People tend to give me a lot of credit for how smart I may or may not be, primarily because of interesting steps I've taken in the course of my education and being able to solve a Rubik's cube, but also because of a vast store of strange nuggets of knowledge I like to whip out in conversation.
However, if anyone in the course of a study on human ritualistic pre-mating behaviours (aka "dating") was observing me, the only conclusion they would be able to come up with is that I was dropped on my head a lot as a kid, and possibly as an adult, too.
My cluelessness when it comes to relating to guys is possibly due to my upbringing. I have 3 older brothers, so I know how to survive being a little sister. The problem is, I was a sheltered, youngest, only daughter in an Hispanic family. Flirting was not an encouraged activity. Dating is only ok if it's your husband. Ok, I jest a bit, but I didn't really date anyone or even have the chance to have good girl friends to talk about things with through the crucial times of adolescence when it's expected that we should be pretty awkward.
Even now I realize I'm kind of an idiot. For instance, last night I was having a deep philosophical discussion with my apartment's security guard and one of my neighbors when the concept of first base came up. I have never been fully versed on what exactly constitutes 1st, 2nd, and 3rd base activity, although I kind of figured out what a home run is a while back. So I received a short lecture, and I feel a bit wiser.
Then there's me on an actual date. A few nights ago I met a guy out for a movie. He seems nice enough, but he's 23 and has no idea how old I am or what I do for a living as of yet. Anyhow, we saw There Will Be Blood (incidentally, one of the least romantic movies you could ever choose to see). He was sitting on my right. Sometime during the movie, he offered me his left hand. What did I do? Much like a baboon studying an interesting find, I picked it up with both hands and looked at his palm. What was I thinking? I think I thought he had a splinter or something that needed medical attention.
Him: "No, the other hand."
Me: "Other hand?" I reach over to look at the palm of his right hand.
Him: "No, your other hand."
Completely baffled, I showed him my right hand, and then he took it in his left hand.
Ooooh... holding hands! Got it. Yeah, I told you I'm an idiot. That story is not exaggerated, in case you're wondering. It's the Gospel truth.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Clark Kent Phenomenon
This post is sparked by several different incidents that have happened to me and/or my friends.
I wear glasses the vast majority of the time. I own contacts, but in general it's hard to beat the convenience of reaching to your night stand in the morning and whipping on your favorite frames without needing to squirt and rub on some tiny little lenses to stick on your cornea. Also, while not the biggest hypochondriac in the world, I have had nightmares of developing some horrible eye eating infection in the past, so it makes wearing them even less appealing. Sometimes they can be fun for a change of pace, though.
People's reaction to such a little change can be astounding. Some act as if you just came back from one of those makeover shows, and say you look fantastic. People ask if you're wearing makeup, or if you did something else to yourself. On the extreme end of the spectrum, people don't even recognize who you are. This happened to me a few years ago at a party for a bunch of my fellow students, of which all had known me for over 2 years at that point. Granted, other changes in my usual appearance included heels, my hair in an up do, a dress, and extremely minimal makeup. However, I arrived to the party, mingling and saying hello to people and getting pretty cold or polite responses. "What the hell?" was the foremost thought in my mind. I sidled up to a group of folks I was supposedly friends with and joined in the conversation, and suddenly got 4 blank stares.
Them: "Gigi?"
Me: "Who the hell did you think I was?
Them: "We thought you were someone's date."
Me: "Are you kidding me? You've been around me and seen me on a near daily basis for two years!"
Them: "Yeah, but you don't have your glasses on. And you're wearing a dress."
This conversation was repeated a few years later at a Christmas party where my boss (who also saw me on a near daily basis at the time) didn't know who I was. So, obviously, if I ever choose to go into a dangerous line of work where I need to protect my identity, I just need to wear some funky glasses and take them off when the task is complete. Problem solved!
On an associated line, I hate it when people tell me or others we should take off our glasses if we want to look "sexy", "hotter", "cuter", etc. I think that if a guy lacks the imagination to be able to judge how freaking good I look with glasses and then extrapolate a general idea of how good I look without glasses, well, maybe he's not worth my time. I need a man with some creativity and observational skills in my life, so I think that I'll keep the glasses as my main source of vision. I'll use the contacts if I damn well feel like it!
I wear glasses the vast majority of the time. I own contacts, but in general it's hard to beat the convenience of reaching to your night stand in the morning and whipping on your favorite frames without needing to squirt and rub on some tiny little lenses to stick on your cornea. Also, while not the biggest hypochondriac in the world, I have had nightmares of developing some horrible eye eating infection in the past, so it makes wearing them even less appealing. Sometimes they can be fun for a change of pace, though.
People's reaction to such a little change can be astounding. Some act as if you just came back from one of those makeover shows, and say you look fantastic. People ask if you're wearing makeup, or if you did something else to yourself. On the extreme end of the spectrum, people don't even recognize who you are. This happened to me a few years ago at a party for a bunch of my fellow students, of which all had known me for over 2 years at that point. Granted, other changes in my usual appearance included heels, my hair in an up do, a dress, and extremely minimal makeup. However, I arrived to the party, mingling and saying hello to people and getting pretty cold or polite responses. "What the hell?" was the foremost thought in my mind. I sidled up to a group of folks I was supposedly friends with and joined in the conversation, and suddenly got 4 blank stares.
Them: "Gigi?"
Me: "Who the hell did you think I was?
Them: "We thought you were someone's date."
Me: "Are you kidding me? You've been around me and seen me on a near daily basis for two years!"
Them: "Yeah, but you don't have your glasses on. And you're wearing a dress."
This conversation was repeated a few years later at a Christmas party where my boss (who also saw me on a near daily basis at the time) didn't know who I was. So, obviously, if I ever choose to go into a dangerous line of work where I need to protect my identity, I just need to wear some funky glasses and take them off when the task is complete. Problem solved!
On an associated line, I hate it when people tell me or others we should take off our glasses if we want to look "sexy", "hotter", "cuter", etc. I think that if a guy lacks the imagination to be able to judge how freaking good I look with glasses and then extrapolate a general idea of how good I look without glasses, well, maybe he's not worth my time. I need a man with some creativity and observational skills in my life, so I think that I'll keep the glasses as my main source of vision. I'll use the contacts if I damn well feel like it!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wingmanned
A while back during one of my prolonged excursions in the bowels of the internet, I stumbled across a website that made me laugh and that I found slightly shocking. No, not porn, not really. The site? AskMen.
Ok, is this site for real? That was my first thought, so I cruised around a bit. Some of the articles are hilarious, but some of them are interesting. I kind of felt like I'd found the opposing team's playbook, if you will. There were strategies on dating, on dumping, on sex, on friendship, etc. There was an article on warning signs that should make you run from a relationship, and articles on... well, there are a lot of different topics discussed.
There was one particular article that I thought was really funny on the topic of the wingman, but which is now the reason for this particular blog. I suggest you read the article, then return. Take your time.
You're back? Read on.
I have totally been wingmanned! Not every time I go out, no. But I realize looking back that guys have obviously marked me as lower on the totem pole of desirability on multiple occasions, and I feel slightly annoyed. They can all go to hell! Oh, but first, they should watch this video:
Ok, is this site for real? That was my first thought, so I cruised around a bit. Some of the articles are hilarious, but some of them are interesting. I kind of felt like I'd found the opposing team's playbook, if you will. There were strategies on dating, on dumping, on sex, on friendship, etc. There was an article on warning signs that should make you run from a relationship, and articles on... well, there are a lot of different topics discussed.
There was one particular article that I thought was really funny on the topic of the wingman, but which is now the reason for this particular blog. I suggest you read the article, then return. Take your time.
You're back? Read on.
I have totally been wingmanned! Not every time I go out, no. But I realize looking back that guys have obviously marked me as lower on the totem pole of desirability on multiple occasions, and I feel slightly annoyed. They can all go to hell! Oh, but first, they should watch this video:
Seriously, I'm not really that annoyed about being deemed wingman fodder on occasion. It just means that I have awesome friends. Also, I have had some freaking bizarre conversations with random people in bars because of this. After all, their job is to keep you occupied and busy, so they're a captive audience. You never want to be my captive audience when I'm trying to get rid of you, because I will stray into the most incredibly dull, bar or anywhere inappropriate conversations that you could think of. I will tell you about the origins of dust, or perhaps the mating habits of dung beetles. Perhaps you will learn the history of potato cultivation, or be engaged in a conversation about the linguistic advantages of Esperanto. In other words, wingmen be warned. You will suffer. There will be pain.
Where everybody knows my name
I have a bar. Well, it's not mine, but it's a place where I feel like a VIP every time I walk in the door. That day is usually Monday, karaoke night. I speak, of course, of the Tipp. It's a lovely little pub in the Irish style, and it's my place.
Our waitress Christie (probably spelled incorrectly) knows that I'm going to start the night with a glass of Harp, and it's highly likely that I will be having the fried mushrooms as well. There's a different soup almost every time we go, and she knows that I like to sample it, and will occasionally opt for a full bowl.
Darren (also likely misspelled) is the bartender from Wales, and he has a lovely singing voice. He will usually sing at least a couple of times while we're there. Markham is our karaoke DJ from South Africa, and if I don't pick something fast enough he'll sign me up anyway and pull up my history. Yes, he has a history of the songs I've sung before. I told you this is my place.
Patty and Joe are a lovely couple who have a daughter my age. They're from Connecticut, and they're adorable when they sing together. Days that I show up by myself, you can bet they'll invite me to sit with them. Days that I get sloshed, they'll always make sure someone else is driving me home.
Larry and Dave are 2 other familiar faces that you can usually count on for a few songs. There are others who come less frequently, like the girl who sings that 4 Non Blondes song, and the girl who always sings the song from Chicago (the musical, not the group). Lately, a guy we like to call Johnny Cash has been popping in, and he always gets the crowd going.
When it's my turn, no matter what I do up there, I know at the end people will clap and cheer. It's a place of good vibes and great karaoke supporters. It's a place with a great songlist and no smoking allowed in the main part of the pub. It's a place with a dart board and a pool table.
It's also a place where I like to gather with the people I love and care about, where my friends can gather for a round of beer and bitching when necessary, or beer and laughing preferably. Come and meet me there sometime, maybe it can be your place too.
Our waitress Christie (probably spelled incorrectly) knows that I'm going to start the night with a glass of Harp, and it's highly likely that I will be having the fried mushrooms as well. There's a different soup almost every time we go, and she knows that I like to sample it, and will occasionally opt for a full bowl.
Darren (also likely misspelled) is the bartender from Wales, and he has a lovely singing voice. He will usually sing at least a couple of times while we're there. Markham is our karaoke DJ from South Africa, and if I don't pick something fast enough he'll sign me up anyway and pull up my history. Yes, he has a history of the songs I've sung before. I told you this is my place.
Patty and Joe are a lovely couple who have a daughter my age. They're from Connecticut, and they're adorable when they sing together. Days that I show up by myself, you can bet they'll invite me to sit with them. Days that I get sloshed, they'll always make sure someone else is driving me home.
Larry and Dave are 2 other familiar faces that you can usually count on for a few songs. There are others who come less frequently, like the girl who sings that 4 Non Blondes song, and the girl who always sings the song from Chicago (the musical, not the group). Lately, a guy we like to call Johnny Cash has been popping in, and he always gets the crowd going.
When it's my turn, no matter what I do up there, I know at the end people will clap and cheer. It's a place of good vibes and great karaoke supporters. It's a place with a great songlist and no smoking allowed in the main part of the pub. It's a place with a dart board and a pool table.
It's also a place where I like to gather with the people I love and care about, where my friends can gather for a round of beer and bitching when necessary, or beer and laughing preferably. Come and meet me there sometime, maybe it can be your place too.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Wait, it's 2008? I don't think I was done with '07 yet
Well, I didn't make any resolutions this year, but I do have plans. More on that on another blog, but let me chat for a bit.
Just got back from Missouri, thanks Haller family! I got to stay in Toastyville, ramble across a farm, go to a wiener roast, visit KC, attend a rain party, and lounge to my heart's content. It was a great time, and I will try to go into more detail at some point.
I had a great souvenir of my trip that I was looking forward to bringing back to Texas, and it didn't even make it out of MO. What, you ask? Well, call me weird, but I get a kick out of the footprints that cats leave in the dust on a car when they explore the roof and hood, but these were doubly cool because they were from Yoda, the family cat. Alas, sporadic heavy rains cleared all trace of it from view. Damn it.
Also, I meant to stop by a locale known for good quality meats prior to leaving, but managed to overlook it until I was about an hour away. Again, damn.
Just got back from Missouri, thanks Haller family! I got to stay in Toastyville, ramble across a farm, go to a wiener roast, visit KC, attend a rain party, and lounge to my heart's content. It was a great time, and I will try to go into more detail at some point.
I had a great souvenir of my trip that I was looking forward to bringing back to Texas, and it didn't even make it out of MO. What, you ask? Well, call me weird, but I get a kick out of the footprints that cats leave in the dust on a car when they explore the roof and hood, but these were doubly cool because they were from Yoda, the family cat. Alas, sporadic heavy rains cleared all trace of it from view. Damn it.
Also, I meant to stop by a locale known for good quality meats prior to leaving, but managed to overlook it until I was about an hour away. Again, damn.
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