love

mother is the ultimate cockblock.

by forloveandwhiskey
My date and I were sitting in his car outside of my apartment, talking about serious things. Usually if you’re inside of a parked (and turned off) vehicle with a date, that can only mean that the both of you just want to suck face. However, on this particular occasion, we were talking about our relationship and discussing adult things. I remember staring at the dude sitting next to me, wondering when he would shut the hell up and kiss me already. Honestly, I hate when the “relationship talk” comes up unnaturally and it seems like it’s being forced through a tiny hole where no one knows the outcome nor are they ready for it. If two people are on the same page, it becomes an unspoken agreement that doesn’t need a verbal analysis.

Anyway, we’re talking. There’s a lot of emotion in the air. Suddenly, my phone blares obtrusively and I see that it’s my mother. I silence it. She calls again. I silence it yet again. I turn all of my attention to the guy when suddenly, his eyes widen and he squints over my shoulder.

“Uh. Is that your mom?”

I whip my head around and in the distance, I see a stout silhouette of a woman standing on the 2nd floor. Her arms are crossed and even in the dark, I can feel my mother’s terrifying gaze.

I simply mutter, “Gotta go,” and leave our conversation unfinished. It was middle school all over again, and I was admonished all night for being loose and flaunting my goods to boys who only wanted my boobs and not my heart (her words, not mine). Damnit mother, you truly are the ultimate cockblock of the century.

I love the lady and I don’t mind her living in my apartment while she figures her business out, but man. I seriously don’t get any action anymore, and the gentleman callers are down to ZERO.

The worst of it was when I was on a date with a guy who had driven over an hour and a half to get to me, and we ended up having a fantastic date. It was nearly 2AM when we walked over to his car, and I mentioned that I would have loved to have him over if not for my mother. The melody to “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” raged inside of my head as we spent the next four hours in his car, and although it was one of the most glorious make out sessions I ever had with a guy, my muscles paid for it later and I was walking awkwardly for the following two weeks. I had an unforgiving black bruise on my back from the gear shift alone, and had to give a blubbering explanation about its origin when my mother walked in on me (very intentionally) while I was in the bathroom.

Let’s just say that when the Mrs. finally moves out, it is freaking ON.

the guy who hid his baggage (and not well).

by forloveandwhiskey

You would think that for a girl who goes on a ton of dates, love is an even bigger possibility. This is not the case for me, and it’s more common for me to go on a date with a guy who has clear issues than not. I went on my first GOOD date in months a couple nights ago, and I have been over the moon about it ever since. ONE GOOD DATE. IN MONTHS. Anyway, one thing that happens often is that the guy ends up lying to me about something. But it’s not a small white lie like, “Oh I only lied to you about that phone call because it was actually the restaurant confirming our amazingly beautiful date where I rented out the whole place and the floor would be covered in angel dust and rose petals.” It’s more like, “Oh I know I might have said that I have never been married, but I actually have and I’m divorced. And I have two sons who I pay child support for.”

By the way, that shit actually happened. But this is ANOTHER guy who lied about being divorced.

I had gone on a few dates with this guy who had the whole package: he was tall, he had a great job that he loved, he didn’t have mommy issues, and he was surrounded with family and friends who he had seemingly great relationships with. He seemed transparent with me, and by the third date, we were strolling over a romantically lit bridge with our fingers tangled together. It had been nearly a month since our first date, and I was ready to move forward.

Now, I had decided to do a little experiment and told myself that I would not Google-stalk this guy. No matter how tempting, I would keep from typing in his name and scrolling through page after page of little fragments of his life (if he actually had that much of an interesting life). I remember I was trying to fall asleep after that third date, but I simply couldn’t. My heart was heavy and there was this deep feeling in my gut that made me super uncomfortable (and this time, it was NOT gas).

I sat up and grabbed my phone. Without pause, I Googled him. The first couple pages were normal; the usual social media pages, his company’s bio page, his name on his alma mater’s Dean’s List page. Real basic shit that made him seem like a saint. Then I saw it. A photographer’s website featuring my date and his WIFE. Mouth agape, I flipped through all the photos and their smiling faces became a blur when I saw that there was a link to their actual wedding day, which the same photographer shot. Now the burning question remained as I squinted out the window to see the sun rising. Was this motherfucker married?

I decided to wait until a humane hour to text him. But before I did, I scanned through our old texts and his profile. He had made it very clear that he had never been married, and he was single. We had even joked about wedding rings before, and I said that diamond rings were outlandish and boring, and I wouldn’t mind a tattoo around my finger. He responded that he didn’t get why people bought those rings either, and if he ever got engaged, he would consider the tattoo idea too.

I collected my thoughts, then finally texted him.

“Hey there. Can you talk real quick?”

He said yes and I called him. I asked him casually, “You don’t have a twin, do you?” He laughed and said no, then asked why I was asking. I told him calmly what I had found and just needed him to tell me if he was lying to me this whole time. There was a deafening silence after I was done, and he quietly stammered, “I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

Then the confession came flooding out like a tidal wave of vomit. He was STILL married, but separated. They had decided to separate a MONTH before he first messaged me. He didn’t love her, it was over a long time ago, blah blah blah. I interrupted him severely and asked him why he had to lie to me though.

“I don’t know. I like you a lot and it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

I said goodbye to him right then and there, and later came to this realization: If a guy likes me, that is a wonderful thing. But in liking me, if I am any part of the reason why he turns into a liar and a coward, there is something horribly wrong and he needs to stay the hell away from me. I can only hope that I’ll bring out the best in my partner, and he’ll trust me enough to even confess his very worst.

the guys of barney (rest in peace).

by forloveandwhiskey

I recently got into a major accident and my poor Barney was totaled. Not only was that car a symbol of my adulthood (first big purchase with my hard-earned money), but it was a memory machine that contained within its red shell a lot of good times. And definitely some shitty ones. I’d like to take this time to mourn this loss by recollecting the top 5 memories I shared with Barney.

Don’t worry, they all have to do with men.

  1. I was dropping off a really drunk friend who—as soon as I parked in front of his place—lunged at me, licking the entirety of my face and confessing his feelings for me in-between saliva splattering on me and the odor of heavy alcohol consumption seeping through his pores. He even excused himself to throw up… into my cupholder. We don’t really talk anymore, and to this day, he refuses that anything like that ever happened. What he’ll never know is that I actually recorded him.
  2. Someone had scraped Barney’s rear bumper during church one morning, and they didn’t even leave a note or anything. Since it was the first “ding” on his body, I was especially upset and it was exactly like that feeling you get when you leave the screen protector on your iPhone on for as long as you can and then someone rips it off as a cruel joke and you just can’t put it together again. I digress. Anyway, I was ranting to a guy who I was talking to about it, and he was really sweet. The next day, I was leaving for work and once I approached my car, I noticed something on my rear bumper and saw that someone stuck an adorable band-aid over the scrape. God, that was cute.
  3. I saw it in movies, and I always wanted a guy to do it. Then when it happened, I wanted to rip off my clothes and dance on the roof of my car. Within a split second of kissing a date adieu, he lifted my whole body by the waist and placed me on top of my trunk. I giggled like an adolescent girl, and a small dream was fulfilled that night.
  4. A boyfriend and I had broken up, and as soon as I turned on the ignition to leave, he ran up to my window and admitted that it was really difficult to say goodbye. I agreed, and we ended up having one of the best conversations of our relationship right there, our arms tangled and draped over the window. All the arguing and tense situations we faced as a couple dissipated and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was talking to my dear friend again. However, the drive home after that was nothing short of an emotional explosion.
  5. I spent seven hours in my car with this one guy who I had really began to like, and it was as if we were living like a typical, fantastically adorable couple in a tiny-ass studio. We had a dance party, we sang along to Disney songs, and we made out like crazy kiddos for at least 57% of the time. When the sky started to brighten, we were wrapped around each other with a beach towel over our bodies and the voice of Celine Dion softly lingering in that sweaty space. We knew it was time to call it a day, but why not go out with a bang? That Beauty and the Beast song still makes me blush.

Thank you for being a part of many beautiful moments, and thank you for tolerating the really ratchet ones. You were a good and loyal steed, Barney.

the guy who stood me up.

by forloveandwhiskey

I wrote this in a private blog a few months ago and it was worth re-blogging for you all.

—

I was in such a rage today that I couldn’t even manipulate my tongue to form any words.

All I could do was make extremely unflattering guttural sounds while jerking my arms in the air like a marionette in a tornado.

I got stood up for the first time today. And it didn’t feel good at all.

It was my second date with a guy who wasn’t doing a very great job in trying to impress me or to win my favor, but I decided to give him a shot anyway when he contacted me and asked me out to brunch. We were supposed to meet at his apartment, and I had a whole hot outfit chosen and mentally prepared to wow him like I usually do with people. Come on.

I had texted to tell him I was running late, because my roof decided to pour remaining rain water into my kitchen. The maintenance guy took forever to examine the crack in my ceiling, but how fucking long does it take to look at the ceiling and notice the crack in the ceiling? Why do you need a flashlight to look at it, sir? Why do you need to peel back the paint to further investigate? JUST GO TO THE DAMN ROOF AND FIND THE CULPRIT LEAK POINT. AM I BEING COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL HERE?

Sorry. Back to the story. I tell him I’m running late. No response. Fine.

I get to the apartment, text him again. No response.

It’s getting cold (by Southern California standards, this means the low 60s), so I walk over to my car and sit inside. This is when that feeling of embarrassment starts taking over. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Why the hell did I waste my time coming here? Why did I have to look so damn cute for NOBODY?

No. Words.

I waited twenty minutes and heard nothing. I peeled out of there, absolutely mortified.

The thing is, when I didn’t hear from him at all that night or even the next morning, I became concerned. As I mentally scrolled through the different tragedies that could have occurred to that boy, I remember jokingly telling myself, “He probably got trashed.”

LO AND BEHOLD, AT 5PM THE NEXT DAY:

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I had to practice a lot of restraint not to lose my shit. I simply texted that he needed to call me and apologize, so he did and then explained about the wild drunken night he had with his homies. What upset me the most was that for someone who already knows about the effects of alcohol and how horribly difficult the next morning can be, he still made the decision to drink his ass off. It seemed super irresponsible and I didn’t feel like he put any value into our pending date. And then he TEXTED to apologize with that pathetic two-liner. I was too disappointed to give him another chance, which he asked for.

Cool story bro, but get out of my life.

blonde changes everything.

by forloveandwhiskey

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My profile photo used to be a rather adorable one with a brachiosaurus and a brunette CJ, and as soon as I changed it to a blonde CJ with sunglasses and a skirt, my inbox blew up with guys commenting about it and going into detail about why Asian girls with blonde hair is the shit. And to answer this guy’s question (although not directly to him since all his photos were him practically naked… my word!):

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Yes, yes I am. The catcalls are more frequent, the compliments are more scandalous, and the guys are more blatant about making it known that they want to do disgusting things to me. There was one guy who called me Marilyn Monroe at the supermarket who added nonchalantly that I should wear her little white dress, and then there was that other guy who said I looked like an import model and I should get breast implants next.

The reason why I went blonde is because I felt like it described my personality better. I’m loud and I don’t mind a lot of attention, but I also consider myself a thoughtful creative who’s colorfully abnormal, like a walking Picasso. And I’m proud to be that, therefore the blonde was more of a profound unveiling. But to these MEN… it’s like I became something fantastical that would fuel their trashy desires even more and it has been quite interesting (and unnerving at times) to observe.

I met up with a friend at a club because this DJ she liked was there, and that was probably the most Amish I ever looked. I had gone straight from work, and I was wearing a long sleeved shirt, a skirt, and leggings. There was no boob or ass action to admire, and I was (and I know this is very hard to believe) sincerely there for the music. One guy came over and murmured into my ear, “Love the hair. You look wild.” His hand was suddenly on the small of my back and I wrestled my way further into the crowd.

Now I’m wondering if I’ve made myself an easier target, and if it’ll just be harder for me to go on dates with guys who want to get to know me, rather than the slutty Asian chick they are concocting in their minds. It would be nice to be able to express myself without being sexually harassed and handled like a sticky, dirty magazine.

the guy who bore me to death.

by forloveandwhiskey

Nice guys don’t finish last.

Over-religious, sensitive boys with voices as delicate as dandelions finish last.

Through the interwebular (new word, BOOM) world of dating, I connected with this boy who seemed normal and sweet. We emailed back and forth and he finally asked me for my number, which I gave to him without much hesitation. Then he emailed me again a few hours later: “Hey C, not sure if I have the right number because some dude keeps picking up.” I re-checked our previous emails, and damn, I had accidentally given him the wrong number. Or perhaps my subconscious was trying to protect me?

We talked on the phone that night and I literally fell asleep during the call. He was boring, his voice was squeaky and soft, and he kept saying, “You giving me the wrong number. That’s a funny story.” Calm down, dude. We laughed awkwardly for one second and that was it. Stop trying to make that a “thing.”

After that conversation in which he talked about his church friends and how much he loved Jesus and how much he would love to pray for my salvation, I very honestly told him, “Hey E, I’m going to cut this conversation because I just don’t feel any connection and thank you for your time.”

Dead silence. Then he shyly joked, “But we have that funny story where you gave me the wr–”

“YES,” I interrupted. “The wrong number, yeahyeahyeah. I’m sorry, I know myself well enough to know this won’t work.”

He politely thanked me and we hung up. Then he kept texting me. Day after day. I texted him back a few weeks later, “Hey E, I thought I made myself clear, but I’d really like to say no to us having any further interactions.” He politely complied again.

Then he added me on Facebook a couple weeks ago with this message:

“Hey C, it has been a while huh? I wanted to add you as a friend because I still think about that funny story where–”

Do I even need to finish? Excuse me as I set my eyeballs on fire.

the guy known as “The Italian Stallion.”

by forloveandwhiskey

I was never that girl who got drunk and wobbled around like a newborn foul, spewing yellow gunk from my nicely lip-lined lips while hurling insults at strangers. The worst that I’ve done is to bolt, never to return again. My friends found me later that night sitting on a curb as a police officer in tight biker shorts scolded me for being an idiot. Other than that though, I’m a fun, happy-go-lucky drunk.

When I’m on dates, I like drinking a lot with the guy because a) it relaxes them and if they’re nervous, it calms them down, b) it relaxes them and if they’re fucking boring, at least I’m drunk, and c) it’s a lot more fun when the walls come down and alcohol makes anyone brutally honest.

I went on a date with this Italian lawyer (let’s call him the Italian Stallion because I just watched Rocky II and III, so I’m feeling sentimental) and he was going ON AND ON about his own life and how wonderfully handsome he is, and I kept taking shot after shot because I wanted to drown out his voice with the pounding that my liver was taking. Finally, we finished and took a walk, and no surprise, he was STILL TALKING. All of a sudden, he grabs my head and tries to kiss me. I screech and say very eloquently, “You kidding me?!”

His eyes were wide and dumbfounded as I admonished him for talking my ears off and then trying to take advantage of my clearly drunken state, but it was probably funnier that I tried to come off high and mighty while standing there awkwardly with my high heels and hair slightly disheveled from his eager hands.

He apologized and offered to buy me a McRib.

So I made out with him.

the guy who lied.

by forloveandwhiskey

In a perfect world, the first kiss happens in slow motion. The man that you had been pining after for months realizes his overwhelming love for you in a flash of a moment, and runs straight into your arms. The sunlight tickles your face—or could it be the single tear that’s running down your cheek? Two pairs of lips meet, and instantly you flash forward to the wedding day where you’re standing before hundreds of friends and family, showing off to the world your perfect love story that started with that perfect first kiss.

I’ve seen too many movies, right?

I actually did believe in that. A tiny, tiny part of me did. Even growing up with Ninja Turtles and fist fights on the rooftop of our ghetto ass apartment, I believed in that fluffy I’m-going-to-shit-in-my-pants-from-pure-joy type of love.

And then my first kiss happened.

There was no sunlight. There was the flickering of a halogen lamp that was obviously fitted with the wrong bulb because it caused a disgusting yellow blanket over everything in that room. The boy I faced licked his lips and I stared blankly at his cracked brown lips. They reminded me of brown lunch bags that had been sitting in the heat for too long.

I had to pee really badly and recess wasn’t for another twenty minutes. We were hidden behind a screen that separated the classroom and the art supplies. I could hear the kids on the other side working hard on their assignments while Jose and I were pretending to sharpen our colored pencils.

Like any successful couple, we had communicated our feelings about this days ago. He said he wanted to kiss me, I said whatever ew gross, and then he said that it would be like being on clouds. Now here we were.

I started to hesitate about what was about to happen, and then he just lunged at me. His mouth was suddenly around mine, and he hugged my head tightly. I felt like I was being squeezed to death by this short Mexican boy with the giant mole on his face, and started to squirm violently.

I was 9 years old and I wasn’t on clouds. I was screaming into the slimy mouth of a kid who had clearly eaten a bowl of Cheetos for breakfast. I would surely drown in his saliva or suffocate to my end.

And thus my journey with boys began.