One Night Standoff

One Tuesday night, after a(n) (amazingly heart-piercing) show by the (amazingly heart-piercing) Amy Kuney at the Bootleg, my dear friend, ironysradiocheck and I are feeling a little prowly. We decide to hit up Tenants of the Trees to see if any of nature’s fine-looking (comma tall comma witty comma kind-hearted comma well-read comma well-dressed comma dark/broody) specimens are planted by the bar – or, anywhere within its walls. We’re not picky.

Door Guy: I like your stomach.

Why thank you very much, sir, for that uniquely worded compliment. (I was wearing a very cropped crop top.) (I am sharing this part of the story not only because I am super proud of my baby abs in training, but also because sometimes wearing half a shirt makes you a quick target for casually sexist, racist, disabled-ist a$$holes.)

Enter Attractive But Maybe Slightly Too Macho Dude.

I spot ABMSTMD on ironysradiocheck’s and my quick, catlike stroll around the patio. Eyes lock, gazes linger, etc etc. (The etc etc is the part where I then proceed to stare down everyone around him, just to let him know I’m, like, totally chill and I definitely wasn’t checking him out at all.)

ironysradiocheck doesn’t see anyone of immediate interest/ABMSTMD doesn’t seem to be making any moves from where he’s standing, so we stroll back to the bar area/debate calling it a night.

Me: Yeah, if no one intriguing appears by the end of this drink, I say we call it.

Just as we’re about to leave, I see ABMSTMD has maneuvered his way a few feet down the bar.

Me: That guy might be kind of cute.

I look at him. He looks back. I look away. (Just as chill/casual/nonchalant as before.)

ironysradiocheck: Oh yeah, dude. I think he’s coming over here. Score.

ABMSTMD: Hey.
Me: Hey.

Well, this is starting off well. (ironysradiocheck has found something super interesting/enthralling a few feet away with which to occupy herself.)

ABMSTMD: ABMSTMD.
Me: Stacie.

Please say this single syllable thing continues for the rest of our convo.

ABMSTMD: Did you see me checking you out earlier?

Welp. That hope was fleeting.

Me: Ha. I did.
ABMSTMD: Why didn’t you say anything?
Me: Why did it take you so long to say anything?
ABMSTMD: Look, it’s 2016. I think that women should be equally responsible for initiating the conversation.

I love when guys are adamant about the need for gender equality – but, you know, starting with the ways in which it would make their lives easier as men.

Me: Ha. Let’s maybe start with the wage gap and work our way down from there.
ABMSTMD: You ladies really just want it all don’t you.

I respond with an eyebrow arch.

ABMSTMD: Oh, calm down. I’m just kidding. Where are you from?
Me: I’m originally from Nebraska.
ABMSTMD: Midwestern stock. Nice. Here, what are you drinking?

The conversation continues as he orders my Tito’s soda with mint.

ABMSTMD: So how old are you, Stacie?
Me: 32.
ABMSTMD: Oh wow.
Me: Oh wow?
ABMSTMD: I just thought you were younger than that. Don’t worry about it – I never would have guessed you were that old.

That old. Don’t worry about it.

Me: Ha. I’m not too concerned about it.

I stare his non-baby face straight in the eyes.

Me: How old are you?
ABMSTMD: 38.
Me (smirking): 38. Wow.

He gets the ‘aren't you a little old to be hanging around bars, attempting to pick up 20-something chicks’ inference. Now that we’ve set the combative tone for the night! 

ironysradiocheck pops over to say she’s peacing out. Hugs. Love. Promises of texts.

ABMSTMD: I love how girls always do that.

I love how guys “always” make statements about all girls always doing dumb girl things.

Me: What do you mean?
ABMSTMD: Just leave their friends with a total stranger. I mean, you’ve been talking to me, so you know I’m pretty normal, but she has no idea.
Me: I mean, I guess sometimes we forget that we’re just walking prey.

Are we flirting or do we hate each other? I decide it’s probably both. He starts planning our wedding.

ABMSTMD: You don’t have any crazy in your family or anything, do you? I don’t want to end up with some weird Asperger’s kid or something.
Me: You’re going to feel really bad about saying that when I tell you my brother’s autistic.
ABMSTMD: Oh no, so you’ve got f*cked up genes?

Is he f*cking serious? Hate. It’s definitely hate.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be), his friends arrive at this moment, halting the diatribe of death that had just begun its expletive-ridden exit from my mouth. They happen to be wonderful. We bond. We hug. We dance. I realize the two drinks I've had are going straight to my head.

Me: Is anyone hungry? I didn’t have time for dinner and I am starving.
Amazing Friend #1: Omg yes. I could totally go for some food.
AF #2: Yeah, same. Let’s do it.
ABMSTMD: We could go to the diner by my place.

We pile into an Uber. But wait!, they say. First let’s just make a quick stop-off at a house party – there’s supposed to be a cool band playing! Sure, I say, pretending I’m not about to pass out from drunken starvation.

An hour later, it becomes clear this is no quick stop-off. I announce my planned departure via Uber.

ABMSTMD: Hey, I’ll go with you. Let’s go get you the food I promised. Sorry about these guys.

Somehow, the promise of food and the surprise of an (unnecessary) apology makes me forget my general abhorrence of him as a human.  (Vodka, powers.)

At the diner:

ABMSTMD: Sorry, you can’t come over after – my dad’s staying with me for the week.

Oh good Lord. Abhorrence suddenly v v remembered.

Me: I think I’ll find a way to get over it.

He follows this with some other horrendous thing regarding our possible sexual future that I have blacked out due to an inherent distaste for vomiting.  I order my omelette.

I eat well over half of the very large diner omelette.

ABMSTMD (broadcasting shock/dismay): Wow, you’re really going at that thing, aren’t you.

Straight face. Single blink.

Later, when the waitress comes to clear our plates/ask if I’m all done with mine, ABMSTMD goes ahead and throws his answer in on top of my affirmative.

ABMSTMD: I think we can all agree she did a pretty good number on that one. 

At what point do I have legal grounds to stab him.

The contempt-laden conversation stubbornly continues its journey back to the good ol’ days, eventually landing on the topic of interracial marriage.

ABMSTMD: I just don’t think it’s fair to the kids.

HI, 1952. So nice of you to drop by/add your antiquated views to the ever-growing pile of backwards bullsh*t. 

Me: You mean, fair to the rest of us because they’re so beautiful? My nephew’s half black and is seriously the most perfect child you’ve ever seen in your life.
ABMSTMD: So your sister f*cked a black guy, huh?
Me: My sister dated, married, and started a family with an amazing guy/father who, yes, is a black man.

Where oh where is that knife when you need it. He pays the check before I’m able to summon the waitress.

Outside, waiting for Ubers:

ABMSTMD: Text me when you get home, okay?

I stare at him, taken aback by the sound of this gentlemanly statement coming from his very ungentlemanly face. He misinterprets the stare.

ABMSTMD: What? You didn’t expect me to drive you home when I live right around the corner, did you?

Thank God this battle is almost over. I am exhausted. 

Me (V. slow. V. measured.): I don’t expect anything from you at all.

…

Two weeks later…Sunday night, 1:28a text message:

ABMSTMD: How you been?

Okay, that I did kind of expect. Sorry to leave you in suspense, ABMSTMD, but I’m gonna go ahead and tap out of this dear little donnybrook. It's been...really, really, tragically real.   

WARNING: TALL GIRL AHEAD

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Apparently, a vintage truck does not provide clear enough perspective - next time I'm standing in front of a measuring tape. 

Existing as a private, membership-based dating app populated by the kings and queens of Instagram, Raya is cool, hip, and always chill AF. (The kind of chill that shows just how DGAF it is about everything by doing things like abbreviating six letter metaphor vehicles.)

In keeping with this VSCO lens on life, user profiles are clean, filtered, and devoid of any extra information. Standard personal stat bubbles that clutter the pages of more mainstream (read: lame) dating sites have been replaced by a single blank box – a canvas for Raya’s artsy souls to paint whatever picture of themselves they think might intrigue/attract potential suitors. For many such souls, this does not seem to include much. A guesstimated (because I can’t be bothered with things like numbers) (what, I’m a dreamer, not a mathematician, GD) 90% of the profiles I’ve come across have absolutely nothing written/or emoji-ed in that space.

Fine, whatever – I don’t need to hear about your vinyl collection or the fact that you’re just looking for someone you can laugh your way through life with, but can a girl get some basic facts?? Like, possibly…your height?

For some reason, a fair number of dudes seem to view this as an inane request. The few times I’ve seen it listed, said lister has qualified the number with some version of an eye-roll. “Since it seems to be such a big deal to some of you…”

Is height a big deal? I mean, it’s not the biggest deal. No one’s dying over it, at least not as far as I know*. But are we all really supposed to pretend it doesn’t factor into our realm of attraction in any way, shape, or form? I, personally, think I have a right to know ahead of time if a date’s going to end with a man standing en pointe to hug my waist. (Mostly because I have a certain proclivity toward crop tops and that’s a little too much skin on skin action for a first date. I’m not that kind of girl.**)

Fortunately, just when I thought I was secretly popping crazy pills (and wondering what they were/how I could get some more of them), two vertically-challenged Raya clients stepped forward to show me that there are at least a couple short dudes out there who don’t want to be surprised by my lanky a$$ either.

VCRC1:

VCRC1 and I had been talking for weeks. We covered all of our hopes, fears, darkest secrets, etc (aka spent the entire time trying to one-up each others’ jokes) when he decided to dig in on the personal Q’s:

VCRC1: Hey, how tall are you?

A quick gander at my profile page would have answered this question for him…

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But hey, who am I to judge a lazy right swipe? (I totally judged. But then convinced myself he was too mesmerized by my obvious beauty to do any reading and felt better about the entire situation.)

Me: 5’ 11”

Almost instantaneously, our conversation disappeared. I found myself staring at the main page with all my matches. WTF. It took me several minutes, an iPad restart, and some deep soul searching to realize I had been brutally rebuffed. He had “unmatched” me. Not a word – not even a waving hand emoji. Just gone. My ego wanted to be offended, but I had to admit I admired his cutthroat approach. We’re all busy people here; why mince words – or even use them at all?

VCRC2:

VCRC2 and I matched one glorious day last fall. Initial pleasantries faded into a silent winter. At the start of the New Year, VCRC2 picked up right where we left off:

VCRC2: How are you?

…

Me: Slightly older, just as tall, and hopefully skinnier than the last time we talked?

We spent the next three weeks trading sporadic responses. Finally, he asked if I would like to get a drink. Five days later, I said, yes. Ten days later, he said, “Cool”.

By the time we managed to get off the app and into each other’s phones, we had (very) technically been speaking for six months.  It would be six months and one week before we made it here:

VCRC2: Are you around this weekend?

I know – it’s a beautiful thing to see a miracle in action.

Me: I’m around tomorrow. The rest of the wkend is booked up w baby showers, bdays, and the like.

VCRC2: Maybe we could meet up tom night at some point. You gonna be in weho?

Maybe? WTF does “maybe” mean.

Me: Yeah that would be fun. Close…I’m in Beverly Hills.

VCRC2: Great let me know if you’re free.

Let you know if I’m free? Didn’t I just say – you know what, never mind. Let’s just keep this moving.

VCRC2: Odd question. But how tall are u?

Ahhh THERE IT IS. You have got to be mother*cking kidding me. There are three lines on my profile. Three. Wouldn’t these dudes want to do a quick scan of the written portion of my social exam, if only to discern that I’m not a complete idiot/have a basic grasp on words/grammar before inviting me out on the town? Apparently not. Again, I totally judged. But then convinced myself that in addition to looking super pretty in my carefully selected assortment of photos, I also look super smart. And then I felt better about the entire situation. (Except for that 'u'. How lazy do you have to be to chop off the y and the o? They're on the same exact keyboard line. Criminy, the y is right next door. I digress.) 

…

Me: 5’11”

VCRC2: Oh wow. Really really tall.

Me: Haha are you not really really tall?

VCRC2: I’m def not. I’m shorter than you. Prob 5’10” or ‘11”.

Probably?

Me: Haha you don’t know your own height?

VCRC2: I grow every year.

So 5’7”. Cool.

At this point, I don’t know how to respond. Are we still doing this? It feels weird to be like, ok so we should probably just call this, then, no? Especially after it’s taken us more than six months to get to this juncture. And who knows, maybe we’ll totally bond on a friend vibe and turn out to be BFF homies for life.

…

I decide to sleep on it. Mostly in hopes that he’d be the one to put the kibosh on the whole situation. (I have a lot of friends already.) 

At 1:37pm the next day, I decide it’s probably a good idea to clarify our (non?) plans for the evening.

Me: Haha well if you still want to meet up at some point, I should be done w things around 8p.

VCRC2: Don’t you want a guy taller than you?

YES, YES I DO.

Me: Haha yes, but that feels so rude to say.

Because, you know, I secretly think that all diminutive men are harboring nothing but shame over their shortcoming(s).

VCRC2: Well then there you go.

There you go indeed. We end on a positive note – he tells me to let him know if I have any shorter friends for him, I tell him to do the same on the tall and broad-shouldered front, he says that’s highly unlikely because he doesn’t hang out with many meatheads, I say eh to each their own.

And then I go over to my (equally tall) best friend’s apartment for a Netflix binge fest, because every story deserves a happy ending. (And at least one collar bone to collar bone hug.)

*If you do know someone who is/has/was, please let me know. I’m always on the lookout for new and different hypothetical events to be unreasonably terrified of.
**To my friends who are like, “Dude, Stace, don’t pretend you don’t love making out on date 1/every date in general.” Fair point, but I always have ‘em keep those hands where I can see ‘em, if you know what I mean. K almost aways. ... (You know who you are.) 

Stranger Danger

“I’m sorry but, er - you’re really beautiful.”

I’m sorry, what? Perched unattractively near the bottom shelves of the Bristol Farms refrigerated section, arms loaded with two different brands of chocolate coconut water, hair greasy and unkempt, make-up non-existent, I strain my neck around to see who, in their right mind*, would issue such an unfounded compliment. (Yes, I had already determined that the comment was directed toward me. Because I like to balance my self-deprecation/insecurities with a solid dose of narcissism.)

Ah, yes. This guy. This guy would issue that compliment. Boyish face with an actor-y, fresh-off-the-United-flight from some Midwestern suburbia vibe. I squint through my near-sightedness, trying to decide if I think he’s attractive or not. TBD.

Me: Aw, thank you. That’s so nice of you to say.

He shuffles self-consciously two and a half feet away, staring unseeing into the glass case of groceries, side-glancing my way every three seconds or so.

I immediately feel the need to make him feel comfortable. One, because I’m fairly confident he’s new in town and I want him to know that there are nice people here and two, because, judging by his demeanor, it had to be fairly intimidating to [politely] approach a female in public and I’ve always believed such behavior should receive positive reinforcement.

I offer some chatter on the obvious health benefits of sugar-infused sugar water. He accepts. Er, sort of. He counters by pointing my attention toward his own favorite beverage, insisting I give it a try. He’s almost a tad too insistent.  Slow down there, Turbo; this lady makes her own decisions -- especially when it comes to hydration.

The conversation progresses [slowly]. I learn that his name is Mike**, he’s an actor (I knew it), he’s been in LA for less than a year (God, I’m good at this game), he’s sober (I take this moment to tell him how I’m still hungover from the night before), and he lives with his manager one street away from me (Oh goodie?).

Mike: Is it hard to make friends out here, or is that just me?

Me: Oh man. I mean, I’m just glad I went to school out here. Most of my friends went to SC with me. I feel like people’s circles out here can be pretty closed. It’s probably a little tough to try and get in there.

Mike: Yeah. I moved out here not knowing anyone. Would you – uh would you mind if I got your number – just to like hang out sometime?

I’ve pretty much decided that he’s not at all my type, but I figure I can go to lunch with the guy. He seems fairly non-threatening. I give him my number and open my mouth to say goodbye. My exit plan gets, um, interrupted.

Mike: Are you single?

Caught totally off-guard and being really bad at lying, I answer truthfully.

Me: Uh, yeah.

Mike: Well, uh, would you, um, I mean, would you want to go out sometime? I mean, I don’t know if I’m your type, but I know I would really like to go out with you.

GAH. So sweet. I am so bad at saying no to nice people. So I don’t.

Me: Um, sure, yeah, that’d be fun.

And by fun, I mean probably super awkward and weird.

Mike: Ok great. Um. When?

Me: Uh, well, the next two weeks are pretty gnarly, schedule-wise.

Mike: Gnarly. Wow. I haven’t heard that in a long time.

Me: Ha yeah it’s a favorite of mine.

I’m slowly edging backward, hoping this convo is coming to a close.

Me: Well, I should probably –

Mike: So you’re not free tomorrow night?

Me: Tomorrow? Uh no. I’m actually heading out to Palm Springs for a bachelorette this weekend.

Too many details, Stacie. Way too many details.

Mike: Ok well –

Me: Just hit me up in a couple weeks and we’ll figure out a time.

Mike: Ok. Um. How do you feel about guys with kids?

Oh God.

Me: Do you have a kid?

Mike: Yeah, I’ve got a ten-month-old little girl.

Great. Now if I turn him down, it’s going to seem like I’m doing it just because he has a kid. Awesome.

Mike: Look, here she is.

Mike proceeds to take me through an entire album's worth of photos. My left arm is about to break off from the weight of my basket, but there’s no way I’m setting it down and risking prolonging this whole situation.

Me: So cute. Well, I really gotta go. It was nice to meet you.

This time I don’t wait for interjections as I make a break for the cash register. He follows close behind. Seriously? There are two other open lanes. Pretty sure you left your social etiquette back in aisle three, Mikey.

Mike: I really would love – I mean, I hope you really do want to go out with me. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And you seem nice, not like most of the girls I’ve met out here.

Oh God. Please say it a little louder; I'm not sure the guys back in the deli area heard you. This is excruciating. Placating smile. Eye-contact avoidance. Deep breaths.

Outside, breathing in the sweet smell of freedom, I attempt to figure out how I’ll get out of the impending date without hurting this guy’s feelings. Despite his social awkwardness and bizarrely slow cadence, he seems like a well-meaning dude just looking for a little human connection.

Mid-mental deliberation, I receive this text message:

Mike: Awesome and great to meet you. Honestly I am direct and forward but text can be miss construed [sic] but I’d love to do [sic] out and see you soon.

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Just so you remember me

Oh man. A headshot?? What am I supposed to say to that? I decide to respond with something nice, but appropriately non-committal:

Me: Awesome! Great meeting you as well. Thanks for brightening up my afternoon :) 

If he reaches out to set an actual date, I’ll find a way to politely decline, but I figure we should be good for now.

…

Back at home, I grab my phone out of my bag:

Mike: We’re [sic] you attracted to me?

Dear sweet Jesus. Is he serious?

Five minutes pass.

Mike: Be honest if that’s ok?

Gahh. Do I really have to answer this?

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Mike: And an artistic pic so?

Welp. This has officially gotten weird.

I decide to set my BlackBerry aside as I delve into some work.

One hour later…

Mike: Hello? I don’t want to annoy you or text too much. But text me I guess. Let me know if your [sic] interested. Or if you were attracted to me.

Ok. He’s putting it on me. Cool. We should be done here.

My phone rings. Stop. Wtf. I just met you two hours ago, dude. Calm the F down.

Fast-forward twenty minutes:

Mike: Text me or when you can. I won’t be annoying you.I do want to know you. But lett [sic] me when you can hang thanks. Have fun in Palm and keep me posted.

1. You won’t be annoying me?? I think it might be a little too late for that.
2. Why does “I want to know you” sound like a threat?
3. Palm is not an accepted nickname for Palm Springs. (I knew that was one detail too many.)

He waits another thirty minutes before unleashing this diatribe:

Mike: *let me know when you can hang out and if you want to get tea soon. I’m free if you keep me posted and have a safe trip and fun time in Palm Springs. Would love to know you and meet you. You are one of the most beautiful woman [sic] I’ve seen and your eyes I can’t say anything bad. Don’t want to scare you im just very complimentary. And I may seem aggressive but dinner time. Talk soon hope we talk.

So many gulps. You don’t want to scare me? In that case, perhaps you would like to back the f*ck off? Also, please heed your spellcheck’s suggestions. (Also also – when did “I can’t say anything bad” become a compliment?)

For some reason, I still think Mike is going to get the very silent hint. Oh, the naiveté of youth(ish).

9:17am the next morning:

Mike: Hey you drive safe and have fun. Do you have a kid?

…

I just...I'll just leave that one right there. It was quickly followed by a call from a blocked number. I’m not saying it was him, I’m just saying I wasn’t about to answer it to find out.

Two days later. 10:58pm:

Mike: How was your bachelorette party beautiful

Still in progress, not that it’s one iota of your business?

The next afternoon, I receive a text message from a number I don’t recognize: “Hey”. One quick Google search links it to Mike's Instagram profile. Dude. DUDE.

My BFF and I debate whether I should reply and ask him to please stop contacting me. At this point, I’m sort of afraid he’s teetering on the brink of the deep end, and I don’t really want to see his desperate entreaties plummet into rage. Since, you know, he basically knows where I live. (Note to self: Be more mysterious.)

After another phone call, a lengthy, meandering voicemail, and a text message two days later, I decide to make it clear that I’m just not that into him.

Me: Please do not contact me anymore.

Apparently this was confusing to him.

Mike: Um why. By the way your nips were showing when we met your [sic] being uncool.

Classy. There goes that nice guy idea.

Mike: Hook up buddies what’s your deal I and you were both attracted to each other hunn

Oh, ‘I and you’ were, were we.

Mike: Stacie what’s your deal explain why your [sic] being a snob. You have a boyfriend?

No, I don’t have a boyfriend; I just think *you’re a crazy psychotic sociopath.

Me: I’m not interested. Please do not contact me again.

Mike: Why? Why did you give your number? You make no sense

Out of pity. It’s a bad habit I’m working on changing. Thank you for helping me get there faster.

Mike: I did nothing and wanted to get to know you because you were attracted to me and so was i. I don’t get why your [sic] [this dude really needs to figure out his yours] acting weird I’m being honest and direct I am sorry if you think I’m into you but idk you so your [sic] [obviously] being crazy

Erm, some might say you did too much. Also, I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dismissive’. I am being dismissive. You, sir, are being crazy. In the purest sense of the word.

Mike: Whatever Stacie good luck and best to you. Sorry that you feel the way you do. Your [I’m not even going to bother anymore] beautiful but you must question yourself why your 45 and single. Bye and sorry deleting you

FORTY-FIVE?? Good one, Mike. I’m going to go spend the rest of my night questioning myself.

(While also spending two and a half hours on the phone with AT&T attempting to block your number.***)

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*HAHAHAHAHAHA. Guess I called that one.
**This is his real name. Just in case, you know, my body is found raped and murdered. I want the police to have some sort of a lead. Since Mike's such a unique name and stuff.
***My favorite part of that conversation: “I honestly have never owned a BlackBerry and no one here seems to be familiar with them at all. Let me brainstorm here….” Duly noted. 

UPDATE #1:  I just got an email from some other chick who had pretty much the exact same experience with this dude last week. He even sent the same two scintillating photos. Apparently he works at Brooklyn Bagels on S. Beverly, so uh, all females may want to go elsewhere for their carb-fix.

UPDATE #2: He apparently just found me on Tinder. "Your 31?" Shocking, I know. "Just saw you on tinder. So your single but why the attitude and you know that God things happen when your nice. Anyway really wish we could have gotten to know each other but I'm sorry I was not your type or whatever. I mean I text and communicate many people don't know how to then they look like the bad guy and so anyway maybe one day you can give me a shot." ...Maybe one day, Mikey. Maybe one dark, desperate, dystopian day. *shuddershuddertwitch*

UPDATE #3: Three months later...just when I thought I'd never hear from him again: 

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Update #4: Apparently he's hanging on through 2016. So nice of him to think of me at 2am this morning!! 

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Update #5: This is getting ridiculous.

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Creepers never say die.

...
...
...

I hope?

Lost in Emoji-lation

Today in things that happen with a BlackBerry that people with iPhones don’t understand:

One of the [very] few [and very far between] flaws with the BlackBerry is that emojis don’t turn up as super cute, full-color, emotion-laden graphics. They show up like this:

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Not a huge deal, right? Hopefully most conversations amongst late 20/early 30 year olds don’t rely heavily on illustrations?

…Sure.

A few years ago, I was texting with a guy I was seeing* at the time. We shall call him Chad**. Chad liked to make fun of me for the always long and generally meandering stories I like to tell. After one such story, he sent me three emojis, knowing I would be unable to decipher them.

Me: Those better be ponies.

His nickname for me was Pony. I don't remember exactly why, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't for whatever reason you're thinking it was.  

Chad: Two ponies and a princess.

Adorable, right?

Fast-forward two days. One of my nearest and dearest takes pity on my lost-in-translation soul and offers up a piece of advice:

N&D: “You know you can see those on your iPad, right?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

N&D: “If you email yourself any of these texts, you’ll be able to see the emoijs.”

How glorious! Also effort-consuming, but, you know, worth it? (I used to have a lot of extra time/energy on my hands.) 

We decide to start with Chad's "two ponies and a princess": 

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…

Chad and I didn't last very long. 

...

My Mom: Whatever happened with Chad? Why didn't things work out with him?
Me: We, uh, just didn't really connect on a, um, deeper emotional level. 
My Mom: Well, that's surprisingly mature.

...

Isn't it though?

*Sharing meals, movies, and beds with. So, you know, whatever that means to you.
**Not his real name

Wherein My Mother Calls Me a Two Dolla Ho

My mother recently read a blog post of mine which alluded to my making out with a boy in the front seat of my car. Then this conversation happened:

My Mother: You know, no one has to marry you if you just go and give it all away.

Me: Mom, I don't think I want anyone to feel like they have to marry me.

MM: (Pause.) (Long pause.) (Longer pause.) Hm.

...

...

...

Lord help us all if I ever make it to the backseat. 

Yogurtland: Fake Flavors, Real Rewards

INT. HER'S APARTMENT

HER is sitting cross-legged on a floor pillow, balancing an overly warm MacBook Air on overly warm knees. Phone rings. She answers. It's her dinner date, announcing his very prompt arrival.

HIM: Hey, I'm here.

HER: Ok cool! Just one sec and I'll be right out.

Silence. Except for her fingers clacking on the keyboard.

HIM: Are you on your computer?

HER: Yesss. Why?

HIM: What could you possibly be doing right now that's more important than fried rice balls?

HER: Um. I'm just registering my Yogurtland card. I'm almost done, though!

HIM: Registering your what?

HER: My Yogurtland card! You know one of those, like, for every 3 purchases, you get one free sort of things. 

HIM: Right. And you're registering this because...?

HER: Because they forgot to swipe my card the other day, but the guy said you can go on the site and enter in the order number and they'll credit your account! 

...

Silence.

...

HER: Hello?

HIM: Oh, I'm still here. I'm not really sure why I'm still here, but I'm still...right...here....

HER: We should maybe pretend this conversation never happened, huh.

HIM: Yeah...that's probably a good idea.

...

...

...

Apparently, some things are really hard to forget.

Double-Tap to Love

When the guy you’re dating refuses to indulge your social media need(ines)s:

Him: "You expect me to "like" all of your Instagrams, don’t you."

Her: "Um, yeah. I mean, what’s not to like?”

Him: "Ha. But then it doesn’t mean anything. This way you’ll know when I really like something."

…

Her: "So what you’re actually saying is that you don’t like all the other ones.”

…

…

…

HIM looked at HER like she was the crazy one.

…

This relationship didn’t last very long. 

Hi, I'm Interesting

One of my tragically un-LA traits is my penchant for walking. Call me crazy, but I would rather spend twenty minutes out in the open air than fifteen in a car, fighting traffic, searching fruitlessly for parking, and spending half my rent on valet.

This can make things a little awkward after a first date. 

Gentlemen generally attempt to insist upon walking me home. Sure, the stroll to my apartment is lovely, but their lonely hike back seems a tad cruel – especially after a somewhat recent occasion when one such manner-mindful lad apparently got a little lost mid-return. Oops.

Then there’s the sort of uncomfortable, I-swear-I’m-not-a-rapist-let-me-drive-you-backexchange. Cue: Louis C.K. monologue on the stupidity of women in this sort of situation. I usually accept. This one at least usually goes pretty smoothly from this point on.

Usually. Last week, things got a little…lumpy:

“Oh, here, let me go give him your valet ticket.”

“Oh, I actually just walked over.”

“Oh, well in that case, may I walk you back?”

(There were a lot of oh’s.)

“You don’t have to do that – it’s not really that close. Like, it’s close for a one-way meander, but I would feel bad making you solo-trek it back.”

(laughs) “Well, can I drive you? I mean, if you – or if you, well, if you would like?”

(I laugh(s)) “Sure, thanks. I mean, as long as you’re not going to like, rape and murder me along the way.”

Stilted laughter. Welp. 

En route, we discuss my preference for walking slash how I like to take that oxygen-infused time as an opportunity to  reply to emails/catch up on calls - scintillating convo material, I know. He drops me off. I safely enter my home. Easy, breezy, beautiful, call me a cover girl, right?

Not exactly. Two minutes later, this text téte-a-téte occurs:

 “I get it now. That was where you lived! I thought you intentionally parked 0.8 miles away so u could walk and right (sic) emails!! Ha. That being ur apt makes much more sense!”

 “Haha! You thought I was just some weirdo who parked blocks away? That’s kind of amazing.” (Probably should’ve gone with a different adjective here.)

 “I wouldn’t say weirdo. I would say oddball! Huge difference! An oddball does things differently but usually in an interesting way…”

Sooo…yes? Yes. Awesome. I would just like to note that this is the second time in a single month a potential new suitor has tagged me as interesting. I’m gonna go ahead and overthink that. 

…

Intriguing.  Interesting.

Editor’s Note: The author has chosen to skip right past the oddball bit for reasons of sanity maintenance. That’s all. 

Rezi Rating

Wherein icouldtalkironyforever and I dissect dinner date destinations in the Beverly Hills/West Hollywood area. It gets deep. 

icouldtalkironyforever: these days are so crazy
like giving up the hottest date night
or middle of the week
both days are hothothot

me: hahahahhaa right?
i think ima say wednesday

icouldtalkironyforever: YES
can you go somewhere cuter than mastros?

me: i know right?
i kind of don’t love mastros at all
like at all at all

icouldtalkironyforever: for some reason i can only see dinner with you at eveleigh

me: hahahahhahaa
and little door! and doms!
places with trees inside

icouldtalkironyforever: i hate mastros
i think of bad food
yes trees inside

me: yeah, and cheesy people
and like a thick, weird atmosphere

icouldtalkironyforever: thick

me: and i always do something awkward in the entryway

icouldtalkironyforever: ALWAYS

me: it’s always so uncomfortable
so much staring

icouldtalkironyforever: bouchon is a great alternative
dim lighting

me: ooh yes

icouldtalkironyforever: also church key is sooo good for dates
and they have a dim sum cart
that comes BEFORE you even order your food
boom

me: ooh realllllly
i like this idea

icouldtalkironyforever: the vibe is fun

me: didn’t you say their food was subpar?
no
wait

icouldtalkironyforever: yes
hahaha

me: oh haha
ok 
that was the place

icouldtalkironyforever: but some stuff was coo
and they have a banana split

me: um
brilliant

icouldtalkironyforever: but anything involving bananas is too suggestive on the first date
or maybe not…bc I love bananas
my dates/non dates are SOOOOOO aggressive
sorry

me: i feel like its esp too suggestive for men over 32
hahahhahahahaa
i love your dates

icouldtalkironyforever: we have great dates

me: haha we really do

icouldtalkironyforever: he should take you to doms
bc u love it there right?

me: comfycozyhomesweethome
my fave

icouldtalkironyforever: unassuming
love it 

5 Stars for Dominick’s. 7 for banana splits. 

…

The date still occurred at Mastro’s.

Good talk.

Love, Sex, & Onesies

INT. THE BEDROOM ifyaknowwhatimean

Him: Wait. What are you wearing?

Her: My favorite onesie?!

Him: Yeah. Take that off.

Her: You don’t like my onesie?

Him: No.

Her: But it’s so adorable!

Him: I don’t think that’s what you’re going for in here.

Her: Oh, you’d be surprised.

…

Silence.

…

A few to eight hours later…

Him: Are you wearing that terrible thing again?

Her: My totally adorable onesie?

Him: Yes.

Her: Yep! And don’t you worry, I have a wide and varied selection of the sort. I even have a snap-front one with sleeves and legs and the whole bit.

Him: I’m sleeping with a seven-year-old.

Her: Hey, some men go to jail for this sort of thing. You get it risk-free!

…

…

…

I think HER won. 

Plummeting Standards

INT. RALPH’S GROCERY CO - NIGHT

STACIE is exiting the store with her mother, JUDY. Hands full of groceries; head full of so many other things.

                                             JUDY

               What did you think of him?! I think he liked you. 

                                            STACIE

               The checkout man? Seriously??

                                             JUDY

               He was a nice, good-looking guy!

                                             STACIE

               HE WAS BALDING AND WEARING AN ORANGE VEST, MOM. 

Someone’s getting desperate. Hint: It’s not me.

Amish Living

A new friend and I casually sort of planned a low-key evening of Orphan Black and cocktails. What could possibly go awry?

...

I assumed said low-key evening would be taking place at his…place, as I swear I mentioned on our initial outing that I am not the proud owner of a television.

Then I got this text: “What’s you adresssss (sic). I’m leaving hereeeee.” (We’ll go ahead and ignore the grammar on that one for now. Because I’m feeling friendly. And I have another story to tell.)

F. He’s coming over here. 

Me: "Ummmm I don’t have a television."

Him: "We can just drink. Let’s never leave your couch."

Too soon to tell him I don’t have one of those either?

Spoiler alert: He found out. 

Not. Awkward. At. All. 

Men Want What Women Want What Men Want

When I told my mom I had been maintenance-texted by a boy, she squeezed my hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t look at it that way – I’d look at it like he was thinking about you!”

Thank you for feeding my delusions, Mother. That explains so much.

I can’t blame my mom for her indefatigable optimism regarding the intentions of the unfair sex. When she was walking the hallway of hormones, things were a lot more straightforward. My dad and his best friend flipped a coin to see who could ask her out. My father won. The end.  Or, more aptly, the beginning.

Many people like to blame the disintegration of chivalry on modern technology. Sure, the advent of texting and social media, and the ensuing fissure in formal communication, have thrown the game onto a whole new playing field; but, I think the real anti-courting culpability lies elsewhere: A serious lack of shotgun-wielding fathers.

If any man-child had so much as attempted to maintenance-anything my mother, Grandpa Smith would have taken to his pickup truck, Winchester in hand, prepared to supplement the fear of God with a few well-placed bullets. (Just ask my dad about the time he came to pick up my mom…on a motorcycle…with long blonde hair and short denim shorts. Let’s just say he’s lucky he has a good sense of humor – and happened to hold the state track record in the 400m.)

I would wager that, for most of us in our mid-to-upper twenties, our fathers are harboring such severe concerns over their daughters’ unceasing singledom that they wouldn’t dare scare off a potential suitor. Any suitor. Any suitor at all.

And they don’t need to; apparently, we are doing a good enough job of that on our own.  Basing this entire theory on personal experience and a solid number of conversations with individuals on both sides of the gender line, I have determined that men are now terrified of women.  In the words of one such shaky soul, “It’s just hard to figure out what you girls want.”

That’s fair. When last June’s Atlantic cover boldly declared that women can’t have it all, many of my friends and I found ourselves asking if we even really want to have it all. And what does “it all” entail, exactly, in today’s society? Then we realized we might be jumping the gun a bit. How are we supposed to boldly assert our right to rule the corporate world, with a ring on the finger and a baby on either hip, if we are still referencing the words of “Why Men Love Bitches” in daily conversation?

I am confident in my beliefs. When I know, without a doubt, that I want something, I have no problem stating that. But what about when what I want really depends on if you want it, too, but you’re not sure what I want, so you’re not entirely certain that it’s what you want? A magazine excerpt I spotted in a MoMA exhibit had a delightfully delicate turn of phrase for this dilemma: “You are your own woman in the hope of being just what someone else is looking for.” This clipping was from the 1950’s, suggesting that this is not a new predicament. I would venture to state that this is an age-old issue, exacerbated by the current lack of clear societal rules.

Women are getting married and having children later in life. They are no longer branded an old maid if they’re thirty and single, and long gone are the days of the virgin white bride. In the immortal Pretty Woman words of Kit and Vivian, “We say who, we say when, we say how much.”

By the same token, men are no longer compelled to commit.  The image of that sad, single adman drinking alone at the end of the bar, while his postwar suburbia peers sit huddled about the TV with their families, has been replaced by a group of laughing, boisterous, middle-aged tech tycoons flirting shamelessly with acquiescing blondes, twenty years their junior. Even if they do plan on settling down eventually, there’s no rush. I can almost guarantee you that there was not a single group of men discussing the potential freezing of their eggs over dinner last night.

Yay! Even playing fields! Betty Friedan would be so proud.

Unfortunately for us indecisive types, this basically means that you either figure out exactly what it is you want, and cling steadfastly to that banner, or you linger indecisively in insecure trepidation around a multitude of romantic possibilities, until one ultimately (hopefully) pans out.

Yeah, I’m probably going to go with option B, too.

April Fool's?

"Stuart kissed me today," I pronounced. Cheeks pinking slightly at the confession. Wide eyes sparkling with unabashed glee. 

I was seven. And he had. A sweet little peck on the lips, while we were lined up to head in from recess. 

My mother set down her fork, head slightly atilt. My father cleared his throat. Parentally speaking, how were they supposed to react to this news?

Step 1: Ixnay any further sleepovers at Stuart’s house.

Step 2: Enroll their precocious baby girl in some etiquette classes, where she will hopefully learn a thing or two about appropriate dinner conversation.

If they had only known this was to be the peak of my boy-meets-girl prowess, they might have relished the landmark moment a bit.

Most years, I concoct highly elaborate April Fool’s Day tomfoolery, for the sake of my own entertainment. One such year’s tear-stricken phone call to my mother, alerting her of my horrific ankle injury on an abandoned, out-of-reach trail, had my entire family scrambling to figure out how to get an emergency helicopter to my essentially unknown location. (In reality, I was on the beach in Hermosa. My phone may or may not have cut out mid-folly. Forgiveness was hard to come by for a few months.)

This year, I decided to keep it simple. A few clicks of the mouse, and my Facebook status shined as, “In a Relationship”. One of my acquaintances recently made a similar change, her post eliciting a bevy of ‘likes’ and congratulatory comments: “Who is he?!” “I’m SO happy for you!!” “Pictures! Pictures!” “I can’t wait to meet him!!” “Is he coming for Easter?!” 

I sat back and awaited the laudatory remarks. 

Zero. There were no such responses. Sure, my post received comments and likes…but not a single one of my 1,821 FB friends bought it for a second. One shimmering soul contacted me via text message to find out who I deigned to dine with on a more frequent occasion. He shall be known as my favorite person in the world from this point on. 

My sister’s comment that it was, ‘The best April Fool’s joke she’d seen yet,’ got plenty of play. Awesome. The biggest joke of the day was that I somehow managed to wrangle up a steady plus-one.

It is literally more believable that I would be dying on top of a mountain than that I’d actually have a boyfriend. 

Good to know. I wonder if Stuart’s still single… 

Rejection in the Third Degree

Last Saturday, my besties and I stormed the Ace Hotel late night, after an evening of in-house capers with Palm Spring’s Finest. Proper noun. (You don’t want to know.)

As I danced my medium-sized heart out with the most amazing gays you will ever meet, I was rudely interrupted by an overly drunk, underly coherent soul. I attempted congeniality, as someone in our group pronounced Awkward Drunk Guy a friend of a few of our own from LA. This is how that worked out:

ADG: “This is so crazy.”

Me: “What’s so crazy?”

ADG: “This.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

ADG: “It’s just…you know…crazy.”

…

Me: “Ok.”

…

Scintillating.

Luckily, the aforementioned gays are equipped with excellent swoop-and-rescue skills. Let the revelry resume!

Unfortunately, ADG was not at a point in his night to be picking up on not-so-subtle social cues. As my fav fellow frolicker made all attempts to twirl me out of reach, ADG trailed my beat-friendly footsteps around the dance floor, occasionally capturing me in brief moments of conversational nothingness.

All in all, a slightly hilarious scene, which we proceeded to rehash the next day, as we sweat out our hangovers poolside.

…And then one amongst our crew (we shall call him DD for the purposes of this post)proceeded to rehash the whole thing once again upon his return to LA. With ADG. I love full circles. Here’s how that exchange went down:

DD: heyyyyyyyyy

ADG: hey! that was funny
i hope i didnt do anything too embarassing (sic)

DD: you were creeping on that girl
it was a topic of conversation the next day

ADG: i was creeping on everything

DD: ha
why were you there?

ADG: for a wedding
why were YOU there?

DD: friend’s birthday

ADG: oh fun times
i only hit on that girl
b/c everyone else seemed gay
and she talked to me

…

And here I thought it was my good looks and charming personality. 

Chalk. Win. Meh. 

Nice Guys Don't Finish Last - Weak Men Do

"I didn’t think there was any way you’d take that shot," said the stranger, his delivery laced with forced bravado.

I turned to face my verbal assailant. Stony stare. Left eyebrow slightly peaked. Irritation in full effect.

I know what you’re thinking - that icebreaker wasn’t that bad. And you’re right.  It wasn’t. It wasn’t rude; it wasn’t crass; it wasn’t ridiculously cheesy…it was just annoying. Do I happen to enjoy the process of taking shots? No. Did he know that? Nope. He didn’t know anything about me. 

Presumption and banality are the curse of a nervous pick-up line. This wasn’t some misogynistic a-hole; this was a nice guy pumping himself full of false confidence and attempting to run game.

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Nebraska.”

“Nebraska?! Ha. I’m sorry.”

…

Seriously?

Nice-guy negging is one of the saddest phenomenons to come out of The Game. Essentially a how-to guide for picking up chicks, The Game perpetuates the myth that the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to cut down her self-esteem.

First of all, this only works if said girl is 18 years old/or seriously damaged. Second of all, good-hearted, well-meaning dudes just don’t do it right.  They don’t fully commit. They can’t bring themselves to say something totally barbaric, so they pick a mundane topic and quibble it to death.

Kill. Me. Now.

At least when a guy’s a complete dbag, you can tell him to f*ck off and continue your evening in peace.  These awkwardly aggressive shy-guys manage to pull at your heartstrings, even while firing up every single one of your neuroses. How long are you supposed to wait before you tell them you JUST DON’T CARE? You don’t want to hurt the poor dude’s feelings.

Approaching a girl at a bar can be a nerve-whittling experience.  We get that.  And we appreciate when legitimate men make the effort.  When we say nice guys are hard to find, what we really mean is, nice guys who haven’t been beaten down by their needless insecurities. If the sweet sector of the less-fair sex would simply embrace their congenial qualities and let that affability fuel their swagger, the dating world would be a much saner place.

And just in case there is any confusion, ignorantly insulting a girl’s home state - or her BlackBerry for that matter - will not get you laid.

Ever.

It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Eats Dinner Without You

Last night, I met up with imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for a couple rounds of last minute cocktails. This Honor Bar session was to serve two purposes: 1. To continue plotting our world domination 2. To figure out why the F the young man she was supposed to be out with - Emphasis on young. Because he’s younger. Rawr. - had decided to eat dinner without her. 

This conversation got lengthy.

Boy had made activity-unspecific plans with her for the evening. As pick-up time neared, she had to push it back slightly, due to a work conflict. Shortly thereafter, she texted him that she was back in action. He replied, asking if they could meet up later. Much later.

Why? Because he was just sitting down to dinner with a friend. 

…

Oh. Right. Totally. Of course.

She let him know that A. His newly proposed time was, indeed, too late and B. There was no need for him to make it up to her another night.

He seemed surprised.  Seriously? 

…

This brought to mind a similar experience of my own.

A gentleman I had been to drinks with a few times asked if he could take me out on the upcoming Friday.  I said yes. Friday, he texted to lay out the details, explaining that his post-work commitments would probably last until 9 or 10. Oh, and he would probably be eating there.

…

Ahh. How fascinating.

Needless to say, I didn’t exactly swoon. This gentleman also seemed surprised by the lackluster reaction his comments had elicited.

How do these men-children not see the error in their all-too-casual ways?!

imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo and I began to wonder if we mistakenly set an ultra-lax tone from the beginning.  We’re both easygoing to an occasional fault and are generally more than willing to go with the flow and play things by ear…but there is a line.  And when this line is crossed, we quickly shift from gypsy-boho-whateverstotallyfinewithme to Type sarcastic A-hole. Is this shift too quick? Is there a specific trigger?

Maybe. And yes. Dinner. The trigger is dinner.  Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars? Absolutely. Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars after you just told us you pushed back our date time to eat dinner with your friend? Absolutely not. 

Why? Maybe because men have spent half their lives telling us the difference between the girls they take to dinner and the girls they take straight to the bar for tequila shots. One such man even brought this up when he and I were two courses deep: 

"If I didn’t like talking to you, I would have just asked you if you wanted to get a drink."

"Why would you take someone to drinks, if you don’t even like having a conversation with them?"

"Why do you think?"

…

Charming. Noted. Guard promptly reinstated in its upward and locked position.

… 

Back at Honor Bar: As we reached to pay our check, our server askedimawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for her phone number - his friend had wanted to stop by our table to ask her to coffee, but he didn’t get a chance.

He should probably tell his friend to make sure there’s a scone with that latte.

Match Made in Theory

A very dear friend of mine set me up with a somewhat dear friend of hers, based on our shared love of words and other things that are funny. Deep breath. Lots of trust. Let's do this.

Date #1: Post-work drinks at Misfit. Let’s keep this fun/easy/casual. I get stuck at work for an extra half hour-ish, cutting close to the end of happy hour. Not one to miss out on a great deal, my date decides to stock up on cocktails, while awaiting my arrival. This would have been a smarter idea, had he not also decided to consume every single one of them within that half hour. Let’s just say, he was plastered by the time I located him at the bar. Let’s also just say, it wasn’t love at first eye-roll.

Memorable notes: Girls aren’t funny. Girls can’t write. He was expecting me to be dumber. He had already managed to accrue a grand total of 3 DUI’s.

Swoon.

Date #2: Writer-y thing at the Hammer Museum. Assuming that his ego-charged, unintelligent barbs were due to accidental over-intoxication, I decided to give it another go. We make it to the museum just in time, but the seats are already filled. Hashtag fail. Let’s go have a drink back at the house and figure out where to go! Hey! Actually, why go anywhere when drinks here are free?!

Right. Why would anyone ever leave the house? Let’s just say he kept both the cocktails and the over-aggressive-quintessential-negging flowing, and I ended up…well…crying. Yes; apparently, I do have emotions. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch. Overall, not a great success.

…

He tells our mutual friend he is both apologetic slash mortified. In addition, he has decided to x-nay alcohol from his life.

Our mutual friend asks if there’s any way I would give the dude another chance, as he would really like to make it up to me. Deep breath. I get it. He’s a nice guy with drinking issues that make him less of a nice guy. I am willing to see how a sober date would go down, if only out of pure curiosity.

Cue: A barrage of fascinatingly half-hearted, yet persistent, attempts to have me meet him at x,y, or z bar/or his apartment. I ask which edition of Emily Post’s Etiquette he favors. He confidently asserts that he doesn’t believe in chivalry.

…

How charming.

…

In the interest of full disclosure, here are our final two conversations:

Him: Let’s hang out this weekend!

Me: I’m having a staycation in Malibu this weekend, but will be back Sunday evening, if you would like to pick me up and take me to dinner.

Him: Are you going to Malibu with a suitor?

No response.

I wasn’t, just in case you were curious. Shocking, I know.

Him: Come to my pool on Sunday!

I mean…

Literacy. Reading comprehension. Social cues. Anything?

One week later…

Him: Last chance. Meet me at [insert bar-name-I-can’t-remember] at 8.

Seriously? Last chance?

It hurts.

Me: How compelling.

And scene.

…

I really thought that one was going to work out.

Five Men. One Week.

You can avoid eye-contact. You can turn a cold shoulder and solidly hinged elbow. You can maintain an unwavering tone of disinterest. You can even throw an unabridged dictionary’s worth of intellect-ridden sarcasm over their heads.

But you can never escape them.

These are the LA Douchebags: The Real Men of Los Angeles* - and boy, do they have a way with words.

*Real as in reality, not ‘real men’ as in iterations of Jon Hamm

Random Man #1: I don’t believe in monogamy, but my wife doesn’t believe in polygamy.

Pretty sure she also doesn’t believe in you buying drinks for random girls at bars.

Random Man #2: Come sit over here.
Me: I’m fine right here, thanks.
Random Man #2: Your attitude problem only makes you that much more adorable.

…

Oh, I know.

Random Man #3: Where’s your new place?
Me: Beverly Hills
Random Man #3: That’s so not you! What are you doing living there?

Right. Because you’ve known me all of 3 and a half minutes. Thank you for your frank analysis. I should probably move now.

Random Man #4: You actually seem like a really cool chick. We’ll see if it’s for real.

Really?? You think so?! OMG I feel so much better about myself now. Thank you for validating my existence. I only hope I can continue to live up to your obviously discriminating taste slash superior expectations.

Random Man #5: You look like you’re a gift for me.

Oh, I get it. Because I’m wearing a bow around my neck. (I was - it’s a choker circa 1996.)

You are SO clever! Obviously, I have been waiting all night to gift myself to someone as charming and cavalier as yourself.

…

Don’t touch me.

…

…

…

I don’t feel safe anymore.

A Girl's First Booty Call

I just had my first legitimate booty call.

Obviously, this was not the first late night call I had ever received, but it was the first that I both answered and accepted.

Sure, there are other evenings that probably technically landed in the booty call column; but, on those occasions, the dude had the integrity to mask his true intentions with a quick round or three of drinks out in the real world prior to laying it on thick.

At least he brought tacos this time? Before you nod in enabling support, let me add that these were no Tacos Por Favor or Pinches…these were (brace yourself) Del Taco. Insult. Injury. Sigh.

There was a 3 minute (This number would prove to be foreshadowing in events to come) pretense of Boardwalk Empire viewing. Literally. 3 minutes. And then, you know…

But usually, “you know” with this person is actually enjoyable. Like, for me. Like, he makes sure it’s enjoyable for me. Apparently, that’s a chapter they left out of the booty call handbook? In accepting his midnight call, had I unwittingly agreed to a 3 minute sex session, guaranteed to leave only one of us satisfied?

Cuddling? Sure. Conversation? Of course. Let’s keep this on the up and up here. Let me interject at this point to add that, two months ago, I thought this person and I actually might be dating. My ensuing confusion and need for closure/or validation were the damning impetuses for this new life low.

Most of the conversation involving his recent life activities featured other girls, of course – not girls with whom he was getting down (that would just be uncouth,) but I could safely assume he at least momentarily entertained the idea.

God, he’s SO DESIRABLE. I am SO LUCKY he’s here right now.

…

Perhaps the morning sex would be better.

It started out well…and ended quickly. How lucky for him that he was now content and able to sleep.

Must. Be. Nice.

Around 8:30am, he decided it was probably time for him to hit the road. Did he save a shred of my dignity by conjuring up some tragically unbreakable breakfast-interfering plans? Nope. No plans. Just done here.

Interesting. That makes two of us.

…

My stomach feels like Del Taco.