Convenience – Not perfect, but it will do

IMFB, here is your response…finally! Sorry it has taken me so long!

“It’s the perfect trifecta…what could be better than living between a cheap grocery store, a Sheetz gas station, and a dirty, dive bar?!?” According to Fiance #1, the proximity of the aforementioned establishments to our shit hole apartment meant we were living on the most coveted slice of man ground on earth. Even though the apartment (with its brown shag carpeting and fake wood paneled walls) was less than ideal, its amazingly convenient location made it his perfectish, little palace. (Hell, he only slept, ate, and spent 50% of his time in that apartment, why does it matter how nice it is??? It’s got the trifecta!)

This same reasoning can be applied to boys and relationships (at least according to yours truly). They subconsciously do a little balancing equation…whoever they find that satisfies as many of their needs most conveniently wins. It’s simple, painless, and clear cut. If you meet the basic beer, burgers, sex needs and you’re convenient (either in personality, location, religious belief, fill in the blank), then you, dear lucky lady, are the winner of your very own boyfriend.

Now, let’s say you don’t have the convenience factor, and this boy dumps you.  Don’t take the breakup (or the disappearing act) personally. You might be an absolutely fabulous, ridiculously amazing apartment in the sky, but you’re just slightly too far from the nearest dive bar.  (Lame, but true).  So it momentarily sucks that your ego has been bruised, but you’re a hot ass, bangin’ apartment and he’s well… just bangin’ a shit hole of an apartment with brown shag carpeting.

Sidenote: This does not apply to real men like Mr. Fuede McMandals and others. I’m seriously not convenient to Fuede. I am a gigantic pain in the ass. Thanks for putting up with all of my beautifully packaged poo.

Oh, men.

I’m a flight risk. Most of the men I date know this early on. I’m exceptionally upfront about the fact that I tend to get a bit skittish under the death knell of relationship talk. Men on the other hand tend to keep their flightiness repressed until it explodes (and by explodes I mean they disappear in a mother f’in hurry). These differences prompted an insightful conversation with my blogging buddy, imfb.  (IMFB – I need a funnier name for you…think one up.)  Here is his response (which you can also find here on his blog):

Dear ladies,

We don’t mean to drive you crazy, we really don’t. You see, we have these very basic reactions that get in the way. It’s probably evolutionary or something.

We men are actually very simply. We like things that we enjoy, we don’t like things that we don’t enjoy. Food? We love food. Beer? Also a solid staple. Sex? Check. And when there is something we like, we do it over and over again. If at some point something we used to enjoy is no longer fun for us (like myself and shots of tequila) we stop doing it.

So it might confuse you when we drop off the face of the earth after the exclusivity talk arises or whatnot. You might be thinking, “we’ve spent the last two months spending every waking moment together, and about 75% of that time involved sex, what happened”? You see, you triggered a very basic flight or fight type response. This talk came as a shock to our happy, simple little world. Not liking fear, we stopped doing what happened before. It’s like if you were swimming in a lake and you got attacked by a giant snake. You probably wouldn’t swim there anymore. Not when there are potentially other lakes around without snakes.

There’s no easy fix for this. At some point guys grow out of this, or decide that Steve Irwin was pretty cool and if he likes snakes they can too. People have wonderful relationships and get married every day. There’s no rhyme or reason to our basest urges.

You might be thinking, “I’ll play hard to get and that will stop him from getting scared.” Stop that thought. That thought is bad. 99% of the time, it will not work. A guy will pursue, we’re conditioned at a young age to want what we can’t have (all of us, this works both ways). You can play hard to get and a guy will oftentimes chase, but think of what you’re doing. He’s building it up in his head, to justify the continued work he’s putting into it. At some point you’ll get together and he’ll say, “this is a normal relationship, I’ve spent weeks/months thinking this would be amazing, it’s kind of a let down.”

Once again, we’re not here to offer suggestions, just to inform and apologize.

Hugs and Kisses,

Men

PS: I would like to note that I have shown some tremendous personal growth in this regard, and my last three relationships have included 2 healthy long-term ones (and the other one involved so much combined baggage that it resembled an airport terminal).

I’ll be adding my two cents later, but thought you all would enjoy. 

When you say nothing at all…

Omitting key information is just a slight variation on lying.  Generally, I enjoy overlooking this unnecessary detail.  However, my conscience occasionally catches up with me and before I know it, I’m blurting out entirely too much information that no one ever needed to know.  This is how Fuede was introduced to the blog.

I started off with a bang, “I’ve got a blog.  I wrote about you in it.  Please don’t read it.”

Fuede looked disgruntled, curious, pissed, disbelieving, real super pissed, confused, and ultra supremely pissed.  Fuede said NOTHING.  He said nothing for a very long time.  Upon seeing this reaction, I realized I probably didn’t handle this situation in the best way, but like I said my conscience attacked me and out it came without preparation or forethought.

Once Fuede regained his voice, he wanted to read the blog.  Oh, what a terrible idea!  Fuede did not know that his blog name was Fuede McMandals and I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to appreciate it (among other things).  I eased into sharing my blog with him by revealing his name.  He was slightly amused by the name, since I was honest about my hatred for his mandals.  The shirt was more of a surprise and also a mistake on my part.  You see, it was REAL suede…not fake suede.  It was a real, genuine $90 suede shirt that supposedly garnered him many compliments.  (Where are these women that think black, suede, oversized shirts are attractive?  Seriously?  Reveal your shameful selves, we need to talk.)  So, sorry Fuede, your name should have been Suede McMandals…but now you’re stuck with Fuede.  Deal. 

After rereading our entire dating history, I decided he could read the blog (of course, then he was miffed and was no longer interested in the blog…the good times never end).  We finally settled into reading the blog together.  He scrolled through from post to post.  He said nothing.  He didn’t laugh.  He sighed several times.  He cracked not a single smile.  After the last post, he finally spoke and said, “is that it?”  I nodded, because on the inside I wanted to die.  I was hating myself for telling him, hating myself for sharing such an intimate space with him, hating myself for being such a bitch via the internets, and hating myself for thinking I’m funny (which I clearly am not to everyone).  Needless to say, I was feeling kind of low, and he did not make it easy on me.  Truth be told, I would NOT have made it easy on him, if the reverse had been true.  In fact, I would have made it insufferably hard (UNLESS of course, his blog was Ithinkfanfrickingtasticisthehottestgirlonearth.com, then I would really enjoy reading about me).

We did manage to work things out.  It still isn’t a fun or remotely desired topic, though I’m breaking him down on the idea of blogging and he continues to give me endless, good natured shit about it.  I continue to be quite the catch for Fuede McMandals, he’s one lucky guy.

Grilled cheese, anyone?

“You should be begging me to be your boyfriend,” Fuede said, as he prepped the chicken. Moments earlier, I had been staring with panicked eyes at four pieces of thawed chicken and wondering how the hell I was going to get them cooked without the aid of the mighty George Foreman mean, lean grilling machine. I could put the steps together…put the chicken in a baking dish, put the dish into the oven, leave it in there for an extended period of time…and voila non-diarrhea-inducing chicken is served. However, I was missing several key facts and my brain went into overload. Can you just put chicken in the dish without anything else? Do I need a spray of some sort? Is there an oil involved? Which oil? Do I even own that kind of oil? How long do I cook the chicken? On what temperature? How do I make sure it won’t poison my guests? These are very serious questions that stood between me and a delicious plate of chicken, rice, and broccoli (I could handle boiling water to make the other two dinner ingredients…I had those bitches covered!  It was just the raw bird products that were giving me trouble).

I said none of this to Fuede. I just used my remaining three brain cells to say, “I don’t know how to cook chicken.” Fuede took a long, slow inhale. It was the same kind of inhale that the country collectively took back in 2000, when Bush said “Rarely is the question asked, ‘Is our children learning?’” It was as if we all realized at the same time that Dubya’s stupidity wasn’t funny. It was serious and we were all f*cked. My domestic disability breathed into Fuede’s lungs and permeated his being the very same way. Though I might look cute standing in the kitchen, I was going to be absolutely useless and we were all pretty much f*cked on the food front.

After the inhale, Fuede rolled his eyes. Hard. He rolled them so hard, I feared it might impact his vision. However, as he went about prepping the chicken (with olive oil…yessss…the secret is mine!), he let out several sighs and I figured all was well. Afterwards we laughed hard, and I did the dishes as penance for being an idiot.

A few more weeks of impressing Fuede with these kinds of skills and I don’t think my relationship panic will be much of an issue anymore. I’m pretty sure he’ll be high tailing it to friendlier kitchens with owners that can make more than just grilled cheese.

Welcome to the blog, Fuede

I told Fuede about the blog.  I’m not going to lie, it didn’t go that well.  We read it together that was nothing short of completely, 100% AWKWARD.  I’ll update on this later, however I thought Fuede should get a proper welcome since I’m sure he’ll be stopping by at some point.

Welcome!  (Thanks for not dumping me on the spot, if in fact we were dating.) 

Will wonders never cease…

Fuede is still in the game. As background to this story, Fuede is a professional musician and also teaches guitar lessons. We went to watch several of his students perform in the music school’s recital this weekend.

“Bach is incredibly hard to remember, I hope this kid makes it through.” Fuede prophetically whispered to me at the music recital, just as the 14 year-old piano student lost his train of thought and struggled to remember the next notes in his Bach recital piece. We all watched in silent horror as he stumbled over the notes…paused…stumbled…paused. I held my breath and prayed that he wouldn’t quit in frustration mid-piece. Despite several failed attempts to regain his place, the boy continued to press through (and was ridiculously talented when he wasn’t struggling with memory issues). When he finished, he looked positively defeated. Despite his obvious talent, Bach had just owned him hard in front of an entire auditorium of friends, family, and strangers.

My heart broke for the Bach boy, but as the recital continued, his sullen disappointment became a distant memory. After 20 violinists (under the age of 10) and at least as many piano players, the recital finally finished. I grabbed my bag and ran out of the concert hall with throngs of others to regain the beautiful sounds of silence.  In the mass exodus, I lost Fuede.  I sat around the auditorium for a while watching for Fuede.  Fuede however was nowhere to be found. I waited patiently…still no Fuede. Finally, I set off on a Fuede finding mission. (Truth be told I was getting pretty aggravated, because I knew in the past he had a thing for one of the other music teachers…who was annoyingly hot…and I thought he might be flirting it up with her. Basically, I was being a crazy bitch in my head with absolutely no prompting or reason.)

As I stepped outside, I zeroed in on Fuede. Instead of catching him mid-hot-teacher-flirting like I had imagined, I found him running to catch up with Bach boy in the parking lot. Even though Bach boy was not his student, Fuede understood how devastating a poor performance could be. I watched from a distance as he gave Bach boy a no frills, no fake praise pep talk. At first, the gawky teenage Bach boy looked uncomfortable and dejected. After a few minutes, though, Bach boy smiled. I mean, he still looked uncomfortable and gawky, but he was smiling.

The small gesture to reach out to this student was positively touching. There have been so many times, when I wished I would have reached out to someone who was suffering or I wished that someone would have reached out to me when I was suffering. I know this gesture was tiny and insignificant to most people, but watching it I just felt really moved. Fuede is among the people who thought this moment was entirely insignificant and could not understand why I thought it was special, which of course made it all the more endearing. I tried to explain that so many kids never get the kind of attention and positive reinforcement that he gives to his students…and to see so him so concerned about a child who wasn’t even his student, it was just precious.

Well played, Fuede, well played.

Update on “the talk”:

Fuede calling me his girlfriend was entirely unacceptable, and I told him as much without any sugar coating. I was very serious AND very not happy about the girl-friendageness of our relationship. He laughed. He laughed right in my face. He told me I’m crazy (true). He told me I’m ultra confusing (also true). Finally, he told me I can go on being his “buddy” for as long as I need (victory!). Then he laughed in my face again. Some people may have been offended by the conversation, but for me this was the perfect response. Now, we can laugh about our pseudo-relationship and it can continue being carefree, drama-free, and title free. All is well that ends well, and Fuede lives to see another date.

Better left unsaid

The conversation started out innocently enough (as all non-innocent conversations do). Fuede McMandals asked, “how long have we been dating?” My response was that it depends on your definition of “dating.” He laughed at my inadvertent humor and said, “whoa…we are one day short of a month since our first date. Maybe I’ll finally tell my parents about you.” (WARNING…talk of parents…WARNING)

I calmed the rising flood of panic. What exactly was this man going to tell his parents? This might be worth exploring. I say casuasly, “what are you going to tell them?” (Side note: At this point, I fully expected that he was going to rattle off a list of my many gifts and accomplishments.) In actuality, he blurts out, “I’ll tell them we’re seeing each other…dating…I’ll tell them you’re my girlfriend.”

My response…silence. Followed by…more silence. (Inside fanfrickingtastic’s head: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHH!!!” set to the beat of alarms, sirens, pans clattering, bull horns blaring, etc…this can only be described as a panic explosion). Girlfriend??? WTF??? Girlfriend? OMFG. Girlfriend? I repeat this so many times in my head, I think at some point it started to become audible. He immediately back tracked…trying to explain that the title is nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, he told me I should just forget it. He tried to change the subject. It was too late. My chest was weighed down by 300lbs of girlfriend-induced panic, and I could barely breathe let alone hold up my end of any fake casual conversation. We ended the conversation. I decided to immediately drink heavily.

Fuede called me later that night on his way home from hanging out with friends at the bar. He was acting slightly too nonchalant, so I knew something was up. Cougars tend to love Fuede, he is the flame to their mothiness. So I asked in my normal sarcastic tone, “How many cougs tried to take you home?” Bingo. My finely honed feminine ears had detected the precise reason for his nonchalantness. Another woman, only this was no coug. Supposedly, an Argentinian woman had chatted him up all night and then finally asked if Fuede had a girlfriend. How shockingly ironic (that’s sarcasm folks)! I secretly suspect that if this woman existed at all, the only question she asked him was if he knew that his faux-suede shirt was unbuttoned one too many buttons.

Regardless, now we have to have a talk. That talk is going to happen in exactly two-ish hours.

Happy montherversary, Fuede!

Suckfest

It’s always sad when people are unknowingly sitting in the eye of a storm and don’t even realize it. They have no idea that the momentary placidity surrounding them is about to erupt into a full blown shit storm. This is where Fuede McMandals found himself last night.

You see, my day had not been so fanfrickingtastic. I messed something up at work. In the grand scheme of life, my error (which was only about 25% my fault) is absolutely no big deal. However, I’m new, and when you’re new every error seems to be magnified. Despite the fact that I was outwardly cracking jokes while calmly correcting the error…on the inside I was in total HORRIFIED PANIC mode. This lasted until approximately 8:30pm. Horrified panic is ultra draining, in case you didn’t know.

Fuede and I had a great date planned, so despite the shitty day I was actually looking forward to our night. We had made plans to go to this restaurant I really like, and it was the bright shining light at the end of the day of suckage. So I excitedly ran out to his car (I ran cause it was pouring…really torrential downpours). I got in the car. I told him he smells really good and he said…and I quote…”you smell like fish.” Fish? Did he say fish? Fish. Yes, he definitely said fish. (Granted, I had been in the fish reception earlier that day…that’s right, a reception to promote fish. So it was quite possible that I did in fact smell like fish.) However, under NO circumstances does any girl ever appreciate being told she smells like fish. What is one supposed to say back to that? I opted for “Hmmph,” which was quickly followed by the silent treatment.

So now I’m pissed. There is a boiling rage of indignant anger under the surface of my skin. That’s when Fuede says, “Sooo…what do you want to do tonight?” Hmm…this is strange. We have plans. Fuede is Type A, so I know that he knows that we have plans. I look quizzically at him (because I’m not speaking to him for above referenced fish comment) and he says, “Well I had a sandwich at 6, so I’m not really hungry.” Okay…so let me get this straight. Work blew, my entire outfit is soaked from the rain, we’re not going to dinner at the lovely restaurant…AND I SMELL LIKE FISH?! BBbbgggrrrrrrhhhh! (That is the sound of my head exploding.)

I didn’t yell. I didn’t make a fuss about dinner. I just asked him to take me home and said nothing more. Now, I’m pretty sure this is where Fuede started to catch on to the silent treatment. He was trying hard to get me to react. ERRR! Not going to happen. I was a stone. I went home. I showered…all the while thinking F U in my head. Then I put on sweats and a giant sweatshirt and made him watch reality tv while eating chinese food.

(Sidenote: he did apologize profusely, once he fully realized that a bad day compounded with dick head comments was probably not the way to go.)

(Second Sidenote: I know I overreacted to his comment, but seriously it was a bad day! Can I just put the day to rest without being insulted??? Many thanks, Fuede, many thanks.)

You’re only good, when you’re trapped

Girls totally get the shaft (and not in a good way). Men constantly think we are trying to wife them, especially DCDs. Although I suppose it is true that girls typically are looking for a relationship, I have a new theory for this particular phenomenon. Unless guys are in a relationship, they are positively TERRIBLE in bed.

No offense, boys, I love many of you. However, you are selfish beasts, especially when it comes to hook ups. Generally speaking, hooks up are fun for girls for about 2% of the hook uppage. That 2% consists solely of the time while all clothes are still on. As soon as the clothes come off, you guys turn into nasty humping jack rabbits. It’s as if you think we might change our minds (which, trust me…this is a wise move…since we definitely are regretting the situation). The repulsive jack rabbit routine also goes on FOREVER. This is no testament to your skills, the real problem is that you are wasted (the regret grows as our ability to remember your name shrinks. I hope and pray that you have also forgotten my name, there is no reason for anyone to ever relive this experience…just find your underoos and hit the road.)

So you see, we need to be in a relationship to have a man who cares enough to f’in take his time. It has nothing to do with actually wanting you as a long term partner, so quit flattering yourself. It’s just nicer to snuggle up to you afterwards than a vibrator…although if you snore, I’ll take the vibrator instead (cause it comes with a super handy off button).