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Saturday, December 31, 2011

This year in nonline dating: fourth and final quarter

I got the most nonline attention this last quarter after I updated my profile pictures.  Did the quality of men change?  No, no it didn't.  (Unless you think a guy that shaved a nice clean arrow into his upper body pointing to his wiener is high quality.)  Here's what October, November and December did to me:

Dear (user name), Your pictures don't say sexy and mysterious as much as they say angry and rapist.  Just FYI.

Dear (user name), while I am flattered that you picked me to join your open relationship (I'm super into the whole "it's not cheating, we have an understanding" thing), I think I'll pass.  But don't go tempting me again!

Dear (user name), Just because you supposedly work out and play sports does not mean you can say your body type is athletic.  A picture's worth a thousand words and your 7 pictures say, "no neck due to excessive chin and bitch tits visible through shirts" over and over again.

Dear (user name), How does one become an underground hip-hop artist?  And what exactly is that?

Dear (user name): The person who wrote this: "I have a vivid imagination, I am an excellent writer to the point where I should do something with it..." could not have possibly emailed me this: "The Goonies certainly do no ever say die. They ar alve and well in my dvd cabinet. Its good that your still putting the word ut there."  (Bad grammar, bad spelling and the wrong "your."  This guy was like a triple threat of stupid.)

Here are some of the emails I received.  You might want to sit down for these:

"You are so stunningly beautiful and I want to get to know you so bad."  (Hmm, I wonder if he's all about appearances?  I looked at his profile and in one of his pictures he is holding up his wife beater to expose his abs and the caption says: "just so you know I stay fit."  I really wanted to send him back a picture of my stomach hanging over my jeans and say, "just so you know, I don't stay fit.  Still think I'm stunningly beautiful?")

"Hi Jen, I am Tall good looking guy who can dance.Have good day its butt ass cold."  (I might have to steal that phrase butt ass cold.)

Subject line: damn girl
Message: "I wanna coordinate an event on that delicious curvy body.  What's your name sexy thang?"
(throughout his entire profile he compared himself to a car: low mileage, high performance, exterior in mint condition, available for inspection by female drivers only, would love to have little Toyotas one day.  It's too bad he said Toyotas.  I was planning on having Beemers.  It'll never work.)

"Heyy I just want to let you know. that. you are gorgeous. not really expecting a reply seeing as you're a couple years older than but everyone needs an ego boost riiiight?"  What he says he's doing on a typical Friday night: "Out gettin muffffed up. No I'm kidding I'm out of the whole party stage. Don't get me wrong, I still love to go out n have hella fun, just the party scene got old to me."  (This guy is 20 years old.  He's not even old enough to be IN the party scene!)

Needless to say, I will be taking a break from the nonline dating.  Let's see if 2012 brings me a man the old fashioned way.  Like, at a bar or something.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Chapter 20, or Ladies Man strikes again

             At the end of [April 2009] I went to Sacramento for my friend Maggie’s birthday (you may remember Maggie from February when Ladies Man and I used her apartment as a sex cave).  James (whose apartment we also used as a sex cave) hosted the party at his place.
             During the mingling, when I had a nice buzz going, I went up to Ladies Man and whispered, “I don’t know if you got the memo, but I’m fucking you later.”  He almost blushed and said fake-shyly, “Oh, really?”  I said yep and walked away.

Next came the Texas Holdem tournament where we would repeatedly excuse ourselves to go upstairs to use the bathroom.  And we would use the bathroom...and then we'd make out.

         Eventually the poker game ended and I didn’t win, but I did get a consolation prize.  Another trip to the bathroom and this time we had sex.  It reminded me of this Dirty Santa gift exchange I was in once and one of the gifts was a porno called Toilet Sluts.  I think that’s what I was at that moment.  It was awesome.  Later, James told me that someone asked if we were upstairs and he said, “Yeah, they’re hittin’ it.” 

The next game was Catch Phrase.  No "bathroom" breaks.  I was in it to win it on that one.

             Not long after the game ended people started trickling out.  I saw that Ladies Man was lying on the couch so I decided to share it with him.  I fell asleep while people were leaving and woke up to a pounding on the front door.  For a while I thought it was part of my dream but it wouldn’t stop so I finally got up and answered the door.  I wasn’t happy to have been woken up until Ladies Man started kissing me.  Then I was grateful for the interruption, without which I might not have gotten laid…again.  Not that I remember all of it.  I remember getting started and then…I must have blacked out because next thing I knew I felt like I had just woken up and found myself on top of him.  I must be pretty good even while blacking out because he didn’t seem to notice.
             In the morning I could hear everyone getting ready to go to breakfast, but we just laid there.  When they came downstairs, someone asked, “Are you guys coming to breakfast?”  I mumbled, “mmhmm,” but Ladies Man didn’t say anything so I just stayed put.  I figured he was thinking we could get in some private action when they left, because that’s what I was thinking.   Sure enough, as soon as they left his hand started to wander.
             Now, I have a bone to pick with all you men out there who don’t want to use condoms.  What’s that about?  I mean, I understand if you’re sleeping with someone exclusively, but when you’re single and promiscuous you should always be using a condom.  I had a guy tell me once, “You’re the one who gets pregnant.”  Spoken like a true deadbeat disease spreader.  So, for all the lazy men out there who want to sleep around and not use condoms, I will quote Van Wilder, “Don’t be a fool; wrap your tool.”
            You can probably guess that the point of my condom rant was because Ladies Man wanted to go bare.  I told him if he wanted to get in me he’d have to go in his truck and get a condom.  We finally got to bone in an empty apartment at full volume.  It was awesome.  See, guys?  Plastic can be fantastic.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Oh lolli-lollipop

A couple of months ago I updated my pictures on my nonline dating profile.  I got 18 emails in one day.  Of those 18, one guy was worthy of a response...because his emails were witty and grammatically correct.  Over the phone he seemed like a bit of a nincompoop, but I went on a date with him anyway.  He was not a nincompoop, he just talked a little like a valley boy surfer.  We went to Zachary's.  The pizza was fantastic, the date was ordinary.  Nothing horrible, but nothing exciting.

When the check came, I did the polite reach for my wallet that I always do on dates.  He didn't stop me with the usual, "I got this."  So I pulled my wallet out of my purse.  He didn't stop me.  I pulled my credit card out of my wallet.  He still didn't stop me.  So I said, slowly, "Do you want to split it?"  He said, quickly, "Yeah, let's split it," and we dropped our credit cards in the check book.  Then he said, "Was that bad? Do I lose points for that?"  And I said, "Yep, you do, actually."  I was just being honest.  It was our first date, he couldn't pay for dinner?*

After the check was paid, three things happened that confirmed I wasn't into him:

1) He asked if my red hair was natural and I said no, but it goes with my fiery personality.  He asked if I was fiery in the bedroom, too.  I said, "That is not first date conversation, sir."  If I was into him I would've said something like, "Do you want me to answer you or show you?" or, "You'll find out soon enough."

2) We were given lollipops with our check and I grabbed one quick style.  I didn't want to kiss him and I figured he wouldn't try to kiss me if I had a lolli stick popping out of my mouth. 

3)  When we left the restaurant he walked ahead of me and opened the door for himself.**  I was hoping he wouldn't walk me to my car.  If I was into him, I'd want him to walk me to my car and kiss me goodnight.

Unfortunately, in this case, he did walk me to my car so I kept my lollipop in my mouth, my hands in my pockets and a safe, unromantic distance between us.  Despite my efforts against it...and my lollipop stick...he kissed me.  We hugged first.  He gave me the tight-grip-hold-on-I'm-gonna-kiss-you-after hug and I gave him the loose-grip-pat-on-the-back-don't-kiss-me-after hug.  I guess he didn't hear what my hug was saying because he leaned in for the kiss.  Me and my lolli stick leaned back.  He leaned in more, and we leaned back more.  He leaned in even more and at this point I couldn't lean back anymore.  Simply because I am not flexible enough.  So I said, "You're gonna kiss me on the first date?"***  He said, "Hell yeah, I'm gonna try."  So I let him kiss me.  I had to take my lolli out of my mouth and I went tight-lip-no-tongue, but he still slobbered on me.  Bleh.

He called me two more times and I finally texted him (as ordered by my most morally sound friend) saying that I didn't think we were a match.  He texted back: I have to agree for many reasons.  I can't help but think you are your own worst enemy.  Wow.  I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds like someone is a little butt sore.

*After the third date, I am happy to split the check, I am happy to pay the check, but on dates one through three I want to be wooed.  It doesn't have to be expensive wooing, but if you can't afford to buy a $36 dinner then don't take me to dinner.  Get creative.

**There are little chivalrous things I look for on dates.  One of them is walking beside me, not ahead of me.  Another is opening doors for me.  It's just polite.  Treat me like a lady in public and I'll be a tramp in private.  It's a simple give and take.  Jeez.

***Please, I totally kiss on the first date.  In fact, when I'm into a guy, I find it insulting if he doesn't  kiss me on the first date. But I wasn't into this guy.  Obviously.  I mean, I resorted to prudishness to try to avoid kissing him.  Prudishness!  Me! 

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Home alone

The longest I have ever lived alone is four months.  Before that I lived with a husband, after that I lived with a roommate.  Now, I'm living alone again in my very first apartment.  It's been three and a half months.  All by myself.

The last time, I was too busy re-learning how to take care of myself to focus on the alone part.  This time, I feel like little Macaulay Culkin running around in my underwear, screaming and waving my arms in the air.  I can do whatever I want!  I can eat lunch for breakfast and dessert for lunch and breakfast for dinner!  I have no bedtime, no curfew, and no rules.  I realize I haven't had those things for roughly 15 years (ouch), but for some reason, now, it feels different.

It's weird not having to be considerate of anyone else.  I mean, I don't have to apologize to anyone when I leave a few dishes in the sink or my mail on the counter.  It's okay if I wait until the last possible minute to empty and reload the dishwasher.  I can wait to take out the trash until the bag is busting at the seams.  And this one time, I finished the toilet paper roll and I thought to myself, "I need to put on a new roll.  Wait, I'm the only one who uses this bathroom.  I can put on a new roll next time.  Whoa, I can put on a new roll next time!  I'm gonna walk out of my bathroom without putting on a new roll.  I feel so free!

They say it's the little things in life.  I think they are right.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

This year all I want
is a tall, handsome man
who is loving and kind,
please do all that you can
to make sure he's smart
and funny and polite,
especially when I keep him
awake through the night
with my burps and my farts
which, of course, he'll adore
along with my temper
and mood swings galore.
He should think that I'm beautiful,
delicate and sweet,
even when I trip
over my own two feet.
He should love chick flicks
and think musicals are great-
oh wait, did I mention
this man should be straight?
Did you get all that, Santa?
Are you up for the task?
I really don't think that
it's too much to ask.
But, if you can't bring me
true love and pure joy,
please then, just bring me
a vibrating toy.


Monday, December 12, 2011

I dream of meanie

A couple nights ago I had a dream about The Ex.  It was really weird.  We were in a pool in a resort somewhere.  We weren't exactly there together, we were just both there.  I can't really remember what we were talking about.  Something about me being Vice President of his business and his giving me some kind of credit for it.  Random.  Anyway, I noticed a shark in the pool.  A big one.  Just chillin'.  Nobody seemed to mind that it was there, they were just swimming over it and around it, until it wrapped its mouth around a girl's head.  At that point I hopped out of the pool, narrowly escaping the shark's mouth.  Apparently, in my dreams, I have stuntman-like reflexes.

In the past, when I would dream about him, I'd wake up sad and disturbed.  I would immediately research and find out, either through Google or from the horse's mouth, that my ex cat had surgery, my ex grandma-in-law died, he took his girlfriend on a cross country trip, he got engaged and he got name a few. 

This time, I didn't wake up sad or disturbed (except about the shark part) and I didn't find out anything.  Well, I did find out one thing.  That I can't pinpoint the day I got over it.  ("It" being him, the divorce, the pain.)  I didn't wake up one day and realize it the way he woke up one day and realized he wasn't in love with me anymore.  I didn't actively take time to heal or find myself.  I didn't wait for him to come back.  I didn't put my life on hold.  I just be'd.  I just was.  I just am.  And somehow, at some point, I got over it.

I don't know if falling in love again, albeit briefly (ah, Vegas.  Curse you and bless you at the same time), helped me get over it or getting over it allowed me to fall in love again.  Either way, this was the first time I had a dream about The Ex that didn't put me in a funk for the day.  Except for the shark part.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Chapter 19 (part 2), or Return of Guy from high school

 One of the nights I was in town [for Easter and my part 1 first] I went out dancing with my sister.  On our way home at about 2am I was drunk enough that I wanted to get laid (you know, so I could feel better about myself…because that always works) so I decided it was a good idea to drunk dial Guy from high school.  It had been a while since I’d talked to him; it was time for a comeback.  Like leggings or the word rad.  He was awake and I could hear people in the background.  I said, “Guess where I am?  San-rockin’-Ramon!”  [Yes, I said San-rockin’-Ramon.  I’m not proud of it.]  I asked him what he was doing and he said he had family in town for the holiday.  I said, “But you don’t celebrate Easter.”  He reminded me that it was also Passover.  Ah, right.  I had forgotten about all those Jewish holidays that The Ex never celebrated.  So I said, “Well, can’t you sneak away for a quick fuck?”  He said he could and he’d be over in half an hour.
This guy was ridiculous!  He went for an hour and a half, breaking two condoms in the process (good thing he brought three).  I thought I was going to die.  I had to start yelling at him (whisper-yelling, of course, my parents were upstairs) to just finish already!
A couple days later my mom told me that grandma would be coming over and staying the night so I would have to move to an upstairs bedroom.  (Grandma needs the downstairs bedroom because she is mostly blind and deaf and can’t climb up and down stairs.) 
Mom said, “I’m not going to change the sheets, it was just you in there.” 
To which I replied, “No, you don’t need to change the sheets.” 
         I think one of items on the list of things that will send me to hell when I die is letting grandma sleep on sex sheets because at 31 years old I didn’t want to tell my mom I had a guy over in the middle of the night for a (not-so) quickie.  (I eventually told both of my parents one night about a year later when we were all drinking together.)

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Chapter 19 (part 1), or Cyber research

In 2009, Easter was in April.  My birthday was two days after so I celebrated both occasions with family in the East Bay.  I don't remember what I did for my birthday, but I do remember having three dreams about The Ex and boning down with Guy from high school (perhaps as a direct result of the dreams, perhaps not.  Either way, we'll talk about that trip to pound town in the next post.)

The dreams made me feel disturbed and frustrated and angry and sad.  They felt a little more like nightmares than dreams.  In every dream I would yell at him.  If [the husband stealer] was there I’d yell at her too.  Sometimes I punched her in the face.  Often times I punched him in the face (ah, those were the parts that made them dreams).  I got to do all the things that I want to do in real life, but I would never feel better when I woke up.  
At times, it gave me pleasure to imagine punching them both in the face.  It gave me more pleasure to imagine afflicting them with words, or as I like to call it, “mental warfare”.  Now, I have never punched someone in the face, nor have I ever been punched in the face.  But I’ve seen a lot of movies and I’m pretty sure a punch in the face will cause damage that will heal in a few days, maybe weeks.  Words can scar a person for life.
            About a month later I would do some cyber research (some might call it cyber stalking; research, stalking, potato, potahto) and find that while I was having those dreams, The Ex was taking her on a cross-country trip.  On my birthday.  (Obviously my birthday wouldn’t mean anything to him anymore, but it should, it’s probably going to be a national holiday one day).  Kind of like the cross-country trip he took me on a few years back.  His Twitter page wasn’t blocked at the time so I read it through to the most recent update.  It just so happened that her twitter page wasn’t blocked either so I did the same thing with hers.  What I found made me want to cry, throw things, and beat him to a pulp.  But all I did was cry.
            I found out that two weeks after he left me he sent her flowers (with no card so they were all mysterious and romantical) for her graduation.  He sent me mysterious and romantical flowers when we first started dating, too.  Four months after he left me he took her to Mexico to meet his dad and stepmom.  We used to go to Mexico to visit them around that time of year because it’s his dad’s birthday.  He took her to see Wicked.  We saw Wicked for my birthday two years before that.  For Valentine’s Day he took her to Mexico again and they got massages.  We went to Mexico for Valentine’s Day the year before and got massages at the exact same place.
            I wanted to ask him why, if he was so unhappy with me, and our life together, was he living the exact same life with her?  And I wanted to tell her to enjoy her recycled romance.   

Note:  For all the women out there who feel like I’m being the cliché woman blaming the other woman, let me explain.  My ex-husband is the one who betrayed me, not her.  He is the one who broke vows and lied and left.  He is one hundred percent to blame.  But she was no innocent victim.  She didn’t think he was single and was shocked to find out he was married.  She knew he was married, she knew who I was, she had talked to me before.  It took both of them to form a relationship outside of our marriage.  Did either of them bother thinking about anyone but themselves?  Did it occur to them that if it was that easy to break our marriage it would be just as easy to break theirs?  Their actions showed complete disregard and disrespect for marriage and that is why I harbor anger towards her as well.

Monday, December 5, 2011

I am woman, hear me...EEK!

     In the three and a half years that I have been single, I have learned that I am a strong, capable woman.  And while I want a man, I don't need a man.  I can take care of my own self.
     I can pay my own bills (thank you automatic bill pay).
     I can take out my own trash (albeit reluctantly and with a scowly face).
     I can take my own car to shop when the maintenance required light goes on (even if it takes me a week...or two).
     I can drive myself to the airport (that is, if my flight is unreasonably too early for a family member to take me).
     I can program my own thermostat (thanks for teaching me how, mom).
     I can put up my own Christmas lights (like the Jew ever helped me with that anyway).
     I can give myself my own orgasm (thank you creator of the vibrator).
     I can even take a shower at night (I still only do that in emergency situations, though.  I've seen enough horror movies to know it's extremely dangerous for a woman to take a shower at night when she's alone in the house).
     But for the life of me, I cannot kill the damn spider that is crawling across my ceiling.  He's small but he's thick and black as night.  (Um, can I get a that's what she said?)  Looking at him makes me want to vomit.  I'm afraid he's going to crawl into my ear while I sleep and lay eggs in my brain.  (Again with the horror movies.)  He's just wandering around my ceiling taunting me.  He can smell fear.
     So, I guess I do need a man.  Not to hook up my TV to my DVR, DVD player and Wii or assemble a some assembly required (which turned out to be ALL assembly required) wooden filing cabinet or set up my printer, but to killthisspider.  Any takers?

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

This year in Nonline Dating: Third Quarter

I was filling out a questionnaire for a new online dating website and up came, "I am very sensitive to people's feelings and needs."  My options are strongly disagree, disagree, agree, and strongly agree.  Strangely, there was no option for, "Agree, unless their feelings and needs are stupid."  Because that was the first thing that came to my mind.  Does that mean I should've picked agree?  Perhaps I shouldn't be online dating.  But then I wouldn't have these stories.

Here's what July, August and September brought:

Dear (user name): You think a good first date is kayaking in Sausalito?  Do you also think it's a good idea to hit me over the head with your paddle and dump my body in the bay?  Yeah, that's what I thought.

Dear (user name): You said to ask you anything.  I have two questions.  One, do you know what a comma is?  And two, have you ever heard of a run-on sentence?

Dear (user name): I think you meant to say "in other words," not "another words."

Dear (user name): Do you like to go to the gym?  It wasn't clear because you only  mentioned it five times in your profile.  Maybe a sixth time would really hammer it in properly that you are obsessed (or at least want people to think you're obsessed) with the gym.

This one guy said on his profile that ladies should message him if they have an LA face and an Oakland booty.  I totally do, so I considered responding to his email.  In the end, I didn't.  Nor did I respond to these emails:

"Hey my names Mike and I thought you were really sexy, well get back at me if you like what you see, i'm 6'6 btw too ;)"  (This guy was 22, clearly all about appearances and possibly making a penis reference.)

"Hey still keep up with a 21 year old?? lol"  (What is it with these kids?  Is that a dare?)

"How what you?  My name is Juan."  (I'm still not sure how to answer that question.)

Sunday, November 27, 2011

When it rains it pourters

I hadn't been on a date in almost a year and suddenly I had three lined up.  With three different guys.  Who all happened to be named Porter.  I had to give them identifiers in my phone so I could tell them apart.  It was partly fun and partly a pain in the ass.  Sometimes I couldn't remember which one I had talked to about certain things.  I felt a little bit like Phoebe when she was dating two guys and said it wasn't like playing the field it was like working in the field.

     Porter number one was called "Porter (tasting room)" because I met him in the tasting room at work.  (Not sure if I'm allowed to go out with a guy I meet while working, but oh well.  Too late to find out now.)  He had hypnotic eyes and a gorgeous smile and was very nice to me, but he was barely taller than me and a lot skinnier than me.  I gave him a chance anyway, considering he was the most normal guy I had encountered in a long time.
      He made me wait till the third date to have sex.  I like to call that strike one.  I used to think that it was a good idea to make the guy wait if you actually like him and want to see him again.  Now, having been on the other side of it, I see that it's a very stupid idea.  All it did was make me want those first two dates to happen real quick so I could get to the sex date.  It didn't make me like or respect him more, it just made me want the sex more.  So, either I've seen things from a guy's perspective or I'm an impatient slut.  Maybe a little bit of both, but that's neither here nor there.
     We finally did the deed and during one session, when I was on top of him, he looked at me and said, "Your face looks...weird."  Uhhhhhh.  I was actually speechless for a second.  When I found words, I said, "I can't believe you just said that!  Why would you say that to me?"  He tried to backtrack, "No, that's not what I meant!  You just, you look like you're in pain."  Not helping!  Basically he told me my sex face sucks.  Wonderful.  Needless to say, I called that strike two.
     I decided to forgive him.  We all say stupid shit sometimes, right?  Well, we did the deed another time and I started feeling sick after.  (I had some pretty bad gas from dinner.  I'm very sexy, don't be jealous.)  I told him I wasn't feeling well and I was going to go home.  He said he didn't want me to leave, what if I had to throw up on the way home or something.  I said I didn't want him to hear me being sick, so he turned on the light and the ceiling fan in the bathroom and said, "Just don't be loud."  Thanks, dick.  I said, "Um, that's not the kind of sick I'm going to be."  And he said something along the lines of light a match.  I don't really remember because the anger in my head was louder than his suddenly irritating voice.  I call that one big fat strike three.

     Porter number two was called "Porter (Table for Six)" because I met him at a Table for Six* dinner.  He had a good sense of humor and generally didn't seem like a weirdo.  We went to dinner and were able to carry on a conversation easily, which was nice, but it was perfectly ordinary.  And I want extraordinary.  Plus, I learned that he doesn't mind people being gay but he doesn't "condone it".  I said, "It's not something you condone, it's just something that is."  He didn't seem to grasp that concept and that was basically strike one and two for me.**  After the date he texted me: I have to say, your really hot.  I hope to see you again when you get back in town.  SMILE.  This text was strike three for the following reasons: 
     1) He didn't tell me he had a good time or he enjoyed my company, he told me I was hot.  Good to know you're all about looks, beefcake.
     2) He used the wrong "your".  Don't even get me started on that.
     3) I don't know if he was commanding me to smile with the use of all caps or if he does that instead of using an emoticon, but it bugged me.  Which means I didn't like him.  I would've justified the shit out of all those things if I liked him in the slightest.

     Porter number three was called "Porter (airplane)" because I met him through a girl I met on an airplane.  (It pays to talk to your neighbor.)  We texted back and forth for a couple weeks before we finally got together for dinner.  And then drinks.  And then sex.  Isn't that how it's supposed to go? 
     This guy was a former football player, he was tall and big.  With a below average weiner.  And below average use of said weiner.  Don't get me wrong, I have had my share of below average weiners and it hasn't always equaled bad sex.  Unfortunately, this time, it did.  It was too bad, he was really funny and I probably would've texted him and said something like, "So, we put out on the first date, we're equally slutty, shall we just move past it and go on a second date?"  But I couldn't get past the bad sex (strike one, two and three).  He didn't make a strong attempt to go out with me again, either, so it was probably bad for him, too.  No, that couldn't have been it.  I'm fabulous.

A few weeks after it was over with all of them, I got a text from Porter number one and Porter number three in the same day.  I was like, my goodness, when it rains it pours!  Or, in this case, pourters.  Damn, I'm funny.  At least I crack myself up.

*I like to call them Table for Sucks.  This is not based on the date I discussed above, but on the way they run their company and the way they falsely sell their service.  I would NOT recommend that anyone join.

**I don't require that everyone agree with me on gay rights (which should really just be called rights), but I get to choose who I date.  And I choose to date someone who believes in human, civil, and equal rights.

Monday, November 14, 2011

The Aussie

On my last day in Queenstown, New Zealand I did a wine tour excursion.  There were two Canadian girls on the tour who invited me to go out with them that night.  The one downfall to being with a group of 65-73 year olds was that they weren't so much down for the nighttime bar scene, so I was very excited to make new friends who knew where the bars were.

I don't know the name of the bar they took me to, but they knew all the guys there.  (Apparently, these girls had been in town a few days.)  They introduced me to this super hot Australian guy with a smile that could make your knees buckle.  And then he started talking and it got even better.  That accent is so sexy it makes me want (to quote Chelsea Handler) to take off my clothes and high five myself.  Seriously, a man with an accent could say any number of horrible things to me and I'd still have an orgasm right where I was standing.  But this tall pile of Vegemite only said wonderful things to me.

He said, "I think I saw you at the airport.  It had to be you.  I remember your reddish brown hair and your gorgeous smile and then I heard your sexy American accent and I had to meet you, but you were with a group of older people and you all looked like you were in the middle of something.  I was so upset I had missed my chance and now here you are!"

At least, he said something like that.  It was hard to concentrate on the actual words he was saying with that accent distracting me.  He definitely said the part about my sexy American accent, because I distinctly remember thinking I don't have an accent and if I do it's not sexy, but what a great way to try to get me in bed!  That kind of pick up can only work in a foreign country, way to not let the opportunity pass you by.

We talked and flirted over cocktails for a while and then...he kissed me.  Sadly, I don't remember how the moment started, I just remember we were kissing right in the middle of the bar.  I suggested we sit and kiss, like all the other people inappropriately making out in the bar.  He was a really good kisser and told me I was too, which, along with calling me beautiful, is like pushing my leg open button.

I said, "Would you think me a slutty American if I asked you to come back to my hotel?"  He said, "I really like you," and some other stuff that I didn't quite hear - accent, remember?  So we left the bar and got a taxi back to my hotel.  Once we were making out in my room we realized neither of us had condoms.  (It's possible I had already used mine up with the French guy, but that's neither here nor there.)  We went downstairs and asked the front desk if they had condoms.  (Of course they didn't, but I thought it would be funny to ask.)  They were kind enough to tell us where we could buy some.  It wasn't supposed to be far, so we walked.  And got lost.  And when we finally found the condom selling store, the Aussie realized his hostel was just across the street.  He had condoms in his room so he grabbed a few and we taxied back to my hotel (it was cleaner and I wasn't sharing a room). Then we...ya know...did it.

And let me just say this: what they say about Australian men is true.  And it's awesome.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Chapter 18, or My kick-ass divorce party (day 3)

*It will make more sense if you read day 1 and day 2 first*

We woke up very tired on Saturday morning, too late for free breakfast, so we ate some nasty processed crap and got ready to go to the pool.  I wore my tank top that said, “does this shirt make me look divorced?” and of course my button that said “kiss me, I’m divorced”.  As the six of us were walking to the three lounge chairs we were going to have to share, some guys who wanted to read my shirt stopped me. 
One guy said, “Let me see your finger.”  I assumed he meant the finger my wedding ring would go on, so I showed him.  Then he said, “Is the whole thing divorced?” 
I wasn’t sure what to assume that meant so I did a wave with my hand up and down my body and said, “Yep, it’s all divorced” and continued walking.  I was really tired and he seemed really stupid; it wasn’t worth trying to get a free drink or a kiss.
It didn’t take much time in the sun for me to start feeling yucky in the tummy.  I told the girls I didn’t feel good and needed to take a nap.  About an hour later they came back to the room and told me they made friends with some gay guys who wanted to hang out with us later.  I love gay guys!  They always say stuff like, “Girl, you look fierce!” and I know it’s true because they’re obviously not trying to sleep with me.  I told them that on the way back to the room I got us on the list at Tao, the club in the Venetian.  Suzanne texted the guys and told them to come with us to Tao and I made a call and changed our group number on the list.
At cocktail hour we managed to take down two raspberry lemon drops each while making plans to meet with our new friends.  We decided to meet them for dinner at Grand Lux because we wanted more of those insanely delicious strawberry martinis.  We took down two more of those each, but it was day 3 in a row of drinking and by this time my body was like, “I am not waking up hung over again, get drunk on your own time,” so I wasn’t even feeling a warm buzz after four cocktails.
Even if I had been lucky enough to get my buzz on, waiting in line (even in the shorter “on the list” line) was a major buzz kill.  When we finally got in we bought $14 drinks and nursed them like they were the last drinks on earth.  I think we were all feeling the weight of the last few days because none of us were really dancing and we were more irritated by how loud the music was and the people bumping into us than anything else.  At least, I hope it was just that we were feeling the weight of the last few days and not that we were rapidly aging into the kind of people who say, “Does the music have to be so damn loud?”  We decided to leave.
          We went back to our room, changed, had a few cocktails and went to Margaritaville.  I had barely enough energy and no liquid confidence to get the kisses I wanted.  I was scraping the bottom of the barrel.  I was torn between not giving a crap and knowing that the competitive woman in me would give a crap later.  I started telling guys that it was our last night in town for my divorce party and my friends had dared me to get ten kisses.  I got nine.  No tongue.  I brought the chocolates with me and gave one to each guy that kissed me. 
        Then I danced.  Suddenly I got my energy back.  Kimmy, Suzanne and Anne all left around midnight but I stayed with Gay 1 and Gay 2 (our new friends).  At some point we lost Gay 1, but Gay 2 and I closed the place down.  We danced our asses off.  It was just what I needed, and the perfect way to end the trip.  Well, the perfect way to end the trip would’ve been sex with a delicious man, but dancing is the next best thing (just like at the end of My Best Friend’s Wedding).

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Chapter 18, or My kick-ass divorce party (day 2)

*It'll make more sense if you read day 1 first*

The rest of the girls started arriving after cocktail hour Friday night, and in no time there were six of us curling hair, picking out dresses and shoes and mixing drinks and it was perfect.  I gave each of them a button that said “Jen’s kick-ass divorce party”, put on my sash and buttons, grabbed the bag of divorce chocolates and we were off.
The plan was to go to karaoke and then dancing.  I had seen this place with karaoke signs but had never been in.  It was up an escalator next to an outdoor bar that sold colorful blended drinks in yards.  We got a few of those and headed upstairs.  The place was packed.  Anne and I each put in a song and the KJ said there was about an hour wait.
There was a bride and groom at the table next to us.  The bride saw my button and said, “My brother is single!  I’ll send him over!”  Her brother came over to our table and starting chatting with us, not quite sure why he was sent over.  Then he saw my button and gave me a big hug.
“I’m so sorry!  That’s so sad, I’m so sorry!”  He said.
“The button doesn’t say hug!”  I said.
Then my girls started yelling at him to kiss me.  And he did.  He put his arms around me and kissed me hard on the mouth and then he dipped me over the chair and gave me some tongue.  It was awesome.  I could hear woo hoos and cameras clicking…and not just from my friends.  All the tables around us were watching.  Gosh, I just hate being the center of attention!
Finally it was our turn.  Anne sang, then I sang (and we were the best ones, of course).  It was pretty late by then so we left.  We went back to the outdoor bar that sells frosty yards and got a few more of those…and a few more kisses.  One of my friends has a friend who spins in Vegas and could supposedly get us into some club for free.  It was at Mandalay Bay, which was at the complete other end of the strip.  A taxi would’ve been a wise choice, but in our drunkenness we decided it was a good idea to walk.  On the way I got a kiss from a guy with a multicolored Mohawk and skinny leather pants with chains.  Each guy that gave me a kiss was given a divorce chocolate.  And if we walked by people who thought my sash was cool they got a divorce chocolate too.  And if we walked by a guy who didn’t kiss me, I would scream at him to “OBEY THE BUTTON!” 
At one point Kimmy said, “Maybe you shouldn’t scream at people.” 
I screamed at her, “MAYBE YOU SHOULD DRINK MORE!” and shoved the yard in her face.
We came across a small group of young guys who were there for a bachelor party.  The bachelor was 21.  He obeyed the button and his friends took pictures.  I told him I felt sorry for whomever he was marrying and walked on.  (Perhaps I was too harsh on the guy.  I mean, all he did was kiss a divorcee; it’s not like he had a stripper on his lap or anything.  But at the time, I was seeing the world through divorce colored glasses.) 
We had been walking forever and had gotten nowhere.  We finally just got a taxi back to the Venetian and went to the Grand Lux where we ordered a bunch of appetizers and the most delicious strawberry martinis in the world.  There was a super gorgeous guy at the table next to us and I wanted to talk to him.
 I said to my sister, “Kimmy, give me a reason to talk to that guy.” 
She said, “I’ll give you one hundred cool points if you talk to him.”  (If you’ve ever heard of strip Happy Days game, you’ll know what I’m talking about.)
Done.  He was from Chicago.  He was in Vegas with his friend and his friend’s wife and their single girl friend.  Supposedly he was not shacking up with the single girl friend so I was hoping to get my kiss on.
As I worked on him, my friends slowly started drifting back to the hotel room and by 5am Kimmy and Ailene were the only ones left.  They were ready for bed too and I thought this was the perfect opportunity for Chicago and me to have one of those adventures people have in the movies.  You know, where two people meet and stay up all night and either fall in love or have sex or both?  I was all ready for my movie romance to start but he wanted to go to bed.  Alone.  He hugged me good-bye a bunch of times. What’s with the hugging?  Hugs are for condolences, and hellos and goodbyes from family and friends not from gorgeous strangers in the romantic movie in my head.
I got a total of seven kisses that night, none of which were from Chicago.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Chapter 18, or My kick-ass divorce party (day 1)

           Remember when I found out I was divorced [February 2009] and started making plans for a weekend in Vegas?  Well, I’ve always liked the Venetian because it’s among what I consider the best part of the strip...and they give you slippers.  I looked through their accommodations and came across the Concierge Suite.  It was perfect. You get complimentary breakfast, afternoon hors d’oeuvres, and evening cocktail hour.  Ok, let’s face it; what really caught my eye was the evening cocktail hour.  Free drinks for three hours?  I’m going to say no to that?  Drinks are stupid expensive in Vegas, I figured in three hours we could definitely drink more than $100 worth of cocktails and end up saving money.  It’s really all about the math.  So I booked it.
Apparently I’m not the first person to have a divorce party because you can get all kinds of cool party stuff on the Internet.  Right there with the bachelorette stuff.  I got a black sash with red blinking lights that said Just Divorced, a big bag of chocolates with wrappers that said things like “forget the ring, I want alimony”, “free at last”, “divorced is the new engaged”, “next time I’ll marry for money”, etc., and divorce party themed candy bar wrappers to make favors.  My sister Kimmy and I made a button for me that said “Kiss me I’m divorced!” and buttons for the rest of the group that said “Jen’s kick-ass divorce party”.
My friend Anne found a bunch of stuff online, too, and everyone pitched in to get me buttons that said “just divorced, buy me a drink” and “back on the market, reasonable offers considered”, shirts that said “we all know I was too good for him” and, my favorite, “does this shirt make me look divorced?” a mug and coaster that said “love is grand, divorce is a hundred grand”, and a magnet that said “I’m even more kick ass now that I’m divorced”.  I was so Divorce Couture.

I ended up having five girls come to My Kick-Ass Divorce Party: Ailene, Suzanne, Anne, my roommate, and Kimmy.  Kimmy flew down on Wednesday night, stayed at my house and we drove to Vegas on Thursday.  Everyone else had to work so they would be joining us Friday night.  We stopped at the grocery store on our way to stock up on booze and snacks for the weekend.  Disgusting snacks you would otherwise never buy are also important.  Armed with the essentials, plus a playlist entitled “my kick ass divorce mix”, we headed off to sin city.
When we checked in, we were told it was cocktail hour and would we like a martini while we check in?  Um, I would love a martini while I check in, thank you.  By the time we were done checking in we were ready for another martini.  I wanted to make sure our luggage got to our room so we could beautify for cocktail hour. 
I said, “Kimmy, let’s hurry and get ready so we can come back up for more cocktails.”  The lovely Concierge said, “Would you like to take a cocktail with you?”  Um, I would love to take a cocktail with me, thank you.  We were given two more martinis and headed off to our room.  It was the best hotel treatment I’d ever had.  I don’t know how I’ll ever slum it at a regular hotel again.
Our luggage arrived shortly after we did so we beautified quickly.  (We only had about an hour before cocktail hour ended.)  Dressed in our little dresses and big booby bras, we slapped on our buttons and headed back to the lounge where martinis were waiting.  We had enjoyed three more martinis and some teeny tiny appetizers when we realized we should eat some real food.  We decided to go to Margaritaville; it was a quick walk.  On our way out of the hotel we ran into two older men who noticed my buttons.  I was wearing the one that said “Kiss me I’m divorced” and the one that said, “Just divorced, buy me a drink”.  They both laughed and slurred drunkenly and one of them planted one right on my mouth.  My first button-influenced kiss!
When we got to Margaritaville we headed straight to the bar where there was a swarm of men.  We ordered margaritas and waited for my buttons to be noticed.  It didn’t take long.  The first guy that approached me was dressed all in white with a white sailor hat on.  We called him Popeye.  Well, not to his face.  He asked me what my buttons said so I pushed out my chest and let him read them.  He opted for the kiss.  So did the rest of the group he was with.  We nicknamed them Cougar Chaser, Sister Lover, Jail Bait, Chocolate Hotness, and Two Brown Guys.  I don’t know if their opting for the kiss over the drink meant they were super cheap or I was super hot.  It could have been both.
Jail Bait was so named because he was 23.  Which doesn’t make him legally jailbait, but I was 31 at the time.  That’s quite a bit older than 23.  But besides Popeye, he was the most interested in me, and the one I let kiss me with tongue.  Popeye tried to stick his tongue in my mouth, but I kept my lips clamped shut.  I think the most likely reasons I gave in to Jail Bait were because he was super tall and kept telling me I was beautiful (you know I’m a sucker for that).
I got a total of eight kisses that night and Jail Bait’s phone number.  We closed down Margaritaville and on our way back to the hotel, Kimmy and I realized we hadn’t paid for any of our drinks and we had forgotten to eat.  Oh well, good thing we had nasty processed crap waiting for us in the hotel room.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

This year in Nonline Dating: Second Quarter

Shopping at the online man store is like going to a garage sale at the end of the day and all that's left are mismatched shoes and partial sets of chipped tableware. 

This is how April, May and June turned out:

Dear (user name): Writing a poem in your 'about me' section might make some women think you are creative and sensitive, but it makes me think you should be in the men seeking men category of the website. Just sayin'.

Dear (user name): it's okay to use commas. And spellcheck. And to proofread.

Dear (user name): That's so funny, I AM looking for a man who will tell me what time it is and put me in my place when I need it. Will you also smack me around when I run my mouth? P.S. I think you meant to say, "chivalry is not dead" not "shivery is not dead". Uh oh, does correcting your spelling count as a time when I need to be put in my place? What time is it? 

Dear (user name): Yes, I am every is all in me. Thanks for asking. And for finding a way to draw me in with Whitney Houston. And for having seven pictures of just your body parts and zero pictures where your face can actually be seen. And for having a picture of your hand slightly in your pants. That one was my favorite.

Dear (user name): It's not that you spelled "manerizims" and "sandwitch" wrong, or that you look like a serial killer. It's that you used the wrong "your" throughout your profile. And the serial killer thing.

My two favorite emails of the quarter:

"Your Sexy !
I Would love to give you a D!ck in a box :)
Are you a playful Girl?"

(Grr, if only he hadn't used the wrong "your"!)

"Ive just made love to your profile and am still considering calling the next day. I am truly enamored."

(It was actually kinda funny, and it was nice to know that something of mine is being made love to, but it still had that slight element of creepiness.)

Friday, November 4, 2011

The French Guy

In January of 2010 I spent the first chunk of the vacation fund I had put aside from my divorce settlement on a 19 day trip to Australia and New Zealand.  I went with a tour group that consisted of me and eight others.  They were all between 65 and 73 years old.  And I had a blast with them!

In Australia we went to Sidney, Cairns and Melbourne, then in New Zealand we went to Christchurch, Queenstown and Auckland.  Naturally, there were several flights and bus trips between each.  I made a rule with my group that if anyone got sat next to a hot guy, they had to switch seats with me.  I was going through a five month drought so they were all happily willing to help me out.  (One of the many reason I loved my group.)

So it was, on our flight from Melbourne to Christchurch, that Meredith called to me from her seat in the plane, "Hey Jen, do you mind switching with Vic?  He really likes the window seat."  I looked at the seat next to Vic and sure enough, there was a hot guy sitting there.  So I said, very casually, "Oh, sure, I don't mind at all," and took my place between Meredith and the mysterious hot guy she'd gift wrapped for me.

For the majority of the flight he didn't even seem to notice me.  I tried pretending to look out the window so that he might think I was looking at him, I tried crowding the arm rest so that our arms touched, I even spied at his laptop when it was open to see if there was anything I could ask him about, but the angle was bad and I couldn't see anything.

It wasn't until we started to descend that he finally spoke to me.  He asked if I wanted to look out the window because we were getting closer and could see the beautiful New Zealand mountains and shit.  When he spoke I heard he had an accent so I asked him where he was from.  He was from France!  I gave Meredith a mental high five.

We talked for the remainder of the flight and through customs and then we got separated after baggage claim.  My group gave me a hard time for letting him get away so I wrote the name and address of our hotel on a slip of paper so that if I happened to run into him again, I could not-so-subtly let him know where I was staying.

When we were getting on the shuttle to our hotel, one of the women in my group spotted the French guy at the bus stop.  She said, "Jen, there he is!  Here's your chance!"  I called out his name, walked toward him, gave him the slip of paper and said, "In case you're looking for a place to stay, I think there are still vacancies at our hotel."  And in my room.

We we were given a tour of Christchurch and then had lunch.  As we were walking back to our hotel, someone in my group said, "Jen, is that your boyfriend?"  I looked toward the hotel and there he was, my French guy, walking very slowly and casually in front of my hotel.  I was totally gonna score!

And I did.  That night...and the next day and night, too.  My favorite part (besides the slow, romantic sex with a mysterious French guy) was when he came to pick me up at the hotel the first night.  (I had an excursion right after I ran into him in front of the hotel so we decided to meet up that night.)  Somehow, my whole group ended up in the lobby of the hotel where I was waiting.  Some were playing cards, some were checking email and some had just returned from dinner.  One of the men in my group said, "Bring this guy in here, I want to meet him!"  It was like waiting for my prom date or something.  I saw him walk up so I met him outside, but the front of the hotel was all windowed walls so as we walked away, my whole group smiled and waved at us.  It would've been embarrassing if it wasn't totally adorable.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

F*ck off/Oral hygiene

My week in Ireland was followed by a week in Scotland.  I had a great time, even though I was told to fuck off three times.

The first time, we were at this tiny restaurant/pub.  I was in the seat with easiest access to the bar so it was my job to get our drinks all night.  Every time I went to the bar this old man would just stand there staring at me with his mouth open.  Finally, on what ended up being my last trip to the bar, he managed to bark slash spit a few words at me in a drunken Scottish accent, "Yer beautiful!"  I said thank you and went about ordering my drinks.  He continued to stare at me, open mouthed.  Then he slowly started leaning toward me.  I looked at him and saw that he still had his mouth open, so I bowed my head quickly and his kiss hit me in the forehead.  I grabbed my drinks and as I started to walk away he shouted slash slurred, "Fuck off!"

The third time (I'm saving the second time for last because it's the best of the three), we were in an after hours club with some friends we had made.  I was at the very crowded bar waiting to order some drinks when the guy next to me started chatting me up.  He put his hand on my ass and offered to buy me a drink.  I let him keep his hand on my ass and I let him buy me a drink.  When our drinks arrived he said, "Don't you think I should get a kiss now?"  I replied, "I think the fact that you've had your  hand on my ass the entire time we've been standing here is payment enough.  Thanks for the drink."  He told me to fuck off, so I did.  Fuck off means walk away, right?

The second time, we were in a cute little pub with phrases painted all over the ceiling.  (My favorite one said Eatin' Ain't Cheatin'.  I mean, I suppose that could be true in certain circles.)  One of my turns at the bar this guy walked up and said, "You want a drink?"  I told him that, yes, I was getting a drink.  He said, "No, I'll buy you a drink."  I thanked him and the bartender started making my drink.  I was drinking double absolute blackberry with sprite and as she started pouring in the second shot the guy goes, "Whoa, whoa!"  The bartender said, "You offered to buy her a drink, this is what she's drinking."  I thought it was an awesome response, but apparently the guy didn't because when I thanked him for the drink he told me to fuck off.

I went back to my table and as I was telling my gay the story, the guy walked up to me and asked me where I was from.  I said I was from California.  He said sarcastically, "You mean Mexico?"  I can see where there might be some confusion there, but still.  I said, "No, California.  California is in the United States and Mexico is in...Mexico."  This time he got a little patronizing and said, "The United States of America..." and as he spit the word America at me, something fell out of his mouth and into my lap.  I shrieked and brushed whatever it was onto the floor.  He picked it up and took off.  I turned to my gay with a look of horrified confusion and said, "What was that?!"  This is the best part.  He looked at me and through unstoppable laughter said, "It was his teeth!"  This guy's two front teeth feel out of his mouth and into my lap!

He actually had the balls to approach me again.  He sat down and asked me, "Why do Americans have such good teeth?"  I told him because we go to the dentist every six months.  He said, "Doesn't that get kind of annoying?"  I said, "No, because then we have good oral hygiene."  And our teeth don't fall out into people's laps.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Irish Guy

**Warning:  this post is rated NC-17, which means patently adult, children not admitted**

I went to Ireland in March of 2010 with my favorite gay.  We arrived in Dublin on St. Patrick's Day.  I had been told before that they don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Ireland.  Well, that information was incorrect.  They have a parade, people dress up, paint their faces, everyone is drinking - it was like Gay Pride and the Fourth of July had a butt child.

Our flight got in quite early and we knew we weren't going to last all day drinking so we took a nap midway through our day.  We chose our favorite pub from the afternoon to go back to that evening.  There was a live band and dancing, it was perfect.  (I don't remember the name of the pub and I blame that on the whiskey.)

My gay and I took turns buying drinks and it happened to be my turn when this attractive, black leather jacket wearing guy (he was very Kenickie from Grease) approached the bar.  We hung out and talked there for a bit and then I remembered I had to bring my gay his drink.  I brought the Irish guy, too.

The three of us talked for a while and the Irish guy kept buying us both drinks.  Such a kind lad.  My gay kept taking smoke breaks outside and during those moments I was left alone to make out with the Irish guy in the pub.  At first I resisted because I don't like to make out in pubs.  Then I looked to my left and a couple was making out.  I looked to my right and a couple was making out.  I looked across from us and a couple was making out.  I figured it was just something they do in Ireland and I should respect their customs while I was in their country.  I mean, I didn't want to be a rude American, did I?

Then the time came when Irish guy asked me to go home with him.  I said something like, "What, you think I'm some slutty American girl who goes home with a guy the first night she meets him?"  The answer to that question is, of course, yes.  Yes, I am and yes, I do.  But I didn't want him to know least not right away.  When my gay came back I asked him what I should do, "It would be stupid to go home with him, right?  Stupid and dangerous?"  My gay said, "It's up to you, honey."  I translated that to mean, "Absolutely not stupid!  And what's dangerous about it?"

So I had my gay take a picture of me with the Irish guy (in case I turned up missing, we'd have photo evidence of the last person I was seen with) and I went home with the him.  His flat looked very much like what I imagine a serial killer's flat would look like.  White walls, no pictures or art, a couch, a bed, a dresser.  Obviously, he was not a serial killer because I am still alive to tell this story.  Yay for being alive!

He took me in the bedroom and that was where I learned that huge penis does not necessarily equal good in bed.  This guy actually bruised my lady bits.  (Details of the bruising would be more appropriate in a different forum.  I don't want my rating to go from NC-17 to X)  And there was a lot of upper body movement, but nothing going on in the lower body area.  Which is kinda the most important area for movement. 

During sex he would say stuff to me like, "You're a dirty little whore!"  and, "You're a dirty little slut!"  and, "You're a dirty little bitch!"  All in an Irish accent, so it was delayed reaction insulting.  First I'd think, yeah, talk to me in your sexy accent!  And then I'd think, wait, did he just call me a whore?  It was the weirdest, meanest sex I'd ever had.

The next morning I asked him to call me a cab, but he offered to drive me to my hotel.  Very chivalrous for such a nasty little leprechaun.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Chapter 17, or The worst date ever

Thinking about this date [with sloppy kissing East Coast Jew Musician from Chapter 16] still makes me feel ill.  His looks were bad, his personality was worse and he was borderline creepy.  So, to save me from vomiting, I’m going to muscle through this date by simply listing the reasons why it was the worst date ever.

1.     The whole night he called me by my full name: Jennifer Liotta.  Jennifer Joanne.  Jennifer Joanne Liotta.  Who does that?  I must’ve told him to call me Jen a million times.  Hey Slobby Magee, those giant ears are for listening.
2.     He said, “I think I saw your headshot online.  Yeah, that was you.  Jennifer Liotta”  Yep, he googled me.  And told me about it!  I felt a little violated, actually.  And not in a good way.  The first thing I did the next day was to email The Ex and ask him to take down my super old webpage that I had forgotten about.
3.     One piece of our dinner conversation consisted of him telling me that he’d been on Prozac for the last eleven years.  Now, I’ve been on my fair share of low dosage antidepressants, but I don’t think the subject is first date dinner conversation.
4.     Throughout dinner he kept trying to hold my hands across the table and do the Creepy Rub.  The Creepy Rub can also be known as the Romantic Caress when done by a person that doesn’t make you want to vomit.  To get him to stop I put one hand on the chair next to me and held my wine glass with the other.  Every time I switched from wine to water he would take the opportunity to grab my hand.  So I’d say I needed my hand and then search through my purse for Chap Stick.  I did everything I could to make my hands unavailable and avoid the Creepy Rub.  Nothing polite I was doing worked so finally I told him that he was making my hands itch.
5.     There were two times we had to use the restroom.  (People have asked me why I didn’t leave when he was in there and all I could say was, “oh, man, why didn’t I think of that!”  It didn’t even occur to me to escape the date.  I may sound mean but I’m actually quite nice.)  The first time he went he kissed me before he left.  He kissed me!  I didn’t even see it coming so I couldn’t stop him!  He kissed me and said, “I think you’re a very beautiful woman.”  I have never felt so grossed out by those words in my life.  I’m not your girlfriend!  Go to the bathroom and come back and leave me alone in the process!  The second time he went to the bathroom he asked if he could kiss me.  I acted like I didn’t hear him and got all uncomfortable.  He could tell, so he said, “I’m making you uncomfortable; I’ll just go for the shoulder.”  And he kissed my shoulder!  My bare shoulder!  It’s kind of an intimate place to kiss someone and it was so territorial; I felt like he was peeing all over me.
6.     When karaoke was starting I found two couples at the bar that would be participating and started talking with them.  Suddenly I felt arms go around my waist and hands clasp in the front.  It was Slobby MaGee!  He actually wrapped his arms around me like we were teenagers taking a photo at prom or had been dating for months.  So I used my hands to remove his.  He put them back.  I removed them.  He put them back.  I removed them again and he said to the strangers I had just met, “Have you met Jennifer Liotta?  Jennifer Liotta is a great singer.”  I said, “You haven’t even heard me sing.”  I told the strangers we were on a first date.  They thought that was so cute.  ECJM put his arms around me again and I removed them again, so he said to the strangers, “Jennifer Liotta doesn’t like it when I touch her or give her compliments.”  Well, now I looked like an asshole so I shouted, “I’ve been divorced for one month!”  From the strangers,  “Aw, you’re just divorced?”  ECJM started to interject when one of the strangers said, “She just got divorced; it’s not about you!”  Now I had friends.  I invited them to join us for karaoke so I wouldn’t have to be alone with inappropriate handsy man.
7.     I wanted to leave after I’d sung all my songs but I didn’t know how to tell Handsy that I was ready to leave because I was afraid he’d walk me to my car and try to kiss me.  Bleh.  So I just kept dancing with my new friends.  We were rocking a classic from the 90’s when I saw Handsy get up, put on his jacket and walk outside.  I thought to myself, I’m pretty sure he’s not a smoker.  Is he leaving?  Is he walking out on me?  Is he mad because I’m not dancing with him?  Well, if he’s going to be a big baby I’m not going to chase after him.  And then I thought, I’ve been looking for a way out of this since dinner, if I knew we could just walk out I would’ve!  Maybe I could’ve avoided that nasty shoulder kiss.  I continued dancing.  Shortly after the song ended my new friends were ready to leave so I took that opportunity to leave also.  Just to be safe I texted Handsy to ask where he went.  What if he just stepped outside and then I take off and I’m the asshole?  I’d much rather have him be the asshole.  I decided that if he didn’t respond to the text by the time I got to my car I’d call him.  One last way to cover my ass.  Damn my parents for raising me with manners!  He didn’t answer when I called so I left him this message: “Hi Handsy, it’s Jen; I saw you leave but I don’t know where you went so I’m thinking one of two things happened.  One, you went outside to get some air and I missed you on my way out; two, you went outside to get some air and were kidnapped and murdered; or secret option number three, you’re being a big baby because I wasn’t giving you enough attention so you left.  Sooo, hope you didn’t get murdered, bye!”  He called me the next afternoon and left this message, “Hey Jennifer, it’s Handsy, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night.  I think I had too much to drink and my judgment was impaired, I just saw you dancing and having so much fun so I left.  I understand if you never want to speak to me again, butIhopethatyoudon’t, but if you never want to speak to me again..I think you’re an amazing woman and I wish you the best in everything.  Hopeyoudon’thatemebye.”  He had too much to drink so he decided to drive 30 miles back to LA?  Jackass.  About six hours later he sent me a text: you can hate me if you want to.  What are we, 12?

Now, any one of these things on their own may not seem like such a disaster (except #7) but when you put them all together it’s a recipe for a crap sandwich.  Lessons learned:   
1.  Never go on a date just to go on a date.
        2.  Jews and Liottas just don’t mix.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

How To Be Sad and Pathetic: An Expert's Manual

I'm sure some of you are wondering how to deal with a broken heart.  Well, look no further.  I have the answer.  It's simple: you become sad and pathetic.  Maybe you're also wondering how to become sad and pathetic?  Just follow these steps:

Step 1:
Listen to songs that makes you cry.  Make a playlist and put it on repeat for several hours.  See if you can't cry the whole time.  My suggestions:
         1. Somewhere down the road - Barry Manilow
         2. Weekend in New England - Barry Manilow
         3. Someone Like You - Adele
         4. Glitter in the Air - Pink
         5. Here Comes Goodbye - Rascal Flatts
         6. What Hurts the Most - Rascal Flatts
         7. Broken Hearted Me - Anne Murray (an oldie but goodie)
         8. Look Away - Chicago (another oldie but goodie)
         9. You're Still Here - Faith Hill
         10. Let Me Let Go - Faith Hill
         11. There You'll Be - Faith Hill (she has some good tearjerkers)
         12. A Bad Goodbye - The Judds with Clint Black
         13. Is It Over Yet - The Judds
         14. A Little Fall of Rain - Les Mes
         15. Still Holding On - Martina McBride & Clint Black
         16. And Still - Reba McEntire (reminds me of my sad and pathetic high school days)
         17. What If It's You - Reba McEntire
         18. I'll Cover You (reprise) - Rent Soundtrack
         19. Still Holding Out For You - Shedaisy
         20. White Horse - Taylor Swift
         21. Just A Dream - Carrie Underwood
         22. She Can't Be Really Gone - Tim McGraw
         23. Don't Take the Girl - Tim McGraw
         24. You Don't Love Me Anymore - Tim McGraw (this one really rips your heart out)
         25. For Good - Wicked Soundtrack

(I realize the list is about 97% country songs, but ask yourself, does anyone do sad and pathetic better than country?) 

Step 2:
Watch movies that make you cry.  Preferably tragic love stories that end in death, but anything that makes you cry will do.  Just be sure to watch the movies in bed with a glass (or bottle) of wine.  My suggestions:
         1. Forrest Gump
         2. The Notebook (duh)
         3. Phenomenon
         4. Ghost
         5. Love Story
         6. Titanic (come on, you know it made you cry when it first came out)
         7. Moulin Rouge
         8. Finding Neverland
         9. My Life
         10. My Dog Skip
         11. Marley and Me (if that movie doesn't make you cry, you might be dead inside)
         12. My Girl (he can't see without his glasses on!)

And there you have it.  It's just like sweating out a fever.  Be sad and pathetic and cry out the heartbreak.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Chapter 16, or The lock and key party

In early March 2008 I went with my friend Suzanne to a Lock and Key party.  It's a singles event where all the guys have keys and all the girls have locks and you walk around trying to find a match.

          When we first walked in we went straight to the bar (obviously).  There was a guy waiting for a drink and he started talking to us.  Blah, blah, blah, his key didn’t match either of our locks, so off we went.  In the course of our searching for a matching key we didn’t run into anyone particularly hot or interesting so, finally, I just gave up and gave in to a real conversation with the guy at the bar.  Is it bad that he had been getting cuter the more I drank? 
            I actually said to Suzanne, “I think he’s cuter than he was when we first got here.  Do you think that’s because of his personality or because I’ve been drinking?”  What I wish she had said was, “RUN!”  What she actually said was, “He’s really sweet.  Sometimes that makes people cuter.”  And I know that’s true.  I also know the kind of power alcohol has on looks.  I think men refer to it as ‘beer goggles’.  But I was newly divorced so I didn’t just like the attention; I needed it.  So I went with it must be his personality making him cuter.  On my list of things not to do while drinking:
            1) Try to justify anything.
            2) Make decisions based on those justifications.
            The guy from the bar suggested we sit and talk, so I told Suzanne where I was going to be and sat on a bench with this guy.  He was from New York and had moved to Los Angeles 11 years ago.  Great, another east coaster like my ex-husband.  He loved Disneyland.  Well, that’s cool; I like a guy who likes Disneyland.  But then something about religion came up and I asked him if he was religious.  Somehow I knew the answer before I asked it. 
He said, “Actually I was raised Jewish.  Have you ever dated a Jewish guy?” 
Bitch, please.  I said, “I was married to a Jewish guy.” 
So he’s a Jew from the east coast, just like my ex-husband.  Then I found out that he likes karaoke and dancing.  And he plays the drums.  A musician, just like my ex-husband.  An east coast Jew musician?  This was all a little too close to home.  In my mind I made a pro/con list:
Likes Disneyland
Likes karaoke
Likes dancing

From the east coast, like my ex-husband
Is Jewish, like my ex-husband
Is a musician, like my ex-husband

It came out even which didn’t help the situation.  But then he kept telling me I was beautiful, a tricky distraction.  I had to add ‘good taste’ to the pro list.  So we talked more about karaoke and dancing.  He said he likes a girl that can dance; she has to be able to dance. 
So I said, “Well then you better be a good dancer too.”  He said he was.  I said, “Jews can’t dance!” 
He must have found that funny and adorable instead of sarcastic and possibly racist because not long after that he kissed me.  Now, as you know, kissing is one of my favorite things in the world to do.  And he ruined it for me.  Kissing this guy was the opposite of my favorite thing in the world to do.  Like talking politics or working out.  How is it possible, if your mouth is on my mouth that your tongue is on my chin?  And stop slobbering all over me, please.  It was like he was a dog and I was a water bowl.   
            I said, “I don’t want to be those people making out in a bar.” 
            Which wasn’t a lie, but mostly, I just didn’t want to kiss him anymore.  He kept trying though, so I had to come up with a better excuse.  Suzanne!  Where was Suzanne? Looking for her was the perfect excuse to stop and we found her on her way to the dance floor, so why don’t we join her?  Wow.  He wasn’t the worst dancer I’ve ever seen, but I was thinking he should take back his earlier comment that he could dance.  After about half an hour I told Suzanne that I was ready to go when she was.  She was ready.
            He walked us to our cars and when he asked me for my number I gave it to him.  I don’t even know why.  I think it was just because he was so complimentary.  I liked the idea of someone being so into me.  And no one had asked for my number in a long time.  And I have issues saying no.  So I gave him my number and I drove home and I tried to remember what he looked like and forget what he kissed like.