Crying means NO!

Alright so this little ditty is also slightly embarrassing on my part but it was my very first attempt at moving on from my aforementioned crappy relationship so I was still "green" so to speak. That said, I figure it's most appropriate to start at the beginning. Here we go...

Within a week of breaking up with the latest ex, we'll call him Oedipus...yes that's not so subtle but dude has some mommy issues. Anyway, Oedipus and I had just broken up and I was desperately wanting to get back at the cheating bastard. Ha. So I call up a guy from my business class who had been trying to..."woo" me the whole semester. Now, in retrospect, I should've just let him "woo" away to really spite that jerk off but, alas, I'm cursed by being a FAITHFUL girlfriend...sucks.

I'm getting off topic. I call up the guy from class (we'll call him London) and announce that I am now officially single. London immediately wanted to make a date that week because, let's face it, London was an easy get. No games, straight forward and constantly undressing me with his eyes. Perhaps the last one should've made me uncomfortable but I'm not above ass flattery or any flattery for that matter. It makes me feel sexy and wanted and sexy...so why not? HOWEVER (gents this is where your ears should perk up and tune in), there is a comfort zone that needs to be recognized with women or human beings in general (we think these things are common sense, but really it needs to be explained to certain people...who have testes). It's okay to push the boundaries to a certain extent, but you better be sure you have an invitation before you cross that boundary into new territory. London had to learn that the hard way.

We planned to meet up on a Saturday afternoon in the city. In my mind I envisioned lunch, drinks, nice conversation, walking around the park, and maybe a little PDA depending on if he played his cards right. London on the other hand seemed to think, "I know! Why don't we make juice with my new juicer and hang out in my apartment with all my sweaty bro-dude roommates and then we can go to my room and watch Eddie Murphy: Raw and THEN I'll put the moves on!"... Now keep in mind that London is not a twelve year old boy, because I would've been confused if I heard that too.

Meanwhile, I had no idea what was going on, so the whole time that he's playing with his juicer (get your mind out of the gutter) I'm looking out the window thinking "when are we leaving?" Allow me to kill the suspense for you, we never leave. But the greatest [sarcasm] part of the whole date (which wound up going on for FOUR HOURS because he couldn't stop replaying his favorite parts of Raw) was when he decided to make the move...

I'm sitting on a couch next to this manchild and first he decides its cuddle time (yay!) so he wraps one of his arms around my shoulder and forces me onto him so now I'm basically resting my head on his man boob (he didn't have man boobs but if he did that's where my head would've been). I was so tense and uncomfortable at this point that I looked like a freaking mummy. I literally had my arms folded across my chest and I kept having to remind myself to breathe. Let me reiterate that this juicer date was my first step into singledom. I honestly had forgotten how to tell someone to f*ck off. Don't worry, I've since regained this ability (as in the day following this date when I tell him off over the phone and ask him never to call me again).

So when London makes the move, It goes something like this:

London: Why don't you just stop talking [as he leans closer towards me with "sexy face" on]

Me: But I'm not saying anyth---------[cut short by London now eating my face]

It was so hot...SO hot in fact that my only reaction was to start crying.

This is the part that I get embarrassed talking about because WHO CRIES!? But now I've rationalized it in my mind and broken the reaction down into this simple formula: bad break up + juicer + Eddie Murphy + petrifying awkwardness + lack of "f*ck off" ability + baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddddd kiss = water works.

It doesn't end there though. Oh no. After I've cried and told him "too much for me right now, can't handle it, so embarrassed" he goes in for ANOTHER kiss! I mean really man? London, France, whatever your name is, you have to be at least partially brain dead not to know that tears are a preeeeeeeeeeeeetty strong indicator that you've crossed into unwelcome territory.

At this point I'm still being polite (idiot) trying to find the quickest exit. So I fake a phone call from my sister: "oh my god! You're dead!? Jeez you know what London, it's been great but my sister needs me for something. Sounds serious." And almost jump out the window, but figuring that might be a bit dramatic I took the stairs and sprinted to the train [think Forest Gump - cue slow mo and dramatic music].

It was too easy though, I had barely made it to the train when I get a text message:

London: "Well at least we got the awkward stuff out of the way. Now we can just have fun."

The Preface

Well, this is my first entry into the blogosphere so hello, I'm...er...Bridgette. I'm nearly 2_ now and recently single...again. Being thrust back into the single scene again after several years on hiatus, I'm quickly learning about a not-so-new phenomenon that can only be referred to as male idiocy. On one hand, I'm a little saddened to be "in my prime" and already so romantically cynical. But on the other hand, some of the scenarios I've encountered recently in the realm of dating are so completely absurd that they just need to be written down. Now, I'm a realist so I'm completely aware that I'll never write that screenplay or novel I have in mind so instead I'm here with my blog on the dos and don'ts (mostly don'ts) of dating. Gents, if you're wise you'll keep reading. You might actually learn something.

Before we get started though lets get something straight: I am no Carrie Bradshaw (I know, brace yourself for the shock). I am not a 30/40 something, Manolo Blahnik-wearing, Chanel-toting Manhattan socialite with an endless supply of hunky, eligible batchelors and a gaggle of girlfriends to gossip and drink cosmos with. No. Perhaps thats my first mistake, but I've got to play the cards I'm dealt. Sadly, you will not find Jimmy Choo or Christian Louboutin in my closet (sigh), I live in the Connecticut suburbs (double sigh), and I have only one close girlfriend within a 50 mile radius of me. Instead, my closest friends are clueless (but lovable) men boys.

TANGENT/DISCLAIMER: I'm fully aware that children are starving all over the world but my life, my blog, let me bitch.

Basically what I'm trying to say is I'm not working with sex in the city here. No, its more like lack of sex and/or settling in the suburbs...20-something edition.

I still have faith that somewhere out there, there is a place where all the wonderful men in the world live and work and play...shirtless...with glistening washboard stomachs...
I have no clue where I was going with that one. But I think it was along the lines of: I'm sure that there are good guys out there, I just haven't met any of them. OR, if I have, they are either: a) taken, b) my friend or c) too nice (i.e. not my type).

I'm going to keep adding stories as the come because, as I'm finding out, there is no end to the dumb shit guys will do or say. But in the meantime, let me catch you up to speed. Each blog is a different strange and horrific tale that may or may not have some sort of happy ending or moral, but most likely wont.

Let me just say that the stories to come are loose (meaning exact) retellings of actual events as I remember them. Peoples names have been changed to protect their identities, but if you're reading this you know who you are...