Surprise

This morning the person in front of me paid for my scone and latte in the Starbucks drive-thru.  This was awesome!  Thanks, dark blue Surburban!

 

The Cheesecake Stalker

My blog is currently locked down; I’m not sure when I will un-block it, and again show it to the public…but let’s just say I have kind of a little bit of a stalker problem (to put it mildly).  Just another sad case of someone with a life that just isn’t going his way.  Po’, suicidal nutcase.  And the whole topic has me thinking about creeps and other sorts of ass-munches.

Now lots of ladies I know have had stalker issues in their life.  I have had two previous experiences.  One was an out-of-control control freak, a high school idiot, who liked to park in front of my house and call me and say “Nice orange shirt with white stripes on it.”  That was a little freaky, because I would actually be wearing an orange shirt with stripes on it, and I would look out the window and not see anyone.  He would leave roses in my car, my locked car, and there would be no indication as to how he got in.  If anyone knows lock secrets to a 1981 Tercel, let me know…I’ve always wondered about that.

But the best stalker by far, one who really contributed to a mildly freaky, yet amusing, time of my life, is definitely the Cheesecake Stalker.  Let’s call him Che’ for carpal tunnel’s sake.

Che’ was a longtime employee of the company that I had just started working for in Washington DC.  Che’ resembles ‘Comic Book Guy’ from the Simpsons.  He was one of those archetypal “SCA” guys who was big into medieval stuff, Renaissance festivals, that kind of thing.  Che’ was the kind of guy who, if he had a turkey leg in his hand with grease dripping down his arm, and a sheathed sword on his belt, yet he was standing near the entrace to a subway, would look right smack-dab in his element.

Che’ was in the office kitty-corner from mine.  He used to arrive at work around noon.  Lots of times Che’ would get “talkings to” because the dress code was something ol’ Che’ really couldn’t wrap his mind around…God love ‘em, there were probably too many Doritos bags in there.  For the first several months I worked in that office, Che’ was listening. 

One day, my office mate and I, being women, discussed how much we really needed some chocolate.  It must have been a passionate conversation, because apparently it made an impact on someone (Che’).  I’m sure we talked about how at that moment, on whatever day it was, we would gladly give the President’s left arm for some type of cocoa-infused bit of goodness. 

The next day I checked my mail slot to find a small, angular package of Toblerone.

Now if you’re anything like me (at the time) you’ve seen Toblerone on the shelf, but assumed it was some kind of sausage.  But now I had one in my hand!  I read the ingredients.  Chocolate.  Goodness.  Yes!

I didn’t really stop to think about where the Toblerone had come from.  I guess I just assumed that I had sent out a message to the universe, a message that I was requiring chocolate, and a fancy, heaven-sent Toblerone had simply materialized right there in my mail slot.

That is, until Che’ passed me in the hallway later and said “Hey, did you like your Toblerone?”

Oh, shit.

“That was you?” I asked.  “Geez, thanks.  I really liked it. ”

Che’:  “Well, I happened to overhear you and your office mate discussing your impending desire for chocolaty goodness.” (He actually talked like this)

I say:  “Toblerone, eh?  Never had one before.”

<This is where Che’ is aghast, and begins citing the best chocolate sources on the planet.  Somewhere between Switzerland and Belgium, I start thinking about last night’s Survivor…>

The next day, Che’ pokes his head into my office and informs me that he has baked his famous Triple Chocolate Cheesecake for me the night before.  Said cheesecake is currently in the office kitchenette.

Oh, double shit.

I thank him, and say “Oh, well I hope you don’t mind if I share it with the whole floor…I can’t eat a whole cheesecake by myself.”  (Note:  I probably could, if I wanted to.  This is not the point.)

Che’ looks a little hurt. 

Later he overhears my office talking about the hit movie (that just came out at the time) Office Space.

I get an e-mail a couple of days later from Che’.  It informs me that he “has viewed my recommendation of the film Office Space and he found many comparable situations between our office and the fictional Initech.”  He then proceeds to list who in Office Space would be in our office.  I, for example, am the Jennifer Aniston character.  He, of course, is Ron Livingston.

You know, the couple.

I laugh in my e-mail (lol) and say, “funny, I never would have made that connection.”

Over the next month or so, Che’ invites me to movies, outings, and even the Kennedy Center for a New Year’s Eve symphony.  Dammit.  I am forced to tell him that, while flattering, I just don’t want to date him.

Che’ is suddenly offended.  “Why?” he asks. 

I am tempted to blame the Comic Book Guy resemblance.  Instead I take the high road, and list our differences that I have picked up on over the months.

“Che’,” I say.  “You hate the military.  I was in the Marines.  You hate cats.  I don’t care much for dogs.  You get in to work around noon.  I get in about six AM.  Do you see where this is going, Che’?”

<insert tumbleweed>

Thankfully, I am moved offsite to a hellish project, but it is a welcome break from Che’.  I am offsite for five months.  At no time during this five months do I see Che’.  Che’ does not cross my mind.  I am Che’ free.

Then the project has a budget cut.  I am getting sent back to the office.  Yet I don’t think about the implications of this until I see Che’ in the hallway.  Then the memory of the Triple Cheesecake enters my mind, and I can only hope that he has found another female to hound.

No such luck.  A couple hours later, Che’ is in my office.  I no longer have an office mate, so he is free to launch into his diatribe.  He says:

“I know that you said we shouldn’t date because it would never work.  But I’ve been thinking about you a lot.  I look at your website, and I see you and your friends on there, and I feel sad that I am not a part of your life…”

Ugh, oh, the creepiness.

“…and I want to change that.  <Insert corny lines about him changing himself here>  So, with your permission, I would like to begin courting you.”

If I had been sipping a beverage, this is the point where the beverage would come splattering out with the Flllllllllpppppppp sound.  Uh, courting?  Did I come back to work in a different century? 

I politely tell him “hell, no.”  Che’ gives me a wistful look and slowly leaves the office, looking back at me from ‘neath those Coke-bottles and tells me “We will be together.  One day.”

Then I went to my manager and told him that if for some reason I didn’t come into work for a couple days in a row in the near future, to please check all drainage ditches and that Che’ did it. 

And that is the story of the Cheesecake Stalker.

 

Guilty Pleasure Alert

I know I will regret admitting this, but I am hooked on a summer show called Age of Love.  I guess it’s not that hard to believe…I watched every episode of Joe Millionaire, too.  I think I like to live vicariously through people who choose to act like retards on national TV, or something.  Anyway…

The show is centered around Mark Philasomethinorother, a 30 year old Australian tennis star.  He’s edited to be a very good catch.  Enter Team 40’s.  Six forty-somethings (the oldest chick is 4 compete to win the Aussie’s heart right there on NBC!  This is entertaining in itself, mostly the expression on Mark’s face as he learns he signed up to date older women.  (You’d never know it from the way these women look, though)  Things get really interesting in the second episode, when they bring out Team 20’s…you got it, a bunch of recent college grads who look hot, but compared to the 40 somethings raking in $250K a year…well, they seem like babies. 

Of course much editing is done to make the 20 somethings look like bumbling idiots.  The 40 year olds come across as smart, smooth operators.  But I have to say, the 40 year olds are really running over the 20’s during all the competitions.  The camera often cuts away to one of the women, who have an opportunity to make commentary on how they think they are faring against the other chicks.  There are lots of snipes about how the 40 year olds are “decrepit” and “barren”.  The 40 year olds are at least smart enough to acknowledge their competition, but also confident enough not to freak out.  All of the 40 somethings have shrugged at least once to say, “It’s just a man.  We’ll see what happens.” (I am so rooting for the older team!)  But as the show goes on, the competition heats up, and pretty soon all the women, regardless of age, are acting like ‘tards, all googly eyed and drooling over the dude.

And I guess this is what makes the show entertaining for me…the imaginary competition that these women have fabricated.  It’s a big social study on sorry, sorry behavior.  The women inevitably resort to backstabbing and weeping into the camera.  And for what?  To eventually run each other down over an (albeit very hunky) ape who will choose one of them, date her for the mandated 30 days after the show ends, and then break up with her after they discover “it’s just not going to work out?”  Why the competition? 

It’s something that has always driven me crazy about my own gender.  It’s pretty well known that women don’t dress up for men.  They dress up for other women.  They constantly compare themselves.  And for what gain?  To feel bad about themselves?  To ensure that they weigh a half a pound less than their friends?  To boost the microscopic level of self esteem that has been eroded from reading too many issues of Cosmo?  I know, I know, these shows are edited for maximum ‘tard display, but some of these ladies’ comments make me want to bust through the TV and shake them and quote that song: 

“The race is long, but in the end, it’s only with yourself.” 

So ladies, I urge you to join me in watching Age of Love.  Men, if you are secure enough, with your chest hair and your ability to sing the Star Spangled Banner with your armpit, then feel free to participate too.  Join the social experiment to see that all women, not just the young ones, who go on dating shows are pathetic and most likely hunting for an acting career. 

Yes.  It’s a total waste of time.  But great for insomnia and cheap entertainment.

 

The 500 Mile High Club

I’ve never been an astronaut, but I imagine that the training to become one is pretty lengthy and demanding.  I imagine that the competition is fierce, and that once you become one, you are in The Club.  The cool kids club, that is.  When you become an astronaut, you have all kinds of respect and admiration from millions of people, from first graders learning about space to old geezers who wish that they too, had the ambition and talent and perserverance to become an astronaut (I’m speculating this). 

That is, until you try to pepper spray and kidnap the lady who is getting some from the fellow astronaut that you have a thing for.  Once you attempt to waste your romantic competition – while wearing diapers, no less — you kind of lose all that hard earned respect. 

 And you look like an eeeediot.

 

V-Day. Are you ready?

Valentine’s Day (aka Worst! Holiday! Ever!) is a mere nine days away.  Guys - are you looking for the perfect gift?  Are you in the dog house and in need of rescue?  There is nothing like a little poem to cheer her right up.  And I am going to provide one for you, free of charge!  I found this little ditty several years ago in a Gene Weingarten column.  Gene Weingarten is a humor writer for the Washington Post.  If memory serves me correctly, he wrote this.  But I bet a lot of you could reproduce it with your own handwriting in a fruity pink card and give it to your lovely(ies) and they would never know the difference!*  Enjoy!

 To refute the thought that males are clods,

And romantically inept, I offer up a Valentine

To those with whom we’ve slept.

Whoops, that was crasser than I meant.

May no offense be taken.

(While trying to be sweet as jam,

Men often sound like bacon.)

I mean this as a tribute

To our girlfriends and our wives,

The very folks without whom

We’d live unexamined lives.

We admit we’re fixer-uppers

And we know how much you’d care

To remodel this old eyesore

Into a darling pied-a`-terre.

Some things, alas, just cannot change.

We’re hopeless on minutiae.

We’ll never learn the difference

Between “violet,” “mauve” and “fuchsia.”

We’ll never get the hang of which

Utensil’s on the right

Or why you have to make the bed

Before getting in at night.

We’re not good with our emotions,

However hard we try,

And we know our lack of feeling

Is enough to make you cry.

And cry and cry and cry some more,

A weeping, bawling mewlery.

Thank God we’ve learned the cure for this

Is nice, expensive jewelry.

The purpose of this poem

(Please ignore missteps above)

Is to make you understand that

What we feel for you is love.

It’s love for all the things you are

And — I’m not sure how to put it —

For something else I would explain

If only I understood it.

We love the fact that even when

You’re sweating like a sow

You manage to smell better

Than us at rest, somehow.

Or, in parking, how you manage

To always (what’s that verb?)

Smooosh the right rear tire

Right up against the curb.

We know that we are less mature,

That our follies leave you seething.

We fritter time while you pursue

Thinner thighs through tantric breathing.

You help us guard against excess

With lists of don’ts and do’s.

On these you put your foot down,

In one of your six thousand, four

hundred twenty-seven pairs of nearly

identical but subtly different and

obviously essential shoes.

We like that when we tell you jokes

You will with laughter burst,

Then joyfully retell them

With all the punch lines first.

The movies that you love to share

(I’m thinking now of Gina)

Are very nice, except they could

Dishearten a hyena.

You think that we are louts and boors,

And condescending varmints.

But we forgive you, ’cause you wear

Those splendid undergarments.

See, we really understand you

In almost every way,

Except for everything you do

And everything you say.

In short, you drive us wild with want

And also up a wall.

We wish you’d change in every way

And also not at all.

*Plagiarism is wrong.  Don’t do it.