So, guys? I think I might have lied to you. Not on purpose, of course. But last week, I said that this date was my worst bad date ever. Several of my offline friends emailed or told me, “No, no, no Amy…how could you forget?”
And yes, they were right. There might be someone who surpasses even that hot mess of a dude.
That same friend who hooked me up with the beer chugger hooked me up with this guy, too. Sure, he was a little older (um, ridiculously older, but she didn’t know his age) but he was very sweet and caring and nice. He liked art, played guitar and was attractive. Since I was all about the dating, I thought it sounded OK, and agreed to go out with him.
He asked to meet me downtown at one of my favorite sushi places on Halloween. Dinner was surprisingly awesome. He was really funny and mature, was a fantastic conversationalist and seemed genuinely interested in me. I was thinking that this guy had potential for a really great thing. We were interested in the same music, and he claimed that he was an outstanding guitarist.
After dinner, he drove me home, and there was a loud party going on in the apartment across the way with some shady looking characters hanging out around the front (not uncommon for where I used to live!) so he said he’d walk me up. We got to my front door and I opened it. He spotted my guitar and asked if he could see it. Let me pause here and say I KNOW, I KNOW—I doubt he wanted to “play my guitar” in the literal sense, but I’m decidedly not that type of girl, so I let him know that wasn’t going to happen, and had him come in.
He tuned the strings quickly and said that he was going to play a song that meant a lot to him, something that had a lot of importance in his life. I won’t lie: I expected some sort of love song.
Instead? He broke into the unmistakable opening of the song “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M.
Perhaps this wasn’t the most appropriate reaction, but I couldn’t help breaking into some sake-and-nervousness fueled giggles. Who goes on a perfectly HAPPY date and then decides to bust out some moody sad music?! On a first date, nonetheless. After a few bars, I guess he got the hint that I wasn’t uh, going to stop laughing any time soon.
Sorry dude.
He clearly didn’t appreciate my laughter, because he immediately started rambling about how important the song was to him, and how it reminded him of the hardest time he’d ever been through. And thus began the longest story I’ve ever heard of sadness, depression and anxiety, and a grave tale of how he attempted suicide.
By taking FOUR Tylenol PM.
Disclaimer: I’m a sensitive person, who has struggled with depression and suicide and all that jazz, so no, I’m not a totally heartless person. But really? Four Tylenol PM is what I take when I can’t sleep. Four Tylenol PM is perfect for a weekend night when you know you can just sleep in the next day. Four Tylenol PM is, is, is…RIDICULOUS.
I swallowed my laughter, and he said he was too bummed to hang out anymore. FINE BY ME, DUDE. He left, and then called me the next day to apologize and ask if he could take me to lunch for a “re-do.” I thought he knew he’d sort of made things awkward. Instead? He asked me at lunch if I was normally so insensitive and said that our interactions must have been hard for me, because “he could tell I’d only dated emotionally unavailable men.”
I’m not saying he was wrong, just that our second date probably wasn’t the best time to make such an observation.
After this date, I didn’t let my friend set me up EVER AGAIN.
The thing about being single for any period of time is that dating has to happen, right? Like, friends and family cannot help but mention everyone in the world that you might hit it off with. Sometimes, it’s a good thing, but most times, it’s kind of a mess, am I right? Well, when I was single a few years ago, I had one friend who was absolutely OBSESSIVE about hooking me up with the perfect guy. We’re not friends anymore, so I can say this now: the girl had the worst taste in who I should date. THE ABSOLUTE WORST.
This one could actually be my favorite, because this guy was clearly so weird and rude and awful in general. My friend had some people over, and apparently, this guy was a friend of her boyfriend’s and he thought I was cute (I have NO recollection of meeting him, so…) and got my email address.
Via email, this guy was hilarious. He asked good questions, made me laugh and seemed incredibly intelligent. One of the funniest emails he sent me was a top ten list of things that suck about dating, before asking me to meet him for a beer at one of my favorite bars. I was really excited, because he seemed so funny. He definitely wasn’t the cutest guy ever, but I love people who are funny and figured if anyone could make me laugh out loud over email couldn’t be too terrible.
I arrived at the bar that night in a cute outfit, and found him sitting outside with a beer in front of him. I grabbed a framboise and joined him.
And then, he just sat there.
I TRIED. Seriously. I like to think I’m fairly easy to talk to: I like hearing about other people, I ask the “good questions” and make fun of myself and I am genuinely, really, truly interested in what you have to say. My time with this guy was no different. I asked him questions about a family event he’d mentioned, his job, his life. I prattled on about the weather. I DID MY BEST. Really. I kept waiting. How could this guy, who was so funny via email, be such a complete dud?
Thankfully, the people next to us were having a very juicy conversation about how one man was cheating on his girlfriend and trying to break it off. One of my least-appealing characteristics is the fact that I absolutely love listening to other people’s conversations. I know, I know, I’m going to hell for being a notorious eavesdropper, but I don’t care. I sipped my drink and listened intently, and finally, 10 minutes later, my date noticed that I’d stopped peppering him with questions.
“You like listening to other people’s conversations, huh?” he grunted.
“Oh, yeah…um, you know…anything that’s interesting or funny or awkward. It’s bad, I know…I just…”
He looked at me for a second.
“Awkward conversations?”
I nodded.
“Like this one?”
AND THEN? HE CHUGGED HIS BEER, SLAMMED IT DOWN AND WALKED OUT OF THE BAR. No, I am not kidding.
No goodbye, no nothing. Just chugging of beer, and then out.
The kicker?
He totally kept emailing me.
We didn’t go out again.
I KNOW.
So, last week, I wrote all about how much I hate denim & how I plan on only wearing skirts & DOWN WITH JEANS.
I meant it.
No, really. A few of you were very concerned about me & my dress wearing ways, including one of you sweet things who took the time to send me a Hateful Email about how dresses will “make me look stpid, because short girls shuldn’t wear dresses & I’m wasteful” & probably kill puppies! WHEE! I think my favorite comment came from Lauren From Texas who said dresses were great, as long as they didn’t have that Mormon Polygamist look. Girl, I am WITH YOU.
Over the weekend, I purchased a few very cheap dresses & have been feeling quite pretty & pleased with myself. Except for the fact that California was WARM & GORGEOUS as it is supposed to be, but the weekend was blustery & awful, & I am still cold now.
The other big issue (okay, fine, a totally first world problem!) is my paleness.
Guys, I am white. Like, blinding, scary pasty white. You can see my veins. It’s the antithesis of attractive. Also, I have a very complex relationship with Tan.
If I sit in the sun, I burn immediately. The scary blister burn. The I-want-to-rip-my-skin-off pain that only the whitest among us truly understand. And then there’s the itching & the aloe vera & the general disgustingness that is BURNING YOUR SKIN OFF.
When I was younger, I used to hit up the tanning bed. It was laughable, because I’d literally start with two minutes & then build up to four & so on. AND I WOULD STILL BURN. And, I would itch and be generally miserable, because seriously, I am NOT CUT OUT FOR THE TAN. Nor do I have time to waste at the tanning bed every day of my life.
In college, I decided “Hey! Sunless tanner is the way to go!” I applied it myself, and wound up looking like this:
The first time I applied it, I looked like a striped orange zebra. My mom & I nearly died as I showed her my legs & arms which were streaked. A few years later, I did the foaming mist, & placed several frantic calls to Leslie, a former tanning expert, begging her to tell me how to GET IT OFF MY SKIN, as I watched my knees and elbows turn an orange not found in nature. I then wore long sleeves for a week. IN JULY.
This year, I am trying the sort of “slow tan” Glow Moisturizer. So far, so…okay. I mean, I’m getting glowy, & there’s only one patch on my ankle that is a little orange (which, if we’re offline, real-life, hangout friends, I EXPECT YOU TO IGNORE SAID ANKLE).
This is progress.
Still, I know that sadly, the minute I step into the sunshine for longer than 10 seconds, it’ll be game over, but for now, let this girl have her faux-sunkissed dreams.
Or at least don’t mock me.
Are you a tan person? Are you pale like me & have suggestions for how to avoid blinding people with my Pale? HELP.
I once heard or read somewhere that a ridiculous amount of children receive pet bunnies as part of their Easter present. Sounds adorable, no? Bunnies are soft, cuddly, hoppy little creatures, ideal for a first pet.
That’s what I thought, too.
When I was in kindergarten, my parents agreed that I could get a pet. I decided that I wanted to get a bunny. I have vivid memories of going with my parents to a local pet store and picking out my favorite bunny: a gray and white (apparently I have an affinity for gray and white animals) bunny that I called Jelly Bean. Jelly Bean was supposed to be a mini-lop bunny — tiny, sweet and perfect for a miniature six-year-old.
Little did we know, Jelly Bean was not *actually* a mini-lop. Instead, Jelly Bean was an absolutely massive animal. We bought him an extra-large cage so he’d have room to play. After only a few months, Jelly Bean stretched the entire length of his cage. He was huge. We should have known that not only was he growing physically, but the evil inside of him was also expanding.
Early on, we knew that this rabbit was made of pure evil. My mom and I were a bit squirelly around him, and the first time we played with him while my dad was at work, we took him out to let him hop around the guest room. Jelly Bean started uh, leaving little “nuggets” if you will ALL OVER. Like, rapid fire style. Both my mom and I tried to wrangle him back into his cage with no success because he would not be contained. Finally, after trying over and over again, we called my dad AT WORK to make him come home and wrangle the best.
I know that sounds ridiculous.
IT WAS NOT.
That rabbit was the spawn of Satan. If I’d hold him, he would kick me with his back feet. He bit my dad and I on multiple occasions. Petting him or holding him was absolutely impossible, because he was completely terrible and horrible. Finally, we turned him loose in the backyard, where he tortured any animals that stumbled into our yard, lived under our deck and generally lived among nature, where he belonged.
My dad was the one assigned to the Keeping of Jelly Bean, mostly because he is the brave one. His favorite story to tell is of the day a cat tried to attack Jelly Bean as he sat in the grass, nibbling and doing bunny-like things. The cat apparently thought that Jelly Bean was a giant rat, and stalked him from up on our fence before jumping into our backyard. The cat came up behind Jelly Bean…and Jelly Bean laid the smack down. He kicked the crap out of that cat with his hind feet, making the poor cat scramble up the fence and get the heck out of our backyard.
Needless to say, Jelly Bean was not the best “first pet” experience. When he died a few years later, I shed approximately two years and then went outside to play, no longer afraid of my own backyard.
Whenever people mention that they’re considering a bunny for their child, I tell them to sleep with one eye open.
Have you ever had a truly evil pet?
Typically, I wear jeans 2-3 times a week. They are my go-to item if I’m going anywhere on the weekends that requires me to change out of my sweats, & once a week to work on Fridays, because despite jeans being totally acceptable in my school’s (non-existent) teacher dress code, I try & look all professional-like Monday-Thursday, because being the youngest on campus means that I try to at least appear remotely adult in my wardrobe and it sets a tone that education is serious & all the other stuff they tell you in credentialing programs. But, now that my job situation has changed a bit and it’s the last quarter, I’m uh, “rebelling” by wearing jeans a little bit more frequently. Side note: WHAT A REBEL. Wearing something that is completely acceptable but just makes me feel rebellious! I am such a badass sometimes, I can hardly stand it.
Anyways, wearing jeans has reminded me of just how much I hate them. Yeah, I know, American wardrobe staple, you can dress them up or down, they make your butt look great, BLAH BLAH BLAH.
I beg to differ.
First, you should know that I’m 5″1. Miniature in height, not so much in body. This means that finding pants is nearly impossible. Don’t come at me with the “You can cut them off!” or “At least you’re not too tall…all pants are floods on me!” Being short means that if I do hem pants, I cut off any sort of boot cut situation, meaning that they end up looking like skinny jeans with a little “kick” at the ankle. NOT CUTE. On the rare occasion that I do find a pair in short or petite that fit, they’re either still too long or too short with heels.
Next, there’s the zipper. I have a pair of jeans that I love & adore. They’re comfy, worn in and generally awesome…save for the fact that the zipper absolutely refuses to stay up. My zipper was down once & I fixed it (after running errands for a frillion hours, SORRY, GREATER-SACRAMENTO AREA!) & then a few hours later, it was down again, I was all, “The hell? I haven’t even peed!” Same thing the next morning when I was out to breakfast with a friend, & she casually tried to give me the sign, & then it hit me, OKAY, JEANS, I GUESS THIS IS YOUR THING.
Needless to say, those are being thrown away.
I think the jeans in my wardrobe are ganging up on me, because my other favorite pair is doing that thing where they wear out in the near-crotch…right on my upper thigh. I mean, that’s easier to conceal that the zipper down, but I just don’t think I could handle having my entire huge white thigh exposed in any sort of situation.
So, with these unfortunate Denim Experiences, I have decided to declare a War On Denim.
I honestly prefer skirts and dresses anyways. I always have. Zooey Deschanel & my ever-growing love for her is not helping this situation. But sometimes, I wear them, & people are all, “Why so fancy?” & I’m all, “Why so casual?” but then I feel weird inside & I obviously don’t want everyone thinking I am some sort of dress-wearing weirdo. Also, I have a love-hate thing with tights, meaning that some colder mornings, the idea of putting on tights feels like more effort than it’s worth & I just want to wear PANTS.
Still, with warmer weather ahead & my general Anger At Denim, I’m thinking that now will be the time to test drive a skirts-and-dresses-only policy.
Oh, & leggings, of course. One I find some more shirts that cover my behind properly, of course because NO, I WILL NOT BE LEGGINGS-AS-PANTS GIRL. Uh, this will go into effect once I’ve shaved my legs and found some sort of solution to the BLINDING WHITE that is my skin, but does not involve a tanning bed OR looking like an Oompa Loompa.
Le sigh.
FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS, I KNOW. My life is hard.
What’s your relationship to denim? Are you a jeans lover or more of a dresses person? Guy readership (all two of you!), do you like girls in skirts/dresses or jeans?
I mean, I’ve basically accepted the fact that no matter what I do, my mom will always trounce me in the the Awesome department, because she’s a billion times nicer than me, completely hilarious and not to be all anti-feminist or whatever, but she is awesome at laundry.
I keep waiting for something to kick in that will make me be good at laundry, because growing up, my mom was never all stressy about laundry. She just did it, and I always smelled good, and our house was never a total LAUNDRY BOMB despite four of us living there, but now, I’m a Laundry, Party Of One, and oh my god, I just can’t get a hold on it. I learned to cook, I can clean house like whoa, but I still suck at laundry.
I tend to hover somewhere between totally clean and totally cluttered. I love a clean house with every fiber of my being; however, I don’t freak the freak out if there is stuff everywhere. I firmly believe that there is a difference between being “dirty” and being “messy” — an important distinction. Basically, in a “dirty” house you’re all, “I don’t think I want to pee in that toilet” and in a messy house you’re all, “Aww, cute, let me move this pile of magazines.” My house is usually a bit cluttery, but it is never, ever straight up dirty.
Except for laundry.
I will totally let laundry pile up and just dress creatively and sniff the armpits of shirts I’ve worn out a time or two (try and resist me now, boys!) until I have no more underwear (and trust me when I say that I have enough underwear to clothe a small nation) and then laundry basically sends me over the edge of madness because it’s overtaken my bedroom floor and there are a million loads and I don’t even separate it because I just want it clean and I don’t even care how it gets that way.
One time, someone I was dating took all my laundry home and WASHED AND FOLDED AND IRONED and I nearly died. Another time, in a fit of total stress, I dropped my laundry off at one of those Wash N Fold places and for a mere $50, this tiny woman washed and folded and starched and ironed and pinned things together and it was in all reality the BEST use of money ever.
Sadly, I’m trying to make it a practice to do my own chores and save money and you know, BE AN ADULT, so I need your advice. Do you have a laundry system: days, baskets, a separation system, ANYTHING THAT WILL MAYBE HELP ME GET MY RIDICULOUS, DIRTY-CLOTHED SELF TOGETHER? I mean, how often do you do your laundry? Do you have a designated day? Do you separate things before hand? Do you just throw it in and trust the Laundry Gods and deal with the occasional white shirt turned pink?
Or, better yet: do you want to come over and do it?
MY LAUNDRY.
Leave me your tips in the comments.
One of the benefits of being a teacher is that nearly every day, I have a chance to remember something RIDICULOUS that happened to me while I was attending school. Now that I am older, and supposedly wiser, I can look back and laugh at things that seemed positively devastating at the time I was experiencing them.
A universal truth of school is that there’s always people who aren’t cool. Sure, I like to espouse the fact that popularity doesn’t matter at all, and the truth is IT DOESN’T once you’ve graduated from high school. Seriously, no one gives a flying rip about if you were popular in school the minute you get that diploma. But, during school? That stuff MATTERS. Big time.
In 5th grade, I sat next to one of those uncool people. Let me be clear: I was in NO WAY cool. In fact, 5th grade was the height of my mullet AND I started playing the clarinet in band that year, so I was basically nerd central. But, I’m a believer in the Dork Hierarchy: some people are super dorks and are harassed, picked on and mocked regularly, and some of us are nerds, but we’re sort of left alone, away from public humiliation. I was definitely part of the latter group. No one really picked on me too much. But, the girl next to me was out and out weird. She smelled funny, had this super long fluffy hair, and generally behaved in a manner that subjected her to the cruelty of ten-year-olds.
One day, we were reading silently, which was easily my favorite part of the day, mostly because it didn’t involve me attempting to do math. This day was particularly special because my desk partner and I had the privilege of holding our class pet, Houdini the Hamster during reading. Holding Houdini was a Very Big Deal to our class, something that undoubtedly involved Good Behavior and Waiting Our Turn and other important 5th grade values. I held Houdini first, letting him crawl up and down my arms and wander all over my desk while I read my book. Sadly, the scritchy-scratching of his little claws up and down my arms distracted me from my book, so I passed him off quick. I don’t do rodents. So, I handed him to the girl sitting next to me, who was chomping at the bit to hold this stupid hamster. She grabbed him hard, and I watched as his little eyes seemed to pop out. I gave her a dirty look and went back to my book.
Suddenly, I heard an odd…squeak. I looked over just in time to see the girl next to me SQUEEZING THE HELL OUT OF THE HAMSTER. Girl was gripping Houdini the way I might grip a stress ball. Houdini was not well. In fact, his eyes looked all bulged out and scary. And? His little hamster belly wasn’t going up and down anymore, you know, the way it does when the animal is BREATHING.
“What did you do?” I hissed.
She said nothing. Instead?
SHE SLID HOUDINI ONTO MY DESK, raised her hand, and told the teacher, “AMY JUST KILLED HOUDINI!”
The collective gasp of horror from the class was deafening. And there I sat, mulletted, book in hand, and a clearly dead hamster on my desk.
“N-n-n-n-no, I didn’t,” I stuttered.
My teacher was horrified. Absolutely dumbfounded. I think of what I would have do as a teacher now if a child had just squeezed our class animal to death. And…nothing. I just don’t even know what I’d have said. Not to mention the fact that I was a GOOD KID. I had never been in trouble, or done anything weird, and certainly, I’d never be suspected of hurting a poor animal.
Thankfully, the people at my table had clearly seen the REAL KILLER of Houdini and LOUDLY exclaimed that I had NOT killed Houdini, but for just a minute, I have never, ever been so humiliated or in complete fear of social suicide.
As for the REAL KILLER, I have no idea what happened to her, but sometimes I wonder…
Were you ever embarrassed at school? What happened?
Internet, I am not a stupid person. I promise. I mean, sure, we all have our moments of being absent-minded…but honestly, I’m a pretty neurotic person, meaning that I tend to have my mind and stuff together most of the time. That’s partly why this story is ever so traumatic for me.
It was early Friday morning, and I was busy getting ready for work. I was exhausted from a very long week, but so excited: it was my last day before a two-week Spring Break! We have a bit of a Crystal Light addiction in this house, so I was making a new jug of it for Andrew to have when he got up, and a turkey sandwich for my lunch. At the last second, I decided to make an egg to put on some bread for a quick breakfast. I cracked the egg into a skillet, turned on the burner and went about my business. All seemed fine and good.
Before I knew it, the entire kitchen smelled terribly. I couldn’t figure out what the heck smelled so disgusting, like plastic and fire and melting. It was awful. I turned around and saw smoke coming out from under the pan. I turned off the burner and lifted up the pan, and what did I see?
poor little black jack...
Why yes, that IS MY CELLPHONE.
I want to know: who is so stupid that they leave their cell phone on a burner? And then, it’s not like I accidentally turned on the wrong burner or anything that would be semi-reasonable. No, I put the pan down on top of the phone, without noticing that it was off-kilter and then turned on the heat.
Needless to say, I felt incredibly stupid, but I was reminded shortly after that despite this little mishap, I am not the dumbest person on earth.
After crying and having a total meltdown (get it?!) I headed to work. Since I didn’t get to finish making my egg and toast, I decided to stop at Starbucks. I ordered my Skinny Vanilla Latte and a bagel.
“Do you want your bagel toasted?” the girl asked.
“Please, that’d be great!” I said.
The girl looked at me like I was speaking a different language.
“Huh?”
“That’d be great!” I said again.
“Soooo…yes, you want it toasted?” she said, still looking lost.
“Yessss…,” I said, nodding emphatically for good measure.
“Sorry! I was confused by all of the big words!” she said, half-giggling, half-irritated.
At this moment, I stopped feeling dumb, thanked my lucky stars for cell phone insurance and held my head high.
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This work by www.justatitch.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.