Saturday, June 16, 2012

For the love of the lack of the game

I didn't have boyfriends in high school. It's a little hard to understand because I wasn't ugly. I just had zero game. The only thing I knew about romantic relationships was what I gathered from watching Disney movies and my parents.

Disney movies involve boys not wanting sex but instead wanting to come to my family's thanksgiving dinners and look at cute baby pictures of me wearing silly hats.

My parents don't fight, they have no insecurities or jealousies, they have an intricate level of trust that I will never understand, and they would rather be with each other than anyone else.

You may see how this would set me up for an unrealistic expectation of high school love.

This could be an extremely long blog but I shall keep it short in hopes that you'll read it and comment on it.

We'll start with a guy I will call Amus. Because that sounds like anus and he was anus-like.

I met him at the beginning of my sophomore year, when he was in the same talent show as me. He played the guitar for a cool girl who sang some cool song. I sang something from a musical by myself with no band. Neither here nor there.

He loved him some Jesus and we would go to church on Wednesdays, where he would play the guitar and I would think of the things we could do if we didn't both love the big prude guy upstairs so much. He called me gorgeous and drove a hipster car, so I would make him my boyfriend. He came over to my house and met my parents and laughed with my brother over how often I spilled things and broke stuff.

Clearly, he loved me.

But people started telling me otherwise. They said he just thought I was hot and wanted to take off my clothes. When I asked him about it, he said "Well, it's not like you really thought we had some deep love connection, right?"


If I knew then what I do now, I would've ignored his ass and looked hot and happy at school until he regretted ever letting me out of his sight.

But, I didn't know, and Amus knew that. He somehow convinced me keeping it casual and not telling anyone was the only way to make it work. I excitedly agreed, just please keep holding my hand in the car and singing Third Eye Blind. I knew where his classes were, and would wait outside of them. Sometimes he would walk right past me and then I'd cry. One time we ended up at the same house for a night o drinking, which we didn't do because of Mr. Jesus. Not only did he drink, he didn't speak a word to  me the entire time we were there. I had a friend of his take me home, and I bawled in the backseat in the fetal position the whole way home.

His friend only said one thing, "He doesn't even like you"

I decided to move on but he didn't want me to. I have a feeling this is because I told him once we had been together for a year, we could make that sweet nasty high school love. He had other girls but would still make me feel like we were kinda sorta a little bit together. I would cry and tell him I loved him. I begged him over and over again to come to my recitals and plays. I requested kindly that he acknowledge me at school. He refused and I was like 'that's okay he still loves me, as long as sometimes he calls me and tells me that.'

Then the summer came. I turned 16. Went to church camp. Listened to N Sync. Got awesome boobs. Gained some self esteem. Was doing good and being strong and awesome and fun.

Then Amus came back. He's all, "let's be together so we can still do it". He took me the lake, where he had floating candles in the water. He had borrowed his friend's trailer. By trailer, I mean a home where he thought he could he could drive his car into my innocent garage. But I had the strength of the Virgin Mary (pun very much intended) and I told him if those were his intentions he needed to take me home. He took me to a gas station, where my friend was waiting to rescue me, and NEVER TALKED ME TO AGAIN. Not at any social functions, not at school, not on myspace 5 years later, NEVER.

Pathetic. That was a long and extremely sad one. Here are just a few more short examples of my complete and total lack of game while I was in high school.

- I chased and chased and chased this guy who worked at the bingo parlor. I would sing Mandy Moore with my eyes closed, thinking of him being my boyfriend. When he did finally ask me for my number, we spoke for 3 hours. It was a great conversation. He said he had really enjoyed talking to me and would call me again sometime.
               Me: When do you mean by sometime? I need to know when?
              Him: hahahah okayy miss bossy
              Me: No I want to know the time and day you intend to call, I don't want to be like, waiting around forever.

      He never called again.

- I had been dating a guy for 4 days when I cried on the phone with him because he wouldn't take me to a non-formal dance and instead wanted to see the birth of his nephew or something.

-  I met a guy at church and then searched on AOL for anyone I could find that also went to his school that could give me info on whether or not he had a girlfriend. I think I wrote 12 emails.

- I met a guy at a lockin who agreed to come to my parent's house afterward to make out with me on the couch. As he was leaving in his Dodge 2500, I said "I've never had a boyfriend who drove a truck before!"  He never called again.

- I liked a boy who invited me to his house to watch a tape of a band performing. His friends were there too and I wanted them to like me so I acted really, really dumb.  I also wandered into the kitchen and found his mom, where I professed my obsession with her son and suggested me and her hang out sometime. He REALLY never called again.

I am sure I have some stories about me also breaking some hearts. I didn't realize how much of high school involved the love of the chase.

 It's much more fun to paint myself as a victim, though, so feel sorry for me and tell me how much of a catch you're sure I was in 1998.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

I just want to see a black guy in public that ends up not being an everyday black guy.

This is getting ridiculous.

I sit here, a humble woman. A humble woman wearing a Thunder t-shirt, a thunder necklace, and orange nails. My face is smeared with wrinkle cream that's endorsed by the NBA.

I'm not racist, but I

Wait a second, when people start sentences like that they usually follow it up with something offensive and stereotypical that makes people cry. Kind of like when I start a sentence with "Bless her heart". You can be damned sure "her baby looks like John C Reilly" is coming out next.

But not in this case.

I'm not racist, but I want every black guy I see in public to end up being Kevin Durant. Especially when these black guys are tall and wearing a hat and sunglasses.

It's not fair. I don't get to run into Thunder players and that's the only true thing I want out of life. I don't need money, trim thighs, a 2013 Gwagon, or baby smooth skin on my face. I DO need to watch Kevin Durant picking up a prescription from Walgreens.

I have been to a few Thunder games, so I have seen them in person. That's not even close to what I want. It doesn't have to be Kevin Durant. It could be any other play who currently plays for the Oklahoma City Thunder.  I would prefer him to be Kevin Durant or James Harden or someone who is not Russell Westbrook.

I'm not sure why it is, but Russell Westbrook angers me. I will scream at him to pass to KD the whole game. When he misses a shot I yell at him and call him mean names. When Kevin misses a shot, I post "It'll be okay buddy face, keep your head up!" on his Twitter. I'll yell at Russell the whole game how much he sucks,  then I see he scored more points than anyone the whole game.

Anyway, I'm getting off point.

I was at the nail salon today. The same nail salon I was patronizing when I saw Kevin Durant's mom. She's kind of a big deal because KD LOVES THE ABSOLUTE SHIT OUT OF HIS MOM. I thought she would be my "In", but she ended up kind of hating my soul.

Mary: You're Kevin Durant's mom, right?
Wanda: Yes, I am.

Mary: Uh, do you know how much I love him?
Wanda: No I don't.

Mary: Can I please come hang out with ya'll on Mother's Day? I'll bring a pie or something. Please.

Wanda: You just made me lose at Scramble with Friends.

Mary: Can we call Kevin?

Wanda: As much as you be stalking us you should know he's at practice!

That's pretty much how the whole conversation went. I compare it to my yorkie, when he jumps up and tries to kiss me on the mouth,  I kick him in his mouth and don't feed him.

At this nail salon, a hot black girl and her man walk in. Her man is tall and wearing sunglasses and a hat. He doesn't take them off when they sit down for their pedis. I start to realize that this means he's famous and I need to attack.

I adjust my seat so I can see behind his sunglasses.

Eh, he's got acne scars. I don't think my boys have any scars. They're perfection and I want to tuck them into bed at night while singing them a Judy Garland song. Except Russell Westbrook.

Maybe he plays for the Heat? Maybe he came into town early so his hot girlfriend could hit all the awesome OKC shopping.

I google Heat players on my phone and alternate staring at him, straining my neck, and looking at my phone. I look in the parking lot to see if he had a nice car.

I'm starting to get frustrated and consider asking him to take a pic with me. Then I can judge his reaction on whether or not he's famous. It's a pretty solid plan. If he's confused and scared, he probably works at Big Lots and is 35. If he seems slightly annoyed but says yes, he's gotta be someone famous and I can figure it out later based on the facebook comments I'll get after I post the picture.

I am about to put my plan into action when I realize his girlfriend is staring at me with the hate of one hundred thousand Pentecostals in her eyes. Her expression says,

"Why are you staring at my man? I specifically chose this man because he has good credit and acne scars and a big gut so I don't have to deal with you trying to steal him with your emerald green bedroom eyes."

That's when I realized he had a gut. A pretty large one. He wasn't anyone famous or athletic.

So the moral of the story is:

Whenever someone posts on Facebook that they saw Kevin Durant at Dillards, or the movie theatre, or at the Mercedes Dealership, or in a parking lot at Cool Greens. Don't get jealous. Don't throw your computer in an it's not fairish kind of rage.

I vow to stop staying at home taking pictures of myself and watching documentaries and go everywhere I possible can, all the time, when they have a game at home.

Maybe then, and only then, will I finally stalk a tall black guy who actually deserves it.