July 2009

This morning at the gas station, I parked the car too far from the nozzle. But it was morning and whatever, I’m lazy and the hose stretched. In the obvious procession of this story, I proceeded to fill up my tank. I then remembered that I had some trash in my car (my car is my second home), so I go to step over the gas hose, as I often do, not thinking that most sane people would walk around such an obstacle.

As I was performing my ever-graceful step-over move, my shoe became caught on the hose, causing the damn thing to be knocked out of my car’s tank. One would think that having the nozzle clatter to the ground would stop the gas or something. But no. Just kept right on spraying. As I stared at it like an asshole. Oh, ho-hum, that’s no good, fuck it comes out fast, etc etc. You know, general dumbshit observations while wasting nonrenewable, expensive resources.

When a small pond befitting a nice mallard family had formed around my car, I finally had the sense to reach down and turn off the damn thing.

My first thought was, “Hmm, I wonder if I am going to explode when I turn the car on.” Tilting my head to the side in puzzlement as I thought about this (because sometimes I am a caricature of myself), I concluded, “Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Turn key, start car.

No explosion.

I arrived at work shortly thereafter with a strong perfume aura permeating from the knees down, so I told my gas-station story as an apologetic explanation. To which my boss said, “So what did you tell the gas station attendant?”

Hmm. Logical question. One that I should have thought TO LIE ABOUT when asked by MY BOSS.

“I paid at the pump, yo. I just left.”

He looks at me like I am retarded, which, at this point, who would bet against such an opinion. “You destroyed a gas station and fled the scene?”


In my first smart move of the morning, I didn’t argue over the semantics of destroyed or fled scene; instead, as a brilliant diversionary tactic, I asked if we were still meeting later to discuss a possible salary raise.


My friend asked why not, and I didn’t have an answer. Well, I did, but because felt annoyingly insufficient and flippant for all the gut-reasoning composed within that one word.

She pushed for more surely-hidden details, positive that I was holding back something tangible, something that, as a best friend, she was entitled to hear.

“You’ve NEVER slept with him? He’s single AND you’re attracted to him AND he has made blatantly sexual remarks but you’re STILL not going to sleep with him. Not even a trial run?”

She read our text conversations, searching for unsaid clues, not understanding when I could only shrug in response to one of his recent texts lamenting a ‘transitional period’ and how I’m ‘different’ than his usuals and how I should be ready to be asked out on dates when he finally pulls his head out of his ass.

“It’s all crap. He’s crap. I don’t know, he says things. Words, whatever, that don’t mean anything. I don’t want to be apart of that –of his –world. He sometimes makes me smile but other than that, it’s all such crap.”

“You’re going over there – at midnight on a Wednesday –and you’re not going to sleep with him? You’re just going to what, hang out? Not even a little make-outage?”

The answer to that damn why not I still couldn’t articulate.

That night, he and I had a good time, was like G-rated slumber party, as if he and I had been friends at one point within the last year, almost made me doubt my reluctance and simply-stated because. Almost. With him, I never have to wait long before he proves me right.

Two days later, his ex-girlfriend wrote, “I love you.” on his Facebook wall.

Oh yeah, that’s why. Because.

His jeans cost six times more than my entire outfit. I estimated his jeans at $250, knowing the brand and style, and my jcrew clearance jeans, long tank, and flips at a grand total of $40, maybe $45 if my plastic beads were taken into consideration.

He was nice enough, but I kept a distance, figuring his jeans were reflective of his priorities. From my personally-conducted Very Scientific Study, guys who spend that much on clothes tend to go for the short-skirt, big-boob type of girl. I will never be that girl; I am far too in love with my comfy pants and no-shower Sundays. Also, I like to feel superior to those who rely heavily on superficial traits; attraction should be based on the important things. Like dimples and muscles.

The evening was low-key –me and four guys at a dive bar–and I stayed sober, having to drive one of the guys home at the evening’s end. At the end of the night, he asked if I was sure I had to leave, I said yes, doled out some hugs, and drove home to fall asleep in my own bed.

Eight hours later, I woke to the following text:

“So are you going to join me on [his boat’s name] the motorboating son of a bitch today … oh yeah, this is that fun/hot accountant you met last night … I got your number from Baby Cakes, I hope that’s cool with you.”

How flattering is that? Here I was completely overlooking the guy, and not only did he ask for my number, but he FOLLOWED-UP only a few hours later. Plus he integrated two of our discussion threads into the text (his boat and the prevalence of lame people within his occupation), showing that he was at least paying attention to our conversation. Points for him.

“Hmm, that description isn’t ringing a bell, seems a bit contradictory. But hello. Unfortunately I have to work at my serving job starting late afternoon. Raincheck?”

While waiting for his response, I wondering how he’d react to the grief I gave, if I should’ve maybe toned it down until he knew me better. Not all guys (cough cough, Realtor, cough ahem) can take it.

“Not ringing a bell? Come on now, oh wait maybe dead sexy is a better description … remember now? … and of course you can raincheck … don’t work too hard today. Text me sometime.”

Nice response, good for him. Even though I am still slightly skeptical about his personality/priorities, the guy did earn some points for the contact and the banter.

I wrote back saying that ah yes, now I did remember him and to enjoy the sun and motorboating. Then I saved his number to my phone.

Text me sometime. Which, dammit, means the ball is in my court … which would require action on my part … and action is not avoidance … so … I’m not good at that. This dating thing is so much easier when I expect the dude to play games or live in another state.

Mine is from George Burns: “I would rather be a failure at something I love than a success at something I hate.”

I find it inspiring when looking for direction. Success is a subjective measurement, and I often forget that.