How to Lose Friends and Alienate Women

This past weekend, I decided it was important to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Primarily because it was beautiful outside and there was a festival to be had in Old Town. Beer, margaritas, tacos – these are the cornerstones of my happiness.

My friend and I were enjoying a leisurely beer and listening to some odd fusion of Mariachi and Country-Western music when we were approached by a guy asking us a random question about the band.

It was obviously a way to start a conversation, which I was totally open to, until this guy opened his mouth. He had a dead tooth front and center.  It was highlighted nicely by the sun glinting off his tongue ring.

I have a thing about teeth. I don’t care if they are crooked or gapped. I care that they’re alive.

As he was taking my hand and trying to tell me how beautiful he thought I was, all I could think about was that he had a piece of black death. . . in his mouth. Necrotic dental pulp is not my thing.

To make matters worse, he then asked if I wanted to rub his beer gut for good luck.

While I was sober, the heat combined with the beer and a pound of nachos was leading to a sickly combination of discomfort and fatigue. I didn’t have the patience to deal with this bizarre encounter. So I declined an invitation to rub him and/or join him for a drink.

“But it’s Cinco de Mayo,” he exclaimed. “Don’t just go home and sleep. I am opportunity, grab hold of me! No really, grab hold of me.”

As my friend laughed hysterically and I continued to look for an exit strategy, he held his arms wide open waiting for me to do something.

Again, I announced my fatigue, all the while my eyes fixated on the graveyard in his mouth.

“You know, you are just the cockblock to fun,” he said.

Yes, every girl wants to hear that. I guess if the flattery, the humor and the offer to buy me drinks didn’t work, then obviously an insult was in order. What girl doesn’t love being called a cockblock?

Had he been less drunk or a fan of dental hygiene, I might have considered staving off my sleepiness in order to chat and perhaps to get to know him. But once an insult flies, it’s a sign that we’re not going to work out. Thank you for the blog fodder, I must be on my way.

Lesson learned: If a girl is staring blankly at you, you might have something in your teeth.

Boylimic

Several years ago, I dated a rather nice young man—actually, one of the very few nice men I’ve ever dated. Yet sadly, despite all of the chivalrous qualities imbued in this boy, he had one very tragic flaw.

He was bulimic.

At least, that was what I suspected because this guy vomited all the time. It was like dating a 5’10” cat that puked all over your house. He claimed he had a strong gag reflex (feel free to make your own comments there) but how could I not conclude he was experiencing some sort of body dysmorphic disorder that caused him to regurgitate only on the occasions when we went out to eat at a restaurant?

What was worse, he didn’t try to hide it. It wasn’t a simple bow away from the table to the men’s room. He would wait till we left the restaurant, any restaurant, and puke in the bushes of the parking lot.

The tipping point was his birthday, when I took him out for a very nice, very expensive steak dinner. And yes, just like a cat that eats your plants, he threw up in the bushes within minutes of us leaving.

If I’m paying for your meal, you keep that shit down.

This pattern of digestion refusal began to make me question what it was that he found so disturbing about himself that he felt the need to lose weight, even though he wasn’t heavy. Did he see me with those same delusional glasses? I’ve never been a big girl, or at least, that’s what I thought. Did he see me as someone who should be joining him bush-side for a romantic moment of communal barfing?

Our relationship was not profound enough for me to take on an additional neurosis of that magnitude.We didn’t work out.

Lesson learned: Seriously, if I’m paying for your dinner, you better digest it.

Like the Wind

There are some women who are natural born athletes. They are the pinnacle of fitness, gliding through a race and leaping over the finish line like a gazelle. Even drenched in sweat, they appear to be exuding sexuality.

I am not one of these women.

As a runner, I lack both speed and grace. My stride is crooked, my pace is slow and I’m pretty sure I look vaguely like I’m having a stroke. This past weekend I ran my tenth 5K, and as I sprinted to the finish line, I was well aware that my hair was standing up in a sweaty halo, my face was bright pink and yes, my nose was running.

This was not the picture of fitness I was hoping to portray.  Any hope of meeting a sporty guy who might possibly want to take me out for a bottle of Gatorade was dashed as I whipped my inhaler out of my pocket.

So I headed to the beer garden to forget just how truly disgusting I felt. And honestly, why run a race if there’s no reward at the end like a frosty cold beverage?

It turns out, I am not a sexy girl.  I don’t always look perfect and yes, I am ridiculously proud of my absurd beer socks, which are not at all sophisticated. (yes, those are my legs pictured, and that is my rockin sweat band).  I am the girl who makes jokes about Alderaan and randomly sings Talking Head songs for no apparent reason. But I guess, I know me, and maybe that’s sexy enough.

Sick

About two weeks ago, I found myself battling a moderately annoying cold. It’s the first time I’ve been sick since last May and my recent boasting to my coworkers about my superior immune system is probably what did it. Honestly though, I had managed to maintain health through winter, an office-wide nasal-dripping plague and my friend’s 3-year-old blowing her nose in my hair. Who wouldn’t feel invincible?

But I finally succumbed to a sore throat, horrific coughing and a voice change that rivaled a pre-pubescent boy. I couldn’t even be blessed with sexy, deep cold voice! I decided to let myself rest and stayed home from work curled up on my couch, with my Hello Kitty thermometer and five boxes of Kleenex.

When it was time to feed my cold I went to the fridge and remembered I was also suffering from a rampant case of “single person’s fridge.” The contents included beer, sriracha, an apple and pickles. I considered, briefly, eating the sriracha by the spoonful and then realized I might just be adding gastric upset to my symptoms, so I ventured out to spread my germs to the good people at the drug store and the Thai restaurant by my house.

And if you’re ever wondering, Thai food is a great expectorant.

This little journey wasn’t particularly interesting, but it reminded me of times when I have been too sick to move and there was no one there to save me from eating hot sauce on pickles. And this is the peril of being single: there’s really no one there for you when you’re sick and alone. As annoying as living with someone can be, it would have been nice to say, “I know I’m sweaty and I look disgusting, but because you care about me when I’m healthy, please go get me some real tissue so I can stop carrying around this roll of toilet paper.”

Or something like that.

Of course, then I started pondering things like how long it would take people to find me if I were to slip and fall in the shower. My estimate is at least three days if I fell on a Friday. So my hyperactive imagination has given me a mild fear of weekend showering. I’m investing in a bath mat.

Lesson learned: At the first sign of sickness, stock the fridge.

Taking the Plunge

Earlier this week I received an email from Infant Brit. We haven’t been in contact since we broke up three years ago after he decided to give my headboard a golden shower. I guess, in my memory, I’d romanticized our relationship a bit. Other than “the incident,” was he really all that bad?

So I responded that I was doing well and asked how he was. And then he sent me this: “How’s your love life? I thought you’d be married with kids by now.”

Oh, right, we broke up because he has no tact.

Then it came flooding back to me. He was just awful and really disturbingly dirty. Not dirty in a fun way, dirty in the physically disgusting way. For example, one evening he was in my apartment and had to use the facilities. After a fair amount of time he came rushing out asking me what to do.

He had clogged the toilet.

Honestly, I don’t care if he, or any other guy, clogs the toilet. The plunger is right there, take care of it. In fact, I don’t even need to know about it. Alas, Infant Brit was not quite good at taking care of these ordinary things. He claimed that he had no idea how to fix a clogged toilet, and instead, added more toilet paper and overflowed said toilet. Apparently, water pressure and the mechanics of modern plumbing don’t exist in England. Or in his apartment in San Clemente.

Then he proceeded to tell me this was my fault.

How was this my fault? Because it was my toilet, I must have clogged it well before he spent half an hour in there.

I was left to plunge it myself, and then clean up the mess.

Lesson learned: This lesson is for guys, always know how to plunge a toilet. (And never make a girl you’ve just started dating clean up both your urine and your feces, at least not in the same week.)

Playing Dress Up

When I was young, and still had something resembling hope, I used to spend far too much time getting ready to go on a date. First impressions are important, and damn it, I was always going to make a kick ass first impression! There was the hair, the makeup, the nails, the outfit, the accessories, not to mention the planning what I would eat for the entire day to prevent any foul breath later. God forbid I touch anything onion or garlicky!

Depending on where we were going, it could take me anywhere from an hour to three hours to prep for a date. During one such extended preparation, I pondered what my date was doing to get ready to see me. Did he take the same delicate care in picking out his ensemble? Was he thinking about what cologne I might like the best?

No.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that guy didn’t even brush his teeth, let alone shower. And was that “I’m with stupid” T-shirt meant to be ironic?

And that’s when it hit me, I was spending far too much time and effort getting ready when it was going unappreciated. If I like the guy, yes, I will spend that time. Getting ready for a date I want to go on is almost fun. The anticipation of meeting up, looking nice and having a great time makes up for the inevitable curling iron burns and the possible razor nicks all the way down my leg.

But for the met-online, he wants chicken wings, and I’m not even sure he has the IQ of a gerbil dates, is it worth the effort? The last few blind dates I’ve been on, I’ve been so uninspired that I wonder if I should even bother brushing my hair.

Then again, what if Mr. Bad Grammar in an email turns out to be the future Mr. Amanda who will help me fix my vertical blinds, kill my spiders and gasp . . . open that peanut butter jar that I have been trying to get in to for three weeks!

So maybe I should make the effort of, at the very least, brushing my hair and making sure I don’t smell like I’ve been sitting in a cubicle farm for 9 hours.

Or not.

Lesson learned: If he doesn’t bother to shower, neither will I.

The Twelve Dates of Christmas

On the first date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, a British man who needed to pee.

On the second date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, two bouts of flu and a British man who needed to pee.

On the third date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the fourth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the fifth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the sixth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the seventh date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the eighth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the ninth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the tenth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, ten propositions, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the eleventh date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, eleven creepy orgies, ten propositions, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

On the twelfth date of Christmas, this one guy gave to me, twelve cheating cliff divers, eleven creepy orgies, ten propositions, nine crappy movies, eight grammar errors, seven dirty pictures, six zombies biting, five pick up lines, four naked mermaids, three psycho stalkers, two bouts of flu and a British guy who needed to pee.

Have a merry December!

Aha!

Apparently, zombies and flowcharts are attention getters. Shortly after I published my “Are you dating a moron or a zombie?” post, I received an email from Mutual of Omaha asking me if I’d mind being on film.

My knee-jerk response to that question is always, emphatically, no. But since they are a legitimate financial institution, I figured whatever they wanted to film me for would be in good taste. Perhaps they wanted me to be on Wild Kingdom, even though my only knowledge of animals is restricted to small dogs and domestic cats. And once I had a goldfish that lived for three years.

Sadly, I was not to tame any lions or go in search of prehistoric looking lizards, they wanted to film me as part of their  “Aha! Moments” campaign.  Essentially, they wanted me to recount any epiphanies my blog has brought about.

The only thing I can think of is that now instead of telling me that they hope I meet a nice guy, most of my readers say “it’s going to suck when you meet someone, no more blog.”

I don’t know if I find that heart warming or sad.

To make matters worse, I had to meet the Omaha people in a van/bus in Balboa Park. Windowless vans do not inspire confidence in me, especially when paired with video cameras.

They seemed fairly legit though, so I stepped into said windowless bus and . . . blank.

As soon as they said they were filming my brain stopped recording. The only thing I remember saying was that I didn’t want to date bed wetters or raging alcoholics. I left ten minutes later clutching a souvenir clapboard and trying to figure out what level of ass I had just made of myself.

The result is this momentous video of me:

Apparently talking about bed wetters didn’t make the cut. Oh well.

Lesson learned: When being filmed for Internet ad campaigns, take a deep breath, smile, and for crying out loud, don’t talk about alcoholics.

Almost Famous

Over the past few days, someone I recently dated has been indirectly in the news. (Don’t worry, it’s not for killing anyone.) Exciting for him, less exciting for me that I get reminders of him over the radio. It did, however, get me thinking of my one and only brush with dating someone famous.

When I was 22, I was helping out with an awards ceremony for work where I was introduced to a variety of San Diego’s elite. For the most part, I was ignored, but one guy took a special interest in me and asked for my number. Being young and naive (and extremely flattered) I agreed. At the time, I just thought he was a nice guy and had no idea who he was. I also thought he was about 35.

Turns out he’s a relatively famous artist and my mother practically fainted when I told her his name.

I should also mention that no, he was not 35, he was 47.

We met at one of his galleries where he took me up to his studio to show me where he painted. His studio was also the loft he inhabited when he stayed in town. My eyes were immediately drawn to the six-foot topless wooden mermaid that was suspended face down over the bed. Among his other fishy decor, several scandalous drawings he had done of Ariel from The Little Mermaid.

Ok, so he had a thing for fish.

We left after a few moments to grab dinner followed by a movie, but lingering too long at dinner (fish) where he talked exclusively about his own brilliance as an artist, we missed the movie.

“Let’s just watch something at my place,” he said.

I was young. He was literally old enough to be my father and I was somewhat in awe that someone as famous as this guy had asked me out. So I agreed.

He put on the movie Desparado. I missed most of the movie because I was so preoccupied with appearing lady-like and mature. Fast-forward approximately 37 minutes to where Antonio Banderas and Selma Hayek bare it all for the camera and quasi-famous artist lunges across the couch, sticks a hand down the top of my dress and licks the side of my face.

My first thought was: how do I respond to this?

My second thought: It’s really too bad that there was garlic butter on his dinner.

Daintily, I plucked his hand away and excused myself to the bathroom where I attempted to wash my face with yet more dirty pictures of The Little Mermaid staring at me.

Pleading tiredness, I left and went home. He gave me a signed copy of one of his gallery books as a parting gift. Really, he shouldn’t have.

Lesson learned: Fame does not equal class. (And also Ariel can be a total slut!)

Collateral Damage (CD)

Last week, I was inspired to look through some of my old CDs from high school. What can I say; I felt it was important to drown myself in nostalgia. One of my favorite CDs from c.1994 was Hooverphonic (who doesn’t love techno pop from Belgium), which I discovered was missing. After some pondering, I remembered where it had gone: one of my ex-boyfriends had it. He “borrowed” it before our break up and never returned it.

For those of you who grew up before the mighty MP3, this was fairly common after a break up. For many years, CDs and their predecessors the cassette tape and 8-tracks, were considered collateral damage. They were an acceptable loss that you either replaced or forgot about. In theory, you would have held onto several of the exes CDs in compensation, but for me, this was never the case. Over my dating history I have lost 33 CDs and gained only two. And I don’t really consider Evanescence to be a great gain.

As you can see here, there is a significant loss over gain in my CD collection. (Which has been collecting dust in my closet for the past 5 years).

CD loss has made me a huge fan of the MP3/iPod. It’s revolutionized my breakups. No longer do I have to search through dozens of jewel cases to realize that my CDs are now being used as coasters on someone else’s coffee table. Of course, what happens if I let a future ex borrow my iPod?

Lesson learned:  Keep your friends close. Keep your music collection (and hair care products) closer.