Stranger Danger

“I’m sorry but, er - you’re really beautiful.”

I’m sorry, what? Perched unattractively near the bottom shelves of the Bristol Farms refrigerated section, arms loaded with two different brands of chocolate coconut water, hair greasy and unkempt, make-up non-existent, I strain my neck around to see who, in their right mind*, would issue such an unfounded compliment. (Yes, I had already determined that the comment was directed toward me. Because I like to balance my self-deprecation/insecurities with a solid dose of narcissism.)

Ah, yes. This guy. This guy would issue that compliment. Boyish face with an actor-y, fresh-off-the-United-flight from some Midwestern suburbia vibe. I squint through my near-sightedness, trying to decide if I think he’s attractive or not. TBD.

Me: Aw, thank you. That’s so nice of you to say.

He shuffles self-consciously two and a half feet away, staring unseeing into the glass case of groceries, side-glancing my way every three seconds or so.

I immediately feel the need to make him feel comfortable. One, because I’m fairly confident he’s new in town and I want him to know that there are nice people here and two, because, judging by his demeanor, it had to be fairly intimidating to [politely] approach a female in public and I’ve always believed such behavior should receive positive reinforcement.

I offer some chatter on the obvious health benefits of sugar-infused sugar water. He accepts. Er, sort of. He counters by pointing my attention toward his own favorite beverage, insisting I give it a try. He’s almost a tad too insistent.  Slow down there, Turbo; this lady makes her own decisions -- especially when it comes to hydration.

The conversation progresses [slowly]. I learn that his name is Mike**, he’s an actor (I knew it), he’s been in LA for less than a year (God, I’m good at this game), he’s sober (I take this moment to tell him how I’m still hungover from the night before), and he lives with his manager one street away from me (Oh goodie?).

Mike: Is it hard to make friends out here, or is that just me?

Me: Oh man. I mean, I’m just glad I went to school out here. Most of my friends went to SC with me. I feel like people’s circles out here can be pretty closed. It’s probably a little tough to try and get in there.

Mike: Yeah. I moved out here not knowing anyone. Would you – uh would you mind if I got your number – just to like hang out sometime?

I’ve pretty much decided that he’s not at all my type, but I figure I can go to lunch with the guy. He seems fairly non-threatening. I give him my number and open my mouth to say goodbye. My exit plan gets, um, interrupted.

Mike: Are you single?

Caught totally off-guard and being really bad at lying, I answer truthfully.

Me: Uh, yeah.

Mike: Well, uh, would you, um, I mean, would you want to go out sometime? I mean, I don’t know if I’m your type, but I know I would really like to go out with you.

GAH. So sweet. I am so bad at saying no to nice people. So I don’t.

Me: Um, sure, yeah, that’d be fun.

And by fun, I mean probably super awkward and weird.

Mike: Ok great. Um. When?

Me: Uh, well, the next two weeks are pretty gnarly, schedule-wise.

Mike: Gnarly. Wow. I haven’t heard that in a long time.

Me: Ha yeah it’s a favorite of mine.

I’m slowly edging backward, hoping this convo is coming to a close.

Me: Well, I should probably –

Mike: So you’re not free tomorrow night?

Me: Tomorrow? Uh no. I’m actually heading out to Palm Springs for a bachelorette this weekend.

Too many details, Stacie. Way too many details.

Mike: Ok well –

Me: Just hit me up in a couple weeks and we’ll figure out a time.

Mike: Ok. Um. How do you feel about guys with kids?

Oh God.

Me: Do you have a kid?

Mike: Yeah, I’ve got a ten-month-old little girl.

Great. Now if I turn him down, it’s going to seem like I’m doing it just because he has a kid. Awesome.

Mike: Look, here she is.

Mike proceeds to take me through an entire album's worth of photos. My left arm is about to break off from the weight of my basket, but there’s no way I’m setting it down and risking prolonging this whole situation.

Me: So cute. Well, I really gotta go. It was nice to meet you.

This time I don’t wait for interjections as I make a break for the cash register. He follows close behind. Seriously? There are two other open lanes. Pretty sure you left your social etiquette back in aisle three, Mikey.

Mike: I really would love – I mean, I hope you really do want to go out with me. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And you seem nice, not like most of the girls I’ve met out here.

Oh God. Please say it a little louder; I'm not sure the guys back in the deli area heard you. This is excruciating. Placating smile. Eye-contact avoidance. Deep breaths.

Outside, breathing in the sweet smell of freedom, I attempt to figure out how I’ll get out of the impending date without hurting this guy’s feelings. Despite his social awkwardness and bizarrely slow cadence, he seems like a well-meaning dude just looking for a little human connection.

Mid-mental deliberation, I receive this text message:

Mike: Awesome and great to meet you. Honestly I am direct and forward but text can be miss construed [sic] but I’d love to do [sic] out and see you soon.

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Just so you remember me

Oh man. A headshot?? What am I supposed to say to that? I decide to respond with something nice, but appropriately non-committal:

Me: Awesome! Great meeting you as well. Thanks for brightening up my afternoon :) 

If he reaches out to set an actual date, I’ll find a way to politely decline, but I figure we should be good for now.

…

Back at home, I grab my phone out of my bag:

Mike: We’re [sic] you attracted to me?

Dear sweet Jesus. Is he serious?

Five minutes pass.

Mike: Be honest if that’s ok?

Gahh. Do I really have to answer this?

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Mike: And an artistic pic so?

Welp. This has officially gotten weird.

I decide to set my BlackBerry aside as I delve into some work.

One hour later…

Mike: Hello? I don’t want to annoy you or text too much. But text me I guess. Let me know if your [sic] interested. Or if you were attracted to me.

Ok. He’s putting it on me. Cool. We should be done here.

My phone rings. Stop. Wtf. I just met you two hours ago, dude. Calm the F down.

Fast-forward twenty minutes:

Mike: Text me or when you can. I won’t be annoying you.I do want to know you. But lett [sic] me when you can hang thanks. Have fun in Palm and keep me posted.

1. You won’t be annoying me?? I think it might be a little too late for that.
2. Why does “I want to know you” sound like a threat?
3. Palm is not an accepted nickname for Palm Springs. (I knew that was one detail too many.)

He waits another thirty minutes before unleashing this diatribe:

Mike: *let me know when you can hang out and if you want to get tea soon. I’m free if you keep me posted and have a safe trip and fun time in Palm Springs. Would love to know you and meet you. You are one of the most beautiful woman [sic] I’ve seen and your eyes I can’t say anything bad. Don’t want to scare you im just very complimentary. And I may seem aggressive but dinner time. Talk soon hope we talk.

So many gulps. You don’t want to scare me? In that case, perhaps you would like to back the f*ck off? Also, please heed your spellcheck’s suggestions. (Also also – when did “I can’t say anything bad” become a compliment?)

For some reason, I still think Mike is going to get the very silent hint. Oh, the naiveté of youth(ish).

9:17am the next morning:

Mike: Hey you drive safe and have fun. Do you have a kid?

…

I just...I'll just leave that one right there. It was quickly followed by a call from a blocked number. I’m not saying it was him, I’m just saying I wasn’t about to answer it to find out.

Two days later. 10:58pm:

Mike: How was your bachelorette party beautiful

Still in progress, not that it’s one iota of your business?

The next afternoon, I receive a text message from a number I don’t recognize: “Hey”. One quick Google search links it to Mike's Instagram profile. Dude. DUDE.

My BFF and I debate whether I should reply and ask him to please stop contacting me. At this point, I’m sort of afraid he’s teetering on the brink of the deep end, and I don’t really want to see his desperate entreaties plummet into rage. Since, you know, he basically knows where I live. (Note to self: Be more mysterious.)

After another phone call, a lengthy, meandering voicemail, and a text message two days later, I decide to make it clear that I’m just not that into him.

Me: Please do not contact me anymore.

Apparently this was confusing to him.

Mike: Um why. By the way your nips were showing when we met your [sic] being uncool.

Classy. There goes that nice guy idea.

Mike: Hook up buddies what’s your deal I and you were both attracted to each other hunn

Oh, ‘I and you’ were, were we.

Mike: Stacie what’s your deal explain why your [sic] being a snob. You have a boyfriend?

No, I don’t have a boyfriend; I just think *you’re a crazy psychotic sociopath.

Me: I’m not interested. Please do not contact me again.

Mike: Why? Why did you give your number? You make no sense

Out of pity. It’s a bad habit I’m working on changing. Thank you for helping me get there faster.

Mike: I did nothing and wanted to get to know you because you were attracted to me and so was i. I don’t get why your [sic] [this dude really needs to figure out his yours] acting weird I’m being honest and direct I am sorry if you think I’m into you but idk you so your [sic] [obviously] being crazy

Erm, some might say you did too much. Also, I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dismissive’. I am being dismissive. You, sir, are being crazy. In the purest sense of the word.

Mike: Whatever Stacie good luck and best to you. Sorry that you feel the way you do. Your [I’m not even going to bother anymore] beautiful but you must question yourself why your 45 and single. Bye and sorry deleting you

FORTY-FIVE?? Good one, Mike. I’m going to go spend the rest of my night questioning myself.

(While also spending two and a half hours on the phone with AT&T attempting to block your number.***)

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*HAHAHAHAHAHA. Guess I called that one.
**This is his real name. Just in case, you know, my body is found raped and murdered. I want the police to have some sort of a lead. Since Mike's such a unique name and stuff.
***My favorite part of that conversation: “I honestly have never owned a BlackBerry and no one here seems to be familiar with them at all. Let me brainstorm here….” Duly noted. 

UPDATE #1:  I just got an email from some other chick who had pretty much the exact same experience with this dude last week. He even sent the same two scintillating photos. Apparently he works at Brooklyn Bagels on S. Beverly, so uh, all females may want to go elsewhere for their carb-fix.

UPDATE #2: He apparently just found me on Tinder. "Your 31?" Shocking, I know. "Just saw you on tinder. So your single but why the attitude and you know that God things happen when your nice. Anyway really wish we could have gotten to know each other but I'm sorry I was not your type or whatever. I mean I text and communicate many people don't know how to then they look like the bad guy and so anyway maybe one day you can give me a shot." ...Maybe one day, Mikey. Maybe one dark, desperate, dystopian day. *shuddershuddertwitch*

UPDATE #3: Three months later...just when I thought I'd never hear from him again: 

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Update #4: Apparently he's hanging on through 2016. So nice of him to think of me at 2am this morning!! 

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Update #5: This is getting ridiculous.

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Creepers never say die.

...
...
...

I hope?

Wherein My Mother Calls Me a Two Dolla Ho

My mother recently read a blog post of mine which alluded to my making out with a boy in the front seat of my car. Then this conversation happened:

My Mother: You know, no one has to marry you if you just go and give it all away.

Me: Mom, I don't think I want anyone to feel like they have to marry me.

MM: (Pause.) (Long pause.) (Longer pause.) Hm.

...

...

...

Lord help us all if I ever make it to the backseat. 

Yogurtland: Fake Flavors, Real Rewards

INT. HER'S APARTMENT

HER is sitting cross-legged on a floor pillow, balancing an overly warm MacBook Air on overly warm knees. Phone rings. She answers. It's her dinner date, announcing his very prompt arrival.

HIM: Hey, I'm here.

HER: Ok cool! Just one sec and I'll be right out.

Silence. Except for her fingers clacking on the keyboard.

HIM: Are you on your computer?

HER: Yesss. Why?

HIM: What could you possibly be doing right now that's more important than fried rice balls?

HER: Um. I'm just registering my Yogurtland card. I'm almost done, though!

HIM: Registering your what?

HER: My Yogurtland card! You know one of those, like, for every 3 purchases, you get one free sort of things. 

HIM: Right. And you're registering this because...?

HER: Because they forgot to swipe my card the other day, but the guy said you can go on the site and enter in the order number and they'll credit your account! 

...

Silence.

...

HER: Hello?

HIM: Oh, I'm still here. I'm not really sure why I'm still here, but I'm still...right...here....

HER: We should maybe pretend this conversation never happened, huh.

HIM: Yeah...that's probably a good idea.

...

...

...

Apparently, some things are really hard to forget.

M-I-C-K-E-WHY

Yesterday, as our adventure-filled day at Disneyland came to a close, imsecretlystraightforirony and I decided we needed to indulge in a little midnight snack of lactose and hot fudge. He would be sharing his with his boyfriend, while my fat-attack would be more of a solo venture, so to speak.

For those of you who have not attempted to order an ice cream sundae from the Dreyer’s-hosted Gibson Girl Ice Cream Parlor, there are three options…all of which are the same size. And let’s just say, the bicycles aren’t the only things built for two in that magically mousey world. 

I told the guy behind the counter that mine was for me and my homies. Because I’d be pouring a little out….

…

He gave me this face in return:

…

…

…

Oh boy. Giggle giggle?

Plummeting Standards

INT. RALPH’S GROCERY CO - NIGHT

STACIE is exiting the store with her mother, JUDY. Hands full of groceries; head full of so many other things.

                                             JUDY

               What did you think of him?! I think he liked you. 

                                            STACIE

               The checkout man? Seriously??

                                             JUDY

               He was a nice, good-looking guy!

                                             STACIE

               HE WAS BALDING AND WEARING AN ORANGE VEST, MOM. 

Someone’s getting desperate. Hint: It’s not me.

Equinox Creepin'

Hot guy in my class at Equinox! Yesssss.

Hot guy takes the spot right next to me! Swoon. 

Hot guy has a very effeminate stance. Um ok, that can be altered.

Hot guy is possibly dating the male instructor of my class. Figures.

Hot gay guy is much better at all the exercises than I am. Fine. I can match that. Maybe. Ouch. Kind of. Oof. Nevermind. Ugh.

Hot gay guy walks with me to the back of the room to grab weights. Sweet. Maybe we can be BFFs.

Hot gay guy stares at the weights I grab. F. Apparently we are not going to be BFFs. STOP JUDGING ME AND MY OVERALL ATHLETIC WEAKNESS. 

This class went downhill quickly.

Amish Living

A new friend and I casually sort of planned a low-key evening of Orphan Black and cocktails. What could possibly go awry?

...

I assumed said low-key evening would be taking place at his…place, as I swear I mentioned on our initial outing that I am not the proud owner of a television.

Then I got this text: “What’s you adresssss (sic). I’m leaving hereeeee.” (We’ll go ahead and ignore the grammar on that one for now. Because I’m feeling friendly. And I have another story to tell.)

F. He’s coming over here. 

Me: "Ummmm I don’t have a television."

Him: "We can just drink. Let’s never leave your couch."

Too soon to tell him I don’t have one of those either?

Spoiler alert: He found out. 

Not. Awkward. At. All. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

I'm a Terrible Liar

Post-drinks at Churchill’s, a friend and I end up back at my place.  I ask if he wants a cocktail. His initial affirmative response quickly inverts to an, "I’ll just have water," after a viewing of my potential offerings.  (Including an entire case of white wine in my fridge - a vestige of a recent-ish charity event. I don’t really drink vino of a non-red nature, and the greatest amount of available storage space in my apartment lies inside my refrigerator. His face is judging. Cricket. Cricket.)  

I pour his requested water slowly, hoping he’ll tire of this unnecessarily lengthy endeavor and wander out into the other room. He does. Thank God for predictability! At which point I proceed to mix up a vodka coconut water for myself. (For some reason, I think this will lessen my awkwardness. One guess on whether or not that works.)

I hand him his refreshing, non-alcoholic beverage. "Thanks. What are you drinking?" 

"Coconut water." Yup. I don’t want to go the whole, "Don’t mind me; I’m just getting myself liquored up over here" route, so I lie.  I am overly open slash honest by nature, so lying never works out well for me.  Like it doesn’t here.

"Can I try it?"

Right. Yup. Of course. In my head, I’m thinking there is no way he will be able to taste the vodka in one little sip.  

…

"Did you put vodka in here?"

Welp. Guess I was wrong on that one.

At this point, I could easily employ the wide-eyes-sheepish-smile-I-got-caught-acting-like-an-idiot look - with a tiny nod attached - that I have spent years perfecting…but no. No. I shake my head no.

"Really? It kind of tastes like there’s vodka in here." Why can’t he just drop it already? Sigh. Too late to back out now. In typical Stacie form, I prematurely fumble out a line of reasoning that is going to lead nowhere normal.

"I think there was earlier." I’m attempting to insinuate that this was the glass I had my pre-bar cocktail in, but I ramble nonsensically - especially once I remember he was right there when I pulled the glasses out of the cupboard. Basically, the entirely uncomfortable conversation ends with a faltering, "I haven’t washed my dishes in awhile."

…

…

…

That is disgusting.

Just for the record, the only dishes in my sink were from that day, and all of the dishes in my cupboards are clean, thanks. 

…

Meow.

Road to Love

Single and ready to mingle? Ready to get starry-eyed in the city of…celebrities? If you’ve got a lot of livin’ to do and aren’t quite sure where to go about doing it, I’ve got a newsflash for you: There’s a 2%* chance you’re already there. That’s right. I’m talking about the wide open road. That traffic you’ve spent most of your LA tenure b*tching about just might be the one thing standing between you and a life of loneliness and/or cats. (So you might want to think twice before you knock it…down?)

*This statistic has been more-than-slightly padded, and still sounds much less significant than originally intended. 

Case(s) in point: 

Stewe here. His brother met his wife “in traffic on the highway”, and now little Stewie’s aiming to drive out to “Cali” to “holler” at Mr. Forte’s sister. *young love*

Also, chill bruh.

Malcolm in the Middle apparently endorses flirting while driving – as does a friend of this writer. Or, at least, flirting while waiting many, many hours to drive. Because when it comes to love, it helps to limit your options.

Joe Dilfie met all of his wives in traffic jams. Because there’s just something women like about a pick-up man. 

It’s true. Between the ages of 16 and 19, I was sucker for a guy in a pick-up truck – as long as he was also wearing a baseball cap. Don’t ask me why – just know I wasn’t alone on this one.  (I’m looking at you, almost-women of Santa Barbara.)

Me, today**. On a single drive up Wilshire - from the beach to Beverly Hills - I got one phone number, one car-to-car dance sesh, and one half of a convo from a pair of adorably earnest dudes, approximately 22 years of age. According to their fake ID’s. 

…

Still got it?

…

AWKWARD GIRL REAL TALK:

The only downfall to this particular breed of chicken is that sometimes your little dalliance has run its course long before traffic is ready to move. Enter the art of polite eye contact avoidance:

Step 1:  Check your rearview mirror.

Step 2: Do a double take, followed by a long, intrigued stare into your rearview mirror. This can be accompanied by an almost-impercetible-but-totally-perceptible nostril flare for extra impact.

Step 3: When a new song comes on, get very down with the (hopefully jammable) beat – but, like, a chill, beach-vibey, introspective kind of down.

Step 4: When Betty Who radio on Pandora cuts out unexpectedly, silently curse a mother*cker, roll back that shoulder-pop-in-progress, and stare in obvious confusion slash slight annoyance at your phone until there’s some concrete sign of movement ahead. Repeat as necessary.

Step 5: Just relax and drive, baby. Just relax and drive. 

And for God’s sake, keep your eyes on the road, you big creep. 

**This selfie moment was recreated once my Prius was safely parked in its spot. Because no one wants that evil on their obituary.