Day 28 came and went without a bang of any sort - just as I suspected.
A special thanks to S, who in my time of need felt compelled to constantly remind me that he is ready and willing to offer his services, and would, naturally, be the best I've ever had. It's nice to have such good friends.
Really, boys, one offer of your services per week is enough for me to get the point.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
The Window
After receiving the news that JP does not have his own 28 day rule and had imported an "old friend" from Brussels to meet him in Vienna last week I was feeling pretty down. And what does any girl do when she's down? Well, she calls some guy she knows is interested in her but that she honestly has no intention of ever really being with to accept a longstanding dinner invitation thereby giving the illusion that she's over the ex.
JP called with the news Thursday night. I'm more likely to figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop than to ever figure out why he would call and tell me something like that so we'll leave it at that. Fortunately for me, I had to be in Pasadena all day on Friday for work and decided to take H up on an old dinner invite. I called H mid-morning and found out he was free that evening. Perfect.
We met in Old Town Pasadena for a pre-dinner beer at De Lacey's - a great older restaurant and bar if you're ever in the area. H managed to suck down two screwdrivers as I nursed a pint and wondered what I was doing out with the guy when I could be sitting in traffic on the 101. Still, we were there and might as well make the best of it, right?
H insisted on giving me the tour of the bars of Pasadena. Two pints later I was feeling a bit of a buzz and H was getting more interesting - although not that interesting.
Then it happened, somewhere between a Newcastle and a Red Tail Ale, there was a moment where the tide could have turned in H's favor. Something came over me - a feeling of just wanting him to shut up and of wanting to be kissed by anyone. It's just the sort of combination that leads to a rare window of opportunity for an otherwise unlikely candidate. I gave H my best shut up and kiss me look and waited.
Let me interject here and say that every guy who goes out alone with a girl has such a window of opportunity where if he could just see what was going on in her mind, or sense that she wanted him to shut up and take action, he would have a shot. Unfortunately, 99.9% of the time men miss the moment, the window shuts and the man is left peering in. Then the poor guy ends up relegated to "friend" status and usually never even knew the window had opened and shut. And once the window shuts, it is unlikely to open again. Yeah, we're fickle like that.
For H on Friday night in some bar in Pasadena, the window opened briefly. Fortunately for me, H was on about his 7th screwdriver and wouldn't have recognized a window in a glass building. And so the moment passed and I came to the sobering realization that I had basically opened a window for a guy I would not normally open it for. With that I ordered a glass of water, found my way to my car, and headed home feeling as if I had narrowly escaped a potentially bad situation. In reality, H is a nice guy who never knew what had transpired and probably never will.
In this tale there is a message for the men out there teetering on the verge of friendship and something more: If you get the object of your desire to go out with you and she's had a drink or two and is staring intently at you as you tell her all about your first car and the time you and your buddies drove it to Vegas, recognize the look, shut your mouth, and climb in the window. Note: more than two minutes of silence by a woman is always a clear indicator of a window.
And remember, it's much tougher to get out than it is to get in.
JP called with the news Thursday night. I'm more likely to figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop than to ever figure out why he would call and tell me something like that so we'll leave it at that. Fortunately for me, I had to be in Pasadena all day on Friday for work and decided to take H up on an old dinner invite. I called H mid-morning and found out he was free that evening. Perfect.
We met in Old Town Pasadena for a pre-dinner beer at De Lacey's - a great older restaurant and bar if you're ever in the area. H managed to suck down two screwdrivers as I nursed a pint and wondered what I was doing out with the guy when I could be sitting in traffic on the 101. Still, we were there and might as well make the best of it, right?
H insisted on giving me the tour of the bars of Pasadena. Two pints later I was feeling a bit of a buzz and H was getting more interesting - although not that interesting.
Then it happened, somewhere between a Newcastle and a Red Tail Ale, there was a moment where the tide could have turned in H's favor. Something came over me - a feeling of just wanting him to shut up and of wanting to be kissed by anyone. It's just the sort of combination that leads to a rare window of opportunity for an otherwise unlikely candidate. I gave H my best shut up and kiss me look and waited.
Let me interject here and say that every guy who goes out alone with a girl has such a window of opportunity where if he could just see what was going on in her mind, or sense that she wanted him to shut up and take action, he would have a shot. Unfortunately, 99.9% of the time men miss the moment, the window shuts and the man is left peering in. Then the poor guy ends up relegated to "friend" status and usually never even knew the window had opened and shut. And once the window shuts, it is unlikely to open again. Yeah, we're fickle like that.
For H on Friday night in some bar in Pasadena, the window opened briefly. Fortunately for me, H was on about his 7th screwdriver and wouldn't have recognized a window in a glass building. And so the moment passed and I came to the sobering realization that I had basically opened a window for a guy I would not normally open it for. With that I ordered a glass of water, found my way to my car, and headed home feeling as if I had narrowly escaped a potentially bad situation. In reality, H is a nice guy who never knew what had transpired and probably never will.
In this tale there is a message for the men out there teetering on the verge of friendship and something more: If you get the object of your desire to go out with you and she's had a drink or two and is staring intently at you as you tell her all about your first car and the time you and your buddies drove it to Vegas, recognize the look, shut your mouth, and climb in the window. Note: more than two minutes of silence by a woman is always a clear indicator of a window.
And remember, it's much tougher to get out than it is to get in.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
10 Things...
With only five days to go before liberation I reluctantly decided to click on a link to "Ten things every single girl must own" this morning in hopes of finding some reason for my state of singlehood - perhaps I am missing something important?
According to msn.com, the 10 things I must have at the ready are as follows:
Let's dissect this:
1. A fabulous photo of myself. - The author says to keep the picture at eye level on your refrigerator so he can see how hot you can be as he grabs for that beer. But what happens when he turns around and sees the real you? I say put a bad photo up and he'll think you are much better in person. Besides, if you are not a model or recent high school graduate, there is no reason you should have a fabulous photo of yourself on hand. If you are spending your time worrying about having a nice photo you are probably too vain in the first place. How about an ugly photo of yourself to show what you'll look like in the morning? Or better yet, how about just smiling and being charming?
2. A pretty pair of heels. - I have to agree, nice heels do make a girl feel sexy. Then again, you can't walk far in them and they make your feet hurt. And if you are at all athletic you're likely to get achilles tendonitis. How about some gym shoes to keep your arse in shape?
3. An Eminem CD. - Why on earth would a single, white bread American woman have or need this? It's hardly mood music. The last thing I want to hear when someone comes over is some white trash rapper yelling obscenities about his mother. Try something classic like Marvin Gaye, Al Green or even Van Morrison.
4. A great pickup line…and a way to blow 'em off. - Agreed. My great pick-up line usually involves livestock. Funny thing is, so does my blow off line...
5. A six-pack of good bottled beer. Just one six-pack? How about a 12 pack and a bottle of Don Julio for good measure? If you're going to listen to Eminem you'll need to be wasted. Better yet, a nice bottle of red wine so you can see how he handles a corkscrew.
6. Bathroom reading. Huh? Are you serious? You want a date coming over and spending enough time in your bathroom to read? Gentlemen: Please drop your load before you come to my house - I'm on septic and the fan is really loud. Besides, I would much prefer a date with good aim to one that plans to read in the bathroom.
7. A business card. The author specifies not a professional card, rather a personal business card with your info on it because napkins with numbers are so passe. I once met a guy in Atlanta with a personal card that said "The guy you met" then had his real name and digits. I thought it was cute and clever. Turns out he was gay and needed a date to a work function. If a guy wants your number, or you his, you'll hang onto it no matter what it's on. Besides, with the advent of cell phones everyone just programs you in and starts the stalking phase immediately.
8. Earplugs. I presume this is in case of sleepovers. Yes, there is nothing I like better in a man than having him come over to drink beer, listen to Eminem, crap in my bathroom, then snore the night away as I rub my feet because I wore my pretty heels. If a man is sleeping over and he snores you just need to be sure he wears you out so you fall asleep first. Or keep those hells on in bed and kick him with one every time he snores.
9. A straight male friend on your speed dial. I agree, every girl should have straight male friends. You just have to realize that 99.9% of the time the main reason they are your friends is because they hope to nail you one day, or they have already nailed you and hope to do it again. Once you both recognize that basic truth you can become great friends but don't try to pretend otherwise.
10. A condom. Only one?
I am clearly going about things in the wrong manner. Next time I meet a guy I am going to hand him by business card and invite him over for a beer. He'll show up to find a fabluous picture of me on the hearth, great bathroom reading, the soundtrack to 8 Mile playing in the back ground, me in pretty heels with earplugs hung by a cord around my neck, condom in hand, on the phone with my only straight male friend asking for advice on what to do next.
Maybe I'll even change my pick up line to "I'm the real Shady."
According to msn.com, the 10 things I must have at the ready are as follows:
1. A fabulous photo of yourself
2. A pretty pair of heels
3. An Eminem CD
4. A great pickup line…and a way to blow 'em off
5. A six-pack of good bottled beer
6. Bathroom reading
7. A business card
8. Earplugs
9. A straight male friend on your speed-dial
10. A condom
Let's dissect this:
1. A fabulous photo of myself. - The author says to keep the picture at eye level on your refrigerator so he can see how hot you can be as he grabs for that beer. But what happens when he turns around and sees the real you? I say put a bad photo up and he'll think you are much better in person. Besides, if you are not a model or recent high school graduate, there is no reason you should have a fabulous photo of yourself on hand. If you are spending your time worrying about having a nice photo you are probably too vain in the first place. How about an ugly photo of yourself to show what you'll look like in the morning? Or better yet, how about just smiling and being charming?
2. A pretty pair of heels. - I have to agree, nice heels do make a girl feel sexy. Then again, you can't walk far in them and they make your feet hurt. And if you are at all athletic you're likely to get achilles tendonitis. How about some gym shoes to keep your arse in shape?
3. An Eminem CD. - Why on earth would a single, white bread American woman have or need this? It's hardly mood music. The last thing I want to hear when someone comes over is some white trash rapper yelling obscenities about his mother. Try something classic like Marvin Gaye, Al Green or even Van Morrison.
4. A great pickup line…and a way to blow 'em off. - Agreed. My great pick-up line usually involves livestock. Funny thing is, so does my blow off line...
5. A six-pack of good bottled beer. Just one six-pack? How about a 12 pack and a bottle of Don Julio for good measure? If you're going to listen to Eminem you'll need to be wasted. Better yet, a nice bottle of red wine so you can see how he handles a corkscrew.
6. Bathroom reading. Huh? Are you serious? You want a date coming over and spending enough time in your bathroom to read? Gentlemen: Please drop your load before you come to my house - I'm on septic and the fan is really loud. Besides, I would much prefer a date with good aim to one that plans to read in the bathroom.
7. A business card. The author specifies not a professional card, rather a personal business card with your info on it because napkins with numbers are so passe. I once met a guy in Atlanta with a personal card that said "The guy you met" then had his real name and digits. I thought it was cute and clever. Turns out he was gay and needed a date to a work function. If a guy wants your number, or you his, you'll hang onto it no matter what it's on. Besides, with the advent of cell phones everyone just programs you in and starts the stalking phase immediately.
8. Earplugs. I presume this is in case of sleepovers. Yes, there is nothing I like better in a man than having him come over to drink beer, listen to Eminem, crap in my bathroom, then snore the night away as I rub my feet because I wore my pretty heels. If a man is sleeping over and he snores you just need to be sure he wears you out so you fall asleep first. Or keep those hells on in bed and kick him with one every time he snores.
9. A straight male friend on your speed dial. I agree, every girl should have straight male friends. You just have to realize that 99.9% of the time the main reason they are your friends is because they hope to nail you one day, or they have already nailed you and hope to do it again. Once you both recognize that basic truth you can become great friends but don't try to pretend otherwise.
10. A condom. Only one?
I am clearly going about things in the wrong manner. Next time I meet a guy I am going to hand him by business card and invite him over for a beer. He'll show up to find a fabluous picture of me on the hearth, great bathroom reading, the soundtrack to 8 Mile playing in the back ground, me in pretty heels with earplugs hung by a cord around my neck, condom in hand, on the phone with my only straight male friend asking for advice on what to do next.
Maybe I'll even change my pick up line to "I'm the real Shady."
Monday, June 20, 2005
17-18 Recap
Day 17 - Friday
After a wild night out to celebrate JO's birthday on Thursday which culminated in my drunk dialing JP at midnight, I spent all day Friday in the office doing trial prep for a terrible case that I cannot believe is going to trial in two weeks. All I have to say is: rubber gloves. Who can stand in front of a jury and argue the merits of rubber gloves sales with a straight face? Add to that the fact that the parties are an annoying Malaysian millionaire who whines a lot and a brash German salesman who cusses a lot and you have the perfect mix for infuriating a downtown Los Angeles jury. I can't wait.
After spending eight hours contemplating that mess I decided to go home and vegetate for the night. I was just getting into relaxation mode with my popcorn and the remote when S called to invite me to a BBQ and concert for the night. I declined and, about half an hour later he called back ecstatic that his girlfriend, T, would actually be joining him out in public for the night. Their relationship is (was) a complicated one in which he caters to her every whim and she refuses to put out but happily plans the purchase of a home together in between looking at wedding dresses. Of course, in seven months S still hasn't met any of her family or friends and they are rarely seen in public together. Still, they feign love and have each been living on the fantasy of what the other should be without acknowledging who the other really is. The fantasy all came crashing down somewhere on Poli Street in Ventura on Saturday night after T complained of being tired and wanting to go home while S was hoping for his quarterly lights-out lay. All the while I was home watching tv and shaving my dog. Turns out I had the better night after all
Day 18 - Saturday
S called Saturday morning to recount the events of the previous night. It was deja vu as S and T have broken up at least 17 times in the six months I've known him. Still, I listened as he claimed he was done and that was it, no more calls, nothing, nada, cut off!!! Sensing his need to have a break-up binge, I offered to pick him up to drive up to Montecito for a hash run that afternoon.
The run awesome - a perfect day in Montecito - sunny, the Channel Islands looking close enough to swim to, lush mountains, a great trail, good people, oh, and then there was the beer, of course. I came in from the run to find S on his cell phone - leaving one of those "last word" messages for T. You know the kind where you call someone to tell them you really are done with them?
Reminds me of the way back when I had split from my fiance (yes, I was once engaged). Let's just say it wasn't a good break up - when you dump someone who really loves you they don't like it and say some mean stuff. I knew I was the bad one and let him have about 80 last words before his need to tell me he was done subsided. Then, about six months after we had split and not spoken I came home to find a box on my doorstep. Inside the box were all the letters I ever wrote the guy (I lived in China for 9 months and wrote every day), pictures, miscellaneous crap that was somehow tied to me, and a long note about how he was finally getting closure and moving on. I pulled out the letters - a great journal of my time in China - and tossed the rest of the stuff. I was happy he had closure and made no reply. About a week later he called me to inquire whether I had gotten the box and what I thought. I guess the only thing that had gotten closure was the box.
So I had to snicker to myself after the run when S was getting closure. That was around 6:30. We all headed for burgers and beers after the run. About an hour and a half into social hour there, S snuck off into a corner to leave yet another last word message for T. Apparantly he and T had been exchanging last word voice mails all day. After a few beers, S and I proceeded to have a lengthy discussion about his feelings for me on our way home. Note to single men out there: wait at least 72 hours after breaking up with someone you planned a future with before proclaiming your love to a friend you've told you love the other girl - at the very least it improves your chances of being flashed. Better yet, just play the depression card and say being flashed will make you feel better.
Oh, and MM - sorry about the drunk dial sexuality inquisition. Blame SC - she is the evil one.
After a wild night out to celebrate JO's birthday on Thursday which culminated in my drunk dialing JP at midnight, I spent all day Friday in the office doing trial prep for a terrible case that I cannot believe is going to trial in two weeks. All I have to say is: rubber gloves. Who can stand in front of a jury and argue the merits of rubber gloves sales with a straight face? Add to that the fact that the parties are an annoying Malaysian millionaire who whines a lot and a brash German salesman who cusses a lot and you have the perfect mix for infuriating a downtown Los Angeles jury. I can't wait.
After spending eight hours contemplating that mess I decided to go home and vegetate for the night. I was just getting into relaxation mode with my popcorn and the remote when S called to invite me to a BBQ and concert for the night. I declined and, about half an hour later he called back ecstatic that his girlfriend, T, would actually be joining him out in public for the night. Their relationship is (was) a complicated one in which he caters to her every whim and she refuses to put out but happily plans the purchase of a home together in between looking at wedding dresses. Of course, in seven months S still hasn't met any of her family or friends and they are rarely seen in public together. Still, they feign love and have each been living on the fantasy of what the other should be without acknowledging who the other really is. The fantasy all came crashing down somewhere on Poli Street in Ventura on Saturday night after T complained of being tired and wanting to go home while S was hoping for his quarterly lights-out lay. All the while I was home watching tv and shaving my dog. Turns out I had the better night after all
Day 18 - Saturday
S called Saturday morning to recount the events of the previous night. It was deja vu as S and T have broken up at least 17 times in the six months I've known him. Still, I listened as he claimed he was done and that was it, no more calls, nothing, nada, cut off!!! Sensing his need to have a break-up binge, I offered to pick him up to drive up to Montecito for a hash run that afternoon.
The run awesome - a perfect day in Montecito - sunny, the Channel Islands looking close enough to swim to, lush mountains, a great trail, good people, oh, and then there was the beer, of course. I came in from the run to find S on his cell phone - leaving one of those "last word" messages for T. You know the kind where you call someone to tell them you really are done with them?
Reminds me of the way back when I had split from my fiance (yes, I was once engaged). Let's just say it wasn't a good break up - when you dump someone who really loves you they don't like it and say some mean stuff. I knew I was the bad one and let him have about 80 last words before his need to tell me he was done subsided. Then, about six months after we had split and not spoken I came home to find a box on my doorstep. Inside the box were all the letters I ever wrote the guy (I lived in China for 9 months and wrote every day), pictures, miscellaneous crap that was somehow tied to me, and a long note about how he was finally getting closure and moving on. I pulled out the letters - a great journal of my time in China - and tossed the rest of the stuff. I was happy he had closure and made no reply. About a week later he called me to inquire whether I had gotten the box and what I thought. I guess the only thing that had gotten closure was the box.
So I had to snicker to myself after the run when S was getting closure. That was around 6:30. We all headed for burgers and beers after the run. About an hour and a half into social hour there, S snuck off into a corner to leave yet another last word message for T. Apparantly he and T had been exchanging last word voice mails all day. After a few beers, S and I proceeded to have a lengthy discussion about his feelings for me on our way home. Note to single men out there: wait at least 72 hours after breaking up with someone you planned a future with before proclaiming your love to a friend you've told you love the other girl - at the very least it improves your chances of being flashed. Better yet, just play the depression card and say being flashed will make you feel better.
Oh, and MM - sorry about the drunk dial sexuality inquisition. Blame SC - she is the evil one.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
To the Batmobile!!!
Seeing all the hype about the new Batman movie, Batman Begins, reminded me of a date I had a few years back with someone who should not have left the bat cave...
As with many of my tales, this one dates back to my internet dating days. N was a candidate from eHarmony. In case you don't know, eHarmony is an online service created by psychologists. Yes, that should have been my first hint - but I was 30 and you know how delicate that age is for women. Anyhow, eHarmony requires you to take an extensive personality test and then then uses it to match you up. Then they send you personality matches and you choose whether you are interested in them or not. It's not the browsing style of the yahoo or match.com personals - it's more like being set up by a shrink that you've never met. Brilliant.
N was an early-30's divorcee whose hobbies included amusement parks, K'Nex, Roller Coaster Tycoon, and avoiding meat products. He worked as a computer tech and ran his own website that critiques on-line dating services, which he used as an excuse to sign up for all of them. We spoke on the phone a time or two then decided to meet for lunch at the now-defunct Mamma Mia's downtown. N wanted to meet in the parking lot so we could walk in together, and presumably, so I could check out his car - which he said I would "know when I saw".
I arrived on time and stood in the parking lot by my truck. A black VW Beetle approached. As it got closer I realized it was N and I saw that he was at the helm of a Fahrfegnugen-enhanced Batmobile complete with the Batman logo airbrushed in bright yellow on either side. I'm not talking a little Batman sticker here or there, I'm talking about paying a professional body shop at least a thousand dollars to put two square feet of yellow bat insignia on the sides of your turbo Beetle.
He pulled up and put the window down and inside I saw a Batman murse (man purse for the culturaly unaware) and custom yellow piping on the black leather seats and interior. Funny thing was, I didn't see Bruce Wayne, I saw N. As he found a parking spot I stifled a snicker and tried to come up with something positive to say about the car. But really, all I could think was what would compel a 34 year old man who is not paid by Marvel to:
1. Purchase a Beetle (total chick car in my book);
2. Put a yellow silhouette of a bat on the sides; and
3. Carry a child's Batman murse?
I can almost understand getting a tattoo of a cartoon character when you're 22 and drunk in Mississippi and your friends tell you it's cool. That's an hour long process. But to make an appointment, find an artist, send your car away for a day or two, and pay big bucks to have a trademark on your vehicle is inexplicable.
N eventually emerged from the Batmobile looking disappointingly mortal. I was hoping for at least a cape. He wasn't even wearing black. I tried to converse about the car - to figure out why? When? How? Then I remembered that I had found him on an internet site run by professional shrinks and that I ought not upset him so I settled for one of those "wow, that's unique" ambiguities reserved for bad dye jobs and men in capri pants.
Still, I was 30 and in that place so I tried to make the best of the date and we headed to lunch. As we perused the menu he confessed that he did not eat meat. I am always curious about why people make such decisions and he admitted that he had never eaten meat in his life because he grew up under the firm hand of the Church of Latter Day Saints. This piqued my interest but he said he was no longer a member of the LDS. Then I asked why not try meat now? He said he just never had and really didn't feel like it. With that he ordered the tortellini and I the ravioli. After some more strained conversation - it was tough for me - he drove the batmobile, grew up in a cult, owned and played with Legos, and kept telling me what a great date he was - dinner arrived and we were able to focus on the food.
About two bites in I noticed N's face pursing up as he chewed. I asked if the food was okay. He said it tasted different and I could tell he was trying to determine why. He dissected a tortellini and we determined the brownish filling must be mushroom. Looked like carnage to me but I played along and said, yes, definitely mushroom. He ate about half his plate with the Inspector Clouseauish look of a man who just can't put his finger on something. Then he asked if I would taste a piece. I popped a tortellini and my thoughts about the mystery meat were confirmed - it was definitely beef. I told him I thought it must be meat tortellini. His eyes grew wide and teared up, complexion turned green, I think I heard a slight gurgle, and then he gagged, choked, and chugged a glass of water and pushed the plate away. I just stared waiting for the world to end or something. After all, what happens to someone who has never had meat in 34 years of existence? Sadly enough, nothing happened and I ended up sitting through ice cream with him. We ralized we were not a match, parted way amicably, and never spoke again.
So this week I had to smile as I heard about the movie and pictured him happily zipping around in all the glory of the batmobile, sipping a banana smoothie, and pulling his Fandango receipts from his Batman murse. Hopefully he's found his Robin.
As with many of my tales, this one dates back to my internet dating days. N was a candidate from eHarmony. In case you don't know, eHarmony is an online service created by psychologists. Yes, that should have been my first hint - but I was 30 and you know how delicate that age is for women. Anyhow, eHarmony requires you to take an extensive personality test and then then uses it to match you up. Then they send you personality matches and you choose whether you are interested in them or not. It's not the browsing style of the yahoo or match.com personals - it's more like being set up by a shrink that you've never met. Brilliant.
N was an early-30's divorcee whose hobbies included amusement parks, K'Nex, Roller Coaster Tycoon, and avoiding meat products. He worked as a computer tech and ran his own website that critiques on-line dating services, which he used as an excuse to sign up for all of them. We spoke on the phone a time or two then decided to meet for lunch at the now-defunct Mamma Mia's downtown. N wanted to meet in the parking lot so we could walk in together, and presumably, so I could check out his car - which he said I would "know when I saw".
I arrived on time and stood in the parking lot by my truck. A black VW Beetle approached. As it got closer I realized it was N and I saw that he was at the helm of a Fahrfegnugen-enhanced Batmobile complete with the Batman logo airbrushed in bright yellow on either side. I'm not talking a little Batman sticker here or there, I'm talking about paying a professional body shop at least a thousand dollars to put two square feet of yellow bat insignia on the sides of your turbo Beetle.
He pulled up and put the window down and inside I saw a Batman murse (man purse for the culturaly unaware) and custom yellow piping on the black leather seats and interior. Funny thing was, I didn't see Bruce Wayne, I saw N. As he found a parking spot I stifled a snicker and tried to come up with something positive to say about the car. But really, all I could think was what would compel a 34 year old man who is not paid by Marvel to:
1. Purchase a Beetle (total chick car in my book);
2. Put a yellow silhouette of a bat on the sides; and
3. Carry a child's Batman murse?
I can almost understand getting a tattoo of a cartoon character when you're 22 and drunk in Mississippi and your friends tell you it's cool. That's an hour long process. But to make an appointment, find an artist, send your car away for a day or two, and pay big bucks to have a trademark on your vehicle is inexplicable.
N eventually emerged from the Batmobile looking disappointingly mortal. I was hoping for at least a cape. He wasn't even wearing black. I tried to converse about the car - to figure out why? When? How? Then I remembered that I had found him on an internet site run by professional shrinks and that I ought not upset him so I settled for one of those "wow, that's unique" ambiguities reserved for bad dye jobs and men in capri pants.
Still, I was 30 and in that place so I tried to make the best of the date and we headed to lunch. As we perused the menu he confessed that he did not eat meat. I am always curious about why people make such decisions and he admitted that he had never eaten meat in his life because he grew up under the firm hand of the Church of Latter Day Saints. This piqued my interest but he said he was no longer a member of the LDS. Then I asked why not try meat now? He said he just never had and really didn't feel like it. With that he ordered the tortellini and I the ravioli. After some more strained conversation - it was tough for me - he drove the batmobile, grew up in a cult, owned and played with Legos, and kept telling me what a great date he was - dinner arrived and we were able to focus on the food.
About two bites in I noticed N's face pursing up as he chewed. I asked if the food was okay. He said it tasted different and I could tell he was trying to determine why. He dissected a tortellini and we determined the brownish filling must be mushroom. Looked like carnage to me but I played along and said, yes, definitely mushroom. He ate about half his plate with the Inspector Clouseauish look of a man who just can't put his finger on something. Then he asked if I would taste a piece. I popped a tortellini and my thoughts about the mystery meat were confirmed - it was definitely beef. I told him I thought it must be meat tortellini. His eyes grew wide and teared up, complexion turned green, I think I heard a slight gurgle, and then he gagged, choked, and chugged a glass of water and pushed the plate away. I just stared waiting for the world to end or something. After all, what happens to someone who has never had meat in 34 years of existence? Sadly enough, nothing happened and I ended up sitting through ice cream with him. We ralized we were not a match, parted way amicably, and never spoke again.
So this week I had to smile as I heard about the movie and pictured him happily zipping around in all the glory of the batmobile, sipping a banana smoothie, and pulling his Fandango receipts from his Batman murse. Hopefully he's found his Robin.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Pappy
Biodad called last week and left a long, jumbled, Wild Turkey-induced message on my answering machine. The gist of the message was that his ex-girlfriend's daughter was going to be on Monster House and the wrap party is set for June 19 - Father's Day - and he was told he could invite four people. Turns out the four people are his retired beer-guzzling golf partners and his youngest daughter. Sounded like so much fun that I forgot to call back.
He's a persistent old bugger and caught me offguard by calling again last night. It's got to be a record for him to have called three times in six months. Unfortunately, I do not have caller ID and picked up the phone thinking it may be someone I actually wanted to talk to. Instead I picked up the phone to this:
"Hi Honey, it's your Pappy."
I'm somebody's honey and I have a Pappy? News to me. Are we in Mayberry? Who the heck is my Pappy? Never in my life have I used the word "Pappy". Is it even a word? Who uses it other the klan members' grandchildren? Oh, yeah, my biodad. Sounds like a slang term for a pap smear, "Hey, I'm going to get my annual pappy today." Actually, given the fact I see him once a year it does seem appropriate...
Silence from me. Then he clarified: "It's me, your dad."
Oh, yeah, right, biodad. Gotcha. Pappy is probably the name his bar buddies call him. I can imagine him walking into the bar at 10:00 am and everyone saying "Pappy's here" as a shot of cheap whiskey is mysteriously placed on the bar in front of the stool forever embedded with good old Pappy's cheek print.
Anyhow, Pappy wanted to know what "we" were doing for Father's Day this weekend.
Hmmm...in 32 years I can't recall ever having celebrated Father's Day with Pappy and his recent interest in reconnecting is, quite frankly, becoming bothersome. At first I was willing to entertain the guy - a lonely, sad drunk looking back on his life and trying to make amends with his kids. I figured it was a phase and probably good for me to get to know him before he keels over so I'm not some crazy 50-something lady regretting never having known her "real" father and focusing my menopausal psychosis on things that happened when I was eight. Oh, and then there was the fact that he had to contact me in 1998 because he needed some bone marrow from one of his prodigy. That kind of call always makes a kid feel appreciated..."Hey, it's your Pappy and I'm dying. You don't really know me but I need a bone marrow donor and the doc said to start with my youngest kid."
But here it is, seven years , 10 uncomfortable dinners, nine holes of golf, and about 21 awkward phone calls since he needed the bone marrow, and he's trying to celebrate Father's Day with me? Next thing you know he'll expect me to know when his birthday is.
Before I knew it I had concocted a lie to get out of the Monster-House-reveal-party-with-complete-strangers-and-Pappy-on-tv-punching-a-key-grip-on-Father's-Day event by telling him I was going to Vegas with D. This was once true, we had planned to go there this weekend but she ended up needing new tires for her Suburban and they cost more than the annual income of a Peruvian so the trip was called off. So it wasn't entirely a lie.
Pappy responded that he was very upset - how could I make plans with a friend on our sacred Father's Day weekend? He sounded as genuinely hurt as he could and I actually felt guilty. I would've made a great Catholic.
I am not sure how it happened but I found myself apologizing for having a life and promising to get together with him sometime in the near future.
Now I just have to remember to call on Sunday and muster the falsity to wish him a Happy Pappy's Day. Of course, I'll be sure to call when I know he's out...
He's a persistent old bugger and caught me offguard by calling again last night. It's got to be a record for him to have called three times in six months. Unfortunately, I do not have caller ID and picked up the phone thinking it may be someone I actually wanted to talk to. Instead I picked up the phone to this:
"Hi Honey, it's your Pappy."
I'm somebody's honey and I have a Pappy? News to me. Are we in Mayberry? Who the heck is my Pappy? Never in my life have I used the word "Pappy". Is it even a word? Who uses it other the klan members' grandchildren? Oh, yeah, my biodad. Sounds like a slang term for a pap smear, "Hey, I'm going to get my annual pappy today." Actually, given the fact I see him once a year it does seem appropriate...
Silence from me. Then he clarified: "It's me, your dad."
Oh, yeah, right, biodad. Gotcha. Pappy is probably the name his bar buddies call him. I can imagine him walking into the bar at 10:00 am and everyone saying "Pappy's here" as a shot of cheap whiskey is mysteriously placed on the bar in front of the stool forever embedded with good old Pappy's cheek print.
Anyhow, Pappy wanted to know what "we" were doing for Father's Day this weekend.
Hmmm...in 32 years I can't recall ever having celebrated Father's Day with Pappy and his recent interest in reconnecting is, quite frankly, becoming bothersome. At first I was willing to entertain the guy - a lonely, sad drunk looking back on his life and trying to make amends with his kids. I figured it was a phase and probably good for me to get to know him before he keels over so I'm not some crazy 50-something lady regretting never having known her "real" father and focusing my menopausal psychosis on things that happened when I was eight. Oh, and then there was the fact that he had to contact me in 1998 because he needed some bone marrow from one of his prodigy. That kind of call always makes a kid feel appreciated..."Hey, it's your Pappy and I'm dying. You don't really know me but I need a bone marrow donor and the doc said to start with my youngest kid."
But here it is, seven years , 10 uncomfortable dinners, nine holes of golf, and about 21 awkward phone calls since he needed the bone marrow, and he's trying to celebrate Father's Day with me? Next thing you know he'll expect me to know when his birthday is.
Before I knew it I had concocted a lie to get out of the Monster-House-reveal-party-with-complete-strangers-and-Pappy-on-tv-punching-a-key-grip-on-Father's-Day event by telling him I was going to Vegas with D. This was once true, we had planned to go there this weekend but she ended up needing new tires for her Suburban and they cost more than the annual income of a Peruvian so the trip was called off. So it wasn't entirely a lie.
Pappy responded that he was very upset - how could I make plans with a friend on our sacred Father's Day weekend? He sounded as genuinely hurt as he could and I actually felt guilty. I would've made a great Catholic.
I am not sure how it happened but I found myself apologizing for having a life and promising to get together with him sometime in the near future.
Now I just have to remember to call on Sunday and muster the falsity to wish him a Happy Pappy's Day. Of course, I'll be sure to call when I know he's out...
Monday, June 13, 2005
Blue Line Special
On my first single Friday with no plans I met some friends for a few pints at Dargan's Irish Pub after work. I had no plans for the weekend and let J talk me into driving down to Long Beach on Saturday for the third annual Blue Line Hash with the Los Angeles chapter of the Hash House Harriers.
The premise of the run was to start at 1:00 pm at a MetroLink (LA's public transport rail system) station in Long Beach and do a trail that consisted of riding the train to various locations in and around LA and Long Beach, where we would get off the train, run around a few miles, hit a few of the more surly drinking establishments, then hop on the train again and repeat for appriximately seven hours. Eventually we all would end up at a bar where there would be food and beer.
So imagine that you are a rail passenger heading home to the projects after having worked at a gas station all day when about 100 mostly caucasian runners, all wearing either red or blue shirts, carrying beer mugs, hop onto the normally quiet train with you. Now imagine you are in Watts, waiting for the train, when those same 100 folks pour out of the railcars and start running and blowing whistles. People were a bit dismayed but mostly amused and thought we were crazy.
Now imagine you lived in an all-white town and a group of African Americans or Hispanics did the same thing - would you be amused or frightened?
Politics and injustice aside, it was great fun to run around Compton and Watts and talk with the locals. We had one beer stop at the park in front of Watts Towers, an architectural monument built by a crazy Italian back in the 1920's. Our group had parked a truck with a keg and various blue-colored mixed drinks at the park. A group of locals were at the park and, being the benevolent folks we are, we offered them beer. In exchange, one of the elders at the park who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sammy Davis, Jr. in his later years, stood in the bed of the truck next to the keg and gave us all a brief lecture on the history and significance of the towers. Although I'm certain he'd never heard of a docent, he would have been a great one. This is what I love about hashing - you go to places you wouldn't normally visit and meet interesting people. It's kind of like being in the military except people are usually laughing at you and you share a beer rather than shoot at one another.
Along the way we also stopped in a very Hispanic part of town where people had little flea markets set up in the residential areas. Several of the women in the group actually purchased lingerie at yard sales and donned it over their running gear. I stopped for a couple of tacos at a local stand and later regretted not waiting for the bacon-wrapped hot dog stand - that looked interesting. We also stopped off at a VFW hall and hung out with some of the old-timers who got a kick out of this crazy crew and probably even got flashed by one or two of the ladies in our group (no, not me), and several other fine drinking establishments. Several of the folks who ran into us during the day ended up finding us at the end and we had quite an eclectic mix of folks in time for the finish.
We ended up back in Long Beach at a bar with a nice patio area and a great couple cooking up some of the best BBQ pork I've ever had. Unfortunately, the end bar did not offer hard liquor so a group of us headed across the street where they had a full bar, billiards and dancing. That bar turned out to be the local watering hole for Pacific Islanders and by 9 pm I thought I was in little Samoa when they burst out the karaoke machine. It's great fun to be half-sober watching a large Samoan man sing country western songs while a bunch of crazy white folks in running shoes attempt to swing dance.
By 1:00 am J, T and I were sitting on a curb outside Carl's Jr. eating burgers and fries after having asked two teenagers to purchase food at the drive-thru for us. T ended up sleeping in his car (at least I hope he did) and J and I headed back up to Ventura.
All in all it was a great day and I think we helped spread racial harmony throughout the LA basin. Either that, or people just thought a group of crazies had been given day passes for the Metrolink...
The premise of the run was to start at 1:00 pm at a MetroLink (LA's public transport rail system) station in Long Beach and do a trail that consisted of riding the train to various locations in and around LA and Long Beach, where we would get off the train, run around a few miles, hit a few of the more surly drinking establishments, then hop on the train again and repeat for appriximately seven hours. Eventually we all would end up at a bar where there would be food and beer.
So imagine that you are a rail passenger heading home to the projects after having worked at a gas station all day when about 100 mostly caucasian runners, all wearing either red or blue shirts, carrying beer mugs, hop onto the normally quiet train with you. Now imagine you are in Watts, waiting for the train, when those same 100 folks pour out of the railcars and start running and blowing whistles. People were a bit dismayed but mostly amused and thought we were crazy.
Now imagine you lived in an all-white town and a group of African Americans or Hispanics did the same thing - would you be amused or frightened?
Politics and injustice aside, it was great fun to run around Compton and Watts and talk with the locals. We had one beer stop at the park in front of Watts Towers, an architectural monument built by a crazy Italian back in the 1920's. Our group had parked a truck with a keg and various blue-colored mixed drinks at the park. A group of locals were at the park and, being the benevolent folks we are, we offered them beer. In exchange, one of the elders at the park who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sammy Davis, Jr. in his later years, stood in the bed of the truck next to the keg and gave us all a brief lecture on the history and significance of the towers. Although I'm certain he'd never heard of a docent, he would have been a great one. This is what I love about hashing - you go to places you wouldn't normally visit and meet interesting people. It's kind of like being in the military except people are usually laughing at you and you share a beer rather than shoot at one another.
Along the way we also stopped in a very Hispanic part of town where people had little flea markets set up in the residential areas. Several of the women in the group actually purchased lingerie at yard sales and donned it over their running gear. I stopped for a couple of tacos at a local stand and later regretted not waiting for the bacon-wrapped hot dog stand - that looked interesting. We also stopped off at a VFW hall and hung out with some of the old-timers who got a kick out of this crazy crew and probably even got flashed by one or two of the ladies in our group (no, not me), and several other fine drinking establishments. Several of the folks who ran into us during the day ended up finding us at the end and we had quite an eclectic mix of folks in time for the finish.
We ended up back in Long Beach at a bar with a nice patio area and a great couple cooking up some of the best BBQ pork I've ever had. Unfortunately, the end bar did not offer hard liquor so a group of us headed across the street where they had a full bar, billiards and dancing. That bar turned out to be the local watering hole for Pacific Islanders and by 9 pm I thought I was in little Samoa when they burst out the karaoke machine. It's great fun to be half-sober watching a large Samoan man sing country western songs while a bunch of crazy white folks in running shoes attempt to swing dance.
By 1:00 am J, T and I were sitting on a curb outside Carl's Jr. eating burgers and fries after having asked two teenagers to purchase food at the drive-thru for us. T ended up sleeping in his car (at least I hope he did) and J and I headed back up to Ventura.
All in all it was a great day and I think we helped spread racial harmony throughout the LA basin. Either that, or people just thought a group of crazies had been given day passes for the Metrolink...
Thursday, June 09, 2005
To protect the not-so-innocent
For some reason unknown to me, more folks are hitting and linking to Glib Gibberish lately. Yeah! I'm happy too so please keep spreading the word and linking to me. And, even though most of the faithfuls know who I am by my initials, I'm starting to think I don't want the blog paparrazi showing up at the trailer park or somehow determining my true, albeit disappointing, identity. Plus, I still hope to one day be selected for a reality show and they don't like having oral contracts or former catwomen degrade their programming without having the rights to the footage. As such, henceforth I shall go by the moniker Glib Gal. The C family is now the G family. And I am still basically the same.
Dumbasscus
Tuesday night, 9:37 pm, the phone rings. I don't usually answer after 9 pm but pick up anyhow.
Me: "Hello?"
Thick-accented, gruff man: "Hey Katarindarlindara! Watchyouaredoink?!?!!"
Me: "Huh??? Who is this?"
Thick-accented, gruff man: "It me, Eddie! What? You no know me?!!!"
Me: "Uh...Hi Eddie." Why did I pick up again? And why is he calling me?
Silence....heavy breathing....more silence...
Eddie: "How you day? How work?"
Me: "Fine, the usual." (Intentionally short and not asking about his)
Eddie: "Mayan was terrible. Horrible. Awful. Tde woars."
Silence. How does one respond?
Eddie: "You know why so bad it was?" (Yoda? is that you?)
"I quit smoking today for you. You nice girl, no like smoke, I stop tde
smoking for you."
Note to single men: If ever you meet a woman you like and have plans set for a few days ahead, do not, under any circumstance, call her with nothing to say at any point before you actually get a chance for the face-to-face meeting. Chances are that she is already having serious second thoughts about even meeting with you in the first place and your call will send her over the edge.
Eddie went on about quitting his two-pack a day habit cold turkey all for me and saying how happy he was to be taking me to The Sizzler Wednesday night. I think he said something about his whole family being there to watch (memories of prom night with the Lord of the Flies Piggyesque SN - later a man turned gay - flooded my mind. Piggy's parents had shown up outside the windows of the restaurant to take pictures of their son's one and only date with a member of the opposite sex). I tried to be nice and think of my readers but I just couldn't do it. I finally dropped the bomb:
Me: "Eddie, I'm not comfortable going to dinner with you so I'm cancelling."
Eddie: "What?!?! What you problem? You no like me?!?!? No comfortable?!?! What you
mean??? You no know me, how you say I make uncomfortable?!?!"
I tried to explain my reasoning: he is a chain-smoking meat-handler with a penchant for Indian gaming and angered Nicorette-induced late-night phone calls; I am a somewhat health-conscious business lawyer with a penchant for drinking pints, being dumped and extreme sarcasm. Let's face it, my humor would be entirely lost on the guy and he'd end up yelling at me all the time. He argued his case very loudly, which made me tune out even more. I told him it just wasn't going to happen. Lots of silence interspersed with yelling. Must be what an Iraqi insurgent interrogation is like. It was one of my most grueling break-ups ever - and we had never even spoken face-to-face.
So MB, I'm sorry to disappoint but my date with the local Syrian mafia grocer never took place. A girl can only do so much in the name of blogging and this was a serious security risk. Instead, I spent last night resisting the urge to call JP (dialed his number twice), doing yardwork, and gabbing with MM - who doesn't believe JP and I are through but is ready to pounce as soon as possible. My Jambalaya does that to men.
Me: "Hello?"
Thick-accented, gruff man: "Hey Katarindarlindara! Watchyouaredoink?!?!!"
Me: "Huh??? Who is this?"
Thick-accented, gruff man: "It me, Eddie! What? You no know me?!!!"
Me: "Uh...Hi Eddie." Why did I pick up again? And why is he calling me?
Silence....heavy breathing....more silence...
Eddie: "How you day? How work?"
Me: "Fine, the usual." (Intentionally short and not asking about his)
Eddie: "Mayan was terrible. Horrible. Awful. Tde woars."
Silence. How does one respond?
Eddie: "You know why so bad it was?" (Yoda? is that you?)
"I quit smoking today for you. You nice girl, no like smoke, I stop tde
smoking for you."
Note to single men: If ever you meet a woman you like and have plans set for a few days ahead, do not, under any circumstance, call her with nothing to say at any point before you actually get a chance for the face-to-face meeting. Chances are that she is already having serious second thoughts about even meeting with you in the first place and your call will send her over the edge.
Eddie went on about quitting his two-pack a day habit cold turkey all for me and saying how happy he was to be taking me to The Sizzler Wednesday night. I think he said something about his whole family being there to watch (memories of prom night with the Lord of the Flies Piggyesque SN - later a man turned gay - flooded my mind. Piggy's parents had shown up outside the windows of the restaurant to take pictures of their son's one and only date with a member of the opposite sex). I tried to be nice and think of my readers but I just couldn't do it. I finally dropped the bomb:
Me: "Eddie, I'm not comfortable going to dinner with you so I'm cancelling."
Eddie: "What?!?! What you problem? You no like me?!?!? No comfortable?!?! What you
mean??? You no know me, how you say I make uncomfortable?!?!"
I tried to explain my reasoning: he is a chain-smoking meat-handler with a penchant for Indian gaming and angered Nicorette-induced late-night phone calls; I am a somewhat health-conscious business lawyer with a penchant for drinking pints, being dumped and extreme sarcasm. Let's face it, my humor would be entirely lost on the guy and he'd end up yelling at me all the time. He argued his case very loudly, which made me tune out even more. I told him it just wasn't going to happen. Lots of silence interspersed with yelling. Must be what an Iraqi insurgent interrogation is like. It was one of my most grueling break-ups ever - and we had never even spoken face-to-face.
So MB, I'm sorry to disappoint but my date with the local Syrian mafia grocer never took place. A girl can only do so much in the name of blogging and this was a serious security risk. Instead, I spent last night resisting the urge to call JP (dialed his number twice), doing yardwork, and gabbing with MM - who doesn't believe JP and I are through but is ready to pounce as soon as possible. My Jambalaya does that to men.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Lucky Number Seven
My horoscope for day 7 (Monday) said luck was turning my way. Little did I know it would come in the form of a Syrian offering me discount asparagus and pimping me out to his cousin...
After a long day of ruthlesly billing clients I stopped off at the fishmonger's for some salmon. It sucks to tell the fish guy I only need one steak and getting that "oh, so you're dining alone now" look. To receive a look of pity from a guy who spends his days cleaning fish is not a happy thing.
Across the street from the fish guy is the local grocery store. Not a chain, but one of those middle eastern mafia owned places. Surprisingly, nearly every market in Oak View is owned by people of Arab descent. Anyhow, the checker with personality, Eddie, was working at the grocer. Eddie is the nephew of the owner and we always chat when I go in. His cousin, who always looks at me and then runs away if I look back was there as well. Of course, Eddie, who has never in the four years I've known him asked about my boyfriend, asked me yesterday. He was very excited to learn I was single and even gave me a discount on my asparagus. I left happy and with an extra 49 cents. There was my good luck. But just as I was getting in my truck Eddie came running out, calling my name. He wanted my phone number for his cousin. Yeah, the one who is scared of me and hides behind the Frito Lay display whenever I come in. Apparantly the mute cousin wanted a date with me. At first, I refused but Eddie persisted. My guard was down, ego slightly boosted by some interest, and I consented. No sooner had I said yes than I wanted to suck the words back into my mouth and snatch my phone number from the clutches of sweet Eddie's hands. Too late, he saw the look in my eye and ran back in to tell his cousin the good news. I felt like I had just been sold at the Tehran farmer's market.
When my phone rang later that night I knew I shouldn't answer. Not surprisingly, it was the cousin - also named Eddie - calling to arrange our pre-arranged date. I gave my best efforts to illicit conversation and soon learned he lives at Pelican Point, an apartment complex of dysfunctional bachelors in Ventura (ironically, the highest security prison in California is called Pelican Bay...), his favorite restaurant is "The Sizzler" (add Arabic accent for effect), and he has no hobbies and works seven days a week and really just wants to meet a nice lady and I seem sweet (not usually a term reserved for me). The last time he went out it was to go to an Indian gaming casino with his brothers. I didn't have the heart to say no and so we're set to go to dinner Wednesday night - no doubt at the Sizzler.
So why am I going out with this poor guy? Other than my "I'll go out with just about anyone once" rule, I honestly have nothing better to do, he's harmless and could end up being interesting (having immigrated from Syria), and if nothing else, it should be blogworthy. Besides, other than a toothless carnival worker with a 12 pack of Milwaulkee's Best five years ago, this is the only time I've been hit on at the proverbial grocery store. I'm still on the fence about cancelling but those all-you-can-eat shrimp are calling my name.
After a long day of ruthlesly billing clients I stopped off at the fishmonger's for some salmon. It sucks to tell the fish guy I only need one steak and getting that "oh, so you're dining alone now" look. To receive a look of pity from a guy who spends his days cleaning fish is not a happy thing.
Across the street from the fish guy is the local grocery store. Not a chain, but one of those middle eastern mafia owned places. Surprisingly, nearly every market in Oak View is owned by people of Arab descent. Anyhow, the checker with personality, Eddie, was working at the grocer. Eddie is the nephew of the owner and we always chat when I go in. His cousin, who always looks at me and then runs away if I look back was there as well. Of course, Eddie, who has never in the four years I've known him asked about my boyfriend, asked me yesterday. He was very excited to learn I was single and even gave me a discount on my asparagus. I left happy and with an extra 49 cents. There was my good luck. But just as I was getting in my truck Eddie came running out, calling my name. He wanted my phone number for his cousin. Yeah, the one who is scared of me and hides behind the Frito Lay display whenever I come in. Apparantly the mute cousin wanted a date with me. At first, I refused but Eddie persisted. My guard was down, ego slightly boosted by some interest, and I consented. No sooner had I said yes than I wanted to suck the words back into my mouth and snatch my phone number from the clutches of sweet Eddie's hands. Too late, he saw the look in my eye and ran back in to tell his cousin the good news. I felt like I had just been sold at the Tehran farmer's market.
When my phone rang later that night I knew I shouldn't answer. Not surprisingly, it was the cousin - also named Eddie - calling to arrange our pre-arranged date. I gave my best efforts to illicit conversation and soon learned he lives at Pelican Point, an apartment complex of dysfunctional bachelors in Ventura (ironically, the highest security prison in California is called Pelican Bay...), his favorite restaurant is "The Sizzler" (add Arabic accent for effect), and he has no hobbies and works seven days a week and really just wants to meet a nice lady and I seem sweet (not usually a term reserved for me). The last time he went out it was to go to an Indian gaming casino with his brothers. I didn't have the heart to say no and so we're set to go to dinner Wednesday night - no doubt at the Sizzler.
So why am I going out with this poor guy? Other than my "I'll go out with just about anyone once" rule, I honestly have nothing better to do, he's harmless and could end up being interesting (having immigrated from Syria), and if nothing else, it should be blogworthy. Besides, other than a toothless carnival worker with a 12 pack of Milwaulkee's Best five years ago, this is the only time I've been hit on at the proverbial grocery store. I'm still on the fence about cancelling but those all-you-can-eat shrimp are calling my name.
Monday, June 06, 2005
The Sulking Rebound Binge Weekend (aka Days 3-6)
DAY 3:
Wednesday night I was home sulking with some Ben and Jerry's when my cousin A called and said she was in town for a couple of days and wanted to do something Thursday night. I immediately thought of reggae night at The Drink - fun, upbeat, good crowd, free pool, and two-for-one drinks.
Naturally, I called up S, who lives a few blocks away from the club and is always great company (despite occassional groping), and invited him to join us. I then called D, who is from Santa Barbara but tired of the scene up there and had been wanting to slum it in Ventura for a while. With these two additions we had a great little quartet - the cute, young, former posterchild for Hard Rock Cafe A; good-natured, good-looking, and good-time S (our token male); edgy, no-nonsense, Grey Goose drinking D; and recent dumpee me. We were later joined by C, a guy I hadn't seen in years but who had once joined A and I on a lovely day hike up Mt. Whitney. He bonked at about 11,000 feet due to altitude sickness and I hadn't seen him since. Thankfully, he seemed to have recovered by Thursday night.
The night was actually pretty typical. First A beat all challengers at the billiard table (including S, several times, who continually exclaimed that he couldn't believe he'd been beaten by a girl), then we all danced for hours, and finally headed outside to cool down a bit. By this point drinks were on two-for-one status and S was in fine form - nto even bothering to leave the bar between guzzling two-fors. He finally returned outside, sat down, and began talking about something or other. But as he was talking he kept brushing his hand on C's knee. C is a heterosexual man and looked from S' hand to each of we ladies' faces and back to the hand on the knee. S was oblivious to the whole thing and just kept pawing C's leg. We were all in hysterics laughing about S but S thought we were laughing at his story - a humor5ous tale of him attempting to get someone at a Burger King drive-thru to let him in their car to buy food at 2 am in a bad part of town. S finally got frustrated because we were all laughing so much that he went back to the bar. I guess it was one of those had-to-be-there moments but it was pretty darned funny at the time. With that excitement we all headed home. Thanks to S for providing some entertainment. Don't worry, gay is okay...
Day 4
I had Friday off from work because I was supposed to be going to our running club's annual campout - that started Friday afternoon. I knew when I woke up that morning that the last thing I wanted to do that day was go up and start drinking at a campground so I called S to see how he was faring after taking advantage of so many 2-for-1 specials the previous night. He was conscious and up for seeing a matinee so we headed out to see Cinderella Man. Great movie. Go see it. I know you think I ay that about all the boxing movies, but this one will probably win an Oscar for something. My intention was to go to the movie and be home before dark because I had to lead the morning run at the campout on Saturday - six miles while carrying beer and flour through the hills. But, after the movie S and I decided to head downt he street to Dargan's for a pint. Just one pint, mind you. Then T called and said she was on her way to party in Ventura with S for the night. So I called my cousin A and she said she'd be by in an hour or so. I kept repeating that I had to be home by eight but I didn't listen. Several pints and a trip to the seedily trendy Sans Souci later, I finally found myself in bed at about 12:30. The highlight of this night for me was watching my little cousin A jump from her chair to defend me from a man in a tophat, sunglasses and trenchcoat. I never knew she had so much spunk in her.
Day 5
Ah...Campout with the hashers. My run was supposed to start at 10:00 am but I was in line for a breakfast burrito several miles away at that time. No worries, though, as none of the runners were recovered from the previous night's festivities yet. I was in no shape to run around in the mountains being chased but somehow managed to muster the strength and took off around 11:30. Noticably absent was JP, who I haven't heard from since a short phone call on Monday. I was relieved but hope he didn't not show up on my account. Anyhow, the run was a success - much complaining, a few folks lost, and I didn't get caught. After the run we all headed back to the campground and I decided I ought to set up my new Truck Tent. A few months ago I pulled in to my garage to see a large mass moving around the floor. I realized it was my tent and something was in it. I got out of my car and realized it was my pig. She had somehow gotten the tent off the shelf, out of its bag, and tore her way in all in search of some morsel of a Cheez-It I had left after a previous camping trip. The tent was ripped up so I donated it to the pig. But it left me tentless so I went on eBay and found my truck tent for $16 plus $8 shipping. Turns out it is quite a contraption and makes my truck looks like I'm heading for the Gold Rush. Still, it allows me to throw an air mattress in the back and have quite a comfortable little space.
After everyone ogled the covered wagon it was time for the campout games. There were about 70 of us at the campout. There is nothing quite like watching a bunch of drunken 30-40 somethings place musical chairs with such vigor you'd have thought they were at the Olympics. Next was naked Twister. This is never a pretty sight and Saturday was no exception. Again, it is usually the folks whose ballsack you don't want to see that end up with one hand on red, a foot on blue, and their arse pointed right at you. Still, fun to watch in that disaster-can't-look-away kind of way. Games went on, then dinner, more imbibing, and then a great live band showed up to play for us. After the band and dancing it was time for the shooting star run - where we stumble from campsite to campsite being given various shots of toxic mixtures. I skipped four of the six shots and mostly watched as everyone became more and more drunk. After the shooting star run I headed to my truck and called it a night. Soon after I zipped up the tent I heard the clamor of the naked midnight run heading up the path. This is an event where about 15 of the most intoxicated folks around the campfire get naked and run around the campground blowing whistles. Again, think of 15 bodies that never need to be exposed to the human eye. Now add the running and jostling effect. Yeah, that's why I went ot bed early.
Day 6
Let's see... I woke up in my tent after three straight nights of partying feeling the effects. Stumbled to the communal camping area and assessed the damage. Festivities had apparantly lasted until about 4 am and included a naked couch and some rather sketchy activities that I am glad I didn't witness. After a bite to eat we headed out on the Hangover Hash - a morning after run to purge the body of the evil spirits. Then we reconvened for an awards ceremony - I won Nicest Legs (usually an honor in a running club but this is not your usual club...). I grabbed my prize, broke camp, and escaped home where I promptly fell asleep on the sofa. I woke up and wanted to call JP to tell him about campout but resisted the urge. I figure if I can make it two or three weeks without calling it means I win.
Yeah, that was a long one but so was my weekend...
Wednesday night I was home sulking with some Ben and Jerry's when my cousin A called and said she was in town for a couple of days and wanted to do something Thursday night. I immediately thought of reggae night at The Drink - fun, upbeat, good crowd, free pool, and two-for-one drinks.
Naturally, I called up S, who lives a few blocks away from the club and is always great company (despite occassional groping), and invited him to join us. I then called D, who is from Santa Barbara but tired of the scene up there and had been wanting to slum it in Ventura for a while. With these two additions we had a great little quartet - the cute, young, former posterchild for Hard Rock Cafe A; good-natured, good-looking, and good-time S (our token male); edgy, no-nonsense, Grey Goose drinking D; and recent dumpee me. We were later joined by C, a guy I hadn't seen in years but who had once joined A and I on a lovely day hike up Mt. Whitney. He bonked at about 11,000 feet due to altitude sickness and I hadn't seen him since. Thankfully, he seemed to have recovered by Thursday night.
The night was actually pretty typical. First A beat all challengers at the billiard table (including S, several times, who continually exclaimed that he couldn't believe he'd been beaten by a girl), then we all danced for hours, and finally headed outside to cool down a bit. By this point drinks were on two-for-one status and S was in fine form - nto even bothering to leave the bar between guzzling two-fors. He finally returned outside, sat down, and began talking about something or other. But as he was talking he kept brushing his hand on C's knee. C is a heterosexual man and looked from S' hand to each of we ladies' faces and back to the hand on the knee. S was oblivious to the whole thing and just kept pawing C's leg. We were all in hysterics laughing about S but S thought we were laughing at his story - a humor5ous tale of him attempting to get someone at a Burger King drive-thru to let him in their car to buy food at 2 am in a bad part of town. S finally got frustrated because we were all laughing so much that he went back to the bar. I guess it was one of those had-to-be-there moments but it was pretty darned funny at the time. With that excitement we all headed home. Thanks to S for providing some entertainment. Don't worry, gay is okay...
Day 4
I had Friday off from work because I was supposed to be going to our running club's annual campout - that started Friday afternoon. I knew when I woke up that morning that the last thing I wanted to do that day was go up and start drinking at a campground so I called S to see how he was faring after taking advantage of so many 2-for-1 specials the previous night. He was conscious and up for seeing a matinee so we headed out to see Cinderella Man. Great movie. Go see it. I know you think I ay that about all the boxing movies, but this one will probably win an Oscar for something. My intention was to go to the movie and be home before dark because I had to lead the morning run at the campout on Saturday - six miles while carrying beer and flour through the hills. But, after the movie S and I decided to head downt he street to Dargan's for a pint. Just one pint, mind you. Then T called and said she was on her way to party in Ventura with S for the night. So I called my cousin A and she said she'd be by in an hour or so. I kept repeating that I had to be home by eight but I didn't listen. Several pints and a trip to the seedily trendy Sans Souci later, I finally found myself in bed at about 12:30. The highlight of this night for me was watching my little cousin A jump from her chair to defend me from a man in a tophat, sunglasses and trenchcoat. I never knew she had so much spunk in her.
Day 5
Ah...Campout with the hashers. My run was supposed to start at 10:00 am but I was in line for a breakfast burrito several miles away at that time. No worries, though, as none of the runners were recovered from the previous night's festivities yet. I was in no shape to run around in the mountains being chased but somehow managed to muster the strength and took off around 11:30. Noticably absent was JP, who I haven't heard from since a short phone call on Monday. I was relieved but hope he didn't not show up on my account. Anyhow, the run was a success - much complaining, a few folks lost, and I didn't get caught. After the run we all headed back to the campground and I decided I ought to set up my new Truck Tent. A few months ago I pulled in to my garage to see a large mass moving around the floor. I realized it was my tent and something was in it. I got out of my car and realized it was my pig. She had somehow gotten the tent off the shelf, out of its bag, and tore her way in all in search of some morsel of a Cheez-It I had left after a previous camping trip. The tent was ripped up so I donated it to the pig. But it left me tentless so I went on eBay and found my truck tent for $16 plus $8 shipping. Turns out it is quite a contraption and makes my truck looks like I'm heading for the Gold Rush. Still, it allows me to throw an air mattress in the back and have quite a comfortable little space.
After everyone ogled the covered wagon it was time for the campout games. There were about 70 of us at the campout. There is nothing quite like watching a bunch of drunken 30-40 somethings place musical chairs with such vigor you'd have thought they were at the Olympics. Next was naked Twister. This is never a pretty sight and Saturday was no exception. Again, it is usually the folks whose ballsack you don't want to see that end up with one hand on red, a foot on blue, and their arse pointed right at you. Still, fun to watch in that disaster-can't-look-away kind of way. Games went on, then dinner, more imbibing, and then a great live band showed up to play for us. After the band and dancing it was time for the shooting star run - where we stumble from campsite to campsite being given various shots of toxic mixtures. I skipped four of the six shots and mostly watched as everyone became more and more drunk. After the shooting star run I headed to my truck and called it a night. Soon after I zipped up the tent I heard the clamor of the naked midnight run heading up the path. This is an event where about 15 of the most intoxicated folks around the campfire get naked and run around the campground blowing whistles. Again, think of 15 bodies that never need to be exposed to the human eye. Now add the running and jostling effect. Yeah, that's why I went ot bed early.
Day 6
Let's see... I woke up in my tent after three straight nights of partying feeling the effects. Stumbled to the communal camping area and assessed the damage. Festivities had apparantly lasted until about 4 am and included a naked couch and some rather sketchy activities that I am glad I didn't witness. After a bite to eat we headed out on the Hangover Hash - a morning after run to purge the body of the evil spirits. Then we reconvened for an awards ceremony - I won Nicest Legs (usually an honor in a running club but this is not your usual club...). I grabbed my prize, broke camp, and escaped home where I promptly fell asleep on the sofa. I woke up and wanted to call JP to tell him about campout but resisted the urge. I figure if I can make it two or three weeks without calling it means I win.
Yeah, that was a long one but so was my weekend...
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Day 2
Day two was uneventful and what I fear my life will soon become: home early, a light jog, leftovers, and summer network reality programming interspersed with a sympathy phone call or two.
The network program was 'Beauty and the Geek', produced by Ashton Kutcher. The premise, from what I could gather, was to find a gaggle of the most dimwitted yet sort of attractive female media whores in Los Angeles and pair them up with mild-mannered nerdy men who lack social skills and actually think they can get girls like that (my dating pool). The women and men are paired up and must complete challenges as a team - women being quizzed on spelling, geography, history and the like, men being tasked with dancing in public or identifying the Simpson sisters. A sample exchange:
Host: "Who was president during the Civil War?"
Ditzy girl: "Um...Hoover?"
Host: "No, Abraham Lincoln."
Ditzy girl: "Oh yeah, right, D-day...I knew that one."
In the end one couple is sent home for being the most stupid or socially inept. Of course, one of the bimbos has already latched on to the best looking of the geeks - even though it's not her geek. This is why I love reality television - just when you think your life is messed up you get to see the dysfunction that is really out there and allowing cameras in.
I still think Kutcher is being Punked by the WB. At least I have better plans for tonight...
The network program was 'Beauty and the Geek', produced by Ashton Kutcher. The premise, from what I could gather, was to find a gaggle of the most dimwitted yet sort of attractive female media whores in Los Angeles and pair them up with mild-mannered nerdy men who lack social skills and actually think they can get girls like that (my dating pool). The women and men are paired up and must complete challenges as a team - women being quizzed on spelling, geography, history and the like, men being tasked with dancing in public or identifying the Simpson sisters. A sample exchange:
Host: "Who was president during the Civil War?"
Ditzy girl: "Um...Hoover?"
Host: "No, Abraham Lincoln."
Ditzy girl: "Oh yeah, right, D-day...I knew that one."
In the end one couple is sent home for being the most stupid or socially inept. Of course, one of the bimbos has already latched on to the best looking of the geeks - even though it's not her geek. This is why I love reality television - just when you think your life is messed up you get to see the dysfunction that is really out there and allowing cameras in.
I still think Kutcher is being Punked by the WB. At least I have better plans for tonight...
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Day 1
The natural reaction to a break-up is to accept a dinner offer from someone you know is interested in you but that is unavailable. This usually results in an ego boost and no regret. So last night I accepted S' offer to make me a nice home-cooked meal and hang out.
Dinner was great - prime rib, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and glazed carrots complimented by a nice pinot noir from the Santa Barbara winery. Kudos and thanks to S for a great meal.
After stuffing ourselves we decided to walk downtown for a pint and hang out a bit longer. We ended up at the Anacapa Brewery where we ended up having a disappointing encounter with the ever-unpleasant barmaid N and lifeless owner P. The encounter was that S, who is a regular at the brew pub and a member of the "mug club", a club wherein a patron pays $50 for a personalized mug that the pub fills at a discounted rate, ordered a brown ale. I had ordered a red. He was raving about how good it was so I took a sip from the mug. This sent N, the barkeep, into a tizzy in which she recited the various mug club contract provisions barring the sharing of beer from a mug with a non-mug club member. I thought she was kidding that a bar would actually contract with a drunkard regarding the rules of using a mug at a brewery. Apparantly a mug club member can drink from my pint, but I cannot sip from the mug, even though he owns the mug and presumably the beer therein. She did, however, offer to pour me a sample if I asked nicely. Yes, it seemed a bit illogical to me too but it was the sip that launched a thousand quips and after ranting to the pub owner to no avail we left. I am still disappointed that S left her a tip. Shame on him for cowtowing to poor service out of fear of offending a consistently rude woman that he has no chance of ever bedding. If it were my mug I would have taken it to another pub and led a revolt of fellow mug clubbers against the brewery for not allowing other folks to sip from the precious mugs. I'm surprised they don't charge rent for the mugs at the brewery. And they wonder why they don't do very well. I will not be back to that brewery. Although it would be fun to go get a mug and take it to the other pub and ask them to keep it there for me...
With my Irish up we headed to a seedy establishment, the Star Lounge, where no one would mind sharing mugs or needles or partners. You know the kind of place where there is a key behind the bar to the restroom. High class. S shocked me and ordered Budweiser and a shot of Jack Daniels. Yech. I stuck with a pint of draft. The barkeep there was quite pleasant and bantered with us a bit. She was a palm reader of sorts, something she picked up as a hobby while serving a prison term for what sounded like murder. I love it when someone asks me if I've ever been to prison in the same non-chalant manner they would ask if I'd ever been to Disneyland. It definitely takes the edge off. She then shared a shot with S and read his palm. He's going to have health problems if he keeps drinking and he has issues with his mother. Very insightful. She then read mine and told me I am destined to live a long, healthy life full of many break-ups. Just what I was hoping for, especially on day one of the 28 day adventure.
After another shot or two by S we headed back to his place where I strategically avoided the JD-induced groping and advances and made my way home for the night.
It's going to be a long month.
Dinner was great - prime rib, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and glazed carrots complimented by a nice pinot noir from the Santa Barbara winery. Kudos and thanks to S for a great meal.
After stuffing ourselves we decided to walk downtown for a pint and hang out a bit longer. We ended up at the Anacapa Brewery where we ended up having a disappointing encounter with the ever-unpleasant barmaid N and lifeless owner P. The encounter was that S, who is a regular at the brew pub and a member of the "mug club", a club wherein a patron pays $50 for a personalized mug that the pub fills at a discounted rate, ordered a brown ale. I had ordered a red. He was raving about how good it was so I took a sip from the mug. This sent N, the barkeep, into a tizzy in which she recited the various mug club contract provisions barring the sharing of beer from a mug with a non-mug club member. I thought she was kidding that a bar would actually contract with a drunkard regarding the rules of using a mug at a brewery. Apparantly a mug club member can drink from my pint, but I cannot sip from the mug, even though he owns the mug and presumably the beer therein. She did, however, offer to pour me a sample if I asked nicely. Yes, it seemed a bit illogical to me too but it was the sip that launched a thousand quips and after ranting to the pub owner to no avail we left. I am still disappointed that S left her a tip. Shame on him for cowtowing to poor service out of fear of offending a consistently rude woman that he has no chance of ever bedding. If it were my mug I would have taken it to another pub and led a revolt of fellow mug clubbers against the brewery for not allowing other folks to sip from the precious mugs. I'm surprised they don't charge rent for the mugs at the brewery. And they wonder why they don't do very well. I will not be back to that brewery. Although it would be fun to go get a mug and take it to the other pub and ask them to keep it there for me...
With my Irish up we headed to a seedy establishment, the Star Lounge, where no one would mind sharing mugs or needles or partners. You know the kind of place where there is a key behind the bar to the restroom. High class. S shocked me and ordered Budweiser and a shot of Jack Daniels. Yech. I stuck with a pint of draft. The barkeep there was quite pleasant and bantered with us a bit. She was a palm reader of sorts, something she picked up as a hobby while serving a prison term for what sounded like murder. I love it when someone asks me if I've ever been to prison in the same non-chalant manner they would ask if I'd ever been to Disneyland. It definitely takes the edge off. She then shared a shot with S and read his palm. He's going to have health problems if he keeps drinking and he has issues with his mother. Very insightful. She then read mine and told me I am destined to live a long, healthy life full of many break-ups. Just what I was hoping for, especially on day one of the 28 day adventure.
After another shot or two by S we headed back to his place where I strategically avoided the JD-induced groping and advances and made my way home for the night.
It's going to be a long month.
The 28-Day Rule
For those of you who think something is wrong with the site, never fear, there is only something wrong with the author. I did write a post earlier about some events from this weekend but opted to remove it in the interest of privacy. The gist of it, however, was that JP and I are kaput as a result of a pineapple rind, some pig poo and one too many Jello shots. Go figure.
And so life goes on. The good news for you is that I am back on the market which means I will likely resort to internet dating if, for nothing else, entertainment and free meals. After all, there must be a few engineers and recluses out there I haven't met...
I know, I know...I should take some time to myself to regroup, etc., etc. But it's not as bad as some folks think and people get strange when they spend too much time being single and most folks know I am already strange enough. Besides, I rather like having a sidekick.
That said, the 28 day rule is officially in effect and the celibacy the clock started Monday.
What is the 28 day rule, you say? It's a rule I came up with at the tender age of 15 after seeing one too many of my friends get knocked up and not know who the father was. After your third trip to Planned Parenthood in a Yugo with a sobbing friend you start to wonder how to avoid getting in that situation yourself. At that time I couldn't fathom how you could not know who the father of your baby was since you should be able to pinpoint your sex partners in any given month. Then I realized some people cannot control themselves and actually have relations with more than one person per month, week, day, and sometimes hour! This led me to create the 28 day rule, which is simply that I don't sleep with more than one person per month/menstrual cycle. Keeps me off Jerry Springer with the rest of the C family and usually makes me think twice about taking advantage of some situations that may arise, including the one from last night, S, but we won't go there. I've never regretted having the rule and anyone who doesn't see the logic and absurdity in it is probably unfit for a logically absurd gal such as myself anyhow.
So there you have it. Celibacy for the month of June (probably longer in this county - the last drought was eight months!). It is a rather daunting and unpleasant thought. A memorial fund for the demise of my sex life has been established. Please send C batteries in lieu of flowers...
And so life goes on. The good news for you is that I am back on the market which means I will likely resort to internet dating if, for nothing else, entertainment and free meals. After all, there must be a few engineers and recluses out there I haven't met...
I know, I know...I should take some time to myself to regroup, etc., etc. But it's not as bad as some folks think and people get strange when they spend too much time being single and most folks know I am already strange enough. Besides, I rather like having a sidekick.
That said, the 28 day rule is officially in effect and the celibacy the clock started Monday.
What is the 28 day rule, you say? It's a rule I came up with at the tender age of 15 after seeing one too many of my friends get knocked up and not know who the father was. After your third trip to Planned Parenthood in a Yugo with a sobbing friend you start to wonder how to avoid getting in that situation yourself. At that time I couldn't fathom how you could not know who the father of your baby was since you should be able to pinpoint your sex partners in any given month. Then I realized some people cannot control themselves and actually have relations with more than one person per month, week, day, and sometimes hour! This led me to create the 28 day rule, which is simply that I don't sleep with more than one person per month/menstrual cycle. Keeps me off Jerry Springer with the rest of the C family and usually makes me think twice about taking advantage of some situations that may arise, including the one from last night, S, but we won't go there. I've never regretted having the rule and anyone who doesn't see the logic and absurdity in it is probably unfit for a logically absurd gal such as myself anyhow.
So there you have it. Celibacy for the month of June (probably longer in this county - the last drought was eight months!). It is a rather daunting and unpleasant thought. A memorial fund for the demise of my sex life has been established. Please send C batteries in lieu of flowers...
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