Boy story – Flirting, Shots, Christina, and Twitter

Fourth of July weekend was jam-packed with boy stories. Frog Man (see previous post) was the most memorable, but this one is a close second — and documented on Twitter for those who follow me.

On Thursday night, I went to the Goodman to see a play – “Boleros for the Disenchanted,” which was really good — well acted and directed — but the subject matter made me want to stick my head in the oven. Needed a cocktail.

Enter Christina.

Christina is a good friend, and an actress/comedian extraordinaire at Second City (she plays Mother Nature in the Vitamin Water 10 commercials). She’s been focusing on writing her next show and we hadn’t seen in other in a while, so we decided to meet for drinks after her show at a bar in Old Town, directly across from the Piper’s Alley building.

A few minutes early, I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Ketel and soda with lime. And, because Christina and I always seem to get into trouble together, I was anticipating the need to flirt, but I couldn’t identify any victims.

So, I tweeted: “GinaSpot feels like flirting, but alas . . . No partners in crime.“

At that point, an inordinately drunk woman staggered up to the bar, and slammed down a 1/2 bottle of Corona. She said “If you want this, you’re welcome to it. I shouldn’t be drinking anymore.” As though I would be interested in her backwashed swill.

Again, I tweeted: “GinaSpot: still not flirting, but a strange, drunk woman just offered me 1/2 of her beer. No thanks, beeyotch.”

Christina arrived, and within five minutes two guys stood behind us. They were nice enough — not so cute — but we started talking after I became bitchy when they violated my personal space (I’m big on the personal space). They smoothed it over by flirting, and insisting on buying us shots of Patron. Who were we to decline?

The guys were a little strange, verging on creepy. One of them made sure to tell us that he used to date/live with a black woman. I declined to thank him for sharing that tidbit. They bought us another round of drinks, but once they figured out that neither of us were going home with either of them, they moved on.

As an aside, I think it’s absolutely hilarious when men of other nationalities (usually white men) make sure to inform me that they’re black-woman-friendly. This manifests in several ways:
1. They refer to previous relationships with black women
2. They comment on how much they love my darker skin
3. They make reference to an element of “black” culture, and how they’re comfortable with it. Maybe they quote hip-hop lyrics, or refer to something that happens on the south side. They expect that I and my friends will be impressed. Instead, we look at them as though they have three heads.

But I digress . . .

Again, I tweeted: “GinaSpot: Will be careful what I ask for when I say I just feel like flirting. The Universe delivered flirting partner, but he was scary!!“

I immediately followed that tweet with this one: “GinaSpot: Is being more specific – would like someone CUTE to flirt with!!“

At that point, a relatively cute guy appeared — seemingly from out of nowhere. He was wearing a vest — like one that would go with a suit.

His opening line was to ask what we thought of said vest. We gave it the thumbs down. He took it off and sat at the bar next to me, and introduced himself. Let’s call him P.

P was clearly trashed. The indicators were 1) he had a slight slur, 2) his decision to order a drink was a production — kinda like he was afraid that if he had one more drink, he and his vest might be curled up on the floor, 3) his penchant for staring at me and telling me that he found me attractive. One time is nice. 10 times is scary. He won back a few points when he laughed and said “but you’re not as attractive as me.”

He bought me a drink . . . which I neither needed nor asked for.

In the meantime, I encouraged Christina to order food. I was thinking she would choose something absorbent, like bread. Instead, she ordered chicken tenders, which are about as absorbent as a pair of dice.

As I gingerly sipped my THIRD Ketel and soda, three guys appeared behind us. They were trashed, 21 (25 max), and they were screaming that it was one of their birthdays (which could have been a line to get the guy laid. Who knows). Once again, we had the personal space issue, and once again, that complaint garnered us a pair of shots. They even bought a shot for P.

Just what we needed — MORE Patron.

Again, I tweeted: GinaSpot: Thinks the Universe is fucking with her. Just had two tequila shots w/@christinanthony and a few random men.

While Christina tweeted: christinanthony: Got the glow tonight. Out with @ginaspot and the men are THIRSTY for chrisgina cocktails! -christina

Don’tcha just love social media???

So . . . P. (who’s blood type is now Reposado) got enough courage to ask me where I was going after leaving the bar. I told him that I would go wherever he wanted. KIDDING!!! Of course, I told him that I was going home. He groused about it, and told me that I looked like I needed lots of kisses. I scowled.

Another aside — I was really happy that P. didn’t do the thing that a lot of drunk white guys do, which is to wait until they’re drunk to the point where they can barely stand, approach me (or any other woman of color in their midst) and say “I’ve always been attracted to black women.” Yuck!

He stumbled out of the bar, polyester vest in hand. He didn’t even try to get a phone number, which was fine. He was probably some poor woman’s fiance.

We were approached by yet another man, but quickly declined his offer for a shot. By some grace of God, last call was announced.

My final tweet of the night: GinaSpot: Is packing it in. No longer looking for flirt partner, Universe, so DON’T send another man to buy me a Patron shot!

The lesson of the night — be careful what you ask for — and be specific!

FYI, I was lucky. I arose early the next morning, and my tweet read: GinaSpot: is surprisingly hangover free

Boy story — the Barbecue Stalker

I had a great fourth of July weekend — especially considering that the weekend completely snuck up on me.

But, of course, the weekend wouldn’t be complete without a good boy story.

The back story goes something like this — over the course of several years, I would periodically catch a glimpse of a guy that we dubbed Frog Man. He earned that nickname because his eyes would bug whenever he liked what he saw (also because he’s a funny looking dude). He blatantly stares at women lasciviously. If you’re one of his visual victims, it’s best that you don’t let him get any closer, because he’s liable to say anything, and really . . . you don’t want to hear any of it.

That said, I was at a barbecue on the fourth which was awesome — with the exception of the presence of Frog Man. He walked in and I shuddered.

I’ve never been formally introduced to Frogger, yet he approached the group of friends that I was standing with — two men, another woman and myself. He hugged the other woman (whom he didn’t know), and I immediately stuck out my hand in introduction. He hugged me anyway, and I didn’t have the presence of mind to avoid it. It was probably the most reluctant hug I’ve ever given. For him, it must have been like hugging a two-by-four. He completely ignored the men, M. and J.. They weren’t offended, and found it amusing — especially J., who kept threatening to leave me standing alone so that Frogger would feel free to approach me for another hug. Yuck.

But, Frogger was off to the races, offended every woman in his midst. He asked the bartender if her breasts were real. He grabbed another woman’s ass. He demanded that people pose for pictures. He tried to get a picture of me, but he got mostly hair and a jawbone. He spoke loudly, and caused the other party guests to wonder why he was there, and what his problem might be.

Here are the highlights of speculation:
- “I think he’s just really wasted.”
- “Maybe something’s wrong with him . . . genetically.”
- “You think he might be on drugs? Like, pills?”

Frogger and I had a second negative encounter. While waiting in line for the buffet, he stood not one foot away from me, facing me while I was looking in the other direction.

As an aside — I’m big on personal space. I’m not a fan of close talkers. I never want to get close enough to smell what you might have been eating five minutes before. I don’t want to gaze into your pores. We don’t live in China; there’s plenty of space here for all of us, so back the hell up.

Sick of him in my space, I glared at him, and he said that he was “just testing.”

Gina: “Just testing what?”
Frogger: [to the woman behind me] “She [meaning me] used to be my girl. We used to hang out all the time.”
G: “Ummm . .. WHAT are you talking about? I’ve never hung out with you.”
F: “We used to hang out at Red’s all the time?”
G: “Red’s?? I’ve been to Red’s, like, four times in my LIFE.”
F: “See . . . now she’s trying to play me off.”
Woman behind me: “Maybe she just looks like someone you know.”
F: “No, it’s her. She knows what I’m talking about.”
G: “Listen, you stand in my face, claim that I used to hang out with you — which I didn’t — and now you say I’m LYING about it? What reason would I have for lying? You’ve got the wrong person. Period.”
F: [to the woman behind me] She’s a nice woman.
G: “I’m trying to be. You’re not making it easy, though.”

Frogger went on his merry way — before he got cracked in the head with a chicken leg.

As the evening progressed, Frogger was the subject of much conversation. The women were irritated, and the men stopped ignoring him, and had decided, instead, to take him out back, Tony-Soprano-style.

Frogger must have sensed that he was in trouble and left abruptly.

We were glad to see him go, but I must admit that Frogger was responsible for a lot of co-mingling. If a guy didn’t have an opening line, he could merely point to Frog Man, and say “what’s up with him?” Much conversation ensued.

In the end, a good thing. And he gave me a great story.

Boy stories

It’s funny . . . I’ve been writing a relationship column since 2001, and it’s one of my favorite things to do. A great hobby. The irony is that it hasn’t been great for my love life.

Some of the guys who would ask me out say that they’ve refrained for fear that they would show up in the column. Or at least that’s what they tell me — maybe they’re lying and it’s their gentle way of not telling me that they’re not interested. (My friend Diana N. teases me that they all fear the release of a column titled “Loving an Impotent Man.” I tell her that’s ridiculous — what in the world would I do with an impotent man?? LOL) The other catch is that I don’t date guys who only knew me through the column, because that’s also kind of weird.

That said, if I wanted to preserve my love life, I had to keep much of it out of the column, and off of this blog.

But at this point I don’t really care. If someone doesn’t like me because of my fave hobby, then so be it. I don’t have a “serious” love life, but the random encounters and flirtations that I have are hilarious, so why not write about them?

Look forward to more boy stories — like, perhaps when it’s not the middle of the night, I haven’t had a few shots, and I’m not exhausted.

Retro posting – rental car return

Forgot to post some funny stuff . . . .

Okay, so when I went to return my rental car last week (http://theginaspot.wordpress.com/2009/06/26/), Enterprise was going to give me a ride to the mechanic to pick up my car. I arrived at the same time as a man in a similar predicament. He was an older guy, liberal professorial appearance — kinda shaggy with glasses, grayish-blonde hair, long shorts and bad sandals.

We began the parallel process of returning our vehicles.

My return transaction was easy:

Enterprise Rental Car Agent: “Was everything okay with your car?”
Gina: “Yes.” [I refrained from discussing the fact that it was the slowest car that I'd ever driven, and pointing out that someone should feed the guinea pigs who are clearly powering the engine. What would be the point?? And in the grand scheme of things, the guy behind the corner wouldn't give a tinker's dam.]

I paid, and stepped to the side to await my ride.

The man next to me was far less concise:

Enterprise Rental Car Agent: “Was everything okay with your car?”
Kooky Professor Dude: “Well . . . there was a glare on the back window, which dramatically reduced visibility, and I was having trouble with my radio reception, so I called the office [Enterprise], and the agent suggested that I take it to the Toyota dealer. And when I did, they told me that the car is missing an external antenna, but they wouldn’t replace it, so I just suffered without radio. But other than that, and the fact that the lights on the steering wheel are really dim, everything was great!”

Okay, seriously?? WHO takes a rental car to the dealership?? The whole point of renting a car is so that you don’t have to deal with BS maintenance issues, correct? If something is wrong with a rental car, you simply take the damned thing back to the rental car company and swap cars!

It was determined that he and I needed rides to the same area, so we had to ride together.

We rode in the car that he returned. It was a Prius. I think he’d only rented it for three days, and it looked as though he had been living in it. I had to move a bunch of crap over to sit in the back seat, and there were boxes and bags crammed into the hatch area.

The entire time, he was giving a Prius tutorial to the rental car agent who was driving. Poor guy.

Believe it or not, that exchange actually made me really happy to see my car again.

Yard sale, etc.

Every year, three of us have a joint yard sale (and no, we don’t sell marijuana for those of you with a one-track mind). Jean graciously hosts at her lovely Evanston home, and it’s something that we look forward to.

One of the best parts is trying to figure out who the “patron of the year” will be. We’ve done this for several years now, and the most memorable to date has been the family that showed up with pet squirrel. Apparently they found the squirrel as a baby, and raised it as a domesticated pet.

Everything was fine when they arrived. One of the kids was holding the squirrel. And of course I had to hold the squirrel, because I can’t resist anything with fur (except for men with too much body hair. Yuck! But I digress . . .) The trouble started when the put the squirrel down and let it run around among our wares. Patty was quick on her feet and sold them a pet carrier.

This year, there was no such outstanding patron.

There were the garden variety cheap people who wanted to negotiate everything. One of my faves was a woman who wanted to buy my plastic Ikea magazine racks. They were priced at fifty cents apiece and there were four left. She wanted them all for 75 cents, which would have been irritating had she not been very sweet. That, and the fact that I had no desire to take those things back home. I made change for her dollar and off she went — in her E-class shiny Mercedes. Had I seen her car, I would have charged her $1 each!

We somehow managed to get rid of items that had never sold in the past. Jean sold her toe socks, popularized in the 70s. I sold a porcelain teapot and the old pedestal sink from my powder room that had been taking up real estate in Jean’s garage since last year. Patty sold votives and other little doo-dads that she wanted permanently removed from her home.

However, we’re still saddled with a few remaining items, namely
- A DKNY halter dress that I bought and then realized that it was about 3 sizes too large.
- Jean’s smokin’ hot black leather mini that she’s never worn. It’s marked as a size 8, but it’s looking more like a 4. Either that, or it’s for a size 8 who likes to show off their cheeks.
- A lovely Precious Moments bride and groom that Jean found in her house when she moved in many years ago. I swear, nobody wants that thing — not even its original owners. That ugly little tchotchke has become Jean’s personal albatross.

My personal joke for the year was a club-sized Betty Crocker box mix for a Cherry Crisp. We think it feeds 24. It consists of a few large cans of cherries — similar to Hostess cherry pies — along with a crumble topping. I found it while rifling through my pantry, and I can’t recall when I got it, or why I have it. I’m SO not the box baker. I was going to throw it away, but then I remembered that Jean was able to sell a jar of powdered CountryTime Lemonade, so I thought I’d give it a whirl.

Well . . . despite the prominent placement and convincing sales pitches, can you believe that nobody bought it???

It’s gone back into the vault (since its shelf life is comparable to a Twinkie), and we’ve decided that we’re either going to cook it, or try to sell it next year.

Farrah, Michael, and I’m driving a rental car???

Today (which I guess, at this point is actually yesterday) was a crazy day. First, we heard the terrible news that Farrah Fawcett passed away. She died of cancer, so that one hit home for me. I can only hope that she’s in a place where she’s no longer suffering, and can wear her famed seventies hairstyle.

THEN, we heard that Michael Jackson went into cardiac arrest and subsequently died. This one was a complete surprise. Although when I think about all of the alterations that he made to his body, it’s not completely shocking. But it’s sad. Very sad. And we’ve lost a great talent. People liked talking about what a freak Michael had become and made jokes about his lifestyle, etc., but at the end of the day everyone has been entertained by him at some point, and each of us can cite a Michael Jackson song that has made us dance or smile.

Finally, as if this day weren’t bad enough, my car isn’t ready!!! WTF?! When I called yesterday, I was told that today would be the day. It wasn’t. All of a sudden there was some part that needed ordering. I was proud of myself. I refrained from asking when he knew the part was being ordered, and demanding when someone planned to inform me that my car would be ready a day later. But then it occurred to me that this guy couldn’t care less. All of my bitching would have fallen on deaf ears. (Not to mention ears that don’t comprehend English well enough to appreciate my well-placed sarcasm and insults).

So, I decided to rent a car.

I called Enterprise, and they picked me up to give me a lift to the rental car office.

As an aside, what is up with the car rental lingo? Why do they say things like “we’re gonna put you in a car today.” What, exactly, does that mean? No . . . you’re going to RENT a car to me. I plan to put MYSELF into the car. But I digress . . .

Of the cars available, I chose the Nissan. I’ve driven Nissans and had great experiences. Much better than the Hyundai, also available.

I should have known there was going to be a problem when I didn’t recognize the model name of the car. And honestly, I still can’t recall it. Is it the Versa, or something? Whatever. Regardless, this Nissan isn’t the Nissan that I know. My Altima had pickup. This car has none. My Altima had 4 cylinders. This car has a maximum of 2 cylinders, and about 2 guinea pigs.

I haven’t driven extremely far, but I’ve noticed that my typical driving antics will certainly not be tolerated in this vehicle. It’s hard to cut someone off if you can’t quickly zip past them.

The upside is that I know now what brakes are supposed to feel like. Oddly enough the brakes are phenomenal on what might be the least powerful car that I’ve ever driven. Turns out I’m not supposed to have to stomp on them (and say a prayer), as I’m forced to in the Ford. Who knew?

Let’s hope that tomorrow will be a better day. Everyone that we love and admire will remain in our presence, and my car (which I neither love nor admire) will be returned.

Transmission? I don’t need no stinkin’ transmission!

Sometimes life can be funny, but let me say that life was not funny this week. My car (which I refer to as “the dungheap on wheels”) was having some transmission slippage issues and leakage of an unknown substance.

I got a referral for a new mechanic, having made the decision to never again visit the dealer after the last time when I was convinced I was overcharged. [Also, let's just say that I didn't have the best behavior as I was leaving, and might have said something about how I like my mechanics with common sense. This was before I called back to inform the owner of the many reasons that they would never touch my car again. But all of that is seriously beside the point. The point is that I needed a more economic solution to what appears to be my growing problem.]

I took my car in, and was invited to stick around for an estimate. The entire time I was hoping that the leak was a minor thing, and with some tweaking and transmission fluid, I could go on my merry way.

Not so much.

Instead I was told that my gears were all a mess and that I would need a new transmission. He said it in a very nice way. I’m sure he would have rather said “Your shit is FUUUUUUCKED UP.” Because it is. And I wouldn’t have been mad at him. All of those years of driving a Ford Taurus like it’s a race car has finally caught up with me.

After getting hit with a $1200 bill, I had a quick telephone consultation with my father and a friend who’s a car nut. They determined that I wasn’t getting screwed, and that, yes, my transmission was probably a mess given my aggressive driving style.

So, I left my car there . . . and took the keys with me. Because I’m a freakin’ genius. If this were a movie about my life, I could imagine a close-up shot of my hand sticking the keys in my pocket, confirming for the audience that it was a bad move that would haunt me later.

I took the bus home, which was lovely (NOT), reached in my pocket for house key and discovered (cue dramatic music) my car keys!!! In denial, I somehow convinced myself that it wasn’t a big deal that my mechanic would be unable to start my car, and decided to honor my lunch plans — even though I wasn’t playing well with others. At all.

I had the presence of mind to clear my calendar for the week.

One of my fatal flaws is that when I’m in a bad mood, I’m just going to be in a bad mood. I’m inconsolable. Period. However . . . I typically do people a favor and stay away until I can have a reasonable conversation. And being forced to spend over $1,000 on a car that I don’t like is really enough to make me unreasonable as hell . . . and unnecessarily snappy. Therefore, although I love them dearly, I steered clear from my friends who fall into the following buckets:

1) Those who ask me a lot of questions. I know . . . it’s unfair because people are inclined to ask followup questions, but seriously? Sometimes I’m SO not in the mood and I’m ESPECIALLY not in the mood for . . .

2) Those who ask condescending “guy” questions, for example “Are you sure it’s your transmission?” “Can the transmission be rebuilt?” “Did you ask if that’s the best price?” By the way, the answer to ALL of those questions? STFU! FYI, that answer isn’t conducive to good friendships, so I stay away from those relentless question-askers.

3) Cheerer uppers. If anyone forms their lips to tell me to “look at the bright side,” I won’t be held responsible if I crack them in the head with a mallet. I know they mean well, but timing is everything. A knot in the head might make them think twice the next time. (Although, as much as I hate to admit it, I was VERY lucky that the transmission only started seriously acting up after June Jamboree, the Literacy Works charity event that was held this past Saturday. I was running around all day, picking up the godchildren, hauling shit around. Just one day earlier, and the catastrophe would have been exponential.)

But I digress . . .

So . . . went to lunch, which actually turned out better than I thought (thanks Michelle and DJ) . . . and then I got a call from the mechanic asking if I had taken my keys. Of course I had; they had been jingling in my pocket for the past hour. He asked if I could bring them soon because the car was inconveniently located. I told him that I would be there in 1.5 hours (secretly thinking that this guy was certainly no stranger to hotwiring cars, and if push came to shove, could easily hotwire mine and move it to the desired location. I wisely decided not to make that suggestion — especially since I want my car back within the month).

My mood worsened because the last thing I felt like doing was taking the bus BACK over there, and then BACK home in 85 degree weather. Fortunately, dad to the rescue. He met me at the train and gave me a lift. Thank God for good dads.

Anyhoo . . . here I sit, waiting for the car to be fixed, sad that I will have dispensed of a gripload of cash, and my car will still be the same dungheap that it was before — except now I’ll know that I won’t lose the transmission while doing 80 on Lake Shore Drive (which might give you a clue as to why I need a new tranny in the first place).

You guys missed my venomous rants didn’t you? I try not to disappoint.

The annual kitty cats

Every year, some stray cat thinks enough of me to deposit her kittens in her backyard. To be fair, I didn’t have kittens here last year, but the year before the resident cat whore whom I called “Mama,” just because she was probably the mother of most of the neighborhood strays, dropped off her last litter. She was a mangy thing, with skin issues and a dull coat, but I fed her because I felt badly for her, and in return, she gave me Bailey, my cat who’s extremely sweet, but a colossal pain in my butt. The year that he was born, I caught two of his brothers and took them to a shelter. He was having none of that, and opted instead to lobby to become my own personal pet. He won, and now lives here, spending most of his time in the guest bedroom. Why? Because Phoebe, my original cat (also a rescue) hates him. Tremendously.

So, today, I went outside under the pretense of doing some lunchtime weeding, and what do I see. A little face peering at me from beneath the porch. I notice that there are two other little faces with it. More kittens. Apparently a cat other than Mama has decided that my house was the place to be. Sigh.

No worries. I’m not bringing them in house. I would probably have a feline mutiny on my hands if I did. But now I feel compelled to find homes for these little cuties. Harder than you think.

If anyone’s interested, please drop me a note, and I’ll try to get pictures of the little buggers. I would imagine that they weigh about 2.5 pounds each. SO cute.

I swear, sometimes I wish I didn’t love animals. Or men. Life would be so much easier.

Bathroom renovation — the finale

I’m SO happy that today is the final step of the bathroom renovation. The funny thing is that it’s not for reasons that most people would think. Yes, I’m happy to have full use of my own bathroom (I’ve always hated the tightness of the guest bathroom), but largely because I HATE when people are in my bedroom/bathroom. It’s one of my quirkiest, weirdest traits — or maybe more people are like me and I don’t realize it.

VERY few people have been upstairs in my house, and that’s by design. There’s really no reason to be up there . . . unless you’re a special invited guest.

So, to have random workers up and down the stairs, violating my space, making a complete mess, and in the case of today, taking smoke breaks and bringing all of their smoker nastiness back in with them, is torturous, and this two hour shower door installation (happening as I type) cannot move fast enough. It really can’t. I’m already trying to figure out many candles and open windows will be required to fumigate my space once they’re gone.

And then after they’re done, I’ll find another project to tackle — but the good news is that the next one will either be outside, or downstairs.

Yes! I know . . .

It’s been forever since I’ve posted. SO
much has been going on, and I guess I’ve had bloggers block.

Since I’ve blogged, I’ve been laid off, started a bathroom renovation project, got a new job, and supervised the finishing of the bathroom. Some fun stuff. Some not at all. I’ve been doing some writing, but I recently made the decision to launch a new website, which will be a new home for this blog (which would mean that I actually have to write regularly — go figure), and also an outlet for the column formerly known as The Gina Spot. Actually, the column will always be known as The Gina Spot — it just won’t appear in RedEye as much — if at all. Seems that that column has been effectively phased out, although I do write a little blurb on Fridays called 3Sum, which isn’t as filthy as you think — three of us weigh on a weekly topic (get it? 3 Sum?).

All that said, I’m going to try to be a more regular contributor with the hope that people will still care to read it, but be on the lookout for a new site, which will contain more fun stuff.