Wil Wheaton

This morning (actually, this afternoon) I got a phone call from an old friend in California. He is one of a handful of people who probably knows me better than I know myself. Here was our conversation.

Cali Guy (CG): You causing trouble in Dallas?

Me: God, no. I stay in my apartment and do nothing.
CG: You’re lying.
Me: No, seriously.
CG: Really? What did you do last night?
Me: Went to the bar and had wine. Had some guy walk me home and then told him to leave. And then woke up next to Wil Wheaton.
CG: Wil Wheaton?
Me: Long story.
CG: You have a Wil Wheaton story?
Me: Yes. No. Not the THE Wil Wheaton.
CG: I’m impressed. I’m not gay but I’d be in a good mood if I woke up to Wil Wheaton.
Me: Yeah. He’s easy on the eyes.
CG: So I was right. You are causing trouble in Dallas.
Me: That isn’t trouble. Trouble involves cops and motorcycles. I have experienced neither yet.
CG: I’m still impressed. Tell Wil I loved him in Stand By Me.
Me: More than The Next Generation?
CG: I hated him in that. But The Guild… now that was a brilliant acting job. Scratch the Stand By Me thing. Tell him I loved him in The Guild.
Me: Now you do sound gay. I like this side of you. I want you to come over and help me decorate.
CG: I’m getting off the phone before I sound gayer. I want details about Wil later. I’ve always wondered what his favorite movie was. Not starring him, of course.
Me: Apparently, it is Sharknado.
CG: I knew it!

My life has become a very strange series of unpredictable events. At least I am learning to be social. I am also learning that when it comes to people, men specifically, I really am clueless. More importantly, I’m learning that living off of champagne and macaroni and cheese is indeed possible.

My Lack of Game

You know when you have an epiphany and that ‘aha’ moment slaps you in the face and you actually enjoy it? Welcome to my Thursday.

I have a beautiful friend. She is deeply spiritual, highly intelligent, has a twisted sense of humor. She is a five foot ball of energy and confidence. She is the definition of spitfire. Unfortunately, Spitfire has a crush. It isn’t that having a crush is unfortunate, per se, but having one on a man who gives mixed signals and is confusing as hell is.

I met her at the wine bar Thursday for over-priced Chardonnay and a quiet place to chat. Our neighborhood Jim Carrey look-a-like popped in to share a drink or two and we settled in for a night of girl talk (yes, Jim Carrey can girl talk). Somewhere during our ‘figuring out the crush’ conversation, Jim Carrey said something profound. Something that changed everything. At least for me it did.

Spitfire: I just don’t get if he is into me or not.

Jim Carrey: That’s because you don’t have the game down.
Spitfire: I do! Just not with him.
Jim: You don’t. And you aren’t being devious enough about it.

And then it hit me. I can’t do this. I can’t date people here.

How the hell do you get that from Jim Carrey, you ask? Because he is right. If you are interested in someone, there is a game you have to play. And yes, you really do have to be devious about it. And that was where my moment of freedom came. A relief flooded over me, even in my wine-drunk state, and settled in hard. Hard enough that when I woke up on Friday morning, I felt a peace I haven’t felt in a long time.

How did I find peace in that? Let me share. I absolutely suck at games. So much so that it usually gets me in trouble. I don’t know how NOT to be honest. How not to say how I feel. And, Jesus Christ, not only do I suck at manipulating people, I have absolutely no desire to do such things.  

More importantly, I don’t want people playing games with me. Not because I can't handle games or I am afraid of them, but because I don't know the fucking rules. And let's be honest, even if I did, I am awful at following rules.

And deviousness? Yeah, whatever the complete opposite of devious is, that’s me. I couldn’t even fake  it if I tried. Trust me, it would end in some awkward situation where I am explaining to the cops that I did not, in fact, steal the car but merely moved it down the street without permission (long story, and the only time I was ever accused of deviousness).

Here is where my epiphany punched me in the gut, though, tough love style. It isn’t that I am going about dating wrong or that I just haven’t found the right guy. It is that I can’t. I am not wired that way. I do not have the devious-games gene needed to date people in the Dallas area. And thank god! It means that I am a good person. And I’d rather be good and alone than devious and with a man. I feel… proud of myself.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not the jaded-baggage type of girl. I do believe that somewhere out there, some guy is wondering if there are any single women left that aren’t into games. While I have been lamenting “Where are all the nice guys?!” He has been lamenting “Where are all the honest women?” Maybe I will never meet him. Maybe I will. But he is out there. And right now, that’s good enough for me.

So how is this so freeing? Because, I can feel good about being a recluse now. I can carry my walls around me with pride. I can be me without apologies. Life in pajama’s? Yes, please. Weekends without makeup? Hell, yeah. Documentary night every night? Of course.

And these apartment walls will not close in. I just joined a writer’s group that meets every Thursday, I have yoga class twice a week and I still have girls’ night on Saturdays. That seems social enough for me.

In EVG news, since my flight for the company Christmas party got canceled, I missed out on seeing her. Which makes me incredibly sad. Usually, I get a hilarious midnight text from her, but last night she sent me a serious one. It made me love her even more, if that is at all possible.

EVG: Who loves you? I do! And lots of other people because you’re awesome :)

Look at EVG trying to cheer my sad-because-I-can’t-see-her ass up. She is the shit.

My Weed Ballad Love Life and Vibrator Decision

Anyone who is friends with me (which is now less than 1% of my viewers so probably not you), knows that I have been on an Alkaline Trio kick this week. One of my favorite songs by them happens to be ’97. Why? Because it is, or at least I thought it was, one of the truest love songs I have ever heard. Not the greatest, that would be Radio, but there is a confessional part to ‘97 that I have always related to. It is the one song where I can say, “Yep, this pretty much sums up all of my relationships with men.”  Why am a boring you with this tidbit of information? Because I recently learned that this is not at all about relationships!

What?! In an interview in High Times, Matt Skiba admits that he wrote this song in 1996 when he got busted with weed and was sentenced to 18 months of probation. This isn’t a song about past lovers! This is love song to marijuana. Which means either my love life can be summed up in a weed ballad or I terrible at deciphering song meanings. Either way, I’m not liking it.

All of this got me thinking (yes, I am going somewhere with this). Sure, I have had terrible taste in guys in the past. Except for my ex-husband, who is one of the kindest men I have ever met, most of my ex’s fall in the self-centered/mean-drunk category. But what could all my ex’s say about me? Besides being overly quirky and highly unpredictable, what would they say my biggest flaw is?

That’s easy. I am horrible at communicating. My solution to most problems is to ignore them until they go away. Talk about our issues? Bah! Hash it all out so we feel better? Bah! No, I prefer we bottle it all in and go drinking. Why you ask? Because I HATE arguing. Conclusion: In a relationship where communication is the key to intimacy, I really suck.

Example (and, unfortunately, a real example)

Boyfriend: I think we need to talk about where this relationship is headed.

Me: Did you know it rains diamonds on Saturn?
Boyfriend: I am being serious. When is the last time you told me you loved me?
Me: It’d be so confusing if that happened here. You’d be like, “Holy shit! Look at all the diamonds!” But you’d also be like, “Holy shit! It really hurts outside!”

It isn’t like I don’t have feelings. I do. I cry during The Walking Dead, for fuck’s sake. I just don’t like jibber jabbering about them.

In vibrator news, I finally made a decision to order one. Which one, you ask? Captain America, of course. Why? Because I am a god damn patriot. And because the First Avenger deserves to be the First Vibrator. That's why, bitches!

UPDATE: To the horrible woman who said the Avenger vibrator set cost $39.99 a piece... you, ma'am, are a liar!! They are not even for sale yet! Son of a bitch! I feel like Christmas just got ruined.

My Date with Alien Jesus

“What is the worst date you have been on?” he asked me.

Just because he thought my life had been a series of misadventures, he assumed I would have some crazy ‘horrible date’ story. He was right, damn him. That’s the beauty of having guy friends. They know you.

“That’s easy,” I told him. “Alien Jesus.”

“Alien Jesus?”

“Yes, sir. It was awful!”

And it was. It trumped the date with wealthy Greek that ended in a very scary argument where I had no one to call to help me get rid of him. Thank god for my dog and my willingness to stab someone (don’t worry, no stabbing happened). It trumped the date where the older southern man brought out three guns and very meticulously explained to me how easy it was to kill a person and hide their body. It even trumped the date with the tattooed rockabilly bartender who believed the Masons were controlling the government and had a vision that he and I would be married someday. He was a terrible psychic.  

So what exactly was my worst date ever?

COFFEE WITH ALIEN JESUS:

A friend of mine sent me this email a few months into my singledom.

I know you are not ready to date anyone yet but I have a friend that would be perfect for you. He is really into yoga and is a bit of a Quantum Physics buff so I think you will find him interesting. He is also a very sweet guy. Extremely sweet. Please give him a shot. If I wasn’t married I would scoop him up in a heartbeat. I think the only reason he is single is because he is too deep for Dallas women.

Since I don’t like being set up, this is usually the point where I politely say no. Plus it isn’t really that hard to be ‘too deep’ for women in Dallas. Dallas is full of the sort of vapid females who think the answers to life’s big questions can be found in ‘Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff’ and Oprah Winfrey reruns. However, the sweet guy part had me curious. I am one of the rare types of women (humans, even) that actually adore nice guys. Bad boys are disgustly savage and unoriginal at best. The whole, ‘be an asshole and she will love you’ philosophy has never worked on me. Go ahead, try being mean to me. See how much I like you after that, dick. But buy me flowers and kiss a puppy and you might just own my heart.

I responded with a hesitant ok. After a few phone calls with her friend, we decided to meet for coffee. I figured coffee was safe. I could easily bail if things went terribly wrong, right? Little did I know.

I arrived first and felt oddly uneasy. What do I say to a stranger? Will he catch on to how awkward I am? What if he asks about my family? What if I do the snorting laugh thing? Oh, god, please don’t let me do the snorting laugh thing!

When he walked in I recognized him immediately. He was lanky and pale with a loose fitting button up top and dark rimmed glasses. He looked unconcerned, not even remotely nervous. As soon as he saw me he flashed a toothy grin and I thought, “this man is gorgeous.”

And then this happened…

Him: Uhm, I quit my job today so I have no money. Would you mind paying? I had a dream that I was playing trombone in an Air Force band in San Francisco. I’m driving up there this weekend to see if it’s real but I can pay you back once I get out there.

Really? A dream? Another god damn date with a psychic? Fine. It was just coffee. I agreed to pay for his drink and started plotting my exit strategy.

We picked a seat in the corner of the shop and then this happened…

Him: You seem like such a down to earth chick that I feel I can be honest with you. Can I?

Me: Sure.
Him: (whispering) I am not from this plane of existence. I live in another dimension but I visit here frequently. I am really an extraterrestrial but I like to keep that on a down low. I can change my vibrations. That is how I travel.
Me: I thought I saw you come in a car?
Him: I did. I do that when I take this form.
Me: Are you fucking with me?
Him: (looking insulted) I would never do that!
Me: Did you just tell me you are a god damn alien?
Him: We prefer EXTRATERRESTRIAL.
Me: Oh my god. You are serious.

Most normal people would leave at this point, but I never leave a good story. And this might be the only alien date of my life. I couldn’t walk out on this.

I will not bore you with the entire two hour conversation, but I will bore you with the other fun facts I learned.

Fun Fact #1

Him: Most people don’t know this about me but I was Jesus in my past life.

Me: Hmm… so whom do you blame for your death?
Him: I blame the people of my time. They did not understand me.
Me: You’ve never read the bible have you?
Him: No. It exists in my head.
Me: Your head is obviously not the King James version. Because you openly stated in that version that you were dying for and because of the sins of man.
Him: I guess I did. But I think you and I are saying the same thing.
Me: No. No we are not. I like you better in the book.

Fun Fact #2

Him: The government is using black magic to control us. That is why I use white magic to fight them.

Me: Which government?
Him: They are all one.
Me: Clearly you do not keep up on current events.

Fun Fact #3

Him: I can feel your thoughts right now.

Me: Trust me, no you cannot.
Him: I feel connected to you.
Me: Have you ever been on medicine? Like maybe Lithium or Thorazine?
Him: No. I don’t believe in drugs.
Me: You should probably start believing. I mean it.

I actually started feeling incredibly sad for the guy and terrible for playing along with him. I talked to him about maybe seeing someone or talking to someone with a medical degree. But he was WAY TOO FAR gone in his delusion to hear what I was saying. 

This was the conversation that scared me, and when I finally left the scene of my date.

Last Conversation:

Him: Can I have a piece of your hair or maybe some dead skin.

Me: Jesus! Why on earth are you asking me that?
Him: I just want to eat a part of you so that I can absorb your DNA and we can become one.
Me: Are you asking if you can cannibalize me?
Him: No. Not anything evil like that.
Me: Look. You are not going to eat me! You are going to sit right here and I am going to leave. You are going to stay here until I get in my car and drive away.
Him: Ok. Good meeting you.
Me: Yes. Great times. Please get help.

You would think at this point in my life I would give up and buy a few cats and a bric-a-brac collection and call it a life. But this is truly a Dallas thing. I had wonderful and normal dates in California and Michigan. No one tried to kill me or eat me or convince me they were an alien. If I come to the point where I decide it is time to date someone seriously, I’ll just move to one of those states and enjoy a normal dinner/movie/wine thing. Maybe find a guy who likes to go camping and kisses puppies. Until then, pj’s and Netflix suit me just fine.

 

 

My Weekend

As far as being on lockdown, this is not going to work. At least I gave it the old college try. But, alas, I have my weaknesses. Wine, chocolate, TV, comfortable clothing. Put them together and I have a disastrously low amount of self-control. Plus, if I cannot break my own rules, what use is being rebellious? And I like being rebellious.

 

My Weekend:

 

Musician Dude reared his ugly head (or should I say texts) this weekend. I got a lengthy apology text about him being standoffish concerning my dog and him being overly flirty. The two things I finally told him made me feel uneasy and uninterested. He wanted to come over this weekend and talk about it, hang out and to see if I could give him another chance. But creepy men cannot hide their creepiness for long. Here was how the last of the texts went down.

 

Me: Look, you can come over if you want. It’s been a rough week and I am always happy to see friends. But if you are coming over because you are hoping to get lucky, maybe you should stay home.

Him: I’ll just stay home then. You seem hostile.

 

Really? Since when has not wanting to have sex a hostile position to take? It isn’t. And it isn’t that I don’t want to have sex; I just don’t want to have sex with him. That is not hostile. That is personal.

 

As much as I throw my business out on here, in reality there are two rules I have about sex. First, I keep it as private as possible. Not because I am ashamed, but because people talk. And when people talk about sex, men listen. I like that men leave me alone in bars, that people think I am a prude, that most guys keep their distance. It keeps me out of drama. Especially where I live. And as far as physical relations go in the circle, mine have been very limited. Thank god.

 

Second, and the one that applies to Musician Dude, is that I am extremely picky about sex partners. Whereas my friends go for looks, common interests, financial stability, long term potential, I couldn't care less about any of those things. To me there must be something I intensely admire in that person (kindness, character, intellect, imagination). And there must be that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach whenever you are around them. Not butterflies. Just that feeling that being around them is significant. Trust me, without this the sex would be awful. And Musician Dude falls short in both the admiration and stomach categories.

 

Let’s be real. Musician Dude toured for 10 years straight, just released a solo album, and rubs shoulders with some pretty famous people. He is NOT used to being told no. So do I think his recent interest in me is because he thinks I am beautiful and amazing? No. Is it because of my fabulous personality and wonderfully dark sense of humor? No. To him, I am nothing more than a challenge. And I kind of think I am worth far more than that.

 

So what did I do this weekend, you ask? I had an incredible Thanksgiving dinner with British transplants and three amazing friends. Then a friendsgiving dinner with a group of beautiful girls where I learned that one of them has a secret superhero power involving x-ray vision. I also got to spend an evening with man who let me curl up on his couch and yell at his TV while wearing my thick glasses and comfy old t-shirt (look at me getting all fancy). He didn’t even flinch when I downed an entire bottle of champagne and threatened to steal his cat. He is either just as weird as I am or completely immune to madness in general. Fascinating (I am saying this in my best Spock voice).

 

I cannot end this blog without an EVG reference. This was a text I got from her at 2:39am.

 

EVG: Taco flavored kisses for my Ben!!

 

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about or who the hell Ben was. At this point, I don’t even ask.

A Brief Moment of Seriousness

I noticed that all of my favorite authors (Bukowski, Hemingway, Faulkner, Hunter S. Thompson) share certain characteristics. Very specific ones, in fact. And as much as I am drawn to their writing styles, their stories or the art of their words, I am drawn to them as people too. Maybe even more so than their prose.

I think anyone who has any basic knowledge of these authors will attest to the fact that they were all drunks and womanizers. These are traits any logical person would abhor in another. But somehow, I do not. It isn’t that I ‘like’ drunks or womanizers or that I even admire them. Quite the contrary. I find these qualities to be weaknesses. A person usually becomes a drunk because they do not believe they have the emotional capacity to deal with their sadness or their loss or their emptiness. So they pour whiskey on their pain, drown it in beer until it becomes a faint numbness, an echo of its original self. As for womanizing, this is almost always a tool used to fill in a void created by another woman (a lost lover, an ex-wife, a mother, the one who got away), a way to avoid intimacy.

Although these are not qualities I admire, I do understand them. A person has to fall into the abyss of themselves in order to want to bury what they see there. But isn’t it in that abyss that true art exists? You may not like it, they surely didn’t, but you can at least appreciate that they had the ability to both fall and create. These are not men who went to therapy, men who found women to heal them, men who turned to god. No, they drank, they had sex and they wrote. And their words had soul and truth and meaning.

Yet they were more than just alcoholic man-whores. These were men full of passion. Consumed by it even. They loved until they broke, they cried to Beethoven and Chopin, they read and re-read the classics, they wanted world peace, they fought with bare fists and they embraced their own madness. It seems that underneath each of their hard exteriors was a soft side reserved only for those worth being soft for. Now that is something worth admiring.

Why so serious, you ask? Because I can be. Because today is a serious day. And because sometimes it is important to remind myself that I am not perfect and the people I love are not perfect and even my heroes are not perfect. And that is really a very beautiful thing.

Conversations With EVG And My Undate

All my friends know that I have one rule that they should adhere to. Never EVER put me on speaker phone. Example from Friday:

Me: You are adorable.

EVG: It’s true. It’s why you like me.
Me: Yeah, I think I only like you because you’re so pretty. I’m superficial like that. Plus, I want to f*ck your brother.
EVG: Uhm… Uh… My mom is here.
Me: So?
EVG: You were just on speaker phone.
Me: EVG! You know the rules! You are never supposed to put me on speaker phone!
EVG: I know, I know. Our conversation was so normal. I can’t believe that in just 10 seconds, shit went horribly awry!
Me: She has no idea I was kidding! You better tell your mom I was kidding.
EVG: I will do no such thing.

Speaking of EVG, that girl can never give a normal answer to a question. Example from today:

Me: Were the first two seasons of American Horror Story any good?

EVG: It scared me. You know that movie where there was a puppet man and he played games and made people do stuff?
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
EVG: Saw. That was the name.
Me: That was your description of Saw?
EVG: Yes. It’s an accurate one, isn’t it? The Princess Bride guy was in it and people died.
Me: I guess. You should never be allowed to write reviews for movies, though.
EVG: I watched it with a guy I was dating and he kept yelling, “BOO!” at all the scary parts and I didn’t like it. So I f*cked him in self defense.
Me: That doesn't even make sense.
EVG: He stopped going boo and I didn't have to watch the movie anymore.
Me: What does this have to do with American Horror Story?
EVG: Oh, yeah. No. Just start with season three.

Example from yesterday:

Me: Have you ever met Mark?

EVG: Yes, he had his dick in my face once.
Me: What?!
EVG: I took him to Taco Bell and he said he wanted me to give him head. I thought he was kidding so I told him only if he could bring it to my face. He stood up through the sunroof and pulled his pants down and waved it around.
Me: Oh my god! Did you?!
(You have to ask EVG these questions because you never know.)
EVG: No. I never turned my head. But he was a great contortionist.
Me: You know, you could have just said, “Yes, I met Mark.”
EVG: Yes, I met Mark.

In life news, I have an undate tomorrow. We were supposed to meet for drinks but I asked if we can do movies at my place and just "hang out" instead. I guess this was my solution to getting out of a date. I also felt the need to tell him he would not be getting lucky. I think my exact words were, “Don’t worry, I won’t try to rape you. It’ll be just a hanging out thing.” His response? “Sounds good. But it’s weird you felt the need to tell me I won’t be getting raped.”

In other dating news, a guy on Match emailed me asking if I had had any luck. What a strange question. So I answered honestly. I told him it was hard to sort out the serious people from the serial daters but such is life. I figured I would ask him the same silly question. His response:

Haven't done much with it, but certainly willing to give it a shot. Haven't been on maybe two weeks and have gotten some interesting emails already. Just wish find quality was easier, which is why I am starting to take things into my own hands and write those who I think I have some things in common with. No luck yet!! Stay posted, lol...hope your having a great weekend thank you for writing.

See the misuse of the “your”? The ‘no luck yet’ comment? And this is one of the better emails. Today I got one that simply said, “nice cup hahaha… lol”. What the hell kind of email is that? Yeah, I know it’s nice. I bought it!! And once you write hahaha I assume you are lol-ing. I can’t even respond to crazy shit like that.

Which is why I am looking forward to my undate. He’s normal, intelligent, way too young for me, knows how to spell, is not an asshole, knows how to make coffee, has a job, and is willing to watch Supernatural with me. Boom! 

The James Spader Effect, the Ex Incident and My Inability to Sext Message

Last week, this conversation happened:

Sumo Baby (SB): I need to catch up on Blacklist.

Me: Oh my god, I love that show!

SB: It’s so weird but there is something about James Spader…

Me: He’s hot, right?
SB: No! I mean… I don’t know. Not at first but then he slowly becomes good looking.
Me: Yep. Like if you saw a picture of him you’d be like, ‘meh’. But when you see him talk and watch his mannerisms, he becomes sexy. I see this all the time in real life. Hell, half the men I have slept with fall into this category.
SB: It’s so weird.
Me: I think I am going to call this the ‘James Spader Effect’.  

Why is that relevant, you ask? Jesus, hold on! I’m getting to it. Earlier this week my boss and I met with one of our subcontractors up in Nashville. Our sub was older, maybe mid-fifties, with dark-circled eyes and an awkwardly tall build. But then this Tennessee drawl came sliding out of his mouth and he stood up and walked the room like he owned it and all of a sudden he was strikingly handsome. Plus he had this perpetual niceness about him so that even when he was telling the consultant sitting at the table to go fuck himself, it sounded like he was offering him sweet tea and biscuits. Total James Spader Effect.

Then again, almost all of Nashville was like this. As much I love intelligence in men (yes, I am a sapiosexual at heart), kindness can make anyone beautiful. The men in Nashville all have this down. They open doors, pull out chairs, call you ma'am, get you drinks, pick up your tab, offer you their coat, and so on. They definitely have a southern politeness and charm that I am unaccustomed to. This would be a dangerous place for me to live.

But Dallas is in the south, you argue! Yeah, I know, I know. But trust me, most people in Dallas have the anti-James Spader Effect. There are a lot of very rude humans out here. Don’t believe me? In 2012, these people were ranked #6 as the rudest people in the entire US. A generous ranking for sure.

2012 Rudest Cities

 

Why don’t you just move, you ask? Wow! You’re getting mouthy. I plan on moving. And soon. No idea where. Maybe up to Denton. Maybe somewhere near my job. Maybe completely out of this state. But definitely far away from Dallas. And the ex; I need to move far from him too. I mean, we live five doors down from each other. Not a good situation for either of us.

Speaking of the ex, one of his best friend’s died in a motorcycle accident this week so I made the decision to reach out to him. Just a text to say that I was sorry for his loss and that if he needed anything to let me know. He called and as you can imagine, it did not go well. Let’s just say that when it comes to logical decision making, like ‘do NOT text your ex even if it is to offer your condolences,’ I am obviously a bit of a dolt. Okay okay, I’m a fucking idiot. Geesh. You’re a tough crowd today.

(Deep sigh)

To add to my not-that-good-of-a-day, I am trying to think of a polite way to tell someone to fuck off. Not too long ago I had a few dates with a musician from New Orleans. He is definitely looking for a friends-with-benefits scenario and I am not. Besides my vagina being on lockdown, I kind of feel like most guys never truly get the ‘friends’ part of friends-with-benefits. And aren’t I better than that? Don’t I deserve more than that? I think so.

Anyways, at some point he thought it would be appropriate to sext me. I cannot convey to you how bad I am at that. I don’t even try. There is nothing, NOTHING, sexy about text messaging. This is how I deal with sext messages:

Musician Dude (MD): I’d really like to see you naked.
Me: I doubt that. I have this really weird mole on my left thigh and it is very distracting. It’s like, ‘oh she’s nak… what the shit is on her thigh?’.
MD: I would never think that.
Me: Well, you will now.
MD: Would you like me to send you a dirty picture of myself?
Me: Absolutely not. It's too dangerous.
MD: Dangerous?
Me: Yes. I would just share it with my friends and we'd laugh at you and you never know where it could end up.
MD: Are you joking?
Me: Yes. No. Possibly. My advice? Don’t chance it.

Plus he uses words like wiener and coochy. What the hell is wrong with you Musician Dude? You are in your mid-forties. TALK LIKE IT!!

My solution so far has been to ignore his texts but he is not getting the hint. Either I am going to have fun with this and start texting him back some crazy crap like ‘I’d love to peel all your skin off’ or I’m just going to be honest and tell him he is fucking creeping me out. Tea and biscuits, anyone?

Waking Up

How I wake up on the weekends is vastly different week to week. And I guess I found the contrast important enough to write about.

 

This Sunday:

Last night I had fallen asleep on the couch to  Firefly with a half-eaten jar of salsa next to me, sans chips. What a sad way to spend a Saturday, you say? Well, fuck you. I happen to like Firefly. And salsa. And think about it, I didn’t have to deal with annoying bar people or an awkward date. I didn’t have a hangover, didn’t lose my dignity, didn’t get arrested, didn’t cry, didn’t tell anyone to go fuck themselves. So I see last night as a win. Today I woke up on the couch to my Roku screen saver bouncing across my TV and my dog snoring at my feet. Not bad at all, me. Not bad at all.

 

Last Saturday:

The phone went off at 9am. For the normal people of the world this is a decent time to be up on a Saturday. For me, however, any time before noon is ridiculous early. You know how people say you will regret what you did last night in the morning. Well, I say not if you sleep until 12pm. Problem solved.  

 

Anyways, I peeled my eyes open far enough to read, ‘Are you up???’. It was from my friend down the street whom I will call Carrie (you’ll find out why later). I put my phone down and rolled back over, intent on sleeping a few more hours. But something about the three question marks bothered me. One was normal. Two meant ‘I have something exciting to say’. But three? Three is a dangerous number of question marks. It could mean anything from ‘I’m stranded on the side of the road’ to ‘I’m being attacked by a bear’. I decided I better call back. I know how to deal with bears.

 

Me: What’s up? Are you okay?

Carrie: (whispering) No.

Me: Why are you whispering?

Carrie: I am in my closet.

 

Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. When someone tells me they are in a closet, I immediately picture this:

 

You might not remember this scene from Carrie, but I sure as hell do. Everyone acts like the pig’s blood was the frightening part of that movie. Everyone is wrong. Oh yeah, you are completely willing to eat the ass of a pig and drool over its bacon-y goodness but you find the blood that helped that ass grow into your bacon frightening? Blood is not scary, you silly people. But having a deranged religious fanatic of a mother lock you in a closet, now that’s scary.

 

As I pictured that scene, I tried not to laugh. This was serious stuff, me. Maybe she was in there because an axe murderer had broken into her house and she was about to be killed. I could end up being that girl in the movie that comes in and confronts the monster and goes crazy and saves the day. This could be my moment.

 

Me: Why are you in your closet?

Carrie: There is a boy in my bed.

Me: Okay. Is that a bad thing?

Carrie: He won’t leave.

Me: Did you sleep with this boy?

Carrie: No! I slept on the couch. He came over with a bunch of other people and then went in my bedroom and passed out. They left when I went to go get cigarettes and left him here with me. Alone!

Me: Is he cute?

Carrie: (sniff) No! He has a very big belly and hair all over his body.

Me: Hair is sexy. I like hairy men.

Carrie: (sniff sniff) Not like this. He is too big to have this much hair. It scares me. It’s creepy!

Me: Creepy? Having a hairy body does not mean you stalk children. It means you’re Italian. Wait! Are you crying?

Carrie: Yeeees!

Me: Okay okay. Stay calm. I will come over and take care of this. But you know how I take care of things. I won’t be nice. Can you handle that?

Carrie: Yes.

Me: I’m bringing a bat and if he gives me any lip, I’ll show him who the real Italian is! How dare he think he can stay in your house! You ask him to leave and he still lays there!! Fuck that! I’m not even going to ask. I’m coming in swinging!

Carrie: Well…

Me: You did ask him to leave, right?

Carrie: Uhm. Not really. I went in the room and I was loud but he didn’t wake up.

Me: (stops looking for the bat I don’t own) Carrie! Go in that bedroom and wake him up and tell him to leave. You have to give the guy a chance to get out before you call your craziest friend to come kill him!

Carrie: (sniff) Okay

Me: Jesus. Just keep me on the phone just in case.

Carrie: (long pause) It’s okay, honey. You will be okay. Just come over. HEY! You! My friend is in trouble and is coming over. You need to leave.

Me: Are you pretending I need help so you have an excuse to get him to leave?

Carrie: Yes. It will be okay. Just come over and we will fix this… Sir, you have to leave.

Me: It will not be okay.

Carrie: What happened? Do you want me to just come get you?

Me: I flew to France last night and had sex with a few prostitutes. I’m think they gave me herpes. So I am pretty sure things will not be okay.

Carrie: (whispers) Quit making me laugh.

Me: Laugh? You find my herpes trip funny?

Carrie: Stop it! He left.

Me: Good. I am going back to sleep.

 

The Sunday Before Last:

I woke up in my bed naked except for my bra. My clothes were strewn from the front door to the bed. My shoes were behind the couch (no idea). There were no signs of anyone but myself and my dog. Last thing I remembered was being at the bar and having a polite conversation about gaming.

 

I picked up my phone and texted Carrie.

 

Me: I am missing half my night. Did I do anything absurd?

Carrie: Nope. You were perfectly normal until you stood up. I had no idea you were drunk until that moment.

Me: Wine on an empty stomach never ends well.

Carrie: You made me carry you to the bathroom and kept asking me why I am so nice to you.

Me: Jesus.

Carrie: Then I just took you home and you went in and I assume went to bed.

Me: Thank god. Was I mean to anyone?

Carrie: Yeah. The guy who was trying to talk to you. You just turned your back on him and ignored him. He was all bummed. He kept saying, ‘Your friend won’t talk to me anymore.’

Me: Sounds about right.

 

Come to think of it, holiday parties are coming up soon. Open bars, happy me, free limo rides. I’m sure my next few Sundays will be noteworthy. I earn a new nickname every time I am at a company party. Last year it was Roadhouse. Why? Here were the texts:

 

Company President (CP): I have decided your new nickname is Roadhouse.

Me: Like as in Patrick Swayze?

CP: Yes.

Me: Oh my god! Did I kick someone in the face?!?!

CP: No. When all the drama was going down you just stood there all cool and calm. Everyone was drunk and crazy and you were drunk and cool. So Roadhouse it is.

Me: I’ll take it.

 

I have also been ‘Onion’ and ‘Killer’ but those are long stories and I my attention span just ran out.

 

- Fin

My Vibrator Dilemna

I originally started this blog with “the Plan”. You remember... say yes to dates, be nice to men, put yourself out there, blah blah blah. The problem is that I don’t particularly like the sort of men I come across. I thought it must be the small area I live in. No, IT IS ALL OF TEXAS. Match.com has opened my eyes to this fun fact. I have already ranted so you know my issues with the people on there. ALL those men are insanely awful. Do emotionally stable, completely nerdy, socially awkward, passionate men exist? I think not.

 

Worse yet, maybe two of these 600+ dudes who viewed me actually read my profile and my profile is fucking funny. I am funny, damnit! And witty and educated. But 99% of the guys who have asked me out have asked me because I am blonde and “cute” (I am not cute, damnit!!) and available. They look at the pictures, think “I’d screw her” and then send some grammatically incorrect drivel about drinks or dinner. Real creative, assholes. And guess what? I don’t give a shit what you look like. Those topless photos of you in your bathroom are stupid and annoying. If you look like you spend more than 5 minutes on your hair I am already sick of you. And quit telling me to look at your photos or asking me if you are attractive. My answer will always be no. My point? I am over Match.

 

So I canceled my date for tonight. I have vegetable soup in the fridge, a novel that needs writing, fuzzy rabbit pj’s that need wearing and MST3K that needs watching. And I have a garden tub that is dying to be turned into a bubble bath. All of this is way better than pretending that the blabbering guy sitting across the dinner table is really just looking for good conversation.

 

Lately, I have been having some really great talks with EVG. This morning we both agreed that we are willing to wait ten years, if we must, to find that one person who will adore our weird ass personalities. Yep. I am putting my vagina on lock down. Which is sort of easy since it has already been on lock down. This also means that I need to invest in a vibrator collection. And if there is anything I love, it is ‘collections’. The following conversation happened last night:

 

EVG: You don’t have a vibrator?

Me: No. Well, not one I can use.

EVG: Hmm…

Me: I have a Hello Kitty one but I got it from Japan and my inner geek is convinced it will be a collector’s item one day so I haven’t taken it out of the box.

EVG: You can’t collect these things, you have to use them!

Me: (not listening) I wonder if they have fairytale vibrators or superhero vibrators? I can get a curio cabinet and display them like knickknacks!

EVG: I think you are missing the point of vibrators.

 

Maybe I was but guess what? THEY HAVE SUPERHERO VIBRATORS! AND FAIRYTALE ONES!! I have found my new hobby! Not only will I have the sexual patience to wait for my Mr. Right (he wears glasses, makes a mean cup of coffee and thinks I am the shit… if you see him, tell him I am stranded in Texas) but I can do it geek-girl style.

 

The dilemma of my evening is which vibrator collection to order first. The Star Wars? The Avengers? Or the Wonderland? Very difficult choice, indeed.

 

 

Your opinions would be greatly appreciated. I'm leaning towards the Avenger set first but my mind can easily be changed. In the meantime, I am clearing shelf space for their display. Yes, mom, nice to see you too. Yes, dad, those are indeed vibrators. Wine anyone?