I’m not exactly the best at picking up a dude. I’m a sober-shy (yes, I just made myself a new noun) , which is someone who cannot approach an attractive person without absorbent amounts of alcoholic beverages in their system.
When I have reached that point, I tend to stumble up to said hottie and blurt out something along the lines of “Hey, you’re cute, where’d you get your mustache?”
And they typically just stare at me.
And then I ask, “Can I touch it?”
And then they walk away.
I thought this was bad. I really thought I took the cake for worst pick-up lines, worst encounters….. the chick who just couldn’t get it together. But lately, I’ve been paying more attention to what the hell is actually happening in my life, and so, my sweet Gypsea Catters, (or just readers if you really detest the idea of being referred to as such), here are the top three most bizzare pick-up lines and/or encounters I’ve been subject to:
1. The Australian Sass-Attack
So this one time, I’m at a bar, and what looked like a stick figure with a long-sleeved flannel shirt and board shorts, was in reality an actual person. Despite his frightening frame, he had long blonde hair, a mustache and an Australian accent, so naturally, I was game. AT FIRST. Eventually I was over it, and found a reason to walk away to the other end of the bar. After an extended amount of time sans Australian, I look up to find him slamming down a couple of napkins in front my spot at the bar and storming off never to be seen again.
THIS is what I received:
Can you read that? If not, don’t worry, it’s hard to decipher a crazy-fuck’s drunken scribble. Basically, it’s like, “Oi! You suck. I thought we could have a good night together. Bitch ass.”
Uh-huh. You REALLY win a chick over by assuming you’re going to take her home, then writing it on napkins at a bar and calling her a bitch ass. Well done sir.
2. The Indian Giver
Last weekend my girlfriend and I walk into the diviest of dive bars for a brew, when this mediocre mid-40’s dude tells us he’d like to win our hearts over with a couple shots of Fireball (if you don’t know what that is, find it, drink it, and then thank me later). So we’re like, “Ugh okay, fine” (because being an independent woman and getting your own drinks is way too modern an ideal to comprehend). So we get the shots, which are actually double shots, and we take half and set the rest down to chill for a minute.
But the mediocre mid- 40’s dude starts getting all snappy with us, saying shit like “You guys need to finish your shots. It’s disrespectful not to.”
And we’re like “We will. But we’re ladies (no we’re not) and we like to take our time (we were just too drunk).”
And he’s like, “I’m not okay with that,” and takes both of our shots, pours them into one glass and swallows the cinnamon whiskey down
like he bought them or something.
So we’re like, “See ya later dick,” and he has the nerve to ask us for our phone numbers.
3. The Eyebrow Observer
Now this guy I never met. But one night, I’m working and on Facebook (because naturally thats the most productive way to spend my time) and find a very strange message from a very strange man. It reads:
“So, a buddy and I were about to go out, but we decided to goof around online a bit first, and came across your page. Don’t ask how the topic came up, but we got into the strangest argument as to whether or not your eyebrows are plucked or waxed (they are nice by the way). Now we have a bet going on. He thinks you only wax them and he has to pay $20 if he loses. I think (though you may wax/thread) you pluck for upkeep, and I have to wash his car if I lose.”
And I’m reading this message thinking:
Because I mean honestly, what would motivate you to find a complete stranger on Facebook and make a bet with your buddy regarding the grooming process of my eyebrows? Is that supposed to turn me on? Do you think I’m going to respond with something like, “Ohhhh, why don’t you guys come over and see for yourselves.”
No. Just no.
What about me sends these excruciatingly foolish men my way? Is it that I seem like a cheap date with my unbrushed mane and excessive amounts of fringe? Maybe. Was I staring at their mustache too long? Perhaps. Is it my extremely well-shaped eyebrows? Absolutely.
Whatever it really is, it makes me tired and nauseated and further pushes me to long for a solitary life with just Me-My-Cat-and I.
I like yoga, a lot. In fact, I spend over $100 a month to like it at a studio (which makes me want to begin a rant on the exorbitant expense of yoga, but I won’t, because I need to stay on track).
I first started going to this one instructor’s Tuesday/Thursday evening classes because he’s a total babe, but then it became about the actual class because it’s totally amazing; an hour and a half of heated vinyasa flow in a packed room full of motivated souls.
So, a few months ago, I get to the Tuesday class, find a spot in the crowded room and settle into child’s pose. While trying to quiet my mind amongst the high energized chatter of post nine-to-fivers, I sense a yoga mat being laid down ever too close to mine. I look up to see whom this bubble-invader is, and, instead of a middle-aged, hairy-backed, chubby-gutted-father-of-five, I find a bronzed god in my presence. At least 6 foot 4 inches of shirtless, chiseled beauty. I just wanted to rub some dirt on his chest and abs and wait for him to hold me captive and make me his concubine. Obviously I’m speaking of Brad Pitt as Achilles in the movie Troy, when he so heartlessly shows the world his insanely perfect naked body and “lays” with his imprisoned princess, Briseis.
I clearly can’t relax now, since I partially believe Brad Pitt is next to me in yoga. Instead, I wait for the class to start by doing a bunch of poses that will position my head over my right shoulder, which just so happens to land my eyes in the direction of
God himself. When the class does finally begin, I’m all concerned that I’m going to sweat too much, fall out of poses and just generally suck at being perfect. But instead, I’m pretty much killing it; getting into the deepest position of each pose, sexily-sweating (maybe that’s not outwardly accurate, but believe me, I felt it) and feeling enough strength and energy to go on forever.
Usually when a yoga class is over, I roll up my yoga mat as quickly as possible and exit out the side door to escape the stampede of dripping men and women touching shoulders as they slowly file out the narrow doorway of the studio. This time, I don’t think I could have rolled up my yoga mat any slower. I didn’t even lift my gaze to get another look at “Achilles,” but I just needed to simply be next to him a little longer. Then (oh my god get ready for it)……………. I hear a slightly raspy, super deep voice say “It was nice practicing with you.”
Now go back up and look at the picture of Mr. Pitt and just imagine that’s what’s speaking to you.
So I’m like:
And he’s like, “My name’s Doug,” and holds out his hand to shake mine.
And I’m shaking his giant-sized man-hand and thinking ugh that’s my dad’s name, but you’re so hot, I don’t care.
And then I’m like should I tell him that’s my dad’s name to make conversation?
And then I’m like don’t fucking tell him that.
Finally I tell him my name and we start discussing how great the class is, and then he tells me he looks forward to seeing me next time and I die a little on the inside.
All I can think about for the next two days is Doug and getting back to that yoga class so we can fall in love and have god and goddess babies and all be yogis together… and have cats too.
When the day finally arrives, I get to yoga like a half an hour early (which I found out, by doing so, does not help you in the least because they don’t even open the studio until 5 minutes before). So eventually I get in there and set my mat down and pretend to act all relaxed and cool, but every time I hear a man’s voice entering, I almost break my neck trying to see if it’s my main squeeze. But suddenly everyone’s all settled in and the class is starting and I don’t see him anymore.
I am pretty much looking at the clock for the next hour and a half wanting it to be over since I’m all depressed that Brad Pitt didn’t show up. I’m struggling to balance, sweating profusely, and totally not in a yogic state of mind.
“Namaste,” we collectively say as the class comes to a close. I’m rolling up my mat as quickly as possible, preparing for my ninja like exit when suddenly I hear…
“It was nice practicing with you.”
No, it was NOT to me.
Yes, it WAS Doug.
He’s in the back of the studio, standing with his giant-man-hands on his hips, sweat rolling down his 8-pack, as he talks to a middle-aged, hairy-backed, chubby-gutted-father-of-five.
And I’m like:
And so my friends, the very important moral of the story is:
NEVER TRUST A MAN WITH THE SAME NAME AS YOUR DAD!!!!!!!!
The best, and well, most appropriate interlude to my blog is a post on cats. If you know me, you know I am uber-feline-friendly. But not in the sense of Hello Kitty (don’t bother trying to argue that she is the
queen-of-cats, because she’s not; she’s overrated, and that’s all the exposure I will give her on here).
Cats seem to be really in right meow. I mean right now. For example: cat hangers, cat t-shirts, Grumpy Cat and even skanky cat costumes.
But I liked cats before they invaded Urban Outfitters, college campuses, and internet memes. Not to say I don’t own cat shirts from Urban, have Halloween cat ears and tail, or enjoy a good cat joke, but real cats are the real deal and they’ve stolen my heart since I can remember. Well actually, I think there was a period of time, roughly around the age of 4, when I didn’t totally love cats because I threw my sweet feline down a flight of stairs onto a concrete garage floor, simply to see if cats really could land on their feet despite a large fall. He did land on his feet, but I got in big trouble (definitely got spanked). So despite that minor hiccup, it’s safe to say I’ve always been a cat lover.
But why? Many non-believers might say that cats are assholes. They’d argue that they’re totally self entitled; knocking shit off your dresser, walking on the keyboard as you type, hiding in places that the normal sized adult body cannot get to. They might argue that cats are boring; they won’t play fetch with you, meow on command, or bite the water coming out of the hose for your entertainment.
What these naive people do not understand, is that cats are fascinatingly bad ass. Take for example their utter independence. Set aside when they meow incessantly for their wet food at 6 in the morning, completely pissing you off, and look at the bigger picture. You let them out of the house, they explore the great outdoors, kill a bunch of shit, and bring you home a family of bunnies (I am a vegetarian, so in no way would I ever eat the bunnies, but it’s pretty bad ass that they can hunt like that). Also, they can climb trees, roof-jump and make a hammock out of the inside lining of the couch. They are insanely clean as well. No need taking them to the groomer each month for an expensive bath, because they spend every 5 minutes licking themselves spotless, and therefore make for the best bedtime cuddle buddies ever. Oh, and they purr. There is really nothing more fantastic than a good purr.
Did I mention they can beat the living hell out of a dog?
I suppose I could go on for a really long time as to why cats rule, but I won’t because I need to go hang out with my own cat, who is currently laying outside underneath a palm tree because she is super naturey and awesome.
Instead, I will leave you with a cat quote, because I know you wanted one.
But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked. “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice. “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” Alice didn’t think that proved it at all; however, she went on “And how do you know that you’re mad?” “To begin with,’ said the Cat, “a dog’s not mad. You grant that?” “I suppose so,” said Alice. “Well, then,” the Cat went on, “you see, a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.