It's All Al Gore's Fault!

Some people are goobers. And that's not their fault. They drink beer out of cans and they smash them on their heads. They are Tex-Mex enthusiasts. They think Jessica Simpson is hot. Depending on their arbitrary make preference, they put those stickers of that little boy wizzing on either a Chevy or a Ford on their cars. Many of them enjoy the band Tool. All of them enjoy Nickelback. I went on a date with one of these goobers. Check. It. Out.

1) The place he selected demanded an "OUTRAGEOUS!" (his words, not mine) $7 dollars per margarita, so he suggested we scoot it on down to the nearest generic dive bar. Being the demure and accommodating G.G. I am, I told him I thought that was a great idea, even though I thought it was a stupid and cheap idea.
2) After we sat down with our less-than-seven-bones hooch, he proceeded to talk about Tool. A lot. He talked about Tool without interruption for a good 20 minutes, despite my constant insistance that I don't listen to Tool and didn't know WTF he was talking about. He couldn't help himself. I mean, the sheer magnitude of Maynard's entrance at their last show brought him to tears.
3) He finally did shutup about Tool, though, and we moved on to the "What do you for a living?" conversation. He found out I used to work in the muzak biz and then proceeded to try to promo-guy me on about 50 of his friends' bands. Descriptions like, "They're like Bon Jovi! But they RAP!" abounded.
4) He insisted that Texas has a great wine country now. While I have no idea if that's true or not, I said something like, yeah, it makes sense, the climate is changing everywhere. This comment brought on a shit storm of a tirade about how global warming isn't real, Al Gore made it up for money or something, and it's all a big liberal conspiracy.
5) That's when Jameson shots became necessary. I don't know what we talked about after that (I kind of remember trying to tell him about my passion for touchdown dances?), but I DO know I was equally bored with it and peaced out rather early.
6) I then stumbled home to Jessica, threw my bangles in her general direction, and passed the eff out. The end!

-Cate

PS - Al Gore invented the internet.

How I Dodged the 'Roid Rage Bullet Simply By Being Lazy and Inconsiderate

I hit the crazy jackpot! I hit the crazy jackpot! Check this shit out!

Shirtless-man-who-sometimes-wears-shirts-apparently and I had tentative plans for dinner on Monday or Tuesday. We hadn't chosen the day, time, or place, however. Come Monday, I was a little over dating, having had two in a row, so when he called me I chose not to pick up, simply because I needed a break. He left me a very polite voicemail, so I decided I would call him back at my earliest non-annoyance at dating convenience. The voicemail went as follows:

"Hi there! Hope you're having a happy Monday! I had a great time the other night, hope you did too! I'd love to see you again, so call me back when you get a chance."

What a sweet guy! I'll call him tomorrow! Yay! Then bitch went straight up Ike Turner on me. Eight hours after the nice voicemail, I get these texts from him. That's right, plural texts. He had so much rage to share that it spanned two whole text messages! Here is a direct transcript, grammar/spelling errors and all:

"i cant believe your blowing me of you whore! seriusly?! i take u out and by you drinks and u dont call me back???!!?! whatver! good!!! im glad i dont have to worry about catching your diseases now you fucking WHORE! FUCK YOU! WHORE!"

In his defense, this may not be an overreaction. I mean, he did buy me like 2 (well) vodka and diet cokes, and I did admit in my previous post that I wore red hooker heels to our first date. Maybe he meant "whore" in the professional sense, in which case it certainly stands to reason that I may have several venereal diseases. To prevent this kind of misunderstanding in the future, I'm considering only wearing white orthopedic nurse shoes to all my future dates. Then if I get a message with something like, "NURSE! I'M GLAD I DON'T HAVE TO GIVE YOU A PINT OF MY BLOOD NOW! FOR INFUSIONS FOR OTHERS! FUCKING NURSE!" I'll know the gentleman's confusion was the fault of my fashion choices, and not a side effect of his obvious steroid addiction.

ps - That Polish ex-girlfriend didn't move back to Poland. She's still here, and hiding. I know it.

-Cate

Shirtless Hunk Refuses to Put 'Em on the Glass

Brace yourselves, readers. Shirtless man actually wore a shirt to our date. I don't know how it happened, but he somehow managed to put a shirt on before leaving his home, and judging by his all-shirtless calendar of Match.com photos, it may have been for the first time ever. SHIRT VIRGIN! This has to be because it was 20 degrees outside. It's the only explanation. He's a practical man, after all. If this had been a mid-August, or even, dare I say, mid-April date, he surely would have shown up bare, recently-waxed chest exposed without an ounce of shame. And really, I was wearing 4 dollar bangles from H&M and red hooker heels, so who am I to judge?

Anyway, we went to Auction House, he was pissed they didn't have Heineken, we talked about South American dictators, U2 (he's a superfan, and I refrained from making fun of THE MOTHAFUCKING EDGE. I'm a saint!), and his Polish ex-girlfriend he wanted to marry but who ran out on him and moved back to Poland to be an architect. He didn't know why she couldn't be an architect here. We're going out to dinner this week. The end.

My Date With a Brazilian Imposter

FIRST of all, if you're going to tout up your Brazilian heritage all over your Match.com profile, you should actually be Brazilian. This simply means, when you call me, I expect you to have a distinctly foreign accent that wisks me away to another time and place without the jet lag and travel costs. Instead, what I got on the other end of the phone was a dude who sounds like someone I could meet in a Des Moine Holiday Inn sports bar. Rude! This is not only unsexy, it is also deceitful!

So Des Moine tells me he'd like to take me out for drinks somewhere downtown. Immediately I (mistakenly) assume he'll take me somewhere semi-nice, like Little Branch or Death and Company. Instead, he suggests Kenny's Castaways, which is basically a smelly dive venue for shitty bands that arent good enough to play Mercury Lounge. ROMANTIC! The date lasted all of two hours before I bailed. Here's the stats rundown:

1) His "accent" came and went throughout the date, which means he's not only a dating con artist, but he's a LOUSY dating con artist.
2) He ordered a sex on the beach in what I think was an attempt to look foreign and sensitive, but really just turned out looking lame and vaguely gay.
3) He went to DeVry.
4) The band played only orignal Dutch socialist jingles that somehow sounded like Heart song parodies. Des Moine was very impressed by them. Very.

After their set was done I escaped to gayville to be with my people. And Chloe. THE END!

-Cate

Or Something?

After talking to a boy (a sailor even!) online ALL DAMN DAY today, I finally got what I think he considered to be a date offer. Upon hearing that I'd have to work all night tonight, he said, and this is a direct quote: "Aww, I should at least take you out for a hot dog or something."

This was said with no irony. "Or something?" There are no words. I ignored this offer and kept ignoring all his other not-even-as-nice-as-Sizzler offers until I got him to pony up and ask me to dinner (surprisingly, at a place nicer than Sizzler) on Friday night. Since he's clearly an idiot, I hope to be reporting some hilarious results on Saturday morning.

-Cate

Spy Caper! (Kind of...)

As Chloe and I were mopping up the ginormous blue Slusho she spilled on me at last night's Cloverfield screening, I noticed a very fancy lady out of the corner of my eye sporting a defiant, "Just try and entertain me -- I DARE YOU!" look on her face, and lightning struck! This pouty yup is the G.G. I shall spy on tonight!

The great thing about observing G.G.'s as opposed to, say, falcons or quasars, for example, is that you don't need to trek out to nature OR purchase a high-powered telescope to see them. They're not only available everywhere, but they're also visible to the naked eye! Even covered in melted blue raspberry corn syrup I could effectively complete my Project Jamestown homework from the comfort of my Lowes cineplex seat. This is a great victory for science.

As soon as I was as dry (but still very sticky) as I was gonna get without a shower and a change of clothes, I set out to gather intel from the lady. This is neither here nor there, but in my head I chose to call her "Miss Thang," because I enjoy nicknames about as much as I enjoy talking like RuPaul in my own private thoughts. We all know I'm list happy, so here are the things I saw, in linear form:

1) Miss Thang made her boyfriend get up to get her things about 97 times. Unfortunately, I didn't notice what any of those things were or how she got him to do it because I was blinded by his german shephard-like obedience.
2) When he was away said 97 times, Miss Thang slouched in her chair, continued to pout through her Lip Venom gloss and text-messaged her friends non-stop I'm guessing about how annoying it was that she had to spend Grey's Anatomy night watching a nerdy monster movie.
3) Miss Thang had that hairdo you can only get through a complicated process of using curlers and various expensive hair products. And it was raining outside. This is a classic G.G. superhero ability I must learn.

Overall, I learned I must: Pout unyieldingly, demand things, and act annoyed. I'M NUMBER 1! I'M NUMBER 1!

-Cate

"G.G.," Where You BE At???

You guyyyyyyssss, I'm still trying to find my "Girlfriend-Girl" sponsor. Since Chloe and Jessica are the only females I really hang with, I am TOTES FREAKING OUT! I mustn't ignore rule #14, so I'll be loitering around Forever 21 later today eavesdropping on G.G.'s, (if they're not with a friend they're on their ill razor with a friend,) and studying their behavior. This is an amazing idea for three reasons:

1) These particular G.G.'s shop in my price range.
2) Forever 21 doesn't seem to have a stance on loitering.
and,
3) I can pick up yet another pair of supercute, $3 gold hoops.

This should serve as a placeholder until I can figure out a real life G.G. to befriend and study. Over and out.

-Cate

ZOMG A SHIRTLESS HUNK!!!

Minutes after signing up for Match.com, (and paying eleventy billion dollars for their non-Dr. Phil package,) I received my first email. In case you're not familiar with the way Match works, an email is a step above a "Wink," which is free and basically just a way for someone to ask you if you think they're disgusting or not. If you wink back, they know you don't find them gross, and THEN they email you to ask you out.

So that being said, I was surprised my first suitor decided to skip the entire wink process and boldly email me with a "hey cutie! can i take you out sometime?" Such confidence! As the rules state, I have to accept this date unless I think he'll likely assault me, so I headed on over to his profile to gauge assault likelihood. HERE IS WHAT I FOUND:

1) He is a personal trainer (Free consultation! W00T!)
2) As such, he is ripped in that weird, 1950s, Jack LaLanne, bodybuilder kind of way, and has chosen to upload only shirtless photos of himself. Shirtless in Italy, shirtless in a hot tub, shirtless AT THE DAMN 7-11. He's like a shirtless "Where's Waldo." FUN! This goes on for about a dozen shirtless photos.
3) He's apparently HILARIOUS! His friends think he should be a comedian! A SHIRTLESS comedian! This will revolutionize the comedy world, believe me. Carrot Top, watch your ass.

Nudity aside, I've decided that although he definitely has the brute strength to assault me, he probably won't. I shall get on board with shirtless man and date him this weekend. Standby for updates.

-Cate