Serial Killer: The Truth, Ladies and Gentlemen (Well, Mostly)

For about, oh, I don’t know, a bit more than a year now, I’ve let Serial Killer believe I’ve been dating someone. A few weeks ago in one of our bouts of random periods of contact, I must’ve let slip that I’m flying solo these days. (Stupid, stupid Belle.)

Subsequently, Serial Killer invited me out for martinis (and then back to his place for martini-making lessons, the wanna-be sly dog).

Realizing these invitations might continue into eternity if I didn’t give him the straight shit, I decided to do just that. So I set about telling him, in the least mean-spirited, most courteous way possible, that he gives me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.

Surprisingly, he took the information very well. He even thanked me (!?!?!) for telling him so and said he respected that I had.*

We went on to discuss, at his urging, what it was about him that creeped me out. I refrained from telling him his voice gave me shivers and cold sweats (nothing about those two being positive in this situation, I assure you).

After having heard in the past year about some of his various failures at dating and lurve, part of me wished I could help the guy out. The other part of me, not entirely convinced he’s not a stalker/mass murderer/serial rapist, didn’t want to say anything that would help him too much in the wooing the ladies department.

I’m not sure he’ll talk to me again. Hell, if it were the other way around, I wouldn’t be hankering to chit chat with SK any time in the near future. If it had been me on the other side of that chat window, I’m sure I would’ve been putting up a tough front, but hearing that shit couldn’t be pleasant or easy to handle. And I doubt I’d want to bring my singed self back around for more abuse.

Who knows? At least I feel pretty confident he won’t be asking me out again.

* Déjà vu... What’s up with all these guys recently claiming respecting and thanking me for telling them stuff I’m pretty confident they have absolutely no desire to be hearing? And, moreover, how do we get the whole gender on board for this seemingly mature handling of such matters? What about the whole of human race? (Myself included…)

The Case of the Disappearing Nerves

Of the dates I've been on recently, I haven't been nervous once. Not even a little. And that is so very unlike me.

I have to say, I'm thoroughly enjoying my newfound confidence and ease in dating. (Knock on wood, etc., and whatnot.)

Here are some things I'm throwing around as possible factors in The Case of the Disappearing Nerves:

• Since I'm not investing mass amounts of time and energy into getting to know these guys beforehand and I'm not considering them "real" until I lay eyes on them, I have no expectations either way about how the dates will go. No expectations, no pressure... no reason for nerves.
  
  
• Unbeknownst to me, during my last medical procedure, my much-loathed GP conducted a highly dangerous, completely experimental procedure to remove my romantically-induced nervousness. (Which could explain the twitching and stuttering that recently cropped up...)
  
  
• Since I have several dates lined up already and the potential for more in the works, I'm not stressing about having a bad date. What's one bad date among many potential good dates? (And, yanno, bad dates = better blogging material, so I kinda welcome those, too... as long as they aren't of the chop-Belle-into-pieces-and-store-her-in-mom's-basement variety.)
  
  
• All that therapy is working.
  
  
• I'm not trying to impress these guys with anything other than genuinely being myself. (If they don't find my genuine self impressive... Next!) Not giving a flying fuck works wonders, really!
  
  
• Oh, yeah, duh... (to sound completely vain) I'm a much hotter me than I was the last time I was actively dating. So, um, yeah, that probably boosts the confidence factor a teensy bit.
  
  
• Lu's 4MP has my focus divided between several guys, so I'm not putting all my proverbial eggs in one proverbial basket.
  
  
• No matter what I may have told myself in the past, I'm really just trying to date for the first time in my life. I have no hidden relationship-seeking agenda or anything.
  

Anyone else have any ideas?

Once and For All: The Serial Killer

Even when I agreed to meet him with that "Oh, sure, maybe sometime..." that's so easy on the Internet, I wasn't exactly excited by the idea. Citing a general disdain for the dating world in general, I'd deleted my online profile and backed out of other dates for the same week, but I couldn't find a defensible reason to cancel with him when I found an actual meeting fast-approaching.

I agreed to meet him at Starbucks, and we had a tentative plan for a movie following that, if we were both so inclined. By the time the day arrived, I was downright opposed to going. Again, though, finding no justifiable excuse, I resigned myself to fulfilling my obligation.

Shit. I'm supposed to meet him in 10 minutes. It's too late to back out now. Shit, shit, shit.

As I was gathering my things to walk out the door, he called to confirm the agreed-upon meeting place. His voice made me shudder. I went back inside to make sure I'd left Roommate all the pertinent details regarding him and our date. Before laying eyes on the guy, I knew I'd already discovered his epithet: The Serial Killer.

In person, Serial Killer was very nice. Had a bit of a stutter. Was seriously, seriously obsessed with music. But completely amicable. Jebus, self, I thought. Get yourself together. This guy is way too nice to be a serial killer.

Um, Ted Bundy, anyone?

When we finished our drinks, we drove (separately) to a theater and bought tickets to a movie of his choosing.[1] We had a beer or two while waiting for the film to start. It was here that Serial Killer told me he sometimes attends one of the few goth nights in D.C. clubs and suggested I join him sometime. Glancing down at my brightly-colored top and newly-pink-for-spring toenails, I told him I didn't think it would be my scene.

After the movie, in the dimly-lit parking lot of the theater, he asked if I would like to see him again. Noting my surroundings, I agreed, and we parted ways. I drove behind him until I got caught by a light. Initially relieved at the distance this put between us, after a short while I became more than a little paranoid that he was somehow suddenly behind me. I actually drove out of my way to ensure that no one was following me before I went home.

For our next date, he suggested hanging out at his place or mine. Still not comfortable with the idea of him having my address, I agreed to go to him. I arrived on time and walked into his sparsely-furnished apartment not long after he'd returned from helping with a Habitat house. Jebus, self, I thought as I listened to him excitedly describe his day of volunteering, give this guy a break. It must just be his voice that creeps you out. He can't help having a creepy voice. What kind of serial killer contributes to his community like that?

Um, John Wayne Gacy, anyone?

After we discussed our days, Serial Killer handed me a stack of DVDs. I pulled out several I hadn't seen, and, of those, he recommended Kids.

-- <rant>Wait a second. Kids? Of the 60 or so movies in your possession, you recommend, for viewing on your second date, one that involves a bunch of teenagers and pre-teens passing HIV to one another like it's a pack of Skittles or something? Two for two with the bad [2] movie selections, buddy. Two for Two. </rant>--

After that painful hour and a half, I suggested we go grab some sushi. I offered to drive, already devising my escape plan before we rose from his uncomfortable futon.

The sushi was delicious, and the conversation was, remarkably, fairly light and fun. Despite a relatively early hour, I announced I was tired when I dropped him off and avoided a kiss by throwing my hand up between us in an awkward little-kid kind of wave before heading home.

For date three (yes, there was a date three...), Serial Killer suggested a couple of other movies, both of which were sequels and neither of which held any interest for me. I countered with the suggestion we go see Bodies, which ended up being awesome (despite his somewhat inappropriate comments about genitalia throughout the exhibition).

After we viewed enough bodies and I held a human heart and brain (he declined. Fancy that), he mentioned being hungry (fancy that), and we ended up in Old Town for a bite to eat and a stroll along the waterfront. The evening was nice, and we hung out for a bit before I dropped him at the Metro and headed home (less worried this time that he was secretly following me).

That was something like a month ago now. He's been asking for another date, and I've successfully avoided agreeing because I've been legitimately busy with a variety of things. The next two weekends have pretty much already taken care of themselves in terms of my not being available.

Before I wrote this (and poured obsessively over the serial killer articles on Wiki pretty much all day today), I thought I was being too hard on the guy. Obviously, no. Something about him creeps me out, and even if it is more pronounced when I'm not around him, there's really no reason for me to keep subjecting myself to the agony that precedes these meetings.

My conundrum is this: What can I say to a guy who seriously creeps me out that will let him know once and for all that I am not interested in dating him without making him stalk me out and really earn his sobriquet?


[1] The fact that he picked a movie this terrible is somehow more disturbing to me than the fact that he picked a movie about a serial killer. I'm not sure what that says about me, really. [Up]
[2] That's not to say I think Kids was a bad movie. It's just not a good date movie. [Up]

I should know better by now

Walking through the lobby of my office this afternoon, I hid the tears behind black sunglasses, thankful that my latest purchase was larger than the shades I'd chosen in years past. George, the security guard who usually engages me in a few moments of small talk as I exit the glass-enclosed lobby each afternoon, was distracted by a man in charcoal suit leaning on his desk with both elbows. I managed to avoid eye contact with quick steps and a strategically-timed hair flip.

As the revolving door turned me through to the too perfect sunshine of the too perfect evening, I muffled a sob. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. I focused on counting my steps and keeping a straight face as I passed the flower-laden meditation pond. When my foot hit the second step in the parking garage stairwell, my vision blurred to blindness, and I had to stop and wipe away the tears before moving on.

In the safety of my car, the sobs flowed freely as I leaned on the steering wheel for support like a distraught heroin on the silver screen. I collected myself enough to set out for home, but the tears didn't cease.

I cried for a potential loss in the fast-approaching future. For the lack of certainty in my career choices. For the absence of a shoulder on which to let my tears. But, primarily, for the things I endured in the Southern Homestead. For the scars I still carry. The scars I fear I will always carry. For the fast-approaching revisitation of the crime scenes. For the silence. For the lack of closure. For the things I fear are happening now and feel I can do nothing about.

Belle: (to Roommate less than 48 hours ago) I'm not typically one who drinks to drown my sorrows.

And, yet, tonight I drove at least two miles* out of my way during rush hour to purchase the whiskey necessary to do just that. For the last three hours I've been catching up with old friends and gardening and cooking and blogging and hanging out with my ferocious hunter of a cat. But I've primarily been working on making that whiskey disappear. And I've nearly accomplished my goal.

Oh, the weekend at the Southern Homestead should be the best ever.

* I'm sure there's a liquor store closer than that, but I've been on the outs with liquor lately and haven't noticed the actual location. How sad is that?

The Dread Southern Homestead

LADirtyDisco called one night last week. She was back on the West Coast after spending a week or so with her family in the 'Sip. I asked about her trip.

LA: (sighs wistfully) It wasn't long enough. You know when you go home and you think, 'This is wonderful! I love it here. Why did I ever leave?'
Belle: Not really... I cry every time I go home... On the way there...

I booked a flight ages ago for our family reunion this weekend. As it nears, my fearful anticipation is constantly evolving. My stomach has been knotted with dread for weeks already. I've stopped myself from checking my itinerary online for fear I'd cancel my ticket in a moment of desperation.

I've never quite felt like I belonged in my family. They're my family, and I love them and feel loved by them (in varying degrees), but I've never felt like an integral part of what's going on with them. Always the outcast. The black sheep.

And why am I the black sheep?

Because I'm female and did not make wifedom* and motherhood my primary ambitions in life.
Because I read.
Because I don't constantly exhibit the prescribed and acceptable attributes of a nice Southern girl.**
Because I'm not a bigot.
Because I wanted to see more of the country, more of the world.
Because I obtained a university-issued degree.
Because I don't think that a woman's place is in the kitchen unless that's where she fucking wants to be.
Because I don't espouse the ideas of the Christian Right.
Because I made it through 25 years without getting locked up or knocked up.
Because I escaped the 'Sip.

That list pretty much exemplifies why I'll proudly tell you I'm the outcast of my family. But it does very little to ease any tensions I have when I revisit the Southern Homestead.

Roommate pointed out that any visit home confirms that hightailing it out of there was the best decision I could've made. That I'm happy with the life I've chosen. She's right, but it doesn't make the whole experience less emotional or exhausting.

* Yeah, like serfdom. You got it.
** I'm fairly certain I'll remain a girl in the eyes of the fam until I pop out a kid or get hitched.

Welcome to America. Now Speak English.*

The Moms called me several weeks ago and requested we plan a trip to Europe. To France, specifically. Maybe even a little jaunt to Italy. Together.

*sigh*

So many things factor into this being a terrible idea.

I.
The Moms has been having her nails manicured regularly for about 10 years now. Down in the Southern Homestead, that all but requires visiting a shop operated by Vietnamese women (and the occasional man). The Moms takes great offense when any of the people in the shop speak their native tongue. She is convinced they are talking about her.

The Moms: I know they're talking about me. I can hear them call me "cow."
Belle: Oh? When did you learn to say "cow" in Vietnamese?
The Moms: I didn't, but, you know, it sounds like "cow" when they're talking...
Belle: The Moms! They speak another language! A very different language. I'm sure the word for cow does NOT sound the same in English and Vietnamese.
The Moms: (mumbles) ...well, it sounds like cow to me...

As much as I hate to admit it, The Moms has actually said things like, "They need to speak English if they're going to live here. This is Ahmericuh."

And I'm supposed to go to a foreign land with this lady? To France?

Right.

II.
In December of 2001, The Moms and I journeyed to good ol' PA to visit some of her friends acquaintances. Initially the idea was sold to me as a trip to NYC.** I'd never been. The cost for me was nil, and I'd been out of The Moms' house just long enough to forget how wonderfully we get along with one another.

The night before our flight, the two of us were standing in the kitchen. She was nagging me about something, and I was being a 19-year-old pain in the ass, I'm sure. But then she had to go and do it. You're acting just like Older Brother!

The thing about Older Brother had been a sore spot for years. You see, Older Brother's entire life had been devoted to breaking every rule, crossing every boundary, doing whatever it took to get what he wanted and hurting as many people as possible in the process.

But, somehow, it seemed he was never punished or held accountable for any of his actions. No, not Older Brother. He was the Golden Child. No matter how much property he destroyed or how many people he emotionally maimed, his word was still valued above anything I ever said or did.***

Comparing me to Older Brother when I took even a pinkie toe off the line was a favorite past time of every adult in our family. And doing so was the ultimate insult because it was pretty much the only time anyone acknowledged that I was basically a good kid, but at the same time it put me in the same boat with this relative monster. And the comparison was always unfair. I wasn't malicious or hateful. A mouthy teenager? Yes. But I was not evil.

That night in the kitchen with The Moms, having been out of her house for about two years and having a bit of family-related counseling under my belt, I couldn't stand it anymore.

You're acting just like Older Brother! she'd said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

And I lost it.

FUCK! I yelled. I am NOT Older Brother! You always say this to me. FUCK!

I'm pretty sure I was a bit more verbose in my high-volume response, but I can't remember the specifics, and the point is that I yelled 'fuck' at The Moms. She stood there a long moment with her jaw slack before tears filled her eyes and she left the room. Yeah... She pretty much didn't speak to me until about 24 hours later... well after we'd arrived in PA and sat through an uncomfortable dinner with a bunch of people I'd never met.

The trip itself only got worse. We actually got into an argument on a bus in NYC. I vowed to never travel with The Moms again, and her sentiment was "ditto." We didn't speak to each other for another 12 hours or so after that one.**** (And no one else spoke during the entire trip back to PA.)

III.
A few years later, The Moms decided to send Older Brother and me on a cruise for Christmas. The day before we were to depart, Older Brother went MIA, and The Moms ended up accompanying me to Mexico.

I have to admit that we had a better time on that trip (the massages and booze helped), but things were still tense between us. Especially when our ship docked and The Moms and I ventured out for a little shopping. She refused to buy anything from anyone who tried to bargain with her, which caused me infinite annoyance and meant she paid a great deal more for items at stores than she would have paid for the same goods at local sellers' shops. It also showed me she's not willing to deal with anything unfamiliar, even when she's in another effing country.

IIII.
Due to circumstances beyond our control,***** The Moms moved in with me for a time soon after I left The Black Hole. The city was bigger than any she'd lived in before, and she was completely unfamiliar with it. Rather than equipping herself with maps and finding her way around, The Moms called me at work at least once a day, lost and sobbing. I had to try to figure out where she was and where she needed to go.

And, guess what? That was a city in Ahmericuh, and pretty much everyone spoke English there.

Did she ask for directions? If she did ask, were the directions accurate? If they were accurate, were they useful to her? The answer to all of these questions: Not Likely.

Now take all these factors and mix them up. Put The Moms and me in a country where the primary language isn't English. Where we aren't familiar with the methods of transportation. Where the money isn't what we're used to. Where the people aren't what we're used to... You get the idea.

Sounds like a recipe for disaster.

At least I convinced her of one thing and demanded a second the last time we spoke on the subject.
1. We will go only to Italy.
2. She will learn some Italian before we go.


* The Misogynist saw a shirt that said this when we were in O.C. Ugh.
** In reality, we were in NYC for a matter of hours, almost all of which were spent watching The Lion King on Broadway.
*** Younger Brother had the same lot, but he and I don't share The Moms.
**** Making our hosts quite uncomfortable, I can assure you.
***** Mother Nature is a bitch, and the U.S. government was (is) neither equipped nor prepared at this time to deal with serious natural disasters. And that's all I've got to say about that.