When the Cat's Away... Pt. 3: I am Apathetic

I am apathetic.

Isn't that sad? I used to equate apathy to an apartment littered with pizza boxes, lots of video games and a grey sweatshirt stained with marinara sauce. What I didn't know is that apathy toward the opposite sex could happen at the very moment that you thought you were at the peak of your game.

I'll start by saying that I consider myself a fairly attractive guy with good teeth and great hand-eye coordination. I think that's what most women want, but I'm sure I've failed to account for some little nuance here or there. So what have I done to wind up in a never ending spiral of hanging out with couples, scouring Match.com in utter disappointment and mulling over my most recent relationship that still has me more confused than Sarah Palin during a Katie Couric grill session?

If So had asked me to post a blog a few months ago, it would have been a three to four paragraph nonstop mushfest. I would have told you how I had a girlfriend who was completely worth the 400 miles I had to drive round trip every weekend just to see her. I also would have told you I had met someone I thought I truly understood despite the fact it was a new relationship.

What I wouldn't have guessed is that one random Thursday night I would get kicked to the proverbial curb during a ten minute phone call that consisted mostly of her silence interspersed with an occasional "Bwwwwuuuuh?" from me. There I sat, slackjawed as I tried to find the deeper meaning behind "It's seriously not you, it's me."

That was it. No further explanation, no response to the letter I sent her a week later to at least give myself to get some of my feelings out of my head and in front of her. This rattled me to the core because I had assumed things were great, and I was now confronted with this idea that I had no idea what the other person was thinking. I was totally convinced my feelings were reciprocated and that either wasn't the case or I wasn't getting the whole story. Either way, it was enough to make rethink a lot things.

So, understanding there are other fish in the sea, I used the breakup as a way to stoke the fire within me and embark on a little self improvement. I worked out in the gym like a man on fire, ate the most careful diet known to man, dressed a little better, and decided that I had to get right back on the horse.

Unfortunately I'm in a social situation that lends itself to me hanging out with either couples or girls who I'd never be interested in. This seemed like the right time to embark on a little online dating. I think So has talked about it before. It becomes very hard to meet new people, and you have to assume that there are others just like you in the same scenario in life. I put a little effort into Match.com and quickly discovered that it solely exists to frustrating the living hell out of me.

The idiot buried deep inside me surfaces every time I log on. I expect to click through a few profiles and stumble across a fit, educated girl who appears emotionally healthy and interesting, but I'm either way too critical or not using the site correctly.

As soon as I log on I am greeted by the five "suggested matches". About a minute later I have discovered five girls I would NEVER date.

Seriously, match.com? I'm 26 years old and work out five days a week so you suggest a woman over 30 who is out of shape because she's looking for someone who is athletic and toned? How in the hell does that make a match?

If I'm lucky enough to have a message, it's either from a girl who is religious or who "totally hates drama." I'm pretty clear about my agnosticism in my profile, and as for the drama girl, well...'nuff said.

My frustration is usually building at this point, but I make a point to see if anyone interesting has joined the site. The one hot girl is usually a conservative, so it's a choice between the girl who claims to have an average build despite ten pictures that tell me otherwise and another girl who, rather that post pictures of her face, has decided to upload images of flowers and rivers. Listen, I like a peaceful body of water as much as the next guy, but I'm going to need to see your face.

So, here I am, 26 and feeling a lot like George as Kramer asked him if he had a woman, anything on the horizon, or any prospect at all. Luckily the George Costanza parallel ends there, but it'd be awful nice to have something to peer at on the horizon.

- Will

When the Cat's Away... Pt. 2: Delicious!

Maxie's preface.

Classic fucking Maxie:

"So hopefully you get it before you go on your excursion to pay for sex. do some blow for me. too bad you didn't get to grow your pinky nail out in time.

the post is about sex instead of relationships b/c i dont do relationships so if you don't want to use it just let me know and i'll post it on my blog.

have fun and don't sleep with any trannys! as you would say xoxo <3>

* * *

Delicious!

While SO@24 is off taking over Europe, he asked me to entertain y'all. That's a lie. I told him that I was sending him a guest post and he had to put it up whether he wanted to or not.

My name is maxie and I write pretty much the coolest blog ever-- i hate so much . Since sex has been so freakin absent from this blog, I decided I would spice it up a little bit and tell you about the worst sex I've ever had. Take note boys, this is what NOT to do.

In high school I was one of those BAs (thats bad asses if you're not in the know) disguised as a goody two shoes. For some reason my parents trusted me and would let me have free reign on the weekends. My junior year I scored an older friend who had his own house and his own booze.

He was always pretty responsible and would cut me off after a few beers, but one night I managed to sneak into the corner with his friend who kept giving me beer after beer. (natty light = i'm classy)

One thing led to another, and I was promising parts of my body for just one more beer. You remember before you were 21 and you got to that point where there was no such thing as too much alcohol? I was totally there and somehow I convinced my corner buddy I'd bone him for a 6 pack. Like I said, CLASS.

We hopped into his car, but because we were both drunk we didn't want to drive very far. The only place nearby that was a little secluded was a church parking lot. He drove up the hill and we got down to business. Now I was young but I had been around the block a little and I knew something was WRONG. The dude was sticking it in and then making these weird circular motions instead of well...thrusting. Imagine a soft serve machine swirling around and around.

About halfway after filling up the double scoop he stopped and I was pretty pumped because I thought it was over. I had done my deed and it was time to get my beer. Boy was I wrong.

I looked up to a light shining in the window. I started to freak out a little because 1) I was naked and 2) I was underage and drunk. I saw my freedoms flash in front of my eyes and imagined the cop taking me off to the county jail. When I threw on my clothes I realized it wasn't a cop at all...it was a priest. He lived beside the church and noticed a strange car in the parking lot.

Instead of calling the authorities he had our friend come pick us up and gave us a very long lecture about pre-marital sex and underage drinking. After giving me a few "come to jesus" pamphlets he sent us on our way.

I guess the moral of the story is:

- Don't have sex in a church parking lot.
- Don't trade sex for beer

But if you're going to do either of the above, at least make sure it's good.

When the Cat's Away... Pt. 1: Get Out of My Grill

Greetings!

Or I guess I should say, "Farewell!" In a few hours I'll be heading across the Atlantic to join up with my pal Leo for some European adventures. Sexy adventures.

You laugh now, Beth, but...

If Hollywood has taught me anything, it's a fact that all European women are:

• extremely openly sexual
• always fascinated with the American accent
• hot (see: brunettes with glasses that look like saucy librarians or voluptuous blondes with pearly white teeth)
  

The good times are inevitable right? Hilarity will surely ensue. I hope to get a few good stories in me before this blog kicks the eBucket.

But in the meantime, I decided to have a couple of good friends share their own stories and views on the single life. However, I am mixing it up a bit. Some are from bloggers that you've come to know and love and others are from friends of mine who don't have blogs at all.

You'll read entries from:

Maxie at ihatesomuch
Kim from What Claudia Wore
my good friends Michelle and Will

... and, if I can put enough pressure on her, from good ol' Beth at Bethis.

I hope you enjoy them. I'll see you back stateside.

Best,
So@24

* * *

Get Out of My Grill

It all started when I was five. I was hanging out on the top of the jungle gym, ruling the shit out of kindergarten, when I was called down from my post to celebrate Lauren’s last day before he moved. Lauren was the first boy who had a crush on me. This made me suspicious.

Maybe it was the fact that he had a girl’s name that raised my eyebrow, or perhaps it was because he was moving to the “Grapevine”, a place that I thought must be all about licorice. (I recently drove through that beast and finally realized that while they rhyme, this place has nothing to do with Red Vines.)

Either way, he confused me.

The way he hung on my every word as I recited that month’s reading of “Chicken Soup with Rice”, or how he’d put his head on my shoulder during our weekly viewings of Barney… I just didn’t trust it.

I guess Lauren loved square dancing because on that morning in ’92 his mom made us all square dance for his big sendoff. Take one guess who this prick wanted for his partner. So I line up across from Lauren, trying like hell to pay attention to the instructions while he is grinning at me like a fool. Finally the music starts and he grabs me, trying to carry out the painfully douchey dance moves.

Although this was merely my first time square dancing (and his passion) I still thought I knew better. I resisted every turn, every spin.

Fast forward to seventeen years later. I am in a salsa bar in Seattle for a bachelorette party. There is a live salsa band and we are all dancing. Despite my square dancing blunder with Lauren, I truly love to dance.

But let me clarify: I love to dance alone.

Unfortunately, this man, we’ll call him Curly Sue, did not know this about me. I saw him make his way through our crowd of girls, dancing with each one of us. Curly was an amazing dancer and made everyone he danced with look great. And then he came to me… he would step forward and instead of stepping back, I would step right into him. He wanted me to spin left, I wanted to spin right. He pulled me into him, I resisted backward. I wish I could blame it on the alcohol consumed or my five inch heels, but I had to face the facts: I cannot follow a lead.

Perhaps this is Lauren’s doing, or maybe it was because I grew up in the bump and grind generation and have felt one too many boners in the small of my back. Whatever the reason, I hate when people make me follow their moves. Since when do people just get to dip and twirl you at their own will? Why would they know which way I want to spin better than me? Maybe I don’t want to move quite so fast, or perhaps I do not want your sweaty body to soil my clothes. All I know is that I did not sign up for that shit.

I hope I am not the only one that is so opposed to another’s choreography.

How I ever have sex, I really don’t know…

- Michelle

When Are You Ready To Meet The New Guy?

Being friends with your first love can be downright fucking tricky.

Durrrrrrrrrrrr.

My personal philosophy on this (and I'm well aware that a majority won't agree with me) if that if you're going to truly and genuinely be friends with an ex, you have to be prepared for everything that comes with it. That means, at some point, you're going to have to be "down" with meeting his/her significant other.

And while there is no strict time line of when these things come about, but if you're going to be friends, they should at least be blips on the radar.

Not too long ago, when my little brother was visiting, Lynn asked if we wanted to go out with her and her friends.

She doesn't live close. And if we're going out on the town and drinking, I'd need a place to sleep pass out.

The days of me pressing my nose up against the window pane, waiting for Lynn to come running back to me are long gone. But I had to take a moment to really ask myself: what's the worst that could happen in this scenario?

• First time meeting the ex's new boyf
• Drinking a lot of booze
• Forced to stay the night at the ex's place

I know that I'll have to meet the new guy at some point if I want to legitimately be friends with Lynn. And I'm alright with that, he seems like a nice guy and doesn't hate my guts like the other one.

But who knows how one is going to react if there is booze flowing. And to sit there across the bar and see your ex be all coupley (sitting on laps, hand holding, shit like that) while I'm sipping a low ball trying to plaster a smile on my face doesn't seem appealing. Furthermore, I don't want to ask them to alter their behavior just because of my presence, but at the same time... who wants to subject themselves to that?

This goes with the sleeping scenario as well. I imagine myself drunk as fuck, squirming to get comfortable on the living room couch with my legs hanging over the side in a hilarious cartoony fashion in one of those worthless guest blankets far too small for even my body. And then knowing that upstairs, only a few feet away from my head, my ex is drunk jamming down.

fdifdofdbncjsabc fbe

Point is, they SHOULD be able to do this if they wanted to, I just wouldn't feel right if they changed their normal routine because "it'd be weird if So@24 is here...". I wouldn't feel right asking that, but at the same time... I'd be lying if I said I was eager to experience my vivid scenarios.

See what I mean?

I'll be ready to party and have drinks with Lynn. There's no doubt I'll shake the hand of Lynn's boyfriend and buy him a pint. Hell, we might even karaoke a song together. I'm thinking we could do Ray Steven's "Mississippi Squirrel Revival"

But when do you know you're really ready to face all that?

Undies.

It's been awhile since I've had the pleasure of seeing lady's underwear strewn around the bedroom. When you come across one of these, it kind of makes you want to pound your chest like a silverback gorilla.

As I was tidying up my bedroom last weekend, I kept coming across pieces of underwear that Beth must have left behind on accident.

One lacey pink number tucked in between the sheets at the foot end of the bed.

Another frilly white thing under a pile of clothes.

And then this kind of standard, run-of-the-mill, plain kind that fell behind my dresser.

One of these thing does not belong...

I grabbed the foreign underwears and placed them in a neat pile on my dresser to give them to Beth when she arrived this weekend.

When I dropped her suitcase off in the corner of the room, I laughed and showed her the treasures she left behind on her previous trip.

Beth: Wow, I didn't realize I left this many. ... wait...
So@24: Yes?
Beth: This one isn't mine.

Beth pointed to the plain pair.

So@24: What do you mean?
Beth: I mean that THAT isn't mine!

Huh. I picked up the black underwear. Who else could leave these behind?

So@24: It has to be!
Beth: I think I know my own underwear!
So@24: Well no other female has been in my house... unless... OHGOD. OHGOD!

I shrieked like a banshee, chucked the pair across the room and they landed in the laundry basket.

Beth: What?? What?? Whose underwear are those??

No time to explain or theorize. I needed to go straight to the source.

I lunged for my cellphone.

BEEP BEEP BOOP BEEP!

Women on Line: Hello?
So@24: Mom??
Mama So: Yes?
So@24: Did you leave any underwear behind when you were here for your visit?
Mama So: Oh yeaaaaaaaah! I was going to ask you about that! I've been looking all over for those. Black, right?
So@24: Ughhhhhhhhhhhh.