Match Made in Theory

A very dear friend of mine set me up with a somewhat dear friend of hers, based on our shared love of words and other things that are funny. Deep breath. Lots of trust. Let's do this.

Date #1: Post-work drinks at Misfit. Let’s keep this fun/easy/casual. I get stuck at work for an extra half hour-ish, cutting close to the end of happy hour. Not one to miss out on a great deal, my date decides to stock up on cocktails, while awaiting my arrival. This would have been a smarter idea, had he not also decided to consume every single one of them within that half hour. Let’s just say, he was plastered by the time I located him at the bar. Let’s also just say, it wasn’t love at first eye-roll.

Memorable notes: Girls aren’t funny. Girls can’t write. He was expecting me to be dumber. He had already managed to accrue a grand total of 3 DUI’s.

Swoon.

Date #2: Writer-y thing at the Hammer Museum. Assuming that his ego-charged, unintelligent barbs were due to accidental over-intoxication, I decided to give it another go. We make it to the museum just in time, but the seats are already filled. Hashtag fail. Let’s go have a drink back at the house and figure out where to go! Hey! Actually, why go anywhere when drinks here are free?!

Right. Why would anyone ever leave the house? Let’s just say he kept both the cocktails and the over-aggressive-quintessential-negging flowing, and I ended up…well…crying. Yes; apparently, I do have emotions. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch. Overall, not a great success.

…

He tells our mutual friend he is both apologetic slash mortified. In addition, he has decided to x-nay alcohol from his life.

Our mutual friend asks if there’s any way I would give the dude another chance, as he would really like to make it up to me. Deep breath. I get it. He’s a nice guy with drinking issues that make him less of a nice guy. I am willing to see how a sober date would go down, if only out of pure curiosity.

Cue: A barrage of fascinatingly half-hearted, yet persistent, attempts to have me meet him at x,y, or z bar/or his apartment. I ask which edition of Emily Post’s Etiquette he favors. He confidently asserts that he doesn’t believe in chivalry.

…

How charming.

…

In the interest of full disclosure, here are our final two conversations:

Him: Let’s hang out this weekend!

Me: I’m having a staycation in Malibu this weekend, but will be back Sunday evening, if you would like to pick me up and take me to dinner.

Him: Are you going to Malibu with a suitor?

No response.

I wasn’t, just in case you were curious. Shocking, I know.

Him: Come to my pool on Sunday!

I mean…

Literacy. Reading comprehension. Social cues. Anything?

One week later…

Him: Last chance. Meet me at [insert bar-name-I-can’t-remember] at 8.

Seriously? Last chance?

It hurts.

Me: How compelling.

And scene.

…

I really thought that one was going to work out.

I'm a Blogger

The scene: A half-way to grown up house party The crowd: Writer-types & the masochistic girls who date them

Dude: So what do you do?

Dude is 5’8”-ish, awkwardly pompous & an oddly sallow shade of pale.

Deep breath. In the interest of pandering to the over-literate-under-original masses, I reply.

Me: I’m a writer

Skepticism. Bemused left eyebrow. Strange twitchy flare in the nostril region.

Dude: Oh, really? What are you working on now?

Me: My memoirs. Also known as my blog. And I freelance for —-

Dude: Ohhhh. So you’re a blogger.

…

Pigeonhole found.

…

…

…

This is why I don’t speak to short men.

Five Men. One Week.

You can avoid eye-contact. You can turn a cold shoulder and solidly hinged elbow. You can maintain an unwavering tone of disinterest. You can even throw an unabridged dictionary’s worth of intellect-ridden sarcasm over their heads.

But you can never escape them.

These are the LA Douchebags: The Real Men of Los Angeles* - and boy, do they have a way with words.

*Real as in reality, not ‘real men’ as in iterations of Jon Hamm

Random Man #1: I don’t believe in monogamy, but my wife doesn’t believe in polygamy.

Pretty sure she also doesn’t believe in you buying drinks for random girls at bars.

Random Man #2: Come sit over here.
Me: I’m fine right here, thanks.
Random Man #2: Your attitude problem only makes you that much more adorable.

…

Oh, I know.

Random Man #3: Where’s your new place?
Me: Beverly Hills
Random Man #3: That’s so not you! What are you doing living there?

Right. Because you’ve known me all of 3 and a half minutes. Thank you for your frank analysis. I should probably move now.

Random Man #4: You actually seem like a really cool chick. We’ll see if it’s for real.

Really?? You think so?! OMG I feel so much better about myself now. Thank you for validating my existence. I only hope I can continue to live up to your obviously discriminating taste slash superior expectations.

Random Man #5: You look like you’re a gift for me.

Oh, I get it. Because I’m wearing a bow around my neck. (I was - it’s a choker circa 1996.)

You are SO clever! Obviously, I have been waiting all night to gift myself to someone as charming and cavalier as yourself.

…

Don’t touch me.

…

…

…

I don’t feel safe anymore.

A Girl's First Booty Call

I just had my first legitimate booty call.

Obviously, this was not the first late night call I had ever received, but it was the first that I both answered and accepted.

Sure, there are other evenings that probably technically landed in the booty call column; but, on those occasions, the dude had the integrity to mask his true intentions with a quick round or three of drinks out in the real world prior to laying it on thick.

At least he brought tacos this time? Before you nod in enabling support, let me add that these were no Tacos Por Favor or Pinches…these were (brace yourself) Del Taco. Insult. Injury. Sigh.

There was a 3 minute (This number would prove to be foreshadowing in events to come) pretense of Boardwalk Empire viewing. Literally. 3 minutes. And then, you know…

But usually, “you know” with this person is actually enjoyable. Like, for me. Like, he makes sure it’s enjoyable for me. Apparently, that’s a chapter they left out of the booty call handbook? In accepting his midnight call, had I unwittingly agreed to a 3 minute sex session, guaranteed to leave only one of us satisfied?

Cuddling? Sure. Conversation? Of course. Let’s keep this on the up and up here. Let me interject at this point to add that, two months ago, I thought this person and I actually might be dating. My ensuing confusion and need for closure/or validation were the damning impetuses for this new life low.

Most of the conversation involving his recent life activities featured other girls, of course – not girls with whom he was getting down (that would just be uncouth,) but I could safely assume he at least momentarily entertained the idea.

God, he’s SO DESIRABLE. I am SO LUCKY he’s here right now.

…

Perhaps the morning sex would be better.

It started out well…and ended quickly. How lucky for him that he was now content and able to sleep.

Must. Be. Nice.

Around 8:30am, he decided it was probably time for him to hit the road. Did he save a shred of my dignity by conjuring up some tragically unbreakable breakfast-interfering plans? Nope. No plans. Just done here.

Interesting. That makes two of us.

…

My stomach feels like Del Taco.

Invisalign: Exposed

Saturday night girls’ din! Hashtag yay! Hashtag reunion! Hashtag OMG!

These things normally go smoothly, with plenty of pictorial evidence to back all claims of yummy food, lots of laughs, and everlasting BFF love.

Normally, I don’t have Invisalign.

I recently made the bold economic move to realign my previously aligned bottom teeth. (Who wears retainers in college?) (Hashtag monetary fail.) (Hashtag I’m done hashtagging. Promise.)

I’ve only had these sheer trays of straightness for about 3 weeks, but I’ve sort of adopted a dignity-rule: If I know I will be eating out with friends, I leave my Invisalign at home.

The problems start when there are multiple events slash locations stacked in a single evening.  I lose focus. I forget about this foreign plastic object adhered to my lower row of chompers.

When this happens, it’s generally okay. (I’m saying this after less than a month of treatment, btw.) I wait until a moment of intense conversation to bow my head and awkwardly pop the sucker out and slip it into a napkin, delicately sliding said napkin next to my purse for safe keeping.

Saturday night, I did this.  All night long, a crumpled napkin sat next to my clutch, carefully disguising my dental apparatus. Not one of my tablemates was any the wiser.

As dishes were cleared and credit cards lay flung atop each other in the black envelope-y thing, I decided to run to the restroom. 

Less than 5 minutes later, I returned to the table.

Something was awry.

My napkin. My napkin had disappeared.

…

F*ck.

…

Whatever peak my cool factor had almost theoretically reached during the course of the evening, plummeted immediately to dorkdom, as I hailed the closest busboy and filled him in on the…situation.

He informed our server, and soon enough, 4 members of Eveleigh’s overly gracious staff had flashlights out, checking the ground, as others searched through the napkins in the kitchen.

I am never getting invited back.

As I began to fear the worst, our server reappeared, extending my teeth-mold on a napkin, albeit, with a caveat: “Don’t put this anywhere near your mouth until it receives some intense sanitation.” (More gist. Less verbatim.)

Apparently, someone had decided to toss the contents of the napkin into the trash can.  It was on the top of the pile, they assured me, but still definitely lay within the confines of disgustingness.

I have to look really pretty the next time I go back there.

That probably shouldn’t be for awhile.

It Wasn't Equinox That Made Me Do It

A good-looking workout instructor can be an amazing point of inspiration.  It can also lead to extreme embarrassment. 

One of my favorite spin instructors is one of those people who is so attractive in that in-your-face-masculine kind of way that it makes you uncomfortable.  Like, I can barely make eye contact and immediately regret the vegan chocolate chip cookie I ate yesterday uncomfortable.

Especially at 6:45 in the morning. (Or 2p on a Saturday, which sometimes may as well be 6:45am.)

After a series of events, including, but not limited to:

1. Taking ten minutes to clip in
2. Being unable to clap to the beat (I know I’m really white, but I can usually manage a simple hand clap exercise)
3. Holding my breath, looking down and swallowing really hard when he was in close proximity to my bike
4. Talking and laughing with people at the front desk, until he appeared and things suddenly weren’t funny anymore, my eyes shifted to the side and down and my feet shuffled slightly, while I sort of bit the inside of my lip
5. Pure avoidance of any form of interaction, obviously peppered with creepy over-staring

…I decided I needed to reclaim at least a single shred of my dignity.  

The following Tuesday, I came into class well-rested, made an appropriate amount of eye contact, focused on my workout, and even managed a few words of conversation. In short, I almost acted like a normal person.

Great success!

…

And then I turned around and walked into the door. Literally.

…

Needless to say, I did not look back. Just. Keep. Going. 

This morning, I received this text from a friend of mine:

"Just had the MOST embarrassing interaction with Jacob* at spin. It really pales in comparison to your walking into walls! Lol"

*names have been changed to protect my ego

I’m assuming she intended that to be vice-versa. Also, in case you are curious, this is not just a female thing.  My male friends have echoed similar statements in regard to his general physique.

Dear Jacob*, 

Please be a little less hot, for the sake of all of us.  Or at least for the sake of our pride slash dignity.

Xo Everyone

Hibernation Inspiration

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I decided to go to The Den on Sunset last night to grab a couple drinks and a bite to eat. A nice mellow, casual place for a girl-talk-catch-up-sesh.

Enter Keith. Name has been changed to protect the ego of the offender.

Keith was our waiter. Keith decided to sit down at our table with us.

Ok. First of all, I sort of have this thing about personal space, where I cherish it and do not appreciate when its existence is completely and totally disregarded.  Initially, his awkward level of immediate comfort  was fascinating enough to render it amusing.  I was even willing to crack a smile at his layman banter about the three of us dating. (What? I had just moved back to LA at the time.  I was both hard up for humor and hesitant to turn my back on any potential neighborhood-bar-friendship. Momentarily.)

5 minutes later, he was still sitting there, my cracked smile had realigned into polite, obscured annoyance and ithinkironyisSOfunny and I made unobscured eye contact of the whenishegoingtogetupandtakeourorder variety. 

The answer was not any time soon. Keith launched into a less than scintillating autobiography.  I half-listened, awestruck at his inability to discern that ithinkironyisSOfunnyand I possess individually supreme senses of narcissism and were apathetic about both his career choice (actor) and training center (Beverly Hills Playhouse).

At the end of his diatribe, he stared at me, expectantly. Oh, right.  This is where I respond with signs of interest.

"Ooh."

"What does ‘ooh’ mean?"

"It means I’ve never heard of that and know nothing about it, but I’m not judging you."

…  

Things started off well.

We finally coerced Keith into taking our order and leaving our general area for a peaceful moment. Our catch-up convo took a turn for the serious, when guess who socially-ineptly chose to slide right back into our booth.

Pregnant pause. Awkward expressions clearly broadcasting the silent version of dude-are-you-serious.

Ignored. Keith was back and ready to chat.  This time about the relationship he and I were allegedly about to begin.

Deep breath. Where the F is our food?

Oh. There it is. Being brought out to us by the chef. It had apparently been sitting there for awhile, dropping drastically in temperature. We sent Keith away to procure us some utensils.

He came back with more than silverware.

"Are you a famous actress and should I not be hitting on you right now?"

"Is that a two-part question?"

We then learned that he once told Jon Hamm he should be an actor because he was such a charming man.

…

Swoon?

Somehow, we got him to leave again and picked up our heart-to-heart chat-sesh, ignorantly believing we would finally be granted a little bestie alone time. When Keith sauntered over again, he was a man with a purpose. 

"You guys should come to our karaoke night." Turns to face me. "Actually, you and I should go to karaoke somewhere else. When I’m not working."

*crickets*

Now, I love the sh*t out of karaoke, but even my microphone mania has its limits.

"Your boyfriend would probably be upset."

I nod.

"You have a boyfriend?"

I nod. “He’s mildly protective.”

…

Attempt at humor. Awkward linger. Uncomfortable shifting.

…

…

…

Eyes down. Pay bill. Exit Quickly.

The Classic Leave Behind

I may or may not have had a sleepover with a new friend. New friend may or may not have used his roomie’s car to take me home the next morning.

2 weeks later I may or may not have received this text:

My roomie came home from his trip today and went on a date and she found this in his car. I wish I could’ve been there to see him talk his way outta that one. How about you take me out and reclaim this so I don’t feel like I was used as a piece of meat? ;) 

...

I love you, Mom.

Don't Wait - Self-Medicate

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I went to get a mani/pedi on Saturday. A relaxing afternoon activity. For some people. The salon was packed with over-pampered women, and the receptionist rushed to greet all who dared to enter with an overly gusty slash heavily accented derivative of hello. As we selected our polish colors, she seemed to loom over us, despite her diminutive height.

I lingered in debate at the shelves. Hot pink or neon pink?

The receptionist suffered from no such indecision - she assured me that hot pink was perfect for summer. No question about it. No, really. No questions. In retrospect, this innocent exchange would prove to be a solid chunk of foreshadow. Gross.

As we weaved our way toward our cozy recliners, she asked ithinkironyissofunny and I if we would like a shoulder massage along with our nail treatment. I said no, ithinkironyisSOfunnysaid yes. I laughed at ithinkironyisSOfunny's delivery. The receptionist took that as me saying yes. The second my a$$ hit the chair, Cindy was behind me, unzipping the top half of my dress, and going after my knots for a dollar a minute. I resigned myself to accept that I probably needed a massage anyway.

Enter the manicurist. She asked if I would like to trim my nails.

"You don’t want to cut, do you? No, I don’t think you do."

"Actually, I would - I like them short and round."

She made a face and put her head down to attack my cuticles. The pedicurist had trouble understanding my fast-paced, un-annunciated English, and I wasn’t faring any better on my end of the exchange. Manicurist helped to translate. Her derision was not lost in translation.

I had selected Flurry Up (Sephora by OPI) as a top-coat. Initially, I wanted the glitter only on the tips of my nails. Manicurist’s earlier face made an encore appearance as she explained this to the pedicurist. When it came time for the glitter application, I changed my mind and decided I wanted a full top-coat on my toes and just the tips on my nails. Manicurist shook her head.

"Full-coat is better. Not just tip."

Maybe she was right?

When the time came to pay, she had already run my credit card for the mani/pedi/massage, but there was no space to leave a tip. I sat drying my nails, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, as the formerly-ever-present receptionist had somehow disappeared. At the same time, I kept making awkward eye-contact with an expressionless woman staring me down from across the drying stations. Anxiety. Twitch.

Eventually, Cindy came over to say thank you and I took that as my cue to hand over the probably slightly-less-than-sufficient cash I had harbored in my clutch.

Note to self: Next time you need a little relaxation in your life, remember these 5 letters…X-A-N-A-X.

Two Guys, a Girl, & a Pita Place

Last night, I went to grab a casual bite to eat with two guys I’ve been friends with for years now.

One girl. Two guys. Lookin’ like a baller, right? Apparently not.

The scene: California Pita on Beverly Dr. 7:30pm. Outdoor table. Friend A sitting to my left, Friend B directly across from him.

We are mid-convo when a woman walks past our table. As she patters by, she bends down slightly and reaches in, placing something next to my carefully self-assembled table setting.She gives it the ol’ tap/slide, and murmurs knowing-slash-confiding-ly, “This is for you.”

I pause. Seriously? Of course.

Looking down, I expect to see the oft-received-in-my-life psychic ad, fluttering alongside my precautionary stack of napkins. (You never know what’s going to happen when that tangy yogurt sauce is around…)

What’s it going to be this time? Tarot cards? Palm Reading? The color of my aura?

…

It was none of those things.

Yup. An advertisement for a novel entitled, Too Old to be a Hooker, Too Young to be a Madam. According to the card, it is a story of ‘champagne decadence, dangerous liaisons, fame, bisexuality and betrayal in the Hollywood Hills colliding with a lusty Jewish American Princess from Beverly Hills in Laurel Canyon’. Breath.

Friend B’s token of reassurance? “You’re never too old to be a hooker.”

Duly noted.

I Prefer Princess Amidala, Thanks

The man behind the check-out counter at Whole Foods told me my braided hairstyle made me look like Padmé.

Me: I’m sorry?

Check-out Man: Padmé. She’s a character in Star Wars.

Hm. Right. Not exactly what I was expecting. Also, who the F is Padmé? Couldn’t he at least stick with a conventional Princess Leia reference? I felt the mood of the crowd of people in line behind me switch from mild annoyance to slight bemusement. A-holes.

I forced polite yet uncomfortable laughter, unsure as to how I should proceed.

Me: Ahh.

Silence. Brief ponderance of etiquette slash social norms. Briefer ponderance of movie dialogue used when portraying similar situations.

Nothing. It was time to call on a staple.

Me: Well, I shall take that as a compliment.

I thought this signaled an end.  It always signals an end.  But no.  There was more he wanted me to know.

I could see the nerdish excitement bubbling up from somewhere. Somewhere it had been lurking for years, deep-seated on a fraying couch.

No. Please. Please don’t. Please just ring up my 3 coconut waters, two packages of Tofurky and single vegan chocolate chip cookie, so I can exit this mocking semi-circle of lunchtime shoppers.

Oh, but he did.

He launched into an exultant spiel. My listening lasted approximately 5 words.

Check-out Man: She was the wife of mumbojumboblahblahexpositorydetailneedlessinformationwaytoomucheverythingpleasemakeitstopimsoembarrassedrightnow.

When his oration finally came to a halt, I gathered my groceries along with the remaining scraps of my dignity and beelined it back to the office to Google search my new apparent identity.

Padmé Amidala. Secret wife of Anakin Skywalker.

Great. I’m a glorified mistress.

At least she’s pretty?

I Plead Preventative Murder

Walking into my kitchen, I was privy to a spine-tingling sight.  An enormous spider, looming over the precipice of my porcelain sink.

I froze.  True movement undetectable, his body somehow seemed to shift in awareness of my presence.

Think, Stacie, think.  My eyes scanned the counter-tops, neighboring shelves and barely-out-of-reach table slash accompanying benches.

Marble rolling pin?  Too cumbersome.

Candlestick holder? Concave base.

Infinite Jest?  Seriously?  No.

Sh*t.

I refused to break eye-contact with the skeletal creature. (Assuming those minuscule rifts in texture harbored his creepy little peepers.) I sensed his increasing restlessness.

In my peripheral, I spotted one of my ShoeMint wedges. That’ll do. (Please let it do.)

I grabbed the shoe by its suede upper, grateful for its appropriately excessive platform.

Two hands. Sweaty, yet solid, grip. Arms shaking at a rate nearing vibration. I slowly raised my weapon of choice over the arachnid’s inch and a half claim of land.

Teeth clenched. Chin quivering.  I quietly urged the newly anointed Pillar of Death down, toward its prey.

The spider scrambled forward violently, leaping to the floor, barely escaping his crushing fate. (You’re welcome.)

Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I surrendered to instinct. I felt my right leg swing forward with electricity, capturing my potential attacker just as he was about to scurry into the depths of the woodwork.

Did I get him? Is he dead?  I slowly dragged my foot back in to its point of origin, unwilling to risk the escape of my victim, had he somehow managed to survive the blow.  Only as I saw his trail of death and severed appendages was I able to inhale an oxygenating breath of inexplicable relief.

What now?  I reluctantly collected the scattered pieces of his mutilated corpse in a handful of paper towels and decided to leave a small section of sticky spider death juice behind momentarily, as a warning for any of his kin that might still be lurking in the area.  It’s not safe for you tonight, b*tches.

3 minutes passed.

Momentarily forgetting the entire saga, I stepped right on top of the remains.

…

Smooth like butter.

Did I Stumble Into Some Bad Lighting?

Dudeikindofdig is coming over to my apartment after work! Must make sure I prepare accordingly before heading to the office, so as to avoid being caught unawares, sporting unkempt hair and an unflattering outfit. Cue: Clueless scene where Cher carefully preps for Christian’s arrival. (Note to self: Next time pick a different movie moment to look to for inspiration. Preferably one that doesn’t end in him being gay and her saying, “I don’t get it.”)

…

Winning ensemble:
Hair carefully spiral-curled. Sheer, black & white polka dot blouse (with a cami underneath for reasons of work appropriateness). Black, frilly skirt. 60’s cat-eye liner and red lips. (Pencil, not lipstick, for reasons of the hopefully-there-will-be-a-stellar-makeout-sesh variety.)

After work, I have 30 minutes for any touch-ups. One of these touch-ups involves removing the conservative cami to reveal a black lace bralette beneath the sheer blouse. 

Scandalous.

Dudeikindofdig comes over. I proceed to behave in a (un)characteristically shy and awkward manner. Because I’m five. We have a lovely floor picnic, as I still have not managed to purchase a kitchen table. #beverlyhillbilly

Mid-picnic, dudeikindofdig asks, “Is that what you wore to work today?”

Fair question. There are two possible answers.

Conundrum. 

Answer A:
"Yep! Well, minus a tank top - I’m not going to walk around the office like a ho."

Translation: “I knew you were coming over, so I started removing my clothing.” 

Awkward.

Answer B:
Yep!

Translation: I am the office whore.

Obviously, I went with Answer B. You know, to avoid any awkwardness.

…
…
…

I’ll be back after I go feed my cats.

Chasing the Passion

In response to a friend’s shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his best mate’s birthday party, and was scheduled to depart on a business trip Saturday morning. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner. 

I ran through my mental checklist: 
6’2” or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so near as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic & attractive: Check, Check, & Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Has a real job: Check.

Looks like I was saying yes. 

My initial concerns:

1. He appeared to be slightly older than I am generally comfortable with dating. Perhaps he had over-indulged a touch in all that Australian fun-in-the-sun?

2. I was still worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation - and also due to his shirt, of which I was not particularly fond.

Early afternoon on Friday, he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations, and perhaps we can meet at 7p to walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine, as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead, if I would like. I’m not entirely certain what it was about, “frolicking around the West Village with friends” that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier; regardless, I choose to ignore the text.

I arrive in SoHo around 7:15. (West Village antics may have segued into vegan ice cream bars and margaritas with mylifeissonotironic. Oops.) We thankfully skip the previously planned hour and a half pre-dinner stroll due to my delayed appearance. I mean, it’s a first date. Let’s not kill all conversation topics before we even get to the restaurant. 

We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be both lively and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis…I really should do this more often.

As he handles the check, I reach to check the time on my BlackBerry. F. Dinner had spanned more than three hours. It was currently pushing midnight. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. (Yes, I had post-date plans. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.)

I assumed we would do the whole hug-goodnight-I-get-in-a-cab-in-front-of-the-restaurant thing, and I’d be with my BFF’s in less than twenty.

This is where things began to unravel. As I’m trying to politely extricate myself from the situation, Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not a stellar combination.

He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. Ok, fine. I can saunter through the park with him and hail a taxi on the other side. I message my friends, giving them an ETA of 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, Man-From-Down-Under is still ignoring every semi-cordial attempt of mine to end the date. I’m making a concerted effort to not be rude slash abrupt, but my companion has made the full transition from amusing and charming to annoying and cheesy. I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.

As our meandering path veers suddenly and suspiciously toward his flat, I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties. (Said phone calls may or may not have been precluded by SOS alerts.) Hi! Yes! I’m coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!

"Are you sure you have to go?" 

Is he serious?

"Yep! Oh! There’s a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!"

His reply?

"Oh man, you’re totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me." 

CHASE. THE. PASSION.

…

"Yeah, ok. I’m going to chase that cab."

This is why I don’t date.

Hi, cats. 

Natural Beauty Appreciation Month

One Monday evening, I receive a text message from a good friend, whom I haven’t seen in months, asking if I’d like to grab a bite after work.

Sure! I’m just about to head to the gym, but let’s meet up after - probably around 9?

He says to call him post-gym and we’ll figure out the details.

Perfect.

This is essentially how that conversation goes:

Him: Hey! How was the gym?
Me: Amazing. I even showered. Just for you. You’re welcome.
Him: Ha. So what do you feel like eating?
Me: I’m down for whatever - something light and yummy!
Him: Do you want to go somewhere? Or I could order something and we could just hang out at my place?
Me: Either’s fine with me!
Him: Well, do you need to go home first to get yourself together?
Me: I mean, I already showered. I’m nice ‘n fresh-faced-no-makeup right now, but I’m pretty sure you can deal with that.
Him: No, it’s totally fine if you want to stop at home and get ready first.
Me: Haha no, I’m fine; I honestly don’t care.
Him: Ok. Well, how ‘bout you go home, I’ll figure out where we should go and then I’ll pick you up in - how long do you need?  Like 30 minutes?

…

Me: Sure. That sounds fantastic.

Fine. I get it. I’ll put on some makeup and curl my hair.

But only because I feel like it.

I'm a Grown Man, Girl. I Can Take a No.

I received a text yesterday from a Pasadena number. Message: Hello

I racked my brain. Yes, I sometimes give my number to strangers because it’s easier than not giving them my number, but I haven’t done that in months.  I reply: Who is this?

Is this Stacey????

Annoying.  Can you please answer the question and also never spell my name like that again? Thanks. Still unsure of the sender’s identity, I decide I should play nice. Ish. Yes. I apparently don’t have your number in my phone. Who is this?

Brace yourself.

We small talked when we met u gave me the number I called two or three times u never picked up…u was fine as ever once again hope ya doing well

Oh joy of joys. He has returned. A YEAR LATER. In case you don’t remember this fine fellow, here is my previous post, extracted from ironyisalifestyle's blogspot archives:

Girl meets boy. Girl is so not into boy. Boy asks for girl’s number. Girl debates path of least resistance.

"Do you have a card?"

This way, not only does she avoid giving him her number, but she can also make it seem a little more business-y.  She doesn’t want any curious onlookers to think she’s actually into this dude.  She has a reputation to uphold.  Or would like to think she does.  Or at least would like these complete strangers to think she does.

"Not on me. Here, just take down my number and give me a call."

Phew. That was easy.

"Ok, it was nice to meet you. Have a great evening."

She turns to get into her car.  He grabs her arm.  Gently, yes, but that’s still a not-so-distant cousin of domestic abuse. She pulls her arm away and gives him a look of the please don’t ever touch me again variety.

"Call me now, so I’ll have your number."

UGH. Should have taken the basically engaged route. This is getting messy. And taking entirely too long.  Girl did not plan on spending her Saturday night talking to some random dude.  She has matzo ball soup to eat. And 30 Rock on DVR.

She calls.

"805 huh?"

Ok. Conversation is over. She is done talking.  She needs to get in her car and debate whether to spend the $4.99 AT&T charges to block a number. Not that she has that piece of information at her fingertips.

"Yup. Ok bye. I gotta run. Great meeting you."

Lies. All lies.

"Ok, girl. I’ll call you."

Pause. Head tilt. Did he just say, ok, girl?? Sigh. Yes. Yes he did.

Boy sends text message the next day, citing himself as the handsome fellow you met last night. Girl debates whether or not to clarify that they met in the late afternoon, possibly even early evening, but definitely not at night.  She decides against it and ignores the text.

Two days later, boy sends another text message: Hope u ok„, ya know u could have said not intrested and not go thru the motions of takin the number ya know, I’m a grown man girl I can take a no. Followed quickly by: I hope this doesn’t happen to you being intrested in someone and they ignore or go thru the motions.

Yes, he used commas as ellipses.  He left the ‘e’ out of interested (twice) and, seemingly purposefully, dropped the g from taking.  And I’m a grown man girl I can take a no?? I mean…wow. That would have been spectacular, were it not annoyingly semi-colon deprived.

She ignores these texts as well.  She assumes this is the last she will hear from him.

She assumes wrong.

One month later: Hey girl how yo fine a** doin’?

Needless to say, that did not garner a reply.

Girl hopes she never runs into boy again.

Workplace Etiquette

We have a new chick in our office who sits at the desk next to mine. She’s super sweet, but we aren’t exactly at homie stage yet.  And by homie stage, I mean the part of our working relationship where I’m a sardonic a-hole and she totally gets it and appreciates it and nothing’s ever awkward and weird.

…

We’re still at polite, friendly, and always work-related.

This morning, I loaned her my headphones.  She needed to watch a quick video on her computer…  That was 6 hours ago. They’re still on her desk. Not plugged in or anything – jusssst sitting there.  Awkward.

At some point, isn’t she supposed to be like, “Hey thanks, here are your headphones back!”??

I’m unsure of my next move.  Asking for them seems aggressive and I don’t want to be the individual responsible for making the new girl uncomfortable.

At one point, I actually undocked my computer, so I could listen to Schmidt’s Online Dating Profile. (The speakers won’t work when it’s docked.)

This was not intended to be a hint, but I feel like, if I were her, I would have taken that as an opportune moment to slide those suckers back to their rightful owner. 

She’s away from her desk now.  My headphones…. Just sitting there.  Staring me down with wide-eyed, abandoned-child confusion.

Part of me wants to take advantage of her absence and reclaim my property.  Another part feels like that reeks of passive-aggression.  Also… it’s her desk.  You don’t just take things off of someone else’s desk… even if it’s yours?

I guess I’ll just wait this one out.  (Thank God Pettube is equally entertaining sans volume.)

There's the Kicker

whataboutirony?: Stacie, you should sign up for Kickball! We could use someone like you!  

I’m pretty sure she was referring to my overly-enthusiastic nature, not my kick-a$$ kickball skills.  What is kickball, exactly?

me: No, I would totally be down - I’m just afraid that I will never make it out on a Sunday.

Kickball takes place Sundays around noon.  In Santa Monica. That time-frame is usually filled with brunch, flea market-ing, and/or just waking up. Not in Santa Monica. 

ihiredironyandprobablyregretitdaily: Wait, what? Don’t give up yet. There’s still hope.

What? 

Oh. Right.

He thought I said, “I’m just afraid that I will never make-out on a Sunday.”

A. I’m glad that this is apparently totally plausible

B. It’s always nice to know your boss believes in you.

A Nice Little Sunday

There are probably three questions tumbling through your head right now:

1. “Hey Stace, how was the 30th Annual Venice Canals Holiday Boat Parade?!

2. “Omg. Stace. How much are you loving your new Blackberry?!”

3. “Dude. When was the last time you, like, officially skinned your knee? Like, 2nd grade style?”

Oh, wow! Guess what?! I can answer all three of those questions in a single story. How convenient.

The 30th Annual Venice Canals Holiday Boat Parade was spectacular.  Barry Manilow references, small children tossing Now & Laters to the onlookers (I got both Grape & Strawberry. Score.), a gay snowflake singing karaoke and frolicking in front of his Christmas tree back-up dancers… How can that be anything but a rollicking good time?

Apparently, I took that as a challenge.

As the sun set on the few remaining sparkle-fied dinghies, we attempted to venture from one side of the canals to the other.  We were halfway to our next destination, when we stumbled upon an unexpected curb.  My friend pointed it out to me. I stepped over it.  Great success.  A few feet later, we came to another curb.  I spotted it, and once again cleared the vertical pavement with inches to spare.  The ground below was a bit lower than originally anticipated, but thanks to my excellent balance (Seriously, ask Equinox.  I rock the sh*t out of balance tests.), I regained my footing and did a little quick step to join the rest of the group on the sidewalk.

What I did not spot, was yet another curb.  Another curb I came at with a quick step full of momentum.  My super-cozy loafers caught the top edge of the curb, and I went down. With entirely too much velocity for my own personal comfort.

I have a lot of experience in falling.  I am actually one of the most graceful fallers you will ever meet.  I land softly and quietly, legs crossed demurely.  I am not accustomed to full on face-planting.  Luckily, my instincts led me to catch myself with my hands, so as to protect my face.  Unluckily, one of these hands was holding a plastic cup full of red wine, which splashed against the left side of my face - and directly into my open eye.  (Thank you, old couple in the home adjacent to my personal disaster zone, for the paper towels to clean myself up.  Also, thank God for eye shadow primer.) My other hand happened to be holding my brand new Blackberry.  It now looks like this:           

My left knee managed to get in on the action as well.  I think the damage would have been greater, if it weren’t for my opaque tights and knit OTK socks.  Fun fact: I had purchased the tights the day before, as a replacement for another pair that I somehow managed to destroy in one clumsy moment or another.  Stop judging.  Gawky limbs.  Impossible to control. Anyway, here’s a photo of my knee, in all its skinned-up glory:       

I think I won this round.

Look No Further - Your Holiday Girlfriend is Here

…I know. SWOON.  improbablygonnabeacatlady and I decide we have no choice but to conjure up a new persona and send a heartfelt reply. Let’s see how this active, outgoing small business owner reacts to a solid dose of sardonic sass.  This will be so funny!!! Wonder which Marina bar he’ll suggest for their first cocktail half hour!

15 minutes later, Rebecca Dwyer was born.  And this was en route to Romeo’s inbox:

2 days later. No reply. Probably going to wait the requisite 3 days. NBD. 

I get busy with [my incredibly exciting] life and fail to notice that an entire week has passed. Omg. He’s probably dying, wondering why I haven’t replied yet! I can hardly wait to see the fratastic gem that is surely residing in Rebecca’s inbox!

…

Nothing.  There is nothing in her inbox.

I checked again today, JIC. (Just in case. Duh.) Still nothing in her inbox, aside from Gmail’s excessive slash unnecessary welcome messages.

Awesome.  My Internet creation can’t even get a fake date with a douchebag on Craigslist.  

Maybe he’s in the hospital?