Entries Tagged 'the ladies' ↓
September 18th, 2009 — the ladies
A couple months after things with Emily ended, I met Kelly.
Kelly was my age — an attorney who was working on a local political campaign. We met on OkCupid and had lots in common — birth order, political views, desired number of children, etc.
You see, these are the sorts of things that come up during the getting-to-know-you stage of online dating. I attribute it to the absence of in-person interaction. Because some people aren’t able to carry on the e-mail dialogue, some of these potential relationships fizzle very quickly. Kelly wasn’t like that. She was just as verbose as me, if not moreso.
We agreed to go on a date the following Sunday, which happened to be the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I wanted to go to a local art show and she wanted to take me to an Italian restaurant in Soulard she swore was an authentic east coast style pizza place. I agreed. This was Tuesday. Our plans were set.
Fast-forward to Thanksgiving. As I ate dinner with my family, I bit down on something that wasn’t exactly hard, but wasn’t entirely soft, either. My jaw immediately started to hurt. I excused myself from the table, went to the bathroom, and poked around a bit in my mouth. I found that the pain got worse when I put pressure on one of my molars. I should take a moment to point out that I come from a weak-toothed people. Both my parents and each of my siblings have had lots of dental issues. I’m pretty sure my family put our dentist’s kids through college, bought him a boat, remodeled his master bath, and paid for his timeshare in Tampa. We have bad teeth.
I knew this wasn’t good. It was Thanksgiving. My dentist was closed until Monday, and I couldn’t go to an emergency dentist because I could only get the proper dental insurance forms (required any time you see a new doctor) from the HR office, which would also be closed until Monday.
I asked Dr. Google what to do, and he said I should go get some Orajel and the extra-strength acetominophen in fast-dissolving caplet form. So, on my way home, I stopped at Walgreens to fill Dr. Google’s prescription. Within 15 minutes of arriving home and taking more than the recommended dosage of the medicine, I was out like a light.
A few hours later, the medicine wore off, and I was once again in pain. So I popped some more pills, put some more numbing gel on the cracked tooth (something which I actually think you’re not supposed to do, ever, but who cares?), and was knocked out again. Sleep a few hours, medicate. Sleep a few hours, medicate. This was the pattern of my weekend.
Somehow, it didn’t occur to me that I should cancel the date. Rather, I decided to be the weird guy who brought a sandwich bag of red and blue pills with him on the date.
The Orajel was in my coat pocket, natch.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Kelly when I explained myself to her.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to stop every few hours and take some medicine.”
“Maybe you should drive,” I added.
“Yeah, maybe I should,” she said.
We got into her car — a sporty little Mercedes — and drove to the art show. Well, at least I’m assuming we drove there. I don’t remember much from that ride, as I think I may have passed out from the medication.
“Sam,” she said, nudging me gently “Wake up. I can’t do this.” I looked around and saw that we were once again in front of my house.”
“Oh,” I said, “Sorry — I must have dozed off.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You were out like a light, so I drove us around the neighborhood, hoping you’d wake up.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, again. “I’m going to get this fixed tomorrow,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Just go inside and go to bed. You’re in no condition to be going anywhere today. Just go eat some soft foods and get some rest.”
“I feel terrible,” I said. “Can I make it up to you?”
She said I could, and we agreed to head off to that pizza place later in the week, after my tooth was fixed.
And that’s exactly what we did. Honestly, there wasn’t that much of a connection there. We wished one another luck in finding someone and went our separate ways.
It’s kind of disheartening to spend that much time e-mailing back and forth with someone only to discover after one date that you really don’t have that much in common. It raised a question — why was it that everything seemed so great in the strictly online stage, but failed to pan out once we met? Were our expectations for the in-person meeting too high? Were the right questions not asked during the e-mail stage?
Or maybe, just maybe, I was more interesting when I was passed out in her passenger seat on our first date than I was fully conscious on our second date…
September 14th, 2009 — the ladies
Haley was a unique person. She lived with several cats in a small apartment a block away from me. She was four years older than me, too. She and I met through OkCupid, but she was already very familiar with me and all the intricacies of my life.
Or, at least, the parts of my life I posted on my blog.
Haley was what I would call a loyal reader, and what others might call a cyber-stalker.
Our first communication wasn’t through OkCupid — it was through my blog comments, where she would often praise my posts, even if it was just a youtube link. Haley made a point of commenting on everything, often pointing out how we lived in the same neighborhood.
Now, I had other loyal readers, the most prominent of them being Irene, an older woman who found my blog very randomly and signed each post, “Luvya, Irene,” which creeped me right the fuck out. I sort of lumped Haley in with Irene — to me, they were people who read every word I wrote and posted lots of comments. I figured this was no big deal, so long as these people stayed on the internet and out of my real-world existence.
Then I logged in to OkCupid to find a message from Haley.
“Hey Sam!” it started, “This is Haley, the girl who is always commenting on your blog! I saw that we were matched on here and thought I’d give you a shout out. Do you want to grab some dinner sometime?”
I figured sure, what the heck, I can have dinner with a reader. Because, at this point, I still viewed Haley as a reader and nothing more.
You see, I am like lots of guys in that I often have difficulty picking up various vibes. I’ve gone out to dinner and a movie with someone and thought it was a date when it clearly was not. That was actually kind of common for me for a while. This was the opposite.
I told Haley to meet me Saturday night at a restaurant in our neighborhood. I arrived wearing jeans and a sweater — nothing fancy. Very casual. She arrived sporting makeup, styled hair, and a very nice cocktail dress.
And yet I still thought I was just meeting a new friend for a burger.
She talked about her long-term singleness, her trouble meeting guys worthy of dating, and how she wants to have kids someday. She laughed at every marginally funny thing I had to say. She smiled at me. She made lots of eye contact.
It still wasn’t clicking. Not at all. I just didn’t think of her that way. I couldn’t think of her that way. That had never even crossed my mind.
The check came.
“Dutch?” I asked. It was this moment, as she was pulling out her wallet, that she knew that I didn’t know that this was a date, which I guess is the reason she tried one more tactic…
“What shall we do now?” she asked as we left the restaurant.
“Well, I’m just going to walk back to my place,” I said.
“Want some company?” she asked.
It now occurs to me that some very mutually enjoyable things could have happened that evening, had I been paying any attention whatsoever to Haley’s behavior. Instead, we went back to my apartment and watched a rerun of
Law & Order: SVU, a mood-killing show if ever there was one.
After about 30 minutes, she gave up and left. I didn’t see her or hear from her for several months. When I finally did run into her at the grocery store, she introduced me to her boyfriend, a very friendly guy who looked like me. A LOT like me.
And that was when I knew it had been a date.
September 10th, 2009 — the ladies
After seeing Emily for about six weeks, I decided to paint my bedroom one weekend. I figured since I was the only one using it, it wasn’t such a terrible idea. Emily and I hadn’t crossed that threshhold. I have to admit, I was scared off by the STIs, even after she was treated and declared to be clean once more.
So I decided to paint. My room was boring — just plain off-white walls — so I wanted something different. I invited Emily to help. I hadn’t seen her or heard from her in a few days, so I thought it would be a good chance to hang out.
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to be your free labor.”
Okay then.
“But,” she continued, “do you want me to bring you food?”
Score. I accepted her offer and she said she would be over soon, burritos in hand.
This was Friday evening. Sunday afternoon, about two hours after I had finished painting, she arrived, sans burritos.
“Let’s go out to get something,” she said. “My treat.”
“I thought you were coming over Friday,” I said. “And then I didn’t hear from you all day yesterday. I don’t want to be ‘that guy,’ but you said you’d be over soon, which I thought meant two hours, not two days.”
Granted, I didn’t starve to death or anything as a result of not having a burrito on Friday night, but this was more than a bit rude.
“Sorry,” she said, “I got a little bit caught up in something this weekend.”
“You’re still buying, right?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said.
We went to Qdoba in search of burritos. Well, I should say I was in search of a burrito. Emily, on the other hand, was in search of perhaps the most ridiculously complicated Qdoba order I have ever witnessed.
“Naked chicken queso burrito, black beans, but without the queso, and with the ancho sauce, mild salsa, with a soft tortilla on the side,” she said to the young woman behind the counter who clearly did not get paid enough to deal with this bullshit.
“Why don’t you just get an ancho burrito?” I asked.
“It’s not the same,” she said, ignoring the fact that both burritos consist of meat, beans, rice, and your choice of toppings such as salsa, shredded cheese, sour cream, etc. The only real difference was the sauce. And why order a burrito without a tortilla, only to get the tortilla on the side? Why not just get the damn burrito in the tortilla (the way God intended) and let it spill out onto a plate after the first bite like it’s going to do anyway?
“Just a chicken burrito,” I said. “Black beans, corn salsa, shredded cheese, and sour cream please.”
“No problem,” said the young woman, cheerfully.
Emily’s order had not been met with such enthusiasm.
We got our burritos and our drinks and sat down.
“So,” said Emily, “I’ve got some exciting news!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!” she said. “There’s this guy, and we’ve been going out for a few weeks now, and I think he’s great!”
“Oh yeah?” I said, under the impression that she was speaking about me as if I weren’t there, telling me of my amazingness, etc. “Tell me about him!” I continued, smiling knowingly.
“Well, his name is Steve,” she said.
“My name is not Steve,” I thought, “but she’s probably messing around with me.”
“He’s a computer guy,” she continued.
“Emily never really has asked what I do for a living, but she knows I work with web design sometimes, so yeah, she’s definitely talking about me,” I told myself.
“He’s raising his six year old daughter, and she’s so cute!”
“Daughter?” I asked, “That’s a strange way to refer to my male dog.”
“Huh?”
“You’re talking about me, right?” I said.
“No,” she replied, “I’m talking about Steve.”
“Huh?”
“Steve,” she repeated. “The guy I’m dating. We met on eHarmony.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “So how long have you been seeing Steve?”
“A few weeks,” she said.
“What about us?” I asked. “I thought you and I were dating…”
Emily was suddenly quiet.
“You mean to tell me you’ve been stringing me along for the last few weeks?”
No response.
“We’ve gone out a few times each week for the last month and a half, and for half of that time, you’ve been seeing someone else?”
“Well, yeah,” said Emily, breaking her silence. “What did you think this was?” she asked, “A relationship?”
“Uh, yeah?” I said. “We go out to dinner, we go to movies, we spend time with each other, we often end up making out. I mean, I know it’s kind of junior high-ish, but I thought we were just taking things slow, and I was okay with that.”
“I… Uhhh…”
“You offered me a key to your apartment just last week,” I said. “How is all that not indicative of a relationship?”
“I’m sorry you got that impression,” she said, after some thought. “We are in a relationship, but not that kind of relationship…“
It then occurred to me — I had fallen into the role of her gay boyfriend. Only I wasn’t gay. Or her boyfriend.
She had strung me along for nearly a month. She wasted a portion of my life. I know, it’s only three weeks, but in that time, I declined several communication requests from matches on eHarmony because, as I told them, I was pursuing another relationship. Because that’s what I thought it was — a relationship.
I should have seen the writing on the wall. She had gone from contacting me several times a day to contacting me once every couple of days, and usually only by text message. I thought we were past the infatuation stage and were now at a more healthy point in our relationship where we didn’t need to be in constant contact.
Some men would have made a scene by telling her off, calling her a liar, or saying hurtful things. I’m not one of those men. No, I’m the man who quietly finished his burrito and drove both of them back to his house, and walked up to the front door, all without saying a single word.
“You’re mad, aren’t you…” Emily said to me as we stood on the porch.
“Whatever,” I said as I unlocked and opened the door. “Do you have your things?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?” said Emily.
“You should go now,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” said Emily. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Pooh.”
“Don’t call me Pooh,” I said, closing the door before she could come inside. “I fucking hate that.”
September 8th, 2009 — the ladies
A week after the hospital ordeal, Emily was feeling much better. We decided to have dinner — this time at my house. I was getting sick of driving all the way to her place, so getting her to agree to dinner at my place was a minor victory.
“What do you want me to make?” I asked.
“You cook?” was her reply.
“Of course I cook,” I said. “I’m not a totally helpless bachelor.”
“I don’t eat frozen foods,” she said.
“But we had ice cream last week,” I pointed out. “That’s frozen.”
“Ice cream doesn’t count – it’s supposed to be frozen.”
“Ice cream does count,” I argued. “You never said anything about its virgin state.”
“Whatever,” she said. “I don’t eat frozen foods. No frozen chicken, no frozen vegetables, nothing like that.”
She never did explain why…
“Okay,” I said, and proceeded to throw out a few recipe ideas. Enchiladas. Pizza. Spaghetti.
Her answer was the same each time: “No.”
“What do you want then?” I asked.
“I really like pizza from Richie’s,” she said. “We get it at work all the time.”
“Richie’s?” I asked. “As in the place that’s halfway across the county?” I desperately hoped that there was some other place called Richie’s three blocks from my house.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she said, confirming my fears.
So much for my minor victory — I now had to drive an hour, round-trip, to pick up a pizza from this place. And, to make matters worse, Richie’s isn’t anything spectacular. In fact, I would go so far as to call it underwhelming. It fails to whelm.
Plus, Richie’s was expensive — $18 for a medium pizza.
The evening was already a loss. An hour of driving — past no fewer than a dozen excellent pizza places — to buy an overpriced, mediocre pizza, that would undoubtedly be cold by the time I got it back to my house.
Shit.
“I’ll make brownies,” she said.
Suddenly things were looking brighter.
I drove to Richie’s, picked up the pizza, and got home mere seconds before Emily arrived at my door. She carried a round pan. An empty round pan.
“Where are the brownies?” I asked.
“I’m going to make them here,” she said.
“With what?” I asked, as she walked into my kitchen and began going through my cabinets.
“Where’s your flour?” she asked.
“I don’t have flour,” I said, surprised that her idea of “making brownies” involved coming to my house and using my ingredients.
“How can you not have flour?”
“It’s easy when you don’t buy it.”
“Sugar?”
“No sugar, either.”
“Eggs?”
“I’ve got eggs.”
“I guess it would be a stretch to think that you would have unsweetened chocolate and vanilla extract,” she said.
“You guess correctly.”
“Where’s the grocery store?” she asked. I gave her directions, and she left.
Forty five minutes later, she returned. In her bag was one item — a store-brand brownie mix.
“How did that take you 45 minutes?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Let’s eat!”
The pizza, now just slightly above room temperature, had been sitting on the table the entire time.
“Didn’t you put that in the oven to keep it warm?” she asked.
“I didn’t think it would take you 45 minutes to get back,” I said.
We microwaved some pizza and put the rest in the refrigerator. If Richie’s pizza was mediocre when fresh, it was downright repugnant when reheated.
After the pizza, Emily began making the brownies. She measured the oil and water and cracked the eggs. I couldn’t be trusted with anything beyond stirring.
“Do you want to lick the spoon?” I asked.
“Lick the spoon?” she said, “who on earth does that?”
This was the exact moment I knew Emily and I would never amount to anything. I have only a few requirements of the women I date — they have to have at least three of the five senses, they must be employed, and they have to lick the spoon (salmonella be damned.)
I kept my mouth shut as she put the brownies in the oven and set the timer.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “What do you have?”
“Have you ever seen Roger & Me?” I asked.
I figured since things between Emily and me were going nowhere, it would be the perfect opportunity to watch a documentary that is definitely NOT a date movie.
I didn’t warn her.
“Pets or meat?” she said, reading the sign in the movie. “What does that mean?”
THUNK
“OH MY GOD!!!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said casually, “I forgot about that part.”
DING
“Brownies are done!” I got up from the couch and poured myself a glass of milk.
Emily sat on the couch, her hands covering her eyes.
“Is it over yet? Tell me when it’s over! Pooh! Tell me when it’s over!”
It would be over soon enough.
TO BE CONTINUED…
September 7th, 2009 — the ladies
“Come over 2nite?”
This question had made frequent appearances on my cell phone as of late. After realizing how much work it was to care for two rambunctious dogs (and undoubtedly, some complaints from the neighbors), Emily had given Lily back to the rescue group from which she came. This resulted in more free time for Emily — free time she wanted to fill with me.
I usually wasn’t able to make it over to her apartment, as these requests came during the week. When I get home from work, I have a dog and a house waiting for my attention. However, this night, I decided to take her up on it.
My dog was staying with my mother for the week — since I haven’t given her any grandchildren, she enjoys spoiling the four-legged equivalent. Their mornings together are filled with long walks. The afternoons are set aside for trips to the doggie spa (yes, my mother takes my dog to a spa.) The evenings are filled with belly rubs and doggie ice cream (yes, my mother buys a special brand of ice cream for my dog, which shouldn’t be all that surprising given the revelation about the spa.) A good time would be had by all: the dog would be pampered, my mother would have a mammal to spoil (her human grandchildren are all in school), and I would be free to shack up with Emily.
I packed an overnight bag and headed to her apartment after work.
When I arrived at six PM, she was already in her pajamas. And when I say pajamas, I don’t mean anything sexy. She looked like the poster child for the flannel industry.
It was warm outside. And it was warm inside.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I feel like crap,” she said.
“Have you been to the doctor?” I asked.
“I called, but he can’t see me for another week,” she explained. “I think it’s just kidney stones.”
She looked awful. The color had drained from her face, she had chills, a fever, and a cold sweat. And she complained of pain in her lower back and pelvic area.
So much for the romantic evening I had envisioned.
We sat on the couch and watched television. She was curled up in a ball under no fewer than three blankets. I was sweating like a fat man in a sick girl’s apartment. Because that’s exactly what I was. I walked over to the thermostat — 84 degrees.
“Pooh, if you touch that, I will fucking kill you,” said the pile of blankets on the couch.
“Emily, this is ridiculous,” I said. “You need to see a doctor now.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. Within minutes, she was dressed, and we were both in the waiting room of the ER.
There wasn’t much of a crowd, so she was seen by a doctor surprisingly quickly.
“Come back with me, Pooh,” she said. “Please?”
I went into the exam room with Emily and listened as she described her symptoms to the nurse.
“Fill these out,” said the nurse, handing a clipboard to Emily. “Are you the husband?” she said, looking at me.
“No,” I said, not entirely sure of what I was.
“Are the two of you family?” she asked.
“No we are not,” I said.
“You need to wait outside,” she said. “Family only.”
“Sorry, Em,” I said, trying to hide my relief at not having to be in the room during various examinations. I returned to the waiting room, where Matlock was currently playing on an old television mounted to the wall.
A few minutes after I returned to the waiting room, two young women came into the ER — one of them was hopping on one foot. They were both in Hooters uniforms.
“I sprained my ankle,” said the hopper, as the woman at the registration counter handed her a clipboard and directed her to sit in the waiting room.
“Ugh,” said the other girl into a cell phone, “I had to bring one of our girls to the ER — she fell and sprained her ankle. And a table of ten guys just sat down in my fucking section, can you believe this shit?” She huffed past me and out the door, leaving her co-worker to fend for herself at the hospital. After all, there were tips to be had, and those hot wings weren’t going to move themselves.
Over the next 45 minutes, Hooters girl, whose name, as it turns out, was Kara, proceeded to hop from her chair in the waiting room to the registration counter no fewer than six times. And there was much jiggling.
A woman in scrubs entered the waiting room. “Sam? I’m looking for Sam?”
I stood up.
“Emily would like to see you,” said the woman.
“But what about the family-only rule?” I asked.
“I’m the doctor,” said the woman, smiling, “I’ll make an exception.”
When I arrived in Emily’s room, she was sitting on the bed in a hospital gown. Her eyes were pink and puffy.
“That asshole,” she said.
“Hey,” I said softly. “What’s wrong?”
“My ex-husband,” she said.
She went on to explain that her pain wasn’t from kidney stones. Her pain was from several sexually transmitted infections she had contracted from her ex-husband. As if contracting multiple STIs from her ex-husband wasn’t bad enough, this was proof that he had been unfaithful.
The good news was that these infections were easily treatable with common antibiotics. The bad news, though, was that they had lingered in her body for a very long time. While she would probably be fine, there existed a chance that the infections may have permanently affected her ability to have children.
Emily was devastated. Her outlook instantly went from “put a baby inside me right now” to “will I ever be able to have children?” This was no simple transition.
“It’ll be okay,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders as she cried into my shirt. Emily looked up just in time to see Kara the Hooters girl hopping past the door.
We laughed.
TO BE CONTINUED…
September 2nd, 2009 — the ladies
Things were going well with Emily and me. A few days after our talk, she had begun texting me constantly, which, at first, seemed sweet.
Then the texts started arriving at stranger times. They read, mostly, as follows:
1:01 AM, Thursday
Emily
Hey pooh, what’s up?
Of course, I would reply that I was trying to sleep, and that both of us had to be at work in less than seven hours.
1:17 AM, Thursday
Just thinking of you…
As sweet as this is, that still did not negate the fact that we needed to do things in the morning. Adult things. And not the fun kind.
1:22 AM, Thursday
Wanna come over?
Okay, now this one definitely got my attention. I did want to go over there. Oh god, did I ever. But doing so would require several things:
1. I would have to bring my dog along.
2. Our dogs would need to get along with one another — not a given, since her dog is barely out of puppyhood and mine is pretty old, and despises young, energetic dogs. He’s kind of a canine codger.
3. Pooh? Did she call me Pooh? It was late. It took a while for it to sink in.
4. I would have to either bring a change of clothes or return to my house extra-early so I could get ready for work.
5. Her apartment is a 30 minute drive from my place.
1:34 AM, Thursday
Maybe this weekend then?
I agreed that I would come over at some point on Saturday, since I didn’t have much else going on. And, don’t get me wrong, I really did want to spend time with her.
It was Saturday morning before I knew it. At 10 AM, Emily called me.
“Guess what!” she said excitedly.
“What?”
“I adopted a puppy!” she said.
“Uhhhh…”
“She’s so cute! What should I name her?”
“Was this a spur of the moment thing?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “Roscoe and I went to Petco to buy some food, and we saw her and I just couldn’t say no. She’s so cute!”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked, playing the role of reason. “I mean, you work so much, and Roscoe is home by himself in his crate for so many hours each day…”
“Oh, they’ll be fine,” she said. “They love each other already!”
“Okay…”
A few hours later, I arrived at her apartment. I had stopped at a nursery to buy her a small gift — just because. I prefer to give plants instead of flowers. Plants actually grow and thrive, unlike flowers, which, despite their beauty, soon wither and die. And a plant can have flowers, too. But not all the time. Just like any relationship will have its beautiful moments, its plainness, and sometimes the leaves may even start to dry out. Its beauty is in its ability to grow, and to become something wholly new. Additionally, a plant requires care, attention, and nurturing to keep its leaves green, much like a strong relationship requires a similar commitment from its stewards.
Also, plants are usually cheaper than flowers.
So I brought her a plant with purple blossoms — something that would look great on her windowsill. I rang the doorbell and was instantly greeted by a cacophany of barks, howls, and yips from inside the apartment. She cracked open the door.
“Roscoe! Lily! No!” she said, trying unsuccessfully to calm the dogs. “We just went outside! It’s just Sam! He’s here to see mommy!”
She managed to subdue the dogs long enough to give me a kiss on the cheek and take the plant to her kitchen counter.
“That’s Lily,” she said, pointing to a precious brown and white Boston Terrier puppy. A rather large Boston Terrier puppy. A rather large Boston Terrier puppy who was now peeing all over the floor.
“Lily! No! Bad!” she said, swatting the pup with a roll of paper towels. Just as she did that, a snarling Roscoe lunged at Lily, nipping at her hindquarters, and causing her to seek refuge on top of an ottoman in front of the sofa, where she continued to pee.
“Roscoe, be nice to your sister,” said Emily, as she handed me the roll of paper towels and a half-empty spray bottle of pet stain remover. “Can you spray this wherever she just peed and then soak it up with the paper towels? I need to take her outside. She isn’t exactly housebroken.”
“You don’t say.”
There I stood in the apartment, with Roscoe, who seconds earlier had been trying to dispatch his “sister.” Roscoe growled at me as I sprayed the ottoman, the floor, and part of the sofa, and began cleaning up Lily’s mess.
“Don’t fuck with me, dog,” I said as I rose to my feet to remind Roscoe how much larger I am than him. “I will not hesitate to lock you in the bathroom.”
Roscoe growled. I stood my ground. We had met before. He knew me, and I knew him. He growled some more, and began showing his teeth. I put down the paper towels and spray bottle and grabbed Roscoe’s leash (which had been attached to his collar presumably since Emily brought Lily home, since the two got along so well) and dragged him to the bathroom, barking all the way. As I returned to the mess, Emily and Lily came back inside.
“Where’s Roscoe?” asked Emily.
“Bathroom,” I said. “He was growling at me. And showing his teeth.”
“Nuh-uh,” she said. “He likes you!”
“Tell him that,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’m on his shit list.”
“You’re not doing it right,” said Emily as she took the spray bottle and paper towels from me. “You have to really soak the spots. Don’t just mist them.” She proceeded to finish cleaning up the mess her dog had made on her floor and furniture, and then walked to the bathroom to release Roscoe.
“Are you going to be good now?” she said. “Are you going to be nice to your sister?” Emily grabbed Roscoe’s leash and led him out of the bathroom. He immediately began barking and lunging at Lily with enough force to almost take Emily to the floor.
“Roscoe,” said Emily in a soothing voice, “calm down — she’s not going anywhere. You need to be nice to her.”
Roscoe did not listen, and proceeded to nearly duplicate the same incident as earlier. This time, I took Lily outside, where she did not pee, as the contents of her bladder had undoubtedly been released all over the apartment by now.
We went back inside to find Emily soaking up a wet spot on the carpet with a wad of paper towels. Roscoe had been locked in the second bedroom this time — the second bedroom with the door that doesn’t close too well.
“So, how are you today?” she asked.
“Oh, fine I guess,” I said. “Just hanging out in my quiet house with my well-behaved dog. You know, the usual.”
She gave me the look. You know the one.
Lily, who was not being attacked or cuddled by anyone at the moment, began yipping. High-pitched and frequent yips. Yips that could certainly be heard in the surrounding units.
“Shush Lily!” said Emily, causing Lily to yip louder. Roscoe began barking from the other bedroom, followed by a sound that was undoubtedly him pushing at the door.
“Emily,” I said, “Lily is adorable, but–”
“I should take her back,” said Emily, completing my thought. “Well, she’s not going anywhere. They just need to get used to each other.”
“It’s your apartment,” I said. “I’m just worried about how you’re going to handle two dogs. And, to be honest, I don’t think your neighbors will appreciate the yipping.”
“They haven’t said anything,” she said.
“Em,” I said, “it’s only been a few hours.”
“Right,” she said, “it’s only been a few hours. Give them time to get to know each other.” Emily began picking up the soaked paper towels and headed toward the kitchen.
“Lily,” she said, “come here, sweetie! You must be hungry! And thirsty!”
She placed a bowl of water on the floor and began reloading the super soaker otherwise known as Lily’s bladder. Shen then measured out a small scoop of puppy food — the fancy, expensive kind — poured it in a bowl, and placed it on the floor. Lily attacked it voraciously.
THUD
Roscoe came barrelling around the corner from the spare bedroom and into the kitchen, snarling and barking at Lily the entire way. He lunged at her hindquarters. This time, he made contact.
YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP
Lily jumped onto the sofa and proceeded to pee everywhere, paying special attention to the areas that had just been cleaned. Additionally, her leg had begun to bleed, adding a new stain to the sofa. In a matter of seconds, Roscoe had inhaled the fancy, expensive puppy food and was now licking the bowl clean.
Emily took Roscoe to her bedroom, closed the door, and left him there for the remainder of my visit. She then tended to Lily’s leg, which, fortunately, wasn’t as bad as it originally appeared.
“I don’t think they’re going to kiss and make up,” I said.
“They just need time,” said Emily, as she turned on the TV.
We both rubbed Lily’s belly as she sprawled across our laps. Soon, she grew tired of this and jumped over to the ottoman, where she barked her high-pitched puppy bark on account of our lack of constant attention.
In the bedroom, Roscoe growled.
TO BE CONTINUED…
August 29th, 2009 — the ladies
After dinner and the card shop, Emily and I agreed to go out again and parted ways for the evening.
The next morning, Emily sent me a text message.
“I don’t think it’s going to work out,” it said. “I don’t see us going in the same direction in life.”
This was news to me, as I hadn’t thought we had really reached the point during our phone calls, our dinner, or the movie where we discussed our life goals and where we wanted to be in 10 years. Perhaps it was because when I found the card about potty training, I didn’t swoon about how I can’t wait to teach my own children to not urinate in the living room.
I was right. At least partially. After ruminating on the matter for a few days, I called her and asked what was up.
“I always thought by now I’d have babies,” she explained. “I had it all planned out, but then everything happened with my ex-husband, and now I just don’t know. Everything I had planned is on hold now.”
“I’m open to having kids,” I said. “I didn’t think we’d need to have this conversation after one date. But since we’re having it, I guess I should tell you that if I am going to ever have kids, I want it to be a few years down the road. I’m just not ready for that right now, though.”
“Well,” she said, “there’s something else…”
She went on to explain that the fact that I’m overweight bothered her. Even though she, herself, was a bit overweight too. She said she wanted me to be healthy.
I agreed. I do want to be healthy. I’ve struggled with my weight for over 20 years. It’s not a fun thing. It’s a terrible thing, actually. Deep down, I am extremely self-conscious about my appearance. And, of course, self-consciousness leads to self-medication, and damn if there aren’t some excellent-tasting salty and sweet medications readily available pretty much everywhere.
But I digress. She wanted me to lose weight. But she said she also wanted to lose weight. And we could do it together. I agreed. It sounded like a great idea. Plus, it’s much easier to do these sorts of things with someone.
“But,” she said, “I’m not going to force you to do anything.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I mean, really, I’m never going to tell you that you can’t eat something.”
“Fine,” I said. “Not a problem.”
“Okay,” she said. “I just don’t want you to resent me for wanting you to lose weight.”
“Why would I resent you for wanting the same thing I want?” I asked.
“Well…” she said, pausing long enough for me to assume the call had been dropped.
“Are you there?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Well what?”
“Well, my ex used to tell me what I could and couldn’t eat…”
“That’s terrible!”
“And he made fun of my weight. And he told me I was fat and ugly.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said. Because it was the truth.
“You’re sweet,” she said.
“Not sweet,” I said. “Just honest.”
Clearly, this guy had done quite the number on her. What kind of jerk says those things to another human being? Let me rephrase that. What kind of jerk older than ten says those things to another human being?
A jerk with tons of issues. That’s who.
“So,” I said, “If you still don’t want to see me, that’s fine — I respect that — but I just want you to know that I would never resent you for wanting me to be a healthier person.”
She apologized and said she’d love to go out again.
TO BE CONTINUED…
August 27th, 2009 — the ladies
Alice and I connected via eHarmony. She was a 25 year old girl from the suburbs. Very bubbly, very friendly, and very excited to meet me.
She came to my place and we went from here to dinner at a Mexican restaurant nearby. The food was really good. The conversation, not so much.
Alice had spent a lot of time talking to me on the phone over the previous week. Granted, she did most of the talking. She would talk. And talk. And talk some more. Don’t get me wrong, she’s an awesome girl, and very sweet, but she just talked a LOT. And the trend continued through dinner. I barely got a word in edgewise.
And the more she talked, the more I wondered what was running through that mind of hers. She talked about how she would use double the recommended amount of detergent in her laundry, so it would get extra clean.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I said. “You’re really just buying twice as much detergent as you actually need.”
“Okay,” she replied, “I’ll try it your way, maybe…”
She talked about how she studied abroad in Mexico for a year, but yet, at the Mexican restaurant, she kept mispronouncing Spanish words. And not difficult ones, either. I’m talking about words like “salsa” (soltz-ah) and “tortilla” (tor-tee-luh). Had she not paid attention at all?
I decided to overlook these little things and just have a good time and enjoy her company.
Eventually, we finished eating, and the bill came.
“I’ve got it,” I said.
“Oh, that’s sweet!” she said. “Can I leave the tip?”
“Sure.”
“How much?”
“Oh,” I said, “whatever you think — maybe 20%?”
“Okay!” she said, pulling a wad of $1 bills from her wallet.
The restaurant where we dined was my idea of the perfect restaurant — good food and very low prices. The bill, for both of us, including margaritas, was $16. If Alice had left a 20% tip, that would be $3.20. However, the service was pretty good, so I’d even go up to 25%, or $4.
Alice plunked down seven singles.
“Is that right?” she asked.
I want to take a minute to point out that Alice is an accountant. An honest-to-god accountant. For a company. A company that pays people money to work there. I’m no math genius, but figuring out 20% of a modest restaurant tab isn’t rocket science.
“Oh, no,” I said, “I already paid for the food. It’s on me.” I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she wanted to go Dutch.
“I know, silly,” she said. “I mean for the tip! Is seven dollars enough? Is that 20%?”
“The bill was $16,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said, “what’s 20% of $16?”
“Three-twenty,” I replied.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Uhh… Yeah,” I said.
“Okay, if you say so.”
We left, went back to my place and made out for a little while. Mexican food breath and all. It wasn’t my brightest move, but again, I was giving her the benefit of the doubt.
I never claimed to be a saint. Besides, what if the whole 20% thing was just her sense of humor? What if she was just messing with me?
Over the next couple of weeks, we saw each other a few more times and had some similar experiences. I’ll spare you the details, but I arrived at the conclusion that this girl simply wasn’t all there.
Well, that, and the fact that every weekend for the next two months she would go out drinking with her girlfriends and drunk dial me. I know the drunk dial is, in many instances, a sign of affection. However, one drunk dial in particular, at about 6 PM on a Friday (she’s a lightweight, apparently) is where I decided to draw the line.
While we were talking, I heard squealing tires and car horns.
“Alice,” I said, “are you okay?”
“I’m doooooin juuust fine, bay-beeee,” she slurred back. “This stuupid car in the stuupid road tried to hit me.”
“Why are you walking in the road?” I asked.
“Where else aaaam I supposed to walk, silly?” she said. “Roads are for transportation!” she exclaimed, obviously very proud of herself.
“Alice, please hang up the phone and get out of the road. You’re going to get hurt.”
“Oh, you’re such a worrywart,” she said. “Worrywart worrywart worrywart!” She then started laughing.
“What’s so funny,” I asked.
“Worrywart is a funny word!”
More honking.
After she made it safely to the other side of the road, or at least out of the lane of traffic, she told me she’d call me later. I thanked her for the warning and decided at that point that I could not see Alice again.
It was for her own safety.
August 26th, 2009 — the ladies
After dinner, Emily and I made our way to the local Hallmark store to buy a card for her niece’s baptism the following weekend.
“You never see any funny baptism cards,” I pointed out.
“Well,” said Emily, “maybe that’s because there’s nothing funny about baptism.”
“Sure there is,” I said. “I mean, what if your niece poops during the blessed event?”
“My darling niece would never do such a thing,” she said, glaring at me.
“Yeah, but what if the priest drops her in the water?” I said. “That would be horrifying at first, but kind of funny later on.”
Emily punched my shoulder. Hard.
“You’re terrible,” she said, trying to fight back a smile while remaining indignant.
“Maybe she just needs some little water wings,” I said.
“Stop,” pleaded Emily. “Just stop. I need to find a card.”
“Okay,” I said, “how old is your niece?”
“Three months,” she said. “She was born in May.”
“Why are you getting her a card?” I asked. “She won’t be able to read it. She probably doesn’t even have the motor skills to open it. Or even hold it. In fact, it might even be more dangerous to give her a card, because she could get a paper cut.”
“I’m getting her a card because that’s what you do. You get people cards,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “but what’s the point of spending four bucks on a piece of paper with some glitter, a schmaltzy verse about how much Jesus loves you, and handing it over to someone whose first inclination will be to put it in their mouth and slobber all over it?”
Seriously. Hallmark has really done a number on our society. There is a card for everything. And I mean everything. While Emily was searching for the perfect card to give to a sack of drooling, illiterate flesh her precious niece, I browsed through the rest of the cards.
Throughout the shelves were randomly placed lavender markers with “UNIQUE NEEDS” written on them. Upon further investigation, I discovered that these were the super-specific cards that less than one out of every thousand people coming into the store would ever need. There were flowery cards wishing your boss a speedy recovery from his surgery, brightly colored cards celebrating a child’s successful potty training, religious cards celebrating a priest’s retirement, and rather plain cards celebrating the birthday of an accountant. I am not even kidding.
And then it got a little more ridiculous. There were an alarming number of cards for owners of pets. There were cards wishing a speedy recovery to a pet after surgery, cards congratulating people on having kittens, and my personal favorite, a surprisingly large number of sympathy cards for people whose pets have just died. And that’s when I started giggling.
Giggling right in front of the purple placard that said, “LOSS OF PET.” Which is where Emily found me.
“What’s so funny?” she asked. I handed her a card, and she began to read the contents aloud:
(cover)
Dogs
Have a way of teaching us
About love,
Loyalty, joy
And
Friendship.
(inside)
The gifts you dog gave you…
Happiness, companionship,
Unconditional love…
Will never leave you.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
“Oh dear god,” she said. “Really? You think this is funny?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I’m not saying losing a pet is funny, but I am saying that the fact that there’s such a wide selection of cards for people who have lost pets is kind of funny.
And then I showed her the potty training card.
“Oh my god!” she said. “That’s ridiculous!”
So I bought the potty training card, and we made plans for another date.
TO BE CONTINUED…
August 24th, 2009 — the ladies
About a year ago, eHarmony matched me with a girl named Emily. She was 28 and had just gone through a divorce.
“I went out drinking with my friends,” she explained, “and the next thing I knew, I was on eHarmony.” Because apparently it’s shameful to enroll in an online dating service when not under some sort of chemical influence. Regardless, we started e-mailing back and forth, which turned to instant messaging, which turned to a series of three-hour phone calls.
The little things we had in common were numerous. We both drank the same kind of beer, loved the same band, enjoyed the same restaurants, and, most importantly (at the time) we both were planning to vote for the same person in the 2008 presidential election. At the end of one of the lengthy phone calls, she said, “gosh, maybe we should just go to Vegas and get married…”
I knew she was kidding, so it didn’t alarm me. We both had a good laugh over it, and decided to make date plans for the following evening. We decided to start things off the old-fashioned way, with dinner and a movie. Well, actually, a movie, followed by dinner. But the order isn’t that important.
We met outside the theater, where I was waiting with the tickets. She was very excited to see me and gave me a big hug – not bad for our first in-person meeting. We entered the theater, took our seats, and waited for the movie to begin.
The movie was good, and had all the makings of a wild night in Salt Lake City – we held hands and cuddled. It turned out that she also liked to stay for the credits. Score! Another similarity!
Soon, we were on our way to the restaurant – a very popular chain restaurant specializing in cheesecake. That’s all I’ll say. And because it was a Saturday evening, this restaurant’s popularity was at the peak of its weekly cycle. In the waiting area, we were surrounded by families, groups of friends, and other couples on dates. There were no seats. There wasn’t even a good place to stand. We had to settle for standing under some sort of large potted fern.
Eventually, we were seated at one of the only tables for two available in the restaurant. It was a tiny table, nestled snugly between two larger tables, with no more than six inches of space on either side. To the left was a group of obnoxious sorority girl types, to the right, a family of nine, complete with two middle-aged male know-it-alls and a crying baby in a high chair.
Now I should point out that I hate crowds of any sort. If there’s a group of more than five or six people in any given location, unless they’re friends, you can count me out. I’m definitely more of a one-on-one kind of person. That being said, I was extremely uncomfortable in this seating situation. But I decided to just deal with it. Besides, it’s not like these people were going to invade our space or anything.
“So, you two married?” asked a woman in her 40s at the table with the family. Emily and I were a bit startled.
“Uh, no…” said Emily, “we’re on a date.”
“Oh, that’s sweet!” said the lady. “How long have you two been together?”
“About three hours,” said Emily.
“Marge!” the lady hollered across the table to an older woman, “These two are on their first date! Isn’t that adorable?”
“Awww, that’s sweet,” gushed Marge. “My Jerry, rest his soul, took me to a wrasslin’ match on our first date.”
God rest his soul? Awkward. How does one even respond to that?
Thankfully, the younger woman spoke up again.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your date – it’s just that our tables are so close together…”
“Yeah,” I said, breaking my silence, “they sure are…”
“If you want to move to a different table,” said the woman, “we won’t be mad. Frankly, I’m surprised they seated anyone at that table – it’s so small!”
“Emily, do you want to move?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s up to you.”
Not wanting to be “that guy,” I decided to stay put.
“I’m fine if you’re fine,” I fibbed.
“Okay then,” said Emily.
The waiter came, and Emily ordered some sort of fancy chicken dish.
“Sorry to bother you again…” the lady next to us said, tapping Emily on the shoulder. “I ordered that and it’s VERY good,” she said.
“Oh, um, thanks,” said Emily.
“I’ll have the barbecue burger,” I told the waiter.
“Oh, that looked so good in the menu,” offered the woman, “but I just couldn’t justify all that fat.”
“Fair enough,” I said, directing my attention toward Emily once again. “Did you like the movie?”
“Yeah, it was good. Did you?”
“Yep.”
And that’s it. I was out of things to say. This is the trouble with talking so much on the phone before a date — you have the potential to reach a conversational dead end. And when that happens, sometimes I tend to make an ass out of myself. Like when I asked the art snob what kind of art she liked best.
So I just sat there. Silent. This way I absolutely wouldn’t say anything stupid. Plus, I knew the lady at the next table was listening in.
“Sweetie, are you okay?” Emily asked after a minute or two.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I just think we covered all the bases with our conversations over the last couple of nights… I don’t know what else to talk about.”
The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of our food. I picked at my fries. We forced some conversation about our dogs, jobs, lives, etc.
“Have fun, you two!” said the lady from the next table as she and her party packed up to leave. Emily and I responded with fake smiles.
“Holy cow,” I said. “She sure was nosy.”
“If she bothered you, why didn’t you want to move?” Emily asked.
“I didn’t want to be THAT guy,” I said.
“Sam,” she said, “when I said it was up to you, I wasn’t testing you. It really was up to you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
After we finished dinner, Emily needed to stop by a Hallmark store to buy a baptism card for her niece, who was being ritually dunked in holy water the following weekend.
“You don’t have to come along,” she said.
“I like card stores,” I said. “Plus, I probably need a card for something.”
TO BE CONTINUED…