quasi-things

Well folks, I'm getting ready to head down to Miami for a week with CuteCanadianNoLongerJustInternetBoyfriend. Communications have been infrequent and lackluster ever since he got there a few weeks ago and I started preparing to move (and, um, fucking my hairstylist,) so this one's been demoted from being referred to by his initial to a descriptive acronym. Also, I'm blaming him for the fact that I've consumed my weight in cake and cookies and challah bread (my Catholic mother's Christmas tradition, for some very ungodly reason) every day for the last couple weeks. He simply doesn't deserve my pudge-free self at this point, though I did manage to shave for the first time in you don't wanna know how long, and I just might even clip my toenails. (Probably not.)

I have to leave for the airport tomorrow/today at 3:30 a.m. for a 5:00 flight via Minneapolis' ten-mile-long airport/mall, and, since my bedtime has been around 2 or 3 a.m. these days, I'm just not going to bother with the whole sleeping thing. As I have already packed and need something to do into the wee hours, I shall present to you a smidgen of the great amount of self-reflection I've had far too much time to do lately.

I've never been one of those girls who writes down all the boys she's kissed or whatever, but they say that laying everything out could be a good way to notice problematic patterns. While I've had a couple good relationships and a few one night stands of both the truly regrettable and awesomely ridiculous varieties, most of my, um, interaction with the opposite sex has been in the context of a "quasi-thing," a termed coined by the Fat Asian Baby to connote an extended, non-commital hookup situation. Here, for your voyeuristic pleasure, is the complete list of my quasi-things. (Note: all those included were slept with immediately [with the aid of much alcohol] and were the subject of brief to prolonged infatuation followed by complete ambivalence, except where noted otherwise.)

*The Swimmer With a Curse of the Irish Variety. We went on a date to Central Park, and then he came to my sophomore suite's party, and then we went back to his dirty frat house where we ate doughnuts, drank Mountain Dew, and hooked up to a Dave Matthews CD. The next morning I woke up with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had and could not speak at all. He wasn't that into me after that, but I had a huge crush on him because he was damn hot (mmm swimmer body.) Then I saw him after he graduated and he wasn't so hot anymore. Ha.

*The Frenchie Chef With the Nice Blonde Hair. I hate to admit it, but this guy charmed my pants off, quite literally, with a nearly incomprehensible French accent, a great knowledge of gourmet food and weird South American herbal teas, and bullshit talk about sunsets in Madagascar ("Every night when I see zee sunset, I cry. Eet was so byooteeful.") My inexperienced 19-year-old heart was crushed when he suddenly moved to Japan. Our initial hookup marks the first of several incidents in which I drunkenly puked out the window of a moving cab. I'm courteous like that.

*The Grad Student Writer. I'd heard something about it being a bad idea to date writers. Ever the curious little monkey, I decided to find out why. Well, this guy was an arrogant douche so I guess that's why. He talked incessantly about himself, his stories that didn't sound very interesting, and the status of our non-relationship. I broke it off after he didn't call me on Valentine's Day but clearly still wanted to fuck me (poorly) that weekend. But no worries...the next night I came across:

*The Wanderer/Rickshaw Driver. This one almost doesn't belong in this list, because our quasi-thing was pretty long and awesome and genuine. He wouldn't go out with me for real because he was planning on riding his bicycle from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego (only made it to California or something). He wasn't really into material possessions, his dinners often consisted entirely of an avodado, and he was always pretty homeless. He has settled a bit and has a real girlfriend, and we still talk sometimes. I love him--in a warm and fuzzy, I'm-glad-this-person-exists kind of way.

*Jailbait. There was this crew party at the Boathouse early senior year, and the only food served was meat, and I was vegetarian, so I got really drunk. My friend and I got bored so we decided to swim naked in the Harlem River (so far we have not sprouted any extraneous appendages.) Afterwards I spied this freshman who was a cutie patootie and lured him back to my place with the brilliant line, "Wanna see my dorm room?" Turns out, he was only 17 1/2 and had a girlfriend. I am going to hell.

*The Nice Guy. After all the aforementioned nonsense (and some more scandalous, unmentioned nonsense) I was ready for some peace. So I convinced myself that things with this really nice, really really smart, really, um, nice guy would be just perfect. Well, suffice it to say I wasn't all that thrilled after a couple months, and, most importantly, he didn't watch crappy TV or listen to popular music, or music with words in it, for that matter. I'm sorry, but I just can't connect with someone who's not at least vaguely aware of Paris Hilton's latest antics.

*The Almost-Olympian/My Friend's Ex. Well, the day after I broke up with Mr. Niceguy was the Senior Dinner. And what else is a Senior Dinner for but to drink as much free wine as possible (I'm looking at you, Drone) and hookup with someone you've been staring at in the gym every day for four years. The fact that he was very very good looking and training for the Olympics somehow overshadowed the fact that he was a Republican, but, obviously, this one was eventually doomed. As was my friendship with his ex for a good solid year.

*The Almost-Olympian's Coach. So I started hooking up with his college coach instead. This one wins the Best Kisser Ever award, but homeboy had some issues. Basically, he would call me, I'd go to his place to hang out, he'd tell me about his relationship with his father and how much he was annoyed by this female coach, and then we'd go to sleep and not makeout (most of the time.) He stopped calling me once the school year started again (and he started a quasi-thing with the said female coach.)

*The 37-year-old Actor/Musician/Artist/Borrower of Money From His Parents. Now I was fully removed from the wonderful world of college and bored out of my gourd, so I posted an ad on Nerve. I was apprehensive about meeting guys off the internet, but after a few dates this was the only one I felt that indescribable urge to jump on top of. Once, I was dog-sitting for an engaged Catholic couple and we spent the night in their bed. Of course, they came home early. I tried to sneak out while toting a guy wearing black leather and smelling strongly of booze and cigarettes, but it didn't work and I think they said a few Hail Mary's afterwards. He broke it off with a voicemail message. Classy.

*The Blogger. This one knows about my blog so I'm not going to say much, except for the part about how I introduced him to one of my best friends and then they immediately started a non-quasi-thing (i.e., real live dating) behind my back. That part was awesome. But it's all good now, guys.

*The Foodie Who Couldn't Kill a Cockroach. The night after I found out about Blogger and Friend, I met this kid at Perplexa's sort of high school reunion. He was at her 6th birthday party and injured himself playing Red Rover. He paid for a few good dinners, but he dissed Bono, couldn't kill a bug for me, and seemed like he might be subconsciously playing for the other team. I realized I had a better time dorking out with the Internet Boyfriend, so I not so sweetly just stopped calling and, thankfully, he got the memo.

*The Hairstylist. You know about this one. Except for the part about him sleeping over the next night, calling me a little more than I'd expect from a guy (probably because I'm not available,) and enticing me to come back to NYC with free haircuts. This would creep me out a little if he didn't have nice thick messy hair, the coolest fucked up jeans that he artfully fucks up himself, and did I mention the free haircuts?

*Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend. Oh, Canada... He called me in the process of writing this self-obsessed drivel, and I remembered why I like him. His level of chillness makes it nearly impossible for me to be too wacko for too long. I was IM-ing FAB about how I was apprehensive about going to see him, and he asked what the noise was, and I said I was IM-ing FAB, and then he asked if I was telling FAB I was apprehensive to go see him. Of course I said no, but I'm a horrible liar so I was essentially busted. He said ok, but I'd better smile when I get there. Even though I won't have slept in over 24 hours, I think I will. Aww.

So what have we learned from this little exercise (other than Gina's kinda slutty and has questionable morals and needs approval from men to boost her wavering level of self-esteem?) Hmm, I think that's a rhetorical question. Anywho, if you've read this far, you are obviously very bored at work/home right now, and I'm sincerely sorry about that.