Nice Italian Boys Hiding in Their Houses Playing X-Box

When we get there, it is packed. A line out the door. On a Tuesday. What the hell? Are they giving out free food? And the people at the host stand don't seem to know what to do. Frozen like scared deer. "Oh MY GOD, what are we going to DO with all these PEOPLE??"

I am in line long enough for Princess to go to the restroom and for me to chat up the neighboring "mature" ladies. They liked my shoes. And as it turns out, they were giving out free food. It was a "buy an entree, get an entree free" night.

It was a wine tasting showcasing Michigan wines. I know, I know . . . but I've had some drinkable Michigan wines, I swear. None of those wines were showcased, however. And it was totally disorganized. And the people surrounding us seemed to be more about the food, which wasn't all that great. I poured out four of the six wines I sampled . . . poured out, didn't drink them. And the bartenders were light pourers. Oh, and the place smelled like sewage. Evidently, from the Rouge River flowing next to the patio. And as much as I was trying to placate Princess with "it's all about attitude" . . . well, she was right, it was terrible. I was just thinking that it was funny, because it was so awful. Oh, and single men don't go to wine tastings. Duh. Because they are all at home, playing with their Playstations. But we were really wasting the pretty . . . because the poor dudes on their second dates weren't even cute or interesting enough to steal.

Afterward there was a lovely dinner. An excellent wine. Princess treated. She is too good to me.

And Princess has rallied me throughout this "hey, I might want to have an significant other" process. She has always been supportive. Always there to point out that it took her friend four years (which doesn't work anymore . . . it's been more than four years). So now, it's time for her to get out there. But as I am a matchdotcom disaster, I can only give advice about the Internet. . . not finding a "nice Italian boy" real time. I really am convinced they are at home playing X-box. According to SM, the barista was checking out my chest the other day (which is a whole other blog . . . which won't be written). So where do all the nice Italian boys work? I do need cement.

We had planned for "Table for Eight" but they won't let you bring friends or do anything in tandem. So perhaps we will pretend to be divorced Catholics . . . which wouldn't be too scandalous, as I am not really looking and Princess is Catholic. The divorced Catholic group has lots of mixers.

But please, offer suggestions.

Oh, and as an aside . . . or just a random thought . . . it is amazing me the lengths people will go to to make themselves unhappy, or quite miserable depending on the person. Why is it that people do that?

I Didn't Even Use Extra Booze

I just made 24 individual boozey pies . . . which are interestingly arranged in my very small freezer. My kitchen is a mess . . . the rest of my house is untidy . . . and my family is coming over tomorrow. Oh, and I have to get ready for this blind date, in less than an hour.

I need some uncrabby pills. Right now. Or booze. Or something. A Hallmark greeting card? I don't know. An attitude adjustment.

And I would like to take some pictures, maybe get something up on ravelry and there just isn't time. I promised myself this would be a one drink affair, but it's not going to work out that way. It never does. Plus, that would be wasting a big bunch of pretty and the putting on of high heels in snow.

Maybe makeup will make me feel better. Doesn't seem fair to the rest of the work when I am this Crabbypants. Oh, wait, I haven't eaten anything today (well, except boozey pie remnants) so maybe that will help.

Now let's just hope that those suckers come out of those foil cups.

Update: It's 6:20 and Gwen Stefani is right . . . the magic is in the makeup. I feel slightly better and more confident about facing the world. I probably should eat something, but they have nachos el magnifico where I'm going (you didn't know they served Nachos in Hades?) (I know, I know, bad attitude . . . stop it) and my brother is close so I can go visit him after and shoot Z with Nerf darts. Nerf darts will fix most things. Well, and sometimes they break stuff . . . and that's cool too.

Chapter Eight

It has been requested that I tell the story of yesterday between 3 and 5 p.m.. Somehow, Princess thinks this will be interesting. And we all know what happens when you don't listen to Princess.

I had already cancelled once. He had been too pushy on email. Slightly. The kind of guy who will email you again if you ignore his email. So red flag. So give no last name, no phone number, no location. Everything vague . . . like smoke.

We were meeting at a Starbucks out near him. Another red flag. I live in one of those damn "cool cities" of Jenny Granholm's vision. Men usually offer to meet near me. So I have to drag myself out of my orbit.

And he wants to meet early and only for " a half and hour". Okay. Well, I have lots of rules . . . about children, about not dating the newly divorced . . . I'll tell you how to live your life, no problem. Seems only fair that someone else have some rules too.

I run home from work. Change clothes, shoes. Am fixing my make up when the phone rings. "Private call" Interesting. "You are coming, right?" Why wouldn't I be? I explain my philosophy about being stood up. Just more of a chance for "me" time . . . I'll just get to read my book for half and hour. But assure him that I am not standing him up. (yes, I finally gave him a phone number -- I have caller id)

He then starting freaking out about the meeting place. He knows a guy that goes there three times a day and doesn't want to run into him. " . . . just don't want to deal with that . . . " Another red flag. So you are asking me out but don't want to be seen with me? And men are so weird about meeting on the internet. "Just say we met at the grocery store." I say. "Yeah, that'll work" he agrees.

I am five minutes early. Have the book that I keep carrying around, hoping that I will have time to read. Spook Country. The new Gibson. I have read chapter six three times. And Gibson always starts with about twelve chapters of characterization before he connects the plot line. And he is ten minutes late. At least I'm now to chapter eight.

It funny how your capacity to observe changes when you are waiting for someone. I rarely look at everyone in a coffee shop when I'm just there for coffee. Three employees. One with his mustache dyed to match his toupee. Two women, one pregnant, telling the story of how she announced she was pregnant at school. I assume she is an elementary teacher. One Asian man sitting in the corner, on the comfy chair. He is frowny. One good looking man, slightly older in the other corner, working on a laptop. And when my date arrives, I secretly wish I was on date with laptop guy.

He is not my type. But I knew this from the pictures he sent. But despite the red flags, and the tardiness, and the bo-hunk exterior (which very bleached white teeth), I give it a chance. Eternal optimist.

Within five minutes he is telling me about his girlfriend . . . and his other girlfriend. This dating thing is too much. Too much emotions expended and he doesn't know where the emotions should go. Which girl should he pick? And the one girl? She hasn't called him back. And it's been a whole . . . FIVE HOURS.

"So you decided to solve this dilemma by going out with another girl?"

"Yeah, well . . . I'm sorry, my head is just not in this . . . " Really? I'm shocked? And the half an hour thing? Girlfriend no.2 (the married one) is coming over to his house. (but she is now separated . . . and he just doesn't know what to do with that) And I can't figure out if he is lying or really serious about all this. No, really, wait . . . where are the cameras? Am I on punk'd?

I cut him off at half an hour. Nice meeting you. Go get your head together. Sorry I don't know who Catherine McPhee is (American Idol?).

Maybe I need to start to work on "No". Just saying it in the mirror or something. But then again, where would I get my stories?

And I did get to chapter eight.

This is the Last Day of Our Acquiantance

"This is the last day of our acquiantance
I will meet you later in somebody's office
I'll talk, but you won't listen to me
I know your answer already . . . "

It would be so easy. I could just smile and thank you for the cute gesture ("I've got a new word for you") . . . it was how we met, what roped me in. And I appreciate attention. And I don't like conflict.

And quite frankly, I expected you to start first. But you really just wanted to talk, to play friends, you really are just lonely. And you know I will be nice to you.

But you only contact me when you are sad and lonely. I know she is leaving you. And you can't say that the timing is coincidential. And I don't want to be that girl.

And so I laid it out for you. Sorry, I'm not in the same place anymore. And I'm not your rebound girl. And I'm certainly no trained monkey.

We have mutual friends, that I am unwilling to give up. So I will see you again. But this is the last day. Because like the song states, you have taken me for granted.

What He Heard

"Well, I'm on summer time . . . so you could call me sometime after you get out of work. I'll be up."

What he heard: I want you to steal all your freedom.

What I meant: It's really boring when you're up at 3 a.m. with no one to talk to . . . and you'll do.

"Oh, so you'll have all the kids? Well give me a call, we'll go to a museum or something . . . I'm good at finding free fun."

What he heard: I want to steal your soul.

What I meant: It must be hard to handle three kids and do anything. And hey, I want to go to the MOCAD . . . that might be fun with little kids.

The most fun of the conversation is, with this particular person, I could see the translation going on as he processed what I said. I was just being nice. Making conversation. I don't want to "date" him per say . . . but he is a good friend. Perhaps that is why I could see what was going on in his head.

And there are all these personal ads written by men saying they don't "want any games". I think of Scrabble (which I find boring) and Monopoly (which I find so boring that I don't think I've ever gotten through a whole game). But they aren't talking about that. I'm sure of it.

And I have been guilty of doing the "what does he really mean by that". And you know what? Most of the time, he meant exactly what came out of his mouth. Unless, he is breaking up with you . . . and then he is going to say whatever he thinks won't make you cry. Oh, there is that other time . . . but my parents read this.

And maybe I don't pay enough attention to what other women are saying and doing. But I didn't know there were games. Well, okay, maybe I did. But men play them just as much. If not more. And I really am just nice. Sorry, my parents raised me that way.

I don't even want anybody else's soul. Geez. Where would I put it?

At Lunch Today

"So is the boy still dating that girl?"
"Which boy?"
"Whatdayamean which boy? The one you went out with last night."
"Which one?"
"There was more than one?"
"Ummm . . . yeah. But that one? No. He tried to pick up the waitress. Turns out she was a lesbian."
"Maybe she just told him that."
"No. She told me that. I was on the way to the bathroom and I told her that he thought she was cute. And she said that she was a lesbian. I don't think she would have told me that . . . unless she was really a lesbian. But no, he's not dating that other girl anymore."

Slurp Geek

I am going to what is basically a D & D convention next weekend. I imagine it will be something like this. (Sorry, I can no longer upload from youtube for some reason. A technical problem for another day. Something to do with switching to blogger beta.) (Love the lizard thing, by the way.)

I am going with my brother and his friends to the Palladium book convention, invited because it seems like an opportunity to meet slurp geeks . . . and I have developed an affinity for men wearing digital watches lately. Slurp geeks is a term coined by my other brother, J., to describe, well . . . the slurping sound of one's retainer being readjusted in one's mouth. When J. finds something that he deems as extremely geeky, he will make this sound . . . you put your tongue against the roof of your mouth and suck spit on the sides of your mouth.

Goes something like this: "Hey J. You want to go to the Palladium con with me? Seems they have like, four hour gaming sessions of Robocop."

J. makes long slurping noise with a look of distaste. "No."

Or "Hey J. look at that guy over there in the white socks."
"Umm, yeah . . . (slurp)"

And hence the term slurp geek was born. It's not in the urban dictionary yet . . . so it is truly a Emily's family made up term. You all know one, I'm sure.

Keep in mind, both of my brothers could be categorized as slurp geeks, in their day . . . J. possibly still is one, with his penchant for everything techie. And D. was, for sure, before he got married and his wife started buying him shirts from J. Crew. Mr. Crabbypants? Definitely slurp geek material. He was one part of the A.V. club . . . and the radio club in high school. I've seen pictures.

And a gaming convention (or "con" as D. keeps calling it) seems like an excellent opportunity to meet slurp geeks. I think I'm going to wear something that shows some cleavage. And no, I will not be gaming . . . at least not in the traditional sense. I read all the D & D books as a 4th grader, but was a girl and had no one to play with. Plus, once I figured out that there was just a bunch of dice rolling and you had to have this collective imaginary world . . . well . . . it just seemed like a lot of energy expended. Evidently, my brother J. was one of those Dungeon Masters who was a real tool. Found that out today.

P: "Yeah, I stopped playing with your brother after the butter knife incident."
"Butter knife incident?" (I don't remember anything about butter knives in D & D)
"I killed someone's character because J. told me he was running at me with a knife. Then he'd say, 'Why'd you kill him? It was a butter knife.' "

Evidently, that was bad form. My brother would do this, killing off the character who had the key to neutralize the nuclear bomb, or what have you, over a butter knife . . . thus killing off the whole room. The boy does like a good mind game.

So I've been promised that there will be more interesting things to do than watching a big bunch of slurp geeks play role playing games. Something about a costume contest and meeting all the writers. My brother has books for me to take around and get signed. And with the dawn of computers, it should be a thirtyish crowd. No one plays role playing games sitting around a table anymore. I think it's all done on the net nowadays. Low tech, old, slurp geeks. Yum. Hope they have jobs . . . and are not living in their mother's basement.

What I Learned Last Night

I learned that in the age of cell phones, one cannot give a false phone number. Because it's then really uncomfortable when the man of non-interest calls it immediately. And your phone doesn't ring.

So the best course of action is to just say "No".

Thank you, Nancy Reagan.

Do for Me

"So what do you want a man to do for you?"

I was asked this yesterday by a very sincere, earnest boy, who is dating my best friend. He is in love. Totally, unbashedly, in love. And like most people in love . . . he wants everyone else to feel like he's feeling. So he is trying to set me up.

And I was totally taken aback by the question. Do for me? I don't want anyone to do anything for me. Maybe that's my problem? Or his slip of the tongue . . . he really just wanted my list, the list of what I am looking for. And I have forgotten all about my list. Seems it only takes a month off to forget totally and be at a loss for words.

When I was in my twenties, I thought I had men all figured out . . . I worked at an all boys' school, with primarily male teachers. My thought was that the male brain was simple. Linear. There were clear established patterns. Food. Sex. Money. Power. But now, after this week, not so sure that I have it figured out. Well, actually, I know that I attribute more emotion and thought to what is there. But it never occured to me . . . men like to do things. They are doers.

Hmmm. . . so what do I want a man to do for me? Sounds so . . . put on your loincloth and get go me some bison.

Careful

Oh, how I love it when life (or the fates) kicks you in the teeth.

I'll be spitting out blood and sticking my tongue to the wounds, distractedly, for days. Metaphorically, of course.

You Could Just Leave That One Short

Somehow, I broke three nails last night at the Berkley Front. This means I can't go get a manicure for at least another two weeks because she will cut them all to match . . . and I don't want them that short. (ah, more evidence that I have been reading way too many fashion magazines and they're rotting my brain) It's like they have OCD, with the evenness.

I also think I might be coming down with a cold. Yesterday at the allergist, while getting my shots, I had to say something to the nurse, the usual pleasantries we exchange as she is poking me in the arms and shoving burning liquid into my flesh. But I opened my mouth and nothing came out . . . eventually my voice worked, but it sounded like Phoebe in the episode when she does sexy "Smell Cat". And I couldn't figure out why I didn't know that my voice didn't work . . . I had a conversation with my brother earlier -- why I was busting my ass to get to the allergist, because I had to do something with his family. Until it dawned on me . . . the conversation had been on IM. I haven't tried to talk today. Okay, just did and have a voice.

Maybe it's just that my house is too dry. And too messy . . . have to get on the messy today. Cleaned part of my kitchen yesterday and all of my "delicates". But still have two weeks worth of mail to sort through on the coffee table. There are parts of me that love never being home, but the pile on the coffee table is irritating me. So must be dealt with. And I tore apart a bunch of stuff, looking for my jeweler's saw frame and can't find it. So if you know where it is . . . please let me know because I don't have time to buy another one.

And yes, for those of you who are concerned . . . I had fun. Likes to argue, interesting job, nice truck (as if I care what someone drives) and made me laugh. And I gave him this address. So enough. It will not be spoken of again.

I Wanna Be Like You Hoo Hoo

"So tattoos of a spine on someone's neck screams 'Go sit next to this person' to you?"
"Cause it only screams painful to me."
"It screams that I'm going to have to tell Emily to stop talking to him in a couple of months to me."
"What we need to find is a guy that is totally mainstream . . . but thinks he isn't."
"So just like Emily?"
"Pretty much."
Emily, cutting in on conversation: "Yeah, but where do you find one of those?"
"You would think you could just go where you go . . . but that so isn't working is it?"

Falling

You know that feeling you get when you are falling for someone? Maybe it's the feeling just I get . . .

Suddenly you care. You care what they think. You care about what you are going to wear. You care about the next time they call. And when that's going to be. You care about which girls they think are hot in your stupid knitting book.

And for someone like me, for a control freak like me, the sensation is literally like falling. And I have to pull the chute on this one. Serves me right. I may always be in love with a bad idea . . . but I'm working on the idea not being a reality.

Not the right one. Move on.

Be the superhero.

On the Phone with Someone I Don't Actually Know

"So yeah, boys are dumb . . . "
"But he's not a boy. He's a man. A grown man. He's 51."
"Whatever. Boys are dumb . . . he'll call you in, like, two months."

(I suppressed the urge to point out that she was being a girl but talking to some random friend of a friend about some man who didn't call her within 72 hours . . . probably wouldn't have helped)

Cuteness Causing Pain

I just talked to S for the first time in ages . . . well, it was instant messaging, so I just typed to S for the first time in ages. He's so into being a dad. Just got a puppy, something that he would have NEVER imagined doing before becoming a father. A testament to how much being a parent changes you.

Sent me pictures. Always does . . . and she is now so cute and looks so much like her father, it makes me want to cry. I miss him. I miss him being my best friend and calling him up at 3 a.m. and him calling me with all his drama. But there is no drama anymore, other than puppies piddling on the floor. And his wife gets to be his best friend . . . and really that's the way it should be. But what I wouldn't give to sit around with him, endless coffee, shooting the shit, like we used to . . . when we were young.

So Much to Elude to . . .

According to my nephew, there are pirates hanging out at Stately Wayne Manor in the woods. He and Mom routinely pick up trash . . . a Z. anti-squiggle technique and Z. found an empty rum bottle . . . and made the logical eight-year-old conclusion that there must be pirates. He later found a beer bottle and a paper cup, which only confirmed his suspicions. There are pirates in my parents' backyard. I can't wait to meet them.

Remember the guy that emailed me and told me about all the sites I am on and all my usernames? And I was creeped out and didn't respond to him? Well, four more emails from him later . . . and he is getting mean. And I don't know what to do about it. So I'm sitting here thinking about continuing with the current path of not responding, or responding with a short "get bent", or responding with why I didn't respond in the first place. Having a death spiral over someone I have no desire to talk to . . . yeah! My brain is so fun. Any suggestions? Just don't make them mean . . . I can't take any more mean.

Tomorrow is stuff and things for real . . . and I'm not ready, in any capacity. What was my mantra again? "Not my problem" and "Patience". Okay. Got it.

Secret Code

Evidently, "Well, I have your email" and a handshake translates to "Yeah, this didn't work for me . . . we won't be talking again."

I will admit "I have your email" IS much nicer. The rejection stings but it's just the first time. And I am scary in person . . .

Besides, he didn't know what Pottery Barn was . . .

Would be much easier if they had one of those U.N. translators though. In the little blue background box with an earpiece, (don't know how that would work in real space, a cardboard box with the inside painted light blue?) repeating the phrases in English that I could understand.

One Last Thing and I'll Stop. I Promise.

As I peruse the land of match dot com, I am noticing a trend in the 30-40 year old set. A large of amount of these men have "skinny dipping" listed as a turn-on. For the people out there who have never witnessed the over-stimulating world of match dot com, there is a place to check "turn ons" and "turn offs".

I don't know if I'm taking them too literally or what . . . I didn't check any turn ons or turn offs (maybe I don't know yet? It really depends) personally, but evidently there is a lot of skinny dipping out there. Where are all these people skinny dipping? It just sounds like something that would be best left to eighteen year olds. Maybe it's just the idea of skinny dipping that is appealing. Perhaps Maxim should get a skinny dipping section.

4am -- Really can't sleep

So I've resorted to listening to Matthew Good on Quicktime evilness because I really can't sleep. Perhaps it is the awakening that Yes, I do in fact have to go back to work. Received the letter today . . . and then remembered that I have to go in two days earlier for yearbooks. Ahh, the pit in the stomach dread. The awful dance I do in my head -- not the art teacher, not the art teacher . . . think of yourself as an English teacher.

It's a whole different wardrobe really.

Oh, and I do evil things when left to my own devices and then rationalize it by saying I'm really "helping" them. On a certain online dating site, there was someone who had a spelling error in his first line and I advised him to correct it. Not because the spelling error bothered me . . . because it ruined the whole tone of his arguement. His first line was something like -- can you beleive that I have to resort to internet dating -- and while he was cute, the "beleive" really ruined it. Because the first thing I thought when I read it was "well, yes . . . ". It was evil. My karma is ruined for weeks. I'm sure I'll get hatemail and get kicked off. I'm sure he will come and find me with my inadequate windows and give me a piece of his mind. But really . . . if I had something on my face you would tell me, right?

Now the Matthew Good "Audio tunes" player has just crapped out . . . so I guess I will go watch some infomercials until they put me to sleep.

Dancing Cats with Jessica Simpson

During this whole eharmony experience, there are two things that will make M close you out. Listen up, males of the blogosphere, anyone that mentions their cat or that they "enjoy dancing" is closed . . . with the curt checkbox "Based on statements made in this person's profile, I am not interested in this match." Today the nerdy eharmony demons matched me with someone who had both statements - can't live without his cat . . . loves to dance. CLOSE. Plus his profile said he was 33 and from his pictures he either posted pictures of his father or he was NOT 33. Maybe 33 plus 10 and then poking one eye and closing the other.

Now granted, males of the blogosphere, you are allowed to love your cat. I love Mr. Catman and I haven't ever touched him during his lifetime. You are allowed to shake your bootie . . . and enjoy every minute of it. You just shouldn't put them in your profile, cause you won't pick up wild and crazy girls like M and me. Under no circumstances should you lie about your age or post pictures of your father in the place of yourself. It makes for an awkward first date.

I know, I know, assuming that people would want to go out with M and I but we are kinda fun. And we can laugh about the concept of a cat in an eyepatch for, like, three hours intermittently.

As long as I'm on the subject of pictures - what is up with men and posting pictures? One would assume that the picture is supposed to reflect what you look like. The whole point is to see someone in person eventually. Yet some men have their senior high school picture, their ID picture from work, pictures with celebrities (Jessica Simpson, impressive), pictures with their girlfriend's cheek and arm still in it, pictures with the actual girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) and lots and lots of men want me to see them running. Few people are attractive when running . . .

With the age of the digital camera, one would think that someone could take a current picture of themselves and slide it into eharmony. Come on guys, do it for all those families you want to raise! (they say that a lot on eharmony . . . with the cats and the dancing, it sets off the gaydar like mad)