Tag Archives: Bon Qui Qui

Nice to meet you, wanna marry me?

If you thought maybe I left men behind after that last dating series, you were sorely mistaken. Sorry. Actually I’m not sorry because it’s fun to talk about men. They are intriguing creatures. They are predictable, they’re unpredictable, they’re mysterious. Just kidding, they’re totally not mysterious, but they are interesting. Plus ask any of your girlfriends, young or old, what they think about most often right before they go to sleep and I’d bet my new pair of awesome shoes (loves) they’ll answer men if they’re honest. Even the ones that are married, engaged, dating, texting, flirting in the office, or utterly and completely alone. They either think about one man in particular, or a couple men, or simply the idea of a man they’d like to come along someday, possibly soon. Or maybe they’re cursing men and wishing they were all burning in hell. Regardless, minds are on men. Unless you are a lesbian, you are thinking about men more than you want to admit. Let’s stop fighting the urge to deny and just come out with it, shall we? None of this, “Oh I’m thinking about my career!” Or perhaps, “I actually hate men because I’ve been screwed over so much, so I really couldn’t think about them less.” Or, “I’m living my life and don’t need a man to make me happy.” Just carefree and skipping along through green meadows with unicorns, are you? That’s called denial. But it’s cute.

Is it kind of sad that we do this? Maybe. But I really don’t think so, since I hate to think of myself as a sad person. I think it makes us normal. Because everyone knows men think about sex something gross like 98% of their waking hours, and we can only guess how much of their sleeping time they spend dreaming about sex. At least women are a little less…I can’t think of an adjective. It just seems more classy to think about sex less than they do. Not that we don’t think about sex. But my parents read this jank so we’re not discussing sex, just men (plus I of course don’t know anything about sex anyway so the point is moot). Ahem. I’ve lost my train of thought and completely digressed.

Back to the point. Remember when we had Lisa Frank folders (so hard to choose just 3!) and those hideous composition notebooks? And on the inside of them you’d write “Mrs. [your crushes name here]” all over it in the scripty cursive you were learning to use? No? I’ll share mine if you admit you did it too. In 4th grade I wanted to be Mrs. Jennings, because young Mr. Jennings kicked me under our desks all day and I just thought it was the cutest thing ever, obviously. Nevermind bruises on my skinny little shins. Wounds of love, y’all. And of course we both rode our bikes to school and his house was conveniently on the way home for me so we got to be together for about 5 or 10 minutes every day. He never talked to me of course. I’m digressing again. Anyway, then in 5th grade I’m pretty sure it changed to some other young man. And same in 6th, 7th, and 8th grade, though somewhere along the way I think we stopped writing their names on our notebooks. SO not cool to put your feelings out there in the open like that. Someone could steal your notebook or something and you’d be ruined. Much better to have a delegate bff ask him if he likes you. Thank goodness those days are over. So much pressure and waiting, and sometimes your trusty delegate would mess up the note or message. It’s just not worth it to put your love life in someone else’s hands like that.

These days, we still do these kinds of things though we are much more level-headed and less crazy about it. For the most part…I obviously cannot speak for every female on this planet and we all know there are some crazies out there who are just nuts and cannot conduct themselves in a rational manner (…and I just described every woman when she’s hormonal…whatever). But ANYWAY we all still imagine almost immediately what life could be like with almost every man we ever meet. Yes you so do. Friends included I think. Again, this is a generalization, but I do believe you’re lying to yourself if you haven’t at least once thought about what it would be like to be Mrs. My-best-friend’s-last-name-who-I’ve-never-been-attracted-to-not-even-while-drunk. Right? Of course right. And we reject these notions for any number of reasons, regardless of the attraction factor.

One of my dear friends from college comes to mind. In high school, this pretty girl was dating a young man with a HORRIBLE last name. I’m not sharing specifics because this is the interwebs and anyone can find anything. But let’s just say his last name rhymed with like 9 diseases and/or viruses. And honestly, who wants to be Mrs. Streptococcus, or Mrs. Mononucleosis. Obviously if we reject men based on last names, that is not only shallow and ridiculous but unfair. Ancestry is not something we choose. But this girl really had to think from day one, do I really love this guy? Because if not, there’s no reason for me to have this ridiculous last name. Perhaps it made her smarter and helped her not settle. Either way, it’s something she thought about and we all think about almost from day one, whether on purpose, subconsciously, or by accident. Just think about Kate Middleton. When she first met Prince William at university (as the Brits say), I can only imagine what went through her mind. I mean not only would she be Mrs. Windsor [I actually had to google this…apparently royals don’t really use surnames and there is a debate as to whether they actually even have them, but according to Wikipedia, “Windsor” is the name dictated by the Queen…so just go with it], she would be Kate Middleton Windsor (or whatever), Princess of Wales. Princess. Of anything. This is like every little girl’s dream to be a princess, and here she is actually becoming one. I mean come on. So cool.

Men just don’t think about these things, and what boring lives they must lead without these fanciful fantasies (the fantasies they have are not fanciful in my opinion…raunchy and inappropriate for mixed company perhaps but not fanciful). I know that I have gotten endless laughs from thinking about this particular topic related to men. Jokes about how beautiful/hideous children would be, or being Mrs. Uglynameitis, or being married to a most loved frenemy’s cute brother, or being the pregnant barefoot wife of a bff. Good times, ladies. Just don’t get crazy. He doesn’t want to hear about your marriage plans. Leave those up to him, or at least wait until after the first date for crying out loud.

Listen. It’s been real, but I have to go wash my hair now.

Here’s the thing ya’ll. I know last time I wrote about being all googoo for boys and losing my cool and whatnot. It happens to the best of us, and plus we weren’t talking about me, we were talking about you. But today I am lamenting the fact that I sometimes find myself being the dude. Yes, occasionally I get dumped or passed by or whatever, but at least I take a hint. Nothing is less classy than the inability to let go of a relationship, after one party has made it abundantly clear the door is closed. When you are dismissed, nod your head, have a little pity party, get angry for a couple minutes then move forward. And do not go crawling back for your own leftovers. It is not cute. It’s like (warning: unpleasant) how cows chew their food, digest it part way, then re-chew it again. So gross, but it’s a perfectly apt comparison.

So why am I the dude? I think maybe because some dudes need to read He’s Just Not That Into You and realize it works both ways. Is there a version out there for men? She’s Just Not That Into You? There should be. A quick google search tells me it doesn’t exist, so maybe I should partner with the author of the original and crank that out. Anywho. Seems like the stereotype is guy meets girl, guy likes girl for a little bit, girl sees wedding bells and future babies, guy decides he doesn’t like her, moves on, girl is devastated and keeps calling/texting/facebooking/inappropriately being mean and bitter on social media sites, etc. and can’t let go or move on until she finds Mr. Man of Her Dreams, Runner Up. I believe that it is an under-acknowledged happening when the girl moves on and the guy doesn’t. We are not all soft and googoo and wishy-washy wedding wishers all the time. See previous post, but remember most the time we are cool and collected, and know there are sites like match.com should we ever grow weary of meeting guys at bars or become desperate.

The situations can vary, but the best example of this is when you get cast aside. You’re not really dating him, but you go out a couple times maybe, he expresses interest in you, you express interest in him, it’s super fun. Then in pretty short order he changes his mind, for any number of reasons including but not limited to: an ex he can’t get over, he’s just not that into you, different places in life, he’s just not that into you, or perhaps he prefers blonds, which = he’s just not that into you. [It’s a trend because it’s a fact, sorry.] So you think, well that sort of stinks. He was really  nice, and good looking, and you thought you had a lot in common and you saw it possibly progressing nicely. You had a good time. But you know what? Everything happens for a reason. He’s not right for you because he’s not over the moon for you, so you shrug it off, mentally place him in the friend zone and move on. And things are fine for a bit. You still hang out, still get drinks after work, still hang with the same crowd and it’s not awkward for anyone and that’s fab. But he seems to forget sometimes that he said no thanks. He is inconsistently crossing the friend zone border, and your border control is working overtime to keep him behind enemy lines. Not cute ya’ll.

Let’s switch perspectives, since this actually happened to me. It is one thing to flirt and be cute while in the friend zone. That’s fun. And if you are both adults and communicate about where you stand with each other, it’s harmless (which in my opinion makes it more fun). But this is not that kind of friend zone breach. I don’t care if you flirt with me after you dump me. I will flirt back, and you’re welcome. But do not pretend to be my man when we go out. Do not try to be cute and fake-coupley in public. Do not do the possessive guy thing in which you assert yourself on me so other dudes think I’m with you. Please do not block people from talking to me, guys or girls. I will cut you. And lawd, do not make moves on me. Some girls may go for it, but you found out when you first met me what kind of girl I am. If you say no thanks to a relationship with me, you do not get any other goodies on the side. Except my friendship and my presence. And I am not such a pushover that I will acquiesce to your whiles because you think you are smooth. Don’t make me remind you that you had your chance, and now it’s time to let the other little boys have a turn, mmk pumpkin?

If you really and truly have changed your mind (it happens) then win me over the real man way. Take me out. Buy me diamonds and a Lamborghini. Whatever. But do not breach the friend zone without proper consent, because my border control is far better than Arizona’s and you shall not pass.

If he needs more Midol than you…there might be a problem.

Boys boys boys! Who is shocked that this post will be about boys? If you answered yes and actually meant it, you should stop reading immediately and go have your head checked. Seriously folks, I am nothing if not consistent.

Here’s the background story for today’s foreground story: My dear friend and colleague, Queenie, has been “seeing” this guy for a good number of months (this is not a heading-towards-marriage-and-babies thing, but a good time nonetheless) and I’ll be honest and say she’s been struggling a bit. Now, Queenie is a hot chick. She is tall and gorgeous with an adorable/sexy/cute haircut, is always put together, is super smart and very good at her job, and on top of it all has a bangin’ personality complete with occasional snarky comments and sarcasm. She is the total package. Her momma done raised her right. Bottom line is she’s not the quiet, shy girl who gets walked all over by dudes. So. Dude she’s hanging with is good looking, knows it, is also smart (unconfirmed), and has a semi-decent personality (unconfirmed), and perhaps has other decent qualities about him which Queenie deems worthy. I have not actually met him so suffice it to say, she is interested enough to spend her time with him. He, on the other hand, seems interested enough to spend some of his time with her, and the rest of the time he finds it appropriate to blow her off.  I will now dissect all the reasons why this is trife.

RUDE. A la my home girl Bon Qui Qui. Miss Sassy says it is RUDE (pronounced with less emphasis on the “D”..almost like you’re just saying “RUE”) to cancel on your girl (or anyone for that matter) in excess of 3 times per every 5 times you hang out. I just made that up. But ladies, if your man of the moment is making plans with you and cancelling more than half the time for who-cares-what-reason, it is time to say goodbye. Say it with me now: Buh-bye. Go find you a man who will make plans and stick to them.

The reason: Yes, sometimes he’s bizy gurl and he gotta be at work late makin that dolla, yaknowwhatimsayin! Fine. Excusable excuses include: death in the family (ish is serious, have a heart), illness in the family if it is major, ie cancer, heart attack, etc. If he is all “my cousin has chicken pox, I can’t hang out,” that is triflin. Other reasons are case by case but I maintain, if he is into you he will sacrifice anything and everything to keep a date with you! You are hot girl, trust. INexcusable excuses include the following: He’s in a weird mood. I’ll type it again in case any of you had my reaction when Queenie shared this with me: He’s in a weird mood, as in “been moody lately.” Tri-fa-lin. I am the girl. I am allowed to be moody because I have a monthly menstrual cycle that jacks up my hormones and makes me cry at the drop of the hat and yell at everyone for anything. And if asked what my reason is for being such a queen biotch, I am “moody.” Luckily modern medicine provides Midol, Advil, and heating pads to decrease the chance that I fly off the handle at any given moment. But you, dear gentlemen, have no excuse. And if you are “moody” then PLEASE make something better up for crying out loud! There is not a chance in our Lord’s house that I will ever believe you don’t want to hang out with me because you are “moody” and “feeling off this week.”  At least be a little creative.

If a dude blows me off, this tells me a few things, but mostly it tells me that you’re not that into me. If this is not the message you want to send me, then you should stop blowing me off. It is really quite simple. If we chat every Monday and make plans to, say, watch LOST every week on Wednesdays at 9pm (DVR, no commercials, duh), and then every Wednesday at 8:30pm, you TEXT me (trife…man up and make the phone call) and say something along the lines of “hey [insert cutesy name here], I’m not feeling well, rain check? :)” this is what I see: “hey [name which makes me vom], I found something better to do, don’t really care if we hang out again but I’m half-way trying to not be a jerk.” Smiley’s in texts like that are useless and typically ignored, as there is nothing cute or worth smiling about in this situation. Alternate versions of this text read something like this “…[cutesy name], something came up…” or “…my mom is surprise visiting me…” or “I had to work late, I’m exhausted…” All of these say the same thing: found something better to do. What’s even better is when, later that very Wednesday evening when you could be hanging out, he sends something super-cheesy like “miss you [cutesy name], can’t wait to see you at work tomorrow 😉 …” E-NUF with the cutesy emoticons and wink faces.

If you’re a dude, you might be rationalizing at this point: things come up! Seriously, my mom did surprise me, you don’t know my mom! It was a once-in-a-lifetime concert! My boss is crazy and made me work until 10! Answer: I. Don’t. Care. It is my experience (either through my legit own experiences or through my homegirls’ experiences through which I live vicariously on occasion) that none of these excuses are really real. Sure, you’re mom could have surprised you. Yes it was an awesome concert you got last minute tickets to.  But what about the last time you blew me off, and the time before that, and the time before that? If it’s a pattern, it’s a problem. And as the wise Poppa Pants has been saying since I was 3, it’s what you do, not what you say. He’s right folks, and let’s be real and acknowledge that I don’t admit to that fact for just anything.

If you absolutely must break a date, the polite and acceptable alternative is to reschedule, instead of just canceling with a vague promise to call or text at a vague later time to make another vague and easily cancel-able plan.

Bottom line: be consistent, if you like me/her/whoever. Do not make plans with me, then decide you don’t like frizzy hair and cancel at the last minute. Because in a hot second, I/she/whoever will drop you and move on to the next [better looking] [smarter] [funnier] dude who thinks and knows that we are fabulous and sassy, and doesn’t mind my frizzy hair.

One sassy baked potato, hold the mustache please.

Happy Wednesday, first official day of this new endeavor being taken on by me, Miss Sassy Pants. That’s right, I’m sassy. Don’t hate. Today is not a very special day, but I have been thinking about starting my own blog for quite some time, and finally have something to kick-start this jank. I haven’t been able to decide if what I would write here would even be worth reading, but through some positive feedback from my loving friends (all of whom I know were not lying, since they have no problems telling me when I’m being absolutely ridiculous), and of course some support from my fam, I decided to give it a whirl. I love writing and my job (which will remain nameless…you know, this being on the world wide web and all) does not involve any writing, unless it looks something like this: <<def evalInstance = new Eval() evalInstance.setldpSsoId(evalInstance?.id)>> Any idea what that means? No? Right, me either really. Well truthfully I’m picking it up slowly, and not ashamed to admit I wrote that, and I know what it means. Point is, I need an outlet, people! Code is not sassy! So here we are.

Today, some of us young’uns went to good ol’ Jason’s Deli for lunch. I love Jason’s Deli because no matter which particular branch you go to, there are working men everywhere. Yes this is a good thing. Ladies: take note. Ok it’s mostly a good thing. Today it was not, because all of them were >40 years of age, OR I work with them and know far too much. Sorry guys, it is not sassy to date someone from work.  I mean maybe it could be, but not today. So here’s what happened: I’m in line with 3 other people, I order my *massive* baked potato with yummy butter, cheese and bacon, hold the sour cream and green onions please, thank you Mr. Mumbling Register Operator. I get my water. I sit down at a table next to the rest of our crowd, which is 98% dudes that already have a lot to make fun of me for.  They’re about to get more fuel.  So I sit down, put up my number in the holder-thingy so I can get me some baked potato!  I loved being served.  No more than 2 seconds go by, and here comes Mr. Can-I-Take-Your-Order…a dashing gentleman with wrinkled khakis WAY too large for him, matching Tims, and –this is the best part– a mustache. Yes ma’am. So he stops at the table and says, “Excuse me, miss?” (Pharrell, anyone? Hollaa) I politely (it’s sassy to be classy, remember this!) say, “Yes?” He says, “I just want to know – are you taken?” I’m a little confused by this question, so I say, like an idiot, “Taken? I’m sorry?” Duh!  The correct answer in all situations, unless his name is George Clooney or he resembles James Marsden, is “YES! I’m so in love, you couldn’t possibly have a chance. Sorry!” Instead, he repeated his question, and I stuttered “Um. No. Yes. Not really.” OH. MY. HEAVENS. What is happening to me right now!?  I mean he does not resemble anyone remotely good looking that could possibly win me (or any other sane girl) over within the first 5 seconds of laying eyes on them. Now I notice that all the dudes at the next table, with whom I work, professionally I might add, are watching this debacle unfold. Now my face is getting a little warm. So he asked me if I’d be interested in hanging out sometime.  No really, I’m not lying.  I said, trying again to be nice, “I’m not really looking, thanks.” Translation: Get away from me, you mustached creeper. So of course he says, “Well neither am I girl! It’s all good!” No it is not. “I’m reeeeally not interested,” I say, while seeing the dudes at the table reeling with laughter. Keep in mind I’m alone at my table now. “Alright,” he says, “Well my name is Jason.” Holds out his hand. Apparently “I’m not interested” means “yes let’s keep talking” in creeper speak.  In my head I say, “OMG is this YOUR deli!??! COOL!” JK.  I shake his hand and say, “I’m Miss Sassy Pants, thanks for saying hi.” And finally the torture is over. If I could paint a picture, or if someone had whipped out their blackberry and video’d this jank, I mean YouTube instant hit. Bon Qui Qui, who I LOVE (she is so sassy! right!), would have nothing on this guy.  Dude was straight up “Can I have your number??” Except he didn’t have one pant leg rolled up.

Summary: Gentlemen, listen up: Mustaches are not ok, unless you are >50 years old, OR your name is Tyrod Taylor. His is so good, I don’t know how he does it. Must be those dimples.  Ladies: Mustaches are not ok on your man, and no matter how much time goes by, your coworkers will ALWAYS remember the time you got hit on by the creepy register guy. And send you emails about it all day. You must be strong, and you must stay sassy!