He Loves Me . . . He Loves Me Not . . .

by Julie Robinson

I can’t wait to be in love again.  Seriously—I don’t even know if I’ve ever had what it is I want.  And that’s downright sad.  I feel as though my compromises have always been too big.  When I was reading He’s Just Not That Into You I felt really small inside because I put up with so much ho-hum love.  I was that girl who made excuse after excuse after excuse for her man.  And sometimes he wasn’t even mine! 

Today Sarah heard from Lon, a man she’s been dating for a while who she was kind of on the fence about.  He told her that he decided to be exclusive with another woman and then proceeded to tell her how much this new woman embarrassed him the other night while dancing.  This irked Sarah to no end, and it made me go ballistic.

_________________________

 "I was that girl who made excuse
after excuse
after excuse for her man.."

_________________________

I yelled into the phone, “Fuck him!  Fuck him!”  I don’t think Sarah was expecting such a strong reaction.  But think about it—I don’t want you, but the woman I chose sucks too.  Or another way to look at it is: I’m not sure this is going to work out, so I’m letting you know that I may be available again soon. 

This gets me stewing like crazy.  Oh please, Mr. So-and-So, (in a falsetto voice no less) let me be your Number Two and wait around for you while you make a cold, hard decision about the woman you picked over ME.  I think the reason this resonates so completely with me is because of how I still continue to interact with Will.  He’s living with Karrie now and still coming on to me.

He doesn’t have a problem with cheating on his live-in girlfriend; in fact, all he does is complain about her to me.  She’s getting fat.  The sex isn’t that good.  Blah, blah, blah.  I told him the last time I saw him that I didn’t want to sleep with him.  And I meant it.  “I want the whole package.”  Poof!  And just like that he disappeared into thin air.  Fucker.


I sincerely hope that I really don’t want the whole package with Will.  Will the cheater.  Will the man who told me he loved me—repeatedly and with passion while I begged him to stop—and then denied the whole thing the next morning.  Why would I want that?  Is it because when he talks about how he loved other women he lights up—telling me tales of passion and adventure and travel and food and sex.  This man loves well.  He loves BIG.  And I’m just going to have to accept the fact that he will simply never love me.  I want the idea of Will--not the actual man.

And damn it, I’m going to get it.

Dating Advice to Avoid the Housetrap

by Julie Robinson


At this point I am already annoyed.  I drove in terrible traffic to a so-so restaurant, and I’m not even getting to eat what I want.  I tried to chat politely with my date Rick, but quite frankly, I’ve lost steam and interest.  The fact that he keeps pointing out our age difference and never once commented on how I look (this is after I told him I would be wearing a new outfit), only exacerbates the little annoyances--like how he grunts after I complete a sentence instead of actually making a comment in English.  So, our conversation quickly deteriorates into one where we are pointing out differences between us that are clearly irreconcilable. 

ME:  So, tell me about your new house.  4,000 square feet for just you, right.?

______________________________________

"I don't read. You must be thinking
of one of your other dates."

_________________________

RICK:  (quickly correcting me) 4,800 square feet.  I needed a three car garage for my two cars and two motorcycles, remember?

ME:  (so fucking impressed I can barely control myself) Do you have furniture already to fill your new home, or are you going to have to get some?

Single Girl Shock Therapy

by Julie Robinson

He saw me before I saw him, so he may have even been watching me for a while sitting at the bar thinking about getting up the nerve to come over and talk to me.  When he did make the call, got me to answer, and ambled on over, the first thing I noticed was the pancake make-up and blush.  A split second after that I noted very bad, old hair plugs. On the other hand, it could have been a poorly constructed wig.

_____________________________________________

". . . the first thing I noticed was the
pancake make-up and blush."

____________________________________________



“So, you must be Julie,” Toby greeted me with a smile.  We had talked on the phone briefly before our first encounter, and the only thing I remembered about him was that he was a pilot and had never been to a Taco Bell.  He remarked that since I didn’t have a TV, and because he had never been to Taco Bell, we would be perfect together.  What about our interest in Estee Lauder cosmetics, Toby?  C'mon--that little bit of information didn't cross your mind?  Not even for a second?

“Hello.”  I didn’t get up or make room for him on my side of the booth.  At the time I didn’t think about this being rude, but seeing that he left almost immediately and didn’t come back, it must have felt that way to him. 

We exchanged a few pleasantries, talked about my friends who would be joining us later for Trivia Night, and then he said, “Hey, look.  I parked across the street at the 7-11.  I gotta go move my car,” Toby motioned that he needed to leave.  It sounded reasonable to me.  And then he was gone.  Poof.  Only, I didn’t realize it. I need some help--a lifeline of sorts.


7:03pm PHONE CALL#1:  Hey!  My date is moving his car.  When you get here, sit down beside me, okay? . . . No, you don't need to act like we're together--just don't let him near me . . . I don't want to spoil it for you . . . . You will see when you get here--you're gonna die!


7:08pm PHONE CALL#2:  He's taking a really long time to move his fucking car. . . . Parking around here is a pain in the ass. . . .  Should I call him? . . . . When are you going to get here? . . . Ok. . . .See you soon.  

7:14pm  PHONE CALL #3:  I think that asshole left me! . . . . Who the hell does he think he is? . . . No, he hasn't come back yet. . . . What the fuck?  He left me!  He's the freak!  Hurry up and get here. . . . Ok. . . .. Bye!


7:20pm  PHONE CALL#4:  I can't believe I just got ditched by some asshole who wears make-up. . . . I know--but it's still humiliating . . . .Thank God you guys are coming. . . . Have you found a parking spot yet?


My anger quickly subsides, though.  Did I really want to go through another dead end date just so I didn't have to pick up my own dinner tab?  Was it worth it with this guy?  Was it ever worth it?

At first I was pretty glib about the whole situation thinking to myself that I was so good looking and enticing that he knew I was completely out of his league—and why bother?  It’s not that he took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth his time because I was hideous looking or anything like that.  I’m sure he saw a smartly dressed, attractive, confident woman sitting there waiting for him. As my smugness wore off, I began to realize that my thinly masked smile as my greeting was something he has probably seen before.  He took me as an mean soul who wasn’t going to treat him well or help him have a good time. 

I’m not really sure why Toby thought it was a good idea to come to our date with a full face of make-up.  Maybe he is a cross dresser and he wants to put it out there immediately to see how folks react.  I’m pretty sure I know why he left, though.  He read my body language and face during his approach and found an unkind woman who was too consumed with her own insecurities to be open to him as a person.  Instead of wondering who the fuck this guy is--I probably need to root out my own bullshit.  Maybe I’m reading into this too much, but I don’t want to be the kind of woman who gets left in restaurants because I’m so bizarre looking men feel the need to run away screaming AND I don’t want to be the kind of woman who gets left in restaurants because I’m a judgmental bitch. 

Actually, at this point, I think I'll stay in and cook.  

Pretty Ugly

by Julie Robinson

We met at the British Bulldog for dinner and drinks because he is English and I thought he’d like to know about a traditional English pub here.  I had the Pakistani food because English food is the worst on the planet unless you’re eating roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.  As is typical, I was late for our date and felt super cute in a denim skirt, heels (even though I knew Steve was only an inch taller than me), and a green sweater with a white T-shirt peeking through.When Steve walked into the bar my heart sank a little because his face was etched with age. 

______________________________________

"I wish it was easier to just accept people

for who they are based on their 

personality and general goodness 

instead of judging them on the depth

of their wrinkles."

______________________________________

It’s not that he’s a bad looking guy it’s just that I wish he looked better.  Chalk up my attitude to being a Mean Girl for so many years, I guess.  That, and I'm a superficial bitch.  I wish it was easier to just accept people for who they are based on their personality and general goodness instead of judging the depth of their wrinkles.  I quickly learned that being judged on your looks--whether in a positive or negative light--can have a very detrimental effect.