Datenap Her
Jeremy knew that his new friend didn't want to date him -- she had told him so in so many words -- but women can't be trusted. She liked him; she just didn't know it yet.
So Jeremy invited her to come sailing with him and his friend Joe. They had a great time, nearly capsizing in a sudden storm. They managed not to end up in the lake, but were soaked from the rain. So the three headed back to Jeremy's to change into dry clothes, eat soup, and play Guitar Hero. After that, the three decided to go see a movie, but Joe ended up not coming. The movie turned out to be terrible and Jeremy and the woman left after a few minutes. While they sat in the car trying to figure out what to do instead, Jeremy revealed his secret plan: "I sort of meant for this to be a date." (Now is the time to be forthright. Women love surprises.) The woman was incredulous at his genius planning, protesting, "Why?! I specifically told you I just wanted to be friends!" Mumble something that makes her bust up laughing. It's important to be able to make a woman laugh.
Getting Her Number
It's no longer acceptable to ask a woman for her number. If you do this, she will think you're a creep. It's much less creepy to sneak her number. Take it from Joe. After chatting up his crush about their shared community and interests, he casually wonders aloud, "Are you in my phone?" This provides a perfect opportunity to pull out his phone and "check." Now all he has to do is ask, but now she can't refuse because that will make her the bad guy -- like his phone has this simple problem of her number not being in it, and she has the information needed to rectify the situation -- who would refuse to help? Especially after he gave her that chocolate he just happened to have.
Subliminal Messages
Or, instead of getting her number, a better option is to just give her yours and say, "Let me know if you ever want to hang out." Every time you run into her, remind her to let you know if she ever wants to "hang out." Don't flirt at all, keep it friendly. This way, you don't creep her out by letting your intentions be known. Again, no risk of rejection. If, after weeks of your hinting, she doesn't take initiative, you can take that role -- but make sure she doesn't think it's a date. By all means, try to use the phrase "get our grub on" when asking her out to dinner.
Just Do It
Communicating verbally is overrated. In our modern society, we don't have time for that. If you like a woman, just start holding her hand, putting your arm around her, etc., as if you were already a couple. This has the added benefit of marking your territory to other men. Don't bother trying to get to know her yet. This will throw her off because on one hand it will seem like you're not interested, but on the other hand is her hair (because it's your hand and you're inexplicably touching her back again). Women love a man of mystery.
20130110
Your Bathroom Doesn't Impress Me
I decided not to date until I get my act together, because 28-year-old career temps who live with their mom and still use a flip phone (prepaid!) only attract men with one or more of the following qualities:
1. felon
2. work one day a week
3. don't have a car
a. because they never learned to drive
i. not convinced he knows how to ride a bike either
4. don't speak English
5. live in a quad
a. but it's a step up from a quad because we each have our own ba--
i. it's still a quad
1. felon
2. work one day a week
3. don't have a car
a. because they never learned to drive
i. not convinced he knows how to ride a bike either
4. don't speak English
5. live in a quad
a. but it's a step up from a quad because we each have our own ba--
i. it's still a quad
20121222
Free Clinic
"I like your purse!" the girl at the counter realized, surprising herself. She probably wasn't used to admiring the fashion of the people on the other side of the counter, but I was sure we had more in common with each other than either of us did with the non-English-speaking family in line behind me. The free clinic wasn't exactly a place to dress to impress. The free clinic also offered free clothing piled messily on shelves, but rather than taking some for myself, I resisted the urge to organize them by color.
When it was my turn with the volunteer doctor, he marveled, "You're the first person I've seen who filled out this whole form correctly on the first try!" I'm glad my English degree finally came in handy. At least I know how to go bargain shopping for fancy accessories... and no one can take that from me.
When it was my turn with the volunteer doctor, he marveled, "You're the first person I've seen who filled out this whole form correctly on the first try!" I'm glad my English degree finally came in handy. At least I know how to go bargain shopping for fancy accessories... and no one can take that from me.
20121127
Excuse me, Crotch-Man...
Before I went to Korea, I learned some Korean just by driving to work every day, thanks to a cd from my local library. The problem with other languages is that they're not English. My brain speaks English, so if you try to give it something else, it only hears English. So while I was supposedly learning how to communicate in Korea, I just learned how to be rude in my own culture.
I would be driving along Broad Street in Richmond because that's the only way I don't get lost, with my windows down because I had no A/C, and the volume way up so I could really hear the pronunciation. The lesson was very interactive, so I stopped at the stoplight, studiously repeating "crotch-man!" over and over, trying to remember its conjunctive properties and forget the image of some kind of porno superhero that kept popping up in my mind instead. After basic vocabulary was covered, the lesson progressed in a staged conversation between the Pimmsleur guy and myself, in a mix of English and Korean. So when Mr. Pimmsleur as the Cab Driver asked me, "Where do you want to go?" I obediently responded what I'm sure sounded to everyone in the lanes next to me like, "Hotel, asshole!" And "yo" finished every sentence, for politeness.
Ironically, my Korean friends later told me that the cd Korean was way too polite in their culture. Go figure.
I would be driving along Broad Street in Richmond because that's the only way I don't get lost, with my windows down because I had no A/C, and the volume way up so I could really hear the pronunciation. The lesson was very interactive, so I stopped at the stoplight, studiously repeating "crotch-man!" over and over, trying to remember its conjunctive properties and forget the image of some kind of porno superhero that kept popping up in my mind instead. After basic vocabulary was covered, the lesson progressed in a staged conversation between the Pimmsleur guy and myself, in a mix of English and Korean. So when Mr. Pimmsleur as the Cab Driver asked me, "Where do you want to go?" I obediently responded what I'm sure sounded to everyone in the lanes next to me like, "Hotel, asshole!" And "yo" finished every sentence, for politeness.
Ironically, my Korean friends later told me that the cd Korean was way too polite in their culture. Go figure.
20120928
The Mom Test
I was having a hard time on my own in Virginia, musing, There should be a group of people who all live together, and help each other out. I frowned, imagining myself joining a scary cult, before realizing that I had just invented... family. So instead of marrying the next man I saw, I joined that special demographic of adults who live with their parents. I moved in with my mom, and this woman's jurisdiction has more laws than California. I am choosing to study for the GRE to go to grad school to get a real job to afford my own place, rather than try to pass the impossible exam that is daily life here. At least the GRE adheres to a widely accepted standard. If you want to pass the Mom test, you are going to need some extra help. Here is a practice exam I put together:
1. The bathmat goes...
a) on the left side of the tub
b) on the right side of the tub
c) in the bathroom
(Hint: it's not c, contrary to common sense.)
2. To use the microwave...
a) push the buttons
b) cover the food with the glass lid
c) b + put the lid back on top of the microwave, but off the edge a little bit so air can get in
That's as far as I got. I have plenty more questions, but unfortunately they will not be of any use to you because I still do not know any of the answers.
Good luck!
1. The bathmat goes...
a) on the left side of the tub
b) on the right side of the tub
c) in the bathroom
(Hint: it's not c, contrary to common sense.)
2. To use the microwave...
a) push the buttons
b) cover the food with the glass lid
c) b + put the lid back on top of the microwave, but off the edge a little bit so air can get in
That's as far as I got. I have plenty more questions, but unfortunately they will not be of any use to you because I still do not know any of the answers.
Good luck!
20120922
Alcoholic Sports
We're all convinced our friend Glen is a closet alcoholic. This conclusion is mostly based on his sports of choice: golf, bowling, and pool. They all entail individually projecting a ball toward a target, and they are all easily accompanied by booze.
Glen took me out for my first time golfing. This is the most high-maintenance, leisurely "sport" ever. You rent a little car to drive around in, choose from an entire set of clubs just to hit one little ball, and drink. I even found some berries to pick when I got bored.
Bowling is pretty lazy too. When you're not actively participating, you eat nachos and Play Till You Win a stuffed bear from a machine. And doesn't it lose its appeal after you bowl 300, like a video game you've already beaten?
Don't forget pool, which hardly even pretends to be a sport as it is conveniently located in bars. ("Pool" may be used interchangeably with "darts" here.) Personally, if I'm going to play sports at a bar, I prefer to dance, which has about equal footing in the sports category yet boasts much better exercise.
Next time, I'll have to make Glen play soccer with me. I can just imagine him riding onto the field in his cart, then running into an old friend on the opposing team, shooting the breeze, and offering him some apricot brandy in exchange for cinnamon rolls, the referee passionately blowing his whistle all the while.
Glen took me out for my first time golfing. This is the most high-maintenance, leisurely "sport" ever. You rent a little car to drive around in, choose from an entire set of clubs just to hit one little ball, and drink. I even found some berries to pick when I got bored.
Bowling is pretty lazy too. When you're not actively participating, you eat nachos and Play Till You Win a stuffed bear from a machine. And doesn't it lose its appeal after you bowl 300, like a video game you've already beaten?
Don't forget pool, which hardly even pretends to be a sport as it is conveniently located in bars. ("Pool" may be used interchangeably with "darts" here.) Personally, if I'm going to play sports at a bar, I prefer to dance, which has about equal footing in the sports category yet boasts much better exercise.
Next time, I'll have to make Glen play soccer with me. I can just imagine him riding onto the field in his cart, then running into an old friend on the opposing team, shooting the breeze, and offering him some apricot brandy in exchange for cinnamon rolls, the referee passionately blowing his whistle all the while.
20120921
Happy Birthday
I am already at the Richmond airport when my mom calls. She wants to make sure I packed white shoes and my pink and green earrings. "I have a birthday present for you!"
I am heading to Oregon for my cousin's wedding. My mom has been talking for weeks about how she is going to make herself a dress out of some vintage fabric she got from Great Aunt Bess. On the plane, I start to put this information together: the pink and green fabric... the pink and green earrings... the late birthday present... oh nooo. Either my mom decided to make a dress for me instead, or... the other possibility was too terrible to consider.
"Mom, did you make us matching dresses?" I demand to know immediately after greeting her.
"No!" she insists so adamantly that I almost believe her. She disappears into the bedroom and returns holding a hanger in each hand, and flowing from the hangers are two dresses. White with pink and green flowers. Identical. It is at this moment that she has the nerve to burst out, "Happy birthday!"
"LIAR!" I roar.
"I'm not a liar!" she insists smugly. "Heidi made them." My mom and I would be the pie servers at the reception, and she thought it would be fun if we matched. Her idea of fun also includes taking the light rail to the end of the line and back for no reason, an activity I refused to participate in. The dress should be rejected, no question. But this situation was a little more complicated.
The guilt: Grandpa just died. I'm living on the wrong coast. Heidi already did the work.
On the other hand: The dresses look the same.
I mentally try to accept the dress like I mentally tried to accept white supremacy one time, just to see if I could. In both cases, I couldn't. Showing up in the same dress as someone else on accident would be a nightmare; grown women matching on purpose was just wrong.
So I don't know how to explain how I end up wearing the dress. I guess I belong to a special race after all: white floral.
It's an outdoor wedding, and as my mom, brother and I approach the site where other guests are trailing in, I feel as though I am the only one in costume at a party. I make sure my brother sits between us, and as we are sitting in rows, no one seems to notice. For a short time I am distracted by the ceremony, although horrified to find that even the bridesmaids' dresses don't match. How do I get myself into these situations?
The reception is more awkward. I take my place next to my mother behind the dessert table and concentrate on using my knife as a tool rather than a weapon. I note that the banquet servers are all wearing black pants with white shirts, and this information serves as a source of tranquility. Still, I can read the question on the faces of everyone I meet, as my mother is proudly announcing at every introduction, "...and this is my daughter!"
It's one of my most embarrassing moments, but in the end, I am proud of myself. I didn't have a nervous breakdown, I didn't try to commit suicide, and I most certainly did not abuse the gift-giving occasion for my own sick purposes.
When the day is done, the dress slides right off and the zipper doesn't even get stuck, as though it shared my discomfort with the situation. It never fit right, anyway.
I am heading to Oregon for my cousin's wedding. My mom has been talking for weeks about how she is going to make herself a dress out of some vintage fabric she got from Great Aunt Bess. On the plane, I start to put this information together: the pink and green fabric... the pink and green earrings... the late birthday present... oh nooo. Either my mom decided to make a dress for me instead, or... the other possibility was too terrible to consider.
"Mom, did you make us matching dresses?" I demand to know immediately after greeting her.
"No!" she insists so adamantly that I almost believe her. She disappears into the bedroom and returns holding a hanger in each hand, and flowing from the hangers are two dresses. White with pink and green flowers. Identical. It is at this moment that she has the nerve to burst out, "Happy birthday!"
"LIAR!" I roar.
"I'm not a liar!" she insists smugly. "Heidi made them." My mom and I would be the pie servers at the reception, and she thought it would be fun if we matched. Her idea of fun also includes taking the light rail to the end of the line and back for no reason, an activity I refused to participate in. The dress should be rejected, no question. But this situation was a little more complicated.
The guilt: Grandpa just died. I'm living on the wrong coast. Heidi already did the work.
On the other hand: The dresses look the same.
I mentally try to accept the dress like I mentally tried to accept white supremacy one time, just to see if I could. In both cases, I couldn't. Showing up in the same dress as someone else on accident would be a nightmare; grown women matching on purpose was just wrong.
So I don't know how to explain how I end up wearing the dress. I guess I belong to a special race after all: white floral.
It's an outdoor wedding, and as my mom, brother and I approach the site where other guests are trailing in, I feel as though I am the only one in costume at a party. I make sure my brother sits between us, and as we are sitting in rows, no one seems to notice. For a short time I am distracted by the ceremony, although horrified to find that even the bridesmaids' dresses don't match. How do I get myself into these situations?
The reception is more awkward. I take my place next to my mother behind the dessert table and concentrate on using my knife as a tool rather than a weapon. I note that the banquet servers are all wearing black pants with white shirts, and this information serves as a source of tranquility. Still, I can read the question on the faces of everyone I meet, as my mother is proudly announcing at every introduction, "...and this is my daughter!"
It's one of my most embarrassing moments, but in the end, I am proud of myself. I didn't have a nervous breakdown, I didn't try to commit suicide, and I most certainly did not abuse the gift-giving occasion for my own sick purposes.
When the day is done, the dress slides right off and the zipper doesn't even get stuck, as though it shared my discomfort with the situation. It never fit right, anyway.
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