Tales from the life of the Keeper of the Blog
One night, at the end of a date, a boy dropped me off at my house.
And when I say 'dropped off,' I mean he stopped the car and just waited for me to get out. It was like we hadn't even been on a date, like we just happened to be going to the same concert that night and decided to carpool.
I have never been a fan of the doorstep scene, but can I tell you, the 'drop off' is worse. True, you avoid all decisions about whether or not to engage in super awkward post-date physical contact, and you skip the painfully long 'I had a great time' conversation, but walking yourself to the door after a date is just lame--I mean, if you're a girl--I guess guys do it all the time.
At first, I wasn't sure what was going on. He stopped the car in front of my house (not in the completely empty driveway?) and just sat there. So I sat there. I said a few "thank you's" (which I actually did mean because the concert we went to was completely awesome) and then sort of waited. He didn't move. So I put my hand on the door handle. He didn't move. I opened the door part way. He didn't move. I opened the door the rest of the way. I looked at him, waiting for him to say something, do something. He did nothing. I set one foot out the door. Still nothing. I got all the way out of the car. He was a statue.
"Well, goodnight," I said.
"Goodnight."
I shut the car door and walked across my lawn. It was dark outside, and I generally avoid going out by myself in the dark--it totally creeps me out--but apparently a date is no guarantee that you will be safely escorted to your front door. So I got to my porch, pulled out my keys, unlocked my door, and walked inside, still a little stunned. I looked back, and he was already gone.
Showing posts with label Keeper of the Blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Keeper of the Blog. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Email? Seriously?
Tales from the life of the Keeper of the Blog
One day, a boy asked me out via email.
He had my phone number--I had given it to him for non-dating, social purposes. And we saw each other every week at institute--except he didn't show up the week he asked me out.
We were both in our early/mid twenties, not new to the dating scene.
So I gasped in shock--and I mean a gasped audibly and sort jumped away from my desk--when I opened up my email at work on a Friday morning and found an invitation from this boy to go to a thing on the following Saturday (like 8 days later). It took me until Tuesday to recover enough to respond.
Do I even need to tell you that the date did not go very well?
One day, a boy asked me out via email.
He had my phone number--I had given it to him for non-dating, social purposes. And we saw each other every week at institute--except he didn't show up the week he asked me out.
We were both in our early/mid twenties, not new to the dating scene.
So I gasped in shock--and I mean a gasped audibly and sort jumped away from my desk--when I opened up my email at work on a Friday morning and found an invitation from this boy to go to a thing on the following Saturday (like 8 days later). It took me until Tuesday to recover enough to respond.
Do I even need to tell you that the date did not go very well?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sometimes I'm the Problem
Tales from the life of the Keeper of the Blog
Sometimes I do weird things on dates. It can't really be helped, I'm just a weird person.
One Saturday evening, I rushed back to my apartment after spending the day at my parents' house. I was totally late getting ready for my date, so I threw all my stuff--laundry, homework, and groceries--on my bed. I thought the groceries were all non-perishables and would be fine sitting in my room until I got home later. Changed my clothes. Brushed my hair. Boy came over to pick me up.
It was a group date, and we walked up to campus for some kind of performance. Part way through the performance, I remembered the eggs. The eggs that were sitting on my bed with my groceries. The unrefrigerated eggs that were slowly rotting on my bed and would no longer be safe to eat by the time I got home from my date since we were planning to do some stuff at his apartment afterward--ice cream, games/movie, and the like.
I spent the rest of the performance worrying about the eggs.
On the way back to our apartment building, my date was talking about something, and I wasn't paying any attention because I was thinking about eggs.
Finally, I said, "Is it okay if I stop by my apartment really quick?"
The boy looked confused. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I just need to stop by my apartment for a minute, and then I can come back over to your apartment."
He still looked confused. "Okay. But why do you need to go to your apartment?"
"I have eggs on my bed."
"What?"
I said it more slowly: "I have eggs on my bed."
"What?"
"I went shopping, and I didn't have time to put my food away because I was late, so I just put all my food on my bed, and most of it will be okay, but I forgot that I bought eggs, and I left the eggs on my bed, and now they're going to rot, and smell bad, and I'll have to throw them away unless I go home and put them in the refrigerator right now, and it really won't take me very long, and the eggs should be fine still at this point, but by the time I get home later tonight the eggs might not be fine because there's only like a two-hour window for leaving out perishable foods, and I'll come right over to your apartment when I'm done." I said this in one breath.
He responded with,"oh," and then he changed the subject.
Sometimes I do weird things on dates. It can't really be helped, I'm just a weird person.
One Saturday evening, I rushed back to my apartment after spending the day at my parents' house. I was totally late getting ready for my date, so I threw all my stuff--laundry, homework, and groceries--on my bed. I thought the groceries were all non-perishables and would be fine sitting in my room until I got home later. Changed my clothes. Brushed my hair. Boy came over to pick me up.
It was a group date, and we walked up to campus for some kind of performance. Part way through the performance, I remembered the eggs. The eggs that were sitting on my bed with my groceries. The unrefrigerated eggs that were slowly rotting on my bed and would no longer be safe to eat by the time I got home from my date since we were planning to do some stuff at his apartment afterward--ice cream, games/movie, and the like.
I spent the rest of the performance worrying about the eggs.
On the way back to our apartment building, my date was talking about something, and I wasn't paying any attention because I was thinking about eggs.
Finally, I said, "Is it okay if I stop by my apartment really quick?"
The boy looked confused. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I just need to stop by my apartment for a minute, and then I can come back over to your apartment."
He still looked confused. "Okay. But why do you need to go to your apartment?"
"I have eggs on my bed."
"What?"
I said it more slowly: "I have eggs on my bed."
"What?"
"I went shopping, and I didn't have time to put my food away because I was late, so I just put all my food on my bed, and most of it will be okay, but I forgot that I bought eggs, and I left the eggs on my bed, and now they're going to rot, and smell bad, and I'll have to throw them away unless I go home and put them in the refrigerator right now, and it really won't take me very long, and the eggs should be fine still at this point, but by the time I get home later tonight the eggs might not be fine because there's only like a two-hour window for leaving out perishable foods, and I'll come right over to your apartment when I'm done." I said this in one breath.
He responded with,"oh," and then he changed the subject.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Boggle Date: Part 2
Tales from the life of the Keeper of the Blog
*David and I doubled with his roommate (also weird) and his nearly-mute date. Though I had many mutual friends with the two guys, I had never met this girl. (And since she did not produce a full sentence through entire course of the evening, I can still say that that I have never really met her.)
First, the four of us made cookies. The boys had somehow failed to get a mixing bowl for making the cookies (they had no suitable vessels for mixing dough in their apartment), so we actually went back to my apartment to get a bowl, which I thought was incredibly awesome.
While the cookies were baking, we played some games. I was pretty happy about the prospect of playing games because I'm good at games. I am from a game-playing family and can win just about anything against non-game-players.
First game: Pit. Good. I was raised playing Pit. I can play Pit in my sleep. I can kick your trash at Pit.
I lost Pit.
I lost by a lot.
Silent girl won, and I was more than a little miffed because Silent Girl couldn't utter more than one word at a time (which may have worked to her advantage since you only need one-word utterances in Pit). So, sore loser that I am, I suggested we switch to Boggle. Everyone else agreed to this.
However, I failed to mention that I am a Boggle champion. Unlike Pit, Boggle is a game of knowledge and skill. Boggle requires a good vocabulary. I have this vocabulary. I can beat nearly anyone I know at Boggle without even trying. Silent Girl had never played Boggle before--even better. I would crush her. And David. And his roommate. I would crush them.
I did crush them. I crushed them all. I more than crushed them. I pulverized them. I blew them out of the water. I blew them out of the solar system.
They were three of the four worst Boggle players I had ever seen. Silent Girl couldn't spell even basic words so most of the words on her page didn't even count.
At first, I was quick to tell the others when I had the same words as them. Quick to tell them when the word they found wasn't actually on the board. Quick to point out every word they should cross off their list. Then I read my word list, which was very long and included many very long words. They didn't question my words. They were in awe.
But as I pulled farther and farther ahead, I started to feel a little bad about how poorly they were all doing and a little guilty about having suggested the game I knew I would win without warning them that I would win. So I stopped making them cross out words. I stopped calling them out on misspellings. I did everything I could let Silent Girl get at least a point or two each round. I even handicapped myself, so that I only wrote down words with four or more letters (not just three). Toward the end of the game I imposed a five-letter handicap on myself. I still did awesome.
By the end of the game, I was so embarrassed for them for being so bad at the game and for myself for being such a jerk, that I refused to share my final score--it was more than double the other three players' scores combined. David found my paper and (since he is a very nice person) congratulated me.
The cookies baked into large, flat frisbees. They were the worst-looking cookies I had ever seen.
*David and I doubled with his roommate (also weird) and his nearly-mute date. Though I had many mutual friends with the two guys, I had never met this girl. (And since she did not produce a full sentence through entire course of the evening, I can still say that that I have never really met her.)
First, the four of us made cookies. The boys had somehow failed to get a mixing bowl for making the cookies (they had no suitable vessels for mixing dough in their apartment), so we actually went back to my apartment to get a bowl, which I thought was incredibly awesome.
While the cookies were baking, we played some games. I was pretty happy about the prospect of playing games because I'm good at games. I am from a game-playing family and can win just about anything against non-game-players.
First game: Pit. Good. I was raised playing Pit. I can play Pit in my sleep. I can kick your trash at Pit.
I lost Pit.
I lost by a lot.
Silent girl won, and I was more than a little miffed because Silent Girl couldn't utter more than one word at a time (which may have worked to her advantage since you only need one-word utterances in Pit). So, sore loser that I am, I suggested we switch to Boggle. Everyone else agreed to this.
However, I failed to mention that I am a Boggle champion. Unlike Pit, Boggle is a game of knowledge and skill. Boggle requires a good vocabulary. I have this vocabulary. I can beat nearly anyone I know at Boggle without even trying. Silent Girl had never played Boggle before--even better. I would crush her. And David. And his roommate. I would crush them.
I did crush them. I crushed them all. I more than crushed them. I pulverized them. I blew them out of the water. I blew them out of the solar system.
They were three of the four worst Boggle players I had ever seen. Silent Girl couldn't spell even basic words so most of the words on her page didn't even count.
At first, I was quick to tell the others when I had the same words as them. Quick to tell them when the word they found wasn't actually on the board. Quick to point out every word they should cross off their list. Then I read my word list, which was very long and included many very long words. They didn't question my words. They were in awe.
But as I pulled farther and farther ahead, I started to feel a little bad about how poorly they were all doing and a little guilty about having suggested the game I knew I would win without warning them that I would win. So I stopped making them cross out words. I stopped calling them out on misspellings. I did everything I could let Silent Girl get at least a point or two each round. I even handicapped myself, so that I only wrote down words with four or more letters (not just three). Toward the end of the game I imposed a five-letter handicap on myself. I still did awesome.
By the end of the game, I was so embarrassed for them for being so bad at the game and for myself for being such a jerk, that I refused to share my final score--it was more than double the other three players' scores combined. David found my paper and (since he is a very nice person) congratulated me.
The cookies baked into large, flat frisbees. They were the worst-looking cookies I had ever seen.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Boggle Date: Part 1
Tales from the life of the Keeper of the Blog
The date I refer to as 'the Boggle date' is memorable for two reasons: one, because we played a terrible game of Boggle (to be detailed in The Boggle Date: Part 2); and two, because it was the first time a boy asked me out in person--as opposed to over the phone--and I did not respond very well.
One weekday afternoon, *David, who lived in an apartment down the hall, knocked on my door.
David was genuinely nice person . . . but he was a little weird. At parties he sometimes sat in the corner of the room and sang tunes from South Pacific to himself. Whenever I passed him in our building hallway, he wished me a 'Happy Birthday.' Sometimes this happened two or three times in a single day. I told him he was making me old.
On this particular day, I did not invite David inside (because the boy I liked was already sitting in my livingroom), so we exchanged 'how are you's' at the door. Then he said, "Do you want to go out with me on Friday?"
But since I was, at that moment, totally focused on other boy, David's question sounded more like, "Fla fla fla fla fla?"
I was so caught off guard, all could do was stare--although it may have looked more like a glare--at this poor boy. About twenty seconds later I responded with, "Wait, what?"
"Do you want to go out with me on Friday?"
This time I heard the words, but it still took another ten or twenty seconds for the question to sink in. In the mean time, I continued to stare, open-mouthed, at David. I had heard of guys asking girls out in person, but it had never happened to me before, and I really just didn't know what to do with myself.
Finally, I answered, "Oh . . . um . . . sure. Yes. Um, yes. That--would be fine."
I'm certain that David felt very reassured and confident at that moment. And I felt like a jerk. For not inviting him in--I made him stand in the hallway outside my door (who does that?). For not paying enough attention to answer the question the first time--I've heard some guys have to work up a lot of courage to ask a girl out, and making him ask the question twice is just mean. And, finally, for not responding more enthusiastically, like I should have acted excited(?), happy (?), or at least nice(?) about the upcoming date--I should have said it would be 'fun,' not 'fine.'
I'm sorry, David. You are a nice person. I am moron.
The date I refer to as 'the Boggle date' is memorable for two reasons: one, because we played a terrible game of Boggle (to be detailed in The Boggle Date: Part 2); and two, because it was the first time a boy asked me out in person--as opposed to over the phone--and I did not respond very well.
One weekday afternoon, *David, who lived in an apartment down the hall, knocked on my door.
David was genuinely nice person . . . but he was a little weird. At parties he sometimes sat in the corner of the room and sang tunes from South Pacific to himself. Whenever I passed him in our building hallway, he wished me a 'Happy Birthday.' Sometimes this happened two or three times in a single day. I told him he was making me old.
On this particular day, I did not invite David inside (because the boy I liked was already sitting in my livingroom), so we exchanged 'how are you's' at the door. Then he said, "Do you want to go out with me on Friday?"
But since I was, at that moment, totally focused on other boy, David's question sounded more like, "Fla fla fla fla fla?"
I was so caught off guard, all could do was stare--although it may have looked more like a glare--at this poor boy. About twenty seconds later I responded with, "Wait, what?"
"Do you want to go out with me on Friday?"
This time I heard the words, but it still took another ten or twenty seconds for the question to sink in. In the mean time, I continued to stare, open-mouthed, at David. I had heard of guys asking girls out in person, but it had never happened to me before, and I really just didn't know what to do with myself.
Finally, I answered, "Oh . . . um . . . sure. Yes. Um, yes. That--would be fine."
I'm certain that David felt very reassured and confident at that moment. And I felt like a jerk. For not inviting him in--I made him stand in the hallway outside my door (who does that?). For not paying enough attention to answer the question the first time--I've heard some guys have to work up a lot of courage to ask a girl out, and making him ask the question twice is just mean. And, finally, for not responding more enthusiastically, like I should have acted excited(?), happy (?), or at least nice(?) about the upcoming date--I should have said it would be 'fun,' not 'fine.'
I'm sorry, David. You are a nice person. I am moron.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
