Friday, February 28, 2014

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm...

A list for the gentlemen in the audience; some insight; a few tips. An assortment of immediate turn-off's, if you will.  A  This female's perspective. (In no particular order.)

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm...Nope

1. Chewing with your mouth open

2. Visible ear wax

3. Affliction, Ed Hardy, et al.

4. Pierced ear(s)

5. Manery (male jewelry)

6. Hair patterns that suggest it fell off of your head to take residency on your shoulders and back

7. Smoking

8. Groping

9. Bad dancing when you're actually trying to be good at dancing
(Tip: If you're terrible, just own it; have fun. But never stop dancing. No one likes Sullen Sid.)

10. Casting a wide evening net
(Tip: Trying to take home just any female is really unattractive. We see you. Pick one lady target, it is otherwise insulting and you'll go home alone or wake up with an STD.)

11. Proving strength/worth by binge-till-you-puke drinking or fighting

12. Binge-till-you-puke drinking or fighting

13. Drug addiction

14. Airing recent past relationship woes

15. One-sided conversations

16. Asking for a kiss
(Tip: Stop asking, just go for it. We're big girls. We know how to decline.)

17. Excessive crying (or if I just met you, any crying)

18. Short fuse; anger/yelling

19. Bad tipping

20. Taking longer than a lady to get ready

21. Snapping, clapping, and otherwise patronizing service industry folk
(Tip: You look like a dick. Just wait your turn.)

22. Bad breath

23. Stupid sexually suggestive jokes out of nowhere
(Tip: If this kind of humor was previously established, it's totally fine, but, chances are, if you're randomly playing this card just to gauge her reaction, you're not getting in. And especially not now.)

24. Talking about yourself incessantly

25. Bad teeth

26. Excessive nose/ear/eyebrow and neck hair
(Tip: Trim that shit.)

27. Obvious and prolonged boob ogling

28. A neck the size of your head

29. Cue balls
(Tip: I shouldn't be able to see my reflection in your head.)

30. 'Showing off' your money
(Tip: If you have it, spend it, but don't make a point to talk about that $300 bottle of olive oil you got your sister-in-law for Christmas that was "no big deal".)

31. Always taking forever to text back

32. Being shorter than me

33. Tribal/barbed wire tattoos

34. Chicken legs

35. 'Dad' jeans or carpenter jeans
(Tip: Always have at least one pair of dark wash denim; don't buy any jeans that your dad might have in his closet or wear them the way he might either; if your pants can hold a hammer and you don't need a hammer, throw them out and buy ones made after 1995.)

36. Profuse video gaming

37. Smelling bad

38. Smelling like her father/grandfather
(Tip: Give up the Old Spice.)

39. Kissing against her pattern

40. Things that make you go 'hmmmm'
(Tip: Don't be a skevve.


Things That Make You Go Hmmmm....Oh Yeah

1. Walking between the lady and the traffic on the sidewalk

2. Opening doors

3. Offering to pick her up/meet her at her house

4. Patience

5. Compliments on something other than appearance

6. Good conversation

7. On-par sense of humor
(Tip: Make her laugh; win her heart.)

8. A well-planned date

9. Dressing well with good shoes
(Tip: Don't refer to yourself as 'metro'.)

10. Smelling good
(Why have men stopped wearing cologne?! Tip: PUT IT BACK ON.)

11. Kissing in compliment to hers

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Ninety-Three Days

My children simply MUST have blue eyes.

This should not be at the top of my goal list. But sometimes when you’re as indecisive as I am, there are only certain things you know you want and from then on, they are unflinching. Blue-eyed men only need apply; exceptions can be made for green.

the only sunny day was just before my flight.
The past five days I have spent in Seattle. I’m now recovering from what seems to have been a never-ending fun-fest of sleep deprivation, locally-made 'bourbon' and rain. Oh, and a private Ethiopian driver, care of my friend’s dude. So that’s how the other half lives...

This dude was a character. You definitely have to take him with a grain of salt and also pay attention. He’s soft, as someone who sees beyond the surface would notice immediately, but difficult in a stubborn kind of way. He’s kind, but careful. He’s a Libra and, like me, our kind is both completely open and absolutely closed: You have to prove you’re worth what we fear might break us. Or sometimes we just love you immediately and know you’re worth the risk. Either way, he was amusing as much as he was a difficult softie. At one point we went to a fancy pizza place he frequents just before close and after we ordered, he left to go to Whole Foods. Thirty minutes later, just after the Ethiopian driver went to go look for him, my fellow Libra came back into the restaurant gleefully pushing a grocery cart containing two bags to the back of the restaurant, which contained, in part, some “gifts”. For my girlfriend, a shirt still on the hanger; for the driver, a bag of green grapes; and for me, a container of fresh berries, as I had requested them for my champs at the bar the night before.

It was at once the strangest and most hilarious part of the weekend - drag brunch and taking a cab to the car (after riding in an elevator with a man taking his sliced up print to canvas art of him and his (ex?)wife to the garbage ("i had a lot of rage to get out")) at 4am only to find it locked in the parking garage aside. If this is how my interactions with people come across, then I’m totally okay with that. If he’s gets along well in Seattle, then maybe I can too.

This leaves me still, in some sort of weird cross-continental limbo, as I am shopping for a new city. I'm finished with DC; it was fun for what it was, but as I have moved forward in my life, these are no longer my people; my place. That move I always talked about, it's finally happening. Because when you are as indecisive as I am, once you finally pull the trigger, there’s no pushing it back out.

It began some months ago again and I designed a list: Charleston, SC; Denver, CO; Savannah, GA; Nashville, TN; Seattle, WA and back home to Pittsburgh, PA was my list of potentials. For one reason or another, cities were eliminated as time went on, leaving just Nashville and Seattle, hence the reason for my visit: I had never been to Seattle. It was nice, but there’s no clear winner. I have 93 days until my lease is up.

Ninety-three days to develop a new life for myself and the where; this should be interesting for someone who can only choose one of three colors in hypothetical children and nothing else. Welp, here we go. Input is welcomed.

Monday, February 17, 2014

The One Where I Shaved a Canadian's Soul Patch in Vegas and Then Got Ditched at the Airport

I’m completely chronologically backwards. The Erotica happened the Wednesday and Monday between the Friday the Brit happened and the Monday before that this story happened: I was ditched at an airport an hour from my house on the way back from Vegas with what was supposed to be no way to get home putting a bit of a moldy cherry on top of an otherwise awesome trip to Vegas during which I shaved a Canadian’s
soul patch.  Allow me to start at the beginning:

Back on the night of the tenacious Jew I was talked into buying a ticket to Vegas for GFC’s 30th birthday, so at the bar, on my phone, I purchased my tickets (that I really couldn’t afford but that were cheap and you only turn 30 once, right? And my birthday was such a fucking disaster that let’s not make it a theme.) Fast forward to January 5th and I was with Ginger at a bar and suggested that she too make the trip to Vegas. (She was having issues with her on-again/off-again and GFC mentioned she had wanted her there.) And so, she did.

The following day I switched my flights to match hers; I cancelled/rebooked hotel rooms and set our schedules to carpool to the airport together. Everything was set, and aside from some communication errors in the weekend, everything was great. It was super fun. It helped that we came upon a big group of single guys from Vancouver on Saturday night after the club and because doesn’t everyone take Bananagrams to Vegas…, I invited them up to our room to plan Bananagrams at 3am. Eventually, I convinced the Canadian with the soul patch to let me shave it. After which, he went from sort of skeevy to totally cute - at 6'2" with brown hair, blue eyes and a deep voice - and I decided he was mine.

It’s amazing what a difference the just a few stray hairs can make. (I should tell the girl at CVS.)

And so GFR, Ginger and I (who were sharing a room), all ended up in a bed with a Canadian: I went to the Soul Patch's room and Ginger and GFR stayed in ours. The following night they invited us to hang out again. This was nice because we went to a place with $16 drinks and didn’t have to play for one damndrink and $16 drinks are delicious. After which, we suggested the strip club. (Or maybe just I did...whatever.)

Now, somewhere in the course of the day and evening, Ginger decided she wanted to switch Canadians. GFR and I were happy with ours, but if she wanted to switch she had an additional five to choose from, only by the end of the night she had gone through all five, and wanted to go back to the original. After I apologized to half of them while trying to aid her search (because they said they felt like sloppy seconds), when she pulled me aside at the end of the night to help her get back the original Canadian, I told her I couldn’t help. We then headed back to our hotel.

When we got back to our room, while I was changing clothes to go back to Patch's room, Ginger was grumbling that both GFR and I had a Canadian and she was alone. But there was nothing I could do at that point – nor did I want to. No one wants to feel rejected, and I wasn't about to perpetuate the rejection.

Now, I only tell this part of the story because I have to think it played into what transpired the following day when I got back to the room. Check out was at 11am. I had called the night before to request late check-out since our flight wasn’t until 3pm and was informed it was not a possibility. So, I left Soul Patch at 10:30a to hop back down six floors in time for check out.

I’d like to take a moment to suggest to you the convenience of hooking up with someone in Vegas that is staying at the same hotel as you are. It’s brilliant. You should try it.

So anyway, I got back to the room at 10:30, which meant we had 30 minutes to pack up and check out. GFR was already on her flight and Ginger was still in bed. So when I walked in the room, I said "[Ginger], get up, we need to get ready to leave".

“Let’s do late check-out. I’ll pay for it,” she grumbled at me from beneath a pillow.

“We can’t,” I said in haste, “I told you yesterday, they said we’re not allowed to do late check-outs. So you need to get up and pack,” I added not wanting to incur whatever charge on my card the hotel might sneak in for being there past 11.

She said she packed everything last night. I asked if she was going to shower. She said no, so I let her sleep while I hopped in the shower. I got out, and with 17 minutes left, now insisted that she get out of bed:  "[Ginger], seriously, we need to be out of here in 17 minutes; you have to get up."

So in a huff, she rolled out of bed, walkedd over to the gallon jug of water I’d grabbed for us to share and started to chug it. “Oh no,” I began in a light-hearted tone to pick up the mood of the moment, “Did you drink it all?!" I added with a light-hearted-everyone-is-hungover-in-Vegas chuckle.


Um...holy shit. Okay then. Tread lightly, there's a ravenous rabid in the room.

 "Calm down. I was just kidding," I responded, trying to smooth over what was clearly a miscommunication. "I just wanted some water since we're all hungover," I added with an uncomfortable bit of a laugh.

Barely getting out the word 'hungover', she began barking at me: "Stop talking to me!” On repeat. Again, trying to calm down the situation and refusing to deal with her childish orders, I try to explain what's going on and get to be normal. Instead, she just kept repeating: "Just stop talking to me right now."

"Stop talking to me..."
"Stop talking to me. I'm not asking much..."
"Just stop talking..." 

"Stop talking," repeated even when I wasn't making a sound. I felt like I was in some sort of parallel universe of a vinyl record was scratching an intolerable echo. I was 13 again fighting with my 15 year old sister and fucking hated when I was 13 and fighting with my 15 year old sister; the dichotomy of our love/hate relationship, exhaustively infuriating. But this was the first I was experiencing of Ginger's bite, previously only privy her compliments of how I was so funny or awesome. How quickly the tables had flipped - and I couldn't be 13 again.

"[Ginger] you're acting like a cunt. Stop telling me to shut up," I finally said, in a surprisingly normal tone. And when her repetition continued, I snapped back in the commanding tone of a parent to a child mid-tantrum:

"KNOCK.    IT.    OFF."

She stopped like a deer in the headlights and stared at me for a moment before quietly continuing to pack. Once her stuff was packed up, she left the room and I didn't see or hear from her the rest of the day. I packed, checked out, booked my airport shuttle, and entertained myself until it was time to catch it. I figured she needed some time to cool off and work through whatever the hell was bothering her.

Five hours later, I didn't see at our gate when our flight was boarding, so I texted: "where are you?". No answer. Boarding, I saw her already seated and stared at her, waiting to make eye contact. I know she saw me, but she refused to acknowledge me. When we got off of the plane, she didn't wait for me at the gate. Or at baggage claim; she didn’t wait, nor text me: She got her bags, went to her car, and left me there - stranded at the fucking airport at 11:30 at night with (to her knowledge) no way to get home.
BWI. Baggage Claim 5. 1/13/14. 11:30p.

She had no idea that my intuition, once we boarded, had the unfortunate accuracy to suggest that someone might actually be callous enough as to strand a girl at the airport with no regard for her safety. She had no idea that I had texted GFN after boarding with my concern that I was going to get ditched. Or that I found out that GFN’s flight landed after mine and she could take me home. So as far as Ginger knew, she was leaving me in Baltimore with no way to get back to DC – as punishment for, what…waking her up in the morning? I still don’t understand.

It’s been over a month now and I still haven’t heard from her: no explanation; no apology; nothing. What a waste of a friendship. And hundreds of moments of laughter. Sometimes in life I guess there are just things - like soul patches - that we won’t ever understand.

Monday, February 10, 2014

The Brit

A few Fridays ago I woke up to a message from a new guy on Tinder. A Brit. He was cheeky and his banter was better than most I have "met" virtually over the past couple of months. Better than I'd met in person, even and it's hard to communicate humor via text, but I'll be damned if we didn't try and succeed.

We kept going back and forth all day and he was trying to fugure out how to get me to entertain him in Virgina. He offered on utilizing his expense account if I drove out to Virginia to "rescue" him. He was heading back to the UK via NY the following day. I told him if he could think of something interesting enough to make the drive out to Virgina worth it, I'd be game. Then posted this to Facebook:
So I'm talking to this my-kind-of-wit British guy on tinder this morning/afternoon and he's here for work and leaving tomorrow morning. He "wouldn't decline a rescue" from Reston suburbia - as he is without a car and not on metro - and I'm nearly inclined if only for the likelihood of entertainment and possibility of a good story. As well, it has been discussed that we might "abuse" his expense account. I like free, as discussed in objective number 4: Eat. I am disinclined to acquiesce on the grounds of "wanting to live", objective number 2, which I have already discussed with him, prompting a retort of "oh relax, there is literally only a 40% chance that i'll try to kill you". So, now I'm having him think of something that's intriguing enough to drive to Reston for. If it's good, do I take the 60/40 odds?
In case you were wondering objective 1 is laugh; objective 3 is story. I had mixed responses, many of which suggested it was dangerous, don't get killed or kidnapped and the rest wholly cheering: Go for it and report back! A favorite girlfriend who lives in the area and whose company I rarely get to enjoy because she is always busy and lives far out, chimed in and said if I headed her way she'd meet me for a drink first. So then I was definitely going, even when the Brit said that he had to have some drinks with coworkers instead. And I was all well that's annoying (although this turned out to be mostly miscommunication), but told him if he finished early or whatnot, to shoot me a text and meet up with us. The "us" playing into the rest of our day's conversation wherein I basically just said: This is not a hook up.

So at the end of the day I left work and met up with my girlfriend. We caught up on some things and then he texted and said he was on his way. From then on, drinks were on him: Splendid. He was just as amusing in person and said Tinder was a shitshow of one word responses, wherein I became a "beacon of bantor". (I've had a hat made. j/k.) After a bit, we left that place and went to another spot to grab some food. After which, my girlfriend left and the Brit and I headed to another bar in the complex that was open longer.

It was during this time that we discussed my hair and as proof I showed him a photo I my mom had uploaded to Facebook of me as a child. He immediately burst out laughing and told me I looked like Ric Flair. "Who?", I didn't hesitate to ask - and perhaps I should have.

He sort of had a point.
This is the photo of Ric Flair he brought up on my phone to show me. I disagreed entirely with him and then he asked if he could ask other people what they thought. I acquiesced under the condition that he didn't state that the child was me. And so he proceeded to use these two photos to poll other patrons to see if "this baby, who may or may not be someone in his bar" he would say as he pointed to me, "does it look like Ric Flair?"

We both got a good chuckle. By the time the bar was closing I had declined another drink, citing my need to drive home. But by the time I left the bar, I realized driving home was illegal at that point. So I went up to his hotel room - "I've got two beds," he'd said, "You're welcome to use one" - to wait out legal limits. And then I got tired, hopped into a bed and he asked, "Which bed can I sleep in? Can I sleep in yours?"

"I don't care," I responded, a little intoxicated, but mostly exhausted. And then we spooned, I fell asleep leaving his arm dead, I would hear in the morning as I drove him downtown to catch his train back to New York. After he made a joke about the "dirt" on the cars that I explained was salt and laughed hardily at a snow plow on the front of a pick-up, which I never realized until now might look weird to someone unfamiliar with snow.

"I'll be back in a few weeks again for work," he said on the way back towards the District, "Let me take you to dinner on my expense account to pay you back for the ride."

"You want to hang out again," I responded, "You don't need an excuse," I said with a digging little laugh.

"True, but it ups the incentive," he said. And off he went to catch his train. He texted me when he got back to the UK, and back and forth, and yesterday to tell me he'd book his flight back and just now as I typed these words. He's more attentive than any guy here and with nary a kiss and an ocean between us. How cute. I made a new friend. And he's got a lovely little accent...even if he does use it to say I look like Ric Flair.


As an aside, when I got home that morning, I accidentally lit myself on fire while making breakfast in my robe. After I patted myself out in a panic, I had a quick revelation which I took to the Internet:
Survived the Brit only to come home and set myself on fire. I literally set myself on fire! They're not kidding when they put flammable warnings on robes. (I really think people worry about the wrong person(s) when it comes to my safety.)
I think I have a point. Odds on.