Wednesday, February 26, 2014

A Day in the Life

Last week's Cajun Chicken Alfredo triumph was a pretty big win for me in my journey into adulthood. I rode that high for days, feeling accomplished and proud of the leaps and bounds I've been making into behaving like a mature, responsible adult.

Despite mounting evidence to the contrary.

As I was smugly going about my days, I began to realize that my life was still chock full of weird, unexplainable behaviors. Behaviors that if looked at from someone else's perspective would seem like lunacy.

So let's break it down. My day from waking up to going to bed and all of the stupidity in between.

6:50 a.m. Cell phone alarm goes off. This is a warning alarm, alerting me to the fact that I need to start being okay with the day starting. I set my phone first with the hope that I'll be so excited to see if I've accrued any Facebook likes overnight that I'll wake right up to check. My need for validation is out of control, but I might as well harness it to be used for good.

It doesn't work.

7:00 a.m. My actual alarm clock goes off, and I hit snooze on both alarms in alternating 5 minutes increments for thirty minutes.

And it's completely worth it.

7:30 a.m. I realize I'm running late.

Last year, I had the bright idea to set my alarm ten minute ahead of time to trick myself into waking up earlier. The experiment was a complete failure. I vastly underestimated Morning Chris's intelligence. Turns out he was there when the plan was conceived, and therefore was never once tricked by it. A week ago, we lost power and I just went ahead and set my clock to the correct time.

I've thought I had an extra ten minutes all week.

7:35 a.m. I may be late, but Facebook isn't going to check itself.

7:40 a.m. Neither is Instagram.

7:45 a.m. I rush out of bed and throw a smoothie in the blender for me to drink in the shower.

Streamlining this part of the morning allows me to combine two of my favorite things. Sleeping later and shower drinking.

7:55 a.m. Get out of the shower after accidentally shampooing twice but forgetting to wash my face. Remind myself that a shiny forehead probably isn't going to be the worst thing that happens to me today. Rinse out my smoothie cup and blender in the shower because my kitchen sink is clogged.

8:05 a.m. Rush out the door with just enough time to make it to work on time if there's no traffic, and I don't hit a single red light only to find my car completely frosted over...from the inside.

My car is a hot damn mess. There are a number of problems that individually probably wouldn't be the end of the world, but when added up, they form the perfect storm of car problems that make it nearly undriveable in the winter.

To start out with, my back window doesn't go up all the way, and in the severe cold we've been experiencing, this has caused the inside of all of my windows to frost up nearly every morning. This wouldn't be an issue if it wasn't coupled with my engine hemorrhaging anti freeze which causes my heat to go out, and makes defrosting the car impossible. None of this would be a problem if I hadn't also rammed my car into a bridge a few years ago making the hood super finicky about opening, especially in cold weather. So I end up spending every morning scraping the car from the inside because the heater doesn't work, and I can't get the hood open to fix the heater.

And then I have to try to not breathe for the whole drive to work for fear that my breath will cause the windows to frost over again while I drive.

8:20 a.m. I punch in late to work, put in my ear buds, and try my best not to snap on the first person who tries to talk to me before I'm ready to be social.

12:00 p.m. Lunch time. I sit at a table by myself, hoping no one comes up to talk to me...apparently I'm still not ready to be social.

I also begin to wonder if maybe my bitchy resting face isn't to blame for the negative first impression some people have of me. Maybe I'm just actually a bitch.

1:30 p.m. While covering for the receptionist, a gentleman comes in for a meeting. He reaches out his hand for his visitor's pass, and I think he's trying to shake my hand.

I shake his hand and introduce myself.

1:31 p.m. I die of embarrassment.

2:15 p.m. The president of our company pats me on the back while I wash my hands in the men's room. I have my ear buds in and am listening to The Spice Girls at a volume that makes it impossible for me to hear what he's said to me. I take a gamble, smile, and respond with an emphatic, "Hello!"

He looks bewildered.

3:20 p.m. I refrain from saying what I actually want to say to a customer.

I decide to reward my good behavior with wine and spend the rest of the day planning what kind I'll get.

4:30 p.m. I scrape the inside of my car windows and drive home. 

4:45 p.m. I notice a funny smell in my apartment, roll my eyes, and make the mature decision to do the dishes before starting wine night.

Plus, all the wine glasses were dirty.

You may remember from earlier in the day that my sink is clogged. If you did, you're one step ahead of me. It had been clogged for two weeks, and I only ever remember after it's full of disgusting dish water. It's a problem with an easy solution. I just need to call my landlord and have him come take care of it. He'll probably even be psyched about it. He always seems to have a fatherly concern for my well being, and appears super relieved every time he gets a chance to come look in on me.

His paternal behavior weirds me out, but it also kinda makes me want him to be super proud of me, so I can't bring myself to call him when my apartment is a mess. So I find myself in a vicious circle of my apartment being too messy for me to allow him to see it, but when I get it clean, I've got too many dishes in the sink for him to work on it. Then, when I finally get around to do the dishes, the apartment is messy again. 

I've developed a system for doing the dishes though that, while insane, works really well. I fill one side of the sink with clean water and start going to town on the dishes. I use the other side to rinse in, causing it to slowly fill up with mostly clean water. When that side gets full, I add a bit of dish soap to it, and put the remainder of the dishes in this new fresh(ish) dishwater. I then take a mixing bowl, scoop the dirty dishwater into it, and carefully walk it through my apartment (trying my best to avoid tripping on the shocking number of shoes that I've kicked off in the exact path I need to follow) to the toilet where I flush it down the drain. I do this until I have an empty sink to restart the cycle.

It takes hours.

5:30 p.m. Take a break to dance with no pants on (holla).

6:30 p.m. I finish doing the dishes, and briefly considering if going out for wine is worth putting pants on. 

It is.

6:45 p.m. The cashier at the liquor store asks me for a wine recommendation. 

The guy whose career is to sell wine turns to me as the expert on the subject. This is not where I wanted my life to be.

I need to find a new liquor store.

7:00 p.m. I'm back home, wine is in hand, my pants are off, and Elizabethtown is in the DVD player, when I notice my fingernail clippers had somehow ended up on the floor next to the TV. My first though isn't to get up and put them away. My first thought is, "Don't forget that those are there next time you're looking for them."

8:45 p.m. The movie is wrapping up, and I am feeling a bit melancholy. I consider cutting myself off, but I listen to Silver Springs and it doesn't make me cry.

I pour another glass.

9:00 p.m. I begin to feel bad for drinking by myself, so I call Chelsea who I can always depend on to be slightly drunk whenever I need her to be. She doesn't disappoint. We share a drink over the phone. 

9:45 p.m. I lose myself in an hour's worth of Kylie Minogue music videos. More dancing ensues. 

10:45 p.m. I crawl into bed with my laptop.

I do this every night, and I always convince myself that if I don't put my glasses, it means I'm actually going to go to sleep. What inevitably happens is I end up hunched over, squinting, with my face four inches from the screen until I realize that my neck is cramping.

11:30 p.m. I shut my laptop, turn the lights off, and open Facebook on my phone.

12:15 a.m. I find a piece of scandalous gossip about someone I went to high school with. I flip the light on, grab my laptop, and scroll through  my phone trying to find someone who would still be awake that I can share it with. I realize that all of my friends are grown up and likely in bed, so instead I take screenshots and send them them out in a mass text, secretly hoping that I wake someone else up.

12:45 a.m. I pass out with Taylor Swift music videos still playing on YouTube.

1:15 a.m. Receive a call from one of the friends I'd frantically text. Snap at them for waking me up, hang up the phone, give no f%#!s.

4:45 a.m. Wake up convinced there's an intruder in the apartment, but still get up to go to the bathroom.

6:50 a.m. Start the whole goddamn thing over again.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

In the Kitchen With Chris: Cajun Chicken Alfredo

Typically when I look for a recipe that I want to try, I gravitate towards anything with the words "simple" or "easy" in the title (also, the word Doritos). If it looks like I'm going to have to chop something, or figure out what sauteing is, or use a vegetable that doesn't come in a can, I'm not really all that interested. In fact, I get more than a little annoyed if I see that I'm going to have to reduce the heat halfway through. Good god, I'm only one person!

I'm not learning anything by not pushing myself though, and that's supposed to be the point of this whole thing! All of this crock pot cooking I've been doing is delicious, but that's not cooking, that's opening and dumping (and stirring if the recipe is super fancy). I'm never going to know the right way to chop an onion if I don't actually make myself learn.

Plus, if I'm ever going to hook a husband, I'm gonna need to bring something to the table (something other than charm, wit, every album ever recorded by The Corrs, and Velveeta Shells and Cheese).

This week I picked out a dish that looked like it was going to actually require some effort. Cajun Chicken Alfredo (you can view the original recipe at All Kinds of Yumm or you can find it from my Pinterest board here). 

There are thirteen ingredients in this one, you guys. Thirteen.

I'd be lying if I said that getting to use wine wasn't one of the deciding factors when I chose this one. I've been looking for ways to convince the guy who always seems to be working the register at the Cub Foods Liquor store that I'm not an alcoholic. Casually slipping into conversation my plan to cook with the wine and implying that maybe that's what I'd been doing all along was just the kind of ruse I needed!

Now, I'm really not in there that least I wasn't until January when one of my favorite wines went on sale for $3.99 a bottle. I couldn't stop myself. The deal was just too good! I was going in multiple times a week, multiple days in a row. And each and every time there was the same guy working the register.

I spent the first few weeks trying to play off my sudden excessive wine consumption. I brought friends in with me to hopefully give the impression that maybe I just had a lot of social events this month. I took the time to browse the racks as if I didn't know exactly what I was coming in for, and one time I even faked a phone call to someone, asking them what kind of wine they'd like me to pick up (not kidding).

By week three I'd given up and just tried to appear as put together as I could every time I was in there. If he was going to think I'm an alcoholic, I was going to at least give the appearance of being a high functioning alcoholic.

I was relieved as the end of January, and the end of the wine sale neared so I could finally get my life back in order. I stopped in on the 31st to grab one last bottle and saw them start setting up the display for February's sale.

Buy one, get one free.


I was planning on having a productive day on Sunday by staying in, taking down my Christmas tree (I don't need your judgement), cleaning, and cooking, so I got all of the ingredients together on Friday night.

2 medium boneless skinless chicken breasts
Cajun Seasoning Spice
1 tbs. butter
1 tbs. cream cheese
1 tbs. olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup grape tomatoes
1/4 cup white wine (or chicken broth)
1 1/2 cup half and half
1 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup feta cheese
Salt and pepper
1lb uncooked fettuccine 

When Sunday rolled around I was actually pretty excited to test my abilities. I got all of my stuff together and as I was getting ready to start photographing the process, I realized something was missing. That's when I remembered the events of the night before. 

It was the night after Valentine's Day, so that was still stinging a bit, and I made the mistake of putting P.S. I Love You into the DVD player. I was ten minutes in and I was already having too many feels (why doesn't anyone want to fight with me like that?!). I remembered I had a bottle of wine, but I knew I needed it for the next day...but, I mean, I only needed 1/4 cup of it. I could have one glass of it and still have plenty left...yeah...I'd just have a bit...not even a full glass.

25 minutes later
God dammit, Hilary Swank.

Since it was Sunday, and apparently we're a bunch of Puritans in Minnesota, the wine was all locked safely in the closed liquor stores. So I had to go buy chicken broth to use instead.

I was devastated, but still committed to make the best out of a wine-less situation.

I started out by preparing the chicken. I was supposed to have gotten medium sized chicken breasts, but I didn't really pay attention when the guy at the meat counter got them for me, and I ended up with giant mutant chicken breasts. Like I'm pretty sure this chicken probably terrorized a small village for a month before their three bravest men got together and took it down, marching through town with its head on a spike while children danced around a maypole and women (and some of the other men) threw themselves at them, overcome by their incredible strength and courage.

The recipe called for me to flatten these behemoths, but I would have needed the hammer of Thor to do any real damage to these guys, so after five minutes of pounding away in vain, I coated each side with Cajun seasoning and called it good.

You're also supposed to include salt and pepper, but I was flustered, so that got left off.

At this time I preheated the oven to 350, and I threw the butter and olive oil in a skillet over medium high heat, using a wooden spoon to ensure the melted butter and olive oil were combined well. Then I threw the chicken in the pan, cooking each side for 3-5 minutes.

After cooking the chicken in the skillet, I put it on a baking sheet and put it in the oven for another 30 minutes to finish cooking (the recipe said 20 minutes, but again...giant chicken). At that point I took it out and cut it into thin slices.

At this point I got started on the noodles. I don't really think I need to explain the process for this because that shit's on the box already. I'm not going to spoon feed you guys.

Moving onto the sauce, I added a bit more olive oil, and reheated the skillet over medium heat, added the chicken broth (or your wine if your drinking habits allow you to have wine in your residence for more than an hour at a time), and whisk with the chicken drippings for 2-3 minutes. 

Btw, the pictures from here on out get a bit fuzzy because I was super anxious about not f%#!ing everything up, and less concerned about getting good photos. I need to get a photographer for when I do this stuff.

At this point I added the minced garlic (I had to YouTube how one goes about mincing garlic, but I pulled it off) and the halved grape tomatoes. Whisk again for 3-5 minutes until the garlic is slightly brown, and then add the half and half.

From here I whisked constantly for one minute, and then I added the cream cheese. I whisked this until it was combined, and I added salt and pepper and (you guessed it) whisked some more.

Everything was mixed smoothly together, I removed it from the heat and added the Parmesan and feta cheese, stirring constantly until the cheese had melted and the sauce was smooth.

It was so freaking delicious. I felt like a f%#!ing sorcerer, combining all these things to make something amazing! Is this how cooking always feels, 'cause honestly I'm not sure that this kind of power trip would be healthy for me on the regular. It was the most proud I've been of myself since that time I figured out how to add windshield washer fluid to my car all by myself.

Btw, to any boys who read this and thought, "Oh man, if his ability to mince garlic is any indication, he'd probably make like a super good husband." You're exactly right, I would, but I feel like I also must point out that if we live together you'll be seeing a lot of this while I cook...

'Cause don't nobody got time for bangs in their face.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

My Celebrity Personal Trainer: Marisa Tomei

My distaste for exercise is well documented at this point. We all remember just how poorly my 7 Day Challenge went a few weeks ago. My gym membership has been used just once in the last six months (and boy did I feel like I was getting my life together that day). I've got new plans in place every month, but I always seem to end up right back in the same place (on the couch, elbow deep in a bag of Cheetos).

I haven't always felt this way though.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother's Denise Austin workout tape. I remember the feeling of excitement that rushed over me every time she got it out. I would position myself in front of the TV, place my hands jauntily on my hips, and mimic her in exact syncopation.

"Hi! I'm Denise Austin, and I'm here to show you..."

My parents probably should have just bought me my first rainbow feather boa right then and there.

Maybe I should take cues from my sassy 4 year old self. Maybe fitness DVD's are where I should be looking for motivation. Maybe all I need to get into my skinny jeans is Lisa Rinna dressed in bedazzled wrist bands teaching me cardio ballroom dancing!

So it was decided. I'd be turning to celebrity work out DVD's to get me into shape. The more ridiculous, the better. I mean, sure, dancing along to Paula Abdul's Cardio Cheer would probably be humiliating, but luckily I have my own little corner of the internet where people kind of dig it when I'm humiliated.

Bring it on, Abdul.

I decided to start with Marisa Tomei

 I'd be lying if I said I didn't pick this one because it said I could be sexy in 20 minutes. I always prefer my gratification to be instant. I figured this one couldn't be too hard either. It's Marisa Tomei...not Jillian Michaels. Plus, I love getting free gifts. I didn't know what a toning band was, but I liked that I was going to have one. 

I realized I was maybe in a bit over my head pretty much immediately. Like in the second warm up exercise. Marissa, sitting on the floor with her legs straight out, gracefully reaches over and touches her toes. 

I grunted and complained, and reached just past my knees.

F#%!ing showoff.

Moving on from the warm up and into the actual workout, I began to think that this was something I could actually handle. There was lots of bending and standing, galloping around the room, knee bending, and very little that felt like I was actually doing something.

Can you see a difference in these photos? An almost imperceptible knee bend. Apparently it's great for toning the area right above you knee cap, which means I'm gonna look fierce in shorts this summer.

I could do this shit all day.

Okay, I see what they're doing here. This one burns a bit. Just think of your knee caps, Chris.

What the hell kinda Circ Du Soleil tightrope balancing act?!

Shit started getting harder from here when the actually working out started. I almost face planted a few times during the balance exercises, and I did careen sidelong into my bookshelf when Marisa insinuated that I wouldn't be able to stand up off the ground without using my hands. 

Turns out I can't, but dammit, at least I activated my core trying! 

I was excited when it was time to get down off of my tip toes for the floor exercises. Or at least I was excited until heard the two words (one word maybe? a hyphenate? words are hard.) that have caused me shame since middle school gym class.

Push ups.

I have horrible memories of the grueling fitness tests we were put through twice a year where we were scored on our ability to do sit ups, push ups, pull ups, jumping jacks, and a bevy of other activities that a chubby kid who's super into staying in and reading wouldn't be super great at. I remember getting up in front of the entire class, getting into position, knowing I wouldn't be able to do any, and trying desperately to at least keep my violently shaking arms from giving way and slamming my face into the hardwood floor.

Imagine my excitement when I saw that this is how we would be doing our push ups.

Marisa explained that she had a shoulder injury that prevents her from being able to do them from a plank position. As if I should feel bad for not doing it the normal way. Like I too don't have extenuating circumstances that prevent me from doing a real push up.

The fact that I have the upper body strength of a kitten for example.

Things went downhill fast after this. Not just going too fast down the bunny slope either. I'm talking rocketing down a double black diamond, without a helmet, after losing one of those ski stick things that they use, with fogged up glasses...while you kinda already have to pee.

I'm not positive that my body bends like that.
But I can barely do regular crunches!
What are you?! A f#%!ing sorceress?!
The twenty minute workout left me feeling like I'd just run a triathlon, but I finished it.

I mean, I mostly finished it. I took a water break through most of the crunches, and I only did about half of the reps for the rest of them, but I got through it.

I wish I could say that I felt super great about it when it was over, but mostly I was just a sweaty, miserable mess (I don't think endorphins work on me). I was also sore as hell the next day (four crunches can really do that to you). I did the routine again the next day though.

And again on the next. 

And the next.

I've done it every day for a week! I've gotten better at it too! I'm still miserable at crunches, but I was able to power through the leg lifts, and I didn't even get dizzy during the planks. 


Also, if you're looking for hairless ankles, and don't mind if the hair is ripped violently from your body, I highly recommend the toning band used in this routine.

Funny side note, I noticed this on the back of the DVD case today as I was writing this post.

Uniquely feminine?
So that's no ideal.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

He's Just Not That Into Me

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were sitting around lamenting the sad state of my romantic life. While I was telling him about a string of bad dates with guys who have apparently never learned how to have a conversation with another person he let me in on his theory about the ratio between bad dates and finding someone you're actually interested in pursuing. According to him, you have to go out on ten not good dates before you get one good one.

It was the most f#%!ing depressing thing I've ever heard.

So for every one funny, charming, interesting guy I go out with, I have to suffer through ten dull, uninteresting, intolerable ones? Has this been other people's experience too, or is my friend just really bad at dating?

I mean, seriously, TEN?!

I got another one out of the way recently. We'll call him Alan...he kind of looks like an Alan.

Alan started messaging me online while I was home for Christmas. Typically, if possible, I like to get a coffee date out of the way pretty quickly if I "meet" a guy online that I see a potential with. I'm far too susceptible to falling madly in love with someone's web presence only to find out that their actual presence is awful. I was a whole state away for over a week though, so meeting was out of the question, but we did exchange messages every day that I was gone.

And I started falling for him.

He's a professor from a town about forty five minutes from Mankato. He's slightly older than me, has a beard, and had a legitimate answer for me when I asked him what his favorite book is. 

That's like all three of my biggest turn ons.

The first night that we went out, he asked me if I wanted to come out and see his friend's band.

Or, actually, he asked me if I liked live music, told me his friend had a band that was playing on Saturday night, and then I assumed we were going on a date. It wasn't until Friday night, when I was rereading the texts (and ironing my outfit for the next night), that I realized I hadn't actually been invited to join at all.

It's pretty humiliating having to ask someone if they intended to ask you out, or if you're just a delusional nutcase.

He warned me that a big group of his friends would be there, but said he'd love for me to come, and asked if I wanted to go out to dinner beforehand. That's where I saw my first red flag.

I get a lot of crap from my friends about how we always somehow end up doing exactly what I want to do. I really don't think it's because I'm all that demanding, I just can't stand indecisiveness. So when it comes down to people saying, "Well I don't care what we do." or "It doesn't matter to me where we eat." or "Whatever everyone else wants to do is fine." I'm going to step the f#%! up and make sure that we don't waste our entire night trying to decide how we're going to waste our night.

I don't want to have to do this in a relationship though. I want someone assertive who's not just going to let me walk all over him, because I have the potential to really steamroll the meek. I want someone who has the ability to put me in my place if I need it (and I need it pretty frequently). I want someone who can make a decision.

So we went out for sushi. Every time I've been out for sushi we just order a variety of rolls for the table to share. I assumed that was the norm, but he started referring to what he planned on getting for himself, I figured I needed to be sure that I was on the same page.

"Should we each just order our own, or would you like to share a few different ones?"
"Oh...uh...we can do whatever."
"Well, what were you planning on?"
"I don't know."
"It just kinda sounded like you already had an idea what you wanted...Let's just each get our own."
"Okay, yeah. Let's do that."
"Perfect, is there anything that you recommend here?"
"We don't have to each get our own if you don't want, we can share."
"I'm totally fine with it, just wanted to know so I could make my picks."
"Are you sure? I mean, what do you want to do?"

What I really want to do is not have this conversation any longer.

I could hardly fault the guy for trying to make sure that I was getting what I wanted though, and I couldn't disqualify him for that

After an underwhelming dinner, we went to the bar where his friends' band was playing. The band was absolutely fantastic. They played old school swing music, and it reminded me just how much I loved tiny little hole in the wall venues hosting local talent. The only thing that could have made it better was if my date was showing any interest in talking to me at all.

I tried my best, but I couldn't get him to care at all about conversation with me. It's not that he just wasn't a big talker either, he was regularly ignoring me for ten minute stretches while he talked to anyone else who walked up to our table. At one point we were joined for twenty minutes by a nice British gentleman and his teenage son. The two of them talked shop for twenty minutes, and I'm pretty sure I was expected to babysit. 

I don't have the first clue about how to handle a British teenager.

"So...uh...Downton Abbey, amiright? One Direction? Are you too young to know about The Spice Girls? How 'bout some awkward silence...chap?"

So it didn't go well. I was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt though. First dates are awkward. He did warn me that his friends would be there. Maybe he was just nervous and didn't know what to talk about. Hadn't we been getting along so well before? I owed him at least one more date.

Plus, I'd accidentally walked out on the bar tab last time, so I owed him.

He text me a few days later and let me know that he'd be in town for the Beer Expo the next weekend. I went another three days thinking I'd been asked out only to realize that once again he'd never actually said he wanted to see me when he was in town. After another awkward text, we had plans to meet for drinks that weekend.

Of course, because I'm me, I got drunk and made it awkward a few nights before. We were exchanging some flirty text messages, and he made a comment about worrying what he'd do if he had too many drinks and couldn't drive home. I quickly replied, "Well, you can sleep on my couch if you want!"

Drunk Chris was just trying to be chivalrous. Sober Chris of course knows that offering  to let someone "sleep on your couch" after a date has little to do with sleeping and absolutely nothing to do with your couch.

I'd accidentally raised the stakes on this date, which meant I had a lot more prep to do. I spent my entire day running around town. I got a haircut, I cleaned my apartment top to bottom, I bought a new outfit when I didn't like anything I already own, I did laundry, and I got groceries ('cause if I had to break the news that I really did  mean actually sleeping on my couch, I better at least have bacon for him in the morning). 

We met up at about 8:30 that night. He told me his friends would be leaving soon, but he wanted me to come have a drink with them. I spent forty five minutes watching his friends abuse the wait staff (and once again having my presence ignored) before they all decided to get up and leave. After leaving his friends at their cars, Alan told me that he had something to drop off at his car as well. 

We walked in the frigid, below zero weather to the ramp where his car was parked, and after he dropped his things off in his car. Finally, hoping to get some one on one time to see if there wasn't something here that was worth pursuing, I asked him if he was still up for going to grab another drink. 

He responded with, "Well, I think I might just head home."

After talking myself into giving him another shot, an entire day of prep, forty five minutes of straight guys, and making me stand outside for fifteen minutes, I get blown off? What the hell am I going to do with all that bacon?!

I'm done. Over it. Moving on. 

He text me shortly after to apologize for being an asshole, and we haven't spoken since. 

So what did I learn from this guy?

I learned that I might be a bit of an idiot.

Before writing this, I thought this was going to be a super funny post about some guy being kind of a douche to me. But now, after laying it all out, I just feel kind of pathetic about the whole thing. I wasn't being led on. He made his level of interest pretty clear. I'm just like super bad at reading signs, I guess.

Apparently I need to actually consult my copy of He's Just Not That Into You from time to time.

I must be coming up on that 10th date any day now.