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.

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 that...at 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.

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.

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.

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:

Pros:

Likes Disneyland

Likes karaoke

Likes dancing

Cons:

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.

This year in Nonline Dating: First Quarter

Between Plenty of Fish and Ok Cupid, this is how January, February and March treated me:

The first date section of the profile of this guy who emailed me:  "Japanese tea garden on a rainy ass day is the best time to get to know some one your body is already attracted to so the next stage is to get our minds on the same page."

(And that was only part of it.  Also, his email message to me was "ur fine."  If he had said, "yo fine" I probably would've responded.)

Dear (user name): If in Europe it is not considered slutty to "have a glass of wine then get naked" on the first date, then I am seriously considering moving to Europe.  But while I am still in "uptight" America, the answer is no.  But thanks.

(It's not that I'm above sleeping with a guy on the first date, but I don't reveal that information until the proper moment.  Duh.  Seems to me this guy is more impatient than I am uptight.)

Dear (user name): Because 7 or your 8 pictures are of your art and only one is of you, I would prefer to date your art.  Don't get mad at me, you brought this on yourself.

Dear (user name): I'm having a hard time believing you're 29.  Pictures don't like, you shouldn't either.  And if you are 29, maybe it's time to start wearing night cream?  Just a suggestion.

Dear (user name): Junior high called, it wants its glamor shots back.

Dear (user name): Despite your picture, I'm pretty sure you are not Captain Jack Sparrow.  Although, I wish you were.

Good start to the year, huh?

Chapter 15, or Divorce and strippers

             On February 24^th [2009], a Tuesday morning, The Ex called me.  His lawyers had informed him that judgment came back and our divorce was final as of February 11^th.  He was so casual.  It was like he was telling me he was feeding the cats or doing his laundry, not that our marriage was officially, legally and in all other ways over. 

            My mind started racing and my head started spinning.  I had been divorced for 13 days and didn’t know it.  (I probably would’ve made Valentine’s Day a whole lot more interesting if I had known.)  I was divorced.  It was real.  And none of the redecorating or burning stuff or cleansing or sexcapades had done anything to make hearing it easier.  I still missed my husband, I still missed our life and I still missed my cats.  What happened to the man who had fought so hard for me?  Why had it been so easy for him to walk away?  Was it because of that girl from his work?  Of course, I didn’t have any answers. 

            So, after his call (what a great way to wake up) I cried.  I wallowed.  Then I had a brilliant idea.  Divorce Party.  Vegas.  But I’ll get to that later.

            My friend Savanna works at a cigar bar.  She texted me that Seduction!  Exotic Men of Magic was going to be there.  A combination magic and strip show.  Sounded like perfect timing to me!

            When I got there, she told me she had two other friends there for me to hang out with so I wouldn’t be by myself.  They were Bill and Jackie.  Before the show started the Men of Magic walked around with pamphlets describing the different kinds of lap dances we could buy.  Bill bought the most expensive one for Jackie and me.  It was $100 and you got to go on stage and get a lap dance from all four guys, a picture with them, a tee shirt signed by them and a backstage pass.  (“Backstage” being a visit to their trailer.  Classy, right?)

            The show started and there was some mediocre magic followed by some mediocre dancing.  When it was time for our lap dances Jackie didn’t want to go on stage, so I went by myself.  I had never had a lap dance before so I was pretty excited.  I don’t know how they’re supposed to go but these guys put my hands in their pants and their heads between my legs and basically dry humped me.  It was hot and hilarious at the same time.  One of the guys was so young I actually thought it might be illegal for him to give me a lap dance.  And I wasn’t sure if I could get an STD from hand to stripper-dick contact, but that was one of the things going through my mind.

            When the show was over I got my picture and my tee shirt and instead of having them sign the tee shirt, the margaritas in me thought it would be funnier to have them sign my chest.  One of the stripper-magicians took me “backstage” and tried to bone me in the trailer.  I didn’t know where the hell that guy’s dick had been and I didn’t even want to think about how many condoms it would take to protect me from whatever he might be carrying, so I politely declined.

            It was no Chippendales, but it’s still a pretty fun way to remember the day I found out I was divorced.