A few weeks back I found this: 8 reasons to move on from a relationship/dating experience. However, the list seemed to be missing a few key points I wind up bringing up when counseling my female friends about the lame dudes they go out with. I’m posting my additions here for all of you ladies (and fellas) that need to clue in about when to say fuck it & search for Mr. Right elsewhere.
1. If he doesn’t call without you having to ask, move on.
Jesus this is so true. I hate the “who’s going to call/text/IM to initiate hanging out” game–it’s awkward and frankly, after high school these types of power games need to end. More importantly, why should you have to ask someone to call?
You’ve probably enjoyed the posts where I fling myself in front of the proverbial train when it comes to dating. A few weeks ago I deleted the last of my dating site profiles; I’m putting e-dating to rest, my friends.
“But why, Julene! I like reading about your hilarious mis-adventures.”
Trust me, it’s been fun relating this comedy of e-rrors to you guys. The best part about making bad decisions or at least slightly questionable ones is they lead to stories worth telling people. But I met someone (not through the internet) and it’s time to write about something else. I’m not a one trick pony, friends.
Actually I’m pretty sure this is the perfect explanation as to why people don’t make it past date three with me, really. (However I have trained myself not to create or answer any “list” type questions. It’s for everyone’s benefit, I promise.) I still love Henry Rollins, and I feel all the better for knowing that he can probably get himself off in less than five minutes. Ah, romance!
I got three phone calls in rapid succession recently from a number I didn’t recognize. I don’t know about you, but I don’t answer numbers that aren’t already in my address book unless I’ve recently put something up on Craigslist. When I called the number back I hit an obnoxious voicemail of a recorded song instead of identifying phrase telling me whose phone I’d just rung up. (I thought that went out with pagers around the year 2000, but maybe I’m just out of the loop.)
Here’s the text message exchange that followed:
UnIdentified caller: Hey, how are you? Me: Uhhh, who is this? UnIdentified caller: This is Samson, we had lunch once. Me: Oh, I deleted your number. You should do the same thing with mine!
Usually I try to stay out of my dude friends’ business; they tend to date the most insane girls ever and for the most part I let them because after three weeks they clue in & dump ‘em. Except one of my friends didn’t clue in, and I asked him to write about it a bit now that they’ve had a messy breakup laced with internet drama and an airing of each other’s dirty laundry. Which means of course I invited him to air his frustrations via my blog, because that’s what friends do!
In all my glamzonian glory, I’ve never had any desire to wear heels (until recently.) I’m already taller than most of the attractive dudes out there; I feel like adding those 4+ inches is only going to make everyone more uncomfortable. Plus, there’s a small problem–I am completely incapable of walking while wearing heels. Sure, I can sit down and point my toes in an effort to really elongate my leg, but once I start to walk across a room it’s pretty obvious I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.
It’s not for lack of trying on my part–I’ve marched through my house in them for hours, going up and down the stairs trying not to break my ankle while swaying my ass seductively. All that practice and I never make it past the front door in them.
I’ve worn heels in public once, ever. It was the longest night of my life. The experience can easily be recounted: awkward, looming, giantess Julene frightened the. I tripped both up and down a flight of stairs and some dude called me a “huge bitch” a la Deuce Bigolo: Male Gigolo. Thanks to him I will forever equate my time in heels to that one particular scene. That movie really sucked, by the way.
When I look at photos of a girl in a pair of stilettos or cute little ankle booties it’s hard not to admire what those little footsy death traps can do to improve a girl’s shape from the waist down. But fuck man… they’re so uncomfortable. Besides, the average dude is weirded out enough by the fact that we’re close in height. Few guys have a desire to spend a night out with their lady when she’s towering over them by several inches–and I’m okay with that. When I think of dudes that want to see me in heels, BDSM gimps are the first thing that come to mind. That’s not the stuff dreams are made of.
I spent years thinking that maybe it was something I would adjust to; an acquired taste like wine or Indian food. Except it’s not: I’ve worn them around the house for hours on end and never come any closer to feeling like anything other than a newborn deer while wearing them.
I don’t want to give up on you, heels. I know that 2010 will not be the year of stilettos… but I refuse to allow it to be a year of wife beaters and Chucks (an apparently loathsome dress-down habit of mine) either. That’s why I’m thinking of buying these Dolce Vita black booties:
These are the make-me or break-me heels. If I can’t walk in these, I’m giving up and wearing flats for the rest of my life. Cross your fingers I figure out how to walk in these little black death traps without breaking my ankle. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let you guys all sign my cast.
If Pharrell and Chris Brown were merged into one person & then dressed like a hipster, I think they’d make a Trey Songz. The other day I said that as much as I love Cam’ron I’m still a Fabolous girl at heart… I retract that statement.
It’s funny to me that the types of guys most people would expect me to be into–tattooed, pierced or otherwise “alternative” (as much as I hate the term)–aren’t really my speed. I love them clean cut, presentable… simply put, give me a yuppie white boy any day and I’ll be pleased. While I wouldn’t say I have a particular age-group preference, I do admit having a severe weakness for babyface.
Once upon a time, I had a babyfaced boyfriend named Tim. Our relationship quickly fizzled into some weird sexually tense friendship, which has now faded in a half-hearted interest in each other’s exploits. I ran into Tim recently, out with his younger brother at a restaurant I frequent. Tim has always looked roughly 16 – he’s about 10 years older than that. He’s one of those guys I hear from on nights that will involve booze and (in his mind) a hopeful trip back to his place. I try not to revisit my roster too often, and since someone hadn’t been taking the hint lately I decided to see if I could agitate him enough not to call me.
Let me preface this by saying his now-slightly-older yet still delightfully younger brother is beginning looking like a well-oiled machine. I admit to blatantly trolling Tiny while talking to them at their table. I guess Tim took it personally that he busted me checking out his kid brother’s bulge, as I was informed we are “not on speaking terms”. Seriously, he was wearing a pair of jeans that allowed for a perfect outline of his goodies to be viewed by me without much effort. This is not my fault. (I was also really stoned at the time, which makes it harder to curb my naturally creepy tendencies.) It’s not like I actively pursued bringing home (NotSo)TinyTim, guys!
I’m betting at least another few months pass before I hear from Tim, though.
Some asshole sent me this song and I’ve had it on repeat for the last two days. Then I saw the video and aside from the fact that the filming was super low-budget, I’m an even bigger fan. Except this is another one of those “embedding disabled by request” type of things, so you have to go all the way to YouTube to see it.
All my friends of other ethnicity’s are pretty whitewashed… but I’m still hoping at least one of them thinks of me when they hear this shit.
