Halloween's Scary Enough Without Dating Being Thrown In The Mix...

I winked. To see what happened.

That was stupid.

What happened, was that I, like usual, was an idiot, and failed to notice that the dude in question happened to be online right at that exact moment. And apparently had nothing better to be doing on that particular Saturday morning, either.

Who knew.

The Banshee. That's who knew. She saw it coming. She warned me. And like usual, I was an idiot and ignored her.

But seeing how I was in this conversation "to see what happens" in the first place, I played along.

"You're welcome," I typed back.

"Lovely day for a parade, isn't it?"

"Definitely. Especially on TV."

"Are you a Red Sox fan?"

"Hard not to be. You?"

"I'm more a hockey guy," he wrote. And since I was bored, and he could spell, I kept chatting with him.

Like me, he was recently divorced. He relocated to Boston to start over and didn't know many people. At least I knew this transplant moved here to get away from a girl, not be with one. That was a plus.

We chatted for about an hour from everything about getting and being divorced to getting and being single. The subject of Halloween came up, and he asked what, if anything, I was doing. I told him about my plans with the girlz and he replied that it sounded like a lot of fun, and that it had been ages since he'd gone out like that.

Without thinking, I casually typed that he should come out, trying to be more encouraging of getting out of the house on a Saturday night than "we should totally meet up" kinda thing and not really expecting him to reply that he'd love to...

Apologies and Advice Giving...

Sorry for the impromptu hiatus on the story line; I've had a few issues with blogger and with time management lately but promise to return to my regularly scheduled blogging soon.

In the meantime, discuss this dating drama from a reader who sent me an email asking for advice:

I've been dating this girl for a few weeks. We've gone out a couple of times, all planned and initiated by me. She's younger than me (she's 25, I'm 32) but she's quite successful for her age. I'm definitely attracted to her (she's got a smokin' hot bod) but she did something last night that has completely turned me off and I'm not sure I want to see her again.

She sent a video message to my phone of her dog humping her roommates leg. She and her roommate were in her roommate's bed together and this dog humping the leg thing appears to be a regular occurrence, because you can hear them in the background talking about how "this was a good hump, this time" and how it "wasn't as wet as last time".

Last time? Really? Is this what constitutes a good time now? As I said, I'm completely turned off by her crass sense of humor. We are supposed to go out this weekend and I was planning on sealing the deal with her Saturday night. So do you think it's still okay to have sex with her and then break up afterwards?

My advice was simple: Don't sleep with her, no matter how smokin' hot she is, because if you have sex and dump her she'll think he used her for sex, not drawing the connection that it was over in his mind the minute the dog humping video showed up on his iPhone.

My advice for everyone is know your audience before letting your freak flag fly...

Readers, I'm curious about your thoughts on the matter. Would you dump someone for being crass? Is he being too uptight?

11/2/2009

Halloween: The one night of the year it's perfectly acceptable to wear lingerie to a bar.

Joe and I never really did Halloween. The one time we dressed up for a house party we went as the scene from "Something About Mary" that resulted in Mary's hair looking like this:

Joe slopped some goop on his ear like Ben Stiller, I wrapped a stuffed dog in gauze that Joe carried around all night and I went as the fabulous Ms. Mary. That was about as risque as I ever got.

But the first Halloween I went out with the girlz was an entirely different story. We were sluttin' it up and loving it. Ginger went as Mrs. K-Fed; Red was a vampire vixen; Ruby a naughty school girl; Roxy was a she-devil and I was a sex-pot paratrooper complete with the shortest black mini-skirt that ever was made, combat boots, fishnets, beret, aviator glasses and a jump vest, which left nothing to the imagination as the only thing under it was my black lace balconette push-up bra. My girls were pushed up and spilling out.

All of the girlz' girls were pushed up and spilling out and we looked fabulous.

Wanting to be well rested for the night's tricks and treats at Gypsy, I didn't need much of an excuse for a lazy Saturday at home. It was raining cats and dogs and the entire city was swarming with overly ecstatic Red Sox fans who had poured into the city to watch the Sox World Series victory parade. Not exactly my idea of fun, especially since I could just as easily watch from a drier vantage point because every news outlet in the city was broadcasting the whole thing.

I decided to make the most use of my time by multitasking parade watching with paying bills online and catching up on my email. Sorting through what seemed like 100's of unopened and unanswered emails (most of it crap - it's amazing how you can get off mailing lists that clog your snail mail, only to have it replaced with virtual junk mail), I came across a lonely little message from match.com

Seems they noticed I'd been away for awhile; tried to entice me back to the site, you know, to see who was new in the neighborhood.

Eh, what the hell, I thought. Why not, I've got nothing better to do.

And just like that, I was back to Match to man-surf. I skimmed through a handful of new profiles, checked out my latest winks and deleted most of them. I was still a bit leery of the guys on match after what happened with Nate (of course I checked out his profile to see if he was 'active' again; he was not...) but some of the guys looked nice. Their profiles were decent. I could myself maybe going out with a few of them, if I wanted to put in the effort.

Are you serious? Are we really doing this again? The Banshee asked.

Oh shut up. I'm just looking...

And just as I was about to turn on auto-pilot and wink back at the select few that I hadn't deleted, The Banshee bitch-slapped me upside the head.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

What?! I snapped back. I... I'm just seeing what happens!

I'm not having any part of this. You wink at those doofuses and you're on your own.

Are you threatening me? I asked, never one to back down from a challenge.

No, I'm not threatening. I'm just tellin' it like it is, She stated, never one to mince her words.

That's fine, I said, clicking "wink" as I did. I think I can handle this without you. I winked back at 3 more guys and before I knew it, up popped (I totally typed pooped first, heh) a chat window with the first guy's face in it.

"Thanks for the wink," he wrote. And with that, The Banshee packed her bags and left for her cave in Guam, leaving me to fend for myself and make one big fucking mistake after another.

Girls Chase Boys

So things with Brandon were over before they ever really began. Some people like to knit, or read, or play golf in their spare time. I, apparently, liked to chase boys.

I always liked to chase boys. At 2, I told my mother one of the contractors helping lay the foundation for the house my dad was building was cute. This gave my mother great concern because it was far too soon for her toddler to be taking an interest in guys and the guy in question was not attractive (he was a stocky, pot-bellied man with a giant handlebar mustache.) She even took his picture to torture remind me of my poor taste in men.

In fact, I lost my front tooth chasing boys in the 4th grade. Though the exact circumstances of the incident remain disputed, the fact of the matter was that just as I had my hands around this boy, he turned, tripped me and I ate asphalt. All recall was laying there in excruciating pain and hearing the playground aid instructing the kids who had gathered around to help look for the tooth. I knew it wasn't gonna be pretty and to this day I still have nightmares of my teeth falling out.

But the time I remember most was when I was in the first grade. I got into a fight with annoying, two-faced know-it-all snot faced Kristy Cartright about chasing boys. Not any boy in particular. No no, she and I weren't fighting over a boy, we were fighting over the idea of chasing boys and who was actually qualified to be partaking in such an act.

Apparently, since I was a "country girl" I was "unfit" to participate in the daily recess activity of chasing boys on the playground. Her declaration that I was a "country girl" confused the hell out of me. I didn't live in the country. I lived less than a mile down the road from the middle of town, which just happened to be in a not so residential area. We had 4 acres and a little patch of woods. The same woods in fact, that abutted the trailer park Kristy Cartright lived in, meaning she actually lived farther away from "town" than I did.

Now let me be clear here. I grew up in the midwest. My uncle and grandfather were farmers. I knew what being a "country kid" was all about and I was in no way shape or form a country girl. We had 2 dogs and off white carpeting. Country girls do not live in houses with off-white carpeting.

Not being the quit-witted sharp-tongued dame that I am today, I didn't have a come-back to her inane comment. So she and I stood there, arm locked and kicking each other in the shins arguing back and forth:

No, I'm not! [kick]

Yes, you are! [kick kick]

I am NOT! [kick kick kick]

YES! YOU! ARE! [KICK]

Articulate for 6 year olds...

When my mother picked me up from school that day, she could tell something was on my mind. After she heard what transpired, she had the following advice:

Next time that obnoxious brat smarts off and says something stupid like that again, you just tell her you'd rather be a country girl than live in a tin can...

My mother never was one to take shit from people and sure as hell didn't want raise me to be one who did. So long as I wasn't the antagonist, my parents encouraged me to stand up for myself and not be somebody's verbal or physical punching bag. Now if I was the one to come out swinging first, that was a whole other story and my folks would gladly support the corporal punishment of the wooden paddle that generally followed fights on the playground in my school.

But this thing with Kristy Cartright... she declared war and I was armed and ready for her the next day.

So fast forward to recess the next day and replay the start of the fight.

You can't play! [kick]

Yes I can! [kick]

I told you you're unfit! country girls can't chase boys [kick]

I'D RATHER BE A COUNTRY GIRL THAN LIVE IN A TIN CAN!

And before I could get in my swift kick to her shins, she started bawling and ran off to the playground attendant to tattle on me. Kristy Cartright comes over dragging Ms. Baker by the hand.

Christine! Ms. Baker shouted, grabbing my arm. Did you tell Kristy she lives in a tin can?

Yes, but she said...

I don't care what she said, you apologize to her right now!

But she said I'm unfit...

I don't wanna hear your excuse! Now tell her you're sorry! Ms. Baker insisted, refusing to even hear my side of the story. Realizing I wasn't going to win this battle, I caved and apologized.

Kristy Cartright stopped sniveling, smirked, and stuck her tongue out at me, knowing she'd won.

Once again, I consulted my mother about what happened.

Did you make her cry?

Yeah...

Did you cry?

No...

You know why?

Why?

Because you know you're not unfit to chase boys and she knows she lives in a tin can. Truth hurts.

And she was right. The truth does hurt. And I tried hard to remember that when it came time to end things with the Tourist Guy...

10/26/2009

"You did what?!" Mandy exclaimed, upon hearing of my weekend shenanigans with Brandon.

So did Ginger, Spencer, Sarah and everybody else I shared my stupidity with. I confessed for a multitude of reasons; the number one stemmed from the hope that someone - anyone - would've agreed that my plan was a good one and that they, too, if faced with a similar predicament would act in the same way I had. Of course, I've already told you how they reacted.

My other reason was rather self-deprecating. It was hoped that by admitting how much of a fool I made of myself, it would further prevent me from doing it again, because after my initial failure in leaving the cookies at Brandon's door, and ultimately giving them to Bart instead, I went home and began plotting how I would be able to "bump into" Brandon at some near point in the future.

You can't be surprised I hadn't learned my lesson, are you?

And this brings me to my third reason for telling everyone I knew. Though you may not have been shocked that I was still hinging my bets on meeting Brandon, The Banshee was. She and I had quite the bitter exchange and she could not for the life of her understand or support my continued pursuit. So, she and I reached a compromise: If I could find one - just one - friend who supported any of this, she'd shut up and back off and let me go about my foolish business.

The Banshee hoped to mock and humiliate me, and I hoped to find the voice of reason, since I considered hers to be anything but.

You see, however, from the responses already reported, my wish did not come true. Being a woman of my word, I gave up the nonsense and did my best to forget about Brandon. Which actually proved to be an easy thing to do for about 3 days until I ran into him in the laundry room.

"Hey there!" he said as he walked in with an over flowing basket of dirty clothes. "I see you made it home okay."

I smiled. "Yes, thank you. I'm really sorry about how I acted that night, I feel really silly."

"Seriously, you shouldn't be. I tell my girlfriend all the time to keep her eyes open when she walks home at night by herself."

Girlfriend? My heart sank at the idea. It also sang praises of hallelujah that Brandon was not home to witness the cookie incident and seemed to be none the wiser about it.

"I didn't know you had a girlfriend," I commented, realizing as The Banshee kicked me in the mental shin that that sounded like the most stupid statement ever. How would I know he had a girlfriend? I didn't even know his last name, well, not officially, anyway. The Banshee was quick to also mention that the only reason I knew where he lived was not due to any amount of informational sharing that had happened between he and I up to this point, but rather because I was the psycho stalker neighbor girl.

Awesome.

"Yeah, she moved here last spring for work. She's the reason I moved to Boston to begin with.

It just took me awhile to be able to find a job here, too," he said, shoving clothes into the washer next to mine. I saw several pairs of pink and black lace underwear intermingled with his tighty-whities.

Well it looks like "the girlfriend" is a serious one if he not only moved here for her, but is also washing her unmentionables, The Banshee pointed out. And for the record, you cannot date a man who wears tighty-whities, even if he does turn out to be the last single man on the planet. Comprende?

So fine. He had a girlfriend. And had bad taste in men's underwear. Both things I was relieved to have discovered sooner rather than later.

test

In case you hadn't noticed, once I get myself on a path to something, it's hard to reroute myself, especially if there's mystery or intrigue or adventure or stupidity involved. I became a certifiedcrazy person member of Scooby Doo's gang during the Brandon debacle and The Banshee, despite her denial of involvement in the whole thing, was the one driving the Mystery Machine to the scene of the crime.

There's only one way to solve this, you know, she antagonized.

Oh yeah, how's that?

Just start knocking on everyone's doors until Brandon answers, she suggested sarcastically.

I ignored her, but realized she had a good idea. Sort of.

I boxed up some cookies (my excuse and cover) and headed down to the first floor. If the name on the call box hadn't been changed, if maybe he was pointing the unit number (maybe he didn't know his name wasn't on it?) maybe his name was on the door.

Once again, making sure the coast was clear, I snuck down to the first floor and casually started walking the hall. I took the back stair case down so I would end up starting at the end of the hall and work my way towards Bart's apartment and the elevators.

I made my way all the way down the hall and not a single unit listed someone with a first initial of B. Until I got to the second to last unit. The unit next to Bart's. This was it. This was Brandon's apartment. It had to be.

What if it's not? The Banshee asked. Then what are you going to do? You just gonna knock on the door and hope he answers?

Yes. That's exactly what I'm going to do.

Except I didn't. I just stood there. Staring at his door like an idiot. I was chickening out. I quietly leaned my ear against his door to hear if he was in there, but it was silent, a sign I took to mean he wasn't home.

Perfect. He probably came home 10 minutes ago and found you lurking outside his door and turned and ran the other way, psycho, The Banshee said making fun of me.

Just as I raised my hand to knock on his door, Bart's door opened and Bart came out. I nearly pissed my pants and screamed, he scared the hell outta me. He saw me jump and gave me a smirk.

"You lookin for Brandon?" he asked, almost teasing.

"Oh, um," I laughed nervously. I noticed Bart look at the container of cookies in my hand. "What? Who?"

"Brandon?" he repeated, nodding towards the apartment door I had just been lingering in front of.

"Oh, no," I said. "I um... was... just... making cookies!" I exclaimed, "And I... made too many! And thought that maybe, um... thought I'd bring some down to share with you since you did such a great job snaking out my drain the other day," I said, handing the cookies to him.

"The drain? That was over a month ago. At least," he replied taking the cookies suspiciously.

"Well, better late than never, right?" I said, backing away towards the lobby and elevator. "I gotta go, I left my oven on," I smiled. "Cookies," I said, turning to walk away.

"Brandon's outta town this weekend. Left yesterday. If I see him, I'll let him know you stopped by," Bart said.

Shit. He knew. I just laughed and kept pounding on the elevator "door open" button, hoping it would open immediately. Which of course, you know never works.

Once inside the elevator, I let out a deep sigh of relief. I could feel my face was totally flushed and my heart was pounding.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You are such an idiot...

I couldn't have agreed with her more.