By request: Worst Date Ever

I have been on numerous horrible dates, a trend which I am sure is not abating anytime soon. But three really exceed the others in general horribleness.

When I was living in Japan this Japanese guy that I knew from a friend of a friend asked me out. He happened to be a drug dealer, which I knew, but I had seen Go and Timothy Olyphant was hot and this guy was hot so I thought I could be like Katie Holmes. Not the case. He picked me up on a motorcycle (I was not appropriately dressed), we had dinner (cheap tacky Hawaiian food), then he insisted that we go back to his place and have sex. I said no. He then ditched me in the middle of some neighborhood in Tokyo and I was reduced to having to hail a taxi to the train station where I rode the train back to my stop and ran into a British kid who I had a crush on, which was embarrassing since I was uhm, teary.

Another terrible date was also in Japan. His name was Omar. He was a black frat boy from Louisiana. We went to dinner and it was exactly like having dinner with my dad. "Let me tell you about...." "Do you know what your problem is...." Anyway after dinner we walked though cute little shops and then he insisted on walking me home. At my home it promptly started to pour and he just invited himself to crash at my house. Galvin, my roommate, offered to kick him out, but I figured Omar could rip Galvin to tiny tiny Chinese pieces so I declined. I made Omar sleep on my floor. In the morning I woke up and he was taking my picture! He posted that picture on his frat house website as some chick he had bagged. I hope his frat brothers find girls in polar bear and penguin footie pj's sexy.

And my worst date, domestically, was with some kid in my History class at Haverford. It was the last two weeks or so of class and this unprepossessing but smart and seemingly nice (like George in Grey's Anatomy) kid from class slipped me a note. I read it and it was all, 'Quiana you are so pretty and smart and awesome and I hear that you broke up with your boyfriend and I wish I could take you out, even though I'm sure you're not interested.' So I call him and ask him if he wants to hang out. He excitedly arranged to pick me up and take me to dinner and a movie. We had a nice Italian dinner; he wasn't really my type, but things were pleasant.

We missed getting into the movies, so we decided to go to King of Prussia Mall (the largest mall on the East coast). And who do I see going down the escalator as we were riding up? Some schmuck guy I had been out with a few times, pretty recently. And what is he smooching? Apparently his fiance. So, now I am very flustered. But not as flustered as when the kid from class casually mentions, as he is dropping me off, that oh BTW he also actually has a girlfriend. Then he tried to kiss me. Unbelievable. But wait!! There's more.

So Scmuck's fiance is graduating from Villanova on the same day that I graduated from Bryn Mawr and chooses the same damn restaurant in which to have her family graduation celebration dinner. I got to sit across from Schmuck and poor future Mrs. Schmuck and make small talk with my Granny. Very very unimpressive.

What a Girl Wants

People are insinuating that I am single because I’m too picky. I would argue that my dating rules are not completely out of control.

It’s just that I could never love a man who…
-owns a Hummer.
-has a last name that ends in a soft ‘a’ sound. (For example, had I married one of my ex boyfriends my name would be Quiana Hua, as in rhymes with Mauna Pua. DISASTER.)
-is a Libertarian.
-doesn’t eat meat.
-is shorter than my mom. (5’7”)
-has parents that I dislike.
-is scared of spiders.
-is allergic to more foods than me.
-smells bad.
-isn’t as smart or smarter than yours truly.
-doesn’t share or humor my spectacular dorkiness.
-doesn’t like to go out and do things.
-is bothered by my tone deaf car serenades.
-isn’t funny.
-doesn’t care about politics.
-doesn’t get the movie Groundhog’s Day.
-can’t say no to me.
-doesn’t like Steve.
-my uncle Brad doesn’t like.

I would venture to guess that I’m still single because I’m a colossal bitch.

Weird

My ex-boyfriend just invited me snowboarding this weekend. Should I be freaked out? I can't decide.

No, Mom, I have no IDEA why I'm still single...

Below the Beltway
By Gene Weingarten
Sunday, November 10, 2002; Page W11

Today's first runner-up in the category of Distinguished Ultra-Male Behavior goes to Bernie Crane, 49, of Fairfax. I became aware of Mr. Crane's great male achievement via an e-mail sent to me and others by Mr. Crane himself, under the subject line "GREAT MALE ACHIEVEMENT!!!"

I almost erased this e-mail unread because, in my experience, most unsolicited e-mails with subject lines like "GREAT MALE ACHIEVEMENT!!!" wind up involving opportunities for personal growth, if you get my drift. But this was legit.

I read the e-mail explaining the achievement and then opened the attachment, which was a photograph of the achievement. Then I phoned Bernie.

Bernie, please tell the readers how you earned your coveted first runner-up status.

"I parallel-parked my car in a space so tight that when I was done the bumpers of my car were touching the bumpers of cars in front and behind. People who were watching applauded."

When I expressed some skepticism, observing not only that such an act seemed geometrically impossible but that such an arrangement of parked cars could be easily ginned up for a photo, Bernie:

1. Indignantly informed me that as a lawyer and officer of the court, he is incapable of lying.

2. Fired off eight more photos he took at the scene, extreme close-ups of the kissing bumpers.

3. Disclosed his secret, which involved "just the slightest bit of nudging forward and rolling back," none of which, he emphasized, was sufficiently violent as to constitute an actionable assault upon the property of others.

And:

4. Offered to take a polygraph.

My car mechanic, Phil, confirms that the feat would be possible so long as both adjacent cars had their emergency brakes on. Their tires would remain locked in place, allowing each chassis to shift several inches on its suspension, then sproing back.

Bernie explained that it took him about six minutes--and 15 or 16 back-and-forth maneuvers--to get his minivan into the spot.

I asked if he had a sense he was doing something Very Special. "Not initially, but after the fifth or sixth back and forth, there was a kind of electricity, like I was on the verge of greatness." The sweetest part, he said, was that some guy in a little sports car had sat there smugly waiting for the spot, certain that Bernie would fail. "After a while, he just gave up and left. That was a great moment."

Bernie received many responses to his e-mail. Men expressed awe tinged with jealousy. The women's responses can be summed up by the one from Bernie's sister, Candy:

"You nut case."

First Runner-Up: Bernie the Attorney, Potentate of Parallel Parking.

The grand-prize winner for Distinguished Ultra-Male Behavior is Seth Brown, 23, of Williamstown, Mass. I heard of Seth's accomplishment third-hand, and assumed it was an urban legend, but called anyway.

Seth is a freelance writer, looking for work. His roommate Tom is an artist, looking for work. The two guys don't see much of their third roommate, Mandy, so they pretty much are in charge of their own upkeep, which suits them just fine, thank you. It's not like guys can't fend for themselves.

Seth has taken over the cooking chores, and for months he and Tom have eaten splendidly, without female accompaniment or advice.

What do you guys eat?

"Potatoes. Fried, sometimes baked. Salt, vinegar. We've got a dish called Smoky Cowboy Rice and Beans. And burritos. I fry burritos with beans and rice and whatever else is on hand. Beef. Baba ghanouj. You know."

The two guys were doing great, until one day something happened. Can you tell the readers what happened, Seth?

C'mon, don't be bashful.

"We got scurvy."

Yes, indeed. The guys didn't like fruits and veggies, so the guys didn't eat fruits and veggies. One day, Tom's mom 'n' dad came for dinner, noticed this dietary omission, and jokingly mentioned the peril of contracting the obscure deficiency disease most famously seen among filthy 18th-century sailors. At this point, Tom and Seth revealed to the parents--and to each other--that they'd been noticing mouth sores, swollen gums, loose teeth, etc.

So they started eating oranges provided by . . . Mandy. Cured them in a week.

(Being males, they never actually consulted a medical professional. I did. A nutritionist considered their diet, symptoms and cure, and confirmed the diagnosis.)

Seth, you win first prize. You have a choice between two books I have right here. One is Webster's New World Dictionary. The other is How to Good-Bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? Or Effective Way?

"The second one."

Like there was any question.

If men get any girlier we'll all be lesbian by June.

Size matters for makers of Aussie "Wonderjock"
Wed Nov 1, 11:37 PM ET

SYDNEY, Nov 2 (Reuters Life!) - Size really does count, just ask Australian underwear maker AussieBum which has just launched the "Wonderjock" for men who want to look bigger.

Since the launch seven days ago, AussieBum says it has sold 50,000 pairs of "Wonderjock", mostly on its Web site www.aussiebum.com and a handful of stores around the world.

"The design of the underwear, separates and lifts. The fabric cup protrudes everything out in front instead of down towards the ground," said "Wonderjock" designer Sean Ashby.

"There is no padding, rings or strings," said Ashby, a co-founder of the Internet-based AussieBum firm. (What the hell would rings and strings be used for? Jesus Christ!!!)

Ashby said the idea for the "Wonderjock" was the result of online feedback from customers who expressed an interest in looking bigger, just like women using the "Wonderbra".

"When you go to a department store to buy underwear you usually get a grandmother serving, which is not the ideal way to get feedback," said Ashby. "Our customers give us feedback. We didn't realise that big is better."

I don't know what the fuck a 'grandmother serving' is as it relates to underwear, but I could have gone the rest of my life without that image in my head.
If this Wonderjock crap starts a new trend of tight pants on men, I swear to God I will start a separatist colony in Montana. Don't push me with you visible sex organ bulge. Neither literally nor figuratively.

Guys of the world,
Yes, size matters. But no, we do not want to be able to see your junk through your pants. We don't. Male genitalia = unpredictable and weird looking vacuum cleaner attachments.
Additionally, if you can get a lady to hang around until you are in your underwear, you're in.
Seriously.

Jew for Jesus

So for years I have encountered the strangest thing. During the holidays, I will be in the checkout line and the checker or bagger will be Merry Christmasing the customers as the leave and they'll get to me and say Happy Hanukkah.
Now this is not an occasional occurrence. We are talking nearly every time I would go to the store in Philly and even 30% of the time now.
All this time I've wondered if there is some kind of Global Grocery Checker Zionist Conspiracy.
It turns out there is.
I've known about having Jewish relatives- though it is not talked about too often in my family (red neck, red neck, red neck). Now my mother drops that I am, in the technical sense, a Jew. Judaism runs in the female line, this woman is apparently my some increment of greats granny, thus I am one of God's chosen people. Eat your hearts out bitches.

Hello JDate.

Kidding! Sort of. I actually dated a phenomenal Jewish guy briefly in college and we eventually ended it when he found out that:
1. I wasn't Jewish (maybe he was led to believe I was Jewish by the constant phone calls from my female relatives to settle down and raise some kids.)
2. I wasn't going to switch.

So I'm just saying, David, if you are out there stalking me over the interweb, looking for just this sort of technicality, call me!

déjà vu

1. When I get home he jumps all over me and immediately wants dinner.

2. He doesn’t help me make his dinner, but follows me around getting in my way while I cook.

3. When he is done eating he immediately runs off to play, leaving me to do all the cleaning too.

4. When I am trying to tidy and get my evening work done he follows me around, slapping me in the ass, insisting that I stop doing what I am doing and focus on him.

5. When we watch TV together, he hogs the good seat and sits with one arm on the arm-rest and the other thrown over my shoulder or on my knee. His face is one inch from mine. He steals my snacks and sips of my drinks.

6. At night he hogs the bed, invades my space, farts, kicks me, and steals my pillow.

7. He follows me around with slavish devotion, always under foot, begging for attention.

8. He gets bored when I’m reading or knitting so he interrupts me to suggest alternate activities.

9. He bugs me when I’m in the bathroom

10. He is noisy, smelly, and smothering, but he sure is easy on the eyes.

I think I am dog-sitting the canine incarnate of my ex-boyfriends.

Friday Thoughts

1. Really must stop intentionally aggravating dates in order to "gauge their response." I went out with a very lovely and sincere teacher this week and as soon as I found out that he was the wrong kind of geek I turned on him like one of those crazy-ass raccoons. A conservative political geek. Oh my stars and garters- I may be a sci-fi, comic book, history, and science geek; but really, isn't a political geek only a few minor steps above a sports geek (unless you are Terry, in which case it is highly sexy). Especially if you are a sycophantic commentator TV show watcher. As he went on I decided to throw my NPR obsession in for shits and giggles. Oh well. I guess the Liberal Zionist Media Conspiracy claims yet another good American.

2. This Warren Jeffs guy better be sweating bullets. Child rapists have a special place in hell.

3. Very distressed about the Jon Benet Ramsey thing. I have always felt so miserable for her poor brother. Either the police cocked that up royally or those parents are guilty as sin. I'd really hoped for a breakthrough with this Karr guy although it seemed like such a longshot to begin with.

4. More boring foot updates: I went to the podiatrist today and he recommended PT and orthotics. Which burns my buttons as that is exactly what the PT said, and that my family doctor called, and I am not exaggerating, "poppycock." Additionally, said specialist was particularly intrigued by my tumor removal from a few years ago. "You had a schwanoma in your arm?! Wow, that is quite rare," he said with simultaneous longing and excitement. "Did you see it?" "Nope," I responded, "but my doctor kept it." Looking at me as though to say "duh" he said"Naturally, how interesting!" I briefly considered hooking them up. Blech!

5. I recently decided that if I can't exercise on this stupid doom foot and thus will be fat as a beluga, I should try to divert attention from my fat ass to my face. I feel pretty good about it thus far (my face, not the ass) though I have not been brave enough to use the eye shadow yet. I have this weird thing about not jabbing myself in the eye. Anyway, I think I feel girlier than ever now. I'll let you decide if that's a pro or a con.

Easy Like Sunday Mornin'

Yesterday someone invited me out to a tapas bar and I thought they said topless bar.

This Freudian error brought me around to the following thought:

Am I a hu-or? Well, this comes up because a work acquaintance of mine always comes over to share his lurid tales of getting tail. Minutes fly by as he details goals, strategies, etc.... At least I've stopped him from giving me the blow by blow (pun completely intended).
Now there is another young lady our age in the office, and he talks to her about baseball, not his balls and various orifices, but baseball, not bases to which he gets on ludicrously trashy bar chicks, but regular old baseball.
Why, I ask you, do I have to hear about him sliding into home and she only has to hear about last night's game?
I think he is trying to talk shop, she appears to like baseball and apparently I appear to like teabagging.
So now I have to ask myself, "Do I come off as a slut?" Because I'm not a slut-- worse yet, I fear I'm a prude. Lo, it has been many days since a man has been around. My bed is completely unchristened, so why do I have this unfortunate image?

I have no idea.

Missed Connections

Green Lake Cat-Caller Trio 8pm Weds (Green Lake, by the Aqua-Stadium)

Me: brown hair and eyes, wearing black softball shorts and an 8 year old fraternity t-shirt.
You: boardshorts,vintage t’s,superhipster hair.

You clicked at me the way I click to encourage my horse to pick up some speed and your “hey baby” exposed your poet's soul(s). Your boyish charms are absolutely impossible for me to deny, big daddy(s). I like my men 3 at a time and a decade younger than me.
I don’t know what you’re doing later, or if your parents will let you stay out past ten, but maybe we can get together- play a little Candyland, enjoy a milkshake or juicebox with 4 straws?

Insistent bar-guy, you are ruining my Indian man fetish.

Seriously, multiple phone calls, text messages and now two emails in one day. I must be smoking hot. But let’s be honest with each other, desperation is a stinky perfume. And I know you might have thought that you smelled it on me last Friday at the bar, but you were mistaken… it was actually just a lot of vodka.

Stupid, stupid vodka.

Clouds in my Coffee

March of the Penguins was an awesome movie but I hear that in the original French, they had actors playing the roles of a male, female and baby penguin. Apparently it was decided that this wouldn’t resonate with American audiences when it was test shown with subtitles and the people laughed hysterically. The lines were apparently “hilariously French.” For example, describing penguin sex: “They danced the dance, the dance of love, the dance that will go on all night.” (In America it should have read “giggity giggity.”)

In the theater I saw the penguin sex and I looked over at my friend and whispered “Is this penguin porn?” And he looked at me as if to say, “Are they having sex, because it doesn’t look very good.” And he was right, Kevin Bacon had more fun dancing his forbidden dance in Footloose than these penguins seemed to be having during the only time over the course of an entire year that they get to dance the dance, the dance of love, the dance that will go on all night.

This desire to insert emotion into everything is so French. I dated a Frenchman once. I know. I know. I met him at a ski resort in Japan during Christmas. He was good looking and charming in a Frenchy kind of way. His name was Jimmy. No, I am absolutely not making that up. Anyway, Jimmy was a wine importer. I don’t drink wine. Jimmy simply could not fathom my not drinking wine. It was like him telling me that he was an oxygen-importer and me saying, “You know I’m just not into that sort of thing.” He described wine like sex. He described shoes like sex. Actually everything had an emotional intensity to him. I think he likened my dislike of wine to my emotional distance (mostly due to my North American-ness.) He would open increasingly expensive bottles when we’d hang out, as though if he could train me to love wine, he could train me to have feelings and talk about them to him as we smoked tiny cigarettes and cuddled in trendy cafes. All the bottles of wine tasted equally terrible, though each one was soured with an increasing amount of guilt.

The white sweaters, the constant romantic gestures, the gifts, it all struck me as… French. Too French. I began to resent his ridiculously expensive squishy cheeses and wine; even his accent which had so intrigued me on our ski trip began to wear on my nerves. My roommate Galvin, who seemed to have a crush on Jimmy, would say, “He can’t help it, he’s just French.” The Frenchman’s flaw was not his devotion to me, his beautiful body and face, his money, or his complete head of hair, it was his very Frenchness.

I think he was beginning to sense my growing anglophilia and started to react in the Frenchiest possible way. One night we were watching soccer in a pub downtown and a Canadian I knew came in with some Aussies. The Canadian was a typical expat: white, not terribly attractive, and positively fanatic about Asian women. I didn’t know him incredibly well, but we’d been at some of the same parties and shared a love of hockey and other Canadian things. Jimmy, sniffing the English fluency wafting about Rod’s tiny potbellied Canadian frame began to feel threatened. Being French, Jimmy used his most powerful weapon: seduction. He scooched close to me, placed his arm around my waist and watched me intensely. Rod and I were discussing the lack of American president and other political excitement and out of no where Jimmy turned to me with francophonic intensity and said, “Make for me a kiss.” I blushed and hid my face in his beautiful neck as the Australians laughed. He pushed the bottle of wine he’d been drinking into the center of table and got up to leave. I stayed seated. He said “very well” put his scarf around his neck and sulked out of the bar.

His scarf, it was apricot.

This is not the droid you’re looking for.

A couple years back a friend of mine introduced me to a guy who was getting a divinity degree and was working as a youth pastor. Yes, I know I should know better.

We started hanging out a lot, in what I perceived to be a non-date type fashion. Eventually we were sitting next to each other at the beach and I was blah blah blahing about God knows what when he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I was like, ok I should worry about this, but I’m having such a good time. Yes, I should have known better.

Then we started meeting up and he would play his guitar and we would hang out and one thing would lead to another, as ‘one thing’s always do and we would be making out. Part of the problem was that he was just a damn great kisser. The other part, and probably the larger part was that I am a huge idiot.

Eventually we are sitting on his couch and he decides to have a relationship defining talk. This catches me off guard, mostly because I am a huge idiot. Transcript of conversation:

E-“You know I’ve been thinking.” Twiddling with the guitar.
Q-Panic/ repression of snide comment. “Yes…?”
E-“I really like you, (long pause) and I think I can tell that you really like me, so you know, (twiddling guitar) I think maybe we should be official.”
Q-Blank expression (I hope- more likely an expression of panic) You know I adore you Erik, but (for one thing your 20 and for another you’re the kind of guy who spells Erik with a K) I don’t think you really want me to be your girlfriend. (you really want your stupid truck to be your girlfriend) Maybe you just feel like you should.”
E-“I don’t want you?”
Q-“No, you don’t want me, I think you’d be happier being single.” (I don’t want to be a pastor’s wife, Stupid. God, why are you so hot?!)
E- “I am happy being single.”
Q-“We probably shouldn’t be doing this.” (I would prefer your roommate. I’d date him for sure, he’s got that whole indie kid thing going for him.)
E- I think I don’t really want you to be my girlfriend.
Q- *sigh* you’re probably right. (Yes he totally bought that! I’m a Jedi Master.)

He was married to his ex-girlfriend 6 months later.

He has an excuse, he's part gay.

One night the object of a long term infatuation told me that it was cruel how I have the uncanny ability to make men fall in love with me. By that he didn't mean himself.

Sweet Sanitized Starbucks

Alliterate me, baby.
I love the clinical nature of Starbucks.
The Olive Garden of java joints,I salute you.
How is it that every Starbucks has no less than one terminally hot guy working there?
Is it in your rule book?
I bet your rule book is green.

Once I was at a Starbucks and I saw a very pretentious sign for a special blend.
A pea-berry blend.
pea
berry.
PEA.
I know! That's exactly what I thought too.
When I got my coffee I gave the obligatory attractive barista a saucy look and said,
"So is the peaberry blend really that good?"
He leaned in close, above the straws and nutmeg and said,
"It beats the hell out of feces-berry."
If I could have vaulted the counter in one leap, I would have.