shit, i'ma need to restock my business cards soon. i give those bitches out to errrrbody. i learned two key pieces of information from that mostly useless black woman's dating bootcamp class my white friend jill and i went to last year: 1 oxytocin is real and incredibly dangerous, rendering my tiny little womanbrain a helpless slave to biology; and 2 every woman should carry business cards bearing little more than a working email and an artfully-crafted pseudonym. i'm not sure of much else she told us (the only two women to sign up for her excruciating three-hour seminar), but i do remember this: try not to show more than two sexy body parts at one time (heaven forbid he get a glimpse of my sexy ass elbows) and never ever pick up your phone to call a man.
it's never the dude you want to call you who actually does. that sweaty asshole who kept breathing his hot mouth all over the side of your neck? that dude is going to call you before you even leave the goddamned bar. but the mellow dude with the slow smile and the large, calloused hands whose volunteer after school literacy slash program adorable abandoned puppy rescue that you actually would like to hear more about (because he's obviously sensitive and totally your soulmate and you would absolutely love to volunteer hosing down kennels to help him out sometime)? no, that dude is calling next week. or next month. or probably never. which is totally fine because you hate reading things and you didn't want to clean up puppy shit anyway. dick.
except it isn't fine, because GAH WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH PLEASE CALL ME AND VALIDATE MY HOLLOW EXISTENCE. or something like that. i went to a thing last week, the kind of grown up fancy shoe meet people at this thing kind of thing that i usually 100% avoid because there are no snacks, and while i was milling around bored with a glass of wine i couldn't tell you shit about pretending to be interested in art deco jewelry (i ain't, tho), this handsome piece of brisket sidled up to the mannequin i was trying to instagram a photo with and asked me if i needed some assistance. tangent: i fucking hate when a motherfucker interrupts my artfully-posed selfie. listen, bruh, there are 39 other people bored shitless in this gallery. if i needed someone to take my picture wrong (including all of my delicate meatbeard at its least flattering angle while neglecting to crop out the top part of my awkwardly grown-out mohawk which has been looking super gnarly lately), I WOULD HAVE ENLISTED THEIR HELP. resisting the urge to reply, "yeah homie, i could use a little ASS-sistance. wocka wocka," while elbowing him softly in the ribs and dancing a little softshoe, i instead pretended to be shy and embarrassed.
i don't really listen when a man speaks because most of the shit he's saying you can just find out from a glance at his linked in profile, so i just stared right at his mouth like a fucking weirdo and nodded every time he took a breath. he talked for fifteen solid minutes about banking and something called residual interest (snooze) and when it was finally my turn to talk i said, "the most excruciating thing in my life is impatiently waiting with my finger on the lid of the ramen cup for the two minutes it takes the hot water to cook it." I AM A MASTER OF CONVERSATION. who the fuck cares what i do for a living? i mean, do you really want to get tipsy at a jewelry show and talk about my job? we have one maybe two hours together, and you want to spend it talking about vector-borne diseases in dogs? f that s. i'm not buying any $475 earrings, so let's just crack jokes and talk about regular shit until it's time to go home. that noodle talk loosened my man right the fuck up. within no time at all he was talking about his scaly back eczema while i had moved on to why i hate tampons. KISMET.
i still don't give a shit about getting laid. dinner, though: jam. someone with a penis to go to these fall weddings i just got invitations to so i don't have to rent a car and drive myself: party. a dude to help me bring this new bed i'm getting into the elevator and up to my apartment: rock. (and also to help throw out the old one but that hopefully goes without specifying.) so when dude asked for my card and then upon looking it over asked me to write my number on the back i was excited in a "man, i hope you have a valid driver's license" way. and my vulva might have fluttered a little bit, but that was probably because i farted through them or something. ugh, burritos.
i didn't take his proffered card because i cannot be trusted not to embarrass myself on some hot dude's voicemail, so i instead shook his hand really firmly and waved for what would surely be a thirty dollar cab home from the west loop because i didn't want him to watch me limping down the block to the el. MY LIFE IS SO DUMB. in commercials and television movies it's always really sexy and exciting when some attractive gentleman in a suit watches a woman walk away after having just been blown away by her encyclopedic knowledge of WWE wrestlers, but real life is decidedly less so when that spellbinding woman is lurching along muttering obscenities under her breath. i don't really ever call anyone since texting became a thing. but if i need something or have something to say or really want to know if that dude has a tuxedo for this fancy wedding nothing on earth is worse than waiting for a goddamned phone call. and i refuse to wait for another phone to ring ever again. NOT DOING THAT.
so gentlemen, the following is the sequence of events that takes place after a woman gives her telephone number to a prospective paramour who appears to have asked for it because he has at least a glimmer of sexual interest in her, whether she wants it to or not:
day one all her fucking friends know. ALL OF THEM. well, at least most. and they've heard what you were wearing and what kind of drink you were drinking and exactly how you introduced yourself. they've heard about "the ask" at least five times apiece. they giggle and squeal despite being filled with venomous jealous rage as she regales them, yet again, with the tale of how your eyes locked on hers as she got into the cab to go home.
day two she knows it's too early to really freak out, so she just casually checks her phone throughout the day. like, every half hour. "that's not really a lot, is it?" she asks herself while hooking up her charger because she's checked her voicemail so many goddamned times that the battery went dead. you know, because sometimes the little icon never shows up even though she totally has messages waiting. (no, that never happens. BUT IT TOTALLY COULD I HAVE SPRINT AND SOMETIMES THE TOWERS ARE WEIRD OKAY. i mean "she." she has sprint, tower weirdness, etc. pffffft.)
day three she's panicking a little. she calls her work phone from her cell phone to make sure it dials out. and, for good measure, she calls her cell phone from her work phone. because, you know, sometimes her ringer doesn't really work and it's totally possible that she missed your call despite the fact that she has been staring at that phone willing to ring for the past three goddamned days.
day four now she's panicking A LOT. but it's cool because she and the girls are getting together for drinks after work, and after three appletinis katie and kelsey totally convinced her that you're just shy. or scared. or you're swamped at work. or your dog got sick. or your grandmother died suddenly. see?! you still like her, you're just TOTALLY BUSY.
day five FULL ON CRAZY. not only is she checking her phone approximately every nineteen seconds, but she's thinking about dropping by the gallery where she met you just in case you lost her number and have been hanging out there waiting to run into her again. her confidence that you're just "waiting for the right time" because you "want the first phone call to be absolutely perfect" and you're "thinking of the right thing to say" has plummeted, and it's just now dawning on her that maybe you didn't really like her that much and only asked for her number because she was blocking the best spot at the bar. also, even if you do find her number at this point it's almost saturday and her friends told her it's unacceptable to make a date for the weekend any later than wednesday of the week preceding. i mean, what does she look like? A TOTAL SLUT?!
day six omg it's the weekend again. it's the weekend, and you haven't called. obviously you noticed her large pores and inadequate eyelashes in the near-pitch black of the disco and decided to go out with someone skinnier and prettier instead. god, why would anyone ever want to talk to someone with so much cellulite anyway? she totally should've started working out months ago. it doesn't matter anyway since she's so ugly and unloveable. ICE CREAM PAJAMA ROMANTIC COMEDY MARATHON TIME.
day seven what would happen if she wrapped a huge scoop of cookie dough in a slice of pepperoni pizza, dipped it in potato chips, and washed that down with a handle of bourbon?
years of staring at my phone for hours on end JUST IN CASE I MISS SOMETHING has taught me that after three days shit's pretty much dunzo, save for the occasional two-weeks-after-i-met-him-and-he-just-remembered-having-met-me-because-he-is-a-thoughtless-asshole-and-was-probably-banging-some-other-broad-anyway dude. and your self-esteem really has to be at a sub-basement level to fuck the two week dude. i'm not there. YET. and once this horrifying realization hits a girl she often goes through a vagina version of the kubler-ross five stages of grief model:
1 DENIAL "he probably lost my number, but it's cool. i could tell he had a pre-paid and that broke motherfucker probably ran out of minutes." "i didn't really want to date a dude who still uses a yahoo email address, anyway."
2 ANGER "man, FUCK THAT GUY. i'm totally fucking hot. he's obviously an idiot." "life is so fucking unfair. if that dumb bitch i went to high school with can fill my facebook feed with that guy she's banging, shouldn't i be able to get some too?!" "i could tell from his shoes he's a high maintenance asshole. did he also say he was vegan? get out forever, thanks."
3 BARGAINING "i'm totally going to use that stretch mark cream i bought two years ago if he would just FUCKING CALL ME."
4 DEPRESSION "life sucks, dating is stupid. why even bother trying?" "i should start working out. wait, i should get surgery. no, i should work out and get surgery. god, i'm hideous." "no one is ever going to want to bang someone with this much armpit hair. i'm taking down my okcupid profile."
5 ACCEPTANCE "i'll be fine. seriously, i'm good. now pass me the fried milky way and double stuf oreo spicy chili tortilla chip kielbasa casserole. i'm also going to need some ranch to dip in, thanks."
so he left me a voicemail yesterday? asking if i wanted to talk more about "a savings program for individuals to which yearly tax-deductible contributions up to a specified limit can be made?" in other words, THIS DUDE CALLED ME TO TALK ABOUT MY MOTHERFUCKING RETIREMENT PLAN. here's hoping that's a euphemism for his making a hefty deposit into my (p)assbook. probably not, tho. maybe i should call him and find out.