To really work at my new job, you need to screw a coworker.
Okay, not really. But let's be honest - it's not uncommon. So when I first found out about it, I decided I was going to avoid the awkward situations my coworkers found themselves in and just keep my lady bits to myself. Or share with those I didn't work with.
Obviously in the three months since I started the job, I have not only started sleeping with a coworker, but have (happily) ended up in a relationship with him. Because that's what you're supposed to accomplish when you get a new job - duh.
Obviously I now feel more secure at the company.
He started talking to me on my second day, via iChat. I hadn't the faintest idea who he was when he first sent me a message, but after having lunch with him I realized he was the one with the impeccable bone structure.
I found out he was dating someone who he never mentioned. I found out he had been dating a French girl (different from aforementioned girl, but who he also never mentioned) and was planning on visiting her this summer.
I found out he wanted to go to graduate school in France starting in January. I also found out that he loved wine, had the same types of lucid dreams I've always had, that he has a spot of brown in one of his otherwise very green eyes and that I felt weird if I didn't talk to him for more than an hour.
You know, weird on a friend level, since he was dating someone.
Our first weeks of friendship were filled with awkward moments. Like that time he texted me to say his 'lust' was growing (meant list, he says), or that time he told the girl he was dating (on the phone in front of me) that he didn't hi things between them were going to work out because he was going to be oh-so-busy studying for the GMAT and wouldn't have time to spend with her.
She yelled at him so we went to get margaritas. He walked me home, came upstairs and kissed me.
It's led to the happiest and most confusing relationship thus far.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A whole new round of crazy men. And yet another proposal.
I really should expect it by now. I'm just a magnet for crazy people. Maybe I should just get a cat and stop going out. But then I'd have nothing to write about here. Plus, I don't like cats.
Friday night:
I was pumped. Jess was visiting, and I was bringing her to my go-to dive bar, Max Fish. Josh Hartnett, hipsters, psychics — I'm telling you, this place has it all.
We met these guys. For purposes of this blog post, their names were Justin and Matt. They were too short to date, but they were entertaining so we moved bars and went to Spitzers with them.
Everyone was ordering drinks when a crazy came out of no where.
Crazy [takes scarf off, ties it around head]: You're cute. I want to go jihad on your ass.
Me: [no response, looked at Jess for assistance]
Crazy: Do you think I look like a terrorist?
Me [still looking at Jess for assistance]: No.
Matt [to the rescue]: Hi. You should come get a drink.
Crazy [leaving, still wearing head scarf]: You're beautiful. I'll see you around.
Then, the proposal man walked in. He looked at me, but didn't really say anything to me.
Proposal man [drunkenly, to friend, while staring at me]: Dude. Why is she talking to the shortest guys in here?
The shortest guys in there took offense and suggested we relocate. On our way to open seats by the window, proposal man tried to tap me on the shoulder, but missed.
Proposal man [almost falling off bar stool]: I want to marry you.
Me: I have to go.
We sat down and had a normal conversation with J&M, while this random guy was lurking behind us, not talking to anyone. J&M left after M offered to take me to the planetarium and I declined.
Lurker came up to us and tried to talk. He was drunk to the point where I couldn't figure out what he was saying. I almost felt bad.
Friday night:
I was pumped. Jess was visiting, and I was bringing her to my go-to dive bar, Max Fish. Josh Hartnett, hipsters, psychics — I'm telling you, this place has it all.
We met these guys. For purposes of this blog post, their names were Justin and Matt. They were too short to date, but they were entertaining so we moved bars and went to Spitzers with them.
Everyone was ordering drinks when a crazy came out of no where.
Crazy [takes scarf off, ties it around head]: You're cute. I want to go jihad on your ass.
Me: [no response, looked at Jess for assistance]
Crazy: Do you think I look like a terrorist?
Me [still looking at Jess for assistance]: No.
Matt [to the rescue]: Hi. You should come get a drink.
Crazy [leaving, still wearing head scarf]: You're beautiful. I'll see you around.
Then, the proposal man walked in. He looked at me, but didn't really say anything to me.
Proposal man [drunkenly, to friend, while staring at me]: Dude. Why is she talking to the shortest guys in here?
The shortest guys in there took offense and suggested we relocate. On our way to open seats by the window, proposal man tried to tap me on the shoulder, but missed.
Proposal man [almost falling off bar stool]: I want to marry you.
Me: I have to go.
We sat down and had a normal conversation with J&M, while this random guy was lurking behind us, not talking to anyone. J&M left after M offered to take me to the planetarium and I declined.
Lurker came up to us and tried to talk. He was drunk to the point where I couldn't figure out what he was saying. I almost felt bad.
Monday, March 28, 2011
That time I was dumped before I was in a relationship.
I went on a date with a new guy, he was great. When I starting talking about my fascination with outer space, instead of saying, "wow, you're really weird" he said, "can I talk you to the planetarium next weekend?"
So basically, he was perfect.
He texted me the day of our planetarium date to ask if I would call him so we could "talk for a sec." Um sure, guy I like but don't really know that well...what could we possibly have to talk about? I'm supposed to see you in an hour and a half.
We had to talk about that fact that I was not going to see him in an hour and a half.
Guy: I'm really sorry, but I'm too busy with work. I feel like an asshole and I'm sick of feeling like an asshole for doing this to you for a month [reference is about previously broken plans that made him feel like an asshole], and I really like you but I just don't have time to date someone right now.
Me [in my head]: It sounds like you're breaking up with me. Are we dating? Wait, you can't be breaking up with me ... we aren't dating. Why do I feel like you're breaking up with me?
Me [out loud]: Okay.
Guy: I'm really sorry, I'm just too busy. But I mean, you can call me in a couple of weeks if you want.
Me [in my head]: Yes. As you are the busy one, it makes perfect sense that I would continue to call you in hopes that there may be a break in your schedule. That makes much more sense than you calling me if and when you become less busy.
Me [out loud]: I'm not going to call you.
I'm always the one who gets dumped, but this has got to be some kind of record. I was dumped before a relationship even began. Our relationship was negative days long before it ended.
The worst part is that I was actually upset about it. I couldn't even eat my bagel and I wanted to cry. And that is why I don't cuddle with people. Cuddling makes you unreasonably attached. I'm reverting back to my ice queen ways.
So basically, he was perfect.
He texted me the day of our planetarium date to ask if I would call him so we could "talk for a sec." Um sure, guy I like but don't really know that well...what could we possibly have to talk about? I'm supposed to see you in an hour and a half.
We had to talk about that fact that I was not going to see him in an hour and a half.
Guy: I'm really sorry, but I'm too busy with work. I feel like an asshole and I'm sick of feeling like an asshole for doing this to you for a month [reference is about previously broken plans that made him feel like an asshole], and I really like you but I just don't have time to date someone right now.
Me [in my head]: It sounds like you're breaking up with me. Are we dating? Wait, you can't be breaking up with me ... we aren't dating. Why do I feel like you're breaking up with me?
Me [out loud]: Okay.
Guy: I'm really sorry, I'm just too busy. But I mean, you can call me in a couple of weeks if you want.
Me [in my head]: Yes. As you are the busy one, it makes perfect sense that I would continue to call you in hopes that there may be a break in your schedule. That makes much more sense than you calling me if and when you become less busy.
Me [out loud]: I'm not going to call you.
I'm always the one who gets dumped, but this has got to be some kind of record. I was dumped before a relationship even began. Our relationship was negative days long before it ended.
The worst part is that I was actually upset about it. I couldn't even eat my bagel and I wanted to cry. And that is why I don't cuddle with people. Cuddling makes you unreasonably attached. I'm reverting back to my ice queen ways.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sometimes, I'm dumb.
Why is it that when a guy doesn't call me, I think about him more?
This is New York City. Manhattan isn't exactly suffering from a dearth of single men. You'd think I would just go off and find someone else, and then start thinking about him. And that when it didn't work out, I'd just repeat the process.
I do. It's easy to meet people here. All you have to do is make eye contact and BAM — you've made a new friend. Most of the time he'll buy you a drink. He'll always ask for your number.
I haven't spoken to the guy in question in two months. He's cocky, self involved, vain and flaky. Unfortunately, he's also tall, gorgeous, funny, smart and good in bed … really good in bed.
At first he was nearly perfect. He was the guy who made an effort to meet my friends, picked me up when he said he would, liked primarily red wine but not Merlot because it's disgusting, watched Jeopardy but not Wheel of Fortune, worshiped The New York Times to the point of subscription, had a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor, a journalistically cynical view of the world and an Ivy League education.
Attentive, sweet, charming — we had so much in common.
And then he turned into an idiot. Or maybe he was an idiot the whole time and I just didn't notice because of his perfectly white teeth and perfect chest hair to chest proportions.
He became increasingly difficult to see, broke plans and tried to make them at 2 a.m. He'd apologize for his behavior and then promise to put in more effort. And then he'd fail, miserably.
Given the utter lack of communication and the fact that I haven't seen him since the last time he rolled out of my bed and kissed me goodbye in January, you'd think I would have stopped thinking about him by now.
Except I can't. I don't know if it's the absence of an explanation or what, but thoughts of Josh invade my mind on a daily basis. I say invade because I don't want them there. I don't need to date people who are difficult to date, I tell myself.
Then I go stalk him on Facebook.
Since I refused to add him as a Facebook friend when I was sleeping with him, I have to stalk his limited profile. It's a bit late to add him now and see the entirety of the Facebook profile. Especially since it will just increase the amount of time I spend wondering if he's sleeping with every girl who likes his status.
This is New York City. Manhattan isn't exactly suffering from a dearth of single men. You'd think I would just go off and find someone else, and then start thinking about him. And that when it didn't work out, I'd just repeat the process.
I do. It's easy to meet people here. All you have to do is make eye contact and BAM — you've made a new friend. Most of the time he'll buy you a drink. He'll always ask for your number.
I haven't spoken to the guy in question in two months. He's cocky, self involved, vain and flaky. Unfortunately, he's also tall, gorgeous, funny, smart and good in bed … really good in bed.
At first he was nearly perfect. He was the guy who made an effort to meet my friends, picked me up when he said he would, liked primarily red wine but not Merlot because it's disgusting, watched Jeopardy but not Wheel of Fortune, worshiped The New York Times to the point of subscription, had a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor, a journalistically cynical view of the world and an Ivy League education.
Attentive, sweet, charming — we had so much in common.
And then he turned into an idiot. Or maybe he was an idiot the whole time and I just didn't notice because of his perfectly white teeth and perfect chest hair to chest proportions.
He became increasingly difficult to see, broke plans and tried to make them at 2 a.m. He'd apologize for his behavior and then promise to put in more effort. And then he'd fail, miserably.
Given the utter lack of communication and the fact that I haven't seen him since the last time he rolled out of my bed and kissed me goodbye in January, you'd think I would have stopped thinking about him by now.
Except I can't. I don't know if it's the absence of an explanation or what, but thoughts of Josh invade my mind on a daily basis. I say invade because I don't want them there. I don't need to date people who are difficult to date, I tell myself.
Then I go stalk him on Facebook.
Since I refused to add him as a Facebook friend when I was sleeping with him, I have to stalk his limited profile. It's a bit late to add him now and see the entirety of the Facebook profile. Especially since it will just increase the amount of time I spend wondering if he's sleeping with every girl who likes his status.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
That time I dyed my hair orange.
I am not a natural blonde.
I was when I was little, which is how I justify my current hair color, but let's be honest. My hair is brown. Boring, boring brown.
I started highlighting it a little over a year ago, so by last week, it was looking very blonde. Well, very blonde with very bad (and brown) roots.
Given that I am still unemployed and do not have the extra money to spend money on NYC salon highlights, I figured my mom and I would be able to highlight the roots so that I wouldn't have to pay for them. She was coming to stay with me anyway, she was willing to do some free labor in exchange for an air mattress on my floor.
We went to Duane Reade, bought the color and went to town. Well, I sat. Mom went to town. We really thought it would work too - the roots appeared much lighter when I looked in the mirror before I got in the shower to wash the dye out.
It didn't work. I got out of the shower, looked at myself in the mirror and called out for my mother like a 4-year old child with the flu.
Here's what happened:
The picture doesn't even do the color justice. Think Garfield, Syracuse or traffic cone orange.
I wanted to cry. But I have a hard time crying at real life situations, I'm more of a movie, commercial, when-other-people-cry-and-I-don't-know-how-to-react crier. So instead, involuntarily, I started to hyperventilate.
I tried to Google what to do when you've accidentally dyed your hair orange. The answer in most cases was go to a salon.
Well, awesome. This process wasn't going to save me any money at all, and now I had to physically get to a salon with bright orange roots.
Flora, my new colorist looked at my hair and said it was "full of discrepancies." Thank you Flora. When I sat in the chair and she got a closer look, she told me some people are capable of dying their hair at home, like her. But that I was not one of those people. My hair, in Flora's words, was a "mess."
She re-highlighted parts of it so that the root situation would blend more easily. Then she began the toning process.
Some guy came and sat next to me in the sink. He said my hair looked good. Either he was blind or didn't think it was acceptable to have a conversation that started and ended with "hi." Either way, I told him the story of my orange roots. He wished me luck on his way out.
Flora had to tone my hair twice before I stopped looking like Garfield.
It's still a little orange. But at least I can go outside now.
I was when I was little, which is how I justify my current hair color, but let's be honest. My hair is brown. Boring, boring brown.
I started highlighting it a little over a year ago, so by last week, it was looking very blonde. Well, very blonde with very bad (and brown) roots.
Given that I am still unemployed and do not have the extra money to spend money on NYC salon highlights, I figured my mom and I would be able to highlight the roots so that I wouldn't have to pay for them. She was coming to stay with me anyway, she was willing to do some free labor in exchange for an air mattress on my floor.
We went to Duane Reade, bought the color and went to town. Well, I sat. Mom went to town. We really thought it would work too - the roots appeared much lighter when I looked in the mirror before I got in the shower to wash the dye out.
It didn't work. I got out of the shower, looked at myself in the mirror and called out for my mother like a 4-year old child with the flu.
Here's what happened:
The picture doesn't even do the color justice. Think Garfield, Syracuse or traffic cone orange.
I wanted to cry. But I have a hard time crying at real life situations, I'm more of a movie, commercial, when-other-people-cry-and-I-don't-know-how-to-react crier. So instead, involuntarily, I started to hyperventilate.
I tried to Google what to do when you've accidentally dyed your hair orange. The answer in most cases was go to a salon.
Well, awesome. This process wasn't going to save me any money at all, and now I had to physically get to a salon with bright orange roots.
Flora, my new colorist looked at my hair and said it was "full of discrepancies." Thank you Flora. When I sat in the chair and she got a closer look, she told me some people are capable of dying their hair at home, like her. But that I was not one of those people. My hair, in Flora's words, was a "mess."
She re-highlighted parts of it so that the root situation would blend more easily. Then she began the toning process.
Some guy came and sat next to me in the sink. He said my hair looked good. Either he was blind or didn't think it was acceptable to have a conversation that started and ended with "hi." Either way, I told him the story of my orange roots. He wished me luck on his way out.
Flora had to tone my hair twice before I stopped looking like Garfield.
It's still a little orange. But at least I can go outside now.
Monday, February 7, 2011
A note.
A guy in a plaid shirt tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a napkin at Brass Monkey. It was folded in half with a pen in the middle.
Plaid guy: It's from the guys at the end of the bar.
Me: Uhhhh
Plaid guy: Don't worry, it's just a note. There's not a dead animal folded in there or anything.
Me: Oh...well, that's good.
He left. I opened the napkin. It read, "You look bored. Come over here and party, we have girl scout." There was a "yes" box and a "no" box. The no box was crossed out to indicate that it was not an option.
Before I really had time to think about what "we have girl scout" could mean, they sent me a girl scout cookie. Unfortunately, it had coconut in it, and I'm allergic. I sent back a note that said, "I'm allergic," and a friend ate the cookie.
They never came over to talk to me. And I wasn't bored, I was watching the super bowl.
Plaid guy: It's from the guys at the end of the bar.
Me: Uhhhh
Plaid guy: Don't worry, it's just a note. There's not a dead animal folded in there or anything.
Me: Oh...well, that's good.
He left. I opened the napkin. It read, "You look bored. Come over here and party, we have girl scout." There was a "yes" box and a "no" box. The no box was crossed out to indicate that it was not an option.
Before I really had time to think about what "we have girl scout" could mean, they sent me a girl scout cookie. Unfortunately, it had coconut in it, and I'm allergic. I sent back a note that said, "I'm allergic," and a friend ate the cookie.
They never came over to talk to me. And I wasn't bored, I was watching the super bowl.
If you thought the last round of guys were crazy..
A guy got on the 5 train and starting quoting the bible, and yelling that "Jesus loves you," etc. I assumed he was crazy.
He kept walking back and forth in the train car, and then hovered by my friend Sam and me. We were getting off at the next stop, so I wasn't too worried when he started directing the preaching my way.
The train stopped, I started walking out to the platform.
Crazy: Do you love Jesus?
Me: No.
Then he followed us out onto the platform, which we were walking across to catch the 6 train.
Crazy: Can I sit with you on the train?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not? I just want to be your friend.
Me: No.
Crazy: Just let me take you out sometime.
Me: No.
Crazy: What are you doing for the super bowl?
Me: Watching it.
Crazy: Want to watch it with me?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not?
Me: I have plans.
Crazy: Can I come?
Me: No.
Crazy: Well can I get your number so I can take you out?
Me: No.
Crazy: What about Facebook? Can I Facebook you?
Me: No.
Crazy: I think you're my soul mate.
Me: Well I'm not.
Crazy: I love your eyes. You're really beautiful. Do you think I'm cute?
Me: No.
Crazy: So you think I'm ugly?
Me: Yes.
Crazy: Why?
Me: You're annoying.
Crazy: But that has nothing to do with my face. Do you think I have an ugly face?
Me: Go away.
Crazy: Oh. I get it. You don't like black men.
Contrary to the belief of every black man that I haven't wanted to talk to, I actually do like black men. I do not, however, like crazy men.
At this point, a very normal looking couple boarded the train. The crazy continued to ask me why I didn't want to talk to him, why I wasn't paying attention to him, etc.
Then he got up and started quoting things from the bible. Before he got off the train he looked at me and said, "I want to mack on you in the name of Jesus."
The man from the normal couple looked at me, and asked if the crazy man had really just said that. Yes, normal man. He really just said that.
He kept walking back and forth in the train car, and then hovered by my friend Sam and me. We were getting off at the next stop, so I wasn't too worried when he started directing the preaching my way.
The train stopped, I started walking out to the platform.
Crazy: Do you love Jesus?
Me: No.
Then he followed us out onto the platform, which we were walking across to catch the 6 train.
Crazy: Can I sit with you on the train?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not? I just want to be your friend.
Me: No.
Crazy: Just let me take you out sometime.
Me: No.
Crazy: What are you doing for the super bowl?
Me: Watching it.
Crazy: Want to watch it with me?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not?
Me: I have plans.
Crazy: Can I come?
Me: No.
Crazy: Well can I get your number so I can take you out?
Me: No.
Crazy: What about Facebook? Can I Facebook you?
Me: No.
Crazy: I think you're my soul mate.
Me: Well I'm not.
Crazy: I love your eyes. You're really beautiful. Do you think I'm cute?
Me: No.
Crazy: So you think I'm ugly?
Me: Yes.
Crazy: Why?
Me: You're annoying.
Crazy: But that has nothing to do with my face. Do you think I have an ugly face?
Me: Go away.
Crazy: Oh. I get it. You don't like black men.
Contrary to the belief of every black man that I haven't wanted to talk to, I actually do like black men. I do not, however, like crazy men.
At this point, a very normal looking couple boarded the train. The crazy continued to ask me why I didn't want to talk to him, why I wasn't paying attention to him, etc.
Then he got up and started quoting things from the bible. Before he got off the train he looked at me and said, "I want to mack on you in the name of Jesus."
The man from the normal couple looked at me, and asked if the crazy man had really just said that. Yes, normal man. He really just said that.
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