Archive for April, 2010

What a Cutie

A little birdy told me, that someone thinks I’m cute. 

This little birdy is none other than my landlady/roommate.  I may have mentioned her briefly before but let me paint a clearer picture for you.  She is a larger than life, robust woman, pushing 70, whom I adore.  She loves all and wants everyone to be in love too.  She can’t make a decision to save her life.  She has a zest for life and sees only bubblegum and daffodils.  And has unsuccessfully been trying to marry me off since she has met me.

She has recently taken on the project of redoing the kitchen.  After seven plus years of picking out tile, cabinets, wood floors, back splash,… oh, no tile again, maybe granite, (you get the idea), she has finally taken the plunge into the remodel.  I saw this as a good opportunity for me – no need to go out looking for men; they will be coming to me in droves for the next few weeks.

Although I have been checking out the merchandise, the window displays have not drawn me in. 

When I got home from work yesterday, there was a room full of workers.  However, there were way too many for me to check out without be caught red-handed doing so.  I was going for subtlety, so I just grabbed some lunch from the fridge, checked out the one standing by the fridge and then went upstairs.  Like I said, nothing has really drawn me in.

After they had all left, my landlady was sitting back admiring her decision making ability, and yeah, the work the guys did.  Then she said to me, “someone thinks you’re cute.”  I was a bit baffled by the statement at first and couldn’t imagine whom she was referring to.  Then when she told me it was one of the guys here the lightbulb went on.  I knew I was scoping them out but I didn’t think twice that they might be scoping me out.

At this point my landlady’s mischievous Cheshire Cat grin appeared and I saw that glazed look in her eyes.  She was preparing to play matchmaker.  Now mind you I adore her, but her past matchmaking ability extended to, “You’re single, she’s single.  Now get married and have babies.”  I didn’t think much thought or consideration went into any of it.  But, she proved me wrong today and put her two cents in. 

Her prior knowledge of him before this conversation, was that he was the contractor’s younger brother and he’s originally from Lebanon.  I was not there for the actual conversation between the two, but I imagine it went something like this:

Younger Brother: I think she’s cute.

Landlady: Go talk to her.  She’s nice.

Younger Brother: I can’t.  I get very nervous.  I’m too shy.

Landlady: (Eyeing him up and down and noticing his braces).  She’s friendly.

Younger Brother: (Seeing that she saw the braces.) I get them off in two months.

Landlady: Two months, huh?  How old are you?

Younger Brother: Blah blah.  (I do not have this coveted information.  She said he was younger than me so she wasn’t going to tell me.  Meanwhile, I already know he has braces and now that he’s younger, I’m thinking jailbait.)

Landlady: (Doing some calculating) Hmm. . . tell you what . . . shave . . . put on a nice shirt . . . and come back in two months.

My her demands are getting high.  Now, not only do they have to be single, but men need to have a clean shirt and face and straight teeth.  She better be careful, if that list gets too long some people might start calling her “picky.”

So what do you think, wait out two months for the mystery braceless-face?  Or schedule to be home on his next visit and get hold of the braces now? 

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A Little Reminder…

          I’m gearing up for my birthday next weekend.  I’m visiting my BFF this weekend, and she’s just itching to set me up.  Maybe she’s thinking it’s an early birthday gift.  But are set-ups ever really a gift?  I will go in and meet said Mystery Man with an open mind.  But today I was feeling a little nostalgic and flipped through some old posts when I stumbled upon this one.  Hope it doesn’t close my mind to meeting Mystery Man.

          These guys don’t warrant a post just for themselves as individuals; but they have made it to my Idiot Highlight Reel.

          Coming in at #5 – Clock-watcher.  This guy was fine at dinner, conversation was good on our walk, and then went to play pool.  While playing pool, all of the sudden he became distant and then kept checking his phone.  Maybe he had an epiphany that I was in no way going to sleep with him.  I’m assuming he had a sure thing on the other line.

          #4 – Mr. Lawyer.  Guy was too excited to meet me which I did not reciprocate because of his “I’m-a-lawyer-you’re-on-the-stand,” conversational skills.  Being talked down to or as if I’m an idiot isn’t going to win me over.  At the end of our date I went to the bathroom and was surprised to find that he actually was waiting for me outside the restaurant.  Then he asked if I’d like to come back here for dinner sometime.  Why are you wasting your breath?  You were bored 10 minutes in.  Don’t ask if you and I both know you’re not going to follow through.

          #3 – Mr. Teenage Boy Humor.  This guy never progressed past high school, mentally, socially, and probably emotionally too.  His bonehead move, asking to meet at a sports bar/restaurant.  The whole point of meeting in person is to talk, get to know each other, and see if there’s a connection.  He spent most of the time staring at the TV and not talking.  Why would I drive all the way out here for that?  I can watch TV at home and don’t have to listen to you chew.

          #2 – Dr. Aussie Midget.  The super short guy, who didn’t know how tall he was, sent me a text as soon as I sat on the train after the date.  He asked, “How’d it go?”  Buddy, teachers give report cards and I don’t want to take “work” home with me.

          #1 – All the dumbasses who pry to find out how many people I’ve met or am talking to.  “You probably get a lot of emails, right?”…“You’ve met a lot of people, haven’t you?”…“You probably get a lot of hits.”  And then proceed to tell me about all the people they’ve met.

          I’m on the date to meet and get to know you.  I could care less who or how many you’re talking to or how many you’ve met.  It’s not a competition.  Insecure – party of one.

Good Woman, Down.

Everyone has their thing: loser-magnets, asshole-magnets, mama’s boy-magnets, . . .crazy-magnets. . .  

     My cousin, Jo-Jo (name has been changed to protect the magnet from those unwanteds who may be reading), and I do tend to attract the crazies.  Even though Jo-Jo is deserting me in the land of loons to get married this weekend, I have been given some comfort through this blog, knowing I’m not alone in this; as I’m sure my girl, Man Shopper, a kindred soul, will attest to.  In honor of my cousin’s last few moments of singlehood,  I thought we’d bid farewell to a couple crazies we both once knew.

     A few years ago, before she met her man, Jo-Jo and I went to Disney World to run in one the races they host, just for fun.  (Yeah, we’re cool like that.)  While there, we met up with another cousin at a bar he liked.  (Hey, I’m Italian, I have cousins everywhere, gimmie a break.)  As we’re sitting at the bar, I see in the corner of my eye, some guy run his fingers through his hair, pose, and then all 5’4″ of him took off doing a catwalk, obviously heading for his prey.  I turned to Jo-Jo and said, “Oh my God, you’ll never believe what I just saw.  A guy -.”  Mouth froze because of the sudden appearance of the man on my right.  Oh man, that Rico Suave preparation was for me.  Don’t remember the guy’s name, but with some ski-like arm swing motion, announced he was from Sweden.  His friend was from who knows where and was taken aback by the presence of my male cousin and kept commenting on his muscle size. 

     Not having much of a clue what the two were saying and dodging spit bullets, we managed to finish our drinks and make a clean get-away.  If they wanted the full “American treatment,” they were going to have to look else where.

     A few weeks later I had flown back home for Thanksgiving and a funeral.  (We like to multitask in my family.)  I borrowed Jo-Jo’s car to head to said funeral (not her side of the family) and decided to stop at the gas station to fill it up before returning it.  I stopped at the gas station down the street from her house.  It’s one of those full-service only places, so you’re not allowed to pump your own gas.  In comes Buck – a short scraggly guy with a patchy beard and a trucker cap.  I knew at first glance he was a talker.  I hesitantly rolled down my window and told him to fill it up, cheap stuff was fine.  The problem was, I was paying with a debit card which Buck had to process meaning the window had to stay down.  And that was all he needed, one inch of my window and then diarrhea of the mouth.  “I just moved here from Texas.”  “This is first job here.”  “I didn’t graduate from high school.”  “I like it here so far.”  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”  “I think I’m going to go to night school.”

     I thought the gas tank was never going to fill.  I was trying my damnedest to avoid eye contact and any other interaction.  I dodged questions about myself and his hopeless attempts at asking me out.  But he was a crazy, none of that mattered.  The gas tank finally filled and my card finally processed and I got the heck out of dodge.  I drove the mile to Jo-Jo’s house, walked into the house where she and other family members in the kitchen were standing and said, “I veto the gas station guy.”

“Huh?” she said.

“I veto him.  He’s a crazy.  I learned about where he went to high school, why he moved here…”

“Oh, Buck,” she said.  “He’s from Texas and has a kid and…”

“Yeah.”

“I already know him.  He’s already asked me out.  Twice actually.  I went there one day and got his whole life story and then went back a couple of weeks later and got the same story again.  He didn’t remember me from the first time and told me everything again.”

     Needless to say, the family was very amused by this.  Not only do we both attract crazies, but we attract the same crazies.  

     She called me a few weeks later to tell me that Buck started dating one of the mom’s at the school she worked at.  Apparently that gas attendant charm worked on someone.

     So, dear cuz’, I wish you well in your new life.  And on behalf of all other single crazy-magnets out there, I want to thank you for taking yourself off the market leaving more goons for the rest of us.  We really appreciate it.

When I’m What!?

     Not only did The Preacher rise from the dead last week, but so did Facebook guy.  For those of you who are new here or just need a refresher, Facebook is a guy from the tail end of my online experiment and came into the picture around January.  Then quickly and quietly disappeared from the picture.  Then popped up again.  Man’s a mystery.  I hadn’t heard from him in at least a month and told my BFF that I should de-friend him.  No point keeping him around when we’ll most likely never meet.
     But, as I always do, I forgot to de-friend him.  And one night last week, while at work, a Facebook IM box popped up on my screen.  Here was the dilemma, I was dog tired but working and had to stay awake…so, let’s see what he has to say.

Facebook: Hello Honey.

Me: Well, hello again stranger.  

Facebook: I may be strange, but I’m not an “er.”

Sorry, I’m a little loopy from the vivodin (I assume that’s “vicodin”) I took for my headache.

Me: I’d say I’d be the judge of that (the stranger bit), but well, I can’t since you always bailed on meeting me.

Headache – me too.

Facebook: hmmm

Me: What were with all your picture edits recently?  Keeping up that jack-of-all trades title? 

Facebook: Haha kind of (He has pretty much all women “friends” on Facebook and posted what looked like modeling pictures of some of them.)

Me: (no response)

Facebook: Do you think we will meet?

Me: Babe, you’re the one that bails. (I really wanted to follow that sentence with a “Hell no!”  But again, working, need to stay awake.  Can’t end the conversation now.  I went with…) So, that would be a you question.

Facebook: I was just making sure you still want to.

Me: I never said that… 

Facebook: Good!

Oh wait-

Maybe not good.

Me: I’d have to dust myself off and dye my hair back to its natural color before you fit me into your schedule. (This guy moves at a snail’s pace.)

Facebook: What color is your hair now?

Me:  (Dude, we’re on Facebook, what the hell do you see in the picture!?  But I went with…) Still brown, but by the time you fit me into your schedule I’ll be gray.

Facebook: hahahahha

hah that was a good one (yeah, I’m a freakin’ comedienne)

Noooooo not that long

What kind of car do you drive?

Me: Why, gonna send me a new one?  (He imports cars for a living, might as well take a shot, right?)

Facebook: Just trying to figure out who would spend more in gas.

We can get you a new one…

Facebook: I drive a Tucson.

But seeing as I’m not sure you’ll ever show up, I vote for you to drive.

Facebook: You drive a TVR?

Me: Huh?

Facebook: You have a TVR Tucan?

Me: Hyundai, Tucson

Facebook: Oh ok. (Seriously man, you’re in the car business.)

The car I was talking about is like 110k.

Is hard to import, there are only 7 in the US.

Me: So why would a lowly part-time teacher have one?

Facebook: Well I know a teacher that is a millionaire.

So ya never know, you could be a trust fund kid.

Me: Not a chance.  Why else would I have 4 jobs?

I’m not a workaholic.

Facebook: Wow, didn’t know that. (Yes, you did duface.)

Good stuff for now.

But definitely not when we get preggers.  (Whoa!  Wait a minute here.  What website did I meet you on?  Some mail-order-bride site?  We haven’t even met, how did I jump to being pregnant!?) 

Me: (Long pause here, trying to regain my composure.) You probably did know that, but have forgotten me in the crowded sea of other women you talk to.

Facebook: Talk is the key word.  (I gathered that.  From the looks of things, this guy’s hot but got no game.)

Not seeing them in person though.  (So, I’m not the only one you ignore.  And here I thought I was special.)

Girls can talk forever, it’s not like they say, “Hey Facebook, let’s go to a bar.” (You do realize you’re talking to a woman?  And dude, you want to meet a woman, bone up and ask her out yourself.)

Me: Well, I don’t talk forever.  As I’m sure you’ve noticed.

Facebook: Yeah but that’s ok.

Me:  (no response)

Facebook: Your ok with me babe?

Me: How do you mean? (Of course I know what he means.)

Facebook: I have deleted so many people since I’ve added you.  Just people who I changed my mind that I don’t want to meet anymore, but I always keep you.  (Sorry attempt to sweet-talk.  Let’s see how real he can handle things…)

Me: Nice to be kept, but I’m not keen on the forgotten/back burner part.  I’ve grown up being invisible and forgotten by my family, that I don’t take too well to it now.  The friends I keep around are few but great and really want to know what’s going on with me and I with them.  Sorry if that’s too much “chatter” for your headache. (Ya know, since he thinks women talk too much.  Hope four sentences aren’t overload on his system.)

Facebook: It’s ok,

I don’t forget you.

You’re not on a back burner because I don’t have one.

I’m not that cute…

Me: What, am I in a slow cooker then? (This guy moves like molasses.)

Facebook: Hahahaa, no you’re not.  You’re not even in the kitchen, you’re in my room.  (Oh dear God, we’re going back to the “preggers” bit.  What the Hell am I concerned with?  He wouldn’t know what to do if he had a treasure map and a neon sign leading him to Gloryville.  Now, how to end the conversation…)

Me: Speaking of, past my bedtime.  Gotta run.  Night.

     Isn’t it the woman who’s supposed to scare the man away with the talk of children?  And shouldn’t you at least meet before planning a future?  One too many Disney fairy tales for this guy.  And as always, I haven’t heard from him since. So I emailed him this morning, “…so, I’m still in the slow cooker, huh?”  We’ll see if this gets a response.

The Trial Run

My first night out with Miss Independent was very eventful, to say the least.  Here are the highlights:

We arranged to meet downtown at a street crossing, one block away from the action so we could find each other.  I get a text saying she has just parked.  I get to the corner, look around, no wingwoman. Waiting.  Waiting.  Finally get a text asking where I am.  I look around and see a young couple on one corner, a middle-aged man on another, and a homeless bum with a cart full of bags on the other.  Unless Miss Independent thought we were going incognito, I didn’t figure any of them to be her.

Called and asked if she was on the corner of 2nd.  She said yes.  I said I didn’t see her and asked where she was standing.  “By the movie theater,” she replied.  Uh, yeah, the big 3 on the road sign stands for 3rd Street not 2nd.  We’re off to a great start.

Went to dinner and had a very chatty waitress that I believed had a few screws loose.  The dish I was eyeing came with rosemary, so I asked how strong it was.  I don’t mind a hint of rosemary, but it is a potent flavor if there is too much.   She said not too bad but she served it last night without the rosemary.  I was sold.  

Dinner came; plate full of rosemary.  Edible, but not a fave.  When she came by later and asked how it was, I said fine but it was a bit too much rosemary.  She said, “You can always take it home.”  Uh. . . okay.

We then hit a bar that Miss Independent had heard about but hadn’t been to yet.  Popped in for a drink.  Swanky setting and the drinks weren’t bad either.  What was bad was the blatant ogling of my wingwoman by the group of guys standing next to us.  With absolutely no subtlety, instead of just an eye scan, the man bobbed his head up and down.  Dude, mirrors on both walls.  She totally saw you and wasn’t impressed.

After the drink, she took me to what she said used to be one of her “hot spots” but hasn’t been in a few years.  We walked in and realized…oh crap, it’s spring break.  We were two of the oldest people in there, aside from the few 60-year-old men who apparently took a wrong turn down Delusional Lane, thinking they belonged.  But, being older and still getting checked out by college boys is a great confidence boost.  Then, of course, they open their mouths and ruin the whole thing.

One guy walked up to us, crossed his arms and stared.  After about thirty seconds of awkward staring, he opened his mouth.  Nothing came out.  Then he waved his hand across his face, moving his lips, but still saying nothing.  Then, hands on hips, says, “I’m shy.”  Crossed his arms again and stared a bit more.  Really, that’s your opening line?  Act like a mime, gawk, and hope for results…dude.

Then we had another man walk past and stand behind me.  I could tell by Miss Independent’s expression, she had something to say.  The guy was invading my personal space and not in a good way.  Out of no where, some woman says his name and he hesitantly responds and sheepishly hugs her.  He clearly did not want to be found.  Once he left, Miss Independent said he was peeking over my shoulder and making weird eyes at her.

Next we have the return of the ogler.  He daringly approached us, asked if we got tired of the other place, and then introduced himself.  I heard him say Martin.  She said no, it’s Bart.  Since it’s a new friendship, there needs to be a compromise.  So, for argument’s sake, we’ll call him Bartin.  Bartin was a spitter.  And for whatever reason, chose to talk to me.  Great.  But Bartin’s charm didn’t stop with the three spit sprinkles to the face.  Obviously flabbergasted by the clear bubbly substance I was consuming at a bar, asked what I was drinking.  Before I could answer, he said, “Water?  Can I get you another one?  Do you need a refresher”  As he was pulling out his wallet to buy me another.  Guess he’s not aware that alcohol can be clear too.

We worked our way to the dance floor.  A little short guy approached Miss Independent and I heard her ask if he was on spring break.  Oh man, she’s losing her vision.  The guy clearly had a grown man look, rougher skin, no baby-face.  The guy was 32 and a bit offended.  As he walked off I caught a flash of white shirt behind me.  I turned and caught a glimpse of Mr. Miami Vice, shirt unbuttoned to his naval, and 22 years old on a good day.  He was doing what I was assuming to be his drunken mating-call dance moves.  And, oh yeah, those were directed at me.  He was piroetting more than a ballerina on crack and eventually. . . lost his way.  So sad, he was a real keeper. 

We decided to call it quits and headed back to our cars.  She believes she’s in the same parking garage as me.  We get to the parking garage and she doesn’t see her car.  She figures she must be back at the other one we passed.  She wasn’t drunk, but a was a little nervous leaving her because I had a gut feeling her car wasn’t there either.  I made her promise to text me when she got to her car.

I left.  Drove all the way home and still didn’t have a text.  So, I texted her to find out where she was.  She still didn’t know where her car was.  Oh, man.  Since she was all turned around on the meeting point I figured she did the same thing with her car.  I told her to check one block up in the other direction.  We hung up.  About a half an hour later she called back and finally found her car.

Discovering these little qualities about my wingwoman was a great find.  She’s a wonderful conversationalist, entertaining, directionless, and if we ever hit the circus she will most likely lose the “guess my age” game.  And with all of that factored in, I am now even more confident that Bartin’s name is actually Martin.