“The Rock Disaster Movie”

A while back, I went on two Tinder dates on one day. I have only posted about the second one so far. The first one was a little more mundane, at least on the first date.

This guy, we will call…. Badminton guy. Because he told me on our second date that he used to be a high level collegiate badminton player in India and almost went pro. Because I guess that’s a thing in India. And a friend of mine who has her own badminton net and no one to play with her always says she should go out with him so he will play badminton with her. But she doesn’t really want to go out with him, for reasons that will be explained shortly.

One funny thing that happened on my first date with Badminton guy is that we ran into the very same badminton-loving friend of mine, who lived in Baker at the time, on the street while we were going to Sweet Action to get some hipster ice cream. She was carrying a stack of books, one with the title “Teen Relationship Violence” or something dramatic like that and a picture of a girl with a black eye on the cover. It was for her thesis for her Ph.D., but she joked that it was her way of setting boundaries with random passersby in the street. Which cracked us up because we work in mental health. Badminton guy was not a therapist and not a native English speaker, so he did not get the joke and just said something about how people will think she is so studious with those books.

Anyway, date one was normal. Especially in contrast to the fact that immediately afterwards, I went on a date with that guy who showed up like 2 hours late and did a tongue-filled attack-makeout in the Lyft I begrudgingly shared with him.

The part where it stopped being normal is that after our first date, he wanted to text me and call me all the time. I think it was the day after our first date, I was grilling with some friends at my house and he sent me a bunch of texts, starting out normal with “how r u” (he had a good mastery of text speak for not being a 12-year-old from the U.S.) and gradually devolving into “I guess u just don’t want to talk to me :(” after a series of unrequited texts. My roommate told me that she wondered how many more non-response texts it would take for him to show up at my house and break down the door. Luckily, he didn’t know where my house was.

And he started calling me “baby” constantly, which I promptly had a talk with him about, but he kept doing it. But despite all this, I decided to give him another chance in the form of a second date because I tell myself that being overzealous is better than being underzealous (definitely not a word but I’m going with it).

So our second date started off when he picked me up at a friend’s birthday party picnic at City Park. Because he very specifically wanted to pick me up rather than meeting somewhere. This was complicated because of his lack of familiarity with Denver (like many bros I meet on Tinder, he had lived in Denver for less than three months at the time of this story) and communication barriers due to his less-than-perfect command of the English language and perhaps mine as well! After several complicated and annoying phone conversations, he finally found the spot in City Park where we were having the picnic. He then decided we should go somewhere with the best “American chicken wings” in town. I like the wings at Jake’s, so I decided to take him there. Where we awkwardly ran into one of the students I work with and his parents. Which is par for the course when I go to that place so I should have known better, and they are a really nice family, but still awkward.

Over the best “American chicken wings” ever, we talked about his badminton career, and how much money he makes. He was trying to impress me, I guess. He was a computer engineer for a diamond mining company. I guess that sort of thing exists other than just in the movies. He was also trying to convince me to go to Orlando with him because he had to go there for a month for work. I have a job, you see. Two of them. Also, it was summer, and Orlando is one of my least favorite places even in the winter, despite the fact that my heart is with all the victims in the recent Orlando tragedy and their families. Also, we are not there yet, at all.

But I decide to humor him and not just cut the date short right then and there. He wants to go to a movie. I remember there was some sort of halfway decent movie that was supposed to be playing at the Denver Pavillions downtown. We showed up, and any movie that would have been tolerable was sold out or playing in 2 hours. But he seems really committed to this movie plan, for reasons that I will discover later, and insists that we watch that terrible disaster movie with the Rock in a helicopter… San Andreas. I had to Google that, but it was the first thing that popped up when I entered “the rock disaster movie.” That might as well have been the title. But, as a consolation prize, it was in the theater there with the nice leather seats where you can recline a lot.

However, a little ways into the movie, I discover this is not a consolation prize, this just means that it is super annoying and cramp-tackular when he wants to hold my hand during the entire movie. I periodically shift around to get his claw-like grip off of me for brief intervals. Eventually, he gets bold and moves to full-on boob groping. Because that is the next step after hand-holding? Ugh. “The Rock Disaster Movie” as I will now call it, is also really long for a movie so lacking in plot, so this dance of periodically squirming out of his grasp and/or removing his hand from my breast goes on for much longer than I would like.

After the movie, I just feel grossed out and want to leave. Also, during all this physical contact, I determine that Badminton guy’s general scent is a lot of B.O. mixed with a lot of man perfume. Why do I always find the ones that bathe in cologne? Anyway, this wanting to leave is complicated by my stupid decision to let him pick me up and leave my car in City Park. But after minimal complaining, he agrees to drive me to my car. I tell him goodbye and that I don’t really think I want to do this again. He seems very sad and asks me what he did wrong. I can’t quite manage to put my finger on a kind way to say it at the time, so I just say that I don’t think we’re on the same page or something vague like that. And I drive off into City Park, where he will never find me. The end.

 

 

 

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The Shroom Story

Hi friends, I have been told that now that people other than my friends actually read my blog, I should post more regularly, you know, for the maintaining of the fame. Due to my extreme lack of motivation for dating at the moment, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that it is hot as balls out, I don’t have any super new stories to share – yet. But I have started contemplating going on Tinder dates with dudes who seem particularly ridiculous just so I have good stories, which is probably bad, but perhaps good for all of you…

Anyway, a friend of mine from high school who was the catalyst for the story I am about to recount was recently visiting me. I realized that this story, while mostly not hilarious due to the actions of any dudes, does involve a dude. So here it is, for your reading pleasure, the famous Shroom Story, as it is called in my real-life social circles.

I had an internship in Boston the summer after my junior year of college. My cousin and a friend of mine from high school, who we will give the fake name Maya, went to school there. Maya is a genius, and went to MIT where she lived in a dorm that was more like a frat house than a dorm. Supposedly they invented PCP in the basement back in the day. These were the types of geniuses who get bored and have to do drugs to entertain their brains, and apparently also invent new drugs.

So that was the scene. It was a Friday night. Maya had actually just graduated from MIT that day and I walked over to her dorm from my internship on the other side of Boston to go celebrate, they were having a party. Maya and I hung out for a while and shot the shit, and before I knew it, it was about 9pm. I was crazy hungry at this point and Maya needed to go help set a few things up for the party. She told me she had a ton of leftover Chinese food from dinner last night with her parents in her mini-fridge and I would be doing her a favor to eat as much of the food in there as possible because she was going on a little road trip the next day. Awesome! So Maya heads up to the rooftop of her dorm to set things up for the party and I start stuffing my face with food. Imagine some sort of meme or gif that involves the phrase “nom nom nom” and that was basically what I was doing. As I eat my way through her fridge, I discover a plastic bag with several chocolates in it. Some of them are those mini-size Hershey bars, Mr. Goodbars, etc. and one of the chocolates in there is in a pink foil wrapper. I shove the foil wrapped chocolate in my face and down my gullet. It tastes a little weird so I conclude it must be old and eat a mini Hershey bar and a little more Chinese food for good measure. Then I head up to the roof for party time!

I don’t know anyone at MIT, and have literally just moved to Boston that week, so this is my chance to meet new people in my temporary new town. I mix myself a drink and start talking to random people I don’t know. I don’t even know where Maya is at this point, but a friendly couple with many tattoos between them start talking to me about fun things to do in Boston after hearing I’m new in town. As I am having this conversation, which I am enjoying, I get distracted by the fact that things look sort of wavy when I try to look my new possible friends in the eye and I can’t focus on their faces. Maybe I started drinking too soon after eating or something and I am dizzy from that, I think. I see Maya at this point and ask her if I could go lay down for a few minutes in her room. Of course, she tells me this is no problem because she’s probably going to sleep in her boyfriend’s room anyway so I can sleep in her bed if I want.

I go downstairs to lay down and discover that the fan on Maya’s massive multi-monitor computer apparatus is SO LOUD and it’s IN MY BRAIN, so I decide to go back up to the rooftop to ask her if she can unplug it or turn it down or something so I can rest. I don’t want to mess up her fancy computer situation, you see. One thing I have neglected to mention that becomes relevant at this point is that I was recovering from knee surgery the week before I moved to Boston and my knee was bandaged and not fully functional. Because of my knee/the amount of walking I had done that day, I decided my shoes were uncomfortable and I didn’t want to put them back on, so upon coming out of the elevator on the rooftop, I am barefoot. Maya strongly suggests I put on some shoes because there’s broken glass and things on the rooftop and I tell her I will if I come back up. She somehow does not think my request about her computer and the noise is too weird, comes down with me to shut it down, and goes back upstairs.

I lay down in her bed again and discover that this time, in the absence of the SUPER LOUD computer, I have a new problem that won’t let me relax. Every time my heart beats, I feel like instead of blood, it’s pushing tiny chains through my veins. I have chains in my veins! I conclude that I am either having a psychotic break, or I am on drugs. Knowing that I’m in the place where PCP was supposedly invented and I ate a weird-looking chocolate, I start to think it might be the latter.

Still barefoot, I decide to make the journey upstairs to the rooftop again to consult Maya about this situation. However, the second time, the route has somehow become much more confusing. I go up the wrong elevator and it does not take me to the rooftop. It takes me to a deserted area of the dorm where, I shit you not, there were murals of shrooms smoking joints on the wall. I have confirmed afterwards that this is true in real life, not just in drug life as I was experiencing it at the time. The shrooms were definitely looking at me either quizzically, or with disdain, I’m not sure which.

Eventually I make it up to the rooftop. “Why are you still not wearing shoes?!” is the first thing Maya has to say when she sees me. “Maya, will you come in the elevator,” I ask. She comes into the elevator. When the door closes, I literally say to her, “Maya, were there any crazy drugs in your fridge?” Not just drugs, crazy drugs! She asks if I ate something wrapped in pink foil. Yes, I did. “Damn, you just ate a lot of shrooms! I was going to try to get you to do those with me for 4th of July to watch the fireworks… That was like $50 worth of drugs!” she replies. She tells me that attempting to go to sleep is futile, so now that we’ve identified the issue, I might as well enjoy it.

I am up for this, but I have two primary concerns. 1) My knees, and my entire body feel straight up numb, or almost like pins and needles. This causes me to worry that I will damage my already fucked-up knee because I can’t feel anything, which in turn causes me to choose to do only seated or slow walking activities while on shrooms. 2) I am very worried that I will be discovered as a fraud because in my own opinion, I am not cool enough to do drugs on purpose, and I clearly did these drugs by accident! All the people here are cool enough to do drugs on purpose but I am a goody two shoes who only drinks and they are going to KNOW when they look at me! I share this concern with Maya and she says just to go up to people and say you’re tripping and they will help you enjoy yourself by doing things like smoking so you can watch the smoke, or wave their hands around, or give you a glow stick. People did do that sort of thing for me, but she was the one who had to tell them I was tripping. They also played me some sweet music that I could slowly bop around to.

Maya and a group of her friends are sitting around talking, smoking, etc. and one of them pushes a small table with wheels on it against the outer wall of the little area I was in. “Whoa, did you guys see that?” I ask everyone. “That table just kept going through the wall and out into space forever! Like cartoon space!” No one else saw that, but also no one made fun of me for accidentally eating mushrooms.

In this group was a guy who we will call Oswaldo, sometimes known as “Crazy Oswaldo” by people in the dorm. This is a messed up nickname because he actually has schizophrenia and is a genius but clearly struggled with life because of having schizophrenia and using weed to medicate it instead of the medications he should have been taking. Anyway, at some point, everyone else leaves and Oswaldo takes advantage of the opportunity to tell me that he thinks I’m really cool and beautiful but he realizes that this is probably a hard thing for me to think about right now because I’m tripping. Yes it is, Oswaldo, your face is getting bigger and smaller in waves while you are telling me this!

This weirds me out a bit, but Oswaldo is very nice, a lot shorter and smaller than me, and everyone else wants to go to bed because it’s 3am at this point. Oswaldo tells me he doesn’t sleep, he just stays awake most nights, smoking weed. I watch the smoke from his joint, it looks beautiful and like it’s in stop-motion. We hang out for a while and he suggests we go outside to watch the sunrise on the Charles River. That was probably the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen.

He also suggests we go get breakfast. At this point I am tripping a little less and starting to feel tired and hungry, so I am in for this idea but also starting to realize that I need to somehow get back to the bedroom in an apartment I am subletting from a girl who I don’t really know, with two roommates I don’t really know. I know the cross streets and address, but don’t feel confident in my ability to successfully get back there while on drugs, on the subway, in a town I have only lived in for a week. Oswaldo says he knows a breakfast place over that way that has delicious Challah bread French toast. Sounds great. However, we discover that this place is not open. So we go to Dunkin Donuts, because those are open 24 hours and there is one pretty much every 2 blocks in Boston. And then Oswaldo walks me to my apartment. And I don’t invite him in, because I need to go to bed and am concerned that one of my new roommates who I don’t really know is going to see us and know about the crazy drugs! Luckily, no one appears to be home so I go to sleep. And then my brain hurts for a day and a half. The end. I hope you enjoyed the magical “Shroom Story,” perhaps the greatest and dumbest story of all.

Anonymously Denver famous?

Oh shit guys, I might be getting anonymously Denver famous!

You may recall my previous post where I refer to what it means to be Denver famous. It’s like real famous, but less so. Some Denver famous people move on to become real famous people… such as…. Nathaniel Rateliff. Or Condoleeza Rice? I don’t know if she was Denver famous when she lived here, she might have just skipped Denver fame to become actually famous. Anyway, I may have my shot at Denver fame, specifically anonymous Denver fame, thanks to a local institution that defines what it means to be Denver famous, the Westword.

I was asked to be a featured “bro expert” of sorts for a Westword article about the evolution of the LoDo neighborhood and its corresponding bros. Because I am a credible bro expert, certified by the Department of Regulatory Agencies of Colorado. That would be awesome if that was a thing. At any rate, I was asked to literally meet up with some of the fine folks from Westword to go out in LoDo and help them make fun of bros in an anthropological style for an article. It was a good time, and I appreciated being kept anonymous. My fake name for the article was Allison. I wanted it to be Lindsey, but apparently that had been used as a fake name in a previous article… So many women named Lindsey in my generation… Anyway, now there is an actual chance someone I’ve banged and written about will read the article and find this blog, so I really don’t want my identity, or anyone else’s, associated with this shenanigans.

They used a lot of direct quotes from me in the article that are probably actual statements I made… I think it’s all pretty funny, but possibly because I laugh at my own jokes? My friends also laughed when I read it aloud to them. Then I made them all swear to never tell anyone I have ever dated or might want to date that I am Allison.

So yes, an interesting article about an interesting night of me doing what I do best, judging people. I will say that the whole thing was a bit more subdued than I thought it would be due to the fact that I guess reporters don’t like to stay out super late on work assignments, so we left at 10:30pm, way before the bro witching hour.

Also, when I agreed to be a part of this situation, I didn’t realize it would be the cover article for the week. I have to say, I appreciate the amazing stock photo of a bro with brightly-colored sunglasses and an expression that can best be described as “the look on a Colorado bro’s face whilst shredding the gnar gnar and being whimsically happy about it.” Props to the art department or whoever made that happen. So, check out the sweet stock photo and even sweeter article  here.

And I will remember the little people when I become anonymously Denver famous. I am considering making a fake web presence for my fake self. If you have any suggestions for an awesome last name for Allison, please comment them.

For all the new people just seeing this blog now, welcome. Get ready for more tales of my “frequent and disastrous dating experiences,” as they were aptly described in the article.

 

#singlestatus

In case you were wondering where I’ve been for the past several months, I was off the market. In an actual relationship. Relationships for me have been few and far between in the past few years, which you can clearly tell if you’ve read this blog at all. So it was a weird adjustment to be in a relationship, but sort of refreshing.

This relationship did not turn out to be the one that stuck. We had a good time but there were just too many small incompatibilities that started mounting up and making it evident that we weren’t going to be happy together forever.

However, for the first time in my life, I am happy to say I mostly acted like an adult from start to finish in a dating relationship. We are even being friends, so far, with reasonable success. He is friends with all his exes, so he’s clearly better at this than I am. Mostly because I have tended to engage with an assortment of oddballs and douches who haven’t given me a reason to want to keep them around in the least.

So I guess it’s back to my quest for pizzas and magical kitchens and fish and wieners and whatever else I call dudes… But I will say, I think I have learned a few things:                           

1 – Breakups don’t have to be quite as traumatic as you think. I mean, yes, no one likes breaking up, but when it’s mutual and you both still care about each other it can go better than you might think. The guy in question and I broke up on a car ride home from the bar for St. Patrick’s Day. However, because we were still going to be friends, we went to get nachos and then watched “Unlikely Animal Friends” on Netflix and went to sleep, platonically. Weird, perhaps, but in a good way. That descriptor is also fitting for “Unlikely Animal Friends!” In my opinion, it is one of the better shows pandering to people who watch cat videos that has ever been invented! It featured a two-legged Chihuahua and a silky chicken who are best friends and ride in the same crate. The silky chicken likes to lay eggs near the Chihuahua because it’s comforting. If that doesn’t make you want to watch this show, I don’t know what will!

2 – I learned so many things I didn’t even know I learned about football and the Broncos. I still find it boring but watched so much of it involuntarily that I think I know almost all the names of the players by now and also probably know which teams are in the AFC and the NFC and some other stuff that is probably lurking deep in my brain, poised to come out when I need to connect with some of my male students about football or otherwise impress some bros.

3 – On a related note, I learned a lot of things about wine. Dating a certified sommelier who spends a lot of time talking about things like tannins and terrior and saying things are “jammy” and that they “suck your teeth out” and other weird and specific wine bro terms, had me learn a lot of these terms. I also learned that there are wine bros, and he would find them all at whatever liquor store or restaurant or park we went to. One of them is the proprietor of this new place Brik on York and is apparently some sort of new Colfax legend because I have heard from several people they think he is dreamy. Probably because he wears a vest and gives you wine. Maybe that was why I was in this relationship… because my ex-boyfriend also did things like wear vests and give me wine.

I think those are most of the things I learned. I also learned some things about myself, some of which make me wonder if I actually prefer to be single or if I am just used to single status as a default. Because I discovered how used to being single I really am. So it’s a transition but weirdly comforting to be single again because I clearly kick ass at it… I do want to get back on ye olde Tinder eventually, and also possibly try out a site called MeetMindful, which appears to be a dating site for hippies and people who are really into crystals and talking about Mercury being in retrograde… So I think I might hold off on dating for a little bit. But don’t worry, there are still some stories that haven’t been told. And Denver is a small town so I am guaranteed to run into some more exes soon – I just spotted volleyball tattoo guy from afar at my recreational volleyball game last week and went with the avoidance strategy. So stay tuned for more soon.

 

Pizza party back in full effect… or the time I had two Tinder dates back-to-back

Hello readers, sorry for the delay in posting, it’s been a busy summer so far! Busy and full of dudes.

So, I decided I was over being on pizza break, and hit Tinder with a vengeance. Because why not? I Tindered up a bunch of dudes and was just trying figure out how to fit them into my schedule when conditions aligned just right for me to have maximum Tinder dates in one day.

Due to recent ridiculous flooding in Denver and my own stupidity, I flooded my car engine by driving through too deep of water on the way to meet my friend to see Pitch Perfect 2. I did not see Pitch Perfect 2 that day, instead, I waited for a long time in the middle of the street to get my car towed. My mechanic is magical so he fixed it and everything, but it required drying the car out over the weekend. I was originally going to go camping, but without a car, that wasn’t happening. So I figured, why not set ’em up and knock ’em down by setting up two Tinder dates in one day?

The first dude was normal and only became a crazy person after the initial date, so I will save that one for later. The second date might be one of my most impressive first date stories.

So, I literally stacked these dates one after the other so I was walking into my second date, scheduled for 5pm happy hour, right on time. I realize, however, that bachelor #2 had texted me a few minutes beforehand saying he was running late. “I’m just getting back to my house and need to change, but I only live a couple of blocks from Historians so I will be right there.” Great, I tell him I’m already in the area and I will just get a spot on the patio. So I find a spot at the Historians Ale House in Baker, a place I suggested due to their excellent rooftop patio. There is a really nice group of people having a college graduation party up there, and they offer me drink tickets and we shoot the shit and hang out. For a long ass time. Finally, at 5:45pm, I get a text from this dude saying he’s on his way. I would have probably left at some point but I didn’t have a car to go home quickly and there were free drink tickets! Another half an hour passes and this dude shows up at 6:15pm. A full hour and 15 minutes later than our originally planned meeting time.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, “I was talking to my roommate.” Terrible excuse! You could have at least made up an excuse that sounded like you had some level of respect for me or my time or something. So I tell him that I have to leave at 7pm, which I do, because I am meeting a friend to go to a show, but we can sit there until then. I am also a little buzzed at this point due to the beers I have been drinking whilst waiting for this asshat.

So we talk, blah blah blah, he’s from South Carolina, he moved to Denver recently, he works in insurance, whatever. It would seem like a generally normal and appropriate date conversation except that during the 40 minutes we spent talking, he took not one but TWO phone calls. “Sorry, I have to get this,” he said, before each phone call. Like it was an important emergency or something. And both phone calls consisted of basically the same conversation, “Hey bro, what are you doing? I’m just having a drink with this girl, yeah, what are you up to later? Yeah, let’s link up later. I’ll holla at you in a bit.” You did not have to get that. If I was a cartoon character my eyes would have turned red and steam would have started coming out of my ears. But I was also kind of drunk so I just looked off into the distance behind him on the balcony and had flashbacks Friends with Benefits guy who always looked at his phone. Even he wasn’t this bad!

Anyway, I have pretty much had enough so I tell him I’m going to go get a Lyft to meet up with my friend. We’re going to a concert at Black Shirt Brewery, which is, incidentally, one of the better places to find the most bearded of Colorado bros in their natural habitat. Right as I am trying to leave, it is starting to rain, because Colorado has apparently become a floodplain. “I’m not tryin’ to walk home in this rain,” he says, and asks if he can share my Lyft for a few blocks because he only lives a few blocks over and it will be on the way. Fine, I figure it won’t be much harm to allow this. We go downstairs to wait by the door for the Lyft. “It’s coming in 5 minutes,” I tell him.

He suddenly realizes that he “really needs to go to the liquor store.” There is a liquor store right next door to the bar, but still. I tell him that I am leaving when the Lyft arrives so he’d better get his booze quickly if he still wants to get a ride. I figure I will go with him into the liquor store, and that’s where shit really gets weird. We go in the door and he is all high-fiving and bro-ing out with the liquor store guy and calling him “cuz.” We are standing there, waiting in line for him to buy his Crown Royal, and he goes, “What do you think, do you think I’m hot, do you think I’m cute?” He is actually sort of hot; but the kind of hot that gets uglier the more he opens his mouth, clearly. I tell him he looks “all right” because I don’t know what else to say to this fool. He says he thinks of himself as hot but he wants to hear me say it. What a douche! Then he says, “You want to date me, don’t you?” I can’t fake anything anymore and I just say, “No.” “Well, I don’t want to date you anyway, I just want to be your friend, I use Tinder to meet friends.” Ok… I tell him the Lyft is coming in one minute, because it is, and move to the door. He finishes paying just in time. As he walks out of the liquor store, gesturing towards me, he says the following to his bro-friend, the Vietnamese liquor store owner, “Look at how beautiful this girl is, I’m gonna marry this girl!” I keep walking, horrified, and pretend I didn’t hear that.

We get in the Lyft and during the 5-minute ride to his house, he keeps going on and on about how he can tell I am such a great person and have good vibes and I’m so beautiful and am I sure I want to go to this show with my friend and not come over his house instead? Yes, I’m going to the show. What about after the show? I’m going to hang out with my friend and go home. I’m going to text you later and we can link up, he says. Like I don’t have a choice in the matter. We get to his apartment, which is indeed about 4 blocks from Historians. It is also literally right across the street from my good friend’s house, so I now feel slightly concerned that I will run into this guy when I go to her house.

The Lyft stops and he keeps jabbering about hanging out later that night, and then does what I will call an “attack-makeout.” He literally lunges for my face with his mouth all open and tongue-y. It catches me off guard and I sort of kiss him back because it seems a bit dramatic to slap him. “Ooh girl, you nasty!” he says, and then reiterates that we are going to connect up later and finally gets out of the Lyft.

I apologize to the Lyft driver, who looks sort of scared. He later tells me he just moved to the U.S. a month ago from Bahrain. Poor guy, welcome to America, where all the dudes are dicks and do awkward shit in your car while you are just trying to make a buck!

I make it to Black Shirt Brewery, where I regale my friend with tales of my crazy ass dates while watching a band called Church Fire. They can best be described as “the sort of band that would be playing on top of a car at Burning Man.”

I don’t hear from bachelor #2 that night, which is a pleasant surprise. A few days later, he sends me a text saying “How’s your day?” I don’t even respond, figuring that the fadeaway is adequate in this situation. Learn social cues, dude! I also discover that my Lyft driver from that night gave me 5-star rating. Maybe he felt bad for me. Or maybe he just loves America… Happy Late 4th of July! ‘Merica!

Don’t be a racist in Boulder while dating a social worker in the ‘hood

I don’t feel very good today, so forgive the fact that the title of this blog post is a fairly poor attempt to play on the title of the Wayans Brothers 90’s classic movie that you might guess now that I gave you a hint.

So this is another story from about 4 or 5 years ago. I believe I met this guy off of OkCupid or another free dating site. And apparently, this was before I was too lazy to drive to Boulder or the suburbs or other places outside of 15 minutes from my house to hang out with dudes. I recently realized this when I was talking to a guy on Tinder and was unwilling to continue talking to him once I realized he lived in Boulder. It’s just so far away, and there’s always construction!

So I meet this dude online and he wants to meet up to go on a date in Boulder. I figure why not, it’s the weekend, I can go up to Boulder. So I do, and we start dating. I hang out with him in such illustrious Boulder locations as Mountain Sun Brewery, that outdoor fancy shopping mall area, walking along Boulder Creek, at the Dushambe Tea House… it was pretty much a best of Boulder montage.

At some point in our dating I discover two key things about this dude. #1 – He literally JUST moved here from India, like weeks ago, and knows nothing about Boulder so I am the one who has to think of the ideas for things to do. #2 – He has no car. So it’s up to Boulder for me if I want to keep hanging out with this guy. I’m not really sure what I liked about him, but probably it was the fact that he was super into me. I remember he would give me the weirdest compliments, like “I love the shape of your eyebrows, they are so perfect!” I swear he said that to me.

He also liked EDM music (back when it was called electronic music or something like that) and the club and was really impressed with himself for having gone skydiving, so maybe I should have seen the end coming. Also, he had a soul patch. I just remembered that detail, which really completes this story in my mind.

We would make out a lot in public places because he was squatting in CU Boulder University Housing without being a student and lived with 4 other Indian dudes. They had very little furniture and none of them seemed to know how to clean, so I wasn’t really trying to get frisky at his house.

One day, we made out at one of the Boulder Open Space parks while hiking, in his designer outfit, so not real hiking. He wore really nice clothes, as in fancy jeans and really Euro-y looking shirts. Come to think of it, my friend who likes European bros probably would have liked him, at least in terms of his wardrobe. We got some dinner or something and then I went back to Denver. Unbeknownst to me, he had left his fancy sunglasses in my car. This will become relevant to the story later.

So, as you may recall, I am a social worker and I work with teenagers. This is also about to become relevant to the story. This guy and I talk on the phone sometimes during the week because I can’t drive up to Boulder to hang out with him except for on the weekends. One day, because we have been hanging out for a while, I decide to actually tell him something real and vulnerable and not just try to be entertaining. I tell him about how I feel sad because one of the students I work with just found out she is pregnant and it always makes me depressed when 15-year-olds get pregnant. He asks me, “Is she black or Mexican?” That is literally the first thing out of his mouth. I ask him what the hell he means by that and he says that he “can’t care” about black or Mexican people and I shouldn’t worry either. Wow. There went your shot at me and my eyebrows continuing to hang out with you, motherfucker… I started yelling at him over the phone about being racist and broke up with him. I try to put myself in his shoes because I know they have a caste system and everything in India but still come to the conclusion of hell no, I don’t want to hang out with him any more.

So that’s that, I think. Until he starts texting me constantly about how I have his Gucci sunglasses because he left them in my car. Sure enough, I do have them. Fine, I say, what’s your address, I will mail them to you. He tells me that he doesn’t want them to break in the mail because they are so very important and expensive and can we just meet up sometime and he will get them from me. First of all, if you paid that much for sunglasses, I would like to think that mailing them would not result in them breaking, but whatever. Second of all, the idea of meeting up with him makes me want to punch him in the face and break his sunglasses.

So, at the time, I was living with a roommate who had a boyfriend in Boulder, and the two of them went to Boulder about every other week for the weekend. He probably had only been living with me for a few months and he had started dating his boyfriend almost immediately after he moved in with me. So I didn’t really know either of them super well but I could tell we were all going to be friends. So, for some reason I think it’s normal to do what I do next…

I decide to explain this situation to my new roommate and his boyfriend the next time they are over at the apartment. I then ask them if they will go meet this guy, Racist Indian Guy, as I now call him, in his sketchy unauthorized University housing living situation, and give him his sunglasses. For some reason, they agree. I guess they did want to be my friends! I am, incidentally, still friends with both of these people, so I guess it worked out somehow.

So, my roommate and his boyfriend bring Racist Indian Guy his sunglasses, and they say it was ok, not too awkward. By the by, they thought he seemed nice and was a good dresser so they could understand why I was initially into him, despite the racism, soul patch, and bro-ishness. That was nice of them to say.

I would also just like to add that when I told my roommate I was finally writing this story in my blog, she started making up a song about the Racist Indian Guy. It was pretty good, maybe she will record it for me later and I can embed it in this post. And we started discussing ways to make a sitcom about our dating lives. Because I now have two other female roommates and we all have our assorted dating stories and rotating exes and most of them have names such as “Johnny New Year” and “Tim 2” and “LA guy.” And all of those could make for excellent characters in a sitcom. We also have this one friend who we always run into at every rock show in Denver who tried to date/dated one of my roommates and several of our friends but has no game. He could be the George Costanza character from Seinfeld, or maybe Nick from New Girl. So stay tuned for a pilot for “That One Girl in Menver and Friends Dating Variety Show.” Or some other name. Ooh, or maybe it could be like that show, “Singled Out.” You know, with Jenny McCarthy before she was primarily known for telling people not to vaccinate their kids.

In conclusion, don’t be racist and try to date a social worker. This should be obvious, but so should other things I have written about, such as don’t send random girls you don’t know dick pics.

Resume pizza break! And don’t be a douche in Denver, this town is too small for that…

So when I went on my pizza break, I never really had a defined ending point. I figured I would just see if I got bored of having a pizza break, or see if anyone that seemed worth my time came my way. The goal of the pizza break was to be open to possibilities in the man department, but not try hard. Which has been nice, let me just say. I’ve been referring to 2015 as “Don’t Give a Fuck 2015.” Which is not to say that I give no fucks about anything, but I am being selective about the fucks I give. Literally and figuratively. So I have been just minding my own business, enjoying my life, writing archival stories in my blog because there haven’t been any dudes all up on me.

Until a series of events transpired a couple weeks ago. I went out for a birthday celebration for one of my friends and met up with her and a bunch of her peeps, some of whom I didn’t know. This cohort of revelers included one dude who we will call “Undercover Bro,” because he didn’t really seem like a bro at first.

First of all, he didn’t even know my friend, he came with one of her hippie friends who was wearing a scarf that looked like cat paws the entire night. You know, those ones favored by 13-year-old girls where you can put your hands inside a flap and pretend they are paws? Yeah, this guy was his main associate, so I figured him to not be so much of a bro. Undercover bro’s “game,” if you will, was talking about feminism and gender roles, having a ridiculous sense of humor that nicely complimented mine, and getting me to give him rides. That type of game is apparently more effective on me than Tastycakes or love poems…. But, needless to say, these are not your typical bro moves. We had a surprising amount of very honest and interesting conversation in one night. I actually thought he was enjoying my personality, and he was all up on me the entire night at my friend’s party. Which ended when I drove him home at 4am and we made out in my car in front of his house. Which I drove him to because he has no car. He didn’t invite me in because it was late, but I kind of suspect he lives with his parents, in retrospect.

But whatever, we hung out one more time and then I think he lost interest because I didn’t sleep with him the second time we hung out? I tried to hang out with him again a couple times but he didn’t really seem to want to so I stopped trying. Whatever, clearly this undercover bro showed his true colors.

So this was the start of a month-long festival of “Denver is a small town” coincidences and other weird episodes that began the very same weekend I met this undercover bro dude.

A friend of mine, we’ll call her Lindsey (many women of my generation are named this, but this woman is not, in reality, named Lindsey) asks me in passing, “How do you know so-and-so?” So-and-so being a guy who she was talking to on Tinder who she saw was my facebook friend. That’s one of the joys of Tinder, you can judge people by their acquaintances on facebook and/or do recon on people by asking your mutual friends about them. Turns out, she was about to meet up with this guy who is my roommate’s ex, and someone who I am also connected to through my work. I told Lindsey she probably didn’t want none of that, not because he’s a bad guy, but because he’s not very motivated in life and wasn’t compatible with my roommate, and Lindsey and my roommate are friends and very similar people and so it would be weird and probably not work on several levels. And I totally forgot to tell my roommate, so Lindsey brought it up, thinking I already told her, which was also weird. Complicated.

This whole ex situation makes my roommate curious about Tinder, and somehow makes me want to go on Tinder. Also maybe the fact that I got rejected by undercover bro, maybe there were a few fucks given by accident about that. I will say this for Tinder, it boosts my confidence when I see how many dudes think I am attractive enough to theoretically bang. Anyway, my roomate seems curious, so my other roommate and I teach her how to play our favorite (and only?!) Tinder game, “Find the fish.” I think I have mentioned this before. It’s very simple. The first person to find a dude with a picture of himself holding a fish wins. I won, repeatedly. This caused me to get several Tinder matches in the process, several of whom started messaging me. I will come back to these later.

So, the next coincidence that happens is that my co-worker starts talking about how he ran into this guy at the dentist who works at another local nonprofit and sends out a lot of mass emails with his picture on them as part of his job. And how this dude was super awkward when my colleague introduced himself and told him he recognized him from the pictures. Unbeknownst to my co-worker, I had dated this guy years ago. And he was super awkward when I dated him. We went to a really good but sad independent movie at the Denver Film Festival, and I cried during the movie. Which made our already-awkward dating even more awkward.

Next coincidence, and this might be my favorite, I run into Wiener Problems Guy (see previous post, “Come on, little guy!”) at the DMV. He walks right by me we make eye contact for a split second, and he looks away like he’s seen a ghost and keeps walking. I almost start laughing out loud at his look of fear but luckily, the pervasive depressing and boring atmosphere of the DMV saves me from actually laughing and further embarrassing this poor little guy who can’t just can’t seem to recover from that wiener malfunction.

And the hits keep coming! This weekend, I go out for another friend’s birthday, and see my friend whose birthday I went to a few weeks ago. So, birthday friend number one and I are shooting the shit because birthday friend number two is late for her own birthday! Birthday friend number one says, what happened with that undercover bro guy you met at my party? I tell her he lost interest. She doesn’t seem that surprised and shows me a text from another girlfriend of hers that is a screenshot of undercover bro’s Tinder profile with the caption, “Isn’t this the guy who was all over your friend at your party?” Yes, it is. Hilarious. I don’t think I have seen him on Tinder myself yet, but who knows, I could have already swiped left on him.

Birthday friend number two arrives after a while and also asks me what happened with that undercover bro guy I met at birthday friend number one’s party. I also tell her he lost interest. She says she ran into him at the Ginn Mill with his bro-y friends the previous weekend. Sounds about right. All the pieces of the bro puzzle are coming together. The night I met him, he told me that the night before he had been at the ViewHouse. I made fun of him about that… I call that place the DoucheHouse because, well, you can figure it out. But I realize now that I was making fun of his whole lifestyle. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to hang out any more. I mean, in some ways, I think it must be nice to be 30 years old and not have a car and live with your parents and sell credit cards at the airport and go to LoDo every weekend. The only part of that sentence that is not a stated fact is the living with the parents part. So next time I’m at a bachelorette party or something in LoDo, or at the airport, I will be sure to see this dude. Awesome.

Other “Denver is a small town” sidebar. At least I’m straight. I’m pretty sure Denver is even smaller if you’re gay. The site of this story about birthday friend number two and her party was Hamburger Mary’s. I managed to run into both my old roommate and another friend I know through a different gay friend there that night. The two of them actually know each other, also. Basically, I feel like it would suck to be gay and try to avoid exes in this town. You could never go to Vinyl, Beer Bust, Tracks, or apparently Hamburger Mary’s.

Last but not least, the final cherry on top of my ridiculous return to sort-of almost-dating, and one of the reasons I am going back to no-fucks-given-pizza-break-mode is this. One of the more promising Tinder matches I was chatting with after my fish-finding episode keeps making it seem like he wants to hang out and then not messaging me back. He asks to hang out with me yesterday, and I suggest a time I’m available between other things I’ve got going on. “My wife gets back at 7 so I don’t think we’d have enough time if we got a drink at 5.” What the hell?!?! Don’t put that on your profile or anything, just drop it casually in conversation when you’re trying to set up a date! Jesus, man, Tinder is the worst place to cheat on your wife! I probably know her. Or her divorced/single/cheating on her husband friend is going to see you on there and rat you out. So the moral of this story is: Don’t be a douche in this town, not just for the usual reasons such as “being a douche is bad,” but for “Denver is a small town” reasons!