If you are a resident reader of this blog, you'll no doubt know that it was born from a series of atrocious experiences I had with online dating (Match.com, Salon.com) in an epically drunk 2008. Around October 2008, I had decided to turn it down a notch and stop having so much unwarranted sex. I entered what I called "The Age of Celibacy and Boredom." It lived up to its name and was excrutiatingly dull. Also, it turned out to be several months of intense personal psychological evaluation and healing in which I wrote a memoir (yes, I've tried to obtain representation for said memoir, to no avail, fuck it). I also deleted any and all online dating accounts and abandoned the effort all together, having proven my hypothesis that it is completely and utter tosh. No good can come from a relationship generated digitally and they had best be developed through the old fashioned "mutual friend" technique.
I opened myself up to this seemingly remote possibility that I might actually have a friend of a friend in the same cohort and psychographic similarity as I. Maybe they stayed home and weren't as much of a libation obsessed socially anxious twat as I. Maybe they had the clap and that's why they never came out to meet members of the opposite sex. If that were the case, clearly I wouldn't want to meet them on account of 1) having the clap and 2) being too simple to realize that the apothecary has pills for such VD.
A friend of a friend (twice removed) of mine heeded my calls for assistance and introduced me to a fellow via Facebook. It was quite easy:
Friend: Hey there, email my friend Max. He lives in Silver Lake. You might get along well.
So I emailed Max. He responded several days later and informed me that he didn't use Facebook as a regular means of communication and thusly I should call him instead. He provided his phone number and I reciprocated by providing my own.
At this juncture I yielded to standard gender roles. I don't much believe in them, but in this case I felt quite lazy and unsure of how to approach the situation. Electively obeying gender roles in a fancy subversive trick us ladies can pull on occasion. I know, it sucks, but we do it. That's the truth.
I did not hear from him. I wrote him off. I was far too into myself at the time anyway. Eating at Bandera's, drinking anywhere, wishing I was in England, obsessing about Russell Brand, and working on my memoir was really all I was interested in at the time anyway.
Yes, I was every man's dream come true.
Then one odd day, about three months later, I was typing my little fingers to nubs at one of my company's satellite offices and I received a call from an unknown phone number. I never answer these. I've done too many regretful things and spread my phone number around Los Angeles like malaria in Jakarta. I never know which phone call I receive will unlock my shame bunker.
I happened to be talking to Jab on our good social anxiety enabling friend, AOL Instant Messenger, at the time. I was taking my car into the shop that day, he believed that my car needed a little affection was due to my trying to teach him to drive a stick earlier that week (not the case, and he never learned). Like the sweet lad he is he was offering to take me to his family's auto tech, too late, though I appreciated the thought.
Later in the day I got the ovaries to listen to the voicemail left by the unknown number, and as you guessed it, it was this fellow Max. His exact words were that he "expects a call back this week". Ooooh la la, are you fucking Nicolas Sarkozy? Do you own my wishfully socialist ass? No, you don't, you should not expect a thing from me.
This significant lag in "time from email to phone call" prompted the question: Whom was he fucking in the mean time? Clearly, I wasn't that important three months ago, but how that he needs a box for his tool, I became worthy of a phone call.
Put off and belligerent about this, I ignored it and never called back.
Approximately two months after this, Max called again, as I sit here on my couch with Jab. I let it ring, unsure of what to say to this individual who had never met me but probably had no platonic interest in me. He was interested in my mythical vagina.
I listened to the voicemail. It confirmed my suspicions. He stated that he'd like to get to know me, etc. It was sort of flirty and sing-songy. Something I just sound like a douche when doing. If you don't sound like a douche doing this, it means you do it with great frequency and have a lot of practice. Oh you, I've learnt my lesson about your smooth flirtatiousness.
Despite the fact that I was pretty certain I had this cat's number, I decided to email our mutual friend and ask for advice. Not wanting to upset who was possibly a good person, I asked what the appropriate steps were to letting him down easy. As she knows Max, she should be willing and able to let me know what the considerate script to concoct is, right?
No. Instead I received a ranting raving email exclaiming that I am a "teenager" and "too smart of a girl to be acting like this". Also, she is too old to be involved in interactions like this.
I was upset. My giant ego was wrongly wounded. My ego is enormous. The bigger it gets, the harder it falls. These days it's pretty huge but is leaning like the Tower of Pisa. Occasionally, a little aftershock knocks it into a more acute lean.
I complained to Jab. He quickly replied, "She's a prick. Don't worry about it."
So I let it go. Never to deal with again, until this here blog.
I still don't know if this has completely blown over. I can assume that since mutual friend had responded with rash upset and belligerence directed at me, that my non-response to it was probably the best course of action. You can never add fuel to the fire of something irrational. Only belligerence of greater significance and consequence will ensue.
Even if I was not in a relationship at the time I received that second phone call, I still would have never replied. It felt as though it was sexually contrived and frankly, I've smelled that shit and stepped in it far too many times. It took me over twenty times of shit-steppage, but I did figure it out.
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