An Open Letter to a Particular Loser

Dear Loser,

I'm glad you were able to make it to the event on Friday. I hope you had a good weekend. Mine wasn't so great. Well, what I remember of it anyway. Oh, that reminds me. Thanks for slipping me a roofie.

I had thought that date rape drugs were limited to frat keggers, but you really took it to the next level by drugging my drink at a professional event. Classy. Like most people, I naively thought that only 19 year-old fratstars have the necessary lack of compassion to drug an unwitting woman, but you have shown me that even middle-aged men with wives, kids and houses in the suburbs are capable of this disgusting act. You're a fucking sociopath. Trust me, I will be much better about watching my drink in the future.

I will also be much better about watching your creepy ass, and so will everyone else I tell this to. If you feel like you're getting a lot of dirty looks at a party one day, it's not your imagination.

Thank you for the valuable lesson in safety. I'm sorry I made it to a cab before you could rape me.

Cheers!

RGB

Blown Away

I was at a Katrina fundraiser a while back and encountered one of the single most aggressive acts of jackassery ever.

I was on my way to the bathroom when I was accosted by some scrawny little French guy.

Frenchie: I am French and I want to tell you that you look perfect. Everything. Your dress (side note, I was wearing a navy Ports number and it was pretty perfect), your face, your body.

Me: uhh.....thanks?

Frenchie: I want to kiss you.

Me: No.

At this point, Frenchie aggressively tries to kiss me I am pushing him away while telling him I have a boyfriend and am not interested. He starts speaking in French. I start telling him in French (apparently he didn't understand my protests in English) that I have a boyfriend who is right over there and said boyfriend is going to kick his ass. After one good push, I run to the bathroom and lock the door. When I come back out, I quickly grab my boyfriend and leave.

Some women fantasize about foreign men seducing them. I find them skeezy and dread encountering another brazen and horny foreigner. Seriously though, there is nothing sexy about cornering some poor woman and trying kiss her when she has made it very clear that she is not interested.

I Love DC in the Springtime

OK, well, maybe it's not exactly springtime yet, but it's starting to get warm.

For some reason, as soon as it warms up, I am subjected to the ridiculous catcalls of creepy dudes. Yesterday was the first warm day in a long time. During my short time outside, I got an "oh la la," (no, he was not French), an incoherent shout from a moving vehicle, and the creepy guy who insists he's a photographer and wants to hire me as a model. Right. And this was just walking three blocks. I should probably add here that I am not wearing anything even remotely provocative. Seriously. I could be going to lunch with my grandma.

Seriously? What the hell? Staring at my tits and saying "oh la la" is not flattering. It's creepy. Just don't do it. And the photographer thing? That's even more lame. I am not going to be your model. I have a job. And the modeling ship sailed ten years and twenty pounds ago.

But, my real problem is with the drive-by pick up lines, mainly because it is not an uncommon occurrence. I am truly amazed at the number of men who think this is a good idea.

Why the hell do these losers do this? Has this ever worked on anyone? Dummies, no one is impressed by whatever you're yelling out your car window. Even if you do manage to come up with something truly interesting, most women are still going to be skeeved out by the fact you're yelling it out of a car. I'm really not sure what results these men are expecting. I really can't imagine someone being so impressed that they drop everything they're doing and jump in the car with some strange man and ride off into the sunset. Although, according to this month's Cosmo, the most dangerous mistake women make is getting in the car with strange men. So, who knows, maybe there are women this works on.

Obviously, none of these losers are my exes, but they're sure as hell somebody's loserex.

Beefcake

A couple of years ago, I wrote about a date I went on with Beefcake, who was involved in a relationship at the time. Well, guess who's getting married!

This November, Beefcake will walk down the aisle with a nice girl whom he has been dating since 2006. Notice a problem here? Their wedding page has the usual saccharine-sweet stories about the happy couple, details about the event and their registry. Nothing about it really stands out as being particularly interesting.

Except for one little thing -- the part that really breaks my heart is his future wife's happy description of their courtship:

We met June 5, 2006 in "beautiful" [redacted] for [redacted]. A wonderful friendship grew into much more over the next several months and in November during [redacted] weekend we made it official.

For those of you keeping track at home, my date with Beefcake took place in spring of 2007. Several months after they had made it official. The worst part is that his fiancee truly seems like a nice girl. And seems truly oblivious to what an ass Beefcake actually is.

I would never wish for anyone's relationship to fail, so instead I am going to hope that what happened with Beefcake was a one time deal and that he will be a wonderful husband.

Well, I've Never Been to Spain...

...But I have had creepy older men hit on me.

When I was 18 and living in New Orleans, I was walking out of a movie theatre downtown with some girlfriends to find a cab. A drunk man who was old enough to be my father comes running across the street to our group.

He approaches me and in slurred speech asks "Hey, did you hear about the amateur strip contest at [redacted]?"

Not sure what to make of it, I responded honestly that, no, I had not heard about such an event.

"Well, you should have gone! You would have won for sure!"

Aside from the obvious old man creep factor, I should also mention that I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops. Hardly anything even remotely sexy. Especially considering that there were countless other women dressed in much sexier clothing around me.

He then proceeded to try to entice me to enter the next contest, telling me that there was a big cash prize for the winner. He was apparently oblivious to the fact that I was not comfortable having this conversation and was frantically trying to hail a cab to get away from him.

Weirdo.

But, in all honesty, there's no way in hell I would ever win a stripping contest. I am way too clumsy. Me getting on a stripper pole would end with a trip to the emergency room.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, he made another one.

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

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

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

Negotiations over.

It's Goodbye Time

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

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

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

But the Sap was not done.

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

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

OMG. Stalker's suck.

Death of a Salesman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nice Hands, Lobster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sky is Falling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Way to prove me wrong.

Here's Lookin at You Kid

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey kiddo, you should come over."

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

"Oh kiddo."

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

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

If He Only Had a Brain...

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

Here's one for you:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tattoo Tale Part 2

I felt inspired by RGB's tattoo rant and wanted to add a #3 to her tattoo stories. Ok, well it's my tattoo story so... whatever. You get the idea.

I am also not completely anti-tattoo. I can live with them, though I do not intend to ever get one myself. If I want to immortalize something that means something to me, I won't use needles and ink to do so. Some girls may find a large tattoo covering a back or arm to be damn sexy... but those girls typically ride on the backs of motorcycles or wear all black with piercings sticking out of every orifice. (Moment to say eww to that, as well. Gross.) I have yet to meet a girl who finds a guy whose entire body is covered in tattoos a turn on unless they themselves are painted from head to toe.

Here is my tale of tattoo woe. I dated a guy who was altogether a great man and date. Lot of fun, easy to talk to, easy on the eyes...to this day I still think he's stellar. But his tattoo threw me for a loop.

Guys: if you get a tattoo that only remotely looks like you wanted it to, chances are that we women will have no idea what it was supposed to be. Of COURSE I wondered what in the world you had on your arm. Then when I guessed it was a mongoose, of COURSE I was extremely confused as to why in the world you would put a mongoose on your arm. I deduced that it was an educated guess because you had a snake on the other shoulder. Being that you're one of those guys who has multiple tattoos with no corresponding theme, I logically assumed you wanted one to be chasing the other. (Lame thought - perhaps. But not as lame as putting a tattoo that looks like a mongoose on your arm.)

The poor guy looked horrifed when asked me what I thought it was. My response was far from what he wanted to hear. What I had taken for a mongoose was apparently a panther.

Do not get offended if your panther looks nothing like a panther, but rather a mongoose. I didn't take the ink to your arm, the crazy man (or lady) with the tattoos covering him (or her) from head to toe did.

You Realize Those Don't Wash Off...

First, let me just say that I am not anti-tattoo. I do not have any myself. This is partly due to the fact that I am a huge wuss about any sort of pain, but more due to the fact that I can’t think of anything significant enough to me that I would want it on my body for the rest of my life. Also, thinking about what it would look like when I am 60 is kind of gross. I don’t care if people get tattoos; it’s their right to do as they please with their own bodies.

But, there are a few instances in which they slightly irk me, and those are:

a) When one gets several very large, very visible tattoos (to the point where they cannot be covered-up), then complains that they were discriminated against at a job interview due to the fact they have tattoos.
b) When one gets a tattoo that is a word in a language that he or she does not speak (I don’t think it means what you think it means…).
c) When someone gets a tattoo which has no real significance to them (i.e. a tramp stamp).

With that said, here are two tattoo stories I have (that's right, it's a holiday double-post!):

1) I went on date a a few months ago with a young man who, while not a total loser, was not exactly my penguin. Our conversation somehow turned to the topic of tattoos and he asked if I had any. I told him that I did not and explained why. He agreed with my opinion of getting a tramp stamp, or the male equivalent (which is a tribal armband or Chinese character). He mentioned that he was planning on getting two tattoos. I asked him what he wanted to get and the answer blew my mind.

He wanted to get a picture of each of his parents – one on each arm.

I gave him a look of puzzlement and disgust. He was insistent that this was a good idea. He explained that he was really close with his parents and that he would (obviously) get pictures of them when they were younger. Fine.

I also have a good relationship with my parents, but I do not feel the need to have pictures of them on my body. Furthermore, I don’t know his mother, but something tells me that she probably does not want to be commemorated via his arm tattoo. Just a thought. Also, did it ever occur to him that girls might find it creepy to hook up with a guy and have to look at pictures of his parents the whole time? Creepy.

2) Fred did not have any tattoos, but told me he knew exactly what he would get if he ever got one. It seemed that he had really put a lot of thought into what tattoo he would get, so I asked him what his idea was.

He wanted to get a tattoo of Fred Flintstone with a lawnmower. He would get it close to his nether regions and shave a strip of hair next to it add to the overall effect. This way, he rationalized, if he ever got tired of looking at it, he could just stop shaving and it would be covered-up. Classy.

How to Never Get in My Pants, Ever

I met a guy at the bar last week who was so awful, I am going to use him to illustrate the best method to not get in my pants.

1) Make sure you are only attractive when I am drunk, in a dark bar, and missing one contact. Once we got somewhere with lighting, I realized this bargoyle had an uncanny resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite.

2) Have a lame-ass job. IT guy is not a sexy profession.

3) Spill your vodka tonic down my white shirt. Classy.

4) Tell me that since you’re separated from you friends and live far away you’ll have to come home with me. Um, no you won’t.

5) When I go across the street with my sister and company to eat a drunk meal, leave the table before we order, then yell at me when you get back for not ordering for you. How the hell am I supposed to know what you like?

6) Do not offer to pay for your drunk meal. Look, ideally, you would have offered to split the check with the other gentleman at the table. Second best would be you at least offered to pay for my food. Acceptable would be if you paid for your own. You did none of the above.

7) Ask again if you can come home with me. No. This resulted in my running in a cab and slamming the door.

8) Facebook me. Now I can see that you lied about your age. Nice.

9) Ask me if I want to go out to eat lunch in the park this week. Lunch in the park = cheap = no. If you want to redeem yourself at this point, you should take me somewhere nice. Or not. You’d probably make me pay anyway. Cheapskate.

10) When I turn you down, ask me if I want to meet up with you this weekend. Again, that would be a big fat NO. Furthermore, if I wouldn’t give you a lunch hour during the week, what makes you think you can have a Saturday night? I don’t give those away to just anyone.

So there you have it. At this point, there is absolutely nothing Napoleon could do that would get him in my pants. If you want similar results then, by all means, please follow these steps.

Say my name

I’m not going to lie – it kind of pisses me off when a guy I am dating cannot pronounce and spell my name correctly. I understand that I do not have the most common last name, but after 3 months of going out with me, he should really figure it out!

All it takes is paying attention to my outgoing voicemail message, calling me at work, looking at my e-mail address, reading my business card or JUST ASKING! Not that hard.

Even worse than someone not knowing how to spell my name is someone not knowing how to spell his own. I briefly dated a guy (same one who lied about where he went to school) whose middle name was Michael. He was born with this name, so the argument that it was new cannot be made. He was also in his 20s and not (to the best of my knowledge) retarded.

One day, he saw the name "Michael" written out somewhere and asked "oh, is that really how you spell it?" Um, yeah Dude.

I asked what other way he thought it was spelled. Apparently he got the "e" and the "a" mixed-up. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought maybe his parents are bad spellers and named him "***** Micheal", so I had him check his license. Sure enough, "***** Michael."

I honestly don’t know how he had gotten through life that long without knowing how to spell his own name. I mean, isn’t this something everyone knows how to do by kindergarten? Furthermore, you'd think he would have seen it SOMEWHERE before he reached his twenties.

It still blows my mind that he managed to not know how to spell "Michael" despite it being on his driver’s license, birth certificate, high school diploma, tax forms, voter registration, bank account and basically EVERYWHERE else. Dumbass.