A random side conversation I had tonight with my friend Sean Dailey reminded me of what was undoubtedly my worst date ever -- not with Sean Dailey (although you can go bother him at his blog), but with this kid named DUSTIN, circa 2003. With the way the event is so vividly burned into my memory, I was certain I had blogged about the travesty, but a search through Blurty at that time has proven otherwise. (However, clicking through the ol’ blog reminded me that I looooooved drinking, and boys, and drinking, and boys.) (Not that much has changed, per se. I just like to think I’m more articulate about it.) I knew I had told SOMEONE the story of Dustin and the Worst Date Ever, and a search through my old e-mails confirmed that that person was my BFF, Jessica McDonnell.
Here is an abridged version of that e-mail to Jessica, [annotated in the present day by yours truly…]
September 18, 2003
[Who meets a guy at a CRUNCH CLASS? And what the fuck is a FLIRT METER? I want to smack 2003-Jenn in the mouth already.]
October 12, 2003
1) He laughs at *everything* I say. This will be explained later. But worse yet, when he laughs, his cute little face makes this joker-like expression. I don't know. It just bothered the shit out of me. Like, how can someone that attractive look so ugly at a moment's notice.
2) I'm pretty sure he had bronzer on. And he works out twice a day. He used to work at Abercrombie. (I'll let YOU sort out the judgements on THOSE comments)
3) Every time I'm in arm's length of the kid, he wants to make out. Okay, so I kissed him once at a party. Drunk. ONE GLASS OF CHAMPAGNE is NOT going to recreate that. But I admit, I tested the waters. FURTHERMORE, the kissing wasn't all that GOOD. Waaaay to much tongue -- in fact, I don't even think there was kissing, he was basically just trying to lick the lips off my face, I guess.
Yeah well. Wait for this -- He begins to apologize for the shells and cheese, and I'm like, Nawww .it can't be that bad, you can't fuck up boxed pasta. And he's like . . (wait for it.) "Okay, I have to admit something. I smoked weed before you got here, and uh . .I forgot to drain the water out."
"I added the cheese sauce without draining the water. It's kinda soupy."
HE DID. FUCKING FUCKED UP SHELLS AND CHEESE, because he SMOKED SO MUCH FUCKING WEEEEEEED before I got there?
[Wow. Potty mouth. But it was embarrassing. It’s wrong on so many levels, but surely you think he would come to and just throw out the macaroni/cheese/water mess. No, he put it in a bowl and served it too me. Bad form indeed.]
6) So a couple of glasses of champagne later, some more bad kissing. I'm starting to get the feeling that he's consistently lying to me. ""This is a picture of me, in a river, when I studied for eight months in
[He also told me he was "black from the waist down."]
7) Probably the highlight of the night was when I smoked pot with him. Only because it was my source of escapeism from the damned situation. We watched old SNL clips on his computer and laughed (except he made that damned joker face, so I tried not to look at him). As I was coming down from my high, I looked over to find him shoving handfuls of tortilla chips in his mouth. With a look of disdain, I decided then it was my time to leave.
In all honesty, Jess, I never want to see his face again. He's far too sexually aggressive, and more unfortunately, he's really creepy. Which is a shame, because he really is a pretty face, but that is about all.
Hearing me come home, my roommate came downstairs to ask how my date went and instead caught me ravaging this bag of Tostitos.
As for Dustin, he called me three times after this incident, and I left him the pleasure of leaving three voicemails. One message was some dude yelling angrily which may or may not have been him. Another was an invitation to join him and his friend in the hot tub, as they just popped a bottle of Cristal. But my favorite was the third message, in which he shouted "SUCK MY SCROTUM!" into the receiver before hanging up.
I wish him all the best.
I find myself bible-dipping in the unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath. Is that weird?
I ordered this book a few years ago after having read The Bell Jar, but could not for the life of me get through it, linearly. I love me some Plath, but as you may know, even a simple passage about a day at the beach gets pretty intense. Regardless, I feel some sort of weird closeness to her more than anybody I've ever read. Although I don't have the time or concentration to just sit and read as much as I'd like, I pick it up daily and read a random paragraph or two. Perhaps I do this less for direction and more for the connection, the less-alone feeling I get from it. I guess I believe that whatever I pull from the journal is what I'm meant to read at that moment.
For example, just now:
December 13, 1958
Blue shadows of trees looped on the sunwhite snow of the park in Lousyberg Square: the toga-Greek statue clutching his stone sheet in the front. Clear air. Bless Boston, my birthtown. Give me the guts to begin again here my second quarter-century of life and live to the hilt.
So I told myself I needed an exercise to get back into writing again, and it started with the idea that I would produce 26 mini-entries, one for each letter of the alphabet. This was all going to happen by Monday [tomorrow]. It's like how when I decide I want to lose weight I tell myself I'm going to eat 3423 veggies a day and run for 2938423 miles, and then on the first day someone convinces me to go to Qdoba and I can't even find my sports bra.
He: "It was pretty black."
She: "How black was it?"
He: "Like, Taye Diggs Black."
She: "That's pretty fucking black."
He: "It's like that movie, when she got her groove back?"
Something crazy happens to me when I listen to Bob Seger’s “Night Moves.”
Ever notice those songs that can totally shape the environment around you? For example, if you are walking anywhere with “The Only Living Boy in New York” by Simon and Garfunkel coming through your headphones, the world is suddenly so wistful, and you feel particularly pensive (this might be directly related to Zach Braff, somehow).
But with “Night Moves” – nine times out of ten, I am in a car. It’s a car song (also see: a good portion of the Springsteen catalog). I have nothing against Bob Seger, but my iTunes merely suggests on odd smattering of greatest hits, if that. He never quite makes the cut onto the MP3 mixes I assemble for driving. No, the only time I have the opportunity to hear “Night Moves” is on random radio rotation, like when I’m en route to work after having my wisdom teeth sutures removed.
Something happens around 3:30, just after Bob has taken us to the bridge. He breaks it down for us… Strange how the night moves…with autumn closin' in…[this is where you turn it up, turn it up real loud]…the acoustic guitar comes back in…yeaaaah…and luckily I’m at a stop light on Fall Creek Parkway because I’m closing my eyes and nodding and I’m feeling the crisp breeze as the drums come rollicking back in and then, with a fist pump out the window…
You have to sing it. Have to. It’s like praying.
The light turns green.
You’re gonna be okay.
Hey remember THIS? If you’ve been playing the home game, my wisdom teeth have been the bane of my existence for the past couple years. The saga ended on September 19th, 2008.
Wisdom Tooth Throwdown:
In this corner, weighing in at a feather-light **coughcough** pounds – me, Jenn K.