Once a professor of Darcy's asked everyone to indicate their zodiac sign and handed out a horoscope to everyone in the class, indicating that it was unique to their sign. He then asked the class to raise their hand if they thought the description of their zodiac sign matched their personality or perception of themselves. Almost the whole class raised their hands, and then the professor told them that they all got the same thing.
Recently there was also this belief that there was a shift in some shift in the astrological chart thing because of Babylon and the tilt of the Earth's axis over the last 3,000 years. Under normal circumstances, I don't buy into the idea that fortunes can be read and horoscopes are real. It's fun, like an arcade or viral YouTube videos, but not to be taken seriously.
Except in the case of the Turkish Love Fortune. If' you've never had your Turkish Love Fortune read, it's probably because you don't know my friends Laura Grover or Erin Evans. People and their love interests and their hearts, intentions, problems and general love fortunes are laid out in front of you with a normal deck of playing cards. One reason I believe it is because the readings always seem to bring to light a lot of things we should already know about our relationships, the other is because of this one specific time...
Laura, two other friends and I were at Denny's in Auburn late one night. I was 19, dropped out of art school, living at home. I'm not proud of this, but one of the girls with us had a boyfriend, and he and I made out when they first started dating. But the timeline of morality and decision making in my life is not the point of this story- it's that Laura gave her a Turkish Love Fortune, and I was in it! But she didn't know that I'd made out with her boyfriend!
Anyway, here's the audio of my latest Turkish Love Fortune reading from Laura's last visit. It's about 12 minutes. Cleveland and I have been spending a lot of time together, and things seem to be going remarkably well. The existence of some people are mentioned in the reading, but I can't tell you who those people are. Ask me on your own time. Otherwise, my Turkish Love Fortune said that we were pretty much good to go.
Oh, and this is what some horoscope mumbo-jumbo website said about my zodiac compatibility with Cleveland. I'm an Aries, he's a Sagittarius.
"Those Sagittarians born between 23 November and 3 December will be the most spiritually close to you: you could even find your soulmate here. You will gain new insights in a relationship with these sensitive Sagittarians."
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
January 16, 2011
October 8, 2010
Public Market Confessional
I've been thinking about the importance of the blog in my life, whether it's ridiculous that I'm doing this at all, and the consequences of sharing a lot of personal information on the internet. It's both empowering, and increases my vulnerability, but not quite as vulnerable as the result of this chance meeting the other day...
It had been a few months since we'd caught up, and I had a lot to talk about. Mostly my love life- a lot about what I'm looking for, what's gone wrong in the past. I'm literally, pouring my heart out, talking about my insecurities and my frustrations and details about my renewed singledom. And this guy sits down right behind me, who I know from karaoke. I don't know him well, just a familiar face attached to a name. I karaoked a Todd Rundgren song once, and he really liked it, which is basically all of our interactions at this point. It seems like the best idea for me is to try and ignore him, that way, I can continue my earnest conversation.
This guy gets up to leave after about an hour, and Frank makes eye contact. He and Frank have an awkward interaction for about a second, when Frank motions to me, then points to this guy. THANKS, FRANK! I give a half smile to be polite, say something about how it's a small town and it's nice to see him, and turn back to my conversation.
A bit later, Frank and I leave, deciding to meet up in a few weeks. This guy, however, shows up at Bayside Bowl a few nights later, walks straight up to me and confesses that he couldn't help but listen to everything I said, once he realized it was me. There was honestly, no more than four inches between the back of my chair and the back of his chair. What was I supposed to do? Ask him what exactly he heard and his thoughts? That seemed even worse than the awkward interaction we were already having. Apologize that he overheard? Ask him to not tell anyone? It wasn't my fault, I was there first. He should've kept to himself the fact that he was eavesdropping. It was none of his business, and Frank owes me big time- if he didn't initiate an interaction between the two of us, he wouldn't have been able to tell me he heard anything, because I could've maintained that I didn't know he was there. I know I can be pretty candid, but there were a lot of things I said in the confines of that coffeeshop I don't want just want just anyone to know. It was LiveJournal kind of shit.
At one point, Frank had asked me why I don't go out with that guy, since he clearly likes me by the way he was awkwardly standing there waiting to get my attention (Frank's words, not mine.) I brush him off, because I don't find this guy attractive, in the least. So he asked, why not? The answer isn't lengthy or complicated, I just don't, which led to me explaining in great detail how I might not know what I want in a potential life partner, because I believe people can be compatible in a lot of ways, but I have a pretty decent idea of what I don't want. Frank thinks I should use the blog as a platform for advertising these qualifications, but then pointed out that it's possible the blog could be standing in the way of my quest for true love. My thoughts are, it's a silly, irrelevant blog. And you know what else? Blogging is a lot like writing!
...
September 25, 2010
The Worst Date Ever
In response to a recent post about the second to the worst date ever, some of you have inquired about the worst date ever. Here it is:
I was 17. I'd never met or dated anyone I'd just randomly met. In my innocent, virgin, straightedge mind, dates consisted of ice cream sundaes and holding hands in a movie theater. He was handsome, for a dude-bro, and he came by Bull Moose to pick up a Spoon album. I walked him over to the section and said, "Girls Can Tell?" and he responded, while leaning his body towards mine, "I don't know, can they?" I blushed, ran away, and he asked me for my phone number. He worked at the Gap, and his best friend in high school (two years ahead of me, from across the river) was dating the head cheerleader/class vice president from my class. Maybe I thought this was going to be some sort of 'She's All That' kind of nerd makeover story or something.
We agreed to meet at my job at a specified time, since this was almost ten years ago and not everyone had cell phones yet. He was an hour late, and made no apologies, no excuses. I pretended not to notice, since I didn't know what else to do. He used the bathroom at the store, then again two or three times when we went to Friendly's for ice cream and grilled cheese. I think I also saw him pop some pills. He's still cute, but we don't have anything to talk about, and his behavior is not normal.
I suggest we go to the movies. We get there, and we've missed all of the shows by five minutes. Not a problem. Even back then I had my finger on the pulse, so I suggest an indie hip-hop show at Bates. (His interest in Spoon was a fluke. This guy was way more WBLM than WRBC.) We arrive and the show doesn't start for another hour and a half. I'm baffled. He uses the bathroom again, then suggests we just go for a drive, normal small-town teenager passtime stuff. We were in separate cars up until this point, but he volunteers to drive. Why the fuck was he peeing so much?
We're out over by the Lake, and I'm assuming he's just going to take us on a nice drive around the lake, something we do sometimes when we get bored. But then he turns right, down a wooded, unpaved road. There's a road closed sign. I start to panic a little. My mom had no idea where I was, in fact, no one knew where I was or who this guy was. He keeps driving and I'm seeing signs like, "Road Closed in .5 Mile, Turn Back Now!" "Where the Hell do you think you're going? ROAD CLOSED, Dummy!" I started getting really scared.
He parked the car in front of some blockades and leaves the car to pee again. I wonder how lost I'd get in the woods and how far exactly I was from Route 4 if I tried to make a run for it. This wasn't part of the Girl Scout curriculum. The woods were pitch black and if he didn't murder me out there, I figured there was a pretty good chance I'd get eaten by some wild monster/animal (Did I mention I'm scared of the dark, sometimes?) It'd probably take them weeks to find my body. He went in for the kiss. I don't remember specifics, except it was the worst kiss of my life. We made out for a few minutes and I'm seriously regretting putting myself in the situation. He makes a move for my belt buckle, and I push his hand away three times. The fourth time, I stop and tell him flat out, "I'm not going to have sex with you, I'm a virgin." He was really surprised, but got the point, and we headed back in town.
Finally, we arrive at Bates, he pees again and pops another pill, and I'm glad I'm alive and able to focus my attention somewhere other than this creepshow. We stay for about half an hour, I tell him I'm tired and we leave. He kisses me goodbye, tells me he'll call, but he doesn't.
This guy came into the store again once or twice, a year later, and I pretended I didn't know him. There are a few lessons to be learned from this story: tell someone where you're going, meet at a public place, have a cell phone, and remove yourself from a situation as soon as you start feeling uncomfortable. Crazy, huh?
I was 17. I'd never met or dated anyone I'd just randomly met. In my innocent, virgin, straightedge mind, dates consisted of ice cream sundaes and holding hands in a movie theater. He was handsome, for a dude-bro, and he came by Bull Moose to pick up a Spoon album. I walked him over to the section and said, "Girls Can Tell?" and he responded, while leaning his body towards mine, "I don't know, can they?" I blushed, ran away, and he asked me for my phone number. He worked at the Gap, and his best friend in high school (two years ahead of me, from across the river) was dating the head cheerleader/class vice president from my class. Maybe I thought this was going to be some sort of 'She's All That' kind of nerd makeover story or something.
We agreed to meet at my job at a specified time, since this was almost ten years ago and not everyone had cell phones yet. He was an hour late, and made no apologies, no excuses. I pretended not to notice, since I didn't know what else to do. He used the bathroom at the store, then again two or three times when we went to Friendly's for ice cream and grilled cheese. I think I also saw him pop some pills. He's still cute, but we don't have anything to talk about, and his behavior is not normal.
I suggest we go to the movies. We get there, and we've missed all of the shows by five minutes. Not a problem. Even back then I had my finger on the pulse, so I suggest an indie hip-hop show at Bates. (His interest in Spoon was a fluke. This guy was way more WBLM than WRBC.) We arrive and the show doesn't start for another hour and a half. I'm baffled. He uses the bathroom again, then suggests we just go for a drive, normal small-town teenager passtime stuff. We were in separate cars up until this point, but he volunteers to drive. Why the fuck was he peeing so much?
We're out over by the Lake, and I'm assuming he's just going to take us on a nice drive around the lake, something we do sometimes when we get bored. But then he turns right, down a wooded, unpaved road. There's a road closed sign. I start to panic a little. My mom had no idea where I was, in fact, no one knew where I was or who this guy was. He keeps driving and I'm seeing signs like, "Road Closed in .5 Mile, Turn Back Now!" "Where the Hell do you think you're going? ROAD CLOSED, Dummy!" I started getting really scared.
He parked the car in front of some blockades and leaves the car to pee again. I wonder how lost I'd get in the woods and how far exactly I was from Route 4 if I tried to make a run for it. This wasn't part of the Girl Scout curriculum. The woods were pitch black and if he didn't murder me out there, I figured there was a pretty good chance I'd get eaten by some wild monster/animal (Did I mention I'm scared of the dark, sometimes?) It'd probably take them weeks to find my body. He went in for the kiss. I don't remember specifics, except it was the worst kiss of my life. We made out for a few minutes and I'm seriously regretting putting myself in the situation. He makes a move for my belt buckle, and I push his hand away three times. The fourth time, I stop and tell him flat out, "I'm not going to have sex with you, I'm a virgin." He was really surprised, but got the point, and we headed back in town.
Finally, we arrive at Bates, he pees again and pops another pill, and I'm glad I'm alive and able to focus my attention somewhere other than this creepshow. We stay for about half an hour, I tell him I'm tired and we leave. He kisses me goodbye, tells me he'll call, but he doesn't.
This guy came into the store again once or twice, a year later, and I pretended I didn't know him. There are a few lessons to be learned from this story: tell someone where you're going, meet at a public place, have a cell phone, and remove yourself from a situation as soon as you start feeling uncomfortable. Crazy, huh?
June 12, 2010
Bowling Barefoot
A few days ago, I was working laneside. This one girl tells me that she'd lost her job earlier that day. She's with two guys who are bowling, and no one is drinking very much. Eventually, she decides to get a fruit and cheese plate, then an ice cream sundae. I asked if it was tough economic times, but no, she was fired. She was working as an executive assistant and blamed office politics. It's one thing to lose your job, it's even more depressing to be fired from a job- I was in full support of her ice cream sundae decision.
So, a little while later I come back to check in, and the guys are starting their second game, and I asked her why she wasn't bowling. She was wearing flip flops and said that she didn't bring appropriate footwear- like, no socks for the rented shoes.
Okay wait a second. Let me just tell you, that I've never thought of myself as someone who could sell things. I tried telemarketing once, and I went home crying practically every day. It was terrible. Apparently, though, judging by my tips, I'm doing an alright job convincing people to drink, eat and bowl. Really, it's not completely self-serving- I want everyone who comes to Bayside Bowl to have a great time, tell their friends, and come back. I guess it's kind of like when I try to convince my friends to stay out for one more drink. It's easy, and it usually works.
So I find myself saying to this girl, "Oh, but the shoes are brand-new, we've only been open a week. They've only been worn like, once or twice, I'm sure you'll be fine."* She gave me a long, unblinking sidelong look, paused, and said very seriously, "Yeah. (long pause) I've heard that one before."
...wait for it...
She was comparing wearing rented shoes with no socks to sex without a condom. Oh my GOD! And she was RIGHT! And the best part is that somehow she knew that I would know exactly what she meant, right away and I did! I laughed for about a minute straight. She made me feel like a total creep for trying to get her to wear the shoes barefoot. I've heard that line a million times, and I'm positive the girls have heard it more than once or twice, drunk or not. Something like, 90% of the men I've been with have tried to go, ahem, barefoot, and guys. We all know that going barefoot is better. Act like a responsible adult and put socks on or don't bowl.
Did I mention we have a pastry chef? Here's a lemon square, a blonde brownie sundae, and a Maine Root root beer float with some kind of fancy cookie I forget the name of:
*Really though, you probably won't get any fungi. Our customers are pretty well-kept, and plus we have this spray that MUST kill everything, it's so potent.
So, a little while later I come back to check in, and the guys are starting their second game, and I asked her why she wasn't bowling. She was wearing flip flops and said that she didn't bring appropriate footwear- like, no socks for the rented shoes.
Okay wait a second. Let me just tell you, that I've never thought of myself as someone who could sell things. I tried telemarketing once, and I went home crying practically every day. It was terrible. Apparently, though, judging by my tips, I'm doing an alright job convincing people to drink, eat and bowl. Really, it's not completely self-serving- I want everyone who comes to Bayside Bowl to have a great time, tell their friends, and come back. I guess it's kind of like when I try to convince my friends to stay out for one more drink. It's easy, and it usually works.
So I find myself saying to this girl, "Oh, but the shoes are brand-new, we've only been open a week. They've only been worn like, once or twice, I'm sure you'll be fine."* She gave me a long, unblinking sidelong look, paused, and said very seriously, "Yeah. (long pause) I've heard that one before."
...wait for it...
She was comparing wearing rented shoes with no socks to sex without a condom. Oh my GOD! And she was RIGHT! And the best part is that somehow she knew that I would know exactly what she meant, right away and I did! I laughed for about a minute straight. She made me feel like a total creep for trying to get her to wear the shoes barefoot. I've heard that line a million times, and I'm positive the girls have heard it more than once or twice, drunk or not. Something like, 90% of the men I've been with have tried to go, ahem, barefoot, and guys. We all know that going barefoot is better. Act like a responsible adult and put socks on or don't bowl.
Did I mention we have a pastry chef? Here's a lemon square, a blonde brownie sundae, and a Maine Root root beer float with some kind of fancy cookie I forget the name of:
*Really though, you probably won't get any fungi. Our customers are pretty well-kept, and plus we have this spray that MUST kill everything, it's so potent.
May 17, 2010
Happy Friday
I was at Sonny's on a Sunday night a few weeks ago with Mandy. This should come as no surprise, since Mandy and I spend a lot of time together, and I hang out at Sonny's on a regular basis. Across the corner of the bar, I see a man and a woman finishing their drinks, possibly the ineptly named FDR. (This cocktail is deeeelish, made of Hendrix Gin and Fresca. It should have been the LBJ, or even just the Johnson, since Fresca was actually not invented when Franklin Delanor Roosevelt was President, and it was a Johnson's favorite drink, not Roosevelt's. Minor confusion of the initials, FDR, LBJ.) Anyway, I recognize this man from Match.com. He's broad shouldered, seemingly some sort of Middle Eastern/Indian descent, and has a longish haircut. His picture was memorable in the search results because it was a clear, well lit picture. He was smiling, wearing a tie; he stood out from all of the other buzz-cut LiveStrong bros. Mandy and I actually looked up his profile from my iPhone while they were right there to confirm my suspicions were correct. Sometimes we spend a lot of time together and run out of things to talk about... this was one of those times. But this girl is so CLEARLY not into it. His body language has him facing her and leaning in, acting very interested in everything she's saying. I can practically hear her thoughts, "Oh dear god, Revenge of the Nerds seriously needs to shut. up. so I can get the fuck out of here. Hmmm... I think there's a new Grey's Anatomy on Hulu..."
Two weeks later, it's Sunday night again, I'm back at Sonny's with Angela Pizzo this time. Low and behold- same girl, same spot, same drink, different guy, different earrings, same boring conversation. It was weird. This guy looked like more her type, and she was absolutely into it. She played with her hair. Once in a while I overheard her saying boring, inane things about herself. The Best Bartender in Portland gives them their bill, and they both reach for their wallets. I know this game. She looks up from her wallet and sees he has put his card down first, but since she's already holding her card, she offers to split the bill. He smirks and says, "I'll let you decide." Are you fucking kidding me? What a dick! What was she supposed to say? "Oh, well in that case you pay, because I was just trying to be polite by offering. I actually had no intention of paying $9 for this stupid mixed drink." Every girl wants to be taken care of, and despite popular belief by modern men and modern women, chivalry isn't dead." I'm anxious to see if she'll be back there this Sunday with a different guy.
Overall, my experiences internet dating have been entertaining for the purpose of story telling, but I know that I'm not going to meet the love of my life online. Although in a day in age when we turn to the internet for finding jobs, paying bills, shopping, apartment hunting, watching tv and communicating with friends, it's not unreasonable to think that it's possible. A friend told me after he found out that I was registered on Match.com, "Amanda, what are you doing, that's not fair. Internet dating is for fat, ugly chicks who can't meet people in real life." Not totally true, but I see his point. I don't have trouble meeting people.
If I do a search for guys to potentially date, in a specified age range, in a specified distance from Portland (remember, no car), about two hundred dudes come up (if the search is reversed with the same criteria, there are twice as many ladies.) Of those two hundred, I've probably already gone out with five guys from the site since I first signed up like a year and a half ago. Obviously, it didn't work out. Then there are about ten people I know in real life, former coworkers, local musicians, frequent customers at the coffeeshop, guys I went to high school with, a friend's crazy ex. In addition to those guys, I've actually seen about four or five more guys that I've met in real life, and I've driven them to the world wide web of dating, where guess what, there I am again! So numbers-wise, roughly one in ten in the search is no good. Then, take away everyone who has Phish, Run/Ski/Snowboard or Red Sox in their username, anyone who is pictured holding a guitar, a sword, a cat or wearing sunglasses, anyone who claims to be "easy going" or a republican, and guys with major spelling or grammar mistakes, and there's pretty much no one left. I'm more likely to meet the love of my life at a Cult Maze reunion show than on the internet (Get it? Because it's never going to happen. Ha!)
Seeing that girl on an internet date reminded me that I have a couple of stories worth sharing.
So, I find this guy, um, Larry on Match.com. We seem to be on the same page, humor-wise and he seems like an attractive guy, so we decide to meet up. He shoots down my Dogfish suggestion, which is highly annoying, and because I liked taking dates there to be judged by the Best Bartender in Portland. Since he lives in the Old Port, I concede to go to Gritty's, douchebag capital of the Old Port. Like anyone I have anything in common with who is roughly within my age range and lives in Portland, we end up knowing a few of the same people. He was geekier in person than in his pictures, and if I remember correctly, he had a slight lisp or something. We had a couple of pints, and ended up hardcore making out in his stairwell about two blocks away. I had plans to meet some friends for Neon Garden at the White Heart, so I left with that giddy, just-madeout feeling and danced the rest of the night away.
Days passed, and I heard nothing. This was confusing, I thought we hit it off. He tried to bring me upstairs, and I refused, so maybe he was just looking to have sex? It's not that I was opposed to doing it with this guy... A week later, I texted him and asked him to hang out sometime. His response: "I'm trying to keep things pretty casual, but sure." What?! A text message after a week somehow implies something but casual? That's the most nonchalant you can possibly be while still expressing interest. I was so annoyed with his assumption that I never wrote back. If a guy sleeps around, he's a player. If a girl sleeps around, she's a slut. It's just not fair.
A month later I received an equally annoying text from him. "Happy Friday!" Really? Coming up with a clever response to Happy Friday! was just too much work. This guy was really irritating me. So I wrote back, "Happy Friday to you too.... but wait, who is this, again?" ZING! You mess with the bull, you get the horns! Days later he emailed me through the site and said, "Well played." I waited a day and wrote back, "Don't hate the player, hate the game." The texts came reasonably more frequently after that, and although I usually wrote back, it was in a non-responsive kind of way.
Here is one of the funniest things I've seen someone write on a dating site: "The worst part of online dating is the inability to express myself through interpretive dance."
Two weeks later, it's Sunday night again, I'm back at Sonny's with Angela Pizzo this time. Low and behold- same girl, same spot, same drink, different guy, different earrings, same boring conversation. It was weird. This guy looked like more her type, and she was absolutely into it. She played with her hair. Once in a while I overheard her saying boring, inane things about herself. The Best Bartender in Portland gives them their bill, and they both reach for their wallets. I know this game. She looks up from her wallet and sees he has put his card down first, but since she's already holding her card, she offers to split the bill. He smirks and says, "I'll let you decide." Are you fucking kidding me? What a dick! What was she supposed to say? "Oh, well in that case you pay, because I was just trying to be polite by offering. I actually had no intention of paying $9 for this stupid mixed drink." Every girl wants to be taken care of, and despite popular belief by modern men and modern women, chivalry isn't dead." I'm anxious to see if she'll be back there this Sunday with a different guy.
Overall, my experiences internet dating have been entertaining for the purpose of story telling, but I know that I'm not going to meet the love of my life online. Although in a day in age when we turn to the internet for finding jobs, paying bills, shopping, apartment hunting, watching tv and communicating with friends, it's not unreasonable to think that it's possible. A friend told me after he found out that I was registered on Match.com, "Amanda, what are you doing, that's not fair. Internet dating is for fat, ugly chicks who can't meet people in real life." Not totally true, but I see his point. I don't have trouble meeting people.
If I do a search for guys to potentially date, in a specified age range, in a specified distance from Portland (remember, no car), about two hundred dudes come up (if the search is reversed with the same criteria, there are twice as many ladies.) Of those two hundred, I've probably already gone out with five guys from the site since I first signed up like a year and a half ago. Obviously, it didn't work out. Then there are about ten people I know in real life, former coworkers, local musicians, frequent customers at the coffeeshop, guys I went to high school with, a friend's crazy ex. In addition to those guys, I've actually seen about four or five more guys that I've met in real life, and I've driven them to the world wide web of dating, where guess what, there I am again! So numbers-wise, roughly one in ten in the search is no good. Then, take away everyone who has Phish, Run/Ski/Snowboard or Red Sox in their username, anyone who is pictured holding a guitar, a sword, a cat or wearing sunglasses, anyone who claims to be "easy going" or a republican, and guys with major spelling or grammar mistakes, and there's pretty much no one left. I'm more likely to meet the love of my life at a Cult Maze reunion show than on the internet (Get it? Because it's never going to happen. Ha!)
Seeing that girl on an internet date reminded me that I have a couple of stories worth sharing.
So, I find this guy, um, Larry on Match.com. We seem to be on the same page, humor-wise and he seems like an attractive guy, so we decide to meet up. He shoots down my Dogfish suggestion, which is highly annoying, and because I liked taking dates there to be judged by the Best Bartender in Portland. Since he lives in the Old Port, I concede to go to Gritty's, douchebag capital of the Old Port. Like anyone I have anything in common with who is roughly within my age range and lives in Portland, we end up knowing a few of the same people. He was geekier in person than in his pictures, and if I remember correctly, he had a slight lisp or something. We had a couple of pints, and ended up hardcore making out in his stairwell about two blocks away. I had plans to meet some friends for Neon Garden at the White Heart, so I left with that giddy, just-madeout feeling and danced the rest of the night away.
Days passed, and I heard nothing. This was confusing, I thought we hit it off. He tried to bring me upstairs, and I refused, so maybe he was just looking to have sex? It's not that I was opposed to doing it with this guy... A week later, I texted him and asked him to hang out sometime. His response: "I'm trying to keep things pretty casual, but sure." What?! A text message after a week somehow implies something but casual? That's the most nonchalant you can possibly be while still expressing interest. I was so annoyed with his assumption that I never wrote back. If a guy sleeps around, he's a player. If a girl sleeps around, she's a slut. It's just not fair.
A month later I received an equally annoying text from him. "Happy Friday!" Really? Coming up with a clever response to Happy Friday! was just too much work. This guy was really irritating me. So I wrote back, "Happy Friday to you too.... but wait, who is this, again?" ZING! You mess with the bull, you get the horns! Days later he emailed me through the site and said, "Well played." I waited a day and wrote back, "Don't hate the player, hate the game." The texts came reasonably more frequently after that, and although I usually wrote back, it was in a non-responsive kind of way.
Here is one of the funniest things I've seen someone write on a dating site: "The worst part of online dating is the inability to express myself through interpretive dance."
April 15, 2010
Bump!
Have you ever been asked to Bump?
This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.
It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.
Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:
I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)
It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:
So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.
As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.
The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.
Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app:
This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.
It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.
Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:
I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)
It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:
So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.
As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.
The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.
Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app:
April 2, 2010
In My Wine, Belly Up
There are things that you do when you're in a relationship, standard procedure, unless you really suck at being in a relationship. You meet parents, you attend work functions, you go on double dates, holidays, etc. These things are mildly annoying and can be borderline unpleasant. Last summer, I was involved romantically, sort of, with an ex-boyfriend. Javier and I, we were retrosexing, if you will. The details of the relationship, subsequent break-up, the whole story is irrelevant, however, I will say this: the first time we saw each other over coffee after three years, I thought to myself, yup, what an ass hole, this is never going to happen; and he thought to himself, yup, I'm into it. He was right, obviously, because a year later we were making out and I was driving to Auburn to have dinner with him at his boss's house, a very relationship-like thing for me to be doing with someone I'd already broken up with, years earlier. (Editor's note: to Javier's credit, he's handsome, funny and smart. The fact that he isn't in a serious long term relationship is minorly baffling, especially because as we all know, girls are into ass holes.)
Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.
Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.
The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.
Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.
Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.
The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.
March 4, 2010
Amanda, You're like, the Bomb
On a recent Monday night trip to the Dogfish Bar and Grille on Free Street, I was hanging out with this kid from portlandtaps.com, catching up. Some more friends showed up, and after a couple pints of Arrogant Bastard, we started talking a little bit about how fun unlikely hook-ups can be. This chick started laughing, remembering the time she hooked up with a man she was convinced was 90% gay. "It was so much fun, even though he was totally completely gay. We laughed so much! He really loved my boobies... and hey, a blow job is a blow job, right?" (Dad, now would be a great time for you to stop reading.)
So I started telling the story of the most fun, least likely hook-up I've ever had.
It was last May, and I met some friends at the most lengen... wait for it... dary house party on Exchange Street. Everyone was there... It was a beautiful spring night, there were Jell-O shots. We all left around three a.m., after the fourth floor deck shifted under our weight and the toilets started clogging. Well, I tried to leave. But I saw this cute guy... and asked him for a drag of his cigarette (I don't smoke, and this is a very clear indication that I've had too much to drink.) We started making out. The plan was to leave with Darcy and crash at her house... but then this kid, Connor, ran outside after me, begged me to come back in the party, and I said no, and drunkenly agreed to let him walk me home. (Ditching my friends and leaving with a complete stranger was obviously a huge mistake, I was hardly standing, let alone able to make responsible decisions about my safety. I also got into a huge screaming match with this super obnoxious queen outside of the party... I said he was generic, he told me I was like Janeane Garofalo. I told him to find a new hangout and he replied, I am! It's called SAN FRANCISCO!)
In the morning, it took me a few minutes to remember his name, where I was, and what happened the night before. Then I remembered he was four years younger than me. Just a baby, he turned 21 only a few months prior. I'm cringing, thanking GOD that I didn't have sex with this stranger. I roll over, so completely hungerover I could've actually slept the entire day. When we met, Connor was wearing those Vans, the ones with the checkers on the side, faded black Levi's, and a black Jesus Christ Superstar T-shirt. We talked a lot on the way home. He was from Sanford, loved skateboarding, and worked at a pizza joint in town.
"Amanda." Oh my god he's talking to me, and he remembers my name. What if he doedsn't realize that I was wasted last night. Oh God. "You're like... the bomb." I laughed out loud and looked him in the eye. He was serious. This kid totally talks like a Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "Amanda... how did an ass hole like me wind up in the bed of such a beautiful girl like you. Oh man, you know, when I go out drinking like that, I should be waking up in the gutter somewhere or something. This is like, awesome." He's right, there is no way I would've been into him if I wasn't drunk, but it was kind of awesome. I laugh, roll over and say, "Five more minutes." We alternate snoozing and making out for a little while.
"Amanda. I just like, really want to spend the day with you. I've got some VHS' at my house we can watch." I laugh. VHS aren't hip and retro. He pins me.
"Amanda. Let me take you out to breakfast. How about Denny's?" I roll my eyes. "No? No, Denny's? How about the IHOP. Denny's or IHOP. No? C'mon, what's the deal? You don't eat? It's a free meal! Who DOESN'T want a free meal. What? Is it me? Do I smell?"
My phone rings, it's Darcy. She probably thinks I'm dead in a gutter somewhere. I reach for my phone, and Connor pins me again. We wrestle for a little while and I'm laughing hysterically. This kid was so much fun! Finally, I answer and apologize PROFUSELY to Darcy for ruining the rest of her night by going completely MIA. Feeling even worse, I try and roll over and go back to sleep. At this point, Connor can leave for all I care. My back is turned... and he pulls down my underwear, like the Coppertone baby. I giggle, and tell him to quit it. He does it like four more times until I turn around really fast to make him stop. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Uhhh, nothing. I was just going to dickslap you."
So I started telling the story of the most fun, least likely hook-up I've ever had.
It was last May, and I met some friends at the most lengen... wait for it... dary house party on Exchange Street. Everyone was there... It was a beautiful spring night, there were Jell-O shots. We all left around three a.m., after the fourth floor deck shifted under our weight and the toilets started clogging. Well, I tried to leave. But I saw this cute guy... and asked him for a drag of his cigarette (I don't smoke, and this is a very clear indication that I've had too much to drink.) We started making out. The plan was to leave with Darcy and crash at her house... but then this kid, Connor, ran outside after me, begged me to come back in the party, and I said no, and drunkenly agreed to let him walk me home. (Ditching my friends and leaving with a complete stranger was obviously a huge mistake, I was hardly standing, let alone able to make responsible decisions about my safety. I also got into a huge screaming match with this super obnoxious queen outside of the party... I said he was generic, he told me I was like Janeane Garofalo. I told him to find a new hangout and he replied, I am! It's called SAN FRANCISCO!)
In the morning, it took me a few minutes to remember his name, where I was, and what happened the night before. Then I remembered he was four years younger than me. Just a baby, he turned 21 only a few months prior. I'm cringing, thanking GOD that I didn't have sex with this stranger. I roll over, so completely hungerover I could've actually slept the entire day. When we met, Connor was wearing those Vans, the ones with the checkers on the side, faded black Levi's, and a black Jesus Christ Superstar T-shirt. We talked a lot on the way home. He was from Sanford, loved skateboarding, and worked at a pizza joint in town.
"Amanda." Oh my god he's talking to me, and he remembers my name. What if he doedsn't realize that I was wasted last night. Oh God. "You're like... the bomb." I laughed out loud and looked him in the eye. He was serious. This kid totally talks like a Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "Amanda... how did an ass hole like me wind up in the bed of such a beautiful girl like you. Oh man, you know, when I go out drinking like that, I should be waking up in the gutter somewhere or something. This is like, awesome." He's right, there is no way I would've been into him if I wasn't drunk, but it was kind of awesome. I laugh, roll over and say, "Five more minutes." We alternate snoozing and making out for a little while.
"Amanda. I just like, really want to spend the day with you. I've got some VHS' at my house we can watch." I laugh. VHS aren't hip and retro. He pins me.
"Amanda. Let me take you out to breakfast. How about Denny's?" I roll my eyes. "No? No, Denny's? How about the IHOP. Denny's or IHOP. No? C'mon, what's the deal? You don't eat? It's a free meal! Who DOESN'T want a free meal. What? Is it me? Do I smell?"
My phone rings, it's Darcy. She probably thinks I'm dead in a gutter somewhere. I reach for my phone, and Connor pins me again. We wrestle for a little while and I'm laughing hysterically. This kid was so much fun! Finally, I answer and apologize PROFUSELY to Darcy for ruining the rest of her night by going completely MIA. Feeling even worse, I try and roll over and go back to sleep. At this point, Connor can leave for all I care. My back is turned... and he pulls down my underwear, like the Coppertone baby. I giggle, and tell him to quit it. He does it like four more times until I turn around really fast to make him stop. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Uhhh, nothing. I was just going to dickslap you."
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