Ms. Drunk at a Club

Regular readers may recall previous posts about manifestations of a disease that I like to call Brain vs. Mouth.  This post is about its sister disease, which is essentially a three-way bitch-fight between Drunk Brain, Sober Brain and Mouth.

Before I continue, let me reiterate that all three parties employ a particular brand of logic that is perfectly sound in and of itself.  It’s just that each brand of logic is incomprehensible to the other parties and to most rational human beings.

1. Drunk Brain is… well… Drunk Brain is just drunk.
2. Sober Brain is the closest that I can get to conventional wisdom.
3. Mouth just does whatever the hell it wants.  Picture all possible actions — ranging from the reasonable to the bat-shit mad — on a big spinning wheel.  Mouth spins the wheel and does whatever the hand lands on.

So, keeping these facts in mind, let me take you back to a crisp fall November night, where this story begins with a couple bottles of wine and a bag of pretzels…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Friday night, and it was meant to be a classic girls’ night out.  My last man-shopping bender resulted in the loss of my pants, but that wasn’t on the agenda this time.  All we wanted to do was have some wine together, get a little silly and dance it out to crappy French music somewhere that didn’t charge us an entry fee.

My companions for the evening were two lovely ladies, hereafter known as Ms. Hair and Ms. Holland, the former having consistently fantastic hair and the latter being the embodiment of all things awesome about being Dutch.

Ms. Hair was the star of the evening and managed to have a sizable following of eager young bucks who waited on her hand and foot and who provided us, her swashbuckling companions, with constant refills of Grey Goose.

I was perfectly fine with this arrangement, as the vodka was seeping into my brain.

It was after an undetermined number of these free drinks that I encountered a young man who looked like a French Shia Laboeuf.  This was also about the time that Drunk Brain joined the party.

My conversation with Shia LaBoeuf went something like this (I must warn you, this is a rough reconstruction, as I was pretty much drunk off my face at this point):

Shia : Hi, what’s your name?

Drunk Brain : HAHAHAHAHAHA He looks like Shia Laboeuf!  Shia Laboeuf sounds like Shia LaBUTT.  HAHAHAHAHA.

Sober Brain : Shut up, Drunk Brain.  Let the girl work.  This guy isn’t a total train wreck, and she deserves to have some fun tonight.

Man-shopper’s Mouth : My name is Helene.  And your name is Shia.

Shia : What?

Drunk Brain : TEEHEEHEHEHE Man-shopper is sooooo smooth.

Sober Brain : Oh god.  I can’t watch.

Man-shopper’s Mouth : I’m American!

Shia : No you’re not, you’re Asian.

Drunk Brain : Touché!

Sober Brain : Next!  Next!  For the love of god, Man-shopper, NEXT!  You’ve met moss that is smarter than this guy…

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Why, yes I am.  What do you think of Asians, sir?

Shia : I love Asians.  They are so… Asian.

Drunk Brain : Hmmm… I’m not sure, but why do I get this feeling that Shia is a little thick?  Oooo wait a minute, what do we have here?  Bouncy seat cushions!  Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy bounce bounce, I’m Tigger!

Sober Brain : < absent >

Man-shopper’s Mouth : ME TOO!  I LOVE ASIANS!

Shia : I know right!  Asians are so beautiful.  So exotic.

Drunk Brain : Okay, I’m drunk, but I’m not stupid.  I’m definitely getting a vibe of douche-toolery here, but how do we make him shut his stupid mouth??  Sober Brain, help a sister out here!

Sober Brain : < absent >

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Ummmmmm….

Shia : Blah blah blah blah Asian blah blah blah love blah blah blah you are beautiful blah blah blah what’s your number blah

Drunk Brain : I’ve got a brilliant idea!  He can’t say anything stupid if he can’t talk!  Just make out with him to shut him up!  Come on, Mouth, you and I both know that I have the best ideas.

Sober Brain : What the hell?  I step out for a coffee break and shit hits the fan…  Stop!  Wait!  WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

Man-shopper’s Mouth : < censored >

Drunk Brain : Hmmm… Sober Brain, were you saying something?  Oh, maybe you’re right, kissing this guy is not the greatest idea.  Poor guy.  He has no idea that he’s not getting a phone number out of this.

Sober Brain : Thank god, you’re listening.  Now, Mouth, repeat after me: “I’ve changed my mind.  I’m drunk, and I’m actually not interested.  Please leave me alone.  Also, my boyfriend is in the military and he will wipe the floor with you.”

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Oh, my roommate wants to go home.  Right now.  We communicate telepathically.  Bye!

Shia : WTF?

Drunk Brain : Nicely done, Mouth.  You are a genius.  He TOTALLY bought that.  You and I make such a great team.

Sober Brain : I don’t know why I even bother.

Of course, after implementing that brilliant exit strategy, I proceeded to stay at the club, wander around and dance indiscriminately to every horrible song that the DJ put on.  At some point, I’m pretty sure that I broke out my running man moves.  Maybe a little robot action.  I really don’t know.  It was kind of a shitshow.

At some point, I ran into Shia again.

And I vaguely remember saying, “NEXT!” and running away.

The next morning, after a 5am sandwich, a liter of orange juice, about three buckets of ibuprofen, and one of the most epic hangovers of my life, I vowed never to drink again…

… It was a vow that I broke shortly thereafter.

Mr. Drivel Master

This is just an open plea to the universe.  Men, I beg you — no, I implore you — to, when you leave voicemail messages, don’t be an idiot.

The following is a voicemail that a guy left on my friend’s machine.  The guy in question is an American, and my plaint is one that transcends ethnicity, nationality, and even gender.  Please, people, don’t ever leave a voicemail like this:

Uh, hey.  Monique.  I think this is Monique or it’s some French person who can’t understand anything I’m staying, but I’m french, so there you go, even though you probably don’t understand, oh cuz your’e french.  Anyway, I dunno, I figured I’d give you a call, say what’s up.  So… what’s up.   How’s your eye doing?   Are they still being a bitch to you at work?   I hope they’re not.

And also, do you have any idea, either it’s just cuz late here, you know, cuz I’m working, either cuz it’s, like, late here, or I’m just a complete retard, but it’s very complicated to call France.  Like, surprisingly.  You’d think that you could dial in the number, but no, you can’t do that, cuz, you know, no phone plans have, you know, international calling.  So, like, when I called you last time, I got this El Toro World Caller at the gas station.   And, uh, I still had a bunch of minutes left.  So, like, I’m freaking calling her ass and annoying her.

But hopefully I’m not annoying you.   Hopefully you’re like, oh cool, Stephen called.  Or you’re just like, why the hell did Stephen just call.  Or a combination of both, or you’re just some French person that doesn’t understand anything I’m saying and  you’ve probably already deleted this message.  Cuz I think that thing that left the message was automated, but I couldn’t understand it was saying, I dunno, my dad should’ve taught me French.  It’s all his fault.

So anyway, so yeah, that’s what I’m doing.

Sooo, I know what you should do.  You should call me here in America, cuz that would be awesome, so my phone number is, whatever the country code is, and all that complicated stuff, I don’t understand any of that, but if you’re in America, you’d just dial XXX and then XXX and then XXXX.  So that’s XXX XXX XXXX.  And again, you know, all this international dialing stuff.  Who the hell knows how that works.  Whoever invented that, you know, I’m gonna have a talk with them or something.

So, that’s my long rambling message.  I hope that you actually get this, and hopefully you’re teaching, some, you know,  I dunno, French people english or something.  You know, and uh, hopefully you can see out of your left eye and all that good stuff.  So, uh, yeah, talk to you later.

Oh!  One more thing, if you’re not some random French person and I actually dialed this number right.

That was the unabridged transcript of ONE voicemail, folks.  And it would have been longer, had the system not cut him off.  And nobody will ever know what his ‘one more thing’ was, since my friend was so horrified by this voicemail that she will never call him again.

And just a an FYI, the paragraph breaks and even the punctuation are my editorial additions to facilitate your reading and prevent you from straining your eyes.  The actual voicemail was just one long, interminable ramble.

Since you actually sat through that unending drivel, I will spare you any further eye strain by ending this blog entry here.  The transcript truly speaks for itself and needs no further comment.

Mr. Crew Team Captain

As some of you may recall from my previous posts about gym crushes (Ms. Gym Stalker and Ms. Boston Man-shopper), I’ve got a bit of a gym obsession.  And even though I am on holiday in the USA for a short period of time, that does not mean that I’ve dropped my fitness routine.

It does, however, mean that I still spend an (un?)healthy amount of time at the gym and that I inevitably encounter a plethora of attractive men there.

My current favorite: Mr. Crew Team Captain.

But one problem: we are both supremely awkward.

Even if I weren’t due to leave for Paris in a few days, this gym crush would still be doomed to go nowhere because we are both completely devoid of anything that could pass for flirting skills.

You’re probably thinking, “puh-lease, it can’t be that bad!” or “Man-shopper, you’re just using hyperbole to maintain reader interest in your self-deprecating blog drivel.”

But you’d be wrong.

Observe…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Hey.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Good job, flash that alluring smile.  Hello, gorgeous man-thing.”

Mr. Crew Team Captain – “Hi.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “My alluring smile got ONE syllable?  I should work on that…  Crap, this silence is painful.  Okay, raise your eyebrows.  Then it should be clear that you’re waiting for him to be a man and make this conversation happen, right?”

Mr. Crew Team Captain – “So… have a good workout!”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Um.  Thanks.  Ummm.  Bye?”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Imbeciles.  Both of you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Crew Team Captain – “Sooooo… Looks like you’re heading out.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “SWEET.  We are going to parlay!  Don’t fuck it up.  Don’t fuck it up.  Don’t fuck it up, dammit.”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “Yup.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “‘Yup?!’  God, I weep for humanity.”

Mr. Crew Team Captain – “Cool.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Great.  HE’S a dumbass too.  But so pretty…”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “I really like this music better than the music that is played in the evenings here.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Seriously??  THAT’S the best that you can do?”

Mr. Crew Team Captain – “Me too.”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Everyone in this conversation needs to be put out of their misery.”

Man-shopper’s mouth – “So… I’ll see you later!”

Man-shopper’s brain – “Oh.  Good.  God.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I swear, people who know me can attest to the fact that I’m perfectly capable of having (somewhat) normal conversation.  It could very well be that the weird combination of chemicals, hormones, pheromones, sweat and disinfectant at the gym muddles my brain.

Yes… let’s just chalk it up to that.

In the meantime, I’m no longer allowed to speak to men at the gym.

My already bruised and maimed pride simply can’t take any further humiliation.

Comics from http://www.nataliedee.com

Ms. New York Man-shopper

Someone reprimanded me today about the fact that I didn’t write anything about man shopping during my stay in New York.  She tried to impress upon me that it was my bloggerly duty to divulge my manventures in the Big Apple.

Bloggerly duty, my ass.  This was a matter of schadenfreude.  She just wanted the blogosphere to know how pathetically unsuccessful I was in New York.

But fine.  She insisted.  And I love her to bits, so I’ll oblige…

Dear readers, this was my “flirtatious” encounter:

• Sushi waiter – May I take your order?

• Man-shopper – Yes, I’d like an order of the Maki C, please.

• Sushi waiter – Ha ha I’m Maki D.  HA HA!

• Man-shopper — What?

Oh New York, I love you.  But… please.

Next.

Ms. Man-shopper on a Plane… on a Mother-f*#%ing Plane…

I haven’t really been keeping you all abreast of my man shopping adventures.  I wish I could say that this is due to the fact that I’ve been so TERRIBLY busy swimming in delicious Californian men that I simply haven’t a spare moment to write them all up.

But then I’d be lying.

In reality, I’ve been staying at my childhood home, mired in family obligations, all my spare energy devoted to preventing Bay Area boredom from crushing my soul.

I’ve also been playing a lot of Plants Vs. Zombies on the iPad.

Don’t judge.

A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to stay sane when her crazy uncles are demanding that she find a husband already.

And Plants Vs. Zombies is a brilliant game.  Seriously.

But I’ve still another couple of weeks left before I return to Paris and my usual shenanigans, so I figured that I’d tear myself away from brain-mushifying virtual zombie-killing for a few moments and share an anecdote about the closest thing that could pass for man shopping…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My sister and I were on a Virgin America flight, and I was having a grand ol’ time because it was my first time on this particular carrier.  I was enjoying their cheeky safety cards and tongue-in-cheek safety presentation.  And when we had finally reached cruising altitude, I began to explore the personal entertainment screen that we all had in front of us.

I discovered that they have this nifty feature that allows you to instant message anyone on the plane, simply by typing in their seat number.

So of course, my brilliant scientific mind felt an overwhelming desire to test out this new toy.  I immediately typed in my sister’s seat number, 7E, and sent her a cheery “HI!”

She was in the seat next to me, so I looked over at her, and she had her eyes happily glued to some comedy show.

Clearly, she wasn’t the least bit interested in the instant message capabilities of Virgin America’s entertainment system.

This is probably because she is a logical, sane person and saw no need to instant message me when she could just poke me and talk to me.

But we are not at all alike.

So I sent her another message in an attempt to provoke her and force her to play with me, dammit:

“Dufus.”

I sat back in my seat, feeling quite pleased with myself.

But a few minutes later, my sister still hadn’t sent me a response.

Now, this was unacceptable.

So I poked her and forced her to remove her headphones so that I could confront her about her lack of IM responsiveness.

She insisted that she hadn’t received any of my messages, and upon investigation, we discovered that she was correct.  Neither of my messages had been transmitted to her entertainment screen.

I was rather put out.

So I went back to my entertainment screen to see if the problem was on my end.  Perhaps I didn’t push the send button properly.

 

Courtesy of http://www.nataliedee.com

But then I realized that I had sent both “HI!” and “Dufus” to 3E instead of 7E.

And I knew for a fact that there was an exceedingly attractive man sitting in 3E.

I was mortified.

I turned off the screen and proceeded to ignore it for most of the remainder of the flight.  I guess I was hoping that if the screen was off, then I wouldn’t exist.  In some twisted way, I was hoping that leaving the screen off would mean that I still had a chance with the hot guy in 3E.

Kind of like how when you’re a little kid, and you think that if you hide under the covers and can’t see the monster, then it can’t see you.

Obviously, I’ve matured a great deal since then.

Mr. Denial

Since my last post from Boston, I’ve relocated to Ithaca, NY for my sister’s graduation.  While I am thrilled to be here for her commencement activities, all this family stuff has temporarily put a stop to my man-shopping until I leave for New York City tomorrow morning.  So until my NYC adventures begin, I’ll try to amuse you with more ramblings about the Parisian scene.

According to my personal field research, many anglophone women — particularly American women — will have trouble communicating certain things to their Parisian suitors.  This kind of miscommunication primarily revolves around the idea that anglophone women spend most of their waking hours turning down Parisian creeps, and said Parisian creeps spend most of their time in denial of this fact.

The best way to illustrate this particular anthropological phenomenon is with this handy chart that I’ve drawn up for you.

As you can see, dating in Paris can be fraught with misunderstandings.

A while back, I speculated that my lack of success on the Parisian dating scene could be due in part to an inherent language problem.  But after the epiphany that resulted in the above chart, I now also believe that liaisons between anglophones and francophones could potentially be doomed for reasons that have nothing to do with language.

Simply put, Houston, we have a cultural problem.

For whatever reason, dating rituals here require the men to act like ass-hats and, unfortunately, the women seem to put up with them or egg them on.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to beat the system, so to speak, but I’ve a number of friends who have offered their advice on the matter.  My buddy, Martin, who has long been baffled and concerned by the absurdity that is my love life in Paris, only had four words for me:

“Stop dating French guys.”

However, even though I agree with him in principle, in practice, I’m not going to stop dating Frenchmen.

It’s not that I’m determined to have a relationship with a Frenchman.

It’s just that I’m having so much fun with this blog.

And come on, you know that you love reading about these Parisian ass-clowns* that I meet.

So when I return to Paris next month, it’s on to the next…

…French-tard!

*This great new addition to my vocabulary has come by way of my friend, Iroquois Pliskin.  He has quite a way with words, and he and his brother have introduced me to wonderfully useful terms like “skank-pronging” and “schmo-hawk.”  I tip my hat to their skilled wordsmithing.

Mssrs. Driving Casanova

Now that spring is on its way, I’ve taken up cycling to work again.  I thought that it was great timing after the Metro Casanovas of the past few weeks.

But as it turns out, I seem to attract failed Casanovas even while on my bike.

This surprised me because I generally don’t expect advances from strange men while cycling… for the following reasons:

• I’m on a competition road bike, and I like to maintain a fast clip.  So… no time to talk.

• Since I’m moving pretty quickly through traffic, I devote my attention to the road around me in order to avoid… well… DYING.  I’m not checking out cute guys in the street.

• I’m not exactly dressed to go on the pull.  I’m in cycling pants, I’m laden with multiple cable locks and a backpack filled with work documents and clothes, and I’m usually sweating.  A lot.

So why would these Driving Casanovas bother me?  Pure desperation?  For shits and giggles?

Driving Casanova #1

While I was waiting at a stoplight, a pizza delivery guy pulled up next to me on his scooter.  He asked me where Metro Etienne Marcel was.

It was five feet to my right.

So I gave him a scathing look and just pointed.

Him: “Thanks, you’re so helpful!  What’s your address?”  He winked.

Me:  “NO.  Bugger off.”

Him: “Can I at least have your number?  You’re so beautiful.”  (HAH.  Lies.)

Me:  “Never.  A real man never asks for directions.”

Then the light changed, and I shot off.

He followed me for three blocks, all the while trying to convince me to give him my number.  I finally lost him when I took a shortcut behind the Louvre.

Driving Casanova #2, #3, and #4

Remember all those cheesy movies in which the guy serenades his lady-love outside her window?  Remember how in the 80s, this image evolved into a guy holding up his mini-boombox to his gal’s balcony as it blasted out sappy love ballads?

Fast-forward to Paris 2010.

Picture a sweaty, exhausted female cyclist on her way home from a long day at work.

Now picture a trio of dodgy Driving Casanovas in a large white unmarked van.

On this particular day, Driving Casanova #2 leaned out the passenger side window and shouted:

“Vous êtes sublime, mademoiselle.  Je te kiffe grave.”  (“You’re freaking hot.  I really like you.”)

Then he signals to Driving Casanova #3, who then cues up…

…Bryan Adams.  “Everything I do.”

I almost fell off my bike laughing.  Which would have been awkward, since I was still clipped in to the pedals.

These three Driving Casanovas followed me through stop-and-go traffic in the bus/bike lane from Châtelet all the way to Gare de l’Est (about 2 km).  They sang along and executed elaborate hand/arm gestures to a playlist that included:

• Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love To You”
• Pitbull’s “I Know You Want Me”
• Britney’s “I’m a Slave 4 U”
• Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl”
• Bare Naked Ladies’ “Be My Yoko Ono” (Yeah.  I know.)

Driving Casanova #5

Remember when you were little, and the boys showed their love by beating you in P.E. sports and then mocking you afterward?

Well, apparently some guys don’t outgrow this behavior.

I met Driving Casanova #5 at a stoplight at Port Royal.  He was dressed in a dapper tweed jacket and riding one of the public Vélib bikes, the big clunky Dutch-style bikes with the baskets out in front and only three speeds.

I saw him look me up and down as we’re waiting for the light to turn.

“Great,” I thought.  “I wonder what this guy’s strategy will be…”

Apparently this poor fool needed to prove his manliness by pedaling for dear life on his crappy public bike — just to “beat” me.

Really?  I’m on road racing bike that’s light enough for me to hoist over my shoulder with one arm.  This fool was trippin’.

I was coasting, barely pedaling, just to soak in the hilarity of this idiot’s posturing — his arms, legs and tweed jacket flapping about, his chest heaving…  The complete opposite of manly.  And when he “beat” me to the next stoplight, he turned to me and grinned.

Him:  “I just wanted to make sure that you were a woman after all.”

Me:  Speechless.

Him:  “So do you want to have coffee with me sometime?”

Me:  Still speechless.  I managed to shake my head emphatically.

I began pedaling up to speed, and when I looked back three blocks later, I saw this tiny tweed figure pull over and bend over to vomit in the gutter.

Hot.

*******

Ah springtime in Paris…

Next, next, and next, please!

Mr. Asian Fetish

In case you haven’t noticed, I am of the Asian persuasion.  And ever since my date with Mr. Love-You-Long-Time, I have received requests to blog about the Asian fetish…

So here’s the thing, folks.  I don’t have anything against the Asian fetish, per se.  I’m even reluctant to call it a “fetish.”  Everyone has a “type” that they prefer, and who am I to judge if a fellow likes the soy sauce?

Frankly, with the dawn of plastic surgery and advanced beauty products, it’s a cutthroat dating market out there.  I will take any advantage that I can get!

That being said, it is still inappropriate to blatantly advertise your ethnicity preferences on a date.  Nobody likes to be labeled like that.

For instance, one commenter pointed out that ordering a drink called “Love You Long Time” while on a date with an Asian girl “is just not done.”  Hell, taking her to a place that has it on the menu in the first place, that really “is just not done!”

Some idiot's dating site profile picture

Since that unfortunate incident, even more of my hapless dates followed his lead and crossed that just-not-done line.

Thanks to them, I have an ongoing list of what NOT to say when you are on a date with an Asianista like myself:

“Hey there, pretty Asian girl.”

• Word to the wise, this is never a good way to start.

“Wow.  You are super tall for a Vietnamese girl.  Are Vietnamese girls taller than Cambodian girls?  My ex-girlfriend is Cambodian.”

• He started out badly enough, but then he referenced the ex, as well?  Dumbass.

“I bet you know where all the Asian restaurants are in Paris.”

• Yeah.  Obviously.  Because I’m Asian, I know ALL of them.  And Uncle Ho was actually my uncle.  So was Mao.

“Sure, that event sounds interesting.  Is it an Asian thing?  I’ll only go if it’s an Asian thing.”

• I was just… speechless.

“Do you ever go to Asian Night at Mix Club?  I go all the time.”

• This is NOT the right way to say that you love to get down with the slanty-eyed folk.

“I love to read manga.  You look like an Animé character.”

• Good. GOD.

“Hey, I see two Asian girls sitting at that table over there.  Do you know them?  Are they your friends?”

• Again.  I had no words.

“I loved Australia!  There are a lot of Asians there.”

• Really?  Do I need to explain this one?

“Oh you’re Vietnamese?  We’re going to get along great!  I have heaps of female Korean friends.”

• The only word I have for this is: STUPID.  This line was so stupid that it makes me stupid when I think about it.

You know… this goes beyond the whole issue of ethnicity.  For example, if you replaced every “Asian” with any other modifier like — gosh, I don’t know — “small-waisted,” these comments would still be inappropriate.

The worst of it is that these lines did not just come from one man-product.

In other words, such poor unfortunate souls have strength in numbers.

Sigh… am getting tired of saying this, but… NEXT!

Messrs. Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and Tweedledimwit

This past weekend, I was lucky enough to attend a party which was — for lack of a better word — a meat-market.  Except at events like pro-wrestling nights at the pub, it is fairly rare for a woman to find herself in a social situation where men outnumber women ten to one.

Not even Comic-Con has those odds.

And unlike sporting events at the pub (those rare times that the men are far too involved with the flat-screen to take notice of any nearby boobage), this party was supposed to be a normal social event where the opposite sexes are expected to mingle and parlay.

Naturally, I thought that I had hit the jackpot.

I thought that my girlfriends and I could just waltz in, sit down, and hold court as these young man-things paid us tribute.  After all, with the free-flowing alcohol, the healthy amount of weed floating around, the absence of an Xbox, and no rugby match on telly, what else could possibly happen?

As it turns out, I could not have been farther from the truth.

I’m there for barely five minutes before Mr. Tweedledum.  He told me to hold absolutely still for about five minutes so that he could inspect and photograph my ass.  My ass did look pretty good, but come on, the whole incident still registered a 7.9 on the strange-o-meter.

On the other hand, Mr. Tweedledee thought that he was soooo smooth.  Little did he know that I have had plenty of practice deciphering the kind of cliché male double-speak that guys think is suave at four in the morning.

• “When I saw you from across the room, I immediately knew that you are a charismatic person.” (I saw you standing there and noticed that you are hot.)
• “With your charisma, I thought that we would get along.” (I’m thinking that you might want to have sex with me.)
• “I like your bling.”  (I like how that necklace shows off your boobs.)
• “The collar of your top is so interesting.”  (I like how that collar shows off your boobs.)
• “I’ve never seen a blouse made of that material before.”  (Will you let me touch your boobs?)

But Mr. Tweedledimwit was an unmitigated disaster.  He used the following 12-step courtship process:

1. Lock eyes with girl from across the room.
2. Freak out when she smiles at you.
3. Hover behind girl and look off into the distance until the awkwardness takes over, and someone is forced to include you in conversation.
4. Refuse to look at target girl and address all girls in conversation except her.
5. When target girl engages you in conversation, sex her up by discussing the most recent article you read about Doogie Howser.
6. Walk away while she tries to come up a response.
7. Drink until you’re stupid.
8. Come back a couple hours later and attempt to have a normal getting-to-know-you conversation.
9. Say that her job sounds intimidating.
10. Walk away.
11. “Run into” her at the food table and take her brownie from her plate.
12. Leave party.

Clearly, the man who wrote this 12-step program was an idiot.

So at five in the morning, my girls and I finally decided to throw in the towel.  I almost pity the two women that stayed behind with that sorry lot.

We had left them with a couple dozen of the most hapless fools in Paris.

Next, next and NEXT!

Mr. Deluded

Mr. Deluded was responsible for one of the most awkward — and borderline pathetic — first dates that I have had the misfortune to come across.  Thankfully, I was not his victim.  That privilege belongs to my fellow blogger, The Wandering Menace, who has been one of the first to respond to my call for first date stories.  You will find an excerpt below.

To read the full account of her first date nightmare, scroll down to the link at the bottom of this post.

But without further ado, I introduce to you… Mr. Deluded!

My man-shopping friend has asked me to type up a story of my first worst date.  To be fair, there are several contenders, but I will stick to that which she specifically requested.

The date I didn’t know I was on.

My parents have lived in Europe for eleven years, which made Thanksgiving in college a bit of a homesick nightmare.  In November of my junior year, I lived with some interesting characters (see my posts on roommates and neighboring potheads for further info), one of whom was kind enough to invite me to Thanksgiving dinner at his parents house so that I wouldn’t be alone on the holiday.  An extremely kind gesture on his part, and one that I happily accepted.  I piled into the car with him that Thursday morning, and the two of us drove outside Seattle to get some good old fashioned holiday yumminess.

Little did I know he had told his parents we were dating.

Read the whole account HERE!