Dating

Seems like I haven’t complained about some guy asking me out and then being a total dumbass in a little while. And I wouldn’t want any of you to think that means it isn’t happening. It is. Regularly.

 

A few months ago, I was asked out by the FedEx guy. This is nothing against FedEx. They offer a great service. Their outfits aren’t as sexy as the UPS guy or even the USPS guy. But they are marginally better than the DHL guys’ outfits.

Oh. Hello…

This guy was decent looking and we had talked a few times. He asked if I could help him out with something related to my job. And then he gave me his address and number.

 

I got his issues resolved and called him on my work phone to let him know. This is when he began to get idiotic. As we were wrapping up the phone call he said, “So, can I call you sometime?”

 

“I guess.” I replied. I kind of knew where this was going, but I prefer to not make assumptions.

 

“On this number?” He asked.

 

“Uh. Yeah.” I replied. I was already not liking the way he was going about this. But he was still doing better than the previous 10 or so guys that had asked me out.

 

“Okay. Cool. I’ll call you later.” And then we hung up.

 

I actually didn’t really expect him to call because I was not being very flirty or friendly with him. That deters the majority of men who seem to want me to swoon at the honor of being asked out by them.

 

A few days later he called me.  I basically sleep with my work phone. It takes some work to for me to trust someone with my personal number.

Basically me. Without the stubble.

I was out at dinner with my brother when he called. At our favorite restaurant. I decided to answer, to be polite.

Love this place. It deserves it’s own post.

“Hey. I’m eating with my family right now. Can you call me back later?” I asked him.

 

“Sure.” He said.

 

Except instead of ending the call he proceeded to ask me a bunch of inane questions about my movie likes and dislikes. I don’t think pop culture tastes really mean much of anything in a relationship. I mean, he isn’t going to be a good boyfriend, or even good in bed if he loves Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Stranger than Fiction as much as I do.

What a great movie!

However, the movies he liked were the kind of stupid, immature humor I can’t stand. He had frat boy taste in movies. But again, it isn’t crucial to my life.

 

I told him again that I needed to get off the phone as we were interrupting my dinner. But he again tried to derail my ending of the call. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

 

I told him I didn’t. And that’s when he asked the dreaded question.

 

“You are really pretty. Why are you single?”

 

I hate this fucking question. It is rude and presumptuous. Like there can be no reason for me to be single unless I am seriously damaged or lacking in some crucial way. Also, like my physical appearance is all I have to offer. My personality could be shit and it doesn’t matter if I am seen as hot according to WASP-y Eurocentric standards. Also, apparently my only possible reason for existence is obviously to snag a man, so why am I not more desperate for one, right?

 

But, readers, I behaved. I wasn’t rude right away. Instead I replied “I am still single because I know what I am looking for and I am not willing to settle. I will be single until I find what I want.”

 

“Oh wow. You’re really blunt.” He said with a very judgemental tone.

 

I am very blunt. But I did not think I was being blunt, so I said. “You asked me a question. I answered it. How is that blunt?”

 

“It just wasn’t what I expected you to say.” He replied in some kind of weird, flirty tone.

 

“I don’t know what you expected.” I paused. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I feel this was a very fair question as he had just asked me my relationship status. Also, he had to have expected me to ask it. Right?

 

He responded. “Well….I have girls that are friends.” He laughed like he had just said something really witty.

 

I was basically done at that point. I got irritated. “Do you have ‘girls that are friends’ that would be pissed off at you for being on the phone with me right now?” I asked.

 

“Oh. Well. You know. I live alone.” He again said this in a flirty, coy voice. Like I was going to be so fucking impressed with him for his inability to answer a very simple question.

 

And I called him out on it. Because I do that.

 

“Okay. Well you are clearly either in a relationship or you want me to think you are for some reason. I don’t know what kind of game you are playing here, but I am done.”

Also? Mary Poppins is the shit with her badass attitude.

And I hung up the phone.

 

If you have read my life’s mottos, you know that when I say I am done, I legitimately mean it.

 

I didn’t give him a chance to explain his dumbass game playing. He tried calling me every week for months. Which is a separate red flag all on it’s own. We hadn’t even had one date. We had one phone conversation, that I had repeatedly tried to end. And that I hung up on him during.

 

He also texted me a few times. He kept saying he didn’t understand what had happened. Despite me spelling out what had happened.

 

I even ran into him at work a few weeks ago. He tried to get my attention with the, always classy, honking at me as I walked by. It should surprise none of you guys that I didn’t respond to him in any way during any point.


I actually think he has figured it out by now. But time will tell. I had one guy texting me for over three years after a single date. But that is a story for another post.

Germs and Toilets

I used to carry a wallet instead of a purse. That was before I got all paranoid and girl scout-y worrying that if I were in a plane crash and stranded in the woods like in that book The Hatchet, I couldn’t survive on chapstick and my wallet’s contents. The fact that I rarely fly did nothing to mitigate this fear. Also, I loved that book as a pre-teen.

Gary Paulsen is still the shit.

 

I traded a co-worker my sensible brown leather wallet for his canvas Velcro wallet covered in skulls. I’m classy like that. And I used that wallet until it disintegrated.

 

It was basically this in Velcro wallet form.

 

I loved that wallet. So much that I once was at this bar. My favorite bar ever. This bar is in my hometown and is by far the coolest thing there. It has amazing local bands playing every night of the week. And it shares a building with an antique hardware store.

 

The hardware store has an entire giant wall of working chandeliers and wall sconces. It also has bins of old skeleton keys, crystal doorknobs, hinges, all kinds of interesting parts and hardware. And so many doors and windows that it is kind of overwhelming.

 

This isn’t the place, but it is eerily similar.

 

They also lend statues to the bar which they keep in their courtyard. The bar has a beautiful brick paved courtyard with stone tables and benches. There is an outdoor bandshell and large white lights strung across the loquat trees.

 

That’s the stuff.

 

I am normally not very comfortable out in public. Let alone in a crowded bar. But this place makes me feel very comfortable. The inside is pretty interestingly decorated as shown below.

 

20130608_230156_LLS

I know at least 40% of the people in any picture taken in my hometown. It’s a small town.

 

One day, before that velcro skull wallet disintegrated, I was at the bar with some friends and had to pee so bad! I drink a lot of water, like more than a gallon a day every day. And I have the bladder of a child. So, I have to pee pretty often.

 

I went into the bathroom and did my business, flushed the toilet and, as I was pulling up my pants (I normally pull them up before flushing, but I digress) my wallet fell right into the flushing toilet.

 

Into the toilet. At a bar. A public dirty toilet.

 

Yeah… about that…

 

I was in a real dilemma. I loved that wallet. And I really needed pretty much everything in it. But did I need my identity and debit card enough to put my hand in toilet water. I looked at it for a few minutes, watching as everything I loved got soaking wet and soggy.

 

I sighed. I tried to tell myself that it was no worse than the time I was up to my elbows in maggots. Urine is supposedly sterile. But who am I kidding. It was worse than the maggots, though it smelled a hundred times better.

 

I pulled the wallet out and washed it vigorously. I washed it five or six times, but I did not feel like it would ever be clean. I finally went back to my friends. I had just started seeing T at this time and he happened to have a ziploc for me to put it in.

 

I washed the wallet with bleach, which may have contributed to the disintegrating thing. And put the whole sordid experience behind me.

 

Until a few months later. I was at work using one of our office bathrooms. This time, I followed the natural order of things and pulled up my pants before flushing. Big mistake.

 

My work phone fell into the unflushed toilet.

 

These are the kinds of things they should teach you in economics in school. Is the emotional cost of reaching into an unflushed toilet worth more than the financial cost of “losing” your work phone.

 

These toilets were marginally cleaner than the bar toilet. And I actually knew the people that befouled them on a daily basis. But still. Unflushed.

 

I steeled myself, reached in, and pulled out the phone. By this point, I didn’t see how it could be any more damaged by getting wet, so I washed it very, very well.

 

I took it to my administrator and explained to her that I had dropped it in the toilet. She never asked if it was flushed or unflushed, saving me from having to lie. I suspect it never occurred to her that I would stick my hand in an unflushed toilet. I am a well known germ freak.

 

But what people don’t realize is, I am obsessed with germs. I love them. I am not afraid of them. I am not a germaphobe. I don’t like knowingly exposing myself to germs, but I do, every time I shake hands with someone. Or kiss them. Or touch pretty much anything in the public sphere.

 

Want, want, want!

Germs are unavoidable. And sometimes, so is reaching into the toilet to retrieve something valuable.

Sunrail Curse

The sunrail opened up here last week. My brother, T, and I have been excitedly awaiting it’s construction. There is a station a few blocks from my apartment and one a few blocks from his apartment.

 

 

Looks like The Rocketeer.

 

During these first two weeks all fare was free to ride. We determined to ride the rails like hobos in the Great Depression.

 

I heard some of these guys didn’t know the Great Depression was over for years and years. Freaky.

 

Last week we went down to the station and waited for 45 min for a train. Only to find that the train would be delayed another hour. We shrugged and went to get dinner instead.

 

After dinner we went back to the railway station and waited another 20 min. Only to find that the train would be delayed another hour. We decided we weren’t meant to ride that night and agreed to try again in a few days when the sunrail people got their shit together.

 

Well, a few days turned into a few more days and I had to cancel again due to not feeling well and then a second time due to work scheduling issues (I am the worst, I know).

 

T and I began to joke that the sunrail was cursed for us. But we finally got together on Wednesday to ride this damn train.

 

The train was surprisingly on time and we even found a seat in one of the mid-level cars. I am 6’1” and my brother is 6’4”. These cars are very definitely intended for the “average” rider, maybe someone around 5’7”.

 

It was cramped and very crowded. But it was free, so we weren’t complaining. We were seated in a set of forward facing seats that faced a set of rear facing seats.

 

It was a bit like this.

 

I had taken something for my back pain. My pain medicine makes me very chatty and filter-less. It has gotten me into trouble in the past. But I was in a quiet mood that evening.

 

Until a crazy lady sat across from us. I don’t use the word crazy lightly. As soon as she sat down, I knew, she was going to say some shit to us. I immediately compliment her giant gem stone cross around her neck. I also told her it was glittery. But I immediately realized it sounded like I was going to try to mug her. I almost told her, “Don’t worry, I won’t rob you.” But was lucid enough to realize that would be the opposite of reassuring.

 

Shiny!

 

She was also wearing a stretch bracelet of various saints. It was very interesting. And sure enough, she talked non-stop about the government.

 

 

Now I can re-create her look.

 

Luckily, we were only traveling a few stops. We got off the train and set off on a quest to visit Super Target. After getting lost twice and taking a detour to the long way, we had reached our destination.

 

I was so tired from the walk that I rode one of those electric scooters around the store. I have a lot of experience with them from my heart surgery days.

 

The walk back to the station was much more pleasant and fast. We didn’t get lost and the sun was setting. It was 90 degrees instead of 97 degrees. We had bought a bag a groceries. Mine was mostly junk food. (Thank you, drugged up me!)

 

At the train station we heard an announcement. The train is running on a modified schedule.

 

I don’t know about you, but ‘modified schedule’ sounds like a bunch of pacifying bullshit to me. So I looked up the customer service number and called.

 

The customer service rep was actually pretty rude and unfriendly. He would only say. “The train has been delayed and is running on a modified schedule.”

 

“But what does that mean? I have groceries. Should I be calling a cab instead of waiting?”

 

“I can’t advise you of that, ma’am.”

 

“Do you not have any ETA? What is causing this delay?”

 

“There was an accident on the tracks with a car and a train.”

 

“So, it’s going to be a while.”

 

“They are saying it has been delayed indefinitely.”

 

I got a little pissed off at that. ‘Indefinitely’ sounds very different than ‘modified.’ They mean vastly different things.

 

I told the customer service guy, “I would suggest someone communicate that to the thousands of people waiting for trains right now.”   I am still surprised by how unhelpful he was.

 

 

Hahaha!

 

So I called a cab. It was only my second cab ride ever. It was scary. The guy was incredibly reckless. But he was fast.
My brother and I decided we were going to wait to ride again in the future. Though we were glad that our sunrail curse only ended in a cab ride and not in a train wreck or accident for ourselves.

Playing Possum

Oh my glob. I finally got the power cord to my laptop. And I just need to say; laptop, baby, I love you. Let’s never fight again. I seriously wanted this power cord more than I want a healthy long term relationship. This laptop is all I have been thinking about for the past three days. I might have  a problem.

I’m going to make this a quick one today.

At my company I used to have a job that was similar to a power meter reader. I spent most of my days walking around neighborhoods. For 8 hours. I finally got a pedometer because I was curious to know how far I was walking every day. It was never less than 5 miles.

One day I was at an apartment complex. They were usually fun because I could sometimes hit my quota for the day in a matter of minutes.

It was a typical day in Florida. I was alternately wishing I was literally under water or that it was legal to be naked in public. Or maybe some kind of reverse wetsuit that would be like walking around in a waterproof suit filled with ice water. I was wearing shorts, boots and an itchy polyester polo. Kind of like a much less sexy UPS guy.

Oh yeah. He can deliver MY package. Wait. What?

I pulled the cover off one of our boxes and in the bottom I saw it. A dead possum. I had never been so close to a possum. I had only ever seen them squished on the side of the road.

They are nasty looking. And smelly. Though I suspected this one smelled so badly because it was dead.

I’m dead!*

I immediately decided I needed a picture of this dead creature to text to my then boyfriend. (That’s right men, I’m single. Play your cards right and I could be texting you pictures of dead animals.).

I whipped out my phone from it’s holster like a gunslinger. A winning gunslinger, I might add. I leaned in way close to the possum.

I’m a professional. I needed an artsy close up shot and then a far away one. For perspective. I got my face and camera right up in there. I was leaned way, way forward.

And then my finger went in search of the button on the screen I don’t know why this  is so fucking impossible when taking selfies. Which now that I think about it would have been adorable to do with my dead possum.

I leaned just a bit closer. And that must have been when I finally got too close to the possum. It hissed at me like a cat and started towards me.

I leapt backwards and fell down over myself. I hit the ground so quickly you would have thought I was presenting my jugular for it to rip out in some kind of bizarre possum/human sacrifice. Luckily, it wasn’t a blood thirsty possum.

I had nearly peed myself in fright.

And that’s when it suddenly hit me where the phrase “playing possum” came from. I may or may not have been in gifted as a child.

When I got home, I was disappointed that I didn’t have a picture to show my then boyfriend. Luckily, I had memorized it’s expression and showed him what came to be known as “dead possum face” before he forbid me from ever making it again.

*Hint: Possum is not actually dead. And that is the exact face that I make. Dead possum face.