, String Bean was peeved.

Instead of being an adult, String Bean abandoned ship. He careened (without a coat) into the snow towards his own home. Remember - he's drunk, he has a phalic symbol on his face, and he's increasingly growing closer to frostbite and/or freezing to death. Logically, he calls me.

My young and naive head could not wrap around the idiocy String Bean was engaging in. But, "savior" I felt I was, I begged Becky-lou and her father to let us drive his SUV through the snow and out of the neighborhood into the main town where StringBean was apparently wandering. Mind you, it was now icy, and the plows hadn't come through, so it was only what had melted down or been shoveled by hand that we could travel over.

The 10 minute trip took much longer than it should have because of the snow and the inability of the SUV to operate as a snowplow. We spun a few times, but fortunately got out in one piece and without having slid into a pole or curb. But the situation wasn't getting any better. StringBean wouldn't answer his phone. He was lost in the snow drifts.

After driving almost aimlessly through the deserted snowy streets of my home town, I spotted a lone figure stumbling through the piled-up snow. Sure enough, it was String Bean, who proceeded to beligerently tell me off for "following him". Like I really wanted to be trudging through ice and snow to save his ass.

We left after about 20 minutes of unyielding insults and anger, when I finally realized what a douche I was dating. If he refused to get in the car and was going to be a drunken ass, there was no use fighting with him.

Come to find out the next day that String Bean had been approached by another vehicle shortly thereafter. This one had flashing red and blue lights and a couple of cold and bitter men with flashlights who were justifiably a little peeved at this drunken idiot wandering around without a coat with a p*nis on his face. Fortunately, the officers decided to give String Bean a ride home, but not before giving him a breathalizer and a ticket for being drunk in public.

The next day, when we all could finally get cleanly out of the neighborhoods and the snow plows had done their part to clear the roads, I talked to String Bean about his frozen escapade. He defended his actions by claiming he was, ahem, NOT drunk. Didn't seem to register that he had a ticket indicating otherwise. And to top it all off, somehow it was my fault that he had been out in the cold.

Yes, String Bean. And I drew the p*nis on your face, too. I got crazy skills.

Call On Me (Call Me)

There's a certain decorum that supposedly comes from a relationship that pertains to what is appropriate and what is not. There are certain rules that must be followed, and both RGB and myself have seemed to find men who were completely unaware, ignorant, or simply too dirty-minded to understand basic decency.

1. Text messages and/or emails describing your physical and/or emotional state that are sent during normal working hours are inappropriate. Not to mention, we have it in writing if we decide you are too stalkerish to continue contacting us unabated.

2. Gchat is definitely the wrong forum to begin a discussion on the hardness of your.... day. I cannot stress this enough. You DO realize the potential for coworkers or superiors to see your little conversation with yourself, don't you? And you also, I'm sure, are aware that google stores these chats?

3. Voicemails are equally distasteful. Fortunately, my voicemail cuts off after a few minutes and you better be done with your message. If the time before it takes the tone to sound is all you need to do what you need to do, there's a reason we didn't pick up anyway. These are, of course, general tips on how to NOT approach phone/text/email/chat sex with a girl.



RGB:

As I was walking to work one morning, my phone started going off. "Crap," I thought, "my boss must have broken the copy machine again."

But, as I dug my phone out of my purse, I saw that it was actually the Dud. I was a little confused as to why he was calling, but I answered.

"What are you wearing?"

"Oh, I'm wearing a black suit. Why? Do you see me? Are you here too?" I started looking around trying to find a doofy blond guy on a cell phone.

"What are you wearing under that?"

"Oh, dear lord. Dud, you realize that I am walking down K street right now? This conversation is not appropriate."

He then proceeded to whine. I'm not sure what he expected. It was 8:15am on a Tuesday. I was going to work. Apparently he did not understand that I did not want to have this conversation. His penchant for phone sex was really quite disturbing to me. But, even if I had been up for it, surely he could have chosen a better time to make these calls.

Apparently this concept was lost on him because the following several weekdays, I received similar calls. The time always varied with when he woke up. Sometimes the calls came on my way to work, sometimes while I was sitting at my desk, sometimes while I was out at lunch.

Of course, hanging up the phone was not enough to get him to calm down. He would then proceed to send lewd text messages describing the state of his genitals and his general level of excitement. He would send me about ten of these, all of which I would not respond to. He would then call in an attempt for there to be some sort of grand finale.

However, soon it became apparent that my response to this was not important. He seemd to get his jollies off sending me gross texts whether I responded to them or not. I must have had thousands of unanswered texts about his junk.

Obviously, I had nothing to say back to these messages, so I would ignore them, along with the phone calls. He did give up on the phone call segment of this routine, but he still kept sending texts months after we quit talking. I suppose the thought of me sitting at my desk, showing my coworkers the messages from my perverted stalker really did it for him.


BJA:

As a more broad hint, I would broach the subject with your girl before you attempt any of the above. Assuming she'll be into it or receptive is presumptuous, but there are some girls out there who might get just as many jollies from such antics. Just... not me or RGB.

Diego tried to... invite me to participate... multiple times, and, to his credit, not necessarily all the most innapropriate venues, but certainly after making it clear I was not into it, the subject should have been dropped. And no, switching forums from phone to online doesn't work either.

Yet, the most heinous of these offenses was a guy a did not date at all. I did not go on one date with Announcer Boy. Two of my friends did, however, at different times. The lesson that should be taken from this experience is that texting the same message to multiple people is for making movie or bar plans for a group of people - not phone sex.

One night, I was having a girls night with friends, of which Friend 1 and Friend 2 had dated Announcer Boy. Friend 3 also knew AB, yet Friend 4 had yet to make his acquaintence, which explains her being saved this experience.

My phone started ringing it's text message tone, followed immediately by Friend 1, Friend 2, and Friend 3's phones. Four phones all going off at the same time.

"What color "undergarments" are you wearing?" (undergarments replacing a word a bit more graphic.)

All four of us. Same message. From AB. So, brilliant ladies that we were, we all responded with a very graphic and specific description of our fictional undergarments. The catch - we used the exact same description. Something to the tune of polkadots and bows, a specific cut of undergarment, and a wonderful combination of greens, pinks, and blues.

Moments later, my phone rings. Only mine, none of the other girls. Rather quietly, perhaps even timidly is the best characterization of this approach, AB asked, "Are you with Friend 1, Friend 2 and Friend 3?"

"Why yes, AB. And we're having one big matching panty orgy without you."

Needless to say, his phone sex extravaganza did not work out the way he had hoped.

Since we all called him out on his antics, hopefully he has learned to stick with one-on-one text sex. But who am I kidding? He's on loserex, so obviously he just found a new crop of unsuspecting women to canoodle over time and space.

The bottom line is this: if you're the type of man who...enjoys certain types of phone conversations, try to do so with class (well, as much as you can really show in this situation). That means, call at an appropriate time, only call the person whom you are dating, only call someone who is receptive to this form of contact. If you can't follow these rules, then it might be time to suck it up and call a 900 number. Sure it's pricey, but I assure you, the $4.99 a minute is a bargain price to pay to maintain your dignity.

The Crying Game

After about 5 months of dating, Shrek's eyebrows were starting to grow together into one unibrow. It was gross.

Well, maybe not as gross as the fact that he cleaned his ears with a car key. And probably not as gross as all those times he spit phlegm into half empty soda bottles which he forgot to throw away for weeks, leaving a nasty culture of whatever lurks in his throat. And definitely not as gross as that really gross thing he once did that I told BJA about earlier. But, it was still pretty nasty.

I waited for about 2 months before I finally said something about the unibrow. By this time it was Bert from Sesame Street bad. I suggested he get it waxed into two distinct eyebrows, the kind most non-neanderthals have. My suggestion did not exactly go over well. There was no way he was going to get his eyebrows waxed. That was for chicks. He didn't want to look like a chick with thin, arched eyebrows. I explained that they would not give him girl eyebrows, but he still refused to go.

His male boss told him the next day that I was right about his unibrow (God bless this man), so he came back to me and asked me to get him an appointment to have it waxed. Luckily, I had an appointment later that week, so I called up and they were willing to squeeze him in right after me.

When we arrived to the appointment, he was nervous, so I asked if he could come back with me and watch me get mine done first, thinking he would see that it wasn't too bad. Sure enough, watching me get my eyebrows done put his nerves at ease for when he got his done.

Until the first rip. He started crying. Crying! I don't mean the few reflexive tears that an eyebrow waxing sometimes produces either. I mean all out crying about how much it hurt.

God, I remember this scene so vividly. The relaxing mood music playing softly in the background. Several small, white candles warmly glowing in an otherwise dimly lit room. The smell of lavender and sage hanging in the air. A 6'5", 230lb man crying hysterically about how much pain he was in. A confused and slightly frightened esthetician exchanging awkward looks with me.

He managed to get through the entire process (which was really only like 2 minutes) without running out, but he spent the next three weeks telling everyone how I made him get his eyebrows done. And it was the most painful thing, ever. And that I had no idea how much it hurt. Um, hello? I got mine done right in front of him beforehand.

He resolved to shave his unibrow, thus leaving two uneven eyebrows and some thick stubble between them.

His asinine belief that his rip shod shaving job was on par with the professionals was beyond incorrect, beyond loser. It was pathetic. And his eyebrows, effectively reduced to caterpillars chasing each other through some sparsely populated forests, looked foolish.

But nevermind that, at least I didn't have to see him cry again.

I Don't Have to Live This Way...

So, I'm at the end of yet another failed relationship. Probably the most spectacularly failed relationship of my life. I mean, how many breakups actually require you to move to another state with twenty minutes of notice?

So, I am back at my parents' house in small town Louisiana after making a sudden, mad dash from Little Rock, Arkansas where I had been living with my (now ex-) boyfriend. I am fully aware of the white-trashiness of that last sentence. I know that ninety percent of those reading this are envisioning me with a bleach blond perm and bandanna print tube top, living in a circa- 1980 single wide trailer. But that's really not how it was. Little Rock is actually a really nice city. It has an enormous amount of beautiful early twentieth century arts and crafts architecture and nice, intelligent people.

I'm sitting in my childhood bedroom that has since been converted to the office, drinking Franzia at one o'clock in the afternoon and lamenting the loss of my year and a half relationship. But its a weird feeling of sadness, mixed with excitement for the next part of my life. I feel free--if I had stayed with him I'd never have left Little Rock (as nice a city as it is, there simply is no opportunity for me there). But despite this, I am sad. He and I have had some amazingly fun times and there for a while, I honestly thought I could settle for life in Arkansas and be happy. It wasn't exactly what I wanted from life. But I thought, well life's never what you expect it to be...so maybe this is it. But the longer I was there and the more our relationship deteriorated, I more I realized that I was settling for something that would never make me happy. I realized that if I stayed, ten years from now, I would only resent him because I never had the chance to do what I wanted to with my life.

So here I am, back at home, trying to decide what to do next. Its an odd feeling to have all of your plans destroyed in less than a half an hour. But I'll make it through. And I'm sure as this relationship fades into my past, I'll have some funny stories to tell. (Like the airbrushed tiger t-shirt I got for Christmas.) Just give me some time. It's still too soon to be able to think about it too much.