"....In Which Lennon Is Nearly Driven to Murder...."

So, a ladyfriend of mine was having a rough time the past week or so. I offered to buy her a drink and show her a good time to get her mind off of it. The following fit of psychosis actually happened on a date last night. First, there was the phone conversation:

Her: I'm almost ready, but I don't know if I should do something to my hair or wrap it up.

Me: It doesn't particularly matter to me. I'm sure you'll look gorgeous either way.

Her: I really don't want to have to do anything to it.

Me: Then don't do anything to it.

Her: Okay, I'm on the way.

I want everyone reading this to note that she clearly decided not to do anything to her hair, put a wrap on it and be on her way. Harmless, right?

Now, she's been out with me before, so it's no secret that I'm an outgoing date. The plan was to go to my usual place for some drinks and then head to a little "come as you are" open mic kind of event and then play it by ear from there.

When we met up, she had clearly done something to her hair (though I'm still not sure what). This is the conversation that followed.

Her: So, where're we going?

Me: Drinks first and there's this little thing over at Cafe So N So....

Her: Cafe?....like a club?

Me: Like a cafe.

Her: I didn't know we were actually DOING anything!

Me: What did you think we were doing?

Her: I don't know. I just....

Me: Please tell me you thought we were going to get a hotel room because that's still a possibility.

Her: Well, I'd have done something different with my hair.

Me: I thought you said you were going to wrap it up.

Her: I changed my mind.

Me: Well, it looks fine. I told you you'd look lovely regardless and so you do.

Her: I'm not sure I feel comfortable going somewhere people are actually going to see this.

Me: See what? I don't understand.

Her: You don't know. You're a man.

Me: It's a very low key place. Look at me. I'm in a tee shirt and jeans and I'm telling you I'm overdressed.

Her: I don't know....

Me: Tell you what...let's just go to the bar and get some drinks and see how we feel.

The subtext here was "Hopefully, after a little liquor, you'll calm the fuck down about your hair and let me quarterback the evening as planned." Unfortunately, I was wrong. Very wrong. Record breaking wrong. "I thought Leonardo DiCaprio was going to live to the end of The Departed" kind of wrong.

Her: What is this?
Me: A margarita
Her: What's in it?
Me: **shrugs** Margarita mix. I don't know.
Her: and what else?
Me: Some form of liquor, I'm to assume.
Her: Drink yours.
Me: **eating** Now?
Her: Drink.
Me: **sips** Tastes fine.
Her: Do you taste any alcohol?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Her: It's not a guess. Just yes or no.
Me: Okay, fine. Yes.
Her: No you don't.
Me: I do. I've had these before. I've walked out drunk. It's fine.
Her: You're just saying that because you think I'm going to make a scene.
Me: Wait. THIS isn't a scene?
Her: No, this is Kool Aid. I wouldn't pay for that.
Me: Gee, it's a good thing you didn't. I did.
Her: I'm just saying. You can admit it's not strong.
Me: You know what? **signals for bartender**
Bartender: What's up, Len?
Me: Punch me in the face.
Her: Huh?
Me: I said "Hit me with a shot." 151, if you please.

It was like this for a significant amount of the night. I got a text from my friends, saying they wanted to link up. I asked her if she wanted to go and she readily agreed. The drinks there were a little stronger and I needed eyewitnesses to this woman's insanity. It continued:

Her: **hears country music** What's up with the music in here?
Female Friend: Oh, it's the jukebox. It plays random stuff sometimes if nobody's using it.
Her: Oh, no! We have to fix that. I'm going to go play some music. What do you guys want to hear?
Me: As long as it's not Rick Ross, I don't care.
Male Friend: Doesn't matter to me. It's your money, darlin.
Female Friend: Whatever you want.
Her: Are you sure? Here....write down what songs you want to hear.
Me: They said it's fine. You can just pick something, dear.
Her: No, I don't wanna just monopolize.....
Me: You know what? Come on. Let's pick something. **tries to insert money, but doesn't work**
Her: What happened?
Me: Wouldn't take money.
Her: Why?
Me: Wasn't working.
Her: Why?
Me: I don't know.
Her: Are you sure you did it right?
Me: "Insert bill face up" Pretty sure I followed the directions.
Her: Is it plugged in?
Me: Yes.
Her: How do you know?
Me: **points to plug** Because it's plugged in.
Her: Do you think the bartender knows how to work it?
Me: I think he knows it's not working.
Her: You're not going to ask him.
Me: Hadn't planned on it.
Her: Huh?
Me: Means "no"

From now on, I'm going to start evaluating all my dates like they did the androids in Blade Runner.

"....In Which Lennon Follows Up and Expresses His Gratitude..."

So, after the events of last night's post, the crazy woman has attempted to call twice and text three times with no answer from yours truly. I haven't answered back and unless she gets really persistent or annoying, I have little or no intent of ever answering again. In truth, the thing that irked me the most wasn't that she was self centered, pushy and condescending. Granted, that shit was horrible and any one of those things on their own was grounds for deletion. What really disgusted me was the fact that she was so shallow. The volunteer work she (allegedly) did seemed to not matter to her as much as having it on her resume to brag about. She just wanted to own (enter fast car here) and (enter big house here). At no juncture did she offer any insight into what it feels like for her to help people or the actual impact she wants to make on the world. She just seemed to want something to hold over everyone else's head to feel superior. And after dating an evil woman who seemed to be the summation of such ambition, it's needless to say I have no interest in having such an awful person breathing the same air as me. More to the point of this post, it makes me thankful for knowing what's important to me: following my dreams and caring for my loved ones. Money is necessary and useful, but only with proper perspective. It doesn't make me a better writer and I can't spend it when I'm dead. The love of my family, making the world a little better than it was before I got here and doing something to make myself happy every single day....this is what makes me thankful. And of course, I'm thankful for everyone who reads this.

"....In Which Lennon Meets a Crazy Person..."

No, this isn't her....

Is it possible for someone to talk so much, it physically fatigues the listener? I think that's what happened last night. So, this woman asked me if perhaps I wanted to get a cup of coffee after work. There was a Starbucks across the street from my job (I genuinely think there a Starbucks across the street from everyone's job) and I could have used an Izze. Besides, I always appreciate when a woman has initiative enough to ask, so I said "fuck it" and agreed. She asked for the address to my job and said she'd be there when I got off. The night before, my friends had invited me out to a bar at the last minute when I received a text from her, asking if she could call. I advised her that I was in loud, mixed company at the time. She joked (I'm pretty sure she was joking) about how I didn't invite her. Even though I explained that it was last minute, that was a preview of what was to come.

The next day after work, I waited for her at Starbucks as agreed. She texted, saying she'd be a few minutes late because she'd had trouble finding the place which was totally fine. As it turned out, she called with a terrible attitude about getting turned around, insinuating that if I'd called from the bar the night before, this wouldn't have been a problem (...in the age of Google, computers, smartphones with GPS). I laughed it off because I'm no stranger to women being pissy when they get lost. She made it fifteen minutes late when I met her outside, greeting her with a hug. She noticed this place along the street called "The Chocolate Bar" which is exactly what you'd think it is. After pointing out that she'd never been, I decided to forego the coffee and introduce her to something new. A few spoonfuls of ice cream later, she spoke about her love for manga (Japanese comics). I mentioned that I spoke a little Japanese I'd picked up from an ex girlfriend from Japan in high school. And so came Red Flag #1......

Her: So, I'm just going to ask....have you ever dated a black woman?

Me: Yes, of course.

Her: A lot of black women?

Me: Well, I don't keep a tally, but yes, I'd say so.

Her: How black?

Me: Excuse me?

Her: I mean, how black are we talking about here?

Me: I didn't know "we" had a scale.

Her: Well, there's "African American"...."mixed"...."Oreo"....

Me: I don't think that's relevant. So, how's the ice cream?

Red Flag #2: As soon as she heard I was a writer who didn't care about money, she went into a self righteous diatribe about how I should be writing here for this publication and letting this person who she's soooo tight with read my work (Sidenote: I know half of the people she knows. Also, I've been to a couple of the things she's allegedly been to. She wasn't there.)...."or you can just keep it all to yourself in your notebook." It's almost as if she didn't hear me previously talking about how my other line of work involves me sharing my writing...or how I'm also a blogger. It was more like a job interview where you're listening to the applicant ramble on, boasting and bragging about her accomplishments, beating her chest about her work in the community when, unbeknownst to her, I've done just as much volunteer work as she has. I wouldn't be surprised if she wrote Chuck Norris-like musings about herself and masturbated to them at night. But she didn't exhale long enough to find that out. She talked so non stop, I honestly believe the woman doesn't have lungs.

Red Flag #3: The following text conversation happened this morning.....

Her: G'mornin, Lenny. What's on the for the day?

Me: Hello. Writing, a few errands, some relaxation and some more writing.

Her: You are really committed to this writing thing...all the more reason you should be profitting from it....if not in cash, in notoriety.

Me: You do know what I do involves me sharing my writing, right? As in "out loud"? As in "in front of people"?

Her: Oh yeah...forgot that part.

Me: In addition to my progressing blog projects....

Her: Oh. Forgot that too.

Me: And my freelance work. Also, for the record, the word you were looking for was "profitable." And please don't call me "Lenny."

Her: Why?

Me: Not a fan of that name.

Her: Never again. What term of endearment should I use, love?

Me: Lennon.

Her: That's not a term of endearment....it should be special. Can I call you "Nommo"? "Nommo" means God's vital force through word.

Me: No.

Her: But it's from our continent...sacred language.... :( Maybe it's just sacred to me...never mind.

Me: I don't like pet names and it's a little too soon for that.

Her: Maybe so. As you wish, Lennon.

Me: I won't keep you. I am sure you need to finish your projects. ttyl

One of these days, I want to meet these men that find women like this endearing.

"....In Which Lennon Throws a Flag On The Play...."

So, I was on the bus ride home when I ran into a sister I hadn't seen in ages. We met once, exchanged numbers and had a few productive conversations about possibly getting together. However, the timing was bad and I'd just started seeing someone (one of the only exes that I still respect), so we eventually lost touch. She seemed to not have changed much (to her credit), so I exchanged a few words with her and she inevitably asked for my new number. Later that evening, we engaged in a small bit of conversation. This is part of that exchange.....


Her: So, what've you been up to?

Me: Oh, same old same old....the job's treating me okay. Same with the writing. Other than that, nothing special.

Her: Lucky you. I'm looking for bigger pay, better job. My job is steady so it's not a rush, but I'm always about advancement.

Me: Well, just stay positive. It'll work out for you.

Her: It had better! Do you know how hard I work?

Me: I can imagine.

Her: I want to live well and guarantee my future for myself and my future children.

Me: That's commendable.

Her: That's reality. I don't know if marriage is the plan but children definitely are so I have to grind now so I can enjoy them later.

**Blows Whistle** Umm..."I don't know if marriage is the plan, but children definitely are..." What?! Do you want a baby or a puppy? I understand that shit happens. People  have children with people that shouldn't be in a relationship with ALL THE TIME (seriously...watch MTV for a day), but I'm skeptical about women that knowingly want to sign a child up for a one parent household. I'm just saying....beware.

"...In Which Lennon Calls Out a Backpedaler..."

One of the most fun things about being single is that you get to watch things go full circles. You get to watch people tell you they're not looking for relationships when they really are. You get to watch evil exes preach on Facebook about what you shouldn't put up with from a man when you know for a fact that's exactly what they put up with (from you AND the guy after you). More to the point of today's post, it is inevitable that you'll run into the occasional "backpedaler."

It wasn't so long ago that I was a lanky Peter Parker of a man. Intellectually capable, but just a bit awkward. I held my own with the opposite sex, but my batting average wasn't exactly one to brag about. I got dissed just as much as I succeeded (if not more than)...especially by one young lady in particular. I was working on a video project at the time that required several street interviews when I, by chance, ran into this endearingly southern woman who was willing to be on camera for a few minutes. After the interview, I thanked her for her time and as an afterthought, asked her if she'd be willing to meet up for a cup of coffee sometime. She politely passed and we went about our separate directions.

It wasn't the last time I saw her, of course. We turned out to be on opposite ends of the same social circles. We ran into each other quite often and, as someone who's very honest about what he wants, I made no secret of my intentions. My advances were spurned quite regularly for gym junkies, jerks and men with tight shirts. Fast forward a few years later...I work out more often and although I don't quite look like Spartacus, it's noticable that I'm in decent shape. I look better, I have a better job than before...suddenly a woman who has never interacted with me on Facebook texts me everyday. I even get pet names like "handsome", "cutie", "babe." In all likelihood, I'll be in a position to be able to sleep with her within (rough estimate) two or three dates.

I don't say this as some testament to my own arrogance. It's quite the opposite, in fact. Other than a couple of pushups and a slightly bigger paycheck, I'm the same old Lennon. My circumstances haven't changed so much that I'm that much more significant a catch. What's the catalyst here? It's always been my philosophy that a true judge of character comes from watching how people treat someone they don't "have to" treat well. The real educational moment comes when people feel they're not being evaluated and you can see them for who they really are. It's not that I don't appreciate the karma (if you believe in that sort of thing) at work, but I submit that "backpedalers" are the most suspicious kind of people there are.

"...In Which Lennon Questions Your Manhood..."

In terms of dating and relationships, men and women alike subscribe to several pipe dreams. Although there are so many I could cover here, the one that irks me the most is the concept of manhood. I don't mind saying  that I think I'm a pretty good guy. When I was a "relationship guy", I'd like to believe that I was reasonably indicative of the man my mother raised. However, as it stands today, I think some of the frequently ridiculous notions that are often associated with the stereotypical man would keep me out of the running if I wanted to be someone's "boyfriend."

On this day last year, I was entering the death rattle of a bad romance. As it turned out, if you ask her, she was entering the honeymoon phase of a wonderful romance...with another guy. And she forgot to tell me. For two months. In short, I became the "other guy" in a relationship I didn't know was happening. The guy had been around long before me and whenever I asked, I was told there was nothing going on. At this point, she'd earned enough of my trust that I was comfortable believing her. Later, whenever I pressed the issue, it only resulted in a shouting match. This is how we spent the last leg of our time together. Fighting about shit that ended up being true. Recently, I was talking to my friends and it came up. Granted, it only came up because my friend thought it would upset me enough that I would concede her point, but I digress. One of my friends went on to point out that I should have "put my foot down" about her hanging out with him, that women expect a "real" man to talk forcefully with them. It's actually very much like the stereotype of the cartoon caveman that would hit the cavewoman on the head and drag her back to the cave as a form of choosing a mate. This is where we go wrong in relationships.

There are many women who subscribe to this fantasy that it's only true love if a man drags you by your hair into a decision. Men are assumed to not care about their s/o if they don't beat their chests like silverback gorillas at the sight of another man taking his shot at her. You know what that reminds me of? High school...where teenage girls let a man hit on them to get their boyfriend's attention. I wonder....what governs their lives when they don't have a man? How do these women define themselves as adults if they're still waiting to be told what to do. I'm not saying this to be mean, but it seems like it never occurs to them...or some men, for that matter.

I'm not ashamed to say that if I did decide to entertain the notion of monogamous relationships again (which is very much up in the air), it would be because the woman on my arm WANTS to be there without me having to tell her to. Maybe it's just me, but love doesn't have to do cartwheels atop the Empire State Building to be relevant. Love doesn't care about competition because love isn't a race. Love isn't concerned with planting a flag in conquered territory like Christopher Fucking Columbus, recognizes that quiet dogs bite hard, appreciates the bond between mates instead of the idiocy they put each other through. In other words, if you ask me, Love is a grownup.