Attention All Walk of Shame Shoppers

The list I wish I had a year ago: nichellenewsletter.typepad.com

Last spring I was doing a lot of sleeping at a certain boy's apartment who lived at least an hour from my home. Sometimes I would remember to bring a change of clothes to work with me. Sometimes I would forget. This led to interesting wardrobe quick fixes in the morning, in an effort to appear as though I was not going to work in the same outfit two days in a row. It sort of kind of fooled my co-workers--but not really.

Once I discovered that the Banana Republic in Grand Central opened at 8:00am I thought all of my problems were solved.

I began to treat Banana Republic as my closet and the Grand Central bathrooms as a dressing room. I spent alot--I don't even want to think about the exact figure--of money on clothes I would never, ever have bought if I had had more than five minutes to make a selection and more than one store in which to make that selection.

If someone had handed me a list like this one, nichellenewsletter.typepad.com, of stores open early enough for "working girls" as it were, things might have been different. Maybe I would have accumulated clothes I would actually wear again, as opposed to a vast collection of over-priced preppy clothes that now sit bundled in the corner of my closet.

I hope at least one slutty New York girl reads this, and is better dressed for it.

The Silent Man

There is a man in my office who does not speak to me.

Example: When getting coffee in the morning, I will say "Hello" to whomever is next to me. When someone is standing within a two foot radius of your person, I feel their presence should be acknowledged. Everyone in the office responds in kind, if they do not, in fact, say hello first. Except for the Silent Man. I say "Hello," and he says nothing. There is no half-nod, no smile, no indication at all that he has heard me speak.

His behavior extends to hallway run-ins, with direct eye-contact avoided and "Hi"s ignored.

At first I considered the possibility that he might be too important to engage in small talk with me (though is "hi" really considered small talk?) or that he was genuinely hard of hearing.

Then I noticed he would actually go out of his way to engage other underlings in conversation, chatting about this or that, smiling and generally being self-effacing and pleasant.

I also saw him respond to timid "Hi"s with enthusiastic "Hello"s so I concluded it was unlikely that he was partially deaf.

Still I assumed that it was either all in my head or there was a completely valid and non-offensive reason for his behavior.

Then as I was waiting for the elevator last night, Silent Man appeared beside me. Rather than saying "Hi," before we both looked straight ahead and waited for the elevator in silence (per usual company protocol), Silent Man registered my presence, then got down on the floor and tied his shoe for the entire time it took the elevator to make it to our floor.

I am fairly certain it does not take a grown man over a minute to adjust the laces on one brown dress shoe.

His behavior has officially crossed the line from worrisome ("Is it me?") to the truly bizarre ("Freak").

I have already accosted him today with a bright smile and a "Hi." Eventually, he'll have to give in.

For fuck's sake people, they're called Midwest 1 and Midwest 2 because that's where they're from and I make up nicknames for people on this site.

There's no sweeping commentary.

I totally realize that their behavior could have been due to their fat instead of their Midwesternness.

A friend from college came into town this weekend (hurrah!) bringing friends from her high school with her (boo!).

I met her Friday night at the Soho Grand and found a veritable entourage of midwestern girls drinking in the lounge. Though most, like my friend, were barely distinguishable from your average New Yorker, two of the girls were unabashed tourists who had their hearts set on “taking this town by storm.” (Seriously, they said that.)

I settled in and ordered a martini. The midwest girls were clearly drunk and I wasn’t going to listen to their accents sober.

As I was engaged in a discussion with College about why, exactly, she should move to New York (I miss her) a man appeared at my elbow and crouched down between our chairs.

“Excuse me ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting. No private conversation? Good. Me and my friends over there were thinking about getting out of here and hitting up Bungalow 8. You want to go to Bungalow 8?”

Our faces were expressionless, College’s because she had no idea what Bungalow 8 was, mine because I was trying hard not to laugh.

“Are you girls from here?”

“She is,” College volunteered, helpfully pointing at me.

“Well then. You know what I’m talking about.” He nodded up and down slowly while maintaining meaningful eye contact with me. “You know. Bungalow 8.”

“Um, I think we sort of have plans. I’m so sorry,” College told him sweetly.

Just then I heard one of the two midwest girls yell (YELL) “She’s got a fiance.”

“Show him the bling! Show him the bling!” yelled the other.

Clearly embarassed, College called “He just wants us to come to Bungalow 8.”

“What’s Bungala A?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Midwest 2. “What’s Bungala A?”

It felt like the entire lounge was staring at us.

“What’s Bungala A?!”

“Did you show him your bling?”

“Does he want to buy us shots?”

We left soon thereafter.

I will not bore you with the details of how Midwest 1 and Midwest 2 tried to flag down every cab with a passenger and every cab that was off-duty, screaming at them when they wouldn’t stop. Even after I clearly explained the rules to them, even after I told them to just let me get the cabs.

Eventually we all found taxis and headed uptown to a bar the Midwests had heard about.

When the cab arrived at 31st and Park, College and I got out to find the two women giggling and looking mildly embarassed.

“What’s up?” College asked.

“I just called the cab driver Osama bin Laden.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well he was wearing a toupee. You know a toupee.”

“You mean a turban?”

“Yeah, you know, a babushka.”

We filed into the bar. It was crowded and sweaty and typical, but the music wasn't bad and the bartender seemed to like me.

A half hour after arriving, it occurred to me that I hadn't really seen the Midwests since entering the bar. I got worried. I mean, they weren't my favorite people, but I was beginning to feel responsible for them. Responsibility was a strange emotion and I wasn't sure I liked it, but it remained nonetheless.

“College, where did Midwest 1 and 2 go?"

“Ummmm…” She pointed through the crowd to the dance floor. And by dance floor, I mean the one that Midwest 1 and 2 had created by beginning to dance. Being rather short and rather large women, they had, of course, found the tallest, skinniest guy in the place and proceeded to sandwich him between them.

“Oh yeah!” called one.

“Break it down!” The other responded.

Of course they were fine, they were indestructible.

An hour later the group decided it was time to return to their hotel. I hugged College good-bye and pretended not to hear Midwest 2 say to a guy outside the bar, “You’re pretty cute. Are you gay?”

College called me the next morning to tell me that Midwest 1 and 2 had not actually returned to the hotel, but, upon getting into their cab, asked the driver where a good place to party was. They took him up on his suggestion and proceeded to stay out until five in the morning, whereupon they stumbled back to the hotel and fell asleep in the bathroom. Midwest 1 on the floor, Midwest 2 in the bathtub.

Who says Manhattan girls are crazy?

Sex and the Spiteful Snorer?

Last night, as Re-Boyfriend began snoring, I said, quite wistfully, “I just don’t know what I’m going to do if you keep this up.”

“I’ll try,” he mumbled. “I’ll really try to be quiet, I promise, I’ll try, don’t leave.”

I was not optimistic in the least.

“Fine,” I said, already mentally preparing to haul my sleepy body into a cab and go home.

I waited for the tell-tale loud breathing (that preceeds the little sniffle, that preceeds the snort, that preceeds the all-out abandonment to earth-shattering snores) but I swear that fucker was silent the entire night.

Has this been in his control the entire time?

Sex and the Snorer

Re-Boyfriend was, once again, snoring last night. After my standard routine of hitting his head and stomach while yelling “Stop snoring, stop snoring!” nothing had been accomplished. He was sleeping blissfully, as always, and I was about to cry with frustration.

Past solutions to this problem have involved a combination of trying to make him sleep on the couch, trying to sleep on the couch myself, punching him repeatedly throughout the night, controlling my rage long enough to whisper sweetly “Hey baby, could you stop snoring?” and yelling “I hate you! I fucking hate you! Shutup!”

I was about to resign myself to a night of hard work when I suddenly I thought Fuck. This. Shit.

I put on all my clothes and got into a cab right outside his apartment. I was at home and sound asleep by 12:45am.

I’m going to have to resist the temptation to turn this into a regular thing. I feel that fucking and running is, unfortunately, rude. Not to mention confusing for Re-Boyfriend when he wakes up.

New York's Newest Talent

Scene: Re-Boyfriend’s bed. 3am.

He was wrapped up in a blanket cocoon on his own side, not even trying to cuddle, leaving me sprawled out and deliriously happy. Or I would have been deliriously happy had I not actually been asleep for once.

Suddenly he rolled over, knees bent and pointy, jamming them into my side. I woke up to all of his angles jutting into mine.

“Re-Boyfriend, knees.” I pushed them to indicate which knees I meant.

No response.

“MOVE!” I yelled as loudly as my sleepiness would allow.

Still nothing.

If I were given the opportunity to choose one superpower, I would seriously consider either a) not needing to sleep or b) the ability to fall asleep and stay asleep anywhere, at any time, under any circumstances. Shooting fire from your palms is neat, but when would you really use it? (Besides camping, lighting cigarettes and showing off in bars.)

I pushed again, but the knees stayed in my hip bone.

“Knees, knees,” I told him desperately.

It was like I had said the magic word. Re-Boyfriend lifted his head up and belted the line from the Guns N’ Roses classic “Welcome to the Jungle”:

"Shananananana. Knees! Knees!"

He did Axl's screechy falsetto quite well.

Then he rolled over, and continued sleeping. In the morning he remembered nothing.

So alarming.

Bad Breath and No Penis?

S. had pretty much made up her mind not to explore the nether regions of Eunuch Man. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t feel comfortable prostituting herself in the name of science and/or entertainment. (“CB, shutup, I am not sleeping with him just to see if he has a penis.” “But you wouldn’t have to actually sleep with him—” “Shutup.”)

Still, some sort of dumping was in order, which meant she would have to face him at least one more time.

S. arranged to meet Eunuch Man out on Friday night. She would be surrounded by friends, thus minimizing the amount of time actually spent speaking to Eunuch Man. She could do the polite, to-your-face break-up, without getting trapped in a long, why-are-you-dumping-me conversation.

S. had a few drinks for courage while waiting for the Eunuch Man's appearance. They must have worked because she actually managed to smile and hug him when he arrived. Unfortunately their effects soon wore off. Within fifteen minutes S. had grabbed me, told the table “We have to use the bathroom,” and hauled me off to the back of the bar. There she turned to face me with a very serious look on her face and insisted that I smell her lips.

“What—”

“Just do it!”

I sniffed. Then waited for more instructions. But when I looked at S., she was looking at me expectantly.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well what?”

“Don’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

“Smell again.” I leaned forward and touched my nose to her lips, inhaling deeply.

“I don’t smell anything.”

S. looked at me like this was all my fault.

“It’s on my lips, I know it. His breath reeks and I know it got on me. I just wanted you to smell it so you wouldn’t think I was crazy.”

I looked at her like she was crazy.

“Fine, let’s just go back to the table. His breath is fucking awful though.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She glared at me.

Back at the table, I had my own problems to attend to. Re-Boyfriend was slurring and kissing my cheek every five seconds, telling me he loved me. This would have been sweet, except he seemed to need a response to every “I love you,” which, for almost half an hour, effectively cut my conversation down to the following circular loop: “I love you” “I love you too, can we stop saying it now?” “Sure…I love you.” Pause. “I said I love you. I said I love you.” “I love you too, can we stop saying it now?”

Eventually it became clear that Re-Boyfriend, though nobly trying to hold it together, needed to go home. I said my good-byes and wished S. luck.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of her,” Eunuch Man informed me. He grabbed S.’s hand and leaned in to give her a kiss.

S. started like a wild animal and began struggling, trying to take back her hand and whipping her head away. Eunuch Man kept leaning forward, trying to kiss her, perhaps thinking this was a strange lovers game.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” S. said in a sort of panicked squeal.

“Hahahahaha. Baby, come on.” S. knocked a beer bottle off the table in an effort to get away.

There was no way his breath was that bad. She had to be over reacting due to her previous non-encounter with his penis.

I took Re-Boyfriend home and ordered cheesy fries from the diner while he passed out on the couch.

My phone rang when I was halfway through my food.

“I told him his breath smelled.”

“What?!”

“Well, first I told him I wanted to be friends. He told me that I was scared and running away from something special. So I told him his breath smelled.”

“Huh.” So much for the kind break-up. “What’d he say?”

“He said he’d go to the dentist for me and get it fixed.”

“Ha!”

“I didn’t know what to say to that! I mean, he’s going to the dentist because I told him he smelled?”

“Dude, he’s totally overcompensating for his small penis.”

“Non-existent penis.”

“S., he has to have something there.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

I finished my cheesy fries and crawled into bed.

S. is going to try to break-up with him again as soon as possible. She just got momentarily thrown by his easy acceptance of his bad breath.

A Day in the Life of a Company Bitch

• 9:02 am Debate whether to minimize lateness and head directly to the office.


• 9:03 am Head in the direction of the deli.


• 9:10 am Eat bagel and drink large coffee, feeling the right decision was made.


• 9:20 am Get more coffee from the office kitchen and open work e-mail.


• 10:00 am Feel high from doing actual work and momentarily entertain the idea of excelling at your job. Run around in your best imitation of an enthusiastic worker, dropping things off and saying things like “I'm on it.”


• 11:00 am Realize why you are always so slow—when you complete tasks quickly, it leaves you with nothing to do. Check personal e-mail.


• 11:15 am Compose and send long, detailed e-mail to friend.


• 11:40 am Receive a one-line e-mail from friend that says “Can’t talk now, very busy, call you tonight.”


• 11:41 am Compose and send long, detailed e-mail to another friend.


• 12:00 pm Make a list, with little check boxes, of all the things you will do when you get back from lunch.


• 12:30 pm Eat sandwich at desk while reviewing list and feel alarmed. Resolve to get to work immediately.


• 1:27 pm Get to work.


• 1:32 pm Fax a piece of paper and feel very accomplished.


• 1:40 pm Give co-worker attitude when they ask for help on a project. Don’t they know how busy you are?


• 1:41 pm Realize you have actually finished everything on your list and are no longer busy.


• 1:43 pm Realize you better help out on that project.


• 3:30 pm Finish project and feel encouraged by the fact that it is already 3:30pm.


• 3:40 pm Check personal e-mail. Clearly, nobody loves you.


• 3:50 pm Give up all pretense of doing work and stand in the cubicle of the only co-worker you have that is as bored with and uninterested in his job as you. Have him show you all the joke e-mails he received that day from former frat brothers and pretend to laugh at the “You Might Be a Redneck…” list.


• 4:00 pm Genuinely laugh when the co-worker describes to you his master plan to get rich as a televangelist.


• 4:20 pm Call Re-Boyfriend to find out if he wants to get a drink after work. Feel ashamed when he tells you he’ll be at the office until 7:00pm.


• 4:45 pm Read Gawker, Defamer and even, in a moment of desperation, Wonkette.


• 4:58 pm Make a work-related phone call so you can feel you've been working right until the end.


• 5:02 pm Freedom.

Yesssssssss!

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/tfr/141905145.html

The Boyfriend and The Blog

Re-Boyfriend reads this blog. Sometimes, in fact, we read it together. Usually he laughs and tells me how funny I am. Sometimes he does not laugh but instead gives me a look that I take to signify, “I would laugh at this but I am not really sure how to react to the fact that the entire blogosphere is laughing at me/my gifts/my fat.”

To his credit he has only twice voiced anything that could possibly be construed as criticism of this blog.

The first time was brought on by my relentless testing of his patience. I was bemoaning the fact that all my little cyber space friends seemed to hate him.

“I don’t understand. They really hate you. Like, a lot.” He said nothing. “It’s weird, right?” Still nothing. “Isn’t it weird how much everyone hates you?”

“It’s not weird,” he snapped. “You’ve never written anything nice about me, ever.”

I looked at him strangely. He seemed upset.

“Well...I only write about funny things.”

I paused to judge how this had been received. He looked somewhat mollified so I continued.

“When you do nice things, they aren’t funny, so I don’t write about them.”

This was not precisely true. When Re-Boyfriend tries to do nice things, they wind up being funny because they are so misguided, and then I proceed to make fun of them mercilessly, usually in writing, usually on this blog. But he seemed to accept my half-truth of an explanation.

The second, and only other time, my blog has received a bad reaction from the Re-Boyfriend audience was due to this post .

We were waiting for pizza to arrive while he read something on his computer and I watched television. We were the picture of are-they-or-aren’t-they-dating bliss when all of a sudden I heard “It WAS made out of ivory. Goddamnit! Not SUPPOSEDLY, it WAS made out of ivory.”

I was confused. I just looked at him.

“CB, the statue I bought you was made out of IVORY.”

“Are you reading my blog?”

“It was made out of ivory. The sex statue was, I mean it still is, it’s just ivory, okay?!”

“Okay.”

It took him a few minutes to calm down. You never know what will finally push him over the edge.

Single vs. Relationship

Why It Is Better To Be Single

1. I have no idea why, but when you have a boyfriend who is paying for you all the time, it actually seems like you have less money. The only explanation for this is the hidden costs of bikini waxes and sexy lingerie. (Although I do not get regular bikini waxes and Ex-Boyfriend thinks my Wonder Woman underwear is hot, so I’m not really sure where my money is going).

2. You have the time [to sit in front of the television with your laptop, watching Flavor of Love while pretending you are looking for a better job on the internet]. Insert your own personal weird habit in brackets.

3. You can look down on everyone you know that is in a relationship, because you would never put up with someone’s crap the way they do.

4. You may or may not be skinnier, but if no one’s seeing you naked are the extra pounds really there?

5. You can apply the foul-smelling tanning lotion, make your eyebrows red and puffy by waxing them and/or use the green clay mask on your "problem areas." You wind up being hotter in the long run because you can afford to be short term ugly.


Why It Is Better To Be In a Relationship

1. Walking through Central Park with a friend is sort of boring. Walking through Central Park with a boyfriend is weirdly entertaining and can make you feel like you’re in a Woody Allen movie. (Ditto for Sunday brunch).

2. You’re happier when you get some affection and it is not really permissible to cuddle with your roommate while watching television.

3. You can look down on everyone you know that is single, because you would never obsessively analyze a person’s random actions or freak out over a phone call the way they do.

4. You have someone who is obligated to have sex with you.

5. Boyfriends/girlfriends are incredibly less competitive than friends, since your success makes them look better. (“Isn’t my significant other so successful/beautiful/charming? Doesn’t that make you think I am more successful/beautiful/charming?”)


And to clear up any confusion, yes, I am back together with Ex-Boyfriend, hereafter referred to as “Re-Boyfriend,” hopefully avoiding further confusion.

The Mutter Museum

Ex-Boyfriend casually asked, about a month ago, if I would like to go to the Mutter Museum. (Learn about the Mutter Museum.)

“It’s got all sorts of crazy stuff, like swallowed objects and shrunken heads and old medical equipment.”

“Sure,” I said because it did sound somewhat cool and, you know, why not.

Why not became clear as several factoids about the trip began to emerge. Specifically:

1) His college-age sister would be coming along
2) We would be leaving very early in the morning to get there because,
3) It’s in fucking Philadelphia.

Yet the actual date of this excursion was always fuzzy, in the vague far off future. So I played along. “Sure, mmhhhmmm. Mutter Museum. Awesome.”

Friday it came.

“My sister’s here and we’re going to the Mutter Museum tomorrow.”

“I can’t go tomorrow, people are visiting from out of town and we're all going out for my friend's birthday.”

“Okay, we’ll go Sunday.”

Fuck.

“We’ll have to leave around 8:30.”

Fuck?!

“I’ll think about it,” I told him. He looked upset. “I mean, I’ll go.” I didn’t want to make any hasty promises, but I also didn’t want to look at his pouty face anymore.

I put it out of my mind.

Saturday night came, and I was very drunk. The birthday boy had seemed a bit dour, so I had bought him more than one round of shots in an effort to jumpstart the celebration. All that I had accomplished was making him sleepy and myself a nuisance.

Ex-Boyfriend called.

“I’m with my sister. We’re going to meet up with you guys.”

“Totally!” I yelled. “That sounds, like, wonderful.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know but it’s wonderful. Let me find out.”

Ex-Boyfriend, his sister and I drank far into the night/early morning. We stayed out long after the birthday boy and didn't go home until Ex-Boyfriend put on my newly purchased red lipstick in the middle of Ludlow street.

Due to the presence of out of town guests, I returned to my own apartment, leaving Ex-Boyfriend and his sister with much fanfare, feeling that life was just fantastic and alcohol was super great.

My cell phone rang at 8:30 on Sunday morning. I flipped it open and waited for Ex-Boyfriend to explain himself.

“We’re going to leave at ten.”

“So why are you calling me now?”

“I just wanted to let you know.”

“Why are you even awake?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you ever get hungover?”

“Ohhh…you’re grumpy. Go back to bed.”

“I hate you.”

The phone rang half an hour later.

“We’re getting breakfast sandwiches. Do you want something?”

“I need to sleep.”

“So no breakfast sandwich?”

“No. Actually, I don’t think I can go at all."

"What?!"

"I got like two hours of sleep." I sounded desperate, even to myself.

“Come on! You said you would come! Don’t do this. You promised.”

I sighed loudly. “Fine. But I’m not showering.” It was the most fight I could muster while so hung over.

I would have tried a bit harder had I known the car was a manual. Being in a car with a stick shift makes me nauseous even without the aid of a drunken night.

I spent the two and a half hours to Philadelphia curled up in a ball in the backseat. Though I, through the grace of God, managed not to vomit all over the backseat of Ex-Boyfriend’s sister’s car, I did, however, leap out as soon as we were parked in front of the Mutter Museum and vomit all over the (unfortunately colored) white car next to us.

Ex-Boyfriend and his sister looked away. I couldn’t help feeling that any respect this girl may have had for the fun party girl she met last night had completely eroded. No one likes the fun party girl who vomits the next day, it’s way too Tara Reid.

We advanced into the museum. While interesting, it reeked of chemicals and stuffy air, and the sight of preserved fetuses did little to help my queasy stomach. My entire stay in the Mutter Museum consisted of me either trying not to vomit, being pleased that I momentarily felt no need to vomit or hoping that neither Ex-Boyfriend nor his sister would notice that I looked like I had to vomit. (They both noticed).

When I was at last dropped off at the safety of my apartment that evening, I gave the sister a “Nice to meet you,” managing not to add “Really, I am not a sad little girl who cannot hold her liquor, I get car sick sometimes, and I need sleep and this car is a stick shift and your brother forced me to come and if you don’t like me fuck you, but otherwise you actually seem really cool.”

Then I ran inside and vomited because we had been stuck in traffic for a bit which, what with the aforementioned stick shift and Ex-Boyfriend's agressive driving, had done nothing to settle my stomach.

Though the experience itself was awful, I thought maybe I could get some cache out of having been to the Mutter Museum. But when I mentioned it to a coworker this morning, she responded with “Why would you go there?” and I hadn’t even told her about the preserved fetuses. Oh well.

S.'s (is he or isn't he a) man has gone away on a business trip. He returns Tuesday.

I refuse to make up something because I firmly believe the truth, when it comes, will be better.

The Eunuch

For the past three weeks, S. has been dating a guy she does not particularly like or dislike but merely keeps around in the hopes that either her attitude or his oddness will improve.

While there is nothing overtly wrong with him, there are certain things that are just a little off, the most bothersome of which is his refusal to kiss her. They give each other soft little pecks at her door, but have never really made out.

When I suggested that perhaps he just wasn’t a kissing person, S. replied “He hasn’t tried to touch my boobs either. I've never known a guy that doesn’t at least try.” Her boobs are quite nice.

Last night I got a call around 1am.

"It's not there! It's just not there!" S. sounded frantic and a bit drunk against a background of bar music.

"Did you lose something?" I asked sleepily.

"No, CB! His penis, it's just not there."

"You've been, like, looking for it?" I didn't understand.

"I've been kissing him, rubbing against him, I even stuck my hand there—nothing. I don't think it's there."

"Are you in public? Where is he?"

"That's really not the point. At the bar getting me a drink. The point is that there is nothing there. Not even a limp nothing."

"The guy you’re dating just doesn't have a penis."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

I didn't know what to say.

"I mean, I'm going to try to find it some more, but—oh, he's coming back." She hung up on me to continue with her night of exploration.

This morning I looked at my phone. I had received a text message. It read: "Eunuch."

I called S.

"He is not really a eunuch."

"Well, that's what I decided."

"Do you even know what that means?"

"Yes. But I was worried I didn’t spell it right."


After some discussion we agreed she should investigate the situation further before jumping to such improbable conclusions.

Help me?

I am sorry to use you all for my own personal satisfaction (and not even in a sexual manner, shame on me) but there's this song...

"I'm in love with your potential, I'm in love with what you could be baby."

It was played on Real World Key West, I can't get it out of my head and despite repeatedly typing the lyrics into Google with minor variations, I cannot find even a clue as to how to go about illegally downloading it.

And, by the way, I don't really watch Real World. My roommate had it on.

Maybe I paused in the front of the television.

(I'm not sure why I'm being defensive about The Real World when I am so unabashed in my love for the trashtastic Flavor of Love).

My Awkward Moment

My boss had just finished a visit to my desk and was preparing to depart the area of the company bitches in favor of his corner office.

"Wait," I said, remembering an e-mail I had wanted him to see. "Don't go. I have to show you something."

He turned, smiling. "It's been a long time since a woman said that to me."

Eek!

Inappropriate workplace situations do not make me uncomfortable because I am offended by the sexual innuendo, but because I have no idea how to respond.

Though he clearly had, if not crossed, at least brushed the border of propriety, I couldn’t bring myself to give a sassy smile and respond with "I bet it has," or "I can see why."

However, he had made a joke (one I might have even found funny from another person's mouth) and to ignore its existence entirely seemed awkward.

But it would be difficult to acknowledge the comment in a pleasant manner without flirting. And what if he had not been flirting, merely old-man-commenting, and my inadvertent flirting was perceived as inappropriate?

By the time I was through over-thinking my response, an inordinate amount of time had passed.

"Well," he asked impatiently. "What did you want to show me?"

I gave a small, uncertain smile and carried on, business as usual.

I hate cases of almost-but-not-really sexual harassment because they are so awkward.

Ex-Boyfriend said:

"I was joking."

"We joke about those things all the time."

"I know talking about how our eyes are different sizes isn't the same thing. I'm sorry."

"You actually think I wanted you to have surgery?"

"I was joking."

"You know I have no money right now, how would I even buy them in the first place?"

"I know that's not the point."

"I do not need liposuction."

"A penis enlargment?!"

"Why are you being so mean?"

"Fine."

My Boobs

Ex-Boyfriend came over last night to watch the Oscars, consume an entire bottle of red wine, and ask me if I would get breast implants. (For those of you who have expressed confusion, yes, he is more accurately a Reusable-Boyfriend or a Re-Boyfriend but Ex-Boyfriend is his name and possibly his future).

"You don’t even go to the gym and you want me to get breast implants?" I asked incredulously.

Though this was probably not the best response (it is not like I would be more likely to get breast implants if Ex-Boyfriend were a gym freak), I was in something akin to a state of shock.

He laughed as if we were having an entirely pleasant conversation, not one in which we were name-calling "Flat-chested" and "Fat" where applicable.

"Maybe just one," he said. "One implant."

"Because we know how to compromise?"

He laughed happily. "Exactly" he said, reaching around me on the couch to hug me. I was ready to let this odd interlude go as a random little tease when he poked his head up and said "I would pay."

I had no words.

Soon thereafter Ex-Boyfriend passed out and I had to heave him off to my bed. (No easy feat what with the aforementioned need for gym time.)

In the morning he woke up and snuggled into me. He played with my hair and told me he loved me.

Then he made an implant reference and smiled evilly. I just stared at him, unable to fully process what was going on.

He gave me a sleepy morning kiss on the nose. "You know I'm just teasing you. You know I love your body. It's perfect." I continued to stare. "Come on, I tell you all the time that it's perfect. You're perfect. I love you."

"I have to get up," I said to the ceiling. I locked myself in the bathroom to shower.

The idea of myself actually getting breast implants is so far and above ridiculous that I must conclude one of three things:

1) Ex-Boyfriend was intentionally trying to make me feel bad

2) He is insensitive enough to have added that topic to his mental list of things it is okay to joke about

or, the third, terrifying option:

3) His ego is actually (dear lord) more inflated that originally thought and he actually believes it would be worth it for me to get surgery to conform to his vision of perfection.

Now that I have recovered from my shock (this is the man who, up until last night, has consistently professed his utter conviction in my total perfection), I must resist the urge to call and discuss the possibility of trading a penis enlargement and/or liposuction for a breast implant or two.

Instead I will be mature and call him to discuss, why, precisely, I think he behaved like a douchebag last night.

This will probably devolve into me repeatedly asking "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

And that will probably devolve into me telling him he needs a penis enlargment and/or liposuction.

Attack of the Comforter/Duvet/Whatever

Last night I attempted to clean my bedroom. Even I could not deny that it had passed the border from cluttered to disgusting. (Plus, a very cute pair of blue underwear was not in any of its usual hiding places).

Ex-Boyfriend tried to help by making suggestions that, while good ones, were not exactly short term. Such as "Why don't you get a bookcase? Then it wouldn't look so messy."

Or "Maybe if you added more shelf space in your closet, your clothes wouldn't end up on the floor."

After a few of these gems I told him to shut up and get out of my way. He apparently heard "Get in my bed and stare at me creepily," as that's what he did.

I tolerated this for a minute or so.

"Oh my God. Can you stop watching me?"

Ex-Boyfriend responded by ducking his head under my comforter/duvet/whatever. There was silence for a moment.

Then a sort of shuffling motion began from under the comforter/duvet/whatever. Then it stopped, soon followed by an aggressive flailing. Then a pause. Then sudden panicked movements began. I giggled.

I have a comforter/duvet/whatever with a cover that buttons on the side. Not zips, or snaps, but daintily buttons. This means that it often partially unbuttons and one wakes up to find a leg trapped in the bedding.

Of course Ex-Boyfriend does not do things half-way and so accordingly trapped his entire body.

"CB! CB! I, what is, oh my God!" I was too busy laughing to respond. With his body entirely inside the cover Ex-Boyfriend managed to poke his head out between two of the buttons.

"What is going on?!"

"I don't know, this never happens to me." I grabbed my camera and took a picture while he breathed heavily and gathered his determination.

"Okay," he said "I'm going back in." A few more frantic flailings later and Ex-Boyfriend emerged, unscathed, from the terrors of my bed.

It is a testimony to my strange tastes that I thought this was the most endearing thing in the world.