Oy vey
Four hours of sleep last night, due to an unnaturally extended late-night attempt to wash away all trace of a horrible date.
Yes, another one!
The worst thing was that I knew going into it that it was going to be a bad one - I'd spoken to this guy over the phone and witnessed as every joke flew over his head entirely or was misinterpreted into something patently unfunny (there was one where he was trying to think of a time when his life had been threatened (I get onto strange conversation topics sometimes) and I, playing on his rock-star status (he's a local drummer), made the admittedly kind of lame quip "anything involving groupies?". He thought I said herpes, and was highly offended and just grew even moreso when I laughed for a while once I found out about his misinterpretation. That was the only really funny thing that was said all night, and he didn't mean it and didn't agree with my mirth. Good times.). He also was that brand of southern man who assumes that everyone adores him and that if he likes me, of course I like him. Not quite.
So he chose a very expensive bar to meet, where he supposedly knew the bartender (though the guy wasn't all that friendly and didn't give us any drink specials). The cheapest drink was $7, and he insisted that I have three. You can see where this is going, I bet - he didn't pay for me (or even offer, though he had asked me out and chosen the spendy place), and told the waitress to split our bill evenly when his drinks were more expensive than mine! WINNER!
Our conversation was mostly me talking, with him asking all sorts of actually pretty improper and personal questions, and trying to force me to juggle the two tennis balls he'd brought along for the purpose (long story). He also touched me a lot, which is a big red flag and rather irritating, given that I was by the minute growing less enchanted with his "YOU MUST LOVE ME" charms. I told him about how happy I was/am being single, and how that the most common complaint about me by men is that I'm too independent and resourceful, and that I don't seem to need them. He didn't get the hint, and what's worse said that he didn't like doing anything mechanical or getting his hands dirty (I believe the direct quote was "that's why I pay them to do that stuff").
We talked about church, which I had just come from, and how I was getting more and more involved in it and how he "had his beliefs" (no further explanation) but that he wouldn't be caught dead in a church (his words). I kept talking about how much I liked my place and really enjoyed spending time there. He again didn't see how I was distancing myself, and instead wanted to talk about my shoes. Really.
He talked down to me when I told him that I preferred comedies to dramatic movies (I hate schmaltz and false emotional manipulation, and honestly think it's really hard to be truly funny), and thought that my love for Kung-Fu movies was misguided. He tried to tell me that the proper title for "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" was "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory", and wouldn't let me correct him ("Well, maybe that was the name of the original book then").
I wanted to hit him.
None of our conversations flowed, most of what I said he missed.
grrr.
When I finally was able to pull away ("ooh, I have to wake up SO early tomorrow for work! Darn it all!") I made to run, but he grabbed me, slapped his arm over my shoulders, and insisted that he was going to walk me to my car. When we got to my car I pulled out my keys and opened the door (this, by the way, is universal "Female" for I-don't-want-to-hug-or-kiss-you-I-just-want-to-get-in-my-damn-car). He grabbed both of my hands (including the one with the keys in it, which hurt and distracted me from what he was doing) and kissed me hard (which he was able to do because I was looking down at my hand being mauled by my very sharp and pointy key bundle). I pulled back until I was almost inside my car, bent at an awkward angle trying to disengage without seeming overly rude. He kept going on and on about how nice my lips were. I said "Thank you" and got in my car and tried to shut the door. He knelt down in the doorway and wouldn't let me until I promised to pencil him in for next weekend. Given that I hadn't told him a day or activity (or even really agreed to anything but a pencil mark) I agreed and very sweetly shoved him out of my car so I could close the door.
Then I picked up Emily and went to a club to watch some breakdancing and see the pretty men and try to recapture the spirit of hope and adventure that makes me agree to even meet anyone anymore and not just be happy with my dog.
At least Monkey usually keeps her tongue to herself.
What the hell, it's not like I have any pride left anyways
My First Kiss
by: me
I'm sure some of you have noticed my rather... well, the most delicate word would be "interesting" but the most accurate term is probably censored for sensitive reader... shallwesay "unique?" dating history and possibly have been wondering why this is an where it all comes from. You know, the uniqueness. My friend Kate has a theory that I pick strange men because I am committment phobic and only get into relationships that I sense are doomed to failure. I used to think that I had a problem falling into relationships with any guys that liked me (another way to phrase that: If a guy liked me, I felt that it was only polite to reciprocate regardless of my previous feelings towards him. It sounds strange, but I was an odd kid). My friends in college had a hypothesis that I had a special, black-light type "DATE ME" stamp on my forehead that only was viewable by freaks. Freak-light. But what it really all comes down to (at least, this is the current diagnosis), is that I am drawn to difference. If someone is too predictable or too similar to what I already know/am, then it's hard for me to get interested. This is why I usually end up in relationships and friendships with people who fall out of the societal norms or who have lived lives very different from mine. And why I adore travel and learning about different cultures and ethnicities, and living outside of my comfort zone and learning to get by with nothing but my Swiss Army Knife and a block of extra-firm tofu (sponge, pillow, weapon, AND emergency food source!)
I don't know where I'm going with that. Enough with the amateur psychology pre-excusing...
My first boyfriend took me to a dance in November (our first real date, since his asking me to be his girlfriend was, in essence, his asking me out to the dance) and I broke up with him at a dance in December (yes, the same year). He was a senior and I was a wee freshman. He had just come back from a semester abroad in Australia and had dyed his hair orange and gotten an earring. No boys in Chehalis had an earring, and the only orange hair was from the brunettes who'd tried to use the ever-popular Sun-In hair bleach (hi sis! I liked the orange on you, though, really. But I'm still a little peeved about that one time you sat on me and sprayed Sun-In in my hair to make it blonder even though I didn't want to be blonder)(if indeed that is a word). I was intrigued, and probably the only person who actively wanted to talk to him about it instead of doing the traditional high school whispering behind hands. For the 14-year-old version of me, the hair and the earring canceled out the fact that the rest of him was still the same tall, knock-kneed, acne ridden geeky French Horn player that had lived up the street for years.
I don't even think we had any dates, I know I never called him on the phone to chat. We were both band nerds, and most of the time we spent together as boyfriend and girlfriend (I did wear his class ring on a chain around my neck, so it was "official") was at concerts or at Pep Band games. It was on the bus coming back from a basketball game when the magic finally happened. We were sitting behind my friends AM and Ryan, who were also a band power-couple (I'm giggling so hard writing all of this) who had never kissed. We'd all brought along blankets - you know, for warmth - and huddled under them as the bus lights went dim.
All I remember is extended unpleasantness. Lots of drool, lots of confusion as to what he should be doing with his tongue. I remember thinking that if this is what kissing was like, the people in the movies were doing it all wrong because I don't recall any of them looking like they needed a bib. AM and her boy were doing much of the same in the seat ahead, and at one point both she and I popped up and compared notes over the back of the seat in hushed voices. Hers wasn't going that well either, and we gave each other the kind of half-hearted, uninformed advice that flies freely amongst girls of that age group and experience level. "Well, have you tried tilting your head differently so he doesn't drool as much?" "Maybe you should keep your eyes open, then you can see what's going wrong."
I tried to look cool coming off of the bus, since of course everyone else in the band had seen the blankets and I'm sure come up with imagined debauchery that far outstripped the awkward fumblings that actually went on, but kissing had lost its luster for the moment. Then came the next boyfriend (who actually knew what he was doing - God bless trombone players and saxophonists! If I had to be a band nerd, at least I learned to only make out with the ones whose instruments facilitated good mouth muscle tone development) and it's been all puppies frolicking in the prairie full of wildflowers since then.
La la la.
Moo
The move went off without a hitch, which is amazing considering the amount of PURE CRAP I've managed to collect over my 8 or so years of living in Seattle. My dad brought his big truck up from down south, and two of my friends brought their trucks as well so we had a regular caravan going back and forth. It only took three trips with the three trucks, plus one more with my dad's and three carloads for me. I'm trying not to pay attention to how much that adds up to, since it's rather sad that it's all for one person (granted, one person with a ton of musical instruments, paintings, sculptures, and plants) (there was an entire truck load of plants). Now it's all piled in the center of the rooms in no particular order, since I
(a) Had no idea what was in the boxes (I labeled the first two and then gave up)
(b) Had no voice to tell people where to put the boxes (my yearly cold came on Thursday and is still kicking my butt, though of course yes I am at work today)
I'm waiting for the landlord to put the trim around the base of each room, which is something he said he'd have done on Saturday. It's kind of interesting having these islands of junk in each room, except that I haven't been able to unpack unless the box happened to be on the edge of the pile and am now trying to live without most of my wardrobe and, well, STUFF.
I have found all of these crucially important items:
1. My soccer ball
2. The plaster hand-prints Jake and I made back at the Rep (signed)
3. My hammock
4. The ceramic pig salt-and-pepper shakers my friend gave me years ago
5. The box of 500 forks I bought for my 10-year reunion and never used
I have NOT found any of these relatively optional (well, they are now) items:
1. My socks (why oh why does it have to be winter?!)
2. Any sort of hair tie-backs
3. Any pants other than the two I have been alternating between
4. My silverware (not counting the 500 forks)
I have decided that, to deal with the stress of moving and not being able to unpack while dealing with a head cold, my drugs of choice are the Day/NyQuil sequence along with WIRED x3000 MAXIMUM TAURINE energy drink (!!!!!) (it felt like it needed that). I don't really know what Taurine is, but I've been drinking the same big can all day and I still can't take more than a couple sips before my heart starts racing. That's a good sign, right? That means it's working? I have to go, I can't feel my left arm.
Cat and mouse
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Mr. C
Date: Feb 18, 2005 08:30 AM
Subject: DAMN your cute!
whoops, probally should have started with hello huh?
------------------ Reply ---------------------
From: Jay
Date: Feb 18, 2005 08:35 AM
(after looking at his profile)
DAMN you're in a relationship and have no pic!
whoops.
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Mr. C
Date: Feb 18, 2005 08:42 AM
formerly in a realationship...and pretty much a my space virgin...so yes, no pic.
but am one helluva' describer!
------------------ Reply ---------------------
From: Jay
Date: Feb 18, 2005 08:45 AM
You're funny.
Describe something.
I'll give you some inspiration:
*The awkward feeling a person gets when they realize they've just unintentionally said the same thing twice while they were thinking of something else completely unrelated and that would be embarrassing to tell the person they are currently talking to
*The way that a monitor flicker can, by the end of the day, make you believe in aliens and yearn for a foil hat and personal underground bunker full of spam and spray cheese
*__________________________
*Yes that was actually something to describe, the line
*Also that - a description of a confusing subject that is kind of postmodern and all meta-whatever
*Postmodernism, while we're on it.
I am not ready for this jelly
An overweight Dutch man who makes me proud of my people
http://www3.ns.sympatico.ca/lyle_24/myhero.html
I'm laughing so hard right now...
--------- Reply ------------
From: Phil
Date: Feb 15, 2005 10:01 AM
Woww...
Actually no ninjas for me, Just trying to have a little fun, I love animals to death, even with the funny, sometimes frustrating things they get into. Im a graphic designer in advertising, I get paid to be somewhat odd, or at least have fun, try it sometime... it feels good. No decipher needed.
Phil
SARCASM AND COMPLICATED HUMOR ARE COMPLETELY LOST IN INTERNET COMMUNICATION!
Either that or he overextended his funny potential with his initial post and is now confusing even himself.
Still, this is the funniest thing I've seen in a while.
I am a freak magnet
----------- Original Message -----------
From: Phil
Date: Feb 15, 2005 09:21 AM
know any ninja moves? The little fury animals are the best... but I just love them all, unless they eat my legos...ooooohhh Just joking I have had many shoes and art supplies get taken down by those fury little monsters... what can you do? Gotta love em'... be my friend?
phil
----------- Reply ------------
From: Ja
Date: Feb 15, 2005 09:35 AM
Here is my attempt to decipher your message:
You are a ninja.
You are trying to find other ninjas, but only ones that seem like little furry animals while they are behaving properly (a.k.a. not eating legos) and will unleash the fists of fury against them as soon as they step out of line.
You feel obligated to express a surface affection for the little furry animals even though you seem to have a deep, hidden rage towards their theiving antics and a barely-under-the-surface urge to harm and/or destroy the "monsters".
You are trying to force me to love them in your stead because you feel guilt for your questionably justifiable aggression and are not able to truly show healthy love for them yourself.
An idea whose time has come
Internet personals for the mentally ill (I'm just wondering how they differ from all the other internet personals out there... honesty?)
http://nolongerlonely.com/index.php
Two fun changes in the questionnaire section - you get to specify your current living situation (group home vs. self-supported housing) and transportation options.
Am I wrong for finding this amusing?
Of course I also find regular internet personal ads amusing as well.
And personal ads for polygamists:
http://www.2wives.com/
And for Russian brides:
http://www.russianbridesworld.com/
And special sites for cannabis users, tattoo fetishists, fans of divination, and former sufferers of cleft palate. I may have made that up.
Happy fake love day.
Rescinded Immunity and its Unfortunate Consequences
I've been driving for a little over 13 years now, and up until yesterday thoroughly enjoyed a bubble of invisibility when it came to being noticed by Mr. Law Enforcement Officer. I'd been pulled over twice, once only a quasi-pullover since the cop was heading the other direction and just made me stop with our windows even with each other (gotta love those Chehalis back road vigilantes). He told me that I'd run the stop sign, to which I said "sorry", and then we drove on. The other time I was stopped for going 90 in a 70 and managed to get only a verbal warning (see - total bubble!).
Yesterday morning I was in my typical pre-noon haze and heading towards the freeway. The light onto Rainier was yellow (kind of a reddish-yellow, you know the back half of the light's time frame where it seems to fade into an orange before going absolutely, irretrievably red) and I zoomed through my free right through the first half of the red light. The cop that I had not noticed directly behind me turned on his lights at that point, which I also did not notice because I was too busy accelerating to approximately 15 miles over the posted speed limit. I guess this made him mad, because he then flipped on the full siren and scared the ever-lovin' bejeebus out of me. I pulled over and tried my best to explain to him why I hadn't seen him 10 blocks earlier, and why in fact I had NOT been trying to resist arrest by speeding away from him when he had his lights on.
Either the bags under my eyes or my absolute helplessness when I came to finding my insurance card convinced him that I wasn't pulling his leg, and the nice man only gave me $650 in ticket fines. That's $100 for the red light, and the rest for the lack of proof of insurance, which I found out today was e-mailed to me instead of mailed and is in my computer inbox and not in my car. I can get that one revoked, but the red light slap has officially brought me into the realm of the ticketed. I feel like I have a big stamp on me now, that my car is day-glo. I haven't sped more than 5 mph over the limit since then (though check back in a week and see if I'm not back to whizzing around like my house is on fire).
My brain is gone today, I've been giggling at very inappropriate times (like a couple minutes ago, when my coworker told me to "Roll the rev", which means advance the revision number, and I of course pictured a Reverend in a barrel coming down a hillside).
hee hee hee. It's still funny. heeeee.
What I learned this weekend
Listen up, boys and girls!
You may already know this, but I learned a very interesting tidbit over the weekend. Apparently, when clubs and bars are very jam-packed and only have two unisex bathrooms for their entire clientele (which is very stupid - you hear me, Cha Cha?), the men-folks will often go into the bathroom in pairs so that one man can pee in the sink while the other man pees in the toilet. I have yet to see this with women, mostly because of the unpleasant mechanics involved when women attempt to pee in the sink.
But here's what I really learned.
Two men = toilet and sink.
THREE men = toilet and sink and ???? (any guesses, children?).
I was completely mystified as to the logistics until I got in there and looked around a bit. I looked around the floor and walls just to be safe, and finally solved the mystery when I looked into the paper-towel-filled wastepaper basket, which had a very wet sunken spot in the middle.
That is SO not right. In a way it's resourceful, but very unpleasant for whoever gets to empty out the trash in the morning. I feel endless amounts of sympathy for the Cha Cha cleaning crew, and gratitude for the trip to India where I learned how to pee without sitting down.
Those Silly Monkey games
We ventured back to the offleash park for the first time on Saturday, and besides a newfound fear of bigger dogs (she actually hid behind me at one point, which has never happened before) that faded with time, she seems to be doing all right. She even played a little bit with a beagle by the end of our trip, which I consider to be a good sign since Beagles are uniformly ear-splitting when happy and if she can take that abuse, there's hope for the rest of doggy-kind.
But what I really wanted to talk about is the Monkey self-entertainment that has developed over the 4 years I've had the privilege of observing her.
The Monkey Invisibility Cloak
In her little canine walnut-brain, Monkey becomes completely invisible in three easy steps:
1. Lay down VERY flat
2. Put your ears flat against your head
3. Hold your breath (she does this, honest)
She likes to do this on trails where other dogs have obviously seen her coming from 50 feet away. She will drop to the ground in the middle of the path, eyes fixed on her prey, and wait for the confused dog to come within 10 feet of her. Then she will bounce up in the air and lunge for their heads, sometimes growling comically and twisting around in mid-air. The other dogs can see her lay down, some of them stop in their tracks immediately and I have to explain to their owners that she's not really going to attack their precious pet, she just is playing a game with them. You know, the hide in plain view and then spring up like a Jack-in-the-box game. I get many strange looks. Monkey gets many pissed-off dogs that don't like to have their heads pounced on. Still, this is her favorite game! I've taken to yelling at her "YOU'RE NOT INVISIBLE! I SEE YOU!" whenever she goes into the stance, and that makes her get back up again while giving me the dirtiest of Monkey-looks.
The "My Ass Is A Weapon" Game
Monkey is very fast, and very playful - particularly when the other dog is slow and stupid. She will fly around the dog park, ears back and grinning, and then when she finds a target (these are usually the Labs, the poor big lugs) she'll circle by them, plant her front paws, and curl her spine so that her hindquarters become airborne and thwack the unsuspecting dog with the full force of her momentum and 50-pound heinie. Then before it realizes what has happened, she takes off in the opposite direction, flying with an even bigger doggie-smile.
Monkey Smackdown
This is the game that I dread. Why? Imagine this: You have a tough-looking dog with muscles and Doberman-ish ears. She is strong and agile and scary. She has frightened landlords and children for years.
Now imagine that dog laying flat on her back with her head flopping on the ground, tongue lolling, pretending to be pinned by a Chihuahua, who is ecstatic that it has finally found someone that it can beat at wrestling.
Monkey has no pride.
She should audition for the WWF (WWE, any of 'em) though. She'll start wrestling with the tiniest of dogs, carefully spinning around and pretending to pin them a couple of times. Then she'll throw the fight, dramatically falling over on her side and twisting under the little dog in mock defeat. I stand there with face in hand, long having given up on trying to cheer her to victory, and try and pretend that another dog is mine.
wheee-we-weeeee-wah weEEEEE
I rediscovered today that I can still near-flawlessly imitate a guinea pig squeaking/squealing/making their odd little siren noise.
I'm not sure what kind of application this will ever have in my life (and whether it will be a positive or negative one), but I have to admit that when I realized that my skills were still intact I smiled a little bit and felt like I'd really accomplished something.
Now I have to go back to drawing a goat.
This is what I get paid for.
Oh, in other news - I have a new house! Or, rather, will have a new house on the 15th. It has a fort in the backyard. It's perfect for me and the Monkey (who is still doing fine, despite the one errant stitch I found that the vets didn't remove) (it's leaving the premises tomorrow morning). It also has a dishwasher and a bathtub, which almost make me as happy as the fort.
It also also has a very lenient pet policy, which is making me want to get another dog real bad. I want to get another little mutt and name it Chicken, which once they are joined with other pets named Cheese and Pants will complete the universally-funny-word-named Power Pet Quartet. The only problem is figuring out what kind of animal will respond well to the name "Pants". It's not something I can yell across the dog park without scandal ("PANTS!! Dangit, COME HERE PANTS!"), so maybe a hamster? Goldfish? Alpaca?
In all fairness, when I loaded up my CD travel case to bring to work, I wasn't really paying attention to what was left in there from the last road trip. So when my coworker loaded up the CD player with, in his words, "whatever CDs don't have the band names on 'em", I should have been prepared for the nonsensical mix of tunes that hit us for the next two hours. I'd have to say the peak was when the soundtrack to "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" came on and I got to explain to everyone why "I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me" made me giggle so much.
But this soundtrack also brought about a different kind of trouble, one that is directly related to the sexual orientations of the coworker crew (straight and narrow, even though it's the arts). The guy who put on the CD seemed okay with it after the initial confusion, and bounced away in his chair and whistled with some of the peppier disco songs (he's an odd duck). But the new guy, the guy who before today I've been nursing a secret junior-high level crush on mainly because he's so obviously the cool guy in school (he has very sassy jewelry and a kind of "I know I'm attractive" air), blew it all. I asked him once the mix was done if he wanted to hear anything in particular, and he said "Oh, anything, you know... but that fairy disco was starting to get on my nerves".
a-buuuhhhhh.
I thought he was joking, and laughed (which he only halfway returned). Now I'm really hoping he was joking, and that I don't have to give up my crush and replace it with horror that the phrase "fairy disco" would be something he would say in real life. Unless of course some mythical fairies strung up a mirrored ball, put on fairy-sized bellbottoms and pumped the ABBA, then of course things would be different.
Why is it that the cute ones are often the stupid/ignint ones?
Now I'm going to have to develop a crush on the delivery guy or something.
