You Like Me. You Really Really Like Me.
Woohoo! If You Like Me, Check This Box has been up for about three weeks, and we have now passed
Even Sally Field had to start out somewhere. After all, she was the Flying Nun.
the 2,000th hit mark. Either my Mom has visited 2,000 times (which is quite possible), or maybe you like me, you really really like me. For serious, thanks for all the encouraging well wishes and fan mail. It means more than you know. I promise not to put up posts like this every 1,000 hits, but it’s early in our relationship, we have to celebrate these milestones. xo
PS – If you really really like me, please please spread the love and pass the site on to your friends.
Sunday Reading: Most. Fabulous. Couple. Ever.
One unexpected love I have developed since entering adulthood is my love for Sunday, yes, the day itself. I once thought of taking a part time job at Saks, but I decided against it simply because I would have had to give up my Sundays. Yes, I turned down discounted fashion for a day of the week. This is big. Honestly, I consider Sunday morning to be one of my holiest times. Not because I’m at church (sorry, Mom), but because I am worshipping at the altar that Russert built – coffee, Meet the Press, Sunday Times, maybe even some Post action thrown in. In fact, I once shocked and amazed a first date when I said that I watch Meet the Press and read the New York Times every Sunday. “Wait, you watch Meet the Press every Sunday? Seriously, every Sunday? You have a Sunday Times subscription? Whoa, okay, you’re scaring me.” (Just for clarification, that was said not in a “must run away now” kind of way but more of a “you might be sorta perfect ” kind of way.) I decided then that he must usually date really dumb girls. This might be a rare thing if we were, say, insurance agents in Omaha, but we live in Washington. We work in politics! Everyone in town does these things – hence why we dorkily throw around terms such as “MTP” and “NYT.” At least, I do.
Just to round out the Sunday urban cliche, I also like to meet friends for brunch and shop the Farmers Market where I get that warm and fuzzy feeling by supporting local farmers (I imagine the $5 I spent today on eggplant and zucchini went to some Depression Era, Dust Bowl-like migrant farm worker family – 15 kids, barefoot, living in a one room shanty…in Frederick, Maryland) and eating organic vegetables (carried in my reusable Whole Foods grocery bag, of course. Carrying a plastic, non biodegradable shopping bag around the Dupont Circle Farmers Market is considered sacrilege. Kind of like wearing a McCain-Palin T shirt – you just don’t do it.)
Now I realize I am supposed to say that when I open up my Sunday New York Times, I first flip to something really smarty pants like the Business Section or the Op-Eds. Yeah, I get to those eventually, but let’s be honest, the Style section comes first. More specifically: The Weddings and Celebrations Section. Yes, the quote unquote “Sports Section for Women.” You read about these couples and it’s just hard to believe – are you two for real? Two fabulously attractive (unless it’s the whole horsey WASPy look), fabulously smart, fabulously wealthy (I like to call these couplings “mergers”) people with fabulous jobs sitting and smiling perfectly with their eyebrows at the same level. While they may look wonderful, I’m sure there are plenty of cracks in these seemingly perfect unions. I like to imagine that Buffy actually downs her Percocet with bottles of vodka while stumbling in a silk nightgown and screaming at the help about wire hangars. She tosses the last vodka bottle to the side, they clink in a pile with the ten others, and then puts her mink coat on over her silk nightgown and drives drunkenly to the liquor store while smoking a cigarette in one of those cigarette holders. Todd is out diddling the tennis coach at the country club before having a steak and a scotch with the boys from the golf course. (Yes, I used diddling to complete this 1940s scenario.) Yeah, there’s no way these people are that perfect. It’s just not possible.
That is until you see unions like this:
My Two Dads, perhaps?
Yes, according to today’s Times, Simon Doonan and Jonathan Adler are now married. All is well (and fabulous) with the world – a perfect union of taste covering fashion (Simon is the Creative Director at Barneys) and interior design (Come on, people, Jonathan Adler. If anything, Top Design?). If people think gay marriage is wrong, well, I don’t want to be right, especially with couples like this.
Honestly, seeing these two happy lovebirds tie the knot is just another example of why I’m a proponant for gay adoption, or more specifically, I just want them to adopt me. Think about it, this is a win-win situation. They get to look so cool and hip by not only being gay AND married (and you know, being the heads of Barneys and and an entire home design empire), but also being gay AND parents. I’m 26 – I come potty trained and I’ve already been through teething, the crying phase, puberty, teen angst, college, and the “trying to find myself” period. No tuition or braces to pay for, very little drama, at least that’s not entertaining – I’m quite a deal.
I just imagine this being the more modern, hipper version of “My Two Dads.” You can count on me, Simon and Jonathan. Don’t you worry. Just imagine what life would be like:
“Daddy Simon, I have a date tomorrow, and I have no idea what to wear. Can you help me?”
“Why of course, darling daughter. I will overnight you the most perfect outfit ever from the sales floor. And it’s yours. For free.”
“Daddy Jonathan, I can’t hang my pictures, [this is for real] can you help me?”
“Can I? Why won’t I? While you’re at work, darling, I’ll bring my crew in and we’ll make that studio look Domino ready. Anything for my first born, er, adopted.”
Really, if this isn’t “Father Knows Best”, I just don’t know what it is.
Happy Sunday.
And for old times sake:
I Take It Harvard Doesn’t Teach Any Classes In Common Sense
Do you remember back in the day, we’re talking late 90s/early 00s, when VH1’s “Behind the Music” was all the rage? I can hear the narrator’s voice now. I spent many a Saturday and Sunday afternoon on my couch watching back to back marathons, when really each band’s story followed the same narrative arc. The band met in some podunk town, became best friends and soul mates, went to the big city, and hit it big. With success came drug addictions, alcoholism, and adultury (so dramatic). Unable to cope with success the band begins to hate each other, puts out terrible albums destined for the bargain bin at Camelot music (ahh, the days of actual music stores), splits up, only to spend all their money on car collections and, you know, drugs. Eventually they find redemption through AA, religion, or the need for some cash, and then new success, success they can really enjoy – a reunion tour, new contract, new album, and a brand new Vegas show. Yes, the band’s back together.
The same pattern can be said for relationships. You meet, which is hopefully a good story, start to date, the honeymoon period ensues, possible commitment, complaceteness, weight gain, constant arguing, break up, and then…acceptance. Okay, well that’s one kind of relationship. For those of you who have read my earlier postings, I’m sure you read the post about Mark the cat guy and thought, “How on earth did she date that guy?” I have to admit, I’m still at a loss for words, however, I think it is time I explain myself. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the the Story Behind the Relationship: Mark the Lawyer Edition.
How It Happened
Memorial Day weekend 2007. My friend Laura, a DC native, temporarily moved back to town for a summer associate position at a prominent DC law firm. She called me around 3:00 on Thursday and asked if I wanted to come to a summer associate happy hour at a Dupont bar. Why of course! People to meet, things to do. I expected to have a drink or two, engage in some awkward chit chat with law students (maybe look for some cute ones), and then have a lovely dinner out with Laura and her boyfriend, Jake.
Things did not really go as planned. First, a public service announcement to all you young singletons out there: If you have not already, find yourself a friend who is a summer associate at a law firm. I had no idea this world existed. I show up at this bar, and the summer associate coordinator literally handed me a bucket of Coronas. For free. I was practically part of their recruitment set up. “Join our practice and we’ll have a talkative redhead show up at the bar unannounced and make small talk with you. You might even think you have a chance with her.” (Hmm…maybe I could make this a side business venture.) Okay, so yes, free booze, but the second, and more important benefit, ugly girls. Okay, I hate to call anyone ugly (who am I to judge?), but I will say that most of these women were not attractive or friendly. In fact, some of them just kind of snarled at me, like going to pet a dog and it tries to bite your hand. Well, I guess I didn’t want to talk to you anyway then. There are very few times in my life where I have felt confident enough to say this, but I do know Laura and I were by far the hottest girls there. And she had a boyfriend – Instant Wingman! If you are just half way attractive, like to smile a lot, and can hold a conversation – you are likely to do well in this environment.
Ok, so there I am with Laura, bored out of my mind, yet enjoying my free booze and making chit chat with frigid school marms and a couple of dorky guys. Next thing I know, a very cute lawyer starts talking to us. Well hello there. His name is Mark. He’s from the west coast. Harvard undergrad, Yale law. Swam and rowed at Harvard. Owns a condo in DC. Sixth year associate. Democrat.
And….He’s Into Me.
So much so, in fact, that Laura smartly takes her cue and makes herself scarce. We chat for most of the night (while getting extremely intoxicated), and he asked for my number and made it clear he planned to call.
Of course, I woke up the next morning going, “Wait, did that really happen? Did that guy really talk to me for that long? Whatever, it’s me, I’m sure I’ll never hear from him.”
Sure enough, he called the next week. We talked for over an hour. We had a first date, and a couple of days later, a second one, and then a third one. You see the pattern here. I was beside myself and completely taken aback. Wait, is this really happening? There’s just no way.
Oh my God – is my dating karma finally paying off? Is this guy for real? After all the losers, deadbeats, and worthless individuals, could this really successful, really attractive guy actually like me? Shut. Up.
I’ll admit there was something really nice and braggy about it all. (I made sure that the last guy I dated, who was just God awful, found out that I as dating a Harvard and Yale educated lawyer. It was a great F You.) I ran into my friend Jill on the metro while I was on my way home to get ready for our fourth date. “So what are you doing tonight?” “I actually have a date.” “Oh, really? With whom?” “Oh, this lawyer I met.” “Oooohh, where did he go to law school?” “Yale.” “Whoa, where did he go for undergrad?” “Harvard.” “What?! Where did you find him?” “Oh, just a law firm happy hour – really, they’re quite the gold mine. Did I mention he swam and was on the crew team at Harvard?” I remember Jill saying to me that I was “living the dream” finally the nice girl got the guy she deserved.
I started to think, maybe she was right. He kept asking me out, and then shockingly enough, would ask me out again. I honestly just kept waiting for him to stop calling, because that’s usually what would happen if something seemed to good to be true. However, that never happened. Instead, I got a little blinded by his resume.
See, this guy looked great on paper, no scratch that, fantastic. The best schools, top of his class, great job, not in politics – how refreshing to ask someone about their day and not have to sound like MSNBC commentator wannabes (or should I say “Democratic or Republican strategists”). I was so blinded by his resume that I couldn’t see that he just didn’t really work in real life. I seemed to avoid the red flags.
Yes, red flags. I said it. Like most past relationships, I now look back on all of this and I’m just going, “What was I thinking?” It’s like finding a picture of yourself from a few years ago and saying, “What was I wearing? Really? Did I think that was attractive? Was I blind?” Yes, you were, but it also seemed to make sense at the time . (Hey, people thought stirrup pants were cool at one point. You weren’t the only one.) Laura and Jake tried to stage an intervention. Several times. “We just don’t think he’s good enough for you.” “That’s so easy for you to say. You have no idea what it’s like to date in the real world.” This is coming from two people who drunkenly hooked up their first day of law school, woke up the next morning and immediately decided to be boyfriend-girlfriend. They are now engaged. True story.
However, maybe Laura and Jake had a point.
First of all, man couldn’t dress. In fact, he managed to violate all of my male clothing rules – my list of, “I don’t care if you are my soul mate. I cannot touch you if you wear the following:” list. Yes, the possibility of having an Ivy League educated lawyer boyfriend made me throw it all, and my common sense, out the window.
Now I know this stuff doesn’t matter, and really, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, but I’m sorry, there is no excuse for black….pleated…..cuffed…..pants. Yes, they were practically AC Slater pants, just a little bit lower waisted and a lot less acid wash. He also had a penchant for golf shirts. Now this would be fine if they were plain with maybe just a Polo or Lacoste logo on them. However, he was all about…designs. Yes, there was more of an all over patterned theme going on. Bill Cosby would have looooved these golf shirts. (hence why I still refer to them as “Bill Cosby Golf Shirts”). So black pleated cuffed pants combined with Bill
Just imagine this lovely ensemble in the form of a golf shirt. It exists.
Cosby golf shirt, plus hair gelled and combed, possibly slicked, all the way to the side, oh and a big flashy gold watch (He got a deal at the outlets. Um, there’s a reason it made it to the outlets. I’m a champion bargain shopper, so I’m allowed to say that.) Yeah, all he needed was a GC (gold chain, people) and he’d be a pool shark lost on the golf course.
Second, he had a cat. Yes, y’all are already well aware of the cat. (Yes, this cat.) I’m a dog person. I hate cats. I’ll admit, I thought it was weird when I walked into his place the first time and he had not one, but two, cat trees. Yeah, those gray shag carpeted things that make someone’s home look instantly look like they own a bedzzler and a windsuit. Even worse, I noticed on his fridge he had magnets. Yes, cat magnets. Not magnet. Magnets. The first time I saw them, I laughed, “Ha ha! You have kitty cat magnets! What are you seven?” “Oh, uh, my mom put those up there.”
And this brings me to the third red flag – Mommy Dearest. This guy was an only child. I am not an only child, and frankly, I’m highly suspicious of only children. (No offense, to any only children reading this. I’m sure you are lovely people.) These people never learned to share. They also have had two parents obsess over their every move their entire lives. I never met his mother, he just told me she was the “cutest, sweetest, nicest woman I would ever meet.” I imagine her being like the grandmother babysitter from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead – being so sweet and nice to her baby boy while eating girls like me for breakfast. She decorated his apartment, did his laundry when she visited, gave him cat magnets, cat books
This lady from Goonies scared the crap out of me when I was little. I would totally be Corey Feldman if he ever left his mother alone with me. For Sure.
(Yes, I already mentioned “Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul” once on this blog. Must I do it again?), it was like he was eight years old. One time I walked into his place to find this massive lace doily laid out, no, displayed, on his coffee table. Um, are you an 80 year old grandma? What is that? “Oh, it’s an old family heirloom. My Mom sent it to me.” Of course she did. Because all 30 year old bachelors love to put lace doilies around the house next to their copy of “Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul”. If he wasn’t there, I would have thought the owner of this condo was a cat lady who watched Judge Judy. No doubt.
I will say the biggest red flag of all probably should have been when I brought up the dreaded “relationship” conversation…after four months of dating. Again – four months, not four days, or even four weeks. I still think I was perfectly in my bounds to say, hey, I think we should maybe have job titles now like “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”. You would have thought I asked him to marry me. It was awful. His way of making feel better about it was to say this, “Look, my ex-girlfriend was beautiful, and smart, and gorgeous, and every guy I know would have married her, and I still broke up with her.” Wow, I feel so much better now. (I also used to make excuses for when he would use reasoning like this to justify his actions. Look, he went to Harvard and Yale. He may be smart, but he’s socially retarded. It happens.)
I tried to end it the next day, he apologized, profusely, and I, sadly, accepted it and stayed with him for another two months, sans commitment. Yeah, I was that girl who thought she didn’t really want a relationship either, and could probably get the guy to change his mind anyway. It was a hard lesson to learn, but thankfully, two months later, I gave him the ultimatum, he balked, and I left. The weird thing was that I never cried once, when I’m normally quite the emotional basket case. I think by then I realized I was sick of the Bill Cosby golf shirts, the Mom issues, the weird bizarre obsession with his cat, and not being with someone who wanted to say I was his girlfriend.
Several months later, he emailed me wanting to meet up. We met for lunch. While what ensued will surely be another post (it’s just that good), the next day he emailed me the following:
great to have lunch yesterday – I’m glad to be back in the swing of things finally in DC and we should definitely do that again another time. Congrats on your success – sounds like a perfect fit for you, but it will never surprise me to find out that you are kickin some serious ass with your job or whatever you are doing. 🙂 You looked great. Take care,
Mark
I so won.
Males Across America Are Celebrating: A Netflix Porn Computer Virus Exists.
Like many people in politics, I’ve had a lot of jobs. I work in an industry where you move up by moving on, so it’s hard to explain to folks back home why every Christmas I always have a different job, and it doesn’t mean I can’t hold on to one. After fours years and eight jobs, I know my way around many different types of office environments.
It’s kind of like high school. I have my basic office clique which normally consists of the people I work with most directly or are most like me in age, interests, and place in life. These are the people I grab Starbucks with, sit next to in all-staff meetings, ask opinions on date outfits (they see me every day and know my entire wardrobe), get beers with after work, and maybe even socialize with on the weekends (this only happens only in the best office cliques – when I actually like the people I work with).
Then there’s the senior staff. Depending on the office environment, they might be nice to me, they might not, but I only count on getting drinks with them if they initiate the invite. I know it’s best to never turn down this invite, even if I would really rather go to the gym than to get drunk. In the best of situations, I’m friendly with this crew of people. I see them at happy hours, I enjoy hearing their old war stories about past campaigns and jobs, but I would never gchat them or send along funny YouTube links. In the worst of situations (and when I was less far along in my career), it was kind of like Mean Girls – they might have acknowledged me with a nod or short hello in the hall (even worse the awkward bathroom hello), but that’s about where it ended. Did they know my name? Eh, doubtful.
Then there’s the indoor kids. These are the co-workers that are in the periphery. I know their names, I sort of know what they do (well, at least their job title), they seem to have families (I see the framed pictures on their desks), but they absolutely do not socialize with anyone, at all. They arrive at 9, leave at 6, eat their lunch alone, and I’ve spoken to them at length once – on the first day tour.
Do you know what's on this guy's computer?
So this is where I would place my former co-worker, Ed. Ed was the office IT guy, and he very much fit the role of the office IT guy. We’re talking black jeans, white tennis shoes, Steve Sanders mullet, mustache. We weren’t friends, however, I was always friendly to him (always best to be on the good side of the person who can fix a computer). All I knew about Ed was that helived somewhere way out in Virginia with his family and had been at this particular organization forever.
I had been working in this particular office for about 6 months when I realized that not only could I listen my very own ITunes library on my work computer, but also every other ITunes library stored on the office network as well. Fantastic – free music in abundance, a plethora of options. Let’s see gay guy in development has lots of Madonna and Kelly Clarkson (shocker!), my 30 year old friend Katie has some Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews, okay check, OfficeITAdmin has lots of files that include….porn….lots of porn….hard core porn. AAAAHHHHH! We’re not talking soft core “Hot for Teacher” “Debbie Does Dallas” titles. More like “Girl Being %$#!d By Seven Guys” “Gang Bang” and um something about a girl performing a certain sexual act on a horse. No, this was not late night Skinimax.
Meek, mild, stunned me quietly walked into my boss’ office.
“Ummm, I just found something disturbing on the network. Um, uh, someone is storing some uh [said in a whisper] porn, I think,”
My boss sympathetically nodded and asked me to close the door.
“I know what you’re talking about. It’s Ed’s.”
Um What? Yes, the no name login – that’s what he uses to log in to fix our computers. Apparently, he’s all about porn. At work. At a Women’s Organization (Yes, it was at a women’s organization.) I know it is not exactly shocking that the computer guy, or any guy for that matter, likes to look at hard core porn. It’s just not exactly what you expect an entire office to be able to see on a random Thursday, again, at a women’s organization. As the days went on, I realized this was not just a one time download. It’s not like he tried the whole internet porn thing one late night at the office while he was performing an email purge, was disgusted, found it demeaning to women, and simply forgot to erase the evidence. Oh no, he was constantly updating and deleting. Some days there would be 30 files, others 50, one day, dear God, there must have been 300. New and different (and disgusting titles). Maybe this is why it always takes Ed forever to fix something on our computers.
(Ok, I know what you’re thinking. Did I ever watch? No – although you know I was the one in the office clique who was saying, “Come on, guys. Just one. Let’s just watch one. Aren’t you curious?” No dice.)
As time went on, we finally asked a male coworker to go confront Ed, for his sake. He delicately approached the guy in private. “So, there are some computer files of a pornographic nature located very visibly on the network under your name. Don’t worry, I’m the only person who saw this.” Yes. Him and ten other young, impressionable twentysomething women.
“What? Seriously? I don’t even know how what that is or how they got there! It must be a virus!”
Right. A virus that downloads hard core porn to your computer, and every day delivers new selections while deleting the old files. Yes, the Netflix porn virus, I hear its running rampant on every man in America’s computer, no scratch that, every man in the world’s computer. As a male friend of mine said, “Can I get that virus, please?” At the same time, the IT guy is telling us his computer is being infected with this horrible porn virus. So basically, what you’re saying is…you’re bad at your job.
After the intervention, Ed (or should I say ITAdmin) quickly deleted his files. We all pretended to not know anything and tried to make it our little secret. So the guy likes porn – does he really want to be the guy who was fired for downloading porn at a progressive women’s organization? I didn’t really want to see that scene and neither did my friends. We remember high school – why not show the indoor kids some sympathy? If anything, I feel like I learned some managerial experience, or maybe just that there are certain things that are best kept on the home computer. In the basement. Behind a Locked Door. Away from women and children. And the general viewing public.
Just Say No…To Forced Make Outs.
Although we live in the age of internet dating, speed dating, and “just lunch” (because it’s okay to go out with a potential serial killer if “It’s Just Lunchâ„¢”), I still feel that the goal of almost every singleton is to meet someone “through friends” or “through friends of friends.” In fact, many of us fantasize about it. You hear the success stories – Karenna Gore met her Ivy League educated, New York society, billionaire doctor husband through friends at a dinner party. Ok, that might have happened to the then Vice President’s daughter, but for the rest of us, it just doesn’t work that way. I know my friends. I love them dearly, however, I know this – if one of them had a single, rich, Ivy League educated, doctor friend lying around, they most certainly would not be calling me, or anyone else for that matter. I do a lot for people, but I don’t think that anyone feels they owe me that big of a favor.
Having said that, I feel that with every evite comes the wonder, “Hmm…will anyone interesting be there?” Sometimes the unthinkable happens, you actually do hit it off with someone and get a date at the party. Sometimes, shockingly enough, the date actually goes well, and maybe even, many dates happen. Before long, you’re in relationship bliss, telling friends and coworkers you met “at a party…through friends.” You’re living the American Single Person’s Dream.
This is not one of those stories.
I will set the scene. Early August, group birthday, rooftop party. I ended up talking to a friend of a friend named Rob. It was very nice conversation. In fact, it was several very nice conversations. At the end of the night, he asked for my number…in front of ten other people in my friend’s apartment. Yes, I should have seen this as a sign that more awkwardness was ahead as we did the whole numbers swapping thing with an audience of ten suddenly very quiet people. My friend Mary, ever the true friend, felt obligated to take a picture of the moment so I could treasure it forever, in black and white no less (because awkward moments should always look timeless). She even did the honors of promptly posting it on Facebook the next morning (Yes, Mary is that friend who always serves as the Saturday night photographer. However, instead of sharing the pics privately on Snapfish, she puts them on Facebook for the entire world to see. There is nothing more terrifying than being out and about the next day, hungover, away from a computer, only to get an email on your blackberry stating “You have been tagged in 13 pictures on Facebook.”)
Anyway, back to the story. So Rob called me exactly two nights later and asked me to dinner. I have to say, in this age of techonology and casual courtship, I was quite impressed that this boy a) actually picked up the phone to call me – no emailing, no texting b) asked me to dinner – nothing ambiguous like “drinks” or “hanging out”. Yes, this was a date, no doubt about it. I will admit expectations were not incredibly high for this evening, however, if anything, I saw it as a chance to have a good meal, good conversation, a new person to get to know, and, if anything, something to do. This will be fun.
So it’s time for the date. I got to the restaurant from work in perfect date ready spirits, and I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Finally, he arrives after being stuck in traffic. Ok, no big deal. However, I do notice something. Now let me preface this by saying, I could care less about what any guy wears, and frankly, I don’t want to date anyone who wears nicer jeans than I do. But he was wearing Dad jeans. They didn’t look bad (at all), it’s just you see Eddie Bauer and you think…Dad. So hence the name Dad Jeans Rob was born.
So we finally sit down, and study the menu, and study the menu, and study the menu some more. Now if a date is going well, I find you have so much to talk about that the wait staff has to come by several times to take your order. “Oh, sorry, I haven’t even looked!” “Oh, sorry again, ok we promise we’ll look. Can we get another round of drinks, though?” “Ok, are we ready? Aahh! I haven’t even looked. You go first.” Aaah, such heavenly first date banter bliss.
This did not happen. We had NOTHING to talk about. We’re the same age, we both live in DC, we both work in politics. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. I practically memorized the menu. “So what do you think you’re going to get?” “Uh, I don’t know. What do you think you’re going to get?” “I don’t know. Everything looks good.” “Yeah, I know. I can’t decide. ” Painful. This was pretty much how the entire date was. Long silences. Uninteresting chit chat. Zero chemistry whatsoever.
Now for some of you, this might be the usual, but here’s the thing: I’m a great date. I don’t feel bashful about saying this. I’m well read, I can string sentences together, I can pretty much talk to a brick wall. I may not like the guy, he may not like me, but I know with most certainty that I can hold a conversation and tell a few ridiculous stories. Even if I’m not interested in someone, I have never walked away saying, “I had a terrible time.” This was truly a first.
Anyway, it’s 9:00, we’re leaving the restaurant, and I’m ready to shake hands and call it an evening. “Thanks so much for dinner. It was really nice to meet you.” “Oh, let me walk you home. ” Greeeeaaat. After another 10 minutes of awkward conversation, we are now outside my building. Ok, can we just shake hands now? Oh no, he goes in for the hug. “It was great to meet you.” “You too.” Oh God, please please take your hand off my back. Oh God, please please tell me you’re not going in for a kiss. Oh, but you are.
Ladies and gentleman, Dad Jeans Rob forced a make out. Yes, Seemed Like a Gentleman Dad Jeans Rob forced a make out. Sober. At 9:00 on a Thursday night. I don’t even like to kiss on the first date unless, you know, it’s a reallllly good date. Or I’m wasted. I mean, it’s not as if it was 1:00 am, and we just gabbed the night away. I was sober. Too sober, in fact, even after splitting a bottle of wine (Yes, it was so boring, I couldn’t even get drunk.) To make matters worse, I live on a very busy, very social street. All of Washington, DC walked by as I was forced to make out. I hate PDA, yet I was the worst offender. (That said, let’s be honest, when you really want to make out with someone, you don’t care who is walking by. Your Mom, Grandmother, Priest, and Boss could walk by, and you don’t care. You’re making out, and it’s good. This was not one of those times.)
After I wiped my face off, I said good night, and possibly ran, maybe even sprinted, into my building. Did I miss something? How in the world did Dad Jeans Rob think we had so much chemistry that it warrented a first date make out? I thought he probably got the hint, you know, with me running into my building and not asking him to come up, however Monday afternoon I got a text asking to get drinks THAT NIGHT. Um, a same day invite? Really? I can think of two guys in my entire dating career (ok, it really hasn’t been that long) who got away with a same day invite, and looking back, they probably shouldn’t have.
The texting went on for a couple of weeks. Seriously. I tried being nice with my rejection at first, but after a while I gave up. I just stopped responding. It’s official: I Was Just Not That Into Him, and he just didn’t get it. Any of it. However, lesson learned – from now on, when I say good night to a boy, I will take two giant steps back after the hug, possibly wave goodbye, maybe shake hands, and promptly walk into my building. I have yet to stop feeling violated.
An addition I unfortunately forgot to add: When I got the “day of drinks invite” text, I promptly emailed the gal pals for advice. How do I get rid of Dad Jeans Rob? Best advice was from my friend Lauren:
i think you should go – wearing mom jeans. STONEWASHED mom jeans.
that’ll probably kill the crush.
Friday Fun Time Reading – You Can Thank Me Later
There are times when you know a person really understands who you are. When my old roommate sent me a a 2004 Washington Post article on, the man, the myth, the legend….Jake Ryan, I knew, okay, she gets me (She did, God bless her soul, share 750 square feet with me for 2 years.) If you have no idea who I am referring to, then just turn on TBS on any given Sunday at 3:00pm or more approriately, run, don’t walk, to Blockbuster and rent Sixteen Candles. Now.
Does He Really Exist? Sadly, No.
You have to understand, I love Molly Ringwald, and I often say that my life really is just one big walking Molly Ringwald moment. I’m awkward, I’m a redhead, and nothing about me ever goes as planned. I can’t just walk up to a guy and introduce myself. I have to walk up to him and trip then introduce myself (true story). Like Sixteen Candles’ heroine Samantha Baker, I was most definitely not the hot cheerleader in high school. I was actually the fat girl “liberal feminazi” at a southern conservative high school. Do you think I had a lot of friends? Do you think guys were knocking down my door to take out the fat girl who listened to the Indigo Girls, Tori, and Sarah as she drove around pretending to be full of teen angst? Um no. As I type this, I am seventy pounds lighter wearing a Chanel jacket I inherited (I plan to get married and birth all my children in it) and four inch Miu Miu heels. Yes, I’ve come a long way.
I remember watching Sixteen Candles as a seventh grader thinking one day my Jake Ryan would come along. Yes, the hot upper schooler would notice my winning charm and personality beneath my frizzy afro, thick, curly bangs, and penchant for Gap sweater vests. As we all know, life just doesn’t work that way. Unlike the movies, the hot guy in high school is going to date the hot cheerleader who sucks, not the quirky girl no one knows. Did Molly Ringwald fall for Ducky at the end of Pretty in Pink? No, she couldn’t resist Blaine and his white linen Miami Vice blazers (really, can you blame her?) Do you think Emilio Estevez and Ally Sheedy walked down the hall holding hands Monday morning after their Saturday in detention make out session? (Do I even have to reference the movie here?) No, it was probably just a one time hook up.
Against their better judgement, washingtonpost.com does still have this lovely Jake Ryan tribute posted. (Are they crazy?) However, the internet gods, or more specifically, the writer himself, has it up on his personal page.
Just to double your pleasure and double your fun, I have also included the link to a 2006 tribute to the great
Does every woman imagine her soul mate wearing LA Gear high tops while holding a boom box cassette player? I know I do.
Lloyd Dobler, whom I also love. Only Cameron Crowe can make it romantic for a just broken up with guy to stand in a girl’s drive way blaring Peter Gabriel overhead on his boom box at 5am. In real life, it spells restraining order.
Happy Friday – enjoy the reading.
Jake Ryan Tribute:
http://www.hankstuever.com/jryan.html
Lloyd Dobler Tribute: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/02/13/AR2006021302411.html
No, I Have Not Died. Yet.
Dear Readers,
I realize you have not heard from me in the past 36 hours. I didn’t think anyone would notice, however, I am now getting several emails asking, scratch that – demanding, a new post. Patience, children. I understand. You’re addicted. You need your fix. Due to unforeseen circumstances, namely an impromptu work happy hour, I am deathly hungover today and unable to be witty, much less write in complete sentences. While I could try to post something – it just wouldn’t be worth it or up to blog standards. Really, I have the dignity of the blog to maintain. I hope you understand – I promise a brand spanking new post tomorrow. Get ready. It will be fabulous.
By the way, it is an overcast day in Washington, DC. However, I wore sunglasses all morning. At my desk.
Also, I managed to invite my entire office to my apartment Sunday night for “wine and snacky snacks”. While most people get drunk and smoke a cigarette, drunk dial an ex, or buy stuff on ebay, I plan parties.
xo
If You Like Me, Then You Probably Attend Synagogue and/or Have a Picture of Ronald Reagan in Your Apartment
In politics, a political candidate looks to certain constituencies that he/she can constantly depend on for their support. This would be what is known as “the base.” For instance, in this past Democratic primary Barack Obama’s base vote was predominately made up of young voters, African-Americans, and elite Democrats while Hillary Clinton’s base was made up of older women, Hispanics, and more working class Democrats (to speak in generalizations.)
These People would LOVE me. Are they having a convention soon?
While I may not be a candidate for public office, I do have my own base to pull from for support. It is made up of two constituencies – they overlap some, although not often, and I find that they are constantly there…to date me. Yes, if I were to walk into a crowded bar, and someone were to hit on me or ask me out, there would probably be a 90% chance that this person would be one of the following: Jewish and/or Republican.
Honestly, it’s become a known thing. When I call home and say I have a date, the first question has become, “Is he Jewish?” At work, if I mention a love interest, my officemates, without fail, immediately ask, “Is he Republican?” Most likely – yeah. In fact, I even once went on a date with a guy who represented the slim overlapping section of my dating universe Venn diagram: the Jewish Republican. Unfortunately, the potential for that relationship died when he left for his free trip to Israel and I discovered via Facebook that he had become quite taken with a Chandra Levy lookalike. Hence the nicknames “Gary and Chandra” were born. I decided then that if that was the look he was going for, well then I don’t think we’d ever work out. I have never shrugged off a guy so easily.
One of the only serious relationships I have ever had was with a very nice Jewish boy. However, I think things hit the skids when I had the following exchange with his parents at the ritual “boyfriend’s parents meet the girlfriend brunch”, which happened to take place on Palm Sunday. Being the nice Episcopalian girl that I am (and knowing that I was making my deceased father proud), I got up at the crack of dawn for the early service in order to still make a noon brunch. I didn’t think much of this until his parents started to ask my questions about it. “Do you go to church often?” “How was the sermon?” “Well, actually, the metro was running late, so I completely missed it. I did get there in time for communion, so that’s the important thing.” Silence. Eeegads! Did I just say that? I might as well have just said, “Well, I got there just in time for the body and blood of Christ, my Lord and Savior. Amen.” Later, my then-boyfriend tried to explain why I got the third degree on my church going habits, “Oh, my mom is just a curious person. She was just trying to get to know you.” Uh yeah, and figure out if I would be giving birth to Jewish babies.
Is This My Future?
Yes, the Jews and the GOP love me. Why? I have no idea. I don’t look Jewish, and I don’t look Republican. (Well, at least, not as much as I used to – I’m from the South – I used wear a lot of pearls and Lilly Pulitzer, a stage that is thankfully over.) I certainly don’t sound like it either. I do have a couple of theories about this:
1. Conversion – These boys may think I will convert to their religion or political party, but I know with 100% certainty that’s not happening. Yes, there are two things I know that I love: Jesus and the Democratic Party. (If only I had a shotgun in my hands when I said that – this could be the DNC’s new rural outreach ad.)
2. Rebellion – “Hey, Mom, look what I brought home!” Jewish boys know they’re going to eventually settle down with a nice Jewish girl, but they just want to try the whole shiksa thing, just to say they did it – a blue eyed, strawberry blonde, former debutante, southern Episcopalian is especially exotic. It’s like dating a girl from the wrong side of the railroad tracks. For Republicans, it’s a whole feisty, this is so wrong, which makes it so hot thing. Also, everyone wants to be the next James and Mary.
3. Two Words: Pro. Choice. I think Bristol Palin has made pro choice females’ dating options go through the roof.
Now you might ask, well, why don’t you just date a nice progressive Democrat? Don’t worry, I’ve tried. They’re just Not That Into Me. I was just in Denver for the Democratic National Convention, yes, a Convention of Democrats, and I might as well have been chopped liver. I have been asked several times if I hooked up while I was there. My response: I had two people hit on me the entire week – 1) a guy who chatted me up at the Hampton Inn breakfast bar who I called Breakfast Bar Steve for the rest of the week and 2) a guy I met before convention that I refer to as Dad Jeans Rob because well, he wears Dad jeans. It also may not be helpful that I refer to every Democratic gathering as “just a merry band of unattractive progressives”, however, I have faith a good solid Democrat will come around. If not, maybe I’ll tap into my base and start practicing my Meet the Press schtick – this could be profitable.
Dimitri Strikes Again: Readers Respond
Wow, the blog hasn’t been up a whole week, and I already have fan mail! Apparently, the Dimitri video struck a chord with my dear friend Helen. She has so graciously allowed me to share with you the following emails that were sent to her by her very own Dimitri.
By the way, her Dimitri (or should I say Rick) has one thing right: Helen is very bright, engaging, elegant and beautiful. And not just very – incredibly.
See below (note: Next time I get asked out by a guy I’m going to say, “I’m reasonably confident we would both benefit from the experience.” Wouldn’t that make you excited?)
_____
OK, you are officially my funniest friend. I LOVE YOUR BLOG!!! It just might replace the comics, which I read first off every morning. I’m a child, i know.
The Dmitri thing is hilarious. Reminded me of my “friend” Rick who invaded my solitary lunches on the south lawn of the Museum last spring. He did some super-sleuthing based on the email of someone he knows who works there and deduced mine. After I (mistakingly) confirmed in a one-line email “Yep, it’s me” he sent a series of emails. I replied to the first and the last.
Here’s what he had to say:
Hello Helen,,
I believe life is short and it’s usually best to just say what’s on your
mind. I love going to the museum park to read, but I haven’t gone there
almost every day the last two weeks just because of the relaxing atmosphere
and entertaining ground squirrels. Since I probably can’t keep up that
pace, I’m faced with the dilemma of potentially going for months without
running into you again or risk freaking you out by just saying what’s on my
mind.
I really enjoy talking to you. From where I’m sitting (i.e. the opposite
park bench:), you’re very bright, engaging, elegant and beautiful. I
believe there are many similar interests and feel a connection. My desire
is to spend a little more time with you – maybe a drink after work some
evening (probably not a hot drink.)
If you’re in a relationship without any doubt that you have found the love
of your life or if you simply find me boring, obnoxious and/or repulsive, I
will understand. However, if you would like to spend a little time getting
to know each other better, I’m reasonably confident we would both benefit
from the experience. At minimum, you will have another friend.
Either way, I will always look forward to spending time at the museum park
and hopefully seeing you from time to time.
Rick
After a while, I think he got over anxious. . . .
Hi Helen,
I tend to be a fairly private person and don’t readily open up to others,
especially someone I have spent so little time with. However, in the
spirit of open communication, please bear with me…
I’m at a point in life where I very much hope to be in a committed
relationship again with the right woman and ultimately start a new family.
Please know that I have a son from a previous marriage – his name is Tyler
and he lives primarily at his remarried mother’s house. I spend as much
time with him as possible, but he spends most of his time these days with
his friends and in a perpetual state of text messaging. It won’t be too
much longer and he will be off on his own.
I’m telling you all this because I meant everything I said to you. I trust
my intuition and believe you are special whether you choose give me a
chance or not. I send you silly little email messages to hopefully make
you laugh, but mostly to create an opportunity to get to know you better.
As the last thing I want to do is become a bother, I will plan to back off.
However, know that doesn’t mean I won’t think of you. If I have come on
too strong, it’s because I have been around long enough to know exactly
what I want and can quickly recognize those qualities in someone. I
believe I saw them in the person sitting on the park bench across from me.
You are certainly worth a guy making a fool of himself over, but I
certainly don’t want to be perceived by you as an annoyance. I respect you
and want to be seen in the same light. I have much to offer the right
woman Helen, but she has to be willing to open her heart.
If you ever want to talk, about anything, any time, my cell phone # is
XXX-XXX-XXXX. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.
My French Renaissance & Baroque art history class starts tonight, wish me
luck!
Take care Helen,
Rick
When I told him I had a boyfriend the first time, that didn’t register. When I didn’t reply to ANY emails, that didn’t register either. She’s just not that into you, right? Wrong. Here’s what he had to say when I mentioned the whole boyfriend thing again:
He’s a lucky guy, but, for what it’s worth, if you were that happy with him
you would have shut me down a long time ago. Just wanted to get to know
you.
Take care of yourself Helen, I won’t bother you again.
Rick
Two weeks with no emails from him–I think that means he’s really not going to bother me again!
Something Tells Me This Guy’s Number is Off Both Hands
I often joke that I should write a more modern version of Emily Post for singletons and politicos. I am a big believer in being there for the ones I love in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, and that includes writing a note to say you’re thinking of them when life could be better. While I have my sympathy card down pat, I constantly find myself in situations that very few people can relate to, much less give me advice on what to say, write, or email. For instance, what do you say to someone after their candidate loses the Iowa caucuses? What do you say when someone is fired in a very public way from a campaign and it makes the New York Times? I just don’t know. I did manage to find some gorgeous letter pressed cards made of heavy card stock that look like they should say “Thank You” or “Merci” across the top. Instead, it just says, in very lovely pink and lavender lettering, “Shit.” I plan on buying stock in the company.
So really, I had no preperation whatsoever on what to say when I received a completely out of the blue email last month from a guy I went out with two years ago. We went on precisely three dates. The first was great. The second was fine. The third was, well, let’s just say neither of us made an effort to see each other afterwards. Honestly, I had not heard from or thought much of him since then, until I saw his name in my in box. I’ll admit, my stomach kind of flittered and sank at the same time. Hmmm…a new love interest? But we have nothing in common. Two years later, I still cringe from the last date we went on. Could it be that he’s been burning a torch for me all this time? Wait, am I “the one who got away”? I imagine him going on dates with other women and saying to his buddies afterward, “She was fine, she’s just not….her.” Maybe this email marks the beginning of a rekindled romance. Oh my gosh, this is going to be the best real life romantic comedy ever! I open the email, expecting a perfectly breezy boy email – “Hey, hope you’re doing well. Want to get drinks sometime?” Oh boys. Instead, this is what I find:
I hope you are doing well. I know it has been awhile since we’ve talked, and that makes this even more awkward for me, but it is my responsibility to share this information with you. At my visit to the doctor last week I learned that I have contracted HPV. There is no way for me to know precisely when or how I got it, so I think it would be a good idea for you to get yourself checked out too, just to be sure. If you have not already, you should probably get the vaccine, as this particular virus spreads quickly and has become very common, especially in the DC area. There are many different strains of the virus, and while I don’t know exactly which one I have (my doctor told me they don’t ‘type’ males), I do know that I have a strand that generates symptoms, which are typically less cancerous than the strains with no symptoms at all. Can you let me know the results of your last screening, and if you’ve received the vaccine? I apologize for telling you like this. It is not an easy topic to talk about, but it is important for our health that we do.
I hope to hear from you.
[insert sound of record scratching here] Um what? Okay, now many of you may have just read the email and said to yourself, “Welcome to your 20s” but here’s the thing – I never slept with him, not even close. While I hope he remembers me fondly, it just, uh, didn’t happen.
Ok, how do I handle this? I immediately do what every girl does in a predicament like this: summon the gal pals over email. Think of it like when they do the split screen phone calls in a Doris Day movie. Yet instead of each of us talking on a french telephone in a bubble bath or while smoking a cigarette on a chaise lounge (dressed to the nines and with an 18 inch waist, of course), we’re all three emailing from our cubicles, probably eating dinner leftovers at our desks while we type (we’re in a recession, remember?). I forward the email with a plea for help, “Aaaah! I just got this! I didn’t sleep with him, I swear! What do I say back?”
We are all in agreement on the following:
1. Thank God he didn’t say AIDS.
2. It is extremely admirable that he’s contacting his sexual partners to tell them this, as we know many guys, and girls for that matter, who would not be so forthcoming. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I am not one of them.
3. His email is deserving of a response. It probably also is best to not break the news that he unnecessarily disclosed to me, in writing, that he has genital warts. (Hello, we work in politics! You don’t write this stuff down! Someone might put it on a blog somewhere…oops…)
Genital warts, you ask? Wait, I thought he said HPV. Yes, with a little Google researching between the three of us (because isn’t this a perfect opportunity to brush up on our STD knowledge), we realized for a man to have “HPV with symptoms” that means he has….genital warts. I’ve never been so glad to have not hit it off with someone. Ever.
After numerous drafts and edits, the following email is sent:
It’s nice to hear from you, although I’m sorry for the unfortunate circumstances. I know this must have been a really hard email for you to write, and I really appreciate your candor about something that is hard to discuss with close friends, much less acquaintances. I received the Guardisil vaccine this past year, and my last check up in May showed no signs of what you are describing. If anything changes, I will let you know immediately.
Hope all is well.
I got a quick response back saying he was relieved to hear I was fine and hoped I was well. I didn’t respond, thinking it was best to just let the conversation end there. Do you really want to continue talking? “Hey let’s get together sometime…or never.” “Hope to see you soon. Well, not exactly.”
I may not have rekindled a romance, thankfully, but this truly was a great learning experience. I now know more about HPV than I ever wanted to know, as well as the best way to contact past sexual partners (or non partners) about possibly having an STD: phone. Never email.
If You Like Me, Check This Box 