Archive for the ‘the world may never know whether i am that kind of girl’ Category

This post is actually a little power-tagged because, regret to inform, I actually didn’t end up going out with the guy I met on the T after The Slutcracker. Bummer, right? I was really psyched!

We were supposed to go out on Wednesday, but the snag was that we couldn’t meet until 10pm (which, considering we met on public transportation, raised the sketch to perilous new levels), because I had class ’til 9:30, and Wednesday was the only night I didn’t have jam-packed.

We’d texted a bit on the night that we met — just, like, “nice to meet you!” stuff — and on Wednesday I waited with, I hate to admit, embarrassing earnestness for a follow-up text. Nothing. Finally, around 6pm, I texted him: “We still on?” and twenty minutes later he texted to say he had an early meeting the next day and going out starting at 10pm was just way too late, but “wanna go out tomorrow?” But my Thursday was already overloaded, so I texted him: “Totally booked tomorrow.”

No response.

My female friends did the right thing and tried to convince me that it was impossible he would have lost interest a few days after seeing me, and that he made an earnest attempt to reschedule, etc, etc, etc, but I mean, dudes, he’s just not that into me. It’s cool. Really, there’s nothing lost here: I picked him up in a T station, like a crazy person, and we didn’t even know anything about each other, so, y’know, no big deal.

Man, though, I had been really psyched! I’m usually cool-to-lukewarm on people when I first meet them, and can’t abide touching, so it was pretty thrilling to meet someone whom I immediately wanted to, like, rub my face on. Whatever, though. There will be other guys, not on other trains, whom I’m sure I can rub my face on in future.

Leaving for Vegas in a few hours, to spend Christmas with the fam! So, dude, if you’re a Vegas person I know irl and want to go out and have an adventure, let me know! Otherwise, see you cats on Monday with some uncharacteristic Vegas craziness.

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Intended NTKOG: The kind of devil-may-care tattooed badass who speeds down the open highway with a chopper between her legs and a yearning for freedom in her heart.

I am: a bit ashamed to admit that I cannot even ride a bike. I tried to learn how in college — I’d sneak out of my room at 4am and practice riding around the quad for hours, then, sweaty, sneak back into the dorm and mock-casually ask the roommates who was up for a little bike ride. Apparently the practice didn’t pay off, though, as I usually fell.

I am not: confident that adding a motor and gasoline to this equation will be an improvement.

The Scene: Strolling the streets of New England College Town with Muscles and Justice, we happened upon a little outdoor fete held at a local organic market. Lining the streets in front of the event: scores of lovingly cared-for vintage motor scooters in a rainbow of pastel and neon hues. The owners of said scooters — men, mostly, with long hair and at least two articles of leather clothing emblazoned proudly with patches from their respective towns’ scooter clubs — crowded around one man who was standing on a chair and barking out orders:

Charismatic Leader: Look, we’re leaving soon, and you won’t have another chance to gas up for 35 miles! Gas up now! And look, guys, let’s maintain a strict formation. Don’t be assholes! Pass on the left, not on the right. You assholes.

Invigorating words. As the crowd broke up, I scanned the scooter enthusiasts for one who broadcasted the pitch-perfect blend of “I may or may not gnaw on baby bones” and “I will not kill you for asking to get on my bike.” And before you spit-take at the word scooter, let me tell you, these guys were seriously intimidating. As I sighted my prey, Muscles stalked him on a photographic safari:

Something tells me impatient drivers don't give this guy any shit for driving 50mph on the freeway in his scooter.

Something tells me impatient drivers don't give this guy any shit for driving 50mph on the freeway in his scooter.

“Um, hey,” I ventured, voice a-quaver, “Can I take a look at your bike?”

Okay, guys, I realize you can’t see the front of my interlocutor in this photograph, but allow me to clarify: the tattoos on his scalp extended to his forehead. His eminently dudely jewelry ran in a skulls&death motif. His nose was pierced with a bull ring in a thickness one rarely sees outside of the later stages of ear gauging. Are you getting a mental imagine of just how TOTALLY FUCKING EXTREME this dude looked? Okay, good. Now imagine the bike that such a dude would own.

His was even more hardcore.

The dragon's eyes light up with the engine is on!

The dragon's eyes light up when the engine is on!

We chat for a little bit about the purpose of the scooter rally, how far people travel down for these things, and the most miles he’s ever ridden on this bike in one trip (316, it turns out, from Rhode Island to New York City.) The first thing that strikes me is how sweet and extremely articulate he is. He sounds, more than anything, like a graduate student, eager to explain the minutiae of years of intense research. He even goes so far as showing me how all the gears and knobs work on the (hand-etched silver!) handle bars. Then it all gets too technical for my understanding, so I ask how the rally is going so far.

Scooter Badass: It actually started last night. What usually happens is we all meet up at a bar on the first night. Although sometimes people are a bit intimidated when we all show up together. But scooter people are generally pretty gentle. Not like motorcyclists, who can get aggressive.

Wow. Not what I expected to hear? I guess these badass, hardcore scooterists are more like Hell’s Cherubs.

The Verdict: After we had chatted a bit, I made my move: “Do you think I could sit down on it?” I asked, “Just for a picture?” And in my mental fantasy he immediately responded, “Of course! Here, you can get on behind me and I’ll take you for a ride down the block!” But alas, reality snapped back when he gently but firmly told me, no, it was too close to the rally take-off, and besides, he was the only one who rode astrode the ferocious beast. Fair enough.

Where Did I Go Wrong? Okay, say it with me: rule number of one being a crazy-ballsy dude: DO NOT ASK PERMISSION FOR ANYTHING! Just do stuff, then apologize (and pay bail, if necessary) once you’ve already made an incredible memory. Although obviously in this case, permission was the only way to go, as I had evening plans and it would have been too much of a bother to get locked up for Grand Theft Semi-Auto.

Sometimes it just isn’t your day. But at least we all learned an important lesson about not judging people based on appearances! And about how much cooler tattoos and leather make everything — including scooters.

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Intended NTKOG: The kind of girl who, while in a public restroom, makes calls on her cell phone, heedless of public decency, dignity, or her callers’ eardrums.

I am: shy of bladder and faint of heart when it comes to public restrooms. During my two years in the dorms in undergrad, it was my primary goal to be that girl no one ever sees entering or exitin a restroom. I was eerily successful.

I am not:  really big on talking on the phone anyway, let alone in the cavern of bodily shame.

The Scene: The large restroom of the food court in the mall next to my current temp gig. Ideal, I figured, as it’s a) full of people, that b) I will never see again. All morning I chugged iced tea to flood out my bladder’s introversion, and when the moment was right, took my lunchbreak.

It took a while to figure out the perfect victim — er, lucky phone recipient. Finally, I settled on The Ex, because after living together for a few years, I figured the odds were slim that he had not at some point heard me peeing. Heck, he could probably pick the sound of me peeing out of some sort of terrible, dystopian auditory line-up just from my particular bladular cadence. (You can see I’m campaigning hard for the role in his wistful reveries as The One That Got Away…)

After pacing anxiously outside the restroom doors, I finally girded my (aching) loins and stormed the nearest stall like the Bastille. Snag: I was alone in there. So I crouched on the toilet for five or six minutes, clutching my cell phone, before, mercifully, a group of eight or nine women entered en masse. The time had come! 

I started to loosen my muscles, but then — TWIST! As I scrolled urgently through my contacts, I remembered: I deleted his number out of my phone a few weeks ago in the throes of break-up pique. Frantically I scrambled to remember his number, and right as my bladder was slipping, I hit the send button.

Only to find that the mall architects had apparently pre-empted this particular social dysfunction by rendering the restroom I was in as the only thirty square feet in the whole friggin’ mall with no. cell. reception.

For a moment I considered just faking the call, to at least give my fellow restroom compatriots the awk-talk treatment, but no, I decided. It would be against the spirit of the NTKOG project. It would be ignoble. It would be another twenty seconds at least until I was finally able to pee, and that just wasn’t an option.

So What Went Wrong? Ultimately, I decided to wait on this, the NTKOG I have been dreading since the conception of this project. Not to discard it altogether, mind, but merely to postpone it. And like the deferral of all dreaded tasks, this greatest mortification looms before me even more horrifying than before.

On the bright side, this massive TMI moment does suit nicely for the lovely LiLu‘s weekly TMI Thursday roundup — if only because no blog I know of features a WAAAAAAAAY TMI Wednesday.

But, as a cautionary note for everyone other than The Ex, who is now off the hook because all of the surprise will be gone (much like the magic in our relationship after he reads about my pee travails), beware any calls from TKOG. Because you might be next.

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The intended NTKOG: The kind of girl who comes across a street-side busker or jam session, and immediately jumps in as background singer, groupie and, if warranted, potential manager.

I am: the worst singer you’ve ever heard in your life, for starters, and generally irritated when wannabe musicians try to peddle their questionable craft on the street in an attempt to “bring joy” to the world.

I am not: a big fan of music, generally, unless long freeway drives or booze are involved in the mix. (Note the “or” — not an and/or situation. I may be daring, but I’m not a total suicide case.)

The Scene: After taking an impromptu 6-mile walk through Brookline and Brighton this afternoon, I came home for a hot soak. Afterwards, I threw on a highly disreputable outfit (pjs, braless, my Angry Lesbian jacket, etc.) and popped outside to pace while making a quick phone call.

Along the way, I passed the stoop of a nearby apartment building, where two youngish, cute guys sat on adjacent staircases, playing a gleeful duet of Sublime’s “Santaria.” Just the tune for a warm, summery dusk. For a moment I considered singing along, or dashing across the street to ask whether they took requests. But alas, one look down revealed that I was cutting a particularly hobo-ish swath, and, if their retinas didn’t spontaneously combust with the horror of it all, then at the very least I would feel far too awkward to talk.

Back to the apartment, and quickly, was the order of the day: I sprinted so fast that my damp hair was wind-dried by the time I crossed the threshold. I shimmied into the first passably summery outfit that came to hand, and was back jogging stoop-ward in less than three minutes, taking time only to curse with resignation my total loss for a game plan.

What went wrong? Heartbreak! Sometime during the course of my (seriously, three-minute!) quick-change act, apparently the boys packed up their six-strings and fled the scene. Alas and alack! A lack of proper planning on my part, that is.

Moral of the Story: Dude, okay, it’s one thing for a mere civilian to take the occasional casual stroll through the neighborhood, but while surging through life on a constant quest for adventure and spontaneity, you must always suit up. This once you have burned me, o! cruel sartorial fate, but in future, I will always be at the ready.

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