If you’ve read Scott Pilgrim, you could call him Joseph, because he looked just like that character. For a time, Melissa and I called him:
Beardy, Beardy McStaresALot, Beardy McScaresALot, Stare-y McScaresALot, Scaredy McStaresALot.
A pattern formed. Girl walks into bar, girl gives a brief and futile glance to see who’s there before figuring that anyone worth their salt will come to her (and anyone looking to avoid her can stay away), girl slowly feels eyes upon her, girl turns and sees boy with beard looking quickly away. Girl gets mightily annoyed.
I knew a girl who turned out to be a terrible matchmaker (more on that in a future post). She let me in on Stare-y’s information—basically what you’d expect from your average hipster homeless beard, but with a kid. And barely old enough to be in the bar.
As I do, I lost patience with his shy staring act and introduced myself. We chatted and he looked nervous. He shaved his beard and looked more nervous. He walked me and a drunk Melissa home one night and then we talked for a good while on my porch, interrupted every so often by me yelling at Melissa to not fall asleep on her back on my couch.
While any sane adult recognizes this as the action of a good friend, I think it only made Beardy more gunshy. But then, I had observed by this point that my definition of “good friend” didn’t exactly match any other That Town natives, save Melissa. On a nightly basis, drunk girls were left to stumble home, drunk boys somehow drove themselves to emergency rooms, and the word “friend” was only spoken between the sexes when a boy wanted to feel less guilty about a dumping.
I suggested we hang out, vague plans were made, I got stood up. If I had been surprised by this, I would also have been surprised that the sky was blue. Also, this meant I could watch Tara WhatsHerFace parade around in Kayne’s gown, as that pageant was on. I sent an email suggesting we not plan to hang out anymore. I wanted to add, Stop staring at me unless you can back it up ya pansy. I restrained myself.
A bit later, I find myself back at that bar with a friend of Melissa’s and some friends of the friend.* I’m sitting there minding my own business, sipping my cheap gin and tonic, waiting until everyone else deems themselves drunk enough to dance. A stranger walks up to me to inform me that, when I walked in the room, his friend (Stare-y, of course) exclaimed, blanched, and perked up, simultaneously. I believe I looked at the friend and wondered aloud why Scaredy couldn’t come tell me any of this myself.
*Incidentally, these are the people who, when M’s friend was in the restroom, decided they were going to leave. After barely speaking to me the whole night, they ask if I can tell M’s friend that they left, where they are going, and that M’s friend is welcome to join them there. Now, maybe I’m a bit too Emily Post at times, but I don’t know—this seems unspeakably rude to me. But then, expecting civility and friendship was probably what kept me mostly alone in a place where friendship meant known-since-jr-high or eh-I-don’t-need-to-call-her-I’ll-see-her-at-the-bar. Damn, I sound bitter. Mostly though, I’m just chomping at the bit to get these two years behind me and feel like pre-that town Jessy again.
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Sunday, February 04, 2007
I'm a good girl, I am.
From this guy’s blog:
And now I remember all the things I showed him, like how he had never seen The Maltese Falcon before or that my reaction to his discovery of Homicide: Life on the Streets DVDs was, “I used to love that show!” Or that he, like most people, fell in love with Arrested Development through the first season dvds while I, in my hardcore nerdishness, had been watching enthusiastically since the pilot.
And now I remember how excited I was, because we had so many things and interests in common. I felt and still feel like he was the only boy I met in that town who I could have had something serious with. But I was thinking that based on associating with him, not the persona that gets created when you live in a small town for too long and are the only heartbroken boy writer with a good head of hair. He’s a local celebrity, and I’m a girl with less interest in fame, and more in the hair and the fact that we had the same favorite Wilco album (Being There, of course).
And maybe I sound bitter, and like I’m still not over this guy that broke up with me almost a year ago. That’s really not the case. This just isn’t the first time I’ve come face to face with Mr Professor, and I’m so emphatically not a fan.
Just Because I Don’t Like Professor Higgins Types Doesn’t Mean I Can’t Impart Wisdom, Too:
“So, for instance, when I'm spending time with a new person who lacks my zeal for a good martini, has never read Ask The Dust by John Fante, and has never watched Arrested Development or Seinfeld, I'm much more excited than if we had a wealth of already-shared interests. When it's time to go pick out a movie together, I'm reaching for old favorites, not new possibilities, because I can't wait for this New Person to discover this Great Thing. Life has thrown so many Great Things at me already, in my thirty-one years as a lover of New Great Things, and mostly now I just want to re-discover them, via someone else.”And this, my little loves, is in a nutshell why he dumped me. He could give all the “no chemistry”, “I don’t see serious with you” he wanted in that car on the Saturday night before Valentine’s Day, after we had been together for the several hours he needed to work up the nerve to tell me this. When faced with a boy who gets off on being a teacher, the Cool Girl will always lose to the wide-eyed innocent.
And now I remember all the things I showed him, like how he had never seen The Maltese Falcon before or that my reaction to his discovery of Homicide: Life on the Streets DVDs was, “I used to love that show!” Or that he, like most people, fell in love with Arrested Development through the first season dvds while I, in my hardcore nerdishness, had been watching enthusiastically since the pilot.
And now I remember how excited I was, because we had so many things and interests in common. I felt and still feel like he was the only boy I met in that town who I could have had something serious with. But I was thinking that based on associating with him, not the persona that gets created when you live in a small town for too long and are the only heartbroken boy writer with a good head of hair. He’s a local celebrity, and I’m a girl with less interest in fame, and more in the hair and the fact that we had the same favorite Wilco album (Being There, of course).
And maybe I sound bitter, and like I’m still not over this guy that broke up with me almost a year ago. That’s really not the case. This just isn’t the first time I’ve come face to face with Mr Professor, and I’m so emphatically not a fan.
Just Because I Don’t Like Professor Higgins Types Doesn’t Mean I Can’t Impart Wisdom, Too:
- Always keep some spare emergency contraceptive around.
- If you suspect that a broken condom might have scared a boy off, perhaps you should accept the inevitable and move on.
- Excelling in making out doesn’t necessarily mean a damn thing.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The judges and the saints and the textbook committee decided you should be left out.
Oh Remember when I had that plush whale that I was giving a tour of My Last Town, taking it around and photographing in funny places? One night, Melissa, Humor the Whale, and I were hanging out with a friend. First we all went to her boyfriend’s softball game. I worked on a scarf and drank somebody’s beer. It was too dark for my old cheapo digital camera.
Then we went to a little neighborhood bar with HUGE mugs for some karoke.
We went there pretty directly, but Friend’s Boyfriend’s softball teammates went home to shower and change first. One changed into jeans, a black band-looking tshirt under a blazer, and his glasses.
So yeah, in between drinking giant mugs of beer and taking pictures of a plush whale pretending to sing karoke and drink giant mugs of beer, I noticed Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend. He looked like one of my types after all.
The next night we were all at a friend’s bachelorette party and Friend mentioned, sort of off-handedly, that “of course [Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend] thought that I was cute.” And we all know I’ve never been a girl to look a free dinner—unh, I mean a blind date—in the mouth. So I gave my acquiescence.
We decided to go out Thursday night. I was going to be off on Friday and I left work early Thursday, so my paycheck wasn’t ready yet, but I needed it for Fun in Chicago and Dix. My supervisor said she would get it to me when she was done at 8. Remember this.
While I was doing dishes and waiting for Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend (FBF) to call and solidify plans, Pip called out of nowhere (this was the date I later told him about).
When FBF picked me up, he was wearing a Cosby sweater and made the joke about his Porsche being in the shop, both unironically. And that was the high point. It wasn’t bad; just terribly dull. The kind of boy FBF is really didn’t know what to do with the kind of girl I am.
The funniest part of the whole date was when my supervisor called to offer to do the paycheck handoff in the WalMart parking lot and I said to FBF, “Hey, we have to go to the Walmart parking lot so I can get my paycheck.”
Then I pretended to be tired so he dropped me off, not waiting to see if I got in before driving off. So I called Melissa and we went to the bar. And who should we see there but the next boy on the list? Who I had been crushing on for the better part of a year but had moved 3 states away (4 if you include the 30 minutes in West Virginia)?
Lessons Learned:
Then we went to a little neighborhood bar with HUGE mugs for some karoke.
We went there pretty directly, but Friend’s Boyfriend’s softball teammates went home to shower and change first. One changed into jeans, a black band-looking tshirt under a blazer, and his glasses.
So yeah, in between drinking giant mugs of beer and taking pictures of a plush whale pretending to sing karoke and drink giant mugs of beer, I noticed Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend. He looked like one of my types after all.
The next night we were all at a friend’s bachelorette party and Friend mentioned, sort of off-handedly, that “of course [Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend] thought that I was cute.” And we all know I’ve never been a girl to look a free dinner—unh, I mean a blind date—in the mouth. So I gave my acquiescence.
We decided to go out Thursday night. I was going to be off on Friday and I left work early Thursday, so my paycheck wasn’t ready yet, but I needed it for Fun in Chicago and Dix. My supervisor said she would get it to me when she was done at 8. Remember this.
While I was doing dishes and waiting for Friend’s Boyfriend’s Friend (FBF) to call and solidify plans, Pip called out of nowhere (this was the date I later told him about).
When FBF picked me up, he was wearing a Cosby sweater and made the joke about his Porsche being in the shop, both unironically. And that was the high point. It wasn’t bad; just terribly dull. The kind of boy FBF is really didn’t know what to do with the kind of girl I am.
The funniest part of the whole date was when my supervisor called to offer to do the paycheck handoff in the WalMart parking lot and I said to FBF, “Hey, we have to go to the Walmart parking lot so I can get my paycheck.”
Then I pretended to be tired so he dropped me off, not waiting to see if I got in before driving off. So I called Melissa and we went to the bar. And who should we see there but the next boy on the list? Who I had been crushing on for the better part of a year but had moved 3 states away (4 if you include the 30 minutes in West Virginia)?
Lessons Learned:
- If your employer doesn’t offer direct deposit and you’re leaving early on a 3-day weekend, make sure the people doing payroll know you need your check early.
- Plush whales like beer.
- Beast is still gross even if it’s 50 cents a can.
- Um, why was I at a softball game again?
Monday, December 18, 2006
You’re lucky to be drinking here for free because I’m a sucker for your lucky pretty eyes.
About a month or so after I finally completely lost patience with 20yrold, I decided to swing by the local library and do a little low-level stalking on the clerk I had been crushing on earlier that year. (Yes, I knew which night he worked. Shut up.) We wound up going out for a drink or two, and, since there’s really only one bar everyone goes to, we ran into some other friendly acquaintances and their friends.
One of those friends was an alarmingly intense for 30 guy* who attempted to woo me by, among other things, buying one of my etsy hankies but then never coming up with the money and having to bow out of the arrangement and sending a 3AM myspace message that, amongst other things, assured me that he was not drunk.
Another one of those friends was a 23yrold with a similar look, but a much better sense of humor. Cuter, too, and nicer, in a jackassy sort of way.** As I left for the night, he turned and asked if he could get my number and “call me sometime”. In a move that’s socially retarded even for me, I told him that our mutual friend had my number and he could get it from her.
Except, yeah—she didn’t have my number. I’m a spaz.
Then Melissa and I decided to have another picnic and this boy was the only other person who showed up, making it the awesomest awkward first hanging out ever. Melissa makes a great Victorian era chaperone, you guys. Pip and I would trade strange stories, or the three of us would get hit up for change by some random guy who then hit on me, or there’d be a bit of silence, and there would be Melissa, small-talking it up.
Which is good, because my small talk skills suck. I don’t small talk; I non sequitor. And then I wonder why people think I’m weird.
On our first date, I made him wait in my living room while I changed out of the white t shirt I was wearing, since he showed up in a white t, cuffed jeans, and Docs too. Later that night, we wound up in my room due to the magical mixture of beer and my excellent record collection.
So, for a couple months, this was like the greatest casual relationship ever. I’d go about my week, we’d hang out on like a Wednesday, watch the Simpsons, hook up, and then I’d go about the rest of my week, hanging out with Melissa and being a Dance Machine and such. Then he didn’t call for a couple weeks, I assumed that a break in the calling pattern meant I would never hear from him again (as it frequently has for me), and went out with a boy who will be cataloged at a later date. Except a couple weeks after that he did call again. I saw his band and met some friends, which was confusing because I was obviously brought in for the friends’ approval but then he stopped calling again. Maybe I didn’t pass muster.*** Then Pip randomly showed up at my apartment a month later and we talked for a bit, awkwardly. He remarked on the loudness of my menorah candles but it was really the rattley noise my living room heating vent made that I never wanted to question too deeply.
Except I could never remember his last name beyond it starting with an H and having 3 syllables, so I referred to him as Mr Havisham (see how I did that? How I started calling him Pip here? Remember about the non sequitor?)
A Teaching Moment:
*He had the strange punk intensity of a 23yrold, that would impress a girl a couple years younger than that.
**Pip fits in quite nicely with my theory that sometimes what you need is an asshole. A nice sensitive boy stops calling you, you wonder what you did wrong and why you’ll never ever find anyone and die alone. An asshole stops calling you, you think, yeah, well—he was an asshole. No surprises there.
***I’m kidding, obviously.
One of those friends was an alarmingly intense for 30 guy* who attempted to woo me by, among other things, buying one of my etsy hankies but then never coming up with the money and having to bow out of the arrangement and sending a 3AM myspace message that, amongst other things, assured me that he was not drunk.
Another one of those friends was a 23yrold with a similar look, but a much better sense of humor. Cuter, too, and nicer, in a jackassy sort of way.** As I left for the night, he turned and asked if he could get my number and “call me sometime”. In a move that’s socially retarded even for me, I told him that our mutual friend had my number and he could get it from her.
Except, yeah—she didn’t have my number. I’m a spaz.
Then Melissa and I decided to have another picnic and this boy was the only other person who showed up, making it the awesomest awkward first hanging out ever. Melissa makes a great Victorian era chaperone, you guys. Pip and I would trade strange stories, or the three of us would get hit up for change by some random guy who then hit on me, or there’d be a bit of silence, and there would be Melissa, small-talking it up.
Which is good, because my small talk skills suck. I don’t small talk; I non sequitor. And then I wonder why people think I’m weird.
On our first date, I made him wait in my living room while I changed out of the white t shirt I was wearing, since he showed up in a white t, cuffed jeans, and Docs too. Later that night, we wound up in my room due to the magical mixture of beer and my excellent record collection.
So, for a couple months, this was like the greatest casual relationship ever. I’d go about my week, we’d hang out on like a Wednesday, watch the Simpsons, hook up, and then I’d go about the rest of my week, hanging out with Melissa and being a Dance Machine and such. Then he didn’t call for a couple weeks, I assumed that a break in the calling pattern meant I would never hear from him again (as it frequently has for me), and went out with a boy who will be cataloged at a later date. Except a couple weeks after that he did call again. I saw his band and met some friends, which was confusing because I was obviously brought in for the friends’ approval but then he stopped calling again. Maybe I didn’t pass muster.*** Then Pip randomly showed up at my apartment a month later and we talked for a bit, awkwardly. He remarked on the loudness of my menorah candles but it was really the rattley noise my living room heating vent made that I never wanted to question too deeply.
Except I could never remember his last name beyond it starting with an H and having 3 syllables, so I referred to him as Mr Havisham (see how I did that? How I started calling him Pip here? Remember about the non sequitor?)
A Teaching Moment:
- Forcing a boy you maybe still have a crush on to hang out with you on a Monday night is always a good plan.
- I like picnics.
- Your Iggy Pop live TV Eye album may just get you laid.
- See my footnote re: assholes.
- If a boy hasn’t called in a few weeks and asks what you’ve been up to, tell him you went on a date and watch him try to act like he doesn’t care. It’s funny.
*He had the strange punk intensity of a 23yrold, that would impress a girl a couple years younger than that.
**Pip fits in quite nicely with my theory that sometimes what you need is an asshole. A nice sensitive boy stops calling you, you wonder what you did wrong and why you’ll never ever find anyone and die alone. An asshole stops calling you, you think, yeah, well—he was an asshole. No surprises there.
***I’m kidding, obviously.
7 weeks of staying up all night.
At the garage sale/scene of my maturity with zombie comics, I sold some old Echo and the Bunnyman tapes to a cute, energetic and friendly 20yrold.
I had been hanging around with a group of guys who were in their late 20s, living at home and working the jobs they had started in high school. And they all had the maturity level of it, too. In my head, the logic looked something like this: If a 27yrold acts like a 19yrold, maybe there’s no difference and dating someone 6 years younger won’t be an issue.
It should come as no surprise to pretty much anyone I’ve ever met or who has ever read PoBaL that my head-logic kinda sucks.
20yrold, like most of his fellow townspeople, also assumed that any single childless girl over 20 is looking for a big serious relationship and got scared and kept doing that stupid boy not calling thing. And, finally, I lost the last little bit of patience with that.
We’re still friends, though. A couple months ago, we both got new phones with much easier texting capabilities, and we became texting buddies through that. And for the last couple months in the last town, we lived only 3 blocks apart. We went out for Indian food one night, and as I dropped him off, I could hear his neighbors (a couple of those aforementioned 20somethings who act like 19yrolds) harass him about his “date” and then refer to me as “Myspace Jessy”.
The thing that really got me about 20yrold was that, while he was really the only boy I met in that town who seemed to have true real friendships with girls, the girls he’s friends with seemed kind of…um, toxic.
And I’m not just saying that because I heard high school stories. I rely pretty heavily on my instincts, and I’ve learned at this point to differentiate between “This girl doesn’t seem like someone I can trust completely, who would have my back almost without question” and “Damn those are some ugly shoes.” A lot of these girls, like a lot of girls I met in that town, just aren’t the kind of girl posse I’m looking for. I need to know, for example, that a girl isn’t going to flake out on hanging out with her female friends because a boy suddenly has the night off. I need to know my friends aren’t talking shit behind my back. Aside from Melissa, I really don’t think that kind of girl is in that last town.*
But anyway, early on in the hanging out with 20yrold, we went to his friend’s house to hang out with friend and friend’s girlfriend. I immediately got a weird vibe from friend’s girlfriend. No reason, really; just instinct putting my guard up. She was playing around on a computer, showing us all pictures. Zombie Comics was in a couple of the pictures, and she asked me if I knew him. I played it down and didn’t think anything else of it that night.
But then later it occurred to me that if they were really as good friends as this girl had intimated, she already would have known that I knew him, and how. Whether or not this is a petty, silly thing to do to another girl is kind of a moot point to me.
What bothered me about this encounter, and still kind of gets my goat, is that she did this to 20yrold, supposedly a great friend of hers. It kind of blows my mind that any girl would meet the potential new girl of a shy boy friend and decide to, however subtlely, bring up some other boy who had hooked up with that girl.
So, lessons learned:
*Not, of course, that we don’t talk shit. What I always go back to when I think of friends talking behind each other’s backs was the casual way Tom the xRoommate would describe his friends in unflattering lights, to people who may have only known them through Tom.
I had been hanging around with a group of guys who were in their late 20s, living at home and working the jobs they had started in high school. And they all had the maturity level of it, too. In my head, the logic looked something like this: If a 27yrold acts like a 19yrold, maybe there’s no difference and dating someone 6 years younger won’t be an issue.
It should come as no surprise to pretty much anyone I’ve ever met or who has ever read PoBaL that my head-logic kinda sucks.
20yrold, like most of his fellow townspeople, also assumed that any single childless girl over 20 is looking for a big serious relationship and got scared and kept doing that stupid boy not calling thing. And, finally, I lost the last little bit of patience with that.
We’re still friends, though. A couple months ago, we both got new phones with much easier texting capabilities, and we became texting buddies through that. And for the last couple months in the last town, we lived only 3 blocks apart. We went out for Indian food one night, and as I dropped him off, I could hear his neighbors (a couple of those aforementioned 20somethings who act like 19yrolds) harass him about his “date” and then refer to me as “Myspace Jessy”.
The thing that really got me about 20yrold was that, while he was really the only boy I met in that town who seemed to have true real friendships with girls, the girls he’s friends with seemed kind of…um, toxic.
And I’m not just saying that because I heard high school stories. I rely pretty heavily on my instincts, and I’ve learned at this point to differentiate between “This girl doesn’t seem like someone I can trust completely, who would have my back almost without question” and “Damn those are some ugly shoes.” A lot of these girls, like a lot of girls I met in that town, just aren’t the kind of girl posse I’m looking for. I need to know, for example, that a girl isn’t going to flake out on hanging out with her female friends because a boy suddenly has the night off. I need to know my friends aren’t talking shit behind my back. Aside from Melissa, I really don’t think that kind of girl is in that last town.*
But anyway, early on in the hanging out with 20yrold, we went to his friend’s house to hang out with friend and friend’s girlfriend. I immediately got a weird vibe from friend’s girlfriend. No reason, really; just instinct putting my guard up. She was playing around on a computer, showing us all pictures. Zombie Comics was in a couple of the pictures, and she asked me if I knew him. I played it down and didn’t think anything else of it that night.
But then later it occurred to me that if they were really as good friends as this girl had intimated, she already would have known that I knew him, and how. Whether or not this is a petty, silly thing to do to another girl is kind of a moot point to me.
What bothered me about this encounter, and still kind of gets my goat, is that she did this to 20yrold, supposedly a great friend of hers. It kind of blows my mind that any girl would meet the potential new girl of a shy boy friend and decide to, however subtlely, bring up some other boy who had hooked up with that girl.
So, lessons learned:
- 26/20 is too different.
- Sometimes you need to have a State of the Relationship talk to discuss how all you want is a makeout buddy.
- I really need to buy some Echo cds to replace those tapes.
- I have absolutely no patience for stupid boy not calling.
- As hard as it can be to find a suitable boy, it’s a million times harder to find girl posse members.
*Not, of course, that we don’t talk shit. What I always go back to when I think of friends talking behind each other’s backs was the casual way Tom the xRoommate would describe his friends in unflattering lights, to people who may have only known them through Tom.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Elligible, not too stupid, intelligible, and cute as Cupid.
Melissa and I were discussing yesterday how, now that I’ve moved, I can tell a lot of stories I had avoided due to some vestige of propriety.
Basically, I can now talk shit on a bunch of stupid boys. You know, the ones she refers to as the I’ve Gone Out With Jessy At Least Once Club. Now, I’m not just doing this to be a bitch. Au contraire! I’m doing this to be a funny bitch. And because they’re good stories. And to clear some air, and my head about some things.
But mostly for the mocking. Let’s take a boy a post, shall we? These will be in chronological order from what I thought of as our first date. A lot of these stories overlap. Not because I overlap boys, but because sometimes you meet people at different times, and sometimes, especially in a small, small city, people pop up again. And they’ll all have nicknames. Because I like giving boys nicknames.
***
(A bit of backstory:
When I moved from library school to that last town, I had also just broken up with Andy, who was and still is my longest and really only serious relationship. Then I had a crush I didn’t act on because he was in Louisville and long distance exhausts me; a crush on a brick wall [who is also a dodged bullet]; and I hung out with a few different guys, one or two times each, that I don’t think of as dates because it’s before I realized that there’s no such thing as a platonic male/female friendship in that town,)
***
I met Zombie Comics at a going away party for another boy I had a crush on. As I’m a practical girl, when I’m faced with two cute boys, one who is leaving and one who isn’t going anywhere, I choose to chat up Mr Local.
According to a later entry in this list, however, Zombie Comics was apparently doing me the favor by keeping me company while the boy leaving town “ditched me”.
I call bullshit.
Anyway, Mr Comics was nice; he was funny; he took me to the Mongolian BBQ place. Unlike his fellow townsmen, he was gracious about my awkward, “well, I owe you the next dinner then.”
We had a lot of chemistry, nudge nudge, and a lot of other ham-fisted euphemisms.
He didn’t have a coffee pot. One morning, we went out for breakfast at a greasy spoon that only took cash. We were less than a dollar short. Our waitress chased us out into the parking lot, and I decided that it was a greasy spoon I could live without going into ever again. (Bacon wasn’t that great, anyway.)
We went out 3-4 times. The last time, he seemed distant, claiming he thought he was coming down with something (remember this: it’s a theme throughout this list). Later that week, I checked my myspace and found a message from Zombie Comics saying that “someone special” to him was back in town and, while he wanted to remain friends, we would have to be friends without benefits. Except he used the phrase “naughty bits”.
Unfortunately, the benefits were the part I was interested in.
More unfortunately, Zombie Comics had apparently forgotten or not paid attention the multiple times I mentioned that I only had internet at work.
Needless to say, I was pissed. So pissed, in fact, that I pulled the always mature obvious turn-away when I saw him at a garage sale about a week later. Unfortunately, once I was no longer pissed off and remembered that he was cool, smart, and a lot of other things that were a rarity in that town, Zombie Comics had moved away. With the “someone special”, I believe.
Lessons learned:
Basically, I can now talk shit on a bunch of stupid boys. You know, the ones she refers to as the I’ve Gone Out With Jessy At Least Once Club. Now, I’m not just doing this to be a bitch. Au contraire! I’m doing this to be a funny bitch. And because they’re good stories. And to clear some air, and my head about some things.
But mostly for the mocking. Let’s take a boy a post, shall we? These will be in chronological order from what I thought of as our first date. A lot of these stories overlap. Not because I overlap boys, but because sometimes you meet people at different times, and sometimes, especially in a small, small city, people pop up again. And they’ll all have nicknames. Because I like giving boys nicknames.
***
(A bit of backstory:
When I moved from library school to that last town, I had also just broken up with Andy, who was and still is my longest and really only serious relationship. Then I had a crush I didn’t act on because he was in Louisville and long distance exhausts me; a crush on a brick wall [who is also a dodged bullet]; and I hung out with a few different guys, one or two times each, that I don’t think of as dates because it’s before I realized that there’s no such thing as a platonic male/female friendship in that town,)
***
I met Zombie Comics at a going away party for another boy I had a crush on. As I’m a practical girl, when I’m faced with two cute boys, one who is leaving and one who isn’t going anywhere, I choose to chat up Mr Local.
According to a later entry in this list, however, Zombie Comics was apparently doing me the favor by keeping me company while the boy leaving town “ditched me”.
I call bullshit.
Anyway, Mr Comics was nice; he was funny; he took me to the Mongolian BBQ place. Unlike his fellow townsmen, he was gracious about my awkward, “well, I owe you the next dinner then.”
We had a lot of chemistry, nudge nudge, and a lot of other ham-fisted euphemisms.
He didn’t have a coffee pot. One morning, we went out for breakfast at a greasy spoon that only took cash. We were less than a dollar short. Our waitress chased us out into the parking lot, and I decided that it was a greasy spoon I could live without going into ever again. (Bacon wasn’t that great, anyway.)
We went out 3-4 times. The last time, he seemed distant, claiming he thought he was coming down with something (remember this: it’s a theme throughout this list). Later that week, I checked my myspace and found a message from Zombie Comics saying that “someone special” to him was back in town and, while he wanted to remain friends, we would have to be friends without benefits. Except he used the phrase “naughty bits”.
Unfortunately, the benefits were the part I was interested in.
More unfortunately, Zombie Comics had apparently forgotten or not paid attention the multiple times I mentioned that I only had internet at work.
Needless to say, I was pissed. So pissed, in fact, that I pulled the always mature obvious turn-away when I saw him at a garage sale about a week later. Unfortunately, once I was no longer pissed off and remembered that he was cool, smart, and a lot of other things that were a rarity in that town, Zombie Comics had moved away. With the “someone special”, I believe.
Lessons learned:
- Don't stay over if he doesn't have a coffee pot.
- Don't get too drunk the first time you meet a lot of the townsfolk.
- Don't believe a boy when he says he thinks he's getting sick.
- Don't make out with boys whose creative endeavors revolve around zombies.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Standing in a queue of a school canteen.
Yes folks, the wait is finally over.
Introducing...The PoBaL Literary Crush List!
(oooo, aaaaah.)
Introducing...The PoBaL Literary Crush List!
(oooo, aaaaah.)
- The first crush I can remember having on a character in a book was Peter Pevensie in the Narnia books. He's all responsible and noble and shit, plus, if I ever had a giant evil talking wolf that needed killed, he could totally do it for me. And really, isn't that what we're all looking for in a man?
- Zooey Glass. Sure, he's snarky to his mom, mean to his sister (kind of) during her big crisis of faith or whatever, and was quoted in Ally Sheedy's book of poetry, but how could you resist a guy that looks like "the blue-eyed Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who died in your arms at the roulette table at Monte Carlo"?* And you'd be snarky to your mom, too, if she wouldn't leave the bathroom when you wanted to get dressed.
- Carrying on with my trend of wounded, arrogant, asshole-ish boys who are also loyal, noble, etc., I've got quite the crush on Sirius Black (unlike my Oliver Wood or Weasley twin crushes, it has everything to do with J.K. Rowling and nothing to do with casting directors).
- ...and Bran from Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising series. Totally arrogant, but, as his absent father is King Arthur, kind of understandable. And hot, if I'm allowed to say that about a fictional 13yrold. Which I'm probably totally not. But that's the thing about literary crushes, especially when most of what you read is teenlit. You have a lot of age-inappropriateness.
- Also, sometimes you get the species inappropriateness. I know Foaly, the smartass tech geek in the Artemis Fowl books, is a centaur, but I still crush on him. Insert your own awful "hung like a horse" joke here.
- I also like Ravus the Troll from Holly Black's Valiant, but he's at least human-shaped. Sort of. And there's this great scene where Val thinks he's about to make a magic potion and it's actually hot cocoa. If a boy made me hot cocoa, I think I could overlook the whole green skin and fangs thing.
- After I read Heavy Metal and You, I got a really big crush on Chris Krovatin, the author. That counts for this list because the book kind of smacks of thinly veiled autobiography.
- I can't tell if I have a crush on Nick from Nick and Norah or if I'm crushing on the whole crazy infatuated night the two characters have.
- Jacklyn Moriarty writes some pretty crushable boys. She's very good at the smirky charmers who are actually quite nice boys once you get to know them.
- If you're the sort of girl who can have a crush on a drawing, which I completely and unabashedly am, there are whole genres of manga dedicated just to you. Right now I'm all about Saiyuki. There's a lot of pretty, and a lot of jackassery.
- Speaking of crushes on drawings, Drake from Scooter Girl is totally my boyfriend.
- Because it's just not a crush list without a straightgirlcrush, Dess from the Midnighters series is awesome. She fights monsters with math! And snarks around a lot!
Thursday, August 17, 2006
If you think that this is cruel then you should see what my friends do.
Awhile ago, I got a message through MySpace from a guy who had taken a cursory glance at my profile and thought he liked what he saw. He sent me a message referencing bits of it, including my clothing blog (which boys never get, so really, you don't even have to try to understand. If you have a penis, I'll grant you a pass on that one.) and I don't remember what else. It wasn't particularly offensive, so I did what I usually do in these situations: I went to his profile and nosed around.
It's why it's there, after all.
And you know what? I just wasn't all that impressed with what I saw. Here are some examples (examples may be more recent than the original message, but I'll explain that later):
General Interests: "Music, guitars, cars, guns, monster trucks, bullfights, welding, long walks on the beach at sunset." Like that sad stab at irony in the last item?
The first band he lists is Buckethead. This is not an alphabetical list. Also, and I know it's a disease so many of us struggle with, but can I just say the 20+ band listings where you're determined to prove you haven't locked yourself in some musical genre ghetto have GOT TO GO? Really, 20+ band listings in general. If you're that into music, $10 says I've figured out your favorite bands based on the shirt you're wearing in your picture anyway. The only thing worse is the dreaded "anything but country".
Also, and maybe this is just me, but in my experience, men who list Tori Amos amongst their favorites are not sensitive so much as trying to appear to be sensitive. You know I've no time for that.
Right now, the song on his profile sounds like the music Guy Pierce is lipsyncing to on top of Priscilla in the giant shoe.
I can't tell if this is pretentious, meant to convey a Deep, Poetical Soul, or...um, I had a third thing. Both, maybe?
"independant and foreign films that defy convential Hollywood formulas but aren't so avant garde that they are impossible to watch and understand" God, I hate this crap. Didn't I spend enough time as an undergrad dealing with boys who thought that hating Hollywood across the board made them smarter than their professors? All your heroes worked within Hollywood, bitches. If independent film is so awesome, how come your beloved Kevin Smith keeps making bigger budgeted, crappier movies? If Kubrick's such an independent genius, why are all his movies based on other people's stories, hunh?
Plus, let's all remember that, when I was planning on making movies, I was all about the ones that were "so avant garde that they are impossible to watch and understand".
His book list is just boring. I don't want to get into a whole discussion about by-the-numbers interests, what-you-like vs what-you're-like and all that, but c'mon: "The Golden Ratio by Mario Livio, God's Equation, The Mystery of the Aleph, Chance, Foucoult's Pendulum all by Amir Aczel, Hemingway, Nietzsche, Vonnegut, Sylvia Plath, Poe, Shakespeare, some mind candy but not much, anything that doesn't suck." I mean, those books just aren't fun. I respect a Plath reader much more if they admit to sneaking Family Circus everyday.
Which is why, when I'm about to leave the library, I check and see what my pretention-to-trash ratio is. If the name Robin Wood is on anything that isn't some Buffy dvds, I head over to the VC Andrews section. If I've wiped out their section of 20-something-indie-rocker-autobiographical graphic novels, I remind myself to scan the new picure books. It's about balance, people.
Because if you're not balanced, and you send a cute girl a message on MySpace, this may be what happens to you:
And then, suddenly, I think I remember who this is from. I think he did that "you should check out my profile for something that's vaguely related to yours" bit before. Either that, or it's a common way to get my attention, maybe.
My response: "So you're saying it's not a girl's own business who she talks to? Ass."
Yeah, we could probably blame Tiff's presence, a belly full of pad thai, and 90 minutes of Strangers With Candy for that one.
And then he responds to that. Which, to me, is a pretty ballsy and arrogant move. And not in a good way.
And I have to say, this is the big thing. This bit about him not saying it. Explicitly, no, he didn't. But when you send another message demanding an explanation as to why you got no response, underlying that message is the assumption that it is your call whether or not someone responds, not the actual person doing the responding.
So, in conclusion, don't be a jerk. And lighten the hell up. No one impresses people with senses of humor by not showing theirs.
***
So, why am I picking on this poor guy? Because this is what gets me about the online-meeting-people (for whatever) racket. I don't have a problem with being messaged; I have a problem with the implicit assumption that I am welcome to their message and will respond. I put up a fun, sassy picture of myself, and suddenly I'm expected to just take men asking for everything from "friendship" to a one night stand to a serious relationship without calling their bluff.
And I do so enjoy a good bluff-calling.
It's why it's there, after all.
And you know what? I just wasn't all that impressed with what I saw. Here are some examples (examples may be more recent than the original message, but I'll explain that later):
General Interests: "Music, guitars, cars, guns, monster trucks, bullfights, welding, long walks on the beach at sunset." Like that sad stab at irony in the last item?
The first band he lists is Buckethead. This is not an alphabetical list. Also, and I know it's a disease so many of us struggle with, but can I just say the 20+ band listings where you're determined to prove you haven't locked yourself in some musical genre ghetto have GOT TO GO? Really, 20+ band listings in general. If you're that into music, $10 says I've figured out your favorite bands based on the shirt you're wearing in your picture anyway. The only thing worse is the dreaded "anything but country".
Also, and maybe this is just me, but in my experience, men who list Tori Amos amongst their favorites are not sensitive so much as trying to appear to be sensitive. You know I've no time for that.
Right now, the song on his profile sounds like the music Guy Pierce is lipsyncing to on top of Priscilla in the giant shoe.
I can't tell if this is pretentious, meant to convey a Deep, Poetical Soul, or...um, I had a third thing. Both, maybe?
"independant and foreign films that defy convential Hollywood formulas but aren't so avant garde that they are impossible to watch and understand" God, I hate this crap. Didn't I spend enough time as an undergrad dealing with boys who thought that hating Hollywood across the board made them smarter than their professors? All your heroes worked within Hollywood, bitches. If independent film is so awesome, how come your beloved Kevin Smith keeps making bigger budgeted, crappier movies? If Kubrick's such an independent genius, why are all his movies based on other people's stories, hunh?
Plus, let's all remember that, when I was planning on making movies, I was all about the ones that were "so avant garde that they are impossible to watch and understand".
His book list is just boring. I don't want to get into a whole discussion about by-the-numbers interests, what-you-like vs what-you're-like and all that, but c'mon: "The Golden Ratio by Mario Livio, God's Equation, The Mystery of the Aleph, Chance, Foucoult's Pendulum all by Amir Aczel, Hemingway, Nietzsche, Vonnegut, Sylvia Plath, Poe, Shakespeare, some mind candy but not much, anything that doesn't suck." I mean, those books just aren't fun. I respect a Plath reader much more if they admit to sneaking Family Circus everyday.
Which is why, when I'm about to leave the library, I check and see what my pretention-to-trash ratio is. If the name Robin Wood is on anything that isn't some Buffy dvds, I head over to the VC Andrews section. If I've wiped out their section of 20-something-indie-rocker-autobiographical graphic novels, I remind myself to scan the new picure books. It's about balance, people.
Because if you're not balanced, and you send a cute girl a message on MySpace, this may be what happens to you:
Hi,(emphasis mine; ellipses are his)
My name is (name deleted for purposes of turning this into a universal rant). I emailed you a while back and never received a response so I am emailing again out of curiousity. I was wondering what I did wrong. I didn't ask for naked pics, I wrote an email relevant to your profile, I commented on your wardrobe blogs (I even used the word "banal" which I had to look up to ensure I was using it in the proper context) etc etc etc.
I have real books listed in my profile...not Stephen King or romance novel....Sylvia Plath for Christ's sake...
anyway...this is mostly tongue in cheek but I am curious about the lack of response. You can tell me I am an old, ugly bastard and I would understand.
PS...You have a pic of you wearing a viking helmet....check out my pics and my headgear for fireworks safety.
And then, suddenly, I think I remember who this is from. I think he did that "you should check out my profile for something that's vaguely related to yours" bit before. Either that, or it's a common way to get my attention, maybe.
My response: "So you're saying it's not a girl's own business who she talks to? Ass."
Yeah, we could probably blame Tiff's presence, a belly full of pad thai, and 90 minutes of Strangers With Candy for that one.
And then he responds to that. Which, to me, is a pretty ballsy and arrogant move. And not in a good way.
I have read my post to you 11 times looking for where I said "it's not a girl's own business who she talks to" with no success.Clearly, "ass" is a homonym: sounds the same, looks the same, means different things. Context, baby. Context.
...To you, I am an ass (It didn't go unnoticed that one of your General Interests was "Making an ass out of myself).
And I have to say, this is the big thing. This bit about him not saying it. Explicitly, no, he didn't. But when you send another message demanding an explanation as to why you got no response, underlying that message is the assumption that it is your call whether or not someone responds, not the actual person doing the responding.
So, in conclusion, don't be a jerk. And lighten the hell up. No one impresses people with senses of humor by not showing theirs.
***
So, why am I picking on this poor guy? Because this is what gets me about the online-meeting-people (for whatever) racket. I don't have a problem with being messaged; I have a problem with the implicit assumption that I am welcome to their message and will respond. I put up a fun, sassy picture of myself, and suddenly I'm expected to just take men asking for everything from "friendship" to a one night stand to a serious relationship without calling their bluff.
And I do so enjoy a good bluff-calling.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
by way of explanation...
This should clear up a few questions. You know, like when Wacky Neighbor looked at me and asked, "Do you date?"
I do so love the blockquote:
This is from Mimi Smartypants. I read it in The World According to Mimi Smartypants, which I couldn't really get through (sorry, Tiff), but the accuracy of this bit caught my eye.
If you're my friend and I've ever walked right damn past you, the above quote is why. Sorry.
I do so love the blockquote:
There is a skill that most of us city mice have. I call it the Urban Eye Slide. This is the ability to scope out one's surroundings quickly but without actually seeming to look at anything at all. This allows you to find the open seat on a crowded train, to move to the other side of the sidewalk well in advance of people handing out flyers or crappy free newspapers, or to sort of let your eyes skip over the spare-changing homeless guy on the corner, while pasting what you hope is a small wistful sympathetic smile on your face, and three steps past him you will have pangs of conscience about this but sometimes you are just not in the mood. There are downsides to the Urban Eye Slide as well. I have stood on El platforms right next to people I actually know and not seen them.
This is from Mimi Smartypants. I read it in The World According to Mimi Smartypants, which I couldn't really get through (sorry, Tiff), but the accuracy of this bit caught my eye.
If you're my friend and I've ever walked right damn past you, the above quote is why. Sorry.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Advice for the Recently Graduated
(If I ever am called on to give a speech at a graduation, this may just be it.)
Many recent graduates are not just leaving college; they're also leaving town. They're starting new jobs in new towns where they don't know anyone. Moving like that is scary.
I'm here to give everyone in that boat a little bit of advice:
Don't get drunk until you've met everyone in town.
One of the best ways to meet new people when you move to a new town is through community-type internet sites, like Friendster or MySpace. Do a zip code search, and then throw yourself on the mercy of a few select locals. Try not to pick the stalky ones. If you have pizza delivered and then receive an email the next day from the delivery boy, you've found one of the stalky ones.
Eventually, one of these locals (let's call them Local A) will invite you out to his going-away party, for example. You can meet other locals there.
Don't get drunk until you've met everyone in town.
If you get drunk at this event before you've met everyone in town, you will stop paying attention to the new people that you meet. These people may get offended when you "meet" them at a later date.
You may, in fact, wind up on a date with one of them a year later, set up by their xgirlfriend.
He will probably not find the whole "being set up by an x" thing nearly as funny as you do.
He may also refer to the going away party as the occasion when Local A dumped you on a friend of his. Because you didn't heed my advice, you will be too mortified by how goddam drunk you were on that one night over a year ago to bring up any of the following points:
And then he won't walk you to your car, despite it being after dark and your car being down a side street.
You'll go see a movie with this guy and reach unknown levels of jackassery yourself, when you realize you'd rather talk and talk about how you like to be quiet after enjoying a movie than witness a repeat of when your xboyfriend ruined The Village for you with a ScoobyDoo crack.
And then he'll drop you off and not wait to make sure you get inside your apartment before speeding off. (Side bit of advice: creepy single-girl-who-lives-alone-attackers can wait next to poorly lit doorways. Side bit of advice 2: don't ever forget your keys on a date, just in case you're out with a drop off and drive off type.)
Two months later, you'll be out with a friend enjoying some half-price pizza. You try to back away from her and her would-be gentleman caller towards a table of your friends. Said table includes your former date. You make eye contact, smile, and begin to say hello. He picks up his beer and hides behind a pillar. This forces you to go and join your friend and her gentleman caller, who then tries to get rid of you by offering to buy you a beer if you can find out his friends' middle names, which he already knows.
And this, my friends, is why you don't get drunk until you've met everyone in town.
Also, don't ever give a mouse a cookie. I hear it starts off a bad chain of events.
*This is a graduation speech, after all. I gotta quote Frost.
Many recent graduates are not just leaving college; they're also leaving town. They're starting new jobs in new towns where they don't know anyone. Moving like that is scary.
I'm here to give everyone in that boat a little bit of advice:
Don't get drunk until you've met everyone in town.
One of the best ways to meet new people when you move to a new town is through community-type internet sites, like Friendster or MySpace. Do a zip code search, and then throw yourself on the mercy of a few select locals. Try not to pick the stalky ones. If you have pizza delivered and then receive an email the next day from the delivery boy, you've found one of the stalky ones.
Eventually, one of these locals (let's call them Local A) will invite you out to his going-away party, for example. You can meet other locals there.
Don't get drunk until you've met everyone in town.
If you get drunk at this event before you've met everyone in town, you will stop paying attention to the new people that you meet. These people may get offended when you "meet" them at a later date.
You may, in fact, wind up on a date with one of them a year later, set up by their xgirlfriend.
He will probably not find the whole "being set up by an x" thing nearly as funny as you do.
He may also refer to the going away party as the occasion when Local A dumped you on a friend of his. Because you didn't heed my advice, you will be too mortified by how goddam drunk you were on that one night over a year ago to bring up any of the following points:
- Two roads diverge in a wood.* One has a cute boy who is leaving for a city you hate. The other has a cute boy who is not leaving for any city, hated by you or otherwise. Who are you going to talk to?
- After a few successfully fun dates, this friend of your current date's "let's be friends"-ed you via a MySpace message.
- And is now kind of a huge joke amongst you and your friends.
- Additionally, at one's goodbye party, one normally works the crowd, saying goodbye to them.
- Is it just you, or does your date hold some kind of animosity towards Local A?
- Why are you still bothered by this several months later, anyway?
And then he won't walk you to your car, despite it being after dark and your car being down a side street.
You'll go see a movie with this guy and reach unknown levels of jackassery yourself, when you realize you'd rather talk and talk about how you like to be quiet after enjoying a movie than witness a repeat of when your xboyfriend ruined The Village for you with a ScoobyDoo crack.
And then he'll drop you off and not wait to make sure you get inside your apartment before speeding off. (Side bit of advice: creepy single-girl-who-lives-alone-attackers can wait next to poorly lit doorways. Side bit of advice 2: don't ever forget your keys on a date, just in case you're out with a drop off and drive off type.)
Two months later, you'll be out with a friend enjoying some half-price pizza. You try to back away from her and her would-be gentleman caller towards a table of your friends. Said table includes your former date. You make eye contact, smile, and begin to say hello. He picks up his beer and hides behind a pillar. This forces you to go and join your friend and her gentleman caller, who then tries to get rid of you by offering to buy you a beer if you can find out his friends' middle names, which he already knows.
And this, my friends, is why you don't get drunk until you've met everyone in town.
Also, don't ever give a mouse a cookie. I hear it starts off a bad chain of events.
*This is a graduation speech, after all. I gotta quote Frost.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
She’s got an Out Tray full of guys.
I'm taking applications for this summer's crush object.
Ideally, applicants will be:
Previous crush objects may apply, but preference will be given to new applicants.
There is a dress code. (No Beards, No Shorts, No Coldplay.)
Submit applications electronically or in person.
Management reserves the right to mock mercilessly any and all applicants.
Ideally, applicants will be:
- straight males
- who live somewhat close to me
- and aren't miserable bastards.
Previous crush objects may apply, but preference will be given to new applicants.
There is a dress code. (No Beards, No Shorts, No Coldplay.)
Submit applications electronically or in person.
Management reserves the right to mock mercilessly any and all applicants.
Monday, February 20, 2006
and the princess there is me
I got totally goldilocksed Saturday night.
Yes, I just made that up. What are you, one of my 12yrold patrons' parents? Back to the story...
Over here, there's the boy who thought I wanted some Big Serious Relationship, like the kind where everything else in your life falls to the wayside. He stopped calling because this terrified him.
He never asked if this was actually what I was after.
Over there, there's the boy who thought I was after a more casual relationship than he was, that we didn't have enough of a connection (his words) for something more serious. He told me this late last Saturday night, after we had been hanging out for several hours.
He never asked me what I was after, either.
That's when I decided to stop pretending I don't hate "I Wanna Dance with Somebody"*, and go home.
Probably didn't help either that I had moved past sober pretending no one's watching, hit very slightly drunk hyper-awareness, and wasn't going to make it back around to not giving a shit anytime soon.
*Look, I'm sorry. I fucking hate this song. I can't help it; I can't dance to it.
***
I suppose there's a level where I'm at least satisfied by the fact that I got a speech from this one. He didn't just fall off the face of the earth, or move somewhere with no phones. I found out he was interested in me in a timely fashion, not at least a year later.
I didn't hear that maybe there was a chance he might ask me out from a mutual friend, who was told this during the course of a conversation about how I never date, only to never hear anything about it again.* Or by his roommate, who followed it up with, He's dating this psycho girl now.
*That actually happened, by the way. Want to feel even worse about boys not liking you? Find out that 3 of your most attractive male friends were discussing exactly why that was.
Yes, I just made that up. What are you, one of my 12yrold patrons' parents? Back to the story...
Over here, there's the boy who thought I wanted some Big Serious Relationship, like the kind where everything else in your life falls to the wayside. He stopped calling because this terrified him.
He never asked if this was actually what I was after.
Over there, there's the boy who thought I was after a more casual relationship than he was, that we didn't have enough of a connection (his words) for something more serious. He told me this late last Saturday night, after we had been hanging out for several hours.
He never asked me what I was after, either.
That's when I decided to stop pretending I don't hate "I Wanna Dance with Somebody"*, and go home.
Probably didn't help either that I had moved past sober pretending no one's watching, hit very slightly drunk hyper-awareness, and wasn't going to make it back around to not giving a shit anytime soon.
*Look, I'm sorry. I fucking hate this song. I can't help it; I can't dance to it.
***
I suppose there's a level where I'm at least satisfied by the fact that I got a speech from this one. He didn't just fall off the face of the earth, or move somewhere with no phones. I found out he was interested in me in a timely fashion, not at least a year later.
I didn't hear that maybe there was a chance he might ask me out from a mutual friend, who was told this during the course of a conversation about how I never date, only to never hear anything about it again.* Or by his roommate, who followed it up with, He's dating this psycho girl now.
*That actually happened, by the way. Want to feel even worse about boys not liking you? Find out that 3 of your most attractive male friends were discussing exactly why that was.
Monday, February 06, 2006
b/c he's such a successful bachelor.
This past Friday I had the day off. I was lounging about on my couch, trying to pretend I didn't have to wash just about every item of clothing I own, when there was a knock on my door.
When there's someone at my door and I'm not expecting someone (and it's too early for Billy, everyone's favorite Wacky Neighbor), I usually wait a bit to answer. My next-door neighbors get quite a few people knocking at all hours, and frequently they accidentally knock on my door.
--What? This isn't shifty at all, and I don't associate it with the shoes hanging from the phone line on our corner in the slightest. Nothing unseemly is going on on my block. Nothing at all. (This has been a production of Sarcasm Theater, in association with Denial Productions)--
Except I'm also anxiously awaiting my food-themed crafts swap package, so I went downstairs, hoping it would be my friendly neighborhood postman.
No luck: it's my new maintenance guy, looking for access to the roof. New maintenance guy (part of new landlord--my building was bought a couple months ago) is probably my age, seems like a nice guy. He apologized for bothering me, as it's my next-door neighbors who have been complaining about a leak. Then he tells me about how he didn't want to bother them, because he went up there and one of them was asleep in a towel and a tshirt or something. Actually, over the course of a maybe 15 minute visit, he brings this up several times.
Since I've been in the company of landlords who interrupt morning sex to show my unsuspecting friend an apartment before, I was nonplussed. Also, sounds to me like she was pretty covered up, if asleep/dead to the world. Please see above Sarcasm/Denial joint interlude.
So he looks around in my closets, trying to find roof access. The furnace kicks on during his visit, so I have to explain, yes, that noise has something to do with the heat and, no, I don't know what it is (other than it not being Chanukah candles, as a different surprise visitor thought). Legs and Johnny love up on him a bit.
As new maintenance guy is leaving, he turns and asks if I ever go to HHs.
Hmmm, let me think, I live 4 blocks away, it's the cheap bar in town with the least irritating juke box, I live 4 blocks away...
So I say yes, kind of trying to downplay my frequency of HH visits. Then he tells me that he thinks his buddy was checking me out once. Adds, "from across the bar." No mention of when this happened, buddy's name or distinguishing characteristics, anything.
So, normal people: how should I have reacted to this, aside from turning it into a funny story?
***
A dog just came into the library and threw up on the floor.
***
Oh, and...Go Steelers! Woo!
Anyone else feeling the Yinzer Diaspora this morning?
When there's someone at my door and I'm not expecting someone (and it's too early for Billy, everyone's favorite Wacky Neighbor), I usually wait a bit to answer. My next-door neighbors get quite a few people knocking at all hours, and frequently they accidentally knock on my door.
--What? This isn't shifty at all, and I don't associate it with the shoes hanging from the phone line on our corner in the slightest. Nothing unseemly is going on on my block. Nothing at all. (This has been a production of Sarcasm Theater, in association with Denial Productions)--
Except I'm also anxiously awaiting my food-themed crafts swap package, so I went downstairs, hoping it would be my friendly neighborhood postman.
No luck: it's my new maintenance guy, looking for access to the roof. New maintenance guy (part of new landlord--my building was bought a couple months ago) is probably my age, seems like a nice guy. He apologized for bothering me, as it's my next-door neighbors who have been complaining about a leak. Then he tells me about how he didn't want to bother them, because he went up there and one of them was asleep in a towel and a tshirt or something. Actually, over the course of a maybe 15 minute visit, he brings this up several times.
Since I've been in the company of landlords who interrupt morning sex to show my unsuspecting friend an apartment before, I was nonplussed. Also, sounds to me like she was pretty covered up, if asleep/dead to the world. Please see above Sarcasm/Denial joint interlude.
So he looks around in my closets, trying to find roof access. The furnace kicks on during his visit, so I have to explain, yes, that noise has something to do with the heat and, no, I don't know what it is (other than it not being Chanukah candles, as a different surprise visitor thought). Legs and Johnny love up on him a bit.
As new maintenance guy is leaving, he turns and asks if I ever go to HHs.
Hmmm, let me think, I live 4 blocks away, it's the cheap bar in town with the least irritating juke box, I live 4 blocks away...
So I say yes, kind of trying to downplay my frequency of HH visits. Then he tells me that he thinks his buddy was checking me out once. Adds, "from across the bar." No mention of when this happened, buddy's name or distinguishing characteristics, anything.
So, normal people: how should I have reacted to this, aside from turning it into a funny story?
***
A dog just came into the library and threw up on the floor.
***
Oh, and...Go Steelers! Woo!
Anyone else feeling the Yinzer Diaspora this morning?
Friday, January 06, 2006
and we'll take a cup o kindness yet
Do people make New Year's resolutions because they want to become better people, or because they think resolutions make them seem like they are becoming better people?
I got a call from my xboyfriend last night. This guy. Who I haven't spoken to, incidentally, since that conversation. He called because, in his words, his New Year's resolution was to "have a better relationship with [me]."
!!!
Have all the girls he's dated got (gotten?) these calls? Is this some sort of "What does it all mean?" thing? (
)I kind of hope it wasn't just me; seems less weird that way.
Ever notice how, sometimes, Mr SensitivePonytailMan-ness and plain good sense are at opposite ends of the room? Or, as the case may be, the phone?
A Coincidence?
So today, while I was making a big gluey mess (my favorite kind) and getting all giddy about March 9, I decided to read Pitchfork. Because "paying more attention to music" is my New Year's resolution. (Shut up, you: it's the non-secret one.)
There's a review of the new Strokes album.
--Of course, if you're anything like me, your reaction to this was, "The Strokes have a new album? Why?"--
Now, I just think the timing of this is funny, if it is in fact a coincidence, because, while Andy and I rarely fought, argued, or debated (there are several reasons for this, some less functional than others), we used to bicker about The Strokes all the damn time.
Boring, overrated, and way too clean, I'd say.
Not so! Seen them live, he'd counter.
Am I allowed to read his calling me as the ultimate acknowledgement that, deep down, he's always known how right I was about Casablancas & Co.?
I got a call from my xboyfriend last night. This guy. Who I haven't spoken to, incidentally, since that conversation. He called because, in his words, his New Year's resolution was to "have a better relationship with [me]."
!!!
Have all the girls he's dated got (gotten?) these calls? Is this some sort of "What does it all mean?" thing? (
)I kind of hope it wasn't just me; seems less weird that way.Ever notice how, sometimes, Mr SensitivePonytailMan-ness and plain good sense are at opposite ends of the room? Or, as the case may be, the phone?
A Coincidence?
So today, while I was making a big gluey mess (my favorite kind) and getting all giddy about March 9, I decided to read Pitchfork. Because "paying more attention to music" is my New Year's resolution. (Shut up, you: it's the non-secret one.)
There's a review of the new Strokes album.
--Of course, if you're anything like me, your reaction to this was, "The Strokes have a new album? Why?"--
Now, I just think the timing of this is funny, if it is in fact a coincidence, because, while Andy and I rarely fought, argued, or debated (there are several reasons for this, some less functional than others), we used to bicker about The Strokes all the damn time.
Boring, overrated, and way too clean, I'd say.
Not so! Seen them live, he'd counter.
Am I allowed to read his calling me as the ultimate acknowledgement that, deep down, he's always known how right I was about Casablancas & Co.?
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
and I left a bunch of fencing stuff on the subway.
It's only January 3 and I already kinda hate 2006. Although I suspect at least some of that might be girl-parts-related.
First of all: boyness. There's a hell of a lot I could say, but won't because, deep down, I know how ridiculous it all is. Suffice to say, everytime I have a crush, I start assuming it's going to go this way: thinking things are fine, nothing more-than-friends happening, falling off the face of the earth. Running into him several weeks later with an ugly coat and/or a normal girl. Or rumors that he's gay. Or both.
Why do I think this? How many past examples are you looking for?
And then there's the other one. Who randomly showed up at my house last Thursday after no contact for about a month and a half. Who called last night while I was on the phone with my mom and didn't leave a message.
Leading to this sentence, "Well, that's really all I wanted from him, too, back when there was less random contact. I was just trying to put it more delicately."
Why I had chosen that moment to be delicate (not one of my strong points) to my mom (normally not necessary), I'm not exactly sure.
There's more I could say about that mess, too, but I'm feeling less mean right now, so I'll avoid the overtly bitchy for once.
Bitch the Second: I fucking hate the work-side catalog here. Search results are displayed IN THE ORDER WE BOUGHT THE ITEM. Not alphabetically; not in the order they were published; not in the order we originally got the item in cases of replacement copies. So a series, in our catalog, could potentially show up like this:
6, 5, 1, 2, 3, 1pbk, 26, 6replacement, 25, 24...
This is also assuming that all of the items in a series are in fact linked under that series title.
I also hate copy cataloging, or at least a ridiculous amount of reliance on it. Half of our Spiderwick Chronicles are shelved under Black. The rest are under DiTerlizzi.
We also still have an Alternative section of cds. Some REM is there and some is in Rock. Rock is the only large section of cds without any kind of alphabetizing, even the most basic.
And don't even get me started on 741.5, which is, as we all know, the devil.
--aw, reader's advisory always makes me feel better. And over IM, so all cutting edge and shit, too.--
Bitch the third: I fucking hate the Olympics. I hate the winter Olympics more than the summer Olympics, and this is one of those years. I'm sure I will bitch in a more timely manner about this when they actually start.
Look, even the internet thinks I need to shut the fuck up:
First of all: boyness. There's a hell of a lot I could say, but won't because, deep down, I know how ridiculous it all is. Suffice to say, everytime I have a crush, I start assuming it's going to go this way: thinking things are fine, nothing more-than-friends happening, falling off the face of the earth. Running into him several weeks later with an ugly coat and/or a normal girl. Or rumors that he's gay. Or both.
Why do I think this? How many past examples are you looking for?
And then there's the other one. Who randomly showed up at my house last Thursday after no contact for about a month and a half. Who called last night while I was on the phone with my mom and didn't leave a message.
Leading to this sentence, "Well, that's really all I wanted from him, too, back when there was less random contact. I was just trying to put it more delicately."
Why I had chosen that moment to be delicate (not one of my strong points) to my mom (normally not necessary), I'm not exactly sure.
There's more I could say about that mess, too, but I'm feeling less mean right now, so I'll avoid the overtly bitchy for once.
Bitch the Second: I fucking hate the work-side catalog here. Search results are displayed IN THE ORDER WE BOUGHT THE ITEM. Not alphabetically; not in the order they were published; not in the order we originally got the item in cases of replacement copies. So a series, in our catalog, could potentially show up like this:
6, 5, 1, 2, 3, 1pbk, 26, 6replacement, 25, 24...
This is also assuming that all of the items in a series are in fact linked under that series title.
I also hate copy cataloging, or at least a ridiculous amount of reliance on it. Half of our Spiderwick Chronicles are shelved under Black. The rest are under DiTerlizzi.
We also still have an Alternative section of cds. Some REM is there and some is in Rock. Rock is the only large section of cds without any kind of alphabetizing, even the most basic.
And don't even get me started on 741.5, which is, as we all know, the devil.
--aw, reader's advisory always makes me feel better. And over IM, so all cutting edge and shit, too.--
Bitch the third: I fucking hate the Olympics. I hate the winter Olympics more than the summer Olympics, and this is one of those years. I'm sure I will bitch in a more timely manner about this when they actually start.
Look, even the internet thinks I need to shut the fuck up:
You woke up this morning with the Monday morning blues -- and it's not even Monday. Doesn't matter, either; it definitely won't last. In fact, if you can get yourself up and around, you'll be surprised to find that you'll actually enjoy your day -- a whole lot. Remember, you're in charge of your day -- and, more importantly your evening. And don't you have some plans to look forward to? Now pick up your bottom lip before you trip over it.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
I actually have standards. Who knew?
Some guidelines, theories, and equations.
If person A has a steady work schedule, an apartment, a small enough social life that there's really only 3 places they can usually be found, and a cell phone and person B has a work schedule that changes from week to week, couch surfiness, and an answering machine that still uses the robot voice, who calls who?
I realized last week that I've taken the Eddie Izzard approach to booktalking. I've got a few notes, and I ramble, and it's funny. Sometimes. I hope.
And I wear a lot of makeup, except I don't think I look like an uglier, older Pink in it. Which is a shame, because Izzard's not a bad-looking guy, 'til he gets all Glamour Shotsed.
Not to say he shouldn't wear makeup at all. Just not like in those pictures from that Bust article awhile back.
As soon as I buy a new box of condoms, my reason for needing 'em seems to fall of the face of the earth. Leading to this equation...
2 weeks + nothing = invented closure.
If an informal survey (OK, looking at people's MySpace profiles) turns up more married hipster and punkish mid20s kids than single ones in an area, does that make a 26 year old a spinster, or just someone who should start thinking about relocation?
(Don't worry--I'm still thinking that relocation is a few years off. But people should start working to get their local teen librarians fired now. Public libraries have a lot of red tape.)
(7 balls of Lamb's Pride bulky x $7) + $4.95 flat shipping + fun times spent knitting Skully > at least $50 for a cute oversized warm sweater + the annoyance of trying to find such a sweater + shipping and handling
Greater in terms of the better idea, not greater in terms of which is the bigger investment for less.
ETA: January.
Look, if you compliment me and then reassure me of your sobriety, somehow it makes it less of a compliment. Also, kinda creepy.
Scratch that. Really creepy.
The number of sexy bunny-costumed girls in a room is indirectly proportional to the number of minutes I spend in that room.
If person A has a steady work schedule, an apartment, a small enough social life that there's really only 3 places they can usually be found, and a cell phone and person B has a work schedule that changes from week to week, couch surfiness, and an answering machine that still uses the robot voice, who calls who?
I realized last week that I've taken the Eddie Izzard approach to booktalking. I've got a few notes, and I ramble, and it's funny. Sometimes. I hope.
And I wear a lot of makeup, except I don't think I look like an uglier, older Pink in it. Which is a shame, because Izzard's not a bad-looking guy, 'til he gets all Glamour Shotsed.
Not to say he shouldn't wear makeup at all. Just not like in those pictures from that Bust article awhile back.
As soon as I buy a new box of condoms, my reason for needing 'em seems to fall of the face of the earth. Leading to this equation...
2 weeks + nothing = invented closure.
If an informal survey (OK, looking at people's MySpace profiles) turns up more married hipster and punkish mid20s kids than single ones in an area, does that make a 26 year old a spinster, or just someone who should start thinking about relocation?
(Don't worry--I'm still thinking that relocation is a few years off. But people should start working to get their local teen librarians fired now. Public libraries have a lot of red tape.)
(7 balls of Lamb's Pride bulky x $7) + $4.95 flat shipping + fun times spent knitting Skully > at least $50 for a cute oversized warm sweater + the annoyance of trying to find such a sweater + shipping and handling
Greater in terms of the better idea, not greater in terms of which is the bigger investment for less.
ETA: January.
Look, if you compliment me and then reassure me of your sobriety, somehow it makes it less of a compliment. Also, kinda creepy.
Scratch that. Really creepy.
The number of sexy bunny-costumed girls in a room is indirectly proportional to the number of minutes I spend in that room.
Monday, October 24, 2005
S-H-O-P-P-I-N-G, we're shopping
I broke down and bought a box of condoms I'd actually use before I figured out what to do with box A.
Which is why I found myself in the local Walmart the other night with a open, yet full box of non-spermicidal condoms with gluestick all over the opening.
This would be after the realization that I'd have to pay postage to send the box to the company and declare my dissatisfaction.
Which is why I found myself in my office, furtively gluesticking the top of an open, yet full box of condoms, hoping to god no one would come in and see what I was doing.
Brian used to tell all these stories about what walmarts would take back, so I figured this would be a cinch. Except, here's a word of advice: if you're gluesticking a box of condoms, don't use the purple Colorations brand, 'cause it just plain won't stick.
And I was planning to use that store credit to buy catfood, too.
There go my chances at this year's Spinsterlympics, I guess.
Which is why I found myself in the local Walmart the other night with a open, yet full box of non-spermicidal condoms with gluestick all over the opening.
This would be after the realization that I'd have to pay postage to send the box to the company and declare my dissatisfaction.
Which is why I found myself in my office, furtively gluesticking the top of an open, yet full box of condoms, hoping to god no one would come in and see what I was doing.
Brian used to tell all these stories about what walmarts would take back, so I figured this would be a cinch. Except, here's a word of advice: if you're gluesticking a box of condoms, don't use the purple Colorations brand, 'cause it just plain won't stick.
And I was planning to use that store credit to buy catfood, too.
There go my chances at this year's Spinsterlympics, I guess.
Monday, October 17, 2005
I keep taking everything to be a sign.
12:30 AM or so, Saturday night:
Why? Why, why, WHY did I do this!?
Fucking Cameron Crowe. Like Campbell Scott in Singles and Lloyd Dobler aren't enough, now you and your weird movie have me calling my xboyfriend, in a weekend where I was feeling strange and aloof and sort of homesick anyway.
The last time I saw Andy was almost exactly a year ago, and a strange conversation indeed. There have been tiny, short emails since then.
Don't get me wrong. We didn't have the World's Worst Conversation or anything, or even a particularly awkward one, I don't think. Except, you know, I no longer have the strong lovey-dovey feelings, but the same irritants and the same reactions are still around. There were times when I really regretted my call, especially since he hadn't even seen the damn movie. And closure a year later may be nice for some, but sometimes if you open things up to close them again, you wonder why you needed to in the first place.
***
And now, a little something about condoms.
Did you know that they still bother making them without spermicide? I didn't. So I guess I need to buy another box, unless someone would like to do some trading. I really don't want to shell out more $$, plus, I hate the thought of wasting a whole box. 'Cause I like that XTra No Baby Sorta-Guarantee.
This morning, I was scrutinizing the box (because, yeah, on the bottom, they're going to be like, Ha ha! We're the right ones, after all. Because I've bought Nelson condoms), I noticed that they have a satisfaction guarantee. And I think, Hey! I'm unsatisfied!
But does being stupid and not reading the box b/c you've already spotted one patron and don't want to press your luck really count as a lack of satisfaction, or is it just stupidity?
Please use the comments field to come up with other ways in which one could be unsatisfied with a box of condoms, so I can get a refund and not waste a box. The best one gets a completely uncondom-related prize. Maybe a hat.
Have you seen Elizabethtown yet? I just saw it, um, and I wanted to talk to you about it. Uh, you probably didn't expect me to call; you can call back if you want, but it's OK if you don't. I just wanted to know what you thought of the movie. My number's changed: it's 8--no, it's 555-867-5309. Um, I'll be around tomorrow night.
Why? Why, why, WHY did I do this!?
Fucking Cameron Crowe. Like Campbell Scott in Singles and Lloyd Dobler aren't enough, now you and your weird movie have me calling my xboyfriend, in a weekend where I was feeling strange and aloof and sort of homesick anyway.
The last time I saw Andy was almost exactly a year ago, and a strange conversation indeed. There have been tiny, short emails since then.
Don't get me wrong. We didn't have the World's Worst Conversation or anything, or even a particularly awkward one, I don't think. Except, you know, I no longer have the strong lovey-dovey feelings, but the same irritants and the same reactions are still around. There were times when I really regretted my call, especially since he hadn't even seen the damn movie. And closure a year later may be nice for some, but sometimes if you open things up to close them again, you wonder why you needed to in the first place.
***
And now, a little something about condoms.
Did you know that they still bother making them without spermicide? I didn't. So I guess I need to buy another box, unless someone would like to do some trading. I really don't want to shell out more $$, plus, I hate the thought of wasting a whole box. 'Cause I like that XTra No Baby Sorta-Guarantee.
This morning, I was scrutinizing the box (because, yeah, on the bottom, they're going to be like, Ha ha! We're the right ones, after all. Because I've bought Nelson condoms), I noticed that they have a satisfaction guarantee. And I think, Hey! I'm unsatisfied!
But does being stupid and not reading the box b/c you've already spotted one patron and don't want to press your luck really count as a lack of satisfaction, or is it just stupidity?
Please use the comments field to come up with other ways in which one could be unsatisfied with a box of condoms, so I can get a refund and not waste a box. The best one gets a completely uncondom-related prize. Maybe a hat.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
You’ve made it pretty clear what you like; it’s only fair to tell you now.
I was going to title this “heavy words are so lightly thrown,” but I thought that was a bit excessive, even for me.
I had a couple minor moments towards the end of last week that have, despite their tinyness, kinda stuck in my craw. Perhaps I should have said something at the time instead of, you know, blasting it all over the damn internet (with my vast, vast readership), but: tiny. And when they occurred, it wasn’t really the time/place to discuss.
That’s the problem with tiny moments that stick and irritate: they’re too small, the conversation goes past, or someone else is there so you can’t bring them up without looking petty, but then you’re thinking about them almost a week later, and kind of look like you’re holding a grudge.
Which I’m not, by the way.
Also, at the time, I figured, why bring down what was actually a pretty amazing week, what with crush action, free dinner from other, much more well-known (and deservedly so) YA librarians, and Humor the Speech Team Whale?
Moment I:
I’ve got this neighbor. Actually, I’ve got many friendly neighbors, but most of them don’t have a copy of Different Class for me to borrow. We were friends before he moved onto my block, with what seem like 10-15 other guys. Sometimes we see each other out, but mostly we hang out in my living room, talking about movies or records.
This kid is one of those boys who mentions his girlfriend A LOT. Which, you know, I understand that, for most people, the person they’re romantically involved in is the most important person in their lives. So lots of stories. Sometimes, though, it just serves to remind me of how different I am from a lot of the girls in this town. The first time I met this kid, the first time he mentioned his girlfriend, it was to express surprise that I knew about some band or another, because she didn’t. Other male friend I was with concurred, that his last girl had not known much about music either.
This boy has been known to mention his girl in the first sentence he says to near-strangers, as well. And I think we’re fairly good friends at this point.
So then why, the other day when I was sitting on my stoop, reading my mail, did this happen?
Boy pulls up, yells a greeting from across the street, we have a very short conversation while I notice that a girl (presumably his girlfriend) gets out of another car and they go up into his apartment. With no introductions.
Not only do I find it irritating to not be introduced to a friend’s significant other (which of us doesn’t merit the intro, anyway?), I can’t help but wonder what girl thinks. Now, I’m not the jealous sort at all, but, were I that kind of girl, and my boy greeted his cutegirlneighbor with familiarity but didn’t have me meet her, I would find it a little suspicious, whether the suspicion was merited or not (I don’t need to say that it isn’t, do I? Cause it’s not.)
Plus, it used to really piss me off when Andy would do that to me. And he kinda did it a lot, though he usually followed up with an apology: “Sorry, I forgot her name.”
Moment II:
We’re at the fauxdinerDenny’s. Melissa has gone on home. I’m left with Shane and his friend. Somewhere around here, there’s an argument about which end of Pennsylvania David Lynch went to school in.* Then, mostly out of nowhere, Shane brings up locally produced zombie comics and the boys that produce them. Specifically, how I know one of them. And I still can’t tell: was this name-dropping on my behalf, meant to impress our booth partner? Hell, if I can’t impress anyone on my own, Zombie Policy #2 is probably the last name I’ll drop. But, let’s face it, when’s the last time I went out of my way to impress someone? If just being my darling self doesn’t cut it, fuck ‘em.
Or was it gentle teasing that missed its mark?
And I don’t write about this because I want it to become a big thing. Quite the opposite. I’m not calling anybody out, including myself. No one needs to apologize, or defend themselves. This was a minor moment, that was weird. I wrote a blog post about it. This is where the story ends, folks.
Now, who wants to see a picture of Humor the Speech Team Whale drink coffee out of a non-penis-shaped straw?
*Which, and I know I said this at the time, but I think it bears repeating:
I went to film school in Pittsburgh, partially at the equipment co-op that was up-and-running by the time Lynch would have been there.
I was in the goddam Twin Peaks Club.
Had Lynch had anything to do with Pittsburgh, at any point, I think I would know.
Hey, it’s a wide state, with a big East-West rivalry. Philadelphia doesn’t count.
I had a couple minor moments towards the end of last week that have, despite their tinyness, kinda stuck in my craw. Perhaps I should have said something at the time instead of, you know, blasting it all over the damn internet (with my vast, vast readership), but: tiny. And when they occurred, it wasn’t really the time/place to discuss.
That’s the problem with tiny moments that stick and irritate: they’re too small, the conversation goes past, or someone else is there so you can’t bring them up without looking petty, but then you’re thinking about them almost a week later, and kind of look like you’re holding a grudge.
Which I’m not, by the way.
Also, at the time, I figured, why bring down what was actually a pretty amazing week, what with crush action, free dinner from other, much more well-known (and deservedly so) YA librarians, and Humor the Speech Team Whale?
Moment I:
I’ve got this neighbor. Actually, I’ve got many friendly neighbors, but most of them don’t have a copy of Different Class for me to borrow. We were friends before he moved onto my block, with what seem like 10-15 other guys. Sometimes we see each other out, but mostly we hang out in my living room, talking about movies or records.
This kid is one of those boys who mentions his girlfriend A LOT. Which, you know, I understand that, for most people, the person they’re romantically involved in is the most important person in their lives. So lots of stories. Sometimes, though, it just serves to remind me of how different I am from a lot of the girls in this town. The first time I met this kid, the first time he mentioned his girlfriend, it was to express surprise that I knew about some band or another, because she didn’t. Other male friend I was with concurred, that his last girl had not known much about music either.
This boy has been known to mention his girl in the first sentence he says to near-strangers, as well. And I think we’re fairly good friends at this point.
So then why, the other day when I was sitting on my stoop, reading my mail, did this happen?
Boy pulls up, yells a greeting from across the street, we have a very short conversation while I notice that a girl (presumably his girlfriend) gets out of another car and they go up into his apartment. With no introductions.
Not only do I find it irritating to not be introduced to a friend’s significant other (which of us doesn’t merit the intro, anyway?), I can’t help but wonder what girl thinks. Now, I’m not the jealous sort at all, but, were I that kind of girl, and my boy greeted his cutegirlneighbor with familiarity but didn’t have me meet her, I would find it a little suspicious, whether the suspicion was merited or not (I don’t need to say that it isn’t, do I? Cause it’s not.)
Plus, it used to really piss me off when Andy would do that to me. And he kinda did it a lot, though he usually followed up with an apology: “Sorry, I forgot her name.”
Moment II:
We’re at the fauxdinerDenny’s. Melissa has gone on home. I’m left with Shane and his friend. Somewhere around here, there’s an argument about which end of Pennsylvania David Lynch went to school in.* Then, mostly out of nowhere, Shane brings up locally produced zombie comics and the boys that produce them. Specifically, how I know one of them. And I still can’t tell: was this name-dropping on my behalf, meant to impress our booth partner? Hell, if I can’t impress anyone on my own, Zombie Policy #2 is probably the last name I’ll drop. But, let’s face it, when’s the last time I went out of my way to impress someone? If just being my darling self doesn’t cut it, fuck ‘em.
Or was it gentle teasing that missed its mark?
And I don’t write about this because I want it to become a big thing. Quite the opposite. I’m not calling anybody out, including myself. No one needs to apologize, or defend themselves. This was a minor moment, that was weird. I wrote a blog post about it. This is where the story ends, folks.
Now, who wants to see a picture of Humor the Speech Team Whale drink coffee out of a non-penis-shaped straw?
*Which, and I know I said this at the time, but I think it bears repeating:
I went to film school in Pittsburgh, partially at the equipment co-op that was up-and-running by the time Lynch would have been there.
I was in the goddam Twin Peaks Club.
Had Lynch had anything to do with Pittsburgh, at any point, I think I would know.
Hey, it’s a wide state, with a big East-West rivalry. Philadelphia doesn’t count.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
met him in a bar/said I know who you are
I have a few executive items to clear up.
***
Somehow, my car payment never made it to the bank this month. I had to put a stop payment on a check, which I'm PRAYING is the right one, since there's a bit of confusion in my register. Otherwise, Sprint and the car people are going to be mad at me. I hate it when I'm responsible and things fuck up anyway. I also hate it when the bank charges me $10 for shit that isn't my fault (for once). So, if you are reading this and I owe you a present, it may be a bit late. But you were expecting that, anyway, weren't you?
(That's for Tiff. As far as I know--and believe me, I would know--Lara is not a Perks reader. She's also more demanding about gifts.)
Speaking of presents, I'm going to be attempting to make things this year. If you're the sort of person I give things to, and have something that I might be able to make in mind, let me know and I'll see what I can do.
Some of you it may be too late for, and you'll just have to like what you get, you ungrateful jerks.
***
Tree is too big for international travel, it was decided. Instead, my small plush triceratops (I named him Fisher the other day) is making the journey. I realized what a good thing this was last night, when I decided to read under the covers. What would I have done without Tree's neck-pillowy goodness?
***
There's been talk floating around the internet lately about my craptacular Friday night. (I love how I can take MySpace, a few Philadelphia-directed emails, some New England IMing, and Melissa's blog and turn them into "The Internet".) I had this whole thing set up, we came up with a fitting insult (Log Cabin Republican, if you're interested), but I just can't carry a grudge all like that.
Unless you're this girl Meisha I went to elementary and high school with. I still hate that bitch. And you really, really don't want to know what set it off. I have few enough friends as is.
Suffice to say, should have been hanging out with one boy. Didn't. Met an asshole.
I say, your problem with my intelligence, appearance, or attitude is not my problem.
The thing that really kills me about this guy, so much so that I'm still going on about it almost a week later when I could be composing my literary crush list or thinking about my actual crush or something, is that, before he turned into Asshole (TM), I was making a concerted effort to not be JessyJudgemental (as he was wearing a sweater and shorts and exhibiting a Mustang logo lookin tattoo, this was HARD) and to be JessyCharming ("Look, they have little stars on the corners!").
Just one quote, then I'll go onto the next item: "Why would anyone go to the library on the weekend?" followed by surprise and disbelief at the idea of people who don't have home computers or internet access.
Ass. Hole.
Who then (sorry, I'm on a roll now and there's still about half an hour til the RunescapeRush), at a different bar, after I was all snug in my bed, visions of kids without internet access dancing in my head, proceeds to bitch about me. To Melissa. And ask for my number.
***
Saturday was a good day, despite working, overanalyzing and jumping to (incorrect) boy conclusions, and falling into bed before 11:30. 18 kids at the anime program! And I learned how to knit in the dark.
Well, reasonably well.
Now I can't decide: do I buy more of the blue cotton yarn to finish the scarf I was working on in the dark, which I think I would wear quite a bit, or do I get completely new stuff, to expand my skill set a bit? And start on seasonably to-be-given-away stuff?
***
I've got 3 days off this weekend, and if I'm not done with that purse at the end of it, someone's gonna pay.
***
I've got these anecdotes that I forget who I've told, so I'm just going to put them on the internet and be done with it. For example, expect to see the Story of the Movie I Helped Twin Peaks Adam Make at some point.
But this is a different tale. And a shorter one.
Last year, when I was looking for library jobs, I used to check out the Special Library Assocation's job listings. (In MLS-land, we call any libraries that aren't academic, public, or school "special". They're not retarded; they're just weird.) This includes jobs like Lexmark's corporate librarian or you know how at the end of Weekend Edition they thank the librarians? Stuff like that.
Fox News listed jobs there, too. There was one that was quite tempting.
For a "Fact Writer".
When I read that listing, I got the greatest envisioning, of a bleak, former supply room somewhere, with all these posters of, like Clinton's face with a slash through it or lists of what constituted Facts.
Actually, in my head, Fox News HQ looked a lot like the workplace in Brazil. The movie, not the country.
***
Somehow, my car payment never made it to the bank this month. I had to put a stop payment on a check, which I'm PRAYING is the right one, since there's a bit of confusion in my register. Otherwise, Sprint and the car people are going to be mad at me. I hate it when I'm responsible and things fuck up anyway. I also hate it when the bank charges me $10 for shit that isn't my fault (for once). So, if you are reading this and I owe you a present, it may be a bit late. But you were expecting that, anyway, weren't you?
(That's for Tiff. As far as I know--and believe me, I would know--Lara is not a Perks reader. She's also more demanding about gifts.)
Speaking of presents, I'm going to be attempting to make things this year. If you're the sort of person I give things to, and have something that I might be able to make in mind, let me know and I'll see what I can do.
Some of you it may be too late for, and you'll just have to like what you get, you ungrateful jerks.
***
Tree is too big for international travel, it was decided. Instead, my small plush triceratops (I named him Fisher the other day) is making the journey. I realized what a good thing this was last night, when I decided to read under the covers. What would I have done without Tree's neck-pillowy goodness?
***
There's been talk floating around the internet lately about my craptacular Friday night. (I love how I can take MySpace, a few Philadelphia-directed emails, some New England IMing, and Melissa's blog and turn them into "The Internet".) I had this whole thing set up, we came up with a fitting insult (Log Cabin Republican, if you're interested), but I just can't carry a grudge all like that.
Unless you're this girl Meisha I went to elementary and high school with. I still hate that bitch. And you really, really don't want to know what set it off. I have few enough friends as is.
Suffice to say, should have been hanging out with one boy. Didn't. Met an asshole.
Cara sez: "I hate when guys who are stupider/less attractive think I should still talk to them as if I were some sort of polite human being. If you aren't good to look at OR good to talk to, please stand somewhere far away and don't bother me."
I say, your problem with my intelligence, appearance, or attitude is not my problem.
The thing that really kills me about this guy, so much so that I'm still going on about it almost a week later when I could be composing my literary crush list or thinking about my actual crush or something, is that, before he turned into Asshole (TM), I was making a concerted effort to not be JessyJudgemental (as he was wearing a sweater and shorts and exhibiting a Mustang logo lookin tattoo, this was HARD) and to be JessyCharming ("Look, they have little stars on the corners!").
Just one quote, then I'll go onto the next item: "Why would anyone go to the library on the weekend?" followed by surprise and disbelief at the idea of people who don't have home computers or internet access.
Ass. Hole.
Who then (sorry, I'm on a roll now and there's still about half an hour til the RunescapeRush), at a different bar, after I was all snug in my bed, visions of kids without internet access dancing in my head, proceeds to bitch about me. To Melissa. And ask for my number.
***
Saturday was a good day, despite working, overanalyzing and jumping to (incorrect) boy conclusions, and falling into bed before 11:30. 18 kids at the anime program! And I learned how to knit in the dark.
Well, reasonably well.
Now I can't decide: do I buy more of the blue cotton yarn to finish the scarf I was working on in the dark, which I think I would wear quite a bit, or do I get completely new stuff, to expand my skill set a bit? And start on seasonably to-be-given-away stuff?
***
I've got 3 days off this weekend, and if I'm not done with that purse at the end of it, someone's gonna pay.
***
I've got these anecdotes that I forget who I've told, so I'm just going to put them on the internet and be done with it. For example, expect to see the Story of the Movie I Helped Twin Peaks Adam Make at some point.
But this is a different tale. And a shorter one.
Last year, when I was looking for library jobs, I used to check out the Special Library Assocation's job listings. (In MLS-land, we call any libraries that aren't academic, public, or school "special". They're not retarded; they're just weird.) This includes jobs like Lexmark's corporate librarian or you know how at the end of Weekend Edition they thank the librarians? Stuff like that.
Fox News listed jobs there, too. There was one that was quite tempting.
For a "Fact Writer".
When I read that listing, I got the greatest envisioning, of a bleak, former supply room somewhere, with all these posters of, like Clinton's face with a slash through it or lists of what constituted Facts.
Actually, in my head, Fox News HQ looked a lot like the workplace in Brazil. The movie, not the country.
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