Study Undercuts View of College as a Place of Same-Sex Experimentation.
The National Survey on Family Growth found that women with bachelor’s degrees were actually less likely to have had a same-sex experience than those who did not finish high school.
“It’s definitely a ‘huh’ situation, because it goes counter to popular perceptions,” said Kaaren Williamsen, director of Carleton College’s gender and sexuality center.
[Two women sit on a couch after a delicious meal. Two half-empty bottles of wine (one for each othem, obvi) sit on the table in front of them. The lights are dimmed.]
Woman 1: Did you know that most women who graduated a four-year college probably haven’t ever had a homosexual encounter?
Woman 2: HUH?????
Woman 1: I said, if you didn’t graduate high school, you probably know how to go down on some downtown.
Woman 2: HUH????? What if you have an associate’s degree?
Woman 1: I don’t know. But I do have a certificate in special education.
[She leans in to her guest, lips parted. Woman 2 jumps back, flustered.]
Woman 2: I went to Dartmouth, I—
Woman 1: Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.
That, ladies and gentleman, is a classic “'huh' situation”.
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Friday, March 18, 2011
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Casting Call (A Metaphor)
**WARNING: This post is not what you're used to. Read on and bear with the blacktress, or wait for the next post, which will hopefully be funny. **
So, I've been alluding to a certain young gentleman in a few of my October and September posts. And, as is usual for the blacktress -- and, as the hit song goes -- another one bites the dust.
I take these things harder than one probably should. I agonize in ways that, although can be HI-larious (where's my book deal?!), they can also drive me cray. And, I think I've finally figured out why I freak out. This information is nothing new, but as it goes with Sojo, I need to write out the TRUTH for it to set me free.
I am great on first dates. First dates are, for me, similar to an audition. I walk in effortlessly, taking a shot in the dark, and that energy and devil-may-care attitude is appealing. I play with my lines, I swallow my direction whole and give it back, because...well, why not? This person doesn't know what I've got, has nothing to compare my behavior to, and we're just gonna have fun for a couple minutes. Sometimes it doesn't stick, and I don't get the part. But that's usually okay, because I never knew more than those 3 or 4 pages of dialogue I had to audition with.
But then there are the callbacks. The second, third, fourth--and, if i'm lucky, fifth--dates, where I'm getting to know more about what I'm up against. Where I start to imagine myself in the role, see the possibilities, and get excited.
And I become terrified. The stakes are 40 stories high because I actually have a shot. It means he sees something in me that is better than the majority. So the sweat begins. The pacing, the worrying, the babbling. My lines no longer flow, because I've got one eye on the director, checking his response before I continue. Statements previously made with ease now end in question marks.
"I really like Ani Difranco? [Unless that intimidates you, in which case, I won't bring up music at all, and deflect to your interests.]" Things I know in my heart to be true, I become afraid to say, because in the past, it's been the "wrong direction for that character."
Don't get me wrong. My sense of self is strong. I know who I am, and sometimes I'm a hot-ass R. Kelly-style mess, and other times I'm RuPaul fabulous. I cannot change my core, and I don't aim to when I put myself out there. I just see myself as malleable, able to win over all sorts of people--depending on the order in which I choose to show you my range.
Because, when you're in a callback--when you're really being considered--the difference between scoring the role and not getting a phone call comes down to the minutiae. It's not that you don't fit--it's that you don't slide in effortlessly.
It could come down to your height. Or the way the camera captures you. Or the tiniest tick or gesture that, when magnified, suddenly becomes grating. Or it could be the way you turn a phrase that reminds the director of someone they hated, and now, no matter what, there's that association. Or it could simply be the color of your hair. And, although you could dye it (you'd still be yourself, it'd still be your skill), they don't really need you to when the girl two seats down is a natural. And although you've got the goods, they don't quite see you in their big picture.
Remember that this is a metaphor--forming relationships isn't this simple, and the status differences inherent in a director-desperate actor relationship are not always the way the get-to-know-you phase is constructed. And, as most people know, half the battle of "getting to production" is the deep desire to create something in the first place. It's the desire to put up with the difficulties.
So I know these are broad stream-of-consciousness strokes that don't get at the details. But I find the end emotion is similar because, when you consciously date, you present yourself. You package yourself in the most attractive way. You are a product, and you're trying to prove that product's worth. The frustration for both actors and lovers comes from knowing that you've got the goods, that you are good, and yet you don't have your shot yet. So do you keep on getting up and out there, knowing that all you can do is your best? How do you keep bringing your best stuff when you know that most times your best won't be good enough?
Or do you just stay in the bubble of acting classes and rehearsals, talking it out with friends and doing exercises that strengthen both your skills and your resolve?
I don't know.
So, I guess I don't really have a point. Just a different kind of post.
So, I've been alluding to a certain young gentleman in a few of my October and September posts. And, as is usual for the blacktress -- and, as the hit song goes -- another one bites the dust.
I take these things harder than one probably should. I agonize in ways that, although can be HI-larious (where's my book deal?!), they can also drive me cray. And, I think I've finally figured out why I freak out. This information is nothing new, but as it goes with Sojo, I need to write out the TRUTH for it to set me free.
I am great on first dates. First dates are, for me, similar to an audition. I walk in effortlessly, taking a shot in the dark, and that energy and devil-may-care attitude is appealing. I play with my lines, I swallow my direction whole and give it back, because...well, why not? This person doesn't know what I've got, has nothing to compare my behavior to, and we're just gonna have fun for a couple minutes. Sometimes it doesn't stick, and I don't get the part. But that's usually okay, because I never knew more than those 3 or 4 pages of dialogue I had to audition with.
But then there are the callbacks. The second, third, fourth--and, if i'm lucky, fifth--dates, where I'm getting to know more about what I'm up against. Where I start to imagine myself in the role, see the possibilities, and get excited.
And I become terrified. The stakes are 40 stories high because I actually have a shot. It means he sees something in me that is better than the majority. So the sweat begins. The pacing, the worrying, the babbling. My lines no longer flow, because I've got one eye on the director, checking his response before I continue. Statements previously made with ease now end in question marks.
"I really like Ani Difranco? [Unless that intimidates you, in which case, I won't bring up music at all, and deflect to your interests.]" Things I know in my heart to be true, I become afraid to say, because in the past, it's been the "wrong direction for that character."
Don't get me wrong. My sense of self is strong. I know who I am, and sometimes I'm a hot-ass R. Kelly-style mess, and other times I'm RuPaul fabulous. I cannot change my core, and I don't aim to when I put myself out there. I just see myself as malleable, able to win over all sorts of people--depending on the order in which I choose to show you my range.
Because, when you're in a callback--when you're really being considered--the difference between scoring the role and not getting a phone call comes down to the minutiae. It's not that you don't fit--it's that you don't slide in effortlessly.
It could come down to your height. Or the way the camera captures you. Or the tiniest tick or gesture that, when magnified, suddenly becomes grating. Or it could be the way you turn a phrase that reminds the director of someone they hated, and now, no matter what, there's that association. Or it could simply be the color of your hair. And, although you could dye it (you'd still be yourself, it'd still be your skill), they don't really need you to when the girl two seats down is a natural. And although you've got the goods, they don't quite see you in their big picture.
Remember that this is a metaphor--forming relationships isn't this simple, and the status differences inherent in a director-desperate actor relationship are not always the way the get-to-know-you phase is constructed. And, as most people know, half the battle of "getting to production" is the deep desire to create something in the first place. It's the desire to put up with the difficulties.
So I know these are broad stream-of-consciousness strokes that don't get at the details. But I find the end emotion is similar because, when you consciously date, you present yourself. You package yourself in the most attractive way. You are a product, and you're trying to prove that product's worth. The frustration for both actors and lovers comes from knowing that you've got the goods, that you are good, and yet you don't have your shot yet. So do you keep on getting up and out there, knowing that all you can do is your best? How do you keep bringing your best stuff when you know that most times your best won't be good enough?
Or do you just stay in the bubble of acting classes and rehearsals, talking it out with friends and doing exercises that strengthen both your skills and your resolve?
I don't know.
So, I guess I don't really have a point. Just a different kind of post.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Normal is not an option.
I have reached a new low. Only, this isn't as outwardly tragic as much of the events during the "Summer of New Lows." This is more of an internal low, an emotional low that I thought, as a grown ass woman, I'd be over by this age. I am seriously Aspberger's right now.
Let me set the scene.
So, I'm on the interwebs, just typing on some F-book walls--you know, the nightly usual. I switch tabs and notice that a certain crush is online (damn you, gchat list!). Our last date was a week ago, and he's currently in the South America for a week, on a business trip (damn you, Southern Hemisphere--you're always taking my men away at the most delicate times!). My course of action and thought process went something like this:
1. Aaaah, he's online!
[I immediately go invisible so that he won't know I'm online.]
2. Wait, why am I hiding myself? There's nothing bad about being on the internet at 11:45pm on a Wednesday night. Right?
[I go back to visible]
3. This feels oddly invasive. I should not be able to know he's online, I feel like I'm inadvertently stalking.
[I set my chat settings so that he "never" shows up in my chat list.]
4. Wait, maybe it is weird that I'm online so late. He'll think I'm watching web porn or something.
[I set my chat settings to block, so that he doesn't know I'm online.]
5. I wonder if he'll email me. Should I have emailed him? If he was having sex with Gisele Bunchen's cousin right now, he probably wouldn't be checking his email, so that's a relief.
Unless he was going online to write everyone he knows to tell them he'd just slept with a total Brazilian hottie.
Note: Never once did I think it was acceptable to IM him and say "hello, how's Brazil?"
Cause, you know, that'd be too logical, and bordering on polite. I mean, what if he--gasp!--knew I was interested in him even though I hadn't seen him in a week? Can you imagine how disinterested he'd be as a result of my interest?
It seems, gentle readers, that Sojourner can't handle her own truth of crushing. What is wrong with me? In my head, every woman in Brazil looks like Gisele Bunchen. They are all hot and lithe and oiled, in an effortless sort of way. And when you enter the country, customs officials check the duration of your stay. If it is longer than 28 days, you are required to undergo cosmetic surgery, so as not to ruin the national character by bringing down the general hotness of the country.
And this, my friends, is where the line between sanity and insanity can be drawn. This is also where you can draw the line between, "single gal in her twenties," and "future smelly cat lady."
Sometimes I feel clumsier than Fergie.
Why did this song come into my head just now?
Let me set the scene.
So, I'm on the interwebs, just typing on some F-book walls--you know, the nightly usual. I switch tabs and notice that a certain crush is online (damn you, gchat list!). Our last date was a week ago, and he's currently in the South America for a week, on a business trip (damn you, Southern Hemisphere--you're always taking my men away at the most delicate times!). My course of action and thought process went something like this:
1. Aaaah, he's online!
[I immediately go invisible so that he won't know I'm online.]
2. Wait, why am I hiding myself? There's nothing bad about being on the internet at 11:45pm on a Wednesday night. Right?
[I go back to visible]
3. This feels oddly invasive. I should not be able to know he's online, I feel like I'm inadvertently stalking.
[I set my chat settings so that he "never" shows up in my chat list.]
4. Wait, maybe it is weird that I'm online so late. He'll think I'm watching web porn or something.
[I set my chat settings to block, so that he doesn't know I'm online.]
5. I wonder if he'll email me. Should I have emailed him? If he was having sex with Gisele Bunchen's cousin right now, he probably wouldn't be checking his email, so that's a relief.
Unless he was going online to write everyone he knows to tell them he'd just slept with a total Brazilian hottie.
Note: Never once did I think it was acceptable to IM him and say "hello, how's Brazil?"
Cause, you know, that'd be too logical, and bordering on polite. I mean, what if he--gasp!--knew I was interested in him even though I hadn't seen him in a week? Can you imagine how disinterested he'd be as a result of my interest?
It seems, gentle readers, that Sojourner can't handle her own truth of crushing. What is wrong with me? In my head, every woman in Brazil looks like Gisele Bunchen. They are all hot and lithe and oiled, in an effortless sort of way. And when you enter the country, customs officials check the duration of your stay. If it is longer than 28 days, you are required to undergo cosmetic surgery, so as not to ruin the national character by bringing down the general hotness of the country.
And this, my friends, is where the line between sanity and insanity can be drawn. This is also where you can draw the line between, "single gal in her twenties," and "future smelly cat lady."
Sometimes I feel clumsier than Fergie.
Why did this song come into my head just now?
Monday, September 14, 2009
Monday Rhymes with Cray-Cray!
[KWalsh has just informed me that a newly single mutual friend has just joined Match.com]
Me: I am impressed by how quickly people rally. i just hate dating so much, i wouldn't wish it on anyone.
Me: I am impressed by how quickly people rally. i just hate dating so much, i wouldn't wish it on anyone.
i just want a werewolf to have me imprinted on to him.*
and he'll just see me and take care of me forever until it's time for us to be wed.
KWalsh: hahahaha!
imprint me, werewolf!
i just wish old crusty men would stop hitting on me
Me: you're on pirate island. you can't get around the old and crusty
KWalsh: seriously! the fucking pirates here!
* for those of you who aren't 14-year-old girls or into vampires, this is a reference to Jacob Black, the werewolf hottie in the Twilight series.
^ This is a reference to X Men.
Clearly, if I was into 15-year-old boys, I wouldn't be single right now.
Me: you're on pirate island. you can't get around the old and crusty
KWalsh: seriously! the fucking pirates here!
last night at the restaurant where i work, i was waiting on a family i know
and they were like "we are so sorry about uncle donny"
because he kissed my hand twice, asked when we are going to get married and then said in 5 years i would be "prime"
this man has a long flowing mane of gray hair and a beard
and questionable dental hygiene
Me: Oh god!
[I then fill her in on the latest confusion surrounding the fact that I have not been asked on a date by someone who most certainly should have asked by now. I am advised to play it cool and give him the benefit of the doubt.]
Me: all I need to be happy in a relationship is for the guy to tell me exactly how he's feeling about me and what he's thinking at all times.
Me: Oh god!
[I then fill her in on the latest confusion surrounding the fact that I have not been asked on a date by someone who most certainly should have asked by now. I am advised to play it cool and give him the benefit of the doubt.]
Me: all I need to be happy in a relationship is for the guy to tell me exactly how he's feeling about me and what he's thinking at all times.
is that too much to ask for?
KWalsh: ha.
yes
yes
Me: See, the thing is, I like to believe I have mind-control powers, but sometimes they're faulty, requiring that the guy actually express himself, and that's when I get all frustrated. It's like I'm Professor X and he's Magneto wearing that helmet that blocks me.^
KWalsh: You have to relax and not be negative.
Me: What world do we live in where having a secret spring break fiance is even an option?
KWalsh: You have to relax and not be negative.
stop complaining!
Me: hahahaha
KWalsh: a boy likes you!
and he doesnt have a secret spring break fiance!
* for those of you who aren't 14-year-old girls or into vampires, this is a reference to Jacob Black, the werewolf hottie in the Twilight series.
^ This is a reference to X Men.
Clearly, if I was into 15-year-old boys, I wouldn't be single right now.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
My very own conversation with Deb
For anyone in a relationship who thinks the grass is greener, think again. For those males who wonder if women are really as analytical as we appear in the movies, here is your answer....
Me: Are you excited for your blind date? We still don't know what he looks like? is he jewish? [this is vital information for Deb, being a Jewess herself]
Deb: He's a jew
Me: ok, so you're already seeing him as marriage material
Deb: No idea what he looks like
Deb: But we talked on the phone
Me: i could never go on a date not knowing what someone looks like. I'm far too shallow. you are a brave little toaster, deb
Deb: And at the end of our phone chat he was like
I'm so glad we talked
Now I'm really excited for tuesday
Deb: And I called him a jerk and he laughed
So he gets me
Me: i like how you opened with an insult
it's a good way to separate the wheat from the LOSERS
Deb: Anyway now I'm excited too
I hope it works out
Cause I've already pictured out vineyard wedding.
Me: Of course.
I mean who hasn't envisioned a vineyard wedding with a person they haven't met solely based on a seemingly insignificant interaction?
For more Deb convos, all of which are much, much funnier than above, holla at her blog.
Me: Are you excited for your blind date? We still don't know what he looks like? is he jewish? [this is vital information for Deb, being a Jewess herself]
Deb: He's a jew
Me: ok, so you're already seeing him as marriage material
Deb: No idea what he looks like
Deb: But we talked on the phone
Me: i could never go on a date not knowing what someone looks like. I'm far too shallow. you are a brave little toaster, deb
Deb: And at the end of our phone chat he was like
I'm so glad we talked
Now I'm really excited for tuesday
Deb: And I called him a jerk and he laughed
So he gets me
Me: i like how you opened with an insult
it's a good way to separate the wheat from the LOSERS
Deb: Anyway now I'm excited too
I hope it works out
Cause I've already pictured out vineyard wedding.
Me: Of course.
I mean who hasn't envisioned a vineyard wedding with a person they haven't met solely based on a seemingly insignificant interaction?
For more Deb convos, all of which are much, much funnier than above, holla at her blog.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Mystery Science Theater
Guys, I'm in a bit of a pickle.
So, Wednesday night I had a "date" with a dude. Here are his vitals:
- 28 years old
- stand-up comedian
- former US Marine
- and a dating coach ("yes, like Hitch," he said in his email)
You see why I had to go out with this man. He's a total unicorn. No, wait, he's like a chimera. Or the Easter Bunny--he's fucking mythical and mystical and I can't handle it.
I went into it differently than I used to go into dates. Instead of thinking, "oh god, is he going to like me? oh god, what if he's disappointed?" the loop in my head was, "please don't let him be lame, please don't let him be lame, please don't let him be lame." I liked this feeling. I had no doubt that I could hold up my end of the conversation, and that my baby blue Banana Republic top was working for me, but I couldn't vouch for this character. I was even quite annoyed, seeing as the plan was to check out his comedy show, then grab a drink afterwards. Was I really going to spend money to see this character? Luckily, the fee was nominal, and as a stand-up comedian myself, judging other comics brings me great joy.
I showed up, got my ticket, and sat inside the club, which was packed to the rafters with a total of 12 people.
Welcome to Awkward Town, population: ME.
He went on fairly early, and was actually pretty funny. After he performed, the next comedian came up and was like, "doesn't he look like Chandler Bing [Matthew Perry from Friends]?" I made a "wtf? no, not at all" face, and the comedian goes, "Dude, I'm about to get you laid by a hot black chick."
Shoot me now. Way to rock out on Date 1.
Unfortch, I had to sit through another 8 comics, only 2 of whom made me laugh out loud. One was a girl, and I sorta developed a friend-crush on her. After the show, I saw my "date" outside and the plan was to head to a bar with a few of the other comics (luckily my girl-crush was there). It was very casual, which actually made me feel more comfortable. As we walked to the bar, I demanded he tell me everything about dating coaching.
It turns out he was recruited by Mystery. THE Mystery, from VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist." Tell me you remember this show? Just in case, why don't I take your memory for a jog:
So, Wednesday night I had a "date" with a dude. Here are his vitals:
- 28 years old
- stand-up comedian
- former US Marine
- and a dating coach ("yes, like Hitch," he said in his email)
You see why I had to go out with this man. He's a total unicorn. No, wait, he's like a chimera. Or the Easter Bunny--he's fucking mythical and mystical and I can't handle it.
I went into it differently than I used to go into dates. Instead of thinking, "oh god, is he going to like me? oh god, what if he's disappointed?" the loop in my head was, "please don't let him be lame, please don't let him be lame, please don't let him be lame." I liked this feeling. I had no doubt that I could hold up my end of the conversation, and that my baby blue Banana Republic top was working for me, but I couldn't vouch for this character. I was even quite annoyed, seeing as the plan was to check out his comedy show, then grab a drink afterwards. Was I really going to spend money to see this character? Luckily, the fee was nominal, and as a stand-up comedian myself, judging other comics brings me great joy.
I showed up, got my ticket, and sat inside the club, which was packed to the rafters with a total of 12 people.
Welcome to Awkward Town, population: ME.
He went on fairly early, and was actually pretty funny. After he performed, the next comedian came up and was like, "doesn't he look like Chandler Bing [Matthew Perry from Friends]?" I made a "wtf? no, not at all" face, and the comedian goes, "Dude, I'm about to get you laid by a hot black chick."
Shoot me now. Way to rock out on Date 1.
Unfortch, I had to sit through another 8 comics, only 2 of whom made me laugh out loud. One was a girl, and I sorta developed a friend-crush on her. After the show, I saw my "date" outside and the plan was to head to a bar with a few of the other comics (luckily my girl-crush was there). It was very casual, which actually made me feel more comfortable. As we walked to the bar, I demanded he tell me everything about dating coaching.
It turns out he was recruited by Mystery. THE Mystery, from VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist." Tell me you remember this show? Just in case, why don't I take your memory for a jog:
Mystery is a 6-foot-5-inch Canadian magician/illusionist who has perfected the art of bedding women. It involves alot of acronyms and inside phrases. Here's a bit of Mystery in action:
The man is an evil egomaniacal genius, and I am kind of obsessed with him.
I think he may have herpes--the gift that keeps on giving.
So, I was slightly giddy and starstruck, trying to get my "date" to tell me everything about Mystery and the process. As this is all happening, we're alternating between chatting with his comedy friends and doing our own thing. He keeps telling me how pretty I am and we're trading banter and being ridiculous. I don't like the idea of dating comedians, and found that to initially be more of a turn off than the dating coaching, because I feel like it's too much manic energy and neuroses put together. I also think that nothing could be worse than running into a guy who you dumped, or who dumped you, all around Manhattan in performance settings. Especially when your performance largely involves true stories of your own dating life.
This is one of the reasons I only date men in outer boroughs.
On the other hand, it's the ability to laugh for 4 hours straight and his ability to roll with every punch I throw (both literally and conversationally) that makes comics fun to hang out with and easy to crush on. I'm on the fence with this whole situation, and it's something I'm still sorting out, and I know that there are exceptions to every rule.
Anyway, throughout our good fun time, I couldn't help but think, "Shit, is he playing me Mystery-style?" I mean, I was actually nervous before we kissed--there were veritable butterflies, I tell you! That's crazy town. I mean, he doesn't even have red hair. How did he get me all in a tizzy?
When I got home, I was disheartened to get no "hope you got home safe/i had fun tonight" text message, and began to write him off. Yesterday afternoon I got a text that hinted at a second meeting. After waiting a cool, hip 30 minutes to reply, I AM STILL WAITING FOR A RESPONSE FROM HIM!!
Damn you, Mystery!!!
As I psychoanalyzed this via gchat with my one heterosexual male friend, he said, "Sojourner, you can't make him like you. You may be a blacktress, but you can't control every situation."
But the thing is, HE can make ME like HIM. This is the problem. He is a trained professional in the art of getting me to drop my panties. How do I handle this?!
Although he told me all about how he doesn't teach the same method with all those acronyms, and says he's looking for something more than a bar shag, how do I not know that's not more Mystery-approved dialogue?! Although we had a great time and he's super fun and I totes want to hang out again, will showing my interest simply make him think he has me? I feel like I have to play harder to get than I normally would just to put him in his place. According to Mystery, if all goes well, I should be naked by date 2 or 3. Clearly, I will not fall for these tricks.
Or will I????
I can't decide if I'm buying myself a ticket to the Shit Show, or to Ringling Brothers--The Greatest Show on Earth!
Am I getting a one-way ticket to Sadtown or Idiot Village? What about Unexpected Pregnancy Township? Maybe I'm getting a roundtrip ticket from Sanity City to Hot Mess Country, but I'll make it back to Sanity City before too much damage is done.
Who AM I and how do I find these people?
Monday, August 4, 2008
Pearls of Gay Wisdom/The Importance of Gchat
Last week, I was gchatting on the plantation with one of my good friends, who shall remain nameless. For the purpose of today’s post, let’s just call him the ELITE GAY VISIONARY. He’s a fine-ass intellectual homosexual (the best kind), and from the shores of San Francisco or Miami, he’s ready and willing to offer his advice to all a blacktress' romantic queries. Here’s an excerpt from one of our recent chats. I think the words of wisdom here are useful for all of us.
me: miguelito
i have date #2 with the new zealander tomorrow
i mean, TONIGHT
Elite Gay Visionary: eek!
me: we've already done the dirty*
how do you act on a "date" when you've already done the dirty?
EGV: well
i only go on dates with people i want to do the dirty with again
so you can act like you want it again, but pending any new information
me: hahaha
EGV: the way i judge too is i count the number of drinks before i want to do it
me: hahah, what do you mean?
EGV: okay
with HOT guys
i want to do it before i drink
with good looking guys it takes 1 drink
with okay guys 2 drinks
with ick guys 3 drinks
i only date the first 2
if it takes 2 drinks i'm over it
well except for that night because i've already had the 2nd drink
so it's too late by then
but that will be the last time
me: you know this is going on my blog, right?!
EGV: hahaha
does my SLUTINESS UPSET you?
me: hahaha, i love it
it's BRILLZ
this is going to be called "reasons why gays should be allowed to adopt"
i mean, you make sense
EGV: and we'll only adopt children if we want to before the 2nd drink
me: exactly
*yes, we did the dirty. honey, time is of the essence--all bets are OFF!!
me: miguelito
i have date #2 with the new zealander tomorrow
i mean, TONIGHT
Elite Gay Visionary: eek!
me: we've already done the dirty*
how do you act on a "date" when you've already done the dirty?
EGV: well
i only go on dates with people i want to do the dirty with again
so you can act like you want it again, but pending any new information
me: hahaha
EGV: the way i judge too is i count the number of drinks before i want to do it
me: hahah, what do you mean?
EGV: okay
with HOT guys
i want to do it before i drink
with good looking guys it takes 1 drink
with okay guys 2 drinks
with ick guys 3 drinks
i only date the first 2
if it takes 2 drinks i'm over it
well except for that night because i've already had the 2nd drink
so it's too late by then
but that will be the last time
me: you know this is going on my blog, right?!
EGV: hahaha
does my SLUTINESS UPSET you?
me: hahaha, i love it
it's BRILLZ
this is going to be called "reasons why gays should be allowed to adopt"
i mean, you make sense
EGV: and we'll only adopt children if we want to before the 2nd drink
me: exactly
*yes, we did the dirty. honey, time is of the essence--all bets are OFF!!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Last Unicorn
Ladies, Gentlemen, Friends, Foes, and Hos:
Today is a sad day. Another one bites the dust.
It is currently day 5 of “OPERATION: Why won’t he call me? WHY?! WHY?!” and still no word. Not one to roll over and play dead (I did free myself from the shackles of slavery, didn’t I?) I even called the wandering minstrel last night, just to put out there—this body ain’t getting any younger, people!!!
As of now, I have received no return call.
This, coming from a man who said I was “Excrutiatingly attractive”—when ‘excrutiatingly’ isn’t even a word! I mean, when you’re altering the dictionary to find the right compliment, it has to be for real, right?
This, coming from a man who had a moment in the Nubian sunshine, and came all the way to Harlem to attend a gathering hosted by Sojo when he didn’t know a single soul in attendance.
This, from a fellow who cleaned the red wine I spilled all over the couch and still wanted to make out with me.
I am seriously lost and delirious.
Let me tell you some things I like about my crush:
He is a 6-foot 3-inch tall glass of milk—Sojourner's not getting osteoporosis on his watch!
He has curly hair—it's like white people's version of nappiness!
He plays magic cards—which clearly means he is smart, has an nerdy past, and won't be scared off by my Harry Potter fetish.
And, most importantly:
He was recently on The Tyra Banks Show.
Um, need a say more???
Ok, I will!!!!!!!!!
A tall hot nerd who doesn’t know he’s hot is an urban legend—like razor-blades in apples, and getting AIDS from a toilet seat—only he’s more fun than those. A hot nerd who wants a blacktress is simply magical—the male equivalent of a unicorn. Like an audience member at his Las Vegas run of Cirque du Soleil, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I dazzled him in my freakum dress and my gays said my “tats looked great.” Our interactions were effortless, and it felt like I’d known him way more than a hot minute. I thought I could finally stop kissing frogs and end up with a prince.
Apparently, that’s not in the (magic) cards for a blacktress.
My beeper has not beeped and my phone has not phoned, and I feel like an ugly normal person who no one wants to spend time with—not even Jesus (and he’s everyone’s homeboy).
Possible Reasons He No Longer Has Love for the Blacktress:
1. He’s gotten with that tramp Felicia from the Tyra Show.
2. Hotter women have come out of the woodwork ever since Tyra called him sexy.
3. He’s going on tour with a wandering minstrel show.
4. He’s been stop-lossed and is going back into the trenches, like Ryan Phillippe
5. He’s racist.
6. He’s lazy and crazy.
7. My vagina dentata scared him away (JK (rowling)!!! I don’t have TEETH)
8. Perhaps it’s because I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him til EL CINCO DE MAYO (Mexican Independence Day)?
9. Because I asked him to teach me to play magic cards because I wanted to “know his world.” (which I personally think is endearing as shit, and should have made him swoon with delight)
So, today, we self-soothe with episodes of "The Office" online. We shed a tear for the pretty, tall, mixie babies that would have been. We light a candle for the mocha acting troupe we would have undoubtedly started. We pour 1/5 of gin on the ground for our dead minstrel, and just praise White Jesus that he didn’t put his p in my v without a c.
Today is a sad day. Another one bites the dust.
It is currently day 5 of “OPERATION: Why won’t he call me? WHY?! WHY?!” and still no word. Not one to roll over and play dead (I did free myself from the shackles of slavery, didn’t I?) I even called the wandering minstrel last night, just to put out there—this body ain’t getting any younger, people!!!
As of now, I have received no return call.
This, coming from a man who said I was “Excrutiatingly attractive”—when ‘excrutiatingly’ isn’t even a word! I mean, when you’re altering the dictionary to find the right compliment, it has to be for real, right?
This, coming from a man who had a moment in the Nubian sunshine, and came all the way to Harlem to attend a gathering hosted by Sojo when he didn’t know a single soul in attendance.
This, from a fellow who cleaned the red wine I spilled all over the couch and still wanted to make out with me.
I am seriously lost and delirious.
Let me tell you some things I like about my crush:
He is a 6-foot 3-inch tall glass of milk—Sojourner's not getting osteoporosis on his watch!
He has curly hair—it's like white people's version of nappiness!
He plays magic cards—which clearly means he is smart, has an nerdy past, and won't be scared off by my Harry Potter fetish.
And, most importantly:
He was recently on The Tyra Banks Show.
Um, need a say more???
Ok, I will!!!!!!!!!
A tall hot nerd who doesn’t know he’s hot is an urban legend—like razor-blades in apples, and getting AIDS from a toilet seat—only he’s more fun than those. A hot nerd who wants a blacktress is simply magical—the male equivalent of a unicorn. Like an audience member at his Las Vegas run of Cirque du Soleil, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I dazzled him in my freakum dress and my gays said my “tats looked great.” Our interactions were effortless, and it felt like I’d known him way more than a hot minute. I thought I could finally stop kissing frogs and end up with a prince.
Apparently, that’s not in the (magic) cards for a blacktress.
My beeper has not beeped and my phone has not phoned, and I feel like an ugly normal person who no one wants to spend time with—not even Jesus (and he’s everyone’s homeboy).
Possible Reasons He No Longer Has Love for the Blacktress:
1. He’s gotten with that tramp Felicia from the Tyra Show.
2. Hotter women have come out of the woodwork ever since Tyra called him sexy.
3. He’s going on tour with a wandering minstrel show.
4. He’s been stop-lossed and is going back into the trenches, like Ryan Phillippe
5. He’s racist.
6. He’s lazy and crazy.
7. My vagina dentata scared him away (JK (rowling)!!! I don’t have TEETH)
8. Perhaps it’s because I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him til EL CINCO DE MAYO (Mexican Independence Day)?
9. Because I asked him to teach me to play magic cards because I wanted to “know his world.” (which I personally think is endearing as shit, and should have made him swoon with delight)
So, today, we self-soothe with episodes of "The Office" online. We shed a tear for the pretty, tall, mixie babies that would have been. We light a candle for the mocha acting troupe we would have undoubtedly started. We pour 1/5 of gin on the ground for our dead minstrel, and just praise White Jesus that he didn’t put his p in my v without a c.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Answering the Unanswerable Question
And that question is, “Why hasn’t he called me? Why? WHY?!”
– Brandon Welch, aka “The Alabama Slamma”*
“He’s probably just busy doing some charcoal sketches”
– Me, to myself
“Maybe he’s gay.”
– any gay I’ve ever asked.
“Cause he’s a loser, that’s why”
– this response often makes me happy.
“Because he lives in
– everyone with a brain.
*Note: Only I call him this.
While all of these responses are apt, I must say that I received the best answer yet from one of my soul sisters, just moments ago. As I was plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, her sweet tale filled my inbox--and my heart--with hope. It was lyrical, poignant, and touching—and I think I will make it into a picture book. Here it is:
once upon a time there was a beautiful blacktress who lived in a harsh and unforgiving city. from time to time, the blacktress would wander out in search of not prince charming, but just a decent peasant boy with the gift of height and the inclination to cuddle. but she often lost her way in the illusion of romance, and was scarred by the thorns of love. finally she had had enough, and vowed to renounce her quest for a suitable gentleman. free of the burden of expectations, she frolicked through the meadows happily, singing with the bluebirds. suddenly, she came across a wandering minstrel. "o fair maiden", said he, "please allow me to entertain you with my witty banter and lute-playing." she was charmed, and not unimpressed with his stature. despite her vow, she agreed to spend the evening with the minstrel, where he regaled her with improbable tales of joining the circus and appearing on prime time television. he shared with her food and drink, and there was much merry-making.
This is a black fair maiden. I had to draw one my damn self, cause you KNOW they don't have that on the interweb!
This is a black fair maiden. I had to draw one my damn self, cause you KNOW they don't have that on the interweb!at the end of the evening, she returned to her castle, pleased that she had had such an unexpected and agreeable experience. she woke up the next morning, feeling strangely optimistic about life and love. she couldn't help straining her ears for the soft melody of the lute, but all she heard was the familiar chirping of bluebirds. finally, wondering what had become of her minstrel, she set off to the meadow where they had first met, but alas! there was no sign of him. a cloud passed over the sun and the blacktress suddenly felt a shadow cross over her heart. the lute playing, the circus, the prime time television, had it all been a grand charade, and nothing more? if she couldn't promise her heart to a wandering minstrel, who could possibly be worthy of her love? in a moment, though, the sun reappeared, and she realized her own folly -- he was a wandering minstrel, after all! he had wandered into her life and then wandered out of it. she looked around and realized that she was none the worse off than she had been before she had come across him. the sky was still blue, the bluebirds were singing, and the meadows were calling to her.
EPILOGUE:
as it turned out, the minstrel had gotten picked up by the county sheriff for impersonating a clown in order to touch young children, and was thrown in the deepest darkest dungeon in the land, where he would spend the rest of his days composing odes to the blacktress that no one but the dungeon rats would ever hear. as ye sow, so ye shall reap.
Here is a rough forensic sketch done by olde tyme police of the wandering minstrel in question.So, gentle readers, the lesson here is clear: The next time you are staring at your celly, willing it to ring or beep with textage, remember that he is probably a wandering minstrel, and has been arrested for pedophilia.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Charming? Or Alarming?
i just sent the following ecard to the Photographer:
Too much?
Would you go on a date with me again if you got this?
Oh, I should mention that I wrote:
Too much?Would you go on a date with me again if you got this?
Oh, I should mention that I wrote:
We need a do-over. Saturday? I owe you an apple pie. -naomi Can you tell I'm totally bored on the plantation? |
Confusion
I'd like to bring your attention to the following email, which was waiting in my inbox when I returned home from my date with the Photographer last night (which did NOT go well, by the way--I think he found me about as interesting as an SAT textbook...I don't think he'll call. But, if he happens to read this, he SHOULD call, and I'll bake him a granny Smith apple pie).
This email comes from a man who I've referred to as "cum-face." Um....that's all you need to know. We went on two dates back in September, and that was the end of that. As you know, I never put a guy's number in my cell phone until he deserves it, so the process of erasing was pretty easy with this one--though the nickname he earned left me traumatized.
Anyway, I get this email from him in my alias account. As you read, keep in mind two things:
1. I never gave him either of my email addresses.
2. We HAVE NOT SPOKEN OR INTERACTED SINCE SEPTEMBER 2007.
Naomi.
How are you? Happy 2008.
I guess it's been a while. I left my record company in October. Been starting a company on my own, so I've been laying low.
It was great hanging out with you and you're a big part of why 2007 was so good. For what that's worth. Will never forget that sweater skirt your wore that night
chrz/douglas
Um, what? We went on two dates and then I was degraded--I didn't even LET him cum on my face. How could I make 2007 great?
And, ironically, I wore the "sweater skirt" to which he is referring on my date with the Photographer last night (and it is a sweater dress, for the record). Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have the same affect on him.
::Sigh::
This email comes from a man who I've referred to as "cum-face." Um....that's all you need to know. We went on two dates back in September, and that was the end of that. As you know, I never put a guy's number in my cell phone until he deserves it, so the process of erasing was pretty easy with this one--though the nickname he earned left me traumatized.
Anyway, I get this email from him in my alias account. As you read, keep in mind two things:
1. I never gave him either of my email addresses.
2. We HAVE NOT SPOKEN OR INTERACTED SINCE SEPTEMBER 2007.
Naomi.
How are you? Happy 2008.
I guess it's been a while. I left my record company in October. Been starting a company on my own, so I've been laying low.
It was great hanging out with you and you're a big part of why 2007 was so good. For what that's worth. Will never forget that sweater skirt your wore that night
chrz/douglas
Um, what? We went on two dates and then I was degraded--I didn't even LET him cum on my face. How could I make 2007 great?
And, ironically, I wore the "sweater skirt" to which he is referring on my date with the Photographer last night (and it is a sweater dress, for the record). Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have the same affect on him.
::Sigh::
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
can you TOP THAT?!
I bet some of you are wondering about the status of the Photographer/The Giver. Despite my word vomit and awkwardness, it seems this fellow is still feeling the blacktress. I have been reluctant to go into detail because he may still be reading the blog, and I don’t want him knowing all of Sojourner’s truths just yet. However, I feel the need to share this relationship’s progress as it works toward becoming a REALationship (you know the difference—holla!)
So, last Friday was a low key night, where we attended an art opening that I’d be invited to through work. I thought that the event’s open bar and hip downtown artists would show him how important and with-it I am. Plus, being a photographer, I thought he’d be all into the art scene.
For moral support, I asked my homegirl Karisa to show up an hour earlier.
“SoTru, why would you show up an hour early for a date?” You may be wondering. I know this seems strange. However, I find an early arrival decreases later awkwardness. By scoping out the area before my date, I am able to check my face to see if there were any issues while in transit, make note of all the nearest exits (in case he turns out to be cray), and know where things are to make it seem like I come to said establishment regularly. When my date arrives and I am already waiting, I have what I like to call “the upper hand,” as he wonders if he’s late and tries to placate me with compliments.
Anyway, after checking out some art and having some free dranks, we headed back to the BK to kick it old school. We had a college-style date—you know, sitting in a room and watching a movie. While many of my lady friends wondered why I wouldn’t demand lobster tails and a Broadway show, I stand by my choice of a low key date. First of all, such interactions are the main reason I look for a winter spoon; it’s too damn cold to be hittin’ the streets! Point number two: Do not wine me and dine me just to end up lyin’ to me! I don’t need all the bells and whistles and distraction—let me see what YOU are about, you know? How many times have I giggled and cooed in a tipsy state as a man said things that were clearly red flags? For instance, when I'm at the club and he goes:
I’ve always wanted to kiss a black girl. (WARNING: You have a fetishizer on your hands!)
OR
Oh my god, you’re, like, actually funny. That’s so rare. (Reverse compliments mean you are with a level-one emotional abuser. Back away).
With simply a bottle of Cabernet and X-Men 2 on the boob tube, I could really get to the root of this photog—go “behind the lens” if you will (will you?).
After getting all hot and bothered by the sight of sweaty, bulging Hugh Jackman—aka HUGE JACKED MAN!—I had to assess my desires…and the Giver’s. Was he a slut? A ho? A freak? Did he have a different girl every day of the week?
I told him it was cool, I’m not trying to put a rush on you—but I gotta let you know that I got a crush on you.
After wondering why I was quoting Lil’ Kim, he responded in kind, and I think we reached an understanding. Being deep in the BK after midnight, the logical choice was to spend the night…right? After physically expressing our emotions, we had a little pillow talk. We started talking about movies, and somehow the film Teen Witch came up.
Again, this would be a prime example of my awkwardness and word vomit. I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but Teen Witch is a 1989 classic about a girl who discovers she is a witch on her 16th birthday. Mousy Louise then uses her new powers to make herself hot, popular, and win the man of her dreams, only to realize, she doesn’t need magic after all.
Oh, did I mention it’s sort of a musical with songs such as “I like Boys,” and “I Wanna Be the Most Popular Girl”?
Yes, it IS the greatest film of our time.
But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sharing this information with a man in his bed….unless he’s REALLY AWESOME (like the Photographer)—or gay (like my besties). One mention of the film, and the photog begins the first few lines of the film’s best track: “Top That.” It’s a great rap in which Louise’s equally mousy friend Polly is magically given the gift of street cred and approaches her far-off crush (Rhett Cappalletti) in fierce urban poetry.
Wait, I don’t think my description is doing the scene justice. See for yourself.
AAAHHH!!!! HOW GOOD IS THIS?!?!?!?!?! CAN YOU TOP THAT?????????
I find myself to be as awkward as Polly, and I guess you could call the Photographer my Rhett Cappelletti--only without the tight stonewashed jeans. But they both have the same street flava.
As you can imagine, the Photog’s knowledge of this great film and its music sparked much delight in the heart of the blacktress. As I fought the urge to propose marriage on the spot, he told me it was “quiet time” as I squealed with excitement at 3 am. Of course, his pop culture knowledge coupled with his no-nonsense manliness only fanned the love fires.
In honor of the role of musical films in our lives, he and I are going to see Sweeney Todd tonight.
And then I’m going to come home and Photoshop our heads together to see what our offspring will look like.
JK (Rowling)!!!!
Or am I???????
So, last Friday was a low key night, where we attended an art opening that I’d be invited to through work. I thought that the event’s open bar and hip downtown artists would show him how important and with-it I am. Plus, being a photographer, I thought he’d be all into the art scene.
For moral support, I asked my homegirl Karisa to show up an hour earlier.
“SoTru, why would you show up an hour early for a date?” You may be wondering. I know this seems strange. However, I find an early arrival decreases later awkwardness. By scoping out the area before my date, I am able to check my face to see if there were any issues while in transit, make note of all the nearest exits (in case he turns out to be cray), and know where things are to make it seem like I come to said establishment regularly. When my date arrives and I am already waiting, I have what I like to call “the upper hand,” as he wonders if he’s late and tries to placate me with compliments.
Anyway, after checking out some art and having some free dranks, we headed back to the BK to kick it old school. We had a college-style date—you know, sitting in a room and watching a movie. While many of my lady friends wondered why I wouldn’t demand lobster tails and a Broadway show, I stand by my choice of a low key date. First of all, such interactions are the main reason I look for a winter spoon; it’s too damn cold to be hittin’ the streets! Point number two: Do not wine me and dine me just to end up lyin’ to me! I don’t need all the bells and whistles and distraction—let me see what YOU are about, you know? How many times have I giggled and cooed in a tipsy state as a man said things that were clearly red flags? For instance, when I'm at the club and he goes:
I’ve always wanted to kiss a black girl. (WARNING: You have a fetishizer on your hands!)
OR
Oh my god, you’re, like, actually funny. That’s so rare. (Reverse compliments mean you are with a level-one emotional abuser. Back away).
With simply a bottle of Cabernet and X-Men 2 on the boob tube, I could really get to the root of this photog—go “behind the lens” if you will (will you?).
After getting all hot and bothered by the sight of sweaty, bulging Hugh Jackman—aka HUGE JACKED MAN!—I had to assess my desires…and the Giver’s. Was he a slut? A ho? A freak? Did he have a different girl every day of the week?
I told him it was cool, I’m not trying to put a rush on you—but I gotta let you know that I got a crush on you.
After wondering why I was quoting Lil’ Kim, he responded in kind, and I think we reached an understanding. Being deep in the BK after midnight, the logical choice was to spend the night…right? After physically expressing our emotions, we had a little pillow talk. We started talking about movies, and somehow the film Teen Witch came up.
Again, this would be a prime example of my awkwardness and word vomit. I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but Teen Witch is a 1989 classic about a girl who discovers she is a witch on her 16th birthday. Mousy Louise then uses her new powers to make herself hot, popular, and win the man of her dreams, only to realize, she doesn’t need magic after all.
Oh, did I mention it’s sort of a musical with songs such as “I like Boys,” and “I Wanna Be the Most Popular Girl”?
Yes, it IS the greatest film of our time.
But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sharing this information with a man in his bed….unless he’s REALLY AWESOME (like the Photographer)—or gay (like my besties). One mention of the film, and the photog begins the first few lines of the film’s best track: “Top That.” It’s a great rap in which Louise’s equally mousy friend Polly is magically given the gift of street cred and approaches her far-off crush (Rhett Cappalletti) in fierce urban poetry.
Wait, I don’t think my description is doing the scene justice. See for yourself.
AAAHHH!!!! HOW GOOD IS THIS?!?!?!?!?! CAN YOU TOP THAT?????????
I find myself to be as awkward as Polly, and I guess you could call the Photographer my Rhett Cappelletti--only without the tight stonewashed jeans. But they both have the same street flava.
As you can imagine, the Photog’s knowledge of this great film and its music sparked much delight in the heart of the blacktress. As I fought the urge to propose marriage on the spot, he told me it was “quiet time” as I squealed with excitement at 3 am. Of course, his pop culture knowledge coupled with his no-nonsense manliness only fanned the love fires.
In honor of the role of musical films in our lives, he and I are going to see Sweeney Todd tonight.
And then I’m going to come home and Photoshop our heads together to see what our offspring will look like.
JK (Rowling)!!!!
Or am I???????
Monday, December 24, 2007
Tailor-Made...for ME?!
Y'all, I am on the plantation on Christmas Eve? I don't think this is what the baby Jesus would have wanted.
Luckily, I'm the only one here, so I can blog with abandon. It's funny how I tend to handle more personal biz-nass on office time than I do when I'm not here. I actually plan to come back later in the week to get some essential photocopying done. Is that wrong?
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering about the status of THE GIVER. Unfortch, I may be briefly silenced, for it turns out he is indeed a savvy internet stalker. Apparently, a name like Sojourner "you can't handle the" Truth is very "funny and interesting," and something, "you don't forget when told of it in passing." The Giver has found the blog. He has read the tales (luckily, not the the tale of how he earned his nickname), and I think the blacktress may have to silence her voice. It's just like a white male to keep me down.
Here's what I can let you know: the date went well....I think. It began with me getting him good and tipsy at Butai, where Special K pours dranks with abandon. Butai is my Saturday tradition, beginning around 5pm and ending whenever I have a good enough reason to leave. During our idle chat, I received a text about a party in Brooklyn. While this was not planned, I was thankful for it, as it made me out to be very popular and important.
We then went to try and see Juno, because nothing sets the mood like a story of teen pregnancy. Surprisingly, other people had the same idea, because it was too crowded and we had to see a later show. As we walked out, I explained how awkward I was (this was during one of my many ramblings that began due to nervousness), and he said, "I know.... I read your blog."
As Scooby Doo would say, "Ruh-Roh!" He found me out! He knows I'm slightly insane, mildly militant, and have gone out with randoms!
Cue more incessant babbling. I swear, he made a black girl blush several times-- which you know is tough with this blacktress.
We then went to Crocodile Lounge (I think you all know my feelings on pizza and skee ball), where I drank red wine (cause I'm classy) and flirted like the shameless schoolgirl I am. It seemed for some strange reason he was still drawn to me, so I figured I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We found seats in the theater, trying to avoid sitting next to unattractive people (you know ugly is contagious!), and I made my smooch move. I mean, I was thinking about it and I figured if I just got in there I'd feel slightly less cray.
It worked.
We then tucked in to watch the movie, which ended up being the bestest thing ever. Actually, while I'm singing male praises, let me address one man in particular:
Dear Michael Cera, you awkward, gangly teen-- I am so drawn to your confusion. I identify with your loss for words and statement of the obvious. You ask if you can makeout with people, much in the way I do. You wear short-shorts, and I can almost see your junk, but I try not to look because you're too young for me...and because I'm waiting for Harry Potter to cross these shores. If, for some reason, HP and I end up having trouble with immigration services, it's you and me, boo.
Anyway, The Giver gave me a little hand-on-leg action during the film, which I turned into hand-holding action, and for the next 90 minutes I was totally swooning over the romantic subplot, my girl-crush Jennifer Garner, and the Giver beside me. We then hit up Chickpea for some vegemetarianish* delights. He got me some hummus-- holla at a middle-eastern playa-- and we chatted as he enjoyed his first falafel! Tenderness! You know blacktresses just bring out the "adventurous side" in white men.
We hit up another random bar--where I just had water!-- and talked a bit. While shooting the shit, he said, "Yeah, I tried dating two girls at once, but that was drama. I'm all about monogamous relationships."
He dropped the M-bomb. Granted, it was in no way connected to me, and probably means he's missing his ex-GF or something else unsavory, but the word itself just makes me tingly....down there. I mean, drop an M-bomb, and I am done and done. If this blog has shown one thing, it's that it's not only hard out there for a pimp, but it's hard out there for a blacktress trying to find a winter spoon! It's been a rough 007, and it's time shit stopped being cray and started getting real. This body ain't getting any younger, people!!!
Anyway, I clearly went back to his house, to get in the spirit of giving--holla! And I think he had me at morning eggs and bagels. I mean, a can-do man who will hook up some protein on a chilly winter's morning is one to callback, you know?
He is now off in his homeland for the holidays....where one can only hope the white fields of Ohio (in more ways than one) make him long for the blacktress. Until then, I will just have to entertain myself with my gays and my gals.
Um, guys, if I don't hear from him while he's gone does this mean the whole thing was in my head?
* I know that's not a word.
Luckily, I'm the only one here, so I can blog with abandon. It's funny how I tend to handle more personal biz-nass on office time than I do when I'm not here. I actually plan to come back later in the week to get some essential photocopying done. Is that wrong?
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering about the status of THE GIVER. Unfortch, I may be briefly silenced, for it turns out he is indeed a savvy internet stalker. Apparently, a name like Sojourner "you can't handle the" Truth is very "funny and interesting," and something, "you don't forget when told of it in passing." The Giver has found the blog. He has read the tales (luckily, not the the tale of how he earned his nickname), and I think the blacktress may have to silence her voice. It's just like a white male to keep me down.
Here's what I can let you know: the date went well....I think. It began with me getting him good and tipsy at Butai, where Special K pours dranks with abandon. Butai is my Saturday tradition, beginning around 5pm and ending whenever I have a good enough reason to leave. During our idle chat, I received a text about a party in Brooklyn. While this was not planned, I was thankful for it, as it made me out to be very popular and important.
We then went to try and see Juno, because nothing sets the mood like a story of teen pregnancy. Surprisingly, other people had the same idea, because it was too crowded and we had to see a later show. As we walked out, I explained how awkward I was (this was during one of my many ramblings that began due to nervousness), and he said, "I know.... I read your blog."
As Scooby Doo would say, "Ruh-Roh!" He found me out! He knows I'm slightly insane, mildly militant, and have gone out with randoms!
Cue more incessant babbling. I swear, he made a black girl blush several times-- which you know is tough with this blacktress.
We then went to Crocodile Lounge (I think you all know my feelings on pizza and skee ball), where I drank red wine (cause I'm classy) and flirted like the shameless schoolgirl I am. It seemed for some strange reason he was still drawn to me, so I figured I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We found seats in the theater, trying to avoid sitting next to unattractive people (you know ugly is contagious!), and I made my smooch move. I mean, I was thinking about it and I figured if I just got in there I'd feel slightly less cray.
It worked.
We then tucked in to watch the movie, which ended up being the bestest thing ever. Actually, while I'm singing male praises, let me address one man in particular:
Dear Michael Cera, you awkward, gangly teen-- I am so drawn to your confusion. I identify with your loss for words and statement of the obvious. You ask if you can makeout with people, much in the way I do. You wear short-shorts, and I can almost see your junk, but I try not to look because you're too young for me...and because I'm waiting for Harry Potter to cross these shores. If, for some reason, HP and I end up having trouble with immigration services, it's you and me, boo.
Anyway, The Giver gave me a little hand-on-leg action during the film, which I turned into hand-holding action, and for the next 90 minutes I was totally swooning over the romantic subplot, my girl-crush Jennifer Garner, and the Giver beside me. We then hit up Chickpea for some vegemetarianish* delights. He got me some hummus-- holla at a middle-eastern playa-- and we chatted as he enjoyed his first falafel! Tenderness! You know blacktresses just bring out the "adventurous side" in white men.
We hit up another random bar--where I just had water!-- and talked a bit. While shooting the shit, he said, "Yeah, I tried dating two girls at once, but that was drama. I'm all about monogamous relationships."
He dropped the M-bomb. Granted, it was in no way connected to me, and probably means he's missing his ex-GF or something else unsavory, but the word itself just makes me tingly....down there. I mean, drop an M-bomb, and I am done and done. If this blog has shown one thing, it's that it's not only hard out there for a pimp, but it's hard out there for a blacktress trying to find a winter spoon! It's been a rough 007, and it's time shit stopped being cray and started getting real. This body ain't getting any younger, people!!!
Anyway, I clearly went back to his house, to get in the spirit of giving--holla! And I think he had me at morning eggs and bagels. I mean, a can-do man who will hook up some protein on a chilly winter's morning is one to callback, you know?
He is now off in his homeland for the holidays....where one can only hope the white fields of Ohio (in more ways than one) make him long for the blacktress. Until then, I will just have to entertain myself with my gays and my gals.
Um, guys, if I don't hear from him while he's gone does this mean the whole thing was in my head?
* I know that's not a word.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
I'm Awkward
Things Not to Say When the Guy You Slept With Calls You to Make a Date:
6. I can’t really talk right now-- I’m watching the season finale of “I Love
5. You know, I think you should be on “I Love
4. I have three leaks in my ceiling.
3. When he arranges a date for Saturday on Monday, you say: “It’s good you called so far in advance; I book fast. I’m very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany….. um, have you ever seen Anchorman?”
2. At the end of the conversation: “I’m going to hold my breath until Saturday!”
He says: “Um, why?”
You respond: “Until our date! I mean, what will I wear?! The possibilities are endless!”
1. I blogged about you.
And it is for this reason I had to take down my previous post, extolling his virtues as a giver. Just in case he is anywhere near as savvy an internet stalker as I am, he can't find out that I gave the world a little TMI. I'll repost once I have him firmly in my clutches, and he can separate the ACT from the BLACKtress.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The Unanswerable Question-- I Need Your Help!
So, as you know, I had a wonderful Friday night- Saturday morning date (holla!) with Whiteley.
It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).
Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.
Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!
As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!
Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!
It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).
Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.
Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!
As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!
Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
My Big Fat Greek Relationship
So, I think somewhere between fall of 2001 and last night, I lost my emotional virginity.
Seriously. I no longer feel optimism or excitement, and do not trust a word that comes out of the mouth of a heterosexual male. There was a time when it was all new and magical, and now I'm just like.... meh.
I had date # 2 with the Greek man last night.
We basically met up in front of Whole Paycheck--I mean Whole Foods-- with nothing planned. We met at 7pm-- clearly food hour-- and we ended up walking around the East Village and talking on a park bench.
Now, listen, I'm all down for living on the cheap-- and I respect the starving artist lifestyle (at least when you're actually foreign and broke, and not just going to the salvation army to beat all the poor people to the clothes), but I was looking too fine to be sitting on a park bench.
We did a lot of talking, and at one point a mildly drunk, 40-something-year-old Irishman walks by us. He's drinking red wine in a solo cup. He looks at the Greek demigod and says:
"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but I want to say that you're a very handsome man. I hope when I grow up I'm as handsome as you are."
SEE HOW HOT HE IS????? HE MAKES INTOXICATED STRAIGHT MEN OPENLY GAY!!!!
Anyway, I'm cracking up at the absurdity of dating someone ridiculously good-looking (does this happen to hot people all the time???), when the Irishman turns to me and says, "You're gorgeous. You two are a very attractive couple. Are you a couple?"
I was flustered and confused by this. Not only was I now hot by association, but this complete stranger was calling out the status of our love on date deuce! I immediately put the kabosh on that. I say, "NO"..... just as El Greco says, "We're trying to be."
In the words of Nick Cearley in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet": What an awkward moment!!!
I then scold the drunk for making things awkward and shoo him away. My date and I are left to marinate in our opposing views.
I don't know if it's something in the dolma, but the Greek man is blunt. He's, like, seriously so honest it's almost comical. On one hand, when he says, "I don't do anything I don't want to do," I can be sure he's on a date with me because he wants to be, and he's happy just sitting on a park bench and relishing in my nubianess. On the other hand, he will have no regard for my feelings and say whatever pops into his head. On my third hand (yes, I'm a three-handed circus freak), his honesty allows me to be just as TRUTHFUL, which you know I'm all about.
Later, in Union Square Park (yes, it was a hobo evening of park benches), the Greek asks me if I want to be his girlfriend.
DATE NUMBER 2, PEOPLE!!!
While I was flattered and turned on by the concept of commitment, I was taken aback by this suddeness. Much like the Whole Foods where we met, I like these things to happen organically. The man hasn't even seen me in my spectacles and retainer (yep, I'm classy)-- how can he be ready to handle my truths?!
I've decided he's like a puppy. An excited, fresh-from-the-pound golden retriever puppy, who is excited and jumps all over you and playfully licks in its quest to find an owner. While the energy and cuteness draws you in and makes you want to take him home and love him all night, he is still a canine. And like any puppy, he will inevitably crap on your carpet and need to be hit on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
BAD, BAD, GREEK HOTTIE! YOU ARE MOVING TOO FAST!!
He called me today. Yes, about 14 hours later-- for someone without a cell phone, he certainly knows how to reach out and touch a sister-- and he will call me every day if I ask him to. And he will also grow his facial hair because I told him I liked the way it looked on our first date.
I guess I should be swooning, but I'm not. You would think a fine, tall, foreign glass of milk who is willing to do whatever I ask would be a dream come true, and yet I'm spent (like the money in his wallet must be if I can't even get a meal!).
I've got the mentality of a 40-year-old divorcee: cold, bitter, cynical, and feeling emotionally chubby. No matter how fine he may be, I just don't want someone all up in my George Foreman (grill) unless they can engage in thoughtful discourse on race, drink red wine, decipher my drunken texts, write sonnets in iambic pentameter, and sit with me and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. Oh yeah, and if they have to STAY IN MY TIME ZONE.
I worry that someone who can start an exclusive relationship after 2 dates may be a bit fickle in his affections. Am I wrong? Leave an opinion.
And, here's another question: If you could be a Ninja Turtle, which one would you be???
I think I'd be Raphael, the angsty one.
Seriously. I no longer feel optimism or excitement, and do not trust a word that comes out of the mouth of a heterosexual male. There was a time when it was all new and magical, and now I'm just like.... meh.
I had date # 2 with the Greek man last night.
We basically met up in front of Whole Paycheck--I mean Whole Foods-- with nothing planned. We met at 7pm-- clearly food hour-- and we ended up walking around the East Village and talking on a park bench.
Now, listen, I'm all down for living on the cheap-- and I respect the starving artist lifestyle (at least when you're actually foreign and broke, and not just going to the salvation army to beat all the poor people to the clothes), but I was looking too fine to be sitting on a park bench.
We did a lot of talking, and at one point a mildly drunk, 40-something-year-old Irishman walks by us. He's drinking red wine in a solo cup. He looks at the Greek demigod and says:
"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but I want to say that you're a very handsome man. I hope when I grow up I'm as handsome as you are."
SEE HOW HOT HE IS????? HE MAKES INTOXICATED STRAIGHT MEN OPENLY GAY!!!!
Anyway, I'm cracking up at the absurdity of dating someone ridiculously good-looking (does this happen to hot people all the time???), when the Irishman turns to me and says, "You're gorgeous. You two are a very attractive couple. Are you a couple?"
I was flustered and confused by this. Not only was I now hot by association, but this complete stranger was calling out the status of our love on date deuce! I immediately put the kabosh on that. I say, "NO"..... just as El Greco says, "We're trying to be."
In the words of Nick Cearley in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet": What an awkward moment!!!
I then scold the drunk for making things awkward and shoo him away. My date and I are left to marinate in our opposing views.
I don't know if it's something in the dolma, but the Greek man is blunt. He's, like, seriously so honest it's almost comical. On one hand, when he says, "I don't do anything I don't want to do," I can be sure he's on a date with me because he wants to be, and he's happy just sitting on a park bench and relishing in my nubianess. On the other hand, he will have no regard for my feelings and say whatever pops into his head. On my third hand (yes, I'm a three-handed circus freak), his honesty allows me to be just as TRUTHFUL, which you know I'm all about.
Later, in Union Square Park (yes, it was a hobo evening of park benches), the Greek asks me if I want to be his girlfriend.
DATE NUMBER 2, PEOPLE!!!
While I was flattered and turned on by the concept of commitment, I was taken aback by this suddeness. Much like the Whole Foods where we met, I like these things to happen organically. The man hasn't even seen me in my spectacles and retainer (yep, I'm classy)-- how can he be ready to handle my truths?!
I've decided he's like a puppy. An excited, fresh-from-the-pound golden retriever puppy, who is excited and jumps all over you and playfully licks in its quest to find an owner. While the energy and cuteness draws you in and makes you want to take him home and love him all night, he is still a canine. And like any puppy, he will inevitably crap on your carpet and need to be hit on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
BAD, BAD, GREEK HOTTIE! YOU ARE MOVING TOO FAST!!
He called me today. Yes, about 14 hours later-- for someone without a cell phone, he certainly knows how to reach out and touch a sister-- and he will call me every day if I ask him to. And he will also grow his facial hair because I told him I liked the way it looked on our first date.
I guess I should be swooning, but I'm not. You would think a fine, tall, foreign glass of milk who is willing to do whatever I ask would be a dream come true, and yet I'm spent (like the money in his wallet must be if I can't even get a meal!).
I've got the mentality of a 40-year-old divorcee: cold, bitter, cynical, and feeling emotionally chubby. No matter how fine he may be, I just don't want someone all up in my George Foreman (grill) unless they can engage in thoughtful discourse on race, drink red wine, decipher my drunken texts, write sonnets in iambic pentameter, and sit with me and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. Oh yeah, and if they have to STAY IN MY TIME ZONE.
I worry that someone who can start an exclusive relationship after 2 dates may be a bit fickle in his affections. Am I wrong? Leave an opinion.
And, here's another question: If you could be a Ninja Turtle, which one would you be???
I think I'd be Raphael, the angsty one.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
He's So Hot-- BOOM!
OH. MY. GOD.
So, I had my date with the Greek man last night, guys.
I am still swooning.
Ok, seriously: Is it wrong to want to marry someone simply because they are hotter than Sanaa Lathan making out with Halle Berry while Denzel Washington watches? (That’s a triple threat of hotness, in case you didn't get that)
He is classically handsome. So hot, he probably shouldn’t be allowed to walk around normal society. I think I want to put him in a cage and just poke him. And take him out for feedings.... OF SEX.He's so hot, he could be a part-time model (and you know how I love those). He could be a gigolo-- and with that accent?! He could make many unhappily married moneyed wives very satisfied.
But is there such a thing as too hot? As I’ve said in previous posts, being too hot can be dangerous. When we were walking together I felt fear—I mean, more than just the general, Oh-lord-some-black-man-is-going-to-give-me-dagger-eyes-for-dating-this-white-boy fear. I was worried that pretty girls would come up to me and punch me, steal my wallet, then use my money to take the Greek god out to dinner.
Is that silly?
The only thing that made me feel superior to (and thereby good enough for) him is the fact that English is his second language. His linguistic foibles are so endearing. When he was trying to impress me with the books he likes to read (philosophy, religion, the classics—YAWN!), I responded with: So, you’re no fun and don’t like laughter?
To which he replied, “No, I’m just trying to impress you. I like to joke around. I have a very black sense of humor.” Huh? By “black humor,” does he mean like Sanford & Son or Def Comedy Jam?
OH! He means “dark humor,” like sarcastic and morbid—teehee, oh foreign man!
Every now and then he’d grasp for a word, and I would feel like a secret genius, ready to aid his foreign mind with my knowledge of complex adjectives.
But language can be learned. Sayings and turns of phrase can be placed in context.
But hotness is a gift. A genetic gift. Despite his euro jacket (very…. 80s MJ, circa "Thriller"), his hotness was clear as day—and even more so without the fedora (see previous post). His hotness reminded me of this song I love, by Flight of the Conchords. It’s called “She’s So Hot…BOOM!” In the first line, singer Bret Mackenzie says, “She’s so hot, she’s like a curry. If I tell her she’s hot, will she think I’m sexist? She’s so hot she’s making me sexist. Bitch.” See for yourself.
I know exactly how he feels. Who's the Boom King? Greek God is the Boom King!
So, date #1 ended with plans for date #2, which will take place on Saturday. What to wear?! What to do?!
Did I also mention that he doesn’t drink alcohol and DOESN’T OWN A CELL PHONE? He’s my very own Antiques Roadshow. A foreign, ridiculously good looking episode of Antiques Roadshow.
So, I had my date with the Greek man last night, guys.
I am still swooning.
Ok, seriously: Is it wrong to want to marry someone simply because they are hotter than Sanaa Lathan making out with Halle Berry while Denzel Washington watches? (That’s a triple threat of hotness, in case you didn't get that)
He is classically handsome. So hot, he probably shouldn’t be allowed to walk around normal society. I think I want to put him in a cage and just poke him. And take him out for feedings.... OF SEX.He's so hot, he could be a part-time model (and you know how I love those). He could be a gigolo-- and with that accent?! He could make many unhappily married moneyed wives very satisfied.
But is there such a thing as too hot? As I’ve said in previous posts, being too hot can be dangerous. When we were walking together I felt fear—I mean, more than just the general, Oh-lord-some-black-man-is-going-to-give-me-dagger-eyes-for-dating-this-white-boy fear. I was worried that pretty girls would come up to me and punch me, steal my wallet, then use my money to take the Greek god out to dinner.
Is that silly?
The only thing that made me feel superior to (and thereby good enough for) him is the fact that English is his second language. His linguistic foibles are so endearing. When he was trying to impress me with the books he likes to read (philosophy, religion, the classics—YAWN!), I responded with: So, you’re no fun and don’t like laughter?
To which he replied, “No, I’m just trying to impress you. I like to joke around. I have a very black sense of humor.” Huh? By “black humor,” does he mean like Sanford & Son or Def Comedy Jam?
OH! He means “dark humor,” like sarcastic and morbid—teehee, oh foreign man!
Every now and then he’d grasp for a word, and I would feel like a secret genius, ready to aid his foreign mind with my knowledge of complex adjectives.
But language can be learned. Sayings and turns of phrase can be placed in context.
But hotness is a gift. A genetic gift. Despite his euro jacket (very…. 80s MJ, circa "Thriller"), his hotness was clear as day—and even more so without the fedora (see previous post). His hotness reminded me of this song I love, by Flight of the Conchords. It’s called “She’s So Hot…BOOM!” In the first line, singer Bret Mackenzie says, “She’s so hot, she’s like a curry. If I tell her she’s hot, will she think I’m sexist? She’s so hot she’s making me sexist. Bitch.” See for yourself.
I know exactly how he feels. Who's the Boom King? Greek God is the Boom King!
So, date #1 ended with plans for date #2, which will take place on Saturday. What to wear?! What to do?!
Did I also mention that he doesn’t drink alcohol and DOESN’T OWN A CELL PHONE? He’s my very own Antiques Roadshow. A foreign, ridiculously good looking episode of Antiques Roadshow.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
10 Signs....
I've come to a new conclusion:
Men are like parking spaces-- they are either handicapped or taken!
And this handicap can come in many forms: emotional, physical, mental.
You would not believe how many conversations I've been having with my lady friends over guy drama. And in every case, we give ourselves a hard time, yet when it comes to the guy, we have lower standards than a county technical college. WTF?!
9. He then holds up a box of wine and suggests you take it with you to the restaurant. Box wine is to only be consumed by the following people in the following situations: 1. teenagers at a house party; 2. college students in a dorm room; 3. a teenager, visiting a college student’s dorm room.
8. Quick to get this show on the road, you grab your coat. Once outside, he asks if you can stop by your ex boyfriend’s house and pick up something he left there. Anyone content to make you this uncomfortable before you even have anything invested in them is far too presumptuous. At this rate, the second date will be at his granpappy’s wake!
7. While waiting for a table, he tells you about his study abroad experience in China. His favorite souvenir: his worm, which he named! Initially taken aback by his love of insects, you then learn that this worm was kept not in a cage or a cup with a hole in it, like an inquisitive little tyke. The worm was inside of him! Yes, he had a tapeworm that seemed to be difficult to get rid of. This is a sign that the only warm fuzzy feeling you’re going to have this evening is nausea.
Men are like parking spaces-- they are either handicapped or taken!
And this handicap can come in many forms: emotional, physical, mental.
You would not believe how many conversations I've been having with my lady friends over guy drama. And in every case, we give ourselves a hard time, yet when it comes to the guy, we have lower standards than a county technical college. WTF?!
I myself have resorted to interweb dating. Yes, I'm doing it. If the gays can, so can I. We are both equally oppressed. Now, while this seems "unsafe," and "sketchy," I've found that knowing a guy doesn't preclude the aforementioned sketchiness.*
To prove it, I am going to take you on a trip, back in time and relive one of the worst dates in the history of life. I tell you all this not only to further prove my oppression, but in the hopes that you, gentle reader, will not make the same mistakes.
Ten Signs the Date Should Have Ended At “Hello”
10. He comes to your door with his hair dripping wet and when you ask if it’s raining, he proudly says, “No! I showered for you!” Any man who thinks bathing is a cause for celebration is a bad sign. If he wants accolades for something that basic, he’ll expect 76 trombones every time he opens a car door.
9. He then holds up a box of wine and suggests you take it with you to the restaurant. Box wine is to only be consumed by the following people in the following situations: 1. teenagers at a house party; 2. college students in a dorm room; 3. a teenager, visiting a college student’s dorm room.
8. Quick to get this show on the road, you grab your coat. Once outside, he asks if you can stop by your ex boyfriend’s house and pick up something he left there. Anyone content to make you this uncomfortable before you even have anything invested in them is far too presumptuous. At this rate, the second date will be at his granpappy’s wake!
7. While waiting for a table, he tells you about his study abroad experience in China. His favorite souvenir: his worm, which he named! Initially taken aback by his love of insects, you then learn that this worm was kept not in a cage or a cup with a hole in it, like an inquisitive little tyke. The worm was inside of him! Yes, he had a tapeworm that seemed to be difficult to get rid of. This is a sign that the only warm fuzzy feeling you’re going to have this evening is nausea.
6. He then follows up this tidbit of information with chit chat about his foot fungus.
5. He chooses a Thai restaurant and sizes up every waitress in the place. When you jokingly ask him if he “has a thing for Asian women” he excitedly says, “Yes.” Great, you’ve got a fetishizer on your hands.
4. When asked what he does for fun, he says, “There are just some nights when you just want to go out into the woods with your best friend and do some mushrooms, you know?”
No, you do not know.
3. After walking you back to your house, he says “Whoa. I think I gotta drop a deuce. Did your food taste weird?” He then lingers in the doorway.
2. The next night, you see him arm in arm with an Asian woman! I mean, make a decision man! Do you want a ride on the Underground Railroad, or do you want to hop onto the Orient Express?! Stop jerking me around!
1. Upon recapping the night with your friend (who obviously did some gossiping and googling to make sure this man was worth his weight in pad thai), you find out that he may have fathered an Asian baby while studying abroad! Had you received this nugget of information three days earlier, the date would not have taken place. Anyone who is fathering babies, then leaves them to suffer with SARS should be nowhere near your safe space! Where’s your respect, woman?!
I guess I could have titled this post: "Does he have an Asian baby? And other questions you won’t remember to ask until you learn the hard way."
So don't give me crap for internet dating. As you can see, I have nothing to lose.
*Yeah, used the words "aforementioned" and "preclude." You didn't know Sojo could roll like that, did you?!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)