I love the fact that half of my job is flirting with the cute college boys who come into the Writing Center needing help.
In short, I just realized I am a prostitute for good grammar’s pimp.
I'm the book that beat the speed-reader, and I'm the card the dealers won't touch. And it's just not true I'm a man-eater; all the same, we should probably go dutch.
The things you pick up as you go.
I was THISCLOSE to ordering the cock-a-leekie pie at VPB tonight, just so I could say “cock” to the cute waiter. I didn’t realize it was the first time I’ve flirted with someone in awhile until Melissa said, “Wow, I literally just watched the switch flip.”
I guess it’s true. My god, it’s just like second nature to me at this point.
How disgusting. How delicious. This game’s getting old and boring.
There are a few things I really like about attending weddings: The look on the bride and groom’s faces as they look at each other, the dancing at the reception afterwards, and the ruthless “time of famine and drought”-style drinking involved when the two best words in the English language get together— Open. Bar. And then there are a few things I really hate about attending weddings: The fact I am ALWAYS over-dressed for the occasion; the feeling of desperation that settles in the air every time all the single women are rounded up onto the dance floor to make that leap for the bouquet; the fact that more and more, I’m attending the weddings of people that I’ve either grown up with and/or my age. First, it was my childhood best friend. Then, it was the older son of a friend of the family whom I’ve known since I was…I don’t know…BORN. They’re both a year or two older than I am, and now nuptially blissed-out, and here I am, still single, and while the motorcycle club I belong to may have a healthy number of prospects, when it comes to ones for my hypothetical wedding bed, there are NONE. Zip. Zero. Ziltch. Nada.
However, I like this show of priorities.
My last relationship involved living together, cleaning together, cooking and drinking together, exercising together (and if you know how much I hate to be seen sweating, you know how much that says about my commitment), and beginning to casually talk about weddings— what locations we liked. What good theme colors would be. Who the bridesmaids and groomsmen would consist of. It was obviously serious when me, Miss Commitment Issues, started considering floral arrangements and the merits of hand-made wedding favors made by myself and my army of loyal (and handy!) bridesmaids. I could see myself spending the rest of my foreseeable 50-to-70 years with him, and somehow having us both miraculously die of old age and NOT of spousal homicide. It was a special union. He asked me one day if I’d still love him when he had a beer gut and had gone gray and to seed. I told him that I probably wouldn’t even notice and still find him sexy, because I’d look like my mother. We laughed. We loved. And we parted.
So it was particularly bitter-sweet this past weekend, as I found myself down in Connecticut, open bar at the ready, single, condoms perennially-prepared in my cute little white clutch, and no single groomsmen to be had. People started asking after my ex. I started drinking more heavily, and eventually excused myself down the hill to the pond, so I could sit and willingly be eaten alive by the mosquitoes rather than have to utter the painful words, “Well, no one special…” one more time.
…And then, I heard the roar of a four-stroke engine.
Riding up the driveway came a refurbished custom Yamaha motorcycle, paint job pristine, chrome gleaming. It’s rider was tall, dark, wearing plaid, and seemingly single. I wanted him. I wanted his bike. I was either in love, or very, very emotionally vulnerable and slightly sloshed.
So I did what every girl does when confronted with a really smokin’ hot guy— I watched him. Yes, I just sat there, and looked at him for the better part of an hour. He was pretty. It was easy. But really, I told myself, it wasn’t quite enough. On the ride down to CT, I’d picked up the newest issue of Cosmopolitan, and for shits, giggles, and boredom, flipped to the last page and taken the “How Much Game Do You Have?” quiz. I got two points for professing that if I were out at a bar and saw a cute guy, I wouldn’t just move into his line of sight and telepathically plead with him to come over and talk to me— I would walk over and say hey. And you just don’t lie to Cosmo. Was I really so sad and single and pathetic that I couldn’t even brush the dust on my flirt off and go over and make a go of it? So I slung back my drink, adjusted my cute little summer dress, cursed being single and back in The Game, and grabbed my purse and lady-balls and walked down to where he stood next to his bike.
Now, if there is one very important life lesson I learned three years ago from having to un-Velcro the Motorcycle Man of my sophomore college year from the thoughts of making me his girlfriend, it is that you DO NOT touch even a man’s kickstand without asking his permission first. And thanks to the Northern Deathriders, I’ve acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge about motorcycles in the last few months. So I sauntered down to him, lightly touched his upper arm to get his attention (and for the hell of being able to touch him), and said, “Excuse me, but what model Yamaha is this?”
He turned around. He smiled. He told me. I told him about my friend’s Yamaha. He asked if I was into bikes. I laughed and told him about my old lady status. “I’m more of a ‘fetch beer, remind them to flip the burgers, and admire the bikes,’ kinda girl,” I told him. “Are you one of those girls who will polish her boyfriend’s bike?” his friend asked me, leaning in. “No. But I’ll tell him when it needs to be done.”
Their eyes lit up in a way that told me that the only wedding bells that day had not just been earlier at the church. For the next 20 minutes, we talked bikes, business, and New York City, where he lived. It was like God had delivered me my perfect made-to-order man. The only thing missing to make it more obvious would have been a silver platter, hand-engraved. But after years in the dating trenches, I knew when to cut things off before the stink of desperation cut in and I went from being The Cute Girl Who Knows Her Shit to being The Crazy Girl Who Won’t Go Away. Proud of myself for having the guts to approach him, and still buzzing from the intoxicating mix of wine, cute guy, and bike exhaust, I thanked him for talking bikes, shook his hand, and excused myself. I may have been out of the game for awhile, but this cat still knows when to play hard-to-get.
Later that night, he came back and found me before he left. I was sitting at a table, taking a break from the dance floor, when I saw him approaching me from the corner of my eye. I pretended not to notice him until he was right next to me, leaning over my chair. He offered his hand again, saying he was leaving, but thanking me for coming over and talking to him earlier. I took it, shook it, and told him the pleasure was mine, and that anytime he wanted to talk bikes, I was game. We didn’t exchange numbers. I didn’t know his last name. But I knew that I felt good about myself, and that this old-hand Single Girl still had some life— and some game— in her yet. And who needs an engagement ring or kids when you can flirt with all the hot young bikers with good manners in the world? Exactly.
22. College-educated. Self-employed entrepreneur. Confident. Sarcastic. Single. Fabulous.
- From SATCG.
When I moved home, I expected that being a grown-ass woman rooming with her parents was going to be putting a HUGE dent in my dating game, were I to choose to play it again. I forgot to factor in the atmosphere of where, exactly, I was moving back to, literally and metaphorically.
The one thing I’d forgotten about starting new jobs was the fact that working in a mall is kind of like being thrown A.) Back into high school, and B.) To the sharks. Since breaking up, moving back home, and becoming employed elsewhere after years of working for the college, I’d somehow forgotten that when you’re a mall-rat employee, you meet LOTS of new people. Not because you’re just that cool or that popular…but because everyone wants to find out what the new girl’s like.
Well, when the new girl’s under the age of 30, single, and is willing to wear 5-inch heels to climb the ladder at work to hang new company posters…well, being the new girl turns some heads. The fact that she doesn’t pay rent and eats home-cooked meals isn’t considered a deterrent, at all. Unfortunately.
By my second shift, I already had a coworker trying to play matchmaker with me and one of his friends. I had a slew of new Facebook friend requests…all male. I literally had to make the “turn around” hand motion to get some poor young dude working across the hall to go back to his shirt folding when I clicked by on a candy bar run to Kmart before his manager yelled at him. I have gotten more store card apps in the last two weeks from eager, young, impressionable men with birth dates in the ’90s than…well, more than I should feel morally ok with.
…Have I mentioned the fact that in my hometown, having all your teeth is a sign of natural beauty? While I may not be a top-model prize in Burlington or, say, Milan— in Vegas, baby, (all) my straight teeth and 4-pack abs are pulling out all the stops.
But here’s the thing— I’m enjoying being single. After two and a half years of always having some guy around, I actually like being on my own. I mean, sure, the fact that it’s getting cold at night without someone else to leech body-heat from is becoming a pain in the ass, and I really miss the company, but as I told a coworker today when she asked me how I was getting by without having sex, considering the fact that I lived with my last boyfriend and consider sex to be a daily— if not twice or thrice daily— duty when in relationships, I’m taking a little bit of a respite from it now, thanks. It’s nice to not have to shave every other day. My body is thanking me more than it’s yelling at me every time a tall, muscular dude who looks like Jason Statham’s nephew walks by the storefront. For real. I’m not kidding. And my leg hair has never kept me warmer. Which is good for all those cold nights spent cuddling with my cat at home while watching Netflix and having to keep turning the volume out to drown my parents out.
So, despite all the things that nature and our 21st century society state I should have working against me right now, I’ve started waving at one of my sweeter admirers every time he passes by, even though I’ve made it clear to all that NOBODY gets a “friend” request accepted until I’ve met and talked with you at least twice for a decent amount of time (it helps suss out the creepers from the genuine nice people), no matter how many times you walk by or how many times I wave hello. One of my managers noticed, and asked me how I felt about jumping back into the dating pool. I pulled a face and told her my master plan.
“I figure, if I say to them, ‘my last relationship involved living together, him doing the laundry, and talking about weddings; are you ready to jump right in there?’ it will scare them away.”
So far, the master plan is working. The only thing scarier than a woman with missing teeth in this town is a 22 year old single girl who’s looking to play Mr. and Mrs. Buy A House. I mean, I didn’t give an underwear model my info. And he looked like this:
What in the unholy Universe would convince me to start dating again NOW?
So who’s the smart one now? This (happily single) girl.
- From SATCG.
So you think you can flirt, huh? I have news for you, buddy— you can always improve on that game, and just like how you begged until your parents sent you to basketball camp in middle school so that you could improve that 3-point shot of yours, I’m here by popular demand to tell you where you’re slacking on the job while trying to pick up chicks. So, here it is, 5 quick, easy tips for sneakily getting on the better, phone-number-giving side of the fairer sex. Use them for good, my boys, not evil. After all— Gandalf is watching.
- Be Aggressive, B.E AGGRESSIVE:
This is the cautionary tale of one would-be suitor gone horrible wrong:
Sometimes, being aggressive is a good thing, like in rugby and fencing and chess and discount sales in Filene’s Basement. But sometimes, it’s not. Persistence isn’t always the best tactic. One over-enthusiastic gent tracked me down on Facebook— and Twitter. He tried friending me— 3 times in 2 days when I didn’t accept fast enough for his liking. He messaged me. He poked me. It was the electronic equivalent of a grade-school kid standing on his blue plastic chair, waving his arms over his head, screaming, “Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!” I still haven’t accepted his request. Why? Because there’s aggressive, and then there’s AGGRESSIVE. And…desperation has never been sexy. Doesn’t matter if you’re XY or XX— it’s a big NO, and the reek of it permeates everything you do. We will know when you’re desperate. Your friends, parents, coworkers, classmates, postal worker, hair dresser, and the entirety of Facebook will know when you are desperate. It shows. So get a leash on that beast. Down, boy.
- “E” Is For Effort. Also, Egotistical Eunuchs End Up Eating Alone:
I’ve had guys tell me, “Come down to see me when you’re on your break.” This is bad. If you’re the one who wants to see me, then you can come to me. A girl with options never goes out of her way for a man; she’ll let him come to her, if he wants to. Nothing tells a girl faster if a guy is really serious about her or not by how much effort he puts into seeing her. And by this age, we girls should have stopped being delusional and making excuses for lazy asses and should know how much effort shown constitutes a viable man and a viable relationship. I know. If it isn’t calling, isn’t visiting, isn’t writing, and isn’t planning, it ain’t yo’ boyfran, gurrrrrrl. And kind sirs, if you are not actively walking your ass over to see her, she’s going to find someone else who WILL, because she ain’t that desperate yet for yo’ lazy ass. Again, desperation is never sexy.
- You’re QUALITY, Not QUANTITY:
Always remember: A little goes a long way, if your “little”— time, effort, energy, affection, money, passion— is quality. I’ve always preferred my men a little aloof— it helps keep the magic going. My last S.O waited until Date #5 to finally kiss me; the entirety of dates 1-4 I was constantly wondering what was going on, and the anticipation made me sparkle even more than the average girl trying to look good on a date does because I kept working for it. But the long-awaited kiss was so good, it was worth the wait. And you know what? All that time spent in good, intelligent conversation, learning each other’s likes and dislikes, food and movie preferences before swapping spit made us both sure that we liked the other— more than just a first date could have foreseen. They were quality dates. It was a quality first kiss. We were sure that the other was a quality person. Much better than a really awkward make-out session straddling the cup-holders in his car’s front seat post first-date beers would have been. A win all-around.
- How To Scabbard Your Sword— What Women Want:
Sorry, this isn’t about sex. I just thought that play on words would grab your attention for what will probably be for most of you the hardest concept to grasp. (Unlike grasping other things.) This is about what all women want. This is the secret that lands the nerdy guys the perfect 10s. This is the Rosetta Stone for understanding women. Cracking this is like cracking a Rubix Cube. So I don’t want to have to sit here and waits through eons of evolution for you guys to finally get it. Which is why I’m just going to come right out and say it to you:
Women just want to be saved. Or, at the very least, we want a partner in crime.
You know how in Million Dollar Baby, Hillary Swank kicked major ass? It was because Clint Eastwood was there in her corner, and he had her back. All women want a knight…white, black, red, or purple, it doesn’t matter to us. What matters is that we all want a champion— someone who is willing to go forth and do battle for us, whether it’s getting us that extra dollar off our soft pretzel at the mall that the salesgirl somehow forgot to credit us, or sticking up to other people to defend us. Because we’re worth it. As Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote, every girl is a princess, whether she looks like it or acts like it or not. If I do something, if I say something, you best believe I do it with 110% conviction, and all I want— and what I deserve— is to have someone there who will stand next to me and uphold those words and those actions.
This is where a guy riding up on his high horse comes in. I don’t need to be questioned anymore. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. What I want, what I need— what all women need— is someone as strong and courageous and faithful as I am to stand next to me and be there for me to lean on when I’m too tired to lead the charge, and have them stand up to the job. So be a stand-up guy. If you say something, follow through. Never make any promises you can’t keep; don’t lie. If you know something wrong is happening, stop it. If you see something unfair, call people on it. In return, I promise that any woman worth that title and her salt will be doing the same for you, because if you have my back, and I have yours, nothing in life will ever be able to sneak up on us and scare the crap out of us. THAT is what women find most sexy of all— reliability, safety, and partnership.
- Getting The Big N.O, or, Failure For Champions:
Then again, you could do everything right and still be turned down. It’s a woman’s prerogative to be fickle. Maybe she’s just gotten out of a bad relationship, or isn’t over her ex yet. Maybe she’s interested in someone else and doesn’t want to lead you on and waste your time. Maybe you’re just not her “type”…you can’t help that, but chances are you definitely will be someone else’s. Or maybe she’s just enjoying being single right now, and doesn’t want to think about getting involved with men or dating. But don’t let this dissuade you from trying again with a different girl— practice makes perfect, after all. Take a page from the Casanova-like diaries of the men I met while I was in Italy— with all the “ciao, bella”-ing that was going on, and all the flat-out rejections from those “bella”s, I thought it was a wonder any Italians ever managed to procreate. But as my Food and Wine professor told his class of 18 American girls, “If you say it enough times, someone is bound to say ‘ciao’ back.” That’s how he landed his American wife while she was studying abroad. See? It works. If Giancarlo could do it, I have faith that you can, too. Now, get out there, and be someone’s knight in shining armor. Or, at least, take you car through the car wash and go pay for the cute lady in front of you’s espresso at the coffee shop tomorrow morning.
- From SATCG.
Slow days at work are good for one thing and one thing only: People-watching. It’s always been one of my favorite activities, but, when Fate deems it worthy to throw some eye-candy my way on a slow afternoon, I really, really love it.
I was slumped at the repair desk this afternoon, staring out into the mall in a zombie-like trance, when a backwards black baseball cap, a fair amount of stubble, and a Northface jacket caught my attention. He looked a lot like my ex-ex, and, as long as we’re being candid, I’ll let slip that I had a rather fascinating dream about him (or someone who looked like him,) last night, so I had a fairly large soft-spot already built into me when I spotted him. So I checked the guy out, and he happened to turn right before the store pillar and see me, as well. When he got to the next door, he was still looking. So was I.
Now, considering the fact that I remember meticulously plotting and putting the moves on my first elementary school crush at the tender age of 5, and that I haven’t stopped flirting for more than a single, solitary hour since, let’s just skate over the long story and put it bluntly that I’m very, very good at what I do, and how I do it. Why? The two things most girls seem to miss out on while going through the “Boys don’t have cooties!” revelation— initiative, and confidence. So, knowing the mall entrances and having a good idea that my Doppelganger Cutie would be heading back my way at some point, I got up, adjusted my tits (yes, we girls actually do actively do that— better than the medieval equivalent of “girding our loins,”), and went to go hang out on the cases in front of the store.
Here’s Tip #1: I actually got up, and made myself more accessible, happily. No man has ever fallen straight through the ceiling and into your sweatpant-clad lap while you watched Jersey Shore re-runs on MTV and ate straight out of a pint of Chubby Hubby, amirite? And, if a dude has, go see your landlord, because you have got bigger problems than your love-life, girlfraaaaaand.
Sure enough, another 10 minutes roll around, and who comes strolling back. Right. Onto Tip #2: I looked him dead in the eye, and smiled. He smiled back. I didn’t break eye contact. We kept looking at each other. His grin got wider, as did mine. I felt myself start to blush. And right then, he pursed his fine little lips, and blew me a kiss.
With that, I finally looked away; he kept walking. If I had wanted to do more than just ogle him, I would have kept eye contact after his air-kiss, and he could have come over to talk to me. But, like I told my AM, it’s really the little things that make girls like me the happiest. Him blowing me a kiss made my afternoon and my workday more worth it than it would have been to set up and go on a date with him in which I would have inevitably realized with a sinking feeling that I’ve already dated this guy— or one like him— before. So, instead, this Single Girl kept her cool and let it lie with that innocent, sweet little hint of a kiss, and that was all that I wanted, and all that I needed. You, too, could be getting what you want and what you need, and all it takes is a little initiative, and a boatload of confidence.
Bold Moves October, rolling into Still Being Bold November.
Consisted of meeting for Ladies Who Lun-…Drink…at 2 PM and consuming a steak, molten chocolate lava cake, and two absolutely DIVINE margaritas.
I then went shopping, and was momentarily transported back to Italy when the young male cashier at Petco didn’t charge me for my two cat collars or ID tag, and only for the least expensive items— treats, a catnip mouse, and a mint flossing toy (yes, Nicco is spoiled rotten). My total came to HALF of what it should have been. I felt better about life than I have for DAYS.
…It’s not that I think that I’m entitled to free shit. Quite on the contrary, I know I’m not, and I’m not the type to take hand-outs. It’s just that, when someone does something like that for you— because you smiled at them, made conversation, asked them how their day was, didn’t just treat them like another cashier or salesperson, and yes, are pretty— it really just makes you feel good, you know? In Italy, they do it because I’m foreign and blonde and always tried speaking to them in their language, first. It was a courtesy thing. Here, it almost never happens, so when it does, it makes it that much sweeter.
And such a sweet, sweet life it is.
Tonight, I am going out. Tonight, I am getting dressed up and blowing off all the steam that’s accumulated from the past 40 hours of work in a tense environment. Tonight, I might end up dancing on tables and flirting with boys with my oldest girl friend/partner-in-heartbreakin’-crime. Tonight, I am not making wise decisions.
I have new underwear. I have a new signature scent called “Bombshell: Seduction,” and I plan on living up to it. I have two condoms in my adorable little leopard-print clutch. I am
Single. and. ready. to. MINGLE.
It is a really good thing that all the men of my past relationships of the last two years all met me and made their move when I was NOT looking for a relationship, otherwise we would have never entered into one, I would have flirted and teased them mercilessly, and nothing would have ever happened. That’s the way I roll: When I’m on the hunt, I’ll eat your heart. If I’m single and actively looking for a guy, I’m the worst tease in the world and will not be serious with anyone. But when I’m not and you ask me out of your own accord while I’m wearing leggings and schlepping into class late because I don’t have a care in the world other than getting home to eat a steak and catch up on the latest episode of Sons of Anarchy and take up all the room in my own bed, you actually might have a chance of taming the beast. In other words: Dressed up and laughing wildly at a bar— No chance. Slubbing it and entering into casual conversation, somewhat guardedly— you’re golden.
…Tonight is an eat-your-heart-out night. Whacha, Vegas. Getting numbers, taking names.
I don’t know if any guys really grasp how nerve-wracking it is for a girl to call or contact them first…
…I am such a little chickenshit.
Like seriously, I feel like I am back in 6th grade again writing the note that says, “If you like me, check yes; if you don’t, check no.” Except, without the semi-colon. Because a 6th-grader would not use a semi-colon.
Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod yes, thank you; there is a baby Jesus.
I have been such a chickenshit for the last few days, not texting the new babe at the mall because I don’t know, I have antiquated ideas about how a man who’s interested should make the first move, EVEN THOUGH he asked my old manager to give me his number, which technically counts as the first, but I was still struggling with the idea of texting a very attractive stranger and how one goes about it…when lo and behold, not even 10 minutes ago, BOOM.
There is a god, and the gods of dating have smiled down upon me from an electronic device.
Girls Playing “The Game”: +1.
Boys Who Make The First Move: +1.
EVERYBODY wins tonight! Kisses for all the babies and hugs for all the constituents!
P.S— AND HE JUST ASKED ME OUT. I am still about 16 and in my awkward bangs-growing-out-with-about-15-extra-pounds stage in my head, so I am always AMAZED when absolute stone foxes ask me out. I have had very, VERY good luck with attractive men these past two years. How, I do not know, but I’ll take it.
So, I went out again last night. I made some new friends, and by “friends,” I mean men. Here are the few talking points I’d like to discuss:
- The guy who came up to me while I was engrossed in a game of darts, leaned into me, and slurred way too early in the evening to be slurring, “Can I ask you a question?…Why do I find you to be the most sexy and sophisticated woman here?” To which I answered, “Uh, I don’t know; why?” And he replied with, “I don’t know; I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Uhhhh. No bueno.
First of all, thanks for calling me sexy and sophisticated in a roundabout way, but, really, man, have your pick-up lines worked out already so that I don’t end up just looking at you like, “Ok, you nut-job…”
- What seems to work for normal guys: Two times when I was hanging over the bar trying to get a drink, the guy holding down the bar stool next to me turned around and started chatting me up. Let me tell you what worked for them—
They were normal. One asked me my name and then introduced himself. The other asked me where I was from. (Interesting side-note: This seems to be a popular opener question among 20-something guys. I don’t know why; I can think of many other more interesting things to talk about but hey, whatever works for you, dudes.)
They were not drunk. Or if they were, they hid it well.
They were polite. They were not pawing all over me or leaning into my personal bubble and breathing heavily all over me. Those are all bad things. Those are all things that do NOT endear me to going home with you.
They let me leave when I wanted to. They didn’t try to make me hang around and drag out conversation. One even shook my hand and thanked me for meeting him. That was cute. He was my favorite man of the night.
- …Unlike the two guys who tried to grab me— yes, literally, physically GRAB ME— as I left the dance floor for the ladies’ room. One grabbed me by my hips and said “heyyy,” and when I pushed right through him, another grabbed the back of my belt and tried dragging me back. I took him almost all the way through the bathroom door before he freaked at being in a no-fly zone and let go. Ok, guys, let me lay it out for you: When a girl has been drinking, and already broken the seal, YOU. DO. NOT. GET. BETWEEN. HER. AND. THE. TOILET. I mean, would you stop a girl who was about to be sick and try to grind up all on her? No, you would not, because you don’t want to be puked on. I ASSUME you also don’t want me to pee all over your shoes while jamming on the dance floor, so, look, just don’t try it. Just because we’ve separated from our posse and are alone and vulnerable as we try to find the only open stall in the joint does NOT make it an OK time to try to work your magic on us. Really. Would WE stop YOU from climaxing while watching porn? No. Same basic principals of politeness. Really.
So, gentlemen, don’t be THOSE guys.