Clearly, I don't get it.

After years of smoking, I gave up my cigs cold turkey and haven't looked back. I know that even one little puff of that carcinogen-laced nicotine can re-open the door for all kinds of terrible things to be revisited, by me and upon me.

But these guys who come and are gone within a few months' time? For some reason, I seem to think it would be too hard to quit them cold turkey. No, I thinks in the recesses of my feeble mind. I need to torture myself every once in a while with a little drag from the cancerous ex-boyfriend stick. And they need a little torturous drag every once in a while, too. It'll be okay. Just a little every now and then never hurt anyone.

And so I don't cut off communication. I end things, and I'm all like, Why don't we stay "friends"? And they're all like, Yeah. We should stay "friends."

But the reality is that we're not friends. We never were friends. We met, we dated, we broke up, and then we agreed to maintain awkward, stilted, sporradic contact for the purpose of... what, exactly?

To come along and rip the scab off each other's nearly-healed wounds every so often?

Jebus. I'm one sadomasochistic bitch.

Only Took Two Years to Drop This Guy

I never learn.

Despite the tough front I might put out for the purpose of venting and (I hope) entertaining in Ye Olde Bloglandville, I really must either be the dumbest bitch in existence and/or too gullible for any kind of good... or I just have this undying belief in the good within us all. (HA!)

This Guy.

First off (and I can't believe I never went here), we were supposed to meet up (many) months ago for dinner. True to This Guy fashion, he got incredibly "lost" and was incredibly late. Like, Belle-consumed-a-bottle-of-

red-wine-at-a-leisurely-pace-while-waiting late. And then, after taking the last you're-so-pathetic-you-don't-even-realize-you've-been-stood-up look from the waiter that I could handle, I paid my tab and told This Guy not to bother when he rang for the 18th time to tell me he was almost there.

So, yeah, that part about me being stupid? That comes into play when I let him revive contact a few weeks ago. (Bygones, right? And what's the harm in a little friendly chatting? Uh huh...)

But the stupidity probably doesn't become really obvious until I reveal that I accepted an invitation from him to go see a movie last week. Whatever he might have considered the proposed adventure, I viewed it merely as a friendly outing. ('Cause, well, ewwwwww.)

Anyhow, before accepting the invite, I stressed the importance of him, yanno, showing up on time and all. And he gave his word (Scouts' honor and everything) that he would be there, come hell, high water, fire, brimstone, or upended Krispy Kreme trucks.

As of the night before, we hadn't firmed up plans for meeting, so I called. Voicemail. Next day by noon, still no contact. So I sent a text, waited a few hours, and called again. Again, straight to voicemail.

At this point, I was actually looking forward to having a suddenly free evening to handle those mundane duties I keep putting off in favor of, well, anything else.

About 30 minutes before I was to leave work for the day (and subsequently, hypothetically, meet up with This Guy), he called me from work.

This Guy: Hey, Belle, this is This Guy. What's up?
Belle: Hey, This Guy. I called to...
This Guy: Actually, I called you.
Belle: Well, actually, I've called you twice and texted you, so, as I was saying, I called to firm up plans for tonight. Where do you want to meet?

After he informed me that his phone was dead, we established a meeting time and place, and he promised, again, to be there with bells and whatnot.

So why, then, did I find myself baking in the sun for the better part of an hour (See? Told you I'm a dummy.) before deciding it was better that I leave before he showed, as I was fairly certain my gut reaction to his visage would be a swift, hard kick to his knee?

I managed to pull myself together enough to leave a non-threatening voicemail on his non-functional phone, and I headed for home.

The good news is I really didn't care. I mean, certainly, the wasted time did not go unnoticed, but my night was suddenly (happily) mine, and I couldn't wait to get home and do those undone things and just relax.

And that's exactly what I did. Knowing that I'd finally reached the end with this one.

The following morning, I received this email:

I know you are disgusted with me right now and rightfully so. I got onto NY Ave. and hit tons of traffic. By the time I got to {Redacted} it was 6:30 and I didn't see you anywhere, so I assume you gave up on me.

I just wanted to apologize. I know that after a point, explanations become excuses, but I still wanted to apologize for ruining your evening.

-- This Guy

Ruining my evening?? Ha! After I made it home, the evening couldn't have been better if I'd planned it myself. Obviously This Guy gives himself far more credit for having a real effect on me than he warrants.

(FYI: His message garnered no response from yours truly. Stick a fork in me, yo; I'm done.)

Now, Boys, Don't Get Your Undies in a Wad

Oooh, oooh! Seems the menfolk are all up-in-arms about me playing this game by some rules. (Yay for controversy!)

So... here's my response to your comments/questions/rants about yesterday's Rules of Engagement post.

My reasoning for using the rules in question is as follows...


Why I wait to respond to messages:

Thing is, I want to be out dating and having fun. Trying new things. Making adventures and having experiences. That really is the whole freaking point of this endeavor.

And... if I'm filling up all my free time responding to messages from strangers on the internets, I'm probably not going to be doing much of the aforementioned adventuring and funning and whatnot.

When I was meeting guys online before, the overwhelming email traffic and marathon chat sessions eventually became a time-consuming burden.

Sure, I had some "great" correspondence with a number of dudes during that time, but the truth is, it took a lot of time to have that "great" communication, which, in turn, rarely translated into anything noteworthy in the real world. In fact, it most often translated into exactly nada in the real world.

While meeting people online has its appeal (speedy for all us busy folks, you all know you're looking, you get some initial insight, etc.), it's not a good way to get to know people. I now know that I can't gauge if I'm going to hit it off with or even tolerate the sight or smell of someone else if we're only corresponding online.

So, basically, I want to go out. I have no interest in hearing someone's whole life story via email over the course of 6 months (ever again! And I mean it). The profile via which these guys are contacting me makes that pretty clear.

It's shit or get off the pot time, fellas.

And, really, what's the point of responding immediately to all their messages? Much like my correspondence with friends and family, I find that going into my inbox and responding to everything at once is overwhelming. I'd much rather take a day or so to think about a response and subsequently pound it out for delivery.

I hope these guys are also enjoying full and active lives (otherwise, I'm not really interested). If not, should it really be my concern that they might be sitting in front of their respective monitors wondering when I'll get back to them? (Been on that side of the screen, too. It's not fun, but I can't freakin' blame it on anyone but myself, now can I? Likewise...)

You can call my delayed responses coy if you wish, but I'll reiterate that I'm making no apologies. All's fair, friend.

Also (and I'll say this full well knowing I'll likely take some heat for it), in the short period I've been waiting a day or more to respond, it seems like I've garnered a lot more dates than I did the last go-'round, when I was responding at lightening speed to Frank, Stan, and Every Man.

It seems some guys might actually be motivated by the absence of constant availability. (Who would've thunk it?)


Why I do not revive communication:

Again, I'm a busy girl. And I'm not wasting time considering these dudes real until I meet them. (Been there, done that. Anyone know where I can get the Tshirt?)

So, while they may have sounded good up to a point, if they drop off the face of the earth, I'm not going to chase after them. Frankly, I have plenty of others stepping up to keep me busy at the moment, thankyouverymuch. And, oh, an actual life going on outside this whole dating venture (fancy that).

That said, if some dude drops out of contact for a while and suddenly reappears, nothing in my rules prevents me from getting back into the flow with him. Dig?


How I define 'creepy':

Honestly, it varies. My friends seem to believe I have a (dangerously?) high tolerance for creepiness, but if I'm creeped out, he's out. No matter the impetus.

(And, really? You're going to question that one? I mean, c'mon... it's MY safety potentially at stake in this whole thing. It sucks that you think you were let go for a case of miscommunication, but I'm not going to compromise my safety to right the wrongs you believe you've endured. Thems just the breaks, man.)

...

Just as an FYI, I didn't create this profile and start out with a set of rules (which are, again, really more like guidelines anyway... Belle doesn't know how to play by rules, yo). Sure, they weren't too long in coming, but, really, I adopted them because they seem to be working well for me so far.

I could sit here all day long and try to explain things in a way that made you all like me or agree with me, but I'd fail in the endeavor, and what purpose would it serve?

Oh, and another thing... I could use some structure and guidelines in this whole dating endeavor. I mean, have you read about some of the stupid things I've done?

Back to It...

As a result of some recent and questionable decisions and behavior on my part, I feel now is the appropriate time to thrust myself back into the realm of dating.

I made a resolution this year to make healthy choices. So far, the most obvious result of this has to be (if I may toot my own horn) a rather remarkable physical transformation. While this more tangible change was (and is) definitely a big part of what I wanted (and want) for myself, I have deeper goals for my mental and emotional health.

My recent actions are difficult for me to swallow, but I'm working on using the experiences as those of the learning variety and moving forward and toward an overall healthier Belle.

In that vein, I hastily created a profile on a dating site this weekend and have begun the vetting. Stay tuned for more details...

Own It

"When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong." - Jake Houseman, Dirty Dancing


Maybe watching Dirty Dancing as a kid enough times to memorize every line, facial expression, outfit, and set had a little more of effect on me than producing mass quantities of drool and daydreams of a wedding to Patrick Swayze.

I recently recalled Dr. Houseman's apology to Johnnie at the end of the movie and realized I'm one of the few souls in the working world who is willing to own my mistakes.


On the surface, it seems like a simple enough thing (admitting your mistakes, that is... not doing lifts). But finger-pointing and blame-laying and flat out denial of any wrongdoing seem to be standard operating procedure these days.

And even though I try to make it a practice to tell people when I know I'm wrong, it never seems to get any easier. I like to think it does make me much less likely to repeat the same missteps, though.

I recently had to suck it up and spit it out. (The apology, fools. Don't bring all that filthy thinking to this rare-form PG post.) It wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be, really. It usually isn't.

All that said, the very same party to whom I admitted my wrong and issued an apology is now coming after me full force, finger pointed, blame ready for the laying.

He realized, rather late in a project, that he hadn't asked for something from my team. A relatively major something, which he's now trying to claim he insisted upon all along.

So what does he do? Moves in for the attack, of course. Wants someone, anyone (but most likely and conveniently me) to take the blame that should lie squarely on his shoulders.

Why? So he can save face? Undoubtedly. Avoid being reprimanded? Likely. Keep his job? Perhaps, but I really don't think the situation is that dire.

What we have now are two groups of people working together with major animosity festering and hostility growing.

What we could have if the dude had just owned the slip-up when it was discovered and worked with us toward a solution? A much more smoothly-sailing project.

Obviously, this guy didn't take his life lessons from Dirty Dancing. Maybe I should get him the DVD for Christmas.

The Forest and the Trees

Remember my Open Letter?

Yeah, well, that friend told me recently the letter could've just as accurately been addressed to the guy I'd been seeing.

It took me a moment to recover from the verbal bitch-slap*, but she was right. And now he's gone.

Sometimes you're just too fucking close to the situation to get any perspective.

That's why your friends are there to tell you you're being an idiot.


* Not a malicious bitch-slap, mind you. Just an informative one.

A Little Addition Goes a Long Way

Courtesy of VVK

For future reference:

1 Diver Down
+5 Irish Car Bombs
+3 Guinness
+2 Glasses of UBFRDP*
+3 Random vodka drinks

---

Vague recollections of exposing nipplage to a pierced and tattooed bar mate


* Unidentified Beer From Random Dude's Pitcher

The Dissimulator, Part Five: The End of the Saga

Check Out Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four

At the end of the semester, Naïve Nancy and The Dissimulator were still dragging the good name of the engagement through the proverbial mud.

She was put on academic probation and went home to her family with her tail between her legs, having to admit, I’m sure, that they were right to be concerned about her venturing out of their home to go to college. She continued to see The Dissimulator for at least part of the summer. Eventually, they really broke up. He moved away, and she (finally) moved on.

But none of this happened before he’d convinced her that they were going to marry and move to Italy. Or before he told her that his father was a major figure in the Indian Mafia (?!?) and issued threats on her life should she decide to say or do anything he deemed inappropriate.

The Dissimulator contacted me twice during the next school year. He claimed to be engaged to a basketball player at some college or another and talked about how wonderful his life was. I choked back the rage that bubbled to the surface and the vomit that rose in my throat. I haven’t had contact with him since.

Naïve Nancy came to visit me a couple of times that year, and I went to several raves in dirty, dirty City Below the Sea with her and a friend.

She found me on myspace recently. She’s married now and has a beautiful new baby. The Dissimulator is a figure in her distant past.

I still tell people this long and true story from time to time when the setting is appropriate. I tell it because the things he lied about are so outrageous that they make for great telling. And I tell it because I learned a whole helluva lot more that year from my association with Naïve Nancy and The Dissimulator than I did from any of my classes.

The Misogynist and I discussed the story of The Dissimulator last night over drinks. I realized that a good portion of Nancy's sticking around probably had to do with her being/feeling indebted to The Dissimulator, since he paid for her first semester of school. It may have also had to do with her not wanting to be alone. (And, you know, that whole 'love' thing I hear so much about might've actually played into it just a bit.)

This whole experience is a large part of the reason I can’t handle lying. I realize that lies are often easier than the truth within the moment, but I don’t believe they're worth it in the end.

The Dissimulator, Part Four: Moving in on the Neighbors

Check out Part One, Part Two, and Part Three

This post is a jumble of events I can't quite place chronologically, all of which involve Ditsy and Dopey, the girls next door.

The Bowl Games

At some point while Naïve Nancy was still living in The Dissimulator's apartment, I got tired of him always being around my room while she was at work. I had papers to write and toenails to paint and, you know, just generally wanted Belle time. So, sometimes when he came over, I'd check him in but let him wander around our floor a bit. (Shhhhh! DO NOT tell the hall mother. She's a bitch.) He got familiar with Ditsy and Dopey, the girls next door to us, and often hung out in their room.

The Dissimulator had been talking about taking Naïve Nancy to the SuperBowl and to the (now-defunct) Aloha and/or Oahu Bowl since the first weekend I'd met him. She was all "foozball? Ick!" at first, but I convinced her that was just silly. Hey, said I, I’m not a fan either, but it's the SuperBowl! I mean, that's the game to see if you're going to go! And the other ones? Well, I don't know what the hell they are, but they're in Hawaii, Dipshit. Never say no to a free trip to Hawaii! And she was convinced, or at least she put up a good front.

I was chatting with Ditsy and Dopey one day when they mentioned that The Dissimulator had promised to take them to the SuperBowl. Oh? I asked, Did he promise to take you to some game in Hawaii, too? Their nodding heads affirmed. Yeah, I wouldn't so much count on that.When I told Nancy, she wasn't thrilled, but she wasn't particularly crushed, considering her lack of interest in the sport.

Ditsy and Dopey, of course, did not go to Hawaii or to the SuperBowl with The Dissimulator. The Dissimulator, of course, stopped mentioning these games in the weeks leading up to them. I'm sure he was conveniently called away for "family business" or some such nonsense on the relevant days.

Breakin' Up and Makin' Up

Naïve Nancy answered the phone early one spring Saturday morning. It was The Dissimulator. Unhappy with whatever he was saying, she began whining into the phone. All my empathy and sympathy having been drained at this point, I shoved my head under my pillow and kicked about grumpily until she got the hint that she was disturbing me and left the room.

When she reentered the room, she was sobbing. The Dissimulator had broken up with her. Wait, this is new, I thought. I got up, shook myself to a higher level of alertness, and began trying to comfort her. Although I really did not like to see her hurt, I thought this was best. She needed to be rid of him.

Intending to step down the hall and wet a washcloth for her face, I opened the door to our room. Ditsy and Dopey, carrying overnight bags, passed by just as I did and looked in at the disheveled and obviously upset Nancy. They stopped and asked about her. I glanced back at Nancy for the go-ahead and told them of the morning's phone call.

Ditsy: I hope this isn't because of us.
Belle: Why would it be because of you?
(Ditsy and Dopey exchange looks.)
Dopey: Because we're going to City Below the Sea with The Dissimulator today.
Naïve Nancy: (Suddenly alert) What?!? (Bursts into fresh set of sobs)
Ditsy: We thought you knew...
Belle: No... obviously (Gestures toward Nancy)
Dopey: I didn't know he was going to do that. Nothing's going on with us...
Ditsy: Yeah! Nothing's going on... We're just friends...
(Nancy sobs louder)
Belle: Sure. Look, I need to take care of her.

Ditsy and Dopey didn't change their plans. I spent the weekend doing my best to console Nancy. I let her talk about all the things that were wrong with their relationship. Having not yet learned that it's rarely ever okay to trash your girlfriend's (recent) ex, I probably put my 2 cents in more often than advisable. She vowed she'd never date him again. I did a little dance in my head.

Ditsy and Dopey slinked into the dorm and past our open door two days later without a word. The Dissimulator called within the hour. Naïve Nancy took him back before the night was over. I kicked myself for having been gullible enough to do a mental dance of glee.

Breakin' Up and Makin' Up, Take Two

That whole scenario above? Rinse and repeat. Same actors. Same plot. Same execution (minus the dialog, as Ditsy and Dopey had little to say to Nancy or Belle, and vice versa, after the first trip to City Below the Sea). Naïve Nancy took The Dissimulator back again. Having learned from my previous mistake of premature celebration, I just shook my head at the whole situation.

Ditsy and Dopey might not have been as stupid as their names imply. Very much like Naïve Nancy, they let The Dissimulator try to woo them in the only way he seemed to know how… by throwing his "money" around. Unlike Naïve Nancy, they didn’t seem to get emotionally involved, and they definitely didn’t stick around when the favors started to slow. If you’re going to deal with one, that’s the way you should work a manipulative asshole like The Dissimulator.

I have to admit, my respect for these girls is newfound. It was pretty much hell living next to them for the remainder of the semester. I found their behavior despicable at the time. Naïve Nancy was busy fighting with and fucking The Dissimulator most of the time. Meanwhile, my somewhat misplaced loyalty landed me in a near-daily battle against two fairly fierce girls.

Stay tuned for Part Five.

The Dissimulator, Part Three: The Money & The Illness

Check Out Part One and Part Two

That semester, Naïve Nancy's tuition never got paid. The Dissimulator was supposed to be taking care of all that, remember? He didn’t take her to get her books until the third or fourth week of school. Ultimately, she failed almost all her classes.

So the financial aid office was on her back about the tuition and dorm fees. Then there was the matter of the unpaid credit card bill. One day before the winter break, Nancy was leaving early for work so she could stop by a local department store and pay a credit card bill on her way in. She had a check written out and in her hand. The Dissimulator stopped her and took the check from her. "I'll pay it for you," he'd said.*

Thinking her boyfriend fiancé would do as he'd said, Naïve Nancy put the whole matter out of mind until she got a call from the company one day, telling her the bill was long overdue and asking for a payment. The Dissimulator feigned outrage, telling her he'd paid them himself and that he would take care of it the very next day.

You can imagine how this went on. The company calling and sending letters. Nancy, by this point out of a job and out of money, hoping and trusting that her boyfriend fiancé would take care of it all. The Dissimulator doing anything but that.

Eventually, the company turned her over to a collection agency. The Dissimulator was still spewing his game and promising to take care of everything. Naïve Nancy was still trusting him. After they couldn't collect, they threatened to bring charges and have her arrested.

Meanwhile, The Dissimulator was suddenly without cash alarmingly often. It seemed he'd nearly always just transferred a large amount of money from one account to another, but it hadn't posted yet, or some such likely story. Nancy was charging up her MasterCard at every turn. The Dissimulator was promising he'd take care of the bills.

Nancy and I were on friendly enough terms at this point, but it's hard to say we were anything more than cordial. I thought she was an idiot for staying with someone who was obviously a pathological liar. I tried to reason with her (leaving out the bit about her being an idiot, of course), but that just made her pull back from me even more.

The Dissimulator had Naïve Nancy in a great situation for his purposes, though. During the winter break, he'd supposedly gone to the doctor and been diagnosed with liver cancer. She didn't feel she could complain about his habit of spending on her dime because he could die in less than a year. This was the man she was going to marry. And he was going to die.

I asked her questions to get her thinking again and again. Have you been to the doctor with him? No? Why won't he let you go? You're going to marry him, right? Don't you have a right to know what's going on with him? To support him through this? ... Why did he cancel the appointment after he said you could go?... Why did he tell you he canceled the appointment only to go anyway by himself? Doesn't that seem a little suspicious to you?

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn't haul my ass down to the library (or the monitor, whatever) and do some research to help her see his lies for what they were. I think at that point I'd pretty much washed my hands of the matter, convinced she was a moron who would follow him through anything and wondering to my (virginal) self, is (the) sex really that good?

As all these tensions mounted, the thought of a long-promised, long-anticipated cruise with The Dissimulator during spring break gave Nancy pleasant dreams of respite. Those dreams were dashed when, conveniently enough, The Dissimulator found out the day spring break started that he would have to fly (alone) to Chicago for surgery.

I, of course, was already en route for the-most-awesomely-tiresome-spring-break-road-trip-ever when all this happened and (amazingly enough) didn't even have a cell phone. I didn't hear about Naïve Nancy’s non-break until my return. And it made me furious. I just couldn't contain myself. I imagine I laughed or snorted when she told me. I'm certain my face displayed the mixture of disgust and rage and pity I felt at the moment. I started with the questions again. Why didn't he know before? Where is he now? What kind of surgery would allow him to fly back here already? They did what? He says they used a laser to eradicate the cancer... through his belly button?!? Is there even a scar? WHY ARE YOU BELIEVING THIS?

To no avail. My questioning her achieved squat.

Stay Tuned for Part Four: Moving in on the Neighbors

* I was a first-hand witness to the beginning of this story.

The Dissimulator, Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

Check Out Part One: An Introduction
A few months into their relationship, The Dissimulator bought Nancy an "engagement" ring.* One day, she took it off at their apartment and set it on the coffee table. When she looked for it a short while later, it was gone. She and her beau were the only two in the house. The ring was never seen again. The Dissimulator later blamed a repairman sent by the management company for stealing the ring. He, of course, never lodged a complaint or asked the company to investigate.

As Christmas and finals neared, I wondered (loudly and often, in the general direction of Naïve Nancy) why we never saw The Dissimulator do any work for the online classes in which he claimed he was enrolled. Naïve Nancy, arguably unconcerned with her own studies, ignored me and busied herself making a wish list at Victoria's Secret. The Dissimulator told her he'd ordered everything on it.

When the three of us exchanged gifts, I left with an armload of booty from the two of them. In the end, Nancy got a whopping three presents from The Dissimulator, none of which were from her wish list (and none of which were thoughtful, useful, cool, funny, or any of the other things that make gifts good). "The management office wouldn't accept the packages. We'll have to go to Crap City to pick them up." Never happened. (He, by the way, got several really nice and thoughtful gifts from Nancy. And I got several nice and thoughtful gifts from him.)

When I returned from a long, torturous winter break at the Southern Homestead, I found an entirely changed scene. Naïve Nancy had lost her job and officially moved back into our dorm room (which really cramped my style after months of solo-living). The Dissimulator had given up his off-campus apartment to move into a dorm and start taking classes at our esteemed institute of higher learning. Odd, I remember thinking (and saying, many times). Didn't The Dissimulator say he's been in college for two years? Only freshmen are required to live on campus. Why would he give up an apartment to live in a crappy dorm?

My theories were twofold. 1.) He'd never been to college (or was still classified as a freshman) and had to live in the dorm to attend classes. 2.) He was really, really sick of playing house with Naïve Nancy.

By the spring semester, I'd managed to forge a few more friendships, to diversify my platonic relationship portfolio, if you will. It was a good damn thing, too. The Dissimulator and Naïve Nancy were having relationship problems all over the place. She'd become incredibly needy, and he'd become suddenly aloof. Emotional matters, financial matters, physical matters... everything was causing problems. I needed S P A C E.

With space came a little perspective, I suppose. The Dissimulator and I had a huge falling out. I don't remember the catalyst of the argument, but I do think I had more than a little to do with starting it. Naïve Nancy just sat and watched the two of us hurl various forms of verbal assault at one another with all the force we could muster. I called The Dissimulator out about his little habit of spewing forth lies whenever he opened his mouth. That did it; he was about to launch missile one, aimed at destroying my friendship with Nancy.

"You said Nancy was immature!" The Dissimulator shouted, pointing his chubby finger at me.

In a sense, he was telling the truth. A short while after Nancy had moved back into the dorm, our phone had rung in the middle of the night. I’d answered. It was The Dissimulator. He was in the parking lot, and he was upset. Would I please come talk to him? Still groggy, I'd gone to meet him. We'd talked for a bit, and he'd asked my opinion of his relationship with Nancy, telling me his friends thought she wasn't right for him. As delicately as I could, I told him I thought the pair was a bit immature to handle the sort of relationship they were pursuing.

I looked over at my shell-shocked roommate. Nancy, I'll talk to you about that later. Right now, I need to deal with him.

And I did talk to her later. I told her what I'd said to him. It was how I felt, and it wasn't intentionally mean or hurtful, but I’m sure it was hurtful nonetheless. Most importantly, though, it was the truth, something all of us needed a whole lot more of at the time. But the Dissimulator’s attack was well-aimed; my relationship with Nancy was never the same.

After our fight, The Dissimulator and I were pretty much sworn enemies, but I hadn't seen the worst of what he had to offer.

Several weeks later, I returned from class one morning to find a sobbing message from The Moms on the machine. "Belle," *sob* *sob* "Call me as soon as you get this." *sob* Click.

Panic set in. Someone was dead. I just knew it. Younger Brother? Older Brother? Who could it be? I dialed shakily and nearly burst into tears when I heard The Moms' first sob. What is it? Who's hurt? What's wrong?

The Moms finally managed to gasp out that she'd gotten a letter. It was from someone who claimed to live in my dorm but who remained anonymous because "she" was speaking for many girls. They were worried about me, the letter claimed. I was an alcoholic. I was skipping classes all the time and in danger of flunking out of school. I was threatening murder and suicide. I had gotten a reputation as a slut. I *gasp* dated black boys. To prove how right they were about all they said, they'd printed out a few select passages from my livejournal account, which detailed, among other things, getting drunk at a party and a date with a sweet, funny, intelligent, gorgeous guy who also happened to be black.

Already firming up my belief that the truth is best, even when it is more painful, I reassured my mother that the things she'd read were not true. The Moms, I drink sometimes, but I'm not an alcoholic. I can't remember the last time I drank. The same bottle of Boone’s** has been sitting in my fridge for two weeks unopened. I do not drink every day. I am not failing classes. I have A's or B's in everything, just like high school. I do occasionally miss my 9 o'clock class, but there's no attendance policy and the lecture notes are online. Who can digest philosophy at 9 a.m. anyway? I'm not suicidal, nor am I full of homicidal rage. I am still a virgin. Hardly anyone on this campus even knows who I am; I have no reputation. Okay, I have gone out with a really nice guy a few times. He is black.... The Moms?.... The Moms?... The Moms!.... Yeah, I know. I'm glad they sent you the letter and not Dad.... Yeah, I know better than to tell him. .... Yeah, the brothers either. ... Are you okay now? I promise I'm fine.... Hey, The Moms? Can you send me that letter?

It wasn't the worst thing he could've done, but it definitely seemed horrible at the time. He nearly gave The Moms a heart attack, which wasn't nice at all. But I was smart enough to know I'd gotten off light. If the address listed in the student directory had been that of my father, that letter would have assuredly led to my being shunned by a good portion of my wonderful family.*** It might have led to violence on the part of my hot-headed brothers.

The ironic part of all this, which I can only laugh about now, is that The Dissimulator was Indian, and Naïve Nancy's (Caucasian) parents were as incredibly bigoted as my father and brothers. As a result, they didn't even know he existed, and if she'd had her way, they never would have.

I could never prove he sent the letter, but Naïve Nancy told me years later that she believed, looking back, it was him.

Stay Tuned for Part Three: The Money & The Illness

* The ring was a cluster of sapphires and small diamonds. As far as I know, it was not accompanied by a proposal. While I’m all about shirking tradition and doing things your own way, it never seemed like a real engagement to me.
** Yeah, I said Boone’s! That’s barely even alcohol!
*** There are many good damn reasons I left the Southern Homestead and surrounding areas. Sadly, the family accounts for the vast majority of them.

The Dissimulator, Part One: An Introduction

When I struck out for my freshman year of college, I knew exactly one person who would attend the same university. Being that (1) he was male, (2) freshmen were required to live in dorms, and (3) we went to school in the Bible Belt, there wasn't an option of making a go as roomies our first year.

My former boss and self-described Adoptive Mom* made the trek with me from the Southern Homestead to The Black Hole. We spent much of the six-hour ride guessing what my roommate would be like based on the only bit of personal information I'd been given, her name.

We came up with a ton of life stories for the girl (most of them clichés, I admit). One minute she was pearl-wearing Daddy’s girl who would remain sweet and charming until exactly the moment her parents' taillights disappeared, then morph into a slutty, alcoholic bitch. The next she was a recluse who never uttered more than a few monosyllables and listened to nothing but death metal and polka. She had a Mohawk, tons of piercings, and tattoos. She was a suck-up who would follow me around campus and offer to write all my papers. She already had two kids and was going to try to keep them in the dorm with us. She only ate garlic and raw onions. She was a bully and a thief. She insisted on wearing only pink and decorating everything with sequins and glitter.

Naïve Nancy turned out to be none of those things, thankfully. As people go, she was pretty decent, if a little annoying and somewhat dense at times. Her judgment needed a bit of honing, but whose doesn't at 18? Mine certainly did (and, arguably, still does). I can't say we immediately hit it off, but we did become pretty good friends fairly quickly.

But this story isn't completely about Naïve Nancy. It's mainly about her lovely boyfriend, The Dissimulator.**

First, a little back story:*** Naïve Nancy met The Dissimulator the summer before she left for school. Her parents, feeling that she wasn't ready to leave home,**** didn't support her desire to attend our fine, fine university. They would have preferred that she live at home and attend a community college.

Naïve Nancy’s BFF at the time, Sickly Sugar, convinced Naïve Nancy she had to come with her. Then she made it her mission to convince The Dissimulator he had to help Naïve Nancy with tuition and books and furnishing and stocking her dorm room, etc. and whatnot. The Dissimulator agreed to do those things.

At the time, he and Naïve Nancy were not actually dating. Sometime during the three-hour drive from their town to our dorm, he'd pretty much changed their status from "up-the-air" to "exclusive." (Really, it was more like "haven't yet kissed" to "gettin' laid tonight!" I suppose throwing down a lot of cash can do that for some people.)

Enter Belle: The Dissimulator was a charismatic guy. We became friends more easily than Naïve Nancy and I formed any kind of bond. It wasn't too long before Sickly Sugar found the walk from her dorm to ours too much effort, and their friendship was downgraded, which gave the friendship between Nancy and me just the kick in the ass it needed to blossom.

The Dissimulator started the fall semester by coming to visit Nancy every weekend and sometimes during the week. The three of us usually hung out until he had to leave the dorm at curfew, then they'd go to some hotel in town. Several weeks of this routine apparently wore him out. He rented an apartment and moved to The Black Hole. Naïve Nancy unofficially moved out of the dorm and into his place.

Long before the move, though, I'd noticed something fishy about The Dissimulator. He had this habit of talking about money. Specifically, how he had so much of it. Odd, I remember thinking. Don't the people who actually have money also have the good sense to keep their traps shut about it?

I'd been to his parent's home. While the structure was nice and on a fairly grand scale, the place was ill-decorated and unkempt. Who lives in a plantation-style "mansion" and hangs family portraits in plastic frames from the dollar store? Why are there no carpets in the house? Don't rich people always have fancy ancient carpets? And antiques? Where's the furniture that doesn't look like it came in a box that said “Assembly Required”? And why has The Dissimulator been driving around this dumpy Impala for weeks? Didn’t he say his Maxima just needed some repairs? What the hell gives?

Nevertheless, I remained friends The Dissimulator. Nancy had taken a job in a town about 20 miles away that kept her out late four nights a week. Being that The Dissimulator wasn't a student and wasn't working and spent all his time with Nancy and me, he had no other friends in town. Being that I'd skipped all the "go-on-ahead-and-make-yourself-some-friends-now-darlin'" gatherings, didn't have a fake ID, rarely spoke to classmates, and spent most of my free time with Nancy and The Dissimulator, I had only a handful of acquaintances. When Nancy was at work, The Dissimulator and I spent a great deal of time hanging out with one another.*****

Even still, I tried to tell Naïve Nancy when I started to see things were legitimately amiss with the guy. One day, The Dissimulator told Nancy he'd purchased a purple iMac for her. He claimed it would arrive in two weeks. It never did. After some serious prompting from yours truly, Naïve Nancy inquired about the MIA iMac. Each time, she received some excuse ("Back ordered." “Still backordered.” "Apparently purple is really popular." "The driver dropped it at the wrong address." and on and on), until she finally gave up and dropped the subject entirely.

Even though I thought his buying her a computer was a bit excessive, I found the blatant lie about doing so outrageous. It wasn't even a good lie. It's not like you'd really pay for a computer but not care that it was never delivered and just give up on it. I mean, you're destined to be found out in that situation. Who would lie about something like that? Who would stay with someone who lied about something like that?

But, I was guilty, too. I didn't run from these crazy people and their crazy ways. Apparently, I had a lesson to learn.

Stay Tuned for Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

* When a person you've only known for two years is more willing to see you off to college than your own parents, who've ostensibly known you your entire life, that person has every right to claim such a title. In fact, the "adoptive" part was dropped soon thereafter. She's been known as Mom since, but that’s too confusing for the blog. [Up]
** Since Pathologically Lying Manipulative Asshole Con Man Fucking Compulsively Lying Liar Guy is incredibly long, I opted for the slightly less burdensome moniker. [Up]
*** This is information to which I was not privy until much later in the game. [Up]
**** By the end of the year, I was in total agreement with her parents in this respect. [Up]
***** Eventually, there were rumors that The Dissimulator and I had something going on. I assure you, we never even flirted with the idea of flirting with one another, much less taking things further. [Up]

On hiatus, indefinitely

When I was but a wee lass, I began collecting masks of all shapes and sizes. Hundreds of them adorned the walls of my room, and they were as important to me as inanimate objects can be to pre-pubescent young girls. My first research paper, "Clowns, Masks, and Mardi Gras," was inspired by my collection. (Fifth grade. 20 pages. Public school, Bitches.)

Then, one day, I was over it. I sold all my masks, and I never looked back.

That tendency within me is still strong. I abandon most things right about the time they start getting interesting. The masks. That "underground" comic in sixth grade. The poetry (thank FSM). The acting. The lj. The xanga. That column I started. The painting. The knitting.

What I began here will be no different. Perhaps I'll return one day, but I'm making no promises. I started this blog when I was still more entertained than disenchanted by my exploits in Internet dating. It was fun while it was, but it's something else now. And it's not what I'm looking for at the moment. I'm not sure exactly what I am seeking, but I know it doesn't involve computer monitors or guys (tangible or not).

Lesson One: Pay Attention to Your Date

Roommate keeps jokingly saying I should have a workshop on dating for guys.
1.) Nothing whatsoever qualifies me to a.) say what would make a guy appealing to a girl * or b.) speak to what women want from men on a universal scale,** and 2.) I suck at public speaking. So while I don't plan on renting out an auditorium and billing myself as a professional giver of advice, I am going to delineate the finer points of The-Workshop-That-Will-Never-Be right here on ye olde blog.

Lesson One: Pay attention to your date (and show her you're doing so).***

Seems simple enough, right? Too bad a good number of guys appear clueless about showing they are conscious of and conscientious about the women they are with. Let's take a look at a few examples gleaned from actual dating situations, shall we?

The Scenario: Guy and Girl are at the liquor store. Girl carries two bottles. Guy remains empty-handed.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Guy is empty-handed!
The Solution: Guy offers to carry at least one bottle, if not both.

The Scenario: Girl is cold.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Girl is cold!
The Solution: a.) Guy gives Girl jacket/sweatshirt/blanket/hand warmers/gloves/etc.; b.) If possible (and appropriate), Guy offers to change venue/adjust thermostat/build fire/etc.; c.) Guy gives Girl warm embrace.****

The Scenario: Girl is cold. Guy hands her jacket. Girl, having a purse and a bag and a coffee and who-knows-what-else in her hands, looks to Guy. Guy stands there. Girl puts purse, et al, down in parking lot/on sidewalk/in grass so she can put on jacket.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Guy is empty-handed! Girl's purse is on the dirty, oily asphalt! *****
The Solution: Guy sees Girl has stuff in hands. Assuming he hasn't just tossed a poncho over her head, Guy offers to hold Girl's things while she puts on jacket. (Bonus points if Guy does not balk at holding Girl's purse for 3.6 seconds while she puts on said jacket.)

The Scenario: Guy and Girl exit Metro train. Guy is in the lead. Girl's travel is impeded by foot traffic from every direction. Guy is nearing the top of escalator before Girl steps onto it.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Guy is no longer with Girl!
The Solution: When stepping off the Metro train, Guy glances behind him to make sure Girl is with him. If she is not by his side, he waits for her before stepping onto escalator.

The Scenario: Guy and Girl are entering/exiting establishment. Guy enters/exits first. Guy lets door close behind him.
The Problem: Guy is not paying attention to Girl! Girl feels as if she might as well not be with Guy. Any random stranger can let a door slam in Girl's face as she walks in/out behind him. Many random strangers are more considerate of Girl's presence than Guy and hold said door until she passes through.
The Solution: Guy holds door for Girl, whether so she can enter first (the hold) or just so she doesn't have to re-open it (the prop).

I could go on and on, but I'm hoping you get the general idea. It's not rocket science. Pay attention to Girl and to your surroundings. Anticipate what actions on your part might help Girl out in some way. Do (at least some of) those things.

I'm guessing at least one person reading this is screaming at his/her monitor: "It's 2007! Gender roles have been redefined! Guys don't have to do that stuff anymore!"

Well, I agree with you. Partially. You're right in that Guys don't have to do anything to show they're paying attention to the girls they're with, as is evidenced by the ridiculous number of guys still getting dates/laid despite their lack of attentiveness.

Moreover, ladies don't need guys to do any of this stuff for us. If we're at the liquor store alone, we'll carry two or three (or four or six...) bottles without thinking twice about it. If we were Girl Scouts, we'll always come prepared for the weather. If not, we'll beg, steal, borrow, or flash our boobs for a sweatshirt when we're too cold to deal. We'll put the coffee on the Beamer next to us in the parking lot, set the bag on the ground, and place the precious purse between our knees****** as we add a layer of outerwear. Assuming we aren't tourists, we know how to navigate the freakin' Metro, dammit. We'll open the door for ourselves without giving it a second thought (and maybe even do the prop for the dude behind us, if we're feeling benevolent).

The point is not that we need a guy to do any of this stuff. The point is that his doing these little things that are a step above Average Male Dater's******* Modus operandi shows that Guy is paying attention to Girl.

Stay tuned for the next installment of The-Workshop-That-Will-Never-Be: Taking the "Gentleman" Act Too Far

* Because I'm completely schizophrenic in this respect; two guys who seem to behave in the same manner and/or have the same characteristics will not necessarily pull the same level of interest from me. [up]
** If I started speaking for all women, I'd probably be tarred and feathered by a good many of my "sisters" before the close of the business day. I don't pretend to know what every woman wants. Hell, I barely even know what I want from one minute to the next. [up]
*** This should go both ways, Ladies, but I'm working under the assumption that The-Workshop-That-Will-Never-Be is for men (or, errr, would be for men, if it were to be). [up]
**** Option c should only be employed if a.) Girl is a willing recipient of long embrace from Guy, or b.) the lives of Guy and Girl literally depend on it.[up]
***** Gentlemen, for many women the purse is sacrosanct. Such a trespass on your part might never be forgotten or forgiven.[up]
****** We probably won't put the purse between our knees if we're on a date and Guy is not holding it for us, namely because doing so will make us look incredibly goofy.[up]
******* Average Male Dater, here, refers more to those in their 20s than guys with a bit more age and/or experience. And just because I said "Average" doesn't mean I think all males in their 20s fall into this category. And just because I said it refers more to guys in their 20s doesn't mean guys who don't fall into that age group are all completely innocent of infractions of inattention.[up]

Being a Dirty Boy Trumps Being a Nice Guy

I met This Guy Saturday morning for yet another pseudo-date*. After me having a life interfered with his resistance to making plans the last time he asked me out, he wised up and asked me to reserve the day for him well in advance.

I have to give him props for stepping up to make plans for the day. He remembered I'd mentioned the regatta, so that was our first destination. We watched the races for a while, chatting and joking. He kindly lent me his hat and gloves, but the cold eventually drove me to request we proceed to Phase Two.

We headed down to the Tidal Basin to check out the sad, sad remains of the recently astounding cherry blossoms, wandered over to the Jefferson Memorial, caught some Flamenco dancing, then hopped on the Metro again. Phase Three commenced in the early afternoon. We picked up some movie** tickets in Cleveland Park*** before grabbing a bite to eat.

The day was good overall. I made it home feeling sort of exhausted but content.

Still no attempts at a kiss from This Guy, which I decided early in the day was actually preferred. See, there's an issue I hadn't noticed before. Perhaps I missed it because we've only met up for evening outings before.

This Guy seems to have some serious issues with dental hygiene. As in, when I noticed his teeth, I had to assume he's not a regular brusher. Yeah, um, gross.

He also failed (again) to wash his hands before our meal until after I mentioned it. Hygiene is important, people. There's just no excuse for any of this.

Travel Buddy said, "Never go out with This Guy again." When I began a weak assertion that he's nice and that I don't want to be mean to him, Travel Buddy interrupted. "Bad oral hygiene trumps being a nice guy."

He's right. Ick, ick, ick.


* I say "pseudo" because of the platonic nature of all our outings.
** My Grindhouse review: Mind-bogglingly stupendous. Deliciously awful. Freakin' fan-tastic. Don't go if you aren't prepared to be entertained by ridiculously cheesy and unbelievable movies.
*** If you've never caught a movie at Uptown Theater, get your rear end down there pronto.

Lessons Learned: Looking for "Love" is an Interesting Endeavor These Days

So I've met all these guys, ranging from creepy, to dorky, to dumb, to nice, to obnoxious, to taken,* ... And what have I learned from it all? A short list:

- If you're a tall girl, you're going to need lots of flats. Guys of average and below average height almost always lie about it. If he says he's 5'9", expect him to be 5'7". Or shorter. (I'm nearly 5'9". As if I wouldn't notice...)

- You should meet sooner than later. I've found that when I have a great rapport with a guy online but, for whatever reason, delay meeting him, it always fizzles almost immediately after the meeting. Perhaps it's because our exchanges were so great online that in real life neither of us could live up to the standards we'd established in that forum. Whatever the case, I think it's best to meet early on.

- Talking about midget** porn can be fun. The mental images, not so much. I think being open to random conversations is a better way to get to know someone than the standard "Age? Background? Career? Dislikes? Entertainment preferences? Fitness habits? Goals? Hobbies?..." bit. My word of caution is to be prepared for any possible paths such random conversations might lead you down.

- You should listen to your vibes. I have this habit of sticking around a bit longer than I should so I can understand why I have a bad vibe or what someone has done to give me that vibe. Really, it doesn't matter. And the longer you (or I) stick it out, the more likely it is that some creep will convince you he is not such a creep. You should listen to your gut instinct. If for any reason, even an unidentifiable one, someone gives you a bad vibe, run.

- Lots of people hold their potential mates to much higher physical standards than they hold themselves. Reading through CL postings you'll find that about 70 percent*** of the guys who actually post what they're looking for in a woman require that she's "slender," "trim," "petite," "fit," "well-proportioned," "attractive," "well-groomed," etc. Now, take into account that about 85 percent*** of those guys are ugly, short, bald, hairy, toothless, and/or fat.


* Goodgodsweetjesuslordinheaven, that list of adjectives makes this whole endeavor seem pretty dire, doesn't it?
** My apologies to any vertically challenged people this might have offended. I didn't choose the un-PC term or the topic of conversation, honest.
*** Yes, I totally just made up those percentages. Give me a break; I'm no statistician.