I used to go out on a lot of dates.
There were periods of time where I would have 3 or 4 first dates per week. I was internet dating and I figure you just never know from some guy's profile what he'll be like in person, so I'd ask for a meeting if they seemed pretty okay.
One of these was the face licker.
We met at a restaurant near the Queen Mary in Long Beach. I saw him sitting at a table in the bar area, waved, and made my way over. He got up to pull my chair out for me. Well done, fellow.
After about 20 minutes of talking with the date, I came to the decision that he wasn't for me. He was a good boy. He had no history of partying too hard, no penchant for getting into trouble, no tattoos, nothing out of the ordinary.
Obviously, he was not my type.
After a couple of non-alcoholic drinks and an appetizer, I let him know that I had to get back to whatever I was doing for the day (nothing at all). He offered to walk me to my car and since it was a crowded lot in the middle of the day, I accepted. I generally wouldn't let a first date anywhere near me outside of a very public place.
We got to my car, I took out my keys and turned to thank him for meeting me and say goodbye (for good). He asked for a hug. Okay, harmless, right?
So we hug and then he does that thing when I was pulling away- that thing that guys do when they're about to kiss a girl after a hug. He held me at half an arm's distance and bent his head toward mine for a kiss.
I reacted quickly and turned my head to the side. It was all I could come up with on short notice. He, apparently, thinks pretty quickly as well.
When I turned my head, he continued his descent toward my face and landed on my cheek. And licked it.
He. Licked. My. Cheek.
So I backed away, said goodbye, drove out of the parking lot and to the nearest gas station to use the bathroom sink to wash that off.
That was just wrong.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I used to go out on a lot of dates.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sometimes, I feel like a complete lame-o. Like right now.
I'm trying to re-build this website that I've re-built several times before.
I just... can't... remember how to do it!
This isn't rocket science, yo.
It's just- maybe I hate doing it, so every time I finish with the re-build, I purge the step by step process from my memory.
Which is actually a really bad idea since I'd rather just get this over with.
Ugh, back to the drawing board.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sometimes, it's difficult to know whether to do what's right or to do what you really want to do.
My friend and I worked for the same boss, until last week. Our boss was good friends with my friend- they spent time together outside of normal work activities quite a bit. The others on our team didn't ever spend much time with the boss, so their relationship was special, so it seemed.
Then, out of the blue, our boss fired my friend. And it wasn't for something that I would expect someone to be fired for. It was a complete surprise to my friend and to everyone else on the team.
Our boss did this 1 day before she left for a 3 1/2 week vacation- for her honeymoon.
I keep thinking- why did she do it this way? Was she looking for something to get rid of my friend for? Couldn't she have warned my friend in some way? Who's next?
Then, my boss' wedding was the following weekend. She had invited everyone on her team, including my friend who she fired that same week. While I would rather have supported my friend by staying home with her for the event, I didn't think that would be appropriate.
It certainly wouldn't have won me any positive feelings from the boss, who might just be on a firing spree.
So I went. And the whole time, I was thinking not so nice thoughts about the bride. Thoughts like... well, you can imagine.
She was probably surprised to see me there at all, but she came and thanked me for showing up and said something like- I know it's been a rough week... blah blah blah.
I complimented her obviously fake hair extensions and eyelashes and turned back to my wine at the table. No need to make enemies in high places.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
My friend Carrie is a handful.
When we met, she had a super hippie boyfriend who had a beard and loved to smoke reefer and play with audio engineering. And he probably played the guitar-acoustic. But I don't recall.
Then, the boyfriend left Carrie for the great state of Texas, his home territory. She was devastated because they were fine in their relationship. He just couldn't make it in Los Angeles.
So Carrie did what any heart broken girl with a bad attitude and a penchant for the dramatic would do- she went on a rampage. She had only been with a couple of guys prior to the hippie boyfriend. Maybe none. I don't recall.
But when he left? Sistah racked em up. She'd go out to bars and end up with a fella next to her in the morning, stinking up the place. She'd kick him out and call in the next one. Girl was on a roll.
So I did what any good girlfriend would do - I instituted the One Phone Call Rule.
From that point on, Carrie was not allowed to go home with (or get naked in the parking lot with) any boy that she hadn't talked to on the phone at least once before. And calling each other on cell phones while at the bar didn't count as the one call.
She was okay with it for a little while until one night when we met some very cute boys at a sleazy Irish pub somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.
Carrie looked so cute that night- in a halter top, tight pants, heels, and her fake Kate Spade cherry handbag. She knew she was rocking it when one of the cute boys insisted on making out with her in the bar. And she was more than a little bit tipsy.
When closing time rolled around, we all spilled out of the bar. I was not drinking at the time, so I could tell that Carrie was being sneaky and trying to get around the One Phone Call Rule. I denied her any further access to the boy after they exchanged phone numbers.
She tried giving him her address, but I was staying over. She tried running away, but she was in heels and drunk and got only about five feet- around the corner of the bar. She gave up on trying to work around me and just got mad.
After the seven-hundreth time of begging me to let this one go and me refusing, she got so upset that she tossed her fake Kate Spade cherry handbag onto the ground, followed it with my car keys- onto the sidewalk, and stomped, crossed her arms, and wailed about my stupid rules.
I calmly picked the keys up, left the purse, and headed toward the car. She followed, laughing and yelling at me at regular intervals.
When she woke up the following morning, I reminded her of what happened and all she wanted to know was- IS MY FAKE KATE SPADE OKAY?!! And it was.
I was just happy that she didn't fling herself onto the concrete for a full-on tantrum. But she had enough sense to avoid that, this time.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
You know that superstition about how you should never open an umbrella inside or bad stuff will happen?
Yeah! I just figured out why somebody came up with that!
It's raining here today and a lady in my cubicle row has her umbrella open, propped up to let it drip and dry all over the floor.
So- this must have happened in some lady's living room many moons ago, so she convinced the offending party(ies) that they would be struck dead by lightning if they ever did that again.
Because really, you probably deserve to be struck by lightning if you're ruining some lady's gorgeous carpet. (Ha- I said carpet! gorgeous carpet, even.)
Monday, February 02, 2009
My mother never had much patience for children. She loved my sister and I with a fierceness matched only by mama bears, but just couldn't handle our immaturity. She had two of us at home to deal with and we weren't always easy to handle.
She wasn't into spankings or taking privileges away from us. She did try spanking us on one or two occasions (we ALWAYS got in trouble together- never one at a time) and we laughed at her wimpy swat and ran to our room.
Mom had to get creative to make us listen and STOP WHINING.
It started gradually- a hint here, a clue there. She was dropping stories about gypsies cleverly every time she could. After a little while- maybe a couple of months- of stories about how awful and evil gypsies are, she sprung the news on us.
The gypsies had moved into our town and were picking up all the bad kids once a day in front of the Safeway supermarket.
From then on, into our early adolescence, all mom had to say when we were being whiny little brats was "You want me to drop you off at Safeway?" and we'd be perfect little angels.
The thought of gypsies still scares me senseless. AND my mother can rightfully claim that my sister and I were always well-behaved as children. She made sure of it.