Facebook is a fascinating social phenomenon. Facebook allows us to all be connected in a very public forum, even with those whom we are only connected peripherally in "real life". On Facebook, it's okay to be connected to your brother-in-law's babysitter, or your housekeeper with whom your major "real life" interaction is a transfer of money (usually left on the counter) and very little - if any - personal conversation. Interesting where the boundaries of privacy become blurred when it comes to "real life" versus Facebook: you let your housekeeper into your house to clean your most intimate spaces, yet when your housekeeper's online status updates include the details of his or her family's vomit-filled weekend due to the flu or their depressingly public "poor me and my sad life" personal statements, (see The 12 Most Annoying Types of Facebookers) it all becomes more to handle than you'd like for a relationship with the person who cleans your toilets and invokes an unthinkable action in Facebookland: defriending. Which is okay, because really? Are you friends with your housekeeper? If so...well, then your next cleaning may be slightly more awkward, assuming that your housekeeper is online often enough (and stalking you online often enough) to know that you defriended him or her. In which case you should probably seek out a new housekeeper anyway.
Facebook also connects us - however peripherally - with those we'd really rather not be connected to. For example, an ex's new girlfriend. And while mild curiousity makes a quick sneak peek at said new girlfriend's online profile appealing, it can also be so very detrimental to one's self esteem. Now in "real life," when an ex obtains a new significant other, there is always the possibility that you - as the other half of the disbanded pair - will have to eventually meet the New Girl. And as luck - or lack thereof - will have it, you are likely to run into this happy couple when you have just exited the gym, after a particularly bad day at work, when it's that time of the month and also raining. And being the happy couple that they are, they're likely to be on their way out to dinner, dressed to the nines and looking fresh as though it was a balmy 72 degrees, because he'll be holding an umbrella over her head while gazing at her adoringly. This is likely to happen at some point, but hopefully - unless you are traveling in the same circle of friends - not with any regularity.
Unless you are on Facebook.
Because on Facebook, you have to decide - after the mutual (or one-sided) parting of your "real life" union - whether to remain friends online or end your Facebook relationship in addition to your "real" relationship. And even if you decide to end your online union by mutual defriending, you may still - due to individual privacy setting options available to Facebook users - end up seeing your ex's new girlfriend anyway. Even if you've decided that you want nothing to do with your ex - ever - you may find that between your group of 226 friends and his group of 447 friends online, somewhere down the road your friend paths will cross and in your goddamn mini feed will end up a tagged photo of your ex-boyfriend and the New Girl, looking fabulous of course - because naturally, only people's best photos are posted on the internet.
Lately, Facebook has been making me feel pretty good. I've been consistently validated by my friends and family for my "funny" status updates and dry sense of humor, which are probably the highest compliments I could receive, given that writing gives me a tremendous amount of joy and I've discovered that I'm much funnier online than in person (unless in the company of my dad and brothers, who somehow make me funny verbally by proxy).
However, every now and again I find that Facebook brings me down as unexpectedly as if I'd just seen my ex and his New Girl on the street right in front of my apartment, as their photos and comments and stories show up - through mutual friends - in my minifeed in such a way that I can't escape them and their irritating happiness.
Case in point: I commented on a photo in a friend's photo album. And he just so happens to be a friend that I met through an "ex" and who has continued to be a friend - long after the other shaky union dissolved - because he's just a nice guy, and frankly as peripherally as I know him, I know him a lot better than some of my other "friends" on Facebook so I'm unwilling to defriend him. Did that make sense? Anyway. Because I commented on his photo, other photo comments began to crop up on my notifications via Facebook, several of which were from my ex and his New Girl, who are both friends with my friend. And so I had to see the New Girl. And it was upsetting, because she's beautiful. And trendy. And frankly exactly the kind of girl I've always suspected my ex actually wanted to be with (instead of yours truly). And her profile picture includes my ex (as his includes her) - that kind of smiling, "aren't I soooo lucky?!" profile pic that's a knife to the heart of every jilted girl. And this is precisely the irritating, smug happiness I have been trying so hard to avoid. However, upon closer inspection of her Facebook comment on my friend's photo, I noticed something. Something that made me snicker. And then chuckle. And then feel smugly superior to the point where I now realize why my ex and the New Girl are so perfect for each other:
She wrote the word "there" when what she clearly meant to say was "they're" - which is exactly the kind of literary mistake my ex so often makes. Neither of them can write, and that's just perfect.
So I'm feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw this evening, a la "Attack of the 5' 10" Woman" episode - because I've discovered that despite New Girl's beauty, she's simply not as smart as me. Okay, that's harsh. Perhaps she's very intelligent, and simply lacks a dedication to grammar, punctuation and accurate spelling. But you know what? Those things are important to me. And just as Carrie discovered that Natasha didn't know the difference between "your" and "you're," I'm discovering that New Girl doesn't know the difference between "their," they're" and "their". Which doesn't "matter," per se, certainly not when it comes to love in the long run - but it makes me think about my talents and qualities, and what I bring to the table in a relationship, and that despite New Girl's beauty (and evident charm, at least to my ex), she's not perfect. I may not be 5' 10" - but at the end of the day, I can spell.
So their.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Let Me Pee in Privacy, Please
Yes. I used the word "pee" in the header of a blog post.
But seriously? It's because sometimes I want to have this stamped on my forehead. Okay, not my forehead, because if it was, people would have to get awfully close to me to read it, and I think by the time they were that close it would already be a major invasion of privacy. So perhaps I should say that sometimes I want to yell this through stall doors when I am trying to have a personal moment. Because it seems that more often than not, my personal moments are interrupted by some dumbass woman who is blissfully unaware that not only is the bathroom stall she is trying to enter closed but also locked and attempts to barge through anyway.
And to me? That is a cardinal sin in the 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette.
I'm well aware that I'm more...how shall we say..."Type A" than the average individual. I get upset when people write "there" when they mean "their" or when they walk on the left side of the sidewalk instead of the right (c'mon - would you drive down the left side of the road? When you are not in London? No. So why would you walk on the left side and mess with the man-made order of things?). I am irritated with incorrect pronunciations of simple (and ubiquitous) brand names (really? Ambercrombie and Finch?) and people who wear too-small watches on too-chubby wrists (okay, this has almost nothing to do with a Type A personality, but it is an irrational annoyance that plagues me daily). But even so, with all these personality quirks, I don't think it's too much to ask of other women that I be allowed to pee in relative privacy.
Here follows Kelsey's 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette:
1. Thou shalt never barge into the bathroom without looking around first for other patrons and/or closed stall doors.
2. Thou shalt not choose the stall with the closed door.
3. Should there be no other option, thou shalt always elect to peek under closed doors to ensure no pair of heels, flip flops, Doc Martens (God forbid) or fabulous boots are present before entering.
4. Thou shalt always KNOCK before entering, should it be unclear on any level whether a woman is actually present in the stall.
5. Thou shalt never select the middle stall of a bank of three, thus leaving other potential patrons no other choice but to pee on either side of the middle (and now occupied) stall.
6. When available, thou shalt ALWAYS close the toilet seat lid before exiting the stall.
7. More importantly, thou shalt always FLUSH the toilet before exiting the stall.
8. However, thou shalt never use one's foot to flush the toilet.
9. Thou shalt never speak publicly (particularly to strangers) of anything that happens in the stall to other patrons.
10. As a matter of fact, thou shalt never speak to other patrons in a public restroom. Ever.
As you can imagine, with this list of detailed commandments, I am more sensitive to public restroom situations than probably anyone else. But the thing is, it's because I get walked in on more than anyone else. Even with all my precautions. Even when I choose the stall furthest from the bathroom door (as I'm convinced women - in a hurry - go for the nearest stall to them, which is when embarrassing moments tend to happen for less vigilant patrons than I), walk into the stall, lock the door, make a lot of noise, hang or set my purse on the door (in such a way that even if someone were to just barge in, the purse would create a modicum of resistance first, thus allowing me time to react appropriately), grab a wad of TP (thus reducing the amount of time in the stall with my pants down), do my business with a hand on the door (hopefully to keep anyone from barging in) and race to finish - even with all the time and effort spent attempting to prevent barge-ins...they happen anyway.
Case in point: my luxury hotel has a lovely public restroom that is available to our guests as well as our restaurant patrons. And considering our restaurant is one of the more popular dining spots in town, you can imagine our guest restroom gets a lot of action. As a manager in the hotel, I often elect to use this restroom to ensure that our housekeeping staff is keeping everything up to par. But this proves to be a risky move each and every time I need to use the restroom, as the frosted glass doors of the stalls are evidently very confusing to the general public. 9 times out of 10, rather than going for the open stall door nearest the door, they beeline for the ONLY CLOSED DOOR IN THE WHOLE RESTROOM, which often contains me as its occupant. Not only that, but upon attempting to open the door and finding it locked, they more often than not also continue to jiggle the handle, as though behind door #2 there will be a cash prize instead of an embarrassed - and actually, now furious - hotel manager. Why is this? The logic escapes me on every level.
And this happens to me in many other public places as well. I recently participated in the Race for the Cure, which (as you might imagine) had an overwhelming number of women entrants. Knowing this, the thoughtful staff of Qwest Field took it upon themselves to convert several men's restrooms to women's for this specific event. A good idea in theory, but one that proved illogical in the long run, as unsuspecting women went to get in the "women's" restroom line and found themselves waiting 20+ minutes to gain access to a bank of 7 stalls and 10 urinals (thankfully, unused by any waiting women). Even in this scenario, in which all stalls were visibly occupied and two full lines of women were waiting on either side for their turn, I found myself having a small heart attack when some intrepid woman came to my stall to see if it was available - somehow assuming that alllllll the other women in the line were simply standing around, rather than taking advantage of an open stall. Again, I was then - as I am now - completely bewildered by this logic (or lack thereof).
So I implore you, ladies, the next time you have to pee, take a moment and look around. If you see a closed door and an open one, go ahead and take the road less traveled and beeline for the open door. It's true that you never know what might be behind an open door...but at the very least, you already know there won't be another woman.
But seriously? It's because sometimes I want to have this stamped on my forehead. Okay, not my forehead, because if it was, people would have to get awfully close to me to read it, and I think by the time they were that close it would already be a major invasion of privacy. So perhaps I should say that sometimes I want to yell this through stall doors when I am trying to have a personal moment. Because it seems that more often than not, my personal moments are interrupted by some dumbass woman who is blissfully unaware that not only is the bathroom stall she is trying to enter closed but also locked and attempts to barge through anyway.
And to me? That is a cardinal sin in the 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette.
I'm well aware that I'm more...how shall we say..."Type A" than the average individual. I get upset when people write "there" when they mean "their" or when they walk on the left side of the sidewalk instead of the right (c'mon - would you drive down the left side of the road? When you are not in London? No. So why would you walk on the left side and mess with the man-made order of things?). I am irritated with incorrect pronunciations of simple (and ubiquitous) brand names (really? Ambercrombie and Finch?) and people who wear too-small watches on too-chubby wrists (okay, this has almost nothing to do with a Type A personality, but it is an irrational annoyance that plagues me daily). But even so, with all these personality quirks, I don't think it's too much to ask of other women that I be allowed to pee in relative privacy.
Here follows Kelsey's 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette:
1. Thou shalt never barge into the bathroom without looking around first for other patrons and/or closed stall doors.
2. Thou shalt not choose the stall with the closed door.
3. Should there be no other option, thou shalt always elect to peek under closed doors to ensure no pair of heels, flip flops, Doc Martens (God forbid) or fabulous boots are present before entering.
4. Thou shalt always KNOCK before entering, should it be unclear on any level whether a woman is actually present in the stall.
5. Thou shalt never select the middle stall of a bank of three, thus leaving other potential patrons no other choice but to pee on either side of the middle (and now occupied) stall.
6. When available, thou shalt ALWAYS close the toilet seat lid before exiting the stall.
7. More importantly, thou shalt always FLUSH the toilet before exiting the stall.
8. However, thou shalt never use one's foot to flush the toilet.
9. Thou shalt never speak publicly (particularly to strangers) of anything that happens in the stall to other patrons.
10. As a matter of fact, thou shalt never speak to other patrons in a public restroom. Ever.
As you can imagine, with this list of detailed commandments, I am more sensitive to public restroom situations than probably anyone else. But the thing is, it's because I get walked in on more than anyone else. Even with all my precautions. Even when I choose the stall furthest from the bathroom door (as I'm convinced women - in a hurry - go for the nearest stall to them, which is when embarrassing moments tend to happen for less vigilant patrons than I), walk into the stall, lock the door, make a lot of noise, hang or set my purse on the door (in such a way that even if someone were to just barge in, the purse would create a modicum of resistance first, thus allowing me time to react appropriately), grab a wad of TP (thus reducing the amount of time in the stall with my pants down), do my business with a hand on the door (hopefully to keep anyone from barging in) and race to finish - even with all the time and effort spent attempting to prevent barge-ins...they happen anyway.
Case in point: my luxury hotel has a lovely public restroom that is available to our guests as well as our restaurant patrons. And considering our restaurant is one of the more popular dining spots in town, you can imagine our guest restroom gets a lot of action. As a manager in the hotel, I often elect to use this restroom to ensure that our housekeeping staff is keeping everything up to par. But this proves to be a risky move each and every time I need to use the restroom, as the frosted glass doors of the stalls are evidently very confusing to the general public. 9 times out of 10, rather than going for the open stall door nearest the door, they beeline for the ONLY CLOSED DOOR IN THE WHOLE RESTROOM, which often contains me as its occupant. Not only that, but upon attempting to open the door and finding it locked, they more often than not also continue to jiggle the handle, as though behind door #2 there will be a cash prize instead of an embarrassed - and actually, now furious - hotel manager. Why is this? The logic escapes me on every level.
And this happens to me in many other public places as well. I recently participated in the Race for the Cure, which (as you might imagine) had an overwhelming number of women entrants. Knowing this, the thoughtful staff of Qwest Field took it upon themselves to convert several men's restrooms to women's for this specific event. A good idea in theory, but one that proved illogical in the long run, as unsuspecting women went to get in the "women's" restroom line and found themselves waiting 20+ minutes to gain access to a bank of 7 stalls and 10 urinals (thankfully, unused by any waiting women). Even in this scenario, in which all stalls were visibly occupied and two full lines of women were waiting on either side for their turn, I found myself having a small heart attack when some intrepid woman came to my stall to see if it was available - somehow assuming that alllllll the other women in the line were simply standing around, rather than taking advantage of an open stall. Again, I was then - as I am now - completely bewildered by this logic (or lack thereof).
So I implore you, ladies, the next time you have to pee, take a moment and look around. If you see a closed door and an open one, go ahead and take the road less traveled and beeline for the open door. It's true that you never know what might be behind an open door...but at the very least, you already know there won't be another woman.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Dating Disaster #37 (Or, Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?)
I don't really date a lot. As a matter of fact, I haven't "dated" anyone (seriously or otherwise) in...well, a while. And it's not because I'm jaded about guys, or sad about ex-boyfriends, or super bitchy to new guys I meet. I'm pretty laid-back, down to earth, sometimes funny, kind of cute (I'm aware that's completely subjective), socially competent, professionally successful and willing to take new adventures (I'm also aware this is beginning to read like a personal ad, but bear with me here). The point is: there's no good reason for my lack of dating, other than I'm just really not focused on it right now. But when I meet a guy who interests me (and who's interested in return), I get kind of excited about the whole dating process: the first call, the exclamation of delight over shared interests, the silly embarrassments of a first dinner, the awkwardness of a first kiss and the anticipation of the next time you meet.
However, I'm only surmising all of this "first date" stuff from what I've seen in romantic comedies, because none of that ever happens to me.
It all began a few Fridays ago...
I went out for my fellow hotelier friend's birthday (let's call her..."Joy") to a local karaoke bar in Seattle. Couple of things about the evening should be noted:
1. I went out by myself. Yes, I was fine with this. I wasn't going to invite a friend (as my other friends don't know Joy, and anyway I'm comfortable-ish by myself) and as I'm not dating anyone, it was either go solo or stay home. So I figured I would go out, and the worst case scenario would be that I would've spent an hour getting ready only to come home again if I wasn't having fun...right? (Keep reading.)
2. I don't really "do" karaoke. I have a decent to above average singing voice, but I'm often not quite confident enough to feel good about my performance, particularly when followed by other, better singers/performers.
3. I had no intention of "meeting" anyone.
So. I arrived at the bar and was immediately "introduced" (read: Joy shouted at the group of 15+ at large, "Hey everyone, this is Kelsey, say hi!") whereupon people looked up, smiled (some) and mumbled a couple of names I promptly forgot. I settled myself down in the only available space and made new friends with the people around me, ordered a drink, and began to enjoy the raucous, silly madness of a karaoke- and booze-filled evening. A few Bud Lights in, I decided to put my name in the queue to sing one of my fave old school country songs, "Every Little Thing" by Carlene Carter (June's daughter). I waited with baited breath each time a name was called, and felt a little "oh shit" pang when mine was eventually called - but decided to go for it anyway.
The tiki-themed scene of the crime.
My "performance" started off slow because I was nervous (so my voice was shaking a little) and as I don't usually sing karaoke, I had the mic too far from my mouth so I think the first 16 or so measures were probably only heard by my immediate audience (thank god for Joy pointing that out and correcting me before people starting booing and throwing tomatoes. Or drinks.). I was embarrassed and tried to make the rest of the song fun, entertaining and upbeat...but I just don't think I ever got it back together. Upon the song's final measures, I was able to make my exit (mercifully) and was congratulated by the group for a song well sung (liars!). I accepted their praise semi-gracefully and made my way to the bar to hide my shame in another drink.
The rest of the evening passed quickly but began to deteriorate for me, as I watched guys that I had felt potential interest in turn their attention toward other women, and listened to confident karaokettes rock the house with their surprisingly powerful voices and crowd-pleasing song selections. I decided I'd spent enough time with the group to be socially acceptable for a birthday event and needed to jet before my mood really started to turn. Just as I had paid my tab and was getting ready to make my way home, I heard a voice next to me saying, "Going home already? I was hoping you would sing again." In surprise, I turned to meet "Marlon", a Hula Hula regular with a gravelly voice and infectious smile. I laughed (somewhat more derisively than intended) and as he introduced himself I felt a little connection, and decided perhaps I wasn't quite ready to call it a night. We exchanged pleasant, humorous conversation over a couple of cocktails the rest of the evening and generally had a rather delightful time.
Yadda yadda yadda, we decided to meet for breakfast the next morning at a great hangover-type bar in lower QA. Okay, so it wasn't exactly "first date" material. I mean, I didn't even shower from the night before (nor did he). But this felt okay, as it seemed like the kind of spontaneous situation that's better than primping for a "real" date, because it was so in-the-moment (and also, I was fresh as a daisy with a quick makeup touch-up). We were chatting pleasantly, if not deeply, and all in all it felt...comfortable.
A few mimosas into breakfast, we were both feeling a little tipsy (before you judge, remember: I'm single. And had nothing to do that Saturday.) and decided to hit another bar.
Which is where everything began to go downhill.
Suffice to say that this is the part of real life that rom-com movies skip right over - the part where there are no butterflies, or roses, or cute chance encounters but instead drunkenness, embarrassment, a too-hot day (rendering the lack of shower a bad idea in the long run) and complete disillusionment in the idea that meeting someone in a bar ever works out.
Long story short, Marlon got wasted (well, what did I expect? Even for a guy, a couple of mimosas, a full shot of sipping whiskey and several Jack & Cokes will probably put someone under.) and I ended up taking care of him. Which means...
-I hauled him out of the bar where he was pissing off a bitchy bartender,
-took him to the scene of the crime from the night before to get food (I don't know lower QA well enough to know where else to go) where
-I was ridiculed by that bartender for getting stuck with Marlon to begin with (evidently this is a pattern of behavior he's seen over time), and
-I paid for Marlon's food (as he got mad at me for not wanting to make out with him in the bar and walked out on the tab), whereupon
-I got into a drunken argument (on his part, not mine) with him, after which
-he decided I was being a bitch and was going to go home, where after
-I got really angry and ran into the street after him (as it was evident he was going to drive home) and
-finally, finally cajoled his car key out of his hand (so he wouldn't kill someone or himself) and at last
-stalked home in a furious rage, leaving him to get home by his own means with the texted instruction to call me in the morning to get his goddamned car key.
Does any of this sound like romantic first date butterflies?!
No. There were no butterflies - only a wasp's nest full of angry buzzing in my head that I'd been so stupid to let this whole situation get so out of control to begin with. In hindsight, I'm well aware of the many wildly waving red flags that - had I been willing to see them - would've alerted me to impending disaster. For example, the fact that Marlon knew all the morning bartenders at the restaurant. Or that he'd ordered a full shot of sipping tequila at 10:30 AM. Or that we went to breakfast immediately after meeting, instead of waiting to get to know each other on another level (via phone? Email? Whatever.) and then going on a date (if, indeed, a date was warranted by other conversation). So, okay, it's mostly my fault. But I threw caution to the wind, and...well, you read the story.
On the one hand, I see why things like this happen to me, because I'm a nice girl. If I'd been more of a bitch, I would've left him in the street without going through all drama of assuming responsibility for someone else's actions and let fate take him home, safely or otherwise. But you know what? I can't have that on my conscience. I can't know that I willingly allowed someone so clearly incapacitated to take care of himself to potentially drive away and put other people's lives in danger. So I took the ethical high road, and I feel good about it - but I wish I hadn't traveled down that path to begin with.
More on the end of that story to follow, but the point is this: lesson learned. It's okay for nice girls to have plain old nice dates instead of dating adventures. In the future, when I'm ready to go home and a guy hits on me at the end of the night, I'll give my number and let him call. And if he does? Great. We'll talk, and maybe email, and maybe meet up. But not for karaoke.
However, I'm only surmising all of this "first date" stuff from what I've seen in romantic comedies, because none of that ever happens to me.
It all began a few Fridays ago...
I went out for my fellow hotelier friend's birthday (let's call her..."Joy") to a local karaoke bar in Seattle. Couple of things about the evening should be noted:
1. I went out by myself. Yes, I was fine with this. I wasn't going to invite a friend (as my other friends don't know Joy, and anyway I'm comfortable-ish by myself) and as I'm not dating anyone, it was either go solo or stay home. So I figured I would go out, and the worst case scenario would be that I would've spent an hour getting ready only to come home again if I wasn't having fun...right? (Keep reading.)
2. I don't really "do" karaoke. I have a decent to above average singing voice, but I'm often not quite confident enough to feel good about my performance, particularly when followed by other, better singers/performers.
3. I had no intention of "meeting" anyone.
So. I arrived at the bar and was immediately "introduced" (read: Joy shouted at the group of 15+ at large, "Hey everyone, this is Kelsey, say hi!") whereupon people looked up, smiled (some) and mumbled a couple of names I promptly forgot. I settled myself down in the only available space and made new friends with the people around me, ordered a drink, and began to enjoy the raucous, silly madness of a karaoke- and booze-filled evening. A few Bud Lights in, I decided to put my name in the queue to sing one of my fave old school country songs, "Every Little Thing" by Carlene Carter (June's daughter). I waited with baited breath each time a name was called, and felt a little "oh shit" pang when mine was eventually called - but decided to go for it anyway.
The tiki-themed scene of the crime.The rest of the evening passed quickly but began to deteriorate for me, as I watched guys that I had felt potential interest in turn their attention toward other women, and listened to confident karaokettes rock the house with their surprisingly powerful voices and crowd-pleasing song selections. I decided I'd spent enough time with the group to be socially acceptable for a birthday event and needed to jet before my mood really started to turn. Just as I had paid my tab and was getting ready to make my way home, I heard a voice next to me saying, "Going home already? I was hoping you would sing again." In surprise, I turned to meet "Marlon", a Hula Hula regular with a gravelly voice and infectious smile. I laughed (somewhat more derisively than intended) and as he introduced himself I felt a little connection, and decided perhaps I wasn't quite ready to call it a night. We exchanged pleasant, humorous conversation over a couple of cocktails the rest of the evening and generally had a rather delightful time.
Yadda yadda yadda, we decided to meet for breakfast the next morning at a great hangover-type bar in lower QA. Okay, so it wasn't exactly "first date" material. I mean, I didn't even shower from the night before (nor did he). But this felt okay, as it seemed like the kind of spontaneous situation that's better than primping for a "real" date, because it was so in-the-moment (and also, I was fresh as a daisy with a quick makeup touch-up). We were chatting pleasantly, if not deeply, and all in all it felt...comfortable.
A few mimosas into breakfast, we were both feeling a little tipsy (before you judge, remember: I'm single. And had nothing to do that Saturday.) and decided to hit another bar.
Which is where everything began to go downhill.
Suffice to say that this is the part of real life that rom-com movies skip right over - the part where there are no butterflies, or roses, or cute chance encounters but instead drunkenness, embarrassment, a too-hot day (rendering the lack of shower a bad idea in the long run) and complete disillusionment in the idea that meeting someone in a bar ever works out.
Long story short, Marlon got wasted (well, what did I expect? Even for a guy, a couple of mimosas, a full shot of sipping whiskey and several Jack & Cokes will probably put someone under.) and I ended up taking care of him. Which means...
-I hauled him out of the bar where he was pissing off a bitchy bartender,
-took him to the scene of the crime from the night before to get food (I don't know lower QA well enough to know where else to go) where
-I was ridiculed by that bartender for getting stuck with Marlon to begin with (evidently this is a pattern of behavior he's seen over time), and
-I paid for Marlon's food (as he got mad at me for not wanting to make out with him in the bar and walked out on the tab), whereupon
-I got into a drunken argument (on his part, not mine) with him, after which
-he decided I was being a bitch and was going to go home, where after
-I got really angry and ran into the street after him (as it was evident he was going to drive home) and
-finally, finally cajoled his car key out of his hand (so he wouldn't kill someone or himself) and at last
-stalked home in a furious rage, leaving him to get home by his own means with the texted instruction to call me in the morning to get his goddamned car key.
Does any of this sound like romantic first date butterflies?!
No. There were no butterflies - only a wasp's nest full of angry buzzing in my head that I'd been so stupid to let this whole situation get so out of control to begin with. In hindsight, I'm well aware of the many wildly waving red flags that - had I been willing to see them - would've alerted me to impending disaster. For example, the fact that Marlon knew all the morning bartenders at the restaurant. Or that he'd ordered a full shot of sipping tequila at 10:30 AM. Or that we went to breakfast immediately after meeting, instead of waiting to get to know each other on another level (via phone? Email? Whatever.) and then going on a date (if, indeed, a date was warranted by other conversation). So, okay, it's mostly my fault. But I threw caution to the wind, and...well, you read the story.
On the one hand, I see why things like this happen to me, because I'm a nice girl. If I'd been more of a bitch, I would've left him in the street without going through all drama of assuming responsibility for someone else's actions and let fate take him home, safely or otherwise. But you know what? I can't have that on my conscience. I can't know that I willingly allowed someone so clearly incapacitated to take care of himself to potentially drive away and put other people's lives in danger. So I took the ethical high road, and I feel good about it - but I wish I hadn't traveled down that path to begin with.
More on the end of that story to follow, but the point is this: lesson learned. It's okay for nice girls to have plain old nice dates instead of dating adventures. In the future, when I'm ready to go home and a guy hits on me at the end of the night, I'll give my number and let him call. And if he does? Great. We'll talk, and maybe email, and maybe meet up. But not for karaoke.
Getting Going
Okay, so it makes good sense that I'm "re-starting" blogging on a Sunday, as that's when I began blogging oh-so-long-ago. Tough to say what the major malfunction has been in my lack of inspiration for blog content (and/or simple motivation to sit down and actually do it), but I think probably a combination of simple frustrations and deeper-rooted internal issues. A few possibilities:
1. My goddamn laptop. Yes, this piece of modern technology is a source of irritation worthy of public cursing. You see, it was gifted to me (thanks, Mom!) for the simple reason that it did not have the internal wireless card necessary to make it functional for her business, which is now the exact same reason I find myself unwilling to spend dedicated time on the internet - because it has to be connected to the DSL cable, which is connected to the wall, which is too far from my plush chair to make relaxed, lazy blogging either comfortable or possible. Instead, I have to sit in my too-short chair at my desk that faces away from my 3rd Ave window, which means that not only am I unable to multitask (ie, watch TV and blog) but also that I'm uninspired to write because the view into my tiny kitchen just really doesn't provide a lot of fodder for creative activity. I'm well aware that all of these things are simple fixes, but somehow I can't "find the time" (read: motivation) to make a change.
2. My goddamn blog background. Yes, this is also a source of cuss-worthy frustration. Why? Well, I ask myself that question I every time I look at my own blog. Somehow, I can't figure out how to make a great header (I really, really hate being limited to Verdana, Times New Roman and Courier fonts), and my blog colors never seem to come together, and I don't really like the layout, and this is all depressing enough that I don't even want to look at my own blog, much less imagine how others could or would want to spend time having to read it. (sigh) This is the creative perfectionist in me emerging, and I really, really don't like her very much - she's a pain in the ass that prevents things from getting done at all.
3. Creative drought. Call me Lake Mead, because creative inspiration seems to be drying up at an exponential rate, leaving only a history of better days behind. Interestingly, when I have to be "on" with other people, I seem to be able to paint a picture of hilarity in the things that happen to me in my life, and it's all very funny in the moment and ultimately I'm able to see my situation in that same way, so why the crushing introspection when I'm alone? And why the inability to put that same face to face conversation onto "paper" in a similar vein? Perhaps it's the immediate vocal and physical reaction of my live audience that spurs me to continue amusing them with candid and self-deprecating stories.
In any case, the blog is back, because damned if I'm going to let a wireless card (or lack thereof) and a couple of bad blog entries prevent me from doing what I actually love to do every day, which is talk about me - I mean, write.
1. My goddamn laptop. Yes, this piece of modern technology is a source of irritation worthy of public cursing. You see, it was gifted to me (thanks, Mom!) for the simple reason that it did not have the internal wireless card necessary to make it functional for her business, which is now the exact same reason I find myself unwilling to spend dedicated time on the internet - because it has to be connected to the DSL cable, which is connected to the wall, which is too far from my plush chair to make relaxed, lazy blogging either comfortable or possible. Instead, I have to sit in my too-short chair at my desk that faces away from my 3rd Ave window, which means that not only am I unable to multitask (ie, watch TV and blog) but also that I'm uninspired to write because the view into my tiny kitchen just really doesn't provide a lot of fodder for creative activity. I'm well aware that all of these things are simple fixes, but somehow I can't "find the time" (read: motivation) to make a change.
2. My goddamn blog background. Yes, this is also a source of cuss-worthy frustration. Why? Well, I ask myself that question I every time I look at my own blog. Somehow, I can't figure out how to make a great header (I really, really hate being limited to Verdana, Times New Roman and Courier fonts), and my blog colors never seem to come together, and I don't really like the layout, and this is all depressing enough that I don't even want to look at my own blog, much less imagine how others could or would want to spend time having to read it. (sigh) This is the creative perfectionist in me emerging, and I really, really don't like her very much - she's a pain in the ass that prevents things from getting done at all.
3. Creative drought. Call me Lake Mead, because creative inspiration seems to be drying up at an exponential rate, leaving only a history of better days behind. Interestingly, when I have to be "on" with other people, I seem to be able to paint a picture of hilarity in the things that happen to me in my life, and it's all very funny in the moment and ultimately I'm able to see my situation in that same way, so why the crushing introspection when I'm alone? And why the inability to put that same face to face conversation onto "paper" in a similar vein? Perhaps it's the immediate vocal and physical reaction of my live audience that spurs me to continue amusing them with candid and self-deprecating stories.
In any case, the blog is back, because damned if I'm going to let a wireless card (or lack thereof) and a couple of bad blog entries prevent me from doing what I actually love to do every day, which is talk about me - I mean, write.
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