A blog dedicated to my embarrassing dating life.
Anonymous asked: Oh man, these are so priceless! Your details are so funny.
Anonymous asked: I have just spent an afternoon at work reading these (between other stuff... I'm not a slacker! ha!) and I was so sad when I got to the end. You need to write more, these are awesome! :)
it’s good to know that you were getting paid while simultaneously reading about me embarrassing myself. if you’d like to mail me a portion of your next paycheck for the entertainment I’ve provided you on a work day just let me know~~~~!!!
The summer of 2009 was a golden season for me. I got my first apartment (which ended up being a hellhole), I finally went blonde and I was on the hunt for my first real job. My roommate had just gotten hired at the California Academy of Sciences and got me a job there too. Now, some of you may remember what my job duties there were (as explained in my Pasta Moto entry), but let me refresh your memory. I had to stand outside of the museum in an oversized royal blue polo, matching royal blue extra large windbreaker, black baggy slacks and no-slip grip shoes. Basically, men were stuffing dollars into the high-waisted crotch of my trousers as they entered the museum…I was oozing sex appeal. I spent hours on end daydreaming about various males to rush the front door and whisk me out of my shitty day job and out to a fancy dinner. Alas, that day never came…but I did come close. Or so I thought.
When the museum didn’t have me posted outside they would plop me indoors next to an enlarged shark jaw that kids could pose inside of to take photos. To be sentenced to “The Jaw” was the worst thing that could happen to someone on a work day — you were in the back of the museum for eight hours where everyone but the janitor forgot about you. One afternoon as I was thinking about different ways to end my life on the clock (if I hopped into the alligator swamp would he attack? I could probably find a way to choke myself with the camera strap that I was already required to have around my neck…) when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Usually when someone was trying to get my attention at the museum it would either be a woman with a visor on (indoors) asking if the alligator was real or a child in Crocs pointing to the puddle of urine he or she had just created near my feet. This time, it was neither of the usual suspects — it was a guy around my age. I turned around and was taken aback. He had what can only be described as a curly mohawk with thick framed glasses and a huge grin plastered across his face. Before I could point out where the nearest restroom/cafe/exit was, he introduced himself as Josh and let me know he worked for guest services. Once I came to the realization that this person was talking to me just to talk to me and not to ask me a question regarding ~*science*~ it had probably already been five minutes of silence. I stammered through an introduction and awkwardly looked down at my gripped and non-slipping feet, unable to comprehend what exactly was happening. Josh continued smiling and let me know he had to get back to work. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Seeya around, kiddo” then skipped off to the aquarium. What the fuck had just happened?
I went home that night and overanalyzed the shit out of our meeting. Who was this guy? Why was he talking to me? Was it a dare? It must have been some kind of prank. Maybe my fly was down and he was going to tell me but then upon speaking to me he realized I must not have the mental capacity to wear my pants correctly, let alone hold a two minute conversation. I couldn’t even remember what he looked like, but I was convinced that he must have been cute. Dare I say…hunky? Hell, maybe he was ugly. Or maybe not. Handsome would probably be a good word to describe him…I think. Maybe I was over thinking it (duh), but I knew one thing, and that was that I loved thinking about boys. A lot.
The next morning I tried to add a little flair to my uniform. I cuffed my too-long sleeves of my button up and I wore some earrings. I applied mascara for the first time since my 8th grade graduation and I even showered before work. The amount of work I put into making myself look good that morning was comparable to most women on their wedding days. Each thing I added made me want to add something more. Soon enough, it was time to leave and I was feeling confident that my new-found work crush was going to make a second attempt to communicate with an alternate life form such as myself. I hopped on my bike and hit the road, feeling all-too-confident.
I arrived to work and had an extra skip in my step. It’s always fun to have a crush on someone, especially someone that you know nothing about. I parked my cruiser in the back bike lot and realized I was five minutes early. I entered the museum and stopped by the restroom to make sure I was looking good on such an important day — the day I was going to get proposed to (love at first stammer?). I entered the restroom and saw what could’ve easily been a screen shot from Monster.
In retrospect, on my bike ride I could feel my now-elongated eyelashes hitting the frames on my glasses, causing my eyes to water a bit. Seeing as I never wore mascara, while it was happening it didn’t phase me. The droplets rolling down my cheeks brought scary, black Lauren Conrad tears streaking my face. It was hard for me to even notice that after seeing that my cheeks were red and splotchy due to the excessive amount of makeup I applied to my oily skin in addition to the sweat that had built up from riding my bike (or just thinking about boiz?). The cherry on top of the ice cream sundae that was my make-up job, my short, wet hair from my morning shower was a dead-ringer for the Berries and Cream guy after having worn a helmet on my ride over. Safety first!!!
Seeing as I was starting work in five minutes, I had little time to do any damage control. I furiously washed my face with the hand-soap provided then put my hair into a bun and hoped for the best. I still had all of the pieces of flair I had meticulously added to my outfit and those weren’t going to let me down. I walked into our office, feeling down but not out, when my boss immediately told me that I was violating uniform policy by cuffing my sleeves, wearing flats instead of non-slip grip shoes and wearing jewelry. So, there was all of that. Maybe Josh wouldn’t have work that day anyways. After removing all of my excess accessories my manager let me know I would be working the Jaw that day. Fan-fucking-tastic. Seven out of eight hours of my shift went by without a trace of Josh and I was feeling pretty great knowing I dodged a bullet on seeing him that day. The final hour slowly passed and it was finally time to lock up the Jaw for the night. My manager Ben would always come out and help me, so I patiently waited for him to help me carry it away. Five minutes went by and Ben hadn’t showed up. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I started scooting the Jaw into the closet we would hide it in when I felt another tap on my shoulder. Sure enough, there was Josh with that shit-eating grin again. “Need any help?” I wanted to die. Not only did I look the ugliest I had ever looked, but here he was trying to talk to me again and once again I forgot how to speak English. I sheepishly nodded and he did my job for me. I managed to muster up a thank you and a few more basic words that I learned in pre-school. Like the day before, he had been overly nice and seemed genuinely interested in talking to me, which weirded me out. I liked it.
Days went by, and Josh and I began to have more human-like interactions. Our small-talk evolved into conversations and I was starting to feel more like myself whilst talking to him. He would greet me in the mornings and occasionally he would sit with me on my lunch breaks as I ate my pb&j’s (how old am I?). I was growing more and more confident in this friendship (and potential budding relationship) each and everyday. My kindergarten vocabulary was growing to at least the capacity of a 6th-grader and I was feeling great. He laughed at my jokes and always gave me subtle compliments…he was seemingly into me. The more I analyzed this relationship in my head, the more I thought I was winning him over. It was just a matter of time until something happened.
Once every twenty million years or so, it’s hot in San Francisco. One the blue moon that season that it was hot, I fully embraced it. I spent my entire day sweating in my shitty, polyester uniform knowing that I had a tank top and shorts in my backpack to change into after I clocked out. 5 o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. Once it finally came time, I peeled off my uniform and changed into my summer wear. I waltzed out of the break room heading towards the front desk where Josh had been working all day to say goodbye. For whatever reason, I had been feeling overly confident (it must’ve been the heat) and practically skipped over to the desk. Josh glanced up from the computer and did a double-take upon seeing me. With a puzzled look on his face he remarked, “Wow! I didn’t recognize you without your uniform on, you look so tan!” Now, a normal person would acknowledge this statement by saying anything from “thank you” or even just shutting up and nodding. But no, I had to say something far more charming and appealing. Are you ready? I brought my arms out in front of me to examine said tan and proudly stated, “Oh, it’s probably just dirt.”
DIRT. IT’S PROBABLY JUST DIRT COVERING MY ENTIRE BODY. WHY??? Why. Right as I said it I could feel my heart falling out of my butt onto the floor and trying to slither away from me as to not be associated with the filth that was containing it. If I thought Josh had looked confused before, it was nothing as to how he looked now. I had said it so nonchalantly and thoughtlessly that there was no way I could take it back and pretend it was a joke at this point. His usual grin was fizzling away as he just nodded and let out a forced chuckle. There was nothing left to say. I had just told a guy that I had a crush on that my “tan” was dirt. WHO DOES THAT. After another moment of stunned silence the only thing I could do was plaster a smile on my face, hop on my bike and ride home. Upon arriving home I jumped in the shower in an attempt to wash away all of the shame and dirt that I had already been covered in.
Anonymous asked: PLEASE WRITE MORE. These are so fucking funny! I take great pleasure in the fact that I'm not alone in my creepiness/awkwardness with boys.
AHHHH I have literally been the worst person ever. I have like 18 half written stories on my desktop that I haven’t gotten around to finishing but ANON you are the best. I promise you I will post one SOON.
Let me start this out by saying that this story is far too long for just one post. Consider this the introduction to an yet another unsuccessful courtship. Enjoy.
When I was a freshman at San Francisco State, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about getting good grades. I knew that I was going to transfer to art school and none of my credits would transfer, so I rarely went to class. My second semester I signed up for an English course, and on my first day I showed up early to sat in the front row so I could scope out my male classmates as they walked in the door. After countless boys with sagging jeans shuffled in, I deemed this mission as a fail. Right when I was about to give up on this class the same way I had given up on all of SFSU, a tall, lanky boy scurried inside. I had an Exorcist moment as my head did a full wrap-around watching him walk all the way to the back of the room and grab a seat. You know how once you sit in a chair on the first day of class and it’s assumed that it’s your seat for the rest of the year? WELL. Lucky me, I sat in the front row on the first day and my new main squeeze sat in the last row. I had a feeling that I would be channeling my inner Linda Blair a lot during the semester.
His name was David. He was tall with brown hair and was similar to a cartoon character in that he wore he same thing everyday - brown pants, a navy shirt and white Converse. I spent the next few days trying to find a way to talk to him, but there was no appropriate time for me to scream my number across the room. I got to class early everyday while he usually strolled in a few minutes late. When class was over he made a run for the door and didn’t look back. I figured that once I heard him speak a few times in class I’d be able to see what he was interested in or find some way to follow up on something he said. Our teacher, Mr. Freeman, was a funny guy who often opened up the class for discussions and encouraged everyone to speak their minds. Every time we had one of these talks I would always wait for David to interject…but to no avail. Either he wasn’t interested in ANYTHING AT ALL or he had no voice box. I went with the latter. He never, ever spoke a single word. At first it seemed like I was the only one who noticed this, as I stared at him through the reflection of my compact mirror for 99% of our class time, but as the weeks went by it was beginning to look like everyone had the same thought — What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
What I thought of as a ~dark and mysterious~ vibe was definitely coming off as a Rick from Degrassi vibe to the rest of the class.
Soon enough, Mr. Freeman was noticing the fact that everyone in the class was scooting their desks further away from the sociopath in the back row (while I was discreetly trying to scoot my chair closer to him). Even though he still hadn’t spoken, my love was just as strong as the first day and I was determined to get a date out of him. Mr. Freeman was not one to put people on the spot, so he tried in any way he could to get him to say a word. Our only assignments for the whole year were to write five essays about anything we wanted. One day Mr. Freeman asked the class if anyone had any ideas about what they wanted to write their essays on. He called on a few people he knew loved to hear their own voice (namely, me) to ask if they knew what they were going to write. No pressure, just a simple question. He asked a few people and then turned to the back, “Hey David, any ideas about what you’re going to write about?” The entire class whipped their (hair back and forth) heads towards my silent crush anxiously awaiting his response. David looked up at Mr. Freeman, shook his head and shrugged. I was not the only one let down by this gesture. It was later revealed what David did decide to write his essay on when Mr. Freeman was passing back our papers a week later. “David! A five page essay on root beer! Interesting choice!” Why did I like this guy again?
Our last week of the semester quickly approached and I had yet to hear this boy speak, but I was just as interested in him as the first day. We had begun to make eye-contact and smile at each other a lot — I felt like this relationship was on it’s way to a verbal introduction. Mr. Freeman announced that for our final project would be a group presentation on anything we wanted. We could pick the groups, pick the topics, pick any way to present them. I joined a group with two of my friends and David was roped into joining a group of four Asian males that sat near him. We had two weeks to complete the project and present it to the class and I couldn’t WAIT to see what David had to say about it.
The day of the presentations came. I volunteered our group to go first. I made sure to dress nicely so I could always remember what I wore on the day I was proposed to in front of a classroom. Group by group went and presented on topics like The Godfather, tattoos, the cheapest places to eat in San Francisco and many more subjects. Finally, David’s group was up to present. His four Asian partners in his group looked eager to begin the presentation while David looked like he was trying to find a way to drop dead before having to utter a word. Asian male #1 addressed the class with a question — “Why do Asian girls want to date white guys but white girls don’t want to date Asian guys?” (I rewrote that sentence like fifteen times but it just sounds weird. DEAL WITH IT.) Seeing as the only Asian males in the class were those who were presenting, nobody in the class took anytime to ponder this statement. Asian males #2-4 debated on different topics and offered examples of this behavior by showing a “humorous” video about the subject that they had made. David was absent from the footage — he was the cameraman. Part of the project was a requirement for all group members to present a part of the presentation. After about five minutes of incessant complaining about bi-racial coupling, the group turned to David so he could provide some closing thoughts. He whipped a note card out of his pocket and cleared his throat (the first sound we had all heard from him) and began to read.
Now, hold up a moment. I’m assuming most of you reading this are on a Mac. Before I go any further, I need us all to be on the same page. You know how when you first get a Mac (after spending 30 minutes testing out every effect on Photobooth) you tend to fuck around with the sounds? Everyone that has a Mac knows about all of the annoying voices you can have your computer use, and everyone knows the one voice (just FYI his name is “Bruce”) that Steven Hawking uses. If you would really like to familiarize yourself, look up “Steven Hawking asking big questions about the universe”. Also, look at up anyways because it’s pretty dang interesting. ANYHOO.
Now that we’re in sync, let me catch you up to speed: David was ready to utter his first words to my peers and I on our last day of class. He opened his mouth and slowly read, “…and. that. is. why….” IN THE ROBOT VOICE. HE HAD THE SAME VOICE AS STEVEN HAWKING COMING OUT OF HIS MOUTH. After only four words, the entire class burst out laughing because there was no other appropriate reaction to this blasphemy — this had to be a joke. David blinked and stared blankly at the class and in unison all of us shut up immediately. This was NOT a joke. He cleared his throat and finished his closing statement, “…Asian. guys. can. only. get. Asian. girls.” The class sat in a stunned silence for a few moments before Mr. Freeman started a slow clap.
Needless to say, it was confirmed that this kid was a weirdo. He was the equivalent of the kid at your high school that always wears a trench-coat. I was secretly rooting for him to not be That Guy for the whole semester and once I heard his voice, I knew he WAS That Guy.
….But I was still determined to know more. School may have been over, but my desire to know more knows no bounds. My near-obsession grew and took off during the summer, but like I previously stated, it’s far too long for just one post…so, ~*TO BE CONTINUED*~~~~!
I don’t know how to impress boys. I don’t understand girls that can just be girly and not like video games or vulgar jokes and have guys still find things in common with them. I’m not saying I spend my time trying to pickup boys over x-box live…but I do find myself gravitating towards a lot of things that boys like and in turn I would assume boys would like ME. Why is this not the case? I still don’t have the answer for you. (I would also like to point out that I asked Jake for examples of typical things that boys like and he said, “I don’t know…fighting? Boogers?”)
Much of my freshman year(/entire life) was spent pining over boys and trying to get them to like me. (I don’t know how to word that to make it seem less pathetic, but I guess that just goes to show you that yes, it IS a little pathetic. DGAF.) After being rejected by a few boys during my first semester, I finally started ~crushin’~ on a semi-nerdy guy in my art history class. One day I was wearing an Aquabats sweatshirt to class and he mentioned that he had seen them in concert a few times. If you knew me in high school or even the beginning of my college (more like LOLege…AMIRITE????) career you know how important ska music was to me. Done and done, I was in love.
His name was Brody. Naturally, I knew this before he had spoken to me but I played it cool when he introduced himself. Luckily for me, my roommate went to high school with him so once I described a nasally-voiced boy that looked strangely similar to Mo Rocca she knew exactly who I was talking about, and she was able to give me some background information. He and I occasionally sat near each other in class and sometimes waved at each other on campus, but this newfound romance was not moving quickly enough for me. I had already asked him on multiple occasions when our next test was and if I could borrow a pen (I probably could have filled an entire SpaceMaker with borrowed writing utensils) but no conversation was coming from these feeble (and borderline agressive) attempts at small-talk. So, I did what any desperate teenager would do: I added him on Facebook and proceeded to lurk the shit out of him.
After surveying his interests, I saw that I had no idea what any of them were. I did a little bit of research and I found out he was pretty interested in a movie about a bunch of Japanese school kids that are forced to kill each other on an island, Chipotle, and graphic novels. Obviously my top three as well. But on the real, I figured I could ignore the first, go with the second and work on the third. He and I started Facebook chatting and ended up going to Chipotle one night (which is another story within itself..stay tuned y’all) and I figured soon enough he and I would be driving off into the distance, waving happily to our friends just like Sandy and Danny at the end of Grease. Sadly, this wasn’t the case.
We started our social network back and forth almost every night where we discussed mutual interest topics such as rick-rolling, making fun of juggalos, the 43 bus, and various internet memes. I thought we were hitting it off swell and nothing could break our stride of common affections…until graphic novels resurfaced. Brody was all sorts of excited about the Watchmen movie coming out, and he was planning on going to the midnight showing alone. OBVIOUSLY I volunteered myself to go with him and I feigned interest as much as I could. He told me it was based off of a graphic novel that was his all-time favorite book. I knew this might be my way in, so I told him I would love to borrow his copy of the book so I could read it before we saw the movie. I pride myself on being a fast reader, and I let him know he could come drop it off anytime during the week so I could finish it by the weekend. I figured if we had both read the book already we would both already know what happened so we could spend the majority of the movie mackin’. Once again, this wasn’t the case.
In my day I had read a whole lot of Archie comics, and I figured I could skim through another comic in about 15 minutes flat. I continuously reminded (harassed) Brody to bring me the book as soon as possible because I was just DYING to read it so we could get this show on the road.
Here we have some documented proof of four relentless days of pestering via Facebook from yours truly.
First attempt- Subtle, but desperate.
Second attempt- Angry/passive-agressive.
Third attempt- Here’s me pretending I wanted to watch a gory action film AND bring up the lack of book AGAIN.
Fourth attempt- Once again passive-aggressive and whaaaaat is uuuuup with the draaagging letttterss/s/?!?!?
FINALLY, after endless wall posts, texts, calls, and messages written in the sky…Brody brought me the book. What I expected to be a comic book that was comparable in size to a travel guide about Zzyzx, California, turned out to be closer in size to the list of guys that have rejected me.
What in the fucking fuck?
I had absolutely no idea what I had just signed myself up for. It had never occurred to me that a comic could be bigger than me in size and weight. BUT, I was absolutely determined to read it and finally become the whole package deal.
Days went by and I tried SO hard to read it…but it just wasn’t happening. I couldn’t force myself to read about these people and find it enjoyable. The more I attempted, the more I hated Brody and myself for thinking this was a good idea. The movie was coming up and I realized I’d rather gauge out my eyeballs with a protractor than have anything to do with these goddamn Watchmen. When the midnight showing rolled around, Brody didn’t call me and try to make plans to see it. Either he figured that I flew through the book and knew that, like always, the book was better than the movie…or he didn’t like me and thought I was overwhelmingly obnoxious/clingy/pathetic and wasn’t planning on inviting me in the first place.
I went with the latter. I pretended that I was over him. I returned the book and told him I didn’t read it, secretly hoping he would admire my honestly and defiance, but all he said was “oh, okay.” There was something about his perpetually melancholy, nasally, little voice that revived my fat crush on him, and I decided that I wasn’t ready to give up on him quite yet - this was only strike one.
The first boy I had a crush on during my first year of college was tall, skinny, and carried a ukulele around campus. I first spotted him sitting outside of my dorm building playing Beirut by himself, and I immediately had a boner. Naturally, I immediately approached him and introduced myself and we started dating because that’s how my life always is. The end, roll credits.
In reality, this began the greatest man-hunt of my life to date. I made it my mission to get with this guy that day and I wasn’t taking no for an answer. My friends agreed that he was cute and he was cleverly nicknamed “Ukulele Boy”. We started to see him everyday in the dining hall but it seemed as if every time we saw him he was on the phone or on his way out and the times that he wasn’t doing one of those things, he was sitting by himself. I made the OBVIOUS assumption that he was always on the phone with his girlfriend that went to another school and therefore he was in no way interested in meeting any other people because his life with her was so wonderful that another person would just take away some of the attention he should be giving to her HOLY RUN-ON SENTENCE. Long distance girlfriend or not, seeing him sit by himself was a depressing sight. I wanted to talk to him but I didn’t have the balls (although I did have the boner) to approach him, so I took the high road — I stalked the shit out of him.
I found out that he lived in the dorm building next to me simply by watching him from my 8th floor window walk across campus. It was almost too easy. One day after following him back from one of his classes (yep, figured out where those were) I watched him walk into his building and go in the elevator, so I took it to the next level and approached the elevator to listen to how many times it beeped so I could figure out what floor he was on (fourth floor), just in case that information was ever required. The relationship was off to a great start.
After about a month, my knowledge of his living location, favorite dining hall foods and his brown hoodie + black pants uniform was proving to be useless. We still hadn’t spoken and I decided I needed to take action. It began on October 2nd, 2008. I went for my usual brunch in the dining hall when I spotted Ukulele Boy at a table, but this time he was not alone — he was with my friend Tim. I knew that I could easily sit with them and then I could finally be introduced to my future boyfriend. I scrambled to get some cereal and approach their table, but once I got closer I saw that Uke Boy had already left. Strike one. I gave up and sat at my usual table with my friends and silently sobbed into my Apple Jacks. We all finished eating and headed back up to my dorm so I could sulk in privacy. Before I could even bust out my journal of angsty teenage thoughts, I heard my roommate call my name. I rushed over and found her pointing out the window at my main squeeze. He was skating with my friend Cody, and I knew that this would be even better than meeting him in the dining hall. I fled the room without a word and decided to take the stairs down eight flights — I wasn’t about to let an old, rickety, elevator slow me down. Once I got to the ground floor I took a moment to compose myself and to make sure that I wasn’t dripping red-hairdye infused sweat. I collected myself and walked outside to see a bunch of tumbleweeds rolling through campus where cute skating boys had once existed. Strike two. Feeling more angry than sad, I went straight back into the building and up to Cody’s room. I pounded on his door and once he opened I demanded information. I grilled him on who this guy was and how the eff I was going to get him to love me. Cody let me know that his name was Jake and if I really wanted to meet him(DUH), he was going to a Noah and the Whale show that night. At the time I didn’t know who Noah and the Whale was, but I was sure as shit attending that show.
I arrived back in my dorm to find all of my friends waiting with wide eyes. I let them know that I had missed him once again, but it was going to be the last time. We were going to that show. I prepared myself by wearing (now noticing in retrospect) the most unflattering clothing I owned and calling it a day. I didn’t care if Noah and the Whale was a Japanese hardcore band, I was about to pretend that they were my all-time favorite band and arrive to the show early. My friends and I (we called ourselves “The Band” …not to be confused with the actual The Band) left the dorm and began our trek to the top of campus where the train picked up. My friend Kristen was already at the top of campus when she texted me that she just passed my “Beirut Boyfriend” on her way out of class. Perfect, he was already on his way. Things were already working out in my favor.
At the top of the San Francisco State campus there’s a train stop across the street from a bus stop. My friends and I decided taking the train would be faster, so we stayed on one side of the street to wait. Just as our train was approaching I looked up to see Jake sitting at the bus stop across from me. Obviously we had taken the wrong form of transportation and obviously Jake saw my disappointment. To my toxic shock (syndrome), he made eye-contact with me and waved. I whipped my (hair back and forth) head back to see if he was waving at someone behind me, but nobody was there. I didn’t know what to do, so naturally, I pretended not to see him. Playing hard to get, you know. The Band and I all boarded the train and gossiped about the wave for the next forty minutes on the way to the venue.
We arrived in the Haight and I demanded that we walk around and kill time for awhile so we could show up fashionably late. In all honesty I just had no time to practice my monologue I had mentally prepared for the moment I met Jake, so I wanted to walk around and practice it in my head before word-vomiting all over the city once I saw him up close. After about twenty minutes everyone began to complain about being cold and forced me to go to the show. We walked into Amoeba and there were barely any people there. The stage was set up and I spotted the man, the myth, the legend, Ukulele Boy. He was extremely tall and was easy to spot, but with my radar for cute boys I could tell where he was from a mile away. I rushed my friends into the store and we pushed our way through the lack of crowd to stand directly behind him. The concert was taking place inside a music store and the audience is forced to stand in between aisles of CDs to watch the show. I was right behind him, but a couple dozen Phil Collins were cock-blocking me. I must have been pulling a Brainy creeping’ on Helga moment, because Jake suddenly was very aware that I was counting the hairs on the back of his head.
My friends were nudging me to try to get me to say something. Before I could even remember that English was my first language, Jake turned to me and said, “Hey! I see you everywhere!” Actually Jake, I see YOU everywhere because I follow you everywhere, you’re not supposed to see me…unless you’re into seeing me and then in that case you may see me out of this record store and out to dinner and a movie thankyouverymuch. I don’t remember saying anything for a few moments, but the pool of drool on the floor must have been deep enough for me to swim in and over to the front row with Jake, because all of the sudden I was right next to him. He asked if I liked Noah and the Whale to which I responded YES, they were my favorite band. He could have asked me if I liked drinking nail polish and I would have stared into his eyes and happily nodded — this was truly the best moment of my young life. The band began to play and thankfully they weren’t playing didgeridoos whilst performing animal sacrifices on stage…I actually liked them. We talked and laughed and bonded and had a great time during the show, and me, being delusional, thought this meant I was IN. After the show we all went back to campus and ate together, then we went out again to a poetry slam (who the FUCK enjoys poetry slams? ONLY IN THE NAME OF LOVE) and continued to spend time together all night. This was going swimmingly. At the end of the night we were saying goodbye outside of my dorm and we exchanged phone numbers. He told me he wanted to start eating lunch with me, so I put my name in his phone as “Jordy my Lunch Buddy”…obviously super cute. Done and done, he was into me and I got a phone number which obviously meant he was down. It was on like Donkey Kong. Plans were made for the weekend and he also mentioned that he was excited because his “best friend” was coming to town. I was excited to meet said best friend that would most likely be the best man in our wedding. Bring it on.
That weekend Jake called me and asked if I wanted to hangout with him and his friend. OBVIOUSLY I DID. I was ready to go within five minutes and met them downstairs. This “best friend” he had spoken so highly of was a girl. Not only was she a girl, but she was cute and was linking arms with him and was so obviously the next person on my hit-list. I looked at her then back at Jake and saw that he had hearts for eyes. I immediately knew I was put back in my place, in the friend zone. (Forever.)
My crush on Jake didn’t last long after meeting the object of his affection. She was a small girl (WHAT IS WITH GUYS LIKING SMALL GIRLS? I will never understand.) and Jake informed me that he had liked her for months. I pretended to ignore all of that. I kept texting him and trying to flirt (I have no idea how to do that or what that even means) and complimenting him on his ukulele skills. The constant talking about Small Girl and the overplayed “Postcards to Italy” started to get old, but I wasn’t just ready to give up yet — I had to take extreme measures. A week later I told him about how I followed him and knew everything about him before I met him, and he feigned flattery (but mostly thought I was out of my mind) (why did I think it would be a good idea to tell him?) and told me he was so glad we were now (pregnant pause) …friends. Strike three, I was out. Blah blah blah, I was rejected once more, but he told me that if he didn’t find anyone before the time he was eighty-five, he would marry me. So, here’s to waiting sixty-four more years.
Back in the day when I had 67 years to wait for Jake to start loving me, aka the day after we met.
Love you, Jake.
When I was a sophomore in high school I started spending time with a lot of people from different schools, and I was feeling pretty damn worldly because of it. I met a lot of kids that went to a nearby private school and started to hangout with them on weekends. Not only was I branching out from the losers at my own high school, some of these private school students were older than me…it was a double-whammy regarding cool points. My good friend Eric asked me to come hangout with him and a few of his friends one Saturday afternoon at their house. His friends were two brothers that I used to be family friends with when I was really young, and I hadn’t seen them since I was in kindergarten. I was excited for our reunion and I had no idea what to expect.
Eric picked me up in his green Volvo and drove me over to their house. They had lived in the same house since we were little, and I remembered it well. We arrived and Clark, the older brother, answered the door. We shared an uncomfortable hug followed by a few moments of small talk before he led Eric and I upstairs. His younger brother Cole was sitting in his bedroom on his drum set. Cole and I were the same age and we had been pretty close when we were younger, but now we were both sixteen and therefore the suitable age to date — at least this is what went through my head moments after reuniting.
All four of us hung out in Cole’s room for a few hours and my crush on him began to flourish. I’m not sure if it was his long, curly hair that was parted down the middle or his bottom row of baby blue braces that got to me, but something was definitely there that got me going. I tried as hard as I could to relate to the things that he was talking about, but the majority of them had to do with his school or his drumset - two things I could not in any way relate to. Every chance I got to laugh at one of his jokes I would laugh three times louder and longer than necessary. If he asked a question (which was most likely rhetorical) I would answer or offer my opinion as soon as I could manage to butt in. During all of this he avoided eye-contact with me. It may have been because my eyes had been replaced with hearts that were bulging out of my head like a Looney Tunes cartoon. Basically, I was charming the pants off of him. The conversation was moved from Cole’s room into Clark’s room next door at one point, and upon walking into his room I instantly remembered why I had so much fun at their house when we were little. Clark’s room has extremely high ceilings with a loft bed. The loft bed is about twelve feet in the air and has a removable ladder at one end. We all sat in his room talking while I batted my eye-lashes and twirled my frizzy, greasy hair and tried to get Cole’s attention. When it wasn’t working I asked Clark if I could sit on his bed. He shrugged, so I took that as a yes and climbed up the ladder. I had been hoping that being ten feet above Cole would show him who’s boss and maybe he’d be forced to pay me some goddamn respect, but BOY was I wrong.
I sat upon Clark’s throne for a few minutes and realized that it was much easier for the boys to all ignore me now (story of my life) that I was in the stratosphere. I tried to add on to the conversation but either Cole was ignoring me or the sound just didn’t carry well. I knew it must have been the latter because I looked extra cute that day with my lime green high tops and ripped jeans — how could he not be swooning over me and hanging on my every word? He must have just been playing hard to get. At some point in the conversation Clark got up to get something from his desk and to do so he had to move the ladder from the bed. I didn’t think anything of it and kept a bird’s eye view on my prey. Somehow music was brought up and Cole began to talk about drumming (AGAIN) and it was decided they would all head to his room so he could show them something he learned on the drums. I wasn’t formally invited into the other room but I was too busy daydreaming about the colors in mine and Cole’s wedding (blush and bashful) to care too much. I figured he would show them something and then they would all congregate back in Clark’s room so I didn’t have to move. Wrong again.
I had been laying on the loft bed for about ten minutes when I decided I should probably go swoon over my boyfriend’s drum skills. I scooted over to the end of the bed and then proceeded to pee my pants. The ladder was gone - Clark had never put it back. I sat for a second in panic and started screaming the boys’ names to get one of them to come back in and put the ladder back up. My yells fell on deaf ears as Cole’s drumming was shaking the entire block. I waited fifteen more minutes (mind you, this means I was waiting ALONE in another altitude unnoticed for twenty-five minutes…Cole was playing REALLY hard to get) for a lull in his drum solo so I could get one of them to come in and help me out. Just then I heard the guitar being played as well as the bass. Looks like they were having an impromptu band practice. At this point I realized I hated all of them. I hated Cole and his stupid lisp and greasy curls. I hated Clark and his uncomfortable bed. I hated Eric the most for bringing me into this hell-hole. If I could only get off of this goddamn bed I would storm out of this stupid fucking house and walk home. I looked at the ground below me. Clark had wood floors which looked pretty unforgiving. About five feet away from the bed he had a couch, and after much debate I decided I could definitely jump off the bed and safely land on the couch and then get the fuck out.
I’m EXTREMELY afraid of heights. I sat on the edge of the bed with my feet dangling for another five minutes while I gave myself a pep talk. I was WAY too cool for these asshole brothers (but if Cole wanted to take me out on a date after this I could forget about it all…). I had almost forgotten they were still in the house when I heard the drums suddenly stop. Before I could regain composure Clark AND Cole walked into Clark’s room to see me attempting suicide on the edge of Clark’s bed. BUT, not only had they seen me helplessly flailing my legs over the railing of the bed, they saw me lose my grip, miss the couch by four feet and FALL TWELVE FEET ONTO THE WOODEN FLOOR. I’m sure that dropping an atomic bomb was quieter and more graceful than my descent onto the ground. Then, there was stunned silence. Words fail to explain how stupid I must have looked. They had obviously either purposefully left in there in the first place or had completely forgotten about me, and after seeing me nearly throw myself to my own death they surely didn’t regret it. I couldn’t even look at them.
I grabbed my bag, hobbled out of the room and straight out the front door as I heard Cole mutter “what the fuck…?” under his breath. He was OBVIOUSLY just upset he didn’t get my number before I limped out of the door. Luckily for his sake I left my pride in that room, never to be seen again.
Making out was a huuuuuge deal back in the day. I mean, don’t get me wrong, making out is a big deal now, but think about the first time you heard about one of your friends “french kissing” someone else. You were shocked. You were confused. You were probably jealous. IT WAS A BIG EFFING DEAL. A first kiss is one thing, but the first person you make out with is a whole different ball game. Let me just tell you, for me, it was truly magical.
The summer after 8th grade was the summer when everyone started making out with everyone. I couldn’t go anywhere without hearing about all my friends getting their tonsils licked by pre-pubescent boys. God, I was so jealous. Sure, I’d pecked a few b0iz on the lips in my day, but it was nothing serious like the tongue wrestling everyone seemed to be doing.
Every year I go to Michigan in the summertime to visit my family and my friends that live there. During the year before I came to visit I would talk to my cousin Riley all of the time about all of the cute boys in her grade that I would be meeting during the summer. She told me all about her friend Devon and showed me a picture of him. I’m fairly certain this was said photo:
Right then and there I decided that this sea-shell necklace wearing gentleman was going to be the object of my summer courting. I just needed to convince him that I was worthy of losing his making-out virginity. I mean, who wouldn’t want to lock lips with me and my lime green braces, AMIRITE LADIES?
I arrived in Michigan and hit the ground running. I made sure that Riley introduced me to Devon the day after I landed at my friend’s birthday party. I remember wearing a shirt that said “Brunettes have more fun” (I wasn’t even a brunette…?) and thinking that maybe he would read it and think I was fun and then want to make out immediately. I had already seen multiple photos of him and grilled Riley to tell me all about his personality/interests/mannerisms/whatnot the night beforehand, but when I actually met him I pretended as if I had never heard of him. “What’s your name? Kevin? Ohhh, Devon! My bad.” Playin’ it real cool.
Days went by and we started to hang out on Riley’s porch all of the time. Being fourteen in the Midwest provided us with lots of world-class entertainment — we had the luxury of spending our days doing things like buying AND drinking cans of soda. Sometimes, if we were feeling really crazy we would walk down the street and eat a slice of pizza. I knew my friends back in LA would be wildly jealous when I came back to brag about all of the radical things I had been doing while on vacation…until I remembered that all of them were probably spending their days locking lips with metal-mouthed boys. I knew I had to get my shit together real quick. Remember Nancy Wheeler from “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret”? She’s the one that lied about getting her period because she wanted to fit in. I was NOT about to be a Nancy Wheeler about getting to first base, hell to the no.
Riley had been dating her next door neighbor who happened to be Devon’s best friend, so all summer it was just us four hanging out, and there had been PLENTY of opportunities for Devon to make a move, but he never did. I knew I wasn’t completely delusional about him wanting to take our friendship to the ~next level~ because he told his friend who told my friend who called my other friend who then told my cousin over AIM. It was really serious. I was determined to make this happen, and I figured he never attempted to jump my bones because he wanted the moment to be special. As a seasoned romantic, I knew special. I had a plan.
Riley had this old twin mattress in her basement with it’s original tag that read “Craftsman Divan” but from far away it looked like it said “Grandpa’s Diva” — she and I decided that my face-sucking seduction would take place on said mattress. The mattress was in the office where Riley’s computer was. Our plan was that we would invite Devon over, and we would hangout in the computer room (which wasn’t weird, another pass time of ours was watching each other check our Buddyprofiles and talk on AIM. SUMMER 2004 NO FRILLS ALL THRILLS) and Riley would be on the computer while Devon and I sat on the bed. Riley would put on some ~romantic~ music and leave the room and then BOOM, magic would happen. Operation Grandpa’s Diva was now a go.
The phone call was made, Devon was on his way. Riley and I were scrambling to find some good music to play, but at the time the only thing we were interested in listening to was “Come on Eileen” and “Tainted Love” so those were two of the contenders. Before we could weed out songs like “Centerfold” and “Karma Chameleon”, the doorbell rang and it was showtime. I went upstairs to greet Devon through my nervous, chattering teeth and lead him downstairs. Riley was on her computer and Devon and I sat down on Grandpa’s Diva. It was more than obvious what I was trying to do, and Devon definitely knew what was up. Riley was six feet away from the bed and was acting as a DJ for our awkward teenage flirting. The playlist was on and she waited for three songs to play before leaving the room to “go to the bathroom” like we had planned. Now, Devon and I were alone in our young teen awkwardness. A few moments went by and we made small talk and then he held my hand. We sat listening to the last verse of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” fade out until there was silence. We looked at each other and it felt as if we were moving in slow motion. Our faces were coming closer when all of the sudden “Ice, Ice, Baby” started blasting out of the computer speakers. Not only was this NOT ON THE PLAYLIST THANK YOU VERY MUCH RILEY, but it was about ten times louder than all of the other songs we chose. It startled me so much that my heart practically flew out of my mouth, before I had a chance to react my heart was being pushed back into place by Devon’s tongue (I’m gagging right now reading my own writing). I WAS MAKING OUT AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT.
A few minutes later the song ended and it was over. I could return back to California and tell all of my friends that I was now officially a woman and Devon was now officially a thirteen-year-old boy who had kissed someone that was now officially a woman, and I owed it all to Vanilla Ice.