The Blow Off: Sensitive or Selfish? And Virtual Crush arrives today!!!

First, I want to take care of a little housekeeping so none of you think I’m going back on my promises.

I can’t find the perfect giveaway prize, despite my best efforts, so I’ve decided to compile a little goodie bag of things for the lucky winner. I’ll be entering all of your names unless you e-mail and say you don’t want to participate – which is madness because I am an awesome gift giver! And an incredibly modest person!!! Sorry to the last five people who joined, but I did say the first 20, so 20 it is. There will be more presents in the future, I swearz.

I will not be writing a blog for at least the next three days. I plan to spend every moment of them in nerdy bliss with my new beau, showing him around Phoenix and stuff. Can’t wait. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so excited about anything not involving booze (which is not to say there will not be obscene amounts of drinking this weekend, let’s just be honest. My refrigerator is filled with the following: beer, Slim-fast, fruit punch, cheese, film. Should I be concerned about first impressions of my place by Virtual Crush?) I’ve been watching the clock all day and it’s driving me bonkers.

In the meantime, I’ve been thinking about the excellent point rs27 raised in commenting on my last blog and I’d like to put it out there to all of you.

My last blog was meant to be slightly cheeky in the whole “heartbreaker” theme. If you read the blog regularly you probably know I’m a nerd who dates very little. I have gone out with a couple of guys that continue to call me, though, and now that I’m seeing someone, I thought I should let them know.

However, one poor schmuck had been kind of hanging on like a leech there for awhile, even though he was getting the big blow off from me and I just couldn’t bring myself to lay it out there for him.

See, in my opinion, the blow off is a gentle way of letting someone know what’s up (that’s what she said?) I, personally, don’t want to be told, “Hey, I don’t really like you” to my face, so I guess I’ve assumed others don’t either.

If someone just never calls me again, I can cushion my self-esteem with all sorts of delusions, like “Hey, maybe he met the girl of his dreams and they eloped the day after our date.” Or, “Maybe he was abducted by aliens/gypsies/ninjas/etc.” or “Maybe he was in a terrible accident and can no longer dial telephones.”

But then again, I also don’t continue to call someone who NEVER calls me back for months and months. I get the net. Apparently, others are not so quick.

I usually reserve “I’m not into you” talks for people I’m actually dating and for stalkers, like TDAH.

So my question is: Is the blow off a sensitive way to let someone down, or just a selfish way of not having to deal with someone you’ve gone out with (or, as in someone’s case, randomly made out with)? Discuss, discuss.

Time to clean up my messes

So, I’ve been letting any of the guys that may have been out there trying to date this hot tamale know that she officially only has eyes for one guy these days.

Sorry suckas. Snoozed. Losed.

Actually, I had just been blowing them off, as I’m prone to do with guys I’m not actually dating but maybe just went out with once or twice. I'm a Co-co-co-cold hearted, ssssssssnake.

First came The Greek. This went down yesterday outside my apartment. He had called and texted a couple of times but since we never actually went on a date, I didn’t think I owed him an awkward “Sorry dude, but I’m not going to go out with you” explanation. So I just didn’t return his calls.

I was walking B. yesterday and saw him across the street. I tried to just ignore him and act like I was super interested in picking up my dog’s poo, but I failed miserably. Darn poo! Why do you smell so bad?

He crossed the street and started asking me a series of questions about how I was doing, how work was going, yada, yada, yada. Then he laid this on me:

Him: So my friend said you’re seeing someone now. I’m glad for you, but I wish I could have gotten to know you better.

You know what I said?

Me: Did you hear about the streaker we had out here last night?

I’m such an ass. It was the first thing that came out to avoid a reply to that statement.

You see, I had an amazing experience with a streaker the night before. I was sitting in the apartment of Martini who lives a floor down from me, enjoying a glass of wine with her and our friend T. when we heard this incredible moaning sound. It sounded like someone having really loud, really rowdy sex.

Of course, we all ran to the window to see what was going on because there was no one in that room that’s been getting any action in a very long time and we kind of forgot what sex sounded like and wanted to be sure that’s what it was.

We’re all craning our necks out the window, staring into the darkness, when this buck naked man comes running around the corner, moaning and yelling. He then grabs his genitals in one hand and is trying to get in the building next door with the other hand.

Finally he manages to slip behind some unsuspecting person who, for some strange reason, wasn’t prepared to see a naked man run up to her at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday.
What seemed like two minutes later the police pull up and want to know what we saw.

I tell them we saw a naked man moaning and running down the street. He asks if we will give a statement. He wants to know exactly what I saw because, apparently, it’s a major offense for someone to show their special parts “to a minor.”

This makes me howl with laughter. I say, “A minor. I’m the oldest one in the group! I took a nap when I got home from work today.”

The next day I actually got a call from the “Victim’s Unit” of the police department. I felt like I was on an episode of Law and Order.

All this is to say that when The Greek tried to start spilling his sweet preppy guts to me all I could think to talk about was the Naked Man.

Mission Let The Greek Down Easy: accomplished.

Then today I had to write a very harsh e-mail to Tall Dark and Handsome to tell him to stop being Single White Male on me.

You may remember I went on one date with him just before breaking my arm. It was so incredibly dull that I drank my weight in Grey Goose. I think the bill was like $100 and I didn't eat anything. Yes, TDAH, you can pick up the bill. Who says chivalry is dead?

He called and texted after that, and I attempted my blow off routine. He continued to call and text. One night I texted back, “Sorry TDAH. I’m not interested.”

He thought I was drunk or something (whatever would give him that idea?) and continued to call. I never spoke to him once in all that time – more than two months.

Today he asked me to come to a party this weekend. He actually texted me this: “Bring your own booze. Swimsuits optional.” Classy guy. Classy.

So I e-mailed him and said “Dude, I’m seeing someone. I tried to let you down easy but you don’t seem to be getting it so I’m just going to be blunt. Please stop calling and texting. Get the net.” (I actually wrote that and kind of cracked myself up.)

He responded.

“You’re so sweet. Thanks for telling me. Please take care of yourself and if you need anything let me know.”

What the what?

Men always make fun of women who don’t get the hint and insist that guys like them and “just don’t know how to show it.”

Well, I think these recent events prove that some guys are just morons.

My Fetish: I'll have it my way, thank you very much.

I am staying home tonight for the first time in ages.

I could not be more excited. I turned down a couple of invites (gladly, see here for references to both of the poor schmucks) and specifically planned a night in.

I’m going to listen to music that I found at this amazing store, Revolver Records, which I bought months ago and haven’t listened to. I’m going to work on a painting that’s been staring at me saying “You know you want to” And … wait for it … I’m planning to pick up a delightful meal -- most likely from a little fast food place south of the border, and indulge my salty, fatty side!

Yeah, I said it: I love fast food. I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know why it happened. But I seriously love me a cheesy bean and rice burrito or a, gasp, Filet-o-Fish and fries whenever possible. Obviously, this isn’t an every day event, but I get my junk food on whenever I can without feeling like a Fatty McFatstack.

This is weird on so very many levels.

First of all, I’ve been a vegetarian most of my life. I say most because I had a teenage rebellion phase where I’d eat pepperoni pizza like it was going out of style. I’d sneak in past curfew after feasting on cured pork and my pops would be all fascist and say “I know where you’ve been. I can smell it all over you.” And I’d shout back, “I learned it from watching you, OK!”

I very recently started eating a little meat from time to time (that's what she said.) Especially bacon. Bacon = bliss. If you live in the Phoenix area, or are just passing through, I highly recommend the Bacon Wrapped Basil from Sens. Johnny Chu, I Heart You.

My new meat phase (That’s what she said. Oh, again!) began after a long night of dancing and drag queens. I ended up at Gay Denny’s with some friends. I was so beat and my friend ordered sliders and offered me one. I was drunk, I was hungry, I was boogied out and I didn’t even think twice about eating that burger.

I was always a veg for political reasons -- you know, mass animal farming is bad for us, bad for animals, bad for the environment, and stuff -- so fast food should be so wrong to me – but why does it taste SO RIGHT?

I’m getting back on the wagon, though, I swear.

My FFF (Fast Food Fetish) is also weird because I’m considered something of a foodie by people who know me. I love to cook and most people say I’m darn good at it. And I love to go out to a quality restaurant and really enjoy a great meal. And I won’t be caught dead in a Crapplebee’s or anything like that.

But fast food is like a whole other beast.

Now, I’m in no way advocating that we eat this stuff every day (we are a nation of gigantic people and I think we all know it’s not due to overconsuming apples and bananas.) I mean, it is, from a nutritional standpoint, junk food. But, when I tell people I like fast food every now and then – especially the hipster and quasi-hipster 20 and 30 somethings I know, they all shudder and say things like “Gross!” or “No way.” or "I exclusively buy local, dude." (A nice dream, but you're hitting the pipe too hard if you think I believe you, Guy With No Job.)

Someone is eating this stuff. Actually, millions are eating it, so I know some of those Gross-sayers are driving through Micky Ds at 10:25 on a Saturday morning hoping they will get there before they stop serving breakfast because we all know NOTHING cures a hangover better than a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit, hashbrown and large OJ. So seriously, fess up, what’s your guilty pleasure?