August 20, 2007

Blame Canada (eh?)

So, yeah, not sure what to do about Canada, then (eh?).

I, FuManchLonesomeShoes, find myself kind of swimming in guy issues at the moment. Because on one level I've got a cool guy that seems pretty into me here. Probably best to just see what happens there, yes? Sure. And that is indeed what I'm doing, I'm not a complete idiot.

Well, I did say not complete idiot. Which means I am, at the very least, a partial idiot.

Which is why I've been emailing several times a day, all day long, with a Canadian guy I made out with in Montreal more than two weeks ago.

Sigh.

(pounds head on desk)

He's adorable, he makes me laugh, he cares about his job, he cares about his mom, he has a CAT (very key), he likes to drink but isn't a lush, he cleans a lot, is kind of dorky in a good way, and did I mention that totally cute makes me laugh thing again?

Oh and then there's the other little thing: he wants to come visit as soon as he gets a chance.

(pounds head on desk)

Scenario One: I continue seeing Guy #1, eventually Canada wants to visit, what if me and Guy #1 are like, involved by that point? Do I dump him or make some story up for why I need to not be available to him for the weekend? (pounds head)

Scenario Two: I keep things as casual as possible with Guy #1, and tell him the truth when Canada comes to visit. This seems most sane, but really I don't know how to do that. It seems wrong, and if I were Guy #1 I'd definitely be like "WTF, mate?" if I were seeing a chick I was into and she all of a sudden had some hump from Canada staying in her bed for a weekend. I mean, come on.

Scenario Three: Don't a say a fucking thing to either one of them about the other and figure it out when the time comes.

I think I'm going with three. After all, just because I talk to him every day doesn't mean I need to...what? Be faithful? to Canada. I mean, he's ten hours away from me, it's hardly going to work out.

On the other hand, if I had to choose one or the other right now, I'd rather keep emailing with Canada every day than continue dating the guy WHO ACTUALLY LIVES HERE.

I clearly have issues.

So I Guess Every Monday I'll Just Post a Bunch of Times or Something

Today, I was drug-dialed.

So the guy I was bitching about last week has turned out decent. We went out Friday, it was fun, blah blah blah.

What? You want more an explanation than blah blah blah?

Okay, hm.

1) It had been so long I didn't remember what he looked like. Luckily, he looked fine. He's not like, kill yourself hot or anything, but can I just say thank god? That's so much pressure. That super-tall super-unbelievably-cute lawyer I dated last summer didn't do anything but stress me out, because I kept waiting for him to stop and be like "Wait, is this 'The King of Queens' in reverse or something? Why am I dating you again?"

2) We went out, watched the Red Sox game, ate, drank blueberry beer, talked. He paid, he opened doors, all very gentlemanly and such.

3) It's possible the wheels came off when I suggested we go to the karaoke bar after the game.

4) No, it's possible the wheels came off when we did our second shot and I finished off my seventh (eighth?) beer. Getting plastered on a date (a first date! Oy vey.) is probably not considered ladylike. But hey, he kept buying them, what was I supposed to do? Ummmm, yeah.

5) It's definitely likely the wheels actually came off when I warbled out some of the worst karaoke I've ever done. I was nervous, leave me alone. But you know how they say you shouldn't go all the way on the first date? It should really be, you shouldn't sing in public on the first date. This is way more mortifying than any of the macking I doled out later.

So yeah. We hung out at my place for a while after, he called the next day, and then called again today. But we don't have plans to go out again because when he called me today he was on Vicodin.

Oral surgery, apparently. He sounded kind of...well...kind of retarded. Or like he'd been hit over the head. Punch drunk! He talked like Rocky, like all slow and garbled.

"I's jush wann say...I's jush say....um.."
"Really, you've just had your wisdom teeth out, you can call me when you feel better, dum dum."
"No, Ish furgets to call youse yeshterday, so I jush wann call joo tooday."
"Okay, well thank you, but do you want to call me when you're not on drugs?"
"Yesh....yesh."

Yikes. I'm not sure if it was cute or weird, but I'll settle on cute.

So that's that. We'll see what happens. I'm not convinced this is going anywhere, but there's no harm in doing some dating, eh?

Which brings me to the next issue...notice the way I said "eh?" just then?

Poor Superintendent Ephardt

Donna Martin graduates! Donna Martin....maybe shouldn't have gotten shitfaced and barfed at senior prom.

This episode kills me as an adult because I have a big problem with how the West Beverly school board just rolls over for the supremely douchey Brandon Walsh and his supremely douchetastic pompadour.

And the way he mouths off to the superintendent and acts like the whole undertaking wasn't entirely the fault of the UNDERAGED high school kids who freaking guzzled champagne before their prom like idiots, instead of afterwards like you're supposed to.

Is it just me? Sure I knew of a few girls doing lines in the ladies' room the night of my senior prom, but I was way more interested in dancing with my smoking hot date (seriously, he was cute) and getting my picture taken than drinking at the prom.

Instead, we packed about 400 beers into the back of my friend Tim's station wagon and drove to Maine afterwards for a weekend of boozing as hard as we wanted to in peace.

(Come to think of it, prom night might have been the only time in my life I've ever booted n' rallied....I had to chug like three full beers in a row due to an unprecedented horrendous performance at speed quarters. So I walked calmly outside, barfed up a lung, then proceeded calmly back inside to drink some more. Oh, how I long to get my 17-year old liver back sometimes....)

August 13, 2007

It's Three, Three, Three Posts in One (Day)!

I couldn't shuffle off to beddy bye bye without giving an update on NewGuy:

Um, no update. He didn't call me back after letting me go to field a call from his mummy.

I don't really care, because he had said he was going out tonight when he called. So if he calls me back tomorrow I won't mind. But oh well. That's the update.

Read below if you have no idea what I'm on about.

Um, not the one just below, the one before that.

Because did I mention that this is my third post tonight? This should tide you over, you damn vultures. Oh, and my tits are still hot.

As in, temperature. Because I burned the shite out of them today.

Ew, I just had a gross mental image of boobs spurting poo out their nipples. Now you probably have it, sorry about that. And guys, don't let that image come to mind the next time you're licking a nipple. Oh, except now it totally will. Sorry about that. What can I say? Sorry!

Okay, I had a complaint a while back that my most consistent typo is on the word "because." I actually just misspelled it again. I type really fast, I've been pretty damn great at it ever since ninth grade typing class (A+, bitches!).

Yet for some reason, when I'm typing so fast, I fuck up the word because every time. And yes, I just did it again, and not on purpose. So if you see a post with just the word "because" typed over and over and over? That's why.

Now I will type it ten times without correcting any typos, let's see if I get it right even once:

Becasue because becasue because because becasue becuase beacuase because becasue.

Wow. Only four out of ten. I'm like the Eric Gagne of typing the word because. Must go practice....

August 12, 2007

Oh, Real World.



I think every generation has a different benchmark they measure themselves by when it comes to knowing you might actually be a "grown up."

Some might say it's when you start paying your own bills. I've been doing that for a few years though, and still tend to feel like a ten-year old most of the time, based on my proclivity for fart jokes and eating ice cream straight from the carton.

Or maybe it's when you have your first grown-up relationship; but nah, because, speaking of farts, my ex and I used to have actual fart contests (note: he always won, that guy's ass was like a nuclear weapon).

Your first real, big, grown-up, non-cosigned-by-the-parents purchase (house, car, etc)? Well, I actually haven't gotten to that one yet. So far my biggest non-cosigned purchase has been my furniture. It's nice furniture and all, and it was pretty expensive for my budget (especially at the time I bought it), but it hardly counts as much as say, a brand new car. Or a condo.

So I'm creating my own benchmark: I am too fucking old to watch The Real World. I don't understand how real grown-ups can watch this show and not want to:

a) Pray for the future of humanity
b) Wonder if I was that big an asshole when I was twenty (even though even at twenty I didn't have big giant fake tits and a perfect flat stomach and a cute-little ass that both hung out of my bathing suit and made me feel superior to the world all at the same time--a Wonder Ass!)
c) Cut a bitch

The latest batch just started. Gripe one: Why set it in Sydney but not cast any actual people from Australia? They might actually be interesting. Instead, it's just obnoxious American jackholes. What I hate about The Real World is that even the "nice" ones are jerks.

Example: Parisa. She seems cool, and there's no doubt her little in-house rival Kellyanne is a beast from hell. And I totally felt for her when one of the beetches was trashing some poor immigrant woman for not being able to speak English well--because Parisa's family is made up of immigrants from Iran.

But? She is dealing with them all the wrong way. You can't deal with slutasswhorebitches (tm my college friend Jen) by trying to play their game (ie; being a bitch). You deal with them by staying calm and letting everyone see that they don't have a skinny ass leg to stand on.

Why am I analyzing it this much?

There's this scene in "Shallow Hal," one of the more underappreciated movies in the Farrelly brothers repetoire, in which Jack Black is wondering why Gwyneth Paltrow is so funny and awesome and has such a great personality--you know, since she's so hot (since he doesn't know that she's actually 300-pounds).

His friend calls it "Ugly Duckling Syndrome," that she was ugly as a kid and dind't get hot until she grew up, so she was forced to grow a personality to get by.

This is a sick generalization, of course, and no, I'm not saying that an incredibly attractive girl can't also be funny and awesome (I'm friends with plenty of girls meeting that description).

But when I see chicks like the complete bitchfaces that populate shows like the Real World? It starts to get a little merit. When you get everything you want based solely on the pert nature of your overly tanned ass cheeks, you don't have to worry about things like, oh, being a decent human being. You can be the biggest AssBeast on the planet, and you'll still have people wanting to hang out with you, because it's human nature to be drawn to the beautiful among us--the externally as well as the internally (I assume--how else can we account for Meatloaf having had actual wives?).

And no one is denying these Real World bitches are beautiful. In that generic hot chick way (there are probably 148,000 other skanks that look just like Kellyanne and have the same exact poor attitude as she does--they probably just picked the one most likely to pick on immigrants to add a little something extra).

And I don't automatically rule a girl out of the FuFriendWorthy lotto just because she's hot shit. After all, those of us who are hot shit have to stick together (even those of us who are hot shit with, um, fat rolls).

But if there is one thing that makes me morph into a cartoon angry bull with steam coming out of my nostrils, it's when "Hot Chicks" justify their heinously bitchy actions (which normal people have had the gall to call them out for) by claiming that people are "just jealous."

This makes the veins in my neck pop out to Barry Bonds proportions and just reinforces every bad stereotype about Pretty Girls. It makes me pissed off on behalf of my friends who look every bit as good as Kellyanne in a bikini but who are also smart and interesting and wonderful people to those around them.

"But but but editing!"

Whatever. Whatever. Editing can make someone look like a bigger bitch than they may really be, and that very well may have happened here. But it can't make people say some of the shit that comes out their mouths.

WHY AM I WATCHING THIS SHOW!?

Hate!

(This all being said, I really kind of love Shavon, the girl with the breast implants the size of my head. She is hilarious. And the guy with the insanely thick Southern accent who is the second coming of Country Jon, except the exact opposite in every way except the accent (ie, he's the shiznit). And his name is Cuthoffer or some shit. No really, that's his name.)

Okay, okay, OKAAAAAy

"You realize how long it's been since you updated your blog, right?"

"Dudes, I've been busy."

"Yeah, but...."

"No seriously. Work has been insane, I've had plans all up the wahoo, my kitchen flooded, and my cats may or may not be trying to kill me in my sleep, so I've also been pretty tired lately."

"Yeah but...."

"All RIGHT already."

So here I am.

In my last post, I bitched mightily about my lack of romantic game. I'm altering my opinion slightly, because while my personality could probably use an overhaul in some respects and I definitely (no, definitely) need to get back into at least halfway decent shape (a major hindrance, no matter what all my favorite "body positivity" blogs say--it is just plain harder for the rotund of us, no matter how high our Awesomeness Quotient may be. If I had a hot ass to combine with my insanely high AQ, I'd be beating men off with a stick.), I've decided the problem really is that men are completely insane.

(Heh, "beating men off.")

I don't get you mofos, even a little, so my new strategy is complete surrender.

The guy I met that hadn't called as of last Sunday (4 days after meeting) still hadn't called as of this weekend, so I'd obviously officially written him off. Then he calls my ass up at 1015 on Saturday night, a full nine days (Obligatory Bueller principal Rooney joke here: nine times!) after our initial meeting.

I was out, of course, why he called me at 1015 on a weekend night is beyond me, he was either

a) afraid of my wrath and counting on voicemail, or
b) drunk.

Anyhow, voicemail went something like "Soooo sorry, do you remember me? Soooo sorry, my phone broke! Soooo sorry. Had fun with you, call me back. (Soooo sorry.)"

So, because a sucker is born every minute and I haven't been on a date in four months, I decided to just call him back tonight. Which I did. I got voicemail naturally, so now I'm stuck waiting around for him to call again after I'd already written him off and gotten over it the first time. It's like he called me back just to sentence me to another few days of being "Hmm, wonder if that's him" every time my phone rings. So, since it's been almost an hour and a half since I called, that's my new limit. 90 minutes. If he doesn't call in the next ten, I'm officially done again.

(Oh and never even mind that about 3 minutes after I called him, I got a call, from another "Unknown number" number, which ended being Unemployed Guy--calling me to ask me out for tonight, after no conact for the last few weeks. W. T. F.)

***12 Minutes Later***

So, score one for New Guy, because he got it in under the deadline with six minutes to spare. We chatted, but he asked if he could call me back when he got an incoming from his mom. Losing a call-waiting standoff to a mom is okay, but I wish I had a better update--since I know my romantic trials and tribulations are like, so totally fascinating to you all.

In other news, I spent yesterday in the sun at the beach (if you expand that definition to include "at the bar...at the beach"), and today laying by my pool with my mom, foolishly believing her when she pointed out how good my tan was that it would protect me from burnage.

My cleavage only needs some nice drawn butter and a little lemon, and it'd be a tasty dish! My shoulders can be for dessert, like Baked Alaska or some other en flambe craziness.

Me = Retard.

More later, I think.

August 5, 2007

Please, a Little Respect; for I am Fu, Queen of Having No Game

A male friend of mine was complaining the other night that he has "no game" with the ladies, all because he couldn't close on some girl that I found a bit "meh" anyway, but that's beside the point.

I find this laughable, noting correctly that he dates plenty of girls, and has had a few long-term relationships, was even engaged once, etc. His argument was that all those relationships ended. But he's still wrong, because not being able to keep a girlfriend isn't "no game," it's just bad luck. Or bad B.O.

"No game" is 30-year old guys living in their parents' basements, "Star Wars" fans, online porn enthusiasts, people who are about to turn 28 with only one long-term relationship under their belt...Oh wait, that's me (um, just the last bit, not the other stuff...although I did fall asleep on the couch the other night and wake up at 3 in the morning to a program called "Guilty Temptations" or something, it appears that HBO is trying to steal Cinemax's share of the soft-core porn market...not that I sat and watched it for 15 minutes before getting up and going to bed, ahem) (and honestly, what's with soft-core porn? I hope it's not about the "actresses" thinking it makes them less of a cheap ho..."No no no, Dad, it only looked like he was railing me from behind in the hot tub, really!" I say, if you're going to be a porno actress, at least get yourself laid in the process...)

But it's true: Fu? No game. None! Even when I have game I have no game.

Exhibit A: The guy from a few months ago. He was unemployed, a chain smoker, had a rather pronounced drinking problem, resorted to selling his personal belongings for beer money, and many other qualities that caused my friend Colleen to say "Um, no. No." And yet? He's the one that dumped me. Pathetic! I didn't get it, because he did seem quite sweet on me at first. He even asked if he could come with me to my friend's wedding ten states away because the prospect of me being away for a weekend bummed him out so much. And yet? He stopped sleeping with me after a couple weeks, and stopped calling me altogether after I made it clear that continuing to date someone and be all snuggly and affectionate and kissy while refusing to come inside at the end of the evening ever makes a girl a bit insecure, and makes her friends think you have some sort of hideous dick fungus you're hiding.

Exhibit B: met a guy at the bar the other night; he claims to remember meeting me at a party three months ago, seems really excited to run into me again, asks for my number, and says "I will definitely be calling you." in a way that was almost creepy in its determination.

So I guess I was not even concerned about whether I'd hear from him, because he was the one who was so interested in me and not vice versa; normally I'm the more aggressive one in these situations (an excellent potential reason for my lack of game--but I can't help that I'm a loudmouth who says whatever's on my mind--it's part of my charm!).

Anyhow, I might still hear from him of course, I'm just hauling out the eye-roll tonight because it's been three days, and the industry standard is two, three tops. And I don't even really care, because I didn't even talk to him for that long; I'm not moping around, just more like, "We define 'definitely' differently where I'm from, pal." (Say that five times fast!)

Possible Reasons for Fu's Lack of Game (despite the fact that she totally made out with an ADORABLE Canadian guy in Montreal last night; wooooot! Too bad he lives in effing Toronto):

1) Gut -- this is a roadblock, but I'm not sure if I give it more power than I should. I see chicks twice my size walking around hand in hand with men that aren't exactly mutants, so I know it can be done...maybe it's just that the boys I like aren't such progressive thinkers about whether their woman can have a muffin top. But don't I make up for that with my rack, and willingness to wear cleavagecentric shirts?

2) Loudmouth -- this one makes more sense. I am an obnoxious bitch, I dominate conversations without even meaning to, and I'm always right, especially about the Red Sox. I'm also pretty funny, and tend to make fun of people heavily, right to their faces. Some guys don't necessarily enjoy being called a douchebag within five minutes of meeting a chick, I guess.

3) Guy Syndrome - I tend to act dude-ish, no matter how high the pile of boxes on my shoe-wall climbs. I drink to excess, talk nonstop about the Pats and Red Sox, belch profusely (usually while doing the excessive drinking), and loudly question the sexuality of any male friend displaying pussylike tendencies. Maybe they're afraid if they like me it'll make them gay or something.

Hm. That's really all I can come up with at this point. And that list isn't even long, and yet still..no game! It's seems preposterous that anyone wouldn't be clamoring to take me to play fucking mini-golf or some shit, because I'm probably about 100 times more awesome than the last person they went mini-golfing with.

Oh, okay then, there's another thing for the list:

4) Too convinced of own awesomeness.

Must sleep now. I exerted myself in Montreal last night to the extent that my voice is off somewhere doing bong hits with my New Orleans voice (note to self: when you go places where people speak French, you end up sounding like Bea Arthur the next morning), spent all day crammed into the backseat of a car like I was a seven-foot dude at Fenway, my bed is beckoning. Just have to punt the cats off of it.

August 2, 2007

Real Problems

I have two addictions this summer: blogging, and 90210 reruns on SoapNet.

"Blogging?" you say. Well, yeah...I've been cheating.

Basically, I've got a LOT going on in the blogosphere for work lately, and the idea of coming home and blogging more just drains me.

Plus, when I get home I've got two episodes of 90210 waiting on my DVR. The only problem is that we've reached the end of Season 2...which means I'm going to get a face full of "Dyan and Kelly: Soulmates" bullshit. It's starting already, with Kelly sniffing her little chipmunk bitch nose at Dylan and plotting to steal him away.

I get really, incredibly, insanely angry when I watch these episodes, it's truly a problem. And don't even get me started on the "Donna as a french fashion model" storyline. It's a 15-year old tv show, and I find myself yelling things at the screen like, "Oh sure, YOU could be a model, with your fried out bushy hair and hideous horse face! Whatever!!!"

I clearly need medication.

I don't have much else to say, also. I mean, I'm boring as shit. I haven't met a single guy all summer, I've managed to gain ten pounds despite trying repeatedly to stay on a diet, and...hm. Yeah, that's it. Woooot!!!