One, Two, Three Strikes You're Out!

I want to tell you one of my favorite breakup stories ever. It involves a very nice gentleman whom I dated for about 3 weeks, at which time I determined that we were not the most compatible match that's ever been. So one night we met up for a drink and this is what happened:

"You know, I don't think this is working for me anymore."

"What isn't?"

"Us....us dating."

"Why not?"

"Well, I just don't think we're very compatible."

"I disagree. And we've only been dating for 3 weeks - I don't think you have enough data to make this decision yet."

Yes, folks, he actually told me I didn't have enough data to break up with him.

(With look of shock on face) "Well....um, I think I do, I guess."

"But three weeks isn't very long. I think you should give it 2 more weeks."

(more shock)

"I mean, when you say we're not compatible, what do you mean? Can you give me an example?"

"......Sure. Okay, well for one, you don't believe in premarital sex, whereas I am a dirty, dirty whore."

At this point, I'm thinking I'm pretty funny. I mean, it's true that he didn't believe in premarital sex, but I thought it was hilarious that I referred to myself as a "dirty, dirty whore", and I meant it jokingly, despite what you all might think of me. My sarcasm was met with this:

(concerned look, furrowed brow) "Misti, don't say that about yourself!"

And this, my friends, was the real problem. He didn't get my sense of humor. And if you don't get my sense of humor, then you really don't get ME. Humor is all I have. It's true: my IQ is very, very low; I was voted "Teacher's Pet" in high school; and I drink at least 5 nights a week. Without my sarcastic humor, I am just a dumb, drunk, ass-kisser, you know?

At any rate, what do you say when someone tells you you don't have enough DATA to break up with him? WHAT DO YOU SAY? I really had no idea. So I didn't break up with him. What was I supposed to do? I was in shock, when it comes down to it. So he walked me to my car and before saying goodbye, he said: "You know, if it's about the no sex before marriage thing, I might be willing to re-think that."

Whuh? I don't want to sex you, I want to break up with you. I totally see how that could be confusing.

Anyway, that was probably the strangest breakup I had. It took me two more times to get the job done - no kidding.

Rejected by a FWB??

A while back I mentioned how I may or may not have hooked up with a friend of mine. This is a guy I don't think I'd ever date (too short), but apparently I wasn't above sleeping with him (height doesn't matter when you're lying down, am I right? Heh heh heh). Anyway, I am a little concerned at this point that he's not into this whole Friends With Benefits thing. I drunk texted him last week asking if he'd like to "stop by" *cough, cough*, and he said "I want to, but I can't, I'm working until late" or something like that. "No biggy", I told myself. But I haven't heard a thing from him since then. AND I AM IRRITATED. I don't want to be rejected by someone I'm not even dating - that is just....well, I can't even think about it it's so horrid! I am awesome! I am good in the sack! He should totally want some more Good Times with Misti.

Truthfully, I have never tried doing the whole FWB thing and I'm not sure how this is supposed to work. Do you establish it up front? Create a schedule? Is there a committee? A vote? Does it just happen naturally (with a lot of help from Absolut)? And what if it doesn't just happen? I am not about to call someone and out right say "hey, want to do it later?" I have some class. Not much, but SOME.

Also, I think I need something other than boys to obsess about. Yes? Yes.

From now on I'll only blog about crocheting. That is a super exciting topic! Stay tuned!

Meet The Fockers...I Work With (Part Deux)

So, a while back I had a meeting in which there were multiple attendees. I happened to get there early, as did the individual I will refer to as Harvard. I stroll in, find a seat and dispense with the usual small talk

Me: “Hi Harvard, how’s it going?”

Harvard: “Well, hello there Rocky. I trust that you are having a pleasant afternoon. It is a pleasure to have this opportunity to converse prior to the start of the meeting.”

-pause- People, I shit you not, they’re all robots and speak like this. This is not a lie.

Harvard: “So Rocky, from where did you receive your undergraduate degree?”

Me: “{Large Midwestern State School}”

-pause- Let me give you a little background here. I already know where this wiener went to school. Hell, he practically has it engraved on his cuff-links and 4 pound gold bracelet that looks like something out of the Godfather jewelry store. He of course has no idea that I know…

Harvard: “That’s quite surprising Rocky, as my father is also a LMSS man”

-pause- Yes, Harvard did use the word “man” following the school name. It was also said in that Judge Smails from Caddyshack sort of way. I’m surprised Harvard didn’t say “well, the world needs ditch diggers too.”

Me (returning the favor): “Where’d you go?”

Harvard: “Well Rocky, I did my undergraduate studies at the University of Small Liberal Arts College. It was rather well known for molding the future leaders of this great nation, and preparing each of its graduates for the next level”

-pause- This is what wieners say when they’re ashamed of the place they attended; throwing in some stupidly ambiguous fact that could apply to any school across the land. He still hasn’t dropped the Harvard name yet and I can almost see the eagerness in his eyes…dying for me to ask where he went to grad school. It was like a little puppy begging for that last piece of steak on the plate.

Seeing it wasn’t going to be easy, Harvard attempts to bait me a little…

Harvard: “Rocky, did you pursue graduate studies?”

Me: “yep”

Harvard: “And what institution would that have been?”

-pause- knowing that Harvard didn’t give 2 shits where I went, I decided to make up something so random…

Me: “I actually went to a small grad school in the Philippines”

Harvard: “Interesting.”

-pause- Across the table I think I can see a bit of drool exiting the corner of Harvard’s mouth as he waits for me to ask the question. It’s like having a dog and you do the fake toss across the room…and he runs for the ball, but none is there, only to see that it’s still in your hand.

Me: “Sooooo…….{long dramatic pause to let the anticipation build}…..where'd you go to grad school?”

Harvard leans back in his chair, as if in his own office surrounded by leather bound books and mahogany furniture. Does a quick touch to each cuff-link with the opposing hand, just to show that his hardware was in tact, and flash a little material superiority in my direction.

Harvard: “{clears his throat a bit}”

Harvard then takes his fore finger and thumb on both hands in a pinching manner, starting at the top of his diagonally striped tie, and makes a downward stroking motion all the way to the tip, and states…in that Judge Smails tone…

Harvard: “Haaa-vaaard”

I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to start stroking him off right then and there, or wait until more people had arrived.

It was all I could do not to stand up, and in a hysterical laugh say, “you’re such a giant wiener!”, and walk out of the room.



Check back for this regular column where I'll introduce you to other spectacular work characters.

Meet The Fockers...I Work With

It’s Friday afternoon, I’m surrounded by the ever so uplifting colors of my cube (that’s sarcasm people), and as usual I’m quite bored. So, I have few options at my finger tips to combat this until I can punch the clock once again at the end of the day.

1. surf the internet
2. write for the The Simple Strife
3. reminisce of my rather humorous work environment

Check, check, and check! This should at least keep me entertained until my next mind numbing conference call.

Here’s a little history to wet your appetite.

As you’ve probably guessed, I work in corporate America. I don’t say that in an affectionate, proud manner…like you would if you worked for the Humane Society, or the Cancer Foundation. No, it’s more like “I work for corporate America, and I might as well be dumping toxic chemicals in my backyard under cover of night” kind of response.

But for some reason this place just attracts the BIGGEST wieners. I’m convinced there’s a giant magnet atop the building that only Ivy League wieners are drawn to. And then they get here and feel the need to metaphorically pull their wiener out and lay it on the table, as if to say “hey, my wiener is big because I went to {insert Ivy League school here}” And after 6 months, the following is typically heard “hey, my wiener is so big that I need an office in order to store it.”

It really is an interesting case study.

For a period of time I thought to myself (as I often do) that maybe I was a bit pre-judgmental, maybe a little jealous at the fact they hailed from such prestigious schools and had such wonderful pedigrees. Then I talked to one. And then two. And finally three. Yes, I talked to three of them, and although not statistically significant, I suspect my opinion is a leading indicator of the level of wiener-dom that exists throughout the Ivy League population – at least where I work.

I’m probably being a bit harsh, but if you heard some of the stories and the condescending nature of these wieners, you’d hop on the next train out of turd town...or you would start writing it all down (like I'm doing)

To be continued…

"It's Over So Fast"

One of my biggest problems with dating is that I don't know when to call it quits. I mean, sometimes there are the most obvious signs indicating that I should cut my losses, and I see them, note them, and then promptly pretend I did not just see them and then note them. Brilliant, really.

Well, here's a doozy: So I'm on a 3rd date with this guy and he takes me to the Olive Garden (and no, that's not the sign, although maybe it should've been). We're enjoying our dinner when suddenly the topic of conversation turns to sex (this was probably my doing, but whatever). The gentlemen in question was rather religious and did not believe in pre-marital sex. He was in his thirties and had been married and divorced, which means he had had exactly one partner. ONE. In his thirties. Okay. So now that we're clear on that, I'd like to share with you the conversation as I recall it:

Him: You know, I don't see what the big deal about sex is anyway.

Me: Oh?

Him: Yeah, I mean, sure it's nice, but it's over so fast!

Me: [Trying not to choke on fettucini. Trying not to laugh extremely loudly and spit fettucini all over table.]

Him: Oh jeez...please don't tell me "well I've had sex with guys for hours and hours". I mean....it's always over kind of quickly, right?

Me: [In shock. Trying desperately not to laugh out loud. Drinking wine. Lots and lots of wine.]

I don't really remember what, if anything, I said after this. I mean - "IT'S OVER SO FAST"???

Needless to say, I never stuck around to find out if it would be "over so fast". I think if a guy says that to you, he is basically saying "I am super, super terrible at sex. Like, really bad." WALK AWAY. CALL IT QUITS. RUN. I totally did that. 3 weeks later. What? I said I didn't know when to bail! Don't look at me like that.

Anyone care to speculate why that marriage ended in divorce? I'm just sayin'.

Stuck in the Middle with Me

I'm slowly pulling myself out of the depression that hit me upon realizing I am to post-after Rocky. This is a task that should not be left to someone as dull I am today.

So I can only write the few sorry thoughts that are in my sorry head today.

As I think back on the days of yore (actually I have no idea what that means, but it sounded AWESOME) -- I realized the struggle of being somewhere in between Anywhere Town USA and Coolville is there is a certain draw to each.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit I have little tiny bit of superiority complex each time I visit my hometown and see a former cheerleader who has fallen victim to GOAF (Go old and fat) while I was gone.

In addition, after each visit home I can barely make it back to my life fast enough and secretly fear that I may have contracted some strange "small town" creepiness that will be immediately noticed the minute I go back to work.

But at the same time,

If I have to sit through one more meaningless meeting with a bunch of self-involved corporate whores I'm not only going to kill myself, but I may serious start considering my mom's idea of coming back home and marrying the recently widowed chaplin at the hospital.

And yes. She really thinks I should marry him.

Don't worry - he's 70.

Apparently divorce is still viewed as a rather Hester Pryn like existence in the eye's of the gossip circle at home.

And that's really the problem -- we're stuck in two worlds and can, when required to - maintain a certain degree of social status in each. But we lack a true feeling of belongingness in either.

Great in politics, a little strange in life.

To Shag or Feel Shame...That is the Question

I used to be a nice girl. I grew up in a wholesome family on a wholesome farm in the very wholesome Midwest. I respected my elders, minded my P's and Q's, did my chores, and listened to my parents (mostly). I had a long-term boyfriend in high school, but being the good kids we were, we never did the deed. (For those of you who are a little slow, that means we never had The Intercourse.) You see, we were waiting until marriage, like all good kids should. We thought maybe we'd marry each other, and raise our kids the way our parents raised us. I am not joking one bit when I tell you that he already had 4 names picked out for our 4 children. At age 17 (and ask me if I've been able to find a man who will even considering having children since then. No.)

Well, things didn't turn out the way we thought it would. You see, I decided I needed to leave home and get me an edu-mu-cation in the big city. Part of me knew we wouldn't last. Part of me hoped we wouldn't last, because the biggest part of me felt like I was destined for something bigger than being a farmer's wife and raising 4 kids. Not saying there's anything wrong with that....I just knew in my heart it wasn't for me. So the fall after high school graduation, I packed up all my belongings, and my mother took me to college.

Anyway, that's about the time that I became what people back home might call a whoooore. And folks, it's only gone downhill since then. I don't know what it is (perhaps we can blame Sex and the City?) but the Misti of today just doesn't view sex like the Misti of the late 90s did. You see, recently I "accidentally" hooked up with a guy I've been friends with for a couple of years. I don't want to be his girlfriend, I know I'm not going to marry him....but I did have The Intercourse with him. A few times. Woopsies. The thing is, I don't feel that badly about it. I mean, why should I? Should I?

Shit. This is what I don't know. Farmgirl Misti would feel shameful about it. The Misti of today says "DAMNIT, I should be able to enjoy sex just as much as a man does, and if I want it and can get it, then why the hell not?!?" Right?

Have I lost my small town values? Am I doomed to Eternity in Hell? Jesus, Mary & Joseph would say I am. Me? I'm not so sure I believe in the big JC these days. What's a girl to do?

Keep shaggin' the hotty, you say? DONE AND DONE.