Pepe Le Douche

So seeing as it’s now February and just about a week from the dreaded Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d tell a little story about romance (not). And who does romance better than the French right? Wrong.

First of all, ladies, do not be fooled by their fancy accents and confident I-can-pull-this-off-and-still-be-unquestionably-straight attitudes. Men with accents are to be trusted less than men walking fluffy little puppies through the park. If you’re under the impression that you’re the first lady he’s told has that certain “je ne saise quoi”, then you deserve to be played. No offense.

I, personally, have too much pride to truly admit that I got duped on this one. I merely…made a discovery…and then verbally castrated the man-whore later. With that said, meet Pepe:

Pepe (aka Pepe Le Douche…if that much wasn’t clear…) was new to my small Connecticut hell town; fresh off the boat from living 10 years in Switzerland and France prior to that…I mean really? Let’s disregard for a moment the fact that it’s seriously slim pickings for my demographic in a town full of yuppies and old money baby boomers, but an attractive, dark haired, multilingual European crash lands in your desolate city and you’re NOT going to pounce? Please. Those qualities alone will turn any stranded, small town girl’s head; hence the problem. Because even if Pepe liked to play the dumb, “how do you say” foreigner, he was all too well aware of just how much… chatte (pardon my incorrect French) he could get off of those assets alone.

Just as so many other timeless love stories begin, Pepe and I met at the local bar (be still my heart). I was getting drinks with some of my guy friends, and I must’ve stuck out being the only female in a group of eight or so boys because, before I could make it to the ladies room, I was stopped by this French dude questioning me about which one my boyfriend was. More preoccupied by the fear that I might not make it to the bathroom in time (too many margaritas), I swiftly pushed him aside and bee lined it for the ladies room (don’t worry…I made it).

I don’t really get what it is with guys and rejection but something about my desperate need to urinate made my oblivious, drunk self all that much more enticing (I know what you’re thinking, sexy right?). From that moment on I couldn’t shake the guy. Ultimately, after a few more drinks and some Français whispered in my ear, I wound up making out with Pepe in the middle of the bar… It was not my finest hour.

Perhaps still a little drunk the next day, I’m recalling the events of the previous evening and thinking to myself “damn, I was the shit last night! Not only did I look great (ha…), I met the most amazing foreigner and he spoke French and…some other languages too and he was so sweet and honest… Score!” So basically folks, this is why we don’t drink and date, but that’s for a later blog…

I must say, Pepe was pretty slick though. He actually made an effort to call me and made plans to get together with me the following week. So imagine my surprise when it’s eleven o’clock at night on that very evening and still no word from Pepe. This would ordinarily send up some flags, but I genuinely figured he was working late (being that he has a very demanding job…as a waiter) so I said "c’est la vie" and went out with one of my girlfriends that was in town (yes they do exist).

Here is where Pepe slipped up: he escorts some blonde (ew) 40-year-old (I would say ew but she had a milf thing going on so, whatever) into the local watering hole where – go figure – I happened to be hanging out with my friends (hooray for awkward moments!).

TANGENT/WORD OF ADVICE: To the wannabe players out there, if you’re going to attempt to work multiple women at the same time, TRY TAKING THEM TO DIFFERENT BARS! Not that I should even offer up these words of advice to you charlatans, but if you’re going to try to be a Casanova, for God’s sake do it right man! This is not Big Love. Normal women WILL care when you parade other dates in front of them, especially women who you are basically standing up at that very moment (ahem), you f*cking idiot. In other words Le Douche, tres déclassé.

Back to the matter at hand, Le Douche has just completely pissed me off. I have three options now: 1) ask him if he’s still battling that case of gonorrhea (loud enough so that his Stepford wife friend can hear), 2) Walk up to him and go Shanaynay on his ass, or 3) sniper him (metaphorically speaking of course…). Options one and two are highly appealing but I generally try to avoid making scenes when possible and, besides, that gonorrhea comment could call me into question. Ew. Not worth it. So I opt for the calm, quiet, jab to the nads approach instead (aka sniper).

Pepe, realizing that he’s basically busted, eventually approaches me and has the nerve to act like he’s not doing anything wrong!

Pepe: Oh allo Bridgette! Didn’t see ewe over air. Ow ave ewe been?

Me: [smiling politely through clenched teeth] Doing well Pepe…doing verryyy well.

Pepe: [leaning towards me so nobody else can here] I am sorry I deed not call I taught – how you say – ewe wanted to spend zee time weeth your friends.

Me: [leaning towards him to whisper back] That’s okay. I completely understand. I’m also completely sure that your penis is dwarfed in size by the average cocktail weenie…

Okay, okay I didn’t actually say that but I soooooooooo wish that I had!

TAKE 2:

Pepe: Blah blah blah, French douche, yadda yadda yadda…

Me: [leaning towards him to whisper back] You’re an asshole. Stay away from me. Stay away from my friends. I don’t need people like you in my life. [Leaning away and louder now] So good to see you though! Have a great night.

Pepe then disappeared into the night, tail between his legs and Stepford wife trailing not too far behind. See, the thing about these machismo, womanizing types is that they’re really kinda pansies. No clue how to deal with conflict. I swear to you when I say that, after that evening, Pepe completely dropped off of the radar, which is quite difficult to do in such a small town. I even caught him hiding from me once, ducking down in the passenger seat of a car, because he saw me standing on the sidewalk...what a tool. 

Months pass by and I had almost forgot about the incident until Pepe decides to come out of the closet…or hiding…whatever. I run into him (you’ll never guess where!) at the local bar. It had been so long since we’d seen each other that I nearly didn’t recognize him until I heard him speak.

Pepe: Allo I am Pepe. Ave ewe ever considaired modeling?

Me: I know who you are. Go away.

Pepe: What do ewe mean? Oh Bridgette? Eez dat ewe? Ow ave ewe been? Deed ewe change your hairs?

Me: [blank stare]

Pepe: Leesten, I am so so sorry for what appened over zee summair. I really regret messing sings up with ewe because I really taught ewe were a great girl and I really wanted to get to know ewe bettair…

Me: I’m sure you did Pepe.

Pepe: I am really really sorray. Can ewe please forgave me?

Now I’m just annoyed and frustrated because how can you be a bitch to someone who’s begging for your forgiveness? I’m a sucker.

Me: Alright Pepe, I think it’s very mature of you to apologize. We’re cool. Don’t worry about it.

End of conversation, right? Wrong.

Pepe: Why aven’t ewe ever modeled? Ewe are sooo bootiful. Would ewe like – how you say – to go out a sometime? Weeth moi?

One glimmer of hope and then…that… C’est la vie!

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...