He immediately changes the subject as the familiar look of panic flickers in my eyes. Actually, it more than flickers…it settles into the date like an unwanted overnight guest. It doesn’t matter how many times he changes the subject to light hearted, inconsequential topics, panic is here for the night. I am Sham, and Sham does NOT like talk of the future.
Fuede McMandals, however, will not go down without a solid fight. He embraces my panic, hell, the man lathers up with my panic and blows little mocking, panic bubbles in my face. Fairly infuriating…to say the very least. He’ll tell me he really likes me, I’ll say “thanks.” He’ll talk about when we meet each other’s families, I’ll make “your mom” jokes. He’ll tell me I’m beautiful, I’ll tell him I hate his mandals, fuede, and unbuttoned, oversized shirts. He just keeps plugging along. He laughs at my crazy, ignores my mean, and thinks I’m cute when I’m crabby. On top of all that, he plays me this song:
Sample lyrics from Billy Joel’s Innocent Man
I know you’re only protecting yourself
I know you’re thinking of somebody else
Someone who hurt you
But I’m not above
Making up for the love
You’ve been denying you could ever feel
I’m not above doing anything
To restore your faith if I can
I know you don’t want to hear what I say
I know you’re gonna keep turning away
But I’ve been there and if I can survive
I can keep you alive
I’m not above going through it again
I’m not above being cool for a while
If you’re cruel to me I’ll understand
What kind of fool puts up with this BS and then does such sweet things??? Well I guess for the time being, he’s my fool. Stupid heart…why won’t you work properly? Piece of trash heart. Get.it.together.
OH, the horror. The unspeakable horror of the leather, man-sandal with buckle accent. Men have flocked to the mandal since Jesus rocked them back in the glory days. They are adored near and far for their rugged durability, air-conditioned slits, and sexy mix of style and function…and they are A-T-R-O-C-I-O-U-S. They must be stopped.
Fuede came over the other night and he warned me ahead of time that he would be sporting mandals. I tried to brace myself for the inevitable post-mandals viewing libido nosedive. However, nothing and I mean NOTHING could have prepared me for these black leather, ankle buckling, slit having, hot ghetto mess mandals. I told him to leave. Immediately. It obviously can’t work out…I can’t possibly fight faux suedeand mandals. I am just one girl and this is decades of work that needs to be undone.
To his credit, Fuede McMandals is no quitter. He’s a persistent son of a bitch. I told him I can’t even commit to a sixth date, how am I supposed to commit to burning down his closet and rebuilding his entire wardrobe? The man outsmarted me though. He made me sign a contract. For the pricey sum of 10 dates, he would purchase any sandals of my choosing.
Fuede McMandals is now the proud of owner of 10 dates with yours truly and a sexy pair of respectable leather flip flops.
Is there some kind of new dating playbook for guys that came out? Or is this an old trick that I am just now acutely aware of due to the sheer number of guys I’ve gone on dates with lately?
First, they find some excuse to tap you, such as when they are making a point about how some random sports team is going to “take it all” in whatever inconsequential championship game is on the horizon. I find the tap to be slightly less annoying than the actual topic of conversation. So the tap is okay-ish.
Second, is the extended touch. The extended touch accompanies a sentimental moment…something like, “my mother sacrificed everything for me and my brothers, which is why I decided to go into pharmaceutical sales.” <<insert extended touch>> The extended touch distracts me from the non sequitur between your mom who suffered years of your dad cheating on her sacrificed everything and your new found profession in whoring yourself pharmaceutical sales. So, well played on the touch.
It’s the third and final act that really kills it for me. I know I’ve had at least three glasses of wine, but under no circumstances did I ever invite you to lovingly (barf) caress any part of my body. I mean, this is a first date and the chances of me liking you (in this particularly douchetastic city) are about 1 in 24 on average. So you can save those light fingered grazes for your actual wife. Just pay for the check and let my body parts be.
At 4:30am, I backed around the corner of the abandoned building and pretended I couldn’t hear the man yelling at me from his car, “how much for a good time, young thing?” Though I started the Baltimore girls’ weekend with high hopes for grand adventure, being confused for a prostitute in the Baltimore hood was not exactly what I had envisioned. Yet there I stood in the cold, dark street waiting for a nonexistent taxi to save me from myself and my long string of misguided (and highly unauthorized), drunken decisions.
Eight hours earlier, my beautiful group of girlfriends and I were sitting at a lovely dinner in the downtown business district of Baltimore. A cold walk in short dresses, a cab ride to the clubs, and several delicious shots later, we had officially hit high gear on girls’ weekend. After fifteen minutes of dancing, we flew right passed pleasantly buzzed and straight into drunksville, USA. That’s when the following unfortunate series of events unfolded:
We met the Boston Boys (what up, boys!). Meeting these fine gentlemen from Boston wasn’t necessarily an unfortunate event, but it did prompt all of those that followed. Shockingly enough, my tall, gorgeous, blonde leggy friend, Sara, had drawn in a tall Bostonian (we’ll call him Joey Fatone). Joey and Sara started a terribly boring conversation about the Red Sox….zzzzz….so I looked around to find greener pastures…
Instead I found ginormous professional Ravens football players…yum! After a brief convo, I learned that the delicious new quarterback draft pick was in need of both a girl and a quick public piss. Classy. After he peed against the wall, he and some nice girl from San Diego asked to feel my tats. On the street. In public. I probably should have said no. Oh well (swear I will do better next time OR at a minimum look to see if anyone was taking pics). Shortly after, football/san diego girl threesome were jumping into a taxi (note: absolutely no good could have come from getting in the taxi with the football players, except a potential paternity test and subsequent child support nine months from now). My friend Sara was still with the Boston Boys so I went back to find her.
Enter the man, the myth, the legend (the boy wonder in pink)…D-Rag. D-Rag is one of the more nefarious members of the Boston Boys. In our short time together, D-Rag stole his friend’s car keys (yet could not find any such car), found two girls and one guy sleeping in his bed, insulted no less than two minority groups while insisting he was not racist, and tainted Boston’s entire reputation. D-Rag’s most respected talent is blacking out hard and fast and leaving girls stranded in his ghetto-fabulous neighborhood. This is how I found myself looking like a 2-dolla holla on the corner of rape alley and murder street at 4:30am.
In the two and a half hours it took the taxi to get to me, I was propositioned by every third or fourth car (I could have made some seriously decent cash…like the guy who stalled his 94 ford escort trying to “take me for a ride” probably had at least $10.50 to his name…instead of earning the big bucks, I just cried and prayed for the taxi). Finally, Mr. Cabbie arrives. Yay!!! Salvation! I was feeling pretty good about life until the cab driver stopped at a red light. The light turned green and still we were just chillin there. I lean forward in the cab to see this:
That’s right the f’in cabbie was passed out. I woke his ass up. He drove two blocks, stopped at a stop sign for three seconds, and he fuckin fell asleep AGAIN! Asleep while driving me…I hate Baltimore. After a rude awakening from yours truly, he managed to make it four more blocks to the house, then he passed out in the street for the next 45 minutes. Stellar service, Raven’s cabs of Baltimore, absolutely f’in stellar. I want my $8 back.
I finally made it back to the house d’Boston Boys, who were holding the beautiful Sara hostage. I must say, after a night of horror and grave disappointment, the Boston Boys and their animated antics at 6:30am were the only saving grace of the entire shitshow night. Between Stifler swinging his dick wildly around while describing his heroin-addicted cougar nutting experience [according to witnesses on the scene at 6:30am, ""there was a scuffle upstairs and some haggard 40 year old lady just left looking angry"] to the many precious tales of how D-Rag has defrauded college students into paying for his gambling problem donating to worthy causes, banged single mothers within ear shot of their kids, continued to live at home well past the age of 22, and cheated a stupid, drunk girl from a totally memorable night with a ginormous football player (wait a second…that last one sounds strikingly familiar. DAMN IT!).
Finally, our friends came to pick us up. They were none too impressed with any of our tales, but we love them forever for finally saving us from the never ending night of debauchery.
I am glad to be alive. I hate Baltimore.* I think Boston’s school system failed their male students (I’m not sure they understand at all how girl parts work). I wish the Boston guys lived in DC so that I could watch their ridiculous sordid tales in person. I also hope they quit harassing me to post about this weekend…this is the last time I ever want to think of this weekend again. (However, hopefully they’ll fill in the blanks on any part of the night I may have forgotten.) So long Baltimore, NEVER again (until the next time).
* Except for the lovely ladies of 305 Chuckie Ave. If I had only stayed inside that beautiful, high ceiling, palace with my most favorite girls on earth, I would not have nearly lost my life on the street corner. But let’s be honest, the next time I come to town we won’t be in the apartment, we’ll be stuck on that street corner together (probably visiting Tabs’ boyfriend, Inmate #36729). Love you girls, sorry for trashing your city.
Bad news. I’m in a relashamship. A relashamship is an interaction where one party believes they are in or working steadily towards a relationship and the other party is entirely oblivious to any such level of commitment. There are two main characters…Relationshipper and Sham. Relationshipper (R for short) is usually great. R is all about making plans, futuristic talk of children and vacations together on the beach, cuddling, canoodling, late night phone calls, PDAs and the like. Sham, on the other hand, is just chillin. Sham is happy to be there, loves the attention, thinks R is great, probably showered and shaved for R, but also doesn’t really miss R when R is gone. Sham just refocuses attention to S or T or work or the wall or sparkly things…oooh sparkly things.
Anyhow, I am Sham. Latest date guy (fuede) is most definitely R. He is so adorably R, I wish I could be all R’in it up with him…but I am sham and sham is a stone. A cold, hard stone.
I might grow out of Sham and spread my little love dove wings to rise up and meet R, but at the same time R could just as easily do a nose dive into Shamville (that’s where things get UGLY – unless of course, I’m still chillin in Shamville too…then things just get fun). Needless to say, relashamships suck (like your mom).
This insightful view into Shamville, USA has been brought to you by your favorite crazy girl,
Fanfrickingtastic
P.S. This relashamship revelation has provided remarkable insight into my last “relationship”…I was R in that one. Just in case you were confused…being R blows (also like your mom).
I was an obnoxious child. The kind of obnoxious, where you wonder why the parents don’t beat it out of the kid. At least that’s what I thought as my mother tortured me with home videos this weekend, and I was forced to endure hours of my whiney, bratty childhood self. On the obnoxious front, some things don’t change. I still have my shining moments. However, the difference between now and then is that now I understand how deeply words can stab. I regret the years where I didn’t know this painful lesson, and I apologize to the one I hurt most.
Dear Godfather,
You left seventeen years ago, but I still think of you everyday. I wish that you could have lived for a just a few more years. You could have seen this changed world and known that you weren’t alone in your pain. I wish I wouldn’t have been so young and blind to your suffering. But I hope you can hear me now…
I hope my vicious, thoughtless words didn’t make you leave…I didn’t understand them, let alone mean them.
I hope you felt the love that I was too childish to express.
I hope our family’s version of right and wrong no longer burdens your soul. You were right.
I hope you are the star that you always wanted to be (and always were in my eyes).
I hope you can finally see your own beauty.
I hope you know the magical love that escaped you on earth.
When you left, part of me died with you. But at the same time, I know it’s because of you that I won’t settle for anything less than the amazing love you always dreamed of. Being loved and loving wholly is a gift that I promise not to take for granted. When I finally find that kind of love and he gets me to settle down (I swear I’ll go through with it when it’s right), we’ll dance at our wedding (at sunset on the beach in a land far, far away) to your favorite song.
Do you remember that beauty pageant my mom made me do when I was in second grade? During the interview portion of the pageant, I was asked, “Who is your favorite person?” I looked out into the audience and felt overwhelming panic. My mom, dad, siblings, grandparents, etc. were all in the audience. How could I possibly pick one person and not hurt everyone else? [I was also a very narcissistic child] So, what did I say? I said my cat. That’s right, I said my stupid cat…who by the way is NOT a person. Well, I lied. I hated that cat. You were my favorite person. You always were and always will be. So I hope you will please forgive any cruel words I spoke that may have made you think otherwise.
Glory, glory…date number two was suedeless, fuedeless, and spectacular. He opted for preppy attire, which I’ll take without complaint [He's a crazy fighter, so he still managed to look toughish]. I continued my reign of door-free, check-free-ness [Love this gentleman bit, it's fascinating]. He listened to the music I sent him, loved it, AND then wanted to discuss it [um...shocking]. Now, my gmail inbox is filled with classical music and my calendar is filled with two more dates.
Just one small problem, cause what would be the point of this blog if I didn’t have a problem…the sweeter he was the faster I started stacking fortress walls. I am officially headed toward shut down city. Four dates in two weeks…too much [and one small slip, where he said we're never having children after we discovered some shared devilish, genetic trait...we're??? Ruuuuunnnnnn!!!!!!]. I am the reason why girls get a bad name. Guys can’t win for freaking losing on this blog.
I need to throw in some extra douchebag dates, so that I can remember to breathe easy and be thankful. I advise myself to chill.
Fantastically bad shirt. I mean really just horrifically awful. It was black, it was a bit too big, it was entirely unbuttoned…oh yeah, and it was SUEDE. Correction, it was fuede, faux suede. Other than that glaring act of misguided shirt selection, it was a perfect date.
Delicious wine (he traded wine with me, because my first choice was less than delicious). Perfect warm weather with a slight spring breeze. Endless, easy conversation. Laughter, and smiles, and giggles (from me…thank god, he did no giggling). Lots of questions about me (loooove talking about me). Lots of talk about his music (super sexy…“hey jude” is just around the corner, I can feel it). Scheduled second date approximately 3/4 of the way through the first date. Exactly one compliment about my “seriously beautiful” eyes. Exactly one compliment about how refreshing the date has been. Never touched a door knob or a check. Night was sealed with a kiss…on the cheek. Perfection.
Will it lead anywhere? Who knows?! I don’t know and I don’t care. It was just nice…and for the moment that’s all I need.
Nothing can make you miss an ex-boyfriend faster, than knowing what’s out there on the dating scene. Suddenly, the questionably “little” flaws of an Ex seem downright stellar.
You drank 9 days a week??? Fabulous, Ex-boyfriend, you’re really committed to your hobbies.
You failed to mention your lovely wife and children??? Oh, Ex-boyfriend, I’m sorry. Since when is being slightly forgetful such a big flaw?! Never.
You lied as often as you opened your mouth??? What lies? Ex-boyfriend, you’re just a creative story teller (and you are soooo right, your secretary’s baby looks nothing like you. She’s the liar! Obviously).
The dating world cannot possibly be that bad that anyone would miss an ex-boyfriend of the above caliber. Au contraire, dear reader, it is. It sadly, sadly is.
I’ve had several dates in the last two weeks with men of extremely varying qualities. Yet, somehow, one theme runs through them all. Eventhough I am dressed for these dates in really adorable and modest business attire (love post-work happy hour dates!), I still consistently feel like I am wearing a sign that says “fresh meat.” It’s as if they are only entertaining my hilarious stories long enough to get 3+ glasses of wine in me so that they can suggest, we go “watch a movie at their [shockingly, conveniently located] apartment.” No thanks, losers. I much prefer stumbling home to my roommie, so that we can laugh [and sometimes cry] about how lame men are.
So, Universe, I’m just going to put this out there. Is it possible to go a date with a guy who might actually just appreciate me without “trying to watch a movie with me” on the first night? Any chance that there is a guy out there who might just walk me home to my door and leave happily with only a kiss? Any chance that you could send him in a hurry? [That last request was just plain greedy...I'll take him any time. Well, since I'm being greedy, if he would also sing to me that would be AWESOME. I'll put in my request for "Hey Jude" now so that he can learn the lyrics.] Many thanks, Universe!
The rest of the movie could quite easily be described as fantastical. How so? It’s not intended to be a fairy tale, but when you see a man sacrifice everything (including his pride) to be with a woman, you have to wonder what dream world you have entered. This is just not reality, at least not any reality I have ever experienced.
I am sure my past boyfriends, think they have sacrificed for me. I have put them through some serious stabbing-eyeball-with-pencil situations. For example, my sister’s three hour dance recital…or a road trip with my mother…or moving into my new apartment on the 6th floor with no elevator AND a whole lot of shoes. However, these are not sacrifices. These are examples of simply being in a relationship, they are just things you do (and you hopefully keep the bitching to a minimum)…I suffer your mother, so let’s call it fair. [Note: not all mothers, the more recent ex-mothers have been completely lovely - your sons are a different f'in story]
A sacrifice is quite different, and something I have not experienced. I have never had a man debate, whether he should consider moving to be in the city that I love. I have never had a man wonder whether his career choices matched with “our” dreams for the future. Hell, I’ve never had him consider me in his career choices at all. In fact, I sacrifice even when they are in the wrong (like driving to where they live so they can apologize to me). Sweet, mary mother of god…what was I thinking?
So guess what boys? I’m done giving. Thanks to this stupid, piece of crap movie…I’m out. No more trips, no more time, no more spending, no more picking you up when you fall, no more shower/car/wherever special treats…no more, no more, no more. I’m spent, and I’ve got not more to give. The sacrifice-ship ends here.
If you’re wondering who to blame, follow Michael Jackson’s advice and start with the (lame ass) man in the mirror.
OH and ladies, if you have any inclination toward chick flicks (which I most certainly do), let me save you some cash…skip this one.
