South of the Border

When I first met Fred, he decided one day that he wanted to go on an impromptu road trip to Mexico. After having gotten out of a terrible relationship with Shrek, I was up for any sort of adventure. So I quickly packed a bag and was ready to go. As we were walking to the car, he informed me that he actually was driving some friends to Texas for a party, but we would drop them off then go to Mexico. It seemed a little weird, but whatever.

When the friends (a guy and a girl who were dating) got in the car, it was obvious that they had no idea about the Mexico plans. Fred brought it up, and the girl freaked out. She immediately made it clear that she wanted to be back home in time for their anniversary dinner the following night. She made it very clear that she believed I was the one insisting on the Mexico trip.

Well, despite his friends' objections, Fred insisted we go to Mexico anyway after dropping them off. So we drove late into the night, staying at a cheesy motel right across the border so we could cross over first thing in the morning.

The trip over the Mexico was a unique experience. We mainly just drank and bought the tackiest souvenirs we could find. One thing that really stuck out though was how many people tried to sell us drugs. After turning down some, Fred told me he thought we should buy some illegal substances. I told him no, since I really didn't want to get stopped by border patrol and go to jail over some Mexican weed. He was insistent, but finally accepted that I was not going to allow it to happen.

It was a good thing I didn't give in. Sure enough, we were stopped by border patrol. Fred was asked to pull over and have his car searched. He tried to convince me it was because he had New York tags. This didn't make sense to me then and it still doesn't make sense to me now. We were pulled into separate rooms, questioned and searched. I had no clue what was going on. I didn't know if he had bought some drugs while I was in the bathroom and didn't tell me or what. When the border patrol agent told me the dogs had smelled drugs in the car, I almost passed out.

After two hours in the border patrol station we were finally free to go. As we were driving away, I asked Fred what the whole incident was all about. He chuckled that he had been hot boxing in his car the day before we left. Charming.

We got back to pick up his friends late, and the girl was none too pleased. She made it very clear that she felt I was the one to blame and proceeded to give me the stink eye the entire way back. The two friends ended up getting married and living in the same area as me, so I see them from time to time at alumni events. The guy is very friendly, but the girl still goes out of her way to give me the stink eye.

As truly annoying as this is, Fred's gift of a lifelong enemy still isn't nearly as horrible as the gift of the lifelong memory of my run in with the law. Thanks for the awesome souvenirs!

Only in Dreams

I've been having really weird dreams lately. In one of my dreams last night (yeah, I can just hear everyone clicking away from this page now), I was at my parents' house with some friends and family members. We were washing cars in the driveway (my parents have a lot of cars). For some reason Fred was there. He was getting on my nerves, so I asked him to go get my car and bring it around. He got my car and drove it into my neighbor's garage and got it locked in there. They were out of town, so I couldn't get it out. I remember asking my mom "how the hell did that even happen?"

Even in my dreams, Fred fucks up mundane tasks. Loser.

Also, I should stop drinking before bedtime.

Mardi Gross

My alumni association hosts an annual party for Mardi Gras. It's one of the major events we have each year. Also, it is a formal thing. OK, well not formal-formal, but women wear cocktail dresses, and men wear suits (except for the hand full who always show up in tuxedos). I feel like I have to express this because people hear "Mardi Gras" and think "Show your tits!" It's not by any means a boobie-flashing kegger.

Fred and I went to the same college, so sometimes he shows up at alumni events. He showed up to the Mardi Gras party a couple of years ago (we were broken up at the time) and hilarity ensued. I've mentioned before that Fred cannot behave himself in public and often finds a way to make even the most mundane public events excruciatingly humiliating. Well, this time he really outdid himself.

Sure, there were moments where I felt embarrassed for him that night. His loud, brutish behavior, his date's wardrobe malfunction. But the crown jewel of the night was something I did not find out about until much later.

The venue at which the party takes place is a beautiful townhouse/gallery with a lot of history. The decorations have an early-American feel in line with the history of the place (so Washington!). It has several heavy wooden tables, bookcases and desks. Well, Fred decided that the furniture was too pretty to just look at. So he rummaged one of the desks and discovered a digital camera in one of the drawers. He decided to have some fun.

First he (or someone else) took pictures of him smiling and giving the camera the middle finger. How nice. Then, he decided that was not enough and took the camera to the bathroom and proceeded to take pictures of his junk. Seriously. He found a strange camera and decided to take pictures of his penis. Nothing I can say here will add to this.

He returned the camera to its location, leaving the elderly groundskeeper (to whom the camera belonged) to discover it later. And I'm sure he thought he would get away with it too. But, since he was smart enough to take face pictures first, it was really easy to identify him. The hand in the penis picture had a sleeve that matched his jacket in the face picture. Dumbass.

I hope he gave up self-portraiture for Lent.

Talk Dirty to Me

I am the most awkward and unsexy person ever. If I try to say something dirty, it ends up just sounding funny. Most of the men I've dated are just as awkward, so the dirty talk tends to not happen in my relationships.

Fred was one of the more awkward people I've dated. Except, he never seemed to realize his own awkwardness. So, he tried to say dirty things to me. It was terrible and uncomfortable for all parties involved.

One of his favorite lines was "Ooo baby, baby!" He said it exactly like Salt-N-Pepa do in "Push It." Seriously. He even squeaked a little at the end of it. And this wasn't a one time thing. He did it all the time while we were dating. Each time, I gave him a weird look. But, he seemed completely oblivious. I'm not really even sure what he meant by this. Maybe he was complimenting me. Maybe he was trying to arouse me. Perhaps, he was just singing his favorite 90's song. I really don't know.

The thing is, whenever he looked at me and said "Ooo baby, baby!" I started imagining the rest of the song in my head (do do do do do dododododo). For some reason, thinking of this song then makes me think of the song from Revenge of the Nerds. So, instead of thinking about dirty sexy things, I'd find myself thinking "Clap your hands everybody..."

And this was about as arousing as a fat, sweaty man in a banana hammock.

Skid Row Bums

Fred had a relative whom his family ridiculed for a vareity of reasons. One of the most ridiculous was the fact that, despite being well past potty-training age (able-bodied and of normal intelligence), she still would not wipe her own rear.

Fred, on the other hand, was in his mid-twenties and did wipe his own rear, however the responsibility proved to be too much for him. Despite years of practice, he still had not mastered the art of properly cleaning himself. I don't mean to single out Fred. Shrek was just as bad about this. This is more of a general rant.

Dating Shrek was terrible because every single pair of boxers he owned had...evidence of wear. And Fred was so bad that every single surface in his apartment that he had ever sat on smelled like what comes out of one's bottom. It was absolutely foul. I couldn't sit on his sofa without smelling poo.

It just completely blows my mind that the men I used to date would wear roomy boxers and still manage to get their butt juice on them, while I wear thongs -- underwear designed to go up my ass -- and they still are stain-free.

Both of these men tried to defend their wiping skills, claiming that men just have leaky butts. Um, no, not all men do. In fact, in my experience I have found that most do not.

Just to make sure I am not dating the exceptions, I asked some girlfriends about their experience with men having this problem. Then, I asked some men if they personally had this problem. My conclusion is that this is not a normal condition. If your butt is leaking, you really need to go to the doctor and have that problem addressed. Your underwear should not be covered in stains. Your furniture should not smell.

Seriously, boys, you are disgusting. Go to a doctor.

Psychological Case Study: Fred

In the tradition of making psychological judgements about my exes based on their care for pets, I bring you Fred.

Fred had a pet budgie in college. His name was Buddy. Then a hurricane came. No, not that one. So, Fred decided that he would take Buddy with him while he evacuated. I guess his deadbeat roommates didn't want the hassle of carrying the bird around.

Before we left, I explained to Fred that it was a risky idea since birds are very sensitive to climate and pressure changes. I noted that my friend growing up had had a budgie and that they had to keep it away from the front door, as drafts could eventually kill the bird. I even suggested he find someone else to take the bird, knowing that a car trip was risky, especially with the way Fred smokes in his car and opens the windows most of the time he is driving.

When we loaded Buddy into the car, I buckled his cage in, removed any toys that could fly around and possible hit him, and covered the cage with a sheet to protect him from drafts. Fred started to open the windows, and I stopped him, explaining (AGAIN) that the draft is not good for the bird.

Five minutes into the trip, Fred rolled down the window and started smoking, blowing the air from the window and the smoke toward Buddy's cage. I told him not to do that. I explained that he would need to limit his smoking breaks to a couple times a day as to not make his budgie sick. Of course he did not listen, and spent the entire trip chain smoking, letting the wind and smoke fly into Buddy's cage.

I don't want to go into details, but little Buddy did die on that trip. Fred's selfishness caused him to irreparably harm his pet.

It is unfair to accept the responsibility to care for something when you have no intention of actually doing so. At first, this event seems to illustrate Fred being absentminded. But, given that I had told him several times not to open the window, it really just shows his utter selfishness and insistence on putting his own wants over the needs of others. Once again, Fred's treatment of his pet should have been a clear sign of how he would eventually act toward me.

Fred Exposes Himself to Many Things

Fred had a penchant for exposing himself. It was ridiculous.

I know guys seem to think exposing themselves is hilarious. It's not. It's especially not funny when it happens all the freaking time. If I were truly petty, I would tell you how embarrassingly small his junk is and that he was most likely just doing it to try to feel some sort of acceptance for his not-so-well-endowed member. But, I'm not petty. So, I will not tell everyone that he was lacking in his pants.

Fred constantly would be the guy at parties, social gatherings, dinners or study sessions who felt the need to pull his junk out of his pants and wait for someone to notice. It was completely childish. It was completely disgusting. And it completely alienated people. The worst part is, this behavior was not limited to the privacy of his own house parties. He did it everywhere.

I recall one particular incident in the parking garage in which he realized his jorts were slipping down his waist, so he decided just to push them all the way down and shuffle with them around his ankles. And, yes, he was going commando that day.

I recall another (post-college) incident in which he decided to return from the bathroom at a party my friend was throwing sans pants. In a room full of people he had just met. If he hadn't ruined his chance of making friends that night earlier, he certainly had after exposing himself. Not to mention, it was completely humiliating for me to have my boyfriend expose himself to the first people I had met after moving to a new city.

Of course, there are other stories I have heard about Fred exposing himself, but I did not experience them first hand. Since I am not here to spread rumors, I will not bring them up. But, trust me, Fred's privates have been seen by more people than Jenna Jameson's.

I could go on forever about stories of Fred's junk. But, really, they're pretty much all the same, just different places, different people. I honestly do not understand the fascination men have with their own genitals. Look guys, they're really not all that interesting. And we really don't want to see it. Women are not turned on by you showing yourself at formal events.

Fred, keep it in your pants.

Requiem for My Love Life

Fred decided one day that he wanted to watch "Requiem for a Dream." Since no one owned this movie on DVD (it is far too depressing for most people to want to watch more than once), he decided to go rent it from the local Blockbuster. This was located next door to the Circle K, where he went every single day to buy cigarettes, so it seemed like it would be easy to take it back after two days (this was before the whole 'no late fee' thing).

Well, I suppose taking the movie back managed to slip his mind every day for two months. Until one day when I was in his apartment and one of his roommates commented that the movie had been sitting there forever. Another roommate said that Fred didn't really care about bringing it back because it was on RGB's account. Fred laughed at this. The part that pissed me off was the fact that I know he had probably said this to his roommates earlier. He really thought it would be quite funny to stick me with an outrageous bill for his laziness.

But, I was the one who would get the last laugh.

"I don't have a Blockbuster account." I casually said. "So, it must have been on Fred's."

At that point, Fred screamed a word I will not put on here and immediately ran out to take the DVD back.

Funny how it was a game to not take it back when it meant sticking me with the bill. But as soon as it involved him, he was out the door before even bothering to put on clothes he didn't sleep in.

A week later, his parents called regarding the bill and I got to hear him lie to them by saying he returned that movie the day after he got it and it must be a mistake on their end.

Fred's Dirty Laundry

In college, one thing that annoyed me was when people using the laundry rooms would not promptly remove their clothes from the machines after the cycles. Now, I understand being a few minutes late, but several hours? Come on. Often, I would see laundry sit in machines, finished, for the entire time it took my clothes to be washed, dried and folded. This was especially annoying when there was a shortage of machines.

The Resident Director of my dorm junior year apparently felt my pain on the matter and plastered signs all over the laundry room threatening to donate unattended clothes to charity. Overkill? Probably. Passive-aggressive? Definitely. But, I understood her underlying concern.

Well, Fred did not. He was one of those loath-able laundry leavers. And not just the extra hour variety. He was, by far, the worst laundry leaver I have ever encountered. Frequently, he would put his clothes in the washing machine, go to class for a few hours, move them to the dryer, go out drinking, and then take them out of the laundry room the next morning. And this was when he was on top of the laundry situation. Usually, this process would take much longer. Laundry time was frequently a multi-day event for Fred. This was particularly disturbing considering he did not even start the laundry process until he had been forced to go commando for at least 4 days.

Well, after one particularly long laundry run (five days, to be exact), he returned to the laundry room to find his clothes, and the suitcase in which he brought them to the laundry room, gone. Apparently at some point during those five days, the Resident Director had made good on her promise.

This particular batch of clothes included such gems as: the pink parachute pants, the yellow button down tie-dye shirt, and a plethora of Hawaiian shirts.

Needless to say, I was not sorry for his loss.

These Boots Were Made For ... Something

I love shoes. My closet has 4 racks of them overflowing and I still think I need more. Naturally, I do not expect the men I date to understand or share my love of footwear. I would probably be freaked out if I ever met a guy whose shoe collection rivaled my own. But, I do expect them to have the basics. This includes sneakers, flip-flops, loafers, and most importantly, some shoes to wear to work (one pair in black, one in brown).

I am not picky about what one's work shoes are. As long as they are dress shoes. And that is a very large range. While there are particular styles I do not care for (buckles on shoes remind me of pilgrims), I am willing to overlook personal tastes as long as the shoes are work appropriate.

Well, apparently Fred missed the memo of appropriate work footwear. He insisted on wearing the same inappropriate footwear every time he wore his slacks: a pair of ten-year-old Dr. Martin boots. I will give this a second to sink in.

They weren't like the 18 eye black boots that you're probably thinking. Nope, they were the dorky little brother of those. They looked like hiking boots, which was a little weird because Fred never really did anything that involved exerting even the slightest amount of energy.

He wore these stupid-ass boots to work with his slacks every day. Winter, summer, rain, snow, whatever, these boots were on his feet. I am honestly fascinated that no one ever told him his shoes were not appropriate.

Well, time went by, and I had forgotten about these boots. The rare times I did think of them, I assumed that he was young and stupid and had since picked up on social norms and ditched the boots for a pair of dress shoes to wear to the office.

Then I saw him. Still wearing the same fucking wrinkled slacks, button down short sleeved shirt and the boots. Those stupid boots. Jesus, if his current girlfriend has even an iota of good taste, she will take those things and burn them.

But, I don't think that's likely.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

Alcohol, Part 3

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

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

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

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