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.

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.

It's Peanut Butter and Jelly Time!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeeeeaaaah. But that'z ook."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ridiculous.

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

And it's definitely not cute.

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

Who's There?

In response to BJA's unwelcome house guest at the wee hours of the morning...

For the most part, my stories are about incidents which took place several months or years ago, after I have detached myself from them enough to share them publicly. But, every now and then, I encounter such epic fail from a former fling, that it instantly earns a spot on Loser Ex. This post is about such epic fail.

The young man in this story is someone I dated casually for a few months, but things quickly died down once I realized I really did not like his personality at all. Having a conversation with this guy was painful. Really. I’ll always think of him as the kid who was popular in high school, but went downhill afterward. He was attractive and from a good family, but had zero ambition. I will refer to him as “The Dud,” because that is the name by which my friends know him. Aside from that, he had a lot of drama that I had no desire to deal with. But, that is neither here nor there. The only important thing to note here is that prior to this incident, we had not spoken in several weeks.

One recent Friday night, I was at WHG’s apartment. Around 2:30am, my phone started to ring. When I saw that it was The Dud, I let it roll to voicemail. The phone rang again. I let it roll to voicemail again. The phone rang a third time. Voicemail again. The phone then rang seven more times before I finally turned it off. At this point it was 2:50am. I should probably mention that I almost never turn my phone off. I am always paranoid that there will be some sort of emergency in the middle of the night and someone will need to get a hold of me.

The next morning, I turned my phone on as soon as I got up. It immediately started beeping like crazy from all the texts and voicemails I had received. First, I flipped through the text messages. They were all from The Dud. The first few were telling me that he was outside my apartment. The next few were telling me to come let him in because it is cold and rainy. The last few were telling me off for not letting him in. The voicemails followed the same pattern.

Now, let me point out a few factors that make this ridiculous. First of all, The Dud does not drive. There was some issue with his license a while ago, that I never really got the full story on (he tends to lie a lot). So, that means that despite not getting any sort of response from me, he decided it was a good idea to take a cab over to my apartment.

I should also note that cabs do not drive by my place. In order to get a cab at my place, one has to call a company. It usually takes at least 10 minutes for one to arrive. So, not only did The Dud come over to my place without having spoken with me, he also put himself in a situation from which it would be very difficult to get home.

Also, it was fricking cold. I really hope he had a nice warm coat and mittens on. It was rainy too. So, to recap, The Dud, not having spoken with me in several weeks, decided to cab it over to my place with no ride home so he could stand in the cold and rain and wait for me to come let him in. Then, he got pissed at me for not answering my phone at some odd hour of the morning.

I honestly expected there to be a brick through my window when I came back home.

Apparently he wasn't too upset though. He played the blow-up my phone game again a few nights later. I really don't know how many calls I have to ignore before he finally takes the hint.

Knock Knock Joke

Normally, I would find knock knock jokes funny. But not when it's real knocking, and not when it's five o'clock in the morning. Actually, it may have been closer to 4:30.

The weekend before this particular incident, I had gone with a girlfriend of mine visiting from back home to a local bar. We met a cute boy in the Marines with muscles that go on for miles and sparkling blue eyes. I should have seen that this situation would be trouble. The guy was sweet, nice, worked a lot, so he didn't have much time to come and hang out with me. Not that I blame him, it's a pretty hectic and demanding job working for the United States Marine Corps.

But G.I. Joe doesn't get a free pass for everything just because he's a military man. I had stayed up late the night before because I had been in class until 10:00pm. The drive home from where I attend school and where I live is at least 30 minutes, so I didn't actually get to bed until 12:30 after making dinner, finishing up some school work, and relaxing for a bit.

Somehow, G.I. Joe thought it would be fun to come over and see me before work... if you know what I mean. My phone rings, but it's 4:30 in the morning and quite frankly I'm sleeping. What kind of psycho calls at that hour?

So anyway, I figured that would be the end of it and I roll back over and continue sleeping. Suddenly, I'm reawakened by a pounding on my door. Literally, a pounding. I was concerned that someone was beating my door down and breaking in. I'm positive that my neighbors had the same concerns. My roomate looked scared out of her mind.

I look through the peep hole, and there's G.I. Joe. All dressed for work and apparently thinking he's going to get a treat for waking me up this early. Yes, boys, cuz waking a girl up is definitely a way to get into her pants.

False.

Like I said, G.I. Joe seemed so normal at first. But don't play the knock knock game before the sun comes up. Not cool.

You're calling too late

The douche-baggery of the men in Washington never fails to amaze me. I had a rather close encounter with it in a phone call yesterday afternoon. Annoyed, I decided that I was going to be an even bigger douche back.

work line rings, a local number I don't recognize shows up on the call ID

Me: *insert name here*
Some guy: Hi, this is Chris, we met at the bar last Tuesday
Me: Oh, hi. How have you been?
Some guy: Great, look, hey, I was calling to see if you wanted to go out for drinks at *some probably lame-ass bar I've never heard of and have already forgotten the name of* tomorrow after work. It's right near your office.
Me: Wait, do you mean "last Tuesday" as in two days ago or as in nine days ago?
Some guy: It was last week, so I guess that's nine.
Me: And you're calling me now...
Some guy: Yeah, sorry I've been really busy

I don't even go into the "you're not too busy to make a 5 minute call" speech. I don't even go into the "If you're so busy, why don't you try planning in advance rather than asking me out the day before" deal. I don't even want to put up with this crap.

Me: I'm going to be honest with you, Chris. I really don't go out with people who don't show some enthusiasm about seeing me. I am getting the impression that your original plans canceled on you. I am not going to be your fall-back. I've got to get back to work now. It was nice hearing from you.

I hang up.

There's no doubt in my mind that this was a bitchy move on my part. But, really, if a guy can't make the call within a week (and even that is probably too long), then he really isn't worth my time. Think of getting my card as getting an offer to take me out. Just bear in mind that this offer expires after seven days.

RGB has her beer goggles on as well.

The events of this night were, at best, hazy. I am really unsure of what happened. What I can say for sure is this: It was the second week of my freshman year of college, and I took my first trip to one of the college bars right off campus with some friends from my floor. Other than that, no information from this night is certain, it is simply what I have pieced together from my friends' accounts of the evening.

Like I said before, this was very early my freshman year of college. One of the local bars had quarter pitcher night on Thursday. Of course, being a cute girl, I didn't even have to pay a quarter. So, this was my first time in a bar, and it was all very exciting. Also, I did not drink much in high school, so I was a bit of a one-beer-wonder. Well, about a few too many drinks later, I remember coming home with my friends.

One of the girls I am with gets a call. It is a guy she had met a few days earlier, and he says that he saw her at the bar with her friends. In particular, he comments that he noticed her friend with the nice ass (this was me...I know, right?). She is so school-girl giddy that she might get to play match-maker, that she gives him my number, and takes his number, and puts it in my phone. No harm done, right? Wrong.

My phone rings the next day, and my call ID says "Honeysuckle" (I can't make this stuff up!). I look at this and think "who the hell is named 'Honeysuckle?" I answer, and it ends up being a guy from the bar, who basically tells me the story which I just told. Curious, I agree to meet this guy (this is before the days of facebook, where I can just see what he looks like beforehand). He is more than just a little sketch. He was chubby, had a mole, and sweated. Constantly. Gross. I wish I had just assumed he was not someone I would want to encounter sober. The name should have given that away.

A word of advice: never agree to meet someone named "Honeysuckle" who somehow gets your phone number while you are in an altered state of consciousness.

The Laws of Dating (Part I)

A little while back, CCG mentioned a guy who google-searched her. From his google-search, he found her blog, and more specifically, an entry explaining her desire to two-week him. We agreed that this was an illegal search in the laws of relationships, and therefore he could not use the evidence found in this search against CCG.

I am not saying I have never google-searched someone before (I always want to make sure a guy I am about to go on a date with is not on the registered sex offender list for raping goats, or a member of a cult), but the point is, I know this is an illegal search. Therefore, any information I find, I cannot admit to knowing to the other party. This is just one of the laws of dating, if you break it, you are punished by not getting another date.

Today, I’ve been thinking about another issue in the realm of relationship legality. What is the legal way to acquire a phone number, and is it only appropriate to call someone whose number was obtained legally? The answer to this is very simple. The acceptable way to get my number is by me giving it to you personally.

Of course, I will accept a broad definition of what it means for me to give you my number personally. For example, if I call you first (minus call ID block), then I am letting my number show-up on your call log, therefore, this would be considered me giving you my number (don’t hold your breath for this to happen though because, I never call a guy first). If a friend of mine gives you my number after asking me for permission, this counts as getting it from me as well. It is only appropriate to call me (or any other woman) if you obtained her number in one of these ways (i.e. if she gave you her number).

With that said, let me tell you about a stalker I once had. I met a terrible sketchy old man in a bar a very long time ago (long enough ago that I should not have been in the bar…and of course, I was not consuming alcoholic beverages, because Loser-Ex does not condone underage drinking).

Ok, perhaps what I said about him being old was a bit of an exaggeration. He wasn’t old, but he in his mid to late 40’s, which makes him old by my standards of datable men. Anyway, he obtained my number in the most blatantly illegal way possible. Had he asked for my number, I would have, without hesitation, given him the rejection hotline.

But did he ask? Oh, hell no!! He grabbed my phone out of my hand (I was checking a text message at the time, and also not talking to him), and used it to take a picture (wtf?) and send it to himself! So, not only did I have to pay for a damn picture to be sent, he also got my phone number from sending it to himself.

I made it abundantly clear that I was pissed about him taking my phone from me, then using it to take a picture. However, this did not deter him from calling me a few days later.

At around midnight on a Wednesday, I got a phone call from a local number. Not recognizing the number, I answered, and it was him. He informed me that he had gone to 10 different bars the night before (6 of which are college bars a few blocks away from my school) and had not seen me. He asked where I go out. I told him I never go out.

He then said he had been to campus too. I told him I live off campus, in the suburbs. Then, I told him I had to go, and not to leave a message if he calls back because my voicemail is broken. He called regularly for 6 weeks, and I never answered the phone again. I hope he found a new person to annoy, because I sure as hell never want to hear from him again.

The point of all this is: If a girl does not give you her number, you can safely assume she does not want you to have it. Ergo, it is not a good idea to call her everyday. If you do, she will write about how creepy you are on a blog, and possibly get a restraining order against you.

He's a Little Strange, But I'll Keep Him

My current boyfriend has rather strange ideas about clothing and general appearances. I'll document a few of them quickly.

His Own Appearance:

I don't think this boy owns anything that didn't come from the thrift store. While he has made some pretty good finds there, most of it consists of t-shirts that were probably free in the first place. So basically, he's paying for a shirt that the original owner got for free, which I think negates the utility of the thrift store.

He also does not own a single pair of jeans. He wears only khakis. This alone would not bother me (hey, I like khakis), but he only has 3 pairs of them and all have holes and grass stains all over them. Whenever he goes out and wants to look nice, he wears the least holey pair of khakis and the same pink striped button-down shirt. The shirt itself isn't bad, but it is really thin and he never wears an undershirt with it. So, in certain lights, you can see through it.

My Appearance:

My current hates it when I straighten my hair. He says that it looks so much better when it is wavy. Now, I'm the type of girl who straightens her hair everyday, so at first I refused to stop. I mean, I like my hair better straight--my natural hair texture is that strange mixture of straight and wavy that just looks unkempt. But after months of hearing him complain about it, I finally relented and retired my hair straightener.

Recently, he saw me wearing my glasses, because my contacts were bothering me. So now he's decided that my glasses are the cutest thing ever and that I should start wearing them all the time. This is one thing that will never happen. I hate my glasses. Hand to God, I look like Mary from Its a Wonderful Life if she had never met George Bailey.

So much for my happy ending.

Well, since I missed a day (almost two), that means, I get to share especially vicious complaints today. Here it comes:

Boris- Lacked phone etiquette. Really. Ok, first of all, he had this job over the summer at his father's place of work. He got a short lunch break, and for some reason felt he must call me everyday during it. Of course, whie he did this, he usually, no, ALWAYS was eating. Let me just say, that eating on the phone is gross. I do not want to hear chewing noises amplified into my ear, thank you. It didn't stop there though. He called way too often. If I didn't for whatever reason, answer my phone, he would call my best friend's phone. If she didn't answer, he would call her mother, and ask where we were. Ok, I don't know what you do in Romania, but in the US, we leave voicemails. Then, he went out of the country for two and a half months. During this time, I heard fromhim for a grand total of 5 minutes, spread over two phone calls...um...what happened to the calling, buddy? Find something easier over seas? If I had been the person then that I am now, I would have taken a side order during this time, but I was way too loyal to do anything like that then. Needless to say, the relationship died fast after his two and a half month disappearance.

Fruit Fly- Is completely self-unaware ( I think I made that term up). What I mean is this: most of us have a good sense of who we are. We know what our strengths are, and we know what our weaknesses are. This guy had no ricking clue. First of all, he thought he was straight, when he was clearly not. This didn't bother me though, I mean, a gay boyfriend is fun to shop with. What did was the fact that he thought he was the world's greatest musician, destined for rock-star status. The truth of the matter was: he played a few cords on his bass guitar. He couldn't sing for crap, but he thought he could. He didn't really know how to play a single instrument, and he knew nothing about music, other than the bad punk he illegally downloaded off the internet. He often got on these kicks about how I don't understand him, because I am not a musicain. Once, this finally got to me, and I asked him if he could read music, and suggested giving him a sight-reading test to find out. He declined this offer, and admitted that he cannot read music. Then, I asked him if he played anything other than a few cords on the bass. His answer: no. So, I told him to get off his damn "I'm a musicain" kick, because I am not buying it, and I am sick of hearing it. Then, there was the whole art thing. Look, the guy took photos, warped them on paintshop, then traced them on a canvas. This is such crap. I cannot accept this as artistic talent. Sorry.

Shrek- I used to do this guy's laundry. The first time I ever did, I was horrified when I saw his boxers. They had skid marks. I tried not to let it get to me, but it did. This is so gross. I knew then, that I could never marry this guy. I mean, imagine the honeymoon. What if his butt leaked all over the white sheets of the resort which we were at. Not only could I not have sex with this guy because a) he is nasty and b) the sheets would be icky, but I would also be mortified when housekeeping came to change the sheets. Surely they'd be thinking that he was putting it somewhere that I would never let anyone put it.

Well, those are the worst stories I will publish for awhile. I feel bad having said all this mean stuff. Well, not bad enough to push the "Publish Post" button...hehehehehhehehee...SCREW YOU, EXES!

You don't sweep me off my feet.

Okay, my turn.
I'm still pretty good friends with many of my exes so I am rather limited in the people I can say things about but let's talk about MB for a second.
MB is short for "man boobs". My friend Dave gave him this name when he was looking through vacation pictures and found one of MB and I. "Wow, this guy has man boobs!"
A lot of men have man boobs. But there is only one MB.
But that's not the story.
When I dated MB, I had really severe rheumatoid arthritis. Oftentimes the RA made walking and moving extremely painful (actually, sitting was also extremely painful--RA is the most painful thing I have ever experienced). There were times when we were dating, that the pain was so bad I couldn't walk and MB (who is significantly larger than I am) would carry me around (NB, it wasn't like we were going to the bars and stuff. Most of our "dating" involved sitting in my living room, watching movies because I could not go out. At the end of the night, he would help me get upstairs so that I could go to bed because I physically could not do stairs--stuff like that--if we were in public, like at dinner or something, I would hobble around on my own).
MB and I subsequently broke up. To this day, he still gets drunk and blows up my cell phone with text messages about how "he carried me around when I was sick and I never loved him back," as if that's going to make me come crying back to him.
Just remember this ladies, if I guy ever causes your feet to leave the ground, you have to marry him.