On Meeting Men

So, you’re a young professional in a big city—there should be lots of opportunities to meet potential suitors, right? Assuming one gets out of one’s apartment (which I have been known to do on occasion), every hour of every day is pregnant with possibility.

But really, are there that many places and times to meet prospective significant others? Here’s a pie chart outlining where I spend my time:

If snozberries were made into a baked good, this is what it would look like. 

Let’s break it down, shall we?

Work:

Not that there are that many single young men in my field in the first place, but I still shy away from the idea of dating a co-worker. There’s too much potential for messy break-ups spilling over into the work-sphere and making things awkward for everyone involved or in the general vicinity. Plus, there’s the whole secrecy aspect—generally speaking, relationships between co-workers are kept under-wraps—that can be fun and even a little exciting at first, but eventually wears on you, when all you want is for your boyfriend to bring you a Diet Vanilla Coke from Sonic without everyone being all weird about it.

Sidebar: That’s the dream.

At least in my current situation, the workplace isn’t going to cut it as far as happy hunting grounds go. There are not nearly enough departments to get lost in or floors to hide on should the relationship go sour.

Driving/Dancing:

I spend a good chunk of my day driving to and from work during the week, and to and from various Houston suburbs on the weekends (coughcoughKatycoughcough). I try to maximize this time I spend sitting down by enthusiastically dancing to Hits 1 in my seat. This, aside from parking as far away from the front doors of Target as possible so as to increase my steps per diem, is pretty much the only exercise I get. I also sing along (loudly) to Adele and do that Christina Aguilera-esque hand wave, which I figure has to burn some calories too. The point is I look like an utter lunatic when I’m driving my car, and barring meeting people by shouting at them out the window while driving down 290 becoming de rigueur introduction protocol, I think I’m SOL.

Watching British TV:

As noted in the previous post, I also spend an inordinate amount of time crushing on all of Britain’s swoon-worthy leading men while lounging on my couch. As awesome as it would be for Benedict Cumberbatch to step out of my TV for a cuppa and a chat, I think the laws of science preclude that possibility. Other than that, I’m pretty sure the only way I would meet someone new in my apartment is if they were breaking in or delivering pizza, and I really don’t think that would bode well for our future relationship.

“Making Merry”:

Then there is, of course, the bar scene. I could write a blog about how well my dates that have arisen from a meeting at a bar have gone. Oh, wait—I already have.

If not cold-meetings at various happy hours, then what? Introductions from friends and family?

Problem #1: My closest sibling in age is ten years older than me, which means that even if my sisters had any single friends left, they would be a tad too old for me.

Problem #2: My guy friends kinda suck. I love them, but when it comes to welcoming potentials or introducing prospectives, they’re just not cutting it. First of all, they believe that any guy other than themselves is a douche bag until proven cool. They maintain that they have really good douche-dar and are only looking out for me, but I swear they are pickier than I am. Secondly, if they do find someone they think I might like, there’s no follow through.

Sidebar: Joey, I’m still waiting for a call from that youth minister in the Woodlands who wanted to see a picture of me before committing to driving inside the loop to pick me up. Actually, never mind on that one.

Thirdly, my core group of college friends is insanely incestuous, and I think that there’s a small part of them that’s just hoping I’ll fall for one of the guys so we can keep it all in the family.

Sidebar: Out of the five RY guys of my senior year, two are married (or practically married), one is becoming a priest, and the other two are Bryan Ryan and Johnny Brandolf. Sorry, guys—I think outsourcing is my only option. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he passes the Front Porch Test.

Browsing at Barnes and Noble:

In the meet cute of my dreams, I run into my future husband whilst browsing the fiction shelves at my local B&N.

As of yet, the only human interaction I have at the bookstore is with the barista behind the counter of the in-house Starbucks—but I’ll hold on to my fantasy of bumping into a taller Ryan Gosling look-alike in the history section. One day, friends. One day.

Sleeping to Dream:

I love sleeping. One of the great miseries of my life is that I currently have a job that requires I wake up before six o’clock, a time of day that was absolutely unknown to me until after college graduation, aside from the handful of times I dragged myself out of bed before school to go running with my dad.

Sidebar: I say running. Really, it was my dad running while I jogged for about two minutes, and then limped along behind him, heaving, and trying to make sure I didn’t throw up a kidney.

That being said, I try to get seven to eight hours of sleep a night, sometimes more on the weekend, and unless my dreams don’t turn to dust at the sound of my alarm clock buzzing, there’s no way I’m going to meet the future Mr. E while I'm asleep. Unless, of course, that same perp who was breaking and entering while I was watching British TV hid in my closet until bedtime, but again—felonies make a bad start to a relationship. 

So there you have it--an entirely inaccurate account of where I spend all my time (my pie chart is a total guesstimation, which is probably why my 50 miles-a-day drive is somehow the second smallest piece of the pie). Feel free to comment with your suggestions of new places for me to frequent/lurk, or with the names and numbers of delivery boys with bright futures. 

The Bachelorette Bookworm: In Her Netflix Queue

Over my (meager/miserly/mingy/pick-another-“m”-word-that-means-too-damn-short) Christmas break, I fell down the proverbial rabbit hole once again. I have a terrible tendency towards hermithood that is usually exacerbated by my inability to watch just one episode at a time of anything.

Sidebar: This applies not only to television or book series, but also to bags of Dove chocolate, Twizzlers, Fudge Stripe cookies and Goldfish (the crackers, not the pet. Obviously). All must be consumed right away, otherwise the temptation might kill me.

I have long been an admirer of a handsome Brit in a pair of well-cut breeches and a top hat, and as such, have lost my heart to many a leading man in one of the BBC’s or ITV’s plethora of period mini-series. These past two weeks, however, my heart belonged to Matthew Crawley of “Downton Abbey.” My obsession was so frenzied, that after re-watching all of season one, I simply couldn’t wait until January 8^th for season two to begin in the States, and so resorted to various means of internet chicanery in order to find out what happened to Matthew, Mary, and the rest of the gang during and after the Great War, keeping my computer running late into the night as I stared at the tiny, 3” by 6” box on my screen, refreshing endlessly as to overcome numerous buffering issues, and undoubtedly making my family question once more how I will ever find a real person to suit me.

Sidebar: If you have not already been watching “Downton Abbey,” I command you to immediately cease reading this blog, and go find season one on Netflix. I guarantee that if you have both your ovaries, you’ll be hooked.

Last night, I was coerced into watching that parade of pageantry and, in my opinion, the manifestation of all that is wrong with America today, “The Bachelor.” Unfortunately, I was sucked in by Jenna the Bloggess’ crazy eyes, and now feel like I must finish out the season (Curse you, Jeni!), if only to mock it.

Sidebar: I will probably cry during the finale.

Inspired by my unrequited love of fictional characters and the monstrosity that is modern reality TV, I have decided to share my personal, perfectly-cast list of eligible bachelors, should ABC ever decide to make me their new bachelorette, and populate that venerable villa in the hills with the imaginary men of my dreams.

Arriving on horseback (clearly, they stole this gag from Lindzi):

Bachelor #1: Westly (Cary Elwes) in The Princess Bride

Bachelor #2: Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings

Bachelor #3: Guy of Gisborne (Richard Armitage) in “Robin Hood” (but only the first two seasons)

Bachelor# 4: Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice

Bachelor #5: Michael Hosea in Redeeming Love

Arriving in a four-in-hand:

Bachelor #6: Christian (Ewan McGregor) in Moulin Rouge

Bachelor #7: The Phantom (Gerard Butler) in The Phantom of the Opera

Bachelor #8: Dimitri (voiced by John Cusack) in Anastasia

Bachelor #9: Raoul (Patrick Wilson) in The Phantom of the Opera

Bachelor #10: John Thornton (Richard Armitage) in North & South

Arriving in a vintage Rolls Royce Silver Ghost:

Bachelor #11: Matthew Crawley (Dan Stevens) in “Downton Abbey”

Bachelor #12: Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck) in Roman Holiday

Bachelor #13: Mickey a.k.a. The Boy in the Tuxedo from that dream I had three and a half years ago that inspired my as-of-yet unfinished novel

Bachelor #14: Edward Cullen in The Twilight Saga

Bachelor #15: Neal Caffrey (Matt Bomer) in “White Collar”

Arriving in a classic stretch limo:

Bachelor #16: Keith (Eric Stoltz) in Some Kind of Wonderful

Bachelor #17: Ned (Lee Pace) in “Pushing Daisies”

Bachelor #18: Kevin Doyle (James Marsden) in 27 Dresses

Bachelor #19: Jim Halpert (John Krasinski) in “The Office”

Bachelor #20: Matt Flamhoff (Mark Ruffalo) in 13 Going on 30

Bachelor #21: Joey Richter (Joey Richter) in StarKid Production’s “Me and My Dick”

Bachelor #22: Jess Mariano (Milo Ventimiglia) in “Gilmore Girls”

Arriving in a “Firefly-class” spaceship, in the Horrible Van, and by broomstick (a Nimbus 2001) respectively:

Bachelor #23: Captain Mal Reynolds (Nathan Fillion) in “Firefly”

Bachelor #24: Dr Horrible/Billy (NPH) in “Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog”

Bachelor #25: Draco Malfoy (Lauren Lopez) in StarKid’s “A Very Potter Musical” and “A Very Potter Sequel”

I think this will make for a good mix in the Villa de la Vina, don’t you? But who will be the first to go? Tune in next time for the first rose ceremony (many thanks to the Phantom’s florist for providing the lovely “Black Prince” roses for the proceedings). Until then, enjoy this montage of manly men looking pensively out into the distance!

Sidebar (in conclusion): I think this little endeavor marks my move into certifiable territory…

And if we Randos have offended, spell-check this and all is mended

As an English major, I cannot tell you the number of times I have been asked for grammatical advice. I’ve accepted that there are very few people in this world that actually speak proper English, and as I am occasionally one of them, it is my lot in life to educate the masses when they ask for help—and sometimes even when they don’t ask. It is my cross to bear and most times I don’t mind dispensing with a usage rule or two, provider that the askee reciprocates in some form or fashion (I take air miles, rare books and expired drink tickets).
 

Sidebar: I promise I am, in fact, going somewhere with this.

Last year, I made a series of trips up to Fort Worth to visit my friend, Amy. Before A&M’s crushing loss to Arkansas in the Southwest Classic, we had no choice but to preemptively drown our sorrows in an all-night pub crawl in downtown Fort Worth.

At some point, we picked up a couple of gentlemanly gents—Brawn and Mitch. Brawn was an old pal of Amy’s, but Mitch was new to us.

At this point in the evening, I was already a couple of G&Ts in—a fact which, coupled with Mitch’s passing resemblance to a Rich I knew, led me to constantly call him the wrong name. I finally gave up and referred to him as Rich-Mitch for the rest of our acquaintance, both behind his back and to his face.

I don’t recall much from that night, as a later harrowing experience obscured much of my memory of it…

Sidebar: Let me just tell you, coming back home at the end of the night to find that your friend’s car has been towed, which subsequently entails a three hour excursion to some God-forsaken corner of DWF during which you must haggle with scrappy tow-yard employees, resulting in you not putting head to pillow until close to five AM when you have to wake up at eight is both an experience and slightly harrowing, if only because of the consequential sleep-deprivation.

I do recall that as we were leaving the bar, I recited Puck’s closing monologue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream for Rich-Mitch and the rest of the revelers on 3^rd street. It seemed appropriate at the time.

Sidebar: What can I say, I get exponentially more geeky when I drink spirits. I present Exhibit A.

Anyway, Rich-Mitch was a cutie, and the next morning I tried in vain to lure him away from his law books and convince him to come to the Aggie game, or at least to the pre-game tailgate, since clearly that’s more important than the game itself—particularly if A&M’s playing.

Sidebar: Face it, you need some sort of numbing agent before watching the Ags play. Maybe in the future we should set up tents offering free nitrous oxide hits to fans…

Rich-Mitch it seemed was immune to my charms, and chose to spend the day cuddling with his torts textbook instead of getting his heart broken by Jerrod Johnson.

However, we would meet again a few weeks later when I journeyed back north for Halloween weekend.

I was super excited to debut my Halloween costume that year, which I felt was both creative and cute without veering into “I moonlight as a hooker on the weekends” territory.

That first night, we crashed a friend’s med school party where we toasted another mutual ex with wrathful shots of tequila…we really need to stop dating the same guys. I believe one of us may have resorted to improvising an outdoor lavratory due to plumbing issues inside. We also texted Rich-Mitch, who seemed to remember my performance of the Bard’s work fondly, and made arrangements to meet up the next night.

Since my wedding dress had endured several party fouls the night before (sadly, it never fully recovered from its beer-baths, even after a trip to the dry cleaner’s), I pulled out my back-up costume, the ever-popular authentic (aka non-slutty) Catholic school girl.

Sidebar: Catholic school, K-12, baby! And the skirt still fits.

Unfortunately, my contacts also didn’t escape the previous night’s festivities unscathed (seriously, those med students know how to let lose after midterms are over), so I was rocking my glasses along with my plaid box-pleats. Keep in mind, these are what I wear to get myself from the bathroom to my bed without breaking something, and only make public appearences when absolutely necessary, such as when I’m out of contacts or have contracted pink eye.

We met up with Brawn and Rich-Mitch at a dive bar where we pretended that I have a modicum of hand-eye coordination and played a few rounds of darts and pool. Rich-Mitch kept a steady stream of Blue Moons in my hand, and flirted with me by the jukebox. I was secretly thrilled that someone still found me vaguely attractive in my specs (though maybe it wasn’t so much them on their own as opposed to their combination with knee socks that did it for him).

Eventually, we ended up at the Library, where in a magical, booze-soaked moment on the dancefloor, Rich-Mitch and I transitioned from slowly revolving on one spot to some 80s rock ballad to kissing. The kissing was surprisingly good, considering my glasses kept slipping down my nose. I was in bliss.

After last call, Brawn, Rich-Mitch, Amy and I giggled our way back to Rich-Mitch’s apartment, where he impressed me with facinating tales from law school, and showed me his fridge of Red Bull. There was a little more canoodling on the couch (strictly PG, I promise), and a sweet goodnight kiss. All in all, a satisfying weekend.

I had no delusions that this little daliance would blossom into a full-fledged relationship—we lived in different cities after all, but I was a little miffed when the only contact I had from Rich-Mitch the next week was the follwing text message:

Disclaimer: This occurred P.i.P.: Pre-iPhone, ergo I’m reconstructing this convo from memory, so I make no guaruntees to its factual accuracy, only sentimental truthiness.

Rich-Mitch: Hey, you were an English major, right?

Me: Yes…

Rich-Mitch: I’m working on this paper for my contracts class, and I was wondering if you could help me with some wording.

Me (sigh): Sure.

Rich-Mitch: (insert banal usage/spelling question here)

Me: (insert appropriate answer)

Rich-Mitch: Thanks babe :)

And I never heard from him again.

Bryan Ryan Returns!

And so does How to Lose a Girl...at least for the time being. We'll see how many entries I can eke out over winter break.

What you are about to read is an actual textersation between me and Bryan Ryan. Yes, that Bryan Ryan. He’s about 10% serious here (I’m ball-parking), but is nothing if not earnest in his mostly-in-jest attempts to get me to date him. He’s going to wear down the nicest girl someday! I kid. Bryan Ryan, you know I love you in the sincerest, most-platonic way possible :)

Bryan Ryan: Just one time, E! You’re going to give me a chance and it’s going to be EPIC!

Me: Only in your dreams, mon frère.

Me: And if there are dreams, I don’t want to know about them… :P

Bryan Ryan: Chinese food. Greek. You’re basically saying we were meant to be together

Me: Yes, you’re right. Everyone knows that pan-Asian cuisine and cancelled ABC Family shows are in fact a euphemism for hooking up. How silly of me.

Bryan Ryan: Not silly. Calculated. Well played.

Me: I want you. I need you. Oh baby oh baby.

Bryan Ryan: Now you’re just playing hard to get

Me: And quoting Julia Stiles. I’m multi-talented like that

Bryan Ryan: She was FANTASTIC in 10 things I hate about you

Me: Indeed

Me (trying to change the subject): How go the law school apps?

Bryan Ryan: Still waiting on a recommendation to be submitted but I’m basically done otherwise.

Sidebar: Did you breathe a sigh of relief? Too soon, I’m afraid. When Bryan gets on a roll, he must see the pick-up lines through to the end.

Bryan Ryan: I can be a provider. See?

Sidebar: Aaaaand he’s back!

Me: Yes, but not for at least like 6 years...

Bryan Ryan (not dissuaded): 4.5 and you really have to think long term on that one

Me: ...plus then you’ll have all your law school debt to deal with

Bryan Ryan: I don’t plan to have all that much debt…(Bryan proceeds to lay out his five-year financial plan for me)…not all that bad

Me (wryly): Well, that’s good.

Bryan Ryan: Yeah, so just start thinking about it. There could be a Mary statue in your future ;)

Sidebar: Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: there is a running joke amongst my group of friends that all most a goodly amount of marriage proposals that come out of St. M relationships involve an adoration hour, rose petals, and a statue of Mary. I maintain that there is a pamphlet that our pastor hands out to guys when they ask for his brother's information. He’s a local jeweler. The brother, not the priest. There’s some kind of nepotism in there somewhere.

Me: No, my future husband will have much more creativity than that. 27-year-old PhD’s have mad proposal-planning skills. That’s why their six-packs are so taut—they’re full of ideas.

Sidebar: There’s another running joke/prediction that I will one day date a 27-year-old, "almost gay" PhD with a six pack. I don't get it either. Just go with it.

Bryan Ryan: Well 27-year-old JD’s with a sense of humor tease you at 24 about a Mary statue to set the stage

Me: You are not 27. Are you building a time machine too?

Bryan Ryan: No? I said that 27-year-old JD’s (which I WILL be) tease you at 24 (which I am)

Me: Ahh

Bryan Ryan: That’s at least one date for false accusations. I’m sure we can reach a settlement that will be amenable to all parties…

Sidebar: Bryan likes to practice his last-will-and-testament diction for inevitable future use in his closing arguments.

Me: One where you lose my number?

Bryan Ryan: Lose your number? What do you think I do on dates?

Me: Ah, see you have fallen to one of the classic blunders—the most famous of which is never get into a land war with Asia—but only slightly less well-known is this:  “Never hit on a girl who has watched you clip your toenails who isn’t already married to you.”

Sidebar: Boom! Lawyered.

Bryan Ryan: Ahh, touché. Well, I guess that’s the only reason this won’t work.

Me: Sure.

Bryan Ryan: You shut me down so hard. It’s incredible

Me: It’s what I do :) Bow to greatness, Bryan Ryan. Bow to stone-cold greatness.

I like to think that these little dialogues are an exercise in verbal sparring that will hone Bryan's argumentation skills so that he can one day kill it in the courtroom. Bryan Ryan, you're welcome.

Guest Blog: It started off, "Hey, cutie, where you from?"

Well, hey, y’all—long time, no see. I do hope you’re enjoying the slight reprieve from the Great Heat Wave of 2011 down here in the south, and are gearing up for the season of football games (i.e. tailgating), Brach’s Candy Corn, hot chocolate, and stuffin’. As a special fall treat, my friend, Katie, has written her first guest blog for your reading pleasure. Look for more guest blogs to come (I’ve been collecting), as well as a few posts from yours truly in the near future. Follow me on Twitter to make sure you know when I’ve updated! And now, on to H2LG1D’s latest cautionary tale…

This, friends, is a tale of a naïve girl’s first date and first kiss. Prepare yourselves to shake your heads in pity, gasp in horror, and laugh at the ridiculous nature of this date. And please bear with fifteen-year-old Katie. She was young, inexperienced, and flattered by this older gentleman caller. And don’t worry, I used to be embarrassed that my first date and first kiss weren’t until I was fifteen, but I’m totes over it. In fact, for the sake of the story, I think it only adds to the terror. Do not pity though, twenty-two-year-old Katie has learned her lesson and is quite the classy lady.  Shall we begin?

Sidebar (E): I didn’t get my first real (i.e. non-stage) kiss until I was almost eighteen. And it was AWFUL. Reason #76 why peer pressure/power of suggestion inevitably bite you in the ass.

Back circa summer 2005, I was on a summer league swim team. As summer leaguers we spent our Saturday mornings sitting on a pallet of towels with our friends, playing cards, drawing on each other with markers, and trying to qualify for the coveted Ponderosa meet at the end of the season. The beauty of swimming is that it is a co-ed sport. Flirting whilst practicing and competing was a norm. Plus, there were gentlemen in Speedos everywhere. Now, after ten years of swimming, I was over the Speedo. It really had no effect of me. To focus on practice, you had to get over it. In fact, the boys thought they were way more attractive in them than I and my fellow seasoned swimming ladies actually did. They would walk around with their butt cracks hanging out, flexing their 4 to 6 (give or take) pack of abs. We were over it. And I’ve digressed.

Summer 2005. One particular Saturday meet, one of the 18 and under fellows in particular was focusing more of his attention on me than before. I think prior to this meet we had said “Hi” maybe once?  He had just graduated high school, making him two entire years older than yours truly.  Lemme just say…THIS WAS A BIG DEAL! And a big mistake. We shall name this fellow ­­Kolka.

Fun fact: Kolka is actually his middle name. His mother is straight from Iceland.

Sidebar to Fun Fact (E): I totally read his name as “Koala” at first, which puzzled me exceedingly.

Kolka was two years older, attractive, and a smooth operator. Not that it would have taken much to convince me to go on a date at this point in my teenaged life, but with those three qualities at work, I was smitten. After flirting all Saturday morning, I left the meet with my mom, and he ran up and requested my digits.

Fun fact: I had just gotten my very own cell phone a month prior. I was a big girl now.

I probably peed my pants a bit and went through every possibility of why he would need my number with my mother on the way home.  Why would cute and older Kolka want my number? It was mind-boggling.

When I got home, I got a text from him saying, “Wanna go out tonight?” (We’ll count how many times I say I should have known then in this story) I have a TERRIBLE memory, so I’m not exactly sure what went down next, but it probably involved getting really excited, dancing and doing high kicks in my room, then getting really nervous about asking my Dad if I could go. I went downstairs to ask Faja and it went something like this…

Sidebar (E): Oh, I so wish there was video of the high-kicks! Re-enactment?

15-year-old Katie: “Hey, Daddy, so, um, Kolka wants to go out with me tonight. Can I?”

Daddio: “Kolka who?”

15-year-old Katie: “………..?”

I DID NOT KNOW HIS LAST NAME! In fact, this got me thinking, I did not know anything about Kolka except that he was totally fine and was two years older and wanted to take me out. What more did my father want?! A last name? Stupid.

Sidebar (E): I think we all know where this was going…

Fun fact: The reason I didn’t know Kolka’s last name was because it was fourteen letters long and completely Icelandic, so it wasn’t pronounced anything like it was spelled. Minor details.

15-year-old Katie: “Well I don’t really know, but I’ll find out…tonight, at the movies.”

I could tell I had thrown my father for a loop. As the eldest child, I was the first to request such a thing. So after a short hesitation, and realizing that I was fifteen and most of my friends had been in and out of three or four “relationships” by now, he agreed to my night out.

Sidebar (Katie): Woooow! As I typed that last sentence that I remembered that I was, in fact, sixteen years old, not fifteen! Please note: I. Was. Sixteen. I don’t want to go back and change the fifteen times I said I was fifteen.

Sidebar (E): ‘Cause when you’re…erm…SIXteen! And somebody tells you they love you, you’re gonna believe them… Sorry, but this post is really making me want to go download some pop-country J

So, Kolka came to my house to pick me up in his super cool black truck. He came to the door to meet my father in a bright green hat that said CORONA in bright yellow across the front. I should have known then.

From here on out the details of the date get a little foggy. I believe this is due to two things:

1. I always have had and always will have a terrible memory
2. My brain’s primary defense mechanism is repression

We got to the movies and realized that our first movie choice was sold out. Who cares what it was. All that matters is that we decided to see Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith instead. I was less than thrilled. I should have known then. I do love Star Wars, but I had built this whole first date situation up in my head and Star Wars was cramping its feng shui. On top of that, we walked into the COMPLETELY full theater and had to find seats on the second row. Here, my friends, is the scene where one of the most awkward moments of my life occurred.

Recap: 2^nd row.

Huge screen.

Craning necks.

Anakin Skywalker turning to the Dark Side

About twenty minutes into the movie, Kolka reached over and took my hand. This was a lovely and first date-appropriate gesture. However, the next move was not.

He dropped my hand

and

reached

for

my

…

face.

When his hand reached my face he started slowly caressing.

Repeat… caressing.

Sidebar (E): Okay, seriously? Is there some sort of Halfwit Academy for Wannabe Ladies’ Men out there that teaches a class on awkward face-caressing/wrist-stroking? Who is telling them that this is okay?!

Up until this point, I had not thought about Kolka wanting to kiss me. We didn’t even know each other’s last names. Surely that is a perquisite to lip locking?!

Sidebar (E): Thank you, Carrie Underwood, for instructing us in this matter. Silly little 16-year-old Katie! You could have married him without knowing his last name!

I. Freak. Out.

 I did not know what he was doing. My instinct was to just keep looking at the movie screen. I thought, “Maybe if I look super interested in the movie, he’ll stop.”

He did not.

He kept awkwardly caressing my cheek…my ear… my chin… and even my lips…with one hand. I should have known then.

Sidebar (Katie): Who caresses people’s lips?! (ever….but mostly on a first date!?)

I was in full-out, body-paralyzing panic. I cannot tell you how long this went on, but it was long enough to watch Anakin (a.k.a. Darth Vader) and Obi-Wan Kenobi engage in a lightsaber duel where Vader’s leg and arm are cut off. Long enough. Kolka soon realized his seduction techniques were not working on this scared, naïve, slightly trembling from fear, little girl.

So he got forceful and straight to the point. I should have known then.

He took my entire face and turned it towards his and before I even knew what was happening he was kissing me. Let me just say that his was not a soft, sweet kiss that all girls imagine their first kiss to be. It was sloppy, moist, and aggressive. His tongue was involved. Way too involved. I should have known then. I was mortified. He finally let me out of his sloppy, moist grasp and I just sat back and stared at the movie screen trying to comprehend what the devil just happened.

Sidebar (E): Apparently at the HAWLM, there is also a class called “Their Mouths, Your Tongues,” in which they all practice violent tongue-thrusting for use on unsuspecting victims.

If I had had the confidence of twenty-two-year-old Katie, I would have said something dramatic and left the date promptly. But, alas, this was a far less-cool version of me. I was still “star struck” that I was on a date with this guy and I sat out the rest of the movie trying to convince myself that maybe that was what kissing was, and that I was totally cool with it.

After the movie, we walked out hand-in-hand to the ice cream shop across the street. I had “recovered” to a point and was able to carry on normal teenaged conversation for about a half an hour before he took me home. 

When we pulled up to my house, I was ready with an escape route planned. I thanked him quickly, keeping out of face-caressing reach, and literally jumped out of the truck. In my room, I sat and mulled over the date and decided that the kiss was far too intense for me and I wouldn’t be going out with him again.

Sidebar (E): Famous last words.

I’ll spare you the gory details because the above date can be passed as funny but the rest of the tale of Kolka’s and my relationship unfortunately cannot.

My “don’t go out with him again” plan failed and we ended up dating for a year and a half.  What can I say? I was passive. 

He went on to cheat on me multiple times with multiple girls. There’s just no way I can make that funny.

I could go on and on about how stupid I was and how I should have known (clearly, there were signs), but I won’t. Instead I will just say this: Ladies, just because he’s older doesn’t mean he’s cooler, and trust your gut. There are some certified douche bags out there. Happy dating to you all!

“I should have known” Count: 7

Many thanks to Katie for sharing her story. I’m sure that all of us have had our fair share of “I should have known’s” but it’s always nice to hear each other’s horror stories to remind ourselves that we are not alone in the fight against the KKDB’s of the world (that’s Kappa Kappa Douche Bag to all you uninitiated).

H2LG1D Is Going On Hiatus

Hey guys!
Thank you so much for all of the support you've given this blog for the past six weeks! It's been a lot of fun. Unfortuantely, as I've said before, I'm running low on stories to tell, so I'm going to be taking a break from writing for a bit, until I can stockpile some new ones. Feel free to keep commenting on old posts, and remember, you can always email me if you have something scintillating you want to share! Guest bloggers are encouraged, and always welcome.
Until next time,
E

What's Your Best Rando Encounter?

I'm sorry to report that my personal store of rando encounters has been depleted. Since I don't want to bore you with any bottom of the barrel stories, I leave this post open to anyone who wishes to share a rando encounter of their own! I know that I'm not the only one with stories to tell :) Just type it up and leave it in the comment box below. Sidebars are appreciated, but not required.