A lot can happen in two hours

A few weeks ago I met a boy. A very nice, attentive, attractive and chatty boy. Typically in dating situations I am the aggressor and the chatty one (stunning, I know). But this guy, we’ll call him “Chet”, was by far the chatty aggressor – and I was thrilled.

After a few days of very frequent texts (read: several an hour), we decided to go on a date that weekend. I wanted to take him to see a friend’s improv show, and when I asked “Do you want to see an improv thing?” he said “I was going to suggest a comedy show.” – we were talking about the same show. Clearly we were soul mates. I was smitten.

I had to go to Seattle for work and ended up having to stay the weekend. In short, I was cock-blocked by my creative director. Cuz, you know, who has plans the weekend before Christmas? (Don’t worry, I’m not bitter). I broke the news to “Chet” and we even kicked around the idea of using my SkyMiles to bring him out to spend the weekend in Seattle. Alas, we decided that was a no go (three cheers for hindsight) and he stayed put in Indianapolis, with the promise we’d go on a date the following Thursday. We continued with the frequent texting and chatting, both looking forward to Thursday.

Enter Wednesday night when he told me he needed to babysit for his sister. No problem, family comes first. And I can’t legit be upset when I had cancelled on him the week prior. We decided we’d get through the holidays and figure out another date. All the while texting daily.

Enter yesterday: We’ve been texting a bit less, but still several times a day. Yesterday “Chet” was in route to Texas and we checked in at nearly every state border of his drive. Last evening when I was out with friends, I drunk texted something like this:

“Hi you. So, now that we’re beyond the big holiday, how about we set up that date? Or has the window of opportunity closed? :)”

That last bit was merely playful, you know, since we’ve been texting daily for two weeks.

Here’s the response I got:

“Actually, I’ve started seeing someone since we last talked.”

SINCE WE’VE LAST TALKED?!

As in – two hours ago?

As in – while you were on the road?

Did you meet at a rest stop?

In the lobby of the Ho Jo’s over shrimp cocktail?

While perusing ribbon candy in the country store at the Cracker Barrel?

So many questions and so not worth the time.

Dueces, “Chet.” Your number has been duh-leted.

Beware the Butler gay: Episode one

If ever there was an incubation tube for the perfect boyfriend it would be Butler University. This small, private school is meticulously landscaped, known particularly for its arts, pharmacy and basketball programs (so well-rounded), and populated chiefly by upper-middle-class students. I know what you’re thinking, YAHTZEE! Right?

Wrong.

Disclaimer: This blog post does not condemn any women or heterosexual males who attend or are proud alumni of Butler, but rather, just the gays. I hate to make blanket statements – but in this case folks, its just true: Beware the Butler gay.

Exhibit a: “Richard.” Yes, it’s a weird and sort of creepy-grandpa name to assign to him, but his name is equally geriatric. (Should have been my first sign).

Anyhomo, I first met “Richard” when I was with my ex. We talked a little, as friends, but nothing happened at all, seeing as how I was with my ex. Once he texted to ask what I was doing and I said I had just pulled out of Rally’s with a cheese-double-cheese. And he implored me to return to Rally’s and dine al fresco with him and his 19 year-old-friends.

No.

“Richard” went home for the summer and my then boyfriend and I broke up. “Richard” and I talked a bit more, and when he returned in August I asked when we might be able to hang out. The conversation went something like this:

Me: So, now that you’re back, do we get to hang out finally?

R: What did you have in mind?

Me: Oh I don’t know, I was thinking I could finally take you to Rally’s.

R: Haha ok, that works.

Me: Great! How about Saturday, I can pick you up. (Mostly because who drives two cars to, you know, meet at RALLY’S?!)

R: Sure… that’s fine. What are your expectations out of this. Because I feel like you’re expecting a lot, and I’m not.

…..

Expecting a lot? I didn’t know how to say this without sounding, well, rude. So I just said, “I have no agenda.”

But what I wanted to say was, “Hi. You’re 20, so maybe Rally’s is a big dinner to you, but I’m 27, I have a nice job, a lovely apartment, and If I was ‘expecting a lot’ and I wanted to roll out the proverbial red carpet, I sure as hell wouldn’t be taking you to Rally’s on a Saturday afternoon.”

The more I thought about it the more it just really annoyed me – and I did not pick him up, in fact, I deleted him off Facebook, took his number out of my phone and never contacted him again. (but I did enjoy Rally’s that Saturday).

Here’s the thing folks, you don’t flirt with a 20 year-old with romantic, long-term notions.You certainly don’t flirt with a 20 year-old so he can play hard to get. No. The point of flirting a 20 year-old is so they can think you’re amazing, have your stuff together and be invigorating in the sack. I mean, really, everyone knows this (except the 20 year-old). That’s the beauty of it.

Fast-forward to three weeks ago. I’m on my little phone app of choice when I get a “hello” message from “Richard.” “Richard” is all chummy, asking me about my day, ignoring my one-word responses and telling me all about his day. I was so confused, was he pretending this didn’t happen? Trying to extend an olive branch (which I didn’t really want) or what?

Then it happened:

R: My name is ‘Richard,’ by the way.

Me: Yes, I’m aware. It’s Jason Gloye.

R: OMG, I didn’t even recognize you.

I mean, I had recently changed my hair, but nothing radical. In fact, here’s a visual-aid. My hair went from this:erect

To this:

Image

Hardly and extreme makeover, methinks.

I promptly blocked “Richard” and that’s that, folks. It may seem tame, and not a good reason to beware the Butler gay, but there are more stories (they’ll be here soon) that combine to my sage advice.

Idle holiday threats

It’s a tradition every year in my family that we get our tree the day after Thanksgiving. First thing. For years we got your standard green tree. Ok, standard isn’t really the word. We would go to no less than five lots looking for the fattest tree under eight-feet in the city. The typical “Gloye” tree has ZERO bald spots, is absolutely not crooked, and ideally is as wide as is it is tall.

Several years ago we changed things up to a flocked tree. That’s a live tree covered in a white snow-like paper that makes it beautiful. It also locks in moisture, so you don’t even have to water the tree. Let me tell you, there is no easier tree in the world. No dropping needles, but no four-hour set up like an artificial tree.

Anyhomo, as my parents are getting older (not old, just older), for the past five years (or so) my mom’s been saying things like:

  1. “I’m thinking we’ll get an artificial tree probably next year. We just can’t do this heavy lifting.”
  2. “I’m done getting such whopper trees. Next year we’re going to get a normal sized tree.”
  3. “What do you think about a table-top tree?”

This Thanksgiving my parents asked if I could drive the next day since I have a SUV. Translation: Items one and three from the aforementioned list are not happening this year. But, she assured me, “We’re going smaller – and I mean it this year.” Yeah… okay.

We set out. Every year there are about three-five options, but typically if a place is going to the trouble to flock a tree, it’s going to be a good one. There was a nice selection of a couple smaller ones, a couple really nice “normal” sized trees and then… there was one so large it literally said “fatty” on the tag. You can’t make this stuff up, people.

Guess what hefty holiday conifer we drove way with? Yeah.. the fatty. A few photos, because who doesn’t love a nice visual-aid?

There she is. It’s a wonder my SUV didn’t tip over.

The festive fatty in her new habitat.

Next year, I’m just renting a flatbed truck. Nice try, folks, I don’t believe your idle holiday threats of a “normal” Christmas – and I’m a-ok with that!

A glitch in the matrix

In the world of gay, it’s a little more difficult to meet people than in the world of straight. First of all, those pesky metro-sexuals can throw off even the most calibrated gaydar (helpful hint: Look at the shoes).

At least if you’re straight and someone is taken, they just point to the ring, or their wife, or whatever it is that you straight people do. But in the land of gay, you can’t just walk up to any guy and hit on him. He might be straight…and hurt you. Seriously.

So, it’s not uncommon for gays to be more into online dating – you know, where’s it’s safe to say hello without a fist maiming our fragile, alabaster faces. So, the other evening I was on my online dating site of choice. It’s not an overly large or well-stocked pond (emphasis on the latter) here in Indianapolis, so since I’ve been on there for about five months, unless someone is new or visiting, I pretty much have seen the merchandise.

Imagine my surprise when I was notified that five people had viewed my profile over the course of the evening. Seriously – take a moment and imagine it. Now double it, because all five of these gentleman were lookers – and I’d never seen them before. I was so excited I didn’t even know where to start – who to view first? I zeroed in on a tall drink of water we’ll call “Cole.” Cole’s profile was well-spoken, and just pretentious enough to be sexy but not eye-roll worthy. He appeared to be well-traveled and he was a lawyer. A quick glance of his photos and I knew I had to say hello.

I’ve perfected a pretty charming hello template email, which I color ever-so-slightly for each eligible bachelor.  So I edited a few things to make it personal and shot off a hello. Then I returned to my queue to feast my eyes on the next gentleman who had scoped me out. I started with a quick view of his photos and what a nugget of joy he was. So I decided to read about him. Things were going well until I got to the third paragraph which mentioned what he liked in “the ladies.” Per-scuse me?

I scrolled to the header of his profile which proudly proclaimed he was straight. That’s odd, I thought, then clicked over to my queue to find that ALL FIVE MEN WERE STRAIGHT.

A glitch in the matrix.

I chuckled a bit and realized that probably a site logarithm had goofed – ohhh well.

No. Not oh well because I had I had just emailed COLE! I literally blurted out “Oh. My. God.” and braced myself for a cyber-fist to bust through my screen and Marsha Brady me in the nose. What should I do? There’s the “block” feature, but I didn’t know what that would do for my email, and what if he had already read it? So I ponied up, and sent an email explaining that while I did read his profile I had failed to read one tiny portion – the part where he was straight. And that I was, in fact, mortified, and to please disregard my email.

Silver lining: I got a blog post out of it. You’re welcome.

Holiday mirage

So when I’m not on a date or at the office, I act around town in theatre. For the past three holiday seasons I’ve been a part of an Indianapolis holiday production that’s a staple here in town – and there’s nowhere I’d rather spend my holidays.

I found out late in the game that they had moved in a different direction with several of the “regulars”, including me and that I was not needed this year. Totally fine as I’ve been busy at work and frankly, I’m looking forward to my first holiday season in four years that I can enjoy. No harm, no foul, I’ll be going to see the show and will support them.

But imagine my surprise when I received a promotional mailer advertising the show:

  1. I know it’s a mass mailing, and no matter how okay with a situation you are, it is a little off-putting to get a mailer encouraging you to attend a show you’ve been axed from.
  2. I AM ON THE MAILER – my photo – on the front.

Because I’m on the mailer, naturally, people are assuming I’m in the show. So I’ve had a bunch of people calling to ask me what night is the best night to come see me and can we get drinks after?

Why yes, yes we can get drinks after – we can get drinks before – we can drink DURING the show.

Silver lining: Groups of 10 or more get a discount, so I can round the troops and we’ll all go together.

Not wanted in the show – but remember, this face sells tickets!

So that happened.

Be fruitful and multiply

Sidebar: The term fruitful has always made me giggle/feel awkward. It may have something to do with the fact that before I was even out of the closet, my high school English teacher called me a fruit in front of the whole class. Pretty bold, but then again his name was Mr. Ball.

Anyhomo, anyone who knows me knows that I’m not really a fan of kids. I adore my niece, but that’s pretty much where the buck stops. Which is a puzzling shift given that my high school job was working in a daycare where I loved those kids. I’ve come to believe this loathing of children stems from a few issues:

  • Generally, the problem isn’t the child, it’s the lack of control/parenting that make them terrors. So while my loathing may seem displaced – fear not, I generally loathe most people.
  • I have a deep fear of the karma tsunami that would come my way if I were to ever have children.

In short, while I’m in a constant state of fruitful, I don’t plan to multiply.

So why – tell me why – when on my second date with “Kris” did I ask him if he wanted kids and worse agree that “yes” I want them too. Peer pressure?

So that happened.

Can I have my scotch back?

Recently, an old friend (not chronologically old, mind you) reached out and wanted to set me up on a date. Now, I don’t really have a problem keeping the dance card full, but what I do seem to struggle with is locking down any series regulars (read: Go on a second date). So I happily obliged.

I was given a photo of – we’ll call him Kris – along with his email. Kris, you see, is not big on texting or talking on the phone. So we kicked it old school and traded several rounds of spirited emails. Things progressed – we made it through round one, round two, and on round three I brought over some wine for the dinner we made and a bottle of scotch (a nice-ish one, to boot) to crack open another time. Round four was a quick dinner and we set up round five.

Five has never been a particularly lucky number for me and it appears it will stay unlucky. For, you see, on the eve of round five (while I was still at work putting out a client fire) Kris called me. The conversation went something like this:

K: How are you doing?
J: I’m ok. I’m not having a great day, I’m still at the office trying to problem-solve a situation. What’s up?

*general pleasantry and small talk*

J: (Wanting to get back to work) So what’s the plan for tomorrow?
K: I actually wanted to talk before I see you tomorrow. Are you sure it’s a good time?

No, it’s not really a good time – but now you’ve gone and dangled the carrot.

J: Of course (while shaking head), what’s up?
K: I’ve been thinking a lot – have you been thinking? (No, I never think) And I think we’re at a tipping point where we need to figure out what’s going on. (I didn’t realize that four dates was a tipping point). 

*Cut to semi-break up, even though we weren’t really dating*

K: So, do you still want to hang out tomorrow?
J: Of course (Not really)

I subsequently cancelled the next day, luckily I really did have to work late on a project. But what I’d really like is my scotch back…