No Kissing

You know I wouldn't be telling this story if this had a happy ending. So, I met Bob at a mutual friend's birthday party at the local watering hole. As I tend to do with fellow video game fans, we bonded over our discussion of a series. Not an uncommon occurrence, I don’t look too much into those conversations as sharing interest in a popular topic is normal. That said, he had a quirky sense of humor, and I decided I wouldn't mind hanging out with him again. 

Bob and I chatted on and off over email. About a week later, he invited me to board game night at his home on a Friday. He mentioned there was also a viewing of the movie The Room, and a group would gather for that. I accepted the invite and looked forward to board games and watching the infamous movie in a public setting.

I arrived at Bob's home at 7 p.m. and quickly noticed only him and his shirtless roommate were there. Bob grabbed me a drink, and we all chatted about video games until the shirtless roommate clothed himself and departed. An unfortunate turn of events, as I recently discovered I enjoyed the company of half-naked strangers in good shape. 

I asked Bob when other people would arrive, and, to my surprise, he said no one else was coming. Now, I'm no board game night expert, but I believe board games usually call for a small group of people. If there's any quintessential two-player game, it's Scrabble. He didn't have it (what a cumquat--20 points), so we opted to play Mario Kart with a beverage reward for the loser, which is fine since I fare well and wanted to keep my wits about me; especially since I noticed his eyes made contact with my lips (something in my teeth?) a few too many times.

Slow beats of water droplets sounded above our heads until the drops strung together into one constant note. A downpour. Noting the rain, he declared it was time for the house tour, and I followed his drunken guidance. In the basement, I noticed a bar decorated in the classic fraternity style. Don't you agree that nothing brings a room together like empty bottles of Skol, Jim Beam, and Smirnoff Fruit Loop Fusion? He snatched a bottle of vodka and pulled a huge swig from it. With a slap of his chest, Bob beckoned me to follow suit; I adamantly, but politely, refused. He chased his chug with an attempt to put his arm around me. I dodged, nearly being lodged into his sweaty pit. A quick strafe brought me to the couch, and the realization that the movie was starting soon. While I called the cab, he pulled his shirt up (this is clearly a nudity-encouraging home) and proceeded to (sensually) rub his belly as he talked. Altogether wide-eyed, amused, and disgusted by these strange come-hither attempts, I walked upstairs and stared out the window for some stranger in a cab to bring me to public salvation. You think I'd have the wit to just leave at this point. No, not that day.

My steel savior arrived, and we were swept into the rainy night. Conversation was normal in the car, that is, until Bob told the driver to stop four blocks short of the theater. Confused by his request, I questioned him, but he resolved that congestion near the theater would be heavy. Reasonable logic, so I complied and hopped out. 

A couple blocks from the theater, Bob stopped and said he needed to do something. I looked around and noticed the grocery store. "Oh… Is the theater BYOB? You need to grab something?"

"I do need to grab something,” his words, slurred.

"OK. Sure, if we have time--" I said.

"Actually, I have a question I need to ask you."

"Ooookay. Sure." The dread welled up within me.

"Can I kiss your mouth?"

A quick aside for you: If you feel you must ask permission to kiss someone, you're either incorrectly reading the person or you don't have enough confidence to pull the move off. In this case, it was the former and the latter. I had not reciprocated any of his flirtations. I'm not really sure how he interpreted my rejections as positive signs, but there we were, in the rain, outside of a grocery store.

Without pause, "No."

His eyes bulged. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to kiss you."

"Why?"

"Um... As I said, I'm not interested in kissing you." I started to feel my body warm up. Not the tingly happy warmth when you’re excited, but when you’re so uncomfortable you just want to melt away.

He sighed with frustration. "Is it because I'm not good looking enough?" 

"You're fine looking. I'm just…not interested." Why was I coaching him through this?

"What did I do wrong? I mean, I thought we had something going here."

"Look--you read the scene…wrong. I like you, but…I don't feel any romantic inclinations toward you."

"Soooo, you think I'm ugly," he said like a child on the brink of a tantrum.

"No, no… This isn’t about looks. I'm just not interested… SO, back to my original response: No, thank you."

"OK. Weellllll, it's going to be awkward." Good. He’s not oblivious.

"Yes, yes, it is. Are we going to see this movie or...what?" Why I didn’t walk away at that moment, I’ll never know. Looking back, I would see this red flag and politely excuse myself...but I really wanted to see this movie. We continued onto the theater, talking as if nothing unordinary happened. The lingering burn of cringe followed me.

We took our seats separately from his friends; thanks to Bob’s failed pit-stop, we had to sit in the front row corner--primo seats. Soon there’d be sweet relief: The Room started! Despite the roars and screams from the audience, not more than a few words were exchanged between us during the movie. I think he may have whimpered a few times.

After the credits rolled, we exited the theater in silence. Dozens of folks waved down cabs, and with Bob still sulking, I wanted to get out of there quickly. Our lack of cooperation worked against us: 30 minutes went by and we still paced the sidewalks. We walked a few blocks away from the theater to get away from the heavy traffic. 10 minutes went by, still no cab. To expedite the end of this horrendous evening, I continued to beckon for occupied cabs to stop and whisk me away. I then turned toward Bob and noticed he was no longer hailing on his side of the road, but sitting on the curb…defeated.

He noticed my stark gaze and yelled, "We are NEVER getting a cab!"

"Great attitude!" I yelled back

"It's not worth it... We're stuck here."

"Speak for yourself. If you want to stay here--fine. I'm calling the cab company from earlier." 

Luckily, a driver would be at our location in a few minutes. When the cab arrived, he picked himself off the ground and we climbed into the back. Much to my chagrin, he stated his own address as the destination.

"Hey! I'm not going back to your place," I said.

"The cab can drop us off at my place, and then you can continue on to your place."

I was seething. "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-nooooo! If you want to use the cab that I called, we're going to my place first, and then YOU'RE paying the driver when you're dropped off at your place."

"But...I don't have enough money." He fumbled through his wallet showing its lack of contents.

"You have a credit card, yeah?” He nodded. “You'll have to credit it. I paid for our cab earlier and if it wasn't for me, you'd still be squatting on a street corner like a dipshit."

"Oh...all right." So defeated.

The remainder of our time together was in silence. Me, thinking why I didn't jump off the burning train earlier; him, likely feeling like nothing went as planned and he deserved better. I couldn’t agree more, Bob. 

When the cab drove up to my apartment, I waved and said my farewell to Bob.

See? I told you: the only happy ending is that it ended. 

Now You're Just Splitting Hairs

Join me down memory lane and take a look at my impulsive hair choices.

This is pretty much my natural hair color. As hairdressers like to call it: dark ash blonde or dishwater blonde. Yep, a color so gorgeous, it's reminiscent of dirty water.

In college I tried many colors: brown, red, platinum, black... I tanned on a daily basis because I thought my skin needed a good crisping. I tanned so much, in fact, that one fateful tan erupted blisters on my chest. I cried myself to sleep that night--not because I had bleeding pustules on my bosom, but because I couldn't tan the next day. I was a tan mad man.

As you see, I was a ripe color of orange, my skin darker than my hair. Trying to weave logic into the illogical, I decided I should dye my hair darker to better complement. Past Katie made choices that confuse Present Katie.


I thought the dark brown was too harsh, so I tried a golden/reddish brown a few times. Yes, I’m still tanning like an idiot.

In 2005, Kelly Clarkson-inspired highlights are in--so make 'em thick 'n' chunky. You know, I paid $80 for this comb-through color..

I never cared for American Idol, so I tried to return to a more natural blonde, which ultimately was too brassy for my taste. And as you can see, I'm a lady of exquisite taste (not pictured: Keystone Light).


Too brassy--why not go platinum? I'm starting to chill the tanning, but I also started shopping the Express Men's section. At least I'm consistent with making strange choices.


Senioritis kicked in and I stopped caring what I looked like both in hair and wardrobe. Hair is seemingly in a constant bun state.


Over the next couple years, my hair grows long and healthy. I can pull off semi-elaborate styles and take photo booth selfies like a vain hermit. See, when my hair gets long and healthy, my saboteur spirit is triggered and I do something reeeaaaaaaalll dumb…

...like using red box dye. I decided not dying the underside was a great idea. I’m not sure why I...I just don't know.

Here's the thing about red hair color: if you put it over previously bleached hair, THAT RED WILL CLING. The color was fading into a Florida orange and I went to this nutty hairdresser to fix it. The first time he tried to raise the color to no avail. I had to wait a few weeks for my hair to cool down, then he decided to give me the chunky Kelly Clarkson look from 2005. I paid for this to happen in 2012.

A couple months later, I went to my usual hairdresser and she saved me from the mid-2000s, but not from deciding I should bake my skin again.

I didn’t dye it for two years, but around May 2014 someone said I looked like nerdy Taylor Swift. Based on a stranger's statement, I decided to dye my hair and become the terrible Taylor Swift doppelgänger no one wanted. Going from dark ash blonde to light ash blonde isn't the craziest lift and it looked good…at first.

Sadly, it went Justin Timberlake's *NSYNC era, ramen blonde REAL QUICK. By the way, this is Tokyo Oktoberfest in May. Yep.

I toned it every couple months with grey toner and I looked like a fabulous long-haired grandma.

Several toners later, my hair was crispier than a bucket of KFC, and I chopped my hair off in the bathroom. Over 15 inches in the toilet (which I still feel bad about flushing).

I made the chop last summer--the shortest hair style in about 10 years. It's...hair. It's not something anyone should be attached to. I wish I had the chiseled looks of Natalie Portman or Dwayne Johnson to pull off a short do. I suppose as confident as I (think I) am, I still hide some insecurity behind these hair curtains.

Better Never Than Late

I chatted with Richard a few times online until we decided to meet: 11:30 a.m. on Sunday at Starbucks. Simple enough. I opted to take the bus for the one mile trek as swamp ass as an ice breaker seemed like a paradox. 

As I walked to the bus stop at 11:10, I received a text from Richard: "I'm here." Oh...k. So he's fantastically early and I just started my journey--as expected since our date was in 20 minutes. I texted saying I'm on my way and will see him at 11:30.

The bus arrived, I took a seat, and pulled out my 3DS for some pre-gaming. Reorganizing my inventory would be the most fun I'd have the next hour.

About two blocks away from Starbucks at 11:31, I received another text: "Should we reschedule?" Ohhhhh...k. Now, did I miss something? I checked the original message that had 11:30 as the meeting time, and noted he didn't suggest he's the Czar of Time. At that point, I should have texted back: "Sorry I'm a minute late--I don't want to start our impossibly timely romance on a sour note. Take care sweet, punctual prince." Instead--since I hadn't witnessed enough crazy at this point--I said I was two blocks away and should be there in a couple minutes. No response from him.

I arrived within the great hallowed halls of Starbucks at 11:34 and looked for the early bird--nowhere to be found. I called him, "Hey where are you?"

"Oh, I wasn't sure when you'd show up so I went for a walk."

"Oh...k. I'm here now. Are you gonna come back?"

"Yea, I'll be there in a few minutes."

So, in the fury that was waiting three minutes, Richard--who will henceforth be called Strict Dick--had to pace around the city instead of waiting mere moments for a stranger to arrive. Maybe I'm an incredibly patient person, or MAYBE I'm equipped with so many electronics (and inner demons) that I play the waiting game without issue.

I took a seat and prepared for what would surely be a rigid ride.

Strict Dick showed up and I extended my hand to shake as I do with all dates; if he's Strict Dick, I'm Hands-off Hermin. We each ordered a drink: SD getting a venti tea (really, the drink of peace for the boy of urgency?), and myself the usual $4 cup of apple cider bullshit. Yes, I'm the one customer creating demand for that product.

We sat down and chatted. He asked what happened with my delay, and I declared absolutely nothing since a few minutes of tardiness seemed reasonable in a busy city setting. Moving past my despicable date infraction, we chatted our way through the routine introductory dialogue.

Halfway through my apple piss, SD suggests we go for a walk. I'm taken aback because I thought he got a few laps in before I arrived...15 MINUTES AGO. I calmly finished my beverage and mentioned how restless he is (yea, not like his leg was shaking as if a million spiders were braiding his leg hairs while we chatted...). 

We started to walk around glorious River North in Chicago. Convenient enough, my friend lived about 10 blocks east of this Starbucks. On a secret, tight schedule, I led the charge to my escape. Was this guy Newton's Law of Motion reincarnate? I'll never know, but when we reached my friend's apartment, I decided to rest.

"Well, Strict Dick, it's been a real scheduled program, but I think I'll drop off here at my friend's place and check on the time."

"Oh, are you sure?"

"Ahh yes. So this is the part of the date where I say crazy things to ensure you don't contact me again."

"Ok."

"I was four minutes late for our date because I was plucking out my pubic hairs one by one."

"Ok. Take care."

And I never heard from again. Ultimately, Richard was obscured by the mists of time and became legend in this post.

Editor's note: Although written today, this date took place in 2013. This tardy recap would surely infuriate him...