Monday, August 29, 2011

Adventures with: Dating

What frightens you? Heights? Snakes? Spiders? All of the above? Some of those scare me, too. One thing that downright terrifies me is DATING. Yes, I am being completely serious for once. Hell, even writing a blog post about dating frightens me, as this has been written, rewritten, edited, and reedited since the first of the month.

Some of you who read this may not know me as well as some of the people with whom I have personal connections. In case you haven't noticed this about me (and you'd have to be a simpleton not to), I am very socially awkward. I wouldn't say that I'm backwards or anything, but I don't take social cues well. For me, being around people means my complete concentration on my setting and struggling with the great question of "How do I not fuck this up?" This is around just the people that I know. Getting to know someone is like terror about normal interactions times ten. (Or one hundred - it depends on the day.)

Imagine the horrors that dating holds for me. Regardless, I keep on doing it.

I know what you're thinking by now - if you're still reading. You're asking, "When is this bitch going to start trying to be funny again?" How about right now? Does that work for you Mr. Impatient-Wants-It-All-Right-Now. Yeah, I said "Mr." You're the ones that say "now now now now now now". Aren't you? Huh? Huh? Huh?

I'll walk you through what dating is like for me.

1. Meeting someone

I know it's the first stage, but I don't get past this part very often. I give off this vibe that says "She's a little crazy, sir. She's not entirely in this reality. She will also eat you for lunch because she's a aloof, snobby bitch." I don't know where it comes from. I'm not that bad. Hey! I'm not!  I will admit that I have a look on my face that is speculative, at best. I always feel like a guy that is interested in me is either playing some horrible practical joke or is too dumb to breathe. I'm yet to be mistaken. Except for the breathing part, but they are pretty damn dumb. For the most part, the ones who do introduce themselves to me are adrenaline junkies who want to climb Mount Everest (no fat or short jokes, please).

2. Getting Asked Out

This isn't always the same as meeting someone. Most guys cut and run after getting a taste of what I have to offer. I don't really try to mask the crazy anymore. To do so would be false advertisement - I live in my own little world and I like it here. I also have the Bug, who I schedule my life around to make it convenient for her. If a man can't work around her hours, I don't want to work into his.

3. Going Out

This part is often fraught with Shenanigans. Here's an example from a quasi-date that I went on recently. Gingerman decided that he wanted to take me out to a bar. It only took two months because he's a busy man. Too busy for me? Of course, but I'm a sucker for being put on the back-burner. I'm a frycook like that. Anyways, back to the Shenanigans. We walked into the bar and sat down. I was scoping out the draft selection, when I caught a glance of the bartender. I was thinking to myself, "Wow, that girl looks really familiar." I smiled at Gingerman and was about to say something to him (I was blocking out whatever he was saying because I had too many things processing at once: beer selection; bartender; Life, the Universe & Everything) when all of a sudden my blood ran cold. I told him that we had to leave. Right. Then. I didn't even explain to him what was going on as I dragged him bodily out of the door (that was a feat in itself because he's much bigger than I am).

Why did I drag him out, do you ask? Well, the bartender - we'll call her Carmen for the story's purpose - used to be one of my best friends. We met through a mutual friend who I worked with at Bass Pro back in the day. I had just turned twenty-one and I enjoyed partying as often as possible. She did, too. Her husband liked to have her out of the house, so he financed our field trips. He was significantly older than Carmen, who was significantly older than me. He was a grandfatherly type who liked to dote on pretty young girls, and hoo boy were we. Carmen and I were pretty inseparable until I started having trouble with the Italian that I was dating. In the midst of one of Italian and my fights, he admitted to me that he had been getting b.j.s on the sly from Carmen. I called her to confront her about it because I knew it as soon as he admitted it. I'd seen her naked and he knew something only nudity would prove. What I did next, I am not proud of. Her husband answered the phone and wanted to know what the Hell I was doing, calling the house so late. My red-haired and betrayed woman temperament caused me to fill him in on everything. EVERYTHING. After I finished my confessional, he informed me that Carmen had just called him from the jail because she had been picked up for driving while intoxicated. He decided that she could stay there and think about what she'd done. Of course, things were ugly between us after she spent the holiday weekend sitting in jail. There was also an incident shortly afterward where she got a steaming hot chili cheese hot dog smashed in her face, resulting in second-degree burns. I didn't do it, but I would have if I had gotten to it first. We hadn't seen each other since.

Imagine trying to explain this to a man who wants to be called Master Dr. Gingerman (it's a joke) because of his massive education and he's from a good family. Here is me, former frycook from the southeast of Hell, practically dragging him out of bar to avoid an asswhooping. (Carmen went from being a pampered housewife to someone working at a sleazy bar - yeah, I would've deserved it.) I can honestly say that it's never happened before, but I was a bit of a tramp in my early twenties, so I can't exactly guarantee that it won't happen again. See why dating is terrifying? You can't take me anywhere!

4. Relationship

I don't mind this part as much as the other. I like the consistency of knowing where I stand. I don't get to this part very often, even though I've only dragged a guy out of a bar once. Once guys see my quirks, they're either too damn dumb to care that I'm odd, or they're too busy banging the next one to mind.


I guess you can see now why dating is a little scary. Now I have to throw in the possibility of my past coming up to bite me in the ass (or kick it), in addition to my insecurities about being different than everyone else. So it's hard, scary work to find someone who sees me for what I am - a former frycook with a past, who isn't scared to drag a grown man out of a bar.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Adventures with: Names

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet." William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

My name is Kayla. I don’t have a middle name – and if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your damn business! I like my name. I wasn’t picked on too badly because of it. It was always half-hearted because there’s not much the icky boy-creatures could do with it and all of the girls were named Brooke, Rachel or Ashley. The extent of the teasing was:

My boyfriend’s back and you’re gonna be in trouble
Kayla! Kayla! My boyfriend’s back!

I was an introvert, so my lack of reaction didn’t do too much to inspire their brainwaves. Plus, what can you do with Kayla Beck? There are three syllables of mediocrity. I did get a few cool points when the musical act Beck became popular in the 1990s, but the name has been otherwise “meh”.

It was almost not like that. My mother was a teenager when she got pregnant with me. The sperm donor is a less than savory character, so we’ll pretend that he wasn’t around. Oh, wait… Anyways, my mother had these lovely prenatal hormonal fantasies about naming me:

Sharla Shantel

What sort of person would I have been if I had been saddled with that name? In all honesty, there was a good chance that it could have been:

Sharla Shantel Oplotnik

So no, Shakespeare, a rose would not have been as sweet under that name. I would have been teased in school. I would have become a stripper. I would not have embraced being White Trash personified as I have now. Okay, I’m not the literal personification of White Trash, but I still check People of Walmart (dot) com for my picture from time to time. One must be diligent in saving her good name.

Luckily, my grandmother was present at my birth and she was not a spawn-ridden teenager. She was, however, a great lover of the soap opera Days of Our Lives. Kayla and Steven were in the midst of their great love affair. Thankfully, my grandmother was able to strongarm the sperm donor into agreeing that my name should indeed be Kayla. As a consolation prize, the middle name is the same as my mother’s and my father’s – and probably half of everyone else in America.

I am Kayla and I rock the Beck. I rock the mispronunciations. I rock the Kay, KayKay, Kaylou, and Becky.

I do not rock the soap opera lifestyle and I avoid guys named Steven (and Stephen) like the plague now. I’m pretty sure they’re all worthless bastards. It’s all in the name.

**Disclaimer: Just because that was almost MY name does not mean that I assume that anyone else in the world who may have that name would want to or have the ability to shake their ladybits on stage for money. Or be as awesome as I would have been. True story. 11/8/2012

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Adventures with: Repair Men

I don’t know why, but here lately there has been an abundance of men coming to work on various aspects of the house.

Last Thursday, we had two men come from our satellite company to fix the cords in the living room and move Eden’s box from her bedroom to the playroom. As I previously blogged, I had a very special experience with one of the guys. We watched a segment of one of the morning shows about men with developed breasts. No, the fact that some men have nicer breasts than me is not funny. However, the situation is hilarious. Watching man-boobs with a total stranger is downright ludicrous.

Yesterday, some guys had to come lift our house.

We had foundation issues apparently (I think). Anyways, we called Nolan Ryan to come fix the issue, but his business was WAY too expensive. So we went with the Other Guys.

 As you can see, the house was at a slant.

Anyways, the Other Guys got here to fix our house. I didn’t pay much heed to the men because it was early in the morning and I didn’t want to get dressed. Hey, it was 9am and I don’t have to be at work until 1pm. It was like 4am for you people who work mornings, no? I tried my damnedest to ignore them men going in and out of my house, which was easily accomplished because I had four little girls who are about to be five and six to entertain. (Eden had a sleepover for the cousins the night before.)

As I was cooking breakfast for the girls, the lead man became very flirtatious with me. I think there must be an instant attraction to a lady who can make homemade biscuits by a fat man. I don’t blame him. I went on with my breakfast-making and he went on with his flirting. I went on ignoring it. Whatever.

The time came to run off the children and clean up the kitchen. Lead Man was still there pattering around and ogling my sexy mommyness. Then he began speaking in Spanish to his workers under the house. Somewhere during him giving orders, he told the guys that I wasn’t wearing a bra. I choked a little, but kept cleaning. After he gave one final order that I didn’t quite understand, something about “lifting the gatos”. (I have two cats, so that disturbed me a little more than him perving on me.)

I asked him if the cats were getting in the way of the workers under the house. I must say, his eyes bugged out a little. I then explained how I didn’t completely understand the last order, and I was worried about Skeeter-Waller and Charlotte’s. I also disclosed that I have a pretty decent understanding of Spanish. Apparently, gato means more than “cat” in Spanish – it also means “jack”, which was being used to lift our house.

Lead Man reaffirmed that I could indeed comprende what they were saying, and practically ran out of the door to tell his men. It made me giggle.

Silly men.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Adventures with: Texting

I began texting one of my good friends from a number he didn't know this afternoon. Since I haven't played a prank on anyone in quite some time, I had to have a little fun. The conversation went as follows:

Kayla: Hey

David: Who is this

Kayla: Your worst nightmare.

David: Well not much of one. So either tell me who you are or don’t bother texting back. Thanks.

Kayla: The Oogie Boogie

David: Yea bye.
            Okay, so you are using a program that has changed your 
            number. Impressive now who are you.

Kayla: You’re no fun! :P
             It’s a free app.

David: I have it now still haven’t told me who you are.

Kayla: I haven’t,  have I?

David: Who.

Kayla: :)

David: Infuriating that’s what you are.

Kayla: Why, thank you, David!

David: Who are you

Kayla: Me

David: …who is me then

Kayla:  You are David.

David:  …what is your name

Kayla:  You know my name.

David: Tell me anyway
            Come on.
            Who are you?

Kayla: You already know it.

David:  Tell me anyway I don’t care. Say it

Kayla:  Me

David: Don’t give me that I am tired of playing.

Kayla: Lies!

David: Name now.

Kayla: Now already has a name.

David: What is your name.

Kayla: My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

David: Princess bride seriously you are quoting that. Please I am tired of playing

Kayla: I’ve always wanted to use that in a conversation. My heart sings with giddy joy.

David: Okay so you’ve had phone pick someone else and quit this
             Fun* who are you seriously

Kayla: The name’s Bond. James Bond.

David: Fine forget it.

I then revealed my identity to David. And the reaction was:

David: I hate you.
To be honest, it's usually me that gets to say that line. Oh well.