Much like a pimple on my butt, he is back.
First, he sent flowers on my birthday.
Then, a few days ago – a letter on fancy paper with concert tickets for “us” to use (worth $60 each).
My homeowner-math [that revolves around bills I have to pay] calculates the total cost at about $200 bucks (including fees, postage and fancy paper).
Or my water bill for the year?!
After reading the expensive 3-paragraph letter, my friend, Chloe, surmised, “Maybe he is looking for closure.”
[Sigh. Bored now.]
What a waste of 200 bucks?!
Trying to impress me?
Just send me something useful – like a maid.
I also like stuff from Home Depot. Anything gardening-related is right up my alley.
Or how about sending another man – who cleans and lifts heavy stuff. [That’s sexy.]
In the spring, I had my bedroom redone. New walls, paint, blinds, crown moulding, closet organizer. The works.
For weeks, John, the handyman, arrived just as I was leaving for work and was gone before I returned.
I hate leaving strangers in my home – so do my cats. But John turned out to be the most respectful and trustworthy dude.
One day, I came home early and his pants were in the middle of my living room floor.
I guess I could have started banging stuff so he knew I was home.
But why do that, when I could surprise him – semi-naked? [I know. Right. Super naughty.]
I quickly headed toward the bedroom where he was supposed to be working [and wearing pants. I guess? I never really clarified that in the contract.]
When I opened the door to my bedroom, he was – fully clothed – on his hands and knees using a little white rag to clean my hardwood floor.
Yum, delicious. Sexy. Right?
I guess he just needed a wardrobe change – like Cher – um..so he changed his pants? I was so happy to have someone cleaning FOR ME – I forgot to ask.
Anyway, I pretended not to be a pervert trying to catch him in the “act,” – “Hey there, John,” I said nonchalantly.
“Welcome home,” he replied with a smile. [Note to self: There are people who are glad to see me. Who knew?]
He was so happy to tell me about all of the work he did that day. [Say what now? A happy person who cleans. The world is upside-down.]
And I like it.
“It’s been two years.” I replied to Chloe who was still analyzing the letter, “and we went on one date, and he’s the one who disappeared and stopped calling.”
“Maybe you could just go out with him for fun,” she shrugged. [Not. He is fun like pap smears are fun.]
I’ll never forget that romantic night before our one and only date where he called me drunk and slurred sweet-nothings in my ear.
Gosh, that was fun.
But that was my specialty. Picking and dating emotional wrecks – just like me.
Yup, I picked them.
Not the universe.
Just me and my bag of cray cray which included…
* My super cool, low self-worth which never aligned with my big aspirations.
Not to be outdone by…
* My propensity to ignore “red flags” like some people ignore stop signs.
* My uber-creative ability to fabricate a relationship and false intimacy based solely on a string of marathon phone calls.
And last, but not least…
*My conspicuous lack of standards and boundaries that I didn’t even know I needed.
My bag was always full, as usual.
There is still always weird stuff in it….
The weirdest stuff in my bag right now is Hydrocortisone cream, Post-its, and one hoop earring.
Just in case, there is a need for um… an itching pirate writing sticky notes. [Because that’s so common.]
Note to self: Clean out your bag.
My cray cray bag does make for some interesting dating stories though…
Let me quickly flip through my rolodex of humiliation to find a good example of my misadventures.
Oh, here’s one.
Tick the ex-Football Player.
This was ions ago, but the example still works.
TicktheDick was bearable as long as he was silent.
Mostly because I just never knew what the hell he was talking about…
Once, I asked him why his nickname was Tick. Did he like bugs? Was he a bloodsucker? Did he attach to your body – waiting to be pulled off with tweezers? What?!
“Weeeeeeelp,” he always talked painfully slow.
“I was a football player,” he concluded dimly.
[Question: What does that mean?! How are bugs and football related? Translate, please.]
I hate non-answers. Evasive people never really “say” anything and then they take forever to say it.
Aside from bizarre non-answers. There was the weird Southern accent.
The Southern part was not the weird part. It was the fact that he only had an accent on the phone.
“Did you know you have a Southern accent on the phone?” I tried to say delicately – when what I meant was “are you bonkers?”
“Welp,” he chuckled. “I get that all the taaaahme.”
[Really. Ya think? Is that an answer on your planet? You were born and raised in New Jersey – the NORTHEAST. New Jersey is in the South like the first floor of my house is in the South – and by that, I mean it ISN’T?! WHY AM I TALKING TO YOU?!]
Oh yeah, I remember.
He was hot. Super hot.
If I bounced a quarter off his tooshie, it would shoot through the roof and land on Mars. [God Bless football tooshies.]
Look, I wanted my hot football player moment. I wanted to make up for all of the guys I didn’t date in high school or college. Besides, there is no talking during sex? Right?
New rule alert: Lights on, yes. Talking, no.
So I went over to his house one sunny afternoon for the first time. We had the obligatory, lame conversation – half of which – I didn’t understand.
[Just get naked, dude.]
He decided to give me a tour of his one-bedroom apartment. [Honestly, this could have been accomplished by standing in one place and turning in a circle].
When we reached the bedroom, we kissed. [Awesome. It’s naked time!]
I got naked and climbed into bed. The sun peaked in around the edges of the ugly green curtains – that only a dude would buy.
[Question: Why are beds so high these days? It’s like scaling a mountain.]
TicktheDick took off his clothes and we rolled around on the Jolly Green Giant bed.
Anticipation was thick in the air.
And then suddenly, for no apparent reason – he nearly fell off the Jolly Green Giant bed, and stumbled to his feet.
He looked down at me disgusted like I was covered with cow manure.
He declared, “I can’t do this. I just can’t.”
THIS – he manages to say without the stupid accent.
The world was upside-down. It sucked big time.
And I have never gotten dressed so fast IN. MY. ENTIRE. LIFE.
So there you have it.
A bedtime story brought to you by my big old bag of cray cray…
But that was ions ago, long before Ben.
By comparison, Ben is a pussycat.
“We all have regrets in life,” he wrote in his mea culpa, “what we do about those regrets will determine how we feel about them!” [Seriously, dude. Exclamation point? Over-the-top much?]
“Up to this point I’ve done nothing,” he concluded.
I beg to differ.
The letter was nice enough and it took balls aplenty [most folks would have the good sense to burn the letter – or at least – not send it.]
Add to that. Flowers. Gifts. Self-flagellation. 730 days of contrition [and in homeowner-math, that’s 24 mortgage payments?!]
This definitely qualifies as something.
And thanks for helping me close the book on my dating misadventures.
That’s something too.
But the dreary self-flagellation is a bit excessive though [and by that, I mean – you sound crazy].
He is acting like he ran over a puppy.
The fact is there is no “nice” way to dump a person. It’s tricky business. Yes, Ben was a complete D-bag about it, but I was over it 725 days ago [I mean 2 triple A renewals ago]…
Dont’cha just hate when someone is not equipped to be a D-bag?
If you are going to be a D-bag, just go all-in. Otherwise, it demonstrates a lack of commitment – like clogs. [They aren’t really heels, but they aren’t flats either. It’s just confusing.]
The desire to suddenly grow-a-conscious is adorable, but expecting people [and by that, I mean me] to take you seriously or engage in any way is a bit presumptuous.
I am not saying D-bags can’t change. Or turn over a new leaf.
I am saying I don’t have to give an it-shay when they do.
Like I told him 6 oil changes ago, I am not interested.
Re-dating someone I shouldn’t have dated in the first place (and that includes any dude up to and including 2010)
Would be going backwards.
And that is just not an option.
It’s not about me being angry. Or jaded. Or needing closure. Or forgiving.
It’s about not letting other people put their crap in my bag.
Long after I’ve sorted mine out.
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