Friday, October 29, 2010
"When you were mine, you were kinda sorta my best friend. So, I was blind. I let you fool around. I never cared, I never was the kind to make a fuss, when he was there sleeping in between the two of us."
-Cyndi Lauper, 1985 (well, really Prince in 1981)
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Hip Pocketing: This is when you meet with an agency or manager who’s interested in your work, might send it out to various networks, studios, production companies, but they’re not sold enough to sign you yet. In other words, they’d rather string you along until they decide if you’re good enough for them.
The “general”: This is when you have a general meeting with a production company or studio/network exec. They’ve read your work and they like it, but they don’t have any writing assignments or projects for you right now. In other words, it’s all a case of bad timing. This is like dating a guy who claims he really likes you, but he’s just not ready to be in a relationship right now.
The “pitch”: Ugh. The dreaded pitch. This sometimes feels like a first date that you think goes super great, but then you never hear from the person again. Here’s how it works. You meet with a production company or studio to pitch them a movie idea. You try to be as funny and fascinating as possible. Generally, you walk away feeling like you did your best…after all they told you what a fantastic job you did. BUT come to think of it…things did get a little awkward when you said good bye… Regardless, you’re almost certain they’ll hire you and there will be a long harmonious relationship in your future. They don’t. And the worst part? They don’t even have to be the one to tell you. They make your agent do their dirty work.
Attachments: This is when you get a production company, an actor, or director “attached” to your project. In other words, if a studio or network buys it, they’ll either produce it, star in it, or direct it. Awhile back, I had a big celeb attached to a script and the guy was emailing me ideas and calling me on the phone. It felt like we were besties for a few days there. Then, for a variety of different reasons he was off the project and disappeared from my life forever. The same thing happened with a well known director and his production company. They made me feel like my script was the best thing they’d ever read and when it didn’t sell, I never heard from them again. This is like the guy who moves the relationship super fast, then freaks out, and bails. Or the guy who tells you how awesome you are just to get you into bed.
The false alarm: This happens all the time. It’s basically when for whatever reason you’re certain a project is going to sell. Sort of like when a relationship begins and you think you’ve found “the one.” You end up telling all your friends and family the exciting news and when it doesn’t pan out, you feel like a fool. Just like dating, the highest of highs are often followed by the lowest of lows.
green light/red light: This just happened to me recently. You’ve sold a project and it’s actually going to get made! It’s a dream come true. Actors have been cast, a crew has been hired, a budget and production calendar are in place…and then they pull the plug. This is the equivalent of getting engaged, planning a wedding, sending out all the invitations…and then having your fiancé tell you a week before that he’s changed his mind.
And in between all of the above comes the constantly checking your phone and email to see if your agents or managers or lawyers are reaching out with good news. It actually takes a whole team of people to get you a date. Sooner or later, you decide fuck dating and you just start to whore yourself out.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
I'd also like to to think that if I was Taylor Swift, I would never fall for a douche bag like John Mayer. I mean, seriously--- if Taylor read the BLOW OFF, she would totally avoid that guy like the plague. But we'll give her a little bit of credit. After all, she's only twenty and how many losers did we all date when we were that young? But John Mayer, really?? The guy that went to the Oscars with Jennifer Aniston, then broke up with her, because she didn't tweet? The guy who gave Jessica Simpson the run around and then called her sexual napalm in Playboy Magazine? The guy who looks like a frog when he plays guitar? The guys whose songs are severely boring? Come on Taylor, you're better than that!
Anyway, I love the lyrics to Dear John. The song totally reminds me of poems I wrote in high school about guys who didn't like me back. Case in point:
Dear john I see it all now that you're gone
Don't you think I was too young to be messed with
The girl in the dress, cried the whole way home
But seriously, WTF is John Mayer's excuse here? The guy went from sexual napalm to totally taking advantage of a nineteen year old, who probably dumped Taylor Lautner for him (See Back to December lyrics). He's slime. Us females need to band together and boycott his terrible music.
That said, news that Taylor Swift and Jake Gyllenhaal are dating makes me a little sick to my stomach. Clearly, his manhood was so damaged since Reese Witherspoon (an older woman) dumped him and shacked up with Jim Toth, that he needs a much younger woman to comfort him and make him feel like a man again. Careful Jake, you're one false move away from getting exiled to Douche Bag Island.
PS does psychoanalyzing celebrity relationships count as a skill?
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
For some strange reason that I just could not understand, my ex thought I was practically perfect, so of course I decided he was a loser. I laid into his short comings time and time again until finally I pushed him away for good, but not before convincing him to give up something he truly loved: his long hair. My ex took major pride in his straight, black locks which he'd been grooming ever since childhood. I never understood his love for long hair and thought it made him look effeminate due to the fact that he was somewhat vertically challenged. For months he brushed off my disdain until one day I finally broke up with him. Then he cut it. He tried to claim it had nothing to do with me, but I always knew he chopped off his beloved locks in an attempt to win me back. Sadly, it didn't work.
Earlier this year, I started talking about my ex with my current boyfriend. I confessed how badly I felt about the way I'd treated him and wished out loud that I could some how make amends. My boyfriend suggested that I reach out to my ex but sadly no amount of cyber stalking helped me find him on the internet. Then a couple months ago I was back east for a funeral when sure enough I ran into my ex on the street. As luck would have it, he was standing on the sidewalk outside of an Apple Store with his new bride. They had gotten married two days before and were supposed to have left on their honeymoon that morning but their flight had been canceled so they randomly decided to go shopping on the other side of town. I introduced myself to his beautiful bride and gave them both a congratulatory hug. It was not the time or place to get into my list of regrets but I was able to look my ex in the eye and tell him how fantastic he looked and how truly happy I was for him. Before I walked away he slipped me his business card and I pondered whether or not it was appropriate to write him an apology email so close to his nuptials.
I decided to wait a couple weeks and then composed a letter congratulating him for finding true love and acknowledged how much he had meant to me and how sorry I was for the way I behaved. A couple days later he wrote me back saying he would be out in LA for a conference in October and asked if we could have dinner.
We finally met up the other night and had a fabulous time together. It was funny, awkward, comfortable and rewarding all at the same time. I got my chance to apologize face to face and gave him a great deal of satisfaction by sharing all the things I remembered and appreciated about him during our time together. He was gracious, flattered and totally forgiving. We made a pact to remain in touch and I truly hope we do. But regardless of whether or not that actually happens it feels so good to have given the gift that anyone who's ever been blown off deserves - amends and acknowledgment. Not everyone's going to get it - but if you ever get the chance to give it, I highly recommend doing so.
-- A reformed blower offer
Monday, October 25, 2010
So, not only does this suck, because A. the person that blew you off doesn't in fact want you back, but B. Now, you are missing them all over again. You thought you were over them, but that stupid dream felt SO real. The last thing you needed was a reminder of what your ex looked like, smelled like, sounded like...but thanks to your subconscious, that's what you got.
Then, (if you're a girl) you inevitably start wondering if this dream was some sort of a sign or a premonition that the two of you are meant to be together. Chances are...it's not.
My ex-boyfriends still pop into my dreams here and there and I don't know if I'll ever get rid of them. I seriously think I'll be eighty years old and still have a dream about that random guy I dated during the turn of the century. Lame! The only thing that comforts me is that maybe somewhere out there, I'm randomly popping into some guy's dream and reminding him of my awesomeness.
But maybe it's okay. As much as we'd like to get rid of them, our exes are permanent fixtures in our past and maybe crossing paths with them in our dreams is better than running into them in real life. And look on the bright side, if old loves didn't pop into our dream states, Nelly wouldn't have written this incredibly catchy song. I mean, how awesome is the giant floating wedding ring in this video?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Let's take a moment NOT to think about the people that didn't treat us well or broke our hearts or took the term BLOW OFF to a whole new level.
Instead, let's think about the people that have always been there for us. (cue sentimental music) The people that hold our hands through the break ups and show up when we need them to show up. Without you people being so awesome and great, assholes wouldn't exist. We'd have no one cool to compare them to.
For me, that includes my family, my bestest friends, and the BF. And the mailman, because he always brings me my mail. But it also includes *YOU* if you're reading this right now, because you haven't blown off the blow off.
Here's a song in dedication to all of you.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
We got back to New York and sure enough her apartment looked like a crime scene. Whoever had robbed her had done a thorough job of emptying out drawers and cupboards in their search for valuables. I can't remember what actually got stolen, but I think a nice camera among other things. She was understandably nervous about living alone in a place that had been ransacked.
A few days later, she called me frantic. Someone had rang her buzzer claiming they were a cop, but she was scared that they were lying and it could actually be a robber in disguise. We're both slightly paranoid as it is, but I tried to play it cool and tell her I was sure the guy was truly NYPD, but just in case she should keep her phone by her and leave the door wide open. I also told her to call me right away after he left.
Fifteen minutes later, she calls me cracking up. It turns out it was a cop...and the reason he showed up was to ask her out on a date. Apparently, while he was in her apartment filing the police report, he saw pictures of her, realized she was hot, and decided to come back to the apartment and ask her out. I'm sure this already seriously breaks protocol, and while my sister wasn't all that attracted to him, she thought the situation was too funny not to agree to the date. I mean, that's the kind of meet cute that only happens in romantic comedies, people.
So, she makes plans for him to meet her out one night for a drink, but get this--- she brings me with her. I think she kept it casual with the guy and forewarned him that she was already hanging out with his sister, but either way, I'm sure it wasn't what he had in mind for a first date.
Mr. NYPD was perfectly nice. We sat in a booth at Odessa and they had their awkward first date conversations, while I piped in here and there. My sister used her trump card which was that she was planning a move back to California (later, this was the reason she gave him about why she didn't want to get involved.) Then, the conversation took a more interesting turn. I started asking NYPD to tell us some crazy cop stories. He told us a few tame ones and then he mentioned a domestic violence case he had where the husband had beaten his pregnant wife. Obviously, this guy was the scum of the earth, but the story kind of takes a turn for the worse. Apparently, the guy's wife didn't want to press charges...so, NYPD tells us the cops all went into the bedroom with the husband, locked the door, and proceeded to beat the shit out of him. They told him if they ever got another call from the house again, they'd fucking kill him.
WTF?! Yes, granted the wife beater totally had it coming and we all know corrupt cops exist, but my sister and I were totally freaked out by the cavalier way NYPD recounted the details. The whole thing was just a little too violent for us. Plus, what other corrupt things was he doing on the job (aside from showing up at a victim's apartment and asking her out.) Needless to say, there was never another date between my sister and NYPD (and me).
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Maybe it's just a rumor, but I'm buying into it. I think part of the reason Christina Aguilera blew off her marriage is because she's madly in love with Samantha Ronson. I know what you're thinking, what is this going to mean for Lindsay Lohan's recovery?
I don't know. But let's all take a deep breath and calm down. We shouldn't be thinking about Lindsay at a time like this, we should be thinking about Jordan Bratman.
I mean, back in the day, word was that one of the things Xtina loved about her hubby was that he was well endowed...and now she's saying no to the peen all together?
The only explanation is that Samantha Ronson has special powers. Lohan pretty much had a mental collapse when she dumped her. And now, her seduction skills have potentially earned her the label of home wrecker. What is this girl's secret?
Regardless, this wouldn't be the first time a marriage collapsed, because one half of the couple realized they were gay (or may be in this case just happened to fall for someone of the same sex.) But it's still gotta suck. I for one blame the Christian right. If conservatives and evangelicals could just stop bitching about homosexuality, then maybe less people would feel pressured to lie about being gay.
For example, I have a friend from college who's now married with two kids and I'm 90% positive he's gay. And before you harp on me for stereotyping, more than a few gay men thought the exact same thing. (In fact, they described him as "flaming.") So, either we're all completely off base or he'll eventually leave his wife for another man or live in denial forever. Who knows.
Then again, the "I'm blowing you off, because I'm gay" BLOW OFF might actually be slightly comforting. I had a huge crush on a guy in high school, but he never liked me back. Years later, I found out he was only into dudes! Yes! Surely that was the only reason he rejected me.
Anyway, whatever turns out to be true about Xtina, one thing is for certain...Men, keep your girlfriends as far away from Samantha Ronson as possible. Seriously, that girl could turn Taylor Swift into a carpet muncher.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
In case you've been out of the loop, here's the rundown. Brett apparently took a liking to Jenn Sterger, a sideline reporter for the Jets and started messaging her on Myspace. Then, he starts leaving her voice mail messages asking her out. When she's still not responding to his advances, the voice mail messages get a little more desperate and that's when she starts getting sext messages with pictures of his penis. I mean, famous dudes--- stop being so dumb! Sterger's left her job at the Jets in May 2009.
She hasn't spoken up about the claims and it's unclear whether she leaked the info through a third party because she felt harassed and wanted to shed light on the issue-- or because she's a fame whore. I'm really keeping my fingers crossed it's the former.
The NFL claims to be investigating Favre for sexual harassment, but they pretty much want this to go away. Weirdly enough, this has not gotten nearly as much press attention as the Tiger Woods scandal--- maybe because there's only woman in this case instead of multiple women? Maybe because the media is biased? Who knows.
But I think at the end of the day, Bill Maher said it best:
"To me, this story isn't about sports or sex or how necessary caller ID is -- it's about how pathetic and clueless white American males have become. Because the kind of guy who thinks there are women out there who just, cold, want to see your cock, is the same kind of guy who thinks Sarah Palin is swell and tax cuts pay for themselves."
Seriously, guys! If we've been rejecting you, the last thing that's going to win us over is a picture of your penis. And Brett? Trust me, it wasn't anything to write home about.
Monday, October 18, 2010
I met a man in Paris. He lives in London. I live in New York. Seconds after meeting him I asked how long he had lived in London. “Two weeks. Just Kidding. Six months. Just Kidding. Seven years.”
A few weeks after returning from Paris, Just Kidding invited me to London. I accepted his invitation. We had a good time, maybe even a great time. He called shortly thereafter and said he wanted to visit me in New York. I never heard from him again. In the name of moving on, I have written him a letter explaining all the things that are wrong with him.
Dear Just Kidding,
Your jokes suck...no really they just aren't funny. And I'm not kidding.
You also sweat a lot.
You have small patches of long thick brown hairs on your back and while a hairy chest is sexy...that's not.
You have a lisp. Enough saidth.
You're a crappy friend for telling me your bestie uses dildos on girls (or rather that he puts the same used one back in the package and reuses it on girls).
There seems to be a big bald spot growing on the back of your head. You may want to look into getting a toupee.
You claim stories are "crazy" then proceed to tell the longest most boring tale anyone outside of the 3rd grade has ever heard.
You don't understand the difference between a miscarriage and a still birth and English is your first language.
You don't hold your knife and fork properly.
You have terrible posture.
You eat pizza like an animal.
You say stupid, obvious things like "exercise is good for you."
You think it’s appropriate to watch television while entertaining friends.
You once mispronounced seminal as semenal...again English is your first language.
You close your eyes during sex. If it’s too overwhelming to open your eyes, maybe you're not ready to actually have sex.
You snore....really loudly.
Sometimes your breath smells.
You claim you really want a wine rack but that they're too pretentious. I think talking about wine racks is pretentious.
You called me from Bermuda and shared stories about getting sunburned and your dislike of dark and stormy drinks even though you like both rum and ginger beer individually - just not together.
You have pictures of Paris metro signs and the Eiffel Tower in your kitchen. I don't care that you rented the place furnished, unless you're a girl decorating her dorm room, there is no excuse for having these on your walls.
You asked me what the most dangerous city I've been to is, leading me to believe that your answer would be something interesting along the lines of Kabul, Baghdad, or Bogotá - Washington D.C. kind of felt like a letdown.
You told me you wouldn't be surprised if your Dad has hit your Mom, yet, you seemed offended when I referred to him as volatile. Perhaps you see domestic violence in a more romantic light than I do.
You asked if Hollywood was really like Entourage...and you were serious.
All the best,
The girl you didn’t call
Friday, October 15, 2010
"I could put my arms around every boy I'd see, but they'd only remind me of you."
-Sinead O'Connor; 1990 (well, actually Prince cause he wrote it)
PS remember what a big deal it was that Sinead had a shaved head?
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Nicholl's book follows the lives of Emma Morley and Dexter Mayhew from 1988 to 2008...but there's a catch. For every year, we only get a glimpse of one day of their lives (hence the title; always July 15th). The first chapter begins with Emma and Dexter's first hook up and what follows is a series of unrequited love blow offs and a sexually tense friendship that takes them through their twenties and thirties. It weirdly reminded me a bit of the movie Irreconcilable Differences (with Shelley Long and Ryan O'Neal!)---just like the characters in that movie, Emma and Dexter's highs and lows don't always match up.
This book definitely isn't going to change your life or make you sound smart at a party, but maybe it'll encourage you to confess your love to that person you've yearned for far too long. Plus, it spans the 90s and oughts, so there are plenty of political and pop cultural references that are relatable for our generation. I will warn you that Nicholls makes a choice in the book that I wholeheartedly disagreed with, but still consider it a worthy read. And if you hate books, never fear, the movie version (directed by Lone Scherfig who made An Education) comes out next year with Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess. Fingers crossed it lives up to the book.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
1. The dreaded PDA. We all know you’re dating, you don’t need to dry hump each other every time you’re in a room. Yes, the occasional public display of affection (i.e. holding hands/stolen kisses) is totally acceptable if not endearing, but a full on make out session in a room full of friends just makes everyone uncomfortable. Plus, every time a couple makes out in public a single person commits suicide. So, think about that the next time you bump uglies. Save a life: get a room.
2. The dreaded Facebook PDA. Explain something to me. You can tell your sig-other how great they are in person, on the phone, over email, over text message, in a Facebook message, via telegram, letter, tattoo. So, why do you do it on their Facebook wall so the rest of us can read it? You’re just flaunting your love on purpose. So, here’s what I propose. If you must write on each other’s Facebook wall, why not write it in code and spare the rest of us? Example: You were farting in your sleep last night = I love you. Xoxo.
3. The dreaded public display of affliction. The only thing worse than a couple that makes out in public is one that fights in public. Before you call me out on my shit loyal readers, I’ve had a few dramatic public squabbles with the BF and I still cringe when I think about them. It’s bound to happen, especially when booze and prostitutes are involved. Okay, I’m kidding about the booze part. I know it’s hard, but try to save the passive aggressive remarks for behind closed doors. The only silver lining regarding the annoying couple that fights all the time is that it gives single people one more reason to celebrate.
4. The We couple. I had a freak out awhile ago about using the word “we” too often and my mom whipped me into shape, but I still think couples that lack any independence from each other are annoying. Don’t bring your boyfriend to girl’s night out. And don’t text him all night either (guilty, guilty, guilty.) We all know being in a relationship usually means seeing your friends less, but there should be a law that if you abandon them completely and then come crawling back when you’re single, they get to beat the shit out of you.
5. The on again off again couple. There’s nothing worse than spending hours and days comforting someone over a break up only to have them turn around and get back together with their ex. Um, my time is valuable. There should be a rule that you can only expect sympathy from friends and families during the first two break ups with the same person. Once you’ve reached the third break up? That’s when you find a therapist.
6. The lightning speed couple. Hold up, you’ve been dating your boyfriend for two weeks and you’ve already said I love you? Three months and you’re already moving in together? Six months and you’re engaged? Hahahahaha. Call me in three years and we’ll talk.
Who wants to add a number seven to the list? Comment below. Annoying couples, confess your sins!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Truth be told, I feel pressured to make all these big decisions and life changes while I'm 29....somehow i know turning 30 means i won't be hearing "but you're so young" from people anymore. And I will definitely miss hearing "this is what your 20s are all about." It was a ten year long excuse for confusion, indecision, and total panic.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Here's their joint statement:
"We have agreed to a trial separation that dates back for some time. The reason for this separation is to better understand ourselves and the qualities we need in a partner and for our marriage. We remain best friends and responsible parents to our daughter and we still love each other deeply. As we go through this process, we are determined to use kindness and understanding to get through this together. We are comfortable with the boundaries that we have established for each other during this separation and we hope that our friends, family, fans and the media also show us respect, dignity, understanding and love at this time as well."
So, to keep the story going, we were back together, my birthday was in February and, to save him from my all-girls party that night, I planned a just-us dinner a week in advance. In the middle of dinner, after appetizers, and before any hint of a surprise dessert, he talked to me about a plan he had for our future. On that night, effectively my birthday night, he told me his plans about how we would work though our future. He would graduate in May. I still had a year left. He was moving to Houston. How wooooould we stay together?? This is when he dropped on me what would later be coined as the "One Year Plan". "Baby, I just need a year. We aren't in the same city anyway. I don't want to break up, but if that's what you want but, I would be a lucky man if I could call you in a year" Plan.
Privately: Fuck You. Plus: It's My Birthday, You Son-Of-A-Bitch. He even dared say that he deserved points for honesty because he could have waited for Graduation. "Bitch, I wasn't born on Graduation; this was worse; kiss my ass!" Sorry. Internal dialogue. This was his idea of timing. He told me, because he was one year ahead of me, and was going to leave Austin in May, and I would remain in Austin for one more year while he started his law practice in Houston, this was a good year for us to "take a year off". He did not say any specific words like "sow his royal oats", but it might as well have been implied. I lied to myself. God, how I lied to myself that this was a good idea. The worst part: I let him get away with it. And, yes, I let him come to my girls-only birthday Sixth Street Soiree on my actual birthday a week later! Why, you ask? Because I am weak and lame, and when doused in love sauce I buy even the worst line in the book.
The point was, I let a below average guy get away with a way below average line. Yes, I bought it. Hook, line, sinker, and the rest of my third year of law school--- remained in love and loyal to this guy. "Another year" I said "To find himself." Advice to all women: to start, if you are an amazing woman, when your man needs some time (a year? really? a whole year?) you, my friend have found yourself in love with a lemon, or worse! The disreputable beast: the man-child. But, once you turn in the lemon, you won't regret the upgrades from your new acquisition."
Friday, October 8, 2010
"So, I had a flirtatious thing going on with this girl in a summer study abroad program in London, but other than once when we hung out alone (a trip to read at the park that had no kissing involved), it was mostly just group trips to bars and clubs where we'd get drunk and flirt a lot. During the trip, she mentioned that she had a blog, but that she wasn't willing to share the address with anyone. Well, one day when I was using the computers in the lobby of the hotel where all the study abroad students were staying, I noticed that her blog address was stored in the memory of the browser.
Before I continue though, I'm going to ask that you take it easy on me, because I realize that most of the people writing on this blog are girls and my sister gave me major shit when I told her that I actually read the blog. Plus, I might kind of sound like the asshole guy in this thing, so I'm going to keep this anonymous and just be honest.
Ok, so it turns out that in reading the blog I learned that I was code named Mr. Orange and that there was a lot written about me on it.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Note: this is just one of many blow off stories involving the same guy. Let's call him "BLONDIE".
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Around this time I had just moved from New York to Los Angeles and reconnected with a guy I had known a few years before while I was in law school. We’ll call him Keith. I had met Keith my first day on campus and he asked me out shortly thereafter. Over the next year, he asked me out a few more times, and being in love with the Emotional Terrorist, I had not even the remotest of desires to date him. I thought that was the reason, but I had to admit there was something else. Keith was smart, very good looking and seemed interesting enough. There was no discernible reason why I didn’t like him, but for some reason I didn’t.
Fast forward to 29, Los Angeles, and newly unattached me. Keith tells me how much of a crush he had on me back in school, and asks me out to dinner. I’m still not really interested in him, but I figure sometimes you have to force yourself back into the saddle, so I accept. Over the next month and a half, he and I see each other regularly. I go through the motions – we have uninspired sex, we go on various dates, we argue about whether it’s my turn to go see him in Venice or his turn to drive to see me in West Hollywood. It’s pretty tiresome, but I still tell myself this is what I need at that moment.
One day Keith invites me to dinner and then goes radio silent until way past dinnertime, and when he finally calls I tell him “It’s OK, honestly I don’t think we should be dating each other anyway.” By this time it’s very clear to me that I’m not going to fall for this guy, ever. But I clearly underestimate Keith, because he uses some Jedi mind trick to get me to agree to keep dating him. Somehow, in an effort to counter his claim that I am breaking up with him over this one isolated incident, I give up and say: “Fine! We’ll keep seeing each other!” But the truth was, I didn’t plan to ever go out with Keith again. I decide it’s finally time for me to give him the blow off.
A few days later Keith has a death in his family, and he calls me very upset. Since I’m not completely callous, I postpone my blow off plan and I go over to his apartment to comfort him. During this time, in a moment of weakness, I invite him to a 30th birthday dinner party a good friend is throwing for me the following week. He may not be my dream man, I figure, but it’ll be nice to have a date on my birthday.
On the big day, Keith calls me when he’s leaving work to say traffic is terrible, so he’ll be late, but he’ll be there in time for dessert. OK, not a big deal. At dinner I save the seat next to me for him. Dessert comes and still no Keith. I check my phone – no calls, no texts, no emails from Keith. All of my friends are awkwardly inquiring about where he is. I try to downplay it – traffic is really bad, he’s coming from the Valley, blah blah. They say: “maybe something happened to him!” And I knew in my heart of hearts that this dude was perfectly fine. But I’m also thinking: he’s got to be here eventually – it’s not like he would stand me up on my birthday! No one would do something so outrageously rude.
As it turns out, that’s exactly what he did! After dinner, dessert and the rest was done, without one word from Keith, I decide to call him one last time. What, after all, could he possibly say to me? I wanted to hear what excuse he could come up with. The phone rang and rang and went to voicemail. I hung up and immediately deleted his number and all of his contact information. I was irate. Not only was it my birthday, but it was the much-hyped 30th milestone birthday, not to mention I had tried to blow him off first!
For the next few days, I wondered what excuse Keith would come up with for missing my birthday. Soon I realized that there would be no apology for the blow off. So I dust off my ego and get on with my life, giving Keith little to no thought. Months and months later, I get a voicemail from an unrecognized number. For the first half of the message I am completely at a loss as to who it is until there’s a vague reference to not talking to me “since around your birthday” and he asks me to give him a call if I “wasn’t too mad.”
Ha! As if! I sooo wanted to call him back just to tell him how high a leap he could take off the nearest jagged cliff. But I realized I just didn’t care enough to be bothered. Besides, he did give me a great story to tell my friends. So I let it be. Over the next year, I got various mass emails from him (until I blocked his email address) and I eventually wound up running into him randomly at a party. He sidled up to me and told me how good I looked – I’ve got to hand it to this guy, he’s got balls. He’s lucky said balls didn’t get intimately acquainted with my foot. But I took the high road, said thanks, goodbye and I walked away.
That was the last time I saw Keith and gladly I haven’t heard from him since. Thanks to him, I learned a valuable lesson about trusting my instincts in relationships. And you can be certain I’ll never again force myself to continue to date someone I didn’t actually like. In the end, Keith might have won the blow off prize in our relationship, but I win the “better off for the blow off” award, hands down.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Then, like something out of a teen movie, I stumbled into a pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming high school romance with my unattainable crush. The year before, I'd seen him perform as Wiley Post in the high school's production of The Will Rogers Follies. It was Jordan Catalano-level love at first sight.
Wiley had floppy dark blond hair that he tucked behind his ears. He wore a leather jacket and had an endless supply of plaid flannel shirts (it was the '90s, go with it). Somehow we ended up in the same intro to journalism class and I spent weeks staring at the back of his head, listening to him flirt with older girls (did I mention he was a junior?) and turning bright pink if his eyes ever swung in my direction.
I made several sneaky attempts to get close to him — even signing up to do props for the fall musical before learning he hadn't even tried out — and eventually one of them worked. Through a mutual friend, we started talking. And soon, we were "Talking." As in, "Are you guys dating?" "No, we're just talking." Trust me, it's a thing.
Our relationship evolved. I borrowed his flannel (and slept in it several nights in a row), he wrote me notes that referenced True Romance, he walked me to class, I pulled the hall phone into my bedroom and whispered with him until 3:00 AM. I had it bad.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The piss off is the blow off which all other blow off in my life have to be compared too. There were lots of blow offs in my non-relationship with Peter but for my first Blow Off post I thought I’d go for the most epic. When my college roommate Paige fell for Frank and asked him to move in with us, Peter was the extra baggage that crashed on our couch from time to time. We tolerated him at best and at worst worked quietly to break up their bro-mance. Over the next year and a half he endeared himself enough to diffuse any sabotage plans and we forged a casual friendship.
The non-relationship with Peter started over one summer as a series of bad decisions at the end of binge drinking evenings. Somehow sleeping together didn’t make things awkward, they made things more comfortable. We never discussed the occasional nudity between us and slowly became better friends. The next summer, in the process of Frank and Paige getting married and moving across the country, Peter and I got to be very close. He and I ended up leaning on each other in the absence of our primary people… and that’s when things got complicated.
I couldn’t tell if we were falling madly in love or he just had nothing better to do (Note to self: if you’re trying to discern between those two emotions emitting from another person, assume the latter). We would talk all night long about intensely personal things. It seemed like we couldn’t get closer then out of nowhere: blow off, rinse and repeat. The fact that he had sunk into full fledge alcoholism by this point, made it all the harder to classify what was happening. Was it just the booze? Was he just emotionally handicapped? Was I completely deluded? Three or four really confusing months passed where I was on a rollercoaster totally unsure of what was going on, totally terrified to ask, and increasingly invested in the answer. By the time the holidays rolled around, the piss off happened.
Frank and Paige were home and we were celebrating… too hard as it turns out. The next morning I awoke, damp, to the shutting of the bedroom door. He was gone but had left me the contents of his bladder… all ten gallons of them. We’re talking through the bedding, the mattress, all the way to the box springs. When a child wets the bed, you’re dealing with a manageable volume; when you’re dealing with a grown man who wets the bed after drinking all night, its mattress ruining and this mattress didn’t belong to either one of us. The party the night before had been at a friend’s house. There had been a mass sleepover so all my closest friends were still on the premise. No way possible could I conceal his mess. The only thing I could do was hope he would return before they woke up so I didn’t have to face them alone.
He didn’t. By the time the others started stirring, I had taken a shower and stripped the bed leaving the humiliating stain exposed. There were snickers and jokes at first, then they realized he was gone and the consoling began. Radio silence persisted until Frank finally called him late that afternoon, partly because he was mad on my behalf and partly because I think he wanted to discover some valid excuse for Peter’s reprehensible behavior. There wasn’t one. He acted as if nothing had happened and chatted it up nonchalantly. Frank finally asked about it point blank. Peter laughed it off, ‘Yeah, man I’ll stop by later and take care of that. Sorry dude, I woke up naked and the chick next to me was completely dressed. I figured it must’ve been a bad night.”
His explanation was far worse than the deed. I could understand him being too embarrassed to stick around but to refer to me as “the chick next to him” was uncomprehendable. For all my hoping and questioning, I only thought I knew two things for sure about Peter: he cared about me and respected me as a friend, at very least. Turns out I was dead wrong… or wet wrong rather.
Friday, October 1, 2010
We all have getting blown off in common. It's a shared human experience, like dreading homework, hating high taxes and thinking Falcon Crest is one of the greatest TV shows ever. But that doesn't make it any easier.
I've had my share of blow-offs, but only one really stings in my mind. It was this guy, let's call him Jerkface, who really melted my cold, black heart. I don't fall much, and certainly not easily, but this guy was it. Or at least I thought. He was handsome, vivacious, inquisitive. He had a lust for life that I admired. Even the qualities that annoyed me about him I loved him for. I thought that I had maybe found the real deal, the thing that all the movies are about. Lest you think I'm delusional, I wasn't living in a vacuum. His affection - physical, emotional, verbal - was tangible. One night, when he wasn't even drunk, he told me he could see himself marrying me one day. Even if it wasn't legal - here's a guy that would break the law for me!