February 17, 2007 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, Is She Still Talking?

Today’s highlights, as culled from sent e-mails:

First message of the day, 7:19 AM

Oh god, I think I may still be drunk.

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About a stupid boyAnd I stood there thinking, “Um, hello? Have we met? Yes, because I am QUEEN of fun! casual! relationships. I do SO EXCEEDINGLY WELL at them, yes, that’s definitely what I’m after.”

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Regarding my offer to bring dessert to a dinner party, which was met by an inquiry as to my access to a local bakeryBAKERY??? Dude, dessert comes from my kitchen!

The response came back addressed to “Dudess.”

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About another stupid boyUnfortunately, we run into the really nice body problem. As in, he has one and I would like to be in charge of it.

February 14, 2007 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb

You knew this was coming, right? Of course we’re carrying on the tradition begun last year. I mean, sure, someday I hope to write a deep, heartfelt post about someone very special in my life, but at the rate we’re going, I’ll be 80, senile and writing a lovely little sonnet for my cat. And I don’t even like cats. Or sonnets, really.

As I mentioned, I’ve been on a lot of dates lately. In particular, a lot of first dates. I would hate to over-generalize such a vast and varied population as half the species, but through my extensive research, I think it’s fair to conclude that men are idiots. In the interest of serving the public, I thought I’d put together this handy little reference guide I like to call “How Not to Date Me.”

Be Raised by Wolves
Let’s say we’re out having drinks and appetizers, and in the course of serving yourself, you drip some sauce on the handle of your knife. If your solution to this problem is to gingerly pick up the knife and lick the sauce off of it, that is the moment we will be through dating.

Hint for next time: Use your napkin. You know, the one that’s right next to your plate, with silverware still wrapped up in it, instead of being laid out across your lap. Yeah, that napkin.

Suffer from a Case of Mistaken Identity
It’s the end of the date. You walk me to my car, and thus ensues The Awkward Pause. If you then offer me (a) a handshake; (b) a hug; or (c) a kiss goodnight, that is the moment we will be through dating. Because, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not a contestant and you’re not a game show host, and I’m really leaning toward option (d) none of the above.

Hint for next time: You want a kiss? Go in for the kiss, without talking about it. Yes, you’re assuming the risk that she might deck you. You’re the guy — deal with it.

Forget Your Audience
If, during the course of the evening, you need to excuse yourself from the table for a trip to the restroom, by all means, do so. However, if you get up from the table, explaining that you need to “go pee-pee,” somehow forgetting that I am an adult and not a three-year old child you are potty-training, that is the moment we will be through dating.

Hint for next time: “Will you please excuse me?” works just fine. We all know where you’re going and what you’re doing; you needn’t be any more specific.

Suffer from Alzheimer’s
If we have the same conversation on Date #2 as we did on Date #1, I’m going to notice. Particularly because the conversation wasn’t that interesting the first time around. You can try to explain it away, but I’ll be left assuming that you (a) are juggling so many people you can’t remember what you talked about with whom; (b) weren’t listening to a word I said; (c) have genuine memory problems; or (d) all of the above. None of them work in your favor. And that is the moment we will be through dating.

Hint for next time: Cheat and write notes on the inside of your forearm — you can check them when you go pee-pee.

Be a Wuss
It’s the end of the date. You walk me to my car, and thus ensues The Awkward Pause. If you look bashfully at the ground and say, “I’m really bad at this,” that is the moment we will be through dating. I may be able to refrain from saying, “Yeah, you are,” but I’m pretty sure the sentiment will be written across my face.

Hint for next time: Grow a pair.

Have Bladder Control Issues
Let’s say we meet for coffee, and then you take me for a walk around the neighborhood and through a local park. At what point, exactly, does it become ok for you to duck behind a tree to relieve yourself? Right — the moment at which we will be through dating.

Hint for next time: You know that Starbucks that’s a 10-minute walk away? The one we met at for coffee to begin with? I’ll bet they have a restroom. Why, they might even let you use it, if you ask nicely! Peeing behind a tree is acceptable only if you’re camping in the middle of nowhere or attending a kegger in the back 40 of somebody’s house out in the country.

Lack Basic Social Skills
If you lie to me about something totally inconsequential, then slip up in maintaining your lie and confess to me that you’re a horrible liar, but you’re “still a really great person and I’m sure you’ll see that and I just want to spend time with you,” that is the moment we will be through dating. When I then cut off all communication with you, please understand that I am not mad at you, I am in no way interested in you, and sending me four e-mails and leaving two voice mail messages groveling, offering to buy me “something nice to make up for it, I just want to see you” will not change my mind. Nor will five more e-mails, including a re-cap of the weekend trip I was supposed to accompany you on. Newsflash: I. DON’T. CARE.

Hint for next time: You might be beyond help. But just to be on the safe side, don’t lie. Ever.

So, Internet, please feel free to distribute the “How Not to Date Me” guide to everyone you know. Afterall, there are roughly 2,741 men in this world that I haven’t dated (and rejected) yet, and this information could prove to be invaluable to one of them. But I’m not counting on it.

January 12, 2007 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, I Write About My Feelings, Is She Still Talking?

I got my hair cut today, which is always a delightful experience. I don’t know if it’s the scalp massage, the general feeling of pampering, or the lovely things Frank says about me, but I always leave there happier than when I arrived.

Today, Frank’s comments ranged from “I love your sweater! Feels so soft…like Angora, almost.” (Yes, that’s because it’s 50% Angora.) to “Your eyebrows are perfect! Do you have them waxed?” Um, no I tweeze them myself. “Holy crap! They’re gorgeous!” (Yes, I think so, too.) to persistent head-shaking at how stupid boys are. “What is wrong with them? Don’t they know a good thing when they see it? God, I’d snap you up in a second and never let you get away!” (Yes, what, exactly is wrong with them? I’d like to know, too.)

So, I left there feeling like a million bucks, having spent only half that, and looking like this:

Not pictured: 40 degree weather, annoying wind whipping
hair into my face, and creepy moving company guys staring
from the parking lot.

Back in the office, I checked my e-mail and was immediately hit with some rather unwelcome news. Apparently I’m still a 19-year old sorority girl, because upon hearing this not-so-pleasant news, my first reaction was to get drunk and screw. (It’s an expression, people; let’s not take this too literally.) Not surprisingly, neither beer nor someone to hook up with magically materialized in my office. Instead I settled for a seething e-mail rant, half of which was conducted entirely in capital letters. Good times.

So, as long as my good mood’s been shot to hell and we’re talking about stupid boys, let me ask you this: Is it acceptable to stop seeing someone because you don’t like the way he walks? And, is the mere fact that you’re considering this definitive proof that maybe, just maybe, you’re too picky?

May 11, 2006 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb

Calm, rational adult voice: You know what you have to do.

Six-year-old-who-refuses-to-go-to-bed-because-it’s-summer-and-still-light-out-and-there’s-plenty-of-basketball-to-be-played-voice: I don’t wanna!

Yes, but, you have to.

But. I. Don’t. Want. To.

That’s just part of being a grown-up. We choose to do things that are in our best interest, even if we don’t really want to.

Sigh.

You’ve been here before. And you know you need to leave. Sure, the streets have different names, but the signs are all the same.

*Pout.* Fine. But I don’t have to like it.

No, none of us do.

April 29, 2006 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, Boys Are Dumb, DC! DC! DC!, People I Like Even More Than My Job, The Fam

I don’t know whose, plan, because it’s sure not mine!

I’m in South Bend/Chicago this weekend, and then it’s off to DC on Monday for the week. Just about every detail of these trips has changed, other than that Caron and John are, in fact, getting married in a few hours.

[Hi, DC people! Let's pretend that I have my shit together and I totally sent you an e-vite for happy hour like two weeks ago, ok? So...it'll be Thursday. Um, somewhere. Around happy hour time. Hope you can make it!]

A voice mail message I left for Steve earlier this week, regarding our Sunday afternoon/evening plans sounded like this:

Hi, it’s me. Just calling to remind you I’ll be in town this weekend. Still don’t know what our Sunday afternoon looks like, and Traveling Companion isn’t sure he can make it, so maybe I’ll be free for the afternoon and maybe it’ll just be dinner. So, basically, I have no information for you. Don’t call me back because I won’t be able to deal with this until Friday. I’ll call you from the airport or something.

At the airport yesterday morning, I changed my flight from Chicago to DC, my flight from DC back to Sacramento, and attempted to cancel my flight from Chicago to Sacramento, but the nice woman from Northwest Airlines told me they couldn’t leave it open as a one-way trip, so unless I was canceling the entire trip (no! please no! I’m sitting at the gate waiting for my plane to Chicago!) I’d need to call back after I got to Chicago.

When I got to Minneapolis, (my layover on the way to Chicago) Traveling Companion officially bailed on the trip. Bah. Oh well, not having to entertain someone for the weekend leaves more time for my two favorite pastimes — working and working out, both of which I’ll be able to do at the hotel.

Since there was no longer a need to coordinate schedules, I set off to get on an earlier flight into Chicago. Success! I love the people at Northwest — I believe that’s the first time standby has ever worked out for me. (Oddly enough, I think I read that they were rated one of the worst airlines to fly, but I’ve had relatively few problems with them.) I got to Chicago and had to change my rental car reservation to accommodate all those other schedule changes, but at last I was on my way to South Bend.

Even my body is messing with my plans. Headed to Chicago, I fell asleep while the plane was still sitting at the gate, as usual, but woke up for no apparent reason, before the flight attendant even told us we could use our portable electronic devices. I believe my body was trying to tell me something. Namely, “Woman, you have already slept for three hours today! Don’t you realize you’ve filled your sleeping quota? How can you expect me to sleep more?!?!?!”

Steve and I caught up with each other to pin down those elusive Sunday plans. He’s now booked for the afternoon, as am I.* But the requisite dinner-paid-for-by-your-big-sister-when-she’s-in-town is on.

*In Minneapolis I discovered I’d won a deadline of Tuesday (preferably morning) for a work project that just hasn’t gotten the attention it needs from me. Given that I’m spending most of Monday on a plane and in meetings, this attention-getting will have to occur Sunday.

[To the work people who know about this blog and read it, Hi! Yes, I’ve worked for an entire week straight, barely stopping to sleep, and yes, it’s my weekend away, and yet -- look at that -- I’m still working! Anyone want to trade jobs??? Too bad my bosses don’t know about this blog. I think they’re catching on to the all-work-all-the-time nature of my life, though.]

I hear there’s some college or something in South Bend…maybe I’ll go crash the library there to get my work done.

But for now, I’m off to a wedding. Caron and John have been together for almost five years, and will now commit to seventy-five more. At least some things stay the same.