War of the Leash

Walking my dogs was hard work. Not only were there two of them, but they were big and strong. They knew the leash meant freedom from the backyard. I would get pushed to my limits. They would drag so hard they’d be choking themselves, front paws flailing in the air. Getting them to heel was always a losing battle, but one consistent fight for dominance will never leave my mind: The cows.

 

In my neighborhood, there used to be a cow field. It was next to the church and had a chain link fence dividing it from the parking lot. The cows did nothing but eat grass all day long. I remember once when one of them actually came over and almost ate grass from my hand. It sniffed my bundle, turned its nose up, and walked away. Ungrateful, picky cow!

 

My dogs had differing opinions about the cows. Girl Dog thought every other animal was her friend. She would just stare vapidly in their general direction, wagging her tail. Then she’d get bored and sniff at small circles of dead grass. (So fascinating, animal urine is.) 

Boy Dog, on the other hand, was anti-social. He wanted to destroy everything that wasn’t human or Girl Dog. The cows were his special enemy.

Every time I walked my dogs, we would pass by the cows. Boy Dog’s tantrum would come first. It would begin as a series of frustrated “turkey gobbles” and end up as blood-thirsty screeching. Repeated attacks against the fence soon followed; he’d jump, smash his face against the chain link, throwing his head back and forth. The cows kept eating.

It took all my strength to pry Boy Dog from his tantrum-fence. All he wanted to do was kill those cows. If he ever did somehow manage to get past the fence, he’d never actually be able to achieve cow-murder. One kick from those beef machines would’ve been enough to end his tantrums forever. Yet he tried. Every. Single. Walk.  He wasn’t the brightest four-legged stinker.

 

These incidences might not have been so bad if they weren’t usually paired with another bit of horribleness: Cow poop. I had to avoid stepping in any whilst Boy Dog dragged me around during his freak-outs. I’ll never know how those cows managed to get it on our side of the fence in perfect, soft-serve piles. There were usually around five-ten of these massive globs sitting, undisturbed, on the grass that borders the fence and parking lot. 

It’s as if the cows left their enclosure just for the pleasure of leaving their dumps in a place where humans could admire them. 

 But that’s not what I remember most about the poop.

If the cows weren’t close enough to the fence as a distraction, my dogs would beeline for those mounds of muck. I would always pull my hardest on the leash trying to stop what I knew was coming, but I was like a rag doll. When they knew there was cow poop around, their strength was unrivaled.

The result was inevitable. 

My dogs would eat it. They loved it. They ate it like it was a prized delicacy. Plunging their snouts in that glorious buffet, they wouldn’t even bother chewing. They especially liked the mature manure; piles that were crusted over with goopy insides. (It must have tasted better medium-rare.) I would fruitlessly pull the leash and beg them to stop. “Don’t eat that! That’s not healthy for you! What is wrong with you?”

The feasting would go on until either all the poops were gone, or they had eaten so much that they started to vomit. I was powerless against their intense desires for cow excrement. And there were new piles every time I walked the dogs. I hated those cows.

When they would finish licking their stained faces, they would continue the walk like nothing was wrong. They’d even lick me after.

And I let them.

 

Why I Hate The Porch

Romantic scenes in movies and TV shows will have you believe that date should end with the guy walking the girl to the porch and giving her a kiss. Even Aladdin flies Jasmine to her balcony. And what happens? They kiss. There is nothing wrong with that. I think it’s cute when Aladdin congratulates himself (“Yes!”) and falls onto Carpet with outstretched arms. It’s all wonderful and great if the two participants have eyes for each other. But what if one doesn’t? Well, for me, it went something like this:

My date clearly liked me. He laughed hysterically at everything I said, thought I was some kind of Super-Girl because I exercise/do sports, and wouldn't look me straight in the eye when talking to me but would stare when he thought I couldn't see him through the corner of my eye. It was the end of the double-date when he opened the car door for me and followed me to the porch. We exchanged thanks. He asked for my number so we could “hang out” again.

Then there was silence. I stood there, not knowing what to do. I didn’t like him that much; he was shorter than me. Should I have just turned around, opened the door and left him there? That’s what I should’ve done, even if cruel. But I just stared at him. And he stared at me. What formalities were expected? Heck if I know.

I was fiddling with my keys. “Hitch” went through my mind. According to that movie, fiddling with keys means the girl is waiting to be kissed. Like lightning, my mind panicked; I didn’t want him to kiss me. Hitch is full of LIES!!! I was just waiting for him to leave first so I didn’t come off as a jerk or ungrateful for the date.

As I stood there, trying to act as un-kissable as possible, (I stopped fiddling with my keys and stopped smiling) he said,

“Hey. I had a lot of fun tonight.”

Crap!

He started to approach me.

Double crap!

Closer.

I want to die.

On the outside, I was stone-faced. On the inside, I was like, “No! No no no no no no! Not okay! I’ll say no. I’ll turn my head. Or I’ll just stand on my toes so he can’t reach my face.” As those tactics of desperate evasive maneuvering flitted through my mind, he was too close before I could choose what to do.

And then…

He hugged me.

Praise the sun!

Nightmare Date

My cousin set me up on a double date with his friend Bob. It was fun, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what happened after. As Bob walked away after escorting me to my car, he quickly turned around and said, “I’ll give you my number so you can text me. I need to make sure you get home ok.” (Smooth. He just wanted my number.) I got my phone out. He grabbed it from me and put the number in himself. (Weird) I shrugged it off and texted him when I got home. It had begun.

 

Bob: “I’m so glad you are safe. I wanted to drive around with you after (your cousin) left but I knew it was late. I feel so bad that you had to drive on your own and meet us at (your cousin’s) house.” <--Note how bad he feels about not picking me up.

Me: “It’s ok. I live far and out of the way.”

Bob: “You would have made the drive very pleasant.” <--Dang. He wasn’t hiding it at all.

Me: (after some flirty texts) “I’m giving you a chance.” <--Big mistake!

The next day, Saturday, I spent the whole day goofing off doing crap, not thinking about Bob at all. I was getting ready for bed, when suddenly;

*beep*

It was a text from Bob.

Bob: “I thought you were going to text me today :(“ <--Whiner, much?

For a reason I will never know, it made me feel guilty. From then on, I answered every text he sent. I even sent one Sunday morning saying, “I’m sending you a text so you can’t say I’m ignoring you.” The texting never ended. Shamelessly, I admit I was blinded by flattery. It turned me into a stupid, stupid girl. Why was I stupid? Read on.

Me: (late Sunday night) “I gotta go to bed because I’m snowboarding with (my cousin) and the fam at 7am tomorrow.”

7:01am, as I’m getting ready:

*beep*

Bob: “Good morning, Katie.” <--Yes. He waited until the exact moment he knew I’d be awake.

Me: “Hey I’m just getting ready.”

Bob: “Send me a picture.” <--After one date? Come on, dude.

Me: “Ok.” <--See. I’m stupid. I didn’t know how to say no.

Five minutes later…

Bob: “I thought you were going to send me a picture?”

Me: “How can I? I’m not on the mountain yet.”

Bob: “I thought you were going to send me a mirror shot lol” <--Holy creeper!

Mirror shot? Really? That’s just wrong. I explained to him that mirror shots are boring, cliché, have bad lighting and I would never send that kind of picture. I sent him a group picture after I got back from boarding. He didn’t mention the picture in his reply. He was probably disappointed that it had other people in it and that I was in all my gear.

The next few days consisted of this:

“What are you doing?” “When do you leave for school?” “Tell me when you get to school.” “What classes are you taking?” “What is your professor talking about?” “Where are you eating lunch?” “What are you eating?” “Do you like what you’re eating?” “When does your next class start?” “Do like your professor?” “Who do you sit by?” “What are you talking about with other people?” “When do you go to work?” “Tell me when you get to work.” “Tell me when you leave work.” “Tell me when you get home.” “What are you doing tonight?” “I like that you like to read.” “I think it’s so great that you know that stuff about pictures.” “I’m trying to impress you.” “I don’t want you going places without me.” “I won’t let you go to (a park) without me.” “Tell your guy friend you met someone.” “When are you going to bed?” “Tell me when you are getting ready for bed.” And on, and on, and on.

I should have realized that Bob was basically text-stalking me. AND he was forbidding me to do things without him. Red flags! But I was, as I said, blinded by flattery. He knew my whole schedule from when I woke to when I hit the pillow. (Man, I’m stupid!) At some point, a second date was arranged for Wednesday. I was so excited that a guy was paying attention to me that I didn’t even question his text:

Bob: “So I thought we’d watch a movie and cuddle and stuff.” <--This is only the second date. Trying to move too fast, dude.

Sure, I said. Anything! Hearts in my eyes! I loved the attention.

On Wednesday, he was supposed to pick me up at 8PM. It was changed to 9PM because he was studying for a test. Constant texting ensued. He must not have been studying very hard.

Nine o’clock rolled around:

Bob: “Would it be rude if you drove yourself there (the theater) to meet me?” <--Remember when he gushed how he felt so bad that he didn’t pick me up on the first date?

I wondered if Bob did that to avoid meeting my dad. I started having a sick feeling in my stomach; I was already uncomfortable. Did I listen to my guts? Nope. I drove.

When he finally showed up to the theater, I noticed a powerful musk; he was wearing a lot of cologne. (I don’t like cologne.) At the ticket kiosk, he had me pick from two movies he wanted to see, neither of which I knew anything about. As we stood printing the tickets, I noticed another smell. This one was permeating from his mouth. He clearly had not brushed his teeth. I almost gagged. That was a deal breaker. I knew it was over before it even began.

Bob knew I was at my Karate class earlier. He asked me what I did. “Oh, I was just breaking boards with my hand.” That should have sufficed in letting him know not to mess with me. He smiled, “Oooo! So you’re dangerous. I like that.” <--Not sure what he was thinking there. I don’t really want to know.

As we walked toward our theater number, Bob was lagging behind me about five feet distant. I kept turning around, waiting for him to catch up; that just made him walk slower. Apparently it was so I could “lead the way.” The seats he had chosen were isolated from other people and on the back row. For a horrifying moment, I remembered that he wanted to snuggle. I sat with my arms and legs crossed. <--No snuggling allowed position.

It was a terrible, raunchy movie. Bob knew that. Why did he make it a choice? He laughed at every crude joke while I sat in silence. He must have noticed. To his credit, he did ask if I wanted to leave after a particular gross scene involving Cheetos. I should have walked out right then but I felt like I had to stay because he paid for it. I’m never making that mistake again.

As I pondered about his questionable character, yet another smell appeared. I knew it was Bob because no one else was sitting within twenty feet of us. It started out faint, and then grew into a monstrous cloud I dared not inhale.

You know what I’m talking about. 

I held my breath, my eyes almost tearing up. I couldn’t believe he didn’t hold it in. Did he think his cologne could mask it? Suddenly, I knew why he was walking so far behind me on the way in. He must have left a path of stink the whole length of the theater. All those poor people had to suffer just as I was now. 

When the movie ended, I just wanted to go home and forget this date ever happened. Nope. He wanted to take me on that drive he had talked about. “Fine,” I thought, “What could he possibly do now?”

To the all night Mexican drive-through we go!

Bob: “Do you want anything?”

Me: “No, thank you.” ßI already ate, and he knew that.

Bob: “Don’t you dare give me that no thank you!” <--No doesn’t mean no to him.

Bob ordered a whole lot of nasty-looking things with fake cheese, and gave me some rice milk that I didn’t want. He parked his car in a dark parking lot. As he bit into a burrito, orange ooze dripping from his mouth, he stated, “I want to know everything about you.” I was too repulsed to say anything but, “Um… what do you want to know?” That was when the personal, completely inappropriate-for-a-second-date questions started:

Bob: (examples)

“What is your greatest fear? How often do you think about it?” <--Why not ask my favorite color, dude?

“Who are you closest to? What would you do if they died?” <--Are you planning a murder or something?

“What is the worst thing that has ever happened to you?” <-- O_____O  I don’t even want to know why he wanted to know this.

Me: (After honestly giving him dishonest answers, though none were actually a lie.) “What about you? What do you like to do?”

Bob: “This. Getting to know you. Learning about you.” (Then he’d redirect the question back to me.)

After too long of that terribly uncomfortable segment of the date, Bob finally decided to talk about himself. It was a sob story of how his best friend “betrayed” him by “not doing everything with me anymore. He has a girlfriend.” His friend got a life and he was upset by that. But that wasn’t even the worst:

Bob: (He’s studying to become an engineer.) “I’m pretty smart, you know. My professors never know when I cheat. When the calculation says it should be designed at 5, I just put something at 4.5. I know it’s there, but they don’t! haha!”

That was just horrifying: An engineer student cheating. That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. There’s a saying that says, “Dear engineering students, if you cheat now, you WILL kill people later. Please, learn the material or change your major.” I couldn’t stop thinking about this as he showed me his mathematical cheat-drawing that made him late. He didn’t even turn it in. If he was trying to impress me with his skills at lying, he failed miserably. I was trying to think of a way to get away without coming off as a complete jerk, when:

Bob: “The sad part about tonight is that it has to end right now. I need to go home and think about what to do about my drawing.” <-- Always on his terms.

Bob drove back to where my car was. I was being a good young lady so far, letting him open the doors for me. Not anymore. I opened my own door. I hoped that would give him the hint that I was not happy with him. He candidly walked over to a lookout area that was part of the parking structure. He just stood there leaning on the rail, staring at me. If he thought I’d come over and have some kind of Casablanca moment, he was mistaken. Then again, he probably just needed to release more of his stink.

As I was turning the keys to get in my car, Bob hurried over and gave me a big hug, saying, “I had a blast tonight.” I just said, “Thanks.” and left. I did not want to see him ever again. I decided I wasn’t going to contact him. If he didn’t get the message, I’d let him know.

The next Wendesday:

*beep*

Bob: “Hope you’re doing well, been a long time”

Me: (six hours later) “I was uncomfortable the whole night. It’s not going to work between us.”

Bob: “why were you uncomfortable haha” <--Ignoring that I was clearly saying bye forever.

Bob:  (much later) “You ok?” <--Didn’t get it that I wasn’t responding because I didn’t want to.

I never responded again, and I never will. I call it “Project Ignore.”

[Update] As of yesterday, March 18, 2012, Bob still texted me, "so what happen?" He will never know.

Do I need an introduction?

The wonderful world of dating: How torturous. Yet, how nice it is that the initial state of awkward cringing becomes a treasure trove of comedic story-telling. Who doesn't have a nightmare date to laugh about later? Unfortunately, there has been some, and will be many, ill-fitted suitors. Be wary, cretins! Your socially inept vises will be forever remembered in the form of this blog. Date on!

I won't write only about dating; I like lots of things. That is just the first entry and where I got the name "Project Ignore" from. Most of my posts will be about various things from my life that I deem story-worthy.