L Goes on a Date with an Anti-Semetic, OCD, Homophobic Misogynist (who likes the Goo Goo Dolls)

I just had to share this post with you guys. Fits in nicely with my Bad Date Chronicles, which, for better or worse, I have no new material for.

Petworth's Finest

It’s common knowledge that I don’t have the best track record with dating. JB and I broke up via text message and he dropped off my belongings on my porch with a post-it. Seriously. My subsequent flame turned out to be married with a kid. Oh, and his wife was seven months pregnant. That was unfortunate for everyone involved.

So what will 2012 bring? Well, I have already had one failed date. But at least this shit is entertaining! It was so bad that I have decided to provide you with a glimpse into our conversation. I’m going to break it down by his…qualities.

Scene: Looking Glass Lounge. Clearly I could not go to Meridian Pint because J the bartender would just make fun of me endlessly. And I would look like an alcoholic to my date.

Date: We will call him the Engineer. Attractive, well dressed, drinking…

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Taking a Dump – The Ethical Way

Today I officially and, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation, gave the old heave-ho to this guy and this guy.  How do I feel?  Relieved?  Empowered?  Smug?  No.  I feel totally shitty and kind of shaken.  I mean, as exasperating as these two were, they were, at the core, truly nice human beings.  I dated each of them for roughly 2 months a piece, although in retrospect I let things go on for about a  month too long.  Why is it that I give so much latitude, benefit of the doubt and graciousness to those that dump me, but I have no such charitable feelings about myself when I do it to others?

Let’s face it – nobody wants to give out bad news to another person.  I HATE confrontation.  But I realized recently that I had stayed far too long in many situations, not just relationships that were doing nothing for me, or were even damaging me in some way simply because I was too afraid to speak up and assert myself.  Because I was so, so afraid of someone being mad at me or not liking me.  How in the world has it taken me almost 35 years to start getting over this mindset?  How have I been so deeply programmed by bullshit traditional gender narratives that I didn’t even realize I was doing this?  Am I not a kick-ass feminist?  It’s time I started acting like one for fuck’s sake!

It would have been pretty easy to pull the fade on these dudes.  I mean, even the most thick-headed and socially clueless person figures out after a few weeks of unanswered texts that the other person is just no longer interested.  Pulling the fade just isn’t my style.  It’s been done to me PLENTY of times and while the prevailing wisdom out there in the murky swamp of internet dating advice is that this is a perfectly acceptable way to end things, I just can’t bring myself to do that.  I may be a slut, but I try to practice my sluttery in ethical ways.  These fine gentleman, while ultimately not the right fit for me, gave to me their time, their hospitality, and occasional use of their lovely cocks.  It’s the least I can do to end things cleanly and without question, right?  It’s what I would want.  (You listening Karma?  I’m doing the right thing over here.  Throw some good shit my way you bitch!  Just kidding.  I love you).

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to repeat this wretched process 2 or 3 more times before I lose my nerve!

Shit or Get Off the Pot

This cat has clearly chosen the "shit" option. I respect that.

This is one of my mother’s favorite sayings.  Along with “Life isn’t fair” and “If you wear too much lipstick your lips will fall off” (hey – they can’t all be gems) I heard this a lot growing up.  It means, in short, be decisive.  When faced with too many options, I get anxious and completely indecisive.  But what do you do with someone who, when faced with only 1 option, still can’t pull the trigger?

I met Mr. Indecisive off of OK Cupid earlier this year.  He came at me pretty hard with the whole “hey sexy” thing, but I was fairly certain, based on the type of humor in his profile, that he was being ironic/funny.  We had a pretty fantastic first date.  I took him to my favorite bar downtown and we furiously made out while 90’s hip-hop played in the background (like you are so in control of yourself that you don’t automatically make out with whoever you’re with when Hypnotize comes on).  Fast-forward a few hours and we’re doing pretty much everything you can do while horizontal and in an alley doorway.  Date 2 and we’re off to the races and it’s GOOD.  Great technique and as ironic as it seems now – totally decisive.  In the bedroom this man was so take-charge. Outside of the bedroom – eh, not so much.

What followed was a 2 month exercise in frustration and futility.  We were in contact every day, either by text or IM or the occasional phone call.  We saw each other once or twice a week.  Sounds promising, right? Wrong.  Although he was the one to initiate most of the contact, I was the one that had to set up all the dates/times we would get together.  And by get together I mean bang.  Only twice in the 2 months we dated did we see the outside of his bedroom, and one of those times was the bar/alley on our first date.  Getting him to go out to dinner with me that one time was no easy task.  It was like negotiating with someone in another language, without the benefit of a translator.  I may have even come out and said “we are going to dinner before we fuck” or something like that.  When I invited him out to watch me perform at a bar just 3 blocks from his house, he “cancelled” at the last-minute due to illness (he later confessed that he wasn’t really sick).  Any and all attempts that I made to move this thing outside of those 4 walls was summarily shut down.

Well at least her robot cuddles!

Despite a few flashes of jealousy and ham-handed attempts at tenderness, it was pretty clear that this thing was just about sex for him.  I didn’t mind that too terribly, because the sex freaking rocked the casbah.  But there was something really robotic about this dude.  I wondered if he had feelings.  Was I fucking the terminator?  Was he agoraphobic?  Either way, the orgasms were plentiful, he seemed to be all about my pleasure even if it meant he didn’t get off, and he was always down for the last-minute booty call (hell – if parking was easier in his neighborhood, I might still be fucking him).

But after 2 months of playing cruise ship director and setting everything up EVERY SINGLE TIME, I started getting bored.  Dear reader, you know how much I delight in the pleasures of the flesh, but even a depraved sex maniac such as myself likes to get out into the world every once in a while and see a movie, eat a meal, look at some art, make fun of strangers in the street, etc. etc. Add in the fact that he was so closed off I wasn’t sure he had human emotion and his outright admission that he was “emotionally unavailable” and I was ready to bail.  For as awesome as the dicking was, I like my casual sex with a side of humanity.  I decided to release him back into the wild.

I did something that I had never, ever attempted with a man – I was honest.  Shocking, I know.  But when the words “This just isn’t enough for me” left my lips something very strange happened.  Like when the Grinch’s heart grew 2 (or was it 3) sizes, this dude turned into Mr. Emo.  We then had full-on, emotionally connected yet still dirty (come on, I still like what I like) sex.  I left feeling a bit confused.  Who the hell did I just fuck and where did he keep the robot in that tiny apartment?  But still, I was happy with my decision to end it and sincerely hoped that I had made a good friend for life. After all, I already had a new victim…er…man in my sight.

Truth be told, I never really stopped dating other dudes while we were seeing each other so I was able to fill up all my new free time with no problem.  And as friends do, he started asking me about how my love life was going.  But as friends usually don’t do, he got crazy jealous and demanded I stop talking about my love life.  I then got accused of being insensitive to his feelings.  WTF?

The next week or two he spent texting me, IM’ing me, calling me to talk about things, to see if we could start over, to give him another chance.  I’ll be honest – I was conflicted.  The only reason I let him go was because he seemed so uninterested in getting to know me, so closed-off.  And the whole never-leave-the-house thing.  Now here he was, being all sensitive and shit and talking about his feelings and about how much he wanted to be with me.  And I couldn’t stop thinking about the sex.  The awesome, awesome, sex.  So I made him a deal.  I told him I’d give him another chance and that we could start at square one and go out on dates and see what happens.  One little caveat – no sex.  No, it’s wasn’t meant to be a shit test.  I wasn’t sure that I felt anything for him beyond sex either, so I wanted to take that out of the equation.  Plus I didn’t trust that this change of heart was sincere.  The timing was pretty suspect, no?

Well as soon as I said “no sex” and agreed to give him another chance, we have landed right where we started.  Me as cruise ship director.  Well guess what?  The Love Boat has left the dock and no matter how fast he swims, he’ll never catch it.  Wait – is that delicious 23-year old I see in the Karaoke Lounge?  Hold my drink for me, I’m going in…

I Hereby Christen 2012 The Year of the Bush!

Everyone adores a well-trimmed bush!

Bush is making a comeback.  Yes, it is.  Mark my words.  Ok, so MY bush is making a comeback.  Don’t get crazy – I’m not talking full-on smuggling a baby sasquatch bush.  I’m talking tasteful, well-groomed, nicely-shaped bush.  Why?

  1. I am SO damn tired of shaving. My battle against cuts, nicks, scrapes and bumps has been an epic battle indeed.
  2. I am SO damn bored of the bald look.  Time to change things up.
  3. Curious to see the looks/reactions on gentleman’s faces when they see what’s doing down there.  Nobody has seen me with even a speck of hair.

This is not some crazy anti-men, feminist girl-power thing.  I’m still shaving my legs and have no intention of harboring  a small wookie under my arms.  I’m not trying to make a statement.  (Although I have been feeling a bit anti-establishment and a wee bit rebellious as of late).  Laziness + Curiousity + Boredom.

I predict that, although I am a harbinger of fashion trends (who was one of the first girls in her high school to pair Doc Marten’s with combat boot?  THIS GIRL) bush won’t exactly catch on like wildfire.  I also predict that, on the whole, men will be indifferent to a light dusting of grass on the sandlot.  And the ones that DO care – talk about a great douche-detecting mechanism!

Happy Holidays to all!

You seem like “fun”

A little too much fun

Lately, I’ve had several messages from gentleman on Match.com (yes, I bit the bullet and ponied up the dough for a one-month membership.  Just tired of the same old faces on OKCupid) that reference the fact that I seem like fun.  Ruh-roh.  Do we have a problem here?  Am I fun in the “you look like you would be down for some sex with minimal effort on my part” or “you seem witty and I would like to enjoy some activities with you. Which may or may not include sex based on whether or not you like me” kind of way?

Perception is everything, and you only have so much room to present yourself in an online dating profile.  You want to come off as fun, but not too much of a good time.  Assertive but not aggressive. Funny but not too sarcastic.  Interesting but not dramatic.  Well-rounded but not into so many goddamn activities that reading your profile makes the reader tired.  Casual but not emotionally unavailable.  Your profile needs to weed out the bad while attracting the good.  When you think of it this way, it’s a bloody miracle that anybody is able to pull their shit together enough to actually get a date.

So, what do you think?  Is coming off as “fun” a good thing, or a bad thing in the online dating world?

When a married man cheats, is the “other woman” more to blame than he is?

I will start of by answering my own question – no.  100% NO.  Unless, of course the lady in question tied him up against his will and forced him to hide the salami in her…pantry.  In which case, that’s just plain-old rape and not cheating.  But I digress…

Bizarre Love Triangle

The other night I was watching the news with my Mom and counting down the minutes until Jeopardy started (because I kick her ass EVERY TIME) when the nightly Herman Cain story came on.  For those that have been living in a cave, or, you know, have an actual life, Herman Cain is one of the long-shot candidates vying for the Republican nomination for President.  He has had some, er, lady troubles as of late of the non-consensual kind but it had recently been discovered that he carried on a 13-year relationship that may or may not have included sex (yeah, right.  And I have a lovely bridge to sell you) but did include meals, cash, and stays at posh hotels.  Putting aside the fact that we don’t really know what happened (and my god, I don’t even want to imagine these two naked) and that we have no idea what kind of marriage/arrangement he has with his wife, it appears to be another case of a married man cheating.

When a picture of the lady in question flashed on the screen, Moms practically spat. “Look at her. She is SO disgusting.”

After a beat, I responded “Well, so is he.”

“But,” she sputtered “she’s MORE disgusting.  Because she knew he was married.”

Unable to wrap my mind around this logic, I pointed out the obvious – that he knew he was married too.  And I’m pretty sure he was aware of that fact long before she was.  Add to it that they are both consenting adults that carried on a relationship for over a decade and I fail to see how either one of them could bear more of the blame than the other. Now, I’ve known Moms for well, my entire life and I understand her better than anyone so it was no surprise that she would, in effect, place a disproportionate amount of blame on the woman vs. the man in this situation.

But her reaction isn’t really all that different from I suspect a good number of women’s reactions would be.  Have you

This makes me sad to be a girl

ever seen Cheaters, or Maury, or Jerry Springer?  Plenty of scorn is heaped upon the man who cheated but how many times have the women gone after (literally and figuratively) the other woman?  Pulling hair, calling her a cunt and home wrecker (is there even a male equivalent to that term?), blasting her for not staying away from her man all while he sits there, sheepish and in some cases enjoying himself.  I’ve never seen a study done on this subject in particular, but I’d be willing to bet my firstborn (and believe me, she is far too helpful at this age for me to part with her easily) that on the whole, more blame is put upon the other woman.

This misguided notion that women “should know better” and that men “just can’t help themselves” is shitty on so many levels and is, I think, very insulting towards men.  They are just not capable of being adults and making good decisions.  They are just powerless when faced with pussy.  Poor dears – how do they get anything done surrounded by all of those boobies? Really people, this is just another form of slut-shaming and you know how I feel about that!

To my knowledge, I’ve only been cheated on once by my high school boyfriend and it wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy feeling.  (I dumped him, promptly and without argument.  Sigh – sometimes I wish I had that uncompromising you-fuck-me-over-and-you’re-gone attitude back in my life). However, I’ve seen first hand the devastation and fallout that occurs when adultery tears through a marriage.  So I don’t minimize that this is a serious issue.  But let’s not kid ourselves and think that keeping your man away from other sexy, sexy ladies is going to keep him from taking the old skin boat to tuna town.  And if he does let her ride the bologna pony, it’s a CHOICE that he made.  He’s a shithead.  She’s a shithead. End of story.

Eliminate the Positive

Step away from the hot guy and listen...hear the flapping of all those red flags in the breeze?

Even cool-head, unflappable me is susceptible to developing crushes. You know – that giddy, giggly junior high feeling you get when you meet someone new and hit it off. You try like hell to play it cool and keep the proper perspective (because dear, you just met this guy a few weeks ago and know nothing about him) but instead find yourself gushing to your (annoyed) friends about how cute he is and that sweet thing he did on your date and how you slow-danced to “We Are the World” unironically and how ohmigodheissoperfect!

Slow. Your. Roll. Getting all caught up in a virtual stranger is a colossally bad idea. While you’re busy imagining what your children will look like or what shade of green you will paint your future master bedroom you may be missing things. Important things. Red flag things. Like the fact that he didn’t call when he said he would. Or the lame text asking to “hang” tonight. Or the unwillingness to do anything other than just lay there while you do all the work. And yes I mean in bed.

Now if I focused on the fact that he is ridiculously good looking and likes to hold hands I would probably miss those glaringly obvious signs of trouble mentioned above. If I think about those broad, amazing shoulders and pecs I would miss the fact that I’ve been the one to initiate over half of our dates. If I remember how rock hard those biceps are I might overlook the fact that in all the time we’ve spent in each other’s company he has never once complimented me on how I look, smell, and that I bring alcohol.

The next time we meet and he flashes me his fiercest Blue Steel, I pray for the strength to remember all that I’ve seen and say thanks, but no thanks.

Why I Want A Ghost Boyfriend

Have you been watching American Horror Story? NO?  Go on.  I’ll wait.  A very naked Dylan McDermott rubbing one out and then sobbing?  A mysteriously sexy and murderous man in a head-to-toe vinyl gimp suit?  Delicious housekeeper in french maid outfit that will make sure all your needs are attended to?  This show is dark, disturbing and fucking sexy, in all the right (and wrong) ways.  But what does it for me is – SPOILER ALERT – Tate, the ghost boyfriend of the teenage daughter Violet.

So what if he's technically dead and a mass-murderer? Total hotness...

Once you get past the fact that he’s dead and all I think that little Violet is on to something here.  Having a ghost boyfriend could totally rule!  Consider the following:

  • He can’t leave the house so you always know where he is. Except on Halloween.  Although, you will get chased by the ghosts of all those kids he executed Columbine-style in the library so that’s a bit of a bummer.  So much for the romantic beach bonfire he promised you!
  • When some local tweakers pull a combination home-invasion/murder re-enactment at your house, your ghost boyfriend will be there to back your shit up!  Then he and the ghost-maid will clean up and dispose of the bodies for you.
  • While you’re away at school (because, you know, you’re all alive and have to go do shit) he will leave sweet ghostly “I Love You” messages on your blackboard.
  • Cheating is probably not a great likelihood because, as Chris Rock so astutely said, you are only as faithful as your options.  Unless he suddenly develops a taste for gimp suits or the maid gets REALLY bored, you won’t have to worry.  **Update – wrong about this one.  Ghost boyfriend is a total cheater.  Like the kind that rapes your mom.  Not cool ghost boyfriend.**
  • Condoms?  Who needs ’em.  Ghost boyfriend is most likely shooting blanks.  Plus, it’s not likely that he can pass along any STD’s, right?  **Update – wrong about this one too.  Damn ghost boyfriend – why’d you have to go and knock-up my mom?**
  • He is stuck in 1994 when music totally ruled.  He will listen to Nirvana and Pearl Jam with you non-ironically and without nostalgia.
  • That bitch at your high school that thinks she’s all that and wants to bully you for smoking on campus and being all cool and different?  You can lure her to your basement with promises of free coke and your ghost boyfriend will join forces with the mutant ghost-baby that the abortion doctor frankensteined in the 20’s and fuck her shit up.  Then she will be scarred for life and become your new bestie!

So sorry boys – my Wednesday nights are taken by Tate, my ghost boyfriend and the most awesome show on TV right now!

The Bad Date Chronicles – The Racist Ace Ventura Edition

Back in my college days in the late 90’s I experienced what remains until this day, the WORST.  DATE.  EVER.  I am hard pressed to imagine a scenario that could hold a candle to this one and so it is with great pleasure that I bring you the story of The Racist Ace Ventura.

One fine evening I had plans to hang out in my dorm room with my ex-boyfriend.  No – not THOSE kind of plans.  We were completely, 100% platonic friends.  Both of us were transplants to Southern California and dealing with a lifestyle so different from where we grew up that it was cozy and welcomed to remain friendly with each other.  This night, however he had brought a gift for me – one of his delicious, finely muscled  friends from the base (he was in the military at the time).  I had a weakness for military men back then. Not sure if it was the delectable bodies they had from all that training and working out.  Or the intoxicating danger that they could, at any time find themselves in. Or perhaps the douchey alpha-male bros-before-hos attitude they all seemed to espouse.  (Hey – I was 18.  Cut me a break!)

After a few beers, my ex fell asleep and I spent the rest of the night talking and yes, making out with his buddy.  He told me the heartbreaking story of the marriage he just ended (at the tender age of 21) to his high school sweetheart because the child she passed off as his was actually fathered by his former best friend.  You can’t make this shit up folks.  This was a real life white-trash Jerry Springer episode come to life and I just ate it all up.  He was just so wounded and bereft about it and the sight of this rather large and imposing man being so vulnerable was almost too much for me to bear.  Chalk it up to homeless puppy syndrome but panties were almost dropped right then and there, just mere hours after I had met this guy.  However, I just didn’t want to bone down with him while the dude I boned through most of high school was asleep in the same room.  So we made plans for the next weekend which also happened to be my birthday.  Happy Birthday to me indeed!

I was beyond excited.  After all, I had a sneak peek of what my birthday present would be (hint:  it was large and lived in his pants).  The plans were of the classic rom-com variety – dinner at an Italian Restaurant followed by “movies” in my dorm room.  We both knew what was going to go down.  That is until, he showed up at my dorm at the appointed time bearing a rose for me and 2 6-packs of Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquor Brew for himself. The next hour or two consisted of me watching in horror as he proceeded to drink ALL 12 OF THEM.

No. Let me tell me "ass" YOU a question!

I’m not sure whether or not Ace came out during the 1st or 2nd 6-pack.  What I do know is that he was here to stay.  And he was angry.  So here I was in my dorm room with a highly intoxicated man who was expressing the deep pain and regret in his life in that melodious and not-at-all annoying Ace Ventura voice.  Dinner reservations were fast approaching so I did what anyone in this situation would do – I phoned a friend to help me get his ass in the car and to the restaurant.  Don’t judge – this guy was the hottest thing I had ever gotten my hands on and I was bound and determined to sober him up and get some awesome birthday sex out of this ordeal.  (Did I mention the large present he had brought me?  The one in his pants?)  What better way to do this than shovel a plateful of pasta and bread down this throat?

Now, I’m pretty sure that the Ace Ventura franchise, being the successful multi-movie venture that it was never dealt with issues of racial inequity, affirmative action and misogyny (unless, of course I was SERIOUSLY not paying attention) but this guy decided that it was the perfect cover for him to just shout out any old thing that came to mind.  The entire way to the restaurant, he hung his head out of the car window, doggie-style, and shouted out the most offensive thing he could at whoever was passing by.  Stop lights were a particularly harrowing experience.  It’s a small miracle that nobody shot at us, as we were in a pretty crime-ridden part of the city.

Things didn’t get any better once we got to the restaurant and got seated.  I’m pretty shocked that the staff seated us at all.  Maybe they, much like myself, couldn’t believe that this was actually happening.  Picture this – a rather large, visibly intoxicated man with a crew cut literally supported by two tiny college girls show up at a suburban Italian restaurant.  But hey – we had reservations so…

The next hour or so was surreal.  He insisted on speaking in the Ace Ventura voice the entire time and yes, even ordered his food that way.  Each time the waitress, who was obviously concerned and let’s face it, frightened, came by he commented on some part of her anatomy or ordered her to go get him something else.  ALL IN THAT VOICE.  This dude was NOT getting any less drunk as the minutes ticked by.  When he started to get up to “Ass me a question” and knocked over a very large glass of water all over my lap and onto the table, I gave up.  Check please!

Me and my girlfriend got this guy out of the car and upstairs to my room. She looked at me once as if to say “good luck” and beat a hasty retreat.  Safe in my room, I figured I would start the movie, let him sleep it off and then pounce on him in the morning when he was sober.  I was bound and determined to salvage this encounter in any way I could.  I had gone way to long without sex and was still willing to overlook the horrors of the evening.  But it was not to be.  He mumbled something about having to use the bathroom, stumbled out of my room and then…nothing.  He disappeared.  Hours went by and I finally gave up and went to sleep. Continue reading

The Fixer-Upper

Let’s say you’ve been out house-hunting.  For a long time.  Like for a year and a half.  You’ve toured many, many, MANY homes.  At first, you stepped inside any place that was available, even if it had the wrong number of bedrooms, was in a sketchy part of town or had just one bathroom and no laundry room.  After some time, and with the help of a great agent, you started to weed out the ones you knew were wrong for you and concentrated on visiting  just the ones that had a shot at being what you were looking for.  Maybe you adjusted your expectations, knowing that the mansion on the hill with the circular driveway, tennis court and olypmic-sized swimming pool was a wee bit out of your price range.  You started considering the cute little rancher that was built a good decade before you were born instead of being dead-set on getting yourself into the brand spanking-new condo in the high-rise in the heart of town.  Let’s say you managed to find several great houses and even made offers on them, only to have the deal fall through at the last minute.

And then you find it – the perfect house.  Only it looks like this:

3 inches of caked-on cat piss included at no charge!

The location is amazing.  It’s got exactly the number of bedrooms and bathrooms you’ve been looking for.  The architectural details (once you scrape away the layers of dust and filth) are gorgeous.  This one has great bones and oh so much potential.  You picture your furniture arranged in the sunny front room with the amazing view.  Think about what color you want to re-paint the bedroom.  Picture your kids running around the place, enjoying breakfast in the sunny little nook in the kitchen, frolicking in the backyard.  Yeah – the one that’s overrun with with poison ivy.

Sure – it needs a little work.  Ok, a LOT of work.  See, the old owners didn’t take very good care of the house.  They let it fall into a state of disrepair.  Didn’t fix the small crack in the wall that is now a large hole that lets the rain in, which rotted the once-beautiful hardwood floors. That smell? Why it’s sewage leaking from that pipe that never got fixed. And wait – is that deadly black mold? Why yes it is! No big deal you think to yourself. You think you can get your Bob the Builder on and fix all of this shit. Continue reading