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

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.

Quirkiness is Not a Star Quality

Remember how your mom used to tell you that certain things build character? Typically referring to some kind of hardship that truly you should never have had to endure: mowing the lawn, going to one of your parent's friends homes when you could have been out playing, breaking your arm, etc.

Unfortunately, none of these prepared you for quirky habits of guys you would later date. Believe me, none of these things build character - at least not the kind you want built. The TV channel USA's new slogan is "character fantasy," where television actors have strange habits they want you to emulate, or form your own to be shared on nationally broadcast TV shows.

But quirkiness has it's price. 

Example 1: Deigo walks on his tip-toes. EVERYWHERE. You didn't really notice it until you saw him walk barefoot. At least a few times I thought he was about to fall forward but he caught himself again and kept walking. Even in high school, Deigo was called the tip-toe bandit. He played football. Apparently that made sense in the context of the game, but either way, he's pretty proud of it.

Walking on tip-toes, constantly... well you look a little odd, but for the most part its unnoticable and the kind of quirky that makes people laugh, not cringe.

Example 2:

Neanderthal and I rode to school together in high school. I drove since I had a car and a parking permit for the lot. What drove me crazy, and was, quite frankly very odd, was that he would rock forward and back in the passenger seat. Music wouldn't even be playing and he would rock. It had no rythym to speak of, just the back and forth, back and forth... like a kid on a rocking horse. There never even seemed to be a purpose!

Rocking with no express purpose, need, or motivation... freakin odd.

Example 3:

Sasquatch had a very disconcerting evening ritual. He would remove his necklace, which had a medallion with a creepy symbol of some sort. It had character, the kind I like. What I did NOT like was the weird thing he did with it.

After taking the necklace off, he would tap it three times on the beside table, then lay it in a circle. Next, he would take the small book next to his bed, which I believe was a journal of some sort. He would:

Open it,
Read a passage
Close the book
Touch it to his forehead
Place it back down on the table.

W.
T.
F.

I don't like to wonder if the guy I'm dating is a member of the occult. Therefore, don't proceed to learn any strange rituals and then NOT explain them when asked. The least Sasquatch could do was assuage my fears that the Devil was going to get me.

Lesson learned? Don't be too quirky. There's a fine line between cute, odd, and just plain loser.

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.

You Make Me Sick

Social norms across countries are randomly different (nothing new there), occasionally surprising (which can be fun), and far-too-often down-right disgusting. There are just some things that I've experienced in other countries that were beyond my normal acceptance of social differences, and crossed the line into - you're still disgusting in my book.

Madrid, Spain.

On a trip to Spain last year, my family and I stopped in Madrid. As I was also in the midst of the leasing process on a new apartment, I made frequent trips to a local computer cafe to take care of my business at home.


I've accepted that there are men and women out there who get their jollies from exploring illicit sites on the internet. I'd even partly prepared myself to experience such a thing while I was abroad. However, I was utterly floored to find that, even in Spain, this was considered "ok" enough to be used as a flirtation method.


I went into the cafe, ready to send another nasty email to the landlords who were being a$$s about the whole moving ordeal, when I noticed the 30ish year old man next to me was looking at porn. I quickly averted my eyes and continued working. But the man kept smiling at me! When he said something in Spanish, I could only grasp but a few words - enough to know he was calling me pretty and something about pictures. Maybe you'll come to the same conclusion as me, but all I could think of was... disgusting.

I mean really. Who sees a girl in a random cafe and thinks to themselves... well I'm looking at porn maybe she's into it. I don't care where you live or what language you speak, there's a line there! We weren't in the red light district, I was not dressed provacatively, and I certainly wasn't trying to get his attention.

Perhaps this guy isn't quite a "loser-ex" by our standard definiton, but it only appears that way since I refused to pose and/or go with him anywhere anyway. Had I done so, I have no doubt that he would have ended up on this blog. Fortunately, I have class.

Ladies, don't lower yourself to date a man who would ask you to pose for porn. Especially if he doesn't speak your language and is doing so in a public cafe, proudly "showing" why he wants you to do so.

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.

Animal House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sticking it to the man

Freshman year of college, I dated a guy whose name rhymed with "Stan". He was a complete nutcase, but this is not about him, I only bring him up because he totalled both my car and my mother's car within a week and my sister coined him "[rhymes with Stan] [rhymes with Stan] the bad driving man".

Several years later, I started dating a guy who also had a first name that rhymed with Stan. He was attractive, ambitious, intelligent, highly-principled and had a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor that I loved--he was perfect for the first several months until I discovered his quirk: his life goal was to stick it to the man. Seriously, I have never met a person who liked to stick it to the man more than he did. And his preferred method of sticking it to the man was to simply stop patronizing "then man's" business. The list of places he wouldn't patronize was longer than the list of places he would. And he seriously thought that he could cause financial ruin to those businesses that crossed him.

At first it was sort of attractive that he was that highly principled because I am too (ask me why I only stay at Marriott-family hotels). Then it was somewhat obnoxious (mostly when he wouldn't take me to Target on a Saturday). As time passed, it ceased to be obnoxious and started to be a neverending source of entertainment, as in "how did you stick it to the man today babe?".

One time, we went back to the midwest for my girlfriend's wedding. She was from the same small town as my boyfriend so we made a long weekend out of it and spend some extra time with his family. He was supposed to fly back on a Monday afternoon and get home around 7PM but the boyfriend decided on Sunday afternoon that he wanted to get home earlier in the day so he called AirTran and asked if he could get on the 7AM flight. They only had business class seats available on that flight so it would have cost him about $400 to change flights.

Can I just transfer my coach ticket use my frequent flier points to upgrade to business class? No because you need a confirmed seat on the same flight to do that.

Can I use my frequent flier points to upgrade on my confirmed flight and transfer that ticket? No it doesn't work that way.

I should probably mention that we had a bunch of frequent flier points because a) we did a dual-city relationship for a while but mostly b) we had a AirTran credit card that we put a great deal of our credit card expenses on so we could get the points. Boyfriend saw these points as a negotiation tactic.

Well, you do realize that I will be cancelling my A+ rewards Visa card?

I've got to hand it to the customer service lady because in this situation she was about 10 times wittier than I could have been:

Well sir, the airline doesn't really lose anything if you don't use your frequent flier miles. That's a benefit reaped by the customer. So really, you are only punishing yourself. And the credit card is owned by a bank, AirTran doesn't get money from the card, it gets customer loyalty which is more important to its business model anyways. So I don't really care if you cancel your card.

The boyfriend was pretty deaf from spending too much time on the firing line which benefitted me in a great many ways: 1) I could make snarky comments under my breath and he never heard them, 2) I could discuss his Christmas present on the phone with my mom when he was across the room and he was still surprised on Christmas morning, and 3) he kept his phone turned up so loud I can hear it across the room. Therefore, I heard this exchange as clear as day and I started laughing my ass off. I may have actually shot beer out of my nose, I laughed so hard. Shocked that he got put in his place by a customer service rep, he quickly and politely ended the call. I immediately called sister and told her the whole story and he was quickly dubbed "[rhymes with Stan] [rhymes with Stan], stick it to the man".

On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City...

During college, I went on a few trips with Fred, all of which I paid for – hotel, drinks, the works. Invariably he never seemed to have the money to cover his part -- including things like gas, food, or even coffee. This wasn't too bad though I rationalized, since most of our trips were short and didn't involve major investments. So you can imagine my surprise when Fred told me he had saved up and wanted to take me on a vacation to the beach. I was absolutely thrilled.

Turns out, that beach was Atlantic City -- I don't gamble. Fred however does, but I assumed we would still spend some time together at the shore. I was wrong. From the moment we got there he dragged me from casino to casino and refused to even consider going to the beach. He hadn't even bothered to pack a swim suit. Not to say that seeing the casinos wasn't neat. It was. I had never experienced the glamour of endless chain smoking, the hopeless clicking of the slot machines, or the women “working” the floor before. All of these side acts however paled in comparison to the real fun I experienced watching Fred lose money playing poker for hours on end.

Now I feel I should mention that when Fred had said he was saving up it turns out he didn't mean for a nice hotel or for going out to dinner. The money he had been saving was strictly for gambling. And I got to spend two days of watching my boyfriend, who had never so much as taken me out to dinner, blow $800 playing poker. Ok, that is actually not true. I only got to watch him blow $300. The other $500 was blown while I was sleeping -- he snuck out of the room at 4 AM to “get his money back.” At this point you may be wondering how we paid for meals, gas, and pretty much everything else on the way home. The answer is yours truly got to cover it all.

In the long run though I guess that was a small price to pay for getting Fred out of my life – which happened not long after – permanently.

I'm a Loser Baby, So Why Don't You....

When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics - Part 1.

In a relationship, it is critical, and even necessary, to support your partner when they fall into hardship or difficult circumstances. However, in certain situations, this particular caveat is null and void.

Stringbean had a knack for "forgetting" to call when he got home after the bar or other activities, even after confirming that he would. We were in a long distance relationship, which made it all the more difficult to maintain trust and closeness that thousands of miles can obviously sabatoge. I'm not one to get upset about not calling per se - I am one to get upset about not calling if you said you would. It's a follow-through thing, nothing more. But that wasn't necessarily the issue during this particular event.

It was October, and I was upset that I hadn't been called the night before, but I continued about my business that day without pause. I was campaigning for a congressional candidate and couldn't have been happier waving signs and getting honked at out in the middle of the road. Then my cell phone rings. Rather than Stringbean calling me, it was a friend of his, whose name I will also protect by referring to him as Squatty.

Squatty: "Hey BJA, just wanted to give you an update on Stringbean's condition."

Why do girls get upset when you don't call when you say you will? Cuz if you get hurt or something else happens, we are left completely out of the loop, and distance only exacerbates the fear and worry.

Me: "What do you mean? What happened"

Squatty: "You mean you don't know???"

Uh... no.

Turns out brilliant Mr. Stringbean had gotten beyond wasted at a party the night before at a friend's apartment. Someone had made a comment that apparently made him angry, and he decided he wanted to leave. His friends, not wanting to support his death wish, told him no. They hid his keys and locked the door, while one of the bigger guys (lest we forget why Stringbean received the nickname...) stood in between him and the exit.

Stringbean was not about to be stopped however. Without thinking (obviously) he decided another exit was preferable. He jumped off the balcony.

It was a third story apartment.

Needless to say, Stringbean wound up in the hospital with broken bones and an alcohol violation. The ticket came from the fall, which I know may sound awkward, but follow me on this one. Stringbean didn't just yell out a carnal yell as he leapt from the balcony, but proceeded to justify his actions at the top of his lungs, disturbing the neighbors, by claiming he was, in fact, a "flying squirrel."

Sometimes I don't even know how to end these stories. And it's ridiculously pathetic this is only Part 1 of "When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics."

Hey, Why Don't You Get a Job?

There's some comfort in blissful ignorance. Never knowing what's in store or what's down the road and having blind joy and excitement for the time to come is characteristic of a special kind of person. There's an old demotivational poster just for them.

"There is no greater joy than soaring high on the wings of your dreams, except maybe the joy of watching a dreamer who has nowhere to land but in the ocean of reality."

I understand the hope, the dream, the idealistic tendency to feel prepared, or the fake it till you make it mentality. But at some point, you have to also be realistic. And when all else fails, you have to at least try.

Diego is a bright guy. He's not the traditional loser we generally refer to on this site in that he's definitely intelligent. Perhaps that even exacerbates the disappointment we, as women, find with men who end up as loser-exes. Intelligence gives you such a leg-up and yet... I guess intellect isn't always followed by perfection, but the least we could ask for is proofreading.

Diego wanted to move to the big time. He wanted to leave his small college town and venture to the wide world of the big city, with big names, companies, and causes to boot. Being that I was already here, I was happy, even eager, to help. I have a few connections here and there, and know a few hiring managers, so I asked him to send me his resume.

Diego didn't have much experience to speak of. The trouble with having no experience in the field, in a town completely and utterly revolving around that exact field, tends to be that no one wants to hire you. When your star accomplishments out of undergrad were holding an office (not President) of one club, even though it was of considerable size, and two jobs as a waiter and a golf-course attendee... you're not turning heads easily. So I tried to help him improvise. Spice up the story, use descriptive verbs and emphasize the volunteer experience you have, right? Diego was by no means an idiot, and I had confidence he could handle anything one of these employers could throw at him if he could just get in front of them... but it would take some work.

Well, when I finally received the resume, it had a litany of problems. It was in different fonts, had misspelled words like February, switched tenses back and forth between present and past.... and just basically reeked of "do not hire me." To highlight the barrage of mistakes, I used Microsoft's nifty "Track Changes" tool. I corrected the spelling errors, rearranged bullet points, fine tuned the wording, and used a thesaurus for action verbs. After feeling like we had at least taken a step in the right direction, I returned the resume, with changes highlighted in red, to Diego. I wanted to ensure he saw where he'd made mistakes, and how to fix them and make his resume minimally acceptable.

I had really hoped my critiques had sunk in. What kind of message does it send your future employer if you can't read through something as important as your resume for mistakes? Let alone what do they think when you can't even stay in the right tense or mention "learning about the office environment" as one of your bullet points of what you did at an internship from high school....

The next day, he found a job he was interested in. Off went the resume to a prospective employer with my own email covertly attached in the "bcc" line, so as to prove he did actually send his resume and was moving forward on his own.

The first thing I noticed was the lack of a cover letter. You MUST introduce yourself and convey why you are not only interested in the job, but why they should be interested in you. This is especially critical when your resume lacks any substantive experience! There was but a sentence, urging the recruiter to review his resume and stating his intent to move upon the offer of a job. (On this note, you MUST say I will be there on this day at this time, may I meet with you or your hiring manager!!! You can't say I won't move unless I get hired by you because not only am I not a local, but I am unsure of whether or not I'm willing to take the leap unless you leap first.)

And perhaps I exaggerated... he had two sentences. The other offered an interview by either phone or email. Email, folks.

The last, and more heinous offense, was that the resume was still redlined. All the changes I had made, comments, misspelled words, crossed out words, rearrangements, etc... were all there highlighted on the screen for the potential hiring manager to see.

(Note: Picture not mine. Saw it online and it cracked me up. Fit well here. Visit www.CartoonStock.com for more hilarious ones!)

Needless to say, I was mortified. While I do not doubt that Diego is plenty intelligent and would make a good employee to someone in the DC area, I worried after seeing him make this mistake, and if I was doubting him, you know some office assistant was laughing her ass off and hanging that thing on the wall as the ideal of what not to do to get hired.

It was an honest mistake, to be sure. But let's get serious here. Any hiring manager would see that as a fatal flaw simply because you didn't properly prepare a document, nor do you show yourself to be adept at proofreading at first glance. You can't naively expect to be hired just because you're sweet and southern. Jobs up here look for demonstrated talent - and you have to show them to get them to see it, even if we know you have it.

Post-script: He improved his ability to submit resumes over time and got pretty good at them, along with cover letters. And, while Diego never got hired in Washington, he found employment at a local middle school coaching football.

Alcohol, Part 1

I wouldn't say Fred was an alcoholic. I don’t judge -- well actually I do judge but I don’t make clinical diagnosis so let’s just say he was a damn moron. His escapades are so ridiculous that they need to be broken up in to three different entries – this is the first:

Most college freshmen have crazy alcohol-induced adventures shortly after moving away from home. Of those, a few unfortunate or stupid people end up getting an alcohol violations. At my school, it was really really hard to get in trouble for drinking too much. One would have to do something incredibly stupid to achieve this. Fred did.

Anyway, upon arriving at his room after a night of heavy underage drinking, Fred decided that pants were not for him. Underwear was also not for him. In fact, he wanted to be "Fred just a shirt," and insisted that everyone address him as such. He also, as his moniker suggested, was wearing only a shirt.

He proceeded to parade down the coed hall in just a shirt. A great way to meet -- and alienate -- your classmates during your first week of school!

His friends attempted to keep him confined him to his room, but were unsuccessful. The RA, who refused to address him as “Fred just a shirt” promptly called the paramedics who threw him into the back of an ambulance and sent to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.

Fred did accomplish his goal – while getting his stomach forcibly pumped he did get to wear a hospital gown – without pants!

I'm just kidding, they gave him pants. And a big fat alcohol violation.

Bottle of Red, Bottle of White

Have your ever dated someone aspires to be classy? If so you may appreciate the following.

While in college , Fred decided he didn’t want to look out of place at dinner parties (although the only “dinner parties” he ever had to worry about attending involved pizza and PBR), so he decided to become an expert on wine. It seemed a little odd for someone his age, but I didn't mind. After all, it is kind of really sexy when a guy knows his way around a wine list.

Of course, he assumed I would teach him everything myself. But while I do enjoy drinking it as much as the next girl, I really am the worst person to ask about wine. The truth is I only go to wineries for the free alcohol. I usually don't pay attention to anything I am being told about the wines. I can't taste the damn vanilla undertones and I don't really care how the light refracts in your pinot grigio. But, I suppose compared to his friends who exclusively drank everclear, I was the closest thing he had to a sommelier.

Anyway, Fred insisted we go to the wine store one day so he could pick out a few things. When we arrived though, he entered an almost fugue like state of fascination at the sheer variety of wines. He had only ever known Franzia Red, Franzia White and Franzia Pink. The wine store was truly an exciting and educational experience. Standing in the California white section, he asked me the difference between a riesling and a chardonnay. I told him that it's pretty much the grapes they use (there is no doubt in my mind that there is a more elaborate answer than this, but I sure as hell don’t know it…if you really feel the need to enlighten me, go ahead, but I most likely won’t remember anyway).

"Oh, yeah, they use grapes for white wine, right…” he commented. “And so, for different types of red wine, they use different types of watermelon?"

Seriously. And yes, I know there are novelty fruit wines that probably do use watermelon, but that is not what he was referring to.

He was 22 years old and thought red wine came from watermelons. But then again, this was the guy who thought that champagne glasses were called "flukes" (yes, fluke, as in whale tail, or barb, or part of an anchor, or accidental advantage, fluke) instead of "flutes." He probably thought vodka came from hotdogs, too.

I wish I had let him ask the wine store staff this question.

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.

Follow Your Nose

Sometimes when you need to blow your nose, a box of tissues is just not close by. I understand this. In college, I would only buy tissues if I had gotten sick enough to go through them in a few hours. The rest of the time, I used toilet paper. Sometimes even napkins. I am not ashamed to admit my gross habits (for the record though, I have gotten past this and currently have three boxes of tissues on my desk ... but that is only because work pays for them since they are office supplies).

When tissues are unavailable, there are alternatives, some better than others. If I had to rank the alternatives, I would put toilet paper at the top of that list, followed by cheap napkins (softer than the nice ones), then nice napkins, then paper towels, and then...creative options. Thankfully, I have never gotten to the creative options. Fred, on the other hand, has.

One night I was at his apartment making enchiladas and he decided that he absolutely had to blow his nose immediately. Sure, there were napkins and paper towels in the kitchen. And there was toilet paper in the bathroom. If he were truly a purist, I am sure his anal-retentive roommate had some tissues to spare (Actual real tissues! What a concept!). But Fred opted for the creative option. His choice? A corn tortilla. I'm sure his inner monolouge was something like "I'm such a rebel, I am blowing my nose with food!"

I can't even begin to describe how nauseating it is to see someone blow their nose into the food you are cooking, but trust me, it was not a good time.

I was completely appalled that he decided to use a corn tortilla to blow his nose out of some sick interest rather than out of necessity. Furthermore, an unfried corn tortilla is actually kind of crumbly and not really a good material for this, ergo, it did not exactly work out the way he had hoped. Not to mention, they were much more expensive than any other option and they were what I was fucking cooking for dinner.

I don't know if he thought he was being innovative, funny or both. I found his display to be none of the above. And he was making his own dinner for a very long time after that.

Ode to Fred's Car

Every girl out there has dated a guy with a bad car at one point. And anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that I've dated some guys with really REALLY bad cars…like Shrek and the Reagan administration era teal station wagon. For the most part, I am willing to overlook things like cars if the guy in question has other good qualities. I mean, it is kind of really hot if a guy drives something fast and European (I'll let you know as soon as I find one) but, a great car isn't the first thing I look for in a guy. And besides, you don't come to LoserEx to read about hot guys with fast cars. You come to read stories like this one.

Fred's car – a little Japanese number - was on its last wheel. The bumper had been knocked almost completely off in a rear-end collision and was held on – I'm not exaggerating - by bungee cords. The sides were dented in and covered in deep dings from the time Fred got his ass handed to him by a one night stand's boyfriend. But that's another story.

At this point I want to make it clear that I understand that things happen, sometimes cars get dents. In fact I've caused a fair share of dents in cars – both mine and other peoples (hopefully not yours ;). But there is a world of difference between the "Hey, it looks like the paint is a little scratched" and "Hey, your fucking door is about to fall off!!" situations. Fred's car fell into the second category.

The aforementioned incidents resulting in the detached bumper and dented sides were both reported to insurance and money was collected from each incident. However, Fred decided that it was better to keep this money for potential mechanical problems rather than use it to fix the extensive cosmetic damage.

I certainly understand wanting to save this money for something more vital to the operation of the vehicle than the appearance of the door. However, when the bumper is dragging in the street and shooting sparks next the gas tank, I think maybe it's ok to address cosmetic issues. But, I digress.

Fred wanted to save money for mechanical problems. Fine. Except for when those mechanical problems inevitably arose, the money was no where to be found.

So, with a complete lack of regard for the condition of his vehicle, Fred managed run his jalopy into the ground until the transmission gave out. This meant I had to chauffeur his ass around for the next six weeks while he tried to come up with the money to get his car fixed. Not the best situation, but the fact that he actually had a driver's license at least gives him a few points over Fruit Fly.

He did eventually get the transmission replaced, but 8 months later, the compressor went out. At this time, it was early spring, so I didn't really notice. But by the time it was 90 degrees and humid that summer, I sure as hell noticed.

I had (wrongly) assumed that Fred, like any normal person would have gotten his compressor fixed when he realized it was broken. But, Fred was not a normal person. I realized in the middle of a road trip on a particularly hot day that he had not bothered to replace the compressor.

Of course, this was also the day that we ended up getting stuck in a traffic jam for 2 hours. At which time, he decided to pass the time by rolling down the windows and blasting Raffi. I should have rallied up all the poor people within an earshot and kicked Fred's ass on the non-dented side of his car. At least then it would have matched.

Fred's reason for not fixing the compressor was that it only affected the air conditioner and the ability for the car to start. He decided air conditioning was not a priority and he was willing to screw around with his car for a good 10 minutes to get it to turn on each time.

So needless to say, at the end of the summer I felt a bit relieved to go back to school and get away from the car and Fred for a little while. At least until he decided to visit me. Fred opted to drive to my school (at $150, a plane ticket was prohibitively expensive). After a short ten hour drive he showed up on the steps of my dorm. I had once again assumed that he had replaced the compressor before taking such a long drive, but I was wrong. And of course, it was when he was at my dorm that his car did not start.

I had to call AAA to come tow his busted-ass car to the local garage. Upon arriving at the garage, Fred announced that he had no money, so I had to pay the $60 labor fee for the inspection.

But after the inspection Fred decided they were going to charge him too much to fix his car, so he demanded to go elsewhere. Great. Except, his car didn't start.

I had to call the tow truck AGAIN and have them tow the damn thing to the parking lot in front of Fruit Fly's house. This was a very awkward conversation. Also, try calling AAA sometime and asking them to tow a car to a residential parking lot. Trust me, it takes a lot of pleading.

Now, after a long fun filled weekend of towing and gas stations I had Fred stuck with me, and he apparently had to be at work in 12 hours. Despite the fact he worked at a fricking electronics store at the time as a sales associate, he refused to call out.

I had exams the next day, there was no way I could drive him. He refused to take a Greyhound bus. He refused to rent a car. So flying his ass out was the only option . The ticket for the flight leaving in 5 hours was $850. Guess whose card that went on?

A month later, Fred drove back down with his dad so they could try to fix the car. They didn't fix it per se, but they got it to start by pushing it down a hill (somehow this took 8 hours). His dad then had to drive the car all the way back home, knowing that if the car stopped, it would not start again.

I hope that poor man didn't have to pee during the long trip home.

Feeling Lucky?

Fred and I used to go to a Mexican restaurant near his house quite frequently. Well, more frequently than anywhere else -- he didn't like to go out much. Anyway, the first time we went, I ordered steak fajitas which were incredibly good, but ended up being rather large. So the next time we went, we ended up splitting an order of the steak fajitas.

Now, I should point out a mundane detail that really didn't catch my attention the first time either. Since I ordered a meat dish that involved cutting, the waiter had brought me a steak knife. The second time we went, since we were splitting the entree, the waiter just gave the steak knife to Fred. He made some comment about having received the 'lucky knife,' but I didn't really think too much of it. I just assumed this was his lame-ass attempt at being funny.

The third time we went, after we had ordered, he looked at me excitedly, and said "I wonder who's going to get the lucky knife this time." I looked at him and asked what exactly he thought the purpose of the lucky knife even was. He told me "I'm not sure, I think it's just some kind of tradition in Mexico."

D'oh. I still have no idea how someone who was in his mid-twenties managed to never grasp the concept of a steak knife. He honestly thought it was just a little lucky treat that someone at each table was randomly rewarded with for eating dinner. Seriously, how the hell did he function?

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part III

Once again, the Dud had spent a weekday night over and was getting in the way of me getting ready for work. I decided to lock him out of my bathroom so I could straighten my hair in peace.

That didn’t last long. Within seconds of turning the lock, I heard him opening my dresser then announcing that he was rummaging my underwear drawer. I calmly asked him to stop. He was quiet, so I assumed he had.

A minute later, he asked “If you came out here and I was masturbating with this blue and white lacy thong, would you be pissed?”

No, I am not making this up. I explained to him that I would be pissed and that when I came out, he better not have said undergarment.

A minute later, when I came out of the bathroom, he was in my bed, being intimate with my blue and white lacy thong. Gross. I immediately took it away from him and threw it in my hamper. I have washed it several times since, yet still feel too disgusted by it to ever wear it.

I'm sure there are people out there who would not find this offensive. I am sure there are even people who would be turned on by this. I am not one of those people. I find this incredibly offensive. Perhaps this makes me prude (and trust me, I've been called this many times before).

However, nasty or not, he did something that he knew I would find offensive and disgusting. In fact, he did it primarily for the purpose of ticking me off. While I am incredibly bothered by the nastiness of the situation, I am more bothered by the fact he had the audacity to come to my house and purposely try to do things that would be offensive to me after I specifically requested he not do those things. He honestly found it amusing to do things that were upsetting and offensive to me and expected me to just let it slide.

The way I see it, this is on par with me going to his house, taking a crap in his living room, then thinking it's funny that he is upset by that and expecting him to get over it. It just doesn't seem reasonable, does it?

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.