I know, internet. I totally left you hanging right when we were getting to the juicy part.
I don’t understand how Cassandra could possibly be a Stage Five Clinger, you probably asked yourself repeatedly over the last two days. She seems like such a normal, well adjusted, fashionable, sanitary person.
Well, you would be right, internet, and I’m modest, too. However, this is the story of how I was a Stage Five Clinger, and it’s still one of the most mortifying circumstances I’ve ever been in, so you’ll excuse me for beating around the bush.
So anyways, I had this insane crush on Cupcake, who was a year older than I was (I was 15, he was 16). We were on the same crew team (he was varsity, I was a wee novice), and I used to chat about him with my friend, Hillary Duff, using extremely clever nicknames that there was no way he would ever possibly figure out.
…of course he did. You saw that one coming, didn’t you? He totally knew. Everyone knew, apparently, and I, using my keen powers of observation, was completely oblivious to the fact that everyone totally knew about my giant crush FOR MONTHS.
Sigh. High school.
Anyways, one day after practice, Hillary Duff and I are in the parking lot talking about Cupcake, and Cupcake waltzes over and says, “Um, I know you’re talking about me.”
So of course I did Something Very Smooth.
Aka I ran for it.
I am an embarrassment.
Luckily enough, Cupcake found my complete lack of social skills endearing, and he asked me out on a date.
Now, I mentioned before that I was a dating dummy. What I should stress now is that I was a moron, actually, because somewhere in my mind I’d managed to get the idea that going on a date with someone automatically make them your boyfriend.
No, I’m not making this up. Going on a date with someone makes them your boyfriend. I was (okay, am) socially inept. However, you have to admit it would make things much easier. No “are we monogamous?” conversations. No awkward “how do I introduce this person with using the B word?”. No dating for 2 years without changing your Facebook status. One date = boyfriend. Boom.
So we went on a date. My dad dropped me off at a local park and we went Geocaching. Never found the thing, but had a lovely afternoon. My dad picked me up. No kiss. No hug. No handholding. Not so much as a pat on the back.
I went right home and changed my Myspace status, because this was 2005 and Facebook wasn’t even a thing yet.
Oh yeah, you’re thinking, this chick is crazy. I bet she had a totally pimped out Myspace page.
Yes, internet, I did.
And I’m not ashamed.
Yet I digress.
The very next day, Cupcake left on a week-long school trip to England.
By the time he had returned, everyone in high school thought we we dating.
Because I told pretty much everyone.
Because I’m a psychopath.
Now here comes the fun twist, internet.
Cupcake had made out with someone else on his trip.
Now, in his defense, he knew that we weren’t actually dating, and since he’d been overseas, he didn’t know that I thought we we dating. I, however, thought he’d cheated on me.
I took to AIM the night I found out about Cupcake’s infidelity. I don’t have a transcription, but I’ll do my best.
me: how cud u?
him: ??? 😦
me: u cheated on me??!!
me: IT’S OVER!!
him: uh… okay?
Cue tears. Drama. Hysteria.
It wasn’t until almost SIX MONTHS LATER that I figured out that Cupcake and I had never ACTUALLY been a couple. And that everyone at school had secretly been laughing at me about the entire affair. And then of course I was so mortified that I couldn’t talk to the guy for three years after that.
…I’m really, REALLY oblivious.
I am single.
(I do not offer this tidbit of information as a pro or a con, merely as an incontestable fact.)
As a consequence of my singularity, I do not have a smoodley-poo of my very own to snoogly-woogly this Valentine’s day, so I anticipate that today will be unspectacular. I do not, however, have an amazing spectrum of Valentine’s days to live up to. Of the four that were worth remembering, I was broken up with, went on a Anti-date with a platonic man friend (who turned out to be not-so-platonic after all), was very, very sick and had to cancel my fancy dinner, and had margaritas and chips with my (ex) boyfriend. Although I was sent a very nice dozen of roses once from a long-distance friend once.
To those few who got a little upset that one of my ex-boyfriends broke up with me on Valentine’s day, I should tell you a few things. First of all, it was my freshman year of high school. Secondly, we dated from January 20th, 8:32pm, 2008, to February 14th, 11:59pm, 2008, which is such a short time period it may not even count. Thirdly, I looked like this:
God I love this photo so much. I look like Mufasa’s preppy Chola cousin pre-makeup. Note the absolute sincerity of my gaze. I believed in this look.
But I digress.
In light of my recent attempt to befriend my cat, I decided to extend the olive branch to Marmaduke in the form of an invitation. Specifically, the invitation to be my Valentine. I figured since I’d be spending the night solo, Marm and I could catch up on some quality kitty time.
As if he could sense that I was looking for him, the Cat has been curiously MIA this week. Perhaps because I haven’t been in the office as much. Perhaps he has a secret lair somewhere where he’s plotting the hostile takeover of my room. I don’t know or particularly care. As far as I know, the cat food is still disappearing from the bowl, which means he’s still alive. Probably.
I finally caught him lurking outside my door on Tuesday. He saw me and started making a noise that I imagine was a re-enactment of the gurgling dying breath of the last dinosaur on Earth. To shut him up I lifted him up to my bed. I think he stopped whining out of pure shock, since the last time I let him on my bed was the middle of the summer when he peed on it. Twice.
I explained to the cat that this was my Valentine’s gift to him and that his Valentine’s gift to me would be to not pee on my things. He made this face.
He did not pee on my bed (yet). Tada.
That’s about it. In retrospect, I really didn’t know what I thought was going to happen. Maybe that the sun would come out and unicorns would appear from the ground like daisies and everything would be perfect forever.
PS- I really did try to take a more attractive picture of Marm… but that’s kind of just how his face looks.
I promised myself I wouldn’t write another cat post until at least Thursday, but I was sitting here in the office trying to think of what to write and Marmaduke came in and made a really smelly deposit in the litter box (we put a litter box in the office so that he would stop peeing in my room. He didn’t.). Going to the bathroom whenever I sit down at the desk seems to be his new favorite activity after staring at me when I sleep and plotting my demise.
Anyways, he came in and had a poo, and I had to clean it up and the dusty litter settlement was flying up everywhere and got all over and then I was washing my face off because it was all on my glasses and all I could think about was that the memory of my litter-face was absolutely going to ruin the next experience of romance face-touching I had. Even though, let’s be honest, given my impressive and persistent state of singledom these past many months, a romantic face-touching encounter is not likely to occur soon. Yet I digress.
So now I’m sitting here trying to write or at least start my blog post for tomorrow and all I can think about it my smelly-poo-life-ruining-Prozac-taking asshole of a cat and how much I wish that my parents had gotten me a goldfish when I (according to them) asked for a cat those many years ago, because goldfish are too stupid be be depressed and I never would have had to shovel its dirty poo because they only live for about 2 days anyways.
In an effort to start liking my cat (which is not going well especially after tonight’s litter face incident), I decided to start trying to play with the thing. However, it’s been somewhat rough going because a) he’s clinically depressed and hates everything and b) he’s never really been into “playing” beyond hitting my dogs in the face and trying to suffocate various family members under his fat lumpy ass. However, I have succeeded in invented a game for cats which Marm and I both enjoy.
Well, I enjoy playing it, at any rate. Close enough.
The game is called Phantom Cat.
You will need-
– A cat.
– A hiding place.
– A terrible sense of humor.
The cat always loses.
1. Wait until your cat is sleeping or resting peacefully.
2. Hide nearby. Make sure he doesn’t see you hiding. This can be as simple as getting up on the table in the dining room or as complicated as painting yourself in the same pattern as your wallpaper.
3. Meow loudly until he wakes up. Continue to meow as he wakes up and starts to look around for the “phantom cat”.
4. When he figures it out, tell him it was the dog.
Serves you right, poo cat.
This story is meant as a cautionary tale for fellas who want to woo a special lady. It’s not great to under impress a girl, but it’s even worse to overshoot the landing.
I will say as a preface that I was really rooting for this one to work out. It happened a little over three years ago when I was going through a bit of a rough patch in life, having just broken up with my first “real” boyfriend of sorts. I will not name names, but for clarity I will refer to him as one of my favorite actors.
Morgan Freeman was a fraternity president, an accomplished musician, a chef, and a very accomplished scholar. We met at a pageant of sorts in which I was playing the ukulele and he was playing the guitar. I’m pretty sure he won. I came in second. No, I’m not making this up.
Anyways, Morgan Freeman and I totally hit it off, and push comes to shove, he invited me back to his room in the frat to play music.
Calm yourselves, internet, nothing untoward happened. We actually played music. Beatles, mostly.
It was really nice. I had a fantastic time. We were jiving and the conversation was flowing and all that good jazz. I remember being impressed because his room was ridiculously impressive for a frat house, and I think he told me his mom was an interior decorator or something like that. Super posh. I went home to my fantastic roommate all revved up, and then we probably watched a hockey game and ate goldfish and drank a really horrible cocktail and went to bed or something.
So Morgan Freeman texted me the next day asking me if I’d like to do dinner. And that’s when Things Went Downhill. Because of course I said yes, and in my head I was picturing a slice of pizza, and if things got really impressive, ice cream. And in his head there was apparently a 5 course candlelit meal with a string quartet and a dozen roses.
Gentlemen, here’s some life advice. Impressing women is not always about buying the gal roses and champagne. Sometimes, it’s about knowing whether or not she even likes roses and champagne, or if she’d far prefer dandelions and an ice cold beer.
I’m mostly a dandelions and beer kind of girl. So when Morgan Freeman told me he wanted to cook dinner, I said okay, but I was a little apprehensive. Then when he told me he was planning on making a blueberry wine marinated rack of lamb with an impressive assortment of sides, I said I’d make dessert, when what I really meant was You’re cooking what now?
This is the part where some of you are shaking your heads and thinking I’m an ungrateful snot. Maybe I overreacted slightly, but in my mind, the first date is about getting to know each other, not impressing your date with a crazy meal, especially if your date knows about as much about making dessert as a business executive in L.A. probably knows about ice fishing. Let’s just say that I stressed out about what I was going to make the entire meal and when the chocolate mousse I decided to make (I was so naive) was about as cooperative as a cat in a bathtub, I was in full panic mode.
Meanwhile, Morgan Freeman was waltzing about my tiny kitchen with the grace of a true pageant winner, going on and on about exotic cheeses, and I felt so out of my element that I kept adding vodka to my screwdriver. It didn’t help that he showed up in a button down shirt with a nice sweater and pressed khakis (!!!) and I hadn’t even bothered to brush my hair.
Add to this scene my pajamaed roommate running in and out grabbing things from her pile of school books, the neighbours having some sort of rave next door, and the fact that my notoriously finicky oven kept misbehaving. By the time the food was ready to eat, I was already tipsy, we had run out of conversation starters, and my mousse had lost what little stamina I’d managed to beat into it and had melted into a goopy puddle. Disaster.
Happily, the meal he’d prepared was really, really good. Unhappily, we we both so stressed out and on edge that we barely touched it.
Like a true gentleman, he rallied to my deflated mousse, but by the time we parted ways with one of those awkward hug – handshake – only-one-person-goes-in-for-a-kiss situations, I’m pretty sure we were both ready to call it a night.
Moral of the story – Dudes, know your ladies. Pick something out for a date that puts both of you in a non-stressful situation. And if you ever have to “just whip up” a dessert, for the love of all that is holy DO NOT try to make mousse.