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.
Monday, March 28, 2011
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.
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