A single end game.

2

It shall hereby be known that I am, officially, the worst.

The worst at what? You may ask.

Well, dear readers,  I am officially the worst at the end game.  I can cast a lure, I can get the guy interested, but I can never seem to figure out an end game.  This always leaves the boy confused, me frustrated, and both of us disappointed.

The fact is that most of the time I know my end game is ultimately going to be different from his.

Let’s take Jesse, for example.  Jesse was dancing at the Box when I rolled up last Wednesday looking to dance and drink.  So my friends and I joined Jesse in a few moments of awkward 80’s style dancing (which is the best any of this group could accomplish).  At one point, I walked up and just started to flirt with him, luring him in to the situation.  We danced. We flirted.  We laughed.  We generally had a good time.

Then the Box lights came up and it was time to go home and Jesse looked at me expectantly.

“Want to come check out my room?” He asked.

“I can’t.  I have to be up early.”

“Me too but I can go all night if you’re up for it.” He moved in closer for the kill.

And that’s when it usually hits me.  It’s like a giant, red-flashing sign in my head that reads ABORT telling me to run and run fast.  I mean, I flirted and initiated the entire situation but, when it came down to it, I was afraid to reach that end game.

So instead of jumping in a cab and following Jesse home I simply said, “Maybe next time,” and then left so quickly that there is probably a trail of regret and poor life choices burned into the floor of the Box. I know how unfair that is to poor Jesse.  He put all his chips in, hoping for the best, and I unceremoniously just swiped them off the table and walked away.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Readers, I’m just worried that if I keep this up that this blog will become a barren wasteland of frustration and angst.  I’ve got to get out of this defunct end game.

Any suggestions for me, Kids?

A single historical stud.

0

The other day I was sitting on the stoop of the Fire Hose Cart House playing with (dominating) the ants at my feet when the sun disappeared.

I felt immediate relief as my pasty, pasty ginger skin was given a break from the persistent beating the sun only offers it on a daily basis and relished the idea of the sun disappearing forever until a more logical thought hit me: A customer must be here. 

Without looking up I put on a smile and, as I began to stand, I put on my tour-guide voice (it’s a mixture of Game-Show Liv, ‘Let’s show ’em what they’ve won Bob!’ with a sprinkle of sarcasm and a dash of knowledge thrown in for good measure) and started to speak: “Hi! Welcome to the Fire Hose Cart House.  Are you interested in learning about our town’s early fire prevention methods?”

As I was speaking I still hadn’t looked at the person standing in front of me.  I was more concerned with hiding my phone (not allowed out while I’m working) and my iced coffee (not allowed on the premise) before anyone else might become privy to my rule breaking tendencies at work. But, once I had concealed all my indiscretions I glanced up at person before me.

And only one word echoed in my head at what stood before me:

DAMN.

Right in front of me was an adorable boy of good stock (that’s historical speak for ‘fine’) waiting for me to give him a tour.  This doesn’t happen often for me at work.  The most willing male participants I see usually have walkers. Anyone else who might be close in age is being dragged by a girlfriend.

Then he spoke and the situation became a whole lot sweeter:

“Hi, I’m Paul.  I’m the new interpreter for the historical association.”

Oh.

My.

Sweet.

Jesus.

Life just got interesting.  Not only was he adorable and interested in history but he was going to be working with me?

Just keep breathing, just keep breathing.

The rest of the conversation was spent with me forcing my chin off the floor while I made proper introductions and imagining where we would go on our first date: either a historic walking tour or private tour of the collections space (yeah, I decided we would geek out on the first date).

So, this summer is shaping up quite nicely.

What do y’all think? Would it be absolutely crazy of me to ask him out the next time I see him?

A single shot, revisited.

0

Man, do I have a headache right now.

Last night’s post should have been titled “A single round of shots, consumed again and again and again.” But, I was too drunk to have done anything super clever for you all last night.

It wasn’t until this morning, when I was checking my email and saw my wordpress notifications that I remembered writing that.  So, no worries, my alter-ego, Drunk Olivia, wrote that post last night.  I am the real Olivia and now I’m standing up and writing a quick clarification to all my loyal readers.

CLARIFICATIONS:

– I did not take a single shot. That is a lie.  I took seven.

– “done” not “gone”

– I have not given up.

There you have it folks! Drunk Olivia is not the most accurate but she’s got a whole lot of heart.

Thanks for all your posts and words of encouragement! As a reward for being so kind and understanding of my drunken ways, I’ve added a link that my sister, Jessie, sent me the other day, I think you will enjoy it as much as we did.

Dating Montage

A single respirator.

2

I thought, when I started back up on OkCupid, I would be gaining access to the pot of shame that resides at the end of the pathetic rainbow of men on this site.  And, with this pot-o-shame, I would be able to dole out heaping spoonfuls of entertainment to you all.

Sadly, I will be the reason for your entertainment, not some man dressed up in a snowman suit for his profile picture (although, that was pretty entertaining). Yes, I will be your man dressed up in a snowman suit.

See, dear readers, I have a problem:

My name is Olivia, and I am an awkwardholic. 

Meaning that I come off awkwardly in almost any day-to-day situation but, more specifically, when I try to meet new people.  And on OkCupid, I’m meeting new people all the time.

Most days I can mask my awkwardholism (I guess that makes me a functioning awkwardholic) but if I’m extremely tired or had a trying day, then sometimes I just can’t hide my dark secret.  And, when I try to interact with other human beings, bad things happen.

Exhibit A:

Hey!

I was trying to think of a clever way of starting up a conversation with you but, sadly, the best I can come up with was, “Hey, nice respirator. I have the same one for work.”

Hopefully, despite my pitiful excuse for a first message, you will want to message me back. I promise, I much more engaging once I move on from “nice respirator.”

-Olivia

Used for safety purposes while working, this respirator mask is similar to what I shamed myself in conversation with!

You really don’t need any other exhibits after that little number.  Not only do I admit that I was thinking about how to strike up a conversation but then I mention the one lame line that I could come up with…twice!  And we’ll just ignore the grammatical mistakes (Why point these out now? Especially when they have been plaguing this blog for the last year or so).

Nice respirator… why don’t I get a sponsor to keep me from saying these sort of things? Can I hire someone? Is anyone looking for a job out there?  Anyone? No?  Fair enough.

I always realize the awkwardness about an hour after it happens.  It’s almost like my body becomes ashamed of my awkwardholic mind and it informs me of what I’ve done wrong.  I feel it in my bones the same way an old sea-captain feels a storm a brewin’ off the coast.   But, once I realize what I’ve done, well, the damage is already done.  There is nothing else I can do.

Well, there is one thing I can do. I can place one hand on top of the other, fingers unclenched, and I can wag my thumbs as I awkward turtle myself out of the room.

And then I’ll re-enter the room.  Awkwardly.