How Not to Pick Up a Woman at Blockbuster on a Saturday Night

We were both seeing what Blockbuster had to offer one recent Saturday night, except I was checking out the newer movies, while he was checking out me. He kept looking in my direction, then held up two movies and declared to me (because I was the only one within earshot), "I just can't decide which movie to rent," as if it were as big a dilemma as where to go to college or what kind of sushi to order at a great sushi place.

"Oh," was the original, witty response I lobed back at him. It is my default response when saying anything that would reflect what I'm really thinking is as unacceptable as *not* responding to a stranger obviously trying to engage me in a conversation. Then my inner Midwestern Politeness Battle-ax took over my mouth and I quickly added, "I haven't seen either one of them. Sorry."

He elaborated that one of the movies was something he had wanted to see, but that he was hesitating because the director had a reputation for making very violent movies. The other one was by a director he loved, but he had never heard of this movie until tonight when he had accidentally stumbled upon it while browsing.

This time I managed to muster an impressive "Oh," as if he had told me he likes pretzels or that he once had a goldfish named Bill. It was my "Oh" that said, ‘Whatevs. I don't really give a shit. Why are you still talking to me?' Then, appalled by my bitchy near-non-response, my inner Midwestern Politeness Battle-ax again commandeered my mouth and I heard it tell him, "I always love it when serendipity leads me to a good movie I have never heard of."

He put the violent movie back on the shelf and wished me a good evening, then wandered up front to rent the serendipitous movie by the director he loved. A few minutes later, he came back, explaining he had changed his mind. “Oh. I do that all the time. I’ve actually been here since noon because I can’t pick a movie,” I joked. “What made you change your mind?” I asked.

“I wanted to talk to you again,” he said.

“Oh…,” I said as my mind slipped into panic mode. It was my “Oh” that really meant, ‘Oh f*ck. Why the hell did I have to open my big fat mouth again? Why can’t I just let go of the opportunity to tell a joke? Why do I have to try to make every stranger like me? Why am I so needy? Holy crap, I need to go back to therapy. Every day. Jeez…how the hell am I going to get out of this?’

He apparently took my “Oh” as interest on my part, and with the artful subtlety of a double-decker bus at a Mini Cooper rally, he started to tell me about his job as an Executive Producer of a children’s movie “complete with big musical production numbers.” He emphasized how stressful he found it to produce a children’s movie.

“Besides being incredibly physically fit,” he bragged, “I am also incredibly patient. Those two things have saved me during this movie. It only makes me cry a few times a week.”

“Oh,” I replied yet again. This time it was my “Oh” that meant ‘I don’t have a f*cking clue what to say to you in response. And you obviously have no f*cking clue that bragging is as big a turn-off for most women as crapping your pants. And yet you chose to metaphorically crap your pants right in front of me, loudly and proudly. Why do men do that?! Does bragging *EVER* work as a pick-up strategy?’

“Yes, I’ve heard making a movie is very stressful,” I replied with deliberate nonchalance. I grabbed a movie off the shelf and looked around to find my daughter, who was wandering the aisles with her friend. When I turned back around, he was next to me leaning in. “You have amazing eyes,” he half-whispered.

“Oh,” I said as I lowered my eyes and looked at the floor, “Thanks.” This was the “Oh” that signified my exhaustion with him. As in ‘Oh crap…just go away. I have no interest in you. I have a boyfriend. I just want to rent a movie in peace and go home. Is that so much to ask?!’

Then, my daughter approached me while rolling her eyes. “Mom, can we *GO* now?” she said in an impatient manner that only a middle-school girl would use with her parent in public. “Yes!” I replied, happy to be granted this deus ex machina from Braggy McCrapPants by my obnoxious daughter.

No Shawarma for You!

The weirdest thing happened last Friday night. I was jonesing for chicken shawarma, so I stopped at my favorite neighborhood Mediterranean restaurant. I've been getting takeout here at least 2 to 3 times a month for the past year, so I know the owners who usually take my order, a Lebanese father and his two adult sons. If the place isn't too busy, the father and one of the sons will engage in polite small talk with me. But the other son has always treated me and everyone else with the brusque impatience of a middle school P.E. teacher who can't fathom how he wound up teaching volleyball to a bunch of punk-ass public school snots when he should have been coaching college ball for a division one school. He always seems so annoyed having to deal with customers politely ordering food that I have come to think of him as the "Shawarma Nazi," because his manner reminds me of the Soup Nazi, the fabled character from Seinfeld.

When I walked in last Friday, my stomach tightened a little when I realized that Shawarma Nazi was the guy taking everyone's orders. But instead of being greeted with his usual impatient glare, he smiled at me and started talking to me in a very animated way, complete with Italian hand gestures. He asked me if I wanted my usual, the chicken shawarma, then winked at me. What the... What?! Then he told me about how he hates going to other restaurants because he "knows how much everything really costs," except when he's on a date. Then he'll happily take her to any fancy restaurant she chooses. It was disconcerting--this out-of-the-blue flirtation. I wondered what powerful anti-depressant he was taking and how I might casually get him to spill the name of it, so I could invest all of my savings in the pharmaceutical company that makes this new wonder drug. Powerful stuff. Let's just say, had Sylvia Plath taken this drug, she would have gone on to be known for her hilarious children's stories and silly parody songs, instead of a depressing book that foreshadowed her tragic death.

He surprised me with a glass of iced tea while I waited at a nearby table for my takeout order. He pulled up a chair and told me I wouldn't believe what kind of life he's had. I asked him if he had his own reality tv show, the modern-day apotheosis of America's larger-than-life characters. Not yet, he joked. When he told me he didn't trust people who were superficially nice in a chit-chatty sort of way, I told him he must not have grown up where I did in Wisconsin, where people don't trust you if you're *not* chatty and friendly with strangers. He gushed that he was a huge fan of the Green Bay Packers, especially of former quarterback Brett Favre. WTF? I'm having a conversation about my beloved childhood football team with the Shawarma Nazi?!

His interest in me was odd, given how he has ALWAYS treated me with the same disdain he treats every other customer in the joint. Aside from a powerful new anti-depressant, the only other explanation for his abrupt change in behavior toward me is that he was boogie boarding on the waves of positive emotional energy I am emanating these days, no doubt a wonderful side effect of having a new boyfriend(!). Frenchy, the new beau, has noticed a distinct difference in how women are reacting toward him too. Funny how once you're in a meaningful relationship, other people seem to be drawn to you when you could care less. But when you're actively looking for a significant other, it feels as if people relate to you like the Soup Nazi to his customers.

I was relieved when my order was up, because if I lingered for another five minutes, I think he might have asked for my number. I'm not sure what I'll do the next time I need a shawarma fix. If I go back there and he asks me out, I risk having to turn down Shawarma Nazi and the possible public humiliation of being loudly chastised with "No shawarma for you!" On the other hand, it's the *best* chicken shawarma I've had in LA, so going to another place isn't really an option. On the scale of life problems, I concede that this one ranks somewhere between not being able to dvr all of this evening's episodes of Happily Divorced and making the irksome discovery that Target is all out of your favorite tissue (the softest kind with lotion) when your allergies are on the warpath. 

Your Caveman Charm Is Squandered on Me

A couple months ago when I felt kind of hopeless about meeting someone special online, I was contacted by a good looking, excessively tall, midwestern 34-year-old surgeon who said he was totally new to cyber dating. To my more intelligent skeptical self, he sounded almost too good to be true. But my big dumb ego elbowed all skeptical thoughts aside, and I let myself entertain the unlikely notion that a guy like that might find me appealing enough to date. After a few messages back and forth, he gave me his email address and asked me to send him more photos, "because I'm trying to figure out if you're my type or not." After sending him a few more photos, he asked for even more. I told him you can't always figure out if you're attracted to someone through photos, which is why people meet up for coffee or a drink (hint, hint). It's just a low-key way to eyeball each other to see if there are mutual sparks of attraction. 

He then asked me to send him some naked photos. And there it is, dear readers. He was trying to lure me into the online dating equivalent of the infamous Nigerian email money scam. Instead of a Nigerian prince who needed my help to smuggle $2 million out of the country and into my bank account, a hot, young surgeon was interested in dating me! But first, I must send him some topless photos of myself. That's when even my big dumb ego had to admit he was just looking for some naked pictures, not a first date, and that we would not in fact be spending the coming months skipping together hand-in-hand while antiquing, wine tasting, or apple picking, as I had been semi-consciously daydreaming in my girlie-girl romantic fantasies. 

My immediate reaction was to tell him he was a caveman and that I would never send anyone naked pictures. But I let it simmer in the evil part of my brain for a while, then decided to torture him a little bit by *pretending* I was going to send him some naked pics. I wanted to try to catfish the catfisher.

Caveman: I'm just trying to figure out how attracted to you I am, is that so bad hon? Anything you show me is for my eyes only. I will delete them right after I see them. So I guess it's up to you how serious you're being meeting me. I'm being completely serious about meeting you.

Caveman: Topless hon! Let's see!

Me: So, how old are you for reals?

Caveman: I'm waiting hon! I really am very serious about meeting you.

Me: (Pretending I've sent him an email with photos) Did u get them yet? I haven't heard back from you!!!!

Caveman: No. Nothing! Send them again hon.

Me: Oopsies! I'll send them again. 6 of them!

Caveman: STILL NOTHING! Try again hon! lol

Me: I wonder who I keep sending them to? lol

Caveman: (He retypes his email address for me) I got nothing!

Me: The guy I sent all your topless pics to just asked me out! LOL!

The next day I sent a blank reply to Caveman, as if I had tried yet again to attach those non-existent topless photos and failed. 

Cavemen: Nothing attached.

Me: My photos must be too sexy for the internet! D'oh!

Caveman: How can you not figure out how to email some photos?

Me: I just made an appointment with The Geek Squad for this afternoon. I'll have the Geek they send over help me email those photos to you.

Caveman: Is that really necessary? You attached photos last time. Why can't you do it now?

Me: I knew it was a mistake to get off AOL last month. I'll have him get me back on AOL too.

Caveman: AOL? Really?

Me: No. I'm just f*cking with you. 

Caveman: LOL. Send those photos over to me. STAT!

Me: Yeah, that's not going to happen. Your caveman charm is squandered on me.